The Master of Heathcrest Hall (45 page)

Mr. Rafferdy’s expression became, if possible, even more somber. His hands were tight upon the reins. “No, I don’t believe it is
for the purpose of bringing news that soldiers will be dispatched to your house.”

A moment ago she had felt relief in the safety of the cabriolet. Now fear seized her again, and a feeling came over her that they were not driving away from danger, but rather toward it.

“What is it, Mr. Rafferdy?” She reached over and gripped his arm. “Please, tell me why you were coming to my house!”

“I thought we would have more time,” he said, his voice marked by anguish. “Or at least, I hoped we would. I and the other members of my order have just recently learned that Lord Valhaine has been anticipating this moment—that he has long been laying preparations in its advance.”

Ivy shook her head. “Lord Valhaine? What preparations do you mean—those to fight a war against Huntley Morden?”

“Yes, but more than that. He means to use this moment to his great advantage.”

“What advantage?”

Mr. Rafferdy turned to look at her, his face pale. “It is not for fear of Princess Layle’s safety that Valhaine has refused to allow her coronation to proceed. Rather, he will use Huntley Morden’s landing upon the shores of Altania as an excuse to shut her away, claiming a woman cannot be called upon to rule in a time of war. He will attempt to seize rule for himself—and I fear there may be nothing that can be done to stop him.”

Ivy could scarcely believe what she had just heard. She would have thought it an example of Mr. Rafferdy’s peculiar wit, if his expression was not so grim. “But that can only be the most heinous crime. Surely others will prevent him from doing such a thing!”

He shook his head. “No, they won’t. You see, it won’t be a crime—not if he can have the laws of the nation changed in order to support it. What’s more, he will move swiftly against anyone in a position of trust or authority who he suspects might provide any opposition to his plan. Indeed, he moves so already.”

Even as he said this, Ivy understood why Mr. Rafferdy had been driving to Durrow Street.

“My husband,” she said, but could speak no more.

“I fear so,” Rafferdy said. “Lord Valhaine intends to dismantle the Inquiry. In his view—or in the view of the magicians who advise him, for I don’t believe there is any difference—the Wyrdwood is a thing that can only aid the rebels. That’s why he’s been seeking to eliminate it, but the Inquiry has stood against him up until now.”

Ivy gripped the edge of the seat. She had believed, despite the disagreements between the Gray Conclave and the Inquiry, that Lord Valhaine trusted her husband, and that was why he had nominated Mr. Quent to be lord inquirer. Only it was the opposite! Valhaine had known exactly what would occur when her husband was made to testify before Assembly. Mr. Quent had been cast not as a hero to the nation, but as a traitor.

And Valhaine would make an example of him.

“Please, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said, though it was hard to speak for the way her throat was constricted. “Drive quickly.”

Mr. Rafferdy did so, cracking the whip, and the cabriolet careened along Durrow Street. Any other time, Ivy would have been in mortal fear of the speed at which they went, but now she leaned forward on the bench, as if she could urge the carriage to go faster yet.

It seemed an agonizing length of time, but in fact it was just minutes later when Mr. Rafferdy brought the carriage to a halt before the front gate of the house. The street was devoid of people, and the garden beyond appeared tranquil. A hope rose within Ivy. The news about Huntley Morden had only just reached the city. Lord Valhaine would move swiftly, no doubt, but it would take him some time to act. And because of Mr. Rafferdy’s most courageous and loyal aid, they had been warned of the Black Dog’s true intent. She and Mr. Quent would depart the city at once, her sisters and father with them; they would return to the country.

Ivy was out of the carriage before Mr. Rafferdy could come around to assist her. She pushed through the gate and ran up the front steps. Yes, they would go far from the city, and far from the Gray Conclave. They would leave at once, and would stop to pack
nothing. It did not matter what they left behind. They would have one another, and that was all they needed. Her heart racing, she burst through the door of the house.

Her footsteps echoed in the vast emptiness of the front hall, a noise so jarring it caused her to stop. Then another noise registered upon her ears: the sound of sobbing.

Ivy turned. Near the open door of Mr. Quent’s study, Rose and Lily sat together on a sofa. They were holding on to one another, while Mrs. Seenly stood a few paces away. Lily’s face was white, her brown eyes unblinking, while Rose wept openly and bitterly.

Slowly, Ivy approached her sisters. Dimly, she was aware that Mr. Rafferdy came with her, though it was hard to really see anything. It seemed so dark in the house, and everything had a vague and blurred appearance, as if seen through a mist.

At last she reached the sofa where her sisters sat. Ivy looked at Mrs. Seenly, but the housekeeper appeared stricken and did not speak. Beyond her, through the open door of the study, Ivy saw loose sheafs of papers scattered all around. The chair by the table was tipped over, and a bottle of ink had fallen to the floor.

“Lily,” Ivy said, her voice low, “what has happened?”

Her youngest sister only shook her head.

“Lily,” Ivy said, more sternly now, “where is Mr. Quent?”

It was Rose who answered. “The soldiers took him!” she blurted between sobs. “They took him away, just like Father!”

Then Lily was weeping, too, holding on to Rose, while Mrs. Seenly slumped and covered her face with her hands. The tiled floor seemed to ripple and flow, as if the mosaic was not merely a picture of a seascape, but rather surged under the influence of a tide. It was only as she felt Mr. Rafferdy catch her that Ivy understood she was in fact falling.

He was able to ease her to the floor as all strength ebbed from her. It seemed he was saying something, but Ivy could not hear what it was, and she could not raise her head to look at him. Instead, her gaze went through the open door of the study, to the fallen ink bottle. The ink had gushed out of it in a black flood.

Only in the dimness, to Ivy, it looked like blood.

 

“I
AM MUCH RELIEVED that you are leaving the city for Farland Park, your ladyship,” Rafferdy said.

On the sofa, Lady Marsdel snapped her fan shut so suddenly that the little dog curled up beside her gave a yip. “I have no doubt you are relieved, Mr. Rafferdy,” she said, looking up at him through narrowed eyes. “Indeed, I am sure you are quite pleased to be excused from ever presenting yourself for dinner, or meeting your other obligations to this household.”

“But Mr. Rafferdy can come visit us in Farland Park, of course,” Lord Baydon said, his voice faint but still retaining its characteristic cheerfulness. “It is not so very far from Asterlane, after all.”

Rafferdy turned toward Lady Marsdel’s brother. He sat in a chair by a sunny window in the parlor, wrapped in a woolen blanket. Given the thickness and bulk of the blanket, it might have been easy to think the elder lord was as plump as ever. But the hollowness of his cheeks, and the sharpness of his brow and jaw, belied the illusion.

“I’m afraid I won’t be going to Asterlane, your lordship,” Rafferdy said. “At least, not any time soon.”

Lord Baydon’s gray mustache drooped in a frown, and a trembling hand emerged from folds of wool. “But I don’t see why not. I suppose Assembly has much business to discuss, what with all the bother out west. But surely they can make do without a lord or two. After all, I shall not be there.”

Rafferdy exchanged a look with Lady Marsdel. Her expression was grave now. She spread her fan open again; it was decorated in the latest motif, with a stylized pattern suggesting the tangled branches of a tree.

“It is because you are going that I must not,” Rafferdy said, turning back toward Lord Baydon. “After all, we cannot deprive Assembly of both of its very finest lords.”

Lord Baydon let out a wheezing laugh. “I suppose we can’t at that. They need at least one clever head present. But perhaps I should direct my son to remain in the city so he can occupy my seat. He is not as clever as you or I, Mr. Rafferdy, but he is very adamant in his opinions, and I think that should count for something.”

Across the parlor, Mr. Baydon lowered his broadsheet to reveal a frowning countenance. He looked ready to make a reply to his father’s statement, but Lady Marsdel spoke first.

“No, Mr. Baydon is coming with us,” she said with a tone of finality. “We must have a man at the house in Farland Park—that is, one who is not infirm. I will not have us be unprotected.”

Mrs. Baydon raised an eyebrow as she regarded her husband. “You do know how to shoot a pistol?”

“Of course I know how to shoot a pistol!” Mr. Baydon said indignantly.

His wife laid a hand on his arm. “I do not doubt your capabilities, darling. Like her ladyship, I am quite content to depend on your protections while we are in the country.”

Mr. Baydon gave a satisfied nod, as if sufficiently vindicated, and raised his broadsheet again.

“It’s just that I have not observed you to have the steadiest hand,” Mrs. Baydon said, and sipped her tea.

There was an audible groan from behind the broadsheet, but no other reply followed, and this time the newspaper remained in place.

While the other occupants of the parlor took in either news, tea, or sun, Mr. Rafferdy went to Lady Marsdel and sat on the sofa next to her. He eyed the little white dog situated between them
warily. Only then, to his surprise, the dog rose, turned around, and laid back down with his head resting upon Rafferdy’s thigh.

“I am astonished,” he said. “I expect to be nipped, and instead receive affection.”

“As is your habit, Mr. Rafferdy,” Lady Marsdel said. “Ever you retreat from others rather than risk discovering they hold you in poor esteem. Yet by that, you also fail to learn how often you are adored. When a man chooses to risk himself, Mr. Rafferdy, he may indeed have his fingers nipped. But he may reap great rewards as well.”

The little dog looked up at him with warm brown eyes. Rafferdy found himself smiling, and he scratched the dog’s head, an act resulting in much tail wagging.

“I believe you are right, your ladyship,” he said.

“Of course I am, Mr. Rafferdy. I am older and wiser than you, and you must always take my advice.” She let out a sigh. “My brother’s words, however, you should not heed.”

Rafferdy’s smile faded, though he did not cease petting the dog.

“Lord Baydon’s mind wanders much of late,” Lady Marsdel went on, her voice low now, and only for him. “He has heard the news of Sir Quent, but he fails to grasp the meaning of it, and what it bodes for Lady Quent. He cannot see why we do not all go to the country together.”

Rafferdy only nodded. There was no need to speak, for Lady Marsdel knew what Rafferdy did—that if he were to leave the city, and go to Asterlane or Farland Park, Mrs. Quent and her sisters would be utterly abandoned. It was to her ladyship’s great credit that she had refused to break off association with Mrs. Quent, though most others surely would.

“The Marsdels do not forsake their people in times of need” was all Lady Marsdel had said on the matter the day the news arrived at Fairhall Street, and that was that.

Rafferdy cast a glance back to Lord Baydon, who now dozed in his chair by the window. “What do the doctors say about him?” he said softly, turning back toward Lady Marsdel.

The lines beside her mouth deepened. “Nothing of use. They
say his condition worsens, as if we cannot all observe that for ourselves. I hope the air at Farland Park will benefit him, and improve his health. But then, I hoped the same for Lord Marsdel years ago.”

The dog let out a little whine as Rafferdy withdrew his hand and sat up straighter. “What do you mean?”

“The malady that afflicts him is very like that which took my husband years ago.”