Chapter 3

 

Mrs. Greene entered the parlor shortly after Mr. Norcliffe had left. She was of a certain age, although not doddering by any stretch. The formidable woman must have received a briefing from her master that was likely unflattering, but she gave me every courtesy and a little matronly forbearance as well.

“If you care to follow me, Miss Gilbert, I’ll show you to your room. There’s water heating in the kitchen that will soon be ready, then you can clean up when you change for dinner.” Mrs. Greene wore a stiff black dress over her stout figure and a white cap on her head, and she clearly had opinions about what a person should or should not wear to dinner. I wondered if she allowed Mr. Norcliffe to dine with his collar open and sleeves rolled up.

“Thank you, Mrs. Greene. I’m sorry if I’ve added any extra work to your day.” I had not yet regained my equanimity after the unsettling conversation with Mr. Norcliffe, but I was grateful for her kindness.

“No, no trouble at all for me. It’s true that Mr. Norcliffe does not receive many visitors, but I am glad when he does, even if they’re unlooked-for.”

We ascended the main staircase to the second level, which was open to the entryway below in the center and had a railing around the double-height section. By looking down over the railing I could see the black-and-white checkered entry floor, and above was a trompe l’oeil ceiling of clouds. All the bedrooms ringed the outside walls. Mrs. Greene led me to a room on the west side.

The guest bedroom was small and neat, with a four-poster bed covered by a navy quilt. An armoire and washstand occupied one wall. The commanding feature, though, was the glass window—more of a door, really—that opened onto the rear balcony. A small desk with a chair was placed to take advantage of the excellent view.

“Now, Miss Gilbert, you’ll want to enjoy some evening air, I’m sure, despite this weather.” Mrs. Greene flung the glass door open and looked at me for a reaction. She was clearly proud of this feature, proud of the house, and I could only agree. I smiled and stepped through the door eagerly. Some of Palladio’s common features, such as this covered balcony, were more suited to the Italian climate than the soggy English weather, but for a few months a year they were a rare luxury.

“I will, thank you so much.”

“Excellent. I’ll be back in just a few minutes with that hot water.” Mrs. Greene bustled for a moment, lighting a few candles, then disappeared. I noted that my luggage had already appeared at the foot of the bed.

I took the opportunity the sudden solitude afforded me to gaze into the darkness that swallowed the rear lawn. Through the rain, I saw only a small unadorned strip of grass before the ancient trees rose up again. Sunsets over the treetops would be lovely. I hoped to still be here by sundown tomorrow evening to witness it. That possibility hinged entirely on the success of my dinner conversation with Thomas Norcliffe, so I turned away from the balcony and stepped back into the bedroom.

I set about repinning my hair for the third and hopefully final time for the day. By the time Mrs. Greene came back with hot water, my hair was neat and I had stepped out of my dusty traveling dress.

“Here you are, miss. Let me know if you need anything else. Oh! Is that your gown for this evening?” She reached for the satin gown I had hung on the armoire door. “It’s lovely, it is. Shall I put you in it?”

Other than my practical traveling costume, I had brought a few day dresses and two more formal gowns. The better of these had a white lawn petticoat with a narrow flounce at the hem, over which was worn a short-sleeved tight satin sort of robe that fastened with a white ribbon around the waist. The satin was a rich dove color that I knew to be flattering against my pale skin and dark hair. It was neither overly formal nor especially stylish, but that hardly mattered here in the countryside of North Yorkshire. The primary reason I had selected it was that I could don the whole thing unassisted, as long as my stays fastened in the front, which they did.

“Thank you, I shall dress myself. I am quite independent.”

“There’s none doubting that, miss, what with traveling here with no maid! Anyhow, if you do come to something that requires a helping hand, ring the bell there.” Mrs. Greene pointed to a red tasseled pull near the headboard of the bed. “I’ll come up as quick as I can.”

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Greene. I do appreciate the hospitality you’ve shown to an unexpected guest.” I smiled and clasped my hands in front of me to indicate I wasn’t continuing my ablutions until she departed. The housekeeper hesitated a moment longer. “Was there anything else?”

“Well, miss, it’s just that Mr. Norcliffe hasn’t had the easiest time of it in these past few months.”

I grasped for the gossipy opening she had dangled. “Since his father died and he assumed the responsibility for the estate?”

“Oh no, the old Mr. Norcliffe died seven or eight years ago now. Our young Mr. Norcliffe returned home from his work in London in time to say their final goodbyes, and he soon took to the house and the estate like a duck to water. No, I mean just this summer has had its own particular bumps and scrapes.”

“I see,” I said, although I did not, but I was interested in hearing more.

“I hope this book you’re writing, this study you’re making of the house and its reincarnation during the old master’s time here, I hope it doesn’t cause any extra headaches for Mr. Norcliffe. He won’t like that, and you’ll not want to be going against him.” Mrs. Greene was looking directly into my eyes, her eyebrows up defiantly, a matter-of-fact expression on her face. I felt keenly for the first time my utter isolation in the big old house, on the big old estate, in the middle of a strange countryside. I needed these people, not only to complete the work for my father’s book, but also for my simple existence over the duration of the visit, however long that should turn out to be.

“I shall give my absolute best effort not to cause any headaches, as you say, beyond those created by my arrival itself. Thank you for the warning.”

“Oh my dear, that wasn’t a warning, not at all, just meant in the sense of a helpful piece of advice, like from your old interfering auntie or what have you.” She beamed at me hugely, all wrinkles and good nature, and closed the door as she bustled out.

I used the warm water to wash my hands and face, then donned the dove-gray gown. A few minutes still remained before I was expected in the dining room, so I penned a few notes in my small notebook regarding my first impressions of the exterior of Wainforth Manor and what little I had seen thus far of the interior. At eight o’clock I put my quill and ink away and went to meet Thomas Norcliffe for dinner.

The dining room occupied the corner of the house opposite from the parlor. The doors stood open and light blazed within, so I took a deep breath and entered. I found Mr. Norcliffe holding a glass of deep red wine and staring out the tall windows at the storm. I suspected these windows would open like doors onto the flagged terrace beyond, similar to but on a grander scale than the way my bedroom opened onto the balcony, but they were all closed this evening.

Mr. Norcliffe turned as I entered. He was dressed more formally in black breeches, black coat, and white cravat tied around the collar of a white shirt. I almost smiled as I imagined Mrs. Greene nagging him to change out of his workaday clothes.

“Miss Gilbert, good evening. I hope your room is comfortable?” His voice and facial expression did not lead me to believe that he was particularly concerned about the comfort of my room, but I answered him without bias.

“It is a lovely room, thank you, Mr. Norcliffe. I particularly enjoy the view over the treetops from the balcony.” I stepped a few feet closer, around the edge of the table set for two.

“Indeed. As do I. The sunsets are often magnificent.” He wore no curled wig such as men at a London dinner might wear. Perhaps if all the men in London had the thick dark hair that Mr. Norcliffe did, the wigmakers might go out of business.

Embarrassingly distracted by his appearance, it took me a moment to process what he had said. I was momentarily robbed of intelligent speech. “Ah…and do you admire the sunsets from this dining room…or…”

“From my bedroom. The room you are staying in has the same view from the west portico.” The thought of Mr. Norcliffe sharing access to the same balcony from a different bedroom totally discombobulated me, although it should not have.

“Ahem. Could I trouble you to pour me a glass of that wine?” I badly needed to stop thinking about shared balconies and get the conversation back on the track of architectural research.

He raised one eyebrow, but reached for a glass and the wine carafe. As he turned away, I used the opportunity to marshal my faculties. I also forcefully reminded myself of the season I had spent in London five years prior being chaperoned by my aunt and completely ignored by every handsome man in the city, all of the rich men, and most of the poor, homely ones too.

“Thank you.” I accepted the glass of wine gratefully and did not brush his fingertips with mine. “I was just going to say that it was quite clever of the architect to give the master of the house access to one of its best features, meaning of course the balcony, which is quite unique in this part of England, as far as I know anyway, while also ensuring that guests may be suitably impressed by it as well.” Better than stammering idiotically, but hardly.

Mr. Norcliffe sipped his wine and looked at me. “Do you enjoy assisting your father in his research and writing?” He seemed much more unruffled by my presence this evening than he had earlier in the parlor. I made a mental note that my host apparently did not enjoy surprises.

“Yes, very much, sir. I learned much from my father. What started in my adolescence as a way for him to work more efficiently soon became my passion as well, especially in my adult years. It has been my honor and privilege to work so closely with a highly respected scholar such as my father, an opportunity many women would have dearly loved, but which was only open to me because of our family relationship.”

“Your father often entrusts you with visiting houses of significant architectural interest to further your joint research?”

“Wainforth Manor is the first,” I said truthfully. “But I hope to continue. The book on Palladio’s influence in the English countryside is nearly complete, but Wainforth Manor is not the last blank page.”

Mr. Norcliffe gestured to the long dining table and the two places set at the top corner of it. “Please, be seated.” He pulled out my chair for me, then pulled the rope that must signal the kitchen. “I maintain minimal house staff here. There is only Mrs. Greene, who maintains the general order of things, and Peter, who serves as a footman and my valet. Joseph works outdoors and lives in the village. I often choose to eat in my study. Our dinner this evening will be quite casual. I hope you’ll understand, especially considering I was not planning on hosting anything more formal,” he added with a bland glance at me.

“Of course, thank you again for receiving me.”

Mr. Norcliffe had seated himself at the head of the table, just around the corner from my left elbow. He looked very comfortable there, full of health and energy, and seemed to occupy a larger volume of the atmosphere than most men. I could easily envision this room filled with sparkling people and conversation, with Mr. Norcliffe presiding quietly but completely.

We sat silently for a moment as Peter carried in two trays, one with several portions of a white fish and the other with a dish of potatoes and carrots. A basket of sliced brown bread waited near the candelabra in the middle of the table. Peter left both trays near to hand and departed the room.

As soon as the door shut behind him, I seized my opportunity to give a short speech I had planned. “Mr. Norcliffe, I mentioned that my father’s work has become my passion as well. You should know that the work your father commissioned on this house, your family’s home for generations, is of extreme interest to architectural historians and other appreciators.”

He didn’t respond, so I continued. “My father’s books typically find an audience both in academia and with some segments of the middle class, who have a natural interest in seeing how their betters live. We would like to include one or two illustrated plates, based on the renovation plans if available, or based on my own ink line drawings if nothing better can be found.” I had been thinking about ways to interest Mr. Norcliffe in the project, and providing some renown for the family’s home and accomplishments was something I had seen my father employ to success with other reluctant homeowners. Now, though, watching his reaction to my statements, I was not so sure that public recognition held any allure for him.

“What about you, Miss Gilbert?” he said after a moment. He was looking at his fork.

“Pardon me, I’m not sure I understand…” I hadn’t expected him to turn the conversation back to me.

“What is your interest in this house in particular? Do you care to see how your betters live?” There was a twist of his lips in his pronunciation of “betters”, making it clear he was quoting me and not his own opinion of himself.

“I’ve seen plenty of grand homes, Mr. Norcliffe, enough to know that family money cannot solve all of life’s problems.” I thought of a particular tile mosaic entryway floor smashed to dust after a drunken lord’s rampage. Something about taxes.

I continued. “To me, our houses are another expression of our culture, similar to literature or theatre. The architecture of a period of time, among I suppose the class of people with enough money to go beyond a solid roof and four walls, reflects the tastes, influences, and character of England itself, not just those who designed and built the structure. That, to me, is important and worthwhile.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Norcliffe replied.

I leaned forward and set my palm on the tabletop. “Beyond that, I find myself interested in the balance of public and private that a grand house must maintain. The façade, the gardens, the parlors, and then the busy kitchen, the cozy study, the bedrooms…aren’t we all like that? We try to show something beautiful, ostentatious, tasteful, et cetera, to the world, while at the same time keeping other strategic aspects hidden. I think the homes we build have something to say about human nature, something that I find fascinating.”

I leaned back and reached for my glass of wine, aware suddenly that I had been speaking very forthrightly. He probably thought me unattractively pushy.

Mr. Norcliffe slid his plate away and crossed his forearms on the table. His hands were tanned and scarred around the knuckles, with long fingers and short, clean fingernails. “Do you intend to research the ‘hidden aspects’ of my family, to determine something about our nature?”

“No! That was not my meaning at all; I was speaking generally.” He was finally looking at me directly. “Please understand, this house is an excellent example of Palladian architecture, which will be the focus. We will only include the barest facts about your family, such as your father’s name and perhaps how the house originally came to be the Norcliffe family home, and at your absolute discretion and approval.” I hoped I hadn’t sunk my chances through babbling nonsense. Of course, no wealthy landowner would relish the idea of publishing some key to the family secrets.

I reached out and touched Mr. Norcliffe on the sleeve of his jacket, near the wrist. “Please forgive me. I assure you that, if allowed to conduct my research here, I would keep out of your way and faithfully document your father’s work and that of his architect, whose name was still unknown to my father, by the way.”

Mr. Norcliffe was totally still, except for his eyes, which flicked down to my pale hand on his sleeve. I removed it swiftly.

“Yes. Mr. Jonson.”

“I beg your pardon?” The man seemed to keep me perpetually off-balance. I wondered if he did it purposefully.

“Yes, you may remain to conduct your research. You may use the library to work.” I could not prevent a wide smile from spreading across my face. Mr. Norcliffe continued, “Mr. Jonson is the name of the architect who created the plans for the renovation and supervised the workers. He was supposedly a distant relation. Mr. Frederick Jonson, although I’m not sure if he’s still alive. He was a friend of my father’s, and I know my father corresponded with him until he was too sick to continue.”

“Mr. Norcliffe, thank you so much, you will not regret—” I cut off when there was a soft knock on the dining room door.

Peter entered with a somewhat strained expression. “Sir, I apologize for the interruption. You have a visitor, and he is quite insistent that he must speak with you immediately. It’s Mr. Nowland, sir.” Mr. Norcliffe’s mouth tightened at this information. As he stood up from the table, I remembered why the name sounded familiar.

“Mr. Nowland!” I repeated.

Mr. Norcliffe looked at me curiously. “Do you know him?”

“I met him just this afternoon at the White Horse Inn.” I had not yet told Mr. Norcliffe my story about the encounter with Sister Helen in the road.

Thomas Norcliffe nodded at Peter, who left the room, then looked back at me. I felt foolish for interjecting a pointless comment. Clearly this was not a mere social call, or Mr. Nowland would not have come out in the rain or insisted upon interrupting our dinner.

“That would have been John Nowland. I imagine my visitor is Mr. George Nowland, John’s older brother. He leads the village council, so I guess there must be some pressing news or action required. If you’ll excuse me, Miss Gilbert, I will take my leave of you for this evening. I’m sorry there is not much entertainment here for you in the evenings. Please come to my study tomorrow at your convenience, or perhaps I shall see you about. I will show you to the library.”

I considered relaying the gossip about Sister Helen, but he strode away quickly through the dining room doors and turned left toward the front parlor.

The atmosphere in the dining room felt forlorn with only Mr. Norcliffe’s empty, abandoned chair for company, so I took one last swallow of wine and stood to leave. Despite the abrupt ending, at least my primary goal for the dinner had been achieved. I had obtained permission to stay and conduct the necessary research.

I could have gone straight up the stairs without any need for passing by the parlor, where the doors were closed. But I heard raised voices, and I’m ashamed to admit that I crept past the staircase and stopped in the hall outside the parlor doors. I barely resisted pressing my ear against the wood.

Some strains of their speech filtered through the door. Mr. Norcliffe was clearly displeased with his visitor. “He was digging? I cannot believe you let this happen again. Please tell me he did not actually uncover anything that should remain undisturbed!”

The visitor responded agitatedly. “No, no, Thomas, I assure you that nothing was found. My apologies, I know you left it in my hands, and it won’t happen again.”

“See that it does not, Mr. Nowland, or I will personally get rid of him. I have contacts who could arrange it.”

Heavy footsteps moved inside the parlor. I turned and unceremoniously raced up the stairs. After closing the bedroom door behind me, I leaned on it and breathed deeply. Mrs. Greene’s words only an hour or two earlier about Mr. Norcliffe seemed more ominous now. You’ll not want to be going against him.