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ambitions. I daresay she provoked the situation, with marriage in mind.”
“But surely she told someone who your father was!”
Dillian shook her head. “Silent as the grave, my mum was, and soon in her own. She kept quiet about it, and I imagine she tried a little blackmail, too, for she was found with a broken neck when I was but six months old.”
“Quite a scandal it was, too.” Mrs. Snugglebutt took up the story. “Her da brought the babe up here and said it belonged to the castle. They suspected Lord Everard, and old duke was right mad. A rare turn-up that was!”
“But it wasn’t Everard,” Dillian commented, dreamily twisting a curl.
“How do you know?” Loveday asked.
“If Everard was my father, Averil would be my brother, and he isn’t. I’d know if he was.” There was no answer to such a statement; everyone remained silent. Loveday stole a look at Jem, thought that he had several reasons for wanting the old mystery solved. “As for the other, Everard loved his father, and would never have raised a hand against him.”
“But what about Timothy, the duke?” Loveday was fascinated by Dillian’s account.
“The Duke of Chesshire was a fair man, and very fond of his son. Most people think Everard killed his father, then himself, in rage at Timothy’s accusations, but that’s not so. Even as angry as he was, Timothy would have demanded more proof than he had before taking action against his son.”
“How do you know all this?” Jem demanded. “You were only a baby.”
“I know what I know,” Dillian retorted cryptically.
“Then why did the mistress run off, like she did? Explain that, miss!” Mrs. Snugglebutt’s nose twitched.
“Who’s to say that she did run away?”
“Well, she’s gone, for certain. Leavin’ young Master Averil without a father or mother!”
“She disappeared. Maybe she was murdered too.”
Loveday shivered at Dillian’s words, and the younger girl turned to her. “Don’t you want to change? It won’t do to have Isolda see you like that. Come, I’ll see you to your room.”
“Dillian,” Loveday asked, as she climbed the stairs, “if Timothy didn’t kill his son, then who did? Do you know?”
Dillian shook her head. “You musn’t pay me much mind, Loveday. I’m not responsible for what I say.”
Loveday stopped in her tracks. “Dillian! Whatever do you mean?”
“They call me daft; perhaps they’re right.”
Though the girl spoke lightly, Loveday suspected that her manner hid a great and ever-present fear. “Nonsense!” she said bracingly. “You have been shockingly neglected, and left too much to your own devices. It’s done you little real harm. All you lack is a little town polish. I, for one, find you quite delightful.” She smiled. “As does my brother, I think.” Loveday was rewarded for her kindness; a fragile hand slipped into her own.
* * * *
Loveday obeyed Isolda’s summons to display herself before guests with some trepidation; she was not sure that she wished to meet yet more of the Ballerfast clan. It was entirely possible that the errant rifle shot had been fired by some trespassing poacher; it was equally possible that one of her distant relatives wished to frighten her away.
What possible threat her presence might constitute, Loveday could not imagine, but she intended to let them all consider her as meek as a sacrificial lamb. With this in mind, she had dressed modestly in a flounced, high-waisted dress of green cambric, the long sleeves of which hid her bruised elbows. Her curls were caught up with a matching green ribbon. Loveday had no doubt that her new acquaintances would think her dowdy. She raised her chin, and resolutely entered the drawing room.
She was mistaken; both of the newcomers considered her a veritable vision of loveliness. Tibby, a round little squab of a girl, instantly recognized Loveday as yet another surpassing beauty, and resigned herself to the fact with her accustomed good nature.
“But surely she told someone who your father was!”
Dillian shook her head. “Silent as the grave, my mum was, and soon in her own. She kept quiet about it, and I imagine she tried a little blackmail, too, for she was found with a broken neck when I was but six months old.”
“Quite a scandal it was, too.” Mrs. Snugglebutt took up the story. “Her da brought the babe up here and said it belonged to the castle. They suspected Lord Everard, and old duke was right mad. A rare turn-up that was!”
“But it wasn’t Everard,” Dillian commented, dreamily twisting a curl.
“How do you know?” Loveday asked.
“If Everard was my father, Averil would be my brother, and he isn’t. I’d know if he was.” There was no answer to such a statement; everyone remained silent. Loveday stole a look at Jem, thought that he had several reasons for wanting the old mystery solved. “As for the other, Everard loved his father, and would never have raised a hand against him.”
“But what about Timothy, the duke?” Loveday was fascinated by Dillian’s account.
“The Duke of Chesshire was a fair man, and very fond of his son. Most people think Everard killed his father, then himself, in rage at Timothy’s accusations, but that’s not so. Even as angry as he was, Timothy would have demanded more proof than he had before taking action against his son.”
“How do you know all this?” Jem demanded. “You were only a baby.”
“I know what I know,” Dillian retorted cryptically.
“Then why did the mistress run off, like she did? Explain that, miss!” Mrs. Snugglebutt’s nose twitched.
“Who’s to say that she did run away?”
“Well, she’s gone, for certain. Leavin’ young Master Averil without a father or mother!”
“She disappeared. Maybe she was murdered too.”
Loveday shivered at Dillian’s words, and the younger girl turned to her. “Don’t you want to change? It won’t do to have Isolda see you like that. Come, I’ll see you to your room.”
“Dillian,” Loveday asked, as she climbed the stairs, “if Timothy didn’t kill his son, then who did? Do you know?”
Dillian shook her head. “You musn’t pay me much mind, Loveday. I’m not responsible for what I say.”
Loveday stopped in her tracks. “Dillian! Whatever do you mean?”
“They call me daft; perhaps they’re right.”
Though the girl spoke lightly, Loveday suspected that her manner hid a great and ever-present fear. “Nonsense!” she said bracingly. “You have been shockingly neglected, and left too much to your own devices. It’s done you little real harm. All you lack is a little town polish. I, for one, find you quite delightful.” She smiled. “As does my brother, I think.” Loveday was rewarded for her kindness; a fragile hand slipped into her own.
* * * *
Loveday obeyed Isolda’s summons to display herself before guests with some trepidation; she was not sure that she wished to meet yet more of the Ballerfast clan. It was entirely possible that the errant rifle shot had been fired by some trespassing poacher; it was equally possible that one of her distant relatives wished to frighten her away.
What possible threat her presence might constitute, Loveday could not imagine, but she intended to let them all consider her as meek as a sacrificial lamb. With this in mind, she had dressed modestly in a flounced, high-waisted dress of green cambric, the long sleeves of which hid her bruised elbows. Her curls were caught up with a matching green ribbon. Loveday had no doubt that her new acquaintances would think her dowdy. She raised her chin, and resolutely entered the drawing room.
She was mistaken; both of the newcomers considered her a veritable vision of loveliness. Tibby, a round little squab of a girl, instantly recognized Loveday as yet another surpassing beauty, and resigned herself to the fact with her accustomed good nature.
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