“That’s not true, Teddy. None of it,” Christopher interrupted. “Your father’s death was an accident. He died when he tripped and his musket discharged, and he shot himself. That is a sad fact, but it is fact nonetheless. Sir Gerald would never have killed himself.” Of that he was thoroughly convinced; the man was an egotist and too much the coward to ever end his own life. “And the vicar would never have allowed your father to have a Christian burial, baronet or no, if he thought for one moment he had taken his own life. The Reverend Sanders answers to God, and to no one else.”
“So Granny could not make the vicar bury Papa amongst Christians to save her good name, even though he did not deserve to be there?”
“She could try and persuade the vicar to do that,” Christopher explained, keeping his features under control, though he wanted to smile at Teddy’s naïve supposition the Countess of Strathsay was omnipotent. “But the Reverend Sanders would not do what is against his conscience, and what is against God’s will. I am very sure that is what he told your grandmother; if indeed she approached him. Though I have no knowledge that she did.”
Teddy gave a little sigh and smiled. The wrinkles of anxiety in her freckled brow disappeared.
“I’m glad. I like the Reverend Sanders.”
“Me too.”
“So the ghost is not Papa?”
“No. In fact there is no ghost.”
Teddy looked disappointed and relieved at one and the same time. “But if there is no ghost, then who took Papa’s jam and drank the elderflower wine?”
“A very good question. What if I told you the condiments and the wine were not stolen, but eaten by a very hungry visitor?”
Teddy’s eyes widened. “A visitor? Here? But no one comes to visit us. Mama and I always have to do the visiting.”
“Well this visitor is here to see your Mama, and to meet you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. But unfortunately you will have to wait to meet him, possibly until dinner time tomorrow.”
“Oh?” Teddy’s shoulders slumped. “He won’t be at breakfast?”
“I should think not. He’s traveled a very long way so I doubt he will be up with the sun like the rest of us. Which is just as well because Kate is expecting us both to nuncheon. You don’t want to disappoint her, do you?”
Teddy shook her head, then smiled and said confidentially, “I have a surprise for her.”
“You do? Good. Kate likes surprises.”
Teddy wanted to know more about the visitor. “Is the visitor a friend of Mama’s?”
“Yes. I think he may even be a long-lost cousin.”
Teddy was intrigued, and all the fears conjured up in the darkness of her bed about the ghost of her father visiting the house were vanquished by her curiosity.
“A long lost cousin? Does Granny know him?”
“I’m sure she must.”
“And Uncle Dair and Uncle Charles, too?”
“I am certain your uncles have known this cousin for as many years as your Mama.”
“So this cousin of Mama’s is the hungry visitor we thought was a ghost?”
“Yes. A cousin who likes strawberry jam as much as your Papa.”
Teddy let out a sigh of relief which Christopher ignored, and said, “Cook and Jane and Jennie, and Luke will be very pleased to hear there isn’t a ghost after all.”
It was then that a solid youth of medium height entered the kitchen via the walled vegetable garden. It was Luke and he carried a load of firewood. Christopher’s faithful lurcher was at his heels. Seeing Lorenzo, his master had a sudden idea. He turned to Teddy and said, a glance at her nurse, who had come over to the table carrying a mug of hot milk, to ensure she was attentive,
“I wonder if you would do me the favor of taking care of Lorenzo tonight? Luke and I need to set some fires and—”
“Oh yes! Yes please!” Teddy interrupted excitedly, and dropped to her knees to give Lorenzo a hug about the throat when he nuzzled her hand. “He can sleep with me!”
“Now Miss Theodora, I don’t be thinking it a wise choice to have that animal—” began Nurse and was cut off by Christopher.
“At the foot of your bed. Not under the covers. Or he will expect me to do likewise.” He gave Nurse a curt nod, then stood and pushed the chair to the table, saying to Teddy as casually as he could because it was a fib, “Of course you do know ghosts don’t care for dogs…?”
Teddy looked up swiftly from patting Lorenzo, eyes wide. “Truly? Are—are ghosts afraid of dogs?”
“They must be. I’ve not heard of a ghost haunting a house where a dog is present. Ah! Now what’s this?” he added with a laugh, surprised when Teddy threw her arms about him and hugged him.
“Thank-you for letting Lorenzo stay with me,” Teddy muttered, cheek pressed to his frock coat.
Christopher returned her hug, then went down on his haunches, took hold of her hand, and looked into her eyes.
“You’ll always be safe with Lorenzo, and with me, Teddy. You know that, don’t you?” When she nodded he gently flicked her cheek and said with a smile, “And you are doing me a favor by looking after him. Now off you go to bed, and be sure to drink all your milk. We’ll be riding out early in the morning, and I have no doubts Lorenzo will have you awake before Nurse.”
“Is that true about ghosts and dogs, sir?” Betsy asked in the silence that followed Teddy’s departure. She poured boiling water over the tea leaves in the porcelain teapot, a glance exchanged with Jane, who was stoking the fire, and Luke, who had dumped the firewood in its box, both servants waiting further instructions from Christopher who remained by the table deep in thought.
“I have no idea…” Christopher answered, pulling himself out of his abstraction.
His thoughts had returned to the surprising turn of events upstairs, the kiss shared with Mary, followed by the unexpected appearance of her cousin. He sensed there was something between Mary and her cousin that ran deeper than cousinly ties of affection. It filled him with a dread that time was no longer on his side, and that this cousin could very well unseat his plans for the future, a future he had always dreamed of sharing with Mary. He wished it had been a ghost haunting the house. A ghost would’ve been the least of his worries.
CHRISTOPHER ASSURED the servants that the ghost was in fact a guest playing an elaborate prank. The gentleman in question was a cousin of the Lady Mary, and an eccentric. He went on to add that he wouldn’t be at all surprised if he was weak-brained and childish, traits that were peculiar to particular individuals within the nobility. Pretending to be a ghost and haunting the pantry for food were surely evidence of that. Christopher assured them such antics would not be repeated. And they were not to worry the gentleman would again trespass into the servant areas of the house. The Lady Mary had him firmly in hand and he would comply with her wishes.
Jane nodded vigorously, eyes wide with new knowledge, happy to obey the Squire’s directives. Neither she nor Betsy and Luke gave any indication they found Christopher’s explanation implausible, or that they were surprised to discover the ghost was in fact a guest. Luke gave a grunt of understanding, which was all Christopher could hope for—it was as verbose as some men got in this pocket of England.
Luke followed Christopher up the back stairs, carrying firewood, and went along the passage to Sir Gerald’s dressing room. After positioning several burning tapers to provide light, the lad set to work at the grate of a fireplace that had not been used in over two years. Christopher glanced about the silent stillness where all vestiges of occupation by its previous owner had been removed. The row of mahogany tallboys were covered with dust sheets, and on the opposite wall, the pegs in the paneling where frock coats, shirts, and other wearable paraphernalia were once left hanging to drop creases from garments and to air before wearing, seemed oddly out of place.
The dressing table was bare. Cleared of its crystal ointment jars, pomades, boar bristle brushes, gold snuffboxes, and etuis. Everything from si
lver shoe buckles to linen shirts, pairs of breeches in many fabrics, embellished waistcoats, and frock coats for every conceivable season and occasion, had been counted, cleaned, folded, grouped, and meticulously written up in ledgers. The personal effects of Sir Gerald Cavendish were then carefully packed away into chests, wardrobes, and boxes. This valuable inventory now belonged to Sir Jack Cavendish, who, when he came of age and claimed his inheritance, could do with his uncle’s effects as he pleased. For now Christopher remained custodian.
Some of this painstaking work had been undone by Lady Mary’s cousin. It was easy to see where he had disturbed the peace of this silent space. The dust sheet covering one of the lowboys had been thrown back and several of its drawers pulled out and left hanging on their hinges, contents ransacked. A chair moved from the dressing table left tracks in the light dust covering the floorboards where it had been dragged across to the chaise longue to be used as a makeshift table. On the padded seat was an opened jar of walnut pickle and the remnants of a fistful of bread. Crumbs surrounded the chair, and up against one leg were a couple of empty bottles of elderflower wine.
The dustsheet that once covered the chaise longue had been thrown back and the seat piled with clothes. As they appeared to have been layered in a particular manner, and formed a hollowed-out mound, it looked as if Mary’s cousin had tunneled his way under this formation to try and keep himself warm at night.
The room was as cold as an icehouse, and the interloper would have found it impossible, in spite of the layers of clothing heaped upon him, to find any warmth. The corners of Christopher’s mouth curved upwards. Good. He savored the image of Mary’s cousin with teeth chattering and body convulsing with tremors of cold. The man should be made to feel uncomfortable. Christopher wondered how he could add to this discomfort to see him leave as soon as possible. Tomorrow, if he had his wish.
He left Luke at the grate and went through to Mary’s bedchamber with the bucket of coals, firewood, and a lighted taper. He set to work at the fireplace, one ear to the conversation. Mary and her eccentric cousin were exactly where he had left them, sitting upon her bed, she against the bank of pillows, with her fur-lined banyan wrapped tight about her, and he facing her, with the quilted coverlet pulled up around his hunched shoulders. They were chattering away like two dear old friends reunited after years apart, which was precisely what they were. Except they were not two womenfolk in intimate conversation, but a man of indeterminate motives, and a widow who had, up until this night, never had any man other than her husband in her bedchamber, and now had kissed the one at the grate, and was sharing conversation in her bed with the other!
Christopher’s mind reeled at this change in circumstances. All the more so because Mary was in such free and easy conversation punctuated by laughter that he was left to wonder if he knew her at all. More surprising still was that the conversation was conducted entirely in the French tongue.
But why should he be surprised? He knew she spoke French. All her Roxton relatives did. And he had heard Mary speak that foreign tongue with her daughter, as a teacher with her pupil, each sentence constructed and spoken with deliberation. But there had been none of the vivacity, spontaneity, and intimacy which she was exhibiting now conversing with her cousin. The French tongue gave her decidedly feminine voice a delicate timbre. And as he continued at the grate, waiting for the fire to take hold, his linguistic ear tuned to the language and their conversation, and his smile of appreciation dropped into a frown of concerned preoccupation.
NINE
MARY WAS INCREDULOUS. She sat up.
“An agent of the crown? You? A-a spy?”
“Was an agent of the crown, dearest. Firstly in the Italian States, then Istanbul, and for a few years in St. Petersburg. But as I told your brother, I’d grown weary of the game and all I wished to do was return home.” When Mary blinked at him but made no comment it was Evelyn’s turn to sit up. He put a hand to his mouth in surprise, blue eyes wide, and then laughed and grabbed for her hand across the embroidered coverlet. “Egad! I’ve let the pig out of the pen, haven’t I? You had no notion Dair was an agent.”
“A war hero, yes. But a spy, no,” Mary confessed. “But the revelation does not surprise me. He was always one to treat his life cheaply, though he never did so with the lives of others. But I’m very sure he won’t be doing that from now on. I sincerely hope that as a married man he will think twice about putting his life in danger—”
“Dair—married? Well! Well! I never cease to be amazed. Six months ago he was swaggering about the crooked lanes of Lisbon as a privateer, a girl under each arm. The sly dog!” Evelyn peered at Mary. “He’s not got himself mixed up in something he can’t get out of—or worse, settled for one of those icicle misses your mother would approve?”
“No. Not Dair. He’s married the sweetest girl imaginable and means to become a gentleman farmer and manage the estate.”
“Good—God! The man fell in love?!”
“He did, and fell hard. Rory is a delight.”
“Is she?” Evelyn was skeptical. “I wonder what Shrewsbury will make of it—losing his two best agents in a matter of months…”
“I should think Lord Shrewsbury is well-pleased,” Mary retorted good-naturedly, then couldn’t help smiling cheekily. “After all, Dair married his granddaughter.”
Evelyn snorted his surprise and laughed out loud at that. “Did he? Bloody hell! But how utterly fitting! I can’t wait to congratulate him.”
“I wish he was here for you to do so. My poor brother had one month of marriage and then was compelled to leave his bride and sail out to Barbados. A hurricane devastated the island. Most if not all its inhabitants, landowners and slaves alike, perished, Father amongst them. The family ring—the Strathsay Fire and Ice—was sent as proof he died along with his mistress, their children, and his slaves. The ring should have been enough, but Dair, Roxton, Mme la Duchesse, and of course Mama, want incontrovertible proof of Father’s death—”
“Who can blame them?” Evelyn cut in, much subdued. “Dair cannot get on with his life without the surety of his inheritance.” He shrugged and looked sheepish. “The last thing he needs is for your father to return from the dead. Not that I want your father dead,” he added quickly, in case he had offended her. But he had not. Mary was remarkably composed, so he squeezed her hand and asked pensively, “You do not believe your father is dead, ma chérie?”
She shook her head, sniffed, but did not tear up.
“I do believe it, and seem to be the only one who is certain.” She pressed her free hand to her breast. “I know, Eve. I know in my heart that Father died in that hurricane. I did not wish death upon him. But… for Dair. For Charles. For my mother. This is the only outcome that will secure their future happiness. Dair can inherit the title and begin his new life as the Earl of Strathsay with his bride. Charles can again hold his head high, no longer burdened with the shame of having a father who owned slaves. Never mind that he himself is charged with treason! And mother will finally have good reason to be miserable. Gray mourning will suit her austere personality perfectly.”
“Dear me! No wonder Dair has gone full sail to the islands! But what of you, ma chérie? You say it is the only outcome for your brothers and your mother, but for you…?”
Mary let go of her cousin’s hand and sat back against the bank of feather pillows and met his gaze. Her voice held a wisp of emotion. “I told you when we were children that for me, Father died the day he deserted his family, and I stand by that.”
“I remember,” Evelyn said quietly. “We were lying under the chandelier in M’sieur le Duc’s saloon, like we always did. Do you remember? I believed you—literally. It was dear Maman who disabused me of that notion in her usual cryptic but ever so dramatic way, saying that the Earl was not in fact dead, but because he was a monster of the first order, he was dead to the family. I had no idea what she was talking about. Whoever did with her? Except perhaps mon père, who incidentally set me stra
ight on that score, as he always did. Ah! Mon père,” he murmured with a deep sigh. “I miss him so terribly much… But! We were not talking of my father, but yours,” he added, rallying enough to smile.
“I would rather talk of yours,” Mary replied quietly. “Your father was such a gentleman, Eve. Such a kind and loving soul. Such a good husband and fa—”
“Mary. No! Not yet.” Evelyn’s voice was strained but emphatic. Yet, he could not hide his anguish. “I cannot speak about—about him, or-or them—yet.”
“Very well. But when you do, you can talk to me about anything you wish. I am here for you—always.”
“Yes, I do know that. You always have been.”
“Then tell me what brought you here.”
“I thought it time to come home…”
“Silly! Not here, to England. Here, to Abbeywood, to me.”
“I had a most illuminating conversation with your brother while in Lisbon,” he replied, avoiding the question. “There was a great deal of family history to catch up on, not least that Roxton and Deb now have four brats—
“—five. I had their letter today announcing the arrival of little Otto.”
“Otto?” Evelyn grinned. “How fitting! How many years have I been away?”
“Seven. Five of those without a word to any of us,” she replied, keeping the recrimination from her tone
“Mary, I have a specific question I wish to put to you. Not tonight. Good God! I’ve given you enough of a shock as it is, turning up on your doorstep, back from the dead, without a word of warning. But I do want you to know I have spoken with Dair about your situation, and he knows I am sincere. But I—we—must wait until after I have met with Lord Shrewsbury. I had hoped he would be here already…?”
Mary tensed. She had been about to ask him what he could possibly have discussed with her brother that concerned her, but mention of England’s Spymaster General turned her focus to more immediate and mundane concerns.
“Lord Shrewsbury? Here?! I cannot entertain Lord Shrewsbury, Eve! I do not have the means. Nor do I have the servants, and half the house is shut up and in covers, and oh! I wish you had given me notice.”
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