Tomorrow's Treasure (24 page)

Arcilla's dresses were always bright colors with lots of ruffles, bows, gold and silver threading, some with pearl buttons and trimmed in velvet. They weren't sensible at all. But then, Arcilla was not the one who had to worry about washing them. Some people could afford not to be sensible.

The Chantry horses trotted through the tall, arched gateway beneath overhanging oak branches. Harley, the old gatekeeper, stood near the small rose-covered cottage he occupied and lifted his cap before shutting the gate after them. He was Mrs. Croft's cousin and had been gatekeeper for as long as Evy could remember.

Once inside, the road changed from dirt to small cobbles. Evy looked upon mounds of green turf that gently rolled toward a horizon of trees on the perimeter of more private woods. Was that where Rogan had taken Derwent to hunt? The land went even farther back beyond the woods to farmland cultivated by workers employed by the squire.

The shrubbery along the lawns was meticulously manicured, the handiwork of Mr. Tibbs, Rookswood's main gardener. Not far from the entry gate was a narrower lane that she remembered well. It was the route along which Rogan had taken her and Derwent to the huge garden near the Chantry family mausoleum.

They drove the long
S
-shaped carriageway to the mansion, rimmed on one side with white birch and on the other with elm. When the horses at last came to the end of the
S
, Mr. Bixby stopped. Evy stared at the biggest house she had ever seen. And the most forbidding.

Why, it's more like a castle than a home!

A Chantry footman came to open the coach door, and Aunt Grace stepped down to the carriage block. Evy followed, unable to pull her gaze from the crenelated towers and turrets. She had learned from Uncle Edmund during her history lessons that they were from the twelfth century, as was the thick, high wall surrounding the main grounds.

What excitement she'd brought with her mingled with dread as gargoyles with bulging eyes and evil scowls glared at her. Evy imagined soldiers dumping boiling pitch down the castle's machicolations while fiery arrows flew from the tower heights to invading enemies scaling makeshift ladders against the walls. In one lesson at the rectory the curate had told of an early Chantry family fleeing into the woods and hiding for weeks while the enemy took over the castle. Someone in the family had been beheaded, but she could not remember who. Evy shuddered.

There was more than one door to Rookswood, and they were all studded with massive iron nails. Many windows included leaded panes, and Aunt Grace pointed out the intricate Gothic tracery on the stone mullions and arched transoms, looking so delicate in contrast to the grotesque faces of the stained gargoyle rainspouts.

No wonder Rogan behaved as he did. It was quite a change to leave Rookswood with its renowned family history and ride down to the humble village with its farm bungalows.

“What a … wondrous castle,” murmured Evy as she followed Aunt Grace from the coach up stone steps that rose to a walled courtyard:

“Yes, indeed. Did you know that the first Lord Chantry went with King Richard to the Holy Land to fight the Saracen?”

“Yes, Vicar Brown taught us last year that Lord Chantry was killed in Jerusalem.”

“I believe the present squire keeps the sword in the armory room. Perhaps one day when we study history we shall have a tour of the weaponry.”

Mrs. Wetherly, the Chantrys' housekeeper, wearing a black bombazine dress and stiff white apron and cap, greeted them in the upper courtyard. Evy recalled that she was a nice, no-nonsense woman who
attended Sunday services. Evy wondered what
she
thought of the nosy Lizzie, as well as the host of Mrs. Croft's relatives.

“Welcome to Rookswood, Mrs. Havering,” she said. “Lady Camilla will be meeting with you after luncheon in the library. She didn't sleep well last night and hasn't risen yet. I daresay her health troubles her … Do come this way, and I'll show you and Evy right up to your rooms.”

“Thank you,” said Aunt Grace. “Evy?”

But a fluttering caught her eye, and she looked up to see Arcilla peering down at her from one of the windows. With gold hair plaited and wearing a maroon satin dress, she might have passed for a medieval princess trapped in a castle. Then the girl stuck out her tongue and wrinkled her nose.

Princess, indeed. More like the toad!

Evy finally followed her aunt and Mrs. Wetherly inside, where she came to a stunned halt in the huge baronial hall, adorned with a magnificent chandelier in its vaulted ceiling. She figured the hall to run at least fifty feet with windows on either side. Sunlight did not penetrate the leaded panes well, though, which made for lurking shadows in the far corners and increased Evy's sense of doom.

Drawing a steadying breath, Evy gazed about her. Crusader weapons lined the wall, and she tried not to see the empty eye sockets of the giant suit of armor at the base of the staircase.

Mrs. Wetherly chattered about balls and other musical entertainments that were held here in the great hall and remarked on how beautiful it was when decorated with Christmas candles and holly berries. “Not that there's likely to be any entertainment soon,” she said, “not with Lady Honoria's death. And too, the master's been away, and his niece by marriage, Lady Camilla, isn't well enough at present. When Miss Arcilla grows a little older I'm certain we'll have many balls.”

Evy lingered, trying to calm her palpitating heart. She ran her palm along the polished wood banister, feeling the hideous bulging eyes of the same style gargoyles carved so intricately there. Uncle Edmund had told her the carvings were done by superstitious people living in other
generations who feared devils and thought to frighten them away by surrounding themselves with monsters equally as frightening. The more religious, he said, filled their abodes with carved relics and religious symbols.

She continued up the stairs, feeling the soles of her shoes sink into the thick garnet carpet. The color reminded her of the diamond-encircled ring she had seen on Lady Camilla's hand. She looked up to the gallery where the housekeeper and Aunt Grace now paused. Flickering candlelight glimmered and tossed shadows all around her. Evy took a deep breath and stopped. Foreboding drifted downward in the silent atmosphere and seemed to rest upon her shoulders.

“Evy?” came Aunt Grace's voice, seemingly from far away.

Evy shook her head, hoping to dispel her alarm, and quickened her steps to join them in the gallery. At least a half-dozen family portraits lined the wall. Evy tried to pick out which austere face would most likely be the
murdered
Henry Chantry. It was difficult. They all wore a faintly disdainful expression, even the women, but she finally settled on a piratical looking man with dark hair, mustache, arched brows, and a smirk loitering about his lips—
a rather cruel mouth
, she thought.
Rogan has some of his blood all right, except he's more charming and handsomer.
That had to be Master Henry.

She shivered, now with a strange excitement. Then motion in the opposite end of the long gallery caught her eye. She turned her head. No one was there. But she
had
seen something … She was sure of it. She stared. It was probably Rogan, trying to frighten her—

Just then, a man stepped through the archway and regarded her evenly. At first she thought it was the man she had met in Grimston Woods, but this was a stranger. He remained in the shadows, yet she could see that he had a black eye patch and wore a short-clipped beard. Certainly he was not a servant. His bearing was too proud for that, and his wardrobe was of the same expensive quality as Rogan's.

Aunt Grace and Mrs. Wetherly had left the gallery, and Evy could hear their fading voices. But she felt transfixed. His face was lean and hard and very brown … just like the strangers in the woods. The man
walked forward and stopped a short distance away. His good eye remained fixed upon her. A strange expression flickered across his face as he took in Evy's eyes and hair.

She could stand it no longer. Evy fled up the next flight of stairs after Aunt Grace and Mrs. Wetherly.

The man must be a guest, some important person in the nobility from London. Why had he stared at her like that? Almost as if he knew her!

Evy tried to concentrate on the housekeeper's words. Mrs. Wetherly explained that the nursery wing and big schoolroom were located on the third floor. Here, also, would be their rooms, not two rooms as first thought, but
three.
They had belonged to the retiring governess, Miss Hortense, who had first come to Rookswood with Lady Honoria after she married Sir Lyle in Cape Town. Miss Hortense had stayed with Honoria to nurse their children, Parnell, Rogan, and Arcilla. Honoria's death, Mrs. Wetherly said, had nearly undone the poor governess. “She loved Lady Honoria like her own daughter.”

Mrs. Wetherly left them at their rooms, saying that she would have tea sent up at a half past the hour.

Their quarters proved quite pleasant and dispelled some of Evy's discomfort. A small parlor with a hearth and two adjoining bedrooms welcomed them. Behind a blue curtain was a private powder closet, holding a hipbath, a vanity cupboard, and a white dressing table with a large mirror. In the parlor were two chairs and a settee upholstered in cream brocade with pink roses, several good quality mahogany tables, shaded lanterns, and the secretary desk with matching chair that was sent over from the rectory.

Evy's own room was quite small but cozy. She liked the floor-to-midwall window that looked down on a courtyard. She was up high enough to have quite a nice view, though the woods on the other side of the wall looked ominous.

The four-poster bed was smaller than the one in her aunt's room, and though it did not have filmy curtains that could be drawn closed,
she approved of the blue quilted coverlet and thick frilled pillows. There was a white dressing table with a fringed ottoman, also in blue, a hard-backed chair, and a small desk with an oil lamp and writing materials. The floor was not carpeted, but there were several area rugs to warm bare feet.

Only one painting adorned the walls: a young girl in a long blue dress, her golden hair undone, running through a meadow. Evy thought it enchanting at first glance, but the longer she looked the more uncertain she became. A dark forest waited on the other side of the meadow, and Evy could not be sure if the girl ran to escape something or to meet someone she cared about. Perhaps if Evy studied the woods more closely she would see someone standing in the shadows waiting for her.

Evy turned quickly away, trying to smile at her fancies.

Some minutes later, when her things were put away, she joined her aunt in the sitting room again. Aunt Grace smiled at her. “Well here we are, Evy. Our new home. In everything give thanks, and so we shall.”

Aunt Grace took Evy's hands in her own. “Father God, we thank You for our new home. Encourage us to learn and accept Your purposes for us while we live here. Help us not to be too shy in showing others how much we trust You with the sudden changes in our lives. And remind us to be content with such things as we have, knowing You have promised in Your Word to never leave us or forsake us. We ask in our Saviors dear name, amen.”

A few minutes later there was a tap on the door, and the maid, Lizzie, Mrs. Croft's niece, brought in the tea tray. There were cakes and frosted ginger biscuits sent up from the kitchen as a welcome gift by the cook, Beatrice.

“Welcome to Rookswood, Mrs. Havering, Miss Evy.”

“Thank you, Lizzie. Do give our thanks to Beatrice in the kitchen.”

“Yes, Mrs. Havering.” The girl hesitated, as though she wanted to talk.

Aunt Grace remained noncommittal and expressionless, and Evy
knew that she was showing the young woman she would not be engaging in servant gossip. Lizzie seemed to understand and quickly departed.

Later that afternoon Aunt Grace would meet with her charge, Miss Arcilla Chantry. Right at the moment, their unknown future seemed to Evy less than comforting indeed.

Evy's meeting with Arcilla was not going well.

The girl was sitting on the window seat that looked out over the tops of the tall beech trees. She stood, as social grace's required, when Mrs. Wetherly introduced her to Aunt Grace, though of course Arcilla was well aware of who she was. Arcilla had been attending the church for years. Evy thought the girl looked pale and docile—though she knew Arcilla was certainly not the latter.

Most likely Arcilla's momentary good behavior could be attributed to ill health over her mother's death or perhaps to her brothers' orders that she mind her manners. There was little doubt that Arcilla set great store by Parnell and Rogan, that she cared for their opinions as much as she did Lady Camilla's.

“Hello, Mrs. Havering.” The stilted words were spoken as though she had been forced to practice their simplicity. “I am glad you have come to Rookswood.” After a pause her eyes flickered, and it seemed her thoughts fought their way to the forefront to master her demeanor. “Not that
anyone
can ever fill the shoes of Miss Hortense. She was our nurse and governess all our lives—me, Rogan, and Parnell.”