There was the sound of Smithers mumbling.
‘A young lady? Why did you not say so? Both of them, of course.’
Jane braced herself for an irritable old lady and was surprised by the beaming welcome they received from the plump figure on the sofa. ‘My dear! Come in, come in. That old fool Smithers, keeping you waiting when he knows you are my favourite great-nephew, Ivo. And is this the charming young lady who is to marry you? Come and kiss me, my dear.’
Clearly their arrival was as entertaining as a seat at the theatre. Great-Aunt Honoria gasped in sympathy at the news of Violet’s family’s illness, tutted in dismay at the thought of Jane being left alone in the Batheaston house with only the servants for company and protection, nodded sagely at the decision to stay at Merton Tower and then clapped her hands in delight at the suggestion that she might assist by chaperoning her.
‘The very thing—how sensible dear Westhaven is, to be sure. I shall not grudge the slightest exertion in coming to your aid, my dears.’
As the exertion appeared to be entirely on the part of Lady Gravestock’s maid, several footmen and a middle-aged companion—so mousey that Jane did not notice her until a good half-hour into their visit—it was easy to recognise Ivo’s description of his aunt.
Fortunately the Marquess’s travelling carriage was capacious and they managed to fit in Jane, Ivo, Lady Gravestock, the maid and the companion—‘Eunice, Miss Herring, my niece’—without great effort. Several trunks were loaded on to the roof and, as they set off with much groaning of springs, Ivo remarked that it was a good thing that he had eaten only two scones.
* * *
A week later it seemed to Jane that with the arrival of Lady Gravestock everything became more real. It was a strange thought—Merton Tower, the Marquess and, certainly, Ivo had all seemed very real indeed before, but somehow preparations picked up pace, acceptances were still coming in, the size of the guest list and the practical considerations all became alarmingly apparent.
Ivo’s great-aunt never seemed to actually exert herself to move far from her self-appointed position on a chaise longue in the Chinese drawing room, but little Miss Herring was constantly scuttling about with pieces of paper or checking things off on lists.
Ranwick, the Marquess’s secretary, began to enquire what Jane’s preferences were on any number of subjects on which she had never before thought to form an opinion. Flowers in particular were obsessing him that morning.
‘Roses?’ Jane said, at random.
‘For the chapel, the dining room or the entrance hall and reception rooms, Miss Newnham? The gardeners need as much notice as possible, you understand.’
‘For everywhere. Roses—will we be able to get them in October? Anyway, shades of pink and some dark blue flowers and a great deal of white,’ she decided, plucking colours out of thin air. ‘In different proportions. More blue, white and foliage in the chapel. More pink in the reception rooms and more red in the rest. That should give both continuity and variety.’
Ranwick was scribbling. ‘Excellent, Miss Newnham. Sprays, garlands, towers or formal vases?’
* * *
Jane finally escaped half an hour later, head spinning. She needed fresh air and an escape from decisions. The Marquess had told her he would like pencil sketches of some of the staff first so he could decide on style and size, so she took her sketchbook and went out on to the back lawn in th
e hope of finding the gardeners.
There was none in sight, but she did see Ivo walking towards the ha-ha. She thought he looked enviably relaxed in breeches and boots and what was clearly a favourite old coat. He was bare-headed and she watched him climb down a hidden flight of steps into the ditch on the park side of the ha-ha and then walk along towards a grove of trees.
Now he had shown her the way to get directly into the grounds, the idea of exploring seemed tempting. She would walk in the park around the house until she came to the front where she might find the gardeners.
Ivo was out of sight by the time she reached the ha-ha so she clambered down the rough stone steps and strolled off in the same direction he had taken, keeping the sun behind her. The long grass of the park was full of late wild flowers and the hum of bees and she wandered along in a daydream, thinking vaguely of how to compose the portraits and whether to show the occupations of the various servants plainly or just hint at them.
Then she saw Ivo and recognised where he was. That was the hermit’s cell she had seen from the carriage when she arrived and the mound next to it must be the ice house. Ivo had told her the ground was boggy there, but he appeared to have crossed it with no difficulty. Perhaps with the fine weather it had dried out and, if that was the case, then the biting insects he mentioned would probably have gone, too. The overgrown path did not seem to cross boggy ground, but perhaps it drained well.
When she was closer Jane perched on a fallen tree trunk and waited. Ivo looked as though he wanted to be alone and was probably escaping, as she was, from the demands of the household. When he was gone she would explore the little folly and perhaps make a quick sketch. It might make an interesting background for a picture of the gamekeepers.
Ivo was in no hurry to move along. He was standing by the door into the little hermitage, a Gothic fantasy, built with a half-ruined turret. The roof was intact, tiled and thick with moss and, as she wondered if it was unlocked, Ivo stooped and went in. He was inside for perhaps ten minutes and she began to worry. What if there were fallen timbers in there and he had tripped and hit his head? Or a well...
Just at the point where she was about to get to her feet and follow him he came out, stood for a moment with one hand on the door jamb, then strode off.
As she picked her way over the tussocky grass she wondered what had kept him in there for so long. Was he in retreat, not just from the demands of the household and the wedding preparations, but from her, the woman he did not love but was committed to marrying? It was an unpleasant thought.
Despite the unsettling reflections, she smiled at the detail of the little building as she came closer. There was tracery in the single window and some miniature grotesques carved under the roof—snarling beasts, strange foliage and comical characters pulling faces.
It was dimly lit inside, the sunshine filtered through a drapery of cobwebs over the window, and she wondered afresh what had detained Ivo. There was nothing to see, nowhere to sit. Perhaps he was checking its condition. She glanced down and saw marks on the dusty floor as though someone had scooped up a handful of dry dirt. Scooped it up and... She turned slowly, studying the little room. He had spread it on the window ledge.
Jane went outside, picked up a handful of grass and used it to sweep the ledge clear. Underneath were words carved into the soft stone. They stood out, white and sharp as though someone had just cleaned them with a knife, and she realised that was what Ivo must have been doing. Cleaning them and then covering them up. She almost brushed the dust back across them, some instinct telling her to leave well alone, not give in to curiosity, but the temptation was too great.
Daphne, naiad of the stream,