He tipped his head to one side. “Though what with your uptight list and all, it’s likely that none of them will be up to the mark.”
Cornelia gritted her teeth. “You think it will work?”
Another of his smiles lit his face. “Does a coyote howl in the desert?
Their arrival at Weymouth was announced by Minnie’s barking, immediately awakening Eustacia and Blanche.
From the window, Cornelia saw the Studborne carriage waiting to drive them the final twenty miles to the Abbey—a handsome equipage in black, the family crest painted large upon the door.
Soft flakes of snow had begun to fall, covering the platform and all about them in a thin layer of white. Mr. Burnell gave his hand to help each of them out.
“So nice to have a gentleman helping one on journeys such as this.” Blanche flashed him her most flirtatious of smiles.
“My pleasure entirely, Miss Everly. Now watch your step. If you fall into my arms, I’ll have to carry you the rest of the way—and then all the ladies will be wanting the same treatment.”
Blanche’s foot wavered, as if she might be contemplating the wisdom of just such a move.
“Do get a move on, dear.” Eustacia hissed from behind. “Rosamund mentioned blankets and warming bricks in the carriage and a flask of hot toddy. I for one am more than ready.”
Hoisting Minnie against her shoulder, Cornelia caught Mr. Burnell’s eye over her aunt’s head. Grinning, he gave her a slow wink.
Chapter 6
Studborne Abbey
Early morning, December 18
Cornelia woke to the tinkling of china.
“It’s just me, come with your porridge, Mrs. Mortmain. There’s cream an’ honey, as you like it.”
Tugging back the heavy curtains, Nancy peered out the window. “The snow still be comin’ down. Lucky you an’ the mistresses arrived when you did. I don’t see no other guests gettin’ up that narrow lane—an’ only half gotten here as was planned for, I be told.”
Fat flakes had begun falling steadily the evening before, filling the rutted tracks off the main coastal road and making difficult their way to the Abbey. By the time they’d pulled up, it had been past midnight and, with everyone retired, the butler had shown them to their rooms. Cornelia had barely slipped between the sheets before falling asleep.
Someone had lit the fire, thank goodness—giving the room a cheery feel, despite the feebleness of the morning light. Minnie, laying full stretch across the bottom of the golden damask quilt, lifted her head briefly before flopping down again.
The maid bustled to Cornelia’s side, lifting the tray onto her lap. “A good job I came a day ahead with the luggage, too. Your gowns be hangin’ nicely.” Nancy beamed at Cornelia. “I packed like Miss Blanche told me and only your best things, it bein’ a festive gatherin’ an’ all.”
“You’re very kind, Nancy—and I am sorry to drag you away from Portman Square so close to Christmas. I hope we didn’t disrupt your plans.”
Nancy’s large bosom wobbled to the accompaniment of her laughter. “Done me a favour, more like. It warms my heart to be back in Dorset where I was raised, an’ it do look grand downstairs, what with the decorations bein’ up. I never saw a tree so tall in all my life. Right pretty it is, covered all in ribbons. Wait ’til you see it, ma’am.”
Cornelia began on the porridge. “Are my aunts comfortable, Nancy?”
“Oh yes. They both be in Miss Blanche’s room through the connectin’ door there, havin’ their own breakfasts. I was just tellin’ the mistresses how nicely done the gardens are. Not that I’ve been out there myself yet, it bein’ so wintery, but the maid whose room I be sharin’ with was describin’ it very poetic like. There be the usual parklands and orchards o’ course, but also a maze, an’ a walled garden as the monks what lived here in past times relied upon for their vegetables. The lake be full o’ trout as well, apparently, though ’tis all frozen now.”
Cornelia had seen for herself the grandeur of the Abbey, approaching by moonlight through an avenue of limes. It was undeniably beautiful, hewn from honey-coloured stone, its many turrets reaching skyward. Although the original monastery had clearly been added to over the centuries, the original structure remained, its narrow windows lead-paned.
It was imposing indeed and, no doubt, the guests waking in the various rooms through the house would be similarly intimidating. How many of them would recognize her, she wondered—or recognize her name, if nothing else.
“I be off then, ma’am, to fetch the water for washin’. I’ve laid out yer russet wool on the chaise—the one with the little roses through the weave. Might as well give it a bit o’ warmth from the fire afore you put it on.” With that, Nancy scuttled out.
Finishing her bowl, Cornelia shrugged on her dressing gown and hastened through to check upon her aunts.
While Blanche remained in bed, Eustacia had taken the armchair closest to the fire. It was burning considerably brighter than the one in Cornelia’s room, banked high with logs. Meanwhile, her aunt’s head was buried in an edition of The Strand.
“Come and give me a morning kiss,” called Blanche, plumping her pillows. “Eustacia has no conversation this morning, and won’t let me near her magazine until she’s read Mr. Conan Doyle’s latest. Something wonderfully lurid, with dancing men in it.” Blanche’s sharp eyes sparkled. “She’s refusing even to read out the good bits.”
“They’re not those sorts of men!” Eustacia tutted. “Holmes has just received a note with a mysterious sequence of stick figures. It’s clearly a code of some sort. I suspect blackmail. It usually is.”
“It doesn’t sound as exciting as his Colonel Gerard stories.” Blanche sipped wistfully at her tea. “I much prefer him to that stuffy Sherlock and imbecile Watson. I’ve long been partial to a man in uniform, of course, but Gerard is especially good; so very accomplished, and a gallant lover.”
Cornelia couldn’t help but smile. She’d read some Colonel Gerard. The Frenchman was unspeakably vain, always thinking himself the greatest swordsman and bravest soldier. The satire was delicious.
Eustacia held up her page, showing Cornelia one of the illustrations. “They look a bit like those Palekmul engravings that Mr. Burnell’s keen on working out, don’t you think, dear?”
Cornelia frowned. The only time she’d heard him talk about the hieroglyphics was during their train journey, when both her aunts had appeared to be entirely asleep—but she knew better than to take anything at face value where those two were concerned.
She claimed the other armchair. “I came in to mention that Mr. Burnell was spinning all sorts of nonsense on our journey down, about how he dislikes the idea of his sister’s matchmaking so badly he’s prepared to pretend an attachment to me to ward off the young ladies the duchess has invited.”
“A tendre! How thrilling.” Blanche immediately swung her legs out of bed. “Once he’s playacting the role, he’s sure to fall desperately in love with you, Cornelia.”