“I was ’is lordship’s nanny, you must ’ave figured.” She cocked her head on one side and listened. “Would ee take some tea wi’me? Moggie was just putting up the pot.”
Anne glanced at the marquess. He smiled and nodded, so she said, “I would enjoy that very much.”
It was the most relaxed Anne had seen the marquess, sitting in the cramped parlor with his old nanny, talking loudly for her benefit as she went back to knitting, her crooked fingers speedily working the blue wool. Young Margaret, or Moggie as both called her, daughter of the Lincolns, Anne learned, was Mrs. Patterson’s only servant, though the men from the farm split and stacked her wood, gardened, and repaired the cottage as needed, and a fellow both referred to as “Eddy” came regularly to tend to other needs.
After drinking tea, Lord Darkefell stood and said, “If you ladies will excuse me, I am just going to look around, make sure all the work is being done to my satisfaction.”
There was a moment of silence between the two women after the marquess left, but then the nanny leaned forward, pausing in her incessant knitting, and said, “An’ whut is there between ee, eh?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“’E’s never brought a lady t’meet me afore.”
“We were out for a jaunt, and he wished to look over the cottage. I suppose he’s a conscientious landlord.”
“Aye. That ’e is.”
Anne was grateful that the woman did not continue to question her, and they proceeded to speak of other things. Eddy, it turned out, was another former estate worker, Edward Carter, the gamekeeper from the late marquess’s day. He lived in a cottage on a hill, Mrs. Patterson said, and Anne recognized from her description the hut she had seen from the tower.
“Does he keep a dog?” she asked sharply.
“P’raps.”
“And does anyone stay with him?”
The elderly woman’s expression saddened. “Aye, soomtimes. Neddy, Eddy’s son outta wedlock. Daft Neddy the cruel call him. Neddy’s a sore trial to Eddy. ’E shows up outta nowhere soomtimes, and stays, but ’e’s allus trouble when he does, an’ ’e allus needs money.”
Anne sighed deeply. That, it seems, was who she saw. It likely meant that what she witnessed was the marquess and his brother questioning the former gamekeeper and his wayward son about the maid’s murder. “Trouble? What kind of trouble is he, ma’am?”
“Ooh, now, I shouldn’t like t’say.” And she meant it. Not another word would she expend on the topic of the gamekeeper and his troubled son.
Instead, the woman questioned Anne closely about her home, her past, and her marital status. Though Anne tried to ask about the marquess’s past, the nanny became oddly closemouthed. “I understand from Mr. Boatin that, though in the painting I have seen of the family the twin boys looked remarkably alike, they were not identical as they grew older,” Anne commented.
“I never thought they looked the same, nor did their mother. Lady Darkefell and I… we allus knew the differences, even when the boys was wee bairns. Though t’markwis—Anthony’s da, y’mind—was dreadful thick ’bout that. Couldnee tell one from t’other for years!”
“I find the marquess a puzzle, ma’am, I must say. He clearly has a noble heart. I don’t know if you’ve met Mr. Boatin, but I’m sure you know how the marquess saved his life.”
“Aye. Th’lad cooms t’see me now an’ agin, when they be at t’castle.”
“Mr. Boatin?”
“Aye. ’E cooms and tells me tales o’Afric, where ’e’s from, y’mind, while I knit. ’Specially in th’dead of winter, when it’s fearsome lonely. I niver get tired o’listenin’. ’Ow I wish I was young again, when ee tells me tales o’ the hot Afric sun, an’ throwin’ a spear at n’antelope, an’ runnin’ on the grassy plain. If I was young an’ a man, I’d hop a ship t’Afric and niver look back.” Her busy hands had stopped, and she turned her face to the window, the sun streaming in and lighting her pale, wrinkled face. Her white hair sparkled in the sunlight where it escaped her cap, and Anne wished she had her pencils.
“Why would you do that, ma’am?” Anne asked, genuinely curious. The longing in the old woman’s voice was painful. A lump lodged in Anne’s throat, and she couldn’t clear it.
“So hot, so sunny. Mr. Boatin makes it sound like paradise. It gives ’im pleasure t’talk ’bout ’is homeland to someone whut likes to listen, I think. Winters is hard now, so long, so cold. Withoot Master Anthony and Mr. Boatin and me sweet Moggie, I’d be sore lonely.”
“Ma’am, may I draw you some time?” Anne blurted out, still entranced by the woman’s wrinkled face, the lines like roads on a map.
The woman chuckled, and her hands were back in motion, the blue blanket moving and shifting. “Aye, tho’ what ee’d make a picture of, I dinna know.”
There was silence for a moment, then Anne said, “Having met you, I have a sense that I now know how the marquess became such a fine man.”
“Dinna count out the marchioness, milady. Lady Darkefell can be a fair difficult woman to coom to know, but she be good where it counts, deep in the ’eart of ’er, an’ she’s not ’ad an easy life.”
“What do you mean?”
But the woman shook her head and would say no more. Darkefell returned, said good-bye to Mrs. Patterson, then assisted Anne into the pony cart and headed back to the castle. He had offered to take her back to Ivy Lodge, but she was not a bit weary. Dinner was to be at the castle that evening, but Anne was impatient by nature and knew that a family dinner was not a good time to tour the structure; she thus demanded her tour commence that afternoon.
As they rode, she raised a question she still did not have an answer to. “I asked earlier if it was true that you’re buying Mr. Grover’s estate?”
“I am.”
“A wise purchase, I’m sure. It expands your property boundaries. How fortunate for him that he’s not bound by an entail and has the freedom to sell.”
“He inherited the estate from a distant relative when he was quite young. He was in trade,” the marquess said with a disgusted expression, “but it was such as could be managed from anywhere, so he lived here and married a local lady.”
His bias against someone in trade was not unusual. “What kind of trade was he in?”
Darkefell shrugged uneasily and said, “Whatever was profitable, I suppose. For a time it was the triangle trade.”
“He was a slaver? You never told me that before!”
“It was his ship—well, he didn’t own it, he leased it—that carried Osei. Julius and I were going to Jamaica to see if buying a plantation for him to run was a worthwhile investment.”
“So, does this explain the animosity Mr. Grover feels for you?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. But he has nothing to be angry about, so I don’t think so. He wasn’t even aboard the ship—he stayed in England. I did him a favor, really, prevented him from making a grave error. He’s better off out of the triangle trade, for it’s a risky affair. Aside from the human toll on the slaves, one bad crossing can wipe out a vast investment. I’m sure he knows that now.”
“You know him far better than I. So you and his son grew up together—is he close to your age?”
“A year younger,” he said, glancing over at her, amusement twitching his mouth. “I told the truth about Theophilus, you know. I did introduce him to many corruptions when we were in school together.”
“I never doubted that, my lord,” she said, her tone dry. “His father’s resentment was avid and had the tone of disbelief, but your confession held the ring of truth.”
“I should be insulted by your ready belief in my corruptive influence.”
“I’d think that you would appreciate being believed.” She glanced over at him. “Unless you routinely prevaricate and so expect to be disbelieved?”
“Don’t you think the world requires one to lie?”
“If you mean agreeing that a friend’s bonnet is lovely when it is hideous, or that a woman�
�s baby is adorable when it looks like a gargoyle atop a cathedral roof, then yes, I think skillful evasion of the truth is requisite.”
“Ah, ‘skillful evasion of the truth’… what a lovely turn of phrase.”
She ignored the barb and asked, “Are you not still friends with Theophilus Grover?”
“Oh, no, I’m too wicked a sinner for Theo, who has his eye on a high post in the church. He really is perfectly saintly. I don’t object to his sanctity, only the unbearable airs that accompany it. Ah, here’s the castle!”
They topped a rise and looked down over the structure. Anne was once again struck dumb. She had stayed in many fine residences, and her own home, Harecross Hall, the Harecross earldom’s prime residence in Kent, was beautiful: large, lovely, gracious. But Darkefell Castle was something more. To the impression of size and age, it added a hint of gloomy foreboding, a delicious melancholy mood that even the brightest sun could not alleviate. It appealed to a part of her she never suspected existed.
She was silent, always a good thing, Darkefell reflected, though she didn’t seem the sort who must fill every second with chatter. That only added to her other interesting attractions. He pulled up to the main door and left the pony trap for his groom, guiding Lady Anne into the castle through the twenty-foot tall double oak doors.
The main section was not made for modern comfort. He was loath to make any dramatic changes, for though he wasn’t fanciful, still, he felt the ghostly hand of his ancestors reaching out to him, imploring him to preserve for future generations, if there were to be any, the Darkefell legacy untainted. It might be too late for that—recent years had spotted their reputation as much as any past barbarities—but he would persevere.
Lady Anne’s enthusiasm was boundless, even for the gloomiest portal. “This place… it seethes with history,” she said, her voice echoing in the upper reaches of one of the tower sections.
“An excellent description—this section, the old keep, was the defense against Scottish marauders centuries ago, when the clans to the north were fractious, but during the civil war it was useful, too. My family was Royalist,” he said, guiding her through the great hall as his butler entered. “Lady Anne’s cloak, Tanner.”
“No,” she said, waving away the hovering butler. “I can stay only a half hour and then must go back to Ivy Lodge, if we’re to dine here tonight. I’ll keep my cloak for the walk back to the lodge.”
“Surely you are not one of those ladies who must spend three hours on her toilette?” he chided as Tanner bowed and retreated.
“I assure you, my lord, that the plainest of women require as much fuss and bother as the most sparkling of diamonds. Perhaps more—while they are merely gilding the lily, we are primping the weed.”
He was silent, not sure how to answer, afraid that saying the wrong thing would hurt her, and he didn’t want to hurt her. She was plain and aware of it—unnaturally so, it seemed to him—but how to admit that and yet compliment her many fine features? He stayed silent; there was no way that was not patronizing or insulting.
He directed his efforts to showing her at least part of the castle. It was too vast to do more than begin in the brief time they had. She was quiet, merely listening with that rare quality she had: absolute focused attention. He guided her to the armaments room, where he displayed the ancient weapons used by his ancestors in bygone battles, and then to a huge, virtually empty chamber with vaulted ceilings. “This,” he said, “was the knights’ hall. This is where the Barons Destaun met with their knights, ate, planned strategy. Plotted.”
“Some of the work looks newer,” she said, eyeing the stone corbels. Several did not have the natural patination of age.
“It was crumbling in places and becoming structurally unsound. I commissioned stonemasons to repair the foundation.” He guided her through the hall, up some concealed steps, and through a door to an open gallery that looked out over the back. “This is the best view of the chapel on the hill over there,” he said, pointing to a low rise with a stone chapel atop it, “and the cemetery just to the left. Ten generations or more of my people and their valued servants have been buried in the plot just beyond, and a mausoleum only for family members. It is guarded, my grandmother said, by the ghosts of my ancestors.”
But Lady Anne wasn’t listening to that last part. “Darkefell, I keep meaning to ask Lydia about this, but perhaps you know. Was it truly Lydia, or was it Lord John who objected to Cecilia’s being properly buried in the servants’ plot? What decision was made?”
He felt frozen to the marrow, and for the first time, did not admire her focus on the problem at hand. Why could she just not let it go for a time? “I’m sure I don’t know, my lady, which it was who truly objected. Why don’t you ask your friend?” He turned away. When he glanced back to see if she was following him away from the window, she was eyeing him with a quizzical slant to her eyebrows.
“To answer the other part of your question, Cecilia, poor girl, has already been buried in the plot we reserve for family serving staff. Yesterday, in fact. She will have a suitable memorial. I corresponded with her mother, sent all her belongings and also a considerable sum of money, but I did not tell Mrs. Wainwright that Cecilia was with child. I thought that would be too cruel, and if Cecilia had somehow already communicated that fact, unnecessary.”
“You are a most unusual and thoughtful man, my lord.”
“Thank Osei, not me,” he said, curt from discomfiture. He could not allow her to praise him for qualities he didn’t possess. “He made all the arrangements. My part was reserved to making decisions about where she would be buried, what would be told her mother, and how much money would be provided for the poor woman.” The day had turned dull for him with the reminder of business he had yet to conduct. Lady Anne could not know it, he supposed, but he was dreading the confrontation he would have that evening when the family was gathered. He had to confront the owner of the murder weapon and find out when it had last been accounted for, and that haunted him.
Seventeen
The night would tell its own tales, and he couldn’t predict the outcome. He took her arm and guided her onward. Finally they were back in the main great hall, a huge open square near but not directly opposite the doors, and he led her up steps toward a gloomy enclosure; he caught her by the arm when she would have surged forward. “No! Be careful, my lady, for headlong movement will send you somewhere I don’t think you wish to go.” He took her arm and led her sedately up the last two steps… to the pit.
She stood on the flagstone edge and looked down, a shiver passing through her body. “My, my, but your ancestors were a bloodthirsty lot, weren’t they?” she said. “To have such a thing in their home?”
“This is the castle keep, and it was always more than just their home. It was my ancestors’ protection from attack, their haven from enemies.” They stood on the lip of a dark and deadly pit, thirty feet or more into the ground and lined with stone blocks. A cold breeze constantly swirled up from its depths. “Some say the present generation emulates the past,” he said, still seized by the grim mood from her questioning.
She glanced over at him. “Do you refer, sir, to the awful gossip that your late brother killed Miss Landers?”
He shook his head and sighed, rolling his eyes. “Now why should I be obscure in my references, when you have so clearly pried into every dark corner of my life and have no restraint in raising the stories in my presence?”
“You forget, my lord,” Lady Anne replied tartly, “Lydia brought me here to reassure her about the marauding werewolf, but finding Cecilia’s murdered body set me on a different path. I won’t rest until her murder is solved, and if that means prying into past tragedies and asking awkward questions, I’ll do it. I’ll not curb my tongue to save your delicate sensibilities.”
“Would anything curb your tongue?”
She bridled, and her chin went up. “Kindness, sensitivity where it is due, love, compassion, appreciation—many things curb my
tongue when necessary. This is not the time for that, and I did not think you the sort of man who needed coddling. Forgive me if I’m wrong and your sensitive feelings have been wounded. I want to know what happened to Cecilia Wainwright.”
“But it’s not your mystery to solve, my lady,” he growled, irritated by her biting remarks. “And Cecilia’s murder has nothing to do with Tilly Landers’s unfortunate death!”
“How do you know? You may think it was an accident, and Fanny’s death suicide, but I keep trying to find a pattern in the deaths on your property of three women whose only similarity seems to have been in age. I admit I’ve had no luck so far, and no one seems willing to help.”
There was a long silence.
“The pit, my lady,” he said, redirecting her attention and grimly clutching her arm.
She gazed steadily down into the pit. “Just what did your ancestors have such a menacing structure for?” Anne glanced over and watched his face. A sardonic smile quirked his perfect lips, and the effect was unsettling in the gloomy shadows.
“It depends upon who is telling the tale. My father maintained that it was a prison in ancient times, nothing more. As there was no way out unless someone threw down a rope ladder, it did not need a jail keeper.”
“That makes sense. Your family was probably the only law three or four hundred years ago.”
“Yes, but I came across an old drawing of the layout and was intrigued enough to bring it here and examine it, orienting it properly.”
“And?”
He turned her about so she was standing with her back to the pit. Her head got a little light, and the impression of the yawning pit at her back, a cold breeze lifting her curls under her bonnet, turned her stomach. She was not going to let him see how it affected her.
“Look down the steps toward the wall.”
“Yes?” She determinedly focused.
“Do you see a slight difference in the stone coloration there?” His fingers traced in the air a tall arch in the wall.
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