Chapter 10 #2
Algernon rose and took his empty glass back to the sideboard.
“Of all people, Lady Clo. She stepped in after Mama died. Watching his lordship trying and failing to find fault with her ladyship’s menu or her footmen or her flower arrangements has been the best entertainment of the holiday season since Father Christmas started handing out lumps of coal. ”
I stood as well and moved to the window, which had a fine view of the park. “I’m off to look in on my tiger. Can you think of anybody who might benefit from Bryson’s continued absence from the Keep?”
The desk was near the window, probably to take advantage of the natural light.
The whole surface was devoted to tallying and totaling.
An abacus sat atop a stack of papers filled with random sums and subtractions.
Ledgers were piled three deep on each side.
The blotter held more scribbled sums, some of them so simple as to qualify as doodling.
Whatever else was true, Algernon did not idle away his afternoons.
He ran a hand through his thinning hair.
“In answer to your question, everybody loves Bry. He’s the pick of the litter.
I’m the graciously useless heir, Michael was our bearably annoying eccentric, and Bry was and is our winsome gent.
Papa does miss him but knows he can’t order a grown man to come home.
Perhaps you can persuade Bry where Papa’s orders would be unavailing. I miss my brother, too, you know.”
“Bryson is certainly loved and appreciated here. His situation is puzzling.”
To him and me both.
“Tell him to court some buxom belle in Surrey if he must. Somebody has to produce a legitimate son, and Peter has earned the right to sit out for a bit, unless he wants Robin’s sisters to waylay him on some dark bridle path and meddle with his manly attributes.”
I studied the pond through the window, the cold coming through the glass. “Robin marrying first didn’t cause enmity between the sisters?”
“Apparently not. The three of them are still thick as thieves, and Philomel and Wren are frequent visitors at the vicarage. Perhaps too frequent for Peter’s preferences, but he must learn to manage his own nest, as it were.”
“Thank you for your time, and I will brush up on my waltzing skills in anticipation of a lively and enjoyable evening tomorrow.”
“Thus sayeth we all, thus sayeth we all.” He winked at me and closed the door gently in my wake.
An interesting exchange. Algernon had reasons for wanting his brother home—credible reasons—and he apparently did not consider himself among the somebodies who ought to be producing legitimate sons.
I would have said his affection for Miss Quiggan was genuine, but perhaps the feud with Lady Clotilda prevented a match there.
All that aside, Algernon had informed me that Bryson had loved to skate on unswept ice, a rare and dangerous predilection that might have been exploited to once again bring him to grief on the very pond where he’d already had one brush with disaster in boyhood.
Algernon had given me a pretext for calling again at Lady Clotilda’s, namely to ensure that Her Grace knew how intensely her presence at the banquet was anticipated. The duchess doubtless already understood that point to a nicety.
My personal objective was to see Hyperia. Consulting with Mama or her hostess would be a bonus. I decided to again walk the distance between the warring castles, but detoured to the Keep’s ballroom before my departure.
More assessing of foreign terrain on my part. I had not endured a grand ball since returning from France. The banquet might travel under informal colors, but the dancing, drinking, and matchmaking revealed the affair for what it was.
Much was already in readiness. Pine roping had been draped along the tall, mullioned windows.
The four enormous chandeliers were lowered and stocked with eight-hour candles.
Kissing boughs lay in readiness on a side table.
Under the direction of Miss Quiggan, footmen were carefully brooming crushed chalk into the center of the dance floor from piles at each corner.
The duchess herself caught sight of me, frowned, and put down the red ribbon she’d been cutting into lengths.
“You should be in bed, young man.” Young man from Mama in that stern tone counted as an endearment. Lady Clotilda merely regarded my slightly damp hair with bemusement.
“I am none the worse for a short cold plunge, and I hope Atticus will be able to say the same. Your Grace, your ladyship, greetings. The ballroom looks splendid.”
The whole chilly space bore the pleasant aromas of fresh pine and beeswax. Two of the white marble pillars set near the corners were already adorned with intertwined red and green ribbons, as was the entire balustrade fronting the gallery.
“The ballroom will soon look spectacular,” Lady Clotilda said. “One must uphold traditions, and you, my lord, violate one by intruding here at this stage of the proceedings.”
Mama slipped her arm through mine. “I am nonetheless glad to see you. You must not breathe a word regarding the decorations, though. Lady Clotilda prides herself on making each year more splendid than the last.”
“The whole shire comes to see the chalked design on the floor,” Lady Clotilda said. “Everybody arrives before the dancing starts lest the art be obliterated before our neighbors can boast of admiring it. Amelia is a talented artist, and we are lucky to have her contribution this year.”
Amelia, in an outdated walking dress, was pacing off the diagonal distance between two pillars.
“You’re using some colored chalk?” I asked, noting bags of green and red chalk stacked against the far pillar.
“Only around the edges,” Lady Clotilda replied. “Mustn’t have the ladies complaining of ruined hems and ruined dancing slippers.”
“I give you both my solemn promise that I’ll keep the splendors in progress herein to myself. Might Your Grace spare me a short promenade?”
Lady Clotilda shook a finger at me. “Mind that you don’t say a word, sir, especially not to any nosy barons or their charming progeny.”
“His lips are sealed,” the duchess said, tugging me toward the end of the ballroom devoid of human activity. “How is our Atticus?”
“A bit subdued. He was honestly terrified, and that changes a person’s view of himself and his world. He’ll recover, though he might never be a great fan of skating.”
“Were you terrified?”
I was supposed to say, Of course not. The pond was relatively shallow, plenty of help had been on hand. Don’t be ridiculous.
“I was affrighted past all telling, ma’am. If I’d come along five minutes later, if Atticus hadn’t thrashed his way to the surface, if the ice had given way all around him… I will have new nightmares to replace the old, and that’s assuming we dodge the lung fevers and agues and worse.”
“He’ll come right,” she said with perfectly calm certainty. “The boy is sturdy, well fed, and stubborn. What I don’t understand is why he was permitted to skate over thin ice.”
Her Grace was delicately criticizing my supervision of my tiger.
“Atticus got going too fast and lost control of his direction, but the ice should not have been thin. No recent thaw, underground spring, pipe feeding in from a cistern, submerged tree, or any other feature explains why the ice broke under the weight of a mere lad.”
“Julian…”
“I know. The possibility exists that this investigation has turned dangerous. As a boy and a younger man, Bryson Carstairs loved to skate precise designs into fresh snow on that very frozen pond.”
“Like a chalked pattern on a ballroom floor. Interesting—and ominous. If somebody lured Mr. Carstairs here to end his life, they chose to make only an indirect attempt.”
Her Grace had again raised a possibility I hadn’t yet seen. “I hope the objective wasn’t murder, even if Atticus’s dunking wasn’t a mishap. I am on my way to confer with Hyperia regarding the day’s developments. She’s kept a keen ear on what the younger folk have to say.”
“You want to see her. You’re a bit shaken, and her company restores your mettle.”
“Am I to apologize for enjoying the company of my intended?”
We had circled around toward the busier end of the ballroom. Footmen were draping swags of pine around the two pillars not yet decorated with ribbons, and maids were laying white cloths over what would likely be the punch tables.
“I would never find fault with your affection for Miss West, but please don’t pretend she’s merely your investigatory accomplice. Tell her to set a wedding date, Julian.”
“That’s a bit… tangled.” I used the word purposely. “One doesn’t tell Hyperia West what to do, Mama.”
“Then urge her strongly.” The duchess brought us to a halt and slipped her arm free.
“Your engagement has lasted more than a year, Julian, and I see no reason—none at all—why you and Hyperia should spend most of your time apart. I have wondered if you’ve taken on all this poking into broom closets and peering under beds merely to have an excuse to see her. ”
A blow, however gently delivered. “I enjoy both—the investigating and Hyperia’s company—and we make a good team. Do you know of some reason why she might be leading me in a dance?”
Her Grace pretended to watch as two footmen carefully moved a ladder while a third fellow at the top of the rungs held a length of roped pine and eased it about the pillar as his precarious perch was inched around the base.
“If Miss West has a reason for avoiding marriage to you,” the duchess said, “you deserve to hear it from her, and she owes you the courtesy of crying off.”
Not at all the answer I’d hoped to hear. “If she cares for me but does not seek marriage, she will wound me whether she cries off or continues the fiction that we’re headed to the altar. Perhaps she hesitates out of kindness.”
The footmen completed their circuit, the pillar was properly adorned, and the fellow at the top was making a careful progress down the ladder.