“But ’tis so hugeous big, milady” murmured the neatly clad girl who accompanied this delicious vision. “And though I look and look at this map, I hasn’t found it yet.”
The young beauty leaned to knit her brows over the map, and the gentleman moved nearer.
“Your pardon, ma’am,” he said with a graceful bow. “I could not but overhear. An I may be of some small assistance, ’twould be my pleasure.”
How swift the upward sweep of the firm little chin; how haughty the flash of the green eyes. The gentleman was enchanted. He was a good-looking man of early middle-age, with an exceptionally fine pair of dark eyes deep-set under bushy black brows. His smooth skin was bronzed by the sun, his wig was neat, his attire of the finest style and cut. Both voice and manners were cultured, and he had a very kind and winning smile. “I mean no disrespect,” he murmured. “But I am fairly well acquaint with the present plan of the cathedral. It has been rebuilt several times since the days of St. Augustine, you know. Might I direct you to some particular spot…?” His eyes glinted, and he said whimsically, “The shrine of St. Thomas à Becket, perchance?”
The hauteur in the lady’s eyes gave way to a sparkle of amusement. “La, but we are sadly inept pilgrims,” she said in a rich, musical voice. “Yes, sir. Your assistance would be most appreciated.”
“Mylady!” exclaimed the abigail, eyeing the stranger askance.
Despite the many visitors wandering about the enormous cathedral, voices were kept low, and a reverent hush prevailed. Two older ladies looked censoriously at the small group.
The gentleman grinned, and acknowledged in a whisper, “Your woman is quite right, ma’am. May I present myself properly? My name is Bracksby. Rudolph Bracksby. My estate lies about two miles east of here, and I promise you my reputation is not too sadly tarnished. St. Thomas’ shrine is in the Trinity Chapel. This way.”
He led them along the north aisle, pointing out the choir with its splendid screen, and the tombs of St. Alphege and St. Dunstan, and guiding them at last via the lovely curve of the arcades into the Trinity Chapel.
As they approached the saint’s tomb, Lady Naomi halted, and with pretty politeness thanked Mr. Bracksby for his aid. It was very apparent that he desired to know the name of the lady he guided, but her demeanour, though pleasant, was not encouraging, and he was much too well bred to press her. He accepted his dismissal, therefore, bowed again, and took himself off.
In the south aisle he was pleased to recognize a friend, and prevailed upon that clerical individual to accompany him back to the Trinity Chapel.
“There,” he murmured, nodding his head toward the shrine. “The enchanting creature in pink. I know she is Lady Somebody, but for the life of me I cannot recollect her name.”
“Then you’re a regular chawbacon, Rudi,” said his friend with a grin. “That little beauty is the Lady Naomi Lutonville. The reigning Toast. You surely must have heard of some of her escapades.” He winked. “Rather a minx, they say.”
Mr. Rudolph Bracksby’s dark eyes grew troubled. “Oh, is she, by Jupiter!”
“I’m amazed you are not acquainted. Did you but spend more time in England, Rudi, you might keep abreast of such vital matters. Well, I must be off. Looks as if we’re in for a storm, and I’d as lief get home before it starts.”
That his decision was wise was soon apparent. The mist became drizzle, and the drizzle turned to rain. By half-past two o’clock my Lady Lutonville’s luxurious carriage was caught in a downpour, and having already suffered a damaged wheel, turned off the highway and proceeded gingerly along a lane that was soon little better than a mass of puddled ruts. The wheel was bumping ominously, and Maggie Osgood’s scared brown eyes became even more apprehensive when Roger Coachman opened the trap and shouted his opinion that they’d do better to let him leave them under a tree while he rode in search of aid. “This wheel’s going to split any minute, marm,” he howled, raindrops coursing down his weathered and forbidding countenance. “And there ain’t any lodge gates as far as I can see.”
“Yes, but you cannot see very far,” pointed out Naomi, ignoring Maggie’s wail. “And I do not propose to sit in this plaguey wet for an hour while you ride about looking for a smithy. If the wheel splits we shall have to stop, but ’til then, keep on, Roger. I’m sure this is the right lane and it cannot be very much farther.”
“Was Promontory Point half a inch round the next raindrop I dunno what the earl would say about me taking you there, marm,” he grumbled.
“Roger Coachman is right, milady,” put in Maggie tearfully. “An the coach turns over—”
“Do not be such a goose,” scolded Naomi. “He will not allow the coach to turn over, will you, Roger? Hasten, now. I chance to know that Sir Mark is in London at Rossiter Court, but I am very sure his people will have something to warm us all.”
The vision of a mug of hot rum, the better for some lemon and cloves, did much to lighten the coachman’s mood, and they were soon limping along once more. My lady gave a little crow of triumph when iron lodge gates loomed through the deluge. There was another delay while the guard shouted in vain for the gatekeeper, resorting at length to the yard of tin. The stentorian blast he awoke from that instrument brought a drowsy-looking man hurrying to open the gates and stare from the crest on the door panel to the beauteous face of the lady who leaned from the window to enquire if there was anyone up at the house.
“Sometimes,” he said, stifling a yawn.
Adjured by the coachman to keep a civil tongue in his head, the gatekeeper offered belligerently to darken his daylights for him.
“You are insolent,” said Naomi, frowning at him. “Drive on at once, Roger.”
The coachman, who had started to climb down from his perch, obeyed with reluctance, hissing some sizzling epithets at the gatekeeper, who responded in kind but with a wary eye on her ladyship’s now closed window.
The carriage jerked into motion once more and proceeded unevenly along the drivepath, which seemed to wind for miles through a wilderness area that at length became a spacious park.
Lady Naomi peered about, curious to see if she recollected anything of this great estate of which she had for so many years expected to become mistress. Lined by dripping yews, the drive swung in a wide easterly curve. A grey mist hovered, limiting the view, but at last the gables of the three-storeyed Elizabethan house loomed up. It looked only vaguely familiar to Naomi, although she did remember the gardens in what had once been the moat, which surrounded the original pile. Noting the impressive entrance front, its forecourt sheltered by projecting wings, the countless latticed casements, the tall works of art that were the chimneys, she thought it a truly beautiful old place, so much more inviting than Collington Manor. The ancient mill and the now shallow millstream near the west side of the house evoked the shadowy image of a youth with brown curls and laughing grey eyes, playing with a liver and white spaniel…
The coach rumbled over the narrow wooden bridge spanning the sunken gardens, and creaked to a stop. No stableboy or groom came running. No footman appeared at the deeply recessed front door. The house slumbered quietly under the steady beat of the rain.
The guard swung down from the box and opened the carriage door. Naomi gave him her card and sent him off to request assistance.
“There bean’t no one at home,” said Maggie, watching him nervously. “We’ll have to send Roger Coachman for help and goodness only knows when—”
