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“He’s been home every night since Aunt Ardis left, and it’s been ever so nice. He lets us eat dinner with him, and we talk about all sorts of things. It wasn’t as good as being with Papa, but it reminded me of home, a little....” Olivia’s voice trailed off wistfully.
Cassandra felt tears spring into her eyes. “I know, Olivia. I miss him, too.”
“It was bang-up!” Hart, who had enjoyed his uncle’s discussion of his hunting dogs far more than his father’s scholarly ramblings, added, “He said he would take us hunting with him next time he went to Buckinghamshire, if Aunt Ardis will let him.”
“Hah! Let us have fun? Not likely.”
“Now, hush, Crispin. Aunt Ardis might be well pleased to have the two of you out of the house. I shall endeavor to point out the advantages in terms of dirt and noise of having two twelve-year-olds gone from here.”
“Would you?” The twins’ expressions brightened. In their experience, Cassandra was able to do anything she put her mind to. It had been she who had always made the household budget stretch to include entertaining outings or a pony to ride or a cricket bat to replace the broken one.
“Of course I will. I’m not promising, mind you....”
“I know.” Crispin nodded gravely. A more serious boy than his twin, he realized better than Hart that Cassandra’s ingenuity and intelligence were not always sufficient weapons against their aunt’s power.
“Forget the silly hunting!” Olivia said impatiently. “Tell us what happened at the house party, Cassandra.”
“Did you meet Sir Philip?” Hart stuck in eagerly. “Is he going to help us?”
“Just a minute. I shall tell you all about it later. Let’s go in now and let me say hello to Uncle Barlow.”
She did as she said, noticing with amusement that her poor uncle did indeed look like a trapped hare as he stood in the entryway listening to his wife’s strictures on the excessive number of candles that had been lit throughout the house.
“Why, I could see from the carriage that the nursery was lit up like Christmas,” Aunt Ardis was saying as the Verreres walked in. “There is no reason for that. The children ought to be in bed anyway.”
“It didn’t seem much light to me.” Uncle Barlow tried to defend himself. “There was Olivia trying to read by the light of one candle, and she mustn’t strain those pretty eyes, you know.” He smiled benignly at his niece, not realizing, even after years of living with Ardis, that he was saying exactly the wrong thing. “Those eyes will be her fortune.”
“What nonsense! Olivia shouldn’t be reading all those heathen books, anyway,” Aunt Ardis sniffed, frowning toward her younger niece. “Olivia, straighten your skirts, you look like a hoyden. And your hair is all everywhere.”
“Yes, Aunt Ardis,” Olivia answered in a carefully colorless voice. Her high spirits had gotten her into trouble with her aunt more than once, but once she had realized how much her battles with Aunt Ardis caused Cassandra to suffer, she had learned to curb her ready tongue.
Cassandra gave her uncle a quick hug and a peck on the cheek, and whisked her brothers and sister upstairs to the bedroom shared by the two girls. The boys flopped down on the rug, and Olivia hopped onto the bed, curling her legs beneath her.
“All right,” she told her older sister eagerly. “Now tell us all. Why did Aunt Ardis come home so early?”
“Who cares about that?” Crispin retorted scornfully. “I want to hear about Sir Philip and the treasure.”
“Aunt Ardis and Joanna met with a little setback,” Cassandra told her sister, eyes twinkling, and cast a significant look at her brothers. “I shall tell you about it later.” She did not add that her younger sister would receive a carefully edited version of Joanna’s escapade.
Olivia’s eyes widened, but she made no demur as Cassandra started on the story that the brothers wanted to hear. “I am afraid the news is not good. Sir Philip refused to help us.”
Crispin groaned, and Hart sneered. “I knew we couldn’t count on a Neville. Papa always said so. You shouldn’t have asked him.”
“I don’t know how else we’re supposed to find it,” Crispin reminded him. “The Nevilles have the rest of the clues or the map or whatever it is.”
“We don’t need it,” Hart said stoutly. “Do we, Cassie? We can find it by ourselves.”
“Of course we will.” Cassandra plastered a heartening smile on her lips. “It will merely take us longer. I don’t intend to give up.”
“But how are you going to do it?” Olivia questioned. Though she had as much faith in her older sister as the twins did, she had a more practical bent of mind.
“The first thing is to find the old letters. I shall keep going over to Chesilworth every chance I get to search the attics. Once I actually have the letter in my hands, I can prove to Sir Philip that the treasure really was hidden and can be found. Then he will surely agree to help us look for it.” It was the best plan that Cassandra had been able to come up with, and though it sounded rather flimsy to her ears, she hoped it would satisfy her siblings.
“You mean he didn’t believe in the treasure?” Hart looked shocked at such heresy.
“No. He thought the diaries were something someone made up just to get Papa to buy them. He’s a very stubborn, narrow-minded man. But once he sees the evidence with his own eyes, he will have to believe me.”
“We shall help you look,” Crispin told her gravely. Though he was as high-spirited as any lad his age, he was also aware that he was now Lord Chesilworth, and he took his responsibilities seriously. While Hart might look on the hunt for the dowry as a wonderful adventure, Crispin knew that it also meant the very future of Chesilworth.
“Of course,” Olivia agreed. “Whenever that old battle-ax isn’t looking, we’ll sneak over.”
“Olivia...manners,” Cassandra reminded her absently. She smiled at her siblings, tears lurking at the corners of her eyes. “I knew I could count on you.”
Olivia bounced off the bed to hug her, and even the boys followed suit. Cassandra hugged them tightly to her, promising herself that she would not let them down. Somehow, some way, she would find those letters, and she would make Sir Philip believe her.
* * *
AUNT ARDIS DID not approve of Cassandra and her siblings visiting their old home. In the time that Cassandra had been there, the older woman had become accustomed to Cassandra’s taking from her shoulders many of the dreary tasks of running a household. As long as Cassandra stayed within her tight budget, Aunt Ardis was pleased to see the quality of their meals and the work of the servants improve. Though she told herself that of course she could have accomplished the same things had she spent the time and effort, she much preferred to spend her time on her toilette or gossiping with one of the two or three ladies in the area whom she considered of a social standing equal enough to hers.
As a result, it was most inconvenient when Cassandra took time off from her household duties to spend a whole day at Chesilworth. “I cannot imagine what you find to do there all day,” she told her niece petulantly. “The place is falling into ruins.”
Cassandra had carefully kept hidden from her aunt any hint of what they were really doing at Chesilworth. She wasn’t sure how Aunt Ardis would feel about their hunting for treasure, but she was sure that the lady would at the very least dismiss the idea as nonsense and might even go so far as to forbid her nieces and nephews from going to Chesilworth. So she replied only, “I would like to stave off the ruin if I can. I clean up a little around the place, walk through it checking for leaks—things like that.”
Her aunt looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “I would think your time would be better spent here. This is your home now.”
Cassandra curled her hands into her palms but forced her voice to remain even. “Of course, Aunt Ardis, but Chesilworth is still Crispin’s inheritance. I must try to make sure that there is something left for him when he gets older. It would be too much to ask that you and Uncle Barlow continue to bear the burden of upkeep for all four of us, even when the boys are grown.”
Aunt Ardis looked taken aback by this thought. “I—well—yes. I mean, if you must, I suppose you must. But this wanting to go every single day...”
“Only when you don’t need me, of course, Aunt Ardis.”
As it turned out, her aunt usually managed to find that she needed her three or four days a week, but the other times, Cassandra and her siblings hiked over to their old home and climbed up into the musty old attics, continuing their methodical exploration.
Cassandra did most of the work, for the boys, though eager, tended to become distracted by some odd object or other or fall into an argument over some prize they found, and Olivia, too, often grew tired and thirsty and decided to take a rest outside. Still, they did make progress, and as they worked, they found that they were moving into older and older periods of dress and furniture, which kept Cassandra’s hopes up. While Olivia whooped over the elaborate tall wigs and wide, almost-flat cages of hoops that had been worn under dresses in the 1700s, Cassandra continued doggedly to dig, thinking with determination that they were not that far away now.
She was particularly eager one morning to get over to the old mansion, but it seemed as if everything interfered with it. Her aunt wanted her to do first one thing, and then another until the morning was almost gone. Then there was a crisis belowstairs, which she was called upon to resolve. Finally, just as she was about to go upstairs and change into old clothes suitable for cleaning out the attics, the butler opened the door to the sitting room and announced that they had a visitor.
“Mr. David Miller, ma’am,” he told Aunt Ardis in a frosty accent that usually indicated he did not entirely approve of the visitor, and handed her the man’s card on a small salver.
“Who?” Aunt Ardis looked blank.
“An American, I believe, ma’am. He says—” his tone indicated his personal disbelief “—that he is related to Lord Chesilworth.”
“Lord Ch—you mean Crispin?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Aunt Ardis and Joanna turned to stare at Cassandra, who shrugged, as puzzled as they. “I have never heard of him, Aunt Ardis.”
“Well, hmm...I suppose we must see him, Soames.”
As soon as Soames was out the door, Aunt Ardis turned toward Cassandra. “An imposter?” she suggested. “An American claiming to be a relative of yours?”
“I suppose someone in the Verrere family could have emigrated,” Cassandra mused, frowning.
“No doubt he thinks that Chesilworth, just because he has a title, is a wealthy man. He’s hoping to get money out of you, mark my words.”
“He will be mightily disappointed, then,” Cassandra remarked cheerfully.
A moment later Soames reentered the room, intoning, “Mr. David Miller.”
A young man followed him into the room and paused, smiling tentatively at the three women who sat there. He was in his twenties, with sky blue eyes, a thick mop of blond hair and a rakish mustache, which Cassandra suspected he had cultivated to age his boyish countenance. He was dressed fashionably, but not glaringly so, and Cassandra judged him to be a respectably handsome man. Her opinion was confirmed by the sudden flare of interest in Joanna’s eyes.
Mr. Miller bowed to them. “Please pardon my intrusion. I know I should have written to introduce myself, but when I found myself in London with unexpected time on my hands, I was seized by the urge to meet my British cousins. I hope you will not think me overly bold.”
“Pray sit down. I am Miss Cassandra Verrere,” Cassandra introduced herself. “My brother is Lord Chesilworth, but I am afraid he is still only a lad. This is my aunt, Mrs. Moulton, and her daughter, Miss Joanna Moulton.”
The young man bowed over each of the ladies’ hands politely before taking his seat. “It is the Verreres to whom I am related—quite distantly, of course,” Mr. Miller explained eagerly. “One of my ancestors was a Verrere. She and her husband settled in Boston, oh, almost two hundred years ago.”
“What?” Cassandra stared. “But what—what was your ancestress’s name?”
“Margaret Verrere. Family legend has it that it was a most romantic affair—she eloped with a man of common birth, and they fled the wrath of her family to the colonies.”
“I cannot believe it.”
“Oh, ’tis true,” David Miller assured her earnestly.
“No, I did not mean that I don’t believe the story about Margaret Verrere. It is just that—well, it is so astonishing. You see, I have been reading her journals.”
He grinned. “Splendid. I hope you enjoyed them. I am the one who sold them to Mr. Simons. I am a merchant in Boston, and every once in a while I come to London to make purchases, see the latest things, you know. Last year I decided to bring Margaret Stone’s journals—that was her married name, you know—to London and sell them. I sold them to a bookseller named Simons. This year, when I went by to see him, just to renew the acquaintance and see whether he had sold the journals, he told me that Lord Chesilworth, a Verrere himself, had bought them. I was most pleased to hear that they had found their way back to their proper family. Of course, I realized that we must be distantly related, and, well, when I had some free time on my hands, I felt that I must make your acquaintance.”
“I am so glad that you did.”
Joanna, who had lost most of her interest in the handsome young man when she learned that he was a mere merchant from Boston, was even more bored by this talk of books and ancestors. Properly, this young man, whatever his reasons for coming to Dunsleigh, should have been so captivated by her beauty that he talked of her, not musty old journals and dull relations. She stirred restively in her seat.
“Wonderful.” Mr. Miller beamed. “I was afraid that you would find me too presumptuous. I find that the English often seem to find Americans so.”
“I am very glad to meet you. I find Margaret’s story fascinating, as did my Papa. It is he who was the Lord Chesilworth who bought them from Mr. Simons. But I am afraid that Papa passed away several months ago. He would have been so delighted to meet you. He would have had many questions about the journals.”
“Must we talk about books, Cassandra?” Joanna asked plaintively.
“I am sorry, Miss Moulton.” Miller favored her with a smile. “Indeed, no doubt you found it boring, hearing two people talk about their relatives. I take it that you are not a descendant of Margaret’s family.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea who Margaret is,” Joanna said with a little giggle that more than one swain had assured her was delightful.
“No, my cousin and aunt are not Verreres,” Cassandra explained. “We are related on my mother’s side.”
“I see.”
“But tell me, Mr. Miller, pray, how did you come upon the journals and why did you decide to sell them?” Cassandra wished that Sir Philip Neville were here now to hear the full story of the journals. He had been so certain that poor Mr. Simons had played them false—perhaps Mr. Miller could put his mind to rest about the journals’ authenticity.
“My mother died almost two years ago. It was through her that I was descended from Margaret Verrere Stone. My grandmother, her mother, had been very interested in the family history, and she had preserved many old family records—family Bibles, birth and death and wedding certificates. Anyway, she had several trunkfuls of such things, which my mother had merely stored in the attic. But then, when my mother departed this world, I was going through her things, and I came upon my grandmother’s trunks. They were stuffed with old family relics, most of which I decided to get rid of. Among those things were Margaret’s journals.”
Glassy-eyed by now, Joanna seized the opportunity of a pause in Mr. Miller’s recital to say, “Perhaps you could show Mr. Miller the garden, Cassandra. Americans are always interested in English gardens, aren’t they?”
“I am sorry, Miss Moulton. I fear I am boring you with such talk. It is just that I am so thrilled to be meeting a, well, a sort of cousin, I suppose.”
“You are right, Cousin Joanna.” For once, Cassandra thought, her cousin’s wishes and her own coincided. It was always difficult to carry on a serious conversation with Joanna around, flirting and simpering and determined to keep the conversation on the one thing that truly interested her, herself. “I would be pleased to show Mr. Miller the garden. Would you care to continue our conversation there, sir?”
He agreed with alacrity, and Cassandra led him out into the formal garden behind the house. He courteously admired the various roses, delphiniums and daisies, and then he and Cassandra settled down on the bench in the grape arbor.
“Tell me the rest of it,” Cassandra urged. “Did you read Margaret’s journals? Why did you decide to sell them?”
Miller’s blue eyes twinkled. “No doubt you will consider me a crass American, Miss Verrere, but the truth is, I have little interest in books or in searching out each twig of the family tree. I found it rather intriguing to learn that there were still Verreres here in England to whom I was distantly related, but as for studying the family history—well, I’m afraid I haven’t either the time or the inclination.” He gave her a small, self-deprecating smile.
“That is perfectly understandable. I don’t expect everyone to share my interests. So you did not read the journals?”
He shook his head. “Not really. Oh, I glanced through them, but I read very little. I didn’t know what to do with them at first. I hated to throw them away. I mean, they were so old, and I thought they must be valuable to someone. Finally one of my friends suggested that I sell them in England the next time I went. He pointed out that the English were, in general, more interested in history. He thought it would be a perfect market for old books, especially since Margaret came from here and doubtless left family behind. So I took his advice and brought them with me on my last trip to London. There, as I said, I sold them to Mr. Simons.” He smiled and added, “Actually, I tried to sell them to several book dealers, but Mr. Simons was the only one who wanted them.”
“I am so glad you did,” Cassandra told him warmly. She found herself liking Mr. Miller. He was open and direct in a way that most people never were. She wasn’t sure if it was simply an American quality or an attribute of this man. Whatever it was, she found that she could not keep from smiling back at him whenever he smiled. He was also, she thought, quite handsome—better looking, in fact, than Sir Philip Neville.
“My father was thrilled to actually get to read Margaret Verrere’s words,” she continued. “Her history—the elopement—had been a particular interest of his.”
They continued to talk for some time. He was interested in Margaret Verrere’s family, his relatives, and what had happened to them in the years since Margaret eloped. When Cassandra told him that the home in which Margaret had lived was still standing and had indeed been Cassandra’s own home until her father’s death, he was struck with awe and asked her if he might see it.
Cassandra was quite happy to show Chesilworth to him, and they went that afternoon, accompanied by the twins and Olivia, who always welcomed any excuse to get away from their aunt’s house. The twins, of course, peppered David with questions about the United States as well as the ship on which he had come to England, but he answered them all with great patience.
“Are you going to hunt for the treasure with us?” Hart asked with excitement when they reached Chesilworth.
“The what?” He looked down at the boy, startled, then over at Cassandra.
“The dowry,” Hart went on impatiently. “You know. Margaret’s dowry.”
“He’s talking about something in the journals,” Cassandra explained, adding to her brother, “Mr. Miller did not read the journals.”
“There is a treasure mentioned in them?” The American looked intrigued.
“It tells how to find it,” Crispin told him, and the two boys began to eagerly explain the existence of two maps. “One is in a letter. That’s what we are looking for in the house. The other belongs to Sir Philip, but he refuses to help us, so we are going to have to figure out how to do it ourselves.”
“A treasure hunt!” David Miller exclaimed. “How delightful. I am sorry that I cannot stay longer and help you with it.”
“Yes, that would be bang-up,” agreed Hart, who, along with Crispin had liked their American relation from the moment they met him.
“Why don’t you stay?” Crispin suggested. “Couldn’t he stay, Cassie?”
“He might not be able to, boys. Don’t plague Mr. Miller.” She turned to the man with a smile. “If you were able to stay, though, we would greatly enjoy it.”
“You tempt me.” He sighed. “But I do have business in London that I must get back for. And my ship home sails in a week.” He looked torn for a moment, then shrugged and said, “Well, perhaps I could stretch my stay to a second night.”
