A Brush with Shadows

by Anna Lee Huber

  I pressed a hand to his chest, wishing there was something I could do for him. Some way to ease all the old hurts that had resurfaced. For him, being here was like prodding an old wound, one that had never fully healed.

  “I suppose you think I’m being too hard on him,” he snapped.

  I shook my head, answering calmly. “No. But . . .” I hesitated to say more. “I do think you need to be a bit more patient with him.”

  “Patient?! Alfred has been missing for twelve days. How long does he want him to remain so?”

  I arched my eyebrows in gentle chastisement, for we both knew that was not what I was referring to. “He has things he wants to say to you. You just need to give him a little more time to get there. You said it yourself, he’s stubborn and proud. It’s not easy for him to admit weakness or failure.”

  He exhaled heavily as if laboring under a great weight and turned to stare at the dull suit of armor situated in the corner where the corridor made an abrupt turn. “I suspect you’re right. He just . . .” His hands fisted at his sides. “He makes me so furious.”

  I grimaced in understanding. “If it’s any consolation, I think you infuriate him as well.”

  “Good,” he retorted, but then as he considered what I’d said, he gave a low chuckle. “Oh, what a pair we make,” he sighed.

  My smile turned more genuine. “Yes. The two of you together make lovely company.”

  He chuckled deeper, pulling me into his side.

  Seeing his good humor restored, I ventured to ask the question that was nagging at me. “What is Windy Cross Cottage?”

  He glanced down at me.

  “It’s been mentioned twice, and given your reaction just now it’s obvious how much it means to you.”

  His embrace slackened, but he didn’t release me. “That’s where my mother and I lived.”

  “Not here at the manor?”

  His gaze hardened again. “We weren’t fit to reside in the manor. They were determined to never let her forget what her choice in a husband meant.” He shook his head when I would have offered him consolation. “But it turned out for the best anyway. Then my mother didn’t have to contend with Aunt Vanessa’s constant slights or hear my cousins mock me. All told, I was up at the manor, for my lessons and such, far more often than she was.”

  I couldn’t help but feel a stab of empathy for Emma Gage. How lonely that must have been. To have your husband far away at sea for nearly fifty weeks out of a year and then be separated from the rest of your family because they were ashamed of you. However, I also couldn’t repress the irritation that had been simmering inside of me at the continued evidence of her failure to shield her son. From everything I’d heard thus far, he was the one who had protected her at every turn—keeping all the hurtful things inflicted on him to himself rather than upset her. They’d moved here when Gage was but three years old. What mother allows a child so young to carry such a burden? I knew she’d been ill off and on, but I had a difficult time believing she was not aware of what was happening.

  Yet another piece to the puzzle that was Emma Trevelyan Gage.

  I repressed a sigh. Perhaps I was being too hard on her. Perhaps my own dormant motherly instincts had been roused by my delayed courses a few weeks before and had made me too sensitive to the subject. Though I wasn’t expecting now—at least, I didn’t think so—it was only a matter of time before I was.

  In any case, there was no doubt Gage’s mother had loved him. And I wasn’t about to share my conflicting reflections about her with her son. Gage adored his mother, and if he wasn’t resentful of her behavior, I wasn’t going to make him so. The rest of his family had already proven to be less than loving. Giving him doubts about the one person who had truly loved him would be horribly cruel. If only the rest of his family, including his father, had loved him so well, there would have been no need for either of them to protect each other.

  Hearing the sound of someone stirring at the end of the corridor to our left, Gage tucked my arm through his and led me down the stairs.

  “So how do you propose we spend our afternoon?” I inquired, hoping to steer our conversation toward lighter topics, especially given the fact that we might encounter Lady Langstone or Rory at any moment.

  “I think a visit to Alfred’s friend at Kilworthy Park is in order.”

  Recalling his aunt’s comments on Mr. Glanville at dinner the evening before, I had to agree.

  “I’ve already checked with Hammett and discovered it’s only five miles distant. And in any case, I would welcome the chance to gather my thoughts.”

  I nodded, hearing his unspoken feelings as loudly as if he’d voiced them, for they echoed my own. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one feeling confined by the stone walls surrounding us. Any opportunity to step away for even a short time was a welcome one.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kilworthy Park sat nestled in a wooded valley to the west of Langstone Manor. The lands themselves would have been quite impressive if not for the obvious neglect. Gates hung off their hinges, a window in the gatehouse was shattered, and the lane was overgrown. Even the rambling Georgian monstrosity of a manor seemed to be falling apart—quite literally, if the pile of masonry near the base of the south tower was anything to judge by. Mr. Glanville was obviously in dun territory, and dangerously so if his house was crumbling around him.

  I didn’t know what to anticipate from such a man, and told Gage so.

  He’d been quiet most of the trip, mulling over everything we’d learned. But as we rolled by the derelict gatehouse, he leaned forward to gaze out the window at the property. “Mr. Glanville is the very definition of a wastrel. I’ve had the dubious pleasure of his company on occasion, and while he’s relatively unobjectionable, he’s also perfectly useless. And content to be so.”

  We heard the thwack of a branch hitting Tavistock’s carriage and then a rather colorful curse from the coachman above.

  “What does he do with himself?”

  “Drink, gamble, and visit dubious establishments.” Gage tilted his head toward me. “As I said, nothing useful. I think his only goal is to spend his father’s money. Which he seems to be doing at remarkable speed,” he added as we rounded the unkempt lane in front of the manor.

  “Who was his father?”

  “Sir Francis Glanville. He was knighted for some service to the Crown, served as a Member of Parliament, and was attributed as a highly successful investor in the East India Company, among other things. From what I recall, he actually disowned his son for his profligate ways, but then relented just before he died.”

  I stared up at the gargoyles projecting from the roofline. “Perhaps he had no one else to leave the money to,” I murmured softly, uncertain I would like to live in such a building even if it were in better repair.

  “Whatever the reason, I’m afraid that’s not really our concern. However, the fact that this building has upwards of thirty or more rooms, any of which Alfred could be hiding in, is.”

  We were shown into a massive drawing room with mismatched floor rugs and high ceilings smudged with soot. The fire in the hearth cast little heat, even when I was standing directly in front of it, and I wrapped my arms tighter about me, grateful I’d retained my sapphire blue redingote instead of passing it to the butler with my hat and gloves. Between the dented wood and saggy cushions on the furniture, and the fading wallpaper and chipped plaster along the fireplace, it was clear the interior of Kilworthy Park had fared no better than the exterior. The air smelled sour and not altogether pleasant, and I found myself eager to finish this errand and be gone.

  When Mr. Glanville charged into the room, I was more than grateful for the distraction from our surroundings.

  “Gage,” he boomed, reaching for my husband’s hand. “It’s good to see you, old chum.” Glanville was broad shouldered and tall, nearly as tall as my husband. But what m
ust have been an impressive physique at one time had since softened with indulgence. Most of his clothes stretched taut over his frame, straining at the seams, save for his coat, which hung from his shoulders. It was evident that garment had once belonged to someone else—a man whose figure must have been massive in order for his coat to dwarf the man before me. I guessed Glanville was only about five years older than Gage and his cousins, but he looked much older.

  “And this must be your mysterious wife,” he proclaimed, turning to me to bow in greeting. “Please, please, have a seat. What brings you to my neck of the woods?” he quipped, jauntily using the Americanism as we all settled into our chairs.

  “We’re here about my cousin, Lord Langstone,” Gage replied.

  This pronouncement sent all the humor fleeing from our host’s face. “Yes, I’d forgotten you and Alfy were related,” he muttered almost under his breath before raising his voice once again. “Well, whatever trouble he’s gotten himself into, I’m afraid I’ve nothing to do with it. Not this time, anyway.”

  For a moment, this vehement response made Gage fumble for his words. “What makes you think he’s in trouble?”

  He sat forward, gesturing broadly. “Because the Dowager Lady Langstone came charging in here making all sorts of accusations. As if I had him locked up in my attics. And I’ll tell you what I told her. I don’t know where Langstone is. Haven’t seen the fellow in over a month.” He sank back with a sigh of exasperation. “If ye ask me, he probably hared off to London without telling her.”

  Gage and I shared a look, wondering why his aunt had been so quick to imply that Glanville had come to her and not the other way around. Except that a lady racing off to confront one of her son’s profligate friends was not exactly becoming behavior.

  “Could he be staying with one of his other friends in the area?” Gage asked, testing to see how much of what Lady Langstone had said was true and how much was fiction.

  “How should I know?” he snapped. Some of the irritation began to drain from his face as he glanced between us, clearly having realized something. “Wait. You’re inquiry agents. So if you’re here, then . . . Is Alfy actually missing?”

  “It appears so.”

  Glanville scraped a hand through his thinning hair, making some of the strands stand on end. “Well, dash it all. I thought he was just dodging his mother.”

  Gage leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Why would he need to do that?”

  “Because . . .” Our host paused, considering us before he continued. “Because she could be a right harpy when she had a mind to be. Always haranguing him for one thing or another.”

  Considering who we were, I supposed he’d decided he didn’t care what we reported back to Lady Langstone, or if his words got his friend into trouble.

  “Was there anything in particular she harangued him about more than anything else?” Gage asked, struggling to mask his disapproval at the man’s rude comments. He might not like his aunt, but she was still a lady.

  “Marriage, for one. Wanted him to settle down. Put his neck in the parson’s mousetrap.”

  “I’m told he was about to become engaged.”

  Glanville gave a bark of laughter. “To Lady Juliana? Not if he could help it.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked in surprise.

  “They were pressuring him to marry her, but he was having none of it. Not that he objected to her, precisely. Or the dowry she would bring with her. But he wasn’t interested in being leg shackled to anyone.”

  Gage didn’t appear to be shocked by this pronouncement. “Were they threatening to cut him off if he didn’t comply?”

  “I don’t know about that. But I doubt he would spread that about were it true.” He winked at me where I perched in the most comfortable spot I could find on the far edge of one of the settees. “Doesn’t exactly ingratiate yourself to the publicans or the ladies.”

  Gage’s brow furrowed in annoyance. “You said you hadn’t seen him in over a month. Was that normal?”

  Glanville sat back, rubbing his jaw. “That’s the thing. When he was down from London, I usually saw him a couple of times a week. Not that we kept a schedule or anything. But he would kick over the traces and come see me, or I’d find him acting corky at one of the local taverns and join in.”

  “But not recently?”

  He shook his head. “And the last few times I did see him, he acted strangely. I would have said he was simply having a fit of the blue devils, but there seemed to be more to it than that.”

  “You say he was in low spirits?”

  He grimaced. “Yes. Sort of. Maybe,” he vacillated. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really know what to call it. I only know he wasn’t his usual self.”

  “And what was usual?”

  I could hear the same frustration in Gage’s voice that was growing in me. Though Glanville was sharing plenty of information with us, most of it was unspecific. This seemed to be his nature and not a deliberate attempt to stymie us, which only made his blather all the more irritating.

  Glanville’s eyes flicked toward me. “You know. On the cut. Friendly with the muslin. Happy to stand huff.”

  I nearly rolled my eyes at his ridiculous overuse of cant. Evidently, he assumed it was some sort of code I wouldn’t be able to decipher.

  Gage’s tone was droll when he responded in kind. “So because he wasn’t jug bitten, and consequently unwilling to frank you and pay your way, that meant he was behaving oddly?”

  “Exactly,” he exclaimed, missing Gage’s use of sarcasm. He frowned. “The barmaids were always keen on Alfy. I couldn’t understand why he was suddenly turning them away.”

  “Maybe he was weary of it all.”

  “Maybe,” Glanville conceded, though his expression communicated he considered such a notion to be cracked.

  Gage opened his mouth to say more, but then closed it again as a young maid entered the room, stumbling under the weight of a tray. The dishes rattled as she set the salver down on the chipped surface of the table before her employer. Her relieved sigh was audible as she straightened and bobbed a quick curtsy before escaping the way she’d come.

  Glanville sat forward and reached for the decanter of amber liquid, pouring a liberal splash into his glass. “Help yourselves,” he declared, pushing the tray across the table toward me.

  I might have been offended by his terrible manners if I hadn’t already been anticipating them after listening to his absurd mode of speech. Had he been born to a lower class or even at the disadvantage of being an American, his behavior would not necessarily have incensed me. But I was quite certain Mr. Glanville had been raised properly, with every opportunity a gentleman is afforded. His uncouth comments and complete disregard of etiquette were nothing more than evidence of a rude, selfish man.

  As such, I didn’t bother to hide my scowl. Not that it deterred him in the least.

  Gage accepted a glass of brandy as well, perhaps wishing for some fortification to help him through the rest of this conversation. For a moment, I considered pouring myself some of the libation, but then decided my disregarding the rules of decorum would only sanction Glanville’s boorishness. However, after taking one sip of the weak, tepid tea, I wished I’d followed my first inclination. Rather than choke it down, I set it aside, not bothering to hide my distaste.

  This only made Glanville grin. “Now you know why I prefer the brandy.”

  Before I could snap back a retort, Gage lowered his glass and redirected the interview to the reason for our visit. I bit my tongue, knowing the sooner we got the information we came for, the sooner we could leave.

  “In the past, had you and Langstone ever traveled to Plymouth?”

  We’d already spoken to Tavistock’s coachman about this very topic, but I was curious how Glanville would answer.

  “Together? No. But
I’ve seen him there, at the theater and the pubs along Union Street.” Glanville gestured with his glass, sloshing the liquid inside. “Is that where you think he’s gone?”

  “We’re looking into it, but I have my doubts.”

  Glanville nodded as if he agreed and drained his glass before reaching for the decanter to refill it.

  Gage studied him intently. “So you truly have no idea where Langstone is or what might have happened to him?”

  Lowering the glass bottle with a clatter, our host glanced up at him almost in surprise. “Haven’t the foggiest.” When Gage continued to scrutinize his demeanor, a glower creased his features. “Listen here, if you’re trying to imply I’m hiding him here somewhere, in my attics or wherever, you’re welcome to have a look. Search the entire house for all I care.” He sat back, lifting his glass to take another swallow. “You won’t be wasting my time.”

  My husband glanced at me and I shook my head, having a difficult time believing Glanville would be a loyal enough friend to conceal the fact that Alfred was here, let alone allow him to stay under his roof for an extended amount of time in the first place.

  “What if you had to speculate?” Gage pressed. “Is there someplace he might have gone we haven’t thought of?”

  Glanville shook his head, his mouth set mulishly.

  “How about enemies? Do you know of anyone who might wish him harm? A wronged lover or her male relatives? Another drinking companion? A . . . a tenant of Langstone?”

  Glanville’s brow lifted. “This might be nothing, but has Lord Tavistock mentioned the Swing letters he received?”

  Gage stiffened. “Alfred told you Lord Tavistock received some Swing letters?” His voice was sharp with shock.

  Our host nodded. “We talked about it mostly in jest, for a handful of the landowners in the area got them, including me. Though I’ve no idea why. Couldn’t afford one of those new threshing machines even if I wanted one.” His lips curled, trying to make light of the matter even now, though it failed to amuse me or Gage.