Jared was silent over breakfast, which did not concern Guin overmuch. The experience of two very different husbands at the breakfast table had taught her that men tended to be taciturn first thing in the morning. Last night she had hoped he would have joined her in her bedchamber after dinner, but when he did not come she told herself that he was concerned for her rest and her reputation. Although, now she thought about it, he had been silent at dinner too.
She had expected him to join her and Faith in the carriage when they set out immediately after breakfast, but he ordered Dover into the coach, Thomas and Peter the footmen onto the back, and mounted the sturdy black hunter that Augustus had kept at Allerton for tackling the rough upland country.
‘Mr Hunt is making me dizzy,’ she complained, half joking, after a few miles. ‘I never know which side of the coach he is going to appear on next.’
‘Shaking the fidgets out of the horse, I expect, my lady,’ Dover said, his own gaze flickering from side to side, watching the country as they passed with far more attention that the hills and dales merited. Guin noticed that he had a rapier at his hip and that there were pistol butts sticking out of both the holsters built into the side panels of the coach.
It took two hours to reach Cross Holme, the manor house that was now the Quenten cousins’ main home. It was situated just outside Whitby near the hamlet of Uggle Barnaby, which reduced Faith to helpless giggles, convinced that the name must be a joke by the inhabitants.
‘It is very small. Just a farmhouse really,’ Guin said as they all looked at the stone house flanked by high walls that curved away to enclose, she supposed, stables and yards.
‘It is nothing like as fine as Allerton Grange.’ Faith wrinkled her nose. ‘They must have been very sad to have to sell that.’
‘It was probably a relief if they had difficulty keeping up two houses. Much better to concentrate all the limited resources on one small one, I would have thought.’ Even so, the house had an indefinable air of neglect about it, which was depressing.
Thomas jumped down and ran to knock and Guin reminded herself that this was, in a sense, a homecoming for him, with many of the servants familiar from when he had worked for the Quentens. Certainly the door was opened wide as soon as whoever answered it saw who was standing there and Thomas came back to the carriage with an elderly butler by his side.
‘This is Hopchurch, my lady.’
‘I fear we are not expected,’ Guin said to the old man who regarded her dourly from red-rimmed, watery eyes. ‘But I took the chance that my late husband’s cousins would be at home. Is Mrs Quenten receiving?’
‘I’ll ask, m’lady.’ He turned, stumped off back to the front door and they all sat patiently until he reappeared and made vague gestures at Thomas who seemed able to interpret them.
‘You are all to come in, my lady. Do
n’t mind Hopchurch, he’s a right misery, always was.’
Guin was not sure how he managed it, but Jared was off his horse and through the door in front of her and Dover was close on her heels as they went in. She felt apprehensive, as though Jared was poised to throw her behind a sofa as he had when the firework came down the chimney.
A couple in their mid-thirties rose to their feet as they entered, a large man who looked a little like Augustus if one knew to search for a resemblance and a short, plump woman with a determined chin and the air of having a temper, tightly controlled.
‘Welcome.’ The gentleman came forward holding out his hand in an awkward, angular manner as though his hands were bigger than he quite knew what to do with. ‘My dear Lady Northam – or may I call you Cousin? I am Julian Quenten and this is my wife, Mrs Quenten. Come, Lettie dear, and shake hands.’
Mrs Quenten took Guin’s hand limply then snatched her own away. She must be shy, Guin thought, trying to be charitable. A noise by the window made her look across to find two boys, perhaps eight and six years old, standing staring at them.
‘Come along boys, come and make your bows,’ Quenten urged. ‘This is Charles, named for my father.’ He put a possessive hand on the shoulder of the older lad who looked wide-eyed at Guin, bowed and then fixed his gaze on Jared. ‘And this is Hal.’
The younger boy bobbed his head at Guin then went to stand by his brother. ‘Is that a real sword?’
‘Yes,’ Jared said, his hand on the hilt. Mrs Quenten sat down abruptly on the sofa.
‘Permit me to introduce Mr Hunt, my agent,’ Guin said, determined that Jared was not going to be expected to join Faith and Dover in the kitchen. They all settled down, Jared in an upright chair slightly out of Mrs Quenten’s eye-line. Guin caught her giving him uneasy glances and supposed that the unexpected arrival of a black-clad, armed man in one’s sitting room was enough to alarm anyone.
Strangely the armchair that she sat in was warm, as though someone had just abandoned it. Mrs Quenten had been sitting there, perhaps.
The two boys stood obediently at their father’s knee but their eyes kept straying towards that tantalising rapier.
Guin remarked brightly on how pleasant the drive had been and how well situated Cross Holme was. When she sensed a slight relaxation in the room she smiled apologetically at her hostess. ‘I hope you will forgive our unannounced arrival, only it was such a lovely day and I had an impulse to buy some of the Whitby jet jewellery I had heard about. At the moment it seems very suitable.’ She brushed one hand over her black skirts, worn especially for the visit.
‘Of course. We were so very sorry to hear about the passing of our cousin,’ Mr Quenten said. ‘A fine gentleman.’
‘Thank you. Yes, he was indeed.’
There was a small silence, broken by the arrival of a maid and a footman with the tea tray and urn.
‘You have not been long at Allerton Grange on this occasion,’ Mrs Quenten remarked as she passed Guin a cup.
‘No, we travelled up after the funeral. London felt oppressive as I am sure you will appreciate. I felt the need to get away.’