Chapter Nineteen #2
“We were organizing the combustibles when they appeared,” Hilda said. “Magic was triggered somehow, and they got caught in it.”
“Then they found a necklace,” Hilda added. “We couldn’t risk them giving it back to him.”
“So we brought them here,” Mavis concluded.
Lady Ruperta slammed shut her book. Amelia glimpsed the title, Poems of Sappho, and felt a belated curiosity about her hostess.
“I told you to not go outside, Professors,” Lady Ruperta growled. “You could have been killed.” Judging from the tone of her voice, this option remained on the table.
“It was all my fault,” Caleb said, as he always did when the two of them were brought up in front of authority for some misdeed or another.
Then he paused, shrugged, and gave Lady Ruperta a look so real that Amelia’s nerves tingled.
For a moment, he stopped being her Caleb and became instead a mystery, a man with connections to other people that didn’t include her.
She couldn’t decide if she felt intrigued or upset by it.
Lady Ruperta, on the other hand, watched him with narrowed eyes, seeing whatever it was that Amelia could not.
“Actually, no, it wasn’t my fault,” he contradicted himself suddenly, all the endearing charm stripped from his voice.
“Vanity Tunnicliffe stole something belonging to us. We were trying to get it back when the locket’s enchantment caught us.
” He angled his head to regard Lady Ruperta thoughtfully.
“Why have you buried your husband’s treasures outside? ”
A gasp went through the salon at this question, followed by taut silence as everyone waited for Lady Ruperta to inflict some violent punishment on Caleb for his impertinence.
It was not so much his words that had been bold, but the sense beneath them that he understood something about her on a more personal level than a stranger—a man—ought to.
Then Lady Ruperta huffed a dry laugh. “Because I could not bury my husband there,” she said in simple response.
Clack clack. Knitting needles began operating at speed, like a Greek chorus that utilized yarn instead of words.
“He is a villain of the most dangerous kind,” Lady Ruperta continued.
“What has he done?” Caleb asked.
“He has been dull, and stodgy, without the slightest portion of humor.”
Caleb’s expression wavered between confusion and amusement. “That is unpleasant indeed,” he agreed, “but not what I would call dangerous.”
Nine pairs of female eyes raised heavenward in despair at this ignorance, including Amelia’s.
Had the man not listened during secondary school lectures about the English Civil War and the Puritans who murdered the king, despite being so dull and stodgy they even banned Christmas? (Actually, no, he hadn’t.)
“Sure, I wouldn’t want to be married to him,” he amended, “but…?”
“Nigel was considered an excellent husband for me,” Lady Ruperta said. “Wealthy, titled, unlikely to take mistresses. I disliked him from the start, but that was of no consequence. My family needed money, and he wanted someone to manage his house. So he acquired me like an antique.”
“You could leave him,” Caleb said.
Clack clack clack.
“Caleb,” Amelia murmured repressively. Surely he comprehended that being trapped in a hidden room with several women bearing sharply pointed objects was not the best circumstance in which to be provoking?
As the thought came to her, she almost laughed.
Of course he didn’t comprehend, unless he’d undergone an entire personality transformation in the past thirty seconds.
Provocation was practically his astrological sign.
She squeezed his hand, and he was good enough not to get them killed with some further comment.
Lady Ruperta straightened in her chair, clutching the book of poetry so tightly her knuckles grew even whiter than they had been.
“Leave him? And lose everything, including my reputation? Besides, if I do, who will restrain the man from hoarding so much junk that the house eventually collapses? I cannot leave.”
“Lady Ruperta is a true heroine,” Mavis interposed from behind Amelia. The loyalty in her voice was heartwarming—as in, Amelia’s heart grew warm with anxiety that the woman would stab both her and Caleb with her pitchfork should she consider them a risk to her friend.
“I am indeed,” Lady Ruperta agreed. “Bitter and long have been the years of pretending that I tolerate my husband. Of smiling when people tell me about their travels to Paris, or show me their fashionable dresses. As for the particulars of wedlock: closing one’s eyes and thinking about England only goes so far, I can tell you.
Thankfully our daughter was able to escape this mausoleum, although bitter is the least I can say about one’s child running away to Australia.
“But I have my special friends to console me. Granted, we must hide our gatherings, in case our husbands want to join them”—a general groan of distaste arose from the company—“but we still have a gay time.” She smiled at those around her, and for the first time Amelia spied a genuine warmth in the woman.
But then the smile soured, withering away.
“Nigel is the very last person who ought to possess dangerous enchanted objects,” she said.
“He’s too dull to consider the consequences of their magic, and too humorless to care.
Our estate manager was turned into a frog not one hour after besting Nigel at a card game, and I’ll never believe that was accidental.
This is why I cannot divorce the man, you see? I must stand guard.”
“Why didn’t you alert the Home Office?” Amelia asked. “They would have sent someone here immediately.”
Lady Ruperta scoffed. “I did approach them. Useless lot. A fellow in a cheap suit told me not to worry my little head about it, just focus on taking care of my husband like a good wife should. I do declare, I’ve had enough of mediocre men thinking they are so clever!”
General murmurs of agreement followed this statement. Caleb remarked wryly, “I’ve heard a few lady academics express the same sentiment. I’m starting to wonder if all women feel that way.”
There followed a long, eloquent silence as every female gaze in the room directed itself at him. “Ah,” Caleb said. “Right. Well, I’m certainly glad that I’m not mediocre.”
Lady Ruperta scoffed. “We’ll be the judge of that, young man.”
“What about calling the police?” Amelia asked.
“Oh, I’m sure they’d also say Professor Sterling was mediocre,” Lady Ruperta answered, and Amelia choked on a traitorous laugh.
“No, I mean call them about Sir Nigel,” she clarified.
Lady Ruperta shook her head. “Nigel bought all his treasures legally. And he’s never posed a threat.
Apparently ‘driving people into a stupor with his prattling’ and ‘setting fire to the piano with an enchanted vase’ are not crimes.
We’re talking about England here, Miss Tarrant: the country that gave us bread pudding and the House of Lords (two things I would not call interchangeable, but only because I am very fond of Mrs. Cuddle’s bread pud with custard).
As a baronet, Nigel would have to assassinate the Queen—”
“God save Her Majesty,” everyone murmured.
“—before anyone helped me restrain him. The best I’ve been able to manage is hiding his more dangerous pieces, even burying some outside, before finally convincing him to donate to the British Museum.”
“But you did convince him,” Caleb said, “and we’re here now. So why are antiques still going missing? And why were these two”—he half turned to indicate Hilda and Mavis, and swallowed heavily at the ferocity of their expressions—“these two excellent ladies burying things even tonight?”
“Because I don’t trust you,” Lady Ruperta replied simply.
Amelia considered this, then nodded in acceptance, but Caleb blinked at the woman with dazed astonishment. “But—but—we’re experts.”
“Ha!” Lady Ruperta’s curt laugh was echoed by the other woman.
Even Amelia winced slightly. “You broke my dining room furniture on your first day here. Since then, there have been exploding mugs, ruined bedding, constant arguments, and who the hell keeps giggling? I’m not confident that you will keep Nigel’s most powerful antiques safe. ”
“That’s understandable,” Amelia said. And when Caleb gave her an outraged look, she added, “But only from your perspective. Antiquing is seldom a quiet practice. Ghost rampages or object explosions tend to be par for the course. Usually we require people to sign a liability acceptance form, but perhaps Miss Tunnicliffe did not provide you with one—?”
“She did have some papers,” Lady Ruperta said, sniffing imperiously, “but it would be plebian of me to read what I sign.”
Amelia smiled, which seemed more advisable under the circumstances than shouting with frustration.
The Material History degree course included a module on Dealing with People, and she had aced it (although only because her final essay was so good that the flaws with her practicum were overlooked).
“I do beg your pardon for any misunderstandings,” she said politely.
“I hope you will reconsider unearthing the buried items and handing them over to Mr. Dummersby.”
Although this sentence was outfitted with a full stop, the existence of an unspoken extra clause detailing what would happen should Lady Ruperta not reconsider was plain for all to perceive.
The government, if properly informed by an expert (more specifically, by Mr. Sterling, Amelia had to admit), would never tolerate such powerful magical objects being amassed without security on private property.
Nor would the British Museum, for that matter—not when an excellent profit could be made from putting them on public display.
The gold locket alone warranted a full team of antiquarians, curators, and lawyers descending upon Ravenscroft Manor, every one of them accompanied by a soldier.
“I do not wish to speak with Mr. Dummersby,” Lady Ruperta said, her lips flattening as if Amelia had demanded that she shake hands with a plague-ridden beggar with fleas. “Speaking with the two of you has been quite enough of an endurance test.”
“But unfortunately Professor Sterling and I must leave at once,” Amelia said before Caleb could reply instead, considering that he’d managed to slither out of the Dealing with People module altogether.
“We have a matter of urgency to deal with in Oxford. Indeed, we were leaving when your ladies intercepted us.”
“Very well, I suppose,” Lady Ruperta relented ungraciously. “But for God’s sake, leave by the actual road, will you? And lest anyone accuse me of being a poor hostess, I shall procure raincoats for your comfort, despite how you destroyed my dining table.”
Nods of farewell were then exchanged, which was all either of the parties could bear to offer each other at this point, and Hilda gestured that Amelia and Caleb should follow her out.
“Thank heavens, we’re finally getting out of this place,” Caleb whispered to Amelia as they headed back through the secret passageway. “Even if I catch pneumonia doing so, raincoat notwithstanding.”