The Marsh Hawk (12 page)

The fourth floor was closed off. Mrs. Rees explained that unless there was to be a hunt and a large number of guests were expected, none of the chambers there were ever used. They browsed through all of the third-floor guest chambers, and the second-floor suites. On the main floor, they toured the breakfast room, ballroom, salon, sitting rooms, library, parlor, trophy room, and drawing room. All seemed converted from something decidedly Elizabethan. Jenna came to the conclusion that she liked the conservatory best, but that, she admitted, was probably because she'd nearly given herself to Simon there.

They ended the tour in the dining hall, where the housekeeper informed her that all meals would be served, and Jenna marveled at the size of it. The dining hall at Thistle Hollow would have fit inside it twice. It boasted a high vaulted ceiling embellished with frescoes in a woodland theme and fitted with Austrian crystal chandeliers, three of them suspended above the endless banquet table in the center of the room. A fine linen cloth had been draped across the end where her place had been set for nuncheon.

The walls were painted a deep shade of rose with gilded plasterwork, and matching medallions holding sconces. On the east wall, the raised arms of tall marble wood nymphs supported the mantel over the hearth. Opposite, a built-in mahogany sideboard, nearly as long as the table it matched, was laid with salvers of cold meats and cheeses, and silver chafing dishes housing a variety of entrees, one more delectable-looking than the next. It was all very beautiful, but Jenna insisted that, in the future, unless the earl was in residence, she would just as soon take her meals in the breakfast room—or in her dressing room upstairs, for that matter. Eating alone in that vast, empty hall would only make her more lonesome for Simon.

Once she'd eaten, she set out to explore the grounds. The mist still clung stubbornly to the hollows and floated over the courtyard that sloped down to the orchards in the south, half burying the odd-looking derelict tower. The sun hadn't yet made an appearance, and by the look of the jaundiced sky threatening overhead, she wondered if it would for some time.

Drenched and stirred by the wind, the garden foliage perfumed the air with exquisite scents. Though hidden from view by the fog milling inside artistically carved openings in the tall hedgerows that formed the garden wall, Jenna picked out the fragrances of rose, peony, honeysuckle, and lilac, to name but a few. She didn't need to see them to know that they were there. The heady perfume stirred her senses awake, reminding her of another garden, and a pulsating tremor moved inside her that almost made her lose her footing.

The outbuildings were situated in a wide, sweeping semicircle around the courtyard and gardens, accessed by a narrow, well-kept lane, and she started out in a westerly direction, past a stand of stunted elms that stretched between the house and the stables. The day was warm for April despite the dampness, and she was grateful for that since she didn't have her cloak. She did have her riding habit, however, and owing to that, she decided to make use of it and do her exploring on horseback.

The stables were situated just beyond the trees. The carriage house stood alongside, with paddocks and a well in back. Emile Barstow, the chief groom, a bow-legged, gray-haired man past sixty, with hunched posture and a thick mustache, was only too happy to present her with a Thoroughbred sorrel mare named Treacle for the occasion. He was impressed at once with Jenna's seat and knowledge of horses, and his sparkling blue eyes, filled with admiration, promised friendship and loyalty. Jenna eagerly looked forward to both. All of the servants at Kevernwood Hall had treated her royally, but this man was special. He reminded her of her father.

She passed the gamekeeper's cottage next. A smokehouse stood beside it. It looked deserted, as did the groundskeeper's cottage farther on, set back beside a wall of rhododendron. Picket fencing separated vegetable and herb gardens. The combined scents of hawthorn, gentian, comfrey, bramble, briar rose, and the sweetness of wild rhubarb rode the breeze. The rabbits smelled them, too, and she laughed aloud watching them take unmerciful advantage of everyone's absence. She hadn't laughed in a long time—not since the night she killed the Marsh Hawk.

She was relieved that no one was at home. Though she did want to meet everyone, she wasn't really up to socializing. Not then. She wanted a closer look at the peculiar-looking round tower in the orchard. The mist was denser there, wandering aimlessly among the rows of budding apple trees that were just beginning to promise blossoms. It groped her body to the waist while she dismounted and tethered Treacle in a clump of bracken. The roughly hewn surface of the structure was half-covered with woodbine creepers, as was the land around it for some distance in all directions. A little path had been cleared in the groundcover leading from the narrow drive she'd been following, suggesting that the keep was frequented on a somewhat regular basis. Curious as to what it could be used for, she tried the arched wooden door, but it was locked, and she ambled around toward the back in search of another entrance. There wasn't one, but there was a small window on the side almost at eye level, fitted with tinted glass panes set into diamond-shaped fretwork. There were two others like it higher up as well, one in front and one in back.

She stood on tiptoe and began pulling the vines away from the lowest pane. It was black as pitch within, and she wiped away the dusty, salty crust that had collected over time on the tinted glass, cupped her hands around her eyes, and tried to see inside. Intent on that, when a man's hand clamped around her arm, she spun around and gasped.

It was Phelps.

“You frightened me!” she breathed, clutching her breast as if to keep her heart inside her body. “Where did you come from, Phelps?”

“You'd best come away, my lady,” he said. “We don't use the tower.”

“It's locked,” she said, paying no heed to his directive. “Is there a key?”

“I do not have the key, my lady, only his lordship. The tower is very old, you see. There is structural damage, my lady; it isn't safe. You'd best come away now.”

“It looks sound enough to me,” she said, appraising the building through a frown.

“The damage is on the inside, my lady, though some of the outer is falling now as well. His lordship has been meaning to repair it, but he is here so seldom . . .”

“I've never seen anything like it. What was it used for?”

Phelps hesitated and finally said, “Storage, my lady. Tobias Heath, the groundskeeper here, used to keep his tools inside until it became . . . unsafe. He keeps them in the root cellar now. Please come away, my lady. His lordship would never forgive me if you came to harm out here. Why, just last week some slates fell from the roof, so they tell me. It really isn't safe, my lady.”

“Did you follow me here, Phelps?”

“Well, actually . . . no, my lady,” the valet said, turning as white as the mist. “That is . . . I was paying a call on Tobias when I saw you ride this way.”

“He isn't at home.”

“I realize that now, my lady; it's market day. I should have remembered, but we—”

“Yes, yes, I know—you come to the coast so seldom,” she interrupted, finishing the sentence he was struggling with. Now she realized why Simon had left the valet behind. The stressed look on his face confirmed it. “Did his lordship leave you here to look after me, Phelps?” she said with her most fetching smile.

“Well, actually . . . yes, as a matter of fact, he did, my lady.”

She nodded, agreeing with her conclusion. At least the man was honest.

“I would still like to see inside,” she persisted. “You're sure there isn't a key?”

“I'm sure, my lady. Please come away now. There's a fresh flaw on the make. It often happens in the spring—the prevailing wind's to blame. One storm often spawns another along this coast. Sometimes it goes on for weeks.”

“Perish the thought.”

His nervous smile disturbed her. The tower looked too sound to warrant his distress, and that only piqued her curiosity further. It was neither the time nor the place to challenge him over it, however, and she followed him back to their horses.

As he hung back at the edge of the path once she'd loosened Treacle's tether, she called “Aren't you coming, Phelps?”

“I'll wait for Tobias, my lady. He should be returning soon.”

So she mounted then, and rode back toward the stables, eerily aware of the valet's eyes on her the whole distance. There was such a thing as carrying protection too far. She would definitely speak to Simon about it. Phelps was right about the storm, though. She was all too familiar with Cornish flaws, though she had never experienced one so close to the sea. She tasted the salt on the air and on her lips now that she was alerted to it. She shuddered, imagining the sort of weather that had driven sea salt far enough inland to coat the leaded windows in the tower. Those thoughts dissolved the minute she reached the stables, however. Her heart plunged in her breast at the sight of a chaise in the drive being led by a different groom toward the tack room. It bore the Hollingsworth device.

Jenna hurried back to the house. She was met at the door by Horton, the butler, a tall man with a long, straight nose, inscrutable gray eyes, and a shiny bald head fringed sparsely with silver hair.

“Your mother has arrived, my lady,” he warbled. “I put her in the parlor.”

“Thank you, Horton.” She glanced at the three portmanteaux on the floor and said, pointing, “That one may remain. Please have the footmen return the others to the chaise, and tell the grooms not to unhitch the horses. My mother will not be staying.”

“Yes, my lady. Will that be all, my lady?”

“Did she arrive alone?”

“No, my lady, her personal maid was with her. I took the liberty of having tea served to the girl in the servants' hall, and a tray has been brought to the parlor as well. Was that all right, my lady?”

“Of course, Horton, thank you.”

Jenna dismissed the butler, squared her posture, marched down the corridor through the broad medieval arch that led to the main floor renovations, and entered the parlor. It was a spacious, unwelcoming room somewhat outdated in decor, with the musty, telltale odor of disuse. She commended the butler mentally on his choice.

The dowager spun around from the terrace doors, sloshing tea from her cup into the saucer in her hand when she entered. Taking one look at the indignant scowl on her mother's face—sour enough to clabber cream—Jenna braced herself. She knew that posture all too well.

“Jenna Hollingsworth, how
could
you!” the dowager spluttered, slapping her teacup and saucer down on the serving tray with little regard for their frailty.

“Sit down, Mother.”

“I will
not
sit down. Jenna, explain yourself at once!”

“Mother,
sit
!”

Lady Hollingsworth bristled, passed an incredulous grunt, and dropped like a stone into a wing chair upholstered in faded blue velvet resting beside the vacant hearth. A cloud of dust rose around her upon contact. Aggression having failed miserably, she whipped out a handkerchief, and Jenna's eyebrow lifted. It was edged with the familiar black of mourning. So that's how it was to be, was it?

“Put it away, Mother,” she said. “That tactic is quite shopworn, and beneath you. You know as well as I do that if Father knew what sort of man Rupert Marner really was, he never would have approved our betrothal, much less pressed for it.”

“Jenna, what have you
done
?” her mother shrilled. Her breath caught in a gasp. “Has the scoundrel . . . ruined you? Have you let him—”

“No, Mother, I have not let him ‘ruin' me,” she replied, laughing in spite of herself.

“Rupert is livid, dear. You've broken the poor man's heart.”

“Rupert has no heart, Mother. He's a coward, you know. After Simon won the duel, your precious Rupert came at his back and wounded him—at his
back
, Mother! He would have killed Simon if I hadn't been there. There were witnesses: Sir Gerald, Lord Eccleston—and you know how upright
he
is—Phelps, Simon's valet, and Crispin St. John, Simon's . . . houseguest. Don't pretend that one among them hasn't told the tale. Rupert's behavior was unconscionable. How dare you defend him?”

“And what of your behavior, Jenna? You run off with a man—unchaperoned—in front of half the aristocracy, and take up residence with him in this godforsaken wilderness out here on the coast? Who do you think is going to pay for damaged goods? Regardless of what went on between the bedsheets, you've put paid to your reputation, my girl, it is
ruined
!”

“I have not taken up residence with Simon, Mother. He isn't even here. He's gone to London with his guests. Not that I need to tender you an explanation, because I do not. I'm of age; twenty-two—ready to put on biggins and embrace spinster-hood, as you yourself continually remind me. But since you must know, Simon brought me here and left me at once. Everything is quite proper. I am here because Rupert made some very ugly threats before we left the dueling ground, and in this house I am under Simon's protection. I wouldn't be at Thistle Hollow, and you know it. You'd let Rupert in without batting an eye. Simon isn't going to do that, and neither will his staff. They are taking very good care of me until we can be married.”

“Married?”
the dowager shrieked. “Jenna, you can't, so soon after your betrothal to Rupert. What ever are you thinking? What will people say? Ha! You
know
what they'll say, that you
had
to marry the man, just like his brother had to marry that girl years ago.”

“Simon has proposed, and we
are
going to be married, Mother. There is nothing you can do to prevent it.” She held out her hand, and Lady Holingsworth examined the exquisite ruby and diamond ring on her finger. Her expression softened at once, and Jenna pulled her hand away. “Oh,
Mother
!” she scorned.