I frowned, wondering how on earth Reynolds managed it. I knew for a fact he handled the menus as well. Then with a tingling chill, it occurred to me that I might not be as secure as Mr. Macy presented. Why else would his valet personally oversee my every detail—if not to ensure my safety? Had not Mama been poisoned?
I refused to consider it further. If I wasn’t careful, soon I’d be afraid of my own shadow. Somehow it increased my desire to learn more about Mr. Macy apart from what he told me. With a frown, I realized how difficult that would be. Not even his servants could provide much, if they were barred from practically every chamber.
I crossed the threshold of the breakfast chamber and fulfilled Nancy’s prediction. I was the last guest. Mr. Macy and the gentlemen rose in unison. I stepped forward to greet him, but with a slight shake of his head, he reminded me that in public, we were casual acquaintances, at best. He’d had even less sleep than I, but he showed no sign of fatigue.
“Miss Elliston, I’m pleased you’ve finally decided to make an appearance. I’ll have to ask you not to be late again. I find it rude.” His eyes twinkling, he pulled out a chair for me.
I wanted to say something amusing, but a witty comment eluded me. Even Lady Foxmore seemed to expect it. She hovered her fork over her hard-boiled egg, waiting. When I remained silent, she looked at Mr. Macy, shaking her head. He didn’t seem amused.
It was impossible not to glance at Elizabeth and Henry to gauge matters between us. Arms crossed, Elizabeth refused to look in my direction as she spoke to Henry. It seemed to me she avoided looking at me, but Henry cast me a dark look.
I returned it with one of my own, not particularly enjoying his company either, now that I believed him traitor to Elizabeth.
Directly across the table, Mr. Forrester glared at me with suspicion.
My temper plus my lack of sleep got the better of me. I was tired of the treatment I’d received thus far and scorned his look with one of my own, not caring that Mr. Macy watched our exchange as he sipped coffee.
“Gentlemen, what say you of a hunt today?” Mr. Macy set his cup aside.
Rooke dropped his fork. “Whatever for?”
Mr. Greenham shifted his eyes to Mr. Macy and studied him a second. “I’d welcome it.”
“And you, Mr. Auburn?” Mr. Macy smiled at Henry.
Henry stabbed his eggs, glanced at me, then gave a curt nod. Whether he approved or despised the idea was impossible to read, even for me.
“Robert?” Mr. Macy turned fully in his direction and paused before asking, “What say you? Will you exchange picking my locks for something more honorable?”
With a menacing look, Mr. Forrester shrank against his seat.
“Good. We’ll hunt,” Mr. Macy concluded.
As soon as breakfast ended, the gentlemen excused themselves to change. Mr. Macy rose and bowed to Mrs. Windham. “How do you ladies plan to spend your day?”
Before anyone could speak, Lady Foxmore held up an authoritative hand and announced, “The light in this breakfast room is excellent for embroidering. We shall sew here.”
My face fell at the prospect.
Mr. Macy gave me an amused look before nodding his consent and bowing from the room.
Servants were summoned to run and fetch our baskets. Lady Foxmore ordered that a larger, more comfortable chair be brought into the chamber; then, with the air of a martyr, Mrs. Windham declared herself to have a headache and to be in need of a better chair. Lady Foxmore wanted to sit in the sun; Mrs. Windham declared her eyesight failing and herself in need of sun, despite her headache.
It was no easy task to settle into the wooden chair placed between the two ladies to sew. Lady Foxmore demanded I stay put while Mrs. Windham declared it was a pity her ladyship hadn’t chosen Elizabeth as her companion as she would better suit her ladyship.
Warmed by the sun, her ladyship lost no time in napping, but Mrs. Windham lost no time in lecturing me. As she plied her needle, she plied her tongue about my ingratitude.
Her words gnawed at me. All I wanted was to escape, to work out my thoughts, to puzzle over Mr. Macy. I wanted to consider Mama’s death and how to avenge her. I desired to find a moment alone with Elizabeth to tell her about Henry. Being at Eastbourne only deepened my impatience. Commonplace things, such as hours bent over sewing, are tiresome enough under ordinary circumstances, but when surrounded by the mystery and intrigue of Eastbourne, the task was tedious.
Thus, when Reynolds entered the room and threaded his way to me, I felt relief.
“I beg your pardon, miss,” he said, bowing, “but there seems to be a slight miscommunication with your maid’s schedule. If I might borrow you to unlock your door.”
I stared at him, knowing perfectly well he had a key to my chamber, but then realized what he was doing. I stood, dropping my sewing, which I quickly bent to collect. “Oh yes. Yes, of course.”
“I shouldn’t wonder,” Mrs. Windham said beneath her breath, “the schedules got mixed up. The poor child would make a terrible housekeeper, simply terrible. Elizabeth manages our household like clockwork. You would do well to communicate that to your master.”
Reynolds ignored her, then escorted me into the hall and around the corner, where Mr. Macy took my elbow and chuckled, cornering me. His eyes sparkled with amusement. “Pray, Reynolds, that I am never a sick man.”
“That I already do, sir,” Reynolds said.
“What?” Mr. Macy turned. “Are you a praying man?”
“As was your father,” came Reynolds’s staunch reply.
“Yes, but we both know that my father was a fool,” Mr. Macy said softly, before turning to me. “Though now I’ve seen what a mean little nurse our Miss Elliston would make in a sickroom, I am most grateful for your troubles on my behalf. I thought her about to cry when she found out she’d be trapped sewing.”
“I should imagine, sir, Miss Elliston would feel quite differently, were she attending a sickbed.”
“There we disagree,” Mr. Macy said smiling, tracing a finger down the side of my face. “Especially if it is my sickbed, for I intend to pursue this young lady into marriage. Don’t you think most wives would be most grateful for an opportunity to be rid of their husbands if there’s enough wealth on hand to sustain them?”
“There you are wrong, sir.” Reynolds gave his master a chiding look as I bent my head, color filling my cheeks.
“Think you I can trust her, then?” Mr. Macy chucked my chin. “But see for yourself how silent she is on this subject, though I must say, she blushes beautifully.”
“I hope her too sensible to respond to such nonsense. If I may make bold, sir, you promised your land agent you’d return straightaway, and that was nearly a quarter of an hour ago.”
Mr. Macy made a noise of disgust. “Yes, business. Even now, as I try to woo myself a wife, business. What? Shall I hand you the task of courting her?”
“Certainly not!”
Mr. Macy gave a good-pleasured laugh, as if amused his servant took him seriously. “Yet you might, Reynolds; you still might. What say you, little one?” He turned his focus back on me. “Now that I’ve rescued you, how shall you redeem your time? I daresay Mrs. Windham seems to be in one of her finer sulks. If I may recommend it, avoid her for the rest of today, lest you are returned to your cage.”
His presence was like stepping into the warm sun after a dark winter night. Some sort of rarity in him buoyed my spirits.
“Well?” he coaxed. “An entire day lies before you, and I wish to know how my freed captive will spend it.”
“Are you not hunting, then?” I asked, recalling breakfast.
“I haven’t even yet asked for her hand,” Mr. Macy said, showing his teeth in a smile to Reynolds, “but look how she practices tracking my schedule. You may have an ally.” Then to me, “Yes, little one! I shall hunt soon. Business came up and I promised the men I’d join them within the hour. In the meantime I have done you the favor of freeing you from her ladyship, Forre
ster, and our dear Mrs. Windham in one fell swoop. Reward me by telling me how you shall bide your time.”
All at once, I saw my opportunity to gain the information about Mr. Macy that not even Nancy could gain. “Will you allow me to explore Eastbourne?”
“Explore Eastbourne?” Mr. Macy acted insulted, but his eyes betrayed pleasure. “There you see, Reynolds, I told you. You’ll woo her for me regardless. She wishes to inspect my prospects. No, do not blush again, Miss Elliston. You wouldn’t be female if you weren’t itching to see my estate. Here, Reynolds, you may testify on my behalf.” He removed a key ring from his waistcoat. “My personal keys, Miss Elliston. The only complete set which will open every lock and every door.”
Reynolds visibly startled as Mr. Macy pressed the metal ring into my hands.
“I want you to swear to me,” Mr. Macy continued in a stern tone, “you will not touch my papers or any other personal matters. Do not enter the study we were in the other night, either. Do you understand?”
I started to nod, but his face hardened. “Verbal agreement, Miss Elliston.”
“Y-yes, I swear.”
He lifted my chin in an unrelenting grasp. “No one other than you touches these keys. Not John, not Reynolds. Understand?”
“Yes,” I whispered.
His stance loosened, though he continued to lift my face upwards. His eyes lingered on my mouth with an expression that suggested he had all but resolved to ignore our witness. Then all at once he released me. “Reynolds, escort her today.”
“A third generation of lifelong service,” Reynolds said as Mr. Macy departed, his eyes fastened on the key ring, “and he has yet to pay me that honor.”
The keys were as heavy as a small weight, yet I marvelled at the level of trust and confidence Mr. Macy had placed in me. I couldn’t remember anyone ever having placed that much faith in me.
“Might I suggest you begin with the library?” Reynolds’s tone was soft, as if gently reminding me he was present.
I nodded, so touched that I was tempted to press the keys against my heart. I forced back emotion and gave Reynolds a shy smile, knowing he couldn’t possibly understand the rush of emotion flowing through me, then picked up my skirts and made ready to follow him.
I am told that little more than a year later, men in powdered wigs debated vehemently for hours about the significance of my having the keys and my exploration of Eastbourne—as if that had any legal bearing on the matter. That, however, is another story for another time.
Reynolds unlocked one of the large doors and opened it with a pleased air. “I shall wait outside.”
If the former heart of Eastbourne was a monastery, its new center was its library. The chamber felt as ancient as a forest, as stuffy as an attic, but rich with life. Above me the ceiling, as large as a train station’s, vaulted into a stained-glass dome. Weak light backed it, so it did not cast down flecks of colors, but in the full sun I had no doubt there would be pools of colors.
It was a library, yes, for books lined shelves, which lined walls, which went up three stories with carved stairs and heavy banisters. Yet it was also a museum, an apothecary shop, a classroom.
Through a glass cabinet displaying exotic birds, I spied an open drawer containing rows of eggs, their shades and colors so beautiful and dull it made my heart ache. Through the wavy glass I saw one leathery sample labelled Alligator.
I turned from it to a furniture grouping before the large hearth. Tables, long and large enough to belong to a chemist, were stacked with papers and inkwells. Mr. Macy had said to leave his papers alone, but I chanced to see what sort of things he wrote about. The tang of cigars greeted my nose as I approached and lifted a few sheets. To my disappointment, his notes were in Latin.
Another table was crowded with apothecary jars and various potted plants preserved in liquid. A book lay open, a dried plant segment tucked in its spine. Its seeds and flowers had been affixed to the pages alongside handwritten notes telling of its medicinal values. Next to it, butterflies were in the process of being mounted.
I looked over my shoulder, amazed at the sheer number of volumes in the room. Nearby maps and display cases called for exploration, and beyond those, smaller rooms with more treasure.
I left the table, deciding I would beg Mr. Macy tomorrow to explore his library at leisure, knowing I could spend three or four afternoons here without boredom.
I retreated to the door and exited.
Reynolds gave me a surprised frown. “Was it not to your liking?”
“Oh yes!” I shared my rapture and was rewarded by the glow of pride that lit his face.
“May I see the ballroom?” I asked, recalling Lady Foxmore’s statement that Macy withdrew from society on a night when he was throwing a ball.
A shadow passed over Reynolds’s face as he wet his lips. “Well, Mr. Macy did give you his keys.” He looked down a dark passage. “Very well, though I must warn you, it’s been unopened for fifteen years.”
Reynolds had no key to this room, and it took me several attempts to unlock the bolt. When the doors finally moaned open, I refused to enter. The decayed chamber lay in shambles. Dust-coated cobwebs hung in crooked angles. Velvet draperies, partly disintegrated from years of hanging in the damp, hung on their rods like rags on a beggar. The mirrors lining the upper half of the room were either cracked or lying in shards on the floor. Broken chairs and overturned tables were scattered about demolished instruments.
I stared at the space, wondering what sort of man would utterly ruin his own ballroom.
“Perhaps—” Reynolds stepped forward, shut the doors, and motioned for me to relock them—“you’ll allow me to show you the card room. That too hasn’t been used in over a decade, but I think you’ll find it more suitable.”
I nodded agreement, glad to leave whatever memory disturbed that chamber.
There is little point to describing all that I saw in Eastbourne that day. Were I to spend a month exploring, I scarcely would have acquainted myself with the estate. A museum in London could not have held more wonder, nor a haunted palace more mystique.
I declined lunch, still filled enough from our late breakfast, but as the day stretched late into afternoon, my stomach grumbled.
“Shall you take tea now?” Reynolds asked.
I held back my annoyance at my need for food. In every chamber we’d entered, every gallery I’d explored, I’d cut short the time, denying my desire to explore every nook and cranny. I wanted to see all of Eastbourne, and daylight was fading.
“Which room is that?” I asked, pointing to a grand-looking door.
“Mr. Macy’s personal billiards room.”
I lifted my brow. There had been two other billiards rooms. “His personal one? Does he use it often?”
Reynolds smiled. “Yes, I should say so.”
“One more room,” I begged of Reynolds, heading toward it. “I want to see it.”
Like the other rooms favored by Mr. Macy, it also bore the scent of cigar in addition to the lingering scent of his pomade. Indentations in the leather chairs suggested frequent use. A dressing gown, similar to the one I’d worn, was slung over the table that needed refelting. I resisted the urge to scoop it up to smell.
I ran my fingers over the billiards table, picturing Mr. Macy, coat off, collar unbuttoned, calculating his next move. Over the bar, paintings of horses were grouped in mismatched frames—some round, some oval, and others rectangular.
It was only as I turned to leave the room that I spotted the green coffee set with carved dragons. All warmth left my body as I knelt before the occasional table to study it.
Once more I saw the broken cup.
The very devil himself was engraved on my father’s features as he lifted his fist.
I remembered Mama’s screams as she threw herself before me, the crimson blood that spotted her gown.
Long-forgotten words rang from the past. “Priceless. Irreplaceable. Only one in existence.”
I tasted the fear I’d experienced that day, as my finger plucked the air, counting the settings. Five. It lacked a setting to be a complete set. Mentally I roamed the house. It had been so long, I couldn’t even recall what room it had once sat in.
“Miss Elliston?” Reynolds asked in a concerned voice from the doorway.
I tore my eyes from the set and somehow rushed from the room.
“Are you ill?” Reynolds took my side as I bent over.
I wanted to shake my head, to laugh at the frightened look on his face, but I felt too numb. That memory had long been buried, but now I remembered Mama’s cries each time my father’s fist fell.
A dent formed between Reynolds’s brows, but before he could speak, I shook off his touch. “Reynolds, I wish to retire. Would you kindly direct me to my chambers?”
“Shall I take—?”
“No.” I nearly screamed the word; any second I felt ready to cry. “Just tell me which direction.”
He didn’t hesitate. “If you turn left at the end of this hall, I believe you shall find your way quite easily. Shall I bring a tea tray to your room?”
I shook my head, leaving. The hall led me to the arch, and from there I reached my room a few minutes later. Yet instead of entering it, I leaned against the door, breathing hard. Part of me longed to return to the billiards room and examine the coffee set again—to make sure it really had been ours. Only there was no need to. I knew the set was unique. I felt sick with the knowledge it would be hours before I could seek explanation.
I bent my head toward the dark stairwell that wound up to Mr. Macy’s chambers. That’s when my heart slowed as a plan formulated. Here, I realized, was probably the best opportunity I would ever have to truly judge what manner of man Mr. Macy was. Was not one’s bedchamber his most intimate space?
Before I could change my mind, I bounded up the stairs. One locked door waited at the top. Kneeling, I tried every key, but to no avail. Only then did I recall Mr. Macy’s statement that our chambers were identical.
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