And now I was playing statue in my room, scrambling to recall all the household duties that awaited me in a vain attempt to bury thoughts of naked under the stars (and all that went with it).
It wasn’t working. How could I face Isabelle and Maud? The smirks of the servants?
How could I face Thayne? No wonder newly married couples went off on a wedding journey, spending time alone before rejoining the world. Under those more benign circumstances the bride and groom had only each other’s sensibilities to consider after their wedding night.
Unfortunately, I did not have that luxury. I, the Lady of Falconfell, was surrounded by the inhabitants of our fiefdom. People who looked to me for guidance. I was not supposed to be growing roots at the end of my chaise-longue.
I levered myself to my feet, convinced a rush of tears they did not wish to fall. I firmed my chin and walked to the window overlooking the garden and the mountain. Falconcrest towered over the house, a striking mix of rock and summer green moorgrass shimmering in the sun. A secret smile tweaked the corners of my mouth. Not a bad place to be naked under the stars. Not bad at all.
After a last lingering look at the mountain, I left my room and headed downstairs. Lady Serena Hammersley, true Mistress of Falconfell. At last.
“Ah, fortunate child,” Maud exclaimed as I entered the drawing room. She was perched in a chair too large for her, with what appeared to be an ancient manuscript in her lap. Isabelle was, as usual, ensconced in her favorite chair by a window only a few feet away. “So many Mid-summer revels I attended in my youth,” Maud reminisced, her dark eyes gazing back into the past. “I had to sneak out, of course. Papa would never have allowed it.” She smiled. “It was glorious, quite glorious. Until . . .” With a quick indrawn breath, she returned her focus to me. “I made a mistake. As you made a mistake when you came here.” Maud’s dark eyes took on a glow so fierce it hinged on the maniacal. “Go home, girl. Evil lurks here. Stay, and you’ll come to a bad end.”
Like Helen and Justine. As a shiver shook me, I caught Isabelle’s eye and found her looking as solemn as I’d ever seen her. And not, I thought, from worry about Maud’s sanity. Did she too think . . .?
I couldn’t form the thought or the words. I felt as if I’d stepped into a bog on the moor, except the content of the muck attempting to engulf me was unknown, a mystery, a secret no one would broach.
I knelt by Maud’s chair. “Maud, are you saying you believe there is more danger here, that we must all tread with care?”
Her beady black eyes seemed to stare straight into my soul. “Oh yes,” she whispered. “Death lingers.”
Goosebumps rose on my arms. I took Maud’s blue-veined, claw-like hand in mine. “Maud, do you know where this danger lies? Can you tell me how to find it?”
“It is . . . everywhere,” she whispered, a look of what I could only term diabolical glee flitting across her face. “And where you least expect it,” she added obscurely.
Suddenly, her features went blank. She peered at me, frowned, and said, “Who are you? What are doing down there on the floor?”
Although it was scarcely the first time I had seen signs of senility, for a moment my brain refused to grasp the situation. While I gaped at Maud, Isabelle put down her embroidery and approached us. “Maud, dear,” she said, “it is Isabelle. You have been ill. Perhaps you would like to go upstairs and lie down.”
Considerably chagrined, I watched Isabelle perform the duties of lady of the manor with complete aplomb while I still knelt on the floor, my mouth hanging open, frustration pounding in my head. We had seemed so close to discovering the rot that was poisoning the very air around us . . . Maud knew something, I was certain of it.
Having failed miserably with my first obligation of the day—or perhaps not, I realized on a rush of relief, for Maud had managed to deflect the awkwardness of my own embarrassing situation. I descended to the kitchen with more spring in my step.
The silence struck me when I was only half-way down the stairs. No clanking of pots and pans, no sound of voices, no footsteps . . . no delicious odors drifting from pots simmering on the stove. I found Nettie alone at the sink, peeling a potato, Sally, the youngest kitchen maid, listlessly wielding a broom near the pantry.
“Nettie?” She turned and looked at me, her round face stricken with guilt. “Don’t tell me the entire kitchen staff was laid low by Mid-summer revels?”
“Dunno, my lady,” she replied, looking as if she expected me to grab the broom and swat her at any moment. “More’n half t’staff dinna come back this morning, including Fraser and Mr. Fournier, him what thinks he should be called Anton.” She spat the word like a curse. “Mr. Ross’s been out since dawn lookin’ for ’em.”
“Does Lord Hammersley know about this?”
“Donno, my lady. Havena seen him either.”
I changed tack. “You managed breakfast all by yourself. Well done, Nettie.”
“Been doin’ it for years, now haven’t I?
Fairly caught, I smiled, if a trifle ruefully. “Indeed you have. But can you manage dinner?”
“Less t’feed if they’re not back,” she returned cryptically.
“Of course,” I murmured. “Well, thank you, Nettie. I’m sure they’ll all come trailing home any moment now.” Clearly, my next stop must be Thayne. Hopefully he wasn’t off riding the estate after staying out all night.
The Lord of Falconfell, I discovered, like most of the rest of the household, was missing. When questioned, Isabelle and Maud declared they had not seen him since last night’s dinner. Thoroughly puzzled, and assailed by more than a little apprehension, I climbed the stairs to the nursery, where I pulled the rocking chair close to the window so I could read to Violet while keeping an eye on the path up the mountain.
There must have been an accident, I reasoned, something serious enough to keep the staff from returning at first light. And Thayne, like Ross, on finding the household deserted, had set out to discover what had happened. But Fraser? Try as I would, I could not picture our elderly butler climbing more than a few feet up Falconfell. Then where was he? Perhaps I should cut the reading hour short and initiate a thorough search of the house. The poor man could have fallen—
Movement caught my eye. Murmuring an apology to Violet, I scooted her off my lap and stood, my nose pressed to the window pane. Thayne led the parade off the mountain—I would recognize his tall, commanding form at any distance. Ross walked just behind, flanked by Rab Guthrie—a Rab Guthrie whose head was bowed, shoulders slumped, diminishing his towering form to the level of his Hammersley relations.
I gasped as four more men came into view, two of them clearly supporting the man between them. The fourth man walked beside the trio, his attention more on the injured man than on the path before him. I shaded my eyes against the afternoon sun and strained to identify them. Yes! Avery was the one walking alone. The others, two of our strongest footmen and the drooping figure between them . . . Anton? Anton Fournier had been hurt? My mind raced, even as I noted the rest of the staff trailing behind the leaders, each looking like something the cat dragged in. None of them, however, was Fraser.
I made hasty farewells to Violet and Nanny Roberts and raced down the steep stairs, stopping in my bedchamber long enough to gather my medical supplies, before plunging down two sets of servants’ stairs directly to the kitchen. I arrived, a trifle breathless, just as the footmen were seating Anton in a chair by the fire. Horrified, for a moment I could only stare. His face was more blue-on-its-way-to-black than white. One eye was swollen shut, his nose bent, his beautifully molded lips swollen and caked with blood . . .
These were not injuries from a fall, unless he had gone off a cliff face first. These injuries were the results of brawl. Anton? Impossible.
Not really. I sighed. Cooks were seldom known for their even temperaments, particularly male cooks.
I looked around and discovered Thayne, Avery, Ross, and Rab had disappeared up the stairs, while the rest of the
servants hovered about, clearly waiting for instructions. With no butler and no housekeeper, those instructions could only come from one place. I swallowed a groan and raised my voice. “All of you, off to your rooms. Get cleaned up, rest. Dinner will be put back to eight o’clock. Meanwhile, we will manage as best we can without you.” As we have for the entire day so far, I added to myself on something close to a growl.
“Nettie, I trust you and Sally can continue to carry on as you have so ably all day. And would you have a bit of raw beef you could spare for Anton’s eye?”
A grumpy “Aye” was all the answer I got, but the beefsteak soon appeared, Nettie slapping it into Anton’s hand with more vigor than I would have recommended for an invalid. Anton managed a mumbled “Thank you” and applied the raw meat to his eye.
“Anton,” I said, “I believe your bedchamber is on this floor. Am I correct?”
“Yes, my lady.” His injured lips were barely able to form the words.
“Good. Hopefully, after I have managed to do what I can for your wounds, Nettie and I will be sufficient help to see you to your room.
Anton sputtered. He was quite capable of seeing himself to his room. He could not possibly impose—
I told him to sit still and be quiet. He did.
It was only some time later, when I was dragging myself up the stairs in search of Thayne and some explanation of these clearly extraordinary events, that I recalled Fraser was still missing.
Oh no. I sagged against the banister. As much as I wanted to know what was going on with the four men undoubtedly closeted in Thayne’s study, it finally dawned on me this was not the moment to interrupt. If I wanted to find Fraser, I would have to do it on my own. Stifling a groan, I returned to the kitchen.
“Nettie, did you knock on Fraser’s door this morning to see if he was in his room?”
Nettie looked at me as if I’d lost my mind. “Knock on Fraser’s door? Not never I would, my lady.”
Of course, I should have realized the kitchen hierarchy wouldn’t allow Fraser to be disturbed unless he had ordered it or the house was burning down. Mrs. Maxwell or Anton might have dared, not poor Nettie. I set off down the corridor to the privacy of the end room, which was Fraser’s domain. I rapped, perhaps a bit too sharply, on the door. No response. I tried again. Biting my lip, I tried the latch and found the door open. A quick glance showed the room in perfect order, the bed neatly made, giving no clue if it had been made up this morning or if Fraser had not slept here last night.
I stood there, frowning, as I tried to place myself in Fraser’s shoes. He had no need to linger in the hall; no callers were expected on Mid-summer’s Eve or the morning after. Nor did he have any reason to prowl through the house. If he had joined the revels, he would have come back with the others.
Had he indulged in his own revels? A giggle almost burst from me as I pictured Fraser doing a private dance au naturel in the woods near the house. No, I didn’t think so. Not Fraser.
But . . . might he have planned a small celebration in the privacy of his room? Another glance around revealed a cut crystal wine glass standing alone, and lonely, on the top of his chest of drawers. I rushed back to the kitchen. “Nettie, where are the stairs to the cellar?”
“Oh, my lady, do you think that’s what’s happened? You’ll need the key and only Fraser—” She broke off as we arrived at a door off a far corner of the kitchen and found it ajar. “That’s it, then,” Nettie breathed. “He’s down there. Do you think—”
“Quickly, a candle!”
Sally, the kitchen maid, ran to get a candle and light it from the fire in the range. I hiked up my skirts and started down the narrow stairs, fearful of what I would find.
Oh, dear God! The cellar was huge.
What did you expect? my inner voice mocked. This is Falconfell, only one step down from a castle.
Could I nose out the wine cellar? For that had to be the most logical place to look. And surely it would be a room set at a convenient distance from the cellar stairs.
I moved forward with caution, the flickering candle casting eerie dancing shadows all around me. My inner voice screamed, To the devil with what’s happening in the study. Get the men down here!
I kept going. Ten feet . . . twenty. A darker shape began to take form in front of me. Something sprawled on the floor. I stopped, gulped. It didn’t move. I rushed forward, dropping to my knees beside what I could now see was a man wearing Fraser’s garments. I moved the candle closer to illuminate his face, and reeled back, horrified by the pool of blood around his head.
Courage! I couldn’t fail him now. Fraser might still be alive. I placed my hand flat on his chest and thought I felt faint movement. My heart rate surged. “Nettie! Nettie!” I called. “Lord Hammersley, Mr. Ross. Get them down here now.”
Chapter Twenty-four
Over an hour later I collapsed into the welcoming softness of the couch in the sitting room I shared with Thayne. It was tea time, but I suspected anyone wishing to indulge in tea today would have to go to the kitchen and make it themselves. Poor Nettie and Sally. After having their dinner preparations interrupted by the search for Fraser, followed by my call for soap, warm water, and clean rags to cleanse his wounds, and their anxious hovering as I did so, we would be fortunate to be served bread and milk for our supper.
I curled up on the soft green watered silk upholstery, laid my head on a tasseled pillow of a darker shade, and closed my eyes. I would not repeat this day for all the tea in China!
What about the start of it? whispered my pesky inner voice.
A tremor ran through me. I blushed. Falconcrest. Another time, another world.
As much as I wanted to shut it all out, my brain insisted on examining the latest disasters. Had Anton been attacked, as Fraser had? Certainly, there could be no doubt about what happened to Fraser. He must have been coming back from the wine cellar after selecting a bottle for a bit of illicit tippling, when for some inexplicable reason he had been attacked, a wine bottle smashed over his head, hard enough to shatter the thick glass. The shards littered the dirt floor, shone dully from the pool of blood and wine, and clung to his blood-matted hair. Ross and Rab Guthrie had carried Fraser to his room, where I had cleaned and dressed his wound, but there was no telling how badly he was injured. Well past the hardiness of youth, Fraser might wake to nothing worse than a headache, or he might wake with his wits permanently damaged. He might never wake at all.
And meanwhile we had not the slightest idea who had attacked him. Did we truly have a killer on the loose, perhaps hiding in the cellars?
I shuddered.
The blood on Fraser’s head had dried. Which meant no one who had gone up the mountain could be guilty. Unless . . . Fraser had been struck down before the evening’s revels began . . . I struggled to recall which servants were absent from the parade down the mountain, but my focus had been on Thayne and the wounded Anton.
Without Fraser to tell us what had happened, there could be no answer to the questions that went round and round, pounding through my head like coach wheels on a downhill run. It was one of the few times in my life I almost wished I were one of that shocking breed of women who eased their tensions by screaming over every little thing. Would it help?
Would anything help?
The couch sagged near my feet; my eyes popped open to find Thayne, looking as tired and defeated as I, his eyes faded into a pale, dull blue of exhaustion. “Not at all what I planned for us,” he said softly. “I had visions of spending the entire day in bed.”
“Thayne!” I was shocked, then chagrined by my reaction. Clearly losing one’s virginity did not mean wholly eradicating attitudes that were more spinster than wife.
He managed a wan grin. “Alas, at the moment all I can think of is crawling into bed and sleeping for a week.”
I nodded sagely. “Ah yes. Surely everything will be rosier if we can but skip a week, or perhaps a month, into the future.”
Thayne lost his smile.
“Not at the rate we’ve been going,” he muttered.
All too true. I quickly changed the subject. “If you can postpone your nap for just a moment, I would dearly love to know what happened to Anton.”
Thayne studied his boots, heaved a long sigh. “I am not certain the tale is fit for your ears.”
Ah, so that was the way of it. I’d wondered. “My spinster days may have been many, but they were not sheltered. You would be surprised to know what ladies talk about when they are alone.”
My husband shoved my legs over, settling himself more firmly on the couch. “Does that include talk of sodomy?”
“Its existence, yes. In graphic detail, no.”
Thayne passed a hand over his face, tapped a fist against his knee. “Those who practice it—some of those who practice it,” he corrected, obviously pulling each word from the depths, “tend to be volatile. And perhaps even more jealous than the more accepted lovers celebrated in songs and poems.”
“Jealousy can be acute.”
“Indeed. Particularly when a long-term relationship is threatened.” Thayne dropped his head into his hands. Silence twanged between us, as loud as a clanging bell.
“You’re saying Avery was as struck by Anton’s beauty as all the chambermaids, and Rab Guthrie is not the phlegmatic giant I took him for.”
Thayne stared. “You knew?”
“I suspected.”
My husband shook his head as he discovered yet another example of female thought processes beyond a mere male’s understanding. “Evidently it was an epic brawl, with Avery running back and forth between the two, crying for them to stop. That Anton lasted as long as he did is remarkable. I’m told in the end he managed to run away and in the process fell off a cliff in the dark. Fortunately, it was only a drop of ten feet or so, followed by a long roll over moorgrass. He missed a bog by a matter of a inches. Avery and a shame-faced Rab enlisted the aid of the staff to search for him. By that time Ross and I had gone back up Falconcrest looking for the lot of them, which is how we all happened to come parading home together.”
Brides of Falconfell Page 17