Encounter with Venus (11 page)

She shook her head. “It’s only that we’re so very late. My uncle will be beside himself.”

“In concern for your safety?”

Bridie let out a mirthless laugh. “Huh!” she said scornfully.

Livy threw her a dagger look. “No, my lord,” she said as she started out. “It’s just that... that he doesn’t like being kept waiting.”

“Out o’ doot ‘e don’t,” Bridie muttered in what George took to be a phrase of emphatic agreement.

“Is he a curmudgeon?” George asked. “Is that why you’re in a taking?”

“I’m not in a taking,” Livy said impatiently from the doorway. “The innkeeper’s wife has given us a basket of tidbits to take with us for our breakfast, so do come along.”

As he followed the ladies out to the carriage, George wondered what could account for the change in Livy’s manner since the night before. Her tension was palpable. Was it because of her uncle? Was she worried about his health? Or was she fearful—as Bridie’s attitude seemed to suggest—of incurring his anger?
How strange,
he thought. Livy had proved herself to be a resolute—nay, even a formidable—female. If the prospect of an uncle’s displeasure could so greatly discompose a woman like that, what sort of monstrous fellow must he be?

But, he reminded himself, this question had best not be asked. He didn’t want to know. He could not become involved. He had a pressing obligation back in London. Livy’s problems were no concern of his.

SIXTEEN

It was blue skies all the way to Scotland, making the snowy landscape seem almost cheerful. Inside the carriage, however, a painful silence reigned. No matter how hard he tried, George could not coax any response from Livy other than a monosyllabic yes or no. After a couple of hours, he left the comfort of the carriage and took over the reins from Timmy. He remained on the box for the rest of the trip.

As they crossed the border into Scotland, the weather worsened. It seemed as if the sky had a border, too, separating a sunny English sky from a dour and threatening Scottish one. As the carriage rumbled up and down the Scottish hills, snow began to fall, the flakes blowing wildly about in an icy wind. It was obvious that a real storm was on its way. For the last few miles of the trip, the going was difficult. By the time they reached Henshaw Castle in Lockerbie, the day was darkening, the snow was falling heavily, and the wind was fierce, George, who’d intended to turn the phaeton about and head south just as soon as he’d brought Livy to her door, realized that his plan could not work. Driving any longer in this weather was out of the question.

Livy did not wait to see what he would do. As soon as the carriage stopped at the entrance of Henshaw Castle, she leaped out and, ignoring the buffeting wind, ran up the stone steps and disappeared inside. It was Bridie who took command. “Harken, m’lord,” she ordered as soon as she and Timmy had climbed out of the carriage and George had come down from the box, “gang ye up inside, belyne!” And she pushed him toward the stairs and turned to Timmy.

George understood that she meant for him to go up into the castle, but he remained where he was, watching with admiration as the tiny creature, with a series of indistinguishable words but very explicit hand gestures, made it clear to Timmy where to take the horses.

As soon as Timmy set off, Bridie turned again to George. The diminutive abigail pushed him up the stairs ahead of her, like a disgruntled mother dealing with a recalcitrant (though oversized) son. He almost expected her to take him by the ear.

Because of the wind’s blowing thick snowflakes into his face, George could barely discern the details of the exterior of the building. All he could see was a looming grayness, but it was enough for him to get an impression of age and decay. Therefore, when he entered the house, the appearance of the entry hall did not surprise him. It was as dark and gloomy as he expected. There were several candle sconces on the walls but only one held a lit candle. In the dim light, he could see that the stone floor was only partially covered with a shabby carpet and that the few paintings on the walls were portraits of darkly dressed, glowering old men. It was a far from welcoming scene.

Before he was able to shake the snow from his greatcoat, a grizzled old manservant approached him. “Lord Chadleigh?” he asked, awkwardly helping George off with his coat, “Miss Livy sends her apologies for leavin’ ye so abruptly and begs ye’ll make yersel’ comfortable in the sittin’ room. If ye’ll follow me...”

Before leading the way, however, he murmured to Bridie that she was wanted upstairs. The little abigail, with a nod to George, scampered off up a huge staircase, pulling off her cloak as she ran.

George followed the man down a dark corridor. The old fellow’s legs were misshapen, and he walked as if every step pained him. George came up beside him. “I take it that you’re the butler,” he remarked, slowing his pace to indicate that the servant needn’t hurry.

“Yes, m’ lord. I be McTavish, at yer service.”

“I hope, McTavish, that someone is taking care of my man?”

“Oh, aye, m’lord. Our coachman is helpin’ him stable the horses. And Mrs. Nicol, our housekeeper, will see to providin’ him some warm food and a room.”

They had reached the sitting room, a cheerier place because of a fire burning in the fireplace and a lighted oil lamp on a table near the room’s one narrow window. “May I get ye somethin’ to drink, m’lord?” the butler asked. “A dram of Scottish whisky, perhaps, to warm ye?”

“Yes, that would be—”

A sudden noise—like someone shouting, but from some distance away—caught George by surprise. “What was that?” he asked.

The butler rolled his eyes in annoyance. “I must go, m’lord,” he said, hobbling on his shaky legs to the door. “I’ll be back with yer drink soon as I can.” And he was gone.

The shouting continued for a long time, although George could not distinguish any words. When silence at last fell, George expected to see the butler with his drink, but no one appeared. He paced about the room, feeling a mounting impatience. Finally, having nothing to do and no one to discuss what arrangements were being made for his accommodation, he decided to explore his surroundings for himself. His first objective was to find Timmy, ensure his comfort, and discuss plans for them to make their escape as soon as possible.

He wandered about, down one corridor and up another, glancing into the rooms he passed along the way. In one room, which he took to be a drawing room, the furnishings were covered with sheets. Another room was unmistakably a library. The tables and chairs were not covered with dust sheets, but there was no fire burning in the hearth. Why, he wondered, did everything seem so unused?

At last he found a back stairway leading down. He descended and, following the smell of baking bread, soon located the servants’ dining room. He paused in the doorway. Inside, Timmy sat at the end of a long table, eating some bread and cheese. A housemaid was just entering from the kitchen with a steaming pot of tea and a mug. At the sight of George in the doorway, she gasped.

Timmy looked up. “Yer lordship!” he cried, jumping to his feet. “I been wonderin’ where they were hidin’ ye.”

“Sit down, man, sit down,” George said, entering. “I was wondering the same about you.” He dropped down on a chair beside Timmy and looked up at the maid, who was gaping at him in astonishment. “If that’s some hot tea,” he said to her, “I’d be obliged if you’d get me a cup. I’m chilled through.”

Nervously, she immediately set the pot and mug in front of him.

“No, that’s for my man,” George told her, pushing the tea things over to Timmy. “Can you get a cup for me?”

The overwhelmed maid, who’d never before come face-to-face with a “nob”—and down here belowstairs, no less!—merely gulped, nodded, and hurried off.

Timmy looked after her with a leer, for the girl was a shapely little morsel. Then he turned back to George, shaking his head in disgust. “I ain’t never seen a place like this’n afore,” he said. “ ‘Ere is this big table, wi’ seats fer at least a dozen, but there’s mebbe six on the staff o’ this entire ‘ouse.”

“Six? Is that all?” George asked. “Are you sure?”

“There’s McTavish the butler,” Timmy said, counting on his fingers, “an’ the coachman—Mr. Shotton is ‘is name, an’ ‘e tole me there’s no one but ‘im workin’ in the stables—an’ I think Sir Andrew, Miz Henshaw’s uncle, might ‘ave a valet, an’ there’s Bridie, o’ course, an’ the ‘ousekeeper, Mrs. Nicol. That’s five. An ‘er”— he jerked his thumb in the direction in which the maid had disappeared, the scull’ry—” ‘er name’s Peggy.”

“It hasn’t taken you long to learn pretty Peggy’s name,” George teased.

Timmy laughed. “No one’s ever called Timmy Noakes a slow-top. But they’ve got ‘er runnin’ about so busy I cain’t get ‘er alone fer a second.”

“I’m not surprised, with only six in help. This house in enormous. Leyton Abbey isn’t as large as this, and they have a staff of twenty or more,” George mused, half to himself. “I don’t see how they can manage here.”

“I don’t neither,” Timmy said. “Mus’ be that this ‘ere Sir Andrew is tight wi’ ‘is brass.”

“Perhaps,” George said with a dismissive wave, feeling uncomfortable about speaking ill of his host, “but that’s not why I came looking for you. First of all, I want to know if you’re being treated well.”

Timmy shrugged. “Well enough, I s’ppose. My room ‘as a fire an’ a decent bed.” His eyes gleamed mischievously. “An’ wi’ any luck, big enough fer two.”

“Good, then. You’d best work quickly, for we’re here only for one night, after all. That is, if the weather clears. I’d like to leave tomorrow, if at all possible.”

“I dunno,” Timmy said doubtfully and pointed at something behind George’s head. “Look at that.”

George turned to look. What Timmy had indicated was a little window, high on the wall behind him. It was almost completely covered with snow. “Oh, blast!” George swore. “The roads will probably be impassable tomorrow.”

It was dispiriting to realize that he might have to spend more than one night in this ramshackle place. Even the mug of steaming-hot tea that the pretty scullery maid set before him could not dispel the feeling of gloom that overwhelmed him. What troubled him most was that he was helpless to do anything—either about the weather or his depressing surroundings. There was nothing he could do but return upstairs to find the butler. In his state of frustration, he wanted nothing more than to throw himself on a soft mattress, bury himself under a comforter, and forget his misery in sleep. He could only hope that he, too, would be given a room with a fire and a decent bed.

SEVENTEEN

To
his surprise, his room, when he was finally brought to it, was rather splendid. It was in a tower, with windows surrounding him on three sides. The view, he thought, would be vast and probably magnificent once the storm had cleared and visibility restored. The one windowless wall held a large fireplace, a wardrobe, and a huge, canopied bed fitted with velvet draperies and satin bedclothes. The draperies were obviously old and worn, but they were clean. The room, too, from the polished windowsills to the brick hearth, was spotless. And his few belongings had been taken from the phaeton and hung in the wardrobe. Although there seemed to be an insufficiency of household help, it was clear that someone had carefully prepared this room for him.

Despite the decaying luxury of the room, it felt like a prison to him.
What am I to do cooped up in here?
he asked himself.
And how long will this blasted storm last?
As he stared out at the snow-misted expanse spread out below him, he wondered how he could pass the time. There might be a billiard room somewhere downstairs, he supposed, where he could while away a few hours. And there was the library. He didn’t think there could be any objection to his borrowing a book. But what bothered him most at this moment was simply that he was hungry. He hadn’t eaten anything all day, and the cup of tea he’d had downstairs could scarcely be called a meal. A glance at his pocket watch told him it was past seven. Would it be presumptuous for an uninvited house guest to request some sustenance?

Just as the question occurred to him, there was a tap at the door. He opened it to find McTavish standing there. The bent old fellow’s chest was heaving from his climb up to the tower. “Miss Livy sent me,” he said between short breaths, “to request that ye join her for dinner.”

“Thank you. That is most kind of her.” George, though more than eager to dine, was uncertain of the requirements of dining in this household. “I’d be happy to accept,” he told the butler, “but I’m afraid I have no dinner clothes with me.”

“We dinna stand on ceremony here, m’lord,” the butler assured him. “We’re always informal. Dressin’ fer dinner ain’t necessary. If ye’ll follow me...”

The butler led him down to a small room that had probably been intended as a morning room but was more than sufficient as a dining room for a small group. George noted that the round table in the center of the room was set for two. Livy was standing at the fireplace looking down at the flames, but she turned at once when McTavish announced him. “George!” she said with a small smile and held out her hand.

George studied her as he raised her hand to his lips. She was pale, and dark circles underlined her eyes. That irritating widow’s cap still covered all her hair, and she still wore the muslin dress she’d had on all during the trip. She looked strained. “Livy, my dear,” he said in a tone of sincere sympathy, “you look exhausted. Are you all right?”