Marigold's Marriages (22 page)

She encountered Beech as she went inside, and his eyes widened when he saw Sir Francis, but he bowed his head respectfully. However, a young housemaid who was just emerging from the dining room was startled because the mallard gave a loud, suspiciously mischievous quack. Dropping her duster, the girl fled toward the kitchens.

Marigold halted and gave Sir Francis a shrewd glance. “You enjoyed doing that, didn’t you?” His bill rattled, almost as if he were sniggering, and she studied him.

“Just how much do you understand, hm? Your ability to convey your feelings with a single quack is quite amazing.” He gazed back at her, and after a moment she carried him to Jenny’s portrait. Was there something that she hadn’t noticed before? After a while, she sighed. “Well, sir, I’m supposed to find the solution, but every time I look, I only see what I’ve seen before,” she murmured to the drake.

Sir Francis became restive. He wriggled and squirmed, began to quack very loudly and seemed quite upset. “Do be still,” Marigold chided, and was rewarded with a highly indignant glare, so she put him down on the floor. Ruffled and somewhat peeved, he gave her another very dire look, then fluffed his feathers, and waddled along the room. When he was about twelve feet from her, he turned and directed a vocal broadside that more than conveyed his displeasure.

“You’re quite impossible,” Marigold declared, becoming more and more certain that he understood far more than any mallard should.

His response was something very like a derisory snort, but then she forgot all about him as through the far window she saw a carriage coming along the drive. It wasn’t very grand, indeed it was a rather old post chaise, with an equally old postboy seated on the lead horse. As she looked, one of the chaise windows was lowered, and Perry leaned out. With a glad cry, she gathered her skirts and ran from the room. She positively flew across the hall, and out beneath the porch just as the chaise rattled to a standstill.

Perry flung the door open and leapt down to run to her. He was pale and clearly far from well, but his delight on seeing her again could not have been more warm. He hugged her tightly. “Oh, Mama! How good it is to be with you again!”

She laughed. “Instead of conjugating Latin verbs and applying your dubious intellect to mathematical problems?”

“That’s not fair!”

“No, but it’s probably true.” She turned as Bysshe climbed down as well.

He had been pale before, and was more so now. He gave her a sheepish smile. “Good afternoon, Lady Avenbury.”

“Hello again, Bysshe. May I call you Bysshe?”

“Oh, please do.”

“Well, I’m afraid Lord Avenbury has gone to Salisbury, but he will be back this evening. In the meantime, I don’t know how unwell you both are. Do you wish to retire to your rooms to rest?”

To her surprise they both nodded. They must indeed be ill, she thought. “Very well, I’ll have Beech show you the way. Come inside. Would you care for some refreshment?”

“Just a drink of cordial,” Perry said, and Bysshe murmured his agreement.

As they entered the house, the boys paused to gaze around the hall. A shine of anticipation crept into Bysshe’s eyes. “Oh, gosh, this place is magnificently atmospheric,” he breathed. “First those standing stones, and now the very house where the Avenbury curse—”

“Bysshe!” Perry gave him an angry look. “Have a little tact!”

Bysshe blinked, and then looked apologetically at Marigold. “Forgive me, ma’am, I—I didn’t mean ...” His voice died away as something caught his eye in the dining room doorway. It was Sir Francis, who didn’t make a sound, but just gazed at the two boys.

Perry looked too. “Oh, no! Not
you
again!” he cried. Sir Francis responded with a quack that verged on the smug.

Bysshe sighed. “We didn’t bring him with us, ma’am, truly we didn’t!”

“I know. He arrived at the same time as Lord Avenbury and me, and was very nearly served up on a platter.”

“Pity he hadn’t been,” Perry muttered.

The mortified quack with which this remark was greeted made Marigold certain Sir Francis could understand. That being so, she was equally certain he was part of the puzzle. Each time she’d touched the stone, the birds on the lake were involved. And they were in the background of the portrait.

Bysshe turned helplessly to Perry. “What are we going to do with him? He’s such a pest, he’s bound to get in the way of—” He broke off sharply, and glanced a little guiltily at Marigold.

“In the way of what?” she asked.

“Oh, nothing really.”

“Not experiments, I trust?”

“Oh, no, ma’am,” he replied earnestly.

“Perry?”

Her son was all innocence too. “Certainly not, Mama. We don’t intend to attempt any experiments at all.”

“So we aren’t going to be treated to more satanic circles, electrified doorknobs, and the like?”

“No, Mama.”

“See that is so.” But she was still mistrustful. They were a little
too
angelic. “What exactly have you brought with you?” she asked, seeing the footman carrying in several large trunks.

“Lots of books,” the boy replied together.

They still looked furtive, she decided, and the obvious reason was something concerning the curse. Better to nip any schoolboy schemes in the bud, she decided. “Very well, sirs, if it is only books, they had better not deal with the foolish legends surrounding this house. If I discover either of you in any mischief on the matter, you will be on your way back to Eton
tout de suite.
Is that clear?”

“Yes, Mama.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She turned to Beech, who waited dutifully nearby. “Show Master Perry and Master Bysshe to their rooms, Beech, and see they are served some cordial.”

“My lady. Come this way, young sirs,” the butler said, and bowed to the boys.

As they followed him, Sir Francis waddled across the hall and then fluttered up the staircase behind them. Marigold heard Bysshe’s stifled exclamation of annoyance, but neither boy tried to shoo the mallard away. Clearly they were resigned to his tenacity. Sir Francis was a demon indeed when it came to doing as he pleased.

It didn’t take long to find out what Perry and Bysshe were up to, indeed it became clear that very night, although at first all seemed well. Rowan had returned from Salisbury, and he, the boys, and Marigold dined together. During the meal, there was no indication of approaching trouble, although the relish with which both boys devoured Mrs. Spindle’s superlative cooking made their claims to illness seem increasingly specious.

Rowan and Marigold remained at the table afterward to discuss everything yet again, and for a while Perry and Bysshe stayed with them, but then decided instead to adjourn to the adjacent billiard room, which also opened onto the terrace. There was still no hint of what was to come when they returned to the grand parlor at about eleven o’clock to say good night, and then retire to their beds. But schoolboy plans were afoot, as was soon to be revealed.

In the meantime, Rowan and Marigold’s intensive dining room debate continued. The curse was raked over, then raked over again. She told Rowan about her second experience at the standing stone, and they tried to decide what form her supernatural ability actually took, but all it seemed to be was a susceptibility to visions or hallucinations.

Having failed to pinpoint the power’s form, they turned their attention to the painting, but although they scrutinized it for well over an hour, they perceived nothing new. Jenny’s “answer” remained infuriatingly elusive, and they concluded that if there was a hidden message or clue, it was so well concealed it had been rendered impossible to find!

Sir Francis was with them, having flown onto the table after it was cleared. Once again he’d settled beside Marigold, and neither she nor Rowan made any attempt to remove him, because it was always easier to let the mallard do as he pleased. And speak as he pleased as well, for their conversation was constantly punctuated by his bill rattling and decidedly bellicose chuntering. He didn’t seem at all pleased with either of them, fixing first one then the other with his bright eyes. Occasionally he gave a snort that was so disparaging that at last Marigold confided in Rowan her suspicion that the drake understood what they were discussing.

“I’m beginning to think the same,” Rowan replied dryly, “and by his attitude I’d say disagrees with us!”

“I think he’s definitely part of all this,” Marigold said then.

“A very opinionated part.”

She smiled. “Maybe, but all the same ...”

Rowan nodded. “I concede the point. You’ve been right about him all along, although I still cannot imagine who he is.”

“The first Lord Avenbury?”

With an emphatic quack, Sir Francis stretched his neck to look long and hard at them both.

“Well, I suppose it’s as feasible as everything else.” Rowan gave a rueful grin. “I must be unique. It isn’t every nobleman in England who can claim descent from ducks and wrens!”

“A very exclusive genealogy,” Marigold replied, and then bit her lip as without warning tears sprang to her eyes. “I—I can’t believe we’re joking about it.”

Sir Francis rattled his bill soothingly, and rested his head against her arm. Rowan took her hand, and smiled again. “Our web-footed friend doesn’t want you to cry, my darling, nor do I. It’s always better to smile than weep. Come on now, let’s recapitulate everything we know, or think we know.”

Taking a deep breath to compose herself, Marigold stroked the drake while she and Rowan went over the whole puzzle again. They were not to know that schoolboy ears were pressed to the door, or that schoolboy eyes widened more with each startling revelation. Sir Francis knew though, for he looked toward the door, but he didn’t raise the alarm.

At last the two boys drew well away from the door, and whispered together. They had been about to secretly leave the house when they’d commenced eavesdropping, now they went quietly to the front door, and slipped out into the summer night. The moment they’d gone, Beech emerged from the shadows at the top of the stairs, and hurried downstairs to follow. He tracked them around the side of the house, and watched as they ran past the terrace toward the ha-ha, and then to the common. He waited until he was sure they were intent upon examining the ashes by the oak tree, then he hastened back into the house to tap urgently upon the dining room door. “My lord?”

Rowan glanced around from the portrait. “Yes?”

The butler came in. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but I think you and her ladyship should know that the young gentlemen have been listening at this door, and have now gone out to the oak tree.”

Marigold was dismayed. “Listening?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“Do you know for how long?”

“No, my lady. I only saw them for a moment, before they slipped away outside.”

“Then they may have been there for some time?”

“Yes, my lady.”

Marigold looked unhappily at Rowan. “Heaven knows how much they may have heard.”

“Well, it’s done now,” he replied, and nodded at the butler. “Thank you for informing us, Beech, it’s much appreciated.”

“My lord. Do you wish me to bring the young gentlemen back to the house?”

“No, leave it with me.”

“My lord.” The butler bowed and withdrew.

As soon as the door closed behind him, Marigold rose agitatedly from her seat. “Oh, Rowan, what if they heard everything we said?”

“Then what’s done is done.”

“But what we were saying is so utterly outlandish!”

Rowan smiled, and got up to go to her. “My dearest darling, I think our Eton invalids wallow in the outlandish! In fact, I’d go so far as to suggest they’re so steeped in the amazing and unlikely, they’d be disappointed by the mundane. I don’t recall hearing any frightened gasps at the door, do you? No one came rushing in tearfully, or collapsed with the vapors. No, the little monsters lapped it all up.” He put his arms around her.

“Do—do you really think so?”

“I know so. Well, no doubt we will now be obliged to discuss it all with them, for to refuse to do so would be a little absurd. Actually, that might be a good idea,” he added, and Sir Francis clacked his bill.

Marigold glanced at the mallard, and then at Rowan. “Discuss it with the boys? Oh, I don’t know ...”

“My darling, Bysshe’s huge interest in the occult and so on might prove useful.” Sir Francis quacked, and nodded his head. Rowan indicated the drake’s response. “He thinks it’s a sensible notion.”

“Well, I suppose ...” Marigold smiled. “I’ll go along with whatever you decide.”

“Good, because the first thing I intend to do is teach them both a lesson for snooping upon other people’s private conversations.” He kissed her nose, then went to get her shawl from her chair. “Come on,” he said as he placed it gently around her shoulders.

“Where are we going?”

“To your bramble refuge.” He ushered her to the French windows, and Sir Francis immediately fluttered down to accompany them. Rowan turned with a frown. “Not you, I want things quiet, and you’ve got far too much to say for yourself!” he breathed, trying to gently push the drake back inside with his boot. Sir Francis gave several highly indignant squawks, then took to his wings over Marigold’s head.

“Damn and blast him!” Rowan cursed, watching the mallard disappear toward the village. “I vow that when I next have duck à l’orange, I shall eat it with considerable relish!”

“I don’t think I shall ever be able to eat duck again,” Marigold said.

“I intend to make a point of it,” Rowan replied with a quick smile. “Come on, let’s give our young friends a small fright.” Taking her hand again, he led her along the terrace.

The lawns behind the house had been scythed that day, and the night air was scented with cut grass as they made their way toward the ha-ha. There was no mist, and the moon was out, so they could see the boys using sticks to poke the ground at the foot of the oak, presumably to inspect the charred remains of the druids’ fire. Rowan and Marigold kept low as they negotiated the ha-ha, then hurried to the brambles, where they lay down to peer through the thorny branches. Marigold glanced at Rowan. “What are you going to do?” she whispered.