Moonlight And Mistletoe

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

H ester had enough self-perception to know when she was thoroughly blue devilled and likely to spend the rest of the day moping by the fire. And she knew that only some brisk activity or something else to concentrate upon would snap her out of the megrims. A walk was out of the question; a chill mist had descended, bringing with it a promise of frost later according to Jethro, summoning up the knowledge from the rural upbringing Hester suspected he had experienced.

After luncheon she cleaned the pane of glass rescued from the shed, mixed herself up a bowl of flour paste, cut the canvas free of its frame and with camel hair brushes set to reconstruct it. She dusted the tattered fragments of the picture and carefully laid each strip on to the glass, securing them with the paste.

Gradually the picture took shape as the portrait of a lady shown from the waist up. Her hair tumbled in unpowdered blonde curls around her bare shoulders, her gown was of leaf green satin in the elaborate style of perhaps fifty years before and around her neck was a long rope of exquisitely graded pearls matching the drops in her ears.

As the first of the pearls appeared under the gentle brush strokes Hester stopped wondering why the lady was not en poudre as the fashion of the time dictated and stared instead at the necklace. Could it be the same one that now lay unstrung on her dressing table? The lustre of the pearls gleamed with a glow that matched the satin, catching the green reflection of the fabric. The quality was certainly as good.

She realised her hands were trembling and took a hold on herself. This portrait was as much a focus of the blind hatred that had invaded this lovely house as the dressing room had been; of course the pearls were the same ones.

The picture built up slowly, for it was difficult to coax the fragile, brittle pieces to lie flat and to ease slashed edges devoid of paint under their neighbouring strips.

The light was fading fast as she smoothed a soft cloth over the last piece; as she did it, Susan entered, lamp in hand, ready to set a taper to the candles.

‘Why, who would have thought you could have done anything with that dirty old thing, Miss Hester?’ she remarked comfortably, bustling round the room. The candles lit, she came to peer over Hester’s shoulder.

‘Oh, my Gawd!’

‘Indeed,’ Hester agreed shakily, too startled by the effect of the candlelight on the completed image to reprove Susan’s language.

‘It’s his sister, surely?’ Hester could see the resemblance too plainly to enquire whose sister her maid meant. The hair colour, the modelling of the face, an indefinable something in the smile that played about the lady’s lips-all spoke of a relationship to Guy. A close relationship.

‘It cannot be his sister, Lady Broome. See how dated the gown is. I doubt it could be his mother either.’ Hester tried to do calculations in her head. ‘If Guy is about thirty, it means he was born in ‘84. This was painted when? About 1750, perhaps-and the lady is in her early twenties, which means she was born in about 1726 or ‘27 which would make her-’ She broke off, her brow furrowed. ‘In her late fifties when he was born.’

‘His grandmother, then?’

‘That is more likely. But see how green her eyes are, not blue like Lord Buckland’s.’

‘They look familiar.’ It was Susan’s turn to wrinkle her brow. ‘No, I give up. Will you show him?’

‘No.’ The negative emerged with more vehemence than Hester had intended. ‘Take it up to my dressing room, please, Susan, and set it up on that shelf next to the dressing table. It will be safe there. No, on second thoughts, ask Jethro to carry it, it is too unwieldy and you’ll need to open doors.’

Hester hardly noticed Jethro’s exclamation of surprise as he came in and carried the picture away, and certainly did not register Susan’s murmured explanations and speculations as she led the way up the stairs. The portrait had affected her deeply, she realised. ‘Guy,’ she murmured out loud, running her fingers along the frayed edge of the empty frame as though touching his hair.

It was a glimpse into his secrets and an insight into the reasons he had not felt able to share with her for his interest in the Moon House. It began to explain why he was so determined to buy it, but it did not explain who the woman was or why she had been the focus for such hate.

Susan’s shriek tore through her thoughts and she was on her feet and running for the foot of the stairs before a low- voiced stream of swear words from Jethro and Susan’s furious exclamations reassured her that the two of them were safe.

‘What is it?’ Then she saw without having to wait for their reply. Propped up carefully against the door of her bedchamber was another bunch of dead roses, only this time their stems were caught together with a trailing bow of black satin.

‘Six, of course.’ She edged past Jethro, who was standing in the middle of the landing taking up a considerable amount of room with his hands spread wide to carry the portrait, scooped up the bunch and pushed open the door. All within was exactly as she had left it.

‘I do not think they came in here.’ Hester opened the dressing-room door for Jethro to set his burden on the shelf.

‘But how did they get into the house?’ Susan demanded, checking the windows as though the ‘ghost’ could have scaled the front of the house in broad daylight.

‘Through the front door, I suspect,’ Hester said. ‘I found it open when I showed Lord Buckland out. I assumed you had left it ajar when you all tactfully removed yourselves.’

Susan had the grace to blush, but Jethro protested, ‘I know I shut it behind us-it is too cold to leave doors open.’

‘Well, if this is the Nugents, no doubt they have a key and would have no trouble with an unbolted door.’ Hester went to the window and looked out. It was dark now and the cold panes gave her back only her own reflection.

Then the stable-yard gate opposite opened, letting light flood out, and a rider on a black horse emerged. Hester stared. Who on earth would be riding out on this dark, freezing night? The mist had cleared and the moon was not yet up. Then the horse backed and fidgeted and was brought under immediate control as the rider, a shadow in black, bent to speak to the groom who had opened the gate. Guy, of course. His style was somehow unmistakable. But why-and where?

‘Shall I go and tell his lordship?’

‘No.’ Hester snapped the answer, Of course, this was what Guy had meant when he said the Nugents did not have the monopoly on breaking and entering. He could be walking straight into danger.

‘No. His lordship has gone out-and so must I. Jethro…’ She eyed him up and down in a way that had him backing nervously towards the door, convinced that his usually immaculate clothing was all awry. ‘Yes, they should fit. Go and fetch me a pair of your breeches, a thick shirt and a jacket, if you please, and then saddle up Hector. Use your saddle, not mine. Susan, please find me my riding boots, gloves, my whip and a dark shawl.’

‘Saddle Hector. Miss Hester? Will he stand to be ridden?’

‘So the man who sold him to me said. I shall doubtless find out. Susan?’

‘You mean to ride him astride? What will Miss Prudhome say?’

‘Nothing to any effect if she is still dozing by the drawing- room fire and you do not wake her. Now hurry and get those clothes from Jethro.’

It took perhaps twenty minutes before Hester was standing in the yard, tying the shawl around her shoulders in an attempt to find some extra warmth. Hector seemed to take being saddled well, but Jethro was still protesting.

‘But, Miss Hester, you can’t ride astride and how am I going to keep up?’

‘I rode astride in Portugal, and you, Jethro, are staying here to look after Miss Prudhome and Susan. Now, give me a leg up.’

‘Where are you going’?’ Susan wailed as Hester turned Hector’s head to the gate and urged him into a trot.

‘Winterbourne Hall.’

The trot soon turned into a walk, for the road was far too dark for her to make out more than a trace of the verge, but the cob seemed both happy to be ridden and confident to stride out in the dark. Even so, the way seemed endless and Hester was beginning to lose sense of both time and place when she reached the barn that she remembered from her visits to the Hall.

It loomed, a dark bulk beside the road, and Hector slowed, turned his head towards it and whinnied.

‘Shh!’ Then another horse answered from the barn. Hester slid down from the saddle and led Hector in. Sure enough there was a shape of a large, dark animal tethered inside. She tied Hector up beside it, leaving the two to exchange cautious sniffs, and made her way out.

The moon was rising, the waxing crescent bold and solid in the sky now. Hester found the entrance to the grounds and began to jog up the hard surface of the driveway, racking her brains to remember whether there were any potholes. There were. Her foot cracked a thin skin of ice on a puddle and she fell, jarring her arms and, tearing through the thin leather of her gloves, skinning her outstretched palms.

‘Oh… stay laces!’ Hester got to her feet, her hands stinging, cold wetness all down one leg, her nose and ears freezing, and contemplated sitting down on the grass and giving way to hysterics. One couldn’t, of course, but the moment she got her hands on that pig-headed, arrogant, reckless man she was going to box his ears.

If, that is, she worried as she started to trudge more cautiously up the drive, if he has not already been caught and Lewis Nugent is not enjoying himself gloating over a housebreaker.

She had left the house, followed Guy on an impulse. Now she realised how much her boy’s raiment restricted her options. She could hardly walk up to the front door and create a diversion dressed like this! Ruefully she acknowledged that she had been inspired by something akin to envy of a man’s freedom to act.

The old house loomed before her, a dark shape against greater darkness. Either no one was at home or they were at the back. Where was the library in relation to the rest of the house? Hester tried to stop worrying and think. Around the back, of course. She set off, managed to find her way at the expense of only two collisions with walls and one with a tree and found herself on a gravelled terrace, which, she recalled, overlooked the gardens. Light showed from the windows sunk half below ground level-the servants’ hail, no doubt. The stones crunched under her feet, the sound like musket fire in the cold, still air. She might as well march along banging a big drum.

The moonlight caught the edge of a low brick wall edging the terrace and Hester tiptoed to it, climbed up and began to balance cautiously along. She was almost level with what she thought must be the library window when a sudden flash of light from within streaked across the terrace and was gone. Someone inside was using a dark lantern.

So Guy had got in, and had done so without, apparently, being heard. Hester closed her eyes on the darkness and tried to recall what she had seen in that flash of light. Yes, a flagged path across the terrace.

She reached the library windows, holding her breath, and ran a hand lightly along the casements until she found one that was ajar. Within the room was dark, then she realised that the curtains must be drawn. Slowly she eased back the window until it stood wide and ran her hand down the wall below it. As she had hoped, there was a point where the brickwork stepped out. With one foot on that, both hands on the window frame and ignoring the pain in her grazed palms, Hester hauled herself up until she could straddle the opening and climb down inside.

She found herself nose to fabric with thick curtains and eased them apart. Darkness. Where was he? Perhaps this was the wrong room. Hester stopped and thought. Guy would have forced the window, climbed in and then drawn the curtains to-that was when she saw the flash of light as he checked they were closed. She assumed he would then open up the light and start his search, but there was no- ‘Aargh…umph!’ Her gasp of alarm was stifled as a hand clamped over her mouth and another spun her round to pinion her tight against rough frieze cloth. ‘Lemmego!’ she mumbled. The broad, hard chest she was tight against was unmistakeably Guy’s, the scent of him was Guy, but the hard, unforgiving hands were not at all familiar in their ruthlessness.

‘Be quiet.’ The almost soundless whisper in her ear was an order. Hester nodded, as far as she was able, and was released. ‘Are you mad?’ the voice hissed.

‘No, I am not, but I think you must be,’ she hissed back. ‘What are you going to do if you are found?’

‘Run like hell-which will be a damn sight more difficult with you here, you little fool. Why are you here?’

‘To stop you.’

‘It’s a bit late now.’

‘Yes, I had noticed that.’ It was difficult to be sarcastic in a whisper. ‘Can’t you open the lantern?’

‘Wait there.’ Hester waited for what seemed like half an hour, her ears straining to follow Guy’s almost soundless progress across the room. When the dark lantern shutter was opened he was standing by the door, dropping a sofa cushion on to the floor. Then he walked back, keeping to the carpet, and motioning her into the middle of the room. Hester realised the cushions effectively blocked any glimmer of light that might escape under the door and raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you do this sort of thing often?’

Guy ignored the question, and eyed Hester critically. ‘What the devil are you wearing?’

‘Jethro’s breeches. I wasn’t about to ride about the countryside side saddle. If I fell off I’d never get back on.’

Guy’s critical gaze ran slowly down her body to her filthy knees and soaked stockings. ‘Your seat on a horse appears poor enough astride.’

‘I fell running up the driveway,’ Hester retorted furiously, fuming even more as Guy simply rolled his eyes. She kept her damaged hands carefully behind her back, unwilling to give her head for a further washing.

‘We cannot do anything about that now.’

‘I don’t want you to do anything. Nothing hurts if you don’t keep reminding me.’ They glared at each other for a moment, then Hester whispered, ‘Have you found anything yet?’

‘Hardly, I’ve been too busy dealing with you. Where was that box you saw?’

Muttering to herself, Hester tiptoed over to the chaise and knelt down, trying not to wince as her knees met the floor. Apparently they were bruised too. ‘Here, pushed right back with a lid on.’

Guy bent, picked up the chaise and moved it bodily to one side. Hester blinked, decided not to pander to male pride by showing admiration for his strength, and tried to lift the lid. ‘It’s locked.’

Somehow she was hardly surprised when Guy produced a bunch of spindly metal objects from his pocket and began to pick the lock.

‘Where did you get those?’ she hissed in his ear.

‘One of my footmen has a colourful past. Shh, I’m listening.’

The lock yielded easily. Hester could not decide whether it was beginner’s luck or long practice, but she was at Guy’s shoulder as the lid lifted, her fingers already delving into the contents. ‘Look, here’s that letter.’

Guy took it and began to read while Hester delved deeper. ‘Accounts for building the Moon House dated 1760, a journal for…’ she squinted at the faded writing in the poor light ‘…July 31, 1764. I have never felt the need to write before but now, now all my happiness and hope of support has-I cannot read this word, gone, I think-I will set it down, for to whom can I… possibly this is confide…yes, it is. Darling Allegra… No, the rest of the pages are water-stained and mildewed.’

Hester glanced at Guy, but his face was set hard and unreadable and she sensed he had erected a wall to guard his emotions. She could not ask questions, not here. Turning away, she began to dig under what seemed to be loose sheets of accounts, a page of music and reached the bottom of the box.

‘There is nothing more. No, wait.’ Her fingers touched a chain and; pulling it, revealed a locket. It flicked open under the pressure of a fingernail and there, smiling up in the flickering light of the lantern, was the blonde lady from the slashed portrait on one side and on the other a small child, hardly two, all unformed chubby cheeks, a mop of blonde curls and eyes of blue which blazed from the tiny portrait as intensely as those of the man who lifted it slowly from Hester’s lax fingers.

‘This goes with me.’ His voice was still a whisper, but Hester’s breath caught at the emotion in those few husky words.

‘What about the letter?’

‘That can go back. It is no wonder they thought there was something of great worth within the walls of the Moon House. It is full of references to treasure, something valued, precious, to be kept safe and protected.’

Hester reached out and took the paper from his hand, letting her own fingertips brush across his in a silent caress. ‘Do you know it all now?’ she whispered and received a nod in return.

A twist of the picklocks and the box was shut. Hester pushed it back carefully until it fitted its old mark on the carpet, then helped Guy position the chaise so it too fitted into the dents its feet had left. She held the lantern barely open while he retrieved the cushions, then let herself be swung down into the flowerbed while he followed her, closing the window soundlessly behind.

It seemed they were safe.

Guy clenched his teeth firmly shut and drew along, steadying breath of freezing air in through his nose. His head was spinning with tension, concentration, fury with Hester and churning emotion over the discoveries in that box.

First things first, he told himself, keeping one hand firmly on Hester’s shoulder and guiding her towards the low wall. ‘Go along the wall.’

‘I know,’ she snapped back, low voiced. ‘How do you think I got here?’

‘By broomstick,’ Guy muttered and was almost caught off balance as she swung round furiously to face him.

‘That was unkind, unjustified-’

‘Look out!’ Guy seized Hester as she swayed on the wall and the terrace was suddenly lit by a flood of light from the central room facing on to it. This was more than one candle: someone had lit every light in the room and then thrown the curtains back.

Caught like an actor in the stage lights Guy froze, Hester clasped in his arms, and looked at the scene within. Lewis was standing with his back to the window, having obviously just flung back the curtains, his sister, untying the ribbons of her bonnet, was walking towards him. At any moment they would look out on to the terrace and see the figures on the wall, petrified like two statues.