“I believe the present squire keeps the sword in the armory room. Perhaps one day when we study history we shall have a tour of the weaponry.”
Mrs. Wetherly, the Chantrys’ housekeeper, wearing a black bombazine dress and stiff white apron and cap, greeted them in the upper courtyard. Evy recalled that she was a nice, no-nonsense woman who attended Sunday services. Evy wondered what she thought of the nosy Lizzie, as well as the host of Mrs. Croft’s relatives.
“Welcome to Rookswood, Mrs. Havering,” she said. “Lady Camilla will be meeting with you after luncheon in the library. She didn’t sleep well last night and hasn’t risen yet. I daresay her health troubles her … Do come this way, and I’ll show you and Evy right up to your rooms.”
“Thank you,” said Aunt Grace. “Evy?”
But a fluttering caught her eye, and she looked up to see Arcilla peering down at her from one of the windows. With gold hair plaited and wearing a maroon satin dress, she might have passed for a medieval princess trapped in a castle. Then the girl stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose.
Princess, indeed. More like the toad!
Evy finally followed her aunt and Mrs. Wetherly inside, where she came to a stunned halt in the huge baronial hall, adorned with a magnificent chandelier in its vaulted ceiling. She figured the hall to run at least fifty feet with windows on either side. Sunlight did not penetrate the leaded panes well, though, which made for lurking shadows in the far corners and increased Evy’s sense of doom.
Drawing a steadying breath, Evy gazed about her. Crusader weapons lined the wall, and she tried not to see the empty eye sockets of the giant suit of armor at the base of the staircase.
Mrs. Wetherly chattered about balls and other musical entertainments that were held here in the great hall and remarked on how beautiful it was when decorated with Christmas candles and holly berries. “Not that there’s likely to be any entertainment soon,” she said, “not with Lady Honoria’s death. And too, the master’s been away, and his niece by marriage, Lady Camilla, isn’t well enough at present. When Miss Arcilla grows a little older I’m certain we’ll have many balls.”
Evy lingered, trying to calm her palpitating heart. She ran her palm along the polished wood banister, feeling the hideous bulging eyes of the same style gargoyles carved so intricately there. Uncle Edmund had told her the carvings were done by superstitious people living in other generations who feared devils and thought to frighten them away by surrounding themselves with monsters equally as frightening. The more religious, he said, filled their abodes with carved relics and religious symbols.
She continued up the stairs, feeling the soles of her shoes sink into the thick garnet carpet. The color reminded her of the diamond-encircled ring she had seen on Lady Camilla’s hand. She looked up to the gallery where the housekeeper and Aunt Grace now paused. Flickering candlelight glimmered and tossed shadows all around her. Evy took a deep breath and stopped. Foreboding drifted downward in the silent atmosphere and seemed to rest upon her shoulders.
“Evy?” came Aunt Grace’s voice, seemingly from far away.
Evy shook her head, hoping to dispel her alarm, and quickened her steps to join them in the gallery. At least a half-dozen family portraits lined the wall. Evy tried to pick out which austere face would most likely be the murdered Henry Chantry. It was difficult. They all wore a faintly disdainful expression, even the women, but she finally settled on a piratical looking man with dark hair, mustache, arched brows, and a smirk loitering about his lips—a rather cruel mouth, she thought. Rogan has some of his blood all right, except he’s more charming and handsomer. That had to be Master Henry.
She shivered, now with a strange excitement. Then motion in the opposite end of the long gallery caught her eye. She turned her head. No one was there. But she had seen something … She was sure of it. She stared. It was probably Rogan, trying to frighten her—
Just then, a man stepped through the archway and regarded her evenly. At first she thought it was the man she had met in Grimston Woods, but this was a stranger. He remained in the shadows, yet she could see that he had a black eye patch and wore a short-clipped beard. Certainly he was not a servant. His bearing was too proud for that, and his wardrobe was of the same expensive quality as Rogan’s.
Aunt Grace and Mrs. Wetherly had left the gallery, and Evy could hear their fading voices. But she felt transfixed. His face was lean and hard and very brown … just like the strangers in the woods. The man walked forward and stopped a short distance away. His good eye remained fixed upon her. A strange expression flickered across his face as he took in Evy’s eyes and hair.
She could stand it no longer. Evy fled up the next flight of stairs after Aunt Grace and Mrs. Wetherly.
The man must be a guest, some important person in the nobility from London. Why had he stared at her like that? Almost as if he knew her!
Evy tried to concentrate on the housekeeper’s words. Mrs. Wetherly explained that the nursery wing and big schoolroom were located on the third floor. Here, also, would be their rooms, not two rooms as first thought, but three. They had belonged to the retiring governess, Miss Hortense, who had first come to Rookswood with Lady Honoria after she married Sir Lyle in Cape Town. Miss Hortense had stayed with Honoria to nurse their children, Parnell, Rogan, and Arcilla. Honoria’s death, Mrs. Wetherly said, had nearly undone the poor governess. “She loved Lady Honoria like her own daughter.”
Mrs. Wetherly left them at their rooms, saying that she would have tea sent up at a half past the hour.
Their quarters proved quite pleasant and dispelled some of Evy’s discomfort. A small parlor with a hearth and two adjoining bedrooms welcomed them. Behind a blue curtain was a private powder closet, holding a hipbath, a vanity cupboard, and a white dressing table with a large mirror. In the parlor were two chairs and a settee upholstered in cream brocade with pink roses, several good quality mahogany tables, shaded lanterns, and the secretary desk with matching chair that was sent over from the rectory.
Evy’s own room was quite small but cozy. She liked the floor-to-midwall window that looked down on a courtyard. She was up high enough to have quite a nice view, though the woods on the other side of the wall looked ominous.
The four-poster bed was smaller than the one in her aunt’s room, and though it did not have filmy curtains that could be drawn closed, she approved of the blue quilted coverlet and thick frilled pillows. There was a white dressing table with a fringed ottoman, also in blue, a hard-backed chair, and a small desk with an oil lamp and writing materials. The floor was not carpeted, but there were several area rugs to warm bare feet.
Only one painting adorned the walls: a young girl in a long blue dress, her golden hair undone, running through a meadow. Evy thought it enchanting at first glance, but the longer she looked the more uncertain she became. A dark forest waited on the other side of the meadow, and Evy could not be sure if the girl ran to escape something or to meet someone she cared about. Perhaps if Evy studied the woods more closely she would see someone standing in the shadows waiting for her.
Evy turned quickly away, trying to smile at her fancies.
Some minutes later, when her things were put away, she joined her aunt in the sitting room again. Aunt Grace smiled at her. “Well here we are, Evy. Our new home. In everything give thanks, and so we shall.”
Aunt Grace took Evy’s hands in her own. “Father God, we thank You for our new home. Encourage us to learn and accept Your purposes for us while we live here. Help us not to be too shy in showing others how much we trust You with the sudden changes in our lives. And remind us to be content with such things as we have, knowing You have promised in Your Word to never leave us or forsake us. We ask in our Saviors dear name, amen.”
A few minutes later there was a tap on the door, and the maid, Lizzie, Mrs. Croft’s niece, brought in the tea tray. There were cakes and frosted ginger biscuits sent up from the kitchen as a welcome gift by the cook, Beatrice.
“Welco
me to Rookswood, Mrs. Havering, Miss Evy.”
“Thank you, Lizzie. Do give our thanks to Beatrice in the kitchen.”
“Yes, Mrs. Havering.” The girl hesitated, as though she wanted to talk.
Aunt Grace remained noncommittal and expressionless, and Evy knew that she was showing the young woman she would not be engaging in servant gossip. Lizzie seemed to understand and quickly departed.
Later that afternoon Aunt Grace would meet with her charge, Miss Arcilla Chantry. Right at the moment, their unknown future seemed to Evy less than comforting indeed.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Evy’s meeting with Arcilla was not going well.
The girl was sitting on the window seat that looked out over the tops of the tall beech trees. She stood, as social grace’s required, when Mrs. Wetherly introduced her to Aunt Grace, though of course Arcilla was well aware of who she was. Arcilla had been attending the church for years. Evy thought the girl looked pale and docile—though she knew Arcilla was certainly not the latter.
Most likely Arcilla’s momentary good behavior could be attributed to ill health over her mother’s death or perhaps to her brothers’ orders that she mind her manners. There was little doubt that Arcilla set great store by Parnell and Rogan, that she cared for their opinions as much as she did Lady Camilla’s.
“Hello, Mrs. Havering.” The stilted words were spoken as though she had been forced to practice their simplicity. “I am glad you have come to Rookswood.” After a pause her eyes flickered, and it seemed her thoughts fought their way to the forefront to master her demeanor. “Not that anyone can ever fill the shoes of Miss Hortense. She was our nurse and governess all our lives—me, Rogan, and Parnell.”
Her challenge was clear. If Aunt Grace expected to take Miss Hortense’s place easily, there would be resistance.
Mrs. Wetherly made a throaty sound of disapproval, but Aunt Grace remained poised and confident. “I am sure you are right, Arcilla, and I certainly have no intention of taking her place in your heart. I am here to teach you on certain subjects until your father sends you to a private school in London.”
“I shall not go to London. I shall go to France, Mrs. Havering.”
“Miss Arcilla, you forget your manners!” Mrs. Wetherly’s tone was firm. “Your father has not decided where you should be sent to school, and since that is at least three years away—”
“It is Aunt Camilla who will decide, and she has already promised that I can go to France!”
“Mrs. Havering, I must apologize for—”
Aunt Grace gestured airily with her hand. “No harm is done, Mrs. Wetherly.” She turned and smiled at the girl, whose cheeks now showed two bright spots of temperamental pink. “I am sure Miss Arcilla and I shall come to peaceable terms.”
The housekeeper was clearly flustered. Evy pressed her lips together. Arcilla was apparently quite used to getting the best of the poor woman. Mrs. Wetherly said, “Are you going to show Mrs. Havering and her niece, Evy, around the nursery wing?”
“No. I wish to be excused. I am not feeling well again.” Without waiting for permission from either Mrs. Wetherly or Aunt Grace, Arcilla rose and started to leave. On her way to the door her gaze momentarily fixed on Evy, and she stopped in her tracks. A little smirk touched her rosebud mouth as she brushed past and went out, not even troubling to close the door. Her voice was heard in the hall: “Aunt Camilla! Aunt Camilla!”
Most likely she was running to Lady Camilla with an outburst of dislike for her new governess and the demand that Miss Hortense come back.
Mrs. Wetherly plucked at her crisp white apron. “That girl can be positively horrid at times. She’s grown worse since her mother passed away. And Sir Lyle leaving for Capetown so soon afterward worsened matters. She needs a strong hand, and I’m afraid she’s not getting it. Lady Camilla means well, but Arcilla is such a strong-willed girl that she dances circles around her aunt.”
“I understand, Mrs. Wetherly. These matters cannot be rushed. I have hopes that in time she and I shall cooperate.”
“Well, I certainly do hope so,” the housekeeper said doubtfully. “The only one she tends to listen to is her brother. The world rises and sets upon him by her estimation.”
“Master Parnell?”
“Oh no. Master Rogan.”
Aunt Grace’s brows arched.
Mrs. Wetherly shook her head. “Now that he’s leaving next week, there won’t be any of us who can calm her down.” She wrung her hands.
It was telling that Rogan could calm his sister’s emotions, or would even try. Evy would not have thought it in keeping with his self-indulgent behavior.
“Then I shall have a talk with Master Rogan later, Mrs. Wetherly,” Aunt Grace said. “Perhaps he and I can work out something between us about Arcilla before he leaves for London.”
“Oh, I am sure he would be cooperative.”
Evy held back a snort at that. It wouldn’t do well to offend Mrs. Wetherly, who clearly thought well of Rogan. The woman proceeded to show Aunt Grace about the large schoolroom. Evy glanced around, growing more dubious about their new home as the minutes passed. It will not be easy here. A sudden longing to be back at the rectory, far away from Arcilla, swept over her.
The room was bright and sunny with many windows and had the smell of books, paper, ink, and blackboard chalk. There were three desks with inkwells, two of which had been pushed aside. They must have once belonged to Parnell and Rogan.
Evy pondered which one she would use. Going to school each day with Arcilla sounded most unpleasant. She did not need to wonder which unused desk had belonged to whom. Both Parnell and Rogan had carved their bold initials into the wood, along with the date when they had left the charge of their tutor. Rogan’s was just the month before, when Mr. Whipple had departed from Rookswood. Evidently carving dates was a family tradition, because there were other initials there too, from earlier generations of Chantry children. Evy found it curiously interesting to see the initials H. C., etched by Henry Chantry, the man who had died violently here at Rookswood.
There were numbers of books stashed neatly in the walled bookcase, and a large world globe stood on a table. A world map was pinned to a wall, along with a smaller one of Africa. Someone had placed colored pins with tiny flags at Capetown and Kimberly. There was a blackboard behind the teachers large desk, and Evy knew her aunt would make good use of it.
Some old toys were grouped on one side of the hardwood floor, apparently from when the Chantry children had been small. Evy looked at the red painted rocking horse and worn teddy bears that must have belonged to Arcilla, and checkers and a card game. The toy wooden soldiers and wooden swords must have belonged to the boys. She could imagine the many bouts and tussles that the two brothers must have gotten into when playing knights, while Arcilla played princess.
The door opened, and Lizzie came in apologizing for the interruption. “Lady Camilla wishes to see Mrs. Havering about the schedule she had in mind for Arcilla.”
Mrs. Wetherly soon left to carry on her own work, and Aunt Grace asked Evy to go to their rooms. “Our trunks should be there by now. You can begin putting your things away.”
Evy entered the sitting room and saw that the two trunks had been brought up by one of the footmen. There were no locks on the trunk lids, and one of them lay wide open. Lizzie Croft must have thought she was to help unpack. Evy saw that it was her own trunk that stood open, her things rifled through. Who would dare!
She closed the door and went to her trunk, looking down. She stooped to her knees to gather a dress and petticoat, when from the corner of her eye she saw someone standing. She turned her head quickly. Arcilla was framed in the doorway of Evy’s bedroom, arms folded, a bored look on her pretty face.
“I do not like your dresses.”
Hot words rushed to her lips, but she swallowed them back and managed a stiff reply. “Since you won’t be wearing them, you needn’t concern yourself.”
“They are very dull. M
ore suited for Meg.”
Meg’s mum worked in the Rookswood kitchen, and her pa worked in the stables. Evy struggled to hold her temper.
“Not everyone can have their own dressmaker.” Evy directed a pointed look at Arcilla’s satiny frock with its full sleeves, narrow cuffs, and popular braid hem. “But you are a bit young to dress so grown-up.”
“I am not!” Arcilla fell onto the divan and drew her legs up beneath the knife-pleated underskirt. “I am quite grown-up for my age. I cannot wait to go to France to school. I shall have a dancing master and new gowns.”
Evy gathered her frocks together. “It was very rude of you to go through my trunk. You had no right.”
Arcilla shrugged. “You have nothing of interest to me.”
“Then perhaps you ought to go to your own room.”
Arcilla stared at her, mouth open, then laughed. “This whole house is mine.”
“Not these three rooms. My aunt is awarded them for her work here, which will be quite hard, now that she is your governess.”
Arcilla’s eyes flashed, and for a moment Evy thought the girl would pounce on her like an angry cat, but though her hands formed fists and her mouth tightened, Arcilla controlled herself. Suddenly she grimaced what Evy could only surmise was meant as a smile or a truce. She scanned her curiously.
“You are not like Alice, are you?”
“I am Evy Varley.”
“I shall overlook your bad manners.” Arcilla sniffed. “I would have expected something much better from the niece of the vicar.”
“And I would have expected much better from the daughter of the squire. Excuse me—I must hang my frocks in my wardrobe.” Evy gathered them up and went into her room. She began hanging them up in the small wardrobe, fully expecting Arcilla to flounce away, but the irritating girl came into the bedroom and gathered herself onto the middle of the bed, watching Evy, amusement sparkling in her eyes. Evy would have liked to order her out of her room, but she could not do so without Arcilla making a fuss about it to Lady Camilla. And Evy did not want to make trouble for Aunt Grace.
Tomorrow's Treasure Page 17