by Wilma Counts
“Hmm. Kindness was perhaps not the only thing I had in mind,” he said. “But we can take that up another time.” Her blush deepened, but she did not say anything. He changed the subject. “How far are we traveling?”
“It is three miles to town from our manor, and the Abbey is about six miles beyond that.”
“Tell me about the Abbey.” He felt a bit dishonest, but his memories of visiting the Abbey as a child were rather vague, and during his last visit, when he was in his late teens, his interests had centered far more on his uncle’s stable than in the property as a whole. Of course, at that time he’d had no idea it would all be his one day. He remembered riding and fishing with his uncle, who became then—if he had not been already—one of Alex’s favorite relatives. The two of them shared long talks, often far into the night, during which Alex and his mother’s brother discovered a mutual love of history and the classics. Both had excelled in those subjects at university, albeit a generation apart. They had also discussed history being made in their own time as Napoleon swept through North Africa and Italy and tried to kill France’s fledgling democracy by declaring himself emperor.
Alex recalled that, as an adolescent, he had not wanted to make the visit, but his mother had insisted that he do so. Once there, he was surprised to find his Uncle Harwood treated him as an equal and, for the first time in his life, young Alex had felt confident that he might one day do something worthwhile. Maybe that’s why I did not protest more when Father bought my commission and sent me off to war and arms with Wellington—Wellesley, then, he mused. He wanted to share these thoughts with Hero, but now was simply not the time.
Hero raised a hand in greeting to the driver of an oncoming carriage. “Hmm. Where to begin… Weyburn Abbey was originally built in the twelfth century by Norman clerics. It was a fully functioning, fully independent monastery until Henry the Eighth went on that rampage against all things Catholic in the fifteen thirties. The chapel itself was almost completely destroyed then. Two walls remain, and most of the cloister. There is still a magnificent garden there. As I’m sure you know, when Henry got desperate for money, he sold, to private parties, the church lands and treasures he had seized. That is how it came into the Harwood family.”
“Were the Harwoods good stewards of the land?”
“For the most part they were. But now the whole estate has passed into the negligent hands of a son of the Duke of Thornleigh. The duchess was a Harwood.”
Alex, of course, knew this history already, but he hesitated to interrupt her, though he winced at her “negligent” comment.
She continued her guidebook-like recitation. “Although the Abbey originated as a monastery, it was also a fortress against the native Celts and Saxons. It must have been truly magnificent in its day. Built on a cliff overlooking the sea, it was once surrounded on the other sides by a wall—thus it had protection from attack by sea or by land. After the destruction of monasteries all over England, the wall, along with the ruined chapel, became a quarry for Harwoods expanding the facility and for generations of tenants on Abbey farms. The monks’ great hall had survived, and it as well their living quarters were turned into the spectacular country home we see today.”
“Who lives there now?” Alex asked innocently.
“No one. That is, no one of any consequence. There is a caretaker staff, of course. A housekeeper and six or eight maids. The housekeeper’s husband is the butler—he supervises the male staff, the gardeners and general maintenance men. A total of perhaps thirty or thirty-five staff members. It is well kept. I’ll give the current owner that much.”
“The ever-so-generous Miss Whitby,” he teased.
She gave him a withering look. “You’ll see.”
“The housekeeper and the butler—are they long-time employees?” Are they likely to recognize me and upset my little cart full of lies? Alex had been apprehensive about this aspect of his “inspection tour,” though he wondered if hired help would see that lanky, somewhat cocky teen in the hardened veteran he had become.
“I think Mr. and Mrs. Mullins have been there eleven or twelve years. Certainly they were hired before the deaths of Sir Benjamin and his wife.”
Not recognizing the Mullins name, Alex breathed a little easier.
As they slowed down through the town, Hero raised her hand and smiled or called greetings to a number of people; Alex recognized and acknowledged a few of them as frequent visitors to Whitby Manor.
“We shall come back and have lunch at the inn,” Hero said.
The road beyond was familiar to Alex and he winced inwardly at the spot where he had been attacked. Beyond the tree-lined stretch that paralleled the sea, the road veered away from the sea and they passed by several farms. Alex noted signs of neglect: a roof or a fence in need of repair, a ragged-looking herd of sheep that seemed untended. One farm seemed wholly deserted.
“That is the farm from which the Thompson family was evicted,” Hero said.
“Evicted? Why?” he asked.
She told him the story.
“Seems a bit harsh,” he said mildly, as he quelled his anger and chalked up yet another mark against the man Teague. What happened to the family?”
“They emigrated to America.”
“But why was the farm not let to someone else?”
“Probably as a warning.”
“A warning. I see.”
“I hope you do, Adam,” she said, turning her gaze to hold his. “This is precisely the sort of thing Lord Alexander Sterne needs to know.”
“He will. Believe me, he will know.”
Chapter 12
They turned off onto a long, straight driveway of about a quarter of a mile, which gave visitors a glorious view of the Abbey rising majestically from green, well-tended grounds surrounding it. Built of the same gray stone seen in any number of other buildings, including the farms they had seen along the way, the center of the house was a three-storied edifice with simple, powerful lines. A two-storied wing jutted from either side of the main structure.
“Good Lord!” he said, more in awe of the fact that this was his than in wonder at the size of the structure itself, but of course his companion could not know that.
“Quite impressive, is it not?” Hero said. “Weyburn people are very proud of this landmark. And you should know that Sir Benjamin was held in very high regard.”
Alex did not respond as she guided the horse to a hitching post off to the side of the cobblestoned driveway. At the main entrance, they raised the lion-headed brass knocker several times. Eventually, a middle-aged woman answered the door.
“Miss Whitby. How nice to see you. What brings you way out here?”
“Mrs. Mullins, may I introduce Mr. Adam Wainwright? Mr. Wainwright, Mrs. Mullins is the Abbey’s housekeeper.” She turned back to the woman. “Mr. Wainwright voiced an interest in seeing such rooms of the Abbey as might be open to the public.”
“Of course,” Mrs. Mullins said. “Come right in. I’ll show you around myself.” Alex suspected she was already spending the gratuity housekeepers and butlers at great houses customarily received for this added duty. “Many of our rooms are shut off with holland covers on all the furniture,” she explained, “but the main drawing room, the library, the ballroom, the gallery, and game room are all open.”
“And the wine cellar?” Alex asked. “I am planning to expand the wine cellar of my property in East Anglia,” he improvised as he handed his beaver hat over to a maid, “and I was told the Abbey’s cellar is quite remarkable.”
Hero, in the process of removing her bonnet, gave him a questioning look, which Alex ignored as he awaited the housekeeper’s response. Earlier Alex had conjectured to himself that the smugglers would need storage space such as barns on tenant farms or, more likely, the huge cellar of the Abbey itself, which Alex knew had survived intact, despite repeated attacks on buildings abov
eground over the centuries. Moreover, as a boy, Alex had explored the cellar thoroughly; he knew it was connected by a tunnel to a cave in the cliff below the Abbey itself.
Mrs. Mullins was surprised at his request, but she finally nodded. “Mr. Mullins keeps the keys to the cellar, but I am sure he will accommodate you, sir.” She then began what seemed a practiced spiel about the Abbey, repeating much of what Hero had told him earlier, and ending with, “The last two or three generations of the Harwood family have been extremely conscious of the historical significance of the Abbey. Sir Benjamin was particularly reluctant to make serious structural changes. He always said quite enough damage was done in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries—we needn’t add to it.”
“A wise position to take,” Alex said in a neutral tone, though the housekeeper’s words brought to mind that and similar remarks he remembered his uncle making.
She proceeded to show them the rooms she had named. They were as elegant as he remembered, though showing wear here and there—a much traveled spot on a carpet, worn upholstery on the arms of a couch or a chair. In the game room, one wall displayed a collection of stags’ antlers, and one end of the room was dominated by a canvas-covered billiards table. The library, he was glad to see, still boasted one of the finest private collections in England. Would a single lifetime be enough to do this room justice? he wondered. It was decorated in subdued colors of earth and her natural glories: beige, browns, muted reds, golds, and greens.
When they reached the ballroom, Hero said, “I attended my first ball in this room—danced my first waltz here.” She took a small spin under one of three crystal chandeliers. Watching her skirt whirl about, revealing her shapely ankles, Alex silently vowed that one day she would again dance the waltz here—in his arms.
It was the gallery on the second floor that caused Alex a moment of trepidation. Harwood portraits dating back to the sixteenth century faced a wall of windows that overlooked what had been the cloister garden of the original Abbey. Knowing full well that he resembled his uncle—had not his mother commented on the likeness often enough?—Alex made sure to stand behind the two women as the three of them viewed two centuries and more of family portraits.
Mrs. Mullins spoke affectionately of her one-time employer’s ancestors just as though she had known them all personally. A jokester of the previous century had set a sack of mice loose in the midst of a church service. “Such a naughty boy,” Mrs. Mullins said indulgently. A pretty young woman had drowned only days before her intended wedding. “’Tis said she did it a’purpose,” Mrs. Mullins whispered, shaking her head. “Her bridegroom never married. So sad.”
They moved on, and the housekeeper said, “These last two portraits are my personal favorites. This one shows Sir Benjamin’s parents and five of their seven children—two were born after the portrait was painted—but here is Sir Benjamin as a young lad, his hand on his father’s shoulder, and standing next to him, looking ever so pretty, is his sister Elizabeth. She is the Duchess of Thornleigh now.”
“And mother of the current owner of the Abbey,” Hero explained, glancing at Alex, then back at the painting.
“That is true,” the housekeeper said. “A charming woman, though I met her only in Sir Benjamin’s final days.”
Alex tried not to seem overly interested in this picture of his mother as a young girl, but he thought he could see in the girl the alert, caring woman she became.
“And, here,” Mrs. Mullins said, pointing at the final painting, “is our Sir Benjamin and his wife. Lovely, lovely people. Sadly, they had no children, though they were devoted to each other. He lasted only two years after she died. Tragic it was to see how he missed her.”
Trying to seem only mildly interested, Alex hung back slightly, though Hero stepped closer for a better view.
“They truly were fine people, Adam,” Hero said, turning to Alex. “Sir Benjamin was a particular friend of my father’s. They used to play chess together…” Her voice trailed off in what seemed to Alex to be confusion.
“May we see the cellar now?” he asked abruptly.
They returned to the entrance hall, where Mr. Mullins awaited them with a large ring of keys in one hand.
“Get to the wine cellar through the kitchen,” he said. “Kitchen and cellar are not usually shown to the public.”
“I appreciate your kindness in making an exception,” Alex said. Keeping up the pretense of this being his first visit to the Abbey, Alex held to the rear as they proceeded through a labyrinth of halls to the large kitchen. He noted that the kitchen was severely outdated, and that at least half of it looked to be little used. A heavy door of oak planks held together with black metal bands led to the cellar.
As he inserted a key into the lock, the butler eyed Alex’s crutch. “The stairs are steep and narrow. You sure you want to do this?”
“I shall manage,” Alex said, wondering if the man was deliberately trying to discourage him.
“As you wish,” the butler said, accepting a lit candle his wife held out to him. “What about you, Miss Whitby? The cellar is not very clean.”
“I’ll come too,” she said and added with a teasing smile at Alex, “I’ll go first and catch you if you fall.”
Mrs. Mullins chose not to accompany her husband and the visitors into the cellar. The stairs were, indeed, narrow and steep, but not excessively so. Alex went down more clumsily than the other two, but he did so without mishap.
At the bottom of the stairs, the butler used the candle to light a lantern that had been hanging on the wall. The wooden stairs and railing were sufficiently sturdy and set in the middle of the long side of a large rectangular room about eight feet wide and twenty feet long. A table of unfinished wood and two stools provided a workstation. A large barrel dominated one end of the room; smaller kegs were stacked at the other end.
“Vin ordinaire in the large barrel, ale in the kegs,” Mullins said. “Special wines in bottles on the shelves facing us, brandy and champagne on the shelves either side of the stairs. As you can see, we try to keep everything properly labeled.”
Alex made a pretense of looking over the shelves, even leaning on his crutch to reach for a bottle here and there, blowing off the dust and examining the labels. What he really noticed was that the back wall, facing the stairs, was new. The stone was old enough to blend in with the other three walls, but overall, the cellar was less than a third as large as he remembered. One section of the shelving on the new wall appeared to be movable; faint scrapes on the packed earth floor confirmed this conjecture, but he ignored the temptation to examine that area of the shelving more closely.
“A nice selection of wines and spirits,” he noted.
“Yes,” Mullins agreed. “Sir Benjamin was quite proud of his collection. Wanted it preserved for his nephew—his heir, you know.”
“Let us hope that fellow appreciates Sir Benjamin’s efforts,” Alex said.
“We can only hope he does so,” the butler said stiffly.
Later, gratuities paid to the Mullins couple, Alex and Hero were back in the gig and on their way to visit Abbey tenant farms.
“Why did you insist on seeing the cellar?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I like wine. Did you notice anything unusual about that cellar?”
“No. But I had never seen it before. Looked like any other I’ve ever known—including the one at Whitby Manor.”
“Your father serves a fine table.”
“Yes, he does. He and Sir Benjamin had a friendly rivalry going about the quality of their cellars. Ours is not terribly different from the Abbey’s.”
“Does that seem strange to you?”
“Why should it?”
“Whitby Manor has always been the domain of a single family, has it not?”
“Yes.” A slight frown drew her brows closer together.
“But the Abbey origin
ally served an entire religious community—perhaps as many as a hundred monks, plus servants and any number of visitors or men on religious retreats.
“True.” The frown was no longer slight. Then she brightened and looked over at him. “I see what you are getting at—the cellar should have been much larger to serve so many.”
He nodded, pleased at her perception. “Considerably larger, yes.”
“Well, the entire Abbey has undergone considerable change in the last three centuries.”
“I doubt the cellar would have suffered much damage. Its contents pillaged, certainly, but that vast underground chamber would probably have survived.”
“So some Harwood in recent centuries decided to wall it up?”
“Perhaps.” He let the matter drop as they approached one of the Abbey’s tenant farms.
“This is the Tamblin farm,” Hero said as they stopped outside a fence enclosing a neat flower garden.
“Your sister?”
“You remembered.”
“And her husband, the smuggler.”
“Oh! Don’t mention that!” Hero jumped from the gig and tied the reins of the horse to a fence post.
“I had not intended to do so, but if the subject comes up—” He clambered out of the vehicle.
“You will just ignore it, of course,” she warned, then seemed to realize he was teasing her. She gave him an exasperated look and turned to greet her sister just emerging from the farmhouse door.
* * * *
Hero had looked forward to the outing with Adam, but she had spent much of what was left of the previous night trying to think of excuses to avoid it. And reliving that kiss. She was frankly astonished by her reaction to it. She had submitted to being kissed by only a few men since her debut to society some eight years ago. Never before had she been an eager participant in the event. On those other occasions, she had mostly endured, trying to convince herself that she could overcome the past and embrace life as other young women did. But always fear and revulsion had managed to set her straight on that score. Last night was different, however. She had even, for a moment, quite lost herself in the sheer ecstasy of Adam’s lips on hers—until memory asserted itself.