THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1818 - ISABEL

by Suzanne Enoch

  “I don’t recall seeing any such thing,” Mr. Driscoll replied unhelpfully.

  Isabel sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you would have.” Lifting the cloth from his hand, she decided the swelling had subsided enough that she could remove his other glove to see to the nearly identical sting on the back of his left wrist.

  The stinger remained in this one, and she sent him a sympathetic grimace before she scraped it out with her fingernails, careful not to pinch more venom beneath his skin. The steward didn’t even flinch. From his appearance last evening, he undoubtedly wrestled wild beasts on a regular basis, but she’d been stung before, and it had hurt.

  “I’d wondered,” he said into the silence, “why Nimway Hall has been unoccupied for so long. It’s a fairly large holding, and from what your grandmother’s solicitor wrote, the owners haven’t lived here for ten years.”

  “We had a steward,” she returned, reminding herself that she needed to sack this one and choose her own as soon as possible. “But yes, he became a little…negligent in his later months. Honestly, I think the fireplace carving made my grandparents uncomfortable. They’re very English.”

  He chuckled. “I sense that isn’t a compliment.”

  Oh dear, she probably shouldn’t have said that. “I agree that Nimway shouldn’t have been abandoned for so long. It has guardians, and a guardian should always be here to look after it. My mother would have been, except that…circumstances led her to Florence.” Circumstances that included parents who thought she’d married below her station, a previously-arranged marriage, and Charlotte’s need to be free.

  As a consequence Isabel had lived an unrestrained childhood, running about with the children of other artists, sitting for huge, informal dinners where everyone was a storyteller, and daydreaming about the magical castle awaiting her back in England. It had also left her considering that with her bohemian upbringing, she needed a husband who knew the rules, knew how to behave like an English gentleman, and could provide her with the decorum that had clearly been missing from her lessons. Knowing how to smoke bees was well and good, but that was a very different task from hosting a proper dinner or attending a proper soiree.

  “You mean to remain here, then?” he asked, shaking her out of her reverie again.

  “I do. For the rest of my life.” She lifted her chin a little, waiting for him to question whether she’d be lonely or if she knew what she was getting into. When he didn’t reply, Isabel took a short breath. “My parents can come see me, and my grandparents are just in London.”

  Yes, it already felt very different from the rambling house in Florence, where friends and family always filled the halls and laughter and song and conversation lasted well into the night. But this was her place, her adventure, and she couldn’t wait for it to begin.

  “You’ve taken on quite a task,” he finally commented. “I’d be pleased to show you my points of concern and, of course, where I’ve kept the accounts ledgers and my observational notes.”

  She looked up from his hand to find him gazing at her, though he lowered his eyes the moment she met them. No doubt he found her too young and too ridiculous and sentimental – she’d saved bees, after all – for the responsibility of Nimway Hall. Yes, the house in Florence had been smaller and with fewer assets and no tenants.

  At least she was aware of that, and perhaps she would make use of him until she caught up. He could just enlighten her until she took over his job or found someone else who could – someone who would answer to her rather than to her grandmother. That all sounded horrible even in her own head, though; she wasn’t precisely ruthless. Perhaps a week would give her enough time to figure all this out. She did owe him for the bee stings, at the least.

  “Thank you,” she said aloud, offering her best smile. “I would very much appreciate it.”

  Abruptly Mr. Driscoll cleared his throat, pulling his hand from between hers. “Thank you for your ministrations, but I need to shed some layers of clothing and head to the mill. The runner stone is chipped, and I’ve held the stonemason here for an additional day already.” He stood, collecting the wet gloves and ruined cravats. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss de Rossi?”

  This millstone would be one of her responsibilities once he was gone. It was one of them now, actually. “I’ll accompany you,” she decided, setting aside the vinegar and rising, as well.

  “There was a mishap yesterday. Someone might have been hurt. If you—”

  “I’ll risk it,” she interrupted. “Give me a moment to dress, Mr. Driscoll.”

  “Adam,” he countered. “My oldest brother is Mr. Driscoll.”

  Isabel inclined her head. “Adam, then,” she said, trying not to notice how well his name sat on her tongue. Nimway Hall might have a husband in mind for her, but it wouldn’t be one of her own employees. Someone not only knowledgeable about Society, but more than likely titled – that sounded much more fitting for the spouse of the Hall’s guardian. She loved her father, but a foreign sculptor? She wouldn’t be making that mistake. With the shortcomings she already had, she wouldn’t be doing anything to add to them.

  As soon as she left the kitchen she gathered the skirts of her night rail and robe in her fists and raced up the stairs. Jane was still nowhere to be seen, so she ran back one door down from her large bedchamber to the room her past nanny and present companion had taken.

  “Jane,” she called, knocking, then pushing open the door and walked into the room. “Are you still asleep? I must dress! Hurry!”

  The older woman gave a broken snore and sat straight up. “The rabbits are loose!” she muttered, flailing at her disheveled red-gray hair, presently wrapped about her head like a shroud.

  “There are no rabbits,” Isabel said calmly, walking over to throw open the curtains.

  “What? Where are they?”

  “Only in your dream.” Waking Jane Davies from a sound sleep had once been one of Isabel’s favorite guilty pleasures; the woman evidently had very vivid – and unusual – dreams. “We did catch a beehive in the attic and transport it out to the garden. Mr. Driscoll – Adam – was stung twice.”

  “Oh, my,” Jane said, wrestling free of her hair and the bed sheets. “Is he allergic? I had a second cousin who perished from a bee sting.”

  “He’s fine. I put a cloth soaked in apple cider vinegar on the stings. But we’re off to the mill, and I cannot go in my night clothes.”

  Jane froze, swiveling around to stare at her. “Your night clothes? Oh, good heavens. You – the servants – you were outside in your night clothes?”

  “People were yelling,” Isabel explained, deciding she was being quite patient. “I couldn’t take the time to dress.”

  “Please don’t ever tell your grandmother about this,” her companion urged, crossing herself. “She thinks I’m too indulgent as it is.” To hear Jane Davies tell it, her family had been so Catholic they’d had to flee England for Italy. Isabel actually thought their flight from Bristol had had more to do with the grandfather’s gambling debts, but she would never say such a thing to Jane.

  “I am trying, Jane,” Isabel returned. “The idea of having someone about who would yell at me makes me shudder.”

  “Me, as well. No more going about in your night rail, Isabel.” Straightening her own voluminous night rail, Jane shooed Isabel out of the room and followed her into the master bedchamber. “Curse my sound sleeping. Next time you must wake me.” Jane dug into one of the trunks that hadn’t yet been unpacked. “Your green muslin?”

  “Where’s my riding habit? I imagine Adam means to ride, and I doubt there’s a rig I can drive. We must purchase one.”

  “But you cannot go riding alone with a man, Isabel. This isn’t Florence, and Mr. Driscoll isn’t one of your cousins. And you shouldn’t be addressing him as Adam.”

  “He asked me to. And one of the grooms is accompanying us, of course,” Isabel decided, making a mental note to request one. She’d thought an isolated estate in the middle of ru
ral Somerset would be a bit less tricky to navigate than London, but given nearly everyone’s reaction this morning, she’d misjudged. In fact, Adam – Mr. Driscoll – was the only one who hadn’t gawked at her for not taking time to dress.

  They found her riding boots and the two-piece habit of deep forest green. She’d never worn this one; a wool riding dress was far too warm for Italian summers. Thankfully it fit as well as it had when she’d tried it on at the dressmaker’s a month ago.

  The moment Jane finished pinning up her hair and set the matching green hat artfully askew atop that, Isabel hurried back downstairs. Simmons stood, also completely dressed and much more composed looking, in the foyer. “Have I beaten Mr. Driscoll?” she asked, as she pulled on her black leather riding gloves.

  The old butler lifted an eyebrow. “If you were engaged in a race, Miss Isabel, you have lost. The…fellow went out to the stables five minutes ago.”

  “’The fellow’?” she repeated. “Do you dislike Adam?” If Simmons knew something that would make sacking the steward easier, she certainly wanted to know about it.

  “He’s not from here.”

  The way he spoke the words said that that explanation should be more than enough to suffice, but Isabel frowned. “I’m not from here, either.”

  “You were born elsewhere, Miss Isabel,” Simmons countered in his dry voice. “You are most certainly from here. More so than anyone else beneath this roof.” He leaned a breath closer. “And if I may be so bold, we are all very happy to have you here finally. Nimway needs her guardian.”

  Now this was the greeting she’d wanted. An affirmation that the house – and the household – were pleased she’d come home, even if she’d never been there before. “Thank you, Simmons. I’m very happy to be here.”

  And she would be even happier when she had a moment to walk the rest of the house by herself, to let the peace of this place wash over her, and to find that blasted orb so she could begin the task of finding the man with whom she was meant to share Nimway Hall and her new life.

  5

  A bit more, lads,” the stonemason instructed, leaning down to peer at the narrowing gap between the runner stone and the bed stone. “Gently now, or we’ll have to start all over again.”

  As Adam let out another inch of rope, he sent yet another glance at Miss de Rossi to make certain she was well clear of any potential accident. She’d donned a dark-green riding habit that hugged her curves in a way he couldn’t help noticing. In fact, he almost preferred the night rail, which had at least been oversized and covered with a robe. Tom Reynolds the stonemason had been spending more time than necessary eyeing her, as well, and had taken it upon himself to explain every known fact about millstones, how he’d repaired this one, and which other estates he’d evidently saved from devastation by virtue of his skill.

  With a ton of stone at the end of the rope and five other men helping him hold it aloft, there wasn’t a great deal Adam could do about the mason’s prattling. The worst bit was that Isabel – Miss de Rossi – seemed supremely interested in what Reynolds had to say.

  Adam couldn’t decide quite what to make of her. If he owned an estate as grand as Nimway Hall he wouldn’t have been able to stay away, either. But she was young and, from her questions, didn’t have much in the way of practical world knowledge. And while he would have been willing to wager that she had some experience running a household, Nimway was much more than that.

  At the same time, though, she seemed very willing to learn, and he hadn’t been able to detect an ounce of haughtiness about her. She’d walked into a room full of annoyed bees, had found a way to save the hive, and had not only known the remedy for bee stings but had applied it herself. And she had no difficulty encouraging the mundane tales of a self-important stonemason.

  These men at the mill had reacted with the same relief and happiness upon seeing her that the Nimway servants had shown. They’d only just begun voluntarily speaking to him, and that had been after a month of hard work. Yet there she was, freshly arrived with nothing to recommend her but her parentage, and the locals couldn’t wait to introduce themselves.

  Yes, she was pretty – stunningly so – with her long dark hair swept up beneath an impractical green hat and eyes the color of a restless sea, but Adam had the distinct feeling that she could have been a peg-legged, one-eyed gargoyle, and her tenants would have welcomed her with the same fervor. Why, though? They’d all fared well over the past ten years, even with a neglectful, fading steward and no landowner present on the property. The house itself had suffered the most, and even that – in the greater scheme of things – was fairly negligible.

  As the stonemason launched into a lecture concerning imported French runner stones, the said stone settled back into place, and the rest of them let the rope go slack. Adam shook out his arms. “Before we return Mr. Reynolds to Glastonbury, we should give the millstone a turn or two. Mr. Miller?”

  The miller nodded. Once they freed the runner stone from the ropes, he and his son pulled the heavy lever to reconnect the mechanism to the water wheel outside. He fed in a sackful of seed, and a moment later the ancient mill groaned into motion.

  A few tense turns passed before the miller retrieved a handful of the milled seed, ground into a rough white powder. “She’ll do,” he pronounced with a pleased grin. “We’re set for the harvest, Miss Isabel.”

  The owner of Nimway Hall stepped forward to sweep the grain from the miller’s hand and inspect it for herself. “Well done, all of you. And Mr. Miller, please let me know when you would be available to help me learn the mechanics of the process, and if there’s anything more you require.”

  “I’d be honored, Miss Isabel.”

  The stonemason opened his mouth, no doubt to offer his own expertise, and Adam stepped forward. “I need to ride into Balesborough to order new railing for the rear stairs leading into the garden. Do you wish to accompany me, Miss de Rossi? Or is there something else you’d prefer to see?” He’d meant to have most of the repairs seen to by the time anyone came to reside in the great house, but weather and circumstances had had other ideas. And if she wished to view any more – or all – of his failings, it was certainly her right to do so.

  “I shall join you, Adam,” she returned, and with another smile and nod for the gathered men, she led the way outside.

  “—knew she’d arrived before word came down from the Hall,” a low voice said from the mill behind him, and Adam slowed his exit.

  “Aye. The owls,” Phillip Miller returned, even more quietly. “There were butterflies all over Agnes’s pen this morning, as well. Flew off and settled like a blue and red and yellow blanket on the knapweed along the stream. Never seen the like.”

  From all the affirmative grunting, Adam gathered that the owls and butterflies had portended something significant. He’d heard the owls, an entire parliament of them, but he’d put it to a well-lit coach passing through Balesboro Wood to disturb their twilight hunting. And everyone knew butterflies liked knapweed. But villagers liked their superstitions, and as long as they didn’t interfere with his work, he had no objections.

  As he left the mill to take in the sight beside the millstream, however, he didn’t feel quite as magnanimous. Someone had alerted the vultures in addition to the owls and butterflies. “Lord Alton,” he intoned, as his jaw clenched. “What brings you all the way up from Blackbridge?”

  Alton released Isabel’s black-gloved fingers and straightened. “Driscoll,” he drawled. “Nimway Hall has a new mistress. Naturally I had to come and meet her.” He smiled down at Isabel. “Introduce us properly, will you?”

  Adam would rather have flattened the man, but punching the Viscount Alton today would only get him sacked. “Alton, Miss de Rossi. Isabel, Geoffrey Bell-Spratt, Viscount Alton. He owns Blackbridge Abbey, just south of Wells.”

  “And Alton Park, in the Lake District,” Alton added, sketching a bow. “I much prefer Blackbridge, though. The views here are much more fine.”r />
  Isabel’s already tanned cheeks darkened. “Finer than the views of the Lake District? You flatter me, my lord.”

  “That was my aim, Isabel. I may call you Isabel, I hope? And you must call me Geoffrey. We are neighbors, after all.”

  And I live in the damned house with her, Adam pointed out silently, but they seemed to have forgotten he stood there. He watched as she inclined her head. “You may, Geoffrey. I’m glad to meet one of my neighbors.”

  Someone must have sent word to Blackbridge of Miss de Rossi’s arrival very early this morning in order for Alton to have ridden the two hours it would take to reach Nimway Hall by luncheon. Adam drew a breath. Isabel was young, unmarried, and with a large property in her name. It made sense she would have gentlemen callers. It was certainly no business of his if she did. No doubt Alton was only the first; the other neighbors would be flocking to Nimway Hall, as well. And Alton had never passed up an opportunity to make an advantageous acquaintance.

  Adam found himself gazing at Alton’s spine as the viscount turned his back. Geoffrey Bell-Spratt could pretend they were barely acquainted if he wished, but Adam damned well remembered the last time they’d met. He was tempted to mention it. Only two things stopped him. First, he had been raised to follow the tenets of gentlemanly behavior, and a gentleman didn’t intentionally embarrass anyone. Second, even he had to concede that character could change a great deal in six years. His had.

  And if for a moment he wished the ladies didn’t find Geoffrey Bell-Spratt quite so pretty, that could be excused. Miss de Rossi had said she’d spent very little time in London. She wouldn’t have much experience, then, with the likes of Alton. On principle he didn’t approve of rakes in general. From experience he didn’t like Bell-Spratt in particular.