The Courtship (12 page)

“Do you smell the olives?”

She nodded, “When I carried the cask out of the cave and gently set it on a rock, I looked at it for the longest time before I could bring myself to open it. I don't know if I expected some sort of genie to float out. When I did open it, the smell of olives nearly overwhelmed me it was so strong. It has grown weaker over time, allowing the other smells to come out.”

“The smell of age.”

“Yes. I felt too as though I were in the presence of something ancient and powerful, yet very strange, very different from me. The smell or the feeling of this thing hasn't changed. Don't you think that odd?”

He slowly nodded. He had no words. Slowly, with infinite care, Helen gently lifted out the scroll of leather. “You can see how very fragile it is.”

She unrolled it while he held down one side. It covered a third of the desk. There were four paperweights, each set carefully upon a corner, to hold it down. “Did you measure it?”

She nodded. “It's twelve inches by nine and a half inches.”

He lightly touched his fingertips to the old leather as a blind man would. “There was probably something tying it closed?”

“Yes, but it disintegrated long ago. It must have been tied for a very long time, because when I found it, the scroll was still tightly rolled.”

Only then did he allow himself to look down upon the old leather. It was the color of dried blood. The writing was black. The person had pressed the inked tip hard into the leather. It wouldn't have mattered if the leather had turned completely black over the years. The deep grooves and shapes were still perfectly clear.

Reading what was written, however, was a different matter.

“Do you have a magnifying glass?”

“Yes, right here.”

The silence grew long and thick. Helen walked away from him to the French doors of the small estate room, which gave onto a private walled garden.

She looked back at him, leaning over her desk, staring down intently at the leather scroll. He was frowning.

“What is it, Lord Beecham?”

“I believe,” he said at last, turning to look at her, “that it is time you called me by my given name. It's Spenser.”

“All right. You may call me Helen.”

“Helen is a good name. This scroll—it is not Latin or old French or anything like that.”

“What is it?”

“It is something along the line of ancient Persian.” He straightened. “Does your father have any texts about languages?”

“Yes, but Persian? I doubt it.”

Lord Prith had nothing at all ever written east of Germany.

“It's time we went to see Vicar Gilliam,” Helen said. “It will take us about an hour to ride there.”

Lord Beecham looked back at the leather scroll atop the desk. “I'm thinking that we should oil the leather, make it more pliable and more resistant to cracking and splitting, particularly when you and I touch it.” He paused a moment, then said, “You know, Helen, the chances are that this says nothing at all about the lamp. In fact I would say the odds are very much against it.”

She was shaking her head even as she said, “No, I don't believe that. I believe that King Edward hid the lamp near Aldeburgh and that is where the cask was buried. The lamp is nearby, I know it is. What is the purpose of the leather scroll if not to explain the lamp? That must be it, don't you see?”

“Then why would the scroll be written in ancient Persian and not in French, if it is indeed some sort of explanation about the lamp?”

“Robert Burnell, the king's secretary, was vastly learned. He must have done it. He must have wanted the lamp to be difficult to find.”

Lord Beecham didn't think that was the case, but he said nothing.

They used the almond oil that Helen poured into her bath. “I thought the scent was somewhat familiar,” he said over his shoulder as he gently rubbed his thumb in the oil and lightly touched it to the leather. He lifted his thumb to his nose. “It smells like you.”

“Keep rubbing, Spenser.”

“Just look at that,” he said after a moment. “It's working.”

Together they oiled the leather, going very slowly until, finally, it was done. There were only three small tears and perhaps a dozen places where a single touch would split the leather and destroy some of the words.

They covered the newly softened leather with a clean cheesecloth, locked the door to the estate room, and remounted their horses to ride to Dereham to see Vicar Lockleer Gilliam.

They didn't make it.

F
ROM ONE MINUTE TO THE next, as happened so often in England no matter what the season, the sky went from a soft, misty gray to the near black of nightfall, only there was no moon to light the way, just heavy black clouds rolling and tumbling in low, right over their heads.

“Oh, dear,” said Helen, looking up. “This is a new riding habit. One of your London modistes made it for me just last week. You would not believe what the peacock feathers cost.”

“Which modiste?”

“Madame Flaubert.”

“She is rather conservative, I have found, but the quality is excellent. Actually, given your size, I like the cut. Simplicity is—” He didn't have time to finish his thought because at that precise instant lightning struck an oak branch that stretched over the narrow country road. Smoke billowed out as the branch snapped off and struck the ground not three feet from their horses. Thunder ripped through the silence. Luther, maddened beyond control, reared up on his hind legs.

“Helen, hold tight!”

Lord Beecham didn't have a chance. When Luther twisted sideways and hurled his hindquarters in the opposite direction as he kicked out his hind legs, Lord Beecham flew off his back to land headfirst in a thick hedge on the side of the road. He heard her yell to him.

As for Helen, she had her own difficulties. Luther, his eyes wild and rolling in his head, slammed into Eleanor, who had already backed away, tripping over her own hooves. Luther bit her neck. Eleanor whirled about and skidded to a dead stop. Helen yelled as she went flying over her mare's head. She landed at the edge of a ditch and rolled down to the bottom, coming to a stop on a carpet of luscious wild daffodils in full yellow bloom.

Lord Beecham, just slightly winded now, no bones broken, climbed down to her and went down on his knees beside her. He lightly slapped her cheeks. “Are you all right?”

She was lying flat on her back, a bunch of daffodils sticking up between her riding boots. Her left arm was over her head, showing the huge rent beneath her right arm.

There were two of him weaving above her when she managed to get her eyes to open. “Stop moving, it is making me dizzy. Please, just hold still.”

“All right. I am perfectly still now. Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you. Oh, dear, my riding habit, is it quite ruined?”

“Helen, I am worried that you might have broken something or hurt yourself internally, and all you can do is cry piteously about your damned riding habit. I will buy you a new one. I will even select the material and the style. Forget the habit. Yes, there is a big tear under your arm. It looks like you put a boot through the hem. Nothing important. Now, attend me. How do you feel?”

“You have dirt on your face.” She raised a hand to flick it away. “You've got a small cut beside your right ear. I don't feel any particular pain. Did you rattle your brains?”

“No. Luther very kindly tossed me into a thick hedge that cushioned my fall. I saw you go right over Eleanor's head. Both those damned ingrates are probably trotting happily back to Shugborough Hall. At least I hope that Eleanor will lead Luther back there.”

“Luther was so maddened that he bit Eleanor's neck. Or maybe he is in love with her. If that's the case, you can be certain he will follow her as closely as he can.”

He would never be able to explain why he did it. Perhaps it was all the unexpected danger, the utter relief that both of them were still alive. It didn't matter. Blood pumped wildly through his veins, his heart pounded deep, heavy strokes, and he felt ready to burst out of his skin. He leaned down and lightly nipped her neck just above the lace on her white blouse.

He drew back, holding to a thread of control. “I did see Luther eyeing Eleanor's flanks earlier today.”

“You did not. Forget mimicking your horse any further. You may not bite me there next. Now, I am getting myself together again. Yes, I am very nearly together. How did my neck taste?”

At that moment the black clouds burst open.

“Oh, no, my poor riding habit.” She tried to pull him down over her to protect her habit. Lord Beecham was laughing so hard he got a mouthful of rain. But he ended up lying on top of her, all of her beneath him, a perfect fit, like no fit he had ever experienced in his entire adult life.

“This is a goodly dose of nature's discipline,” he said, leaned down and kissed her mouth.

She turned to stone.

He raised himself up just a bit so he could look down at her face. “What's wrong? I didn't slide my hand under your riding skirt to stroke my fingers over the soft flesh behind your knee. I didn't nibble at your neck again. I haven't headed anywhere near your flank. No, I just kissed you. Nothing of any import, really, just a touching of mouths. What the devil is wrong with you, Helen?”

He was lying on top of her, balanced above her on his elbows. Rain was coming down so hard she knew the ditch would fill up very quickly, but she didn't say anything. She just stared up at him.

“Are you thinking about pulling off my boots again?”

She shook her head.

He leaned down and kissed her again.

“This is ridiculous,” she said into his mouth, locked her arms around his back and pulled him so tightly against her that no rain could even get between them. His hands were in her hair, pulling at the riding hat, with its broken, drooping peacock feather, and his tongue was in her mouth and he was panting, beside himself, but perhaps Helen was even further gone than he was. She managed to open her legs and he was between them, and he was hard and ready and this was indeed ridiculous, just as she had gasped into his mouth.

He jerked away from her and hauled himself to his feet. He grabbed her hand and pulled her upright. “It's raining hard. We have to find shelter. If we are possibly so lucky as to find anything at all that will provide even a dollop of protection, I am going to be inside you in a matter of moments.”

He started pulling her up the side of the ditch. “Where are we?”

She was looking at him like a half-wit.

“Helen? Get ahold of yourself. Stop thinking of what I'm going to do to you. Or are you thinking of what you're going to do to me? Think. Where can we go for shelter?”

She raised her arm, the one with the big rip in the armpit, and pointed. “There's a wreck of an ancient cottage through the woods, there, to the east. Perhaps it's only a quarter of a mile away.”

They struggled to the top of the ditch and found an opening through the thick line of trees that clustered near the country road. The foliage was so thick that it at least protected them from the worst of the deluge.

Lord Beecham stopped for a moment, aware that his right leg was drawing up on him. “Well, damn.” It was something of a sprain, but not too bad. He looked at Helen, who was breathing hard, her beautiful blond hair flattened wet against her head and face, a long sheet of hair down her back. “How do you feel?” He cupped her face in his hand.

“Better than you. Do you want me to help you?”

He shook his head. “No, it isn't that bad, just a slight sprain. Which way?”

They slogged their way through the forest until Helen stopped and looked around. “It's near here. Just over there, to the right. There is a small clearing.”

They stepped into the clearing in another three minutes.

“Thank God it hasn't collapsed in on itself,” Helen said as she ran toward what once had been a dilapidated cottage and was now a relic. “At least a part of the roof is still up there.”

“Stay here,” Lord Beecham said and carefully pulled the rotted door open. It creaked and groaned, and the hinges scraped and loosened even more.

“Come inside,” he said over his shoulder as he stepped into the most appalling excuse for a shelter he could imagine. Half the roof was gone. Three beams held up the other half of the room. There were still wooden floors, of a sort, mostly rotted, undoubtedly dangerous.

But bless the munificent Lord—there was one dry corner. They were laughing as they eased down very slowly and carefully onto the wooden floorboards and leaned back against the wall. It creaked loudly, then stilled.