The journey from Cambridge to Cornwall took over two weeks.
Theo and Mr Mondy took a mail coach from Cambridge to Oxford, a public coach to Swindon, and another to Bristol. From there, another mail coach brought them as far as Exeter, where they hired a private coach to take them the rest of the way. It all made for a miserable journey of cramped coaches and flea-infested inns. By the time they crossed into Cornwall lands, Theo felt ill from the rough conditions of travel.
They crossed through forests and farmlands, bogs and fens, across the Devonshire moors, and down along the rocky southern coast of England before turning north again into the forested valleys in the Cornwall interior. All along the way, the only constant was the persistently awful condition of the English roads. Where they were not rocky, they were muddy, and when they were not muddy they were slick with ice or clogged with snow.
He'd made this journey only twice in the past ten years. Once, early in his education at Cambridge, to visit his family on the long summer holiday, and again, years later, for the death of his mother.
I may never make the journey again, he thought, watching the trees pass by out the carriage window. Mr Mondy had chosen to sit up front with the coach driver as they travelled, for the air and the company. Theo preferred the warmth and quiet inside the carriage, closing his eyes and willing away his pounding headache. If I sell the inn, I will never again have reason to come to Cornwall. My life is in Cambridge now. My studies, my hope of a professorship.
And if I cannot sell the inn, I may never see that life again.
His fists clenched with frustration. For the past ten years, he'd cared for little other than his studies on the properties of elements and matter. In his early university career, he'd had a group of friends with a penchant for pranks and festivities. As the years passed and his career solidified, his friends had all gone away and his opportunities for fun had dwindled.
That didn't matter. He was a Doctor of the Sciences now, a talented researcher and chemist. That was his life and identity. And as soon as he had settled his father's affairs in Cornwall, he could return to his life.
It was, after all, probable that he would arrive to find his father fully recovered to his usual resilient health. Letters from Cornwall took weeks to reach the University of Cambridge, and the journey from thence had taken nearly as long. Anything could have happened in the past month since Mr Crouch had penned his letter.
The carriage stopped.
"Here now!" an unfamiliar voice called from somewhere in front of the carriage. "I think we can all be civil."
Theo felt a chill go down his spine. The roads of England were notorious for brigands and adventurers seeking to make a few coins at the expense of unwary travellers. He had been fortunate before now to never have encountered any on his few journeys.
Grasping for the handle of the carriage door, Theo pushed it open. He barely got his foot onto the step before he found himself faced by a man on horseback with a gun levelled directly at him.
"Ah, there's the worthy passenger himself." The highwayman was dressed in a fine dark greatcoat, with a three-cornered cocked hat angled jauntily forward over his brow. Blue eyes glinted with mirth above the burgundy scarf that concealed the lower half of his face, and a lock of golden hair spilled forward over his brow.
Theo's heart lurched. The playful glint in those eyes gave him the disconcerting sense that this wasn't real. A prank. A jest. In just a moment, the scarves would come down and the brigands would be revealed to be Theo's university friends from years ago, even though none of them possessed blue eyes. This was just another part of a disconcerting nightmare. "And I take it that you're the brigand who has stopped my carriage?"
"One of them. And may I say what a pleasure it is to rob you today? If you'll do me the honour of handing over your valuables, my lord, we'll all be about our business."
"I'll have to disappoint you on that count," Theo said, heart pounding as he continued looking down the barrel of the highwayman's gun. "I'm a scholar, and I have very little in the way of valuables."
"Your money-purse, then."
Theo glanced toward the front of the carriage, seeing another brigand on horseback training a pistol on the coach driver and Mr Mondy.
"Quick about it," the highwayman recommended.
"And if I don't, you'll shoot us all and loot the bodies, is that the way of it?" Scowling, Theo drew out his money pouch and offered it.
The highwayman lowered the pistol only briefly in order to take the pouch and inspect the contents. Satisfied, he tipped his hat to Theo. Golden hair glinted, tied back in a handsome blue ribbon at the nape of his neck. "I'm sure that sort of unpleasantness won't be necessary. We're all gentlemen here."
"Being a gentleman of fortune isn't quite the same thing as a gentleman scholar," Theo said. "Will you be on your way?"
"Mayhap. If you are indeed a poor scholar without anything worth taking." The highwayman narrowed his blue eyes as he took Theo's measure, and nodded at last. "I suppose you are. And a pity of it. You are certainly the most comely scholar I have ever robbed."
Theo frowned, unnerved by the rakish flattery. "Be gone with you."
Doffing his cap, the highwayman made a parody of a bow from horseback and put his heels to his horse. His companion followed him, and the two brigands vanished into the trees.
Once they had gone, Mr Mondy descended from the coach in order to speak to Theo. "Are you well, Doctor Aylmer?"
"I'm unharmed," Theo said, clenching his fist. His familiar homeland of Cornwall was now strange and hostile, and the theft had robbed him of most of his funds. If he were to return to Cambridge to resume his studies, he would need to beg money of his father, who would be loath to fund his only son's departure.
"The coachman says we're lucky to have gotten off as easy as we did."
"We were robbed, Mr Mondy. All my money was in that pouch." Theo grimaced and gazed off out the window. He felt foolish and helpless, wishing that he'd been able to take control of the situation or deceive the robber in some way. Anything would have been preferable to this. "Shall I be grateful that he didn't take my coat and shirt?"
"Would be your boots, more like," Mr Mondy said. Clucking his tongue, the old man shook his head. "There wasn't anything of this sort in Cornwall when I was a boy. Proper civilised, it was, back then."
"I do not know if I believe you that Cornwall was ever civilised," Theo said, but he smiled the slightest bit at his manservant's reminiscing.
"It was, though," Mr Mondy insisted. "Under my Lord Kearney, Earl of Glynn. It's his son has the title now. In my day, my Lord Kearney wouldn't have stood for brigands, no. It's—what's His Lordship's name now?"
"The Earl of Glynn?" Theo wrinkled his nose, but supposed that Mr Mondy's nostalgic ramblings were better entertainment than fretting over his finances. "When I was a boy, it was Lord Simeon Kearney."
"That's the one." Mr Mondy sighed. "He isn't his father, that's sure. Not his brother, either, the Lord Jeremiah Kearney. Him that died."
"Did he have a brother?" Theo asked, without any particular interest.
"He did. Earl of Glynn in his day, Lord Jeremiah was. You were just a boy then. And I was a handsome young gent myself, though you won't remember that." Mr Mondy lifted his chin proudly.
Theo smiled more, leaning back in his seat. "You're in a good humour, considering how shamelessly we have just been robbed."
"Fiddle, sir, I've told you. We were fortunate. 'Twas only money, and they did not even demand the money pouch of myself or our driver. Now, what was I saying?"
"You were reminiscing," Theo reminded him. "And I was querying your good humour."
"Reminiscing always puts me in a good humour," said Mr Mondy. "Particularly reminiscing of Judith. Have I told you of Judith?"
"Frequently," Theo said, settling in for yet another recounting. "The one you didn't marry."
"La! Say rather that she didn't marry me." Mr Mondy shook his head regretfully. "My Judith. She was possessed of the reddest hair and the bluest eyes, you see. I don't suppose, if we're staying in Cornwall for a time…"
"You should indeed visit her." Theo made an effort to hide his amusement at Mr Mondy's romantic troubles. "I'm certain we'll stay long enough for that."
"Perhaps I shall!" Mr Mondy resolved. "If she even remembers me. How young we were, Theo! Ah, forgive me. Doctor Aylmer."
"Forgiven," Theo said, being not inclined to care much about formal address with the manservant who had known him all his life. "And surely she shall remember you. If you were as handsome as you claim, in your youth."
"Was I handsome!" Mr Mondy declared. "Why, the very picture of it. I tell you, sir, never have you seen such a well-turned calf, such a head of hair, such a finely starched ruff…"
"I do not doubt it," Theo said, beginning to laugh. "I am grateful to you, Mr Mondy. Your reminiscing has put me also in a better humour."
"There, you see, sir? Nothing like the past for cheering one's spirits. As long as you don't compare it to the present, that is."
"Ah," said Theo, and sobered at once at the reminder of his current situation. "No. I think we had best not compare it to the present. Now go on and tell me once again about Judith."
*~*~*
The inn, which was called the Sign of the White Eagle, sat upon a crossroads near the centre of Cornwall. To the east, the forest crept up against the back of the inn, wrapping bristly pine and oak arms around the proud and aged stone building. To the south and the southeast spread out the rich farm lands of the Glynn Valley and the Kearney estate, frosted with white from a recent snow. The Kearney manor, seat of the Earl of Glynn, was barely visible in the distant twilight, across the rolling hills and backed by another branch of the possessive forest. To the west, and stretching out northwest above the forest and southwest below the hills, the rugged moors struck out across the land, reaching to the very edge of the English coast.
The moors were wild, harsh lands, buffeted by the maritime winds, and Theo had always loved them. He'd been a whimsical child, and in his childhood memories the forests were full of secrets and the farms were full of treats that might be won in return for some display of good manners, but the moors were full of adventures. As far as he'd ever walked to the west or in reach of the distant sight of the coast to the north, the moors had only ever represented freedom.
Now, as he stood in front of the inn gazing off across the moors and the rocky hills to the west, Theo sighed. He'd missed the moors at first, when he'd gone away to school. Eventually, he'd forgotten his longing for them. Everything about Cornwall had receded into memory, forming the image of a life he didn't want.
The windows of the inn were shuttered.
Their coachman busied himself with putting carriage and horses into the coach house, never minding the lack of footman or groom to help him.
Taking a breath to steady himself, Theo pushed open the inn door.
It was warm inside. A fire burned low in the grate of the front room, providing dim red light against the darkening evening outdoors. "Hulloa!" Theo called.
"Ho, there," someone responded from deeper in the house.
Theo froze, feeling like an intruder in his own home.
An elderly gentleman with coarse grey hair and a scowl emerged from the hallway, peering at the two of them and nodding once in acceptance of the situation. "Good e'en, gentlemen," he said, as though they were strangers, and then looked more sharply at Mr Mondy. "Here, now! Is it Erasmus Mondy?"
"It is!" Mr Mondy declared. "Rawdon, you old scoundrel. And this is young master Theo, would you believe?
"Young Theo!" Mr Crouch exclaimed, squinting more closely at Theo. "And so it is. Master Aylmer, it is now, I suppose."
"Doctor Aylmer," Theo said. The term Master sounded painfully old-fashioned to his ears, now that most modern society said Mister and wrote Mr.
"Doctor Aylmer!" Mr Crouch scratched at his chin. "Are you a doctor, now?"
"Of chemistry."
"Does chemistry stand in much need of doctoring?" Mr Crouch asked, laughing gruffly.
Theo opened his mouth and shut it again, uncertain whether he ought to attempt further explanation.
"It's good that you've come," Mr Crouch continued. "You'll be tired from your journey. Go and sit. I've a stew in the kitchen that I shall bring you."
"Thank you, Mr Crouch, but I should like to see my father right away."
Mr Crouch's rough face stretched in shock, and he looked between the two of them. "Did you not get my letter?"
"But of course I got your letter, Mr Crouch." Irritation and panic rose simultaneously in Theo's throat. "Your letter is what brought me here!"
"The second letter." Mr Crouch tugged briefly at his hands as he looked between Theo and Mr Mondy. "Your father has passed on, Master—Doctor—Aylmer. A full month ago."
Theo's ears rang at the news. His father, gone. No farewells, no long wasting illness. No warning at all but a delayed letter from Mr Crouch.
"That isn't possible," Theo told him. "My father—he was always stout as a horse. He never took ill."
Mr Crouch tipped his head and nodded sympathetically, which only heightened Theo's irritation.
"I believe you were seeing to supper, Mr Crouch?" Theo prompted him, fists clenching.
"Sir." Mr Crouch performed a cursory bow and retreated down the hallway.
His father, dead. It couldn't be. Theo felt certain to his marrow that at any moment his father would come tromping down the stairs, scolding Theo for being so long gone and in neglect of his duty to his family and the inn.
In the weighty silence of the front room, Theo could feel Mr Mondy's kindly gaze like an anvil upon him. Tightening his jaw, Theo stared at an old stain on the rug where, as a child, he'd accidentally overturned a decanter of fine wine.
"If you please, Mr Mondy," Theo said, tone sharp, "you might see to preparing a room for me and one for yourself, and see to it that the coachman delivers my luggage to my room. We will be here for some weeks, it seems. I don't care which room you choose for me."
"At once, sir," Mr Mondy said, and went.
The stain upon the rug was bulbous and uneven, shaped like a duck without a bill. It had faded over the years, and the rug had become dustier and tattered.
Everything in the room was dusty and tattered. The rugs were in dire need of a beating, the upholstery had holes in it, and the windows looked like they hadn't seen a washing in years.
Mr Crouch returned with two bowls of stew and set them on one of the tables in the front room. He looked around for Mr Mondy, but did not ask.
"Mr Crouch," said Theo. "What the devil happened here? The inn has not been kept. I've never seen it in such squalor."
Mr Crouch laid a spoon beside each bowl and then carefully straightened one of them. "Your father was ill, sir."
Theo swallowed hard, clutching to his irritation and temper as his only raft against the void of grief. "Certainly, Mr Crouch. The month past, as you have said, but—"
"The year past, sir," Mr Crouch corrected him. He nudged the spoon into a more precise alignment beside the bowl, keeping his gaze upon it rather than upon Theo.
"The year past," Theo repeated, uncomprehending. "The year past? My father was ill for a year?"
"Just so, Master—" Mr Crouch cleared his throat at the error, then subsided.
"That's not possible," Theo said. "Certainly I would have known. He has written to me in this year past, and he should have mentioned to me if there were…"
Theo returned his eyes to the stain upon the carpet.
His father had always been inclined to disregard his own minor physical ailments. Mere cuts and bruises were beneath his notice. Malaise was unknown to him. Such things were the purview of weaker men.
He would not have mentioned anything so inconsequential as a wasting illness.
"He urged me to come home," Theo said. "To take up my duty at the inn. But he always urged me so. He always had."
Mr Crouch's hands made restive, purposeless movements, visibly uncomfortable in the presence of grief.
When Theo lifted his gaze, Mr Crouch's gruff, weathered face was set in a scowl.
"I'll fetch you some ale, sir," Mr Crouch said, and went away again down the corridor.
Theo sat and stirred at his stew. It was thin and watery, without meat.
After some unknown stretch of time, Mr Mondy returned and sat down across from him.
"I secured the room at the end of the hall for you, sir," Mr Mondy said. He began to eat, affording no attention whatsoever to Theo's grief.
Theo let the spoon rest against the side of the bowl, stew still untouched.
The room at the end of the hall was one of the finest, as he recalled. It looked north, with a view of the forest and the moor through the small, shuttered window. Theo was grateful that Mr Mondy had not attempted to put him in his parents' room, the large one on the corner.
It would be difficult to sell the inn in this condition. A tattered inn on a coaching road that no longer saw much use. No one would want it. If Theo sold the inn, it would be for pennies, and there might be no one in the local area with funds or interest but the Earl of Glynn himself.
"Is there no one but Mr Crouch who sees to the inn?" Theo asked.
Mr Mondy shook his head. "No, sir."
"So I have no funds, not even enough to return to Cambridge, no servants but yourself and Mr Crouch, and no paying guests. Nor can there be any custom upon the old coach road unless it be set upon by brigands. What shall I, Mr Mondy? I am sunk."
Mr Mondy sucked at his teeth. "Coach road needs an inn."
"Then let someone else serve that purpose." Theo pushed his bowl away and got to his feet. "I'm a chemist, Mr Mondy, not an innkeep. I have no desire to restore the old prosperity at the Sign of the White Eagle. From the look of that sign, we ought to rename the place the Sign of the Grey-Brown Eagle."
Shaking his head, Theo turned toward the stairs. "To the devil with all of it."
*~*~*
Theo woke before dawn, shivering in his icy room. The fire in the grate had long since gone out, and no one had come to stir the embers. That was not unusual, but the north-facing room in windy Cornwall was colder than his dormitory room in Cambridge. There, even if the fire went out in his room, there was still the warmth and insulation of the rooms on either side, from the hall below, and the shutters upon the windows closed tightly.
The shutters upon the inn windows were warped and loose, nearly off their hinges.
Theo pulled the covers up over his head, shivering beneath them. It was too cold to sleep, but getting up would mean leaving the relative warmth of the bed. Starting a fire in the grate from scratch would be difficult, and Theo had little hope of fetching embers from the kitchen.
With only himself, Mr Crouch, and Mr Mondy in the inn, there was no one to carry up hot water to him for a bath. At Cambridge, the colleges themselves employed servants to see to the running of the college and the needs of the resident students and faculty. Many of the professors had no need for a manservant to see to their basic needs, and thus Mr Mondy had long since fallen out of the habit of lighting fires and drawing water. He mended and tidied for Theo, ran errands and delivered parcels.
Emerging from the warmth of his bed, Theo dressed himself in his breeches and waistcoat, clapping his cocked hat upon his head and winding a thick muffler around his throat before he ventured forth into the dark, quiet inn.
If a fire was still lit, it would be in the kitchen.
He padded softly down the upstairs hallway. Everything was silent and empty. He remembered the inn as a warm, living, breathing place, with all the rooms filled and his parents asleep in the room on the corner. As a child, it had often been his responsibility to wake in the night and creep into rooms to stoke the fires and add another log as necessary.
His father had always taken pride in the running of the inn. Respectable and honest, Geoffrey Aylmer had run the tidiest and most respectable inn to be found anywhere in Cornwall.
And now he was gone, and the inn was a dusty shadow of its former self.
The kitchen was empty, and the fire had gone out. There was a bucket of wood shavings set beside the huge kitchen fireplace, testament to the fact that Mr Crouch found it easier to relight the fire once a day than to maintain it.
It was strange to see the big kitchen fireplace cold and dark, and it pricked at his sense of industry. He remembered the beatings he'd earned for letting the fire go out in the night. The kitchen fire was the heart of the inn. If it went out, the workings of the entire inn might grind to a stop.
Theo left it as it was and went out through the kitchen door.
The garden was bare and empty, and Theo had no immediate way of knowing whether the cellar was stocked with vegetables or if it was as desolate as everything else.
In the pre-dawn light, everything looked grey and skeletal. The forest watched him through the bars of the winter-stripped trees, shrouded low with mist.
He turned away and headed west up the hill.
Cornwall slept. From the top of the hill, he could see in every direction. Forest, farms, the inn at the centre, and the rough, rocky moors stretching out into the heavy morning fog. Icy gusts of a thin rain struck at his cheeks, and his urge to get out of the inn and go for a walk faded all at once. The moors of Cornwall felt vast and unwelcoming, and he no longer remembered the way.
Soon the sun would rise, somewhere far to the east beyond the trees.
There were lights on at the Glynn estate, across the array of farms to the south. He couldn't see the estate through the fog, but the faint glow of lights reached him. All the farms between were dark, and Theo wondered if they were still prosperous, or if they'd fallen prey to the same wasting poverty as the inn.
Sick the year past. And mayhap more. Was it just the year past that my father neglected the inn and let it dwindle into ruin, or did this start some time before that? Did our customers cease coming because the inn was in disrepair, or did the inn fall into disrepair because there was no custom to sustain it?
Turning his back on the moors, Theo tromped back down the hill to the inn.
He reminded himself that he didn't care about the condition of the inn. He would need to sell the place, and the only possible buyer would be the Earl of Glynn.
He will buy it, Theo told himself. I will sell, even for so little funds as I shall need to return to Cambridge. Mr Crouch may simply fare for himself.
Returning to the kitchen, Theo squatted in front of the cold fireplace. It had been years since he had been called upon to build his own fire, but he was supplied well enough with wood chips and wood, and a ready flint and steel.
He lit a candle and used it to coax flame into the wood. The wood shavings glowed red at the edges, and then went cold, again and again, until Theo sat back on his heels and simply stared into the cold fireplace in numb frustration. He'd been able to do this, once, and he didn't understand what part of the process he'd forgotten.
"Blow upon it," Mr Crouch said.
Theo looked up to see Mr Crouch in the kitchen doorway. The inn was still dark, and Mr Crouch was nothing but a hunched shape and silver hair forming a dark outline against the darker hallway behind him.
"You've got the way of it," Mr Couch said. "Blow on the sparks and they'll take."
Theo got to his feet and set the candle down upon the table. He felt foolhardy and ignorant for being unable to light a fire, and he wanted nothing to do with the proper function of this ruined inn. "I'll leave it to your expertise, Mr Crouch," Theo said.
Mr Crouch unfolded from where he was leaning against the doorframe, went to the fireplace without comment, and began working to light it.
Theo didn't stay to watch.
Upon returning to his room, he retrieved his papers from the trunk. His identification was all he had in the way of authority or influence, for whatever use could be served by a doctorate in chemistry in rural Cornwall.
When he returned downstairs, he heard low voices in the kitchen and crept into the hall to listen.
"No. I know not what he'll do. He has his life in Cambridge, though he seems little satisfied by it."
That was Mr Mondy's voice. Theo rested a hand upon the rough wood of the hallway wall, breathing softly as he eavesdropped.
Mr Crouch said something inaudible in reply.
"He's mourning his father, Rawdon," Mr Mondy said. "Leave him be."
Theo pushed away from the wall and walked out of the inn.
The fog outside had thickened, creeping nearer out of the fields and forest. Theo drew up his muffler over his nose and mouth, following the road to the south.
All the fields he passed were barren. That might be expected in winter, but Theo knew not whether they would be barren likewise in spring and summer. The farmhouses were shuttered against the winter cold, which made them seem silent and empty. A few of them had faint trails of smoke from their chimneys.
Once, Theo had known the names of their inhabitants. Now, though he strained his mind, none of the names sprang to his tongue. The farmers within might have aged or died, and the farms might have been inherited or sold.
A rush of anger and resentment toward the local inhabitants of Cornwall surged through him. If they wanted this land, this life, let them have it. He was here against his will, and with nothing to keep him here but his father's insistence on Theo's duty to carry on his legacy at the inn.
"I won't," Theo muttered. His heart clenched with guilt. "Haunt me if you will. I shall not stay in this godforsaken country, tending to a ruined coaching inn."
Along the outskirts of Kearney village, Theo heard the distant, muffled clang of the church bell. The village offered some respite against the cold, deepening gloom of the fog, which consumed all sounds and all warmth, and there would be people in the village, if the church bell was ringing. Theo quickened his steps.
He felt like a child again, on an errand for his father. Bold in the face of the wild moors and the dark of the forest, Theo had been shy and reticent around other people. He'd grown out of it, at least in developing a willingness to argue or confront anyone with whom he disagreed, but he'd never lost his tendency to avoid conversation and groups.
More signs of life appeared as he drew near the Glynn estate. The farmhouses and the village receded into the fog, and the gardens of the earl's estate emerged. The dead winter grass was close-cropped over an expansive lawn. Patches of snow covered it, melting into the muddy grass.
A servant with a heavy bundle appeared from the fog. He trudged toward Theo, glanced once as he passed, and continued on his way. His face was pinched and yellow, with a bright patch of red on each cheek. Puffs of white streamed from his mouth as he breathed. His half-sickly pallor made him look ethereal, and Theo had the passing phantasy that he was a forest elf or hobgoblin going about his business. The servant kept on down the road, never glancing back, until the winter fog swallowed him up.
Straightening his muffler over his nose, Theo resumed his course.
The great house emerged from the fog in pieces. First a pair of lions on pedestals, then the steps they guarded, then the imposing door and facade of the ancient house.
Theo mounted the steps and rapped at the door.
There was no reply.
At length, he knocked again. When still no one came to greet him, he tried the latch and found it open.
Within, the house shone. Every surface in the hall was polished. Gold and marble glinted, and an enormous, expensive glass mirror reflected the room, but the rug was worn, showing clear foot-paths in the faded red nap, and a crack in the mirror nearly bisected it from corner to corner.
Theo laughed to himself, feeling that there was no one alive in this faery-land of Cornwall but one surly hobgoblin and himself.
A maidservant gasped.
Theo spun about.
"Who are you?" an ordinary young woman in a white cap asked, hands fluttering. "Where have you come from?"
"I am Theo Aylmer, from the Sign of the White Eagle," he told her, feeling apologetic for having startled a maidservant. "I did knock."
"Did you?" she asked. "But no one knocks. No one is expected."
"No one is expected?" Theo repeated. "Certainly the…"
"The locals would know to come in through the servant's entrance," she informed him, coming forward to inspect him more closely. She was very small, with skin so pale as to be nearly translucent, and eyes that were too large for her face. "You are not Master Aylmer."
"I am. I am Doctor Theophilus Aylmer, and I would thank you to inform your employer that I will speak with him."
"Theophilus," she repeated. Her large eyes blinked twice. There were dark shadows beneath them, making her eyes seem even larger. "You're his son. The innkeeper's boy. I've heard about you."
"I am. And I will speak with the Earl of Glynn."
Reminded of her duty, she curtseyed respectfully. "At once, sir. I'll tell him Master Aylmer is here." After curtseying again, she darted up the stairs.
"Doctor Aylmer," Theo called after her.
A clock ticked heavily in the adjoining room. He took off his hat, wishing that he'd dressed more formally and worn his wig for this audience. His brown hair was tied back in a black riband, but he suddenly dreaded that the youth and informality of the style would undermine his bargaining position. The front hall of the house was as formal as any Dean's office in Cambridge, and as unconcerned for the comfort of its visitors.
All this grandeur, and no one to see it but the earl and any possible family that the earl might have.
No one is expected. I understand that it is winter, but to have no preparation at all for visitors seems exceedingly peculiar. Locals or servants might come in through the kitchen, but the earl's servants did not expect him to be visited by any of his peers, nor even respectable members of the middle class like Theo.
"Sir?" the maid called down from above stairs.
Theo went to the bottom of the steps and looked up.
"You may come up," she said.
The lack of formality was peculiar, even for rural Cornwall. Theo reminded himself that it hardly mattered, since he did not intend to stay. The earl might keep his eccentricities, with his gilded hall and manicured lawns surrounded by nearly barren fields. It was none of Theo's concern.
Upstairs, he was shown into an expensively furnished study. Everything was as tidy as the downstairs hall, except for the space immediately surrounding Lord Simeon Kearney, the Earl of Glynn.
Lord Kearney was an unexceptional man, of middling height, wearing an old-fashioned coat with a stain upon the cuff. His waistcoat was buttoned unevenly, and his wig sat askew upon his head, just enough to reveal an unbrushed hank of grey and black hair. On the table in front of him was a half-eaten breakfast and a copy of the monthly Gentleman's and London Magazine. There was not a second chair, nor did the earl give any indication that Theo should sit.
"Who is Doctor Aylmer?" asked the Earl of Glynn.
Theo drew himself up. He'd confronted Fellows of the university with poorer manners than the earl, and would not be cowed. "I think you shall find that I am. Theophilus Aylmer, Doctor of Chemistry of the University of Cambridge, at your service, my lord. I expect you are aware of my father's passing. I am here to speak to you on the matter of the inn."
Lord Kearney snorted and straightened his paper. "I have no business with Chemists or Innkeepers."
"Perhaps you might account some business with a Chemist in possession with an inn, and as soon as that business is concluded, you may never be obliged to busy yourself with me ever again."
"You talk too much. What do you want?"
Theo's shoulders tightened with irritation at the earl's disrespect. "I am not my father, sir. I do not wish to run an inn. It stands well within your lands and falls therefore within your purview. It would be my pleasure to sell you the inn, at a generous discount, so that—"
"No."
The earl snapped the paper of his magazine, and returned his full attention to it.
Theo stared. "My lord, surely you must have an operable inn upon the coach road. You will want custom brought to the shire, and money—"
"I do not want your worthless, dingy inn," the earl repeated. "I have no use for it, I cannot be bothered with it, I will not buy it from you at any discount. Even if you came to gift me the deed to the inn, I would not want it. The Sign of the White Shite may stay or burn for all I care. It is not my concern."
Theo coloured with indignation. "Sir."
"If you haven't anything useful for my attention, get out."
Theo's nostrils flared.
"May the devil keep you, my Lord Kearney," Theo snapped, before turning upon his heel and showing himself out.