Buried Secrets (21 page)

Cord listened patiently to all Mrs. Ferris’s suggestions, and at last a list of thirty unexceptionable persons was drawn up. Cord rang for a fresh pot of tea and urged Mrs. Ferris to a more comfortable chair near the fire.

“I do appreciate your taking time from your day to assist me in a task that I would certainly have made mice feet of,” he began, offering her a plate of cucumber sandwiches.

“It is my pleasure, dear boy,” replied Mrs. Ferns, making a modest selection. “I know how confusing it can be, coming into a strange neighborhood. It’s too bad Gillian could not be with us, but she had promised Mr. Ellison to help him choose the music for the children’s choral recital. That’s coming up in two weeks. Do you think you will be here then?”

“I rather doubt it.” Cord arranged his features into an expression, of regret. While he was sincere in his determination to assume his responsibility as one of the area’s more prominent landlords, he drew the line at a local children’s choral recital. “I have noticed,” he continued smoothly, “that Miss Tate seems to take an active role in village activities.”

“Oh, yes! She is always the first one called on whenever a volunteer is needed. Why, I don’t know how Mr. Ellison—he’s the schoolmaster, you know—or Reverend Boilings and his wife would manage. Gillian makes herself available for everything from visiting the sick to arranging mothers’ meetings to distributing baskets to the poor. She especially enjoys her work with children, however.” Mrs. Ferns sighed. “It is such a pity that she does not have little ones of her own. She would make an admirable mother.”

Ignoring the speculative glance she shot at him, Cord grasped at this, the opportunity he had been waiting for.

“To tell you the truth, Mrs. Ferris, I am rather surprised that Miss Tate has chosen such a ... a contained existence. Not that I believe she is unhappy,” he continued hastily, noting signs of distress on the old woman’s features. “She obviously loves both you and Sir Henry very much and relishes her life with you. It’s just that— frankly, one would have expected a young woman of her beauty and . . . and character to have been married by now.”

Cord glanced assessingly at Mrs. Ferris. Had he gone too far? He did not wish to be seen as prying into Gillian’s private concerns. A second look told him he need not have worried, for apparently Sir Henry’s sister was concerned as well.

“Oh, you are right. Cord! She should have wed some nice young man years ago. She claims to be perfectly happy in her present state, but how can any woman actually choose to remain a ... a spinster?”

“Well,” said Cord, progressing with care, “she told me of her betrothal some years ago to a young man who was killed at Waterloo.”

“Oh, yes, Kenneth Winthrop. Such a nice boy. He was utterly devoted to Gillian. We were surprised, and so disappointed when she broke off the engagement. He died a hero, you know.”

“Broke off the engagement?” Cord echoed in astonishment. Why had Gillian given him the impression that she mourned Saint Kenneth as a woman would for the man she intended to marry? “Do you know why she severed the connection? Was it something in their relationship then that could have turned her away from men in general? No unpleasantness or character flaws on Mr. Winthrop’s part?”

“Oh, no!” replied Mrs. Fen-is in a shocked voice. “Young Mr. Winthrop was a perfect paragon of virtue. He would never have so much as contemplated any action that was not above reproach. That is—I did not know the gentleman very well personally, but I received glowing reports from Gillian’s parents. They were so happy at the betrothal!” Mrs. Ferris paused to dab at her eyes with a lace-trimmed handkerchief. “No,” she continued uncertainly, “if anything—that is—it must have been that Gillian, having known one perfect love, cannot bring herself to search for another. It is so very sad,” she sniffed.

“But understandable,” Cord concluded comfortingly.

It was apparent that no more information on the possibly perfidy of Saint Kenneth would be forthcoming from Mrs. Ferris, so Cord sought a subject with which to turn the conversation. The old woman was before him, however. She set her cup down on its saucer with a little clatter and turned to face him, her plump features serious.

“Cord, I hope you don’t mind, but I have been wishing to thank you.”

Cord stared blankly. “Thank me?”

“Yes, for the kindness you have shown to Henry. I know you discovered Gillian’s part in his ridiculous escapades with that diary. You could have made life very difficult for us, but you did not.”

“Oh, but I—”

Mrs. Ferris lifted a hand. “Instead, you arranged for the loan of a few of the volumes at a time. I really do believe, my dear boy”—she groped in her skirt pocket and once more brought out her handkerchief—”that Henry would have gone mad if permanently deprived of the diary.”

“Now, now, Mrs. Ferris.” Cord patted the old lady’s hand. “It was my pleasure to help. In any event, I certainly would not have wished to make life difficult for a family who have become my very dear friends.”

At this, Mrs. Ferris was almost overcome. Sniffing noisily, she blew her nose and wiped her eyes with great thoroughness. “Oh, dear,” she gasped, “I can only hope that Henry will finish his dratted translation before you leave. Although, neither Gillian nor I have much hope in that. If he hasn’t made sense of all those little lines and crooks and squiggles in the years he’s already spent, I shouldn’t imagine another two weeks will help. Why, what is it. Cord?” she asked in some confusion, for the earl had stiffened, his brows snapping together in a puzzled frown.

For a long moment he did not respond, remaining in an unseeing trance. “What?” asked Cord in response to another question, as though returning from a great distance. “Oh. Forgive me, Mrs. Ferris, I—something just occurred to me.” He rose from his chair. “I hope you will excuse my rudeness, but I’m afraid I must leave you.”

“Oh, dear—is something wrong?”

“No. Oh, no. I just remembered something of ... of great importance—something that requires my immediate presence elsewhere.”

Mrs. Ferris had by now risen as well, and with more profuse apologies, he bundled her from the room and out the front door. “I must leave Wildehaven for a few days,” he explained as he handed her into the gig that provided transportation for the Folsome family.

“But...but the dinner party!” Mrs. Ferns spluttered.

 “Oh, I shall be back in plenty of time for that. In fact, I shall no doubt return by the first of next week.”

Though obviously not contented with this explanation, Mrs. Ferris allowed herself to be driven off, looking backward in startlement at Cord, who remained standing in the middle of the driveway, staring before him in abstraction.

Chapter Sixteen

Gillian took the news of Cord’s departure from Wildehaven with a reasonable degree of equanimity. She felt unaccountably distressed that he would leave so precipitously, without bidding her farewell, but she told herself this was nonsense. The earl was certainly under no obligation to discuss his comings and goings with her. At any rate, he had said he’d only be gone for a short time. He would soon be out of her life forever, so why should she mope at the prospect of spending a mere few days without him?

She found the time dragging, however. Every time a clatter on the drive announced a visitor, she looked up expectantly.

“Did he say where he was going?” she asked her aunt at last.

“No, dearest, but, as I told you, something occurred to him suddenly. He could hardly wait to get me out of the house. Though, of course, he was the soul of courtesy,” she added hastily.

“And he did not say where he was going?”

“No, only that he had just thought of something that required his immediate attention. But, never mind, dear, he promised to be back in time for the dinner party.”

With that, Gillian tried to force herself to her usual routine. She was also forced to admit that dinnertime at the cottage had become a dull affair, and she found that her uncle’s interminable discourses on the diary and other matters of the Restoration period had become irritating in the extreme. She even found it difficult to attend her aunt’s blameless gossip about the doings of their neighbors.

In fact, it seemed as though she were living in some sort of gray limbo. No matter how she chastised herself for this witless behavior, she waited in almost breathless anticipation of Cord’s return.

Thus, when she was sat in her office one sunny afternoon four days after Cord’s departure, a mound of ledgers surrounding her, she lifted her head at the sound of the front doorbell. It seemed she scarcely breathed as Widdings shuffled to answer it, and when a clear, deep, very masculine voice drifted back from the entry hall, she thrust papers, notes and ledgers away from her. Stopping only to remove her apron and tidy her hair, she picked up her skirts and ran to the front of the house.

Gillian caught herself up in the corridor outside the hall and skidded to a stop. She took one last look at herself in a nearby mirror, then moved sedately into the hall. Cord had just greeted Widdings, and at her entrance, he looked up swiftly. An unsettling glow leaped to his eyes, and she walked toward him without knowing that she did so.

“You’re back,” she breathed, immediately biting her tongue on her blatant inanity.

However, he answered in kind. “Yes.”

Under Mr. Widdings’s interested stare, they stood for a moment, locked in each other’s gaze.

“I—we missed you,” Gillian said at last, coming to herself with a little jerk. She turned to lead him farther into the house. “Uncle Henry is in his study. I expect—”

“No. I came to see you,” interposed Cord quickly. “That is—I have brought something.” He withdrew from his coat a slender volume and handed it to her with an air of suppressed excitement. “Gillian, I believe this little book may provide the answer to our mystery!”

She stared up at him, startled. “Cord! What is it—and where did you find it? Uncle will be beside himself.” Again, she turned to lead the way to the study, but once more. Cord detained her.

“No. I ...” He stopped uncertainly. “I’d like to discuss this with you privately first. Is there somewhere we could speak for a moment uninterrupted?”

Gillian hesitated. Her first instinct was to avoid so much as five minute’s worth of uninterrupted privacy with the Earl of Cordray. Despite his declarations of the purity of his intentions, she did not trust him. She did not trust herself. The next moment she chided herself. She was not a siren at whom men threw themselves in wild abandon at the slightest opportunity. She smiled and led the way to the little office.

Cord glanced around him. “So this is the working heart of Rose Cottage,” he murmured. Briefly, he touched the ledgers scattered on the desk.

“Yes, indeed,” replied Gillian with a smile. “I have been hard at work all day, and have only now persuaded these wretched figures to stay in their proper columns and add up to their proper amounts.” She moved the account books into an untidy pile on one corner of the desk. “But what is this miracle you have brought us?”

“No—that is—” began Cord, before halting himself. He turned away in some confusion to bring up Gillian’s chair at the desk. He pulled one up for himself as well. He placed the little volume on the desk and, with Gillian, spelled out the faded letters on its cover.

“A
Tutor to Tachygraphy,”
murmured Gillian, “by T. Shelton.”

“Yes!” exclaimed Cord. “It finally dawned on me where I had seen the little symbols used by Pepys. I remembered a book I had once seen in the library at Cordray Park—my home. It must have been years ago— when I was just a boy, I suppose. I don’t know how I happened to come across it, or why I so much as picked it up. I suppose it was the word
Tachygraphy.
I hadn’t the slightest idea what it meant, and I probably hoped it was something wicked and forbidden. At any rate, that’s where I went—back to Cordray Park to look at it again.”

Cord opened the book. “As you can see, it’s an instruction book on a form of shorthand.”

“Shorthand!” echoed Gillian. “You don’t mean—?”

“Yes. You see? It was published in 1635—by the Cambridge University Press, no less—and must have been on the bookseller’s shelves when Sam Pepys strolled the streets of London. And look—” Slowly, Cord leafed through the pages of the booklet.

“Oh, my,” breathed Gillian. “The marks are just like those in Pepys’s journal.”

“Yes,” replied Cord excitedly. He fished in one of his pockets for a moment, bringing out a sheet of paper. “And see? On my last visit to your uncle, I copied several lines from the first page of the diary. “Gillian,” he breathed. “The shorthand worked! I was able to translate the first sentence.”

Reverently, he passed the paper to Gillian, and she read aloud. “ ‘Blessed be God, at the end of the last year I was in very good health, without any sense of my old pain but upon taking of cold.’ “

She turned a wide gaze on Cord. “You’ve done it, Cord! You’ve solved the mystery! If this is truly the source of Pepys’s code, the translation of the diary should be the work of—well, several months, I should think.” She halted suddenly. “But why did no one ever think of this before? I mean, if this book has been around for almost two hundred years, why did no one think to—?”

“That’s precisely the point. The Shelton system was undoubtedly known in Pepys’s time. Perhaps it even became a popular method of transcription, but then it went out of fashion, eventually to be forgotten. Who today has even heard of this book? Even in academic circles I should imagine no one knows of it anymore.”

“Cord, I don’t know what to say. To think that the secret of decoding the diary has been buried all these years in such an unremarkable fashion. Uncle will be so pleased!” She started to rise. “We must give it to him at once!”

“Um,” began Cord, who had remained seated. “Perhaps we want to think about that for a bit.”

Gillian sank back into her chair, sending him a puzzled look.

“If we just hand Sir Henry the book,” continued Cord, “we will have taken the challenge from him. He will think of it as ... well, as my accomplishment. I know you said he’s interested in simply seeing the journal translated, but it seems to me he very much wants to be the source of the solution.”