Margaret was thriving in the country. If alienating every child between the ages of ten and fourteen within a twenty-mile radius could be considered thriving.
Just returned from visits to Dommick’s neighbors with Lucy, Alethea sighed at the sight of Margaret, the scruff of her dress held in the firm hand of one of Dommick’s grooms, her lip bloodied, her skirt torn, and a long twig sticking straight out of her tangled brown curls like a feather in a lady’s headdress. She also had enough mud upon her face and dress to create her own flower garden.
Before Alethea could say anything, Margaret said, “I did as you said, I didn’t provoke them. This was entirely unprovoked. They . . . besieged me.”
“A siege typically involves waiting, not attacking.”
Margaret thought a moment. “It was a very aggressive siege. Much like . . . the Vikings. Do you see, I am learning something from my history book.”
“I cannot recall that the Vikings besieged anyone. I rather think they attacked without mercy.”
“That is exactly what happened to me,” Margaret declared.
Alethea sighed, too tired to follow the circular logic of a twelve-year-old. She looked to the long-suffering groom, who had apparently seen the melee and waded into the fray to rescue Margaret. “Thank you. I shall take her.”
“Alethea! Did you see the child?” Aunt Ebena’s strident voice carried down the main stairs of Terralton Abbey to echo in the entrance hall. Her aunt appeared at the top of the staircase, and the sight of Margaret in her miry glory sent her hands and eyes into the air.
“I shall take Margaret to be cleaned,” Lucy said. “You should calm your aunt.”
Alethea hastened up the staircase, removing her bonnet as she met Aunt Ebena on the landing. Below, Lucy marched Margaret toward the back of the house.
“Where have you been?” Aunt Ebena walked with her toward the drawing room.
“I have been visiting Mrs. McDonald and Mrs. Wyatt.”
“Did you not call upon them with Miss Terralton only a few days ago?”
“Mrs. McDonald’s daughter favours the pianoforte and Mrs. Wyatt’s daughter enjoys the harp, and they both asked for new music to play, so I lent them some of mine.”
Aunt Ebena snorted. “All this socializing and visiting you are doing.”
Alethea refrained from answering until they were alone in the drawing room, away from the servants. “I am being seen, which will hopefully draw the thief to this area to attempt to steal the violin. And once he is revealed, we may return to Bath, ma’am.”
She could not blame Dommick for wishing his life to return to normal as soon as possible. He had a happy family and good friends. He did not need a knotty spinster, her prickly aunt, and her ramshackle young cousin in his life threatening the safety of his sister.
Aunt Ebena sat upon the sofa and reverted to her original grievance. “You must do more to control that child.”
“I have spoken to her numerous times about fighting with the rector’s daughters.”
“I told her the same only hours ago, and you see how she returned to the house. I should think that the offspring of a clergyman would be more agreeable.”
“I fear that Margaret is overly sensitive to their remarks.”
“But fighting! I should hope the rector is properly disciplining his children.”
“I shall go to speak to his wife today or tomorrow,” Alethea said. “Margaret must learn to be more amiable. She cannot pick a fight simply because she does not agree with what her playmates propose to do for the afternoon. That appears to be the common theme of all her altercations.”
Aunt Ebena’s brows suddenly lowered, and she regarded Alethea in consternation. “Oh, surely not,” she muttered.
“What is it?”
“Perhaps I am to blame. When Margaret first complained that the girls at the rectory would browbeat her into submission to their games, I insisted that one must never give in to bullies.”
“You said something similar to me once, as I recall.”
“I told you that you must never allow someone to induce you to do something against what you knew to be right. It was quite a different thing, but I am afraid I did not differentiate it for Margaret. She probably took my meaning to be that she should never allow anyone to coerce her to their will.”
“How did she get that impression? Surely you did not use those exact terms.”
“I did not, but . . .” Aunt Ebena’s eyes seemed to have the weight of years behind them—painful, heavy years. “I was quite adamant about standing up to those who would intimidate us.”
Alethea stared. She wanted to ask who had attempted to intimidate her aunt, but she did not dare. She did not want to jeopardize their current truce with probing, possibly impertinent questions.
Aunt Ebena said in a tired voice, “How shall you discipline Margaret?”
“She shall have only bread and water today, and tomorrow I shall have her apologize to the rector’s daughters.” Alethea hoped that would be enough.
“If only we could somehow force those obstinate children to become friends.” Aunt Ebena was silent a long moment, then she rose to her feet. “I feel the need for solitude. I shall see you at dinner.”
Alethea sat in solitude herself in the drawing room for several minutes. Her aunt’s strange mood made her thoughtful and melancholy herself. And yet, today’s short conversation had been the most intimate she had had with her aunt since coming to live with her. The two of them had drawn closer, and she was sure that was what enabled Aunt Ebena to reveal this glimpse of herself. Alethea wondered what had put that pain behind her words.
She was soon interrupted by Lady Ravenhurst. “Good day, Lady Alethea. Am I disturbing you?”
“Of course not, my lady. Shall I ring for tea?”
“Yes, please. I feel as though breakfast was days ago.” She gave a light laugh in her low, soothing voice, which put Alethea in mind of warm treacle.
After the maid had brought the tea and Alethea had poured, Lady Ravenhurst set her cup down and said in a confiding tone, “I do hope you will forgive me if I impose too much, but when I entered the room, you seemed despondent. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“I apologize, my lady, I did not intend to cause you concern.”
“I would not have remarked upon it had I not seen your aunt leave the drawing room to walk upstairs, and she also looked quite downcast. And from my bedroom window, I spotted Miss Margaret with a terrific split lip.”
“We are unsure what to do about Margaret. She refuses to get along with the girls at the rectory.”
“Ah, yes, that can be a difficult situation. Raven’s sister did not often play with the squire’s daughter for that reason. You have spoken to Margaret about being accommodating to new playmates?”
It reminded Alethea of the strange pain in her aunt’s eyes, the sense that someone had tried to intimidate Aunt Ebena at some point in the past. “Yes. However, she misunderstood when Aunt Ebena spoke of not allowing others to intimate us.”
Lady Ravenhurst tilted her head and leaned closer. “Are you well, my dear? You again have that despondent air about you. You are quite worrying me.”
“I assure you, I am well,” Alethea said quickly. They were silent a moment, and Alethea worried that her remark had seemed cold, which was ungrateful in the face of Lady Ravenhurst’s warm concern. Alethea said tentatively, “I was thoughtful because my aunt had been earnest in advising Margaret not to allow others to bully her. She gave me the same advice when Mr. Golding approached me to sell my violin. There was a . . . heaviness in my aunt’s countenance as we spoke earlier. It made me wonder if perhaps someone in her past had intimidated her.”
There was a look of consciousness in Lady Ravenhurst’s face, and she stared at her teacup. Alethea worried she had been imprudent, and was about to apologize and excuse herself when Lady Ravenhurst said in a softer voice, “What your aunt advised can be a good piece of wisdom, especially when a woman’s life has been altered by the plans of others.”
Alethea was confused, which her face must have revealed, for Lady Ravenhurst reached out to touch the back of her hand with gentle fingers. “And now I am the one who is despondent. But I will explain, for I believe I understand your aunt and . . .” She searched Alethea’s face. “. . . I do not think anyone else will be able to tell you this confidence.”
“Confidence?”
“Your aunt is older than I, but our husbands were of an age. Mr. Garen was twenty years older than your aunt when he married her, and there were thirty years between myself and my husband. Raven does not remember his father.” Something in Lady Ravenhurst’s eyes made Alethea suspect that the marchioness believed that to be an advantage. “He came into the title when he was six years old.”
From Lady Ravenhurst’s tone, Alethea suspected she had not been in love with her husband, and Aunt Ebena had not been in love with Mr. Garen.
“Before my husband died, we would spend every season in town, just as Mr. and Mrs. Garen did. I did not know her well, but my husband was acquainted with Mr. Garen. There are not many in town now who remember that your aunt’s father, Lord Winterscomb, had not been very wealthy. However, he received a generous settlement upon your aunt’s marriage to Mr. Garen.”
The air solidified in Alethea’s lungs, and she could not breathe. She heard the hated rise and fall of her brother’s voice as he explained the betrothal arrangements he had made on her behalf. She remembered his vitriol and anger. She remembered the searing pain of him breaking the last two fingers of her left hand because she had defied him. The knuckles, healed for over a year now, began to throb.
Lady Ravenhurst was not looking at Alethea. “You must understand that in those times, it was not so unusual for a woman to be sold in marriage by her father. But it can be very damaging to a woman’s heart to know she has had no authority over the direction of her own life.”
“Yes,” Alethea whispered. She rubbed the fingers of her left hand. “I understand. Margaret may have misunderstood my aunt, but women have so few choices that when able, we must not allow others to tyrannize us.”
“You must not think your aunt had an unhappy marriage. She greatly enjoyed the culture of the city—the concerts, private art exhibitions, museums, literary circles—and her husband enabled her to indulge her passions.”
“She still does.” Alethea understood, now, her aunt’s love for Bath and all the events she could attend there, where she could live within her means as opposed to London.
Lady Ravenhurst took a sip of her lukewarm tea and grimaced. She warmed her cup with more from the pot and did the same to Alethea’s. In a more cheerful voice, she said, “I fear we have wandered far afield from the original lesson to be taught to your young cousin. What shall you do, then?”
The discussion moved to the trials of being a parent, until Lady Morrish wandered into the drawing room.
“My lady, allow me to ring for a fresh pot of tea,” Lady Ravenhurst said.
Alethea rose. “I beg you will both excuse me, for I must speak to Margaret, and then I must call upon the rector’s wife.”
She found Margaret sulking near the Monk’s pond—or perhaps skulking was the better word, for she was avoiding the nursery maid who had been assigned to her. Lucy had cleaned Margaret’s face and removed the twig and any other gifts of nature from her hair, which was now somewhat tamed. She had put Margaret in a fresh dress, but the girl had run outside with only a light spencer against the cold. Her stubbornness had refused to allow her to return inside for a cloak, and her lips were beginning to turn blue.
Alethea pulled Margaret close to wrap them both in her cloak and directed their steps toward the small, walled garden on the other side of the house, with its narrow walks and stone benches along the perimeter. Margaret had not spoken but leveled her with a look not in the least bit subordinate. Alethea had not spoken either, and they passed under the archway into the sheltering arms of the garden. They sat upon a stone bench, and the stillness wrapped around them.
The garden would be beautiful in the spring, with flowers bordering the paths and the arches of trained pear trees in full blossom. In winter it was more bleak but still beautiful.
“I will not apologize to them,” Margaret said.
“What started the squabble this time?”
It involved some game of Robin Hood with roles that Margaret had objected to. “I don’t like it here. I want to return to Bath.”
“There will always be people we do not perfectly sympathize with. But we must learn to be amiable and polite.”
“One cannot be amiable with girls like that.”
Alethea thought of all she had learned about her aunt this morning and how, a year ago, the two of them would never have had the conversation they did in the drawing room. “When I first came to live with Aunt Ebena, we did not comprehend each other well. But I worked to understand her personality, and now I know for a certainty that she loves me and you very much.”
“How can I understand their personalities when they are so overbearing?”
“Sometimes we must simply be silent. Eventually, they may realize they are in the wrong and apologize.”
“That is what Mrs. Coon says,” Margaret said, referring to the rector’s wife. “She said that God would speak to our hearts and convict us to do what is right.”
Alethea was not so certain of that. Where had that God been when her brother had broken her fingers?
Margaret continued, “And I told her that God told me to give Maria a slap.”
Alethea tried not to smile. “That was very wrong,” she said.
“Mrs. Coon said that if we are not listening to God, he cannot speak to our hearts, which is why people are often disagreeable to each other.”
That simplistic observation sobered Alethea. Her family had been very disagreeable to her, but had she not been disagreeable to Aunt Ebena and Dommick? The thought that she had behaved like her father or brother was disturbing.
“You should try to understand Maria and Louisa better,” Alethea said. “Perhaps they have a reason for why they are so forceful in their opinions. And you yourself are not very pliant in your own ideas.”
Margaret grimaced. “Oh, very well.”
“Now.” Alethea stood, forcing Margaret to her feet also. “We shall go to your room, and I am going to ask you to do something courageous, involving great skill and strength.”
“What?” Margaret looked eager.
“You will spend the rest of the day in your room—”
“But, Alethea—”
“—reflecting on what I have told you, and thinking of ideas of how you may implement them.”
“Of understanding Maria and Louisa?”
“Yes. And then you will gather your might so that tomorrow you may apologize to them—”
Margaret groaned.
“—and even somewhat mean it.”
After depositing Margaret in her room with the nursery maid, Alethea turned her steps toward the rectory, feeling apprehensive. Mrs. Coon was a kind, gentle woman, but her two daughters were absolute terrors. They had much more energy than Mrs. Coon could spare to them out of her full days.
Alethea was crossing the stretch of gravel in front of the abbey when she came in sight of Dommick, a shooting rifle over his shoulder and his gamekeeper walking beside him. Two dogs pranced about his feet, then raced to Alethea as they caught sight of her.
She knelt and gave them her hands to sniff and lick, and when she rose again, Dommick stood before her. He had given his gun to the gamekeeper, and he now offered her his arm. “Have you a moment to walk with me?”
“Of course.” Alethea was more than willing to interrupt her visit to the rectory.
The dogs followed the gamekeeper toward the house. Dommick led her through the grass around the lake. They entered the forest edging part of the lake, tramping deeper through the trees toward the far side.
They came upon a stream that emptied into the body of water and followed it back to where it flowed in several fingers of trickles. Reeds grew at the water’s edge, and a path beside it had been constructed of flat rocks pressed into the soil. Trees overshadowed the path, and the brown fingers of ferns curled alongside. There was a wildness to the place that appealed to her.
“May we stop here?”
“There is a bench farther upstream.”
They continued until they came upon a tiny gazebo of dark painted wood tucked under the trees and trailing vines. Moss covered the shingled roof, which protected the wooden seats and stone floor from the falling leaves and rain, although the benches were a little damp from the last storm. Alethea did not mind and promptly sat, drawing her cloak about her to protect from the chill in the shadows of the trees.
Dommick drew a letter from his coat pocket. “I have been pleasantly surprised by the result of my letter to Guido Manco. His father, who was also named Guido Manco, was in fact Count Sondrono’s secretary. He was the intermediary who sold Sondrono’s paintings to Lord Hazardfield’s father.”
“Does he know of the count’s living relations?”
“He has sent me the names of two of Sondrono’s brothers who lived in Italy, but Manco’s father left the country before Manco was born and he does not know more. I can inquire, but correspondence to the continent is slow.”
“This is not promising news.”
“That is not what was promising about his letter. Manco’s father kept meticulous records of each item he sold for the count, which included the names of the men who bought them. He also had records of where and how the count acquired the item.”
Alethea stared in disbelief. “He has a record of the violin, although it was sold so long ago?”
“He may. When he received my letter, he looked through his father’s records and found that his father sold three violins as well as other instruments.”
“So we can determine which of those violins is mine. We will know where the count obtained it and to whom it was sold.”
“The thief could be related to Sondrono, or to the man who commissioned the violin, if it was not the count, or to the man to whom the violin was sold.”
“You are thorough in your distrust. I would not have considered those suspected persons.”
Dommick gave a half smile, and this time Alethea’s breath caught for a different reason.
“Manco is employed by the Duchess of Meyrick, managing her private art collection. He writes that he is travelling to several of the duchess’s estates to inventory new acquisitions and will be passing near this part of the country in a few days. Rather than waiting for my reply, he will call upon me to view the violin and compare it to his father’s records.”
“A few days and we may know all.” And soon after that, if Dommick could uncover the identity of the thief, she would return to Bath. She pushed aside the lowering thought. “Has anyone approached the music room to look at our forged violin?”
He shook his head. “Ord watches from the hidden gallery, and Raven, Ian, and I take our turns.”
“I have been doing as you asked and calling on your neighbors and speaking to the local shopkeepers. They all now know that I am a guest at Terralton Abbey and the owner of a particularly fine and mysterious violin.”
“I’m sure Clare was able to direct you to the ones most likely to spread news of your arrival all throughout the country.”
“Oh, yes. However, your mother is still ill from the effects of travelling from Bath, and so Clare has been reading to her. I have taken Lucy with me on my visits.” She hesitated, then confessed, “Several people have remarked on our similar features. I did not wish to deceive them, but I have no desire to cause gossip—the neighbors of Trittonstone Park knew of Lucy’s parentage from the moment of her birth, and my association with her was what they objected to. But here, people know nothing of her and she is Clare’s abigail. I have attempted to turn the conversation, but I am afraid many have guessed she is a baseborn relation of mine.”
“It cannot be helped. Clare will determine the tone of the gossip. She has but to bat her eyelashes and the neighbors quite spoil her.”
“You should show your support of Clare and Lucy. One of the reasons my neighbors disapproved of my friendship with Lucy was because my father had been vocal in his disapprobation.”
“Probably because it was an embarrassment to him.”
“Oh, no doubt.” She gave a harsh bark of laughter. “He did not appreciate his indiscretion being flung into his face. And I fully knew it. He could not know his blustering would make me fight harder to be close to her.”
“You must admit that your friendship is unusual.”
“It is part of the reason why I value it so highly. Lucy wants nothing from me, because like me, the men in her life have been nothing but disappointments.” The bitter words hung in the air between them. She immediately regretted saying so much. “I apologize, my comments were indiscreet.”
“I think I understand you better.” He looked abashed. “When I first met you in London, my words must have seemed an echo of your father’s treatment of you.”
She had never consciously connected the two events, but he was right, of course. “I assure you, I was childish and willful. But the violin has always been my favoured instrument. Its music touched me in ways the music of other instruments did not.”
“I have felt that about the violin. I had more time to practice when I was in school. After university, I spent much time with my father learning to manage the estate, and then I went to war.” His voice dropped, and she sensed a darkness had settled upon his mood.
“You have a lovely estate. In Bath, I missed the freedom of the countryside. I am happy to be here.” And when she left it, she would leave both Dommick and Lucy. The thought made her feel empty, and she stared out at the stream, the reeds waving in the motion from the water.
The sight of the reeds reminded her of happier days and one of her favourite pastimes. “Have you a knife?” she asked.
Looking confused, he reached into his coat and withdrew a small folding penknife. “This belonged to my father.”
“I shall be careful with it.” She rose from the bench and approached the water. The mossy ground was soggy, but she managed to nick several reeds at the waterline with the knife.
“What will you do with those?” Dommick asked as she returned to her seat.
“Pipes. Did you never make them yourself?”
His smile appeared like sunlight through the mist. “No. You must show me.”
She removed her bonnet to better see the reeds, and he placed it on the bench next to his hat. She measured the proper length, then formed holes at appropriate intervals. She handed him the knife and guided him in making his own pipe, although she widened a few of the holes he had made. “I shall clean your knife for you.” She folded it and tucked it into her pocket.
She formed her fingers over the holes and blew. The sound was breathy and soft, matching the gurgle of the water over the stones and the green shade of the trees.
With very little instruction, he had mastered the notes, and soon they were playing duets. The music was challenging but fun, and they laughed at some of the horrible runs of intervals they made.
Alethea’s heart returned to the golden glow of days playing the pipe with Calandra beside the lake at Trittonstone Park. She had been young and carefree. Her brother had been only a bratty boy, cosseted by the nurse and her father, and not interesting enough to play with. Lucy had not played the pipe but had danced in the glade as they made music. Alethea had been so happy.
She was happy now, and not just in the remembrance of fonder days. She was enjoying music again with a skilled musician. Playing with Dommick made her feel as close to him as an embrace.
“I am not surprised you know how to play a pipe,” Dommick said. “Wind instruments are even more scandalous for women to play than violin. I expected no less from you.”
“I was not very skilled at the flute. Calandra compared my playing to a mournful owl with a very poor sense of pitch.”
“When I first learned to play the flute, Ian said that he would rather muck out the stables than listen to me.”
“Cruel friend.” Alethea smiled.
Dommick frowned at his pipe. “He would say so today. Half the time my G sharps were flat.”
“You must angle your fingers differently.” She reached for his hands and positioned his fingers over the holes in the pipe.
They had removed their gloves to play. His fingers were supple and strong, with rough calluses from violin playing. This close to him, she could smell the scent of lime from his skin, mingled with the green smell of the trees and the spicy warmth of his musk. She avoided looking at his face, for he would see in her eyes how he affected her. She hoped he did not notice her shortness of breath.
After she had positioned his fingers, she was about to remove her hands when he suddenly took hold of them. His palm felt hot against her cooled fingertips. He tugged, and she leaned closer.
Then his warm palm was on the skin of her neck, just over her racing pulse, just as his mouth touched hers.
He did not kiss her as desperately as he had the night of the concert. At first, his lips moved softly, as if hesitant to touch, to taste. Then he pressed closer, and she felt as if he had pressed her against his soul. His kiss was like the comforting wood of her violin, like Calandra’s touch on her head, like the scent of a rose in summer, like the sweetness of a trembling violin note. He felt like home.
She had fallen in love with him.
The thought frightened her, sent her heartbeat galloping. Or perhaps that was because his hand cupped her cheek, her jaw, while the other buried itself in her hair.
She had thought she would never meet a man deserving of her trust. But this man had shown his concern for her safety, his love for his sister, his passion in music, his courage in danger. He had shown his own stubbornness, his own flaws, his willingness to argue with her, his ability to apologize. He was not perfect. He was Dommick.
She loved him. She never wanted to leave him. She would give all she possessed if only to be with him.
It was just as she realized this, just as she was pressing closer to him, that he suddenly stiffened. His hands left her face, her hair. He drew back, looking down at her with a mix of longing and unhappiness.
What did it mean? He didn’t seem the sort of man to blithely steal kisses. Yet he wasn’t looking at her as a lover might. He had said nothing of his feelings.
And what of her feelings? What of her determination not to marry, her plans for Italy, her love for Lucy? What of her love for music that had motivated her for so much of her life?
She pulled away and shot to her feet. She didn’t like the look in his eyes, and she was afraid of the words that would arise out of his conflicted feelings. They would be more wounding than the words other men had inflicted upon her, because these words would come from Dommick.
“I must go,” she said.
“Alethea—”
“Say nothing,” she said fiercely. “I have no wish to hear it. I could not bear . . .” She took a breath to try to calm herself. “We may both say things we will later regret.”
He rose to his feet now, his eyes burning into hers. There was confusion, and still that yearning, that pain, that terror in his eyes. She did not know what to make of it all, and it cut her to the quick.
She turned and walked away before the tears began to fall.