Petra had left the Alton Road, but not found the turn to Rothgar Abbey and began to wonder if she had misunderstood the directions. She paused by the side of the road to rest and think, but then she heard a vehicle approaching and wished she wasn’t quite so exposed. A sort of open coach appeared, pulled by two steady horses, and seeming to hold a whole family from grandmother to baby on side seats in the back. A sparely built middle-aged couple rode in the driver’s seat.
“We can take one more,” the cheerful gray-haired man said.
Petra was bemused. “But you don’t know where I’m going, sir.”
He smiled, making cherry cheeks. “Ahead or behind. If ahead, we’ll take you to wherever our ways part.”
This simple logic had Petra climbing into the cart to squeeze between a young woman and a girl. She found a few young children sitting on the floor among the legs, but in their modest way everyone was well dressed. “You are going to church?” Petra guessed.
“No, miss,” a young woman said, with her father’s smile. “We went this morning. We’re off to Rothgar Abbey.”
Petra gasped, “Why?” before she could stop herself. Had there been some great disaster?
“His lordship’s fete,” the woman replied, bouncing a toddler on her knee. “You’re not from these parts, are you?”
“No. From Wales. What is this fete?”
The man on the box called back the answer. “The Marquess of Rothgar, he who owns the Abbey, opens his estate to his people now and then.”
From her seat, Petra could see a bit more of the countryside, which seemed to be farmland. “We are already on his estate?”
“Lord no, dear,” said the woman, twisting to smile at Petra. “We’re from Aldershot, but my Tom is one of his lordship’s bookbinders, and all the local people he does business with are welcome. It’s a grand day out for us all, and does the young ones good to see such lovely things.”
“You are allowed in the house, too?” Petra asked, ideas stirring.
“Not on the public day, no. But,” the woman said with pride, “people like us, ones he trusts, can ask to visit when his lordship’s not in residence. We take the children to see the library now and then, so they can see their father’s work in its place. One of the servants takes us round the pictures and statues and things. Ever so lovely, some of them are.”
One of the lads broke in to mention a battle painting, and a girl some furniture decorated with birds and flowers.
“He seems to be a very kindly lord,” Petra said, her spirits rising.
“To those who deal honestly with him,” the man said in a tone that lowered her spirits a little. “I’m Tom Harstead, ma’am, and this is my wife, Abigail. You just say when you want to be put down.”
Petra tried to decide how to handle this. It seemed she might be able to go right into the Rothgar Abbey estate today, but perhaps she’d need to be with people who had an invitation.
Mistress Harstead said, “Warmer a bit now, Tom, after marrying.”
The weather?
“We was all invited to the wedding celebration,” said the young woman opposite, flushing bright at the memory. “Now, that was a feast to remember.”
They all began to chatter about it. Petra wanted to cry for everything to stop while she thought. The woman had meant that the marquess had been cold and now was warm? But a recent marriage?
“He only married last year?” she asked when she could get a word in. “Or is it a second marriage?”
“No, dear, his first.”
“He is a young man, then?” Petra asked, feeling sick. Could her Marquess of Rothgar be dead and his son have the title? Why had they never thought of that? But no, a son would have to be even younger than she. A brother could have inherited, however, or even a cousin.
“Nay,” Mr. Harstead called back. “Nigh on forty, he is, but a fine, handsome man still.”
Petra breathed again, but said, “Strange that he not marry until so old.”
“Forty’s not old,” Mistress Harstead protested, “but he had his reasons.”
Petra knew she’d hit something Mrs. Harstead didn’t think fit to tell a stranger. What? She couldn’t see how to ask.
“So what brings you to these parts, dear?” the woman asked, clearly changing the subject.
Petra spun a variation on her story about a cruel mistress and being cast off.
“That’s wicked, that is. Do you have a particular destination? If not, you might want to try your luck at the Abbey. Good employment there.”
“Perhaps I will.”
The cart stopped and Mr. Harstead twisted in his seat. “This is where we turn off. Do you wish to continue with us and try your luck at the Abbey?”
“Yes, please. And thank you.”
The man turned the vehicle and they rumbled on their way. “Likely you’ll not find anyone to talk to right now, mind,” Mistress Harstead said, “for nearly every servant’ll be out in the grounds. But later on.”
The cart slowly became part of a steady stream of vehicles and pedestrians, with everyone dressed in their best. They passed one party who were pushing a shawl-wrapped ancient in a wheelbarrow, and finally stopped because of the jam of traffic entering the estate.
Petra was tempted to laugh. However she’d imagined this momentous moment, it had been nothing like this.
F
eeling alarmingly as if his world were turning upside down, Robin went to deal with his secretary, to insist on no more tattling. The man looked as if he were going to protest, but at least kept his mouth shut.
“I
will
dismiss you,” Robin warned. “I’m sure that’s hard to believe of the lad you birched for not learning his Greek, but I am no longer that boy.”
Trevelyan frowned. “You are still not wise.”
Robin held on to his temper. “Then I will have to learn faster, won’t I? But you are to obey my orders and keep my privacy, even from my mother. If you cannot, leave now and I’ll give you glowing recommendations. Fail me, and I’ll throw you out. Reluctantly, but I will do it.”
For a horrible moment, Robin thought the man was going to cry, but then he said, “Perhaps you’re readier than I thought. But…yes, then, I’ll take your first offer. I don’t believe I’m best suited for the new role.”
Robin almost protested, but said, “Very well.” He held out his hand, and after a hesitation Trevelyan took it. “You’ve served me well, but it’s hard for all of us to metamorphose into new roles. Where will you go?”
They broke hands and Trevelyan took out a handkerchief and dabbed at his eyes. “I believe I will return to tutoring, sir. It was very satisfying with a mind such as yours.”
“Mine?” Robin asked with a laugh. “You berated me every inch of the way.”
“For laziness, for taking the easy way. And it galled me that you could excel at everything even so.”
“Ah, is that the secret of it? Sweat and grit teeth, and the whole world will applaud the results, even if they be dismal. Doesn’t the Bible recommend that every valley shall be exalted and every mountain made low?”
“The crooked straight and the rough places plain,” Trevelyan completed with a slight smile. “Yes, that is your nature, isn’t it, sir?”
“Whether people want it or not. But I’m coming to see that a grimmer style is sometimes required. God go with you.”
Thorn crossed with Trevelyan as he came in. “Bad news?” he asked, putting gloves, riding crop, and hat on a small table.
“As always, that depends. Any news?”
“No useful responses, no unaccounted-for Italians.”
“Varzi the Clever. I should have expected nothing less, but it makes it interesting.” He caught himself.
“I’m done with games.”
“Alas, poor world.”
“Haven’t you often complained of my levity?”
“Only out of jealousy. Don’t change too much.”
“If I can find the way out of this maze, I promise a jig every Tuesday and a revel on Saturday.”
“At least news of your Town revel is out as planned,” Thorn said. “I was asked about your ‘pretty new bitch’ on the way here. It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow, along with details about your card party, so if Varzi was in any doubt about your whereabouts, he won’t be now.”
Robin pulled a face, but said, “There’s something else. What?”
“Might be nothing,” Thorn said, taking a somewhat battered letter out of his pocket. “Came up from Ithorne yesterday, but wasn’t drawn to my attention immediately because of its shabby appearance.”
Robin took the poor-quality paper and read the blotchy inscription with a pattering heart. He turned it to inspect the seal. Wax simply squished down. He snapped it and fumbled the paper open.
To my admired protector,
Oh, God.
I know you must be concerned…
“Damn her,” he muttered.
…which is poor reward for your kindness, but please know that I am well and with friends. I hope the same is true of you.
“Friends? What friends? When was this written?” He looked back at the top. “Friday. Where was it sent from?” Robin turned the sheet and studied the smudged writing of the postmaster. “What does this say? Mickly?”
“Micklebury. I’ve already sent an inquiry there posthaste, but she won’t have lingered, of course. Can you share what it says?”
Robin read the rest aloud. “
‘I promise you, on my honor, that if I am in need or distress, I will send to you for help…’
If you’re able, you idiot.
‘So if you do not hear from me, you’ll know all is well. Farewell, my friend. You will dance better through life without a pebble in your shoe.’”
Robin threw down the note. “‘Dance through life.’ I’m not dancing with a carved-up leg, am I? Or with concern for her a millstone around my neck.”
“Pebble in your shoe?” Thorn asked.
“Petra, ‘rock.’ Petronilla, ‘little rock.’ We might find a trail to follow. But no. She wants to escape me.”
He picked up the letter as if a second reading would reveal new information. All it revealed was Petra. He could hear her saying those words in her lilting accent.
“She doesn’t write an elegant hand,” Thorn pointed out.
“Lowborn after all?” But Robin studied the letter. The writing was plain and perhaps even effortful, but then he saw how she’d begun by trying to write with complex loops on the rough paper. She’d written sparely by necessity.
“Whoever these friends are, they’re impoverished,” he said. “I suppose it makes no sense to hurtle down there.”
“And could play havoc with your leg.”
“God rot my leg!” But then Robin thought how literally that could be true. “No, not that. Very well, I’ll play the wise man and send someone on the errand. I must do something, however,” Robin said, rising. “I’m going to visit Mistress Cornelys.”
“I’m sure she has fine-quality writing paper.”
“But it’s somewhere I can go. It is also somewhere signor Varzi might check if he knows of the connection between Teresa Cornelys and Petra’s mother. And,” he said in sudden excitement, “why didn’t I think of this? La Cornelys might know who her father is.”
“Might she, by gad? But I’m coming, too. Armed.”
“Varzi might be there?” Robin said. “That would be delightful, but she’d never permit attack on a titled guest in her house.”
“Would he ask her permission?”
“A point. I’ll go armed and with armed men. I’ll have to use my damned sedan chair, anyway. If you’ll oblige, I’d like you and some men to keep a watch outside. First to see if anyone else is watching, and then to see if Cornelys sends a message after I leave.”
“Glad of some action. Do you take your fluffy guard dog?”
Coquette was frisking around Thorn as usual, trying to win him over.
“Tempting, but she’d probably bite the woman on principle and die of poisoning.”
Petra tried to look like a comfortable part of the cheerful Harsteads, but she noted two footmen in blue and gold livery and powdered hair watching everyone stream in. They might partly be for show, for everyone loved their gilded elegance, but Petra guessed they were local men able to spot who didn’t belong.
One passing couple riding a single horse called, “Ain’t you grand, Jimmie!” and got a grin and a teasing reply.
The other footman, who was closer to Petra, said, “Good day to you, Mr. Harstead,” a mark of respect that made Mistress Harstead preen. Petra passed by unnoticed.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Mistress Harstead said, looking around.
The estate was obviously designed by an expert hand to simulate countryside at its most perfect. Petra saw a lake in the distance upon which swans glided, and some sort of white temple.
“There’s deer normally,” Mistress Harstead said as her husband turned the cart into an area set aside for vehicles. “But for these big events they put them somewhere. There’s lovely gardens up near the house, and peacocks. Such a noise as they make. Wouldn’t want them outside my bedroom window.”
The cart stopped and everyone climbed out. The older boys unhitched the horses and led them into a roped-off paddock. Mistress Harstead and her older daughters cleaned and tidied everyone. Petra took off her hat, but that was the best she could do. When no one was looking, she stuffed it and her bundle under one of the seats. It contained nothing but Mistress Waddle’s donated clothes, and though she’d liked to keep them for sentimental reasons, she’d look too out of place carrying it here.
She was as ready as she’d ever be, but when she surveyed the park and the distant, majestic house, her courage leaked out through her worn-out shoes.
The baby was put into her arms as the young mother ran to capture an escaping toddler. It was plump and drooling but happy, and Petra had to smile at it. She instantly felt better and wondered if the mother had truly needed help or had sensed her need. She made silly noises at the infant, who obligingly chuckled, showing the beginnings of one tooth.
But then the party was ready. The mother reclaimed her baby and Mr. Harstead pointed toward the house. “You might as well ask, but if everyone’s busy, I’m sure they’ll let you wait.”
It was a dismissal of sorts, so Petra said, “Thank you,” and set off across grass scattered with people.
“Watch the ha-ha!” he called after her.
She turned back. “The what?”
“A deep ditch around the house. Keeps the deer out of the garden. There are bridges.”
Petra thanked them again and watched as they went off along a wide path, the younger children running here and there and everywhere around the slower older people. She’d met all kinds of people in her English journey, and all, old to young, had homes, families, and a place in the world. Unlike her.
She joined a stream of people ambling toward the house, knowing she stood out by being solitary, but there was nothing she could do about that. She walked at the same pace as most, trying to look as if she belonged, eyes alert for a man who could be her father.
Was she to approach him in public, though? Perhaps it would be better to go straight to the house and wait nearby until this event was over.
She crossed a bridge over the grassy trench and then more smooth lawn to enter some formal gardens closer to the house. There she found more footmen. All looked pleasant and were chatting to visitors, but they were clearly stationed to prevent people from entering the house.
Petra halted and looked around, wondering where she could wait without seeming suspicious, but then she spotted a dark-haired gentleman. An ignorant eye might think him one of the better sort of guest, and his manner was relaxed and amiable, but Petra knew he was an aristocrat. Her father?
He was dark-haired and could be dark-eyed, but something didn’t feel right. How peculiar. Had she really thought she’d feel some deep instinct of the blood?
There were too many people for an encounter, so she moved on, but she’d already paused too long. A hand grabbed her arm. “Who’re you, then?” demanded a heavy-jawed woman in an alarming hat. “Never seen you afore.” The woman was bolstered in front and wide of hip, and had the manner of one who loved to command.
Petra tugged. “Let go of me,” she said, but a crowd was gathering.
“Let’s have your name first.”
“Maria Monmouth.”
“Never ’eard of you. Anyone else ’eard of ’er?”
The murmur of denials sounded ugly. Where had all the good cheer gone?
“I have a right to be here,” Petra protested, cursing her foreign accent.
“Dressed like that?” the inquisitor sneered. “A vagrant, that’s what you are, and up to no good, I’ll be bound. What’s more,” she said, narrow eyed, “you’re a furriner. What if you’re a spy? Or out to kill his lordship?”
She’d relaxed her grip so Petra wrenched free and pushed her away. “You’re mad. Leave me alone!”
She was encircled, however, and the mood was nasty.
“Doesn’t she sound like a furriner to you?” the woman demanded of all, loving the furor she’d started.
“Looks foreign, too,” a man said. “Where you from, then?”
“Wales,” Petra said.
“Ah, well,” he said. “That explains it, Mistress Digby. Even speak a foreign language in Wales, I ’ear tell.”
“Then what’s a Welsh woman doing ’ere?” the woman demanded. “She’s no right. This is for his lordship’s people, this is—”
“What’s going on here?”
At the calm, authoritative voice the circle melted into a formless cluster. It was the dark-haired man, seeming relaxed and at ease, but his eyes were taking in every detail.
Not dark eyes. A kind of hazel.
“This ’ere’s a spy, milord!” the woman exclaimed, swelling with importance. “No business ’ere, unless it be wicked business.”
Petra’s arm was taken again, but more gently. “Thank you, Mistress Digby. I’ll deal with her. Please, everyone, go along and enjoy yourselves.”
The crowd dispersed, but part of it went with Mistress Digby, who was expounding on her suspicions and sagacity.
His lordship drew Petra along a crushed stone path between low flower beds, and she had no choice but to go. He was a lord, but not her father unless the portrait of the eye lied. He stopped in a new spot with no one close by. “Well?” he asked in a neutral way. “Your story, ma’am?”
Petra studied him. “My Lord Rothgar?”
His brows rose a little. “No. You seek him?”
Perhaps she wavered, for he touched her arm again, just enough to offer support. At the end of her resources, Petra simply said, “Yes.”
“Why?”
“It’s a personal matter.”
He looked her over. “With child? You’ll not foist it on him.”
“I would never—”
His raised hand stopped her. After a moment, he shrugged. “Come along, then. This could be amusing.”
At that echo of Robin, Petra was tempted to flee, but she’d come this far and would see it through. She went with him, asking, “May I know your name, my lord?”
“Lord Arcenbryght Malloren. Lord Rothgar’s brother. One of them.”
Such a simple explanation, but what a strange name.
Lord Arcenbryght asked a servant for the marquess and was told he’d recently been demonstrating the workings of a fountain. Was the marquess eccentric? Hadn’t she heard that he might be mad? When they arrived at the fountain it was playing merrily without assistance, and someone said his lordship had gone to the topiary garden.
Her escort strolled along the trail of his busy brother, stopping frequently to talk to people. Petra did her best to ignore the strange looks sent her way, but she wished to heaven they’d reach the marquess and have done with this.