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‘The truth is I’m glad you’re here, Chase. Don’t take it wrong, but I think Aunt Ermy might resent me and Ellie less if she has you to dislike. Ellie isn’t precisely the type of biddable females Aunt is used to.’
Chase smiled despite himself and rubbed the sore spot on his thigh. That was a mistake, as the memory of their near tumble down the stairs woke other aspects of his anatomy. Her mercurial transformation from ice maiden to scolding hellcat was a very enticing combination, dowdy or not.
‘You just might be luckier than you deserve, Henry.’
Henry stood and stretched.
‘I know. She’s a good ’un. Well, goodnight, Chase. I must rise at dawn for some absurd reason to do with sheep and pastures.’
‘You won’t object to Miss Walsh helping me in the East Wing?’
Henry yawned and wandered towards the door.
‘No, she will enjoy rooting through Uncle’s rubbish heaps. She likes books and things.’
‘Aren’t you worried I might take advantage of her?’
Henry’s laughter trailed back from the hallway and was swallowed by another jaw-cracking yawn.
‘She can keep you in line, believe me. G’night, Chase.’
Chapter Four (#ue50fdf6f-7dac-5c95-9e86-65b699c50dce)
Two steps into the passage connecting the East Wing to the rest of the Manor, Ellie understood why the servants were so reluctant to enter the previous Lord Huxley’s domain. The passage walls were lined by glass-fronted cabinets crowded with a bizarre and unsettling collection of masks, jars, figurines and other artefacts.
Like a child witnessing something she knew was forbidden, she was drawn inexorably by a collection of jars filled with viscous fluids and what appeared to be lizards or snakes or...something.
She approached cautiously and rose on tiptoe to make out the contents of a particularly large glass jar with a purplish mass inside. It looked horrid, but her disgust wasn’t sufficient to counter her curiosity and her hand rose towards the latch securing the cabinet door.
‘Careful.’
She jerked away from the voice directly behind her, her hands flying out to stop her descent towards the cabinet, and an arm closed about her waist, pulling her back.
‘Trust me, you don’t want to bring that lot crashing down on us. I’ve already torn one pair of trousers because of you and I don’t want to sacrifice another.’ His breath was warm against her ear and temple as he held her against him and again she felt the unravelling of heat, her body exploring the points of contact with his as it had yesterday. It was foreign and unwelcome, but too powerful to reason away.
Like other unwelcome realities of life, she allowed it to present itself fully before she set about beating it back. Piece by piece. She began by prying his hand from her waist, which was perhaps a mistake because his hand felt just as warm and strong under hers as it felt against her waist. She dropped it and moved away, focusing on the disgusting object in the jar.
‘What is that?’
‘That is...or rather was an Egyptian cat. A mummified one. My cousin thought it might be interesting to see what would happen if he rehydrated a mummy.’
She moved away, feeling a little ill.
‘That is horrid. Why is it purple?’
‘The gauze around the mummy was decorated with indigo. It is a rather dominant colour.’
‘Why on earth would they do that to a cat?’
‘Cats were considered sacred in ancient Egypt. One of their gods, Bastet, even had the form of a cat and not far from where we lived in Egypt there was a cemetery dedicated solely to felines. Did you know it was said that if a house cat died a natural death the members of the household must shave their eyebrows?’
She touched the tip of her own eyebrow and he smiled. She took another step back.
‘That sounds rather extreme.’
‘No more than many religious practices and far less violent than some.’
‘True. What will you do with this relative of...Bastet?’
‘I think I shall donate her to the Museum. Along with her amphibian friends.’
‘Amphibian? Are those frogs?’
His smile widened at the revulsion in her voice.
‘Huxley was in his biblical phase at the time and was fascinated by the ten plagues of Egypt. Luckily, he confined himself to mostly frogs and locusts and avoided boils and the like. Would you care to see the locusts?’
She backed away yet another step, shaking her head, all too aware she was giving him fodder for his teasing, but the sight of that gelatinous feline was defeating her attempt to remain cool and collected.
‘Here,’ he said, moving forward. He twitched a string and a blind descended over the cabinet, hiding the most offensive sights from view. ‘Huxley wasn’t immune to their grisliness, though they did serve to keep other members of the Manor away. I’ll have them packed and removed first thing. Meanwhile you can help me in the study. There is nothing more terrifying there than reams of scribbles and more salacious Latin tomes.’
She followed, both resentful and grateful for his casual acceptance of her queasiness. She did not like being considered weak in any way.
The study was surprisingly small after the imposing passage, though the bookcases and the cherrywood desk were covered with haphazard stacks of books, bound notebooks, and papers. Chase went to stand by the desk, frowning as he leafed through one of the notebooks.
‘How may I help?’ she asked, clasping her hands before her.
‘Do you wish to? Or was this merely a ploy to escape from Aunt Ermy’s despotic influence?’
‘She clearly hates it when you call her that. But then I reckon you are aware of that. And delight in it.’
‘Delight is a word I prefer to save for more suitable subjects. My irreverence keeps her at bay and that is all I ask.’
‘Are you always so blunt?’
‘It saves time and effort.’
‘For you, perhaps.’
‘That is the whole point.’
She sighed and turned to survey the desk, frowning at the chaos.
‘What is it we need to do?’
‘You need to do nothing but hide until Ermy tires of toying with you, but I must begin working on this paper labyrinth. Go refresh your memory of Ars Amatoria. It is somewhere on the far shelf with the other immoral ancients. Just don’t tell Henry; he won’t thank me for colluding with your efforts to keep him on a short leading string.’
‘I am not Fenella, you needn’t expend so much effort trying to shock me, Mr Sinclair. If you wish to keep me at bay, you have only to ask.’
‘Do you really wish to help?’
‘I may as well be of use. And this place clearly needs a great deal of work if it is to be approached properly.’
‘That sounds intriguing. How would one approach it improperly?’
She really should know better than to encourage someone like Chase Sinclair, but she could not stop her smile.
‘You are giving a fair example of just that, Mr Sinclair. I do wish to help, if you feel I can be of use.’
It was the first time she had seen him smile without calculation or mocking and she wished she had not prompted the change. It was like the morning mist clearing outside Whitworth, revealing soft fields sparkling with wildflowers and dew—a moment of clear beauty, suspended and unique.
Even for a rake he was disconcertingly handsome, his face worthy of a renaissance sculpture, all sharp angles and hard planes, its harshness softened only by the fullness of his lower lip and the lines of laughter and mockery at the corners of his steel-grey eyes.
She was surprised Drusilla and Fenella weren’t infatuated with this unfairly endowed specimen of manhood, or perhaps they had once been and his light-hearted teasing cured them—he might look like a fairy-tale hero, or perhaps even a villain, but he certainly did not act like one. Heroes tended to take themselves seriously, but Chase Sinclair did not appear to take anything seriously, least of all himself.
But as she waited for his response, she again felt the presence of an inner shadow, as if another person entirely was moving behind the handsome façade, considering how to wield it to his advantage.
‘Very well,’ he said at last, placing his hand on a stack of slim leather-bound books on the desk. ‘These notebooks contain my cousin’s accounts of his travels in Egypt. All the years I knew him he always kept them in order and in custom-made trunks, but as you can see that is no longer the case.’
Ellie glanced from the stack on the desk to the shelves he indicated and realised they, too, were populated not only by books and curios, but also stacks of brown-leather volumes.
‘My goodness, there are hundreds of them!’
‘Possibly. I would like to send them to my sister at Sinclair Hall, but first I want to put them in order, so I can ascertain if any are missing and hunt them down in this paper bog Huxley created. I wonder what Mallory was up to allow matters to deteriorate like this. He was always a stickler for neatness.’
‘Are you speaking of Mr Mallory? His secretary?’
‘Yes. Do you know him?’
She smiled. ‘Why, yes. Well, not very well. I met him on two occasions when he visited Henry’s father before he passed away. He did strike me as a very competent and serious young man. I do hope the notebooks are dated, at least?’
‘The notebooks aren’t, but the entries are, so with some you may have to leaf through them to find a dated entry. If you prefer not to...’
Ellie planted her hands on her hips. It would be a relief to do something useful to keep her mind off her woes.
‘I shall be happy to help. I shall need some pen and paper so I can keep a record of the ones I have and perhaps separate them by year or month. And I think I will insert a sheet of paper at the beginning of each with its date and some reference to the notebooks which precede and follow it as I find them. Once I complete that stage, I will compile a catalogue so we can see which volumes are missing.’
She turned to see if her plan met with his approval, just in time to see his smile tucked away.
‘Did I say something amusing, Mr Sinclair?’
‘Not at all. You are the very model of good sense, Miss Walsh, and I commend your plan of attack. Mallory would approve. Pen and paper you shall have.’
‘What shall I do with these strips of paper?’ Ellie asked as she picked up one of the notebook with two notes dangling like pennants from between the pages.
‘Leave them. No, in fact, if you find anything, bring it to me.’
* * *
‘Oh, look!’
Chase looked. It was the third time that expletive had burst from Miss Walsh’s lips in as many hours, accompanied by a look of delight that was beginning to grate on his nerves. Not that it was not a charming sight—her mouth softening into her rare smile and her eyes widened and lit with joy, turning them from mere brown to warm honey flaked with dancing sparks of gold and the tiny glimmer of green around the iris.
For the third time Chase found his attention wholly captured by her excitement. This time he tried for dismissiveness.
‘What have you found tucked inside his notebooks now? Another mouldering pressed daisy? An ancient Egyptian shopping list, perhaps? For ten yards of mummy wrappings and a sheave of papyrus?’
‘No. This was under the notebooks and it looks quite old.’ She approached the desk, holding a small leather-bound book with the gentleness of a lepidopterist balancing a rare butterfly on her palm. He took it just as carefully, memories flooding back.
‘You are right; it is very old. It is a book of hours given to my cousin by a friend of his, Fanous, an abbot at a Coptic monastery near his house in Qetara.’
‘It is exquisite.’
It was indeed exquisite. A monk had probably toiled for months over the detailed illustrations and squiggly Coptic letters. The picture was of a man and a woman in medieval garb standing hand-fasted and heads bowed, either in joint prayer or in mutual embarrassment. He could almost feel the tension between them and he breathed in, surprised at his unusually sentimental interpretation of the image.
‘It is a wedding, I think,’ she said, her voice low and serious. ‘Look here in the corner, that is the priest and those tables might signify a wedding feast. Those look like greenish pumpkins.’
‘Either that or rotund babes. Those two clearly look as if they have anticipated their wedding vows.’
Her mouth quirked almost into a smile and she tucked a strand of light-brown hair behind her ear as she leaned over him to turn the page.
Unlike Dru and Fen she didn’t dress or curl her hair, just dragged it back into a mercilessly regimented bun that did nothing to enliven her looks. But the deeper she delved into the notebooks, the more she unravelled. Her bun was slowly loosening its hold and though she kept tucking the escaping strands of hair behind her ears, they rarely stayed there, adding character and life to her face.
‘See? These are their children, helping with the harvest.’ Her voice was low and warm, lost in the imaginary world she concocted from the colourful illustrations. This is probably how she saw her little world with Henry—a safe, bucolic haven surrounded by gambolling lambs and sandy-haired babes or honey-eyed little girls with determined brows and far too much intelligence for comfort. Reality, as he knew only too well, was unlikely to be as pleasant.
She turned another page and caught a slip of paper before it fluttered to the ground. It was covered in Huxley’s scrawl and before he could take it she read it aloud, a frown in her voice.
‘“Fanous as Jephteh? Who else knew him?” Does that mean anything to you, Mr Sinclair? Or this list of letters? “J... M... P... S... C... E...at bull & pyramid”. How peculiar. It almost sounds like the name of an inn...you know, like the Horse and Plough, or the Lamb and Eagle.’
Her eyes were alight with interest and Chase took the note, adding it to the growing stack he’d been collecting. Nothing so far appeared to shed any light on Huxley’s request. He was beginning to wonder if Huxley’s last letter was merely the sign of a decaying mind and odd fancies. The untidiness of the study and Folly appeared to support that possibility.
Mallory should be able to clear up this conundrum, but according to Pruitt he left just two days before Huxley’s death to destinations unknown which was also peculiar, to say the least. Not that he suspected Mallory of anything improper. Huxley had taken him on as secretary when he was still a young man and he was as straight as an arrow, but it was still strange he’d disappeared so abruptly and not yet returned. Chase hoped the message he’d sent to his Uncle Oswald to have someone trace Mallory would settle that problem, but meanwhile all he could do was continue sifting through his cousin’s remains and hope something pointed him in the right direction.
So far the only items of interest were these peculiar notes such as the one Miss Walsh had just found, though they, too, probably meant absolutely nothing. Yet something about the letter and the peculiar disorder in the study bothered him.
And it was, unfortunately, not the only thing bothering him.
At the moment the more potent disturbance was Miss Walsh herself. Her excited ‘Oh, look!’ was bad enough when directed at him across the expanse of the desk. But having her a mere hand’s length away was proving more distracting than he would have thought possible.
Not that she appeared to share his discomfort in the least. She was wholly engrossed in the note, her finger gently tracing the letters so that he could almost feel the rasp of her finger on the paper.
He held himself still, resisting the urge to take advantage of the little book to lean closer to her. This close he could see where the well-worn muslin fabric curved over her breasts and hips. Even in that dowdy dress it was evident she had lovely breasts, not too small, not too large. His hands heated at the thought of how well they would fit in his palms, wondering whether they would be cool or warm, what colour her...
He cleared his throat, focusing on the fragile book. His imagination was always fertile, but it usually waited for more suitable subjects for its flights of fancy.
He reached for the scribbled strip of paper and, though he had not actively intended to, his arm brushed hers. He drew back, feeling stifled.
‘I’ll take that. And we had best return to our task if we are ever to finish.’
