“But you are of an artistic persuasion, no?”
“There is artistry in many things, my lord,” Hetty said with a shrug. “The skill in crafting a fine saddle, for instance.” The comment would not stand up under scrutiny, she knew. But fortunately, it had the effect of silencing him. Were doubts now planted in his mind? When next he met her, as he was sure to do soon enough, would he recognize her and be angry enough to denounce her?
They continued with just the creak of saddle leather and the cry of the birds wheeling overhead in the frigid, gray sky.
“We seem to have reached the main thoroughfare,” he said with obvious relief.
Hetty could only agree.
She guided The General out onto Rosecroft Hall’s rutted gravel drive lined with knobby, aged oaks. The hall sat in queenly, if shabby, grandeur on a rise, its clusters of blackened chimneys highlighted against the sky.
“You know the history of the house?” he asked, pride warming his voice.
“A little, my lord.” Of course, she did, but a groom wouldn’t, and she wasn’t about to disappoint him.
“Rosecroft Hall was built in fifteen-ninety by William, the first Fortescue. It consisted of little more than the great hall, solar, buttery, and bedchambers. Lord Robert, the third baron, extended it in the seventeenth century. He added the west wing and gatehouse. The fourth earl added the sash windows and water closets. All of the Fortescues are buried in the crypt in the parish churchyard in Digswell, except for my father.”
Hetty made an encouraging sound in her throat. She had roamed the churchyard and studied the ornate crypt of which he spoke.
“Rosecroft Hall’s great chamber boasts a carved minstrel’s gallery, where many fine paintings hang. It is renowned for its Elizabethan panels and plasterwork ceiling. But more than this,mon ami, there’s a secret door below the solar with a tunnel that leads to the woods. My father used it when he was a boy. I intend to find it.”
She smiled at his boyish enthusiasm. “I wish you luck in finding it, my lord.”
“The gardens are known to bemagnifique. Created by England’s famous gardener, Capability Brown, before my papa left England. He was very proud of them. The lime walk, the topiary…” His voice fell away as they rode farther on and the neglect became more obvious, with unclipped hedges and rangy gardens beneath a layer of snow.
Hetty remembered two years ago when she’d last visited. The house and grounds needed attention even then, with cracked plaster and faded draperies. She doubted much had been done since. Men were not always aware of such things. It needed a woman’s touch, and Eustace was a widower. He never spoke of his wife. Perhaps her passing still weighed heavily upon him as her mother’s did her father.
“The grounds need work,” he said. “I wonder why it wasn’t done before winter.”
“I heard Mr. Fennimore’s not been well,” Hetty said, disliking any criticism of her godfather.
They approached the rambling Elizabethan stone house. The columned forecourt was covered in a flowering creeper, the walls thick with ivy. She reined The General in. The long, mullioned windows looked blankly down. A footman rushed out to greet them. Thankfully, there was no sign of Eustace.
“Please come in and partake of some breakfast,” the baron said to Hetty. “I’m sure Mr. Fennimore would like to thank you.”
He jumped down and stretched his back with a groan as Williams hurried around the corner from the direction of the stables.
“Most kind, my lord.” Hetty eyed the approaching groom. “But I must ride straight home. I’m concerned about my master.”
He bowed his head. “Thank you, Simon. I am indebted to you.”
“No need to thank me, my lord. Anyone would have done the same.” She sank her chin beneath her scarf and ignored Williams’s penetrating stare. He would recognize The General. She turned the horse’s head, directing him back the way they’d come with a sigh of relief. If Williams didn’t question his lordship too closely, she might pull this off, but she had yet to face what lay in wait at home.
As The General cantered down the drive, she turned. The baron stood, legs apart, and hands on hips, staring after her. He raised a hand in farewell. She wondered where Eustace was, for he still hadn’t appeared at the door. He would be relieved to find his relative had arrived safely.
She swung her arm in a casual mannish gesture of farewell and rode on. Instead of the expected relief, she found herself saddened, as if she was saying goodbye forever to a friend. How odd. Lord Fortescue wasn’t a friend, and now would never be.
*
Guy watched Simonride away down the drive. He’d felt off balance in the groom’s company. He’d been unsettled the whole of last night and this morning, in fact, and he wasn’t able to pinpoint the reason. The knock on the head he supposed. His temples still ached a little. Eager to meet his relative, he introduced himself to the butler who admitted him and strode into the paneled great hall. He released a long breath as he stood looking around. Dust faded the fine woodwork, and the ceilings were stained with smoke. The damask drapes at the long windows were threadbare, almost in tatters.
Guy tried to suppress his annoyance and disappointment as he pulled off his gloves and handed them, along with his coat and hat, to the butler. “Merci…?”
“Hammond, your lordship.”
“Is Mr. Fennimore at home, Hammond?”
“Yes, my lord. He is in the library.” Hammond snapped his fingers, and a footman led the way up the wide, carved oak staircase.
