by Julia London
Twenty-three
M argaret Awbrey noticed something different about Rhodrick the moment he strode into their salon. It was his step, she thought—it seemed lighter somehow. But more than that, her dear old friend was smiling. Smiling. Not his usual attempt at a smile, but an ear-to-ear face-splitting smile.
He bowed and kissed the back of her hand fervently, then greeted Thomas with great warmth. Thomas peered at him closely, his gaze raking Rhodi’s frame as if he tried to discern the point from which this exuberant spirit was emanating in a man who was normally stoic and dark.
“Rhodi!” Margaret exclaimed, taking him by the hand and leading him to sit beside her on the settee. “What brings you to Rhayader?”
He shrugged, but his eyes were gleaming. “The same that always brings me to Rhayader—business. Ah, but Meg, it is such a glorious day, I could not let it pass without seeing my dearest friends.”
“Rhodi, really!” Margaret laughed. “What in heavens has come over you?”
He laughed and shook his head. “Nothing but a natural invigoration that comes with the changing of the seasons.”
“Indeed? I’ve never noticed you to be quite so invigorated by the approach of winter.”
With a polite laugh, he abruptly stood and strolled to the windows that overlooked the River Wye, his hands clasped behind his back. “The weather has been so mild of late that I’m of a mind to host a small gathering at Llanmair. A soirée, as it were. What do you think?”
Thomas, bless him, almost choked on his tea, and Margaret was so shocked by his declaration that she almost tripped over her hem in her haste to stand up. When neither of them managed to speak, Rhodi turned and glanced uncertainly at them over his shoulder. “You think it unwise?”
“No…no,” Margaret said instantly, moving forward. Her husband had yet to close his mouth, was still gaping at Rhodi. “I think it is wonderful,” she said hastily. “We…we are only surprised, my lord. After all these years, and you’ve not—”
“That is quite right, Meg. After all these years of living the life of a wretched recluse, I, for once, should like to celebrate the Christmas season. It will be upon us before we know it.”
“That’s wonderful,” Margaret said, still watching him, still half expecting him to grin and tell her he was jesting, or that he’d only meant to invite her and Thomas and the Pools, that there really was no sudden change in his demeanor.
“Will you help me?” he asked earnestly. “I admit I’m not entirely certain how to go about such things as the place settings and the flowers, and whatnot.”
“Of course, Rhodi. I will help you in any way you’d like.”
“Splendid,” he said, and looked, Margaret thought, as if he were only a moment from floating out of his boots. “Nothing too large, mind you, Meg. Perhaps two hundred guests?”
Two hundred! She’d have to invite all of Powys to match that number! But she smiled and said, “If you like.”
He grinned. “I hoped that I might rely on you, Meg. Thank you.” He took up her hand, kissed it again, and with another cheerful smile, he strode to the door.
She realized he meant to leave. “Rhodi, darling!” Margaret called after him, startled. “Where are you going?”
“I beg your pardon, but it is time I returned to Llanmair. I have quite a lot of work to do yet,” he said, and with a nod of his head, he called farewell and walked out, his stride long and determined.
Margaret did not move for several moments after the door shut behind him; neither did Thomas. When at last Margaret did move, it was to her husband’s side. She grabbed up his hand and sank onto the chair beside him. “What has happened?” she asked anxiously.
Thomas laughed and tenderly cupped her face. “You do not know, my love?”
“Know what?”
“Your dear friend is in love.”
Margaret blinked, then reared back. “In love?” she cried, and burst into laughter as she stood and walked to the middle of the room. “That’s absurd, Thomas! With whom?” she exclaimed, whirling around to face him.
“Whom do you think?” Thomas asked with a smile. “Miss Fairchild.”
Of course she knew whom, but nonetheless, Margaret gasped and sank onto the settee, gaping at her husband. That could not possibly be. She could not grasp the wildly improbable, impossible actuality that he might have fallen in love with that young, mysterious, wanton—she was wanton, wasn’t she?—woman from London.
But Thomas was smiling at her confusion, and as it began to sink in, as the events Margaret had witnessed with her own eyes began to formulate in her memory into a story, she knew it was true.
She should be happy! She wanted to rejoice for him, for no one deserved to be happy more than Rhodi, not after all he’d been through. For years she’d prayed for this. But as she fell back against the settee, she didn’t feel happiness—she felt a foreboding like she’d never felt in her life.
Something told her this would not end happily.
That morning, when Rhodrick had ridden out, Greer had watched until she could no longer see his black cape billowing behind him any longer, then hurried to the household stores, where she rooted around until she scrounged up some cleaning rags, some lye, and some oil for wood. She filled a basket with the cleaning supplies, and then another basket with enough food for her and oatcakes and apples for Molly.
Greer carried one basket and pushed the other with her foot into the foyer, until a horrified Ifan saw her and picked up both baskets, carrying them out to the courtyard and instructing a groomsman to secure them to Molly, who had, at Greer’s request, been saddled.
When Ifan returned, she was fitting her gloves onto her hands. The butler paused in the foyer. “Shall I tell his lordship where you have gone, miss?”
Greer smiled at him and fit her bonnet on her head. “No thank you.”
Ifan nodded. “And if his lordship should inquire as to your whereabouts, what shall I tell him?”
“Hmm,” Greer said, pretending to think about that as she tied the bonnet beneath her chin. When she had finished, she dropped her hands and turned to look at the butler. “I suppose, sir, were I you, that I would say I do not know.” With a smile, she walked to the chair where she had draped her cloak, tossed it on her shoulders, then fastened the clasp. When she was satisfied she was properly attired, she turned back to Ifan. “Good day, sir,” she said, and sailed out of the foyer.
Fortunately, the snowfall of yesterday had melted enough that Greer and Molly could see the trail. And this time, she knew precisely where she was going. It almost seemed as if Molly did, too, for she reached Kendrick in an hour’s time. Greer did not, however, attempt to enter the estate through the back gate as she’d done before, but marched right up to the gate to Madoc Jones’s cottage and rapped loudly. When no one answered, she pushed the gate open and looked inside.
The thatch-roofed cottage, just inside the stone wall, was smaller than she recalled—no more than a single room, she’d wager. There was a well-tended kitchen garden to one side, and next to that, a plain dirt area where one rooster and three chickens were pecking.
Greer opened the small wooden gate that surrounded the cottage yard and walked inside, past the garden, kicking a pair of feeding chickens out of her path on her way to the door. She rapped loudly, then paused to listen. Through an open window, she could hear a man groan.
She rapped again.
When he still did not answer, Greer moved to the window. “Mr. Jones!” she called out.
That was met with a bit of harsh muttering in Welsh.
“Mr. Jones, if you please, it is Miss Fairchild calling!”
“Bloody hell,” was the mumbled response, followed by a lot of banging about, as if Mr. Jones were slamming into the furniture and walls of the cottage in his haste to reach the door. A moment later, the small door swung open, and Mr. Madoc Jones stepped into the door frame, squinting against the sun and smelling of whiskey. Quite a lot of whiskey.
He propped his arm on the doorjamb, hooked the thumb of his other hand in the waist of his dirty buckskins, and glared at her. “Miss Fairchild,” he drawled. “I am certain we agreed that ye’re not allowed here without his lordship’s permission.”
“I beg your pardon, sir, but we did not agree at all. I have returned and I will not be turned away. So will you please lend me a hand?” she asked, gesturing to the gate. “I’ve brought some things to clean the house.”
“What house?”
“Kendrick, of course!”
Mr. Jones blinked, then burst into a laugh that sounded as if it had been soaked in whiskey. “Why would a lady of the Quality want to clean that old house?”
“It is filthy,” she said primly. “A hand, please, Mr. Jones?”
“Now, Miss Fairchild, I cannot. Ye know that I cannot.”
“But you can!” she said with a smile. “Really, what harm is there in cleaning an empty house? His lordship need never know.”
“Why do ye want to go and clean that old thing?” he asked, eyeing her curiously.
Because of her life and who she was. Because it was the only real part of her past. “To have the satisfaction of seeing a fine home restored to its grandeur. Come along, please.”
His eyes narrowed on her, and Greer was certain he meant to turn her away again. But then he suddenly dropped his arm and closed his eyes with a groan heavenward. “By the saints, ye will cost me my head, ye will,” he groused.
But he shut the cottage door behind him and followed her to the gate.
Mr. Jones did more than help her carry her things to the house. He also filled a wooden bucket with water and brought it to her, then wandered around the house with her. The place was so large that it was hard to know where to begin. She decided at last to begin in what she was certain had once been the music room. There was nothing within to tell her that, but in her mind’s eye, she could see the pianoforte before the set of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a painfully overgrown garden.
She could see her mother playing it, too, and she wondered if perhaps she had seen her mother play here. “Here,” she said. “I believe this was a music room.”
“Looks like all the rest if ye ask me,” Mr. Jones said.
“It’s not,” Greer assured him. “I just know.” As she removed her cloak and bonnet, took off the jacket of her riding habit, and rolled up the sleeves of her shirt, Madoc Jones leaned against a wall and watched her. Greer frowned lightly at him, wishing he would go on, but he showed no sign of leaving, and in fact, as she began to scrub the mantel of the hearth, he perched himself on the windowsill.
“Never thought I’d see the day that a woman of the Quality would bend an elbow in honest work,” he remarked idly.
That was because women of the Quality rarely possessed anything like an entire house all on their own. And in light of the last two days—two incredibly bewitching days—she had devised a scheme whereby she would put off her return to London. What was the point in it? Undoubtedly, she was ruined by her own actions. Where there had been hope of marrying well the day she left, now there was none.
But she might convince Rhodrick to let her take Kendrick, and live here—only an hour’s ride from him.
She thought, what with winter upon them and the four thousand pounds due her, she might restore it and stay within Rhodrick’s reach. Just the thought of him put a smile on her lips. It was almost laughable, she thought, that she had once feared him. She no longer feared him—she craved him.
Her imagination soared as she scrubbed. Perhaps she would marry him. The Princess of Powys. It sounded quite nice, really. They would use Kendrick to entertain in the summer months, as it would be more inviting than Llanmair. They would have children, wouldn’t they? Children with his startling green eyes and thick black hair.
Or perhaps she would live on her own in this very grand house, just like a man, with the prince as her lover. The very idea reminded her of an illicit novel she and Phoebe had once stolen from Aunt Cassandra. They’d delighted in reading it to each other at night, their eyes growing wide, giggling uncontrollably at the suggestive passages, then rejoicing when the heroine, Mary Anderson, persevered against all possible odds and earned herself a place in society quite by herself upon her husband’s death.
Greer would be that woman. She would be the Mary Anderson of Wales, capable of taking care of herself against all possible odds. Or she would be elegant in her role as princess, known far and wide across Wales for her magnificent assemblies and balls.
“I don’t know how ye go about it with such a smile,” Mr. Jones said on a yawn as he studied his dirty nails. “The place is uninhabitable.”
“No, Mr. Jones, you are mistaken,” Greer said with cheerful assurance. “A bit of cleaning and repair, and this house shall be good as new.”
Madoc Jones snorted at that.
“What do you suppose is the room upstairs just above us?” she asked him.
“What room?”
“The locked room,” she said.
“Ah. That would be where Miss Yates was held, miss.”
Greer instantly stopped her scrubbing and looked at him. “Held? What do you mean?”
“Don’t ye know how it was that Kendrick came to be closed, then?” Mr. Jones asked, and when she could only blink in response, he grinned with delight. “Aha, no one has told ye, aye? I daresay if ye’d heard of our Miss Yates ye’d not be so keen to restore this old place.”
Deep down, something twisted in Greer. “Who is Miss Yates?” she made herself ask.
“The unfortunate lover of the prince or his cousin, depending on who is telling the tale. She was locked in that room until she went mad.” He shook his head. “A sad ending, it was.”
“W-what happened?”
“She escaped, fell in a ravine—or jumped—and broke her neck. Some say the prince’s young cousin was responsible. Some say the prince. Personally, I always thought it right odd that the prince found her as he did. She was at the bottom of a ravine far from here, and he was quite alone when he found her.” He leaned in and said low, “Some say he found her only because he put her there to begin with.”
“That’s preposterous,” Greer said, trying to imagine the man she’d made love with having anything to do with it. The same man who had saved her life only just a few short weeks ago. He could certainly have left her in a ravine, and no one ever might have found her. “Your imagination has run amuck, Mr. Jones.”
“Perhaps it has, Miss Fairchild,” he said. “But ye must admit, it is a bit perplexing.”
It was perplexing, particularly as it was precisely what Percy had told her. Greer resumed her scrubbing with a vengeance.
Mr. Jones stood and stretched. “She lives here to this day.”
“Who?”
“Miss Yates.” He smiled when Greer paused in her work to look up at him. “I see her often. She stands in the front door, as if she’s looking for someone.”
A cold shiver snaked up Greer’s spine.
“I don’t think the lady will rest until her lover’s come for her.”
Now Greer frowned irritably. “Had you been drinking whiskey before you saw this apparition, Mr. Jones?” she asked skeptically.
Mr. Jones chuckled low. “Perhaps I had, miss. But when I leave ye alone in this room, ye can’t be certain if it was the whiskey or a ghost, can ye now?” With a wink, he stood up and walked across the room to the door. “I’ll leave ye to the cleaning, then. I’ve enough of me own work to do.”
Greer pushed a strand of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand as she listened to his footfalls move away from her. When she could no longer hear him, she glanced around the room. Ghost indeed. It was ridiculous. She would find a way to open the locked door, and that would be that. And there was, she was certain, some logical explanation to how the prince had found poor Miss Yates.
“There has to be,” Greer muttered irritably. Yet she could not shake the doubts creeping into her
mind. And when she heard a strange creaking on the floor above, as if someone were walking above her head, she determined she had cleaned enough for one day and quickly gathered her cloak and her things, and left the house at a rather rapid clip.
By the time she reached Mr. Jones’s cottage, she was out of breath.
He was chopping wood. When he saw her, he paused in his work, propped himself up on the ax, and chuckled as she continued to march toward him, her cloak snapping behind her.
“Cleaned it all, have ye?” he asked with a grin.
“Only one room,” she said breathlessly.
“Pity, that. I suspect it might have been quite nice to see it clean again.”
“I am hardly defeated, Mr. Jones. I shall return on the morrow, weather permitting.” She gave him a pert nod and walked on. But when she reached the gate, she turned and looked at him. He was still standing with his weight propped on the ax, watching her.
“Mr. Jones, if you believe the prince may have had something to do with the poor woman’s death, then why are you in his employ?”
“I didn’t say I believed it,” he said amicably. “And even if I did, I’ve no choice. I am paying a debt.”
She must have looked as confused as she felt, for he chuckled and said, “I’m a drunkard, Miss Fairchild. Caught in the grip of demon drink, as they say. The prince gave me a place to live when most would have seen me hanged. Without him, I’ve got nowhere to go.” He smiled and picked up the ax. “Take a bit of advice from me, miss. Keep your distance from drink.” He swung his ax, splitting a log.
Greer turned away. As she walked through the gate, she heard the sound of more wood being split behind her, and felt very unsettled.
When Mr. Morris, the Downey household’s butler, brought Phoebe the latest letter from Greer, she didn’t bother to open it, but gathered up her cloak and bonnet and all the letters she had received from Greer and hurried across Mayfair to Middleton House, from which Ava had sent word she’d finally arrived.