The Lodestone (7 page)

Cleome could see that her conversational tone surprised Garnett, but he quickly recovered. Putting his hands behind his back, he ambled into the kitchen to stand next to her. “My pockets were emptied straightaway,” he told her. “That Stoneham fellow is quite good. A professional, I’d wager. I say, is that feast for us?”

“I thought my grandfather would like something to eat,” she said with careful detachment, moving away from him to tend to the coffeepot.

“’Pon my word, Cleome! Surely you do not intend to hold one little mud cake against me for the rest of my life. Here now, look. I’ll get down on my knees to beg your pardon, if only you’ll forgive me,” he declared. “Will that do? You look so lovely standing there in the firelight. I would love to paint your portrait!”

The sight of Garnett on his knees with the countenance of a love-stricken calf was too much for Cleome. She burst into laughter. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Garnett,” she admonished. “Please. Get up. What would your father think?”

“I find I do not care what he thinks, when it comes to you,” Garnett said, sounding as sincere as he was surprised. “Of course, my mind and his rarely run along common ground these days. At any rate, I’ll not get up ’till you say all is forgiven.”

“Very well. All is forgiven,” she said magnanimously, offering him her hand. “Now do get up. You look positively silly.”

“That’s how you make me feel,” he answered, scrambling to his feet and reluctantly releasing her hand. “I say—where did you learn to ride a horse like that? You were absolutely smashing yesterday, riding off with your hair flying behind you like an exotic gypsy princess. You fair took my breath away!”

Recalling those events was embarrassing for Cleome; and if Garnett’s present loose tongue was any indication which way the conversation would go, she wanted to change the subject before he was off about her riding with no saddle.

“If you really want to be helpful, Garnett, you might take this tray out to the sitting room.” As she spoke, she efficiently placed mugs, spoons, cream, sugar, honey and jam on the tray with the bread and cheese. “I’ll follow with the coffee.”

“For you, Cleome, anything!” he declared. “I must start immediately to make up for my past sins. As of this moment, I am your slave. Truly.”

She laughed again and it was a lovely feeling. When Garnett preceded her into the sitting room and stood back to hold the door open for her, her cheeks had the ruddy glow of youthful good spirits, and a becoming smile lit her features. But instantly, the atmosphere of doom that cloaked the players sent a chill racing through her body and her soul.

Drake’s eyes, as he sat at the mahogany gaming table opposite her grandfather, flickered over her briefly and then returned to the cards he held in one hand. Beads of perspiration dotted William Desmond’s upper lip. The cards he held were bending with the force of his grip and his breathing was shallow. Lord Easton and his two friends sat quietly in their chairs as if participating in a wake.

“Grandfather?” Cleome asked softly. “I thought you might be hungry, so I—”

“Thank you lass,” William broke in vaguely. “Put it over there. There’s a good lass.” The stranger did not move a muscle and William stared transfixed at his cards.

“I believe you were about to reveal your hand to me,” Drake said without an ounce of emotion, ending the agonizing silence that engulfed the room.

Cleome’s eyes left her grandfather’s pale, impassive face and traveled to the other men, as if seeking reassurance. Then she noticed her grandfather’s pegboard, which was used for keeping the cribbage score, in the center of the table. His biggest board, it had six hundred holes—and each player had only one left to fill, evidence that this was the game that had occupied most of the evening. The last time Cleome had seen it used was when her grandfather had played with Squire Greenley for a pound a peg. Her granda had won, but that marathon match, too, had taken all night.

Also on the table were the record books Cleome had been working on earlier. Resting on top of them was the deed to the Eagle’s Head Inn and surrounding properties. She recognized it because it was written on fine parchment, folded in thirds and had once been sealed with red wax. It was the only such document in the house, to her knowledge.

“I congratulate you, sir,” William Desmond said quietly, his voice hollow.

“You’d have done better to let me win the colt,” Drake said evenly. He threw the cards down on the table and rose with a quick, agitated movement.

“Not Epitome, Granda!” Cleome cried. “Surely not!”

“No, my dear. I have not lost your horse. He, at least, is safe.”

Laurence Easton turned to Drake with a smile and thanked him for an entertaining evening. While Lord Foxworth and his brother-in-law bid Drake a good night, Garnett took Cleome aside.

“I shall look in on you tomorrow, my dear,” he whispered. “Until then, try not to worry. I’ll see you safely through this difficulty.”

When Garnett and the others had gone, William said humbly, “And now, Mr. Stoneham, I’m sure you would like to see your property.”

“Dammit all, Desmond,” Drake replied. “I have no wish to ruin a working man. Perhaps a round of whist will recover everything for you.”

“Ah, but I have nothing more to wager,” the old man responded. “And I’ll not risk the colt. The game is ended, sir. It is done. Cleome, if you’ll do the honors.”

The tall stranger drew in a deep, heavy breath and said, “Very well then. Show me every room not presently occupied by a guest or a servant.”

Cleome turned to her grandfather with a sinking realization of what he had done. They had lost everything. He had gambled away their livelihood. She was shocked at how shrunken and old he suddenly looked. She wanted to put her arms around him and say, “Do not worry. We’ll think of something.” But the shame in his eyes prevented her.

“Go on, lass,” William whispered. “Do as Mr. Stoneham bids. I’ll see to the locking up. We can talk the morrow.”

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears and as she blinked them back, her throat tightened with pity for the man who had been both father and grandfather to her. She could only nod. Her head held high, she turned to Drake Stoneham.

“If you please, sir,” she said in a voice so low she could scarcely hear it herself. “Come with me.” She picked up the lamp and her footsteps sounding hollow in the silent, sleeping house, she led him through the first floor. Besides the sitting room, there were the small parlor; the dining room for guests of the inn; the large parlor; the breakfast room, which was set aside for the family but hadn’t been used since Grandmamma Adelaide’s last meal there; the immense kitchen with its well-stocked pantry; and the reception area, which contained the registry desk, a small writing table for travelers, and a boxed-in space Young Sam had built where trunks and valises could be stored.

“You can see it is adequately furnished,” Cleome said over her shoulder as she held the lamp higher.

“We need not make an inventory,” Drake answered. “I merely wished to spare your grandfather the company of a sympathetic female. It would be an abomination to a man with his pride to be fawned over at the moment. He is quite overcome.”

“Your charity exceeds my understanding, Mr. Stoneham,” she rejoined sadly. Here in the same kitchen where, moments before, she had laughed with another young person for the first time she could remember—perhaps the first time in her life—she felt an indescribable fear. Granda had lost everything. What on earth were they to do?

“Has your grandfather other business interests, or relatives to turn to in such a time as this?” Drake asked.

“Not to my knowledge,” Cleome replied.

“Then he is a fool, and deserves no sympathy. I would never have thrown away the only method I possessed to earn a living for my family. You may not believe it, mademoiselle, but I gave him every opportunity to quit the game with honor.”

“Did you?” The truth of his words stung her, for she knew no one had forced her grandfather to play. There was nothing he loved more than a rousing game of cards; he would even put aside Jacqueline’s attentions in favor of chance. Still, she felt called upon to defend him. She turned to face the stranger, unaware that her features were even lovelier in the flickering lamplight. “My grandfather has always provided adequately for me,” she said. “I’m sure he held something back.” She didn’t believe her words any more than Drake Stoneham did.

He looked at her a moment, then pointed to a spot behind her and asked, “Where does that stairway go?”

“There are two stairways,” she replied, turning to lead him forward. “This one, near the reception area, makes rooms to let easily accessible to travelers. The other leads to our family quarters on the second floor, and to the servants’ rooms on the third.”

As she led him past the sitting room, she noticed that someone—probably her grandfather—had cleared the table. The ashes from the pipes in which the gentlemen had earlier indulged had been carefully swept into the fireplace, which was now cold; and the lamp had been extinguished.

“It seems my grandfather has retired,” she told Drake with quiet dignity. “Since you are so very solicitous of his feelings, I’ll not be able to show you his bedroom until morning. However, you’re welcome to see the study.”

**

The study was the smallest room in the inn, and Drake had no way of knowing it was the one Cleome loved best. It was furnished with a veneered rosewood table, an imposing secretary of polished oak, and an old spoon-back chair.

“Who studies here?” he inquired, looking at her from beneath arched eyebrows, his head tilted to one side as he tried to see her face, which she kept in the shadows.

“I used to take my lessons here,” she replied. “Now I come to rest and read. I enjoy a good book in the evening when my work is done.”

“This is where you got off to, when we chased you from the sitting room? Here, entertaining yourself with some Byronic rubbish?”

“While I am rather fond of Shakespeare, I do not generally enjoy poetry. Too much human suffering, I believe, is disguised with pompous words.” Her voice had taken on a dull monotone, not at all like the lyrical sounds she had produced when rescuing her mare, or when greeting him at the registry desk.

“And what of human suffering can one of your tender years have seen?”

“My mother is very frail. That’s where I was all evening, sir, sitting with her until she fell asleep.” She looked up at him at last. “She has not been well for many years and rainstorms frighten her. Shall I light you back to your own room now, Mr. Stoneham?”

“You have not shown me your room,” was his soft response.

“You wish to see
my
room?”

“It is now my property, is it not?” he asked, and cursed himself for torturing her just so he could spend more time with her. She was a simple country maid, and she had given him no cause to believe that in the privacy of her bedroom she would employ feminine wiles—if indeed, she had them—to keep a roof above her head. But the site of her made him hungry for something he couldn’t name, something that not even a woman like Elizabeth Easton could satisfy.

She sighed, and he could tell she was barely holding her emotions in check. “Very well,” she agreed.

With one deft movement, she opened the door at the side of the study; and taking up the lamp again, she stepped into her own room. Drake followed closely behind her, inhaling the delicate, naturally sweet smell of her.

It was a nice room, but not what he’d expected. There were no silken coverlets, no nosegays from a recent ball hanging from her bedpost, no dainty little dressing table full of powders and perfumes. Instead, there was a plain mahogany bed covered with a patchwork quilt; an unadorned mahogany chiffonier; a rough-hewn oak dresser that held a comb and brush; and a worn, braided rug on the floor beside the bed. A washbowl and a water jug of brownish-green bottle glass stood ready on a small oak table near the bed. A writing table beside a sturdy bookcase filled with books held a modest supply of letter paper, an inkstand and a quill pen. Drake quickly scanned the books, which included several volumes of Shakespeare, Sir Walter Scott’s
Waverly
and
The Lady of the Lake
; Mary Shelley’s
Frankenstein;
and
Pride and Prejudice
by the inimitable Miss Austen. Lightly, he traced his hands over their spines and looked at Cleome. She had entered the room ahead of him, to light his way; but she kept her place near the door, as if prepared to take flight in any unforeseen event.

“You are much too serious for one so young,” he said at last. He sat down on her bed and considered her impassive features, which were, he was sure, masking her fear and worry. “I’m enchanted to see the place where a virtuous maiden dreams of the knight in shining armor who will come riding into the yard, in answer to the yearnings of her heart.”

“You’re making fun of me. Is that right part of your wager?”

“No.” He rose and went to stand near her. “Actually, I envy your innocence.” He pointed to the door on the opposite wall. “What is through there?”

Cleome turned and followed his gaze. “A small dressing room.”

“And next to that?”

“My mother’s room. I trust you’ll not disturb her at this hour. Strangers upset her, and if we were to awaken her in the middle of the night—”

“What think you?” he interrupted, striding away from her, agitated. “That I am some kind of cruel monster? There’s no need to disturb your mother.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You’re welcome. Now, please tell me there’s an easier way to get to my room than going down the stairs on this side and up again on the other.”

“As a matter of fact, yes. There’s a door at the end of this landing. It opens onto the other side. We keep it locked but I have the key.”