Murmurs of agreement came from the three, even Lottie, who to that point had said very little. But she did seem to be highly observant, spongelike in absorbing all she saw and heard.
As if feeling Therese’s gaze, the angel’s face turned up. Lottie met Therese’s eyes, then in her high-pitched voice piped, “Miss Eugenia’s very worried, isn’t she?”
Therese reviewed all she’d seen and heard. Slowly, she nodded. “Indeed, she is.”
“She’s running that big house all by herself,” George said. “The stable boy, Terry, said the groom, Billings, said she’s at her wit’s end, what with her brother still being at the stage of playing larks rather than taking on the running of the place.”
“Hmm” was all Therese returned. Deftly, she swung the gig out of the Hall’s drive and into the lane that led through the village. Yet as they bowled down the village street—referred to as the High Street—on past the village green and the Cockspur Arms public house with its windows now shining as the evening’s gloom took hold, past the vicarage and the Church of St. Ignatius on the Hill and around the wide bend and into the drive of Hartington Manor, she was very much of the opinion that with respect to Miss Eugenia Fitzgibbon’s situation, something needed to be done.
* * *
After dinner, to which Therese had sat down with her grandchildren as a family at the country hour of six o’clock, she led her three young assistants to the library. There, they hunted, and eventually, George found the map of the village Therese had been sure had to be there somewhere.
“Excellent.” She carried the rolled map to the round table in the room’s center and spread it over the polished surface. A cheery fire crackled in the grate, and the heavy curtains were drawn across the windows; with the weighty presence of the packed bookshelves all around, the room felt comfortably cozy.
She held the map down and leant over it. The children quickly drew chairs up to the table, scrambled up, and lent their assistance in holding the map flat.
“Right, then.” With one hand freed, Therese pointed out Tooks Farm, to the north of the village proper. “First, let’s consider the possibility that while Farmer Tooks was away to market, someone drove a cart into his barnyard, loaded up the geese, and drove them away. If the cart headed south—either down the High Street and through the village or via the more direct route past Swindon Hall and Crossley and Witcherly Farms—it’s hard to imagine the cart not being seen.”
“Or heard,” George put in.
“Quite.” Therese pointed in the other direction. “But if the geese were loaded into a cart and taken north, along the road to Romsey, well—”
“We were there.” Jamie met Therese’s eyes. His were alert and interested. “The geese went missing on Tuesday, and that was the day we went walking toward Romsey.”
“Indeed. And you were out along that road for most of the day until that farmer returning from market brought you home.” Therese surveyed her three adventurers. “I take it you encountered no squawking cart on your excursion.”
All three shook their heads. “There were some carts,” Lottie offered, “but none had any geese.”
Therese nodded solemnly and looked back at the map. “In any venture, it’s usually wisest to follow the most likely track. While one doesn’t wish to imagine the geese were stolen, perhaps there was some other reason to account for their removal. Regardless, at this point, as all we want is to have our goose for Christmas dinner, our principal aim is to find the flock—explanations can come later.” She studied the map, wondering where on earth the birds might have gone.
Jamie, also surveying the map, crossed his forearms and leant on them. “We should ask around. If the flock is anywhere near, someone will see or hear them—or see feathers or their mess if they’ve continued to move.”
Therese switched her gaze to him.
George stirred. “We need to ask everyone on all these estates.” He waved a still-pudgy hand over the village and surrounding land. “Not just the owners—they might not know. But there are sure to be workers and grooms and gardeners—they’re the ones who are out and about in the fields and meadows and woods.”
“There are lots of woods.” Lottie pointed to the stylized trees denoting woods that were liberally dotted around the village.
“You all make good points.” Therese straightened. “Right, then. Milsom Farm is perhaps a little too far south. Let’s start at Dutton Grange tomorrow morning. If we learn nothing there, we can work our way northward along the village street.”
Jamie nodded and pointed. “Until we reach Fulsom Hall and Tooks Farm again.”
The sound of the door opening had them all turning to see Mrs. Crimmins, the housekeeper, and Orneby, Therese’s dresser, walk in. Both women halted just inside the door. “It’s time for you three scallywags to head for your beds,” Mrs. Crimmins said. “You’ve had a big day, and you’ll need your rest.”
“Indeed.” Therese looked meaningfully at all three as they glanced at her. “If you want to continue our investigations in the morning, you’ll need to get a good night’s sleep. Off with you now.”
All three grinned at her. It was the happiest—the most openly happy—she’d seen them since they’d arrived.
“Goodnight, Grandmama.” Lottie came close, caught Therese’s hand, and tugged on it.
It took Therese a second to realize the child wanted her to bend down. When she complied, Lottie placed a soft kiss on her cheek. Therese felt her face soften. “Sweet dreams, my poppet.”
George had sidled closer, and before she could straighten, he stretched up and kissed her cheek, too. “Goodnight, Grandmama.”
“Goodnight, George,” she murmured as he scampered off.
Jamie, with the weight of all his nearly nine years on his shoulders, hung back, clearly uncertain. Therese smiled; she had three sons and vaguely recalled this awkward stage. She reached out, wrapped an arm around Jamie’s shoulders, and hugged him to her side. “And you, too, Jamie. Sleep tight.”
He grinned up at her, then tipped his head against her for an instant before moving out of her hold. “Goodnight, Grandmama.”
Mrs. Crimmins and Orneby—the former a round, comfortable, motherly sort, the latter a prim, starchy, rigid female who to everyone’s surprise had readily taken on the task of helping Mrs. Crimmins with the children, especially with their washing and dressing—gathered the trio and herded them out of the door. Orneby reached back and closed the door behind her.
Therese stood for several minutes, staring at the door, then she collected the map, now rolling onto itself again, and returned it to its place on the shelves.
Her three imps seemed to be settling in; previously, they’d been more fractious about retiring, but tonight, they’d gone willingly. Even eagerly. No doubt it was the prospect of potential excitement on the morrow.
Smiling to herself, Therese walked to the wing chair angled to the hearth and sank into its padded comfort. Despite the poor start to the day, once she’d accepted her responsibilities, she felt she’d acquitted herself rather well. Hopefully, incidents like the tying of the bell ropes would remain in the past.
A tap on the door heralded Crimmins. “Did you want anything else, my lady? A nightcap, perhaps?”
She considered, then shook her head. “No, thank you, Crimmins. Nothing else.” A thought occurred, and she amended, “Or at least, nothing of that nature. You might, however, be able to help me with some information.”
After Gerald’s death, while Therese, with Harriet Orneby in tow, had traveled hither and yon, Crimmins and Mrs. Crimmins, along with Mrs. Haggerty and John Simms, the coachman-cum-groom, all of whom had been a part of the Osbaldestone household for decades, had repaired to Hartington Manor to put everything in order for Therese’s eventual arrival.
All four could have continued at Osbaldestone House in London—Therese’s eldest son, Monty, now Lord Osbaldestone, was shrewd enough to recognize the worth of such experienced and loyal staff—but al
l were middle-aged and had elected to leave the bustle of London and follow Therese into the country.
Crimmins closed the door and came to stand nearer. “It will be my pleasure, my lady. On what subject?”
“Dutton Grange. I haven’t called there for years, and as was borne in on me today, with the years, people die, and others inherit. The last time I was at the Grange, Lady Longfellow was already long dead, but Leslie, Lord Longfellow, was alive, and I believe he had two sons, although I only met the elder. As I recall, the younger son was away with our troops in the Peninsula.”
“Indeed, ma’am. The current Lord Longfellow is the younger son. The elder son—I believe his name was Cedric—died about four years ago, a little before we came to the manor, then Lord Longfellow died last year. A stalwart old gentleman, he was. The whole village turned out for his funeral. The younger son—Christian, the new lord—couldn’t attend as he was still in hospital recovering from wounds he received in Spain. When he was released, Lord Longfellow sold out and returned home, but by then it was last summer. Since then, I understand he has been busy getting the estate running smoothly again.”
Therese angled a questioning look Crimmins’s way. “No rumblings?”
“None, my lady. I gather the staff and tenant farmers are relieved to have someone at the helm again, and I’ve heard nothing against the new Lord Longfellow’s ability to steer, as it were.” Crimmins paused, then went on, “The only thing I have heard about his lordship is that he’s a recluse—that because of his injuries, he eschews local society and remains inside the house.”
“A wounded recluse.” Therese considered the prospect. “I wonder how severe his injuries are?”
“As to that, my lady, I cannot even speculate. Since his return, few in the village have set eyes on him, although apparently, he is definitely in residence.”
“Hmm. Well, the imps and I will call on him tomorrow, and no doubt, we shall see.”
“Yes, my lady. Shall I tell Simms you’ll need the gig again?”
“Please. Although the Grange is within walking distance, I think arriving in a carriage, albeit a gig, puts a visit on a more formal plane.” Therese glanced up at Crimmins. “Tell Simms to bring the gig around just before eleven.”
“Very good, my lady.” Crimmins bowed, and when Therese smiled faintly and nodded a dismissal, he retreated.
The door quietly shut, leaving Therese with the soothing warmth of the fire playing over her hands and face and the peaceful sounds of her house, occupied but calm, wrapping about her.
Relaxed and at ease, she reviewed the events of her day—a long-ingrained habit after a lifetime of events, functions, and political maneuverings by Gerald’s side.
After several moments, she murmured—and she really could not say to whom she was speaking, yet it felt very much as if Gerald hovered near, and it was to his shade she said, “Who knows? This matter of the missing geese has already helped with managing the children. They really are such an alert and observant lot—very like Celia when she was that age, interested in everything that was going forward. If I’m any judge at all, our hunting of the geese has fired their blood—with luck, that purpose will keep them occupied for several days yet. And me as well, of course. Although in my case, I can see another benefit to chasing the geese—namely as a way to reintroduce myself to the village and the local families. If I am going to make this my home henceforth, then establishing my place among them is something I need to do.”
She’d been a pillar of society for too long not to feel that need.
The need to be an active participant, to be known, to have influence—to carve out a place and make it her own.
Chapter 3
The next morning at eleven o’clock, Therese discovered that neither her name nor her standing, and not even her presence, was sufficient to get her over the threshold of Dutton Grange.
Standing on the front porch with Lottie’s hand once more in hers, Therese stared narrow-eyed at the mountain blocking the doorway. The day was cool, a chill December wind whipping the last leaves from the branches and harrying the thick clouds racing overhead. Together with the children, she’d driven the short distance down the manor drive, then up the graveled track that ended in the forecourt before Dutton Grange, only to encounter this rather large and somewhat unexpected obstacle.
Undeterred, she tried another tack. In her most imperious tone, she inquired, “And you are?”
The man—who was like no butler she’d ever known, garbed as he was in an ordinary hacking jacket, breeches, and boots, with a kerchief knotted about his throat—blinked, then frowned. After a moment, he replied uncertainly, “Hendricks.”
“Very good. And what position do you hold in this household?”
Hendricks’s frown grew blacker; he patently had no idea if ladies turning up on the doorstep and quizzing him in such a fashion was a normal occurrence or not. After another long moment, he said, “I’m Lord Longfellow’s majordomo.”
“I see. In that case, Hendricks, the proper procedure is to invite me into the house, show me into the drawing room to wait, then inform your master that I have called and wish to speak with him.”
Hendricks’s lips set, and he shook his head. “Won’t be any use. Quite aside from the drawing room still being under covers, he won’t see anybody, not for any reason. Those are his orders.”
“Really?” Therese allowed her brows to rise. She wondered if Jamie and George were having any better luck tracking down Lord Longfellow.
On the way there, she’d told them of Crimmins’s belief that Lord Longfellow was a recluse and kept to the house. Neither boy had thought such a thing at all likely and had suggested that as they’d done at Fulsom Hall, they would go around the side of the house in the hope that Lord Longfellow would be in the stables or perhaps walking his rear lawn.
Therese wasn’t about to retreat yet. She skewered Hendricks with her most censorious gaze. “I cannot believe that Lord Longfellow is so lost to the edicts of common courtesy—”
Bang!
A door had crashed open at the rear of the front hall, in the gloomy depths somewhere behind Hendricks. He turned to look; Therese leant forward and peered past his bulky frame.
Cursing freely, a man strode out of the shadows, one leg dragging slightly. His left hand was wrapped around Jamie’s upper arm. Despite his damaged leg, the man half dragged and half lifted Jamie along, all but shaking him as the man demanded in a tone one notch down from a roar, “Who the devil is this little beggar?”
Therese didn’t hesitate; she didn’t even think. She stepped to the threshold, struck the hall tiles with her cane, and in arctic accents commanded, “Unhand my grandson at once, sir!”
The figure’s head jerked up, and he halted. Apparently recognizing the voice of female authority, he immediately released Jamie.
The man—presumably his lordship—stared at her.
Therese glared daggers back.
Apparently unperturbed by his rough handling, Jamie calmly resettled his jacket, drew himself up in a surprisingly relaxed fashion, and in an even, unthreatening tone, said, “If you had allowed me to introduce myself, sir, I would have told you that I am Lord James Skelton, Viscount Skelton, of Winslow Abbey.”
Everyone—Therese, his lordship, Hendricks, and Lottie—looked at Jamie. Not at all rattled, he executed a neat bow to his lordship. Straightening, he looked up—all the way up into his lordship’s face—and inquired, “And you are…?”
Therese felt pride—grandmotherly pride—well and swell. If only Gerald could have seen… Really, Jamie was a true chip off the family block; it was on the tip of her tongue to inform him that his grandfather could not have done better.
But now was not the time. Instead, she followed Jamie’s limpid gaze to Lord Longfellow’s face.
His lordship’s scowl turned his features harsh. Despite the prevailing gloom of the front hall, she could see he had sustained some damage to the left side of his face, but oh,
the right side, illuminated by the weak light that fell through the doorway, was nothing short of manly perfection. His features were classical and eye-catchingly striking, as if chiseled by some grateful goddess. Thick, slightly wavy black hair that looked as if he’d been raking his fingers through it contrasted sharply with his very pale complexion; hardly surprising if he’d been an invalid and subsequently had decided to keep to the house. And regardless of the imperfection of his dragging limp, his figure lived up to the promise of his face. He stood more than six feet tall, with broad shoulders and the long, lean build of a cavalryman. He was dressed in topcoat, breeches, and boots, with a cravat knotted about his throat; even in the poor light, the quality of his clothes marked him as a gentleman, as did his stance and the air of command that, even now, brought to book by a mere boy though he’d been, wrapped about him like an invisible cloak.
Eventually, he cleared his throat. “Christian Longfellow. Lord Longfellow of Dutton.” The words were gruff, as if it had been some time since he’d spoken in polite company. Rather stiffly, he inclined his head; Jamie, after all, outranked him.
Her quarry confirmed, Therese didn’t give him a second to regroup. “Lord Longfellow!” She swept past the mountainous majordomo, apparently rooted by surprise to the floor, and advanced. “Just the gentleman I wished to see. I am Lady Osbaldestone.” She sensed Lottie and then George slip inside in her wake. With the full weight of her years as one of the ton’s most powerful grandes dames, she extended her hand. “I knew your father, my lord. You, I believe, are Leslie’s younger son—you were away with our troops the last time I called.”
Ingrained good manners were wondrous things. No matter how reluctant the present Lord Longfellow might be to welcome her into his home, her presenting her hand in such a way had him reaching for it before he’d realized.
Then he did, yet by then he had no real option but to continue with the courtesy, grip her fingers, and bow over her hand. “Lady Osbaldestone. I…ah, hadn’t realized you were in the district.”