by Carola Dunn
He seemed to be unable to bend at the waist, for his bow consisted of a series of elaborate flourishes of the right hand.
Julia caught Octavia’s eye as she gaped after this apparition. She bit her lip and tried to keep a straight face.
“Do not laugh, Miss Gray,” said Lady Cynthia mournfully. “I assure you it is in the highest degree mortifying to be obliged to own that popinjay as my brother. Julia will tell you I have been trying these three years to disown him.”
“I expect he will grow out of it,” soothed Octavia, happy to see that his sister was a sprightly young lady dressed perfectly normally in sprig muslin.
“Certainly,” agreed Julia. “Last year Ernest rivalled him, but since his brother died and he became heir, his shirt points have shrunk quite three inches and he can breathe in his coats.”
“Ernest?” asked Octavia uncertainly.
They pointed out Ernest, now Lord Valletort and Lord Edgcumbe’s heir, and his lordship’s daughter, Lady Emma, a dignified woman in her late twenties who had run his household since her mother’s death thirteen years earlier.
“That is her friend, Mrs Alverston, standing next to her,” said Lady Cynthia. “She is a widow. An elegant creature, is she not? The elderly lady is her companion, Miss Matilda Crosby.”
“Who is the gentleman talking to my aunt, Ju?”
“That is Sir Magnus Rayle. He is a friend of Papa’s.”
“Which leaves only the two most interesting characters to be described,” continued Lady Cynthia. “The gentleman admiring the halberds and muskets is Mr Frederick Findlay, a noted Dandy, and his companion is Lord Wetherford, heir to the Marquis of Stoke and my betrothed!”
“Cynnie! Never say you have thrown your cap over the windmill. Lord Wetherford has been dangling after you this age!”
“That explains why he is regarding Julia and me with such a jaundiced eye,” laughed Octavia. “We are keeping him from your side. You had best go to him before he takes us in dislike.”
Lady Cynthia smiled invitingly at the young man, and he hurried over, dragging his friend with him. It was soon clear to Octavia that Mr Findlay was one of Julia’s court of admirers. She thought him rather ordinary; certainly he was dressed with neat propriety, quite unlike Lord Rupert’s excesses, but in spite of the recent boat journey, not a hair on his head was out of place, no smudge marred his glossy boots, and his brown coat showed nary a wrinkle.
Feeling very much an outsider, she listened to the four exchanging reminiscences of the past season, and wished that Sir Tristram had come.
Chapter 11
When he brought guests to Cotehele, Lord Edgcumbe liked to live in the style of his sixteenth-century forebears. He did not go so far as to ban forks from the table in the Great Hall, but dinner was definitely more on the lines of a Tudor banquet than an elegant modern meal. The highlight of the first course was a roasted swan, flanked by a pair of sucking pigs, and a huge bowl of syllabub appeared with the second course. Cider and mead flowed freely, loosening tongues, and when his lordship did his famous impression of a typical Cornish mayor the laughter was uproarious.
When Octavia woke the next morning, it was pouring with rain. The planned picnic was out of the question; even if it stopped raining, the ground must be sodden. She anticipated with dread a day spent trying to make conversation with a dozen people with whom she had nothing in common. Would it, she wondered, be shockingly discourteous to retreat to the bookroom?
Julia was disappointed by the weather, but she bounced out of bed nonetheless, already making alternative plans. James Wynn seemed to be entirely forgotten. Octavia was glad to see her happy, sorry to think her so fickle, and concerned at Sir Tristram’s absence. If Mr Wynn’s long silence had cured Julia of her tendre, it was a pity the baronet was not there to take advantage of it.
Despite the rain, Lord Edgcumbe and his son rode off to visit their tenants. Lady Emma suggested that her guests might like to tour the house and hear something of its history. Lady Langston and Miss Matilda Crosby declined, but all the rest followed her though Lord Wetherford and Sir Magnus had visited Cotehele before.
Octavia had seen all the public rooms already, except the chapel, which was entered through the dining room. She had never thought to wonder what was beyond the door in the corner. Lady Emma showed them the ancient clock, built of hand-wrought iron in 1485 and still sounding its hourly chime. She also pointed out a tiny balcony high on one wall. It was built so that elderly and sick family members could attend mass without leaving the solar, she explained.
“The solar?” queried Mr Findlay. “And what may that be?”
“A sort of withdrawing room, where the lord’s family lived in medieval times. We shall go there next. It was divided more than a century ago into two bedchambers, the Red Room and the South Room.”
“By Jove, ma’am,” said Mr Findlay, startled, “if you mean to show off my chamber, I had best go check that it is fit to be seen!” He bolted like a frightened horse.
Lord Wetherford laughed. “I have the Red Room,” he said, “but I hope I may trust my man to have left it decent. I have been through this before!”
As well as the closet-balcony overlooking the chapel, the South Room proved to possess a squint with a view into the Great Hall, to allow the lord of the manor to see what his retainers were up to. Octavia and Julia were particularly interested to learn that the walnut escritoire against one wall had secret drawers.
“I wonder if Sir Tristram knows about that one?” whispered Julia. “Did he not sleep in this chamber?”
“In the Red Room, I think. We cannot investigate it until they go back to Mount Edgcumbe.”
“I’ll think of a way,” vowed Julia.
Lady Emma indicated the cabinet in the drawing room as another place of concealment, but she did not demonstrate any of its secrets. Nor did she mention the possibility of hidden rooms or buried treasure. The tour of the house ended in the Punch Room, where the gentlemen were invited to examine the contents of the small wine cellar and sample what they would.
“Strictly a masculine room,” said Lady Emma, smiling as she led the ladies out. “The host would retire here with his male guests to drink in peace.
They repaired to the drawing room, where they found Lady Langston and Miss Crosby enjoying a comfortable cose. Sir Magnus, Lord Wetherby, Lord Rupert, and Mr Findlay soon reappeared, having, they announced, split an excellent bottle of Madeira between them.
After a few words with Lady Langston, Sir Magnus approached Octavia.
“I understand your father is a colleague of mine, Miss Gray,” he said, “though on the opposite side of the House.”
“You are a Member of Parliament, sir?” She smiled up at him. Much as she disliked political discussions, which, she knew from experience, all too easily deteriorated into argument and even squabbling, it was a subject on which she could hold her own.
Besides, it was gratifying to be sought out by a gentleman with such an air of distinction, a well-bred ease of manner. Though he must be over forty, his brown hair greying at the temples, his close-fitting coat of russet superfine revealed an athletic figure which might be envied by many half his age. According to Lady Cynthia’s revelations in the privacy of their chamber the night before, Sir Magnus was fabulously wealthy and hanging out for a wife. Cynnie thought he was trying to decide between Lady Emma and her friend, Mrs Alverston. At his advanced age it was not to be supposed that he expected to fall in love.
“But he is only a knight,” she had giggled, “so it is scarcely likely that Lady Emma would leave her papa’s house for him, and besides Mrs Alverston is prettier.”
The knight seated himself beside Octavia and showed no disposition to let his attention wander towards either of the supposed objects of his affections. She soon discovered that though a Tory he held moderate views on most subjects. More important, as far as she was concerned, he attended with respect to her own opinions, distilled from many hours of listening to h
er father’s friends. He even enquired as to her reasons, especially where she differed from her father’s known position.
Accustomed to automatic male disparagement of a female’s intellectual capability, she thought him delightful.
Julia had taken a seat close by. She listened in silence for some time. When she decided to join the conversation, Octavia was half amused, half horrified to hear her expounding James Wynn’s extreme views as her own. Once recovered from his initial astonishment, Sir Magnus was merely amused. Octavia recognised the odiously familiar signs of condescending superiority.
Failing to hush her cousin, she left her explaining the necessity for revolution and went to the window to see if there was any sign of the rain letting up.
Here she was joined by Rupert Marlowe. The young man’s sartorial splendour was somewhat dimmed today, his coat being maroon, waistcoat striped maroon and grey, and boots of normal hue. His shirtpoints, however, were as dangerous as ever, and he was forced to turn his whole body to transfer his gaze from the weather to Octavia.
“Dashed miserable day!” he announced.
“Not for ducks,” she said, watching a family waddling across the lawn towards the upper pond.
“Oh, I say, very good!” He laughed heartily. “Ducks like the rain, you mean to say. Daresay they do, at that. Can’t say I ever cared for it myself. Nothing to do.”
“I will show you the bookroom, if you like, sir. There is an excellent selection of literature."
His plump face took on a hunted look.
“I say, books?” He laughed again, but nervously. “No time. Don’t you think it must be nearly time for luncheon, ma'am?"
Octavia took pity on him and agreed that luncheon must certainly be served shortly.
He brightened. “Jolly good feast last night, warn’t it? Must say, Edgcumbe’s pater knows how to put on a feast.”
“It was interesting. I had never considered how so simple a thing as the etiquette of dining has changed since Elizabethan days.”
“Changed no end,” he agreed vaguely.
Octavia struggled through another ten minutes of attempted conversation before luncheon was announced. The Honourable Rupert Marlowe seemed pleased to have held her attention so long, and insisted on escorting her down to the dining room and helping her to turtle soup from the buffet. She could not make out whether he was really a knock-in-the-cradle, or had simply no idea in his head beyond his clothes. On the whole she was sorry for him.
She compared him with Lieutenant Cardin, who was much the same age. Lord Rupert was second son of an earl and the lieutenant’s father had been a simple sea captain; in many eyes those facts would determine their relative worth. Perhaps England really did need a revolution!
In the middle of the afternoon most of the party were gathered about a roaring blaze in the fireplace of the Great Hall when Lord Edgcumbe and his son returned, soaked to the skin. With them came Sir Tristram, also wet through. He had arrived at the quay aboard the River Queen just as they crossed the Tamar after visiting the Edgcumbe holdings at Bere Ferrers.
Octavia’s breath caught in her throat when she saw him. As the others fussed about the sodden trio, she hung back, concentrating on convincing herself that it was for Julia’s sake she was so glad of his return.
Mrs Pengarth appeared.
“My lord!” she exclaimed. “Lord Ernest, you’ll catch your death! What can you be thinking of to stand about in such a state! Sir Tristram, I did not expect you, sir. You’ll not mind sharing the South Room with Mr Findlay? Off with you all at once!”
The gentlemen took her scolding in good part and allowed her to shepherd them out.
When Sir Tristram returned, he made his way straight to Octavia’s side and presented her with a book.
“A small contribution towards the Encouragement of Literacy,” he quoted himself.
“Northanger Abbey! How I have been wishing to read it! It is excessively kind in you to have brought it.”
“I wanted you to read it while staying in this historic house. We have bettered the heroine already, of course, having found gold and a secret map instead of a laundry list.”
Julia came up in time to hear his softly spoken comment.
“Do you know about the other desk with secret drawers?” she asked eagerly. “Lady Emma showed it to us this morning when we toured the house. It is in the South Room. How fortunate that you are to sleep there!”
“Why, Ju, have you been unable to come up with a plan for you and me to investigate it?”
“It is not so easy. The only access is through the Red Room, and while we might be able to sneak into one gentleman’s chamber, two is rather more of a challenge.”
“Never fear, Miss Langston, you may leave it to me. I shall drug Freddy’s port tonight, and as soon as he is sleeping soundly I shall rise and tiptoe stealthily to the desk . . ."
“Oh, no,” interrupted Octavia. “You must wait until the stroke of midnight to carry out such nefarious activities. Have you no sense of the Gothic proprieties?”
“You are roasting me,” Julia complained. “I am sure you need not drug Mr Findlay’s port.”
“Indeed you need not!” exclaimed Mr Findlay indignantly, overhearing her incautiously raised voice. “Thank you, Miss Langston, for those kind words. What is this wicked plot against me that you have so neatly foiled? Is Deanbridge planning to assassinate me in order to have you to himself?”
“Perhaps he has found a love philtre and means to try its effects on you.” Julia laughed merrily, her blue eyes sparkling with enjoyment.
“Then you are right. No potion is needed to make me fall in love with you.”
“If I had a love philtre, I should put it in Miss Langston’s tea, not waste it on your port, Freddy,” Sir Tristram said with a smile. “Besides, I daresay Lord Edgcumbe would regard it as an insult to his excellent port.”
“And Lady Emma would object to the adulteration of her precious tea,” pointed out Mr Findlay. “With the duty so high, it costs near as much as port, I believe."
Remembering the empty tea chests below the Prospect Tower, the other three would have been surprised to learn that duty had been paid on any tea at Cotehele. Julia giggled and Sir Tristram exchanged a glance with Octavia.
“Since I have no philtre, both tea and port are safe,” he said quickly. “And Miss Langston’s heart likewise, I fear.
The joking chatter continued, with Lord Wetherford and Cynnie joining them. Sir Tristram made an effort to include Octavia in the conversation, but she wished she had run off with her book to her chamber.
Julia was in her element, surrounded by congenial companions. Her face bright, golden ringlets shining in the flickering firelight, she could not have been more different from the mopish creature of the past few weeks. Nor did she make any attempt to hold aloof from Sir Tristram. She gave him a large share of her smiling attention and he responded with evidently increasing admiration.
Octavia was glad when the time came to change for dinner, though she was not looking forward to the turmoil of another Tudor banquet. Once had been interesting and amusing; the prospect of a whole week made her long for a return to nineteenth-century decorum.
“Are you going to marry Sir Tristram, Ju?” demanded Lady Cynthia as soon as they reached their shared room.
“Perhaps.”
“He is quite a catch! Prodigious handsome and Wetherford says he is well able to buy an abbey, though not so plump in the pocket as Sir Magnus. Why have I never met him before?”
“He does not care for London. This is the first year he has been there in an age, except on business.”
“Of course that will change when you marry him. He will not expect you to miss the season. Wetherford and I mean to spend every spring in town.” Cynnie prattled on about her plans for married life.
Julia was silent. Octavia read unhappiness in her eyes and wished she could talk to her privately. Lady Cynthia did not retire even momentarily to her own little
chamber, and they went down to dinner without exchanging a word.
Mr Findlay attached himself to Octavia. Although he had scarcely noticed her existence previously, he insisted on escorting her into the Great Hall, sat beside her, and helped her to all the choicest morsels.
She thought him rather dull, but she could not fault his persistence. He made straight for her side when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room, and cast not a glance at the corner where Julia and Sir Tristram were laughing together. She was almost tempted to believe that he had indeed taken a love potion, and that it had miscarried and fixed his interest on her. The only alternative was that he had been dazzled by her evening dress of garnet silk, newly trimmed with smuggled French lace.
In the course of the evening she gradually lost her shyness of him and stopped trying consciously to behave like a demure young lady of fashion. By the time the tea tray was brought in she was perfectly comfortable talking to him, though her opinion of him had not changed.
“Dare I taste it?” he said as he passed her a cup of tea. “Perhaps you too should beware, Miss Gray.”
“I can think of no reason why anyone might choose to put a love philtre in my tea,” she answered, sipping.
“Can you not? You are an exceptionally modest young lady.”
Octavia could not make out whether he was laughing at her or merely flattering her because flattery was a habit. She drank her tea in silence, thinking that her mama had been quite right to shun society.
She would have liked to consult her world-wise cousin about Mr Findlay’s strange behaviour when at last Lady Cynthia retired and left them alone together. Julia was engrossed in her own wretchedness.
“James has forgotten me!” Her ringlets tightly confined in curlpapers under her lacy nightcap, tears running down her face, she looked like a small, lost child.
Octavia hugged her. “Surely not! He has not written lest the letter be intercepted, and you know yourself the difficulty of his coming here.”