El felt gangly tall in her plain garb and adjusted her stride to her shorter companion. “Your muleheaded cousin believes it is better to send us away rather than do anything sensible like accept that others might be useful.”
Thea appeared mildly alarmed. “Does that mean you are leaving? We don’t want to lose you! If Clare is so desperate for your help that she is willing to reveal that she writes those dreadful gothic romances, then surely I can speak of it. She needs you here.”
The lady of the manor was a secret novelist? Of romances? Momentarily distracted from her fears, El tried not to stumble over her own feet in surprise. “I have little time for fiction,” she admitted, “so it would be a delight to copy out pages less boring than artistic treatises! Don’t tell his lordship that,” she added hastily.
They had a future here, if they could keep from being maimed or killed.
“Grey’s work is edifying but not exactly what one settles down with on a cold winter’s day. Gossip says he is writing a treatise on fraudulent artists and their practices. I do not ask you to confirm that, just warn you that there is hostility.”
“I hope it is not the sort of hostility to cause people to set steel traps and cut branches to break,” El said grimly, returned to reality. “I fear such tactics simply make him more determined to stay. It does, however, distract him from his work, which means he will stay that much longer.”
“Traps and branches? Someone is attempting to kill him?” This time, Thea’s alarm was for her cousin. “I know fools like Percival fear and dislike him, but murder seems a trifle. . .”
“Drastic, yes. But he refuses to believe he’s in danger.” El led her up the drive, past the stack of logs that had been a massive tree limb only yesterday. “The furnishings have not arrived. You will find us very poor hosts.”
Frowning thoughtfully, Thea accepted the change in subject. “I shall not linger. I’m only here to scold Grey and see if you have spirits. Sometimes, they can be helpful.”
“Are spirits different from ghosts?” El asked. Assuming their guest did not speak of alcohol, she pushed open the door. There had been talk of new locks but they hadn’t been installed yet. Communicating with the bank in Stratford took time.
“If I say ghosts, people think of spooky apparitions inexplicably flitting about in sheets. I think of spirits as remnants of energy, personalities, perhaps, or thoughts. Whatever it is that makes each of us different.” Thea glanced around the polished but nearly bare parlor.
“Leonard, is that you?” Grey shouted from above. “You didn’t drag home a stray, did you? These pages won’t copy themselves.”
“It is Sunday! Your work will wait until Eleanor shows me around and has a bite of luncheon, you old slave driver,” Thea called cheerfully.
“Bring me a sandwich when you’re done conversing with spiders and rats.” Grey didn’t bother presenting himself.
“The two of you seem familiar with each other’s habits. Did you grow up together?” In the kitchen, El helped herself to a watercress sandwich their brilliant new cook had prepared before church. While El had dallied to talk, the staff had hurried home and now bustled about, listening.
Thea took a scone and gestured at the door to the cellar. She waited until they were in the poorly-lit area before replying. “In the summers, I was often dumped on his estate. I chattered with invisible friends as a child, and my parents disliked having me around. Grey’s parents were absent. His mother died when he was born. His father—well, let us say he was about as parental as mine. So we ran loose when we weren’t in school. Grey graciously accepted me as the friend he never had.”
“Never?” El now understood how Grey had easily adjusted to her lack of masculinity. He was accustomed to female companionship.
Thea shrugged, not replying as she studied the dim cellar. The men had refilled the holes they’d dug. Someone had carried down an empty crate for storing milk and cheese. There even appeared to be a basket of berries. She hoped there were no mice.
“Not nice energy,” Thea whispered, roaming the low-ceilinged room, unfazed by cobwebs. “Pain. Anger. Grief.” She stopped where they’d found the toy coffins. “Escape too. This might have been a refuge or hideaway.”
Thinking of the toy boxes, El wondered if it had been a place where children might play away from the brutes of the household.
Thea circled slowly, as if in a trance. El didn’t interrupt, but she took the notion of seeing energy with a grain of salt. Given the contents of those coffins, anyone would have sensed pain and anger. And the fact that Thea had stopped directly over the grave meant nothing except she’d noticed the newly dug dirt.
The lady quit spinning and shook her head. “Nothing tangible. I suspect I may relate to my own ancestors better than strangers. But it’s always interesting to experiment.”
She strode briskly up the stairs. “Now, let us beard the lion in his den.”
El hurried after her, feeling vaguely guilty about trespassing on the professor’s time and limited patience, especially since it sounded as if his head still hurt. “Greybourne sent those letters he promised. The entirety of London’s art world might descend once parliament ends for the season.”
“Terrifying, but not the immediate problem.” With utter disregard to staring servants, her frilled Sunday dress, or anything remotely resembling propriety, Thea swept through kitchen and parlor to the hall stairs.
Entertained, El followed her up. She had always practiced pragmatic passivity as facilitating what she wanted without the tedious uproar of theatrics. The heiress apparently had no such compunction.
They found Grey distributing papers and books on the table he’d set up for El. He glanced up at their approach, lifting one tawny eyebrow in question.
“You are to write your heir and tell him you are either to visit him or he is expected to visit you. You cannot continue ignoring him a moment more.” Thea did not physically stamp her foot, but the tone of her voice implied it.
Twenty-three
Grey
