And finally Mama left, Martha came in and readied Winnie for bed, and then left her alone. But Winnie did not get into bed. Instead, she sat on the window seat, allowing the cool evening to waft in through the open window. And she smiled.
It made no difference how many times her mother tried to tell her that nothing had changed, that Walter was still out of reach, that the earl would not approve. Walter was not the heirto an earldom any longer, he was not even the earl’s son in any legal way. He was no one, a man without family or profession or fortune, and he was of age. He could marry where he chose… or where someone chose him.
So if they should happen to be thrown together and he should happen to fall in love, there was nothing at all to prevent them from marrying.
Ifhe should fall in love. That was the stumbling block, just as it always had been.
***
JULY
The earl’s middle daughter, Izzy, blew into Corland Castle like a summer storm, and blew out again just as swiftly, following her mama to relations in County Durham. Shortly behind her, the much calmer person of her husband arrived.
Lord Farramont was a solemn-faced man of thirty-five, an imposing figure topped by hair that might be described as sandy by a kindly observer. The less kind would call it flame red. Michael lost no time in requesting an interview with him, and less than an hour after his carriage had rolled into the yard, the viscount appeared at the old nursery.
“I understand from Simpson that you wish to see me, Captain,” he said, his countenance unsmiling. “Here I am, although I cannot imagine that I can help you with your enquiries. I was not here when Nicholson was murdered.”
“I am very glad to have that confirmed, my lord,” Michael said. “A glass of wine? Or—?”
“Nothing, thank you. I can certainly confirm it. Is that all?”
“But you did spend a night here, I believe? You arrived late, shared a room with your valet to facilitate an early start and then departed at first light. That is so, is it not?”
“It is. But that has nothing to do with Nicholson.”
“Do you recall the precise date of that visit, my lord? The servants are not at all certain, and there was a suggestion that it might have been the very night of the murder, in which case—”
“I might have wielded the axe myself?”
“Did you?”
“No, Captain, I did not. As I have already said, I was not here that night.”
“Then which night was it? If you can remember.”
The viscount reached into a pocket and produced a notebook, thumbing over the pages. “The first week of June, was it not? I was here the night before Nicholson’s demise. Here it is. See for yourself.”
He slid the notebook across the table. The pages were filled with small, neat writing, each date underlined and then the activities of the day recorded.‘Arr CC 9.10pm. I gone. D in room.’And for the next day was written,‘Dep CC 5.10am. Ch 3T Thirsk 9-10.15am. Ch KH D’ton 2.20-3.5pm. Arr QH D’ham 6.20pm.’In the margin were the costs associated with each stage of the journey. Michael could only admire such methodical attention to detail.
Michael wrote it all down, having travelled the Great North Road often enough to interpret the inn names. He had a friend in Durham who could surreptitiously check that Lord Farramont had, in fact, stayed at the Queen’s Head. And if he had been in Durham on the night of the murder, he was far enough away not to be under any suspicion.
“Thank you, my lord. That confirms that you could not have… ah, wielded the axe. Can you think of anyone who might have done?”
“I cannot.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He rose, bowed and allowed Lord Farramont to leave, without so much as the twitch of lip or eyebrow to suggest that he was anything other than an automaton. Mr Eustace had called him secretive, but Michael would have said it was more an unhealthy degree of reserve. But then the aristocracy could be like that, buttoned up as tight as a drum with the lower orders. Perhaps the viscount was a paragon of open-hearted delight with his own kind.
There was only one moment when Michael glimpsed something gentler beneath the surface. At dinner that night, when the ladies had withdrawn, the earl turned to Lord Farramont.
“You will follow Izzy to Harfield, I suppose.”
“If that is where she has gone.”
“Shesaidshe would go there, for her mother is there, but one never knows with Izzy.”
“Wherever she is, I will find her,” Farramont said, his expression softening momentarily.
