Chapter 8
Meanwhile…
Clara stopped her playing abruptly as the door to the music room opened. Benny, knowing the arrival of the butler meant tea and biscuits, trotted towards the fellow.
“Thank you, Howard. You do spoil us, though,” Clara said, getting to her feet.
“Not at all, Miss Halfpenny. It is a pleasure to see the piano getting used, and to hear it too,” the fellow said as he set the tray down.
Clara winced at his words. “Oh, dear. You can hear me play?”
Howard looked up, correctly interpreting her discomfort.
“Only when I’m passing by the door. You can’t hear it from anywhere else but directly outside in the corridor, unless the door is open.
But I thought you played very well. I do enjoy folk tunes.
Lady Della has a rare talent and can play most anything, but the folk tunes remind me of being a boy again, and of the people I’ve loved and lost. They’re charming. ”
“Oh.” Clara blushed, touched by the man’s kind words. “Well, I shall endeavour to play more of those then, in case you happen to be passing.”
The fellow smiled at her warmly. “Shall I pour?”
Clara had settled herself in the chair by the fire, where Howard placed the tea tray on a small table beside her. “Oh, no. Thank you, I can do it. I’m sure you have many more important things to attend to.”
“Very good, miss. Oh, and this came for you.”
Clara paused with her hand over the beautiful china teapot and looked up in surprise as Howard held out a letter to her. “For me?” she repeated in confusion.
Howard turned the letter over and read, “Miss C. Halfpenny.”
“Good heavens,” she exclaimed in consternation, wondering who on earth would write to her here. Who else knew she came here? “Howard, I can only apologise, I cannot think who would have the temerity to do such a thing when—”
“His grace, Miss Halfpenny.”
Clara blinked. “H-His grace?”
“The envelope bears his seal,” Howard said gently, handing it to her.
“Oh.” Swallowing, Clara reached for it, aware her hand was not entirely steady. “Thank you.”
Nodding and, she suspected, hiding an amused smile, Howard bowed and withdrew.
Benny sat at her feet, eyeing the plate with the biscuits.
He gave an impatient huff and shook his head, getting up and turning in a circle before sitting down again.
Clara sighed and broke off a piece of biscuit, feeding it to him before turning her attention back to the letter.
The paper was thick and expensive, and—looking furtively around as if spies lurked in the brightly lit room—she lifted it to her nose.
It smelled of paper, obviously, but Clara believed she detected a subtle scent too. Cedar, perhaps?
Benny grumbled, lifting his paw and sending her an appealing look, head cocked to one side.
“You are indiscreet,” she scolded him, but broke off another piece of biscuit. “Too many sweets aren’t good for you. You’ll get fat,” she added ruefully, making a mental note to take the long route home.
Her attention returned to the letter, and she carefully wiped her fingers on the pristine white napkin folded on the tea tray before she picked it up once more and broke the seal.
Hawkney House,
Mayfair.
6 Inst April 1816
Miss Halfpenny,
I pray you will forgive me for troubling you with this note.
My grandmother desires that I convey to you her particular wishes respecting the use of the music-room during our absence.
She bids me say that she is pleased you should continue to have the use and benefit of the instrument.
However, she wishes to be assured that no candles are to be placed upon the pianoforte itself and no tea-tray, dish, or glass is to be set upon the instrument.
That when you are done, the cover is to be replaced and the key to be returned to Howard.
I am sensible that these injunctions must appear excessively detailed, and moreover that a sensible young woman of your intelligence needs no schooling in how to proceed.
However, the Dowager Duchess will have her way, and I pray you will accept these words in the spirit in which they are offered, and do not make yourself uncomfortable upon receipt of this note.
Should any difficulty arise, you have only to send word to Howard, who will deal with the matter at once.
I hope that you have taken full advantage of the opportunity to improve your skills and are enjoying the music selection available to you. If there is anything you find missing, please inform me and I shall have the sheets of music sent to you.
I hope Benny is also enjoying the change of scenery. Do please assure him that he is quite at liberty to bark if his mistress does not find this disagreeable, and to avail himself of the grounds to exercise in whenever he—or his mistress—wishes to do so.
I remain, Miss Halfpenny,
your obedient servant,
Hawkney.
Clara stared at the words while her heart performed a complicated series of flutters and thuds in her chest. Even after having read the thing through a dozen times, she could not quite make head nor tail of it.
Obviously, she knew what it said, but that the duke had troubled himself to write to her personally, instead of instructing a servant to pass the instructions onto Howard, was bewildering.
His grandmother, she realised, telling herself not to be such a ninny.
He clearly stated that he had written on the dowager’s insistence.
She was a woman who did not take no for an answer and had the peculiar fits and starts of any elderly person.
Likely the duke would not have had a moment’s peace if he had not done precisely as she had asked him to do. There. That made perfect sense.
Yet, the last part, where he offered to buy her any music she desired, and gave Benny leave to bark and for them to walk in the grounds. She laughed, a soft, startled sound, and so unusual that Benny lifted his head to gaze enquiringly at her.
“His grace gives you leave to bark, love,” she told him gravely.
Benny considered this and gave a little yip.
Clara smiled, folded the letter carefully, and held it close to her heart.
Fool. He did not care a button for her, not really.
But he was kind. A thoughtful man who did as his grandmother bade him and offered a shy little spinster a momentary respite from a life that was dull and confining.
Who would have believed that a man of such status and wealth would give her a second thought?
It was remarkable, and really, such kindness deserved acknowledgement.
Though she knew it was crossing a line, an impropriety so great it made her flush to her toes to consider it—she must certainly reply.
The Grand Hotel – Building site, Little Valentine, East Sussex, 8th April 1816
Reverend Honeywell regarded the building site with interest. Workers had cut a scraped platform into the slope above the shore, and spoil-heaps and piles of stone and rubble formed rough embankments.
A post and rail fence had been erected around the site to mark the boundaries and keep the locals from wandering about to indulge their curiosity.
Off to one side, a temporary building had been built to serve as an office, where the clerk and the architect in charge could work out of the weather.
Little Valentine had never been so busy as it had been in recent weeks. Out at sea, brigs and cutters rode anchor as the local fishermen made a deal of extra coin by sailing back and forth, loaded up with building materials, which carts and drays then laboriously drew on to the site.
Guards patrolled day and night, for the goods were expensive and, as everyone knew, Mr Jasper King was overseeing the project with his wife, so no one would risk losing so much as a solitary nail. Mr King was not the kind of man from whom a fellow stole.
The reverend was keen to meet someone else today, however.
A new arrival in the town was always a matter of curiosity and interest to everyone, but Honeywell had glimpsed the man some days earlier and thought he detected a lost soul.
He had a nose for trouble, he thought with amusement, a God-given gift for ferreting out those in need of a friend, a confidant or a helping hand.
It didn’t always make him popular, certainly not with those who thought he was poking his nose in where it was not welcome.
With a wry smile, the reverend suspected this was exactly what this particular lost sheep would think when he introduced himself.
“Good afternoon, sir!” he called, taking off his hat and waving it cheerily at the huddle of labourers and masons who were listening attentively to the man the Reverend hoped to speak with.
The architect was a handsome fellow, with close cropped dark hair and intelligent grey eyes, but he looked more than a little annoyed at the interruption. Upon seeing exactly who was hailing him, however, he excused himself, letting the men get back to work and striding over.
“Reverend? Can I help you?” he asked, briskly rolling up the plans he’d been discussing as he approached.
“Oh, no, not precisely. I simply wished to introduce myself. I’m Honeywell,” the reverend said, holding his hand out.
The fellow took it, more with resignation than pleasure.
“Bramwell. Gideon Bramwell,” he replied gruffly.
He had a good, firm handshake, but once the polite exchange was done, he looked pointedly at the reverend, a glint of impatience already in his eyes.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Bramwell. I confess, I was hoping we might see you in church on Sunday. I expect you were too busy settling in last weekend, but—”
“I’m a very busy man, reverend, but I’ll see what I can do,” he replied tersely, cutting off the observation before it could be concluded. “Will that be all?”
The reverend reconsidered his options and tried again.
“Well, I know coming to church can be a daunting prospect for a new arrival in town, what with everyone gawping at you. Perhaps you might like to come to tea with me instead? I confess, I’m fascinated to know about this project, and to know exactly what an architect does—besides designing the building, of course.
We’ve never had such a large project here, as you can see. I’d love to hear about it.”
The fellow sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Reverend Honeywell, I can tell you are a decent fellow, and are likely extremely good at your job, but do us both a favour and don’t waste your time on me. I don’t need saving, and I’m too busy for God.”
“Understood, understood,” the reverend replied with a warm smile, quite undaunted. “Just remember, my son, God is never too busy for you.”
He did not see the fellow roll his eyes as he walked away, but he chuckled softly as he imagined it, quite certain that he had. As he had suspected, Mr Bramwell was going to be a challenge. How delightful.
The Frog in the Marsh, Sevenoaks, Kent, 8th April 1816
“Curse the bitch,” Mercy said, pushing her empty tankard aside as Bill and Stan explained what they’d seen.
The dingy alehouse in which they’d met made The Chequers look like a palace in comparison. Soot-blackened beams bristled overhead, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the all too easily identifiable stench of unwashed bodies.
“Trust the stuck-up cow to find herself a gentleman to keep company with. I thought he’d have his fill of her after Cranbrook and be on his way.
” That, leastways, had been Mercy’s experience of fancy gentlemen, though she’d never been with one so fine as the fellow she’d seen in the yard of The Rose and Crown.
“Want us to deal with him?” Stan asked. He wrinkled his brow, staring down into his empty tankard with regret.
Mercy let out a huff of impatience. Stan was not the sharpest knife in the drawer and needed to have things spelled out to him when they were perfectly obvious. “’Course I want you to deal with him, you great lummox. Else, what am I paying you for?”
“You ain’t paid us—” Stan began but thought better of finishing the sentence as Mercy narrowed her eyes at him.
“I pay by results,” she said crisply. Though it was a pity there’d been no coin in the girl’s room as paying for this escapade was using up all Mercy’s funds.
She’d managed to lift a wallet earlier this evening, which was paying for the next few days, but the realisation that Miss Everdene was a might sharper than Mercy had counted on was not a welcome one.
“It weren’t our fault there wasn’t a map or instructions or nowt in her room. There weren’t even any coin, when you said there would be,” Bill groused, shifting his heavy carcass so that the chair he sat on creaked in protest.
Mercy turned, meeting his malicious blue eyes. Little eyes, they were, full of spite. He was a deal more intelligent than Stan, which wasn’t saying much, but he needed handling with a degree more tact.
“Well, she must have kept it on her. Sewn it into her petticoats, perhaps. Think of the fun you’ll have finding out, eh?” she suggested, sliding a coin across the table to Stan. “Get us another round.”
Stan brightened and lumbered to his feet as she turned back to Bill.
“You’ll have this drink on me and then get back to The Chequers.
First chance you get, you clout the big fellow, and clout him good.
We don’t want him causing no trouble. I reckon I’ve an idea where Missy is going, but I can’t be certain, and complications are sommat I can do without.
I can deal with her well enough; her maid and the laddie are nowt to concern us, neither. Him, though—he has to go.”
Bill grinned as Stan returned to the table, sloshing the three full tankards onto the sticky tabletop. He swiped up his tankard and lifted it in a salute. “I’ll drink to that.”