We searched Papa’s office, but without luck. “The time to do it is when Snoad is out,” I decided. “He will have to take the birds out to continue their training sooner or later.” He was not likely to do it at this hour of the night, however.
We retired early, and rose early the next morning to prepare for Lord Fairfield’s visit. The whole house was in confusion, with servants applying beeswax and turpentine to the furnishings, and sprinkling tea leaves over the carpets to keep down the dust when they swept them. The kitchen, I knew, would be in an uproar. There was talk of a suckling pig, and the tantalizing aroma of cakes and pastries filled the house.
My own special contribution was to see to the preparation of the Gold Suite for our guest. This is the best guest suite, with a view of the ocean in front, and of the park on the east. I oversaw the servants’ work, and arranged a bouquet of flowers from the conservatory. Bunny selected a bottle of Papa’s best sherry from the cellar, and another of claret, “in case he’s a red wine man.”
Bunny made another trip into Hythe, and finally spoke with Depew. “What did he say about the note I left him in Brighton? I am worried that Snoad might be sending messages out by the pigeons,” I said when he returned.
“He hadn’t received your note.”
“I sent it to his hotel in Brighton. It must have been intercepted by the French. I daresay every step Depew takes is watched.”
“Very likely. And us, too, for all we know.” We exchanged an important look, and peered around for listeners.
“I fear he is quite ignorant of how the pigeon relay operates, Bunny. Snoad could be sending messages off to France while we sit on our thumbs. I must arrange a visit with Depew.”
“Said he’d be in touch. Told him about the blasted pine in the park.”
We made a dash out to it, but there was no message. In case I did not see Depew when he came, I wrote down how the pigeons operated, and stuck the letter in the pine. Bunny came with me.
“Depew says he’s pretty well convinced Fairfield is in on it,” he said. “Dipped. Doing it for money. Says to be sure you don’t let out that he’s here; Depew, I mean. Er, Martin. We’re only to refer to him as Mr. Martin, in case they’re eavesdropping.”
“It’s very exciting, is it not?” I asked, looking around the park to see if I could spot any of our cohorts, as Depew had said he would post men. They were so proficient that I could not spot them, but it felt good, knowing they were there. The glory of it filled me with joy. It was an exultant feeling, like being in love. My whole body seemed more alive, almost glowing.
“Demmed exciting.” Bunny smiled. I knew by the gleam in his eyes that he felt the same way. “Heroes, in a way.”
“Perhaps you will be given a baronetcy when it is over, Bunny. Sir Horatio Smythe.”
“They’ll have to make you a baroness—er, baronetess.”
“Perhaps a dame,” I mused. “Dame Heather Hume has a nice ring, has it not?”
“Dandy. Would you get the sword over the shoulder, like a knight?”
“I don’t know. I shouldn’t think they tap very hard.”
“We might get invited to the Royal Pavilion. Aunt Lovatt would like that.”
We were interrupted by the clatter of wheels from the road. Glancing down, we espied an elegant black chaise with a lozenge on the door, followed by a curricle, trailing a mount.
“Fairfield,” Bunny said. “Why the devil has he brought so many rigs and prads? Looks as if he plans to stay a month. Look at all the servants you’ll have to feed! Two drivers; there’ll be a valet in that chaise with him for certain. Fairfield’s a famous dandy. Hard to believe he’s a spy. Don’t usually care for anything but his nags and jackets. A dandy bit o’ blood,” he added, gazing at the bay mare that trotted smartly along behind the curricle, breathing dust. “I wouldn’t mind throwing a leg over her.”
“We’d best go in to greet him.”
We returned, entered by the side door, and ran immediately to the north front door, which we call the road door. Thumm had thrown the portals wide, giving us a view of Fairfield’s carriage, drawing to a stop with a jingle of harnesses. A liveried footman hopped out to open the carriage door. I mentally added another servant to the list of mouths to be fed. Another head in the carriage proved to be his valet.
As Lord Fairfield stood, gazing at the house through his quizzing glass, all the bother seemed worthwhile. He had removed his curled beaver. His golden head glinted in the pale sunlight that penetrated the white cloud covering. His broad shoulders, his elegant biscuit pantaloons and Hessians, were all in the latest jet of fashion.
I noticed Bunny looking down at his own country breeches and top boots with dissatisfaction. While we gazed, the quizzing glass was lowered and Fairfield lunged forward, throwing some comment over his shoulder to his footman in a splendidly cavalier fashion.
Aunt Lovatt rushed up behind me, all out of breath. “He’s here!” she exclaimed. “Oh my! What a lot of carriages and servants.” There was no dismay in her accents. She was highly impressed at this lavish display.
When Fairfield discovered the welcoming committee hovering inside the door, he gave one of his dazzling smiles. The golden head inclined, and he said, “Miss Hume.”
I curtsied. “We are very happy to welcome you to Gracefield, milord.”
He stepped in. “Not nearly so happy as I am to be here, ma’am. A very interesting house. I look forward to exploring it.”
Aunt Lovatt and Bunny came forward to curtsy and shake hands respectively. After a general commotion of greetings, we invited our guest into the saloon for tea. Thumm would handle the servants and the disposition of the trunks. And hopefully warn our groom to get in a good supply of hay and oats for all those horses.
I was hard-pressed to remember it was possibly a spy I was entertaining with Cook’s mutton and tea cakes. It seemed impossible that Fairfield should be involved in anything underhanded. There was a guileless air about the man, and an innocence in his noble blue eyes.
“Such an interesting house,” he said more than once. “Quite like a fairy castle. Does it have a ghost?”
“No, not even a secret passage,” I confessed.
“It must surely have an interesting history at least. So conveniently located for smuggling brandy. How I wish one of Papa’s houses was on the sea. All our places are landlocked. The castle in Hampshire, the hunting lodge in the Cottswolds, and the estate my uncle Eustace left us in Scotland are all boring old heaps. Of course, the London house is no more than a free hotel for relatives.”
“Pity,” Bunny said, without the least shred of sarcasm.
“Mind you, we have an oubliette at the castle,” Fairfield added, with all the enthusiasm of a boy. “I scratched a message on the wall to fool Algernon. That’s my younger brother. He is a captain in the Guards,” he added, proud of this accomplishment. Surely a lord with a brother in the army would not be a spy! Snoad must be duping him, as he had duped Papa.
“What message?” Bunny asked.
“I wrote, ‘Good-bye, cruel world. I am innocent of the crimes ascribed to me by the wicked Marquess of Albemarle.’ That is my papa’s title. Well, one of them. The one he uses.”
“What crime?” Bunny asked.
Fairfield blinked rather stupidly. “There was no crime. It was a joke,” he explained.
Bunny said, “Oh.” Then he laughed dutifully.
Aunt Lovatt said, “I am sorry we will not be able to offer you much in the way of entertainment, milord, but as you know, we are in mourning.”
“I would not be here if you weren’t.” He frowned at this rather ambiguous speech and said, “What I mean is, the pigeons would not be for sale if Mr. Hume were still alive.” It was a hard remark to reply to. After a short pause, Fairfield continued with a bow in my direction. “The pigeons will be entertainment enough for me.”
His quizzing smile seemed almost to include me amongst the entertaining pigeons. There was an air of admiration in it.
As we had finished tea, I said, “Would you like to go up and see them now, Lord Fairfield?”
“Indeed I would. I am most eager to go.” In his eagerness, he leapt to his feet. I rose to accompany him. “You need not bother to show me the way, Miss Hume. A servant...” He looked around, but our servants were not so plentiful that we kept them on hand to pass us a piece of cake, or fill a teacup.
“This way,” I said, and he followed me.
“Do you want me to go with you?” Bunny asked.
I had assumed he would, yet could not like to ask for his escort. That was as good as an announcement that I did not trust Fairfield.
“I shall see that Miss Hume is safe on the staircase,” Lord Fairfield said, and took my elbow to lead me off toward the dining room.
“It is this way,” I said, steering him right.
“I was always interested in these old historical homes,” he said as we climbed. This compliment was wearing a trifle thin, but I smiled my pleasure and kept climbing.
“It’s a lot of stairs, is it not?” he asked as we reached the third floor.
“It is not much farther, milord.”
His conversation gave way to panting. I pointed out a few of the house’s highlights. “Charles Fox stayed in that room,” I said.
“On the servants’ floor!” he exclaimed.
“There was a boxing match in the neighborhood. Every room was filled when he arrived unexpectedly. He wanted no more than two chairs and a bolster by the fireplace.”
“Who was boxing?” he asked. That was his only interest in the illustrious Fox. Lord Fairfield, I feared, was not one of those gentlemen who improved on longer acquaintance. His appearance and manners were good, so that he made a fine first impression, but already he was beginning to seem shallow.
“I believe one of them was called the Tin Man.”
“By Jove! Wouldn’t I like to have seen that.”
We finally reached the loft. Fairfield was puffing like a winded jade, which surprised me. I had thought a Corinthian would be in better shape. Snoad was sitting on one of the mildewed chairs reading a book when we entered. He rose and hastened forward. His employer, myself, did not receive such condescension.
“Lord Fairfield, this is—”
Snoad stuck out his hand and gave Fairfield’s a wrench. “Snoad. I tend the pigeons.”
“This is Lord Fairfield,” I said with a heavy frown. I disliked his eagerness to rub shoulders with the nobility.
“Don’t I know you?” Fairfield said, examining Snoad with keen interest.
“I believe we met at Branksome Hall three years ago, your lordship. Kind of you to remember.”
“Of course! Branksome Hall. The duke had a hurdle race.”
“And you won. Fine riding, your lordship. I helped to set up the hurdles, and gave a hand with the horses.” The day obviously stood out more sharply in Snoad’s memory than in Fairfield’s. Fairfield wrinkled his brow, but did not appear to remember the details. “You were driving Beelzebub, an Arab gelding,” Snoad prodded him.
“I would like you to give me a hand showing Lord Fairfield the pigeons, Snoad,” I said, to bring his groveling to a halt.
He bowed to our guest. “It would be a great pleasure, your lordship.”
He took Fairfield by the arm and began walking along the row of nests. I lingered behind, because I wanted to see what Snoad had been reading with such avid interest. Imagine my surprise when it turned out to be a book of poems by Lord Byron. I soon espied something more suspicious. There was a piece of paper stuck into the book, and a patent pen on the table beside it. I had to see what he had been writing. I picked up the book, glancing to see that Snoad was not watching. He turned and leveled a menacing look at me. I set the book down.
It was as clear as could be that he was writing up some spy message. Fortunately, Fairfield distracted Snoad with a question, and I was able to slide the piece of paper out without disturbing the book. I strolled to the other end of the loft, and with my back to them, read the paper. I had another shock in store for me. It was a poem, a love poem to a lady. It was entitled “Dove.”
I read:
Dove gray her eyes,
Dove soft her sighs.
In moonlight or sunlight,
Love-soft the ties
That bind me.
Alone in the cloud
Too fierce and too proud
To open my mad heart.
No love avowed.
Joy found me.
I stood a moment, staring at it. Was it a coded message? Or was it what it seemed, a love offering to his lady with the gray eyes? Whatever it was, I had to get it back into the book before Snoad realized I had seen it. While the men were busy at one of the nests, I quickly returned and slid the paper back into the book. Then I walked nonchalantly along and joined them.
“Where are the males while the females are hatching the eggs?” Fairfield asked.
“They’re about the loft,” Snoad replied. I remembered him telling me that it was the males who sat on the eggs during the day. Why did he not tell Fairfield? And even more interesting, why did Fairfield not know it, if he was a breeder as he claimed to be?
A little later, Fairfield expressed some surprise that so many of the nests held two eggs. Two glossy white eggs were the standard. Really, the man was even more ignorant about the whole business than I was.
“All of this is old hat to Miss Hume,” Snoad said. “Do not let us keep you, ma’am, if you have other business to attend to.”
I had no intention of letting him run me off, and said, “It is Caesar and Cleo that Lord Fairfield is particularly interested in. Where are they? I have not seen them any of the times I have been up here recently.”
“Cleo is in the tree, waiting for Caesar to return,” he said. I looked, and saw a bird that might have been Cleo sitting in the tree. She was almost all white, with a splash of burgundy on her chest. Her maternal grandmother was a passenger pigeon from America. Pelletier had introduced the strain into his roost for their superior size. The fleshy protuberance at the base of her beak—Papa called it a cere—was also distinctive. It was darker than most, almost black. That she dared to sit in that tree was proof enough that she was indeed Caesar’s mate. No other birds dared to touch it. Caesar had a sharp temper.