Conan hauled himself up in the bed. The fragrance of the woods was still with him, and he knew now what the flowers were—bluebells. He noticed a large white moth was fluttering around Theo’s candle, its wings beating audibly.
‘‘Better now?” Theo inquired, brushing the moth away.
“Yes, I think so.” Conan turned the bedclothes back and got up. He felt very unsettled, rattled almost.
Theo went to the door. ‘“Well, I’m getting some more beauty sleep. I want to be as fresh as a daisy for the journey.”
“Journey? Oh, yes. Gloucestershire.” Conan ran his fingers through his hair.
Theo gave him a curious look, then left. Conan pulled on his mustard paisley dressing gown, then lit a thin Spanish cigar from the dying embers of the fire and went to pull the curtains back. Mayfair was still quiet, except for a street call from a milkmaid with two brimming pails on her yoke. The first rays of morning were fingering the eastern sky, and an early carriage drove past. Was it going home or sallying forth?
Conan couldn’t shake off the dream, and turned to a small mahogany table beside the window where he had left the lilac ribbon, neatly rolled. Picking it up, he put it to his nose. The scent was no longer of primroses, but of bluebells. His fingers closed slowly over the fine silk, and he looked out of the window again. Something very odd was happening, and he couldn’t imagine what it was, except that he had no desire to avoid it. The unknown lady meant too much to him. No, she meant
everything
to him.
Fate beckoned, and he was willing to follow.
It was midmorning at Elcester Manor, and Ursula and her father were taking a very late breakfast in the sunlit dining room. They had been to Mrs. Arrowsmith’s very early churching, throughout which the twins had screamed themselves blue in the face. Nothing daunted, the proud papa had shouted a sermon that should have concerned the joys of parenthood, but instead was all about the profanity of stealing from the church. If the missing chalice was mentioned once, it was mentioned a thousand times, and on each occasion a quivering finger swung toward the glaringly empty spot on the altar where the treasured item used to stand. Ursula and her father had exchanged more than one wry glance at the spectacle of such holy indignation about such a decidedly pagan cup.
It was the custom for the whole village to turn out for a churching, so the congregation was larger than usual. Among the missing faces were those of Taynton and a number of his men from the Green Man, and of course, the usual absent faces, like Daniel Pedlar. There were a number of married couples who never attended church. Ursula found herself recalling Daniel Pedlar’s words, and wondered if they had married by the yew. Somehow she felt they had.
Rufus Almore always stayed away, but today he’d broken the habit of a lifetime. He did not look at all well, and kept glancing nervously around as if he feared something. He was pale and had lost weight, so that he now more resembled a beanpole than ever. His red hair was combed neatly back from his foxy face, and he clutched his prayer book in white-knuckled hands. Ursula and her father resolved to speak to him afterward, to find out what had happened in the woods, but he dashed from the church before they had even left their pew, and when they knocked at his cottage door on their way home, he refused to answer.
After the fright of her encounter with Taynton in the woods, Ursula was now much more prepared to accept what Daniel Pedlar had said.
“There’s sommat bad down there, Miss Hursula. Sommat awful bad.”
She therefore made no fuss when her father rode back to the manor along the Stroud road. Not a word had been said about her misconduct, for which she was thankful. In the cold light of day she couldn’t believe she’d been so utterly foolish, and she resolved not to repeat the exercise. But thinking about those strange minutes inevitably brought memories of the gentleman coming along the path toward her. Or rather, the gentleman who
wasn’t
coming along the path, but whom she’d seen anyway.
Just to think of him filled her with flutters of pleasure and longing. Oh, it was all quite ridiculous, she thought, as her common sense knew only too well; but common sense wasn’t receiving much attention at the moment. She had the feeling he was a real person, not the product of her fertile imagination. He was constantly in her mind, and the intrusion was a little too pleasing for comfort. How novel and satisfactory if he turned out to be the Honorable Theodore Maximilian Greatorex, for then the impending match would be far from disagreeable. But such a wish belonged in the land of cuckoos, she thought dryly as she applied raspberry preserve to her toast.
Dainty little white ribbons adorned the lace-edged day bonnet she resorted to when, as this morning, her hair was being difficult, and she wore an emerald-and-white checkered seersucker morning gown, high-waisted and long-sleeved, with a scooped neckline in which she had tucked a gauze scarf. A light cashmere shawl rested around her shoulders, and she looked very fresh considering her dawn excursion.
Sunlight poured in through the windows, for the room faced due south over the first terrace, where the gardeners had today placed the potted bay trees that always overwintered under glass. The room itself was oak-paneled like the rest of the house, with heavily carved Elizabethan furniture that must have been made actually within the four walls, because it was all far too big to pass through either the doors or the windows. A fine display of silverware shone on the great sideboard, and a fire danced in the hearth, making the room so warm that Ursula resolved to stop the lighting of fires until the onset of autumn.
Mr. Elcester’s mood was one of disgruntlement, for he had come to breakfast hoping to find the latest edition of
The Times
newspaper, a previous one having failed to be delivered when it should have been. Once again it was nowhere to be seen, and his annoyance was considerable. “Great heavens above, with all those stagecoaches calling at the Green Man, you’d think the delivery of a newspaper was not beyond their capabilities! It’s not satisfactory, not satisfactory at all. I cannot abide breakfasting without my newspaper!”
“Shall I bring the last edition? I’m sure you haven’t read it all.”
“I have read every inch,” he replied testily, drumming his fingers upon the table. Then he looked at her. “I have to ride to Stroud afterward,” he said suddenly.
“Oh?”
“A message arrived while we were at church. It seems the cellar walls of Fromewell Mill are giving cause for concern again.”
“Again? I didn’t know anything was wrong with them.”
“Yes, I’m afraid there has been a little subsidence, which in turn has weakened the foundations. If there’s rain and the river rises, the cellars will flood and a great deal of other damage might result. I’d best take a look. Who knows, maybe I’ll find a copy of
The Times
in the town.”
“I’m sure yours will be delivered soon,” Ursula said patiently.
“I like my news to be reasonably current, not ancient history,” he replied as he spooned some more kedgeree onto his plate. “Will you come to Stroud with me?” he asked then.
“I thought I’d make a start of
Macsen Wledig.”
“Hmm.” He plunged his fork into a portion of hard-boiled egg in the kedgeree.
She knew the tone of voice. “Is something wrong? I-I mean, if you really wish me to accompany you, then of course I will.”
“It’s not that I wish you to come, m’dear, rather that I do not know if I can trust you not to go to the woods again.”
“You have my word.”
“I thought I had that before.”
She colored a little. “This time I really will obey.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and then nodded. “Very well, you may stay here with your translating.”
She nibbled her toast, thinking about the woods again. “Father, I am very suspicious about Taynton’s so-called escaped felon. There were a number of men in the woods at dawn, at least, it sounded as if they were all men. I heard them. They were chanting.”
He lowered his fork. “Oh, come now—
“It’s true.” She told him about the dusky bluebell ring game.
Mr. Elcester gave a guffaw. “Ursula, m’dear, I think you are imagining things. I fancy you returned to your bed and dreamed.”
“It wasn’t a dream.”
“Dusky bluebells, indeed. It’s a
children’s
game, not something adults would indulge in.”
“I know, but—
“But nothing, m’dear. You dreamed it, and that is that. Besides, I hardly think Rufus Almore would have been terrified witless by the sight of grown men cavorting around in the bluebells, do you?”
Put like that, it did indeed seem silly, but she knew what she had heard. And she knew that Taynton was involved in it. She decided to change the subject. “What about dinner tonight? Will you be back from Stroud, or will you put up at the Golden Cross again?”
“I’ll come back late today. I like to sleep in my own bed. My business at the mill shouldn’t take all that long.” He paused, as if there was something he needed to say.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“Ursula, I’m afraid I still haven’t been quite honest with you about things.”
“What things?” she asked suspiciously.
“Er ... about Mr. Greatorex’s arrival at Carmartin Park today. You see, I’ve sent him an invitation to dine here with us tomorrow night.”
“You’ve what?” she said faintly.
“I rather think you heard.”
“Yes, I rather think I did too. I’m surprised you didn’t arrange it for tonight, to cause even more of a panic in the kitchens!”
To say nothing of in me as well ...
“Don’t be like this, m’dear. I agreed it with Lord Carmartin.”
“Oh, Father, the cook needs more warning when an important dinner is to be prepared, even if there
are
only three at the table!”
“Well, I’m sure the larder will have something suitable. I’m very partial to a nice bit of boiled mutton.”
“Boiled mutton? Father, I refuse absolutely to serve
mutton,
boiled or otherwise!” Flustered, she tried to think what was at its best right now? Was there time to send to Gloucester for some Severn salmon?
“I also rather like guinea-fowl,” Mr. Elcester went on.
“Guinea-fowl? Oh, yes, I suppose that will do. Daniel Pedlar is sure to let us have a couple of his.”
Her father beamed. “There, it’s settled then.”
“Is there anything else you mean to spring on me? Lord Carmartin, the Prince Regent and the Bishop of Gloucester aren’t coming as well, by any chance? Maybe they’re lodging here as well?
He colored, knowing he deserved her wrath. “No, just Mr. Greatorex. Nor is there anything else I should have told you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“But it
is
all for the manor and village,” he added.
“A fact that right now I’m having to force myself to bear in mind,” she replied crossly. Just let him say one more word about her disobedience at dawn, just one word, and she would have a few things of her own to say!
A respectful tap came at the door, and a maid entered with the overdue edition of
The Times.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but Mr. Taynton at the Green Man says he’s very sorry, but he inadvertently sent it on to Gloucester by stagecoach. The mistake was only discovered when the innkeeper of the New Inn sent it back with the next coach.”
Mr. Elcester was a little placated. “Oh, very well. By the way, tell the cook that I like a little more curry in my kedgeree. That was a little bland.”
“Yes, sir.” The maid curtsied and hurried out.
Ursula eyed her father’s empty plate. “I notice you managed two helpings of it, bland or not,” she observed.
“That’s as may be, but I
do
like a little more spice.” Mr. Elcester poured himself a cup of strong coffee and settled to read awhile. Silence descended, except for the rustle of the paper, but then he gave an exclamation as a certain name leapt out at him from the close-packed columns. “Well, I’ll be damned!”
“What is it?”
“That fellow Samuel Haine hasn’t left the country after all! A false trail has been uncovered, but his actual whereabouts remain unknown. All that can be said with any conviction is that he is still somewhere in England. No doubt he is swindling some other poor gull. By God, if I had him here, I’d wring his vile neck!”
Ursula forbore to reply. She couldn’t think of a fate horrible enough for Samuel Haine, whose devious activities had signaled the untimely extinction of her cherished spinsterhood!
* * * *
It was noon, and her father had departed for Stroud, when Ursula went to sit on the steps of the topiary garden with her notebooks, her mother’s old manuscripts, and a freshly sharpened pencil. She still wore her checkered gown, and the ribbons on her day bonnet lifted gently in the slight breeze. Some gardeners were at work planting the tubers that in late summer would produce the new white double dahlias her father had gone to so much trouble to acquire. A boy was brushing the flagstones around the fountain, where the squirrels had played at dawn. Squirrels were in the offing now, she noticed almost casually. One was sitting atop the wall, and another was digging busily in a far corner, as if searching for nuts it had buried and mislaid.
Soon she was lost in the world of
Macsen Wledig.
The manuscripts had been in her mother’s family for generations, and whoever had written them had a spidery hand that was sometimes difficult to decipher, but she felt she was translating accurately.
The Dream of Macsen Wledig
—
being the story of how the Emperor Macsen, who was as handsome a man as ever came out of Hispania, found his bride, and how she gained her name, Elen of the Ways. One evening a long, long time ago, after a day’s hunting near Rome with his favorite white wolfhound, Macsen the emperor, dreamed of a Welsh princess called Elen, who lived beyond the north wind. It was Maytime, and he saw her castle at
C— — (Cannot read, she’d noted in the margin)
on an island rising out of a spring mist.