Prelude for a Lord (35 page)

Alethea did not know what drew her to the chapel. She had thought it would be a place she would avoid since the incident with Dommick, but there was a peaceful silence here that she had not found in her empty bedchamber or even in the bleak gardens, smothered by the deep cold of approaching winter.

Her heart felt like those gardens, and she was ashamed. Lucy’s happiness was important to her, but she worried now about her plans for living in Italy, her dreams of independence. She could not move to the continent until the war ended, but surely it would not last more than two years? When it ended, perhaps it may not be difficult to find a travelling companion.

But that companion would not be her dear sister.

She was ashamed that her dependence upon Lucy could have cost her sister a family and children. Alethea had been thoughtless and selfish, assuming Lucy would always fall into her plans for them both.

She sat in a pew and studied the altar at the front, standing atop the small raised platform. The altar’s rich wooden carving had been smoothed by time and perhaps industrious tools in the hands of little Lord Dommicks in earlier centuries. Light glowed in the low vaulted ceiling arches and draped across the embroidered cloth on the altar’s surface, but the chapel was dim because of the narrow windows, which had perhaps once had stained glass, but now only held diamond-cut panes.

It was a place of past grandeur. Dommick’s grandfather had stopped the practice of daily prayers, and so the chapel lay empty and forgotten much of the time, an abandoned mother longing for her grown-up children.

Perhaps that was the reason for Alethea’s affinity with the chapel, the air of desertion. She knew logically that Lucy had not deserted her, but the loneliness settled in her bones like an early frost.

Loneliness should be an old friend to her, but Lucy had always been her shield against lowness and pain. Lucy had always been her comfort. Now she fought the stirrings of betrayal and an unsteadiness in the foundations of her life that frightened her. There was no comfort for her now.

It may have been the chapel that caused the words of the rector’s wife to come in a whisper:
divine relationship
. It meant nothing to her, and yet there was a promise of comfort if she could understand its meaning and take hold of it. Yet what kind of comfort could God offer to her? He had not comforted her before.

Or perhaps, like Margaret, Alethea had simply not heard him.

It was absurd to think that God would want to comfort her. Did he not control circumstances as he willed? Why should he cause suffering in order to bestow comfort?

No, she was being unfair. God did not cause suffering. Her father had caused her suffering. Her brother had caused her great pain. Dommick had lashed out in fear. Her sister . . .

But where was comfort? Where was the surcease of burdens? It was not here, in this lonely room, amongst relics and cobwebs.

Light footsteps sounded outside the chapel doors, then the creak of a door centuries old. Alethea turned to see Aunt Ebena in the doorway.

“Good gracious, you certainly are acquainted with the most unlikely places. If a servant had not happened to see you, I never should have found you.” Aunt Ebena stopped at the pew where she sat. “Well? Be so good as to allow me to sit.”

Alethea moved over.

“I had not known you intended to travel with your inheritance.” Aunt Ebena scowled at her.

“You knew about my inheritance? I thought only my father and brother knew of it. And Wilfred now, if the lawyer has informed him.”

“Of course I knew of it. My sister’s husband set it up to form the dowry of any of his granddaughters, since he did not trust the prudence of his eldest son and did not wish shame to come upon the house of Trittonstone should the girls have no portions. Your father was freely able to squander what was not tied up in trust for you.”

“Why should it surprise you that I wish to use my inheritance? My marriage prospects are highly unlikely.”

“I suspected you would want your independence, but I had not thought that you would travel.”

“I have read that in Italy one may live on very little expense. And there are music masters I wish to study under.” Of course, it may all come to naught now.

“But now that Lucy will not travel with you, you will need a paid companion, which may be a financial hardship,” Aunt Ebena said.

“I had thought that when the war ended, I might find a travelling companion to share the expense.”

“That is very wise of you.” Aunt Ebena hesitated, her face as
stern as always, but faint apprehension in her grey eyes. “It was my thought to offer myself.”

Alethea could not speak for nearly a full minute. She realized her mouth had dropped open and closed it with a snap. “You would . . . want to . . . travel? With me?”

“I have always desired to travel, but . . . it did not appeal to Mr. Garen.”

Now that Alethea knew her aunt’s history, the reticence of her comment spoke volumes. “You enjoy travel?”

“I have not travelled at all. But I desire to partake of foreign culture.”

Alethea recalled her aunt’s avid attendance at concerts, art exhibitions, lectures. What must it have been like to marry a man much like Aunt Ebena’s father, in control of all her actions and decisions? How had she borne the frustration of wanting something dear to her heart, knowing her husband had the funds for it, but being unable to attain it?

Alethea also knew her aunt’s income. “May I ask an impertinent question?”

“When have you ever asked permission?”

“After Mr. Garen died, you never wished to sell your house and travel?”

Aunt Ebena said in a halting voice, “I had thought my age and respectability a deterrent. But I flatter myself that I have come to understand you in this past year. You will not allow such a setback to forestall you.”

“No.” Not while Italy beckoned.

“Then I cannot allow my notions to forestall me. Our combined income will enable a very comfortable housekeeping, more so than independently of each other.”

It was true. But her aunt’s abrasiveness had caused no small discomfort to this past year.

However, she now understood Aunt Ebena better. And might some of that abrasiveness have been a reaction to Alethea’s carefree spirit, her determination to pursue her desires, whether befriending her illegitimate half sister or playing an instrument scandalous for genteel ladies? Weren’t all those things against what her aunt had upheld for most of her very correct, upright life?

“Are you certain you could live with me, ma’am?” Alethea asked with uncertainty.

“I have lived with you for the past year,” she snapped, then seemed to regret her tone. “You are sensible, and while you can be headstrong, you are not foolish. We shall rub along tolerably well, I fancy.”

Aunt Ebena, for all her faults, was strong and confident. Alethea needed her confidence now, for she felt very alone and unsure. “I should be glad of your company, Aunt Ebena.”

Her aunt nodded as though she had known all along that Alethea would agree. “We can make no plans until you have received your inheritance and the war with France is ended, but you may know that I will remain committed to our schemes.”

“Thank you, Aunt.”

What an unexpected turn her life had taken in less than a day. Yet out of this, all three of them would achieve their dreams. Aunt Ebena would travel, Lucy would marry, and Alethea would still go to Italy.

But in the depths of her heart, deeper than she wanted to scrutinize, was the doubt that Italy was still the focus of her dreams. Yet what else did she have? She would do better to forget what was not directly before her and instead embrace this new opportunity.

Bayard was certain Richard Collum was involved somehow in the intrigue surrounding Alethea’s violin.

Verifying it, however, was a different matter.

Bayard wrapped himself against the freezing wind, damp and smelling of a brewing storm, and rattled the knocker at a small, respectable house in Chippenham. It had the look of former affluence, but had fallen into disrepair and neglect. The widow of an attorney lived here, but he had no wish to speak to her.

Mr. Collum’s appearance was too convenient. He was a stranger, but his presence was excused by his engagement with Lucy. No one would note the doings of Lucy’s betrothed.

Clare was disappointed to lose Lucy as her maid, for she would leave as soon as Mr. Collum found a new position. Clare had dropped broad hints that Bayard should hire Mr. Collum as a groom, for their head groom was getting on in years, but Bayard had rather doggedly pretended not to hear her. He would not hire a man he could not trust.

He hadn’t spoken to Alethea in days. He had never realized how effortless it would be for a woman to avoid speaking to him in the confines of the abbey. He wasn’t certain what he would say if she did speak to him. It was better by far that she avoided him and believed him to be a blackguard.

Bayard had spent the majority of the day in Bath, speaking to Mrs. Ramsland’s butler about the letter of reference Richard Collum had produced upon being hired as head groom, then following the trail backward to two other homes in Bath where Mr. Collum had worked, and finally here in Chippenham, where Mr. Collum had supposedly worked for five years.

The butler who opened the door was aged, with wispy, white hair and a stoop to his shoulders. “I regret that Mrs. Boane is unavailable.”

“I have come to speak to Mr. Keable.”

The butler’s thin, white brows climbed toward his balding pate. “Me, sir? Please do come in.”

Bayard entered the house but remained in the gloomy foyer, which was lit only by tapers on the entrance table. “I am Lord Dommick. I was given your name in order to ask about a groom who worked here ten years ago.”

“I am afraid you are mistaken, my lord, for Mrs. Boane keeps no horses.”

This was the inconsistency Bayard had been hoping for. “You have been with her long?”

“For ten years.”

“And there was no groom when you started?”

“There had been no groom since Mr. Boane died.”

“There has been no servant named Richard Collum in Mrs. Boane’s employ? Whether as groom or footman?”

Mr. Keable stiffened. “Mr. Collum? I beg your pardon, my lord, but I was mistaken. Yes, Mr. Collum was Mrs. Boane’s groom ten years ago.”

Bayard found himself nonplussed. “He was?”

“Indeed. He was a good lad, very bright and amiable.”

Bayard was confused and frustrated at the same time. “How long did Mr. Collum work here?”

“Several years.”

“For whom had he worked before?”

“He was hired based on the recommendation of a former servant in this house. Mr. Collum proved to be an excellent worker.”

For a man who had professed not to know anything about a groom ten years ago, Mr. Keable suddenly knew a great deal about Mr. Collum. “You knew him well?”

“Mr. Collum left soon after I began my employ with Mrs. Boane, but he impressed me during the period I knew him, and the other servants spoke highly of him. Mrs. Boane herself wrote his references quite willingly.”

Bayard was at a loss. There was something havey-cavey going
on, but Mr. Keable seemed most earnest in his estimation of Mr. Collum’s character. Yet what could Bayard do, short of accusing the man of lying. “Thank you, Mr. Keable.”

“If it is not impertinent for me to ask, I hope Mr. Collum is well, my lord?”

The butler’s question struck Bayard as rather odd for a fellow servant and Mr. Collum’s supervisor. “Yes. He is at Terralton Abbey.”

“Mrs. Boane will be glad to hear of it.”

“Mrs. Boane would remember a groom from ten years ago?”

Mr. Keable looked confused, then said, “Mrs. Boane is most solicitous of her servants.” Which was an even more bewildering answer. “May I help you in any other way, my lord?”

“No. Good day, Mr. Keable.” He exited the house and hurried through the rising wind toward his carriage.

Bayard drove home disgruntled, aided by a cold rain that worsened into a downpour. Perhaps he would need to hire someone else to look into Mr. Collum’s background.

The travelling coach in the gravel sweep before his house was unknown to him. He ran through the rain and up the steps to the front door.

The butler took his wet greatcoat from him. “Lord and Lady Trittonstone have arrived, my lord, along with Mr. Kinnier.”

The rain had not seeped through his coat, but Bayard was suddenly chilled. Why would Alethea’s cousin and his wife be here with Mr. Kinnier, of all people? Was Bayard unreasonably suspicious to jump to the conclusion it had to do with the violin? The timing of their visit was too coincidental.

“I prefer to announce myself, Forrow.” Bayard headed to the drawing room.

As he opened the door, he heard an unfamiliar male voice say, “The papers have been signed.”

Alethea stood opposite the door, and the expression on her face caused every vein in his body to pulse with fear, anger, protectiveness. He had never seen her so white. He had never seen her with such a look of vulnerability, devastation, terror. He knew that whatever had just occurred, her entire world had gone up in flames. Her hand went to her mouth, and she swayed on her feet.