The Lovell family owned Shepley Abbey in Liscombe. Even in the darkness, I saw it was beautiful—a dignified pile of weathered rock with the church lying in ruins beside the priory, the chapter house flanked—and dwarfed—by the two magnificent structures and the more imposing presence of history.
Northwode Hall could never compare to the solemn grandeur of such a place. Vincent whistled as the coach came to a stop. The night had arrived, but the sky was clear, and the moon allowed us a tolerable view of the area. I expected the daytime to bless us with something more remarkable, and despite my exhaustion, I could feel my body thrum with excitement at the prospects.
“My God,” Vincent breathed, leaning forward and staring out the window. “How on earth does your family manage to keep this place? I can’t imagine anything less than a damned village working to maintain every inch of this monster!”
Mr. Lovell laughed while Hosler, having descended from his perch, opened the door for his master. Our host alighted with remarkable grace for someone who’d been in cramped quarters for such a long time. Indeed, I believe Mr. Lovell lightly hopped out of the vehicle, while Vincent and I nearly tumbled out on weak legs.
“The secret is a set of well-trained servants, Ailesbury, and nothing more. Come along.”
“Ruins! Look there, Natty, something for you, I’m sure!”
“What am I supposed to do with a ruined church?” I asked, stumbling after my companions and sparing a brief glance at the church’s crumbling silhouette. “It’s no use to anyone, destroyed like that.” Suddenly aware of offending our host, I quickly added, “I quite like its appearance, though. I believe I can spend hours exploring and admiring it.”
“You like its appearance—in the dark?” Mr. Lovell said with a grin. I was sure I blushed. “I admire your eyesight.”
“I despair for you, cousin. I now see we’ve got quite a challenge on our hands,” Vincent observed cheerfully. “Perhaps I ought to have waited till after you left university before inviting you like this. Then again, I suppose it also depends on whether or not you’d actually go to university.”
“Papa encourages me to take my time,” I said. It was something close to the truth, at least.
“What, and be ignorant for God knows how long? Damned irregular!”
We reached the door, which the butler had flung wide open in welcome to us. A warm glow of light spilled out onto the ground and the surrounding night, melting by degrees as it penetrated the darkness. Footmen hurried out to gather our things, and Mr. Lovell exchanged brief words with his valet and the butler. Then we were all led inside.
I was too much in awe of Shepley Abbey’s interior to pay my cousin much heed, though he continued his teasing as we followed our host through the time-rich and time-ravaged corridors. My uncle’s great house had been my only experience with homes for the wealthy, and until that moment, I was convinced I’d surely never see anything that would surpass it.
Everything in Shepley Abbey seemed to overwhelm in factors of ten. The corridors appeared to be ten times longer, ten times wider. Ten times more ancestral portraits that reached back to heaven knew when bloomed on the walls. Pale, serene faces peered out at me. Ponderous wigs, stiff ruffs, and exquisitely embroidered silk served to balance their frail, spectral aspects with heavy grandeur. The dark wood paneling that looked like rich earth against a sky of flowery paper in deep blue with small, elegant gold edgings and columns—everything looking ten times richer, deeper, and more elegant. Odds and ends of china and flowers in all sorts of containers strategically scattered up and down every room—again, ten times more of this and that and the other.
Wealth of the older kind, that which linked me back to ageless courts and monarchs, bore down on me in a heavy gilded cloud. One would think he was suddenly in a child’s storybook, fumbling his way through a strange house whose walls, floors, and doors would recede with every step closer, and he’d be tumbling into space soaked in old, old money.
By the time we reached the drawing room to meet Lord Lovell, my head felt as though it had swelled to about twenty times its size with the dull thudding of pain that had claimed it.
“Mama, Richard, and Camilla are away,” Mr. Lovell said as we walked up to the door. “They’ve been invited to stay at Jane and Horace’s and aren’t expected back for another week, I believe.”
“Your sister?” Vincent asked almost breathlessly as he straightened his coat and tugged at its sleeves.
“Oldest sister, yes. She and Horace live in Bedford—all the better to protect their privacy, you know. Dear Jane’s always had a bit of Papa’s misanthropic streak in her, though it took marriage to draw some of it out. I fear for her when the children come. My oldest brother, David, and his family prefer London. You’ll be fortunate if you see them once, really.” Mr. Lovell paused as he knocked on the library door.
“Is that you, Miles?” a man’s voice boomed from somewhere behind the thick wood.
“Yes, Papa.”
“Are you alone?”
“No, sir. My friends are here like I told you.”
I thought I heard what seemed to be a loud harrumph, at which Mr. Lovell exchanged amused glances with Vincent, who sniggered quietly. “Very well then, come on in.”
Mr. Lovell swung the doors open and strode inside.
Shepley Abbey’s drawing room was easily grander than Northwode Hall’s and quite effectively put our small, modest one in the vicarage to shame. The vastness of space was enhanced—indeed, aided—by the lightness that soaked the general environment. Ceiling, walls, and carpet were in a soft white, any manner of decoration, such as floral motifs and elegant arabesques, being limited to very pale, complementary hues of pink, green, yellow, and blue. The only dark tones to be seen were in some of the chairs (rich, dark green—very masculine, indeed) and the few scattered exotic pieces that I couldn’t identify, odd things that the family had purchased during their travels, I was told later. Unlike the drawing room in Northwode Hall, which had a heavy, ponderous elegance about it with its deep, rich hues, this one raised my spirits with its cheerful refinement. It was almost comical, really, to find such a gruff and scowling creature for its master.
Vincent and I followed Mr. Lovell in a very short line and were about to march right up to where Lord Lovell sat when I was forced to stop.
“You—yes, the boy at the end—good lord, how old were you when you went to university? Ten?” A large, broad-shouldered and broad-faced man with a thick, gray mustache and beard beckoned to me from where he sat, in an easy chair that was large enough to devour anyone who dared set his backside upon it.
I regarded him in confusion and instinctively glanced over my shoulder to see if it was I he’d spoken to. Seeing no one behind me, I mutely raised my eyebrows and pointed at myself, completely unaware at that moment of how ridiculous I must have looked.
“Yes, yes, you—how—well, never mind. Do shut the door behind you, sir! I won’t have my privacy violated because of some child’s carelessness.”
I turned around and hurried over to the door and shut it, while Mr. Lovell chided his father. “If you insist on treating my friends so shabbily, I’ll have to take them elsewhere. I won’t keep them from spreading all kinds of horrid complaints about your welcome, either.”
“Oh, pah!” the old gentleman snorted with a sharp wave of a thick hand, his glower shifting from his son to me as I took my place beside Vincent. “What, should a man my age and position be punished for saying aloud what others most likely keep unspoken? You, sir!”
“Yes, my lord?” I asked, no less confounded than before.
“How old are you, by God?”
“Seventeen, my lord.”
“There!” Lord Lovell grunted with what appeared to be a grin of triumph as he sat back with a shrug of his wide shoulders. He nodded at Mr. Lovell. “A mere child, you see?”
“He was never at university, Papa. He’s Vincent’s cousin, if you’d only allow me to explain.” He raised a hand just as Lord Lovell opened his mouth to speak, and I was quite amazed he was able to tear a moment of silence from the old gentleman. “Papa, this is Mr. Vincent Ailesbury, my good friend from Oxford. And this is Mr. Nathaniel Wakeman, his cousin. Gentlemen, my father, Lord Lovell.”
My surprise at watching the son master his father if only for a brief moment might have remained unsurpassed were it not for Mr. Lovell’s conduct during the introductions. What carelessness, negligence, youthful self-indulgence and frivolity that I’d witnessed before had quickly given way to a manner so restrained, so dignified, so somber, and yet so charming. I was nearly left wondering if the gentleman with whom I rode to Somerset was the same one who stood tall and straight beside me, maneuvering the conversation deftly from what could be an embarrassing situation to one of slightly formal civility.
Even the great baron seemed to have been taken by that remarkable turn. He sat back, regarding his son with a smile whose humor shifted from crudeness to pride. Then, as though manipulated by someone else’s puppet-strings, he rose to greet Vincent and me with a slight bow and a firm handshake. He even apologized for his behavior, which I accepted with an embarrassed protest.
“We’ll have a bit of a light meal, Papa, and then we’re off to bed,” Mr. Lovell said. “There’s no need to ring for anyone. I’ve given orders to Mrs. Flanders.”
“Very well, very well. Off with you then. I hope, gentlemen, you’ll join me sometime for some fishing. There’s a lake a mile north, and it can easily be reached on foot if you’re inclined to such exercise. With the rest of the family gone, I’ve been diverting myself there. It’s quite calming, you know—helps one think.”
“Thank you, my lord. We look forward to it,” Vincent replied in his most polite tones.
The three of us withdrew silently, Mr. Lovell leading the way. With me trailing behind, I took care to shut the door quietly, and I glanced up just as the gap shrank in time to catch Lord Lovell’s gaze fixed upon me. He nodded with an approving grunt.
“Do forgive Papa, Master Wakeman,” Mr. Lovell said as we walked toward the dining room. He’d slowed his pace to match mine till we were both walking side-by-side, with Vincent ambling before us, turning corners as Mr. Lovell instructed. “He’s—a bit of an eccentric fellow, I must confess—doesn’t take to company very well, I’m afraid.”
“It’s quite all right, sir,” I replied hastily, catching his eye with a little smile. “I never felt threatened in his presence, to be sure, though he did startle me at first.”
“So you wouldn’t mind it so much if he were to hurl all kinds of abuses at you.” His voice was light and playful. I couldn’t help but smile under its influence.
“Indeed, no,” I said, meeting his gaze boldly as he inclined his head to better look at me from where he walked. “I’m actually intrigued. I hope to be better acquainted with his lordship if it pleases him—and if it pleases you as well, sir.”
The golden warmth of the light softened and enhanced edges and color. What shadows were there were lightened, and Mr. Lovell’s dark features seemed edged with a faint mist. I tried to read his gaze, but found myself staring rudely instead, most likely with a look of profound bewilderment on my face. He didn’t seem put out by my outrageous behavior; indeed, he appeared even more amused.
“There’s no need to call me ‘sir’.”
“Oh—very well—Mr. Lovell, si—Mr. Lovell,” I laughed. “I’m sorry, but I can’t, sir.”
He merely watched me, a faint crease appearing between his brows though he laughed along. He opened his mouth as if to speak again, but he hesitated, appeared to think twice, and then resigned himself to simply looking away, a thoughtful smile lingering.
When I retired that night, I kept seeing him in my mind even as I slowly faded away into sleep.
I awoke the following morning very much refreshed and in unusually cheerful spirits. That is, until I looked into the mirror.
I’d seen my reflection countless times in the past, and there was never anything remarkable in what met my gaze. That morning, however, I was suddenly struck by the mortifying degree of rusticity in my appearance. My hair was short and neat, having been recently cut, but it looked like an unmanageable dark fringe resting atop my skull.
“Oh, lord,” I breathed as I combed it several times till my scalp throbbed in dull pain. A few freckles dotted my face, which were inherited from Papa. Until that morning, the freckles had always been faint—indeed, completely unnoticeable. Now they seemed like a sea of horrid, discolored spots brought on by some dreadful disease. I stared at them, my reflection registering dismay. It was too late to turn around and retrace my steps back to Gatcombe, however.
My gaze dropped to the slightly wrinkled and dismally unremarkable suit that covered my figure. A very respectable blending of black and brown, with my white shirt, which Mama herself made—the very thought of their working their awful rustic power with my too-evident freckles made my stomach tighten in faint panic.
“Vicar’s son from The Isle of Wight!” my reflection seemed to scream.
Before black clouds fully devoured me, I managed to shake off my mortification with a deep breath, a muttered “Ridiculous vanity and utter nonsense!” and a squaring of my shoulders. I knew Mr. Lovell, being a real gentleman, would ignore my plain clothes. From what I’d observed the last two days, he was clearly a man who valued good conversation far above mere fripperies.
All the same, I took care to appear as clean and as tidy as I possibly could so as not to embarrass myself at the breakfast-table.
Vincent was standing by one of the windows in the dining room when I made my entrance, red-faced with embarrassment. I’d lost my way and had to solicit assistance from a bemused servant for instructions on finding the dining room. Mr. Lovell had yet to appear.
I quickly walked up to my cousin, startling him from his reverie. “Do you notice anything unusual or different about me? Since—since yesterday, I mean,” I whispered, my gaze darting back to the door.
Vincent blinked. “What?”
“Do I look any differently from yesterday? Do you see anything strange? Anything at all?”
“Um—no. Should I?”
“Thank heaven for that,” I said in relief. Vincent stared at me in bewildered silence. I gave his shoulder a cheerful pat as I moved off. “Carry on, cousin.”
Mr. Lovell appeared just as I stepped away from my cousin. “I come empty-handed. Papa’s run off as I feared. He vanished with a servant to only God knows where—maybe fishing, maybe the moors. I don’t know.”
He laughed as he showed us to our respective seats. “He won’t be joining us for breakfast, gentlemen. Are you interested in horses, sir? Exmoor boasts a lovely wild breed, and I’ll be happy to show them to you sometime.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied as I took my seat, pleased with his attention. “I’ve never heard of horses on the moors, but I’d love to see a few.”
“Good! We’ll have plenty of time to explore the countryside hereabouts.” Mr. Lovell paused, his eyes fixed on me. “I say, how did you sleep last night?”
“Very well, thank you. Is there anything wrong?”
“No, no—it’s just that—there seems to be something different about you this morning.”
My belly tightened. “I think it’s the air, sir,” I stammered, waving a hand in a vague gesture. “It’s different from what I’m used to on The Isle of Wight. Quite fresh, I might add.” I was fast sinking. “This is lovely china, Mr. Lovell.”
Across the table from where I sat, Vincent rolled his eyes. Mr. Lovell merely smiled as he poured himself some coffee. “Mama will be pleased to hear that.”
Unfortunately I conducted myself far too well over breakfast, thought of every word and every movement too much and too carefully. Nothing I did felt natural, but I was determined to impress my host—and in doing so, stiffly, and like a machine, brought my cup to my lips and spilled my coffee all over my trousers. I retreated to my bedroom, red-faced, my thighs hot and wet, and defeated by an overuse of logic. I rejoined my companions in another pair of old trousers—a great deal more like my plain, unremarkable self. That is, I hardly spoke a word.