CHAPTER SIXTEEN

True to Gage’s intentions, we spent much of the next day visiting the farmsteads and homes that bordered the moor around White Tor. Gage was at his most charming, setting even the guarded and cantankerous men at ease. It helped that many of them knew him and seemed to respect him, having followed some of his more daring exploits in the newspapers. Even Thaddeus Bray, who had inherited his father’s property when he passed, appeared pleased to see him. At the very least, I sensed no rancor from that affair with their family’s ceremonial dagger long ago.

The same could not be said of Alfred.

Though Gage was as discreet as his grandfather could wish, approaching the matter of his cousin in as indirect a manner as possible, we had no trouble finding out the information we truly sought and much more. From the beginning, it was evident that Alfred was not well liked. Either these residents didn’t care whether their uncomplimentary comments got back to Alfred or they trusted me and Gage to keep their words to ourselves, for they were brutally honest. In truth, I wondered if perhaps they hoped Gage would report some of their disgruntlement back to Lord Tavistock.

The complaints were much the same. Alfred was snide and reckless, uncaring of who or what got in the way of his own pleasure. Just as Gage had feared, there was no end of angry fathers, brothers, and husbands who claimed his cousin had trifled with their female relations in some way. Much of the time it appeared to be mere flirtation, but there were a few more troubling incidents. One farmer claimed Alfred had gotten his daughter in the family way but had refused to admit it. Apparently the allegation had been believable enough, or Lord Tavistock was merely kind, for he had given the girl a handsome enough dowry to attract a decent husband willing to accept her illegitimate child.

Regardless, no one admitted to having seen Alfred in almost a month, and as voluble as they’d been on his sins, I doubted they were withholding anything. No one confessed to witnessing anything out of the ordinary either. Which meant that, while the information we’d uncovered might be important, the day’s efforts proved useless in getting us any closer to finding Alfred. There was always the possibility that one of these wronged men—or women—had decided to take the matter of Alfred’s appalling behavior into their own hands, but that seemed rather far-fetched.

By the time we’d finished our last interview, the warmth of the afternoon had begun to wane and a stiff breeze picked up over the moor. I was weary from the hours of riding and maintaining interest in the others’ conversations, even when it had nothing to do with our inquiry. Contrarily, Gage appeared invigorated, sitting tall on his horse as we ambled down an old bridle path deeper into the moor. Today he had been in his element, giving me a glimpse of the type of lord he would be when he inherited his father’s title and estate.

The soft evening light washed over the heath around us, revealing swaths of gorse and milkwort flowers, and prickly bracken intruding on some of the drier slopes. Before us to the east, we were treated to a sweeping view of some of the tors, their craggy formations stark against the azure sky. Skylarks and meadow pipits circled overhead before soaring back toward the woodlands behind us. To the west, tucked into the shadowy folds of a valley, nestled the slate rooftops of two villages. The southern hamlet boasted a stolid gray church tower, and I wondered if it might mark the churchyard where Gage’s mother was buried.

I scowled in irritation as another gust of wind blew the wayward strands of my hair about my face. If not for the blustery breezes, the weather would have been perfect. I struggled futilely to tuck my straggling hairs back under my jaunty riding hat, nearly missing the sight of a jagged stone pillar positioned near the intersection of our bridle path and another narrower track. It appeared too small to be another standing stone. Reining my mare to a stop, I glanced at Gage in question.

“This is Stephen’s Grave,” he said.

Recalling how he’d told me Rory claimed this Stephen’s ghost haunted the manor, I surveyed the moss-studded grave marker with more interest. “I sense there’s a story behind this.” Given the fact that historically suicides had been buried at crossroads, it wasn’t a great leap of logic to conclude such a thing.

Gage rested his hands on the pommel of his saddle and turned his head to gaze off over the ridge to the south where the roof of Langstone Manor was just visible above a line of trees. “The legend says that a man named John Stephen, who lived in one of the villages nearby, fell in love with a local girl. However, her parents didn’t approve of the match and so she was forced to break his heart.” He gestured to the empty, windswept heath around us. “She met him out on this bleak part of the moor to tell him she no longer wished to see him, and he gave her an apple as a parting gift. But the apple was poisoned. And after she fell victim, he also ate of the same apple, in hopes that their bodies would lay side by side for eternity.”

“Given the fact that this is called Stephen’s Grave, I’m guessing his wish did not come true.”

His lips curled humorlessly. “They buried Stephen here at the crossroads, as was the custom for suicides. But the girl was interred in the village churchyard, albeit at the north end since no one could be certain she hadn’t also taken her life in a fit of despair, though most agreed she must have been murdered.” His eyes narrowed on the lopsided stone, which seemed to be sinking into the fescue beneath it. “His ghost is said to haunt this area on dark nights, searching for his missing love.”

“I suppose such a belief isn’t surprising considering one of the reasons suicides were buried at crossroads was because it was supposed to confuse their spirits.” I glanced toward Langstone. “But why did Rory suggest his ghost was haunting the manor?” I studied Gage’s bronzed features. “Was he simply being cruel given your father’s name is Stephen?”

“Probably.”

But I could tell there was more. I waited patiently for him to continue, watching the darting flight of a rook overhead. When Gage’s eyes finally shifted to meet mine, it was evident he didn’t like what he had to reveal next.

“There are also ludicrous rumors that a relative of mine is connected to the affair. Alice, my grandfather’s older sister. Some say she was the girl Stephen loved and murdered.”

My eyes widened in surprise.

He shook his head. “But although Alice did die a young woman, there is no proof she had anything to do with this Stephen. The one time I asked my mother about it, she told me Alice had died from an illness.” His gaze turned distant. “She wouldn’t say more, and I assumed that was because of her own precarious state of health.”

What he didn’t say, but I could hear in his voice, was that he wondered now if he’d been wrong. If his mother had refused to share anything more about Alice because she didn’t want him to know the truth.

“Have you ever asked your grandfather about her?”

“No. It seemed cruel somehow.”

“Do you think Rory did?”

A sharp gust of wind whipped over the moor, almost knocking his hat from his head. He reached up to secure it and then spurred his horse forward, forcing me to follow suit.

“If he did, I can’t imagine my grandfather answered him,” he replied, eyeing the fast-moving clouds with misgiving. “The weather is shifting. Let’s not dawdle. There will be heavy mist on these moors before nightfall.”

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•   •   •

True to Gage’s prediction, thick mist engulfed the manor before we even sat down to dinner. It was rather disconcerting to peer out the windows and discover that the blustery day had suddenly given way to an almost preternatural calm. It wasn’t that I hadn’t believed Gage and his grandfather when they tried to explain how capricious the weather on Dartmoor could be, but I had questioned whether they’d exaggerated.

It was no wonder so many people had become lost and disoriented over the centuries. How many bodies lay as yet undiscovered in the vast nothingness of the moors or sunken in her bogs? I could well imagine how the legend of Vixana the witch and others like it had sprung up. In a less rational age, it must have seemed as good an explanation as any for the rapid shifts in weather.

Somewhat surprisingly, the Dowager Lady Langstone sent her regrets, claiming a megrim kept her from joining us for dinner. Pleading a headache had been used by women for centuries as a polite way to excuse oneself from an engagement, so I didn’t worry she was actually suffering a poor turn in her health. She’d seemed a woman of remarkable fortitude, and I decided it was far more likely she simply didn’t wish to dine with us that night. Apparently we weren’t the only ones who found the present company trying, though for distinctly different reasons.

In her absence, Gage and I enjoyed a rather companionable meal with Rory. His sulky resentment from the day before had subsided, and he returned to the amiable, easygoing nature he’d displayed during the first days of our arrival. I was tempted to ask him how much more, if anything, he knew about Stephen’s Grave, but I didn’t want to risk lowering the mood. After days of tense, morose exchanges, we were all in need of a bit of lighthearted conversation.

Seeing the good it did Gage to reminisce with his cousin about happier times, I wasn’t sorry I’d elected not to press for more information. His shoulders relaxed and his eyes lost that hard edge they’d so often exhibited since our arrival. He even threw his head back and laughed several times as they recounted some of their bouts of innocent mischief. Rory took care not to bring up any incident that might recall the ill-treatment Gage had received, and I was grateful. It was a relief to hear that not all of Gage’s childhood had been unhappy.

As we left the dining room, Hammett approached Gage to give him some correspondence that had been delivered earlier. Gage turned each letter over, examining the outsides before breaking the seal on the second one while we all still stood in the entry hall. He quickly scanned the page and then sighed. I could almost see the weight he’d shrugged off during dinner settle back onto his shoulders.

“Alfred is not in Plymouth,” he relayed to Rory and me. He slid the first letter out from beneath the other and frowned, but refrained from opening it. “Please excuse me. I must see to this at once.”

“Of course,” I replied, having already recognized the handwriting on the second note as his father’s. He was also the only person I knew who could put that conflicted look in Gage’s eyes. I watched him stride away, wishing the timing of the arrival of his father’s letter could have been better. Even from far away, Lord Gage was still able to disrupt his son’s good humor.

“I hesitate to do so now,” Rory murmured, recalling my attention. “But I have some matters I really should attend to myself.” He grimaced in apology. “Though I suppose if they wait another hour, it won’t make much of a difference.”

“So you can entertain me? No, no. Go on,” I assured him. “I shall find something to occupy myself.”

“Are you certain?”

“Yes.” I smiled when he still hesitated and waved him away. “Now shoo.”

He laughed. “Far be it from me to disobey a lady’s orders. Thank you.”

I nodded, watching him hurry away. I’d assumed those matters had to do with the business of the estate, but perhaps I should have politely inquired. Would he have been honest? Would I have been able to tell?

Shaking my head at my rampant suspicion, I turned to survey the chilly entry hall, wondering what I should do with myself. Perhaps I should take the opportunity to finally locate the library. I was sure Hammett could point me in the right direction.

As if beckoned by my contemplations, the butler materialized in a doorway behind me. “M’lady?”

I swiveled to face him.

“If you’re not otherwise engaged . . .”

I almost arched my eyebrows at that comment, for obviously he’d been listening and was aware I was not.

“Perhaps you’d be willin’ to sit with his lordship for a time. His illness is troublin’ him this evening. ’Tis the damp. It gets into his lungs.”

The same complaint Gage’s mother had suffered from. Was it something that ran in the family? Or was it merely this dismal, drafty old house?

“T’would give his valet a chance to eat some dinner and gather any supplies he needs for the night,” Hammett added in his creaky voice when I didn’t immediately respond.

“Of course, I would be happy to.” I turned to go and then paused. “Though, you might need to remind me how to get there.” I’d mastered the path from our bedchamber to Lord Tavistock’s, but not from the entry hall.

His eyes twinkled with suppressed humor. “I’ll show ye the way, m’lady.”

I followed him up the staircase, finding myself curious about this longtime retainer. He was plainly more than a majordomo. In fact, I would venture to say he was almost a friend to the viscount, though I was certain both men would have balked at such a designation. Hammett also seemed to have eyes and ears all over the house. I suspected little went on that he didn’t know about.

“You’ve been a servant here a long time,” I ventured to say, hoping he would pick up the conversational gauntlet.

“Yes, m’lady. Almost my entire life. Started as the stable boy when his lordship was not much more than a boy himself.”

That was quite a precipitous rise from stable boy, one of the lowest-ranking male servants, to majordomo, even if it had been done over several decades. The family must have sponsored his education in some way.

As if he could hear my thoughts, he confirmed this. “His lordship’s father took an interest in me. Had me instructed and given a bit o’ polish.”

It also explained his more common accent, which I’d attributed to his being a Devonshire man.

“Did you know the viscount’s sister Alice, then?”

Hammett’s head swiveled to glance over his shoulder at me, not missing the obvious connotation of such a question. “Aye. But only in passing. I helped with her mount a time or two.”

“Gage showed me Stephen’s Grave today,” I offered by way of explanation.

“And told ye the legend, and the Trevelyan family’s possible connection to it,” he deduced. “Aye, well, ’tis only natural then you’d be curious about his lordship’s sister after that.” He paused, turning to face me. “But leave those questions for another night. I’m sure his lordship will tell ye the tale if ye ask, but it’s bound to upset him. So save them for a time when maybe he’s not so weak.”

His words were gentle, but firm—his priority being his employer’s health and well-being. I couldn’t fault him for that, so I nodded in agreement.

He led me around the corner even though I was now familiar with our surroundings, and came to a stop outside Lord Tavistock’s bedchamber door. “I’ll have some tea sent up. Is there anything else I can get ye?”

“My sketchbook and charcoals.” If the viscount was able to rest, I would need something to occupy my time. “If you send my maid Bree for them, she’ll know where to find them.”

He bowed in understanding and then opened the door to beckon the valet forward. I switched places with the short, somber man, settling into the chair he’d positioned near the bedside. A blazing fire crackled in the hearth, but as before it did almost nothing to alleviate the chill trapped within these cold stone walls or to drive out the damp seeping in through the windows.

The light flickered over Lord Tavistock’s features, making the hollows of his cheeks and the knife-blade thinness of his nose all the more pronounced. The extremes of light and shadow almost made him appear as a caricature of himself. Listening to his rasping breaths, each one an agonizing rattle, there was no doubt that his illness was worse than he let on. Whether this was because he didn’t wish to acknowledge it or he didn’t want others to write him off so soon, I couldn’t say, but I suspected it was a bit of both.

Hammett returned with the tea, my sketchbook, and a warm shawl. I wasn’t sure if he or Bree had thought to send the garment, but regardless, I was grateful to them. I settled the woolen wrap around my shoulders and wrapped my hands around my cup of the hot brew. Once my fingers no longer felt like ice, I kicked off my slippers and tucked my feet up under my skirts before picking up my sketchbook.

I sat that way for some time, comfortably ensconced in my chair, drawing from memory a few of the farmers we’d encountered that day, with nothing but the ticking of the clock on the mantel for company. Then I ventured to sketch what my fingers were truly itching to—Lord Tavistock. He would’ve hated to be captured in such a feeble position as he lay in now, so instead I drew him as I imagined he was before this illness had forced him to take to his bed.

I didn’t immediately notice when the viscount woke, but it couldn’t have been long. Not when I’d been flicking my gaze up to study his features while I sketched. When I caught sight of his silver eyes staring back at me, I set my book aside and rose to my feet.

“Would you like some water?”

“Yes,” he croaked.

Perching on the bed, I helped him to drink, trying not to react to the evident pain it caused him to swallow. When he finished, he waved me away, lifting the counterpane to smother a wet cough that rattled up from his chest.

“A bit of warm tea might help,” I coaxed, lifting my pot. “My nursemaid used to tell us it was the best thing for us when either my siblings or I were ill. Especially if a cough was rasping our throat.”

He shook his head stubbornly. “Were you drawing me?”

“Yes.” There was no point in lying. He knew the answer. But I also wasn’t going to explain myself. I could draw who I very well pleased.

His brow furrowed in what appeared to be displeasure, but he didn’t castigate me as I’d expected. Instead, he lifted his hand and asked politely, “May I see it?”

I considered refusing, but that seemed petty. The least I could do was remain civil. So I passed him my sketchbook.

I tried not to watch him as he studied the drawing of himself and then began perusing the rest of the book. Part of it was filled with depictions of the people who populated Langstone Manor and the area around it, while the rest were sketches from our time in Ireland. Preliminary illustrations of the Irish people I hoped to paint for an exhibit in London—my first since my marriage to Sir Anthony at twenty-one. However, it was impossible not to sneak glances at him even though his expression revealed little. If anything, he struggled to look disinterested.

So instead I crossed to the windows and lifted aside the drapes to stare out at the swirling haze of darkness. I didn’t want to care what Gage’s grandfather thought of me or my artistic abilities, and yet my rib cage tightened as I awaited his judgment. Breathing deeply, I told myself it didn’t matter, but the truth was I wanted someone in Gage’s family to approve of me.

His father certainly didn’t. I’d essentially had to blackmail him just to convince him to attend our wedding for Gage’s sake. Lady Langstone plainly objected to our association, and while Rory seemed to like me, I was never quite certain of him. He’d proven more difficult to read than perhaps any of them.

But perhaps most troubling was the fact that the more I learned about his mother, the less certain I became she would’ve accepted me either. I’d comforted myself with the impression that she would’ve been pleased by our match—a balm against Lord Gage’s malice—but now I wasn’t so sure. If she’d brought him back here to be educated as a gentleman, to live among such society, then perhaps a scandalous outcast like myself wouldn’t have been her choice in a bride for her only son.

It was useless to speculate. After all, had Emma lived, Gage would not be the man he was today. Our paths probably never would’ve crossed. But that didn’t stop me from contemplating it.

Lord Tavistock cleared his throat, recalling my attention, and I turned to see him closing the sketchbook. “You have talent.”

“Thank you,” I replied, recognizing it for the great compliment it was coming from the cantankerous viscount.

“Lord Gage said you were a woman of rare ability,” he said, handing me back my book.

I was so stunned by this comment that I almost missed the seat of my chair. “He did?” I stammered, making an awkward recovery to prevent myself from sliding to the floor.

“He says he has it on good authority that the Duchess of Bowmont is eager to have you paint her portrait.”

This was news to me, though who knew what sort of correspondence we’d missed after setting off for our latest inquiry in Ireland. However, I was confounded by Lord Gage’s willingness to pay me a compliment.

Or was it truly praise? I found it far easier to imagine him describing me as a “woman of rare ability” with a sardonic edge of irony rather than genuine admiration. But why had he written to Lord Tavistock about me at all?

“You seem perplexed.” His sharp eyes didn’t miss anything, even when his eyelids drooped with fatigue.

“Yes, I suppose I am,” I replied, deciding I didn’t owe Lord Gage my silence or my loyalty. Not when he’d always treated me so dreadfully.

A spark of humor lit the viscount’s eyes. “I take it you and Stephen Gage are not as close as he would have me believe.”

I arched my eyebrows. “Not unless you think I find condescension and disdain endearing.”

He chuckled.

“From all I’ve observed, Lord Gage can barely stand me. And I merely tolerate him for Sebastian’s sake.”

He folded his arms over his stomach. “Well, don’t let it bother you too much. Stephen Gage has always been overly concerned with social status. Though I suppose one can hardly blame him when his ancestors were so quick to throw it away. He married a viscount’s daughter, so I suspect he wasn’t willing to tolerate anything less than the daughter of an earl for Sebastian.”

I wasn’t sure whether Lord Gage had written to boast about the alliance he hoped to secure for his son or Lord Tavistock simply knew him that well, but the viscount’s inkling was correct. Gage’s failure to obey his father’s wishes and wed the debutante he’d chosen for him had been the main source of contention over our improbable match.

“If I know anything, sooner or later Gage’s father will come to terms with your marriage and work his way around to trying to charm you. He simply can’t abide the idea of a female who isn’t enamored of him.”

That was not the impression I’d been given. He seemed quite content with my animosity.

His throat rattled as he spoke again. “But let’s forget him. I’m not really concerned with his opinion. Only mine.”

He began to cough and gestured toward the water glass. I sat on the edge of the bed next to him, waiting for his rasping breaths to settle, and then helped him to drink again. But when I would have risen to return to my chair, he stopped me by touching my arm.

“I want you to paint a portrait of Sebastian. One I can have hung in the gallery with all the others.” He sank back deeper in his pillows, his face twisting with a pain he tried to repress. “I should have had it done years ago, but . . .”

But Gage had never returned after his mother’s funeral.

He sighed and shook his head. “So many mistakes.”

“It’s not too late to remedy some of them.”

“Maybe.”

But I wasn’t going to let it go so easily. “There is no maybe about it.”

He looked up at me, perhaps surprised by my adamant tone.

“The right words go a long way to healing hurts, even when they are late in coming.” I studied his wizened features. “Just don’t wait too long.”

I thought he might argue with me or take offense at my stating the blunt truth. That he wasn’t long for this world. Not unless he drastically improved. Instead, his eyes twinkled with the same repressed amusement I’d seen earlier.

“You remind me of my Edith. She would have liked you.”

The words were spoken so tenderly I felt a catch in my throat.

As if sensing we were both in danger of turning maudlin, he cleared his throat. “So will you paint Gage’s portrait for me or not? I may not be here to see it, but I’ll have my solicitor add to my will that the painting should be hung in the gallery beside his mother’s when it’s moved back to its customary place.” His brow furrowed. “They should be hung together.”

I nodded. “Yes. I would be happy to.”

He patted my hand where it rested beside him on the bed. “Good, good.” Then he closed his eyes, seeming more at peace than before. “I think I’ll rest now.”

I took that as my cue to move back to my chair. Picking up my sketchbook, I opened it to a fresh page. But when the viscount’s valet returned to relieve me half an hour later, I’d still not put charcoal to paper.