Chapter 23 #2
Opening his briefcase with an authoritative click, Beckett pulled out a piece of paper with an extensive list scribbled down it and onto the back.
He pulled out a pen as well before straightening himself.
He looked across the grounds, smiling when his eyes landed on the rose garden and a repaired fountain.
Droplets of water shimmered in the light like stars.
“The grounds are in excellent shape, Lady Dewhurst. I should have expected that, given your father’s talent as an estate manager.”
Some of the ice in her heart melted before Carlyle’s dreaded voice cut in.
“Yes,” Carlyle said. “I remember you digging in the yard with him, Lady Dewhurst, covered from head to toe in mud. Your education was very hands-on. I suppose your uncle did not mind.”
Mouse ignored him. “Luckily, as you see here, all my father’s training came to good use.”
“Yes, yes, very well done.” Beckett lifted the list of required repairs to his nose, ticking off a box. “Shall we go inside?”
She frowned, stung. “Wouldn’t you like to see more of the grounds?”
“No, this will suffice for my purposes,” Beckett said.
“Do you have something to hide indoors?” Carlyle asked. “I never imagined you to be domestic, after all.”
Mouse’s hand clenched at her hip. “Nothing to hide. We’ll go in from the front and work our way through.”
They all turned, and Carlyle took the lead. He walked confidently, and Mouse could see how he had trampled over the meek Beckett that morning. Mouse wondered why she had even needed to trade her eye for her hour of persuasion in London, if he could be manipulated so easily.
The solicitor kept looking back at her, a worried frown pulling at his lips. She pointedly ignored him, and after the third time, he tripped.
“Are you sure you don’t want me to curse them?” Thornwood whispered as they followed behind.
“Stand by. I’m more open to the idea by the second,” she said.
Beckett gasped the moment they entered the entry hall, which made Mouse smile despite herself.
Tasteful strings of flowers looped across the banisters in honor of the Spring Festival, at Mouse’s request. The deep brown of the polished wood walls paired beautifully with the fine dark red carpet leading through to the unused ballroom and the study.
Thornwood’s magic had not retouched the bones of the great elk, but the horns were free of cobwebs and glowed white in the daylight drifting in from the clean windows above.
The tapestry stood out like a diamond in a crown, winding around the stone portion of the wall.
The threads glittered in green, gold, red, silver, and blue.
The faded Faerie and mortal faces were bold again, telling the story of the hunt.
A chill crawled up Mouse’s back as she looked at it, but Beckett clapped in delight.
“Remarkable! I confess, I am astounded by these results.”
“Thank you,” she said, looking to Thornwood. “I cannot claim that it was all me. I had help from some excellent restorers.”
“Modest, as always,” Carlyle said. “Was this your handiwork, Mr. Thornwood?”
“I offered my services as a restorer, yes. I am well acquainted with historical styles. With Lady Dewhurst’s excellent eye, I believe that we managed to modernize without disrespecting the original material.
However, I wish we could have had more time to work on some of the details,” Thornwood said.
“Yes, I know it has been a rush,” Beckett said, “but Lord Dewhurst had precise instructions. Faerie-blessed house and all. So far, I am pleased to see that you have done well.”
“Yes, but of course, this room has a special significance. Shall we look at Lord Dewhurst’s study? I remember the furniture nearly dissolving anytime the door opened, and that was years ago,” Carlyle said.
Though it only showed through the sharpening of his smile, Carlyle was disappointed by the study (still bathed in golden light), the ballroom (glowing with sunshine that danced off the mirrors lining the walls), the bedrooms (all puffed up with fine silks and linen duvets), the conservatory (glass mended and plants vibrant, if still saturated by the overwhelming scent of orange), and even the kitchen (bright and lively).
He had a comment about each of them, spoken to Beckett, but with a barb intended for Mouse.
His arrows lost power with each room they entered.
Beckett marked each room off one by one on his list even as he cast nervous looks at Carlyle.
They returned to the study for tea, which Mickelwaithe served in the Dewhurst livery. Mouse gawked. She had not seen the uniform in years. The Faerie servant winked at her.
Mouse had to keep herself from winking back. Her joy was catching up with her. The visit was a massive success, and having such success in front of Carlyle made it all the sweeter.
Beckett took his tea without looking up from his list. He compared it with a set of documents tucked under the saucer, drops of black tea and sugar speckling the letters. Carlyle leaned across the table to Thornwood.
“So, Mr. Thornwood, I understand you are from the continent?”
“I’ve lived in many places,” Thornwood said.
“The people in the village believe you are a deposed Russian prince.”
Thornwood laughed. “I am certainly no prince. You went to Eton, correct? Are you in line to be a lord, like Lady Dewhurst’s cousin was?”
Carlyle’s smile dipped for a moment. “No, that is the lot of my older brother.”
“How lucky that you both survived the war,” Thornwood said, taking a biscuit with determined earnestness.
“Yes, it was fortunate. Thank you.” Carlyle’s lips thinned, a crack in his careful facade of politeness.
“What is your responsibility, then? You have enough time to venture out to the country yourself, so I assume you are not a solicitor like Mr. Beckett,” Thornwood continued. Immersed in his papers, Beckett did not even twitch at the sound of his name.
“Oh, no. I lack the cleverness needed for the law.” And the morals, Mouse thought. Thornwood seemed to hear her thoughts, sending a strained smile her way as Carlyle spoke. “No, now that my position in the War Office has run its course, I’m looking into politics.”
“You will have to forgive me, Mr. Carlyle. As a foreigner, I know little about the English system of government.”
“Was your country not democratic, Mr. Thornwood?” Carlyle asked with a tone that dripped with saccharine insincerity.
“I suppose you would call us feudal,” Thornwood said, stirring some more sugar into his tea with practiced grace. Beneath the table, Mouse clenched her hands, trying to rein in her shaking.
“Or perhaps archaic?” Carlyle asked.
“It depends on your point of view, I presume. To some, anything foreign is old-fashioned.” The clink of Thornwood’s spoon against his teacup rattled through the room as he lifted it.
“Speaking of old, I am sure you had a devil of a time with this house. Have you been staying in the village, Mr. Thornwood? It seems like a tiresome trek to make so early in the morning and so late at night.”
“I did not realize that it was your role to ask questions, Carlyle,” Mouse snapped. Her thoughts drifted to the night before, Thornwood’s lips against hers in this very same room, with the press of the cool wood against her back.
Beckett looked up from his papers at last, and Mouse winced.
“I was curious about that myself,” Beckett said.
The Faerie stayed silent, his head tilted. Mouse could see that he knew the question was a trap but could not quite puzzle out how. In any case, one of them had to speak, and they had a better chance if it was her.
“I’ve offered him one of the rooms here at Thistlemarsh. He and his servant have full use of the lower floor, while I have been in my old room upstairs.”
She hoped the way she threw the words out, as though every unwed noblewoman put up strangers in her home for a month without a chaperone, would at least delay further questions.
She also hoped that neither man would notice the heat blooming in her cheeks.
Carlyle had found a loophole in Thornwood’s magic.
The Faerie had put up a protection against noticing flowers coming from the walls, but not from societal concerns about where people slept.
“We’ve done some exhaustive work on the water features in the garden, Mr. Beckett,” she continued, trying to change the direction of the conversation. “I’m sure you remember Thistlemarsh was once the site of a Faerie-blessed well.”
Beckett put his papers aside altogether. His squint focused on Thornwood. “If I understand you correctly, then you have been living with a lady unchaperoned for a month?”
“Hardly unchaperoned!” Mouse said. “His servant, Mickelwaithe, is on hand as well.”
“He means without a female chaperone, Mouse,” Carlyle said. He leaned back in his chair. “You are being intentionally obtuse.”
“Given the short deadline, it was essential that I stayed on-site to maximize the daylight,” Thornwood said stiffly.
“I see,” Beckett said. He retreated into his papers before continuing under his breath, “I did notice that Lord Dewhurst’s animal trophies are missing. He specifically asked that they stay. On its own, I might have overlooked the issue, but considering…”
“We will find a way to bring them back,” Mouse offered, and flushed as her voice broke on the last word. Beckett frowned, not looking up from his papers.
Carlyle took a loud sip of his tea.
Determined, despite her knowledge that, in only a matter of seconds, everything had fallen apart around her, she said, “Shall we continue the tour?”
“Is there anything else to see?” Carlyle asked.
Mouse gritted her teeth.
“I do not think it will do you much good, Lady Dewhurst,” Beckett said.
“I am afraid that, given these two issues, you’ve not met the terms in the time allotted.
Thus, it is my opinion that the estate must go to Mr. Carlyle.
Do understand that with these Faerie-blessed houses we must be very strict. ”