“Calendar house?”
“Yes, like Knole House, in Kent, or the Duke of Plimpton’s family seat, Whitcomb House—a house that has a room for every day of the year.”
“I feel like I’ve been through at least that many,” Portia murmured. She wished they would leave the state apartments, which were decayed and depressing and made one think of better days.
“We can finish the tour in the minstrel’s gallery. From there it is convenient to go back to the main house through the east wing,” Rowena said over her shoulder as she led them down a particularly dank hallway which opened into a spectacular rotunda the size of a large ballroom.
“How lovely,” Portia breathed. The spherical room had a dizzyingly intricate black-and-white floor and an ornate balcony that wrapped around the walls about three-quarters of the way up to the ceiling. An enormous rose window illuminated the room like a blazing chandelier. She could imagine the scene: the minstrels arrayed in a semicircle on the balcony and playing for their wealthy, powerful patrons below. The guests would dance roundels and voltas while the musicians observed their peccadillos and machinations from afar.
“Oh no, look at this, Frances.” Emotion pulsed in the viscountess’s voice as she examined one of the casement windows that looked out over the knot garden. Portia could see several panes of glass were broken. While the two women examined the windows Portia went up to look at the minstrel’s gallery. As she climbed the narrow rickety stairs, she realized it would be a miserable trek for those carrying heavy instruments. When she reached the balcony, she saw remnants of once spectacular tapestries hanging from the walls, concealing storage nooks cut into the stone wall. There had been no pianos in those days, but perhaps there might still be a harpsichord or virginal. She’d only walked five or six steps when a blood-curdling scream stopped her in her tracks.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Portia stop! That section of the balcony is extremely unstable.”
Portia froze, her heart in her throat.
Frances wheeled on Rowena. “What happened to the barricade I had Thompson put up last year?” She didn’t wait for Rowena’s answer before striding toward the stairs. “Just stay right there and don’t move. That newel post near you is rotted, so don’t touch it. Now, if you look down you’ll see there are some broken slats beneath your feet.”
Portia looked down and then wished she hadn’t. It wasn’t far to the ground, but she became dizzy looking at the open air beneath her feet. How had she missed it? There were dozens of gaps, some as large as an inch, places where the decorative parquet had splintered and fallen away, exposing either the blackened beams below or open air.
“Can you reach that section near the wall?” Frances pointed to the spot she meant; she’d come up the stairs, stopping a few steps shy of the balcony.
The floor right in front of Portia looked the worst, but just beyond that it appeared solid, so she nodded. “I can reach it if I take a very large stride.”
Frances raised a staying hand. “No, don’t do that.” She looked down at Rowena. “Get Thompson and tell him to bring the tallest ladder, a good length of rope, and two footmen—the biggest. Hurry, Rowena!” She turned back to Portia. “Stay as still as you can, she’ll be back soon and we’ll take you down by ladder.”
They listened to Rowena’s footsteps recede until there was nothing.
Portia couldn’t have moved if she’d wanted to; her body was rigid with fear. She might come away from the fall with nothing more than broken bones but it could kill her baby. She swallowed and exhaled slowly.
“Tell me something to take my mind off this, Frances. Tell me what it was like growing up here.”
“Our mother was wonderful. She was mad for horses and had us all in the saddle almost before we could walk. It was how my mother had been raised and she argued with our father about letting us roam the property without a groom.” Frances smiled. “She was the only person who ever argued with him.”
Even in the grip of fear, Portia ached at how haggard Frances looked.
“I never had a Season.” She gave a short, unhappy bark of laughter. “Who would look twice at a woman my size other than to stare? So when the opportunity came to take Stacy I seized my chance to raise a child. It was not easy at times, and it made my heart bleed to watch other children shun or taunt him. He was always strong and cheerful, but I knew he suffered. I worried that a part of him died when he overheard that dreadful Penelope call him a freak while gossiping with her friends.”
Something odd flickered across her face. “What my father did was wrong—beyond wrong, criminal—but I want you to understand that none of us had a choice. Constance and Mary should have had their chances to find husbands but they were needed here to raise Robert.” She lifted her shoulders, shrugging beneath ancient, heavy burdens. “I will never forgive my father for rejecting his own son but I can’t regret my life with Stacy. He is my brother, but I love him like my own child.”
Portia understood something about the love Frances was feeling now that she was standing fifteen feet above a marble floor, her mind fixed on only one thing: saving the life inside her.
“He loves you too, Frances. I know he will—”
A low, ominous groaning sound vibrated through the rotted boards beneath her and she screamed, reaching out for the balustrade by reflex.
“Portia! No—
The structure beneath her shivered almost lazily and the staccato snapping of wood cracking filled the air. The heel of her right foot tilted back and Portia staggered, the railing breaking like a dry twig as the parquet beneath one foot disappeared.
Later, when she would try to recall what happened, Portia couldn’t remember Frances grabbing her arm. The older woman must have moved like lightning to get up the crumbling stairs as the balcony disintegrated beneath Portia’s feet.
Frances held her in arms like iron bands and the two of them slipped and fell through crumbling steps before coming to an abrupt halt on a third step. The stop was bone-jarring and Portia bit her tongue, her mouth flooding with blood.
Above them, the balcony screamed like a wayward child and then pulled away from the wall with the ponderous slowness of a giant.
Portia pressed her body against the wall but skidded down another couple steps as the stairs pulled away from the wall. Frances tried to keep her upright, but they both slipped and staggered drunkenly as step after step collapsed beneath them.
Portia’s feet struck marble with another bone-jarring thump and Frances fell backward, pulling Portia down on top of her.
The deafening shriek of twisting wood that filled the room was followed by a moment of ominous silence as the balcony teetered almost gracefully.
And then four hundred years of wood, stone, and metal crashed against unforgiving marble. Plaster, dust, and pulverized wood rose from the floor like a filthy snowstorm. A resilient newel post hit the ground, bounced high into the air, and struck the wall less than a foot from her head, sending chips of plaster flying. Portia and Frances screamed and wrapped their arms around their heads as debris ricocheted around them like artillery.
The room became silent almost as suddenly as it had exploded and Portia forced her eyes open; a thick cloud of fine powder obscured the room, clinging to her eyelashes and plugging her nostrils. She clamped a hand over her mouth and fanned her face with the other, as if that might dissipate the haze.
“Portia? Frances?”
It was Stacy’s voice, or at least Portia thought it was. Her head was ringing so loudly it was a miracle she could hear anything.
“We’re over here,” Frances called in a raw voice.
“Stay where you are. I’ll come to you.”
It seemed like a year but was probably closer to a minute before the dust in front of her shifted to reveal a pale and beloved face.
He dropped down beside her and Portia broke, sobbing out his name. “Stacy!”
His arms went around her so tightly he squeezed a squeak out of her. They were sti
ll holding each other when the men Rowena went to fetch arrived and began opening doors and windows to clear out the choking dust.
Other than some bruises and shaking so badly she could barely stand, Portia appeared unharmed.
Stacy molded her trembling body to his and stroked her hair. “Shhh, sweetheart, everything will be all right. I’ve got you.”
“Frances,” Portia began, desperate to tell her husband how his sister had saved their child’s life.
“I’m here, Portia.”
Portia broke away from Stacy just enough to grab Frances’s shoulder and pull her toward her brother. And then the three of them collapsed into a shaking huddle while she sobbed, this time with relief.
That night Portia decided to eat dinner in her bedroom, not that Stacy would have allowed anything else. And Robert, who was almost as bad as his brother, insisted on calling the local doctor to check on Portia.
“You are doing remarkably well, Mrs. Harrington, as is your baby. But rest can never hurt, especially for a woman in your condition.”
“How long should she stay in bed?” Stacy’s arms were crossed over his chest.
The doctor looked from Stacy to Portia and frowned, uncertain which of them to please.
“She is physically unharmed and very healthy. So, unless she shows any sign of shock, I think she will be fine after a good night’s sleep.”
Portia could see her husband did not care for that advice. “I still want you to call again tomorrow.”
“But Stacy—” She couldn’t see his eyes, but his jaw tightened and his expression was pitiless. Portia closed her mouth with a snap.
“I think that is an excellent idea,” the doctor agreed nervously.
“Thank you, Doctor.” Stacy escorted him to the door and shut it behind him. When he turned, he shook his head.
“Bloody hell, Portia.”
Portia raised her eyebrows at his language, which was usually gentlemanly and proper—unless they were in bed. Stacy raked his hands through his disheveled hair, the motion dislodging a cloud of dust. He pulled off his dirty spectacles and tossed them onto her nightstand before grasping her shoulders, looming over her, his expression wild. “Are you trying to put me in the madhouse?”
Portia gaped in amazement. “Surely you don’t think I destroyed your family’s minstrel’s gallery on purpose?”
He laughed weakly. “No, but I’m beginning to believe you are cursed, Mrs. Harrington.”
“You aren’t the only one,” she retorted, and then looked into his agonized eyes and relented. She raised his hand to her lips and kissed his dusty palm before placing it against her cheek and leaning into his warm strength. She closed her eyes and luxuriated in his touch. “Maybe I should stay in bed until the baby is born. You could stay with me and make certain I avoided dangerous situations.”
“But then you would be in danger of physical exhaustion.” He leaned down to kiss her soundly. “One of us should make an appearance at dinner and I suppose it shall have to be me. I’d better go and begin the bathing process. I daresay it will take half a dozen tubs before I’m clean.” He slapped his buckskins and made a gray cloud. “Daisy is seeing to your dinner and will sit with you; try not to do anything dangerous.”
“Ha!” Portia threw a pillow at him as he walked toward the connecting doors. After he’d gone she sighed sleepily. She doubted she’d stay awake until her dinner tray arrived.
Astonishingly, Portia slept all the way through to the following morning, waking only moments before Stacy came to tell her he was going for an early ride with Robert.
“I think I liked it far better when you slept until ten o’clock every day and went out at midnight,” she grumbled.
“Mmmm.” He kissed her cheek and reached under the covers, stroking the first thing he found, which just happened to be one of her breasts. His hand felt divine and she was suddenly wide awake. She arched toward him.
He laughed. “You need your rest and I need a good, hard ride after yesterday—on Geist,” he qualified when he saw her eager expression.
Portia opened her mouth to argue but a yawn came out.
He raised his eyebrows. “You see?” He pinched her nipple and was gone.
The next time Portia woke it was to find a cup of hot chocolate beside her bed and Daisy supervising the filling of her bath. She took a drink of chocolate and wandered into the lovely marble bathing chamber.
“You read my mind, Daisy.”
“No, ma’am, it was Mr. Harrington who sent the bath—and the chocolate. He said I was to have you in the breakfast room by noon.” She gave Portia a little smirk, as though she found a husband ordering his wife around charming. So did Portia in this instance. She’d been afraid he would try to make her remain in bed for the remainder of their visit.
When she arrived in the breakfast room there were at least a dozen people, Stacy among them. He rose and led her to a vacant seat while Lord Pendleton performed introductions to all of the people who’d arrived the day before while Portia was lying in her bedchamber.
She said the appropriate words, smiled, and assured everyone she was fine. She would have preferred to answer all the questions and meet all the guests after she’d had coffee but that was not to be. One thing about the group of people surprised her greatly: none of them appeared to find it odd that a full-grown son and his wife had magically appeared at Thurlstone. If they did think it was strange, they were too polite to mention it or stare.
She’d just acquired her first cup and taken a long, steadying draught when Rowena entered the room, her eyes sweeping the table before settling on Portia. Portia groaned inwardly; what now?
“How are you this morning, Mrs. Harrington?” Her disconcerting eyes crinkled in solicitude, but the expression in them was as hard as the agates they so resembled.
“I am well, my lady.” She changed the subject. “Lord Pendleton was just about to share the plans you’ve made for our entertainment.” Portia turned back to Robert.
“We have an alfresco lunch prepared for our trip to the Temple of Music on our neighbor’s estate, Hillcombe Park.”
“Oh Lord Pendleton, how wicked,” a woman named Miss Creasy teased. She was one of the new arrivals, a pretty girl with honey-colored hair who was making her interest in Robert quite evident.
But Robert merely smiled coolly and turned to Portia “Miss Creasy is referring to the history of Hillcombe Park, of course. One of the prior masters of Hillcombe was very good friends with the infamous Sir Francis Dashwood, the founder of the Hellfire Club. Lord Bishop built a tribute to Dashwood on his property.”
The conversation grew noisy after that, as everyone vied to share their knowledge on the taboo subjects of orgies and satanic rituals. A plate of ham and eggs mysteriously appeared before her and she looked up to find her husband’s eyebrows raised in challenge.
“Thank you, Stacy.”
He gave her the slight, sensual smile that drove her mad—and also made her achingly grateful they’d bridged their differences. Never again, she promised herself. Never again would she let her dreadful temper come between them.
Stacy leaned closer as she lifted a forkful of food. “Perhaps this is one appetite of yours I can actually satiate.”
Portia almost choked and had to take a sip of coffee. She looked up to see Robert watching their intimate interplay with an expression of envy and yearning. Portia darted a glance at Rowena; the cool blonde was watching her husband with an amused, mocking smile.
Portia felt like an actor in a French farce.
The young man on Portia’s other side asked her a question and she turned away from her disturbing in-laws.
The group who assembled for the picnic was noisy, gay, and far larger than Portia expected. Many of the houseguests had breakfasted in their rooms and were only now trickling down to the portico, where carriages waited for those who didn’t wish to walk to the picnic area.
Stacy and Portia were engaged in a heated discussion about her
presence in one of the carriages when he stopped in mid-sentence and stared at something over her shoulder, his jaw dropping. “Kitty?” His voice was high-pitched and unnatural.
Portia turned and encountered one of the most beautiful women she’d ever seen.
“Stacy?”
They stood enrapt, as if only the two of them existed. Stacy emerged from his shock first, turning to Portia as if he’d only now remembered her presence. His pale cheeks flushed a dull, angry red. “Portia . . .” he began, laughed weakly, and then turned back to the other woman. “Portia, this is Mrs. Katherine Charring. Kitty, this is my wife, Mrs. Harrington.”
The woman pulled her gaze from Stacy with obvious effort and gave Portia a nervous smile. “It is a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise,” was all she could force out between stiff lips. But she might as well not have spoken as the beautiful woman and her husband only saw each other. The woman looked at Stacy with open affection, as if he were her savior. And Stacy? Well, he was looking at the lovely stranger as if he could not get enough.
The familiar jealous, jangling sensation began to make her head hot and she knew she had to get away, now. She needed privacy to calm herself.
So she pasted a smile on her face. “If you’ll excuse me, I believe I will go and see if there is space in one of the carriages.”
Her words jarred Stacy into action. “Wait, Portia—”
Robert came around the corner of the house, barely stopping in time to avoid a collision. He grinned at Portia and steadied her with his hands on her shoulders. “Ah, the woman I was seeking. Your carriage awaits, madam.” He looked over to where Stacy stood with his beautiful, mysterious friend, and then every drop of color drained from his face and he staggered back, his hand scrabbling blindly for the wall. For a moment, Portia thought he might actually faint.
Mrs. Charring clutched at Stacy, who slid an arm around her slim body with an easy familiarity that set Portia’s hackles up. “Are you all right, Kitty?”
Kitty. Yes, the woman did have a long, kittenish upper lip—although it was compressed in shock just now. It was clear to Portia that Kitty was not all right. But she seemed to recall herself and blinked rapidly while stepping away from Stacy.
The Music of Love Page 27