The Rake of Hearts by Emily Windsor
Skeletons in the castle stables
“Aren’t you bored?”
Hebe glanced over the top of her book. “No.” Then returned to the page.
From the seat opposite came muttering.
Sighing.
Rustling.
“Are you reading something educational?”
“No.”
More rustling. “I don’t know how you can read in a carriage. All this swaying about. I always travelled on horseback in Persia. Don’t you feel nauseous after a full seven hours of this?”
“No.” As a matter of fact, the duke’s carriage was so well-sprung it was like gliding on your own personal cloud. And when it had arrived at their abode in Conduit Street at dawn, they’d thought it had the wrong address. Four glossy chestnuts had pulled a polished coach of blue with an interior that Hebe could quite contentedly live in for the rest of her days – embossed door handles, Moroccan sleeping cushions, mahogany shutters and brass beading to the leather. The ducal crest had defied turnpikes and secured private dining parlours for breakfast and lunch. “Why don’t you try to sleep, Aunt?”
“That chicken pie at the Oxford inn has given me dyspepsia.” She sniffed. “’Tisn’t good for the mind, you realise? All that reading. Unless it’s something salacious of course–”
The book was snatched from Hebe’s hand. “Aunt, I was–”
“The Wicked Rakehell Deceives the Innocent Debutante by an improbable Mrs Lily Longleat!Well done, Hebe. I’m proud of you.”
She huffed and seized her Gothic novel back, stuffing it to her carpetbag. “I’m not reading it for that. But I do wish I’d read such novels when I was younger in order to be forewarned. They would’ve taught me much.” She began to count on her fingers. “One – rakes do not make the best husbands. Two – do not wander into the dark shrubbery alone. Three – do not trust men with white teeth. Four – do not act upon strange notes from the suspicious groom, and Five, most unfortunately – do not accept invitations to haunted castles in the middle of a rainstorm.”
On cue, a lash of rain hit the window as the heavens released another English summer deluge, blurring the countryside to a sea of grey.
Chatter and a book had not been required earlier, Oxfordshire’s rolling green landscape occupying their eyes and thoughts. Bundles of luxuriantly fleeced sheep, long necked and square bulked, had huddled against stone walls, the pasture verdant and sweet fragranced, trees dotting the gentle hills like fungus. Occasionally, they had rattled through a village, the church’s spire tall and proud, with nestled square stone houses fringing a village green, and winding lanes leading to hidden manors.
Never before had Hebe ventured beyond London’s outskirts and a strange new mood of…anticipation swelled within – of adventure and the unknown.
“Burford!” the coachman yelled from his perch, and as if the heavens wished them to view the town at its best, the rain lessened to dribbling droplets and a single shaft of sunlight parted the clouds.
Their coach slowed to a halt and Hebe frowned. The Rothwell footman then descended in a flap of wet capes and attached something to the wheels before he nimbly regained his seat. He’d informed them earlier that all outbound coaches usually stopped in Burford for a change of horses and some grub at The Bull, but Wychmere Castle and its village were a mere five miles further, so they were due to continue. Hebe pulled down the window and popped out her head to view this town built upon the trade of wool.
Then wished she had not.
For ahead a hill of precipitous downwards verticality threatened, which explained why the footman had added a drag to the wheels, the rough cobbles of the thoroughfare the only other hindrance to a plunging descent.
Ignoring the fearsome prospect, she focused on the butter-coloured cottages lining the street, half-timbered with modest windows, and as they embarked on the hill, she lost count of the many coaching inns, their wide archways leading to stables behind. In the opposite direction came a stone-laden cart being hauled by additional horses, the slope so steep.
And then, all at once, they were crossing a stone bridge, the misty river bloated and swift beneath.
“Phew,” muttered Aunt. “I was asking forgiveness for my sins on that hill and had only reached number twelve.”
A clank denoted the drag being pulled away by a chain, and then the coach bore right, abandoning the principal road to join a smooth broad track, sodden beech trees lining a never-ending bower of peace, and after a while, Hebe sat back against the luxuriant indigo squabs with a sigh. “It’s so pretty even in this grey cloud. A perfect backdrop for my horses.”
“I’m pleased, dear.” Aunt rose and with an experienced hand to the roof strap, twisted and plonked herself beside Hebe. “By the way, I asked around about Lord Ernest and also consulted Debrett’s. He has nigh seven and twenty years, all his own teeth, and apparently his large hands are indeed indicative of–”
“Aunt! Enough. I have no wish to know.” And Debrett’s had certainly broadened its remit.
Hebe had been quite dismayed to learn of Lord Ernest’s presence at the castle and had considered whether to cancel this trip, but the opportunity to paint her beloved horses and not wanting to disappoint the duke had vanquished any concerns over pestilent rakes. In any case, the duke had told her that his castle contained three dining rooms, two drawing rooms, three libraries and thirty-six bedrooms, so it was wholly possible that she could avoid Lord Ernest for her entire visit.
“Prissy Prunella Pinchface,” Aunt Beatrice mumbled.
“Pardon?”
“Girl at school. You know the type. Wears her chemise in the bath.”
Hebe avoided her aunt’s gimlet eye and looked to the floor of the coach instead. “Hmm.”
“It’s not your fault, Hebe. I blame your father. And then marrying you off to that man.”
“I was the one who pleaded for the marriage, Aunt.”
“A caring father would have made enquiries about your betrothed.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. I…I thought I loved Tobias.”
“Hah!”
“What do you mean by that? Do you not believe that with seventeen years one can fall in love?” Hebe slanted her head.
Now it was Aunt Beatrice who avoided Hebe’s gaze, twisting to the window and the dripping trees that clasped each other like passionate weeping lovers.
“Oh, yes, Hebe,” she whispered. “Young and unencumbered by life’s portmanteau, I believe one can. But what we do not fully comprehend when young are the dictates of society and a woman’s place in those, with no choice but to obey.” Her lips thinned. “We do not necessarily understand our darker emotions. Jealousy. Malice. Anger.” She shook her head. “And your husband had those in abundance. A handsome countenance masking such ugliness, but at seventeen, you wouldn’t have seen it and–”
The carriage slammed to a halt, throwing them to their knees.
“Get them bloody sheep off the drawbridge!” the coachman yelled from his perch.
“Drawbridge?” both Hebe and her aunt mouthed from the carriage floor, before they reclaimed their seats, thrust their heads out the window and…gawked.
For ahead, drifting upon a lily pad of an island was a beautiful golden flower of a castle – monumental and wondrous.
Formidable walls of square-cut stone defended, but within were turrets stretching to the low clouds while glimpses of mullioned windows and crenelated parapets beckoned any invader to test their mettle.
An arched gatehouse guarded the entrance to this island castle, its drawbridge linked to a lengthy wooden bridge construction which spanned the wide surrounding moat.
And streaming from that bridge like a flurry of drifting snow was a flock of sheep chased by a ruby-faced man togged in tidy Rothwell blue.
“Who bloody let them in here?” he screamed. “And where’s that damnable shepherd?” He shooed the flock from before the carriage, panting and cursing. “They’ve pissed in the wine cellar aga–”
“Evening, Mr Garvey,” the coachman bellowed. “Ladies aboard.”
“Oh, don’t mind us,” cooed Aunt. “We’re very broad-minded, eh, Hebe?”
But the fellow had regained his mien and hastened to the carriage window to bow with a flourish.
“Ladies, my abject apologies. The name’s Garvey. I am the castle’s butler. And Lord Ernest also requests your forgiveness as he is unable to greet you. His lordship is in Witney for the day on important matters and then to Wychmere village.”
“With Lydia again, is he?” called the coachman. “She’s a demanding one, and no mistake.” And he snapped the reins to continue across the moat bridge.
Leaning back to their seats, Hebe rolled her eyes. “You see, Aunt. Lord Ernest is otherwise occupied.”
The dissolute buck fitch.
And with a true Prissy Prunella Pinchface purse of lips, Hebe turned to the window.
The moat lay calm as they crossed it, like a vast expanse of melted silver, rain mist shrouding the castle in drab petticoats, and Hebe could not prevent a tremor as they clattered beneath the arched gateway and into a sizeable, cobbled courtyard. A limestone wall of some eight foot rose ahead with a sturdy double wooden door concealing the principal buildings beyond.
To both sides, an array of stables and stalls were laid out, built in timber and stone. Young grooms brushed down beautiful mares and picked their hooves with curved hooks. A colt skittered as he was saddled and a fine grey poked his head over a gate at the goings-on. Hebe smiled – to sketch all these splendid animals in this setting was more than she could ever have asked for.
“Hebe, dear. Are you well?”
A concerned hand touched her cheek and she realised a tear had trailed. “Yes, fine. I’m just…content.”
“Good. We shall have a fulsome dinner and retire early. ’Twas such a prompt start and I haven’t been awake at five in the morning since that trip up the Nile.”
The carriage door clattered open, the steps were lowered and Hebe hastened to the damp cobbles, a rough hand assisting. “My thanks. Oh, Aunt, isn’t it wonderful?”
Silence.
Which was most unusual, and she turned.
Aunt Beatrice had halted, one booted foot to the top step, her gloved fingers held within the…stable master’s, Hebe guessed, as although the man’s clothes were tousled, they were of good quality, a mane comb protruding from his pocket.
The two of them simply stared at one another and Hebe could not quite discern their expressions – surprise, certainly.
“Aunt?”
Beatrice’s head snapped around. “Oh, sorry, dear.” And she tugged her hand away, stalking down the carriage steps unaided. “What were you saying?”
“It’s wonderful, is it not? And this is just the stables.”
The man gave a curt nod and strode off to the stalls, leaving them dawdling on the cobbles as lads rushed to unhitch the horses, others goggling at their mountain of luggage.
“Thee the artist thas gonna bide awhile?”
A whack of stick upon stone and Hebe twisted to an elderly gentleman sitting upon a wooden bench beneath a jutting roof. He was slender with ruddy cheeks and a slouched cap upon iron-grey hair. And for some reason, a white goat with no tail stood patiently by his side.
“Er… I’m Mrs Locke, an artist, yes. And this is my aunt, Mrs Cassell.”
From the interior of the stalls came a loud snort – horse or man, it was difficult to tell.
“I be Grampy Tom, retired stable master by twenty years or so, and I be here to keep an eye on the youngsters so they don’t make a hackle of it.”
“Good afternoon, Mr Grampy Tom. I’m pleased to meet you.” Hebe gripped her upper arms and rubbed them. “I do hope this grey weather clears.”
One of the lads noticeably groaned, but the elderly stable master beamed and perused the weather cock as it snoozed in stationary lassitude upon the tiled roof.
“Well, lass, if you ask I, the south wind always brings wet weather.”
“So…”
“The north wind wet and cold together.”
“So…”
“The west wind brings the rain.”
“And the east?”
“East wind blows it all back here again.”
“So…”
“It’s going to rain… Though might not, never can tell when the frogs are quiet.” He gave a roguish wink.
Deciding she rather liked the grizzled man, Hebe grinned and returned his wink before swivelling to dash after her aunt who was striding purposefully in Garvey the butler’s wake. Those sturdy double doors in the limestone wall were now ajar and once through, Hebe and her aunt both halted in astonishment.
At the far end lay the principal castle building but the oasis before it stole one’s breath.
A formal Tudor Garden of herbs and hollyhocks decorated the left, a riot of colour and scent that even on this dreary day could not be subdued. And to the right stood verdant six-foot beech hedges as though from a Brothers Grimm fairy tale come to life.
“That’s just the maze,” explained Garvey as though every garden had one, and they both blinked in wonder before following him up the stone path which divided the two areas of this original bailey. “There’s also an enclosed walkway there to reach the stables, accessed through the Great Hall should the weather be inclement.”
Briefly, they paused to admire the stronghold before them. “It’s beautiful,” Hebe whispered.
It soared indomitable and proud, its creamy colour not dulled in the slightest by the leaden cloud, and carved above the studded arched door was a sundial with bronzed gnomon, unable to proclaim the hour as though time had ceased to be important.
A twin-turreted portal jutted from the frontage, two-storeyed wings to either side with perfectly aligned mullioned windows reflecting the skies. Further turrets stood at each corner, flags fluttering atop.
Hebe tipped her head back to survey the high-up arrow slits which betrayed this building’s benign façade, and above those, crenelated tops brooded with menace.
The butler smiled at their gawps; now he’d lost the redness to his cheeks, she could see he was fairly young – mid-thirties or thereabouts – with kind eyes. “Lord Ernest will be able to tell you more, but far back ’twere an abbey, then a royal garrison, but extensively rebuilt in Tudor times. It’s listed in the Domesday book, although there’s nothing left of the abbey nowadays except some ghostly monks and the Grey Lady.”
“Grey Lady?”
“Do not fear, she never strays from the West Tower.”
Gosh.
“Well, it’s all breath-taking. And Lord Ernest himself… Where does he…” Hebe’s eyes flickered over the many windows. “Which floor is he…”
“His lordship resides in the detached Ladies Tower, madam.”
Wouldn’t he just.
“Why then,” she said brightly, “we shall hardly see him.”
Garvey puckered his lips. “Er… ’Tis behind you.” He pointed to a… Well, a two-storey, rectangular Tower immediately to the right. “It has a tunnel which leads to the main house where Lord Ernest takes his repast each day in the smaller dining room.”
Hebe winced. “I see. I’m led to believe there are three dining rooms. Are the others often used?”
“Well, madam. The larger sits a hundred and twenty and the third is the Banqueting Hall which sits over three hundred, so not often.”
Grimacing, Hebe swivelled to her aunt, expecting a smug grin, but instead she was still staring back at the stables.
“I’ll ring for the housekeeper and footman,” excused the butler. “Would you like to wait inside?”
“We’ll stay here, thank you, Garvey. After travelling so long in the coach, we might stroll a moment to stretch our legs.”
He bowed and turned towards the impressive oak door.
“Have you ever seen anything so wonderful, Aunt?”
“No, indeed, dear.”
“And was that a pink unicorn peeking from the upper parapet.”
“That’s nice, dear,” said Aunt, twisting her necklace with a frown.
“What’s wrong?”
“I…” She bit her lip. Appeared sad. An expression that Hebe had never, not once, witnessed upon her aunt’s unlined features.
“Are you well, Aunt?” Hebe reached out a hand.
“Yes… No.” She blinked. “I might as well tell you now as you may possibly notice some distraction from me.” Aunt Beatrice inhaled as though garnering all courage. “Hebe, we’ve never talked of this but… You must have heard gossip of my scandalous youthful…indiscretion.”
“Not in any detail.”
“Well, I…I supposed myself in love with a man named Redmond O’Conner.”
“A fine Irish name.”
“Hmm.” She knotted fingers in her elegant pelisse, forehead wrinkled. “It… He was… Well, the point is, Hebe… He was my father’s…groom.”
“Ah.”
“Hmm. And…well, you see… That was him.”
“The butler?”
“No, dear. The man who helped us from the carriage.”
“Oh.”
“Quite.”
“What a coincidence.”
“I should say so. A substantial one.”
“And is this good…or bad?”
Her aunt sighed. “Neither. More…sombre.” She pressed a hand to her chest. “Never did I imagine I’d even recognise him after all these years but the eyes do not change with age, especially Redmond’s coal-black gaze.” She shook her head. “One always considers, of course, what one would do upon meeting a past love by chance, and… Well, let us just say, I always thought I would be nonchalant and carefree, laugh at my girlish folly… But to see Redmond… Well, I feel all of seventeen again. Not a pleasant feeling in the least.”
A grim-faced woman clad head-to-toe in black glided forth from the castle door – the housekeeper, Hebe supposed, who only needed a monk’s robe to complete the spectral disguise, and trailing her was a gaunt young footman, shoulders stooped and face pale.
Tapping a foot, Hebe frowned. “As my Gothic novel foretold, Aunt, we will all have to be on our guard. For debauched rakes, coal-eyed grooms and invitations to the darkened shrubbery.”