Though Ivy was still somewhat concerned about them attending two affairs in one day, she could only admit that she was glad Lily was showing an interest in meeting other young men besides Mr. Garritt. Indeed, she seemed very determined at the task. And now that Ivy thought of it, Lily had not mentioned Mr. Garritt once since the party.
Lawden flicked the reins, and the cabriolet started into motion. Rose turned in the seat to wave at Ivy, her brown eyes shining. Ivy waved back. Then the carriage turned a corner and was lost from view.
For a moment Ivy watched the empty street, then she turned and walked through the garden. She went slowly, as there was nothing to hurry back to. It was not visiting day at Madstone’s, Mr. Quent and her sisters would both be late, and the servants were dismissed.
Besides, she might see him if she lingered out here. The man in the black mask had only ever appeared to her when she was alone. It was for this reason that she had let the staff go for the rest of the day. She had a hope that, if she was by herself in the house, he might show himself.
Not that this was something she looked forward to, exactly. His recent manifestations had all instilled a foreboding in her. Despite her father’s letter urging her to trust the man in black, she could not help but be wary of him and his intentions. Yet it was clear from his warning that he knew something about the doors in the gallery, and if he was to appear, perhaps he would impart further knowledge.
However, as she strolled through the garden, she saw no sign of the mysterious visitor, and the only voices she heard were the murmurings of the little hawthorns and chestnuts.
Though they were dwarfed by the stately ashes and elms that framed the house, the scraggly little trees were the more remarkable specimens. Recently, she had told Mr. Quent what she had learned in her father’s journal—that they were in fact sprung from the seeds of Old Trees gathered on the edges of a stand of Wyrdwood. Mr. Quent had been alarmed by this fact, but so far he had been of a mind to leave the trees as they were.
“They are far from the Evengrove,” he had said. “Too far for their roots to be in any sort of communication with it. I suspect they could be cut down with little chance of a reaction. Still, I am loath to cause any disturbance at this point, no matter how small the risk might be.”
Thus the trees remained for now, and Mr. Seenly had been given strict orders not to trim them, or cut even the least branch. Ivy was glad for this, as the sight of the trees always gave her joy, and they reminded her of her time in the country. What harm could there be in having them here? Could she not soothe them should they ever choose to stir of their own will? Besides, they were all so small and stunted.
Except that was not really true anymore. In the last months, the hawthorns and chestnuts had all grown measurably. And while they still tended to be always shedding their leaves, they had more of them to shed than before. Despite the brilliance of the afternoon sun, a green shadow abided among the little trees, like the cool of a premature twilight. A breeze moved through the branches, and the leaves whispered around her.
The sound reminded Ivy of the last time she had been among trees. Often, since that day at the Evengrove, she had recalled how it had felt to listen to the voices of the trees, and to call out to them in return. Yet she had almost lost her own voice among those of the trees. She had been in grave peril that day, and the thought of ever venturing again into any stand of Wyrdwood—let alone the largest grove in all of Altania—should have been a subject of horror.
Only it wasn’t.
Suddenly it was not the day at the Evengrove Ivy thought of, but rather the night of her sisters’ party, and her conversation with Lady Crayford.
If you wish it, I believe you will one day find yourself to be a great lady, the viscountess had told her that night. Indeed, one of the greatest ladies in all of Altania.
These words had astonished Ivy at first. But she had thought about them over these last lumenals, and she had to concede there was a logic to them. As a lady of consequence, would she not be in a better position to help her husband achieve his aims? After all, politics was worked in ballrooms in the New Quarter as much as it was in the Halls of Assembly. The higher she rose in society, the more she could help win for Mr. Quent the prominence he would need to protect Altania without having to worry about what others in the government might think of his methods.
It was a shocking notion, that a woman might wield such influence. For all of history, it was men who had commanded affairs, who had shaped lives and nations. Yet what had they wrought with all that power? Peace and prosperity?
No, it was very much the opposite. For all men, no matter how good of nature they were, could only ever think of action and advancement rather than calm and continuity. If women were able to share in directing the nation and its affairs, might not a more harmonious balance of powers come to be? Compulsions to build up and tear down might be ameliorated by desires to grow and to tend. Thus the nation would be strengthened and made the wiser, just as a man was made if he married well and heeded his wife.
Another breeze moved among the trees, and they murmured replies to her thoughts. Why shouldn’t a woman wield power? She lifted a hand, running her fingers through viridian leaves.…
A ringing sounded behind her. Ivy drew her hand back and blinked, and the green shadows seemed to retreat as the sunlight brightened around her. She turned just in time to see the brass bell that hung by the gate cease to swing; the afternoon post had come.
Usually Mrs. Seenly would retrieve the post, but as Ivy was on her own for the remainder of the day, she went to the box next to the gate. Not that she minded doing so herself. Indeed, she missed many of the mundane tasks she had been used to doing.
Ivy opened the box and took out a stack of notes. As she went through them, she saw they were nearly all invitations for Lily and Rose—so many that she doubted even Lily would be able to accept them all, though her youngest sister would no doubt try. Toward the bottom of the stack, Ivy at last came upon a letter that was addressed to her. The directions were written in a hand she did not recognize. She turned it over to see who the sender was, and at once a great excitement came upon her.
Such was her curiosity to read the contents of the letter that she began to open it right there. All at once, the sun dipped behind the roof of the house, casting the garden into a deep shadow. Clutching the stack of notes, she hurried up the walk, past the stone lions, and into the house.
Ivy set all the invitations for Lily and Rose on a table in the front hall. Hastily she turned up the wick on a lamp that had been left burning, then sat in a chair beside it and opened the letter. It was from Mr. Samonds, the farrier in the village of Cairnbridge in County Westmorain, and was written in a neat, rather soft-edged hand.
To Lady Quent, with great Regard and Affection, it began. You are more than kind to recall your acquaintance with me, especially given your present circumstances, which have been (as you can no doubt imagine) the cause of much discussion and interest here in Cairnbridge. I am deeply pleased for you and your husband, and I am humbled and honored to receive your letter. I hope you will forgive me if I presumed to show it to my aunt, Miss Samonds. However, she speaks of you often, and recalls your conversations with much fondness. She bid me to pass her greetings to you, and her wishes for continued good fortune and happiness, and now that I have written these words I will consider my promise to her fulfilled.
Ivy could only smile as she read these lines. She recalled Mr. Samonds and Miss Samonds with much endearment. They were, besides Mr. Quent and the children and the maid Lanna, her only real companions during her time at Heathcrest. She shared another connection with Mr. Samonds as well—for he was, like Ivy, a great-grandchild of Rowan Addysen.
As for the question of your note, Mr. Samonds’s letter continued, I believe I can offer you some help, though perhaps not as much as you might have hoped for. I do in fact know of an item such as you describe: a piece of wood from an Old Tree, small enough to fit in yo
ur palm, and with three sides. I know of it because it was I who shaped it. There was a gentleman whose acquaintance I made up at Heathcrest Hall years ago, one of those times I was there as a boy. His name was Mr. Lockwell, and only as I read your letter did I finally understand what I should have realized upon meeting you and learning your name—that he was your father.
Only it had been many years since I had thought of him, or of the things he asked me to fashion from gleaned Wyrdwood. Yet I can recall them clearly now. The one was a box, and the other a frame or stand meant to hold I know not what, though he provided me with very specific dimensions. I did not ask questions, for I knew he was a magician, and that he was a friend of the man the earl sometimes brought to Heathcrest to tutor Lord Wilden in magick. Mr. Bennick, I believe his name was. He was one who always gave me a chill, but Mr. Lockwell—your father—was ever kind to me. I made him the box and the stand gladly. And one more thing I did for him, the last time I saw him.
He gave me a small thing made of Wyrdwood, and he asked me to change its appearance. He did not want it cut or carved in any way, only shaped and molded so that it would remain whole and intact yet might not be recognized for what it was. Though I touch it no longer, I believe you know that in my youth I had some ability for shaping the fallen wood of the Old Trees, and so I did this last task for him. What appears to you as a three-sided piece of wood was, in its original shape, a leaf carved in the most beautiful detail.
So now you know what the object you have once was, though I do not know if that tells you what you wish to know. I can only suppose the object had some significance or importance, but what it was your father did not tell me. I am sorry I can be of no greater help in the matter.
“But you have been of great help, Mr. Samonds!” Ivy said aloud, looking up from the letter.
The piece of Wyrdwood Lord Rafferdy gave her had been carved to look like a leaf! Ivy wanted nothing more than to go to the library, retrieve the piece of wood from the box, and dash upstairs to the door in the north wall of the gallery. However, she was nearly to the end of the letter. Then, as she read the last things Mr. Samonds had written, the room seemed to grow darker, and a foreboding wrapped around her like a shawl soaked in a cold rain.
As I have pen already in hand, there is one more thing I thought I should tell you. It is likely of no consequence, but I did find it peculiar and so thought I would describe it. In recent months, on at least two occasions, a man has come to Cairnbridge, and also to Low Sorrell, and has made various inquiries about you. He seemed to want to hear anything that was known about your time spent in County Westmorain. In particular, he wished to know of any connection you might have with the Addysen name.
I do not know what he might have learned during his visits here. Yet some are more inclined to speak to outsiders than others. Also, there are some in the two villages who regard the Addysen name, and any known or thought to have descended of that family, with little affection. What significance this has, if any, I cannot say, though I thought perhaps you should know about it. As for the man himself, I never heard his name, but he wore the coat of a captain in the king’s army. He was short of stature, though well-made, and had a crown of red hair.
That is all the news I have to impart for now. I hope this finds you and your husband well. And if ever you have occasion to return to Heathcrest Hall, I and many in the county would be greatly pleased.
The letter was signed simply, Mr. Samonds. However, Ivy hardly read the last few words.
He was short of stature … and had a crown of red hair.…
Her lungs couldn’t seem to draw a proper breath, and a pain throbbed in her head. All this time, like Mrs. Baydon, she had thought him to be so kind, so cheerful and gallant. She had never had an ill thought about him. Yet they had all of them been deceived in the most awful manner!
What Captain Branfort’s purpose was in making inquiries about her in Cairnbridge and Low Sorrell, she could not guess, but it could not have been for good, else he would not have so misrepresented himself to her. That she now knew by what means people in the city had learned about the events that befell her in the Westlands, she was certain.
Yet what had been the reason for this act of duplicity? Why had he presented himself as a disinterested friend only to go seeking knowledge of her in secret? She did not know. All the same, given what he had done, there was no telling what other acts of deceit the captain was capable of. That they had profoundly misjudged his character and intent could not be a matter of doubt, and she had to warn Mrs. Baydon to break off her acquaintance with Captain Branfort at once.
She put down Mr. Samonds’s letter and rose, moving toward the library, intending to write to Mrs. Baydon. As she crossed the front hall, a loud noise suddenly rang out. After a startled moment she realized it was a knock upon the front door of the house. Someone must have let themselves in the gate and was on the step.
“Mrs. Seenly,” Ivy called out, “would you see to the door?”
Her voice echoed into silence. Of course—she had given the servants the rest of the lumenal. No doubt they were all away visiting with their families or otherwise taking advantage of the time.
Again a knock sounded upon the door. Who it was, Ivy could not guess, for she was not expecting any visitors that day. Only then a thought came to her that perhaps it was Mrs. Baydon, for once or twice before she had come to call unexpectedly.
Ivy hurried to the entryway. As she did, a pair of wooden eyes carved in the lintel above the door blinked open. They peered down at her curiously for a moment, then their lids drooped back down as if in slumber. Ivy gripped the brass handle and pulled the heavy door open.
The caller who stood upon the doorstep in the thickening air of late afternoon was not Mrs. Baydon. Rather, he was a gentleman clad in an elegant charcoal-colored suit, dark gloves, and a top hat. He was, she thought, near to her father in age, though he wore the years as handsomely as he did his attire. The gray at his temples, the lines beside his mouth and eyes, and the well-honed edge of his jaw all served to lend him a striking appearance.
“Oh!” Ivy could only say, surprised by the presence of the stranger.
The man quickly removed his hat and bowed. “Forgive me, but I was not expecting you to answer the door, your ladyship.”
“I suppose not,” Ivy said, and could not help a smile. She imagined few great ladies answered their own doors. “Are we acquainted, then?” she asked, thinking back to her sisters’ party. She was certain she would have recalled meeting such a distinguished gentleman.
“I confess, we are not properly acquainted,” he said. There was a softness to the manner of his speech that made it very soothing to listen to, despite the slight presence of a lisp. “However, I have heard a great deal about you, and I believe you have heard some amount with regard to me. What’s more, you have been to my house on more than one occasion.”
“Your house?” Ivy said, puzzled.
“Yes, at affairs hosted by Lady Crayford.”
Now her confusion was replaced by astonishment and delight. “The viscountess’s parties were at your house? Then you can only be the viscount yourself!”
He smiled, the lines beside his eyes crinkling in a charming manner. He certainly had as many years over Lady Crayford as Mr. Quent did over her. Yet just as Ivy could not complain about her husband’s appearance, she could see that the viscountess had no reason for complaint either.
“My wife tells me you are very clever, Lady Quent, and that few mysteries can withstand the scrutiny of your keen attention. Now I observe for myself that this is so.”
“I am sure that is not the case!” she said, and she laughed. “For if I were so good at mysteries, I would have known at once who you are.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Oh, but how could you have known?”
She had to concede, there was really no way she could have. “Well, now I do know, Lord Crayford, and I am very pleased.”
“As am I,” he said. “I was,
as the viscountess told you, unable to attend the party for your sisters. I am sorry for that fact, as I have long looked forward to meeting you, as well as to seeing your remarkable house that I have heard so much about.”
“It is in no way so remarkable as yours,” Ivy said.
“On the contrary, there are things I heard from the night of the party that have made me very interested in seeing it for myself. Just as I have been very interested to meet you. Therefore, I hope you will forgive me if I presume to arrive here today with no invitation.”
“You can have need of none!” Ivy exclaimed. Only then she realized that his timing, through no fault of his own, had not been very fortuitous. “Yet, by chance, you come when my husband and sisters are away, and when the staff has been let go for the evening.”
He raised a hand, his expression solemn. “You need say nothing more, Lady Quent. I see that I have chosen to present myself at an inconvenient moment. I hope you will forgive the intrusion. I will call some other time that is more appropriate for a tour of the house.”
Ivy conceded that, before she opened the door, she had wanted nothing more than to pen a note to Mrs. Baydon, and then take the bit of Wyrdwood to the leaf-carved door in the second floor gallery. But how could she turn the viscount away? It was not only that he was an important man—a man who perhaps could be a valuable ally for her husband—but that he was important to one who had shown her such great kindness. When she owed Lady Crayford so much, how could she do anything but welcome Lord Crayford?
“If you do not mind having me as your guide, then there is no more appropriate time than now,” Ivy said. “Please, you must come in.”
He regarded her. “Are you certain, Lady Quent? Do not say so if you do not wish it! For if you do invite me, I will certainly come.”
“I am very certain,” she said as warmly as she could. “Please, Lord Crayford, you are in every way invited and welcome in this house.”
The House on Durrow Street Page 65