A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(18)

He broke off, his breath coming hard. “I will not explain myself further. I thank you for your visit but this conversation has ceased to be productive. I will wish you a good night.”

I rose and went to the door. He held it open but did not meet my eyes. “You will see that I am right,” I told him. “You have contained your rage for too long and that is a poisonous thing. Let go of it and you will let go of Caroline.”

I was scarcely over the threshold before he slammed the door behind me. Then, as if he knew I was still there, he slowly and deliberately threw the bolt, barring me from returning.



* * *



? ? ?

Wakeful and unhappy, I sat up for a while writing a letter of some length to Lady Wellie. I was a little troubled at leaving her so abruptly and hoped a deceptively jolly account of my travels and the unique setting of St. Maddern’s would amuse her. I took great pains over describing the people I had met and the little I had glimpsed of the castle.

I wrote:


It is a curiously homely place for a castle. The structure itself is of great antiquity but the interior has been redecorated several times. From Tudor galleries to the Jacobean dining room, it is exactly what one would most like a castle to be. I am told the views are spectacular, but have seen nothing yet as we arrived in darkness and it seems the weather is prone to change as often as a dandy’s underlinen. A storm has risen, howling like the proverbial banshee around my turret room, and I am thankful I am not of a nervous disposition else I would be cowering under the coverlet with only my eyes peeping over the top as I wait for morning.



I dropped my pen, making a note to finish the letter the following day.

A storm was fully howling as I blew out my candle, and somewhere in the depths of my dreams I noted the clashing of thunder, the cymbals of the gods, but still I slumbered on. I woke later than was my custom. I had no work, no Stoker clamoring for attention, no dogs or correspondence or obligations. I rose, stretching, and went to the window, flinging the casement wide.

Before me, the sea spread like jeweled skirts, shimmering in the morning sun. In the distance, three rocks punctuated the horizon, strung like beads on a chain, but apart from this, there was nothing at all for the eye to see except the blues of sea and sky stretching to the end of eternity. Strong winds whipped the water into white-capped waves and the scent of the brisk sea air was intoxicating. I had not realized exactly how high we had climbed into the darkness, but I felt on top of the world, as if I could reach out and touch the toe of heaven. After scribbling a quick postscript to Lady Wellie about the stunning views, I washed and dressed and made my way down to breakfast with my letter tucked in my pocket. There was no sound from the room above me, indicating that Stoker was either sleeping in or already abroad. Tiberius’ door was firmly closed but I did not knock.

I helped myself to a full plate of eggs and bacon and tomatoes from the hot chafing dishes on the sideboard. As I took my chair at the table, Mrs. Trengrouse glided in with a fresh pot of tea and a rack of toast.

“Good morning, Miss Speedwell. I hope you slept well in spite of the storm?”

A tiny furrow appeared between her silvering dark brows. She took her responsibilities seriously as housekeeper, I reflected. With no wife for Malcolm Romilly, and Mertensia clearly uninterested in domesticity, the running of the household would fall upon her shoulders. She did not seem to mind the responsibility. In fact, I would venture to say that she throve upon it. Her chatelaine was as brightly polished as the previous day, but her collar and cuffs had been changed for crisp white linen. Belgian, I guessed.

“Entirely,” I assured her. She placed the teapot and toast rack within easy reach of me and rearranged various dishes of jams and butter and honey until I had everything I could possibly desire.

“I shall be fat as a Michaelmas goose by the time I leave,” I mused. “I am dreadfully hungry and everything is so delicious.”

She beamed. “We take great pride in our kitchens, and the sea air has that effect upon everyone.”

“I seem to be the only one about. Where are the others?”

She made her way down the sideboard, peering into each chafing dish and arranging the contents more attractively. “Mrs. Romilly takes breakfast in her room. The gentlemen—Mr. Romilly, Mr. Caspian, his lordship, and Mr. Templeton-Vane—ate earlier and are on a ramble about the island. Visiting the threshing floors and the fishing boats. And Miss Mertensia never breakfasts. She stuffs a roll into her pocket and eats while she works in the garden,” she said in a tone of fond exasperation. She drew back the draperies to let in the strong morning sunlight. “Rain later, I’m afraid, so if you want exercise, you might care to walk in the gardens this morning,” she advised.

“I rather thought Miss Mertensia discouraged that sort of thing.”

She looked shocked. “Heavens no, Miss Speedwell! She is merely protective of her gardens. You would be most welcome, I am sure.” She beckoned me to the window. “You see the walled garden here? That is a little pleasaunce planted four centuries ago for the ladies of the house to take the air and sun. Now, through the west gate is the kitchen garden, which is tidy and productive, but hardly of any interest to the casual visitor. Far better, in my opinion, is the east gate,” she instructed, pointing to a large wooden door set in an arch of the stone wall. “It isn’t locked, just pass through and you will be in the flower gardens and herbaceous borders. Beyond is another wall dividing the formal gardens from the orchards with a little yew walk at the end. At the far reach of the yew walk is a strong black gate with a skull and crossbones, you cannot miss it.”