“Enough,” I said, holding up a hand. “Youthful peccadilloes. If a child is energetic and inquisitive, accidents will happen.” I looked warmly at Merry. “I accidentally asphyxiated a kitten in a blancmange once. I managed to revive it, but only with great difficulty.”
“Then you understand,” he said in some relief.
“Quite. Now, since Stoker appears disinclined to play cicerone for me, why don’t you tell me about our surroundings?”
This Merry did with alacrity, pointing out that we were descending almost imperceptibly from the village proper towards the sea, passing wide swathes of fields, some dotted with wagons full of hay, others freshly furrowed and planted with winter wheat or barley. Lambs born in spring had been fattened and weaned and were grazing in pastures that gave way to orchards heavy with fruit. The scene was one of sleek prosperity, well managed and abundant. In the fields, farmers and hands paused in their work to watch the carriage pass, most tugging their forelocks as Stoker shrank further back into his seat.
“They seem happy to see you,” I remarked.
“Then they can wave,” he replied darkly. “The hold this family have on the area is positively feudal.”
Merry went on, pointing out the narrow rush of the River Dear as wecrossed it via a small but handsome stone bridge. “From here, the river borders the estate,” he explained. The road we travelled sometimes paralleled the river and sometimes curved away, leaving small, pretty patches of dappled woods between. From the uplands of the rolling hills, down we moved towards the cliffs standing sentinel over the water beyond, and as we emerged from one particularly lovely little copse, the vista before us opened to reveal a broad sky, deep blue and tufted with cotton-wool clouds stretching to the horizon above a dark grey sea.
“Spectacular,” I breathed.
Merry smiled. “Grandfather had that last bit of wood planted in order to make the view more striking. The trees are so dark and then suddenly one is in the open, dazzled by the light.”
He nodded ahead to where a house sat perched near the top of the headland, its face set to the sea. “And that is Cherboys.”
He might have said, “And that is Heaven,” for the note of reverence in his voice would have been the same.
As we travelled ever nearer, the house loomed larger and more impressive. The sketches I had seen had failed to do it justice, for how could mere lines upon a page encompass the grandeur of Cherboys? From battlements to towers, from galleried pillars to lavish parapets, it embraced every possible embellishment. Not a single enhancement had been overlooked. Every bit of stone that could be sculpted or carved had fallen under the workman’s chisel. Every ornament, every turret, had been chosen with exacting specificity so that all fitted together in harmony. Remove one fluted stone facing, eliminate a single balustrade, and its perfection would be compromised. But it was a cold perfection, austere in its majesty, and I suppressed a shiver as we passed beneath its shadow.
The carriage rolled over the gravelled sweep of the drive, coming to a halt in front of the grand front doors. They were open, and down the wide flight of steps stood a battery of servants, each spotlessly attiredand standing stiffly at attention. A pair of footmen, bewigged and bestockinged, wore the livery of the Templeton-Vanes, dark blue edged in silver. The maids wore dresses of the same shade of blue with crisp white aprons and enormous mobcaps to cover their hair.
“Christ,” Stoker muttered. “Was this really necessary?”
“Tiberius’ orders,” Merry said by way of apology. “He knew you wouldn’t like it, but they are all very excited you’ve come home.”
“No doubt Tiberius is hiding behind the door, watching it all and laughing up his sleeve,” Stoker said darkly.
“Hardly,” Merry replied. “He is squirrelled away in his office. Something about estate business.” He paused and looked at his elder brother anxiously. “Of course you may stay in the carriage as long as you like, but it is nearly teatime. Perhaps we ought to think about getting out?”
Stoker said nothing, but I sensed the tautness of his nerves. A homecoming after a long absence is often a difficult thing, and Stoker’s travails had been dramatic and painful. Infamous gossip had been published in the London newspapers—untruegossip, I might add, and all at the behest of his former wife, whose depravity is exceeded only by her malice. Stoker had never said, but I suspected one reason for his avoidance of his boyhood home was the fear that the rumours had spread even so far as the wilds of the Devonian coast. He had often enough found judgment in the eyes of those he had counted friends. He had no wish to receive it from those he had once held dear. He had been seduced by Tiberius’ offer of the Megalosaurus, but I knew him well enough to understand that returning to Cherboys, the site of so much of his boyhood unhappiness, would feel like a reckoning.
Merry handed me out of the carriage and I stepped aside to wait for Stoker. For one long moment I thought he would not appear, but at last he emerged, ducking his head as he descended. He drew a deep breath as his foot touched the gravel and straightened, raising his chin in defiance.
Suddenly, a diminutive figure in grey and white detached itself from the others. She was plump and wore long, full skirts of an old-fashioned design. A cap of snow-white lace perched atop hair of the same colour. She stood at the top of the steps, arms crossed over her chest as she regarded Stoker, scrutinising him slowly from scuffed booted toe to tumbled hair. Without saying a word, she pursed her lips and turned on her heel, tapping smartly as she walked into the house.
“Oh no,” Stoker murmured, his face going pale.
“I ought to have warned you. She is rather angry,” Merry whispered, looking quite sorry for his brother.
“Who is that?” I asked. Stoker did not reply. He merely mounted the steps, slowly, with the tragic and dignified air of a French aristocrat mounting the tumbril on his way to the guillotine.
“Courage, man,” Merry called to his back. Stoker squared his shoulders and followed the tiny woman into the house. The other members of staff stood looking after him with expressions of mingled fear and amusement.
I turned to Merry. “Why does Stoker look as though he were preparing to face a firing squad?”
Merry’s expression was sober. “It is far worse than a firing squad, Miss Speedwell. Far worse indeed.” He paused and gave a grim nod towards the house. “That is Nanny.”
CHAPTER
8
Merry guided me up the steps past the bobbing and curtseying staff and into a grand entrance hall that seemed to go on for miles. The floor was black-and-white marble, austere in its glossy perfection. The walls were dotted here and there with alcoves, each fitted with a plinth to hold a statue from antiquity. Various gods and goddesses watched eyelessly as we passed, footsteps ringing upon the marble. It was formal and impressively large, designed for one purpose: to display enough wealth and power to strike terror into the heart of the casual visitor.
But the décor was not the only thing to terrify. Stoker stood in the center of the hall, head bowed as his nanny heaped scorn upon him in a thick Scottish accent.
