other … and loved each other, …
Twelve years carried a lot of memories … now all tinged with the sorrow of loss, with the bitterness of anger and betrayal.
He raised his glass and drank deeply. Despite Lord Grantley’s promises, the food was indifferent, but the burgundy was fine. Ned’s father had had a splendid cellar, and Ned had kept it up. The free-traders plied the Hampshire and Dorsetshire coast frequently, and there were few gentlemen’s establishments that they didn’t supply. Looking at Lord Grantley’s rubicund countenance, Alasdair reckoned that the present earl would follow in his predecessors’ footsteps at least as far as his cellar needs were concerned.
It was with great relief that he saw Lady Grantley make a move to rise from the table. He rose and bowed as she withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their port with the firm injunction that Grantley was to consider his gout and not to take more than two glasses.
Alasdair spent half an hour with the earl and then excused himself to complete his errand. The earl was clearly disappointed that they weren’t to sit long at the table, but his guest was adamant and with a heavy sigh his lordship set the stopper back into the decanter and rose.
“Well, you know your way, dear boy.” He gestured to the stairs as they went into the hall. “I’ll have Gossetl light the lamps in Emma’s bedchamber for you.”
“There’s no need, sir. I’ll take a candle,” Alasdair took up one of the small carrying candles from thehall table and lit it from the wax taper in a heavy silver candlestick. Shielding the flame with his free hand, he went up the horseshoe flight of stairs.
Sconces were lit along the corridors leading from the central hallway abovestairs, but when he entered Emma’s old bedchamber it was dark and felt cold and very empty. He held the candle high and it threw its flickering light over the room that was so familiar and yet now so desolate and strange, deserted by the spirit of its former occupant. The furniture was the same; he could see the burn in the dresser top where Emma had once put down her hot curling tongs without due attention; the old stain was still visible on the carpet where she’d knocked over a cup of chocolate when he and Ned had surprised her, returning early one summer for the long vacation from Oxford.
He set the candle on the mantelpiece from where it would throw the most light and went immediately to the armoire. It was empty and he found the little concealed panel in the rear without difficulty. It sprang open to his touch and he ran his fingers around the small space thus revealed. There was only dust.
In truth he didn’t expect to find anything, but before he began the much more complex task of searching Emma’s possessions in her new abode, he had to rule out the possibility that she had left some of her private papers in one of her secret spots in her old home. He looked behind the pictures, remembering that on a treasure hunt she had once hidden a clue behind the backing of her mother’s portrait. There was nothing there. He went through all the empty drawers in the dresser; he looked under the bed; he lifted the carpet. There was nothing. Not a single scrap of paper to be found.
And it had to be on a piece of paper. It would helpif he knew exactly what he was looking for, but his instructions had been vague; Charles Lester had had no more idea than he what medium Ned would have used to convey his information. When Ned’s communication sent on by Hugh Melton had been opened at Horseguards, it had contained only a letter to Ned’s sister. The letter had been scrutinized by the code breakers but had yielded nothing. The only conclusion they could come to was that there had been some confusion in that blood-soaked haste before his death, and the communication destined for Horseguards had gone instead to Lady Emma.
To Alasdair, the hole-in-the-corner secrecy of his search seemed ridiculous. He had said to
Twelve years carried a lot of memories … now all tinged with the sorrow of loss, with the bitterness of anger and betrayal.
He raised his glass and drank deeply. Despite Lord Grantley’s promises, the food was indifferent, but the burgundy was fine. Ned’s father had had a splendid cellar, and Ned had kept it up. The free-traders plied the Hampshire and Dorsetshire coast frequently, and there were few gentlemen’s establishments that they didn’t supply. Looking at Lord Grantley’s rubicund countenance, Alasdair reckoned that the present earl would follow in his predecessors’ footsteps at least as far as his cellar needs were concerned.
It was with great relief that he saw Lady Grantley make a move to rise from the table. He rose and bowed as she withdrew, leaving the gentlemen to their port with the firm injunction that Grantley was to consider his gout and not to take more than two glasses.
Alasdair spent half an hour with the earl and then excused himself to complete his errand. The earl was clearly disappointed that they weren’t to sit long at the table, but his guest was adamant and with a heavy sigh his lordship set the stopper back into the decanter and rose.
“Well, you know your way, dear boy.” He gestured to the stairs as they went into the hall. “I’ll have Gossetl light the lamps in Emma’s bedchamber for you.”
“There’s no need, sir. I’ll take a candle,” Alasdair took up one of the small carrying candles from thehall table and lit it from the wax taper in a heavy silver candlestick. Shielding the flame with his free hand, he went up the horseshoe flight of stairs.
Sconces were lit along the corridors leading from the central hallway abovestairs, but when he entered Emma’s old bedchamber it was dark and felt cold and very empty. He held the candle high and it threw its flickering light over the room that was so familiar and yet now so desolate and strange, deserted by the spirit of its former occupant. The furniture was the same; he could see the burn in the dresser top where Emma had once put down her hot curling tongs without due attention; the old stain was still visible on the carpet where she’d knocked over a cup of chocolate when he and Ned had surprised her, returning early one summer for the long vacation from Oxford.
He set the candle on the mantelpiece from where it would throw the most light and went immediately to the armoire. It was empty and he found the little concealed panel in the rear without difficulty. It sprang open to his touch and he ran his fingers around the small space thus revealed. There was only dust.
In truth he didn’t expect to find anything, but before he began the much more complex task of searching Emma’s possessions in her new abode, he had to rule out the possibility that she had left some of her private papers in one of her secret spots in her old home. He looked behind the pictures, remembering that on a treasure hunt she had once hidden a clue behind the backing of her mother’s portrait. There was nothing there. He went through all the empty drawers in the dresser; he looked under the bed; he lifted the carpet. There was nothing. Not a single scrap of paper to be found.
And it had to be on a piece of paper. It would helpif he knew exactly what he was looking for, but his instructions had been vague; Charles Lester had had no more idea than he what medium Ned would have used to convey his information. When Ned’s communication sent on by Hugh Melton had been opened at Horseguards, it had contained only a letter to Ned’s sister. The letter had been scrutinized by the code breakers but had yielded nothing. The only conclusion they could come to was that there had been some confusion in that blood-soaked haste before his death, and the communication destined for Horseguards had gone instead to Lady Emma.
To Alasdair, the hole-in-the-corner secrecy of his search seemed ridiculous. He had said to
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