little while yet.”
“Yes, of course, but are you sure you want to do that? I’ve seen it. There is nothing left. It will only cause you unnecessary upsetment.”
“I’m sure,” she replied.
“Very well, I’ll drive you ‘round once the storm is over.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ellery,” she said. “I shall look forward to that… when the storm is over.”
*
The following day, the rain ceased, though blustery winds lingered, riffling the grass on the patchwork hills, and bending the backs of saplings along the lane until their branches touched the ground. Dark clouds raced by overhead, casting waves of shadow over the land, and the air smelled salty-fresh and clean.
Ellery insisted upon driving. He chose a well-appointed landau, which offered more protection than the other two-seater rigs in the carriage house. Melly wasn’t too happy about that. She would have preferred to walk, though it was a distance, and the weather was still unstable. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with the steward. She couldn’t explain it, but some ingrained feminine instinct warned against it. Nonetheless, by midmorning, they were tooling along the highway at a steady pace with the wind at their back toward what remained of her cottage.
They reached the vale by noon, and her heart sank at sight of what once had been her home, now a blackened heap of slag and cinder. Only the chimney still stood, like a soldier at attention. The closer they came, the stronger the sour stench of burnt wood and char became. It flared her nostrils, and should have warned her away, but she was determined, insisting to get down for a closer inspection.
“You will spoil your fine dress,” Ellery warned. “You’ll never get the stink out.”
“It is not my dress,” she corrected, looking down at the white muslin frock and blue spencer she’d chosen for the outing.
“I believe you can consider it so now,” he said. “It becomes you far more elegantly than it did its former owner, I might add. White did not suit her.”
“What was she like, Mr. Ellery… the countess?” she wondered. She had been avoiding asking that question. For some reason, she really didn’t want a mental picture of Lady Shelldrake, yet curiosity, which she’d begun to recognize as her most grievous fault, got the better of her as usual.
“Eva? She was… magnificent,” he replied. “All manners and breeding, like one of Drake’s Andalusians. She was the catch of the Season when Drake latched onto her. Have you never seen her portrait in the library?”
“No, I haven’t had occasion to visit the library,” she said.
“Well, if you’re curious, go and have a look. The artist captured her utterly.”
Of course she would. That dratted curiosity again. But it carried a price. Like it or not, it mattered that Lady Shelldrake was magnificent. It mattered that she was the catch of the Season. It mattered that Drake had provided her with a wardrobe of the finest quality. It mattered that he loved her so that he nearly went mad when she died—mad enough to drive himself headlong into battle until he’d nearly died and joined her. It mattered more than she cared to admit.
“Soon I shall have my own wardrobe,” she said, slapping at the skirt of her frock cruelly.
“Come, then, since you’re so determined,” Ellery conceded. Exiting the coach, he tethered the horse to the hedgerow beside the stacked stone fence, and helped her down.
His hand lingered just a trifle too long, and she pulled hers away. Shielding her eyes from the wind, which had blown her bonnet back, she looked in dismay at the ravages of the fire.
“Who could have done such a thing?” she said absently, as though to herself.
“Well, my dear, people do call you a witch after all. You know how superstitious Cornishmen are. It could have been anyone, or…”
“Or, what?” she prompted as his voice trailed off.
“Nothing. What did Drake say, exactly?”
“He said that the fire
“Yes, of course, but are you sure you want to do that? I’ve seen it. There is nothing left. It will only cause you unnecessary upsetment.”
“I’m sure,” she replied.
“Very well, I’ll drive you ‘round once the storm is over.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ellery,” she said. “I shall look forward to that… when the storm is over.”
*
The following day, the rain ceased, though blustery winds lingered, riffling the grass on the patchwork hills, and bending the backs of saplings along the lane until their branches touched the ground. Dark clouds raced by overhead, casting waves of shadow over the land, and the air smelled salty-fresh and clean.
Ellery insisted upon driving. He chose a well-appointed landau, which offered more protection than the other two-seater rigs in the carriage house. Melly wasn’t too happy about that. She would have preferred to walk, though it was a distance, and the weather was still unstable. The last thing she wanted was to be alone with the steward. She couldn’t explain it, but some ingrained feminine instinct warned against it. Nonetheless, by midmorning, they were tooling along the highway at a steady pace with the wind at their back toward what remained of her cottage.
They reached the vale by noon, and her heart sank at sight of what once had been her home, now a blackened heap of slag and cinder. Only the chimney still stood, like a soldier at attention. The closer they came, the stronger the sour stench of burnt wood and char became. It flared her nostrils, and should have warned her away, but she was determined, insisting to get down for a closer inspection.
“You will spoil your fine dress,” Ellery warned. “You’ll never get the stink out.”
“It is not my dress,” she corrected, looking down at the white muslin frock and blue spencer she’d chosen for the outing.
“I believe you can consider it so now,” he said. “It becomes you far more elegantly than it did its former owner, I might add. White did not suit her.”
“What was she like, Mr. Ellery… the countess?” she wondered. She had been avoiding asking that question. For some reason, she really didn’t want a mental picture of Lady Shelldrake, yet curiosity, which she’d begun to recognize as her most grievous fault, got the better of her as usual.
“Eva? She was… magnificent,” he replied. “All manners and breeding, like one of Drake’s Andalusians. She was the catch of the Season when Drake latched onto her. Have you never seen her portrait in the library?”
“No, I haven’t had occasion to visit the library,” she said.
“Well, if you’re curious, go and have a look. The artist captured her utterly.”
Of course she would. That dratted curiosity again. But it carried a price. Like it or not, it mattered that Lady Shelldrake was magnificent. It mattered that she was the catch of the Season. It mattered that Drake had provided her with a wardrobe of the finest quality. It mattered that he loved her so that he nearly went mad when she died—mad enough to drive himself headlong into battle until he’d nearly died and joined her. It mattered more than she cared to admit.
“Soon I shall have my own wardrobe,” she said, slapping at the skirt of her frock cruelly.
“Come, then, since you’re so determined,” Ellery conceded. Exiting the coach, he tethered the horse to the hedgerow beside the stacked stone fence, and helped her down.
His hand lingered just a trifle too long, and she pulled hers away. Shielding her eyes from the wind, which had blown her bonnet back, she looked in dismay at the ravages of the fire.
“Who could have done such a thing?” she said absently, as though to herself.
“Well, my dear, people do call you a witch after all. You know how superstitious Cornishmen are. It could have been anyone, or…”
“Or, what?” she prompted as his voice trailed off.
“Nothing. What did Drake say, exactly?”
“He said that the fire
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