The Pleasure Trap (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-one

She awoke with the sun streaming in through the dormer window and the sound of horses’ hooves and carriage wheels rattling over cobblestones. She turned her head slowly. She was alone. Ash, she vaguely remembered, had gone back to his own bed in the middle of the night, and she was glad that he had. This was all so new to her that she didn’t know how to carry it off. She ached with an unfamiliar tenderness in every delicate part of her anatomy.

Rising on her elbows, she surveyed the bed. It surprised her that it was still in one piece. The thought made her wince.

She looked at the clock and gasped. He’d wanted an early start, and she had slept half the morning away. Throwing back the covers, she jumped out of bed and pulled the bell rope to summon the chambermaid.

As she descended the stairs, she tried to bolster her confidence. The maid had given her a note from Ash saying that he’d gone for a walk but would return soon and join her in the dining room. The short respite would give her time to practice some witty observations on the inn and its guests, if only she could unglue her tongue from the roof of her mouth.

When she entered the dining room, she came to a sudden halt. Ash was there, casually reading a newspaper. When he caught sight of her, he laid the paper aside and got up. She knew that she was blushing, and that annoyed her.

He held her chair for her as she sat down. “Sleep well?” he asked.

“Yes, thank you. And you?”

“The same.”

To ease the awkward moment, she began to butter a slice of toast.

She was reaching for the coffeepot when Ash’s hand closed around hers, preventing her from completing the movement. Her eyes flew to his. He seemed immensely pleased with himself.

He said, teasing her, “I always knew that you were a volcano waiting to erupt, and how right I was.”

She countered crossly, “And I always knew that you were an earthquake waiting to happen.”

He chuckled and released her hand. “True. I still can’t get over the shock of it. I never knew my own nature until I met you. Was it the same for you, Eve, with me?”

Now was the time for that witty rejoinder to floor him. “Pass the marmalade,” she mumbled.

He grinned and passed the marmalade. “I don’t know why everything has to be so difficult with you, but here’s how things stand with me. I detest creeping around strange inns and houses in the middle of the night just so that we can be together, and I detest even more having to lie to people when there’s not the least necessity for it. There is a simple solution to our problem, and I’m giving you fair warning. When the time is right, I expect you to do the honorable thing by me.”

No words of love, she noted, nothing about building a life together. Were all men this dense? Was bed all they ever thought about?

She struggled to appear as urbane as he. “I’ll let you know when the time is right.”

“You coward,” was all he said, then, much to her annoyance, he went on to make witty observations on the inn and its guests.

They were finishing their breakfast when the door opened and a gentleman in a caped traveling coat entered. Eve saw him first and started up. “Papa! What…what are you doing here?”

Ash was as surprised as Eve, but he covered it better. “Mr. Dearing,” he said. “We stopped here for breakfast. You’ll join us for coffee?”

He gave Eve a meaningful glance. She got the message. Here was another small lie he’d had to tell to protect her reputation.

Dearing beamed at them. “Most people stop at Cuckfield,” he said, “and I was hoping to find you here. Yes, thank you. Coffee will be fine. I thought you’d want to know what I can tell you about these cuttings.”

As he spoke, he removed the newspaper cuttings from his coat pocket, laid them on the table, and shrugged out of his coat. A passing waiter took the coat from him, and they all sat down at the table. Ash poured a cup of coffee for the older man.

“It
is
important, isn’t it?” Dearing looked from Ash to Eve. “I seem to remember you mentioning a fellow writer who was attacked by some blighter who had to be stopped.”

Ash nodded. “That’s right.” He was studying Eve’s father and quickly coming to the conclusion that Dearing did not appear to be suffering the effects of laudanum this morning. His eyes were clear and focused. He fairly radiated health.

Dearing said, “I don’t know who Angelo is, but he didn’t write these stories. Antonia did—my late wife, you know?”

“What?” demanded Eve. “Mama wrote them?” She was thunderstruck.

“Are you sure, Mr. Dearing?” Ash was staring at the cuttings. “Why would Angelo claim that he was the writer if he wasn’t?”

“I have no idea. But I’m quite certain that these are Antonia’s stories. We had words about it, you see. All this superstitious nonsense about ghosts stuck in my craw. I’m sorry to be so blunt, Eve, but your mother, as you well know, had an overactive imagination.”

Ash felt rather than saw Eve stiffen, and he quickly interposed, “Then how did Angelo get hold of her stories?”

Dearing shrugged. “All I know is that they were in her notebooks, the ones you keep asking me about, Eve. As far as I know, they weren’t in Antonia’s boxes when I finally got round to unpacking them. I didn’t think it was important. Antonia never intended to publish her stories. It was simply a hobby, something she did after she visited various gardens.” He gave Eve a wry smile. “It’s no wonder you turned out to be a writer, Eve. You got that from your mother.”

Eve was smoothing out the cuttings, frowning as she quickly scanned them.

Ash said, “Are you saying you know the gardens in these stories, Mr. Dearing?”

Dearing nodded. “I bid on them at various times, but each time I lost out to the landscape gardener I told you about, Thomas Messenger. He was a brilliant designer, but not very reliable. Did I mention that he drank too much and wasn’t always polite to his employers? These things get around, you know, but when Thomas was sober, he was charming, and everyone was willing to give him another chance. These are the gardens he designed.”

Ash said, “Messenger designed the park at Richmond? That’s my property, Mr. Dearing, and I have no recollection of anyone by that name.”

“It wasn’t a big job. As I remember, Lord Denison wanted a terraced garden laid out along a stretch of the river.”

Ash nodded. “It’s still there. Go on, Mr. Dearing.”

“At any rate, I wasn’t sure at first that they were the same gardens, but when I recognized the characters, it became patently clear.”

“The characters?”

“The maid who fell down the shaft of the well, the footman who fell down the stairs, the boy who drowned? These were tragic events, and people still talked about them to any stranger who came into the area. That’s when Antonia got to hear of them, when she visited the gardens.”

Eve’s mind was buzzing with questions. “Where was I, Papa? I ask because I don’t remember these characters at all.”

“I should hope not!” Dearing spoke with some heat. “Antonia knew better than to fill your mind with ghostly stories. You were very young, and these were tragic events. I’m glad your mother protected you from learning the distressing details.” He sighed. “If I’d had my wish, Antonia would not have written these stories at all, but she did not think to ask my opinion.”

Eve knew why. Her mother could never talk to her father about her Claverley insights. If he’d read the stories, he must have come upon them by chance.

“So I was with Mama when she visited these gardens?”

“Oh, yes. You were very young. It was, I think, in the summer of 1805. I was working up north. I can’t remember why you and your mother didn’t join me, but you and Antonia made a holiday of it, visiting several outstanding gardens in and around London.”

“That was the year before Mama died,” said Eve. Her voice was curiously flat. “The year before she fell from the top of the quarry.”

Dearing dug into his pocket and produced a handkerchief. After blowing his nose, he cleared his throat. “I thought there might be a story about the quarry garden, but, of course, Antonia did not live to write it.”

“A quarry garden?” said Eve. “I don’t remember a garden.”

Her father replied, “Well, it wasn’t laid out then. Everything was still in the planning stages.” To Ash he said, “Thomas got the commission to design the quarry garden. There were long stretches, you see, when he pulled himself together and did quite well, and this was one of them. However, it did not last long. He went back to the bottle and there was the devil to pay. He insulted the owners, broke windows, that sort of thing.” He shook his head. “Nobody could put up with that. So the owners dismissed him and called me in to finish the project.”

When the older man paused, Ash said, “That’s quite a coincidence.” He was thinking that Messenger had been present at four gardens where a tragic accident had taken place, and the wheels in his brain were spinning furiously.

“What it was,” said Dearing, “was a debacle. I started work, and Antonia and Eve took lodgings nearby. The next thing I knew, Messenger had brought his wife and children to the site to have them plead with the owner to give him another chance. They were told to get off the land or the dogs would be set on them. It was all so awkward with Messenger and his family putting up at the same inn as Antonia and Eve.”

His voice changed again and he said violently, “I wish I’d never accepted that job. It intrigued me, of course, turning a quarry into a thing of beauty, but after Antonia died, I never wanted to go back. I hear it’s beautiful, but I don’t want to see it. I couldn’t bear to see it.”

“Where is it?” Ash asked.

Dearing glanced at Eve before looking at Ash. “I never wanted Eve to go back there. She can be morbid when she wants to be. That’s something else she gets from her mother.”

“It’s all right, Papa,” Eve said. “I have a good idea where the quarry is. I’m like you. I couldn’t bear to go back, either. Things are different now.”

After a lengthy silence, Ash said, “Where is Messenger now?”

Dearing took a gulp of coffee before responding. “I know he hasn’t worked on any big projects since he lost the quarry, but he could be doing smaller jobs on his own. On the other hand, it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he had died with a bottle in his hand. I just don’t know.”

“Or,” said Ash, “it’s quite possible that he kept Antonia’s notes and, years later, when Gothic fiction came into vogue, decided to publish them.”

Mr. Dearing was startled. The idea had obviously never occurred to him. “But why would he do that?”

“We don’t know. That’s what we’re trying to find out. It would help if we could visit the quarry and the inn where your wife stayed. Perhaps someone there will remember him. Can you remember the name of the inn?”

“The White Hart.” The reply was somber and tinged with sadness.

Eve looked at her father and felt surprise mingled with an emotion that brought a sting to her eyes. “I thought you’d forgotten it.”

“No. I remember everything. When your mother died, I thought I might as well be dead, too. For all our differences, I loved her with my whole heart. Of course I remember about that night, every little detail.”

Eve could not keep the edge of bitterness from her voice. “Yet you married Martha within the year.”

“To give you a home!” he exclaimed. “I thought Martha would look after you. She had no children of her own and seemed a sensible, capable sort of woman. Your aunt did not seem the right sort of person to me to have charge of a young, impressionable girl. She was too much of a Claverley.” The handkerchief was brought out and he blew his nose again. “What I did, I did for the best.”

“Oh, Papa…” Eve shook her head.

The silence that followed did not seem comfortable to Ash, so he diverted the conversation into a less emotional channel. “Mr. Dearing, you were on the point of telling me, I believe, where this quarry garden is situated.”

“It’s not far from here, close to Penshurst Place.”

“The seat of the Sydney family?” said Ash.

Dearing nodded. “Not that Thomas or I ever worked on Penshurst’s magnificent formal gardens. They were laid out well before our time. But there is another fine house in the area, Hazleton House. That’s where I was the night Antonia died.” He added bitterly, “Working on my designs well into the night.”

“Penshurst,” said Ash. “It’s quite a long detour off the Brighton Road. We won’t make it back to town before nightfall. Would you like to come with us, sir? My curricle is too small, but we could hire a chaise and go together.”

“Thank you,” said Dearing, “but I think if ever I go, I’d like to be by myself, alone with Antonia and my memories.”

They left the inn together, and as Dearing walked to his chaise, Ash said, “If you hear anything of Messenger, or something occurs to you, you will let me know?”

The older man looked surprised. “This is important, then?”

“It may be,” Ash replied. “I can’t say yet.”

Dearing nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.”