Buried Secrets (24 page)

“Eh?” Sir Henry glanced about as though surprised to find the household plunged into darkness. “What time is it?” He glanced at a wall clock, barely visible by the light of Cord’s single taper. “Good Lord, it’s three o’clock!” He whirled to face Cord. “I say, my dear fellow, I am sorry. But, you know, it was the most peculiar thing. I awoke from a sound sleep with a picture in my mind of the open volume, and there I saw—well, I can hardly believe it—but I’m sure I saw marks very similar to the ones Pepys used in his diary!”

“No!” exclaimed Cord.

“Yes! I rose immediately, of course, and made my way here as quickly as possible. Oh, by the by,” he added distractedly, “would you have someone see to my horse? I rode old Sukey. She’s the oldest animal in our stable, but she was closest to the door. I did not saddle her, but merely threw a blanket over her back. I’m afraid she may wander off if...”

Cord gestured to Moresby, who still stood near the entrance door, gaping in affront. At Cord’s signal, he opened the door with weary resignation. Peering into the gloom outside, he turned with a nod before moving outside, slamming the door behind him.

Cord turned back to Sir Henry, but the elderly academic had appropriated the candle and had hurried to the library, where he was already hunting among the shelves.

Cord went immediately to the spot occupied by the Shelton. “Here you are, sir,” he said, drawing the book from its place.

“Ah,” replied Sir Henry, beaming in gratification. He read the title aloud in slow wonderment. Taking the book to a nearby table, he flung himself into a chair and opened the volume. He became at once lost to his surroundings, and for some minutes, the only sounds to be heard were the shuffling of pages and the excited murmurings of the old scholar.

Cord watched with bated breath, until at last Sir Henry rose. He blew out a sigh of vast satisfaction and peered at Cord.

“Yes, my boy. I can hardly believe my eyes, but I think this is our answer!” He examined the book’s title sheet again. “ ‘Shelton’s Tachygraphy.’ Good God, boy, this was published in 1635! Pepys was no doubt familiar with it. Perhaps it even attained some popularity in his time. Has it lain in old Frederick’s library all these years since? Like a buried treasure! How could I have missed it?”

Cord cleared his throat. “Well, it is a very small book. Easily missed.”

Sir Henry slapped the table delightedly. “Well, I have it now! Unless I am much mistaken, the diary may very well be translated by this time next year. Of course, I must take it home immediately—with your permission, of course. The first thing to do is to make absolutely sure that this is the true key.”

With the book clutched to his bosom, Sir Henry prepared to make his way back to the hall.

“Wait, Sir Henry!” Cord laid a hand on the old gentleman’s arm. “You may have the book with my good wishes, of course, but I cannot allow you to return to the cottage at this hour.”

“Nonsense,” returned Sir Henry briskly. “I want to get started immediately.” He turned from Cord’s grasp, but was immediately reined in again.

“Sir, your sister would comb my hair with a joint stool, as would your niece, if I were to let you set out on that spavined old mare at this hour. You will spend the remainder of the night here. I’ll send a message to the cottage apprising the ladies of your whereabouts. You can return home to start on the translation first thing in the morning. After breakfast,” he amended. “Please, sir,” he said, cajoling, as Sir Henry opened his mouth in expostulation. “The diary has been waiting for two hundred years. One more night cannot make any difference. It will be there for you in the morning—when you are fresh.”

It took some moments to convince Sir Henry of the wisdom of this program, but at last the old man, apparently realizing that he was, indeed, very tired, capitulated. Cord instructed Moresby, now reinforced by the presence of his wife; also in night garb, to lead Sir Henry to a guest chamber.

A few minutes later. Cord climbed the stairs and settled once more into bed. Sleep eluded him, however, for he realized that with Sir Henry’s discovery of the method for translating the diary, he himself had come to a watershed point in his rural sojourn. He could no longer delay his return to London. To be sure, Geoffrey Tomlinson, his man of affairs, was no doubt handling matters of importance to his well-being, but there was the matter of Corisande. How was he to expunge his obligation to her? He knew now that he would never make that long-awaited proposal, but how was he to disentangle himself from Corisande’s expectations and those of their families?

He was determined to win the heart and hand of Gillian Tate. When, he wondered, had the idea of marriage been transformed from a life sentence to a goal to be ardently pursued? When had he first pictured Gillian ensconced at Cordray Park as the Countess of Cordray? Or envisioned walks with her through the estate park— long, intimate evenings spent before the fire—nights with her in a scented boudoir, her mahogany hair spread over the pillow next to his?

He turned abruptly to pull the covers about his shoulders. Oh, indeed, these maunderings were all well and good, he reflected savagely, but at this point he had as much chance of making them a reality as he had of flying to the top of King’s College Chapel in Cambridge. Not only was he still committed to Corisande, but Gillian seemed in no way inclined to listen to his words of love.

A thought occurred to him, so startling that he sat bolt upright in bed. How could he have been so stupid? He had surmised earlier that Gillian considered him simply another rake in search of a conquest. He had not so far made the slightest effort to disabuse her of this misconception! He would go to her tomorrow! He would lay his heart at her feet, and his title and all that went with it. He was sure she would be unimpressed by the title and the wealth and the status, but he hoped—oh, God, how he hoped she would accept his heart.

Cord slept at last, but his dreams were so tumultuous that he woke early. Not, however, so early as Sir Henry, who had risen before the servants. Cord found him waiting in the drawing room, pacing the floor impatiently. He held the Shelton book in one hand, and every few seconds stopped to examine one of the pages though which he shuffled rapidly.

“Ah!” he exclaimed as Cord entered the room. “You are up at last. I trust you have breakfasted? If so, let us be on our way.”

He made as though to brush past Cord on his way to the door, but Cord stayed him with a hand on the old man’s arm.

“No, indeed, I have not breakfasted, sir. Nor, I’ll warrant have you, since none of the servants is yet stirring.”

“Yes, but that is no matter. I have slept and I am rested and it is imperative that I get to work! You can breakfast at the cottage if you’re concerned about the state of your stomach.” The old man was hopping up and down like a child in his eagerness to be off.

Cord smiled. “Very well. Just let me have a note for Moresby, so he won’t think we’ve been kidnapped by brigands.”

“Tchah!” snorted Sir Henry, but he contained himself with reasonable calm as Cord took pen and paper from a small desk nearby and scratched a swift message.

They moved to the rear of the house and out to the stables, where they found Sukey, apparently the better for a few hours’ repose. Cord saddled Zeus, and in a few moments they were on their way.

At the cottage, all was silent. It was barely seven of the clock, and the sun had peeped above the horizon not an hour before. Sir Henry, however, took no notice and burst past the front door, bellowing at the top of his lungs. “Louisa! Gillian! Where are you? Widdings! Breakfast for his lordship!”

On receiving no immediate response to his commands, he repeated them, again at full volume. It was not until he had begun on a third verse of the litany that Gillian appeared at the top of the stairs. To Cord’s delight, she, too, was still in her night rail, over which she wore a pretty sprigged dressing gown. Her hair tumbled about her shoulders in enticing disarray, and from beneath the dressing gown, her bare toes peeped entrancingly.

“Uncle! What is it?” She gasped on catching sight of Cord and tried to withdraw both feet at once under the dressing gown, almost catapulting herself down the stairs.

“Where the devil is everyone?” roared Sir Henry. “We need breakfast. Tell Widdings to serve it in the study.”

He wheeled about and strode from the entryway toward the study, leaving Cord to explain things as best he might to Gillian.

“Oh, good Heavens!” she squeaked when he had concluded his tale of the night’s stirring occurrence. She plumped down on the top step, drawing her dressing gown more securely about her. “Our plan worked, Cord! Not quite as we envisioned it, perhaps, but nonetheless, he has the book and he’s hot on the trail of the diary translation.”

“Indeed,” began Cord, mounting the stairs toward her, but he was interrupted by the arrival of Mrs. Ferris, who pattered into view at that moment from her own bedchamber. She was encased in a sturdy cotton dressing gown, and wore a lace-trimmed nightcap, from which a few strands of gray hair escaped like wispy exclamation points.

“Goodness, what is the commotion? Cord, my dear boy, what has happened? Has there been an accident at the manor? Did I hear Henry’s voice? What—?”

“Yes, indeed. Aunt,” interposed Gillian. She related to her aunt the tale of Sir Henry’s discovery of a book on shorthand, omitting, of course, any mention of the source of the book.

“Well, my stars!” gasped the old lady. “Do you mean Henry now has the means to translate his precious diary?”

“Yes,” replied Gillian and Cord in unison.

“Sir Henry estimates that the actual work will take a year or so,” added Cord.

“Oh, my,” breathed Aunt Louisa, “Oh, my,” she said again, apparently unable to formulate an appropriate response to this momentous news.

“In the meantime,” said Gillian briskly, rising to her feet, “Uncle Henry wants breakfast sent into the study.”

“Oh, that wretched man!” exclaimed Aunt Louisa. “If that isn’t just like him, so taken with his all-important diary that he can just put the whole household at sixes and sevens—and he doesn’t even care! Well, I imagine Mrs. Widdings is already in the kitchen. I’ll tell her what Sir High-and-Mighty desires this morning. After,” she concluded in some dudgeon, “I am properly dressed.”

She glanced severely at her niece. “And what in the world do you think you’re doing here, Miss Gillian, appearing in your nightclothes in the presence of a gentleman. Off with you now!”

Gillian laughed over her shoulder at Cord as Aunt Louisa herded her along the corridor with word and gesture. Warmed by the scene, Cord watched her go, and when the two ladies disappeared from view, he betook himself to the kitchen. Here he found Mrs. Widdings directing a young maid in the making of coffee and frying of ham. She displayed some surprise at seeing the earl in her domain—”and at such an ungodly hour!” she later related to her husband. “And dressed all anyhow!” However, she received Sir Henry’s wishes with equanimity and promised sustenance in short order.

Cord then made his way to Sir Henry’s study, where he found the elderly academic poring over the book on tachygraphy. He had covered a piece of paper with words and symbols, and beside him lay one of the volumes of Pepys’s Diary, currently in his possession. Sir Henry looked up at Cord’s entrance. His plump face was wreathed in smiles, and his eyes glowed behind his spectacles.

“See here, my boy. It works! I have here before me proof that Pepys used Shelton’s system of tachygraphy to write his diary! Look! I have already transcribed three words using the method. See?”

He turned the paper so that Cord could read the words, “ ‘And so ... to ... bid.’ No, no. That must be ‘bed.’ “

Sir Henry’s voice sank to a broken whisper. “I cannot believe it. After all these years . . . And to think the solution lay not two miles from here in Frederick Deddington’s library. Who would have thought?”

The old man appeared not to hear Cord’s assenting rejoinder, but returned to his task, becoming oblivious to Cord’s presence. In a few moments, Mrs. Ferris and Gillian joined him, both now dressed with impeccable propriety.

“But, of course, you will not eat in here. Henry,” were Mrs. Ferris’s first words. “Henry! Lift up your head and attend to me. Breakfast will be served momentarily—in the dining parlor, and that is where you will eat—with the rest of us.”

Sir Henry protested mightily, but in the end, accompanied by a steady stream of invective, rose to join the rest of his little family as they trooped out of the study. At table, over a hearty meal of ham, eggs, kippers and toast—and, of course, ale for the gentlemen, conversation centered on Sir Henry’s grand accomplishment.

“For now, dearest, the people at the college will realize that you were right all along. The book was indeed translatable—just awaiting a man with intelligence and experience to find the key.”

“Tchah!” responded Sir Henry gruffly. “As though I care for what that pack of dunces thinks.”

Nevertheless, the old man could not conceal his gratification. He rubbed his hands briskly, thereby leaving his knuckles smeared liberally with butter.

Unheeding, Aunt Louisa burbled on. “What do you suppose John Smith will say when you tell him you have found the secret? He will no doubt visit this afternoon, as it’s been a few days since his last call.”

At this, a sudden stillness fell upon the table. Cord and Sir Henry, forks suspended in midair, glanced at each other. The next moment Cord swiveled to face Gillian, who in turn stared at him, startled.

“Yes, indeed, John Smith,” murmured Sir Henry, as though to himself. He was silent for a long moment before coming to himself. At last, he lay down his napkin and rose from the table.

“I... I may not be home if John calls this afternoon.”

“But, dearest . . .! exclaimed Aunt Louisa.

“I must go into Cambridge in a little while,” Sir Henry responded brusquely. He pushed his chair back. “But, for now, I must get back to my desk. Join me when you’ve finished,” he added to Cord before stumping from the room.

The three remaining at table gazed at each other in mystification. They consumed the remainder of their meal in relative silence, until Aunt Louisa stood, saying, “I’m sure this is a red-letter day for Henry, but life must go on. I have a hundred things to do this morning. No, no—” She gestured to Gillian, who had also risen to her feet. “You stay with Cord. I’m sure Henry doesn’t really want his company—for he will be oblivious to the world for the rest of the morning. Perhaps, since the day is so fair, you two might enjoy an early ride.”