***
“Mrs. Macy is very kind,” Claire said sometime later, shifting her small parcel so she could once again take Camille’s hand. “Is that why you prefer her to her sister? Or do you frequent both establishments?”
Camille cocked her head, reflecting on the matter. “I suppose I do prefer Mrs. Macy, though I also visit Miss Shaw. I have never considered it before, but I suppose I have always felt that as Mrs. Macy proved the more adventurous of the two sisters, her hats must be somewhat more adventurous as well.”
Claire thought Mrs. Macy’s hats as adventurous as an evening alone, reading Pilgrim’s Progress.
“Well, she certainly offered an abundance of ribbons,” Claire said cheerfully. “I daresay she had twenty spools.”
Camille said nothing, and Claire wished she were able to tamp down her own sarcasm and not sound so high in the instep.
“Have you other shops to visit today? There is a small tearoom across the way,” Claire said, trying to steer Camille in a different direction.
“We are to have tea with Mr. Cosgrove. Did I not mention I have a letter for my solicitor?”
“You did, though I nearly forgot it. It is very pleasant of him to offer us tea while on a business call.”
“Jamie Cosgrove is very pleasant,” Camille said, and nodded. “We are to meet him at the posting house.”
“The one we passed on the way into Middlebury?”
“There is only one posting house,” Camille explained.
Of course. A small town might require two milliners, but one posting house would do.
In fact, the simplicity of its exterior was far exceeded by the cleanliness and elegant fixtures within. It would do very nicely, Claire reflected. Certainly, it was a fine place for a meeting.
“Lady Camille?”
A tall man came forward, out of the shadows. He was very lean, with deep dimples that might well disappear if he gained more heft, or if he did not smile so. But he appeared to be a man who liked to smile. As he bent over Camille’s hand, his brown hair fell over his forehead and brushed against her fingers. She slowly bent her elbow, so as he raised his head he was close to her he might well have stolen a kiss. Camille seemed to sense this, and parted her lips, as if in anticipation.
“I believe you are Mr. Cosgrove?” Claire interrupted. She thought she knew the full extent of her responsibilities to the young lady, and did not guess she would also be chaperone.
“I am,” he said, turning towards her, still holding Camille’s hand. Claire suddenly realized he was the gentleman who rode away from Brookside Cottage just as she arrived.
“Lady Claire, please let me introduce Mr. James Cosgrove. Lady Claire is my new friend.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you, my lady. I understand you are a great reader and have traveled to Brookside Cottage to share your knowledge of the classics with Lady Camille,” he said.
Oh, indeed. If one considered shelving the latest issues of Ackermann’s fashion plates alongside Aristotle in one’s library.
“I have come to share many things, Mr. Cosgrove. And as Lady Camille also shares much with me, we are learning from each other. Perhaps today we both are to learn a lesson in the law?”
He grinned, and his dimples deepened. “Are you interested in the law? Some consider mine a savage profession.”
“Mr. Cosgrove, I know people who consider any profession a savage one. But they have never had one, so could not truly know.” Claire smiled back at him, for his good humor was contagious. “Perhaps I ought to have a lesson from you, for one never knows when a source of income might come in very handy.”
“Are there lady solicitors?” Camille asked.
“No, my dear lady, there are not.” Mr. Cosgrove took her hand and led her to a small table near the window, beckoning Claire to follow. “I have never heard of a lady solicitor, but I believe one would do very well. Most females manage to get precisely what they desire.”
Camille sighed, while Claire looked in wonderment from one to the other. Dear God, she was indeed acting as chaperone today. Did Mrs. Brooks know of this friendship? Was it sanctioned by Lord Wentworth? Was such a visit possible only because Camille’s protective brother was far from Middlebury, Yorkshire, and England?
All these things were thoughts for serious contemplation, though not more so than Claire feeling very mature and matronly at all of twenty-eight years of age.
They sat companionably at the little table, with Camille facing the window and its light. Mr. Cosgrove took her hand and stripped off her glove before placing her fingers around the fork in front of her. She explored the implement before setting it down and finding her spoon.
“Do you usually conduct business in a posting house, Mr. Cosgrove?” Claire asked, managing to find her fork on her own.
“I do, when circumstances allow. Most often, I call upon my clients at their own home.”
“As you were doing just the other day, when I arrived at Brookside Cottage?” Claire countered, trying to make it very clear she did not miss a thing. It would be very easy to fall into a trusting relationship with this man, but she would not be caught until she understood the whole of the situation.
“Mr. Cosgrove was paying a social call then, Lady Claire,” Camille said. “We are old friends, you know.”
“No, I did not know. I only assumed Mr. Cosgrove came on business because you have a letter to deliver to him today. Is that not why we have come?”
“Of course,” Camille said, and pulled a sealed paper from her straw basket. She held it aloft until Mr. Cosgrove retrieved it from her hand. He looked at it with such interest, Claire thought he could see through the paper, but he tucked it into his jacket without opening it. Claire caught a faint whiff of lavender and did not think it was coming from his neatly starched shirt.
“Will you remain in Middlebury until our next Assembly Ball, my lady?” Mr. Cosgrove asked Claire. “Country dances are nothing to London balls, but perhaps that is why they are more enjoyable.”
“And have you attended many balls in London, Mr. Cosgrove?” Claire asked pointedly.
“I have, Lady Claire,” he said tersely, and turned his attention back to Camille. “Have you heard from your brother, Lady Camille?”
“I received only one brief note from Maxwell, and he said very little. I suppose he does not want me to know where he is and what danger he might be facing.”
James Cosgrove nodded thoughtfully. “He ought remember you are a grown lady and understand something of his business abroad. Some knowledge is a good thing.”
“Are you friends with Lord Wentworth as well, Mr. Cosgrove?”
Camille laughed nervously. “Of course, Lady Claire. How could it be otherwise? Jamie has known us all our lives and is a frequent guest at Brookside Cottage.”
And yet both her companions were somewhat on edge, Claire thought. And the use of Mr. Cosgrove’s first name was somewhat unusual in business dealings.
“I think I should enjoy a country ball, Mr. Cosgrove,” Claire said. “Lady Camille is accustomed to managing without my help but in this case I shall require hers. I only hope I manage to find a partner or two. Dare I request a set of you, Mr. Cosgrove? As a mature widow, I am allowed to be forward in this regard.”
“Of course I will introduce you to all the guests, Lady Claire,” said Camille. “And Jamie would take great pleasure in dancing with you.”
Lady Camille spoke as one who was confident that what she asked of a man would not be refused.
***
The daylight was waning when Claire stepped out, by herself, from Brookside Cottage, desiring some air and time for reflection. When she arrived some weeks ago, she imagined her biggest challenge was bringing society to a deprived young woman, so that she could confidently bring that young woman to society. S
he worried about which books to bring, and which gowns to wear. But now she wondered who suffered the greater deprivation.
Indeed, Camille Brooks was a lady crippled by the loss of her parents and her eyesight. And yet she somehow managed to see a great deal. She certainly saw enough to know she had a young man who adored her and hung on her every word.
And at the same time she, Claire, lived in an elegant town house in Eton Square and had enough gowns for every day of the month. But she had no one who looked at her the way James Cosgrove looked at Camille.
This evening, weary from another long walk into Middlebury, Claire and Camille ate an early dinner, after which Claire read from a curious book called Northanger Abbey. It was written by a lady, to be sure, and yet Catherine Morland, the heroine, did not fare very well in it, for she was rather silly. If this is what ladies thought of other ladies, what hope was there for men to believe otherwise? They discussed this briefly, with Camille sounding a good deal more optimistic about the situation than Claire. Which was, perhaps, as expected.
Camille dismissed her guest while stifling a wide yawn, either from boredom or plain exhaustion, and Claire realized she also needed some time to be by herself. She imagined she had little time before darkness descended and pulled on her dark wool shawl before slipping through the garden door. The damp air smelled of tangy rosemary and mint, and the moss on the ancient stones was a thick carpet beneath her slippers. Such pleasures were not to be had in an evening in London, and Claire wished she were a girl again to dance upon the fertile soil. Instead, she was a rather proper widow and could not risk having an audience.
She looked down the path towards the brook, where a small animal stealthily crossed into the shelter of a clump of tansy. And she glanced up towards the meadow, on the hill, and cried out in alarm.
Through the trees, the silhouettes of two great towers and a crenellated parapet were all aflame, glowing fiercely against the darkening sky. Claire turned quickly to run back and call out the staff, but then decided to better assess the danger. So she turned again and started to run up the hill towards the blazing building and sky. But when she did so, with somewhat more clearness of thought, she realized she did not see a building in flames, but one burnished by the setting sun. It was, all at once, a terrible and glorious vision.
This was Brook Hall, then, a place where no one went, and no one wanted to remember. Even at this distance, Claire could see it was a grand place and built to command a view over all the countryside, including Brookside Cottage, its modest little child. The residents of the Cottage might avoid speaking of their ancestral home, but they could hardly avoid seeing it, particularly on a night such as this when the sun burst through its planes and angles. Her heart still thumping in her chest, Claire saw with greater clarity how the roof was gone and the sun broke through portals that no longer framed glass panels.
She wanted to see the place, to meet the ghosts lingering there, and try to understand how fate, and one small boy, had caused such devastating destruction. But tonight was not the night to do so, as her morbid curiosity would best be satisfied in the light of day.
So she again turned her back on Brook Hall, and walked towards the sound of rushing water so she might follow the path along the river. Even if darkness descended sooner than she expected, she would still be able to find her way along the path; in fact, she might better appreciate Camille’s challenges to walk where she could not see.
The woods closed around her like an umbrella, and she heard the cries of night creatures calling to one another. Her foot kicked a pebble, which went tumbling into the water with a splash while all else went still. The river was closer than she thought and she hoped she would not tumble in as well. With her shawl and heavy gown, she was more likely to turn up downriver like a sad Ophelia than manage to pull herself out of the water.
Her toe hit another stone, though one more resistant, and Claire uttered a word no lady should ever say. Through the dark, she thought she heard something that might have been a laugh, and then coming right at her was a large beast.
She cried out again, and the beast grabbed her elbows and shook her.
“Release me, sir,” she said in a voice worthy of a dowager countess. It had the desired effect because he unhanded her at once and stepped back.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, in a voice that sounded as if he had not used it in a while. He cleared his throat. “Do you not know this is a dangerous place at night?”
“I might ask the same of you,” said Claire. “I am a guest of the family and have every right to walk here, which I assume you do not.”
The lowering sun, emerging through the trees, suddenly cast him in a narrow shaft of dimming light. It was enough to make out some of his features and not be particularly reassured by any of them. A dark hat sat low on his forehead, shading his eyes. An untidy and curly beard obscured the lower half of his face and part of his shirt. As to that, very little showed through the baggy jacket he wore, secured around his waist by a length of twine.
She ought to be terrified.
“I am on my way to Brookside Cottage myself,” he said.
“Are you expected?” Claire asked. Nothing had been mentioned of this. And surely it was not possible that a reclusive blind girl should have two lovers courting her at the same time?
“I am not,” he said. Of course not. Camille would have no business with a forest man or hermit or whomever was this stranger.
“Then let me direct you, sir,” Claire said, a bit too eagerly. She would do much good by sending this man away, and then escaping in the opposite direction. “You wish to walk that way, up the hill awhile. You cannot miss it.”
“I thought Brookside Cottage was only just behind you,” he said reasonably.
Claire frowned. Was it really that close?
“Oh, no,” she said. “That is the home of the steward. And he is not at home just now. Trust me when I say you must go up the hill. Go before it is dark.”
“It is dark enough now. Would you like me to accompany you and see you home safe?”
Worse and worse. Claire wondered what she could possibly say to make him go away.
“Thank you, but no. I . . . I am meeting a gentleman in these woods.”
She knew he stared down at her, but she could not read his expression.
“And I am not the gentleman you seek?” he asked.
She laughed. Though it was not in her nature to be cruel, she was now fearful and a little desperate. “No, you are not, sir.”
“More’s the pity,” he murmured. “Well, I know when I am not wanted around, so will make my way to Brookside Cottage. Up the hill, did you say?”
“I did.”
“Good evening to you, ma’am,” he said and bowed very graciously. He turned away and started to walk away from her. Claire waited until he was just out of sight, and then raced back to Brookside Cottage, losing a slipper along the way. Throwing open the door and slamming it behind her, gasping for breath as she held it closed, she suddenly realized she might know the stranger after all.
And, even worse, he might indeed be the gentleman she sought.
Chapter 3
Even before Claire opened her eyes the next morning, she considered the possibility that the events of the night before might be a cursed nightmare, prompted by an overactive imagination. After all, the great house on the hill could never truly be ignored, not while it still stood as an ominous pile of stone and tragic memory. And truly, with such a staff as the Marquis Wentworth commanded, it was highly unlikely a rough stranger could venture around the property unnoticed and unhindered. And yet, he could be a thief or a murderer. He could have come to Brookside Cottage to kill them all in their sleep.
Claire opened her eyes and stared at the ceiling. But there was the other possibility, of course, the one that occurred
to her even as she madly rushed to escape from him. The stranger certainly looked disreputable, but he did not sound so. In fact, his voice, once his throat cleared, was both cultured and well modulated; in short, it was the voice of a gentleman. One with whom she had spoken before, if however briefly.
But still, the whole episode remained the stuff of dreams. Why would a marquis return to his estate under cover of twilight and dressed as a woodsman? Where was his horse, his manservant? Why did he not announce his arrival at the Cottage or introduce himself to an unescorted young lady on his property? The man might sound like a gentleman but he was no such thing.
Clearly, then, it was all a nightmare.
Claire grimaced as she pulled herself up and sat on the edge of her bed. Her feet ached as if she had trod on hot cinders, and the look of her left foot somewhat confirmed that. One toenail was torn and scabbed with dried blood, and the flesh was greenish, as if stained by fresh grass.
Oh, dear God. It was not a nightmare. If everything she recalled actually happened, then the events of last night were real enough, and the nightmare was just beginning.
***
She heard them before she walked through the door into the breakfast room. Camille’s laughter wafted out into the hallway, and the deeper tones of a man’s voice punctuated her high-pitched little giggles, perhaps prompting them. Claire hesitated, wondering if he recounted his meeting with a very silly woman the night before, and if they now enjoyed so much amusement at her expense. Perhaps she could quietly return to her bed and request breakfast in her chamber.
“Good morning, Lady Glastonbury,” Mr. Clark, the butler, said. “You will be very happy to know the Master has returned earlier than expected, surprising us all.”
“How very delightful,” said Claire, smiling like a fool. “Indeed, Alice informed me of the marquis’ return when greeting me this morning. I understand he arrived quite late last night.”
Sharon Sobel Page 5