Chapter 4

 

I was restless that night. The big, beautiful house made the visit absolutely worthwhile for my father’s book, but I had started to wonder about the personal cost. My reactions to Mr. Norcliffe were strong—and troubling. I needed to remain detached, both to accurately complete my research and to adhere to my promise to cause as little inconvenience to him as possible. Besides that aspect, it finally started to dawn on me, lying there in the guest bed surely only a dozen yards away from where he slept in the master chamber, that I had no true understanding of the content of Mr. Norcliffe’s character.

I had grown up thinking my father allowed me a great degree of freedom in my life, with opportunities to work side-by-side and learn things most women would never be offered. What if I were too naïve to recognize the silk swaddling he wrapped around me? What if I were totally inexperienced in identifying evil men, men who threatened to have other men killed for digging into their secrets? My father’s protection had kept me away from such people, and after his death, I almost immediately thrust my unwanted presence upon an unknown man with ill-placed faith that surely he must not be a scoundrel or a criminal. I decided I was attracted to Mr. Norcliffe out of a natural inclination for new experiences, but without my father to advise me, I must use greater care. With a sigh and a flop over to a cool section of the sheets, I resolved to complete my work quickly and move along.

The next morning, feeling tired but determined, I dressed in a simple cotton day dress and folded my redingote over my arm.

Mrs. Greene must have heard me coming down the hallway, for she awaited me at the foot of the stairs. “Good morning, Miss Gilbert. I hope you are well today. Would you like some tea and toast to break your fast?”

“Good morning to you, Mrs. Greene. I am well, thank you. I would very much appreciate a cup of tea and a corner of toast, if it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Everything is set out on the sideboard in the dining room, help yourself. Ring the bell if the water is cold in the teapot.”

“Is, ah, Mr. Norcliffe breakfasting this morning?”

“Oh, he’s come and gone, miss. He’ll be back around midday, I expect.” Mrs. Greene looked serene this morning, with no sign of the fierce intensity that she’d displayed in my room the night before.

“I see. I shall examine the exterior of the house and the gardens this morning, then take advantage of Mr. Norcliffe’s offer of the use of his library.”

“Very well, miss. There will be a light luncheon available in the dining room about an hour past noon.”

I nodded and turned down the hall toward the dining room. There I found the tea and toast still warm enough to suit my purposes. The dining room was quiet, bathed in a warm morning light from the south windows. A barely perceptible but unmistakable scent of Mr. Norcliffe, spicy sandalwood, reached my nose, and I blushed as I remembered impulsively laying my hand on his sleeve during dinner.

After a quick breakfast, I shrugged into my redingote and let myself out the front door. Palladio was primarily concerned with building exteriors, and so I thought to take a thorough survey of this architect’s interpretation of the style.

Starting with the lovely front façade, I worked my way around the house, sketching and taking notes. I had a large ball of string in my pocket with knots every five feet, so I took a few measurements to check the scale of my sketches and better compare to other houses already planned and ready for inclusion in the book.

After perhaps an hour I turned my attention to the garden. The square perimeter was ringed with evergreen shrubs, and the interior was rose beds and gravel paths. Two archways on opposite sides of the square provided access through the evergreen border. The roses were lovely, but somewhat wild. At this time of year all the blooms were fading. Overly long, woody stems intruded on the gravel path in many places, and I suspected they probably had not been pruned at all this year. Mr. Norcliffe was apparently not a gardening enthusiast, or at least did not have an interest in hiring or supervising a gardener for more than sporadic work. He might have been constrained by lack of capital, but the current status of estate funds was not important for my father’s book. I hoped feeding me for two weeks would not cause any budgetary woes. The interior of the house did not seem to indicate such a concern. Surely the indifferent state of the garden was due to lack of interest, nothing more.

In the center of the garden was a stone bench that had been warmed by the sun. I sat to review my sketches and make myself a few notes about points to research in the library that afternoon. The time flowed quickly in my concentration, and it was at least an hour later when I looked up from my notebook and stretched to roll the tightness out of my stiff back and neck. Still lost in thought, I peered straight ahead through the archway that pierced the shrub border on the far side of the garden, opposite the house.

After a moment my eyes picked out a row of rectangular stones arranged on the ground. I stood and walked out of the garden to get a closer look. As I approached, I could see that the stones were from the base course of a small structure, maybe a dozen feet long and half that wide, of which no sign remained other than the stone outline. The stones were mortared together neatly, but the center was simply dirt. I jotted a note to check if the Wainforth library had any information about a small outbuilding that previously existed behind the garden.

By then it was past midday, so I turned and headed back through the garden toward the house. I was happy with the good work I had accomplished during the morning and eager to access the records in the library. Maybe this project need not be as fraught as I had made it out to be. The sun had warmed my shoulders, the garden smelled clean and earthy, and I speculated idly about what Mrs. Greene would set out for lunch.

Near the front archway of the garden, I caught sight of Mr. Norcliffe standing on the gravel drive near the front door of the house with another man. The other man’s horse blocked my view of his face, but I could see Thomas Norcliffe’s face and posture well enough to know he was angry. Peter lurked several steps behind him, looking similarly annoyed at the visitor. Mr. Norcliffe gesticulated abruptly with his right hand, although I could not hear his words.

After my shameless bout of eavesdropping outside the parlor door the night before, I decided to neither hide nor attempt to skulk around to the back entrance. Mr. Norcliffe’s business was no business of mine—I simply needed to enter through the front door. I strode boldly ahead and gave a little wave when Mr. Norcliffe finally noticed me.

As I approached the front steps, I had an angle to see the other man past his horse’s head. To my surprise, he was dressed as a priest. The two men fell silent as I drew nearer with a determinedly friendly expression on my face. Mr. Norcliffe’s dark eyebrows were drawn down in a scowl, and I could see his jaw muscles clenching. As I was trying to decide whether to walk past them without interrupting, Wainforth’s master finally outstretched his arm and gestured for me to approach. “Father, this is Miss Gilbert, a writer and architectural historian who is conducting research on Wainforth Manor.”

I gave a sudden little curtsey in the direction of the priest, who gave me a grandfatherly smile and dipped his chin. For no good reason, I was unduly flustered by Mr. Norcliffe’s description of me. He made me sound like a person of consequence, somehow.

“Miss Gilbert, this is Father Francis, our parish priest. He was just leaving.” With this pointed comment, Wainforth’s master turned his back on the other man. “Now, Miss Gilbert, would you care to join me for luncheon?” It was very rude for him to exclude the priest so markedly, and the older man had not shown any signs of leaving, nor had he spoken to me yet. Had he heard somehow that I was unchaperoned? Certainly one of the parish matrons would have been sent to visit and inquire into that situation, not the priest.

I hated to become complicit in Mr. Norcliffe’s bad manners, but I wasn’t sure how else to react, either, so I gave him a glare and paused for a moment. He suddenly grinned at me, flashing white teeth, not out of humor, but out of some boyish sense of pulling hijinks. I knew he was not the least bit sorry for using my presence as an excuse to abandon a man of God in his driveway.

Father Francis finally spoke up. “Miss Gilbert, pleased to make your acquaintance. I will be going now, Thomas, but please be assured that we will discuss this matter again soon.” The priest’s appearance was slightly disheveled—his hair wild and clothes rumpled—but his words were polite enough.

Without sparing me another glance, he mounted his horse. He seemed spry for a man who must be close to his seventieth year. At least his disregard for me indicated he had no concern about my solo visit to Wainforth. He clucked the horse into motion and turned it back down the driveway.

I did not wait for Mr. Norcliffe but rather walked straight up the stairs to the front door. He bounded up the stairs, leaving Peter behind, and reached the door at the same moment as I did.

“I am sorry, Miss Gilbert, for that little scene. He came here bothering me about a question to which I’ve already given my answer, and the old man is a wee bit spotty these days. He hasn’t taken my more subtle cues that he should desist, but I am sorry you were party to my ill manners.”

“Do not apologize to me, Mr. Norcliffe. If you see fit to dismiss your parish priest in that way, I’m sure it’s no business of mine.”

He laughed again. Being rude to visitors put Thomas Norcliffe in a fine, spirited mood.

“Yes, you sound like you have no concern whatsoever,” he said sarcastically. I harrumphed quite elegantly and started up the stairs. “I did mean what I said about luncheon. Are you planning on coming to the dining room?” he called up the stairs after me.

The man positively radiated energy. I couldn’t maintain my huff in the face of it. “Yes, I’m just going to leave my coat and notebooks in my bedroom, I shall join you momentarily.”

In my room, I put down the coat and books and also washed my hands. My face, as reflected in the small mirror that hung over the washstand, was glowing and ruddy from the morning spent out in the brisk air. My hair had escaped its pins in a few places. I pushed it back impatiently and went to find Mr. Norcliffe in the dining room.

I was glad to see he hadn’t waited on me for some sort of formal luncheon. He was attacking a plate that held a thick slice of ham and a chunk of bread, and a glass of water sat before him. I stepped in and gestured that he should not rise from his chair. He swallowed hastily and wiped his mouth with a napkin.

“Please, help yourself. The ham and bread are both there, and here’s a pot of mustard if you want.” He gestured at two trays in the middle of the large table. I forked some food onto my own plate and smeared the ham with mustard. The fresh air had made me hungry.

“So, Miss Gilbert, how have you occupied yourself this morning?” he questioned before taking another huge bite of ham stacked on a corner of bread.

“I made a good start on a survey of the exterior of the building and sketched the structure. I also looked at the garden, although gardens are not a main focus of this book.”

“Indeed? Very good. I’m happy to know you’re off to a decent beginning with your research.” He did appear to be pleased and cheerful. Women have a reputation for volatility, but the man’s moods were impossible to predict.

“Mr. Norcliffe, meeting Father Francis just now reminded me of something else I wanted to mention to you. It’s essentially village gossip, I suppose, so please forgive me, but I thought you might be interested in a strange encounter I had on the road on the way here.” I should have told him about Sister Helen when I first arrived. Hopefully her story was merely gossip at this point and that no further harm had befallen her.

“Do you refer to your chance meeting with Sister Helen?” he responded with a quick sideways glance. It was amazing how efficiently he had demolished the ham sandwich.

“Yes!” I exclaimed. “You’ve already heard. I forgot to mention it last night.” In such a small village, I supposed it was no surprise that most news about anything out of the ordinary made its way to the manor house rather quickly.

“Mr. Nowland mentioned it last night. Father Francis is looking after Sister Helen’s health. He said Dr. Thornbury will be visiting the rectory today to check on her, so I’m sure there’s no need for concern.”

“Excellent. I’m glad she’s being looked after, and I’m sorry if I’ve overstepped. It’s only that my last view of the woman was her darting off into a stand of trees between two fields, so I wanted to ensure someone who could help her was aware.” I still felt slightly guilty about driving off and leaving the nun in that field. I didn’t want Mr. Norcliffe to think me heartless or uncompassionate.

“Naturally.” He had finished his lunch and proceeded to drink a mugful of water. I watched his throat work as he finished it in three long swallows.

“Miss Gilbert, if you’ll excuse me, I have business this afternoon. I mentioned yesterday that you may have use of the Wainforth library for your research. You’ll find it in the northwest corner of the first floor, at the other end of the long hall from this room.”

“Thank you, I appreciate your offer and will be glad to accept.”

“Look to the shelves on your left as you enter the room, behind the desk. All of Father’s personal correspondence is there, or it should be. I’m afraid the organization is rather lacking.” He stood and straightened his jacket. He was dressed not for business but for labor, in a dark brown fustian cotton jacket and breeches and a plain white shirt open at the neck.

“Will I see you for dinner?” The question emerged without conscious thought on my part. I dipped my chin and stared at my plate in sudden embarrassment. I wished I could claw back the statement, but even more so the tone of my voice, which could only be described as entreating. The man must have thought me absolutely shameless.

Mr. Norcliffe was silent for a moment, until I finally raised my eyes. He looked at me silently for another interminable moment. “Yes. You will.” He turned and exited. I was unaccountably pleased, until I reminded myself of the fierce, hushed threats overheard only the previous evening and my resolution to quickly finish and leave this strange man’s home.

 

The Wainforth library was as fascinating to me as the rest of the house. The room appeared to be less recently updated than other rooms, for it was styled in an older, darker style than the Palladian renovation. An enormous fireplace, cold at the moment, occupied the north exterior wall, with shelves to either side of it. No windows pierced that north wall, and I remembered from my survey of the exterior that there was a courtyard and a service entrance somewhere in the vicinity. Although the marble mantelpiece was bare, a painting of a beautiful woman hung on the wall above.

Three large windows looked out over the rear terrace, facing the same trees that I could see from my bedroom. They were draped with huge swaths of oxblood velvet that reached all the way from the ceiling to fall in a graceful puddle on the floor below each window. The effect was dramatic and luxurious, if slightly old-fashioned. All the remaining wall space was given over to tall bookshelves. The only furniture was two leather chairs grouped near the fireplace and a large desk with a chair to my left, as Mr. Norcliffe had indicated, a lectern near the window, and a serviceable wooden chair beside the door. A rug that must have been lovely a century ago covered the wide wooden floor planks, and a brass liquor cart was topped with several sparkling cut glass decanters. The bookshelves themselves were reasonably organized, despite Mr. Norcliffe’s demurral, although dusty. I took note of a few other objects scattered among the books, including a brass sextant, a sparkling geode, a fossilized fern frond, and a taxidermy vole.

I dropped my notebook, retrieved from the bedroom after lunch, on the desk. The rapidly cooling cup of tea liberated from the dining room, I set down more carefully. The desk did not appear to be in active use, and I knew that Mr. Norcliffe had his main study in a smaller room off the front hall that offered south windows, although I had not yet seen it myself.

After taking a few gulps of tea and a stroll around the perimeter, giving a large wooden globe a spin as I passed, I turned my attention to a closer examination of the shelves behind the desk where Mr. Norcliffe had indicated I would find the elder Mr. Norcliffe’s personal files. A few leather folders stuffed with a jumble of letters and receipts seemed a good place to start, so I piled several on the desk and sat down.

Very quickly I found the architect Mr. Jonson’s original plans for the Palladian renovations of four decades earlier. This was invaluable to me, and I spent some time comparing my observations with the planning documents. I jotted questions and ideas in my notebook as I worked.

Two hours later, I had answers to several of my questions and many new pages of notes when there was a knock at the door. The library door was unlatched, and Mrs. Greene’s face appeared within the doorframe almost immediately.

“Please come in, Mrs. Greene.” I rolled my shoulders and found that I was glad for the interruption.

“Hello, miss. So sorry to disturb. I’ve brought you a fresh pot of tea, and shall I light that oil lamp?” She nodded toward a kerosene lantern with a glass chimney on the corner of the desk.

A thick cover of clouds had rolled in, blocking most of the late-afternoon sunlight. “Wonderful, thank you so much.”

She bustled about the room, lighting the lamp as well as a few candles. “And how is your work today, miss? Are you finding all the secrets of this old place?”

I smiled at her. “There is more work to be done, but I have had a good day.” Remembering the stones I’d spotted from the rose garden that morning, I decided to pose a question to the housekeeper. “Mrs. Greene, you’ve been here a good long while, yes?”

“Oh yes, nigh on twenty years now. I was hired by the old Mr. Norcliffe. But the renovations were done by then, miss, so I’m not sure what help I can give.”

“I noticed a stone foundation to the south, out past the rose garden. Do you happen to recall if there was ever a small building there? Maybe a pump house or a drying shed?”

Mrs. Greene’s face was totally blank. “I’m sure I’m no help whatsoever, miss. Now, I’ll leave you to your work. Dinner will be in the dining room around eight o’clock.” She withdrew with my dirty teacup and saucer from earlier.

I tried to turn my attention back to my work, but my earlier concentration was broken. Giving up, I stood and walked to the windows, peering out at the clouds hanging low over the treetops. My right hand rested on the wooden book stand near the window. I glanced down at it absently, then with more scrutiny as I noticed a thick book on the small shelf below the angled lectern. The book slid out easily when I tugged it, and I ascertained quickly that it was a Holy Bible, apparently very old. Laying it on the stand, I carefully opened the cover. The inside cover and first few pages were covered in tight script written by various hands. It was a record of family events—births, marriages, deaths. The oldest names were not Norcliffe but rather Jonson, then Sedgwick. The first Norcliffes appeared only about a century previously, after a Sedgwick daughter inherited and married a Richard Norcliffe. I noted the abundance of Thomases and Carlisles, then flipped another page to move ahead to the most recent entries.

Suddenly a familiar voice thundered out, “Cease your prying immediately, woman!” Thomas Norcliffe strode through the open doorway and approached me angrily.

I gasped and slammed the bible closed, taking an involuntary step backward. Almost immediately, however, I regretted my instinctual response. How dare he accuse me of prying!

I lifted my chin. “Mr. Norcliffe, I am hardly prying. Need I remind you of our conversation over dinner only yesterday, when you graciously offered me the use of this library for my research?” I gave him my best imperious glare and crossed my arms.

He reached out and returned the bible to its shelf. “I gave you permission to review my father’s papers, which are all there behind the desk.” He flung out a long arm, pointing, and I tried not to flinch. “I did not give you permission to insert yourself into every private family record in the building!” Any trace of the personal connection we had made over our meal or the teasing smiles from earlier in the day were missing. He maintained eye contact with me, and I felt oddly cornered.

“Ha!” I scoffed, clenching my quaking hands. “You concern yourself so over a family bible? Let me reassure you, I have no interest in you or your family beyond your father’s implementation of the architectural renovations. I only wish he were here to participate in my chapter instead of my present limited company.”

That last statement was a mean-spirited jab, and I regretted it instantly.

My host’s face hardened, and he finally looked away, out the window. “As do I,” he said quietly. “Miss Gilbert, you were not invited here. You don’t belong here.” I blinked rapidly to stop traitorous stinging tears. Telling me I didn’t belong was like telling a puddle it was wet. But he rolled ahead, uncaring for my pain. “Do not mistake me for your friend. I am tolerating your presence because I am a gentleman. Luckily for you, I may add, because you are a strange type of ill-raised woman to appear at a man’s house without an escort. Frankly, I think your book is unnecessary and your manners are presumptuous.” He was almost shouting by the time he finished this harangue. I didn’t mind because it gave me time to turn my hurt to anger.

“Leaving aside any comment on your own manners for the moment, Mr. Norcliffe, that ‘unnecessary’ book will, when completed, surely add to the renown and reputation of your family and your home. I suggest you let me go about my work and get this over with as painlessly as possible.”

He gave a sharp nod, not quite acquiescence but near enough. But he wasn’t done with me yet. He leaned a little closer, and his voice lowered another notch. “Do not test me, do not tempt me, and do not trust me. Now get out.”

I grabbed my notes and folders off the desk and fled with them out of the library and straight out the front door of the house. At the bottom of the split stairs, I turned to my left in the gravel drive and rushed around to the north, between the house and the stable. I slowed down when I saw Joseph, Wainforth Manor’s stable hand—really the de facto stable master, considering he was the only hand. Mrs. Greene had informed me that he lived in the apartment above the stable, caring for Mr. Norcliffe’s three horses and carriage and doing some occasional work on the grounds. The older man gave me a polite tip of his hat, but did not try to stop me or speak with me. He was busy doing something with a wheelbarrow, and I left him behind as I turned around the back of the house.

On the back terrace I passed by the library windows warily, uncertain if Mr. Norcliffe would still be in the room and catch sight of me. The man was a muddle. He lived alone here, but let me stay. He gave access, but revoked it in the next breath. He smiled at lunch and threatened at teatime. Part of me wanted to simply pull myself from his orbit as soon as possible, but the less cautious part needed to understand him. Sighing, I came upon two metal chairs pulled up around a heavy table, similar to the grouping on the balcony outside my room, and put my papers on the table. I was still too agitated to sit and wandered out onto the lawn, casting a critical eye over it.

The objective I vaguely had in mind was a discrepancy I had noted in the architect’s plans for the renovations. On the narrow west lawn, before the strip of wilder shrubs and trees that separated the Wainforth Manor lawns from the grazing fields behind it, the ground sloped slightly downward toward the house. Returning briefly to the terrace table, I pulled out the old sketched plans I had gathered during my hasty exit from the library and studied the markings. The slope was a disadvantage from a drainage perspective, but I could see the architect had a clever idea to turn it into a positive feature.

I walked slowly along the lawns, holding the plans up to get the right perspective while attempting not to crease or damage the old parchment. The drawing showed a narrow stepped water feature that would have run parallel to the house for almost twenty feet in three tiers. I tried to imagine the scene as sketched in the document. Water would have run into the top tier, then cascaded down the next two tiers along their whole length. The top tier served as sort of a catchment to help prevent groundwater and rainwater from draining unchecked toward the foundations of the house. The effect must have been very pleasant, I imagined, if it had functioned properly. Once the water reached the bottom tier it would have been diverted somewhere, although I couldn’t tell where exactly. Perhaps a basin for field irrigation or simply into the creek to the south.

As I walked and constructed the water feature in my imagination, I was sorry that it had apparently never been constructed. The stepped fountain would have been a unique addition to Wainforth. Perhaps the previous Mr. Norcliffe had reason to limit expenditures on the project, or perhaps the water drainage was never enough of a problem to justify intervention.

My next step across the lawn brought my toe up sharply against something hard emerging from the grass. “Ow!” I yelped, then bent over to rub my abused toe through the thin leather of my shoes. If I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get out of the house, I could have stopped to change into my boots, I thought ruefully.

Looking more closely at the ground, I could see the culprit was a dull white stone that rose only an inch or so from the dirt, enough to be mostly hidden by the blades of grass. I rubbed the top of the stone, then felt along the edges. It was about four inches wide and maybe twice that long. I brushed away a little more dirt along the length of it, and excitement kindled in my veins. I straightened up and took several paces backward, looked left and right across the lawn. Was it possible that the stepped fountain had been built after all, but was now hidden for some reason? I slid the old architect’s plan back into a folder on the table, then hurried around toward the stables. Joseph was no longer in sight, so I slipped into the warm interior of the small stable, which had six stalls but only three equine occupants. After locating and borrowing a hand trowel and a pair of leather work gloves, I retraced my steps and kneeled down in the west lawn.

I used the hand trowel just enough to confirm my suspicion—the fountain had been built, or at least partially built, at some point in the past but had been filled in. I crawled around in the grass and eventually located the edges of all three steps, thoroughly dirtying my skirts in the process. At the top tier, I even found a wire mesh screen that would have been used to prevent leaves and other debris from entering the catchment. Why would the water feature have been abandoned? Had it malfunctioned somehow? Mr. Norcliffe would call my questions more intolerable, unnecessary intrusion.

As I straightened my back, the nape of my neck prickled as the threatening clouds loosed their first few raindrops. A flick of the velvet curtains that lined the library windows caught my eye. I glimpsed just enough of the tall, dark-haired figure to surmise that Mr. Norcliffe had seen me unearthing yet another of his many secrets. I wondered too late what the consequences might be.