“Ah ha,” gasped Aunt. “Sustenance. Thank you…”
“I be Cripps, madam.” And a flush seeped from beneath his cravat and into his cheeks, eyes seeking the floor. “I’ll put this here, shall I? There be fresh lemonade and cake for thee.”
Hebe dashed over to catch the jug as he rattled the tray to the mahogany table.
“Is there aniseed to the cake?” Hebe asked, sniffing the air.
That flush spread to the footman’s nose. “Beg pardon, madam. That be I. Caraway comfits for pains in my chest.”
Aunt nodded sagely. “Good for plenty of things, I’ve heard.”
“Aye, Mrs Pettifer says they stop a sweetheart from straying too…” He bowed, flush now well above his eyebrows, and loped out.
“Well, well…” Aunt poured two lemonades, handed one to Hebe and clinked glasses. “Here’s to the summer, Hebe dearest.” Her eyes drifted to the far window. “Who knows what this adventure will bring.” She shook her head, surveyed the tray and snatched two slices of cake. “But for now, I must explore my opulent bedchamber and have a snooze before dinner. So until later, dear.” After a buss to Hebe’s cheek, she sauntered out in a swish of silk skirts.
Hebe smiled and wandered back to the turret windows at the front – that magnificent maze to the left with its impregnable walls of green leaf, the herb garden to the right, a storm of shades and flowers.
The limestone wall at the far end of this splendour reflected all the heat and separated the castle and gardens from the noise and bustle of the stables beyond, although from here on the first floor, it was possible to see over to the comings and goings, hear the horses’ demand for hay and the grooms’ shouts.
This castle was exquisite and inviting, its inhabitants kind, their manner unaffected and informal, and even the leaden clouds had parted a touch, bathing the scene in an ethereal light.
It was cosy for all its grandness, and she hugged arms around herself.
Surely nothing would haunt her here?
7
WERE THEE BORN IN A BARN?
Achoked gasp woke Hebe – a constriction in her throat, heart pummelling.
Where was she? Was he coming for her once more? Don’t cry out.
Her eyes focused, fingers clutching the sheets as a faint yell shattered the deep silence.
A glow flickered from the mantelpiece opposite – a lantern which her husband would never have allowed to burn all night. Above it hung an elaborate gold-framed painting of an armoured warrior dressed for battle, face thin and wise. Flock paperhangings surrounded him and beyond those were sumptuous curtains, their burgundy hue sombre in the shadows.
Wychmere Castle.
Hebe gazed to the four-poster bed’s tester overhead – those carved cherubs promised peace, and indeed they’d succeeded because for once she’d awoken before the culmination of her nightmare.
Sighing, she snuggled deeper into the fresh rose-scented sheets and allowed her breathing to ease.
The dreams had become less frequent over the four years since Tobias had died, but a new bed, the snap of a fob watch case, a husky laugh – they resurrected the man, the hurt, and although by day she’d found ways to banish such memories, at night her body burned with the trepidation of sleep.
Another shout sounded, carried on the night wind, followed by a horse’s whinny of distress. It would be impossible to sleep now, and she sat up in the colossal bed of mahogany to grab the travel clock from her bedside table.
Three o’something or other.
Eugh.
But her eyes were now wide, thoughts racing to the possibilities of the day – of sketching the duke’s hunter, of studying how the fine legs of stallions moved, of outlining foals and their dams.
She pushed back the coverlet, a richly embroidered work of art which might conceivably have covered Henry VIII, and seized her robe from the far end of the bed. One would expect a castle to be chilly, even in August, but her chamber faced both south and east, and according to the butler, the solid limestone walls gathered the rays of the sun and warmed those inside like an oven.
That whinnying continued and Hebe frowned, ambling to the turret windows that overlooked the front and side. There, she drew back the voluminous velvet curtains.
Despite Mr Grampy Tom’s prediction of rain, the leaden clouds had been chased away, the gardens, moat and land now moon-splashed – mystical, beautiful and not haunted at all – and floating upon that moat water like curled shells were sleeping swans, beaks tucked safe within their wings.
