“My dear Miss Tate,” he replied smoothly. “I’m most pleased to accept your invitation. I would very much enjoy meeting your uncle and his sister, and, since he appears to be awake and about, I feel there is no time like the present.”
Gillian made a strangled sound in her throat. Good Lord! Here was a disaster in the making. She could not allow Lord Cordray and Uncle Henry to come face-to-face. At least, not until she had an opportunity to confront Uncle Henry herself. She could not help but observe that the wretched earl was hugely enjoying the situation. Had he no more sense of propriety than to stride into a family contretemps—particularly when he had not even met most of the family?
After staring at him for a moment in such a manner to leave him in no doubt of her disapproval—and meeting with a marked lack of success in this tactic—Gillian nodded stiffly and ushered him into the house.
Here they were greeted by an elderly gentleman whom Miss Tate introduced as Widdings, the general factotum at Rose Cottage. Cord wondered if Miss Tate was responsible for the atmosphere of warmth that seemed to envelop him like a friendly embrace as he stepped into the modest entry hall. The decor was not fashionable, being structured toward comfort rather than elegance. A table in the center of the hall bore several periodicals, a riding crop, a few books and what looked like letters from a recently opened post. A scattering of paintings, sentimental of subject and some of such amateurish quality that they might have been created by a favorite relative were hung in casual arrangement.
Removing her hat. Miss Tate led Cord into a small salon just off the hall.
“If you will wait here for a moment, my lord,” she said, again a little breathlessly, “I shall notify my aunt and uncle that you are here.”
She turned to send Widdings off for tea, but paused. “Have you breakfasted, my lord?” When he shook his head, she said, “Perhaps you would care to join us. The repast will not be lavish, but I believe we can provide you with a satisfactory meal.”
In some bemusement. Cord replied, “Thank you, I would like that very much.”
“I shall be just a moment,” Gillian said again before whirling to run up the stairs. She hurried down a long corridor, and was intercepted by a plump figure carrying a jug of water.
“Why, Gillian,” said the lady, peering over her spectacles. White hair curled from under the rim of her ruffled cap, feathering about her placid features like a halo. “We have been so worried!” she continued. “Simms told us that Falstaff had returned without you. I’m glad to see you met with no harm.”
Without offering an explanation for her predicament, Gillian laid a hand on the lady’s arm.
“Aunt Louisa! We must do something about Uncle Henry. He can’t find the diary, and he’s in a terrible state. I was in the stable yard with Lord Cordray, for heaven’s sake—you know—our landlord—I encountered him on my ride,” she added to forestall the question she could see forming on her aunt’s lips. “When Uncle Henry fairly bellowed at me from his study window, Lord Cordray insisted on coming in the house, despite my efforts to discourage him. He wants to meet you and Uncle Henry. I ... I invited him for breakfast. That may not have been a good idea, but as long as he is here, I think it would be a good idea to ... to get his measure.”
Aunt Louisa stared at her for a moment in incomprehension before her expression cleared. “Oh, I see,” she replied. “As in, how will he feel about the presence of a certified eccentric on his property?”
Gillian nodded, and the two hurried along the corridor, stopping at a heavily paneled door. Gillian knocked sharply, and without waiting for a response, opened the door. The stout gentleman whose face had so recently protruded from the upstairs window looked up at their entrance.
“There you are!” were his first words. “Gillian, you’ve been at it again. I cannot find the diary, and I must assume you’ve been up to your tricks. I demand—”
“Uncle Henry,” Gillian interrupted, “we cannot discuss that now. Lord Cordray is downstairs waiting to meet you and Aunt.”
“You must compose yourself, dearest,” interposed her aunt. “It would not do for his lordship to suspect what you’ve been up to.”
“Up to!” exclaimed Uncle Henry, pounding a meaty fist on his desk. This structure was piled high with books and stacks of assorted papers, notes and general detritus, all of which stirred fretfully in the draft created by the open door. “I have merely taken appropriate steps to defeat the small-minded, pettyfogging—”
“Yes, Uncle, but the fact remains that what you have been doing is illegal, and of all the persons whom we do not wish to know about it, I’d say Lord Cordray ranks high on the list. So, please compose yourself, slip into your most charming academic persona and come down to meet him.”
For a moment, it appeared that Sir Henry was not to be swayed from his battle position, but glancing first at his sister and then at his niece and back again, he sighed and deflated visibly.
“Very well,” he said, with only a trace of belligerence remaining in his tone. He fixed his niece with a basilisk stare. “However, I am not through with you, young lady,” He smoothed his hair with both hands and accompanied his ladies from the room.
By the time the little group entered the small salon where Lord Cordray awaited them. Sir Henry had straightened his skewed cravat and affixed a benign smile to his lips. Gillian performed the introductions and Aunt Louisa beamed delightedly.
“We are so very pleased,” she said, “to make your acquaintance at long last. Do let us go in to breakfast, for it has been awaiting us since Simms returned with his unpleasant news.”
Mrs. Ferris led the way to a small, sunny chamber toward the rear of the house. “May I ask what brought you to Wildehaven?” she asked, then indicated the sideboard, laden with eggs, toast, kippers and all the other accoutrements of a hearty country breakfast.
Under her direction, Cord helped himself to a generous portion of each, and sitting at the table, he accepted coffee from the young maid who circled the room anxiously. From the awed glances she sent in his direction, he assumed the news of the arrival of a certified peer had already spread around the household. He took a dignified sip. “As I explained to your niece, I merely wished to escape the bustle of city life for a while. One can take such solace in the country, do you not agree?”
“Oh, indeed, my lord,” Aunt Louisa agreed solemnly. “Was it not Virgil who said, ‘May the countryside and the gliding valley streams content me’?”
“Precisely, dear lady.”
Good Lord, thought Cord. I sound like a park saunterer. He turned to his host. “I understand. Sir Henry, that you are affiliated with the university.”
“Mm, yes,” replied that gentleman with an offhanded gesture that served only to indicate his pride in the words. “I graduated with a degree in arts from Trinity in 1770, became a don at Magdalene in ‘75, and I’ve been a fellow for over forty-five years. My particular field of study is the Restoration period.”
“Ah, yes,” chimed in Cord, feeling himself on firm ground. “Charles the Second. An engaging rascal, I’ve heard.”
Sir Henry bent an austere glance on him. “I have little knowledge of His Majesty’s moral behavior. It is the men of letters who thrived under his reign in whom I am interested. Dryden, Bunyan, Congreve, Rochester and Samuel Butler among many others.”
“Ah,” murmured Cord, after which an awkward silence fell on the little group.
“Indeed,” added his sister pridefully after a moment, “Sir Henry held the Chair of Restoration Literature for a number of years before his retirement and is still in demand for lectures ... at least . . . An expression of dismay crossed her amiable features for a moment. “That is ... well, the many essays and books he has published over the years are still much in demand.”
Sir Henry’s hand jerked a little, and a splash of tea joined one or two other stains on his cravat. He cleared his throat.
“Of course, strictly speaking, I have not truly retired.”
Miss Tate and Mrs. Ferns exchanged agonized glances.
“No, indeed,” continued Sir Henry importantly. “I am currently engaged in a project, which, if I may say, will produce a significant—nay, profound—effect on English letters.”
“No!” exclaimed Cord, entering into the spirit of this declaration. “Do tell me about it, sir.”
“Mm, no, I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
Cord noted with some puzzlement the simultaneous sigh of relief uttered by the two ladies.
“No,” continued Sir Henry. “I cannot discuss the matter, at least not until my thesis is brought to fruition. There are many who would sabotage my efforts. Not,” he added expansively, “that I number you among their pernicious number, but it is too easy to drop information in all innocence.” He sighed heavily. “Mine is a lonely task, one which requires all the knowledge and skills I have acquired during a long, and may I say, productive career in the Groves of Academe.”
“I understand completely, sir,” said Cord, who for the life of him could not fathom what the old duffer was talking about. “I honor your dedication. May I assume the, er, kernel of your project deals with some facet of the Restoration?”
Sir Henry glanced at him suspiciously, but answered with courtesy. “Of course. In fact”—he bent forward with an air of confidentiality—”it concerns one of the great mysteries of the period.”
He sat back quickly, as though afraid he had said too much. Portentously, he laid a finger alongside his nose. “I’m sorry, my dear fellow, I simply cannot say more. I wonder, though, are you familiar with the works of Samuel Butler?”
“Ah,” replied Cord, searching frantically in his mind. “One of the more obscure Restoration poets, I believe. Um, let me see ... did he not write a satire called
Hubris?
Or no,
Hudibras.
Mm—’Such as do build their faith up the holy test of Pike and Gun; call fire and sword and desolation, a godly-thorough-Reformation. . . .’ “
“Yes!” cried Sir Henry delightedly. He swiveled to face his sister. “Can it be that Wildehaven is to be inhabited by someone literate?” To Cord, he said, “You must visit us often, sir—or, that is, my lord.” This in response to a barely perceptible nudge from his sister. “I cannot tell you how much I look forward to discussing Butler and all the others with you.” His smile was beatific.
Cord cleared his throat. “I thank you for the invitation, Sir Henry, but my sojourn at Wildehaven will be short. As I said before, I am merely rusticating for a brief period—probably not more than a few days.”
Sir Henry’s eyes grew wide. “But that is absurd. How could you wish to return to London when you have the opportunity to partake in some meaningful conversation? You can’t tell me you get much of that among the fribbles who inhabit the Polite World?”
“Dearest!” gasped Mrs. Ferns, “you do not have the ordering of Lord Cordray’s life. If he wishes—”
Cord laughed. “You are quite right. Sir Henry, but I must say I do number among my friends gentlemen who can discourse on topics other than the set of their coats or the latest news from the turf. However, with your kind permission, I shall avail myself of your hospitality on a frequent basis while I am here.”
Sir Henry’s expression softened.
“Of course, my lord. You are welcome in my home at any time.”
The conversation turned to generalities. Cord gleaned a few facts about his neighbors, those living on nearby estates and others who dwelled in the village of Great Shelford. All the while, Cord surreptitiously watched Miss Tate. The affection she bore for her aunt and uncle was obvious. Her care of them was revealed in the manner in which she quietly gestured to the maidservant to attend to their every need as they ate. Plates were replenished and cups filled unobtrusively—as was his own, of course. He found to his surprise that he had eaten a great deal more than was his wont in London. Fresh air, he mused, did wonderful things for a man’s appetite. Once more he covertly surveyed the lissome Miss Tate—and not just for eggs and kippers.
After a discreet interval, Cord took his leave. He promised to visit Rose Cottage again soon, and garnered a promise from Miss Tate to go riding with him on the morrow.
After seeing his lordship to the door, Gillian closed it behind him with a sigh of relief, and from the drawing room window watched him canter easily down the drive. She released the breath she felt she’d been holding ever since she’d encountered the earl some two hours ago. The Earl of Cordray, she reflected uneasily, was as charming as he could hold together, but she could not escape the impression that he posed some sort of threat. Her main concern was Uncle Henry, of course, and what he might blurt out, but in some corner of her consciousness, she knew the earl carried the power to upset the peace of mind she had worked so hard to acquire. A poor job she had done of that, too, she thought unhappily as she hastened back to the breakfast room.
Her aunt and uncle were just rising from the table, Aunt Louisa brushing off any stray crumbs that might have fallen to her ample lap, and Uncle Henry to wander abstractedly from the room. Gillian lost no time in corralling both of them into Uncle Henry’s study.
“My dears,” she began, “we must talk.”
Settling herself comfortably on a worn leather settee, Aunt Louisa replied, “Yes, indeed. What a very nice young man, don’t you think?”
“What young man?” replied Sir Henry, his attention already buried in one of the volumes on his desk. “Oh, the earl. Yes, seems a decent sort. At least, he knows a bit about things that matter. I doubt, of course, that he’s so much as heard of Samuel Pepys.”
“That’s what I wish to talk to you about. Uncle,” Gillian said in some exasperation. “And you, too, Aunt.”
The two merely looked at her inquiringly.
“I’m pleased, of course, that both of you like our landlord. I beg of you to remember that that’s exactly what he is. He has the power to cast us all out into the road if he wishes. He—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Gillian, don’t be so dramatic. Why would the fellow evict us?”
“I’m glad you asked that, Uncle, because if he ever got wind of what you’ve been doing, he would undoubtedly do just that.”