Chapter 5 #2
The girl blushed. “I am sorry to thrust myself upon you like this. There is no one to introduce me properly, though I live here at the castle, you see. I am Miss Sophia Onslow. His Majesty kindly allows me to stay here and catalogue the library.”
“Ah, the librarian! I was told of the circumstance,” Judith admitted.
Miss Onslow smiled, then her eyes fell upon the tea tray.
“Oh goodness, Mrs Ulrich! Why have you given her ladyship the last of that awful plum cake? You must fetch her some proper cream tea: it is traditional in Cornwall. And serve it in the Tea Tower Room, of course—you mustn’t sit in this cold, dreary drawing room!
Lady Avely, you are to be the mistress of the castle, after all! Come.”
Judith was surprised to see Mrs Ulrich somewhat cowed by this performance, in that she inclined her head slightly and picked up the tray. Miss Onslow whirled around, gesturing, and after a moment Judith followed her.
Walking briskly, Miss Onslow led her through another winding passageway, and then up three flights of stairs, while chattering about the layout of the castle, and where the best views were to be found. Then she pushed open a heavy door and stood aside.
Judith stepped through, as if into a dream.
The Tea Tower Room was a large, circular room, with tall windows looking out in every direction onto wide vistas of the ocean.
Ancient beams held up a high, pointed ceiling, and rich Turkish rugs crisscrossed the floor.
The walls were hung with beautiful tapestries depicting the sea—sailing ships, islands, sunsets, mermaids—while couches stood comfortably beneath them.
A curved bookshelf nestled sturdily into one third of the whole room, and opposite it, a large fire burned merrily.
The whole of it hummed with a delightful feeling of soothing cheer and safety, as if here was the real sanctuary to be found.
Miss Onslow flung out a hand. “The Tower Tea Room! The true heart of this place! The Blue Drawing Room is all very proper and impressive for guests, but you aren’t a guest, are you?”
“I suppose not.” It was hard to imagine this all now belonged to her family.
In awe, Judith walked over to one of the high windows.
The sea stretched for miles out, a shimmering expanse that glittered in the setting sun.
She could hear the wind whistling outside the tower, but it was a comforting sound.
Down below, she could see waves breaking on the rocks of the isle, and the small white dots of puffins and gulls.
Along the causeway, the red figure of Ltn Greene returned to the mainland.
Miss Onslow was waiting for her to take a seat, so Judith did so, sinking into one of the couches, under a painting of a sinuous siren. “What a delightful room!”
“Yes, I confess I have spent quite some time within it; I bring the books up from the library.” Miss Onslow sat on a high-backed chair and gestured at a neat stack of books. “But I will return to my proper domain now that you are here, of course.”
“Oh, well, I’m sure we can rub along well enough together,” said Judith, a trifle uneasily, for she didn’t want anyone disturbing her investigations or preparations. Then she remembered what Ltn Greene had told her: that Miss Onslow was a Musor. “I believe you are Gifted in Memory?”
Miss Onslow’s gaze sharpened. “Who told you that?”
Judith winced. She did not feel it was fair to betray Ltn Greene’s indiscretion, especially when it had been at her own insistence. “I was informed,” she prevaricated, “because I too am a Musor: a Discernor.”
“Oh, yes, of course!” Miss Onslow’s shoulders relaxed. “I suspected you might be some practitioner if the king granted you this place. You must have a powerful Gift.”
“Oh, it was not for my efforts,” Judith felt bound to say, “but those of my husband, who served and died for the Crown.”
“Plenty do that,”—a note of bitterness sounded in the young voice—“without such recompense.”
“True,” said Judith, and saw her opportunity. “Indeed, a soldier died nearby, not three days ago, I believe?”
Miss Onslow pursed her lips. “Yes, Sgt Finlay.” She seemed reluctant to say more.
“A tragedy?”
“Indeed.”
The word was not quite true, and Judith cocked her head. “Did you know him?”
The young woman nodded. “I did.” She paused. “Of course, any death is dreadful, but in fact, Lady Avely, he was quite an unpleasant man, and I cannot find it in myself to regret Sgt Finlay overmuch. He is not one who deserved reward for his service.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
Miss Onslow hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “He paid far too much attention to the fairer sex, if you take my meaning.”
Judith did. She remembered Cador’s reference to the dairymaid, Miss Isla. It sounded as if Sgt Finlay’s attentions had indeed been more in the nature of a harassment than a courtship.
“I am sorry to hear that.”
Miss Onslow shrugged it off. “He would neglect his duties as a result: a blot on the service. It is a shame they recruit all manner of men to the army.”
“Yet Sgt Finlay dutifully reported rumours of smugglers on the day he died,” observed Judith. “Do you think they could have had something to do with his demise?”
“Oh goodness, Cornwall is rife with smugglers!” Miss Onslow’s expression darkened further. “The locals think it is all fair game, but they don’t realise that the boats take information across to France when they are fetching their brandy and lace. It ought to be stopped.”
Judith raised her brows. “You think that Sgt Finlay tried to stop them?”
Miss Onslow’s mouth twisted. But at that moment, Mrs Ulrich appeared in the doorway, carrying another tray with stately hostility and a grim expression.
As she placed it on a table, Judith saw that this time the contents had improved, for it was laden with large bowls of cream and jam, a fresh pot of tea (this time covered in a woolly tea cosy), and a plate of round, fat chudleighs.
She knew these particular delicacies from her stay in Devonshire: the yeast-leavened, buttery bread was soft and crumbly, and traditionally served with jam and cream.
“Wonderful!” said Miss Onslow. “A proper welcome for you!” She nodded in thanks to the housekeeper.
Mrs Ulrich’s lips thinned, then she vanished down the stairs again.
Judith allowed the subject to change to the imperative topic of whether the cream or the jam was to be applied first. Miss Onslow informed her that in Cornwall, it was definitively the jam.
Judith recalled that Devonians were of a different persuasion, but she politely did not mention it and dolloped the thick cream upon the rosy jelly.
“Mmm, strawberry?” she asked, after a delicious mouthful. “The cream is good, I must say.”
“Lanyon Cream is the best in all of England,” affirmed Miss Onslow. “In Bath we never had anything as good.”
“You hie from Bath?”
“Yes.” Miss Onslow licked her lips. “I was exiled here because of a minor scandal involving a rejected suitor. I didn’t want to marry, you see: I’d much rather have my Gifts and my books.
So, my mother sent me here, hoping to teach me a lesson.
She thought that I would grow lonely.” She looked around with a show of satisfaction.
“Yet I am very happy at the edge of England, with the sea and solitude, in such a grand residence.”
Judith heard the lie in her voice and wondered.
It seemed unlikely that a young woman would not want the company of others, and suitors, and balls.
Yet Memors were a different breed, content in the vast tracts of their minds, with mental resources of which others could not boast. And it was a lovely room, this Tea Tower.
A twitch of movement caught her eye, and she saw a new figure slink through the door: a cat.
It was no ordinary cat, however, but a huge, magnificent creature, the largest she had ever seen.
Its excessive fur was mostly black, but topped by a white face, which gave it an odd appearance.
The large black and white ears currently twitched with curiosity.
The cat pretended to ignore her and stalked over to one of the windows. It proceeded to leap onto the sill and stare out as if surveying its realm with a faint air of disgust.
“That’s Ghastagon,” explained Miss Onslow, following her gaze. “Gorgeous creature, isn’t he?”
“He looks as if he belongs to Trebellow.”
Miss Onslow laughed. “He belongs to no one; indeed, he would have it that the castle belongs to him. He likes to give one a fright in the night, with that white face lurking in the darkness.”
“I can imagine.” Could that be the simple explanation for the haunted cellars?
Ghastagon, hunting mice down there and curdling everyone’s blood?
Judith frowned, wondering if the cat was going to be a nuisance about Marigold.
Traditionally, cats and vampiri did not rub along well together.
But Miss Onslow’s next words dispelled the worry.
“He is a special breed from Germany,” she added. “Technically, he belongs to Mrs Ulrich, whose family brought over his ancestors. Apparently, the Zauberer breed is much more tolerant to vampiri than most cats. Not that I would know,” she added, “as I do not have a vampiri.”
Judith took a sip of tea, interested. “Why not? It would be most useful in your work, I imagine.”
“There were not many in Bath,” replied Miss Onslow, “and these Royal Edicts make it difficult to go about cultivating the acquaintance of one, when we are not allowed to be seen conversing together.”
Judith was glad that Miss Onslow seemed to disapprove of the Edicts, for she planned on overturning them here in the confines of the castle.
In fact, royal permission had been given to do so, though she wasn’t going to mention that just yet.
Perhaps Miss Onslow could befriend one of the roost. Another thought occurred to her.
“Mrs Ulrich’s family? Is she a Musor, too, then? ”
“Ah, yes,” said Miss Onslow. “A Diplomacor, I believe.”