“There you are, Mr. Rafferdy!” Mrs. Baydon said, throwing open the door of the barouche. “We are all quite vexed with you. We have been waiting for you forever. Where have you been all this time?”
He opened his mouth, unsure what he would say. At that moment Lord Baydon exclaimed from inside the carriage, “My wig! You have found it, Mr. Rafferdy.”
To his surprise, he looked down and saw Lord Baydon’s wig protruding from his coat pocket. He took it out and handed it over to its owner.
“Well, I knew everything would work out to our satisfaction,” Lord Baydon said as Rafferdy climbed into the carriage. “I have my favorite wig back, and it is very well it took you so long to find it, for now all the crowds are gone, and we shall speed to Fairhall Street without delay, no doubt arriving just in time for dinner.”
“I can only imagine you’re right,” Rafferdy said.
Mrs. Baydon gave him a look of concern from the opposite seat. “Are you well, Mr. Rafferdy? You look very tired.”
“So much novelty and interest are bound to take a toll on one,” Mr. Baydon said. “Of course, Mrs. Baydon found the proceedings to be very dull, though that’s only to be expected, for she could not really understand them. But what about you, Rafferdy? What did you think of the whole affair?”
“I’m afraid it left little impression on me,” he said, affecting a light tone. “Indeed, I find I can hardly recall anything that happened, except that my robe was very old and pitiful and had a dreadful smell about it.”
This elicited a groan from Mr. Baydon, but Mrs. Baydon laughed.
“That’s our dear Mr. Rafferdy,” she said. “With a few words, the entire workings of our government can be reduced to one shabby gown.”
Mr. Baydon proceeded to lecture her on the importance of the day’s proceedings. She gave Rafferdy a pained look, and he smiled in return.
The barouche rolled into motion. As it did, Rafferdy looked out the window at the tall spires that surmounted Assembly, and his smile faded. The sun had begun its descent, and in the flat light of the long afternoon the towers seemed forged of silver, like slender knives.
CHAPTER EIGHT
NOW THAT MR. Quent’s situation had been so suddenly and drastically altered, the plans for the refurbishment of the house on Durrow Street were by necessity altered as well. Again Lord Rafferdy wrote to him, this time advising Mr. Quent to reconsider all of his schemes and ideas for the restoration of the house. What might have seemed appropriate for the dwelling of a gentleman must be deemed completely unsuitable for the domicile of a baronet. Even as his status had been raised, so must the quality of their habitation.
That they remove themselves to an abode in the New Quarter, Lord Rafferdy did not think necessary. Propriety must be obeyed, but not necessarily fashion. Besides, as he was but a baronet, and one newly made, it was best if he did not appear eager to assume all the appurtenances of a magnate. He must do his new class credit, so as not to diminish it, yet he must not appear to reach beyond its bounds either. To please his peers and reassure those above him was entirely the purpose of the improvement of the house.
And Lord Rafferdy’s advice must be heeded. Mr. Quent’s respect for the lord inquirer, whom he had long served, was profound. He showed Ivy the letter, which arrived at the house on Durrow Street nearly simultaneously with Mr. Quent, and meetings were held with the builder that very day.
Everything must be grander and more impressive than previously envisioned. Rooms that were to be left closed must now be opened, or joined together and expanded. Windows were to be increased in number, low doorways replaced with arches, and ceilings vaulted to increase the influx of light and air. Simple moldings must now be carved with detail, new furnishings imported from the Principalities, and plain carpets and drapery replaced with Murghese textiles.
In the brief time it took to explain these things to the builder, the allowance for the restoration of the house increased tenfold. Ivy could not imagine, as she listened, that her eyes were any less wide than those of Mr. Barbridge. To think, she had kept the household at Whitward Street for little more than five hundred regals a year. Now, such an amount would hardly furnish a single room at Durrow Street! The tallying of the expense left Ivy stupefied. However, there was no stopping things. Mr. Barbridge was dispatched at once to make new arrangements.
It was not until the day was done that she at last had a moment alone with her husband. The lumenal had given way to night in the most sudden and startling fashion, as if a dark cloth had been cast over the world; or rather, as if a thin blue veil had been snatched from the sky, revealing the endless void that lay beyond, pricked by cold stars.
The new almanac (if it could be trusted) said the umbral was to be brief, and it was true that short nights usually fell quickly. All the same, Ivy could hardly recall an umbral that had descended quite so abruptly as this. For a moment, there in the gallery on the second floor, she could not help a shiver. Then Mr. Quent took her hand and she grew warm again.
Mrs. Seenly was gone for the day, and Lily and Rose had retired to their rooms, weary from the excitement of the past two lumenals. Ivy had no doubt Mr. Quent was weary as well after his rapid journey to Invarel from the North Country. But the lumenal had not been long, and she felt wide awake herself.
Besides, she wanted to show him the door.
There were no lamps lit in the gallery, but she pushed back the sheets over the windows to let in a flood of silver light. It was not long since Brightday, and the moon was still large. There was no need to light a candle, which was well, for the price of candles had become even more exorbitant of late. Ivy had been forced to frequently admonish Lily not to light more than were necessary when she was reading.
Yet what did it matter? If they were to spend so vast a sum on the restoration of the house, how could the expense of a few boxes of candles be noticed? It would make all the difference a pea might if added to a cartload of stones. An absurd laughter rose within her, and she clamped a hand to her mouth too late to stifle it.
“It seems something is giving you great amusement, Mrs. Quent,” her husband said, a curious look on his broad face. “Whatever it is, perhaps you would be willing to share it?”
“Amusement?” she gasped, then shook her head. “No, you have spent too much time away from me lately, Mr. Quent, and you have forgotten what my expressions look like. I assure you, it is not any sort of amusement I feel. Rather, it is terror!”
His voice became low and gruff. “Now I am puzzled by your words, or dismayed, really. I would have thought any terror you might experience would be lessened upon my return, not increased.”
“So I would have thought as well. However, I find you returned in a far altered condition. I was expecting the arrival of my dear Mr. Quent today, but he is no more. It is Sir Quent I have received instead.”
“And this should cause you terror? I would think your reaction to this change should be one of immense pleasure, even joy.”
“No, you are mistaken. You see, joy is what I knew before, in every moment I spent with Mr. Quent. To be with him was everything I wanted or wished for. When I was with him, I had not a single want or care. But this Sir Quent—I cannot say how it will be. I do not know him yet.”
He let out a rare laugh, though it was more an expression of astonishment than humor. “I would think that you do know him! Indeed, I am certain that you do, for he is the very same man you bid farewell to not half a month ago.”
“Is he?” Ivy affected a serious tone. “I am not so certain as you. The Mr. Quent that I knew proceeded on the refurbishment of the house with great frugality. Yet I have heard Sir Quent blithely command orders for brass chandeliers and gilt trim and Murghese rugs.”
“Are you saying that I acted injudiciously today?”
Furrows creased his brow, and something of that old glower, which she had witnessed so many times in her first months at Heathcrest Hall, came over his face. For all that he had grown lighter since the
n, he could not help the expression sometimes—and she loved him for it.
“Tell me, Mrs. Quent—or Lady Quent, for that is who you are now—and spare me no measure of scorn. Do you think I have become frivolous?”
Now it was Ivy’s turn to laugh. “No, I do not think I will ever be able to accuse you of that! I am sure there has never been a man who ordered damask curtains so grimly as you. I know you did it with specific purpose.”
He turned to look around the moonlit gallery. “Yes, it was all done for a purpose. Even if I disagreed with him, still I would follow Lord Rafferdy’s advice. Yet I think he is right. A man must not appear to willingly stray from his place. Others would ask themselves why he chose to set himself apart from his peers, and so would wonder at his motives. Such scrutiny would only make it more difficult to do my work in a discreet fashion. Thus I must live within the confines of my new position.”
This time it was she who was astonished. “You sound as if, rather than being granted a title, you have been sentenced to prison!”
“It is a kind of prison, perhaps. One with its own keepers and its own locks—that is, other members of society, and society’s own restrictions, which as you know are as rigid as any bars of iron.”
These words unsettled Ivy for a reason she could not quite identify. Before she could consider it further, his beard parted in that wolfish grin she all too rarely witnessed, and which she held all the more precious for its scarcity.
“Do not worry, Lady Quent. It will be a very fine prison that confines us, will it not? One with damask curtains and brass chandeliers. I’m sure you will find it utterly pleasant to dwell within.”
Her smile returned. “I am sure you are right. That is, as long as the expense of the construction does not result in us being sent to yet another prison—by which I mean to the pauper’s house.”
“On that account you need have no worry. Most of Earl Rylend’s estate returned to the Crown upon his death, for he had no heir. Still, it was no small fortune that he left me, and Heathcrest Hall was only part of it.”
He moved to one of the windows. “It was something I scarcely deserved for what little I had done. How much better I would have served him if I had been capable, and for how much less in return! Now once again, for services I hardly feel warrant such merit, I have received a vast reward. Along with this new title, I have been granted some of the same lands that once belonged to Earl Rylend.” He turned to regard her, his brown eyes solemn. “Therefore you must believe me when I say you can have no worry about the expense of the work on this house.”
Ivy was overwhelmed. You do warrant such merit! she wanted to shout. However, feeling had constricted her throat, so that she was mute.
Now he took a step toward her. He wore the same boots and breeches he had ridden in that day. He had taken off his coat, and in his white shirt—open at the throat and turned up at the cuffs—he shone in the moonlight that streamed through the window.
“You mistake me, you know,” he said in a low voice. “It was not any sort of frugality that caused me so rarely to spend money in the past. Rather, it was that I had no cause to spend it. It has been many years since I had any reason to be frivolous. But now I have you.”
“Then I can assure you, you have no more reason to be frivolous than you did before!” Though she laughed as she spoke these words, she felt again some of that trepidation that had gripped her all day. “There is no need to make expenses on my account. As I said, I was perfectly happy before.”
He closed the distance between them. “If that is the case, then you will be perfectly happy still. This will not change us.”
“No, you are wrong. This will change everything, as it must.”
Ivy looked up at him, and for the first time since reading his letter yesterday, her dread receded. She laid her right hand against his bearded cheek.
“Yet despite all the changes that must come, one thing will never be altered. I will love you no less and no more than I did before. That is, I will love you with all of my ability to do so.”
He took her hand and brought it to his lips. It was the left hand he used for this action, and it was no less strong or deft for the fact that the last two fingers were missing. At Heathcrest Hall, he had told her how he had come to be injured so: that as a boy an act of foolishness had caused him to spend a night in a grove of Wyrdwood, and the loss of his fingers was the mark that incident had left upon him.
Since that time, it had always been his habit to keep his left hand in his coat pocket when others were present. However, he no longer made any attempt to conceal his old wound from her, and there was no gesture of affection he could have made, no words of devotion he could have uttered, that would have meant more to her.
“Was there not something you brought me here to see?” he said at last. “Come, take me to it.”
Still holding his hand, she led him to the north end of the gallery and showed him the door.
Mr. Barbridge’s men had done excellent work. The door had been scrupulously cleaned, and its coat of varnish burnished to a gloss. The wall around it had been painted a deep red, against which the door’s ornate molding stood out like the frame around a piece of art.
And it was a work of art. The leaves and twining tendrils were so finely wrought, so natural in appearance, it seemed they had not been carved into the wood, but rather had sprouted from it. As they made an examination of the door, the leaves seemed almost to stir and quiver. This time it was not the result of any kind of magick or spell. Rather, it was only an effect of the shimmering moonlight.
After her dealings with the Vigilant Order of the Silver Eye, Ivy had told Mr. Quent about her various encounters with the man in the black mask. He had agreed that the stranger’s help had been crucial in preventing the magicians from using the artifact upstairs. But Mr. Quent was wary of any man who chose not to reveal himself, and he had asked Ivy to inform him if she ever saw the peculiar stranger again.
Ivy had not yet had a chance to tell Mr. Quent how the masked man had appeared to her yesterday. She did not want to concern him unduly—not when there was so much on his mind. Besides, it was not as if there was anything more Ivy could do. If there were indeed other magicians and other doors, then it was for other people to concern themselves with.
I will tell Mr. Quent about it tomorrow, she decided.
They continued their examination of the door. Mr. Quent said that she had been right to instruct Mr. Barbridge to leave it exposed; a thing of such beauty should not be hidden.
“If you have any concerns about the expense of the work on the house, then this should remove them,” he said. “A house that has such marvels to be discovered deserves everything lavished upon it. So would you agree, then, that the new Quent is in no way more frivolous than the old?”
She could only concede the point.
“Now,” he said, his tone grave, “what else can I do to introduce you to Sir Quent? I do not want to alarm you further.”
Ivy looked up, considering him as he stood before her. She had no doubt that, after much expense, the house on Durrow Street would be considered handsome by even the vainest residents of the New Quarter. She also had no doubt that those same people would never say the same of Mr. Quent. Even if he owned fashionable clothes, he would not be able to wear them; he was not tall enough, and his figure was not elegant, but rather deep-chested and heavy-shouldered. Nor would fashionable attire hide his unruly brown hair or coarse beard or the lines around his eyes. However, there was nothing that gave her more delight than the sight of him.
“Come closer to me,” she said.
He did as commanded. She leaned against him then, and he enfolded her in his arms. He smelled of the open air. The scent reminded her of Heathcrest, and she breathed deeply.
“Does this mean that I no longer induce a terror in you?”
“No, not anymore. Indeed, Sir Quent, I believe I prefer you to Mr. Quent in every way. For your embraces are just as pleasant
, yet you are significantly richer.”
“So you admit it—you are pleased that I am now a baronet?”
“Yes, I am pleased.” Feeling washed over her, a kind of fierce pride. “I am pleased because you deserve it. You say this house warrants everything that is being lavished upon it. Well, you warrant what is being lavished upon you. Because of you, disaster in Torland—indeed, in all of Altania—was prevented. You were overly modest when you recounted the events in Torland to me, but Lord Rafferdy told me more when he was here: that it was due to your actions alone that the witch who provoked the Wyrdwood was found. It was you who put an end to the Risings—a fact that Lord Rafferdy has no doubt imparted to the king. Now, like any hero, you must have your accolades, whether you wish for them or not.”
He gazed at her, and for a moment his expression startled her. There was a peculiar light in his brown eyes, almost like a glint of sadness—or rather, like a kind of regret.
Yet this expression should not surprise her. She could only suppose it caused him some measure of sorrow that he had been forced to deliver a witch into the custody of the king’s soldiers in Torland. Ivy’s own feelings were at odds on the subject. She felt a great relief that the Risings had been stopped. At the same time, she could not help thinking of Halley Samonds, who had been drawn to the old stand of Wyrdwood not far from Heathcrest Hall. Just as the first Mrs. Quent had been.
It had not been at their choosing that the ancient wood had called to them. And perhaps it had not been the choice of the witch in Torland. If so, it would have been difficult for Mr. Quent not to think of his Gennivel—or of Ivy herself. For did she not share the same propensities as Halley Samonds and Gennivel Quent?
All the same—no matter whether she went willingly to the wood, or whether it had called to her—it was wrong for the witch in Torland to have done what she did. Just as it had been wrong for Halley Samonds to have used the stand of Wyrdwood near Heathcrest to harbor Westen Darendal and his band of rebels. For the sake of Altania, Mr. Quent had had no choice but to find the witch and deliver her to the Crown.
The House on Durrow Street Page 14