Season For Desire (12 page)

“Ah—is someone opening the door to whoever has arrived?” Giles asked.

Lady Irving hesitated. “I’ll check. Lady Dudley, care to come with me?”

Penny yapped again, a sound of canine delight, which decided the matter. The older women left the room.

Richard made a V of his index and third fingers, pointed them at his eyes, then pointed them at Giles. “Puzzle box,” he said. “That’s why we’re here.” And then he, too, trailed from the room.

“There’s more traffic through here than there was at the Goat and Gauntlet.” Giles smoothed out Audrina’s drawing, then slid it back to her and took up the puzzle box. “As though I don’t know this is why we’re here. In this castle, in Yorkshire, in England.”

“It is why
you
are here.” The caught-breath feeling in the room had vanished, replaced by heavy reality. There could be nothing between them but teasing and a few Christian names, and suddenly she just wanted the whole damned situation to be resolved. Yes, all right; she liked Yorkshire. But she didn’t belong here, and she wasn’t supposed to be here. None of them were. “Do you want me to work on the puzzle box for a while?”

“Sure, try it out. I’m probably thinking too much about it. You might have better luck since you’re not utterly tired of it.”

So she was not the only one upon whom time weighed. Did Giles think of arthritis as a ticking clock, his hands the counterweight? Would it one day soon fall, rendering the clock useless? The gears of the human body were delicate and complex. Sometimes they ran smoothly for decades; sometimes they ground and locked far too early.

Such an analogy. This was what came of spending so much time with a man who wanted to build.

“Do you want some of this paper? To draw a brooch or a building, or both at once?” she asked lightly.

“No. There’s no point.” But his gaze lingered on the disproportionate lines she had drawn.

When Audrina picked up the puzzle box, she marveled again at its slightness. This fragile structure of gilded wood had waited for more than three decades for someone to open it. It could only have waited and survived so long in the hands of someone like Sophy, a little girl when she’d received it. Too young to question the gift, young enough to treasure it. Keeping it, but over time, not really seeing it anymore. Not trying to open it. Just safeguarding it until the right moment—the right people—came.

A prickle between her shoulder blades made Audrina shiver.

The wood was smooth as porcelain under her touch; its patterns danced and dizzied the eye. She tapped at the box, holding it up to one ear, but it sounded empty and dry.

Giles had worked some of the panels from their starting position, and Audrina slid them back, marveling at the intricate catch and grab. The pieces would not budge if pressed in the wrong order.

She shut her eyes, imagining how it must lock together inside. Not the two pieces of a paper spring, but something far more complex. Dowels? Notches? Tightly joined; each slight movement of a panel working free, bit by bit, from that inner structure.

When she opened her eyes, the puzzle box seemed to gleam just for her.

She hardly noticed when the drawing room’s door opened again—but there was no ignoring Lady Irving’s voice. The countess spoke in a hurry, her tone breathless with relish. “Rutherford. Audrina, my girl. You’ve got to come meet this woman who just arrived at the castle. Somehow, she splashed her way here on the most abominable roads, and”—Lady Irving drew a deep breath—“she’s brought another puzzle box with her.”

It was becoming a common occurrence for Lord Dudley to rap at the library door and inform Sophy of a visitor. She could not recall so many arrivals in the past year as there had been in the past week.

Where Lady Irving, the Rutherfords, and Lady Audrina had been expected, though, this new guest was a surprise. As Sophy gave her arm to her father-in-law—an excuse to let him lean his weight on her as they shuffled along, for he did not like to use a cane—she could hear the ringing of voices over the barking of excited dogs almost as soon as they turned toward the entry hall.

At the center of the grand space, Lady Irving and Giles Rutherford were arguing about the puzzle box. Lady Dudley was holding up a biscuit, and several dogs were perched on hind legs, panting for the treat. And Richard Rutherford and Lady Audrina were talking to the visitor.

“Miss Millicent Corning,” murmured Lord Dudley in Sophy’s ear. As they walked close enough for conversation with the new arrival, she was glad for his arm to clutch.

Millicent Corning stood several inches taller than Sophy, and she appeared a bit younger; perhaps thirty-five years of age. Old enough to take a bold risk with fashion, and young enough that it still looked well on her. Her gown was a lustrous deep red-brown, a watered silk that caught and tilted light, with an elaborately swaddled bodice of filmy gauze over black lace.

Her features were of unexpected lines: a long nose with a gentle swoop in it; a strong cleft in the chin. Deep-set eyes, dark blue under arched black brows. Hair glossy and dark and tidy as a folded-up raven’s wing, twisted into an elaborate tiara of a braid into which a few clipped green feathers were tucked. Jeweled droplets hung at her ears, and a stark band of hammered gold draped about her neck, over her collarbone.

She was money and elegance, confidence and excitement. She looked like London and promise and hope, and Sophy had to look away. As Lord Dudley performed the introductions, Sophy studied the worn toes of her kid boots.

“Sophy is an abbreviation of Sophia, correct? So you are the owner of the puzzle box,” said Miss Corning. Her voice was low and tremulous, as though a laugh wanted to bubble through its surface. “I believe mine is a twin to yours. Or to be more accurate, ours are both triplets to a third.”

Sophy’s head snapped up at this—and hers was not the only one. Everyone fell silent, so that the only sound echoing through the entrance hall was the panting of Felix the beagle, the soft crunching of Penny’s teeth on a biscuit.

“There are three puzzle boxes?” Richard Rutherford was the first to snap the surprised silence. “What has made you think so, Miss Corning?”

“Because the inside of my puzzle box says it is the second of three.”

More silence, into which Miss Corning lifted her brows. “I see this is unexpected news to you, as was my arrival. Dear me—I did send a letter ahead. Did it not arrive?”

“We’ve had no letters for days,” said Lady Dudley. She tipped her head, snowy locks drifting over her shoulder. “But we take in strays when needs must. We’ve always room for one more at Castle Parr.” Their dark eyes limpid, eight dogs followed the movement of their mistress’s hand and stared at Millicent Corning, panting.

“You are so kind, my lady.” The visitor’s smile took in all of them: people, dogs, the cold marble underfoot, the rogue bits of greenery at mantel and doorway. When she looked in Sophy’s direction, a tickle bothered Sophy’s nose.

Damn.
She turned away and sneezed. And sneezed.

“Sophy hates the dogs,” Lady Dudley informed everyone. “They make her sneeze.”

“I do dot hade theb.” When Sophy wrested her cranium back under her control, her face was flaming, her eyes streaming. “Welcobe, Miss Cordig. I should like to see this puzzle box that is a twid of mide.”

“In the library, maybe,” suggested Lady Audrina. “We should all like to see it. Once Miss Corning has been settled.”

“Of course, of course.” Lord Dudley tottered toward the guest and gave her arm a squeeze. “Lovely to have company. I’m sure I don’t know what happened to your letter, but we’re glad to have you all the same. Are you staying through Christmas?”

Sophy did not catch the visitor’s reply as her father-in-law waved the butler nearer. With a few instructions, Miss Corning’s belongings, maid, and person were escorted off to the upper reaches of the castle. Lord Dudley followed, making pleasant chatter.

Without the warmth of a surprise to keep them collected in the entry hall, the others scattered. Lady Dudley called her dogs to heel, then led them away. The Rutherfords, Lady Irving, and Lady Audrina fell into a hurried patter of conversation about the puzzle box—something about notes, and progress. As a quartet, they hurried to the drawing room to get the puzzle box.

My puzzle box.
Sophy shivered within her snuff-brown cotton gown.

Few possessions mattered to Sophy. Her telescope, for the sake of her mind. Her spectacles, for the sake of her body.

And her golden puzzle box, for the sake of her heart.

As a child of five years, she had not known she was plain or awkward. Sophy’s older sister—now living in Ireland with her third husband—was doting, and her sister’s friend Lady Beatrix had been everything kind and beautiful in the world. Had Sophy guessed that the puzzle box was sent to her as Lady Beatrix’s good-bye, she would not have accepted the gift with such delight.

But it did delight her, then and through the years. As golden as her own hair . . . wasn’t. As lightly and gracefully made as her body . . . wasn’t. Such judgments of form mattered little to a child, but they mattered a great deal when she grew into a young woman and felt herself awkward, out of step with the polite world in manner and inclination. It was a comfort to remember that once, a beautiful woman had given her a gift for being good enough just as she was.

She had assumed it was a sculpture. Some sort of
objet d’art.
As a mathematics-loving child, she had called it “my parallelepiped,” which made her father smile and her mother shake her head in tolerant dismay.

These past few days, she had shared her telescope. Her parallelepiped, which held secrets she’d never suspected. And she had found that it was frightening yet comforting to share one’s precious belongings and have others treat them with tender care.

Only her glasses remained to be shared. Perhaps Miss Corning would like to borrow them.

As she plucked her pince-nez from her nose, her cheeks flamed with heat. Another sneeze overtook her, making her ears ring—and then, shaking her head, she returned to the library to await the first news her puzzle box had yielded in thirty-five years.

 

 

With everyone gathered in the library, Sophy felt like the hostess of a party. The room was rather cramped for eight people—or maybe it was just that all eight people wanted to stand in exactly the same spot to look at the pair of puzzle boxes, now resting on the tabletop of Sophy’s flipped-open secretary desk. Several lamps had been lit against the waning gray afternoon light, casting their glow over the boxes.

“Why, they aren’t twins at all.” Sophy felt self-conscious as soon as she uttered the words. But where her puzzle box winked and tossed light off its gilded frame, Miss Corning’s puzzle box drank it in. The wooden surface was dark and glossy, its patterns darker still, and the whole of it was smooth as resin. A faint floral scent was noticeable if one bent close; it was built of the rosewood Giles Rutherford said his mother favored.

“Not all twins are identical.” Miss Corning smiled. Then she took up her own parallelepiped and, with a neat flex and slide of fingers, began to move the invisible joints apart. Bit by bit, the panels worked open: one side, then another, then back to the first in a dizzyingly swift and intricate set of movements.

“She makes it look so easy,” said Lady Irving in an extremely loud whisper. “How long have you been fussing with that golden box, young Rutherford?”

“Long enough,” said Giles Rutherford, “to grant a
brava
where one is due.”

Miss Corning gave a distracted smile. “Oh, I’ve had quite a lot of time to work this out. I inherited it about three months ago.”

And then with one last press, it was done. In one slow, buttery glide, the smooth lid slid free and revealed the interior of the box. Empty.

“It’s empty?” Richard Rutherford sounded surprised. “Is there not even a message?”

“There is indeed a message.” Miss Corning grinned, a warm expression lit by the lamplight. And flipping over the lid of the puzzle box, she revealed its secret.

For a moment, Sophy’s eyes crossed at yet another pattern. Letters marched in a crowded gaggle over the inside of the lid, incised as though by a nail or blade.

“May I?” The elder Rutherford reached out for the lid.

“Please.” Miss Corning handed it over.

Squinting at the tiny letters, Rutherford held the lid at arm’s length to catch the best light. It was not much larger than his hand. “‘Two of three. Sophia Angela Maria. Salvation from our enemies, and from the hand of all that hate us: To perform mercy to our fathers.’” As he read out the inscription, his voice caught and halted. “It’s—like hearing Beatrix’s voice again.”

“Rubbish. Those aren’t your wife’s words,” said Lady Irving. When silence followed, she snapped, “Are you all heathens? It’s from the
Benedictus
.”

“The
Benedictus
. From—the Bible?” Rutherford’s brow furrowed. “I never knew it to have special significance to Beatrix.”

“It’s a song of gratitude,” Sophy remembered. She had fallen out of the habit of regular churchgoing years ago, after her marriage to Jack, but the rusty memories of a devout youth squeaked free. “From the Gospel of Luke. Gratitude and prophecy and—and redemption.” When seven faces turned toward hers, she could not help but stammer.

“All right, set that aside for now,” said Giles Rutherford. “What could the rest of the message mean? Miss Corning, have you divined any meaning from it?”

With the lid set in the brightest circle of lamplight, they all looked down at it. Following the brief verse were several rows of gibberish.

“A code of some sort, but a simple alphabet substitution didn’t work,” said that elegant lady after the others studied the string of letters. “And so it occurred to me that I needed to find the other two puzzle boxes if I was to solve the riddle.” Graceful beringed hands splayed on the glossy wood of the secretary desk. “I came into a fortune recently, upon the death of a cousin. This box was among her effects, and when I got it open—not without a great deal of effort, I assure you, Mr. Rutherford—I was intrigued by the message inside.” She paused. “You see, my cousin was called Angela. And in her childhood, she was given this box by Lady Beatrix Newcombe, just before that lady left England in hurried secrecy.”

Sophy could not help admiring Miss Corning’s gift for the dramatic: that low, throbbing voice waltzing over the words until they all danced through the story with her. “My cousin Angela spoke of her sometimes,” added the storyteller, “when I took this box down from her shelf of keepsakes. She remembered Lady Beatrix as a delightful woman, a friend of her older sister. When the lady gave Angela this box, she said she was doing so because she knew children had not yet forgotten what was important, and that she knew Angela would keep it safe.”

“Yes.” The syllable drifted from Sophy’s lips like a sigh. “Yes, exactly.”

Miss Corning’s deep eyes searched Sophy’s face. “I thought it a lovely story. But when I opened the box and saw my cousin’s name along with two others, I realized it was far more than an old tale of kindness. It was a mystery.”

“An adventure,” interjected Richard Rutherford.

“Quite so.” Miss Corning’s puckish grin returned. “And so, being a woman of independent means and few personal ties, I decided to turn my hand to hunting Sophias and Marias. By searching through ancient family correspondence, I found reference to some of my cousin’s friends. And to their families.”

“And you found—me?” Sophy’s brows knit. Was it always this hot in the library? Or cold; maybe she was cold. Her fingers felt clumsy, her feet ungainly.

“I found three Sophias, and then I hunted up their married names and present locations. I wrote to all of them, but the other two politely assured me they had never received a gift from Lady Beatrix Newcombe. I believe they also doubted my sanity, but
c’est la vie.
” Her hands gave a careless flutter. “I was on the scent, so to speak, and if anyone knows how dedicated a hound is once it finds a clue, it should be this household.”

Lady Dudley beamed.

“But I never received a letter from you.” Sophy tucked her hands—bare of jewelry, even her old wedding band—beneath her folded arms.

“So I have learned.” Miss Corning traced a few circles on the surface of the desk. “It was terribly precipitate of me to travel without hearing a reply. But I was eager to set out at once.”

“From where do you hail?” Richard Rutherford, calm and kind as ever.

“Some ways east of here, at the northern tip of Lincolnshire. A hamlet called Barrow Haven that no one much has heard of, unless you are fond of brick-making. I lived with my brother’s family, but once I came into some money, they thought I ought to hand it over to them. And when I disagreed, they thought I ought not to live there anymore.” Spoken calmly, and yet there was something flat and terrible in the tone.

“So you—came here?” Sophy hated the hitch in her voice. Even less than her reeling mind did her throat seem to know what to do with so much new information.

“Well, yes. You see, it
had
to be you. You were the only other Sophia, and so you had to have a puzzle box.”