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‘How long do you believe it will take you to sort through the East Wing, Charles?’
‘I will try to be as quick as possible and not allow myself to be distracted by any salacious antiquities, Aunt Ermy,’ he replied and her ladyship snorted.
‘I sincerely doubt Huxley had anything salacious there aside from those horrid books. You will need help. I suggest that since Henry is engaged in estate matters and since Miss Walsh appears to be proficient in Latin and all that heathenish nonsense, she may be of some use in helping you sort through Huxley’s belongings. I do not believe in sitting idle.’
Ellie stared at her and Henry roused himself.
‘But Aunt, surely...’ His voice dwindled under her gaze.
‘Surely what, Henry? Speak up! I detest mumbling. Drusilla and Fenella are hard at work helping me with the embroidering for the parish’s Poor Widows and Orphans Society and do not have time to entertain your...betrothed. And since she so charmingly admitted she cannot set a stitch she will hardly be of use to us in our duties.’
‘Surely I could help with the housekeeping; I am...’
‘I oversee the housekeeping,’ Lady Ermintrude snapped. ‘You are not yet wed and until that day I see no reason to upheave Mrs Slocum’s routine. Meanwhile you may either be of use assisting the clearing of the East Wing or entertain yourself while Henry is engaged elsewhere. Now it is time for supper.’
‘Sorry, Eleanor,’ Henry whispered as they stood to follow Lady Ermintrude into supper. He looked so miserable she smiled and patted his arm.
‘Never mind, Henry. We shall laugh about it later.’
‘You might. This is my destiny.’ He sighed.
‘Coming, Henry?’ Lady Ermintrude barked and Henry took Ellie’s arms and propelled her after his cousins.
Inside the supper room Ellie realised Lady Ermintrude had taken another step in her battle to separate her from Henry. Leaves had been added to the already impressive table, lengthening it by several yards. Now Henry sat at one end, flanked by Dru and Lady Ermintrude, while she was seated at the other end with Charles Sinclair and Fenella. At least that meant she was far from Lady Ermintrude’s sharp comments and Drusilla’s brooding silences, but she felt sorry for Henry. If he’d hoped Mr Sinclair would swell the ranks of his supporters, he’d underestimated the superior tactical skills of his enemy. Though Ellie was a little surprised Lady Ermintrude felt Fen was safe in her sinful cousin’s presence, especially given Fen’s rather mischievous streak. This was immediately in evidence as Fen demanded ‘Cousin Chase’ regale her with London gossip, though she kept her gaze demurely on her plate, hiding her giggles behind her napkin.
* * *
In the end supper was not as horrid as Ellie had expected. She listened idly to the fashionable nonsense Mr Sinclair offered his cousin, rather in the manner of a man tossing a stick to a puppy. She herself had no interest in gossip about fashionable fribbles, but at least he was amusing and neither of them appeared to want her to contribute which suited her, leaving her to stew in her own concerns.
When these became too depressing, Ellie turned her attention to the dining room. It was very grand, but from experience she recognised the signs of economy in the draughts whistling faintly past the warped window frames, in the threadbare carpet and in the creaking of the uncomfortable chairs. Lady Ermintrude might be a wealthy woman, but it was evident she kept the household on a short string. Ellie’s hopes that Henry might be able to save Whitworth, already sinking since her arrival, sank further—what were the chances of Lady Ermintrude giving Henry funds merely for the asking?
She was deep in her morose calculations, but her ears perked up when Fen leaned towards Mr Sinclair and asked in a whisper, ‘What was that book you mentioned, Cousin Chase? Is it very wicked?’
Ellie glanced at Mr Sinclair. Surely he wouldn’t? He met her gaze with a slow, speculative smile that drew her into full alertness. Just as in the Folly she was suddenly utterly present, her senses absorbing everything—the sound of cutlery on china, the whisper of the draught just touching her nape, the flicker of the fire piercing the ruby-rich liquid in his wine glass.
‘Is it, Miss Walsh? Wicked?’
The single word twisted out of its mould and became an entity in itself. She had read several Greek and Latin tomes from her father’s library that might be considered fast for a proper young woman, but she had never thought they deserved the label wicked. Now, under the force of that smile, she was no longer certain. Of anything.
‘No! Have you read it, Miss Walsh? Is it one of those books?’ For the first time there was a glimmer of respect in Fenella’s eyes as she turned to Ellie.
‘I don’t think your aunt will approve you discussing such matters, Miss Fenella; certainly not with Mr Sinclair.’
‘You have read it. Do you think there is an English copy in the library?’
‘If I remember correctly there is one in Latin, Fen,’ Sinclair answered. ‘It would do you good to apply yourself to something other than embroidery and gossip.’
Fen wrinkled her nose.
‘Aunt never allowed us to study Latin. Only a little Italian so we can sing. She says German rots the mind and French enlarges the heart.’
‘Good Lord. I had no idea Ermy was a student of medieval medicine. I’m afraid to ask what she thinks about Greek. Something unmentionable in polite society, no doubt.’
Lady Ermintrude swivelled in their direction, causing Fen to stifle her giggle and apply herself to her syllabub. Chase motioned to Pruitt to refill his glass, then turned to Ellie.
‘I was wondering what it would take for you to smile again,’ he murmured. ‘Don’t let Ermy see you do that too often. Her hopes to scuttle your plans will only intensify if she sees that smile.’
‘Thank you for your concern on my behalf, Mr Sinclair.’
‘Being called Mr Sinclair always reminds me of my uncle. Not a nice man. Call me Chase, or, if you must, Cousin Chase like Fen does.’
‘It would hardly be proper for me to call you Chase and we are not cousins.’
‘We will be soon and since we are apparently to work together over the next few days, I suggest you try. I don’t answer to Mr Sinclair.’
‘Oh, good. That means our time together is likely to be very quiet and I much prefer working without interruptions.’
He laughed.
‘I see your weapon of choice is the sharp rebuke of silence. I cannot remember if that is among Ovid’s suggestions to women in his Art of Love. Did you really read it or is that merely bravado?’
‘Did you really read it or is that merely braggadocio?’
‘My God, Henry has no idea what he is in for. And you are quite right—I only read the interesting parts and skimmed the rest. I particularly liked the segment where he suggests women take a variety of lovers of all types and ages...’
‘Cousin Chase!’ Fen gasped, her spoon halfway to her mouth and her eyes as wide as saucers, darting from him in the direction of her aunt.
‘You are quite right, Fen, this is not a suitable topic to be discussed at the supper table, certainly not while such horrible pap is being served. Miss Walsh and I will discuss it later.’
‘Miss Walsh would as soon spend her day practising cross-stitches, Mr Sinclair.’ Ellie replied.
‘Is that a euphemism?’
Ellie did her best not to smile. The more he talked, the more her discomfort faded. He might be the irreverent rogue Henry said, but to regard him as a threat was ludicrous. In fact, she could see the wisdom of Henry’s hopes that at least with him in the house Lady Ermintrude’s fire would not be directed solely at her. And helping him in the East Wing would be an improvement to further demolishing her fingers with embroidery.
‘All that energy you expend trying not to smile could be better spent, you know?’ he said and behind the humour she saw the same speculation as in the Folly. It was a strange combination. Discordant. As if he were two wholly different people, like the two-faced god Janus—half-rogue, half-jester. And something else as well...
‘What then could be said about all the energy you expend in maintaining your rogue’s mask?’ she asked, curious which aspect would respond to her thrust. He didn’t answer immediately, watching her as he raised his glass.
‘A mask implies something to conceal. I am not so complex a fellow. Just like Lady Ermintrude I possess no hidden depths, I’m afraid. Fen could tell you as much. She has known me for dogs’ years, right, Fen?’
He flashed his cousin a smile and she shook her head.
‘He is hopeless. Aunt says it is only a matter of time before he and Lord Sinclair end in gaol or debtors’ prison or worse.’
‘With a hopeful emphasis on worse,’ Chase added.
‘I thought Henry said your brother was recently married.’ Ellie said and his smile shifted for a moment, went inwards, and contrarily Ellie felt her shoulders tense.
‘Lucas was always the serious one in our family. As befits the eldest sibling.’
‘Besides, she is an heiress,’ Fen said, leaning forward conspiratorially. ‘Aunt Ermintrude says...’
‘Do tell us what Aunt Ermy says about my sister-in-law.’ His voice did not change, but the table fell silent. Even Pruitt stopped in mid-motion, Henry’s plate of uneaten syllabub hovering. The power of Chase Sinclair’s stillness was as shocking as a full outburst of fury might have been and Ellie’s curiosity sharpened.
‘N-nothing,’ Fen replied, her shoulders hunched, and Ellie threw herself into the breach.
‘Henry told me she employs a man of business to manage her extensive financial concerns. I am very envious.’
His smile returned, a little wry.
‘You like the idea of ordering men about, Miss Walsh?’
‘I can see its merits.’
‘You may always practise on me, if you wish. When you aren’t smoothing over troubled waters.’
‘Ah, the mask is back in place. And just in time for Lady Ermintrude to call a halt to our evening’s entertainment.’
They stood as Lady Ermintrude rose and announced the women would retire.
‘Goodnight, Miss Walsh. Cousin Fenella.’ Chase Sinclair bowed properly, but ruined the polite gesture by murmuring in Latin as she passed, ‘Spero autem frigus cor calida fovere somnia.’
She could not prevent the flush that rose to her cheeks at the suggestive quote from Ovid, but she answered as coolly as his assessment of her heart.
‘I shall leave that office to my betrothed, thank you, Mr Sinclair.’
‘What did he say?’ Fen whispered as they left the supper room. ‘Something about sparrows in autumn and insomnia?’
‘Precisely. His Latin is quite atrocious,’ she lied, grateful that the darkened corridors masked her blush. The thought of hot dreams warming cool hearts did not sound quite as innocently romantic as when she and her sister Susan read that particular section of the Ars Amatoria. ‘He was merely trying to be clever and failing.’
‘Well, I am glad he is here. He is so wickedly amusing.’
‘Fenella!’ Drusilla admonished and Fen sighed and hurried after her aunt and sister. Ellie trailed behind them, looking forward to reading a book in bed.
Her siblings were rarely amenable to retiring before dusk and she could not remember the last time she had the luxury of reading herself to sleep. Bedtime at Whitworth was always a hectic time, rather like trying to herd stampeding bulls. By the time she herself reached her room she was too exhausted to do more than fall into bed and even then her mind was a whirl of worries about debts and mortgages that leaked into her dreams.
But instead of sinking into this all-too-temporary respite from her world, she sat staring at the walls well into the night, her mind full of fear of the future and the peculiar nature of the Huxleys. And Sinclairs.
* * *
‘Thank God!’
Henry collapsed into an armchair as Pruitt closed the door after the women’s departure. ‘I don’t know how much more of that I can bear.’
‘You shall have to develop an immunity, I’m afraid.’ Chase handed him a glass of port. ‘At least until after your wedding. Then I suggest you allow your bluestocking betrothed to deliver Aunt Ermy her marching papers. Having the two of them in one house is likely to prove disastrous. How the devil did you convince that unflappable piece of work to marry you, Henry? She is hardly your type.’
‘She is more my type than yours,’ Henry snapped.
‘I don’t have a type. It limits me.’
‘Well, I do. Ellie is the best woman I know.’
‘That still doesn’t explain why you are marrying her and certainly not why she is marrying you.’
‘You leave her alone, Chase.’
Chase laughed. Having observed Miss Walsh throughout that interminable meal, he realised his initial concerns about her were probably completely unfounded. Whatever sins her father had committed and whatever hidden currents existed in her own character, that core of schoolmistress’s rectitude was not assumed. But there was still something that did not quite ring true and it pricked his curiosity.
‘Don’t worry, Henry. I don’t poach and certainly not on virgin territory. I’m merely curious. Besides, you ought to have more faith in your beloved’s constancy than your concern implies.’
‘I’m not worried she will fancy someone like you; she is far too sensible. But I don’t want you bothering her with your teasing. This is hard enough for her as it is.’
‘Very gallant of you. I am doing you a service, though.’
Henry’s brows lowered, creating a sandy bar over his blue eyes, and Chase continued.
‘The more your beloved disapproves of me, the more Ermy is likely to approve of her.’
‘Blast you, Chase, you always make having your own way sound so reasonable.’ A grin replaced his frown and he sighed. ‘I hadn’t realised how awful matters are until we arrived this week. Have you had a look at the East Wing? Is it bad?’
‘Bad enough that I’m afraid I might go missing in that bog never to be found again, but it must be done. I am certain that if I left Huxley’s belongings to the care of Aunt Ermy she will have the lot of it thrown on to a bonfire and I cannot allow that; I do have some scruples.’
‘Why not let someone else see if there is anything worth salvaging so you can run back to London and your ladies?’
‘I am between ladies at the moment. Besides, I would rather see if there is anything of more than cultural value before I hand over the remains to the dry sticks at the Museum.’
‘What, have you run aground? Even with a new heiress in the family?’
Chase gathered in his temper once more and counted to ten. Henry’s freckles dimmed as he flushed.
‘Sorry. That was uncalled for. I only... Oh, blast. I’m in over my head. I never wanted to be Lord Huxley or a landowner. I was content working with the solicitors in Nettleton and I don’t know a dashed thing about sheep or land management or...or anything.’
‘That’s comprehensive. Chin up, Henry, it will become easier with time.’
‘No, it won’t. At least not until we can revive the estate to turn a profit. Uncle might have been a brilliant scholar, but he was a terrible landlord and it’s only Ermy’s money that keeps this place afloat. He spent every penny he had on travel and curios. It really isn’t fair he left them to you.’
‘Ah, I see the point of sensitivity about heiresses. I presume Miss Walsh is not bringing funds to this union?’
Henry’s expression was an answer in itself. Clearly Fergus Walsh’s estate had not recovered with his demise.
‘You should have proposed to Dru or Fen, Henry. Two plump heiresses ripe for the plucking and emblazoned with Ermy’s approval. They suit you better than Miss Walsh, anyway.’
‘How the devil do you know what suits me?’
Chase didn’t answer. His encounters thus far with his prim cousin-to-be were not conclusive and he had nothing to support his conviction Henry was making a very serious mistake. In fact, he could not quite make sense of Henry’s engagement. The title was modest but respectable and, without Huxley draining the accounts to pay for his travels and artefacts, in a few years the estate could be dragged into profitability.
If Henry chose, he could do better than an impoverished neighbour from a scandal-stricken family, past her first blush of youth and with nothing but passable good looks and a sharp tongue to recommend her. Strangely, though, Chase didn’t think she had done the running. Or perhaps it was merely his unexpected reaction to her accidental proximity in the Folly that was colouring his judgement. And his inability to pin her down. She was... He was not quite certain what she was. In her plain dress and her hair sternly disciplined into a depressingly practical bun, she looked every inch the spinster schoolmistress. She even ate like one—as if measuring each bite for its utility and dismissing the syllabub as pure frivolity.
But though her cool haughtiness did not appear assumed, it did not accord with that burst of temper in the Folly or her sudden and unsettling flashes of humour. Under the ice he sensed there were volatile forces at work and he wondered if she suffered from any of her father’s instability of character. For Henry’s sake he hoped not.
Henry sighed and put down his glass, dragging Chase out of his uncomfortable reverie.
‘The truth is I’m glad you’re here, Chase. Don’t take it wrong, but I think Aunt Ermy might resent me and Ellie less if she has you to dislike. Ellie isn’t precisely the type of biddable females Aunt is used to.’
Chase smiled despite himself and rubbed the sore spot on his thigh. That was a mistake, as the memory of their near tumble down the stairs woke other aspects of his anatomy. Her mercurial transformation from ice maiden to scolding hellcat was a very enticing combination, dowdy or not.
‘You just might be luckier than you deserve, Henry.’
Henry stood and stretched.
‘I know. She’s a good ’un. Well, goodnight, Chase. I must rise at dawn for some absurd reason to do with sheep and pastures.’
‘You won’t object to Miss Walsh helping me in the East Wing?’
Henry yawned and wandered towards the door.
‘No, she will enjoy rooting through Uncle’s rubbish heaps. She likes books and things.’
‘Aren’t you worried I might take advantage of her?’
Henry’s laughter trailed back from the hallway and was swallowed by another jaw-cracking yawn.
‘She can keep you in line, believe me. G’night, Chase.’
Chapter Four
Two steps into the passage connecting the East Wing to the rest of the Manor, Ellie understood why the servants were so reluctant to enter the previous Lord Huxley’s domain. The passage walls were lined by glass-fronted cabinets crowded with a bizarre and unsettling collection of masks, jars, figurines and other artefacts.
Like a child witnessing something she knew was forbidden, she was drawn inexorably by a collection of jars filled with viscous fluids and what appeared to be lizards or snakes or...something.
She approached cautiously and rose on tiptoe to make out the contents of a particularly large glass jar with a purplish mass inside. It looked horrid, but her disgust wasn’t sufficient to counter her curiosity and her hand rose towards the latch securing the cabinet door.
‘Careful.’
She jerked away from the voice directly behind her, her hands flying out to stop her descent towards the cabinet, and an arm closed about her waist, pulling her back.
‘Trust me, you don’t want to bring that lot crashing down on us. I’ve already torn one pair of trousers because of you and I don’t want to sacrifice another.’ His breath was warm against her ear and temple as he held her against him and again she felt the unravelling of heat, her body exploring the points of contact with his as it had yesterday. It was foreign and unwelcome, but too powerful to reason away.
Like other unwelcome realities of life, she allowed it to present itself fully before she set about beating it back. Piece by piece. She began by prying his hand from her waist, which was perhaps a mistake because his hand felt just as warm and strong under hers as it felt against her waist. She dropped it and moved away, focusing on the disgusting object in the jar.
‘What is that?’
‘That is...or rather was an Egyptian cat. A mummified one. My cousin thought it might be interesting to see what would happen if he rehydrated a mummy.’
She moved away, feeling a little ill.
‘That is horrid. Why is it purple?’
‘The gauze around the mummy was decorated with indigo. It is a rather dominant colour.’
‘Why on earth would they do that to a cat?’
‘Cats were considered sacred in ancient Egypt. One of their gods, Bastet, even had the form of a cat and not far from where we lived in Egypt there was a cemetery dedicated solely to felines. Did you know it was said that if a house cat died a natural death the members of the household must shave their eyebrows?’
She touched the tip of her own eyebrow and he smiled. She took another step back.
‘That sounds rather extreme.’
‘No more than many religious practices and far less violent than some.’
‘True. What will you do with this relative of...Bastet?’
‘I think I shall donate her to the Museum. Along with her amphibian friends.’
‘Amphibian? Are those frogs?’
His smile widened at the revulsion in her voice.
‘Huxley was in his biblical phase at the time and was fascinated by the ten plagues of Egypt. Luckily, he confined himself to mostly frogs and locusts and avoided boils and the like. Would you care to see the locusts?’
She backed away yet another step, shaking her head, all too aware she was giving him fodder for his teasing, but the sight of that gelatinous feline was defeating her attempt to remain cool and collected.
‘Here,’ he said, moving forward. He twitched a string and a blind descended over the cabinet, hiding the most offensive sights from view. ‘Huxley wasn’t immune to their grisliness, though they did serve to keep other members of the Manor away. I’ll have them packed and removed first thing. Meanwhile you can help me in the study. There is nothing more terrifying there than reams of scribbles and more salacious Latin tomes.’
She followed, both resentful and grateful for his casual acceptance of her queasiness. She did not like being considered weak in any way.
The study was surprisingly small after the imposing passage, though the bookcases and the cherrywood desk were covered with haphazard stacks of books, bound notebooks, and papers. Chase went to stand by the desk, frowning as he leafed through one of the notebooks.
‘How may I help?’ she asked, clasping her hands before her.
‘Do you wish to? Or was this merely a ploy to escape from Aunt Ermy’s despotic influence?’
‘She clearly hates it when you call her that. But then I reckon you are aware of that. And delight in it.’
‘Delight is a word I prefer to save for more suitable subjects. My irreverence keeps her at bay and that is all I ask.’
‘Are you always so blunt?’
‘It saves time and effort.’
‘For you, perhaps.’
‘That is the whole point.’
She sighed and turned to survey the desk, frowning at the chaos.
‘What is it we need to do?’
‘You need to do nothing but hide until Ermy tires of toying with you, but I must begin working on this paper labyrinth. Go refresh your memory of Ars Amatoria. It is somewhere on the far shelf with the other immoral ancients. Just don’t tell Henry; he won’t thank me for colluding with your efforts to keep him on a short leading string.’
‘I am not Fenella, you needn’t expend so much effort trying to shock me, Mr Sinclair. If you wish to keep me at bay, you have only to ask.’