16 The House In The Woods #2
Cal ushered her on a winding route through the overgrown garden to the kitchen door, and stood back to let Cora enter.
Then he followed her as she walked silently through the house, directing her steps from behind.
It was only when they reached the entrance hall at the front of the house that she stopped, turning slowly round, a puzzled expression on her face.
“How very odd!”
“What do you notice?” he said.
“All the way through from the kitchen, the floors are swept clean. Not the surfaces or ceilings, which are covered in dust and cobwebs, just the floors. But here — everything is clean, not a hint of a cobweb, even on the chandelier, which is not covered, I notice. I wonder why?”
“Have a look in here,” Cal said, throwing open a door.
“The dining room,” she said, gazing around at the shrouded furniture. “Ew! I think I will not go in there, if it is all the same to you.”
“I know. Filthy, isn’t it? Not been touched for years. Now have a look in here.”
The matching door on the opposite side of the hall revealed a pretty sitting room, the walls papered in pale greens and lemons.
Like the dining room, every piece of furniture was draped in holland covers, but everything was clean.
If the covers were removed, the room would be instantly ready for use.
“Someone comes here,” she said, walking slowly round the room, running a housewifely finger over the mantelpiece and dado to check for dust. “Someone comes here often enough that he — or she — pays someone to keep this room clean. Are there any others like this?”
“Not downstairs. The upstairs is worse than the dining room.”
“So a servant enters from the kitchen and comes to the front of the house to clean this room and the hall. And someone enters through the front door and comes into this room. How very intriguing.”
“Isn’t it?” he said. “This is a lady’s room, wouldn’t you say? Feminine colours, and there is an embroidery frame under this sheet. What do you make of the portrait? Handsome fellow, isn’t he?”
To one side of the fireplace was a full length painting of a young man in the embroidered brocade suit and wig of some fifty years ago. He was indeed handsome, with a jaunty air about him, as if he knew his own charm very well.
“Goodness, yes!” she said. “A fine figure of a man. No wonder he had the ladies at his feet.”
“You’ve guessed his identity, then? I wasn’t sure.”
“The frame is the same as the portrait of the first duchess that hangs in the library at Staineybank. Lady Caroline Bucknell, as she was. Her portrait must have hung originally just there, on the other side of the fireplace — a matched pair, painted at the time of their marriage, most likely. This must be the duke in his prime — he would have been twenty-five or so at the time of his first marriage, and I would guess that they lived here for a while, until she died… or until he inherited. I am not sure of the exact dates.”
“And he still comes here, and sits in his wife’s boudoir and remembers,” Cal said softly.
“Poor man,” Cora said, her face suddenly filled with distress. “Hester told me that his first wife was the only woman he ever truly loved, but that is a powerful love indeed that survives two later marriages and fifty years as a widower.”
“And he has nothing left of her now… not a single child to comfort him. But perhaps there’s no comfort to be found for that kind of grief.”
“He is contented enough with Lily, I believe, but I have no doubt he would trade everything he has to have Caroline back again,” Cora said.
“You really think so?” Cal said, startled. “Everything?”
“Oh yes,” she said, turned her clear eyes on him.
“Love… true love transcends all else. Nothing else matters. He was so thrilled when Rowena arrived, the very image of Caroline, although it is not the same. You must have noticed how he looks at her all the time. Lily, too, of course, but I think his gaze rests more on Rowena and there is a deep sadness in his face at such times. You must have observed it.”
Cal hadn’t. It had always seemed to him that the duke was perfectly happy with Lily.
He enjoyed being surrounded by Cora and her daughters, and Rowena too, but there was an affection in his manner towards Lily that was more than gentlemanly concern for her comfort.
Still, he didn’t want to quarrel with Cora over the matter, not on a day when they had many hours to enjoy together, so he said nothing more.
They made camp in the pretty little sitting room, removing several of the dust sheets over chairs and small tables, and discovering a pretty virginal against one wall, although Cora winced when she played a few notes.
“Sadly out of tune, but what a lovely instrument, and perfect for this room.”
Cal had prepared for their visit, so he lit the fire in the kitchen then drew water from the well in the yard outside to fill the kettle.
While he waited for the water to boil, he laid out the food they had brought — slices of lamb, cheese and his own bread from him, and quail’s eggs, potted shrimps, strawberries and delicate little cakes from her.
He had a flask of ale to quench his own thirst, and the inevitable tea for Cora.
After they had eaten, they wandered round what remained of the garden, inching past the grasping stems of brambles and trying to work out the former paths, flower beds and lawns, without much success.
And all the time, they talked, about anything and everything.
Even when conversation temporarily lapsed, the silence was comfortable, neither feeling the need to fill the void.
It was the most agreeable way to pass the time.
Cal no longer even pretended to be surveying the forest. Whatever the reason why Mr Goodenough had brought him to Brinshire, it was not for any great task to be done.
The duke had no pressing need for his gardens to be redesigned or for his woods to be opened up.
That was merely an excuse, and he seemed to be content to let Cal do as he would, or nothing at all.
He felt no guilt in wandering here and there in the forest, making discoveries and sharing them with Cora. It was delightful.
Yet the whole day, Cora gave no sign that Cal was anything other than a friend to her.
There was no kiss, no touch of hand to hand, no knowing smile.
He had supposed that, now that they were on a more intimate footing at night, that some of that intimacy would spill over into their daytime meetings, too. But there was nothing.
It was as if Cora was two different people, the gentle friend during daylight hours and the lover at night.
He was not unhappy with that, not in the least, for he was reasonably certain that the lover would be back that evening.
He was content to follow her lead, letting her manage the business however she saw fit and being grateful for all of it. But he found it strange, all the same.
After washing up their few dishes and restoring the sitting room to its shrouded state, they walked back to the witch’s cottage and drove home in the dog cart. There they returned from their idyll to find that the investigation into the tainted tea had taken a turn for the worse.
Archie Buckley, the constable, had arrived that morning and begun working methodically through the servants, starting with the butler. All had gone well until he reached the kitchen boy.
Before he could be questioned, Timmy Skinner had vanished.
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