by Joan Smith
I looked every place, all along the ledges of the roof, in Papa’s account book, and in all the nooks and crannies. By the time Cassidy returned, the loft was ringing with the throaty sound of disturbed birds. I noticed that Caesar was no longer in the tree, and asked Cassidy about the taping.
“That was to keep him from Cleo while you was here, miss,” he said, with a bold grin. I swallowed a grin at Snoad’s idea of my prudishness, and thought no more of it.
“But what ails the birds, miss? What have you done?” Cassidy demanded. The squawking was quite noticeable.
“Nothing. A hawk has been flying past the screen and frightened them. You’d best sweep up these feathers.”
I ran down one flight of stairs to Snoad’s rooms. They were locked as before, which gave me hope that the book might be within. I got the key ring from my father’s desk, and after several tries, found one big brass key that fit the lock. I entered, my insides quaking, and gazed around at a room that had been rigged out as a study.
I remembered the desk from a little-used bedroom. Other furnishings had been brought up, too. There was a fine blue bergère chair from another suite, bookcases, good lamps, a carpet, all the fixings of a polite chamber. Pretty good treatment for a servant! I spotted his bottle of brandy sequestered under the desk. I immediately rushed to the desk. It was not locked, which surprised me.
It held various accounts having to do with the feed and management of the pigeons. There wasn’t a single private letter there. As I thought about that, it seemed odd. Snoad did occasionally receive letters, usually from Branksome Hall. His replies had also been seen from time to time on the salver in the hall downstairs, awaiting the post. He had no personal mementos, no pictures of mother or family framed on the desk, no bibelots in memory of a trip here or there.
One would think, from the looks of the room, that he had landed on earth the day he came to Gracefield. The lack of any personal items suggested concealment. Did all his personal memorabilia have a French accent, perhaps? I examined the books in the bookcase next. It was a big job, as I had to remove them one by one and look behind them, and also shake them in hope of finding notes concealed between their leaves.
I took note of the titles while I searched. There was a good sprinkling of novels and poetry, some of them from my father’s library, but none of them in French. Others were books of geography or history. I read the flyleafs. Not one of them had his name inscribed, but several of them had had the blank page in front cut out with a razor.
I went into the next room, and observed with a jab of anger that it, too, held many items from guest rooms belowstairs. Why had my father given a servant such good furnishings? What I did not see was any sign of the scientific work that was the excuse for Snoad’s second room. “A place for Snoad to do his scientific work,” I remembered my father saying. I noticed that Snoad had had our journals brought upstairs for his perusal when we were finished with them. There were plenty of journals scattered about, giving the room a messy look.
I searched the room quickly. On the bedside table was the book of Byron’s poetry he had been reading in the loft. A patent pen sat beside the book. I leafed through the volume and found the sheet with the poem. Another poem had been written on the bottom of the same page. It read:
As moon to sky
As water to sea
As blossom to meadow
Is my love to me.
As heather to hills
As dew to the morn
For now and for always
He had scratched out two or three last lines, apparently finding it difficult to rhyme “morn.” There was a “torn” and a “born” in there, neither making much sense. What struck my eye, after a second reading, was that he had used the word “heather.” Was that coincidence, or had he been thinking of me? I read the verse again, and felt a twinge of pity for Snoad. Had the poor fool gone falling in love with me? I supposed that even a spy was not immune to Cupid’s shafts. Even a French spy. It softened my animosity to Snoad, but the facts were still there. He was the enemy. Even now he might be meeting his cohorts, planning the destruction of England.
I reread the first poem, disliking those “gray” eyes, when mine were green. Did he dash off a bit of doggerel to every lady he met? I finished searching the room, tidied everything up so he would not know I had been in, and left, locking the door behind me.
Then I went below to await Bunny’s return. He came shortly after. “I told Depew. Offered to go with him, but he says to stay here and look for the book.”
“I am certain Snoad has the book, and carries it on him. I searched the loft and his room.”
“Seems to me Depew might need a hand, if Snoad is meeting his men.”
“What did he say?”
“Said he’d handle it. Told me to come back here.”
“I wish we had a more clever superior, Bunny. I am not at all sure Depew is smart enough to catch Snoad.”
“He’s been put in charge. He mustn’t be as stupid as he seems. I mean to say, why was Snoad searching the house t’other night if he’s found the book? It is Fairfield who is the raw one. A very shallow fellow. The deeper you dig with him, the shallower he gets. You ought to have heard him squawk about his ruined jacket when you dunked him.”
“Let us look some more. We could try the cellar. Papa kept a close watch on his wine. He was usually downstairs twice a week.”
That is how we wasted a fine afternoon, by searching the dank, cold cellar. Auntie demanded to know what we were about, and Bunny said we were taking an inventory of the bottles, to see if we should order more wine.
“You know Papa liked to keep well stocked,” I added.
Auntie shook her head at this lunacy, but left us alone. Of course, we found nothing except dirt and cobwebs and black beetles. This undertaking made a bath necessary before dinner. I heard Fairfield and Snoad passing in the hall while I was in the tub. “It must have been an accident, Kerwood,” I heard Fairfield say, in a loud voice.
“Accident be damned. We were followed,” Snoad replied angrily. “Do you remember, Heather asked where we were going?”
“No, did she?”
So Snoad called me Heather behind my back, did he? And Fairfield, I feared, was every bit as stupid as I thought. He had not remembered that I asked their destination.
I was most eager to talk to Depew, and learn what “accident” had transpired on that trip to Atherton. Whatever it was, the spies had returned unharmed, and worse, alerted that they were under observation. I felt things could not go on much longer in this semi-peaceful vein. They were drawing to a crisis. I remembered, too, that Snoad had Papa’s pistol. Then I had to put on a smile and go down and join Fairfield for dinner, as though he were not a spy, here to trick us.
Chapter Fourteen
I was, of course, extremely curious to learn what “accident” had befallen Snoad and Fairfield during their trip. What first occurred to me was that Depew had rigged the curricle to break down, but a second thought showed me the ineligibility of that course. Depew wanted to see where they were going, and whom they were meeting. Besides, he didn’t know what carriage they would be taking. I decided it was a genuine accident, which Snoad’s guilty conscience turned into a plot. Spies would always have to be suspicious of everyone.
As Fairfield seemed fairly dim-witted, I hoped to find out from him that evening what sort of accident it was. As things turned out, the opportunity did not arise. He claimed a sick headache after dinner and remained in his room. I did have letters to write, and when Auntie suggested piquet, I was quick to remind her of them, and let Bunny be her partner. While we were setting up the table, I told him that I was going up to the loft. If I was not down in half an hour, he must come after me.
Depew wanted me to keep an eye on the loft, and I wanted to try if I could discover from Snoad what had happened that afternoon. With these frail excuses, I abandoned my partner to piquet and went upstairs. The loft was cool and quiet. A gentle cooing
from the nests was the only sound. As my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, I espied a form at the far end, near Caesar’s tree. There was something menacing in it, hovering silently in the corner. It moved against the screen, and suddenly assumed the form of a man. Snoad.
My racing heart resumed its normal pace as he detached himself from the tree and advanced toward me. He was dressed in black, but not evening clothes. Instead of a jacket, he wore a thick knitted jersey against the wind.
“Good evening, Miss Hume,” he said, bowing. “Are my services required at the whist table this evening?” His rich voice was edged in sarcasm.
To avoid a skirmish, I decided to conciliate him. “Not this evening, Snoad, but my aunt was favorably impressed with your skill. She liked you.”
“I am, of course, vastly interested in your aunt’s opinion,” he replied flirtatiously.
I had not come to flirt. “Lord Fairfield is not feeling quite the thing this evening,” I said. “Perhaps the outing was too much for him.”
“I am sorry to hear it.”
The man was an oyster. I could not ask outright if there had been an accident, or he would know I had been eavesdropping. “Mr. Smythe described him as a Corinthian. I had not thought one of those athletic gentlemen would be overcome by a drive to Atherton,” I said leadingly.
“It was hardly a tiring drive for him. He was kind enough to let me handle the ribbons.”
“That was generous of him. His team is valuable, I believe.”
Snoad didn’t answer. He crossed his arms and stared at me a moment. “I don’t think you came up here to discuss Fairfield’s headache,” he said.
“No, I didn’t.”
“Why did you come?”
Necessity betrayed me into indiscretion. “I seem to recall I was asked to return. Soon, and often, I believe you said.” It sounded like an invitation to flirtation, and Snoad was not tardy in reply.”
A quizzical smile lit his face. “Ah, then it is a social visit!” he exclaimed. “Excellent. I have been pondering the eligibility of offering you a glass of your father’s excellent sherry. As it is a social call, I expect some refreshment might be offered.”
I was relieved he did not offer brandy, but he did not refer to last night’s strange meeting at all. He went to the table between the two old mildewed chairs and began fiddling with wine and glasses. “How is Cassidy working out?” I inquired, to keep the conversation going, but on an impersonal subject.
“He has the makings of a good pigeon man. Gentle hands, and a true love of the birds. You chose wisely. Salut!” He touched his glass to mine, and we drank.
It was extraordinarily difficult to find a subject that did not involve either spying or flirtation. In desperation I said, “Has Fairfield selected his birds yet?”
“No. He seems more interested to learn how a proper operation is carried on. He is just beginning to assemble his flock. You have noticed his lack of expertise, I think?”
“Yes. I wonder how long he plans to stay. He mentioned a day or two, when the invitation was first extended.”
“There are other attractions than the pigeons,” he said. His black eyes studied me. I turned away to place my glass on the table. Snoad did the same.
My first mental response was amazement that he would mention their spying, even obliquely. In a twinkling I realized I was the alleged attraction. “Oh! Yes, he is an excellent parti, I believe.”
“Which of his excellencies do you refer to? His title or his wealth?”
“Actually, it was his face and figure I meant. He is very handsome.” It seemed ludicrous to be prating of Fairfield’s beauty when the man beside me was a regular Adonis. It was like comparing a candle to the sun.
“I had not thought Miss Hume would settle for a handsome face and a broad set of shoulders,” he scoffed.
“Well, throw in the title and estates ...”
His voice, when he spoke, was rough with annoyance. “Do you really care so much for a title?”
“Not unduly, I hope, but there is some appeal in a tiara,” I answered with a dismissing laugh.
Frustration steamed from his obsidian eyes. An ungentlemanly curse growled from the depths of his throat, and while I watched this jungle display in disbelieving fascination, his hand flashed out and gripped my wrist. He crushed me against the unyielding wall of his chest. My one yelp of outrage was silenced by his lips, which found mine with the swift, unerring accuracy of a hawk seizing its prey. I made one convulsive effort to escape. His arms tightened to bands of oak, clamping me to him. His angry growl softened to a reassuring croon, which was more devastating than those lips that flamed on mine, and the pressure of his strong body. Something inside me melted at the exquisite intimacy of that sound, coming from inside him.
Beneath the soft jersey, his back was strong and wide. I allowed myself the luxury of examining it. Snoad followed my example. His warm hands caressed my body with possessive knowledge, leaving a trail of fire where he took my measure. I gave up all hope of escape, or of wanting to, and abandoned myself to his primitive lovemaking. It was at once more physical, yet more metaphysical, than I had imagined it could be.
Oh yes, I had imagined this scene a hundred times, yet for once, reality outpaced imagination. Like the beat of a drum, my heart throbbed, seeming to echo not only in my ears, but in my loins. It engendered a fever at the very core, robbing me of common sense.
The beating spread through me like wildfire, laying waste the last dregs of my self-control. I was overwhelmed by a yearning need for—something. I was at that point where the mind vaguely conceives of an unimagined infinity, a place beyond space and time, yet I was tethered to the here and now by his devouring embrace. I tried to turn away. His hand palmed my head, turned it back, and found my lips again.
Such rapture could not long be endured. With the seasoned art of the master, Snoad released me gently, slowly. His lips softened from demand to pleading; his arms lessened their tension, and too soon we stood an inch apart, gazing at each other like a pair of thieves.
While I hastily surveyed whether I should bridle up and deride him for this outrage, or throw myself back into his arms whimpering, as I felt like doing, Snoad gave his lower lip a sharp bite, and laughed. It was the sort of nervous eruption that crops out under mental stress. It told me nothing, except that he was ashamed of himself.
Having anticipated either an abject apology or a declaration of undying devotion, I was highly displeased with that laugh. I knew which course I must take: the bridling-up course.
“Is molesting unsuspecting ladies your idea of a joke, Snoad?” I demanded. “I find it as vulgar and reprehensible as everything else about you.” These brave words were marred by a breathless voice. I wished I had kept my mouth shut until I was more fully recovered.
His black brows quirked up. “Unsuspecting?” he said. I glared him down. “I wasn’t really laughing.” He said it so simply and so contritely that I was sorry I had lashed out at him. “It was shock,” he added. When he reached to take my hand, I let him. I wanted to feel his touch again. “It’s a devil of a situation, isn’t it, Heather? You cannot love Fairfield. I don’t believe it. It’s only the title you love.”
“Of course I don’t love him! But I could never marry you, Snoad. I must marry a gentleman at least.” Not that he had asked me!
“Do you really care so much for birth?”
“You know this is impossible.”
“I’d marry you if I were the king of England, and you a serving wench.”
“Then you would have a revolution on your hands, sir, and in my opinion, you would deserve it.”
“Then I’d make you my official mistress.”
This idea was too dangerous to pursue. “I shan’t come up here again, Snoad.” An arrow pierced my heart to consider my desolate future. Then I remembered Depew’s orders. “Not without an escort,” I added.
He lifted my hand to his lip and kissed it ardently. “Just come,” he said so
ftly. “Don’t deprive me of even the sight of you. I couldn’t endure it.” While my heart was melting at that tender speech, he added, “And for God’s sake, keep Fairfield away from the ocean. You can make me jealous from the east park. I can see you equally well under the elm trees. You don’t want to drown the poor fool.”
“People who spy are apt to see things they don’t want to see,” I said grandly, and left. How had I come to use that dangerous word “spy”? I turned and rushed downstairs, before any other unwise words were said, or unwise things done.
I went to my room to recover my wits. I was trembling. So this was why, and how, respectable ladies fell into alliances with their grooms or footmen. I would not be so swift to laugh at them another time. Such a powerfully compelling thing, this attraction between the sexes. It drove the hummingbird and the horse, the flea and the elephant. It drove Papa to Mrs. Mobley. I could understand it now, and to understand is to forgive. But I must not let this infatuation drive me to indiscretion. And that meant I must avoid being alone with Snoad. Kerwood. He had called me Heather, and I wished I had used his first name.
Snoad didn’t suit him. It sounded like toad. What he required was a princess to turn him into a prince by her kiss. I glanced in the mirror, and was disgusted by the moonling smiling back at me. How could I so far forget duty as to go falling in love with a spy? Five minutes remained of the half hour that would bring Bunny to my rescue. I was about to return belowstairs when I heard Fairfield’s door open.
Was he going to join us below? He might be more forthcoming about the “accident” that Snoad thought was no accident. What could it be? I listened, but his footsteps retreated instead of advancing toward my door, and the staircase. He was not going downstairs. There was only one place he could be going: to the loft.