“Is the work of a country parson so arduous?” I teased.
“You would not imagine it, but yes,” he replied with fervour. “I am called upon for births and deaths and baptisms, which I anticipated. But there is so much more! Every quarrel, I am asked to adjudicate. Every wayward youth, I am expected to find honest work. Gainful employment for a man who has lost his position. A bit of firewood for a cold hearth, a home for a fisherman’s orphan. Every problem, no matter how large or small, is laid at my doorstep. I must be all to them—father, landlord, master, shepherd, teacher. It is... it is a great responsibility,” he said finally. His colour had risen during his outburst, and he had spoken quickly, with great passion. But as he wounddown, he seemed to collect himself. “I am sorry. I ought not to complain.”
“It is as you say—a great responsibility to be so much to so many. Is there no one to help?”
He shrugged. “It is because I am one of the family—a Templeton-Vane. If Tiberius were here, it would fall to him, but...” His voice trailed off as he shrugged.
“Is there no curate? No estate manager?”
“Tiberius does not believe there is work enough for me to require a curate, and the estate manager has held the job forty years and more. He grows tired and is often ailing. And he is not from Dearsley. He is a Bristol man, and even though he has lived amongst them for four decades, the villagers consider him an incomer still. He does a fine job of keeping Cherboys in order, but if there is a misunderstanding between the villagers who work on the estate, they bring their troubles to me. It is just the way of folk here. They have been under the dominion of the Templeton-Vanes for so long, they cannot imagine an existence where they are not cared for by the family.”
“And Tiberius has neglected his duties,” I supplied.
Merry turned to me with shocked eyes. “I would never say that. It is not neglect. It is apathy. He simply chooses to spend his time in London and abroad, and we are forever the afterthought.”
“And it does not ameliorate the situation to have no lady of the manor, I imagine. A viscountess in residence would look after the poor of the parish,” I ventured.
His expression was rueful. “Yes. If Tiberius married it would ease the burden a little. As it is, the Greshams do much to help.”
“The Greshams?” I recollected Tiberius mentioning the brother and sister who had joined the fateful house party when Lorenzo d’Ambrogio fell to his death.
“The doctor. I pointed out his cottage as we passed through thevillage,” he reminded me. “He and his sister are most beneficent. They do what they can, but it is not the same as if Tiberius were here.”
“It seems unkind that they have all left you here to shoulder the burden alone,” I said at last.
“I would not mind so much if I thought any of it truly mattered. Tiberius is a viscount, after all, and sits in the House of Lords. Rupert is always doing something important with diplomacy—and most likely running the government behind the scenes, if I know him, as well as standing as the member for his district. And Stoker, well. Stoker used to be the wayward son, the prodigal who would never make anything of himself, to hear Father tell it. But one only has to look at him to find a man who is utterly content within himself. His work, his friends, you—” he added, dropping his eyes bashfully. “He has found purpose, real purpose. And what he does makes a difference to those around him. Sometimes I fear I am sinking into shifting sands here, just drifting in the current instead ofacting. I ought to be doing something, I feel, but I do not know what, and so I am left to wonder what is the point of me?” Before I could respond, his smile turned wistful. “But you are wrong. I am not alone now. At least for the duration of this house party. I am glad you have come. And I know Tiberius would want me to tell you to consider Cherboys your home.”
“I will,” I promised, “as I shall consider you my friend.”
“I am honoured. Veronica,” he said, carefully, as if testing my name. “Are you ready to return to the house?”
“Not just yet. I would like to enjoy the view a while longer.”
“Then I will leave you if you think you can find your way back?”
“My dear Merry, I have navigated the jungles of Costa Rica with nothing more than a broken compass and my own wits. I promise you, I will be perfectly fine.”
After he had gone, I stood staring out to sea as the sun lay long golden rays upon the rippling waves. I never tired of the ocean, thepromise of it, the enduring way it beckoned to me, suggesting adventures just beyond the horizon. But the sea was not the reason I stayed behind.
When I was certain I was alone and Merry did not mean to return, I climbed carefully up St. Frideswide’s seat, settling comfortably onto the sun-warmed stone. The notion that a long-dead saint could imbue a woman with the power to determine her own fate and keep true to herself even in love was so much superstitious flummery, I knew.
But one can never be too careful.
CHAPTER
10
With Tiberius wrestling with the demands of his estate, Stoker using his Megalosaurus to elude me, and Merry locked in the study, struggling with his next sermon, I was the sole focus of the staff’s efforts. No sooner had I awakened than they sprang to action each day, plying me with food and drink, running baths, suggesting walks, and lighting fires in the various rooms they thought I might frequent. Library, music room, portrait gallery, morning room, billiards room—all were kept in perfect readiness for me. And when I ventured out of doors, it was to find fresh flowers and pitchers of elderflower cordial waiting in the Pineapple Pavilion or a basket and secateurs sitting expectantly in the cutting garden.
In the end, I took to hiding, filling my pockets with apples and biscuits to escape the endless courses of a formal luncheon served in the solitary splendour of the dining room. I darted behind doors whenever I heard Mrs.Brackendale’s familiar jingle, and I rose and washed before Lily could appear with my morning tray. The library soon became my favourite hideaway. It was a vast chamber, shelved from floor to ceiling, with a gallery circling the perimeter. The cases were stuffed with novels and tomes on every conceivable subject. Folios of maps were stored in wide wooden drawers and plinths held busts of famous thinkers.Glass terraria and Wardian cases housed specimens from around the world, ferns and flocks of bright songbirds mounted in flight. It smelt of beeswax and book leather, and I passed a good many hours tucked in the window seat of the library, reading and munching apples behind the draperies, which hid me from view. Only Nanny avoided me, for which I was entirely grateful.
But I missed Stoker acutely, an eventuality with which I was not entirely comfortable. Dependency upon anyone was an abomination to my independent spirit, but one cannot resist the lure of the twinned soul. One afternoon, the day Tiberius’ guests were due to arrive at last, I dropped my apple core into a handy aspidistra and went in search of him.
The Megalosaurus had been hauled into position on the island in the middle of the man-made lake. This had been dug some distance from the house and could be reached via the rose alley. Willows trailed their green sleeves into the dappled water, and a pair of particularly nasty swans paddled serenely past. On the near side of the lake, there was no bridge to spoil the view, only a tiny rowboat. But having once nearly met my doom after an excursion in a rowboat,[*] I elected to circle the lake and cross the narrow footbridge on the far side. More willows had been planted here, and it was with a sense of entering an enchanted glade that I pushed my way past the languorous fronds into the clearing at the center of the island.
The Megalosaurus crouched there on all fours, a long, low lizard of mammoth proportions with a small head and stout, lumbering legs. Its back was humped, the barbed spine running to a long, thick tail, and its head was ungainly, the heavy brow lowering over a pointed snout full of unpleasantly sharp teeth. It had been painted a violent shade of green, and the eye sockets had been fitted with glass orbs that glowed with malevolence. It was a dreadful creature, and I was not at all surprised that Stoker loved the thing. He had always been drawn to the outré.
I circled the beast, finding no means of ingress and no sign of Stoker. But I could hear him, his lush baritone raised in a cheerful, perfectly filthy song he had no doubt learnt whilst in Her Majesty’s Navy. I rapped smartly upon the side of the Megalosaurus. There was a pause in the song, and after a long moment, the beast began to shudder. A sort of panel, running from the base of its head to the start of its tail, rose slowly to reveal a wide opening. Stoker stood inside, begrimed and thoroughly happy. He was stripped to the waist, streaked with paint and glue, hair tied back with a leather thong, muscles rippling in the golden light of late summer’s afternoon. Tiny tufted catkins danced in the air, lending the whole tableau a fantastical air, and if I had not been a woman of science, I might well have imagined myself in the presence of some primitive god of myth, a divine being with dominion over great monsters and perhaps even the weather itself, a powerful lord of creation who would lift me as easily as thistledown and with one mighty thrust—
