Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Baronies were oddities among aristocratic titles. They were the lowest rung of the peerage ladder. Nonetheless, a few baronies were of such venerable provenance that they sat well to the front of many dukes in Parliament.
By virtue of sheer tenacity, some of the older baronies also commanded vast wealth. An extra century or two to marry advantageously, curry favor with the sovereign, or send younger sons adventuring for gain could result in immense family fortunes.
Other baronies, buffeted by misfortune, shrank to little more than squiredoms clinging to failing acres and a shabby manor.
One could not judge a baron by his title, in other words.
Lord Dunsford’s holdings appeared to be much to the luckier end of the baronial spectrum.
On my previous visit, I’d tarried in the neighborhood long enough to form a general impression of Dunsford Keep.
The ancient fortified residence that had once been surrounded by castle walls was no longer visible, and the stately home in its place would have dwarfed many a castle.
Two squares, each with twelve windows on a side, were joined by recessed galleries also twelve windows long.
The house would have at least three interior courtyards and take an army of inside staff to dust and maintain.
The grounds were similarly expansive, though their winter appearance was austere, even to the potted topiary clipped into precise conical shapes along the front terrace.
“We tend not to produce daughters,” Carstairs said as our traveling coach rolled along the curved drive. “Few dowries to pay out, many dowries paid in. Successive generations of such marriages, and we prospered often despite ourselves.”
A large pond, likely an artificial feature added in the last century, was frozen over and broomed clean of snow on one half.
“Somebody enjoys skating?”
“We all do. The ice is traditionally available to all on the estate who have the time to enjoy it. I can fit you out with skates if you’re so inclined.”
“This is the ice you fell through as a boy?” I’d put the pond at about two acres. A small lake, really. And I made a note to remind Miss Hunter that Leander was not to go skating without close supervision.
My nephew and his governess had chosen to travel in the baggage coach rather than attempt endless miles of good manners in the ducal conveyance with me and Carstairs.
This suited my need for private conversation with Carstairs, though on past occasions, Leander had been a quiet and biddable traveling companion.
“I did come to grief in that very pond,” Carstairs said, “or nearly to grief. The carp tried to eat me.”
No, they had not, but Carstairs was enjoying his reminiscence, so I allowed him the memory of boyish mortal peril.
“Did you take a chill?”
“Of course not, but I was forbidden the ice for the rest of that winter. Algie made it a point to go skating nigh daily. Michael consoled me by teaching me chess, and I became passably good at it.”
The coach rolled onto the circular portion of the drive fronting the expansive terrace.
“Your younger brother was the better chess player?”
Carstairs nodded. “The brightest of us, though Algie would be quick to add that isn’t saying much.
Michael had formidable intelligence. A mind that never stopped, though he could sit for hours in the same chair, reading or drawing or devising some scheme to make our acres more productive.
Even the baron listened when Michael opined on a matter touching the estate or politics. ”
The horses slowed from trot to walk.
“Carstairs, you have been granted five days’ leave here at the family seat. Do not spend those five days pining for ghosts. If you want the freedom to come and go here as you please, we have work to do.”
He nodded once as the coach came to a rocking halt. “Right. I am to watch everything and everybody and report to you anything unusual, though isn’t every family unusual in some regard?”
A question colored by wishful thinking.
“I am aware of no other titled family in which the spare has been banished to a gamekeeper’s cottage for bad behavior he claims not to recall.
” Carstairs continued to profess bafflement as to the nature of his transgression, but every note from his detractor included the sentence I know what you did, or similar language.
Stay away, or until your last breath, I will make you regret what you did.
Don’t come home, or what you did will cost you dearly.
Three days at Beltane, despite what you did.
Always in the same tidy, nondescript clerical hand, always in black ink on plain foolscap.
“I love this place,” Carstairs said as a footman let down the steps. “Algie is proud of it, Papa grumbles about the expense, but I simply love this old pile.”
He climbed out first, and then I followed him. The staff were visibly delighted to have him back. The footmen, both graying, smiled at each other. The wizened groom saluted John Coachman as if returning the prodigal had been some sort of dangerous quest.
The butler, a staid old article answering to the name Coddle, even lapsed so far as to refer to Carstairs as Master Bryson, which provoked one of Carstairs’s less-sad smiles.
“Where have we put Lord Julian?” Carstairs asked the butler.
“Mrs. MacIntyre will have all in hand, sir. My lord will doubtless enjoy accommodation among the family.”
We had kept our coats on in deference to the considerable chill in the entryway.
The Keep had no cozy foyer, but instead followed the medieval tradition of welcoming visitors into a great hall bristling with armaments.
Our steps on the parquet floor echoed to a ceiling twenty feet above our heads, and light from tall clerestory windows bounced off swords, shields, spears, and gleaming gunstocks.
The walls were exposed granite, likely a relic from the Keep’s earliest days. A few empty brackets suggested some halberds and maces had been taken down for cleaning.
“Behold our armory,” Carstairs said. “To impress friends and give potential foes food for thought.” He lingered on the steps opposite the enormous arched front door, and I imagined him as a boy, counting the pikes and pistols.
Entire wheels of swords adorned the walls, as did fans of daggers, small arms, and long guns. The occasional battle horn added a sparkling note, counterpointed by truncheons and the odd helm or breastplate.
Standing guard over the whole was a shortish suit of armor at the top of the steps. Not a single dent marred the perfection of this last piece, suggesting a touch of decorative excess amid all the genuine weaponry.
I nodded at the suit of armor. “Who is this?”
“Sir Claymore. Algie named him. Not very imaginative, but our brave knight doesn’t seem to mind.” Carstairs’s gaze lingered on a row of dirks adorning a crossbeam. “The northern facade offers a hospitable entrance, but I wanted you to make the Keep’s acquaintance through the traditional approach.”
“You’d enjoy the typical Scottish castle,” I said, “though your armory doesn’t smell of old peat smoke, and the light here is more abundant.”
Windows were one of the earliest and simplest means of displaying wealth in an English dwelling. These windows were in want of cleaning, which was to be expected in the depths of winter.
“Come along,” Carstairs said, leading the way through another enormous wooden door. “The family will await us in the baroness’s parlor, though we haven’t had a baroness on hand for years.”
He bounded away, a boy in a sweetshop of memories. Coddle shook his head.
“Is he always so happy to come home?” I asked.
“And positively morose when he leaves. We miss him terribly, my lord.” Only a retainer very secure in his position would offer such a personal observation to a guest.
“You’re worried about him?” A very forward question on my part.
Coddle at first pretended not to hear my query, then nodded briefly and quickened his steps.
“Mr. Bryson,” he called, “you will allow me to announce you.”
I recognized the odd form of address, half honorific, half presumption. The heirs of barons and viscounts lacked courtesy titles. They were simply misters, albeit honorable misters, as were their younger brothers. As a result, all male offspring at the Keep would be Mr. Carstairs.
Algernon might, by the highest sticklers, be referred to as Mr. Carstairs, leaving his younger brothers to invoke Christian names to distinguish among them publicly—Mr. Michael Carstairs, Mr. Bryson Carstairs—but at home, Mr. Bryson or Mr. Algernon would serve among the staff.
Coddle was not to have the honor of introducing the errant son. We had reached what was apparently the correct door, but it opened before Coddle could perform the duties of his office.
Three young ladies emerged, each attired as befit a holiday caller of good social standing.
The first and tallest wore green velvet.
She was sturdy, blond, blue-eyed, and pretty in the way ladies with excellent complexions and strong features were said to be pretty.
The second lady, slimmer and not as tall, was of a similar description and wore lavender.
The third, a plain-faced brunette in brown, could not pass all the way through the door because the first two women had come to a halt.
“Bryson? Bryson, is that you?” the tallest woman asked. “Bryson, oh my goodness me, you’ve come home!” She enveloped him in a hug, and the second lady smiled faintly, while the third looked both worried and pleased.
“Bryson has come home!” the first woman called, as though stating the obvious somehow made it more real. “Oh, Bry, it is so good to see you. Do come greet his lordship. Did you warn your father you were coming? He said nothing to us. Amelia, Wren, don’t stand there gaping. Bryson has come home.”