The Master of Heathcrest Hall (42 page)

He had been having frequent headaches since the day following his appearance before Assembly. Not that this was surprising, given the concerns that must weigh upon his mind.

“Come,” she said, in a tone that brooked no argument, and she took his shoulders, leaning him back until his head rested upon her lap. She smoothed back his brown curls, and with gentle motions stroked his forehead. He shut his eyes and let out a breath, and soon the lines upon his brow lessened in depth—though they did not fade altogether. They were ever present, as they had been since she first met him.

How deep the lines upon his forehead had been that day! He had returned to Heathcrest Hall to find his young wards, Clarette and Chambley, all in a commotion, and he had been obviously displeased with the efforts of his new governess—that was, with Ivy. She had quailed at his grim expression and solemn demeanor. Though somehow she had found the courage to keep from retreating in the face of his ire.

What would she have thought that day, if she had known that in the future he would be lying peacefully with his head upon her lap? At the time, she would never have been able to imagine it. But both of them were greatly altered since those first days at Heathcrest.

“I wonder how Clarette and Chambley are,” she mused aloud.

“I am sure they are well. Last we had a letter, they had gone with their aunt and uncle to the east, far from the troubles.”

Ivy was sure that was the case. All the same, it was hard not to wonder about them. For so many months at Heathcrest Hall, the two had been her only real companions.

“Do you remember the day the children knocked over the stuffed fox in the front hall at Heathcrest?” she said as she stroked his brow. “I was trying to put the stuffing back into it, hoping I could do so before you saw what had happened. But then there
you were, standing over us, so that we were all of us in a great terror, I no less than the two of them.”

“Was I really so frightening as that?” he said, his voice a growl, though there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips.

“You were very stern,” she said with a laugh.

“Well, it was the first fox I ever hunted with my father. I was quite attached to it.”

“It is peculiar that, after shooting the creature once, you should then be so concerned about another hole in its side.”

“If you cannot understand that, then you have much yet to learn about the nature and behavior of men. I suggest you consult a book on the topic, as is your habit.”

She gave a plaintive sigh. “I am not sure there is a book that reveals such mysteries as those. I fear I will dwell in ignorance without instruction.”

“Very well, then I shall take you on a hunting party in the country as soon as it is convenient.”

He spoke these words in jest, but all the same a sudden, wild feeling came over Ivy. At that instant, she no longer wished to be sitting in a neatly tended garden, but rather riding across moors of heather and gorse at the foot of rocky fells.

And why shouldn’t she? It was impossible Mr. Quent would become lord inquirer now; there was no need for him to remain close to the Citadel. Nor was there anything preventing them from removing her father from Madstone’s at any time. She had been waiting for his rooms here at the house to be finished, which they nearly were. But there were plenty of rooms at Heathcrest Hall, all simply waiting to have the sheets pulled off the furniture and the windows opened and a fire lit in the grate.

As for Lily and Rose—there was nothing for them in the city either, not now; they would find no suitable society here. But what about at Cairnbridge? Would they not be welcomed there? Surely all in County Westmorain would be glad to have people at Heathcrest Hall once more. Ivy knew Rose would like both Mr. Samonds and his aunt; theirs were gentle spirits, like her own.
And Lily could throw balls that everyone in the county would want to attend.

No, there was no reason for them to stay here in the city anymore.…

“What is it, Ivoleyn?”

Ivy realized she had ceased her ministrations upon his brow, and that she had sat up very straight. He must have noticed this change, for he sat up himself, his brown eyes curious as he looked at her.

“Is something wrong, Ivoleyn?”

She shook her head. “No, I am well. It’s just what you said a moment ago, it made me think about … That is, why don’t we go? Why don’t we go to the country?”

“Now, you mean?”

“Not just now. For always.”

He stared a moment, then his eyes opened more widely and his lips parted as he let out a breath. She was not certain if his expression was one of astonishment or joy. But either way, as he was mute, she kept speaking, her cheeks glowing as she did.

“Let’s leave the city. Let’s leave at once and go back to the country. We can all live at Heathcrest Hall—Lily and Rose and my father, and you and I. Everyone in Cairnbridge would be happy to have us back—or at least many would, I am sure of it. And there is more than enough room for us all at your manor. So we would not want for either space or society.” She reached out and took his hands in her own. “We could not want for anything, not if we were all of us there together.”

He was quiet for a long moment, his gaze going past her, as if he gazed at some far-off place. At last he looked at her again.

“I will not become a lord, Ivoleyn. It may be that I will no longer even be a baronet, or that—” He shook his head. “Things may not be what you think they will be.”

She tightened her grip on his hands. “I have no care about that. It was neither Sir Quent nor Lord Quent that I married. Rather, I married Mr. Quent, the master of Heathcrest Hall. And if I were to
dwell there with him again, then I could never wish for anything more.”

“On the contrary, I fear you may wish you had never married me at all,” he said, his voice going low. “You may wish that you had married Mr. Rafferdy instead.”

She stared at him, astonished. “Mr. Rafferdy?”

“Or Lord Rafferdy, I should say. For he is a magnate now—something I will never be myself.”

“But I care nothing about that!”

“No, I suppose you do not. Yet it is true that you did care about
him
, didn’t you? Lily once told me that you had hoped for a proposal from him, before you ever received my letter inviting you to Heathcrest Hall.”

Ivy suffered a pang of anguish. That had been thoughtless of Lily to say such a thing. It could only cause harm, and it was of no consequence anymore. How could it be? After all, the past could not be altered.…

“Did you love him very much, then?” Mr. Quent said, his brown eyes intent upon her.

That Ivy could lie to him when he gazed at her like that was impossible. “Yes, I did,” she said, then shook her head a little. “Or rather, I believed at the time that I did. He was tall and charming and witty, of course. But it was more than that. He was so far removed from the small, plain circle of my world—from all the troubles and worries in it. Mr. Rafferdy seemed to fly above it all as easily as an exotic bird might fly above the rooftops of some damp and dreary city. I could only find that captivating. And yet …”

“Yet what?”

She thought of how to explain it. “A bird is a wonderful creature. I might look up at it, and long to fly away with it.” She shrugged. “But I am not a bird myself. Rather, I am a thing quite firmly fastened to the ground. Regarding it all now, I know that my affections for Mr. Rafferdy, though strongly felt at the time, were based upon fancy and whim. It was only when I met you that I realized what I really wanted for myself, and the traits that I truly
admired: bravery, strength of character, and a selfless and unwavering resolve to always do what is right and good. Charm and wit can be delightful, but in the end they are too easily paired with vanity and callowness.”

“And you believe Mr. Rafferdy possesses these latter traits?”

She opened her mouth to reply, but her thoughts, so clear a moment ago, were suddenly confused. Was Mr. Rafferdy vain and callow? Perhaps he had been once. But now? She could hardly call him such things, not after his actions at the Evengrove, or in Assembly. Yet he still tended to indulge himself with fine clothes and fancy canes, and he continued to make a habit of speaking in a silly fashion about serious things.

“No,” she said slowly. “He is not those things, at least not anymore.”

“Then you hold him in high esteem?”

“Yes, I do,” she said, only realizing how true it was as she spoke the words. She thought of how brave Mr. Rafferdy had been to face the magicians of the Silver Eye with her, how strong he had been to resist the dreadful magicks at the tomb of the Broken God, and how he was presently risking his life to safeguard the Wyrdwood from the machinations of politicians. “In the very highest esteem.”

Ivy realized Mr. Quent was studying her, his eyes intent upon her face. At last he gave a slow nod, and she wondered what it was he had seen. She could feel her cheeks glowing, and the beating of her heart seemed fluttery and uneven. But this agitation was useless. It was not simply that the past could not be altered; it was that, even if she could do so, she would not.

Her thoughts grew calm, and she tangled her ten fingers among his eight. “What has gone before this moment does not matter,” she said. “All that matters is what comes after it. Let us go to Heathcrest Hall. We will be happy there, I know it.”

He was silent for a moment, and it seemed he gazed past her, into the distance. “Maybe it will be so,” he said softly, as one might speak a prayer. “Maybe it will be allowed, for us to go back.”

Ivy did not understand—who was to allow it but themselves?
But before she could say more, his gaze returned to her, and crinkles appeared beside his eyes as he smiled.

“No matter what is to come after, the first thing I must do following this moment is to write a bit more. I should return to my study for a while, if that’s well with you.”

Ivy felt a brief disappointment that their peaceful afternoon in the garden was at an end. But it was no matter. After all, they would have countless more such days together in the country.

“As the master pleases,” she said, giving him an impish smile.

Though she had meant it as a jest, his own smile receded into his beard. “My Ivy,” he said at last, his voice a low thrum.

He caught her in an embrace, bringing her to him and encircling her with his strong arms as he kissed her, and Ivy returned these affections with all of her own strength. Then he rose and went back into the house, leaving her alone beneath the swaying trees.

A
SHORT WHILE LATER, Ivy returned to the house as well, for the lovely weather had at last been marred by a cloud that came through, and which then proceeded to rain upon the city. It was no more than a halting drizzle—just enough to make the air sticky and uncomfortable.

Ivy walked past the door to Mr. Quent’s study, but it was shut. He must still be at his work, so she proceeded to the library to see to a task herself. She took out the Wyrdwood box and her father’s journal, then turned through the pages to see if any more words had manifested. None had.

She took out the sheet on which she had transcribed the last entry that had appeared in the journal.
As for Fintaur
, she read the words again,
you will find him residing under the aegis of the princes of the city of Ardaunto
.

Ivy still had not returned to Mr. Fintaur’s bookshop. The events following Mr. Quent’s testimony before Assembly had precluded doing so, for she had not wanted to be far from her husband in his time of need. Yet he had seemed well today, even happy, and now
he was engaged in his study. If not now, then when? If they would indeed be leaving the city soon, she would not have many more opportunities.

Ivy glanced at the clock. The gold disk was turning slowly on the right-hand face; the afternoon was clearly going to be a long one. Which meant she had time. She could go to Greenly Circle now, and tell Mr. Fintaur of what she had learned in her father’s journal. He could speak to the others. No doubt he knew Mr. Mundy, given the close proximity of their shops. And she imagined he knew how to find Mr. Larken as well.

Ivy returned the sheet of paper to the Wyrdwood box—then drew it back out as a thought occurred to her. She understood the riddle her father had written in the journal about Mr. Fintaur. And the line about Mr. Mundy was easy enough to comprehend.

There was a silver eye painted on the sign above Mr. Mundy’s magick shop, of course. But what about Mr. Larken’s whereabouts? Again Ivy read the words her father had written.

It had to be another riddle, like the others in the journal, and like so many that Mr. Lockwell had posed to her when Ivy was a girl. As she read the words they seemed to tease her, tempting her with a secret truth even as they remained just beyond understanding. She set her fingers against her temples and leaned over the paper, concentrating on the words, trying to see through them to the real meaning beyond.

“I know you can solve it, Ivoleyn.” She heard the familiar sound of her father’s voice.

“But I don’t see the answer,” she murmured in reply, as she had so many times as a girl.

“It’s right there before you,” Mr. Lockwell said. “Remember, the most obvious meaning is not the only one. You must search for other meanings, ones that lie beneath the surface. Look deeper, and you will see them.… ”

And Ivy’s eyes grew wide. Yes, she did see the deeper meaning. And she realized that, just like Mr. Fintaur, she had been close to Mr. Larken on a prior occasion without even realizing it.

“Well done, Ivoleyn,” her father said, as he had so many times before.

And the clock on the mantel let out a chime.

With a gasp, Ivy turned to look at the old rosewood clock. She half-expected to see her father standing behind her, encouraging her to solve the cipher as he had so many times when she was young. Only he was not there.