Another Heartbeat in the House (22 page)

He took a grape between thumb and forefinger, and slid it into my mouth. It ruptured against my tongue in a burst of sweetness.

‘Back to the bothy,' I said. ‘I want to know more about it.'

‘What has you so intrigued?'

‘Everything about you intrigues me, St Leger.'

‘It is an interesting story,' he said, adopting the authoritative stance so beloved by men when they have a tale to tell: arms folded, one foot set forward. ‘Because the roads between here and the lake are impassable in bad weather, we decided to build a shelter where we might lay our heads for a night or two, rather than make the journey there and back in a single day. A place where we could roast a rabbit and down a few flagons of wine after a day spent fishing. We scoured the countryside for weeks to find the best location, and when we couldn't fix on one, we agreed to build where the first hare got up.'

‘And you did?'

‘We did. “Build,” said O'Looney – he is the ghillie, and quite a character – “Build,” he said, “where the first hare stands.”'

‘It was that arbitrary?'

‘It was. And I was in luck. Lord Abingdon, who owns the land thereabouts, was amenable to selling me a parcel of forest for next to nothing.'

‘What did you build?' I pictured a pavilion, or a cottage in the style of Marie Antoinette's Petit Trianon.

‘A cabin, with a fine thatch to protect us from the rain.'

‘A thatch?'

‘A thatch is –' he began, patiently.

‘Oh, I know what a thatch is!' I said, trying not to sound disgusted.

Below, the Grove-Whites emerged from the lime tree walk, and waved up at us. Mrs Grove-White had a scroll in her hand: the first clue in the treasure hunt. There were twelve clues in all: I still had plenty of time. I turned a page of my sketchbook and began a new drawing.

‘We have added more rooms since,' continued St Leger. ‘It is a fine edifice now, with a flagged floor and stone and mortar walls. There is a spring nearby; we plan to dig a well.'

‘How many rooms?'

‘Four good-sized ones. And there is a lean-to kitchen, and splendid views over Loch Liath. We felled two dozen trees to make the lakeshore accessible.'

‘Is there land attached?' I asked idly, pencilling in a little figure of Mrs Grove-White in her poke bonnet.

‘Two acres.'

Two acres, with access to hunting and fishing with a fine view and potable water … It was time to reveal my hand.

‘Would it do for my accouchement?'

His back was to me. From between my eyelashes, I saw his shoulders tense.

‘Accouchement?'

‘It's a French word. It means “lying in”.'

‘I know what it means!' He turned to me with a hard face. ‘You're with child?'

‘Yes.'

‘How long have you known?'

‘Long enough to be sure that I am carrying a boy.'

Anticipating pause for thought, I set down my sketchbook, rose to my feet and eased myself into a lazy stretch.

‘A boy? How can you be sure?'

‘Wise women can foretell such things. An
accoucheuse
in Soho showed me how to predict the sex of an unborn child.'

‘I don't believe old wives' tales,' he said.

‘Believe what you like, St Leger,' I said, giving him a Giaconda smile as I moved to the table. ‘You believe an eccentric old ghillie who tells you to build a house where the first hare stands.'

He looked away from me, and fixed his gaze on a herd of deer grazing in the parkland.

‘What did you do to – what makes you think it is a boy?'

‘I took a hair from the head of a woman heavy with child and suspended from it a blown duck egg. Then I held it perpendicular to my belly. It swung to the left. Had it swung the other way, I would not be telling you this, for that signifies a girl.' Breaking a bread roll, I discarded the doughy interior and bit into the crust. ‘See? For the past two months I have eaten only the crust of the loaf. Another sure sign that I am carrying a boy.'

I had learned nothing from any wise old
accoucheuse
, but I had learned many lessons from the models who had used to sit for my father. Among the most useful was that, when it came to matters concerning the bearing of children, you could bamboozle a man with any old flimflam. I had no better idea than St Leger of the gender of the child I was carrying, but until it was born I would allow him to believe I did. I was playing a game of chance for very high stakes.

St Leger was watching me with a kind of bemused fascination. ‘Sophia ate only the soft white portion of her bread rolls.'

‘And she produced a dead daughter. Worthless to an estate that is, in default of a son, entailed to a dissolute cousin.' I bit the crust again, for emphasis. ‘This boy is yours, St Leger. He is yours and Sophia's to take and rear as your own.'

‘What are you saying?'

‘I am carrying your heir – if you want him.' Resuming my seat on the wrought-iron bench, I picked up my sketchbook and pencil. ‘It's not unheard of, when a wife has trouble conceiving, for another woman to bear a child for her. It's been done covertly countless times. We are the resourceful sex.'

‘You are insane, Eliza.'

I gave him an arch look. ‘Then so are any number of women. Even queens have been known to feign pregnancy, and at least one prince has been born by proxy. Everyone knows that the Jacobite king was smuggled into the royal birth chamber in a warming pan.'

He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘This is madness. Sophia would never agree to it.'

‘She already has.' I almost laughed at the expression on his face. ‘Sophia and I had a long discourse. Women can be allies, you know, if it is to their mutual advantage.'

To buy time, St Leger moved away and made a show of perusing the picnic basket. He helped himself to a quail's egg, peeled it and dipped it in celery salt.

‘I've heard that Irish women get up to all kinds of tricks with newborns,' I continued smoothly. ‘Changeling children! That's clever – to blame it on the faeries.'

Abruptly, he turned back to me. ‘What is the benefit to you, Eliza?' he asked.

I had been expecting this question, and knew that the best way of parrying it would be to dispense with prevarication. ‘It's perfectly uncomplicated,' I said. ‘I shall expect you to provide me with a home and an income.'

‘Don't be stupid.'

This, too, I had anticipated. I made a little moue. ‘
Dommage
. Sophia will be disappointed. I'm sorry, St Leger. I had thought this proposal would meet with a more exuberant response.'

I held up my pencil to measure perspective. I suppose he had expected me to weep or plead or sulk, and when instead I went back to my drawing he looked so baffled I almost felt sorry for him. ‘What will you do now?' he asked.

‘Now? Oh, I will abort.'

He flinched. ‘How?'

‘Mushrooms, wormwood, saffron, hyssop, tansy – any manner of herbs, so long as they're prepared by a woman who knows what she's doing.' With a few deft strokes, I captured a wood pigeon in flight. Then: ‘Oops – I forgot,' I added with mock contrition. ‘You set no store by old wives' tales.'

‘Where … where will you find such a woman?'

‘Alas, I must return to London. If the miscarriage does not come on, there is always the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury.'

That shook him, as I had known it would.

‘Don't, Eliza,' he said.

‘Don't what? Abort? Or consign the child to the poorhouse?'

‘Do neither.'

‘Then what do you suggest?'

‘Rear him yourself. I will furnish you with an allowance –'

‘I don't want him. But you do. You want an heir, St Leger, and with a little connivance and cooperation, I shall be happy to give you one. If we keep it between us three – you, me and Sophia – no one will ever know that the child is not legitimate.'

Down by the lake, Mrs Grove-White was leaning into the reeds, manfully pulling another scroll from the swan's nest where I had concealed it. A pair of the outraged birds were speeding towards her, like galleons in full sail, hissing vociferously.

‘A home. Is that what you said?'

‘And an income,' I reminded him.

‘A home, and an income.'

‘Yes,' I said, putting an ‘O' for Mrs Grove-White's mouth as her bonnet went scooting across the lake.

I heard him sigh. ‘So that is why you quizzed me about the bothy. I thought it strange.'

‘I don't want a
bothy
, St Leger.' I invested the word with scorn. ‘I want the present structure turned into a house, with stairs. I want an upper storey, and four more rooms, and I want a porch, and a pavemented terrace.'

‘Be reasonable, Eliza. It's perfectly adequate as it is – sturdy and weatherproof.'

He made it sound like a pair of clogs.

‘Oh, joy! I can keep hens, and pigs in the parlour and invite the neighbours in from time to time to swig poitín and dance a few jigs. That sounds mighty bucolic, Mr St Leger, but it is no place for a lady.'

He gave me a challenging look. I gave it right back.

‘For that is what I am,' I said, ‘and I want a lady's residence, properly appointed. Don't tell me you can't afford it.'

He allowed his eyes to travel over my form. They came to rest on my belly.

‘What if the child is a girl?'

I gave a baroque shrug. ‘
Les jeux sont faits
, St Leger. I would stake my life on it being a boy, but there's no knowing what your meddlesome Irish faeries might do. Either way,
rien ne va plus
.' A shriek from below diverted my attention once again to the treasure hunt. Mrs Grove-White's bonnet was being carried aloft by a triumphant cob. I waved brightly at her, then went to the table, picked up the grape scissors and helped myself to a cluster of the fruit. ‘If you are agreeable, I'd like to inspect the property and engage an architect before your lawyers draw up the conveyance. Once the deeds have been signed over to me, we have a contract.'

I saw the muscles clench along the line of his jaw.

‘Beggars can't be choosers,' he said, without conviction.

‘I am not a beggar, St Leger.' I tossed a grape at him and smiled sweetly. ‘And unless you want your wife's fortune to pass to her cousin, you are in no position to choose.'

THE FOLLOWING DAY
, a letter arrived in the post for Edie bearing a fancy logotype:

Quilligan & Quilligan
Auctioneers and Valuers, Est. 1898.

Dear Miss Chadwick
,

Unfortunately I have been unable to arrange a definite date with our client, Mr O'Brien, to view the property. I hope it will not inconvenience you if he arrives unannounced.

Please find enclosed our advertisement, as promised.

Thanking you.

Yours sincerely,

Francis Quilligan, Esq.

What exquisite handwriting Mr Quilligan had! It was old-fashioned copperplate, not unlike that of Mrs Healy, the caretaker who had written to Edie in London.

Turning her attention to the advertisement, Edie saw that both sides of the leaflet were given over to Prospect House: on one side a floor plan with measurements accompanied a fuzzy photograph, and, on the other, a detailed blurb outlined its charms.

LOCATION

This property is situated on the southern shore of Loch Liath approximately 5 miles north of the picturesque village of Doneraile. The countryside around Doneraile is very scenic and has a wealth of historical associations. The village is also a haven for anglers and acts as a convenient base for exploring this beautiful part of the world.

DESCRIPTION

The subject property comprises a prominent six bay two storey dwelling constructed
c
.1840 with its most recent use as a fishing lodge.

The attractive period property is of traditional masonry construction with wet dash concrete rendering and is set back from the local road on its own private mature grounds overlooking Loch Liath.

The property is in reasonable condition throughout and retains all of its period features but requires extensive modernization and refurbishment.

ACCOMMODATION

Hall, double drawing room, dining room, study, kitchen, and all the usual offices on the ground floor with stairs leading to three/four bedrooms and bathroom on the first floor. Box room over kitchen accessed via captain's stair.

TITLE

We understand the property is held freehold.

SERVICES

We understand that drainage is via an on-site septic tank, water is provided via an on-site well.