Kitabı oku: «Regency High Society Vol 5: The Disgraced Marchioness / The Reluctant Escort / The Outrageous Debutante / A Damnable Rogue», sayfa 7

‘We came out in the same Season, Miss Baxendale.’ Judith smiled encouragingly. ‘I believe that we met at any number of balls and soirées.’

‘Yes. I met so many people. But I think…I am sure that I remember you. I came to your coming-out ball in this very house. My aunt and uncle—and my brother, of course—chaperoned me. I remember thinking what a beautiful house it was. I never thought that I should be living here…’ With which ingenuous comment she flushed and turned her head with relief when Eaton and an interested footman brought in the tea.

The ceremony was performed with nervous competence by Miss Baxendale, the tea was served, and the ladies chatted about a range of inconsequences of fashion and the events offered by London to ladies with a degree of leisure and affluence. Then Judith returned to her reminiscing over the glories of her Seasonal debut, Octavia agreeing and nodding but adding few of her own impressions.

‘And how are you spending your time in London now?’ Judith tried for another approach as the conversation dried.

‘Sir Edward has been very busy,’ Octavia explained. ‘I have rarely been out.’

‘And of course, you are still in mourning.’ Eleanor sympathised with a sad smile, eyes keen and watchful.

‘Why, yes…it would not be seemly for me to go about in public to any great degree. I see that you, my lady, have laid aside your black gloves.’ She took in the glory of silver grey with some surprise.

‘Indeed I have.’ Eleanor did not elaborate. ‘Have you perhaps driven in the park yet, Miss Baxendale? The days have been very pleasant. And I am sure Sir Edward would drive you to take the air. It would be quite acceptable for you in your situation.’

‘No. I have not been beyond the garden.’

‘Do you enjoy music or painting? To help to pass the time a little when your brother is from home?’ Judith arched her brows.

‘No. I do a little embroidery, as you see.’

‘Perhaps you miss your garden in the country. Where is it that you lived?’

‘In Whitchurch. And, yes, I miss it so much. The roses will just be coming into bloom. I shall not be there to tend them and wish I was…’ It was the first animation that Octavia Baxendale had shown since her guests had arrived, her whole countenance blooming as did her roses, but only to be stemmed as if she feared an indiscretion. ‘But, of course, it is necessary for me to be here.’

‘You must miss it indeed. Now I have no interest at all in gardens, but I understand that it can be a great solace in times of grief.’ Judith put down her teacup and leaned across the little table to pat Octavia’s hand. ‘Eleanor has been telling me about your little son. What a splendid boy he is. Could we perhaps see him? My lord and I are hoping for a child very soon…’ She lowered her lashes in coy anticipation.

Eleanor hid a smile. Cousin Judith had a remarkable range of skills of which she had been unaware until now.

‘Of course.’ Octavia appeared a little surprised that her guests would wish to see her son, but rose to her feet to pull the bell hang beside the fireplace.

‘Would you ask Sarah to bring the child down?’ The footman bowed and departed.

Within minutes the door opened. In came the young woman whom Eleanor had last seen in Burford Hall. Fair and neat with a ladylike composure. Fair enough, perhaps, to be one of the family. A dependent of good birth, Eleanor decided, but most likely fallen on hard times, now holding the hand of the child, John. John Faringdon, if the documents were correct.

‘This is Sarah,’ Octavia said, confirming Eleanor’s impression. ‘She has been my companion and now acts as nurse to John.’ The lady curtsied and released the little boy, who immediately ran to show his mama a wooden boat that he had clasped in his hand. Miss Baxendale patted his head. John thrust the precious possession into her hands, announcing ‘Boat!’ with a disarming smile.

‘What a beautiful child.’ Judith held out her hands. ‘Come here, John. Let me see your boat.’

The child, aware of the possibility of a wider audience, walked shyly to Judith and then gurgled with shocked pleasure when she snatched him up and sat him on her knee. ‘What a handsome boat. And so are you very handsome. All those golden curls and such blue eyes.’ She pinched the end of his nose to make him laugh.

‘He is a good child.’ Octavia nodded and smiled as Judith stood him back on his feet when he struggled for freedom and restored his boat to his grasp. With a crow John launched himself back towards Sarah where she had remained beside the door, but, with uncoordinated enthusiasm, fell on the wide expanse of deep turkey carpet. For a second he crouched motionless. Then tears came to his eyes and a sob to his chest.

‘There, now,’ Octavia said. ‘You are not very hurt.’ Sarah swooped, picked up the child, kissing his cheek, smoothing away his tears with her hand, crooning to him in a soft voice.

‘Is he well?’ Octavia watched the little scene with a graceful turn of her head. So did Eleanor and Judith.

‘John took no hurt, ma’am.’

‘Perhaps you could take him back to the nursery, Sarah. He tends to get a little excited in company’ she explained to the visitors. ‘It is not good for a child.’

With a curtsy to the assembled company, Sarah walked to the door, holding the boy close, and left.

What else should they talk about? Judith tried fashions and the opening of a number of new modistes where the most ravishing hats and gowns could be purchased, but although Octavia was pleasant and smiling, she had little to say and shared little interest in what might or might not be considered de rigueur.

‘I believe that it is time we left.’ In desperation Eleanor was about to rise to her feet. ‘My own son will be missing me by now, I expect.’ Then the door opened to admit Sir Edward Baxendale. He greeted his guests with great charm and a warm smile, sat with them and accepted a hand-painted porcelain cup of tea from his sister. The talk encompassed the weather and Judith’s new barouche, which awaited them at the door, but it was noticed that Octavia said no more.

‘Well?’ Eleanor and Judith were once again ensconced in the comfort of Judith’s barouche after what could only be described as a frustrating and disappointing afternoon.

‘That child is no Faringdon!’ Judith pulled on her gloves with conviction.

‘But he is very fair like his mother.’

‘Faringdons breed true!’ Judith insisted. ‘Look at your own son. He might have your eyes, but his father’s hair, his nose and mouth are very pronounced. There is no denying his parentage. I swear there is no trace of Thomas in that child!’

Eleanor flushed and hesitated at Judith’s observations. ‘But that is not proof. You inherited your mother’s red hair and green eyes rather than your father’s features.’

‘Very true. But I have the Faringdon nose. And eyebrows. There is no mistaking them. The golden-haired child we have just seen bears no resemblance at all.’

‘No. Perhaps not.’ It had to be admitted. ‘She is no doting mother, is she?’ Eleanor commented. ‘That surprised me a little.’

‘Ha! Just because you are!’ Judith smiled in understanding. ‘We are not all born to lavish unbounded love and affection on our offspring. He is certainly a healthy child and well cared for.’

‘I suppose.’ Eleanor frowned at her recollection of the child’s tears. She would not have been able to ignore them—to allow his nurse to lift and comfort him! ‘I presume that Octavia’s reminiscences of her coming-out were correct?’

‘Yes…’ Judith wrinkled her nose ‘…but she does not have much to say, does she?’

‘No. And even less when Sir Edward arrived home.’

They were silent in thoughtful communion as the barouche made its steady way towards Park Lane.

‘You know…’ Judith ventured, brow furrowed in thought, ‘Simon would make himself scarce if he knew a party of ladies were gossiping in his withdrawing-room. Wouldn’t Thomas have done the same?’

‘Why, yes…I hadn’t thought. Thomas would have gone to the stables until they had all gone! Sir Edward joined us straight away. Why do you think that was?’

Green eyes met amethyst, their thoughts clear between them.

‘But it does not add up to much, does it?’ Eleanor queried. ‘Merely that Sir Edward would prefer his sister not to be alone with visitors.’

‘Or is it that he did not wish Octavia be alone with you!’ responded Judith.

There was no answer to it.

The two ladies prepared to part company on Eleanor’s doorstep. Judith leaned down from her carriage to where Eleanor stood on the pavement and clasped her hand in firm support.

‘Have we proved anything?’ Judith asked.

‘No.’

‘Except that Octavia was definitely not Thomas’s usual flirt!’ Judith tightened her hold to enforce her point. ‘It is very difficult to believe, after spending such a tedious half-hour in her company, that he fell in love with her and married her. Whereas I can quite believe that he loved and married you, dear Nell!’

Eleanor took a breath. ‘Sir Edward said that—’

‘Tell me, Nell.’

‘When they first came to Burford Hall—when they told us of the whole dreadful complication—Sir Edward said that Thomas forced Octavia to keep their marriage secret because of her lack of rank. That his family would disapprove.’ A line deepened between her fine brows as her mind worried at the problem. ‘But my birth, Judith, is no better than Octavia’s, and I know that the Faringdons would never have chosen someone of so little consequence as myself for Thomas’s bride, however supportive you and Aunt Beatrice might be now that we are faced with this scandal. Yet Thomas followed his own wishes in the face of family opposition and married me with as much public display as he could achieve.’ She smiled a little sadly as she remembered the festivity and ceremonial of her marriage. ‘All I am trying to say is that social standing does not seem to me to be a good enough reason for Thomas to hide Octavia away in the country—if he truly loved her and wished to marry her.’

Judith had flushed uncomfortably at her companion’s devastatingly accurate reading of family opinion on her marriage to Thomas, but patted Eleanor’s hand, for once all the careless flippancy quite gone from her face. ‘Of course Thomas never married Octavia, dearest Nell. You must never allow yourself to think that. And as for your lack of rank—all I can say is that marrying you was one of the best decisions Thomas made in his whole life.’

‘Thank you, Judith.’ A faint smile touched Eleanor’s pale lips. ‘At least that is something for me to hold on to!’

In the entrance hall Eleanor’s path crossed that of Henry and Nicholas as the two gentlemen prepared to leave the house and look in at Gentleman Jackson’s Boxing Academy in New Bond Street before repairing to Brooks’s for a hand or two of whist.

‘Any fortune with your visit to the fair Octavia?’

‘None. But tell me. If I were entertaining a group of ladies to tea and you arrived home, what would you do?’

‘Head for the library and take a glass of port until they have gone.’ Henry’s response took no thought.

Neither did Nicholas’s. ‘Turn around and go back out to the stables.’

‘Thank you. I would expect as much.’ Eleanor nodded her head and proceeded to climb the stairs.

‘Did we say the right thing?’ Nicholas asked.

‘I have no idea. Women can be very uncommunicative—and devious! But I am sure that Eleanor will let us know in her own good time. And since we have no library here in this house…’ Henry turned on his heel towards the door of the morning room ‘.I think I need a glass of port before we depart!’

Later that evening Henry and Nicholas prepared to visit some of the discreet gaming establishments that opened their doors to those who had bottomless pockets and sought more excitement than the play offered at Brooks’s and White’s. There were any number of them with unmarked doors, opened by black-clad individuals who were careful whom they admitted. Some were more legitimate than others, some more honest, but the stakes were high and the play keen in them all. Some were the haunts of card-sharps, quick to lure young men newly arrived in London into the dubious delights of hazard and macao, where disgrace and ruin waited for the unwary flat. And if point non Plus was reached, it was always possible to patronise the fashionable establishment of Messieurs Howard and Gibbs, who were more than willing to lend at extortionate rates of interest. It might be that Sir Edward passed his evenings in such company. It might be that he had lost heavily and so was now in debt, sufficient that he would be prepared to risk an outrageous plan to get his hands on a vast fortune. It might provide them with a reason why he should put forward such a preposterous claim of marriage on behalf of his sister.

It proved to be a long evening.

By the end of it, after numerous hands of whist, reacquaintance with French hazard and roulette and too many glasses of inferior brandy, they had nothing to show for it other than lighter pockets and the lurking prospect of a hangover.

Sir Edward Baxendale did not spend his evenings or his money in any of the gaming hells they visited.

‘So what does Sir Edward do with his time when he is in London?’

They strolled back to Park Lane in the early hours of the morning.

‘Horses?’ Nick suggested. ‘But how we are to discover if he squanders his money on the Turf, I know not. I suppose we could look in at Tattersalls and see if he is known for betting on the horses. We do not know even if he is in debt.’

‘No.’ Henry fought off the looming sense of depression at the futility of the evening and the prospect of the long journey on the following day.

‘Do you think he has a mistress?’ Nicholas asked.

‘To demand vast sums of money and diamond necklaces? A possibility.’ Henry grinned at the prospect. ‘Mistresses can be very expensive.’

‘The voice of experience.’ Nicholas returned the grin. ‘And how would we discover that?’

‘Have him followed, I expect!’

‘That I will not do!’

‘Go and talk to Hoskins tomorrow. Suggest to him that he make discreet enquiries with Howard and Gibbs—unless you care to? No, I thought not.’ He laughed as he saw the expression on Nick’s face They had arrived on the steps to their front door. ‘But if Baxendale is short of the readies, and does not wish to advertise the matter, a moneylender would be his first port of call. Hoskins will know how to go about it, I expect.’ He thought for a moment before opening the door, all humour drained in the dark shadows. ‘But you might visit the other gaming houses. Meanwhile I will see what the Reverend Broughton has to say about our elusive gentleman.’ He hesitated, but only for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you would consider visiting Aunt Beatrice to discover her thoughts on the Baxendales four years ago. Judith reminded me that she has a formidable memory.’

‘No.’

‘Mmm. Then I will suggest that Mrs Stamford pay a morning call. They can enjoy a comfortable dissection of the manners and morals of the younger generation—and perhaps Aunt Beatrice will remember something of import.’

Chapter Six

Henry leaped down from the curricle, winced at the headache, cursed all gaming hells, and walked back into the entrance hall as Eleanor emerged from the breakfast parlour on the following morning. She had dressed in a smart travelling costume of deep blue, the fine wool double-breasted coat with its long tight sleeves and high waist already buttoned. She was in the act of arranging the wide collar so that it draped elegantly into a cape effect. If his lordship noticed that she wore a particular jewel on her breast, whether deliberately to provoke or through custom, he chose to make no comment.

‘I am ready to leave.’

‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ He frowned at her as she tied the bow of her neat straw bonnet beneath her chin to charming effect.

‘Yes. There is no need to scowl at me, my lord. We have already had this conversation and come to an agreement.’

‘I do not remember actually agreeing to anything—simply bowing to a stronger force when you threatened to go on your own.’ The scowl did not lessen. ‘I hope that you realise that we may learn nothing. I could see the Reverend Broughton myself and be back here within the day…’

She shook her head. ‘You do not understand. I want to see the village…and hear what he has to say.’

‘Do you not trust me to do the right thing?’ The demand was brusque, Henry’s mouth set in displeasure.

Did she? She looked at him consideringly, head a little on one side. All she knew for certain was that she must not rely on anyone, certainly not on Hal. She had trusted Thomas, had accepted his offer of marriage—which was more than she could ever have dreamed of and for which she would always be grateful to the depths of her soul—but look where that had got her. She must look to her own inner strength to weather this storm.

She turned her back on his lordship to pick up her tan leather gloves, thus evading the answer—which he was quick to notice with regret and a degree of hurt that jolted him. She did not trust him, not even to do all in his power to restore her good name.

‘I simply need to go there,’ was all that she would say.

The weather was set fair for travel. They made good time in the curricle on the main roads as they negotiated their way out of the growing sprawl of London. There was little conversation between them. Eleanor was too tense and could find nothing to say. Henry concentrated on his horses. When they took to the country lanes their progress was slower, but the pair of greys were excellent animals with strength and stamina and well up to the task. Henry drove them with patient skill to conserve their energies.

Eventually as the sun rose to the height of noon, they drove into the village of Whitchurch. They could see the cluster of stone houses nestling around a squat Norman church over to their left, calm and peaceful in the growing warmth, hardly the place where sordid schemes were in hand. Before reaching the village street, to their right, they drew level with a pretty stone manor house and Henry reined the greys to a walk. Jacobean in construction, behind its ornamental gates and stone wall with well-tended gardens on either side of the gravelled walk leaning up to the main entrance, it made an appealing picture. Behind the house were glimpses of a walled garden and an orchard with a rose-covered pergola leading to a sweep of open parkland.

Lord Henry halted the curricle before the wrought-iron gates.

‘What do you think?’ Eleanor sat and looked at the house where her husband might have spent time of which she knew nothing.

‘It could be. An attractive little estate.’ He studied the mellow stonework with a critical and knowledgeable eye. ‘Well cared for. Prosperous enough.’ A gardener was engaged in clipping a neat box hedge. ‘There is someone who can furnish us with a little information.’ Henry hailed him. ‘Tell me. Does Sir Edward Baxendale live here?’

The gardener, a man of advanced years, opened the gate to come and stand beside the curricle, pulling off his hat and squinting up at his lordship.

‘Aye, y’r honour. But not at home—none of the family is. In London, so they says.’

‘And his sister?’

‘Gone with him, I expect. There’s no one ‘ere at any event—and not likely to be for the near future, so they says.’

‘My thanks.’ Henry tossed him a coin and watched him amble back to his box clipping. They sat for a moment and took stock.

‘It does not suggest an immediate need for money, does it?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘Do you suppose…?’ She hesitated, a deep groove forming between her brows. ‘Do you think that Thomas came here to visit Octavia? Did he walk in this garden with her? Beneath those roses? Or sit with her in the arbour in the dusk of a summer’s night? Octavia is very fond of gardens…’

‘Enough, Eleanor. You must not torture yourself like this! Did I not warn you that it would have been better for you not to come here?’ His voice was harsh and when she glanced up in some surprise, she saw no softness in his face. ‘What is the point,’ he continued, ignoring her distress, ‘of perhaps and what if? It will only lower your spirits and drain your courage. It may be that Thomas did all of those things.’ He looked away from the pain that filled her beautiful eyes and swore silently. ‘But we still do not know the truth of it.’

She looked away from him and swallowed against the knot of fear and desolation in her throat, unable to find an adequate response. She had not expected such sharpness from him and yet had to admit that his words were justified. He had indeed warned her.

‘So what do we do first?’ Her voice was admirably controlled.

‘We find the inn. It is after noon and you need food. And it might be to our advantage to talk with mine host before we tackle the servant of God.’

They left the curricle and horses in the charge of the ostler at the Red Lion Inn, which overlooked the village green. They were shown into a dark, dusty parlour where the innkeeper fussed over having the gentry call at his establishment. Not many people travelled through the village, the main post road passing to the east as it did. He could not remember the last time that a lady and gentleman of Quality made use of his inn, other than the people at the Great House, of course. But he hoped they would not find the Red Lion wanting. Certainly he could provide refreshment for his lordship and the lady. If they would care to be seated. He whisked ineffectually with a grubby cloth at the dust on table and chairs as his wife bustled in with bread, meat and cheese and a jug of local ale.

Lord Henry pulled out a chair for Eleanor to sit at the table and silently frowned at her so that she began to eat, or at least crumble a piece of bread on her plate.

‘You are too pale. And I wager you did not break your fast before we left.’ He took a seat opposite, cut a wedge of cheese and added it to the crumbs on her plate, ignoring her objections. ‘I would prefer to deliver you back to your son in one piece and in good health.’ She had lost weight, he thought. Of course she would in the circumstances, food would be her last consideration, but he had to try to do something to help her. When she had looked at the comfortable manor house and the pretty gardens, when she had envisioned Thomas living out a dream there with another woman, it had taken all his will-power not to drag her into his arms and blot out the cruel vision with his own kisses. He tightened his lips in a wave of disgust. So what had he done? Only snarled at her and increased the pain by his vicious words. He lifted his shoulders a little, discomfited by the thought that his command of his emotions when dealing with Eleanor was not as firm as he would like.

He took a mouthful of ale and then, tankard in hand, engaged the hovering landlord, who had returned to the room with a platter of fruit, in casual conversation.

‘We had hoped to visit an acquaintance of ours in the village. Sir Edward Baxendale. We understand that he is from home.’

‘Aye, my lord.’

‘We do not know him very well. Have his family lived here long?’

‘Generations of them, my lord. There’s always been a Baxendale in Whitchurch, at the Great House.’ Mine host, to Lord Henry’s relief, was not reluctant to demonstrate his local knowledge and did not object to their interest in the local gentry.

‘Do you see much of the family?’

‘Quite a bit. With the hunting. And church. And the ladies walk in the village.’

‘Are they well thought of locally?’

‘Aye, my lord. Sir Edward’s open-handed enough and a fair lord of the manor.’

‘I am more acquainted with his sister,’ Eleanor prompted, hoping for enlightenment on Octavia.

‘Aye. Poor girl.’ The innkeeper shook his head in ready sympathy. ‘Not that we see much of her, o’ course. But it can’t be easy for her.’

‘Oh?’ Eleanor looked up enquiringly, hoping to encourage a more detailed comment.

Mine host nodded. ‘What with a baby—growing up he is now—and a husband not long dead. Poor girl. And so pretty. But Sir Edward will ensure that she lacks for nothing—there’ll always be a roof over her head. He’s always been caring of his family.’

‘Of course.’ Eleanor smiled and nodded despite the tight band around her heart. ‘Did you…did you ever meet the lady’s husband before he died?’

‘Don’t know that I did.’ The innkeeper scratched his head. ‘Away from home a lot, as I remember, but the lady had made her home here with her brother.’

‘Has she…has she gone to London with Sir Edward now?’

‘Aye, ma’am. All of them. Saw them myself. And the baby as well. Not to mention the mountain of luggage. Seems like they intend to stay for the Season and the Great House all shut up. Pity you missed them.’

As the innkeeper prepared to return to the public room and leave his guests to eat their luncheon in peace, Lord Henry stopped him.

‘One more matter, sir, if you would be so kind. The Reverend Julius Broughton—is he vicar here?’

‘Aye, my lord. He is. If you wish to speak with him, the vicarage is the house next to the church, set back behind the stand of elms. But you’ll likely find him in the church. They’re burying old Sam Potter from down by the forge. So the Reverend Broughton will be doing the Lord’s work today at least—you can’t turn your back on a funeral if the body’s coffined and waiting at the church door! He’ll be there—at least for today.’

An interesting comment, Henry thought, not sure what to make of it. Or the slight undercurrent in mine host’s voice. Was it dislike? Contempt?

‘Do you know the Reverend well?’

‘Some.’ The innkeeper’s smile was sly as he turned for the door. ‘Some would say more than an innkeeper should! Likes his ale does the Reverend, and fine brandy. And he has a mind to other things many would say as he should not, being a man of the cloth. Some days he’s in the Red Lion more than he’s in the church! Not to mention his comforts at home!’

On which he left them.

With Eleanor’s hand drawn through his arm, held firmly, Lord Henry stepped out of the Red Lion and strolled down the village street in the direction of the church. The village itself was small, not much more than a score of stone cottages at most, the village street merely hard-packed earth with grassy verges, but the church was impressive with solid walls and zigzag carving on the round-headed arches of door and window. When they came to the gabled lych-gate into the churchyard, they discovered that the innkeeper had been accurate in his information. A funeral was in progress with a small knot of mourners in the far corner of the churchyard where the coffin was being lowered into a grave. They could make out the black and white vestments of the Reverend Julius Broughton amongst them, his white surplice and ministerial bands fluttering in the light breeze.

‘We must wait on Samuel Potter for the final time, it seems.’ Henry led Eleanor to a sun-warmed seat beside the church door to wait. It was a tranquil spot, sunlit and restful, only the distant murmur of voices to disturb the silence and the nearer chirp of sparrows which were nesting in the roof above their heads. A tranquil place indeed. But one, Eleanor feared, where she might discover the indisputable evidence that she was not Thomas’s wife, never had been. In this church Thomas could have been joined with Octavia Baxendale in the sight of God. His son named within those sun-warmed arches. She bit down on the panic that swelled beneath her breast bone. Her life would be shattered beyond redemption.

At last the mourners departed.

‘Sam Potter returned to his Maker.’ Henry took one of her hands in his, noting her calm outward composure. Perhaps too calm. ‘Are you well enough to face the Reverend? I will speak to him alone if you prefer it.’ On impulse he pressed his lips to her fingers. ‘I do not doubt your courage. I never could. You have nothing to prove to me, Nell.’

‘I know. And I know that you would take on this burden.’ She smiled her thanks, but rose to her feet, smoothing the skirts of her coat with nervous hands as the clerical figure approached them along the path. ‘We will see him together. He cannot tell us anything worse than the knowledge which we already have.’

Introductions were made, the cleric expressing polite interest. Henry, after a glance at Eleanor, opened the point at issue.

‘We wish to speak with you, sir, concerning a marriage and a birth in this parish. It concerns a member of our own family.’

Julius Broughton raised his brows at the request, but smiled his compliance. ‘Very well. Perhaps you would come to the vicarage where we can sit in comfort and I will see if I can help you.’ No hint of unease here.

They followed him to the spacious vicarage, built in the previous century and tucked away behind the elms, to be shown into a library at the front of the house, overlooking the churchyard and the church itself. A pleasant room. Wood panelled, lined with books, a fire offering welcome from the hearth, the retreat of an educated and scholarly man. It was also spotlessly clean, the furniture polished with the books properly on their shelves and the papers on the desk in neat order. It gave the impression of care and order and efficiency, suitable to a conscientious man of the cloth.

The appearance of the man who faced Henry and Eleanor also confirmed this impression. Shorter than Henry, he had a spare figure, fair hair with a touch of bronze when the sun caught it, and pale blue eyes. His narrow face was also that of a scholar with fine, aesthetic features. He had an easy smile that made them welcome as he offered refreshments. Yet Eleanor felt uneasy in his company. She thought there was a slyness in his gaze, which did not sit and linger on anything for long. And his lips, which smiled so readily, were too thin.