Chapter 16 #2
“I ask because I did not think to bring my rubbishing field glasses or even stash a spyglass in my boot. I was certain I spotted Bryson Carstairs admiring the stars with Miss Quiggan, but the gentleman turned out to be Algernon.”
The build had been the same from the back, the way of moving, the height…
“Algernon and Amelia? Were they admiring the stars in each other’s eyes?”
“Something like that. I only realized I beheld Algernon when he turned his head in such a manner that I could distinguish his thinning hair. He takes care to conceal his dwindling locks in most situations, but I was slightly above him.”
The orchestra had been reduced to two violins, sighing along in close harmony. A few couples stepped through a landler-ish pattern on the floor. Not quite a waltz, but the slow triple meter, late hour, and lilting melody gave the dance a waltzing feel.
“Shall we dance, Hyperia?”
“We’re to dance the good-night waltz, Jules. If we dance together three times in one night, we will cause talk.”
“To blazes with talk, but speaking of gossip, why can’t Algernon openly court Miss Quiggan? Is she promised to another?” Why had Miss Quiggan scoffed at the notion of a special affection for Algernon Carstairs? Why had Philomel set her cap for a man who was merely cordial toward her?
“Amelia is not promised to anybody that I know of. On second thought, let’s dance now and forgo the good-night waltz.
My eyes are as gritty as the dance floor, and I can barely manage full sentences.
How anybody remains upright after doing proper homage to the baron’s punch recipes defies explanation. ”
We joined the sparse collection of couples on the dance floor and indulged in a waltz position variation of whatever the dance was. Some latest fashion from Bavaria or Saint Petersburg no doubt.
“You are thinking,” Hyperia said. “I can feel you ruminating, Jules.”
“What happens if Bryson Carstairs comes home to stay, Hyperia?”
She peered up at me. “We never did answer that one. Perhaps Bryson himself isn’t any particular object of ire, but his homecoming will precipitate trouble for somebody. Who benefits from keeping him in Surrey?”
“And who suffers if he comes home?” The questions were becoming a refrain, like the throbbing of my eyes when I’d endured too much sunlight.
We finished the dance in silence, our embrace closer than was strictly proper. I did not care. We were engaged, we had weathered much in recent days, and our investigation had been frustrating in the extreme.
“Are you biding here tonight?” I asked as I escorted Hyperia off the dance floor.
“No. Lady Clo’s coach will take the lot of us home. Seems silly to use the coach to travel less than a mile, but my feet like the notion.”
As if I’d let my dear Perry wander the path through the woods at night. “I like the notion too. Her Grace looks as lovely and fresh as she did hours ago.”
Mama was in conversation with Mrs. Fipps, who barely came up to Her Grace’s chin. The late vicar’s wife was holding forth at a great rate, while the duchess nodded and smiled.
“The duchess is in need of reinforcements,” Hyperia said. “I will inform Her Grace that my stamina has given out, and I’ve been granted parole from the good-night waltz.”
She bussed my cheek, a parting peck, and I was struck by the fact that we might not be private again for some time. Weeks possibly, if I could not arrange the coming day adequately.
“Perry, a moment. Do you want children with me?”
Her hand paused in mid-stroke over my lapel. “You ask me that now?”
Not at all the answer I’d longed for. “You have admitted others to your bed, as is your prerogative. I’ve done the same.” I would not mention Harry by name because that incident did not signify in the present conversation. Perhaps someday it would not signify at all, for either of us.
“If you allude to geese and ganders, Julian, I shall smite you.”
In my present state of exhaustion, she’d likely knock me off my feet.
“You’ve kept me at arm’s length, pleading an unwillingness to have children.
This has puzzled me exceedingly, because whatever precautions you took with others, I am certainly capable of taking them as well.
We never had that discussion, but I had hoped to have it.
Instead, I find your reticence stemmed from what amounted to a guilty conscience. I apologize for the term.”
“The term is appropriate.”
“Hence my question. The air has been cleared. We remain engaged. What are your thoughts regarding procreation with me?”
She tugged me back in the direction of that cool, dim alcove. I went, not sure whether I was being led to my doom or to my salvation.
“My thoughts regarding procreation with you are…” She stepped close, put her lips to mine, and made her point without further ado. An ado started up behind my falls, despite fatigue, voices humming from a few yards away, and the frustrations piling up on every hand regarding the investigation.
Hyperia’s back was to the wall, her legs twined around my waist and her hand fisted in my hair when a thought intruded.
“Do that again,” I said. “With your hand.”
“Pull your hair?”
“Yes. Please.” The tantalizing thought hovered but would not come nearer.
“Do you like having your hair pulled?” Hyperia was merely curious and stroking my hair when I wanted her to give it a good, firm tug.
“Like it? My dear, that is not… Oh, well, perhaps.” Focus, Caldicott. “We can explore that later. Pull my hair, please.”
Her legs slid from my sides. “Only you, Jules.” She twisted and hauled stoutly.
The pain stung with gratifying sharpness, and I snatched the thought from the miasma of intuition, observation, theories, and hunches in my mind.
“That will do, thank you.”
She smoothed down my disordered locks.
“Julian, have you had too much punch?”
I kissed her. A joyous reprise of the previous festivities. “I have not had too much punch, but I have some questions for Bryson Carstairs. I’d appreciate it if you’d join me.”
She gave me a squeeze. “The darkest-before-dawn part is over. This is where you annoy everybody and guess all their secrets. Bryson was in the cardroom last I saw him.”
He wasn’t in the cardroom when we arrived there, and he eluded capture for the rest of the night. Early the next morning, I found him where I’d expected him to be, and I commenced annoying him with a vengeance.
“You are worried about the Keep,” I said, tying Atlas beside Bryson Carstairs’s mount.
I opened a creaking gate and crunched my way across the snow to where Carstairs stood. As family burial grounds went, the plot was largish, but then, the barony was venerable. The oaks along the hedgerow to the left had been guarding this resting place for centuries.
Carstairs looked haggard in the morning light.
Everybody who attended the feast likely had that same air of desiccation, painful joints, and limbs weighted with exhaustion.
And yet, here was the prodigal son, paying his respects to the ancestors by dawn’s glaring light, mere hours after he’d danced the good-night waltz.
“Of course I am worried about the Keep,” Bryson replied. “You fret about Caldicott Hall in the same manner. My home has stood for eons, but will it stand as proudly when I’m an old man as it does now? When my son is an old man, assuming I have sons?”
His gaze was fixed on a marble headstone about the size of a tea trolley. The marble was freshly quarried compared to its neighbors, still pale, still legible. Perhaps Mrs. Fipps had a hand in looking after these congregants as well.
“Michael died snug in his bed,” I said. “He had the best care and concerned family at his side. There was nothing you could have done.”
“I wasn’t at his side.”
Very bad of you to be off fighting the French, enduring short rations in a tattered uniform with little protection from the elements and even less from diseases or bullets.
To continue the discussion in the graveyard struck me as both unproductive and ungentlemanly. “Have you finished paying your respects?”
“For now.” Carstairs touched a gloved hand to the headstone and made for the wrought-iron gate. “Michael remains forever young in my memory, forever the university scholar, happiest when surrounded by books, but up for adventure when the opportunity arose.”
“Not adventure, Carstairs. Mischief. He might have learned the difference eventually. Is that Algernon’s steed?” Both brothers rode chestnut geldings. The equine secured to the fence looked a bit less venerable than Bryson’s horse.
“Algie takes my old boy out from time to time. I’m returning the favor.”
“Without permission.” Something else a gentleman would not do, except to his own brother. “How badly is the Keep hemorrhaging?”
Carstairs took up his reins, checked the snugness of the girth, and ran his stirrup irons down the leathers. “What possible relevance could the barony’s finances have to the nasty letters I’ve been sent?”
“The barony’s debts might be the reason you’ve been banished.
Most crimes are motivated by one of three factors: passion, revenge, or money.
You conclude that you’re the victim of revenge.
You assume somebody holds a past misdeed against you so bitterly that you are barred from dwelling on your own acres. ”
I swung up into Atlas’s saddle, the leather a cold shock to the fundament even through the thickness of lined breeches.
Carstairs climbed into his saddle somewhat stiffly. “Revenge fits what facts are available, and I am certainly no saint. With respect to your earlier point, the Keep is a large holding. That maintenance is a constant challenge is to be expected. Why do you believe debts have become a problem?”
We took the bridle path that led to the overlook, though that put a brisk wind directly in our faces.