Chapter 11 #2
“We were playing hide-and-seek,” Jessica, the youngest Greer daughter, said. She hadn’t yet put up her hair, and Sorcha apparently regarded her fondly. “Annette was it. She counted to a hundred and started searching. She found me first because I am not very good at hiding.”
“You don’t even try,” Annette said. “Eglantine takes too long to hide, but she tries. Elise excels at hiding.”
Elise, the third from the top, was in that awkward phase between putting up her hair and letting down her hems.
“You never look high, Annette. You will search at your feet forever, but you don’t look up.”
Coraline made an impatient motion with her hand. “This discussion profits us nothing. The boy will come out when he’s good and ready to, and setting up the hue and cry has only encouraged his foolishness. I say we serve lunch and ignore this stunt.”
Bernard was puzzling out how to tell a lady to cease her clueless prattling when Sorcha came slowly down the steps.
“Imagine, Coraline,” she said, “that Annette had gone missing, or Jessica, Elise, or Eglantine. Would you call it foolishness to search for them? Jordy likes to win, to earn the attention of others through impressive performance or charming humor. He would never think it sporting to frighten his sister by disappearing.”
Sound logic, such as the mother of a boy or any sensible female who knew Jordy in more than passing might reason.
“Mama’s right,” Bridget said. “Jordy wouldn’t scare me for fun. That’s not sporting.”
“We should search for him,” Eglantine observed. “Brigands might have made off with him and be holding him for ransom.”
Brigands and ransom doubtless would figure in her next poem. “I agree with Eglantine,” Bernard said, which provoked Coraline and Annette to scowling, while Jessica and Eglantine appeared surprised. “If Jordy is in distress, the sooner we find him, the better.”
“He’s not in distress,” Coraline retorted. “He’s being exceedingly inconsiderate and immature.”
Gilchrist looked ready to bring down the Wrath of the Clans for that bit of calumny. Bernard did as he’d often done when a committee meeting was reduced to chaos by one intransigent member.
“We’ll conduct an all-hands search of the premises,” he said. “What were the bounds of the game?”
Coraline, who likely had little experience with being ignored, twirled her parasol at a great rate.
“The house and carriage house were out of bounds,” Jessica said. “The stable, garden, park, and the outbuildings nearest the stable were in bounds.”
“That’s the summer kitchen, brewery, laundry, and springhouse,” Eglantine added, “but not the fishing cottage, folly, potting shed, greenhouses, kennels, chicken coop—”
“Eggie, you could just say the home farm is out of bounds,” Jessica pointed out. “The home farm is too far away, and people work there, so they might give away a hiding place.”
“This is all a waste of time,” Coraline snapped. “The greater the fuss we make over Jordy’s prank, the more likely he is to get above himself again. Annette and I will lay out the picnic blankets.”
Bridget stomped her foot. “Stupid meat pies are not as important as Jordy, and I am not hungry.”
“Really, Sorcha.” Coraline closed her parasol with aggressive dispatch. “I don’t know where you’ve been getting your nursery help these days, but your children need a refresher on their manners.”
Sorcha’s eyes narrowed in a manner that presaged eternal warfare. Bernard minutely shook his head.
The clouds gathering in the sky off to the south meant time was of the essence.
“If Jordy is pulling a prank,” Bernard said, “he’ll be appropriately disciplined.
If he’s in peril, we cannot afford to misread the situation.
We’ll search in twos. Bridget and Annette, you cover the park and garden.
Look for any sign of Jordy’s passing. A stray marble, a bit of string for teasing the pantry mouser, anything.
Elise and Lady Barclay, take the summer kitchen, brewery, and laundry.
Miss Gilchrist, you and Jessica look around the back of the manor, and any window wells, cellars, or other hiding places accessible from the terrace. ”
“The manor was out of bounds,” Jessica said.
“But the outside of the manor was not,” Sorcha replied, “and Jordy loves to split hairs and play the lawyer. He might be stuck in a window well that he’s not tall enough to climb out of.”
“Eglantine,” Bernard went on, “you’re with me, and we’ll focus on the stable and the springhouse. Meet back here in forty-five minutes, ladies, and howl like a demon if you find Jordy and he needs help.”
“I can howl like six demons,” Bridget said.
Annette shuddered. “I’m to help Mama. Bridget can search on her own.”
“That young lady,” Bernard replied, nodding at the Greer governess, “can assist Cousin Coraline to lay out the meal. You know the park, Annette. You’ve hidden there.
You’ve searched there. Between you and Bridget, if Jordy has tripped on a root in the hedgerow and conked his head on a rock, you’ll find him. ”
Annette seemed unconvinced, but Cousin Coraline held her peace. Bridget seized Annette by the hand. “Come on, Annette. You aren’t a lady yet, so you have to help.”
Annette sent her mother a pleading gaze, then trundled away with her self-appointed supervisor.
“Ellie, we have some searching to do.” Sorcha and Elise headed off in the direction of the stone summer kitchen situated twenty yards down the path that led to the stable.
“Miss Jessica,” Gilchrist said, “lead the way.” Jessica trotted after Sorcha and Elise, then slowed her steps as Gilchrist followed.
“Cousin Eglantine.” Bernard gestured to the stable path. He wasn’t about to offer his arm to a perfectly spry adolescent. She fell in step beside him.
“Why search with me?” she asked as they left the garden. “I’m only good for reading books.”
“You are a poet,” Bernard said. “You notice details. You stand a little outside your family, as much an observer as a daughter or sister. If you were Jordy, where would you hide?”
Eglantine appeared to absorb his observations as neither flattery nor criticism, but factual statements, as Bernard had intended them.
“Jordy longs to be clever,” she said. “Bridget is clever. She has nimble wits. Jordy isn’t that quick.
He’s not slow, but he hasn’t Bridget’s mental reflexes.
He’ll make a fine duke, everybody will like him, and he’ll be kindhearted and know how to make people laugh, but he’ll have to work on his speeches before he gives them. He’ll want a clever hiding place.”
While her analysis of the sibling dynamic was astonishingly accurate, every child wanted a clever hiding place.
“Will he hide up high?” Visions of Jordy lying in a crumpled heap at the foot of some venerable tree threatened Bernard’s composure.
“No. That is Elise’s specialty. Jordy might hide somewhere Annette would be hesitant to look.”
“Excellent notion. Somewhere dusty or dank or full of cobwebs.”
“Yes, or mud or spiders. Nettie hates spiders, or pretends to. She’s doing a lot of pretending these days. I wish she’d get married so we’d have some peace.”
“She likely wishes she were married, too, provided her choice of spouse was a suitable swain.” Bernard stopped before the empty stable building and surveyed the possibilities. The barn was two stories, stone below, wood up top, and in good repair.
“Nettie wants to marry a German prince,” Eglantine said, “so that we have to back out of her presence. Even Mama tells her that’s ridiculous, but Papa humors her and backs from the room sometimes, bowing with every step.”
Eglantine sent Bernard a shy, sidewise smile, and Bernard saw a flash of Tallister Greer’s charm. His good looks, too, moderated by Coraline’s blond, blue-eyed coloring.
“Where would you hide, Eglantine, if you were Jordy, and you wanted Annette to lose the game?”
“Jordy is afraid of the dark, so he’ll not hide below ground. Let’s look in each stall.”
The stable encompassed sixteen loose boxes, in addition to straight stalls. The far end included a saddle room, feed room, and a stall devoted to the storage of brooms, rakes, farrier’s tools, and rugs.
The coach horses were at grass. The barn thus had the silent, stoic air of a sturdy structure left to take its chances with the elements. Dust was abundant, and that was fortunate.
“He’s been here.” Bernard pointed to a small footprint on the bricks of the aisleway.
“Or some other child of about his size passed this way very recently.” No dust within the tracks, but not much of a clear pattern either.
Footsteps went in all directions, as if Jordy had peeked into every empty stall.
“Jordy!” Eglantine called in a surprisingly robust alto. “Jordan Dolforth, come out, come out, wherever you are! The game has been called for a picnic before the weather turns.”
“Jordy!” Bernard used his heed-the-vicar-across-the-churchyard voice. “Come out. Annette has forfeited, and Bridget is worried for you.”
They continued calling down the length of the aisle, going stall by stall. No handy footprints marked the far end, brisk breezes having swept the dust from the bricks a good dozen yards into the stable.
Not a sound greeted them. Not even the movement of a mouse or a barn swallow ensued.
As silent as the tomb.
“You’d best have a look up in the hayloft,” Eglantine said. “Jordy might have borrowed a leaf from Elise’s book after all, and Annette would hesitate to climb the ladder in her skirts, much less brave a dusty hay mow.”
The ladder looked sturdy enough, but the hay mow was empty. Slats of light crossed the bare floor, which had been formed of rafters cross-bedded with saplings, the better to circulate air on a freshly cut crop. The saplings would give way under even modest weight now.
“No Jordy,” Bernard said, returning to the lower floor. “We’d best have a look at the springhouse.”
“Lots of spiders in any springhouse,” Eglantine said with some relish. “Nettie would hate to look there. Spiders can bite, can’t they?”
“A few do when threatened, but their bites are not dangerous.” Bernard was reminded, though, that Jordy could not swim, and most springhouses sat immediately beside, if not half in, small ponds.
“All these buildings standing empty is a shame,” Eglantine observed, exiting the barn opposite the end where they’d entered. “Papa says Auntie should have continued to rent the property, but Mama didn’t want her to. I love Mirobello for the fresh air and quiet.”
To Bernard, the quiet had become ominous.
He stood in the entrance to the aisle and considered the yard beyond.
The grass area revealed no footprints. If Jordy had considered hiding in the stable and discarded the notion, he’d backtracked out the front end rather than passing through and going out the back.
The springhouse and its pond sat in the fold of a small swale twenty yards away. The logical path would have been right across the stable yard. The grass wasn’t disturbed in any manner that suggested recent foot traffic, but then, Bernard had only a rural upbringing to support his deductions.
“One moment,” he said. “I want to have another look inside.” He rifled the few old horse blankets still hanging in the stall with a dilapidated muck cart and rusty rake.
The feed room was probably the cleanest space in the whole barn. Three wooden bins, two with lids up, one with the lid down, lined the walls. Cobbled stone floor. Stout construction such as would deter mice, rats, and other vermin interested in poaching oats.
Bernard lifted the closed lid casually, thinking only that the bins would fare better for being open to the air.
“Jordy.” The boy was crouched in the bottom of the bin, not moving. “Eglantine, we’ve found him. Yodel like a Valkyrie pursued by demons flying over a battlefield in hell.”
Bernard lifted the boy from the dusty confines of the oat bin, and still, Jordy did not move.