Bonfire Night (2 page)

Brisbane gave him a dangerously bland smile. “What is the catch?”

Mr. Sanderson blinked. “Catch, sir?”

Brisbane steepled his fingers, resting the tips of them beneath his chin. His gaze was speculative. “In my experience, gentlemen do not simply give other gentlemen houses, no matter how grateful. Did he do this to thwart another potential heir? Will I find myself dragged into court to litigate the rightful ownership of this place?”

“Certainly not!” Mr. Sanderson seemed deeply affronted by the notion. “Of course,” he went on, smoothing his waistcoat over his stomach, “there is the most trifling of conditions with the bequest.”

Brisbane’s smile deepened to something positively wolfish. “Go on.”

Mr. Sanderson cleared his throat. “Well, it’s nothing to speak of, nothing at all, really. Mr. Thornhill was naturally very fond of his home, and he wished that the new owner—namely you, Mr. Brisbane—would live in it, at least for part of the year. His will specifically states that in order to retain ownership, you must establish residence in the house for four periods each year upon the traditional dates when the rents are paid.”

“Four periods each year?” Brisbane asked.

Mr. Sanderson hastened to reassure him. “They are not lengthy periods, sir. A fortnight only at each of the customary rent days. It has always been the custom at Thorncross for the master to accept the rents.”

Plum perked up. “Brisbane, you’ll be a feudal landlord.”

“Rents are due on quarter days,” I said, thinking aloud. “Michaelmas was last month, so we would not have to take possession until Christmas. That would give us two months to make arrangements.”

Mr. Sanderson coughed gently. “It is the tradition in other places for rents to be paid upon quarter days,” he corrected. “It has always been the way at Thorncross for the rents to be paid upon cross-quarter days. In the old parlance, Candlemas in February, May Day, Lammas in August, and All Hallow’s Eve.”

“All Hallow’s Eve! That’s in two days,” I protested.

Mr. Sanderson gave me a lugubrious nod. “Indeed, my lady. Now you will understand my haste this evening. I am afraid the papers pertaining to this bequest were mislaid for a few days, and when they were unearthed, I discovered that Mr. Brisbane was in grave danger of losing his bequest unless he travels down to Thorncross at once.”

“And what happens if I lose the bequest?” Brisbane inquired. “What if I refuse to go?”

Mr. Sanderson blanched. “Unthinkable,” he said hoarsely.

“Let us think about it anyway,” Brisbane prodded. “What would become of Thorncross?”

Mr. Sanderson tugged at his collar. “It would be torn down.”

“Torn down! Are you quite certain?” I asked.

“I am afraid so, my lady,” he assured me. “Mr. Thornhill was quite specific upon the point. If Mr. Brisbane will not be master of Thorncross, no man shall.”

* * *

Mr. Sanderson departed some short time later, still visibly shaken by his errand, but looking much happier now that he had accomplished his business. Brisbane walked with him to the door, then closed it behind him, turning to face the three of us with a curious expression, very like a schoolmaster addressing rebellious pupils.

“All right, you lot. Why were you tormenting that fellow?”

Plum shrugged and pointed to Portia and myself. “Because they were, and it looked like fun. But I’ve no idea why they took against him.”

Portia spread her hands. “Ask Julia. She’s the one who disliked him the moment he came in. I merely abetted her.”

Brisbane lifted a brow at me, and I raised my chin in defiance. “He tried to get rid of us. It was rude. It was for you to say if your business was to be shared with us, and no man has the right to turn me out of my own rooms. If it was so dreadfully important and secret, he ought to have summoned you to
his
chambers.”

Brisbane nodded slowly. “Quite right. So why didn’t he?”

I blinked. “You agree with me?”

Brisbane resumed his chair, stretching out his long legs towards the fire. “Entirely. I had no intention of seeing him alone since he came to our home. Private business ought to be conducted in a solicitor’s chambers. So why
didn’t
he summon me there? Or write ahead to request an appointment? Instead he calls after dinner when he had every expectation we might be entertaining, behaving furtively and giving us that ridiculous story of a legacy from a grateful client.”

“You don’t believe it then?” Portia asked.

Brisbane ignored her and cocked his head at me. “Do you?”

I thought a moment. “No. Although I can’t imagine why. It seems plausible enough. But everything about the man was just slightly off somehow. Call it intuition, but I don’t believe him.”

“Neither do I,” he said firmly.

“You’re a damnably suspicious pair,” Plum said, helping himself to a rose water biscuit. “It is possible that some generous old fellow was sincerely grateful for your aid, Brisbane. You have rescued any number of perilous situations from disaster.”

“Yes, but I am more often responsible for putting people in gaol than keeping them out of it,” Brisbane retorted.

“Can you think of a case where you might have earned the gratitude of a lady?” Portia asked.

“That’s the crux of it,” Brisbane responded thoughtfully. “It might be any case. It’s far too vague to indicate any particular investigation. Did I restore a family treasure? Return a cache of stolen love letters? Destroy a purloined photograph? And it might have been any time in the past twenty years. That’s rather a lot of ground to cover.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. “How many women do you suppose are gadding about with good reason to feel indebted to you?”

He assumed an expression of innocence. “Just in London or on the Continent, as well?”

I tossed a cushion at him which he caught neatly and slipped behind his head. “No, there’s no way of knowing which case, which lady. It’s all too vague.”

“Deliberately so,” I added.

“Piffle,” Plum put in. “You’re just too cynical, the pair of you. You are looking a very generous gift horse in the mouth, if you ask me.”

“In my experience,” Brisbane said seriously, “gift horses are usually the ones with the most dangerous bite.”

Chapter Two

The next two days passed in the twin pursuits of anticipation and preparation as we readied ourselves to travel to Thorncross. Garments and books were flung into trunks with little regard for system; cases were packed and unpacked in white-lipped fury as it became clear that vital items had gone missing only to be unearthed in unlikely spots. I found my best evening slippers in the dumbwaiter while Morag ran Little Jack’s favourite stuffed rabbit to ground in the coal scuttle. He was brushed off and returned to his master, a little the worse for wear, but by that point I had lost all patience with domestic irregularity. Aquinas had left for a long-overdue holiday, and as a result, our pets were in an uproar, the baby shrieked his head off from morning to night from the appalling noises in the cellars, and my newest lady’s maid had quit without notice.

“I have to go to my sister. In Middleham,” she said sulkily as she carried her bag down the stairs.

“You are an only child,” I reminded her coldly. “And you are not from Yorkshire. You’re a Cockney.”

She had the grace to look guilty. “I’ll not be talked around, my lady. This house is Bedlam, and make no mistake.” The front door banged behind her, and I turned to Brisbane.

“It’s because we let Aquinas take a holiday,” I told him with dark certainty. “Butlers should never be given holidays because everything falls to pieces.”

He put his hands on my shoulders. “Aquinas has not had a holiday in nearly a decade. He was due. Now, we shall be gone tomorrow, putting all of the noise and mess behind us. Morag has the charge of Little Jack. We will find you a new maid, and the country air will restore all of our tempers.”

I slanted him a suspicious look. “I suppose. But I still don’t like it. Not after—” I broke off. We did not often speak of Brisbane’s ability, but his flashes of precognition were alarmingly accurate. He had wakened me in the middle of the night, thrashing in his sleep, murmuring of portents and danger, chasing after something that threatened his peace. I had touched his shoulder to waken him and the nightmare fled. It was the first nightmare I had known him to have during our marriage, and it left him pale and a little unwell, a migraine hovering on the edge of his consciousness. He wore his shaded spectacles, his only concession to the malady. He would not ask for his own sake, but I knew the trip to the country was important to him. For all his love of London and his insistence upon living in the city, he was still half a Gypsy; his blood cried out for open spaces and fresh air in a way that a city-born man’s would never do, I sometimes fancied.

I put a hand to his cheek. “You’re quite right, of course. I must see about engaging another maid before we leave. Morag would never be able to manage on her own.”

He smiled, a ghost of his usual grin, and I pressed a kiss to his cheek. As I pulled away, he touched my hand. “In light of...the dream last night,” he began, “I have asked Monk to look into the matter of Mr. Sanderson. Just a few general enquiries.”

I blinked. “Won’t he have quite enough to do since you’re leaving the enquiry business in his hands whilst you’re away?”

Brisbane stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Things are rather quiet just at the moment. Nothing Monk can’t handle. And something about this bequest disturbs me.”

“Well, it is unusual simply to hand a house over to a man,” I agreed. “What do you suspect?”

“I don’t know,” he replied simply. “And that’s what vexes me. It is too murky at present. It seems straightforward enough, and it well may prove to be so. But in the meanwhile, Monk will burrow around and see if there’s anything our Mr. Sanderson has kept from us.”

“An excellent notion. But if I’m to find a maid by tomorrow, I must make haste. Oh, and Cook said to tell you she has a special surprise for dinner tonight?”

One black brow winged up. “Oh?”

“Stewed bananas.”

* * *

In spite of everything, we managed to depart on schedule, trunks and cases and carpet-bags in tow, trailing the odd book and umbrella and lap robe behind.

“For God’s sake, we look like a travelling circus,” hissed Plum as we emerged from the carriage at the station. A pack of porters descended, scooping up our detritus and following Brisbane’s tall form as he strode down the platform.

“Hush,” I ordered through gritted teeth. “You’ll frighten the new maid.”

Plum glanced around, past Portia giving instructions to her nanny and Morag as they stood clutching their screaming charges. Portia’s stout maid, Clement, followed carrying Mr. Pugglesworth, my sister’s decaying pug, and in her wake trotted a slim, pleasant girl of perhaps twenty-two who was called Liddell.

“She looks like a blancmange,” Plum said dismissively.

“How can she look like a blancmange?” I demanded. “Human beings do not look like puddings.”

“Of course they do. She’s pale and morbid-looking. Blancmanges are the saddest of the puddings.”

“You are ridiculous,” I retorted as I glanced again at Liddell. Now that he brought the likeness to my attention, I could see it. A little.

“Yes, I am ridiculous,” he acknowledged, “but that child’s face will sour your milk, so mind you don’t let her bring up your breakfast tray.”

I went to pinch him but he dodged smoothly away. “Don’t be vile. You’re an invited guest, Plum. Act like it.”

He adopted a wounded expression. “I am no guest. I am family.”

“That’s worse,” I returned.

He looked back at the long train of harried porters and scattered belongings. “Yes, I think it is. However can you exist in such a state of domestic chaos? I shall never marry,” he vowed.

“It’s not always like this,” I answered tartly. “We do occasionally have things in order. It’s just that the building work has thrown everything into sixes and sevens, and it isn’t easy to organise a move to the country on two days’ notice, you know.”

Something in my tone must have warned him I was dangerously close to exhibiting a strong emotion, for Plum—never the most demonstrative of my siblings—suddenly touched my shoulder.

“I know, pet. And I’ll wager twenty guineas that Thorncross is an absolutely glorious place.”

It occurred to me much later, as we stood on the steps of our new inheritance, I ought to have taken that bet.

* * *

“Perhaps a lick of paint might improve it,” Portia suggested helpfully. “Or perhaps an exorcism?”

“Hush,” I ordered. “It’s utterly splendid,” I added in a somewhat breathless tone.

We had arrived at the station in Greater Wibberley, the town across the valley from the village of Narrow Wibberley. The maids had stayed to collect the baggage while we journeyed ahead in a pair of station carriages. Our conveyances had drawn up to the manor just as the sun dropped below the little wood to the west of the house, leaving long purple shadows trailing behind. The house was built of grey stone in a haphazard style and betrayed a certain originality of design. It was as if the architect had been too enamoured with the possibilities before him and—unable to confine himself to one—had chosen to draw upon all of his favourites. One wing, fitted with Tudor windows and elaborate red brickwork panels, ended in a French pepper-pot tower complete with witch’s cap, while the opposite side was pure mediaeval fantasy with crenellations and arrow slits leading to a Queen Anne gallery. It ought to have been hideous, but the whole effect was one of such unbridled eccentricity I could not fail to be charmed.

I glanced at Brisbane, who was grinning. “It’s utterly mad,” he pronounced.

“That’s why I love it.”

“It’s the most disgustingly undisciplined example of the builder’s art I have ever seen—” began Plum, but a wave of Brisbane’s hand silenced him.

Before any of us could say another word, the massive wooden door before us creaked open on its hinges. The hall lay in shadows, one of which stirred to life, moving slowly towards us. It was a woman, older than any I had ever seen, with two bright black eyes peering out from a face like a withered apple. She wore a severe black gown, unrelieved save for the silver chatelaine at her ample waist.

“Happen you’d be Mr. Brisbane?” she asked my husband.

“I am he,” he acknowledged. “And you are?”

She drew herself up as far as her dowager’s hump would permit. “I am Mrs. Smith, the housekeeper. And who are the rest of these folk?” she demanded.

Brisbane’s lips twitched with suppressed mirth. With this mad fairy-tale house, what could one expect but a housekeeper who seemed to have stepped straight from the pages of a storybook?

“How do you do, Mrs. Smith? This is my wife, Lady Julia Brisbane. Her sister, Lady Bettiscombe, and their brother, Mr. March. The rest you will meet later,” he said with a nod towards the nannies and children gathered behind. “For now we would like to come in,” he added with a touch of reproof.

If she was abashed at leaving her new employer and his family standing on the doorstep, she gave no sign of it. She turned, almost reluctantly, and beckoned us to follow.

“She’s a Gorgon,” Plum whispered. “Don’t look directly at her or she’ll turn you to stone.”

I put a warning finger to my lips, but I needn’t have bothered. Without turning her head, Mrs. Smith said tartly, “I heard that, laddie.”

Plum was subdued as Mrs. Smith led us into the hall. It was a proper hall, of the sort houses used to have in mediaeval times, with a fireplace large enough to roast two sides of beef at a time and a collection of rusty swords and suits of armour for decoration. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes hung along the walls. Once vivid, they were muted with dust and moth, for which I was a little grateful. The scene of Actaeon being torn apart by his hounds was a little too lifelike for comfort. Tall wooden armchairs were grouped around the hearth, each carved to resemble a small throne, and across the opposite wall stretched a minstrels’ gallery. Between, a long refectory table stood in pride of place as it had for the past century, I did not doubt.

Mrs. Smith nodded to it. “Meals are taken here.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “Are you particular about sauces?”

I blinked. “Sauces?”

“Sauces,” she said firmly. “Some ladies are very particular about sauces, but I’ve no patience with that sort of interference.”

I gave her my most winsome smile. “I can assure you, Mrs. Smith, I have no peculiarities when it comes to sauces. I am entirely happy to leave such matters in your hands.”

She gave me a grudging nod. “As it should be. A lady has better things to do than trouble herself with menus and accounts and orders for the tradesmen.”

“You mean you are content to do all the ordering and speak to the cook about menus?” I asked, scarcely daring to dream.

She stiffened. “I hope I know my job,” she replied. “My ladies have never had cause to complain,” she added, daring me to be the first.

I was giddy with the implications. No tiresome meetings to plan menus or discuss the vagaries of the new fishmonger. No wretched conversations about the unsuitability of a new housemaid or the lax morals of a butcher’s boy. I was
free
from domestic constraints at last.

I smiled broadly. “I think we are going to get along very well indeed,” I told her.

She gave me a sharp look but must have realised I was entirely sincere, for she turned her attention to Brisbane. “It’s early yet, but you will be fatigued from your travels,” she told him. “Your rooms are prepared. Fires have been kindled, hot water is on its way up, and I’ve ordered a light supper to be served here in an hour’s time. Does that suit?” she asked, lifting her pointed chin challengingly.

He spread his hands. “I think I would not dare to tell you if it did not,” he said.

She nodded again. “Good enough.”

“What sort of light supper?” Plum asked darkly, clearly expecting to be fobbed off with soup and a hot pie of dubious origins.

Mrs. Smith gave him a searching glance. “Hare soup, broiled cod in parsley sauce, veal cutlets with French beans, roasted capon and rice, pheasants with apples, and a nice vanilla charlotte for pudding.”

“Mrs. Smith,” said Plum in a hoarse voice, “I could kiss you.”

She bristled. “Mind you don’t. I have a house to run.” She paused to retrieve a package from the long table, handing it over to Brisbane. “This arrived for you, sir. From that Mr. Sanderson in London what used to be the master’s solicitor,” she said, bowing her head in a gesture of respect for the newly departed.

Brisbane took the parcel and thanked her. She reached for the chatelaine, and to my astonishment, took up a silver whistle and gave a short, sharp blast.

Instantly, servants began to materialise, and it took a moment before I realised they were appearing through doors covered with the tapestries. Mrs. Smith grinned. “It takes a bit of getting used to, the way they pop in and out. But one never knows where they’ll be with all the stairs and hidey-holes in this house. A whistle’s the best for calling them to heel.”

Rather like dogs, I thought, but did not say. She gave her orders quickly and within moments we had been whisked up the wide staircase to the upper floor by a pair of housemaids. One showed Brisbane and me to our rooms while another attended to Plum and Portia. A third guided the nurses and children to the floor above, where the nurseries were located. It had been a long day, and we agreed that an early night would be best for all.

After washing, we all trooped upstairs to kiss the children goodnight and then assembled into the hall for Mrs. Smith’s “light supper.” It was a magnificent meal, one of the best I had ever eaten, and as each course emerged from the kitchens, more succulent and delicious than the last, I found myself in a state of relaxation I had not known for some weeks.

“I like it here,” I pronounced over my third glass of claret. “Very much.”

“The wine cellar,” Plum began with unreserved delight, “is the envy of any in London. My God, Brisbane, a single bottle of this claret alone is worth more than the furnishings in this room.”

“It is a rather fine vintage, is it not?” Brisbane asked in some satisfaction.

“How is your room?” Portia prompted. “Mine is utterly superb. All blue satin with silver embroidery.”