In the garden, she glimpsed Lord Luxborough crossing the footbridge into the Forbidden Woods, accompanied by Martha Flores, whose position remained unexplained. Resolutely, Thea went the other way. Her enjoyable walk took her through the flower-filled pleasure gardens and back to the lake, where she found the secluded area Luxborough had mentioned, with quiet waters and lush grass hidden behind weeping willows.
For the sake of your delicate sensibilities, Arabella, I shall never reveal that I stripped to my shift and swam in the lake, so you will never know how delicious that cool water felt on a warm summer’s day.
Next, Thea commandeered a pony gig, instructed by her borrowed manservant Gilbert and a helpful groom. It turned out to be terrific fun, driving around the estate. They passed fields of golden wheat and acres of apple orchards, and workers everywhere, waving and tipping their hats. Following the river, they came to the cider mill, with its great wheel slapping the water, and its foreman eager to teach the new countess how apple cider was made.
“He gave me a taste of their finest cider,” she wrote. “And then another, and then another, and then I had to lie down.”
Back at the house, Thea washed and changed, deciding that Helen’s pale-green gown with the gold embroidery would go nicely with the drawing room’s decor while she played at being a countess. To think that people actually lived like this! Although of course a real countess would have serious duties too.
Over hot tea and fresh cakes, she read a letter from Arabella that had arrived with the morning post, and that contained some dismaying news concerning the Marquess of Hardbury’s return:
Papa wasted no time in reminding the prodigal marquess of our supposed life-long engagement, to which Hardbury replied, and I quote, ‘Nothing on this Earth would induce me to marry Arabella Larke.’ Alas, thus end these halcyon days of using Hardbury’s absence as an excuse not to marry. Papa insists I marry before the year is out and draws up a list of names. I am as excited as a child on Saint Nicholas’ Day, wondering what bridegroom I shall find stuffed in my stocking.
Thea was not fooled by her friend’s flippant tone, but as Arabella would detest the merest hint of sympathy or fuss, she settled on a cheerful:
Allow me to offer my excellent services as matchmaker, based on my extensive experience of being ‘married’ for nearly a whole week. Luxborough is not too awful; if you like, I could send him back your way when I am finished with him.
No sooner had she written the words than she felt a pang of something like guilt mixed with jealousy. Don’t be silly, she berated herself, and folded and sealed the letter.
Her correspondence finished, and her solitary evening drawing near, Thea perused the library shelves for books to read. She trailed her fingers over tomes on agriculture, botany, and philosophy, until she reached a shelf of plays.
A play could serve, she decided, and half pulled out the volumes, one by one, to read their titles. This sent a sheaf of loose papers fluttering to the floor. When she kneeled to gather them, she saw they were playbills for performances at a London theatre. A performance of Macbeth, with special billing for Miss Sarah Holloway in the role of Lady Macbeth. A performance of School for Scandal, featuring Miss Sarah Holloway as Lady Teazle. Indeed, Miss Sarah Holloway appeared on all of them. Clearly, someone in the Landcross family was enamored of the actress!
The name was familiar, Thea mused, as she tidied the pages. Oh yes, that night in the inn when she told her story, the man named Joe had mentioned an actress called Sarah Holloway, who disappeared. Thea glanced back down at the top playbill, and a second name leaped out at her: William Dudley. But surely that was the name of the zealot outside Lord Luxborough’s house?
What an odd coincidence.
And yet, not really. If this Sarah Holloway had been so popular, it was only to be expected that several people might mention her. And London was big enough to hold two men with such a common name.
Thea replaced the playbills and moved on. She had picked out the first readable books she saw, when she came across the heavy family Bible. Eagerly, she turned to the pages listing names with their births, deaths, and marriages. There were the five sons: John, Philip, Rafe, Christopher, and Edmund. John and Philip each had a “d.” and the year they’d died. Rafe and Christopher each had an “m.” and the year they’d married. Christopher and his wife Mary had several children, but Thea hardly noticed them, as her eye was drawn to the name of Rafe’s wife: Katharine Jane Russell, which bore not only a “d.” and a year, but also a strange marking. A box had been drawn around “Katharine Jane” with vertical lines scored through it, chillingly like the bars on a jail cell. How terrible, that someone had thus defaced the family Bible!
Thea slammed the book shut and shoved it back onto the shelf as though it might bite her, grabbed the books she had chosen, and dashed back to her room.
Where she was perfectly content, she decided, to stare out the window and daydream about finding her new home, and even more content, when dinner was served, to dine alone, for there was no one to object when she ate her syllabub first.
Rafe was duly informed that Lady Luxborough was out exploring the estate, and, lecturing himself that she did not require his company, he and Martha began making plans in earnest. Rafe sketched out a second greenhouse, Martha listed extensions to her laboratory, and both agreed to hire a man of business as soon as possible, as neither wished to deal with paperwork or the outside world.
Satisfied with the day’s work, Rafe plunged into the lake for a long, vigorous swim. On the way back to his rooms, he passed Sally and Martha, talking quietly in a hallway.
“How is the countess?” he asked Sally.
“I believe she is in her rooms.”
“I asked how she is. Not where she is.”
“Peculiar thing about being married,” Sally mused. “A man’s allowed to talk to his own wife.”
A teasing expression stole over Martha’s face. “He is also allowed to sleep with her. Then you will make babies and I can test new medicines on them.”
“You will not experiment on my babies.”
Martha shook her head. “There will be no babies if you do not sleep with your wife. Entonces, Sally. Do I explain how to make babies, or do you?”
“I know how—” Rafe stopped short at their infuriating grins. How the hell had he managed to form a household with two eccentric, impudent women who nagged him more than his own nursemaid ever had?
“The countess is nervous,” he explained. “I am waiting until we know each other better.”
“Never talking to her will help with that,” Sally said dryly, and Rafe muttered dark curses all the way back to his rooms.
No sooner had he dressed and dismissed his valet than the footmen brought his dinner. Rafe drummed his fingers on the mantelpiece as they laid out his meal, following the same routine they had for years.
One bowl of vegetable soup. One dinner plate. One glass of syllabub and raspberries. One set of silverware. One goblet. One serviette.
Two chairs.
“Must you do that with quite so much sarcasm?” Rafe said.
“My lord?”
“If you’ve something to say, spit it out.”