find it.”
“Of course,” Nell said as she took the key.
“I pity her,” Nell said after Catherine disappeared down the service stairs in a murmur of silk.
Will grunted in the affirmative as he opened another drawing on top of the first, weighting down the corners with four beautiful millefiori glass paperweights.
“Do you suppose it’s laudanum she takes for her headaches?” Nell asked. The walls, covered in what looked like silk block-printed with leaves and berries, were hung with numerous framed pictures—lithographs, paintings, and a few photographs featuring scenes of hunting, horse racing, archery, and most of all, cricket.
“I suppose it’s laudanum she takes just to get through each day,” Will said as he perused the drawing, both arms braced on the table. “Or sleep through it. Did you notice her pupils? There was hardly any light downstairs, yet they were practically pinpoints, whereas yours—“he glanced up with a grin”—were quite fetchingly dilated. And then, of course, there was her general demeanor, the odd tranquility, the drowsiness.”
There was a wooden rack on the wall behind Munro’s desk that was similar to a gun rack, except that it displayed not rifles, but paddle-like wooden clubs with round handles: cricket bats. There were five of them, altogether; the rack was made to hold six. Next to the rack stood a huge, ornately carved étagère, its glass shelves cluttered with silver bowls, cups, and trophies, as well as a number of and gold-plated cricket balls.
Slipping the key into her chatelaine, Nell lifted one off the cricket bats the rack. It looked old and worn, with several splits in the wood.
She said, “It amazes me that Catherine can function as she does, minding her brother’s business affairs, keeping this house running...”
“Because of the laudanum? I doubt it’s a habit of long standing, otherwise I don’t imagine she’d have been able to keep up appearances as she has. And my guess is she takes just enough to make things bearable.” Thumping a finger on the drawing, he said, “Take a look at this.”
Still holding the bat, Nell joined him at the table. The drawing was of the grounds of Philip Munro’s planned country estate, which encompassed, according to a note on the bottom, thirty-eight acres. In addition to the house, with its complex network of walks and gardens, there were fountains, two greenhouses, an orchard, a deer park, three artificial ponds, a gate house, and a carriage house several times larger than the house they were standing in.
Nell said, “Not one for half measures, was he?”
“That’s the property. This is the house itself.” Will rolled up the landscape plan, exposing the drawing beneath, which showed the layouts of all four floors of the mansion. It was to have been an extraordinarily complicated edifice with gabled roofs, a dozen verandahs, an oval drawing room, double ballroom, music room, conservatory, two-story library, innumerable parlors and bedchambers...and at the hub of it all, a majestic circular staircase.
“How must Miss Munro have felt,” Nell said, “when her beloved brother, the mainstay of her life, told her he was leaving her here and moving to this...
castle
with the detested Becky Bassett?”
Rolling up the plan, Will said, “Possibly it was around that time that she started dosing herself with laudanum. It will have eased the hurt a bit.”
“But not eliminated it altogether?” Nell asked.
“Not that kind of pain—especially if her habit is a fairly mild one. Inside, she could be seething with bitterness, even rage. What have we here?” he asked as he took the cricket bat out of Nell’s hand.
“He had a sort of collection.” She nodded toward the rack behind the desk.
“Those are old ones,” Will observed. “Probably fairly valuable, if one is a cricket enthusiast.”
“One of them is missing—assuming there were six to begin with.”
“Indeed.” Will hefted the bat in his
“Of course,” Nell said as she took the key.
“I pity her,” Nell said after Catherine disappeared down the service stairs in a murmur of silk.
Will grunted in the affirmative as he opened another drawing on top of the first, weighting down the corners with four beautiful millefiori glass paperweights.
“Do you suppose it’s laudanum she takes for her headaches?” Nell asked. The walls, covered in what looked like silk block-printed with leaves and berries, were hung with numerous framed pictures—lithographs, paintings, and a few photographs featuring scenes of hunting, horse racing, archery, and most of all, cricket.
“I suppose it’s laudanum she takes just to get through each day,” Will said as he perused the drawing, both arms braced on the table. “Or sleep through it. Did you notice her pupils? There was hardly any light downstairs, yet they were practically pinpoints, whereas yours—“he glanced up with a grin”—were quite fetchingly dilated. And then, of course, there was her general demeanor, the odd tranquility, the drowsiness.”
There was a wooden rack on the wall behind Munro’s desk that was similar to a gun rack, except that it displayed not rifles, but paddle-like wooden clubs with round handles: cricket bats. There were five of them, altogether; the rack was made to hold six. Next to the rack stood a huge, ornately carved étagère, its glass shelves cluttered with silver bowls, cups, and trophies, as well as a number of and gold-plated cricket balls.
Slipping the key into her chatelaine, Nell lifted one off the cricket bats the rack. It looked old and worn, with several splits in the wood.
She said, “It amazes me that Catherine can function as she does, minding her brother’s business affairs, keeping this house running...”
“Because of the laudanum? I doubt it’s a habit of long standing, otherwise I don’t imagine she’d have been able to keep up appearances as she has. And my guess is she takes just enough to make things bearable.” Thumping a finger on the drawing, he said, “Take a look at this.”
Still holding the bat, Nell joined him at the table. The drawing was of the grounds of Philip Munro’s planned country estate, which encompassed, according to a note on the bottom, thirty-eight acres. In addition to the house, with its complex network of walks and gardens, there were fountains, two greenhouses, an orchard, a deer park, three artificial ponds, a gate house, and a carriage house several times larger than the house they were standing in.
Nell said, “Not one for half measures, was he?”
“That’s the property. This is the house itself.” Will rolled up the landscape plan, exposing the drawing beneath, which showed the layouts of all four floors of the mansion. It was to have been an extraordinarily complicated edifice with gabled roofs, a dozen verandahs, an oval drawing room, double ballroom, music room, conservatory, two-story library, innumerable parlors and bedchambers...and at the hub of it all, a majestic circular staircase.
“How must Miss Munro have felt,” Nell said, “when her beloved brother, the mainstay of her life, told her he was leaving her here and moving to this...
castle
with the detested Becky Bassett?”
Rolling up the plan, Will said, “Possibly it was around that time that she started dosing herself with laudanum. It will have eased the hurt a bit.”
“But not eliminated it altogether?” Nell asked.
“Not that kind of pain—especially if her habit is a fairly mild one. Inside, she could be seething with bitterness, even rage. What have we here?” he asked as he took the cricket bat out of Nell’s hand.
“He had a sort of collection.” She nodded toward the rack behind the desk.
“Those are old ones,” Will observed. “Probably fairly valuable, if one is a cricket enthusiast.”
“One of them is missing—assuming there were six to begin with.”
“Indeed.” Will hefted the bat in his
Similar Books
