Corinna was still asleep in the early evening when the carriage reached the quiet, almost bewitchingly beautiful countryside near Cathness. It was a secret corner of England, a sun-soaked vale of rich soil, ample streams, long summers, and mellow winters, nestling between the Cotswold Hills to the east and the slopes of the Forest of Dean to the west.
Here was a pastoral haven where the late summer hedgerows were sweet with honeysuckle and lush with juicy blackberries. Wild hops and clematis festooned the roadside, and myriad orange-red rose hips shone in the golden light of evening. The cider and perry orchards were fruitful, the sheep were contented in lush pastures, and the red-brown cattle—mostly the rare and almost extinct Old Gloucester breed—were plump and glossy in the meadows. It was all so tranquil and timeless that Anthea likened it to an arcadian masterpiece by one of the world’s greatest artists.
Even the harvest scenes impressed as more picturesque and delightful than in other places, and although Anthea did not hear any further alien prayers to Demeter, there was nevertheless an ancient, somehow mystical atmosphere. Was it that the wheat was more golden and the farms more prosperous? That the warm air was more shimmering and the people more merry?
Whatever it was, the mood was almost unearthly, and it was made more entrancing by the sound of singing and music that came from virtually every field. Had the distant sweetness of Pan’s pipes carried on the balmy breeze, Anthea would hardly have been surprised.
The shadows were growing long as the first outlying cottages of Cathness came into view. The last time Lady Letitia had seen the cottages was in 1795, when her parents had taken her home by force in order to end her love affair with Huw. By cruel chance, it had been a sunny August evening then, too, with harvest time all around. Lady Letitia braced herself for more memories.
Cathness had existed long before its first recorded charter of 1070, and it seemed to be part of the land itself, rather than put there by the hand of man. There were buildings from every period, and some were so rambling, low, and venerable that even Lady Letitia, very much in control of herself, was forced to declare they must number among the oldest in the entire kingdom. Every property seemed to be in good repair, which spoke well of Jovian as a landlord.
Anthea was apprehensive as the carriage drove down the long high street. When would something happen? Would danger be lurking in the shadows of the next alley or lane? Or lying in wait at the Cross Foxes Inn, where the landlord, Obed Dennis, was part of the darkness that was Sir Erebus Lethe? So many secret fears coursed through her that she felt quite sick with nerves as Longton drew up outside the inn.
The Cross Foxes stood about halfway down the street, not far from the town pump, and displayed a colorful sign of two running foxes, red and beautifully painted, set in a diagonal cross on a background of vibrant yellow. Sunday or not, it was a thriving establishment, with much coming and going in the yard at the back and the sound of male conversation and laughter issuing from the open windows. A columned porch flanked with stone foxes jutted into the roadway, and everything was freshly painted and in as good repair as the rest of the town.
Corinna was still deeply asleep and unaware of anything, but Lady Letitia looked out approvingly. “What a very handsome inn,” she declared. “I can well understand why both Jovian and Sir Erebus speak so highly of it and its landlord.”
Anthea couldn’t answer, for she was too worried that in this case outward appearances might be deceptive. But at least she was forewarned, although whether or not that made her forearmed, too, was another matter.
Tables had been set outside on the cobbles, and sun-browned countrymen were seated at them with tankards of ale and cider, served to them by a plump young maid in a blue linen dress. Her brown hair was twisted up beneath a frilly mobcap, and as the carriage halted, she hastened into the inn. Something made Anthea decide to alight. She did not really know why, except that she preferred to be eye to eye with Obed Dennis when he emerged, which he did a few seconds later, wiping brawny hands on a striped apron.
He was a large, exceedingly muscular man with a genial face, rosy cheeks, and no hair at all. His eyes were small, nondescript, and almost lost amid cheerful wrinkles, and there was a broad smile on his lips. All innkeepers graced their lapels with a nosegay, and his boasted scarlet poppies and blue cornflowers. Anthea disliked him on sight—or was she influenced by Jovian’s strong words of caution?
He bowed politely to Anthea. “Welcome to the Cross Foxes, ma’am.” His accent was broad Gloucestershire.
“Thank you, sir,” she answered, “but I fear I am not seeking your hospitality, more your assistance with directions.”
He smiled again. “Directions? Certainly, ma’am. If ‘tis ‘elp you wants, then Oy’m your man.”
“I wish to know how to reach the home of Miss Wheatley.”
For a moment his face became quite still, then a little puzzled, and she was aware of eyes upon her from the inn doorway and the nearby tables. The innkeeper’s glance flickered to her dark hair, then back to her bluer-than-blue eyes. “But you can’t be Miss Pranton ...” he said. There was an accompanying stir among the other men, as if she had been caught in a lie or even imposture.
Anthea felt uncomfortable. “That is perfectly true, sir. I am not Miss Pranton,” she replied. “I am Lady Anthea Wintour. Miss Pranton is in the carriage.” She indicated Corinna’s sleeping figure.
He saw Corinna’s golden hair, and his grin returned. “Ah, yes,” he declared, his manner becoming what Anthea could only describe as hugely thankful, which emotion was shared by the other men. An important question had apparently been answered. But what had the problem been?
A man at one of the tables muttered beneath his breath, “Make the earth abundant, give us fruits, and ears of wheat, and a goodly harvest, O Demeter.”
In the carriage Corinna awoke with a start, and in such confusion that Lady Letitia sat forward to reassure her, but Anthea, sharp of hearing, turned swiftly to the man. “Why did you say that?” she demanded.
It was Obed Dennis who replied. “Oh, pay no ‘eed to Rufus, moy lady, for you knows what’s said of folks round these parts, that we be Gloucestershire born and bred, strong in th’arm and thick in th’ead.” He brandished a fist, then tapped his head and laughed uproariously.
Anthea did not think it funny, and he stopped laughing, cleared his throat, then gave her a courteous bow. “Forgive moy levity, moy lady. No ‘arm were meant. Allow me to make amends.” He plucked a cornflower from his nosegay, and held it out to her in an apparently charming and gallant gesture.
But she did not see a cornflower, just mistletoe, and shook her head. “Thank you, but I would prefer not to accept it, sir. Flowers make me sneeze. In fact, they make us all sneeze.” She felt Aunt Letty’s startled glance upon her, but she was determined to obstruct any intention he might have of presenting the mistletoe to anyone in the carriage.
The innkeeper’s eyes narrowed, and he tossed the mistletoe away. “Moy mistake,” he murmured.
“You were not to know,” she replied.
“Oy certainly knows now.”
“Yes, you certainly do,” she retorted, giving him a narrow-eyed look to match his own.
“Oy’ll see as you gets directions to Miss Wheatley’s, moy lady. Allow me to ‘elp you back into your coach, then Oy’ll send my boy Billy out to sit with your coachman an’ show ‘im through the lanes.”
“Is it far?”
“Far? Oh, a couple o’ moyle past the castle, but ‘tis complicated, if you knows what Oy mean,” he replied, extending his hand to assist her. When she was seated, he paused to look up into Corinna’s wonderful green eyes; then he inclined his head to her. “Welcome to Cathness, Miss Pranton.” Lady Letitia was not acknowledged at all.
Corinna drew instinctively back, and Lady Letitia bestowed a thoroughly disapproving look upon him. His inn might be all that was to be recommended, but he himself did not pass muster at all! She misliked being ignored, disapproved of what she saw as his forwardness toward Corinna, and didn’t much care for the way he had spoken to Anthea.
His smile did not waver as he slammed the carriage door and went back into the inn, pushing past the crowd of men pressing to stare out at the carriage—or rather, at Corinna. There was no doubt that she was the sole object of their interest.
Lady Letitia regarded Anthea. “My dear, since when have flowers given you the sneezes?”
“I just didn’t want his horrid cornflower.”
“That is understandable,” her aunt murmured, her gaze shrewd. “What is going on, my dear? You were most odd about Sir Erebus’s honeysuckle, and now the cornflower ...”
“Oh, it’s just my mood,” Anthea replied, then looked urgently at her aunt and Corinna. “Don’t either of you accept flowers from anyone while we are here,” she said. “Please promise me.”
They stared at her. “Why?” Corinna asked.
“I... er, don’t really know; it’s just a feeling I have. It will make me feel much happier if I know you will refuse such gifts.”
Corinna smiled. "Then I shall do as you ask, Anthea, for it will not do for you to be unhappy.”
“Of course I will comply too,” Lady Letitia said, but gave Anthea another curious look. Moods had nothing to do with it; something was going on! There was clearly far more to the sudden fuss to abandon this journey and return to London. Well, one way or another, the truth would be exposed, for Letitia Wintour was nothing if not dogged when it came to getting to the very heart of something. And in this instance, other people’s secrets were fair game.
A moment later Billy Dennis, barefoot, freckled and ginger-haired, ran out to clamber up with Longton. The tired horses were stirred into action again, down the street, past the pump, and then out toward the western edge of the town. The road narrowed to a lane as an imposing church steeple appeared above the trees ahead.
The parish church was at a right-angled bend in the lane, facing a little pocket-handkerchief green edged with thatched cottages. The raised churchyard was scattered with timeworn tombs and gravestones set amid ankle-deep grass that waved and rippled in the stir of the evening breeze. Beyond the church could be seen the magnificent Tudor outline of Cathness Castle, the lodge and heraldic gates of which were on the bend beside the church lych-gate.
Lady Letitia looked at the lodge, recalling the night she had seen Jovian’s father saying farewell to his secret lady. She could not look at the castle itself because of the more poignant memories of Huw.
Anthea looked at the castle of which she might so easily have become mistress. Maybe she would yet. Who could say?
Corinna smiled at her. “Would you have liked to be Duchess of Chavanage?”
The smile was returned, but Anthea didn’t answer.
After the church, the lane wound into a patchwork of rich farmland that in prehistoric times had been under seawater. That was how Cathness had acquired its name, for the land upon which the town stood had originally been a ness or promontory that reached out into the then much wider tidal estuary. The Severn was several miles to the west now, hard against the hills of the Forest of Dean.
Anthea lowered both window glasses to allow the scent of flowers, especially the honeysuckle, to drift in. The air was drenched with its fragrance and with the dry, vaguely dusty smell of wheat harvesting. Singing and music still carried from beyond the hedgerows, and thoughts of danger and dark forces were temporarily banished from moments so perfect that Anthea knew she would remember them forever.
The carriage turned at a crossroad, then at another, before taking the left lane at a fork. Several forks later, as they crossed a stone bridge over a stream, it hadn’t occurred to Anthea that it was already far more than a couple of miles since they’d left the Cross Foxes. Deeper and deeper into the vale they went, and Anthea felt the strange enchantment of the countryside coiling around her. The hazy scenery was golden and ripe beneath the slanting rays of the fading evening sun. But suddenly a sickening foreboding engulfed her. It was as sharp as unsweetened lime cup at an overheated ball, but nowhere near as pleasant, and she knew that Jovian’s prediction of peril for Corinna was about to come true.
They were about to pay a heavy price for failing to act on his warnings.