A young man wearing riding clothes was walking past her, obviously trying to be quiet, but he’d stepped on a twig. “I was trying to be quiet,” he said, “but I didn’t make it.” He looked at her in speculation. “Do I know you?”
“No,” she said, looking at him. He looked a bit like Jerry Longstreet, only more handsome, more refined, not so…oh dear, her class system was intact. This young man looked to be of a higher class than Jerry. “Your name isn’t by chance Longstreet, is it?”
His eyes widened. “You’re either a soothsayer or a distant cousin. I do hope it’s the latter and not the former.”
She smiled. “Neither. I’m a research assistant to a man who bought a house in the village of Margate. It’s—”
“Priory House,” he said.
“Yes. Do you know of it?”
“Only where it concerns my relatives. In the 1870s a man named Hugh Longstreet wanted to buy it.”
“So much so that he tried to force a marriage between his son and the daughter of the owner of Priory House,” she said, testing him to see how much he knew.
“What I was told was that ‘force’ isn’t the right word. I heard it was a love match.”
Nigh sat up straighter on the bench. “That’s what I heard too, but what was your source?” She couldn’t very well tell him her source was a couple of ghosts.
He smiled at her in a way that made her smile back. “That would be revealing family secrets, wouldn’t it?”
Nigh looked toward the front of the church, but there was no sign of Jace. “Are you busy right now? I’d love to ask you a few questions.”
“You sound like a reporter,” he said as he sat down beside her.
“Guilty.” She turned to face him, her back to the front of the church. “I’d love to hear everything you know about Danny Longstreet and his father and Priory House, and anything else you can tell me. Oh, by the way, my name is Nigh Smythe.”
“And ‘Nigh’ is short for…?”
“Nightingale,” she said, and as always felt a bit embarrassed by the name.
“Like Ann Nightingale Stuart?” he asked softly. “Are you related to her?”
“My mother said we were, but I don’t know how we could be. My mother came from Yorkshire.”
“But that’s very possible. Didn’t you know that Ann’s father sold Priory House after Ann…died, and he moved north and remarried? I think it may have been Yorkshire where he went, but I’m not sure of it. I think he had more children as his second wife was quite young.”
Nigh blinked at him for a moment. She’d never been much interested in genealogy and so hadn’t asked her mother much about her grandparents. They were dead by the time Nigh was three, so she didn’t remember seeing them. It was interesting to find out that it could be true that she was related to the Stuarts.
“I think it would be too much of a coincidence that a descendant of Arthur Stuart’s second marriage would end up in tiny Margate,” she said.
“Unless she went there on purpose,” he said. “Was your mother interested in family history? Maybe she went to Margate to do some family research.”
“That’s highly likely,” Nigh said and felt a wave of guilt wash over her. Her mother had been very interested in family history, but her daughter hadn’t been. In fact, Nigh remembered groaning and being a pest when her mother got out her “box of the old ones,” as Nigh and her father called it.
She turned her attention back to the man. A reporter learned to focus on the person he was interviewing rather than himself. “I’m staying at Tolben Hall.”
“Beautiful, isn’t it? Hugh bought it after Ann’s death, but he didn’t live long enough to enjoy it.”
“Why did Hugh Longstreet want Priory House so much?”
“It was his life’s dream. Actually, it’s what fueled his life. His wanting Priory House was what drove him into becoming a millionaire.” He paused and smiled at her. “I think I’m boring you.”
“Not at all,” she said honestly.
“Is that your young man?”
Turning, she saw Jace standing at the corner of the church, talking to the vicar. She raised her hand to him and he nodded, then she turned back to her new friend. “Why was the house Hugh’s lifelong dream?”
“His mother had been a housekeeper there. It was said that…no, I’ll bore you.”
“I promise you won’t.”
“It’s just a silly story, a bit like Dickens. When Hugh was a young man, it was said that he found out that his mother was much more than just a housekeeper to the owner of Priory House. It was possible, even probable, that the owner was his father. It was also said that on the day he found out, Hugh stole half the Stuart family silver and ran away to America. I was told that Hugh dedicated his entire life to one thing, and that was to owning Priory House.”
“But Arthur wouldn’t sell it to him,” Nigh said.
“Correct. Arthur had been a little boy when Hugh lived there and Hugh had…shall we say, been unkind to him.”
“Tortured him mercilessly, did he?”
“Without letup,” he said, smiling. “So Arthur wanted to get him back. Besides, Arthur was an angry, bitter man. His father had told him to marry for money, but Arthur had married for love, to a penniless daughter of a vicar. She died less than a year later.”
“Giving birth to Ann,” Nigh said.
“Yes. Arthur could hardly stand the sight of his daughter.”
“He kept her so imprisoned when she was a child that the villagers thought she was deformed,” Nigh said.
“Exactly.”
“Then Hugh Longstreet and his handsome son came along and they made a deal.”
“Yes. It was a deal that took months to negotiate. Arthur was going to continue to live at Priory House after the sale, but Hugh didn’t care who lived there. He just wanted to own that house that should have been his by birth because he was Arthur’s older brother.”
“What about Ann and Danny?”
“Ah,” the man said, smiling brighter. “There are sometimes true wonders in this world. On the surface, there were no more mismatched people in the world than Ann Stuart and Danny Longstreet. She was all refinement and quiet graces, while he was—”
“Wild and devil-may-care. A descendant of his lives in Margate and I know him well.”
“Does he?” the young man said with interest. “He must be descended from…”
“Danny’s illegitimate child.”
“Ah, yes, that,” he said, ducking his head for a moment. “Danny was rich and handsome, and women old and young adored him.”
Nigh laughed. “Sounds like Jerry, but maybe Danny was a bit brighter.”
“He wasn’t stupid, if that’s what you mean,” he snapped.
“Sorry,” Nigh said. “I meant no offense.”
“I am the one to apologize. Danny’s mother was from an impoverished but upper-crust Boston family, and his father was half aristocracy with a working-class mother. Danny had a lot of different blood in his veins, and Ann brought out the best in him. While their fathers spent months haggling over who owned what furniture, Danny and Ann were free to be together. Their knowledge of the world overlapped on no points, so there was no competition between them. She taught him poetry and flowers, and he taught her…” For a moment, he closed his eyes as he thought.
“Raw, rough sex,” Nigh said, laughing.
The man turned to her with a face full of anger. “Don’t say that! Danny respected Ann. He never touched her except for a few chaste kisses.”
Nigh sat up straighter, moving away from the young man a bit. She was glad it was daylight and that she was in public and that Jace was nearby. She glanced over her shoulder. He was no longer with the vicar but standing by the corner of the church, leaning against the wall and watching her. She thought of motioning for him to come over, but she feared that the young man would quit telling her about Ann and Danny. But she was glad Jace was close.
She turned back t
o the man. “I apologize. I guess I’m confusing our low morals with their high morals.”
“I’m sorry. Again, I’m the one to apologize. I’ve had a long time to think about all this and the injustice of it still angers me.”
“I agree. I, we, don’t think Ann killed herself.”
“Of course she didn’t. She was in love with Danny and he with her. They were longing to get married.”
“Then who killed her?”
“My guess is it was the girl in the village.”
“Ah. The mother of Danny’s child.”
The young man grimaced. “Too much gin, too much song, too much of loving a woman he couldn’t touch. An accident. The result was unfortunate.”
“And you think she killed Ann.”
“Yes, I do. There was no proof, but her cousin Catherine said that a piece of candy was found on the floor of Ann’s room. The woman in the village worked in a candy factory.”
“How awful,” Nigh said. “Poor Ann. She was believed to be a suicide and buried outside the churchyard.”
“Yes,” he said, his mouth in a tight line. “Absolutely no one could believe that a lady like Ann could love an American lout like Danny Longstreet. No one questioned that she’d killed herself rather than marry him.”
“Poor Danny. Do you know what happened to him?”
“Stayed drunk for a week, then left Margate with his father and never returned.”
“But he supported his child,” Nigh said. “And he let it carry his name.” Turning, she glanced at Jace, still standing against the wall, still watching her with unblinking intensity. She couldn’t read his expression. Was he, in some odd way, jealous that she was talking to another man? Why didn’t he come over to be introduced?
Nigh looked back at the young man. “I didn’t get your first name.”
Abruptly, he stood up. “Your young man is getting impatient, and I must be off. Did you know that you look a bit like Ann?”
“How do you know that? I thought all likenesses of her were destroyed by her father.”
“Danny had one and it stayed with him.”
“Is it at your house? Do you have it here? I’d very much like to see it.”
“Look in Tolben Hall. You’ll see it.” He glanced over Nigh’s shoulder. “The vicar comes. I must go.”
Nigh looked back and saw the vicar standing with Jace, his hands full of papers, and looking at her. She lifted her hand to him, then looked back at the young man, but he was gone. Rats! She’d wanted him to meet Jace so they could exchange information. She hurried after him, running to the gate, but she didn’t see him. She looked up and down the street, but he wasn’t there.
Shrugging, she went back to Jace and the vicar.
“You must be Miss Smythe,” the vicar said. “And my name is Innis. I’m told you’re researching the people who used to own Tolben Hall.”
“Yes,” Nigh said, smiling and shaking his hand. “I just met—Ow!” she said when Jace’s fingertips bit into her arm.
“Ankle,” Jace said when the vicar looked concerned about her yelp of pain. “Father Innis was telling me that no Longstreets live here. Danny and his father came, bought Tolben Hall, then both of them died without issue.”
“But I was just—”
“I do thank you for all this,” Jace said loudly, cutting Nigh off. “The photocopies will help us a lot, I’m sure of it.”
“As I told you, most of what little there is left is at Tolben Hall.”
“Yes, Mrs. Fenney said she’d get the box of papers and we could see them today after lunch. By the way, I wondered if there was a place we could get takeout. We’ll go back to Tolben Hall to eat.”
Nigh said nothing to any of the plans Jace was making without consulting her. It had taken fingertips in her arm and a rude cut-off, but she now realized that Jace didn’t want her to mention the young man she’d been talking to. He was a Longstreet, but the vicar said that no Longstreets lived in the village. Was he visiting? On the other hand, the young man had run away as soon as he saw the vicar. What in the world was going on?
She only vaguely listened as the vicar gave Jace directions to a couple of shops where they could get food to take back to the B and B.
As soon as they were out of earshot, she turned on him. “What was that about? Why did you cut me off like that?”
“I didn’t want you to talk to the vicar about the man you were talking to.”
“But why—? Oh, I see. Secrecy. Keep what we’re doing to ourselves, that sort of thing.”
“Sort of,” he said, not meeting her eyes.
Minutes later, they were walking back through the village and stopping in the different shops and loading up on fruit and chicken pies and bottled juice. They also got some little chocolate cakes filled with cream.
“We’re going to get fat,” Nigh said, smiling, feeling good because she had lots of information to tell him.
“I think we’re going to need the chocolate,” he said under his breath. “Endorphins. We’ll need them. I think I’ll get a bottle of wine—or two or three. Maybe some whiskey. Do you like single malt?”
“No. Too strong for me. What in the world is wrong with you? I mean, I know you’re the moodiest person on earth, but—”
“Moody? I’m not moody!”
“No? So tell me why you bought Priory House.”
He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. “How about gin? Do you like that?”
“Why are you trying to get me drunk?” She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively at him.
“Not for that reason. I just want to calm you down.”
“Calm me down from what?”
“Nothing. Forget I said that.” He handed his credit card to the wine merchant. “So who were you talking to at the church?”
“A very nice young man. You were rude. Why didn’t you come over to be introduced?”
“I didn’t want to interrupt you. Who was he?”
She waited until they were on the sidewalk again. “A Longstreet. He’s a descendant of Danny Longstreet, and he lives near here.”
“Didn’t the vicar say that no Longstreets lived in the village?”
“Yes, and I thought that was odd. Even odder was that when the young man saw the vicar he jumped up and ran away. It was almost as though he was afraid of him.”
“Or of holy water,” Jace mumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing. What did you two talk about?”
They were walking down the road toward Tolben Hall, Jace carrying the heavy packages, Nigh with the lighter ones. “Sex,” she said.
Jace didn’t smile, but kept his head down, as though he was listening intently to every word she said. “What else? And sex in what context?”
“I believe the term we used was ‘raw, rough sex.’”
“What else?” Jace asked solemnly.
Obviously, she thought, she wasn’t going to make him jealous, so she gave up. It was nearly a mile walk back to the B and B, and Nigh talked nonstop, telling Jace everything she could think of that the young man had said.
“But you didn’t get his full name?”
“I meant to, but I was so fascinated with what he was saying that I forgot to ask. I did ask him if he was a Longstreet and he said yes. I’m sure that if we used the directories on the Internet we could find his address.”
“I think I know exactly where he lives,” Jace said.
“And how could you know that?”
“It’s in the papers I got from the vicar. He photocopied some registers for me that show some deaths.”
“What does that have to do with this young man?”
“He, uh…” Jace trailed off, not answering her question. “Poor Danny Longstreet. I bet he tried to tell people that Ann had been murdered, but what could he do? Tell them the person who killed Ann was the mother of his child?”
“True,” Nigh said. “If he’d sent the woman to the gallows, what would have become of the child? I
f Danny had taken the child, he might have been in the same situation as Ann’s father. The child would remind him of Ann’s death.”
“There wasn’t any good part of any of it,” Jace said.
“Poor virgin Ann, and miserable Danny. All because Danny got drunk one night.”
“I think everyone except Ann was at fault. She was the only truly innocent person in all of it.”
They could see Tolben Hall through the trees.
“So this Longstreet guy said you look like Ann?”
“Yes, and that there’s a picture of her somewhere in Tolben Hall.”
Jace groaned. “Hidden under floorboards in the closet? Move the shoes, take a screwdriver to the board?”
Nigh looked at him curiously, and when he turned his head away, she was even more curious. “I hope it’s hanging on the wall. I saw lots of little Victorian knickknacks around.”
“Yes, there are a lot of Victorian things around,” he said. “Things and people.”
14
I don’t believe you,” Nigh said, glaring at him.
They were in her bedroom at Tolben Hall and spread on the little table were the contents of the box Mrs. Fenney had lent them. There wasn’t much in it, just a few business letters from Hugh Longstreet, and a ledger of the cost of running the place for one year. There were no personal papers, no delicious letters of love sent by Ann to Danny.
The only thing of interest was on the very bottom of the box. It was a photo of a young man, leaning against a tree, and looking at the photographer as though he thought the whole world was for his enjoyment.
“That’s him,” Nigh said, picking up the photo. “I mean, it’s not him, I know this has to be Danny, but he’s a dead ringer for the man I talked to today. The Longstreets have strong genes if they can pass down their looks so completely. It’s as if the women of the last few generations had nothing to do with the children.”
She handed the photo to Jace. “That looks like him, doesn’t it?” When Jace said nothing, Nigh frowned. “You saw him and it looks just like him, doesn’t it?”
“I would imagine it looks just like him,” Jace said quietly.
“And what is that supposed to mean? You would imagine? What did you see?”