Chapter Fourteen
Because they’d had a late start and Rossiter must return to London before nightfall, he had been most particular in his selection of a coach and four.
The light vehicle he’d chosen had not taxed the team unduly, the postilions had set a spanking pace, and with two brief halts they came in less than three hours to the Sussex border and the chain of hills known as the Weald.
The road swung in an easterly loop to bring them around to the south and the access road, and from their high vantage point they caught several glimpses of Emerald Farm.
During his grandmother’s lifetime, Rossiter had visited it in winter and summer and never failed to find it a delight.
The house itself faced south and was built on a low rise, with higher hills lifting emerald shoulders behind it.
A long, low, half-timbered structure, the roof deeply thatched, it stood serenely amidst its lush pastures and fields as it had stood for over a century, the many windows twinkling in the sunlight that painted a golden glow on the whitewashed walls.
No smoke rose from the chimneys, and the silence was broken only by the distant lowing of cows, the twittering of birds and the occasional bustling stir of the breeze.
They were still some way off, but Morris thought it looked deserted. As they rumbled over a wooden bridge, he said, “Jolly nice. How much land?”
“Roughly two square miles. This stream is the eastern boundary, and the hills mark the northern line.”
“Tidy little parcel. Who manages it for you?”
“I’ve a couple living here who used to work for my grandmama. They keep four farmhands, I understand.” Gideon’s glance raked over the meadows. “Though you’d not guess it at the moment,” he muttered, looking rather grim.
They drove on along the well-kept road edged with rioting wildflowers, through fields where young corn waved softly, or the feathery heads of carrots marched in neat rows.
Distantly, cows stood hock deep in the lush meadow grasses.
A curving drive led to the house, and the postilions stopped the team in front.
Gideon climbed from the coach. His hail brought no response nor sign of life.
Touched by apprehension, he strode up the steps between flowerbeds where daffodils bobbed golden heads to the tune of the breeze and tulips splashed their bright colours against the stems of lofty hollyhocks.
The front door was not locked, and he hurried inside only to halt, shocked into immobility.
Following, Morris gasped, “Lord save us all!”
The wide hall was littered, drawers pulled from the sideboard and tossed heedlessly. The tall case clock had been wrenched open, the pendulum torn off, the glass door cracked from top to bottom.
They walked, stunned, into the spacious withdrawing room that Gideon remembered as being so warm and welcoming, and was now a shambles of overturned chairs and tables, broken vases, torn cushions, even the pictures having been pulled down and thrown haphazardly about the floor.
“They were thorough,” remarked Morris. “You’ve got to give ’em credit for that.”
“I’d like to give ’em a sight more than credit,” said Rossiter grittily. “Damme, but they want that accursed chessman!”
He went back onto the steps and called to the postilions to take the carriage to the barn and bait the horses.
Returning, he and Morris made a rapid and painful inspection of the house.
Room after room had been ransacked and wrecked.
It was a violation; a painfully wrenching invasion of this personal place, which was inexpressibly dear to him.
Coming slowly down the stairs, he tried not to show the extent of his rageful grief, and muttered, “I hope to God none of my people were hurt in this debacle!”
“Oh, my goodness! Gideon!”
Wearing a beige travelling gown and with a beige lace-trimmed cap perched atop her high-piled curls, my lady Lutonville stood in the entry hall, her maid peering curiously over her shoulder.
The sight of her was balm for Rossiter’s bruised spirit and he went quickly to take her outstretched hand. “If it needs this to bring you to me,” he said with his wry grin, “’tis worth it!”
“I came for quite another reason,” she answered. “La, but how dreadful this is! What senseless destruction. I am so sorry. I know how you always have loved this old place. Did you catch sight of the vandals?”
“No. We arrived but ten minutes ago.”
Morris growled, “I wish we had seen the filthy louts!”
In her distress, Naomi had been aware only of Gideon. Belatedly, she said, “Lieutenant, I ask your pardon! Whatever must you think of me? I had not meant to ignore you.”
He bowed with unfailing courtesy, and assured her he quite understood her reaction. “Nasty shock for you, ma’am. You didn’t expect to walk into this.”
“No, indeed.” Naomi looked sadly about the wreckage. “’Tis frightful! Frightful! What of your servants, Gideon?”
“Would that I knew.” He righted an overturned chair. “I had hoped to show you the farm under different circumstances. My apologies that you must see it in such a state.”
Morris picked up a heavy silver candelabra. “They do not appear to have robbed you, at all events.” He glanced at Maggie, who looked pale and frightened. “C’mon, m’dear,” he said bracingly. “Let us start to set things to rights.”
They all began to pick up those articles not hopelessly smashed.
Retrieving a little clock, Naomi listened anxiously for the tick, then handed it to Gideon.
“’Tis still running, thank goodness. Oh, how silly we are!
We can accomplish so little. You will need help to tidy this poor house.
” She saw that he was watching her rather quizzically, and went on, “I fancy you must be wondering why I am here.”
“I scarce dare ask.”
“I came to tell you that you owe my papa a most humble apology, sir. He has found the chess piece!”
“Be dashed,” exclaimed Morris, hurrying over to them.
“How?” asked Rossiter.
“In the strangest fashion. Papa received a package through the Post yesterday. ’Twas from the jeweller in Canterbury, explaining that he had given me another gentleman’s property by mistake.
He enclosed the chess piece belonging to Papa, and desired that the other be returned to him.
Which will,” she acknowledged thoughtfully, “be rather awkward.”
“More so than you might think,” said Morris.
Rossiter asked tersely, “Did the jeweller name this other gentleman?”
“No. But it’s simple to discover, surely?”
The two men looked at each other.
Rossiter said, “You are quite sure, Naomi? You saw the other chessman?”
She frowned. “I might have guessed you’d not believe me! Or is it that your burgeoning imagination now sees my father as having lied? Well, I can assure you that is not so, for one of the reasons he came to Falcon House this morning was to show me the piece.”
Puzzled, Rossiter muttered, “Then—why the need for all this, I wonder?”
“I would think that should be perfectly clear. You were mistaken in believing it has aught to do with the lost chessman. At least, with the one belonging my papa!”
He was silent, staring fixedly at a broken china bowl.
Morris picked it up and said rather helplessly, “Might be stuck back together, I suppose, dear boy.”
Rossiter sighed. “We shall be obliged to buy gallons of glue.”
Her heart touched by his twisted attempt at a smile, Naomi’s resentment fled. “Oh, never say the whole house is like this.”
“As bad, or worse,” answered Morris disconsolately.
“Whoever they are, whatever they want,” said Rossiter, “they’re devilish determined.
” His own words sounded defeated, and impatient with himself, he pulled back his shoulders and looking into Naomi’s lovely and concerned face, said in a more cheerful voice, “You are very good to have driven all this way to bring me the news. But I think you are here without your father’s permission, eh, ma’am? ”
The tenderness was in his eyes again, a silent caress that enthralled her. She said in a faraway voice, “I am of an age to go about as I choose.”
“Quite the lady of independence,” he teased.
“Not so independent I would willingly distress him. Any more than you would wish to offend Sir Mark.”
They both knew that they were not discussing her having called at the farm, and they gazed at each other, lost to their surroundings and their companions until Morris coughed, and suggested for the second time that they should go and find the constable.
Rossiter said with a start, “What? Oh—er, well I rather suspect that is where my people must be, Jamie.”
Also startled, Naomi felt her cheeks redden. Flustered, she turned to Morris and asked, “Pray what did you mean, Lieutenant, when you said ’twould be more awkward than I knew to return the other chess piece to the jeweller?”
“Burned up,” said Morris succinctly.
“Good heavens! Mr. Shumaker was b-burned?”
Morris nodded. “With his shop.”
She gave a gasp, and sat down in the chair. “Oh, poor man! How dreadful! And he was such a kind little person!”
“Naomi,” said Rossiter thoughtfully. “While you were at the Dowling Soiree you saw a chess piece similar to the one your father had lost. Did you mention that to anyone?”
“No. And in point of fact, it was not at all similar.”
“But, I thought you said—”
“I said ’twas the same, or almost the same, as the piece I had lost. But, you see the piece I lost was—”
“Was not your Papa’s. Of course. My apologies for being so dense.”
“I was dense also,” she said, smiling at him. “I should have realized ’twas not a chessman at all.”
“Castle?” enquired Morris.
“No. I mean ’twas something else. Not part of my father’s chess set.”
Puzzled, Rossiter said, “But you had seen his set before, surely?”
“No. Never.”
“Does he play often?”