Parting the Veil by Paulette Kennedy
CHAPTER 2
The next morning bloomed bright and sunny—a marked departure from the day before. Something smelled wonderful. Was it bacon? Eliza wiped the sleep from her eyes and sat up. Her long curls fell around her shoulders, tangled from her fitful night. Lydia was gone, her chemise lying across the foot of the bed.
Eliza went to the window and parted the curtains. The scene out-of-doors held far less mystique than it had by moonlight—daytime revealing the true state of the distant manor. From her vantage point, she saw the house was shaped vaguely like the letter H, with a glass-topped conservatory nestled like a jewel box in the hollow between wings. While the north-facing wing seemed to be in livable condition, the roof was collapsed at the rear elevation, its scorched attic rafters bared to the sky. So, there had been a fire. A recent one, by the look of it.
Eliza let the curtains fall back into place, her curiosity further stoked. An ewer of clean water stood on the washstand. Lydia must have brought it up earlier. She washed her face and hands in the basin, braided her hair into a knotted plait, and went downstairs.
She was greeted by the sight of Lydia panfrying eggs in the simple, delft-blue kitchen, her curls tied back with a scrap of lace. Thick slices of bacon sat on the sideboard, alongside a crusty baguette. Lydia scooped the eggs from the cast-iron skillet and handed a plate to Eliza. “I wondered when you’d be getting up.”
“You found food? And coal for the cookstove?”
“We have chickens out back—three fat little hens and a rooster. Mr. Mason brought us the rest of the groceries and filled the coal scuttle.”
“Oh, that was generous.” Eliza piled food onto her plate, then followed Lydia to the trestle table in the corner, where a porcelain teapot steamed. She shook out a napkin and hungrily tucked into her eggs. “We’ll go to market later and get everything else we need. I’d have been up earlier to help cook if the storm hadn’t woken me last night.”
“Storm?” Lydia shook her head, curls bouncing. “I don’t recall any storm.”
“It was quite the banger. I’m surprised you slept through it.”
“Having your dreams again?”
“No, this wasn’t a dream, I’m sure of it.” Eliza took a sip of tea, the tang of Earl Grey sharp on her tongue. “There was a rider across the way—coming from the ruined mansion next door. He saw me standing at the window.”
Lydia shrugged her shoulders and stirred milk into her tea. “You always liked to ride Hercules at night. Oh . . . that reminds me, we’ve a trap and horse in the stables. A handsome little Arab. I walked the property with Mr. Mason this morning. I met a few of the tenants. Things aren’t nearly as dire as I thought they’d be.”
Eliza pushed back a sudden twinge of jealousy. Lydia was four years younger—twenty-one to Eliza’s twenty-five—but no one would know it from the way she acted. She was ever taking charge.
There came a shrill whirring from the far wall. A clock with a peaked top, carved like a Swiss chalet, chimed eight times. A grotesque little red-eyed bird emerged, its beak on a hinge. It finally gave up its tired cuckooing and disappeared with a snap.
“That clock has got to go,” Lydia said.
“Well. I quite like it,” Eliza said with a crisp nod. “It can stay.”
They were beating rugs on the portico after a long morning of housecleaning when a young courier wobbled up the drive on a cycle. He dismounted, tipped his cap to Lydia, and turned to Eliza. The sunlight caught a strand of his sandy hair, turning it to pale gold. Eliza startled and took a step back.
It isn’t him, Liza.Not every fair-haired boy you meet is him.
“Are you Miss Sullivan?”
“I am.” Eliza clutched her apron to still the sudden tremor in her hands.
“I’ve brought a note from Miss Polly Whitby. She’s your neighbor.” The boy passed her a sealed envelope addressed with a feminine hand.
“How kind. Does she live in the big house next to us?” Eliza motioned in the direction of the fire-scarred manor.
The boy gave a nervous laugh. “No, miss. That’s the old Havenwood place. Miss Whitby lives on the other side of you. She’s the admiral’s daughter. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble, she’s requested your answer while I wait.”
Eliza opened the envelope as Lydia peered over her shoulder. Inside, there was an invitation to afternoon tea and a pressed violet. It tumbled onto the flagstone pavement and the boy bent to retrieve it, handing it to Eliza with a shy smile.
“Thank you very much. What was your name, young sir?”
“I’m Nigel Phelps, miss. I’m always round the lane.”
“Please tell Miss Whitby we’d be delighted, Nigel.”
“I surely will.” He replaced his cap and climbed onto his cycle, wobbling back through the gates.
“Our first proper English tea, Lyddie,” Eliza said. “What shall we bring our hostess?”
Lydia’s mouth twisted. “Perhaps you should go alone. My name wasn’t on the envelope.”
“She likely doesn’t know about you, cher.”
“I suppose you’re right. Let’s finish these rugs, then we’ll go freshen up.”
Polly Whitby was every bit the perfect English rose. That was Eliza’s first thought upon seeing her neighbor’s bright blue eyes and ash-blond hair. She ushered them into a parlor replete with tufted velvet divans and salmon-pink curtains that matched the rather overblown dress she was wearing. Eliza presented the bouquet of peonies she’d gathered from the garden and took a seat across from their hostess while Lydia stood off to the side, arms crossed over her waist.
“Miss Whitby, this is Lydia. She’s my sister.”
Polly offered Lydia a prim smile. “Please, Miss Sullivan, have a seat. Bandini will be in with our tea in only a moment.”
“It’s Miss Tourant, not Sullivan.” Lydia swept her lilac-hued skirts to the side and perched next to Eliza, as if she were a terrified bird about to take flight. “Eliza is only my half sister.”
“I see.” Polly looked from Lydia to Eliza, quietly assessing.
Eliza wondered how long it would be before the inevitable questions began. Have you the same father? Or mother? The comparisons would come next—often politely silent, but still made—eyes darting from her own pale, freckled skin and copper-blond curls to Lydia’s luminous olive complexion and coiled brown ringlets.
Polly’s demure scrutiny was interrupted at that moment by a maid in a brilliant fuchsia sari. She was bearing a tray stacked with dainty cakes, fragrant steaming tea, and a silver service. Polly poured and passed an enameled teacup to Eliza. “You’ll want lots of milk and sugar in this.” She dropped two lumps into Eliza’s cup, following it with a generous splash of milk, then did the same for Lydia. “Now stir.”
After a few turns with a spoon, the saffron-colored liquid melted into a lovely shade of gold. Eliza raised the cup to her lips and was rewarded with an exquisite, spicy sweetness. Her eyebrows lifted. “This is delightfully uncommon.”
“Magical, isn’t it? Bandini makes the very best chai. I grew up in Calcutta, you know. When my father was raised to admiral, he sent me home to manage the estate. We’re all tied to the navy here, every last one of us. They even weave sailcloth for the fleet in the village.” Polly took a breath, crossing her legs and sitting back against her chair. “My friend Sarah Nelson will be joining us shortly. I hope you don’t mind. We’ve all been a bit curious about you. We were most surprised when Lady Sherbourne didn’t will her estate to the church. She must have cared a great deal for you.”
“That’s the funny thing—I didn’t know my aunt at all. She and my mother were close, but I was barely four when I met her. I only remember a tall woman in a very large hat. It was a shock to find I’d been granted her estate. I’m meeting with her solicitor to go over the details of the will tomorrow.”
“Well. Sherbourne House is a fine home, and should you need a housekeeper, a butler, or any other staff, I should be pleased to provide references for you.”
“Thank you, but I think we’ll manage on our own. Lydia and I were raised on a farm. We’re used to housekeeping.”
Polly’s cheeks colored. “Perhaps you might change your mind. These country homes require constant upkeep. They tend to decline rapidly without the proper care. The damp weather, you know. You’ll at least need a cook. The Wards’ cook just trained a new girl and they’re sending her out. She’s Irish, but she’s a hard worker and doesn’t blather on too much about her popery.”
Lydia covered the dainty crucifix at her throat with quick fingers.
“Our father was Irish,” Eliza said, the corners of her mouth curling. “From Kildare.”
“Well.” Polly cleared her throat.
“Regarding houses in disrepair, who lives in the house at the crossroads?” Eliza asked, eager to change the subject. “The Second Empire with the metal gates?”
Polly shifted in her chair and looked down. “They’re an old Hampshire family. It’s a tragic story, really.”
“Was there a fire? It looks it.”
“There was. Three winters ago. Thomas Winfield—he was the fourth Viscount Havenwood—died in the fire as well as his son Gabriel,” Polly said. “His eldest son, Malcolm, is the only remaining person living there. He’s inherited the title.”
So it had been Malcolm out riding the night before. “And was there a mother? A viscountess?”
“Yes, but no one knows what happened to her.” Polly’s eyes widened as she relaxed into a gossiping tone. “She disappeared afterwards. They dredged the river, searched the forest, but she’s never turned up. She’d gone quite mad, you see. She hadn’t been out in society for some time before the fire.”
“How terrible it is to lose your entire family.” Eliza blinked twice. “It’s difficult to carry on after something like that.” She swallowed more of the tea to chase the sudden taste of metal from her tongue and concentrated on the dizzying wallpaper.
“They’ve always been an odd family—scandalous, even. There’s talk of murder. That he might have even killed his mother. We really don’t associate with him.” Polly gave a tight smile. “I’d advise you do the same.”
The doorbell rang, and a young woman with plump, pretty features and dressed in mannish clothes was let into the room. Polly stood to receive her kisses. “Sarah, these are our new neighbors: Miss Eliza Sullivan and her sister, Miss Lydia Tourant. I was just telling them about Lord Havenwood and the fire.”
“Polly!” Sarah scolded. “Bringing out all the mad cats straightaway, are we? You’ll terrify them!” She turned to Lydia and Eliza, sweeping her hat from her head with a gallant flourish. “Hello. I’m Sarah Nelson. Our Polly’s a raging gossip. Pay her no mind. Malcolm’s a bit strange, that’s all.”
“Pleasure.” Eliza offered her hand. “I found the conversation invigorating. I want to learn everything about Hampshire I can. It’s delightful to finally be here.”
Sarah gave Eliza’s fingers a squeeze and turned to greet Lydia. “Our first Americans in Cheltenbridge! They’re like perfect dolls, aren’t they, Polly?”
Polly inclined her head, her eyes narrowing. “Quite.”
“If you’re all settled in at Sherbourne House, you should come to our ball. Grandmama is inviting all the local gentry.”
“Sarah’s grandmother is Countess Gregory,” Polly explained. “She holds a country ball to ring in each summer solstice.”
Sarah gave a conspiratorial grin and wrinkled her nose. “It’s a matchmaking ball.”
Eliza’s back stiffened. “Oh, I’m not looking for a husband.” She gripped the arm of the chair, counting the rounded upholstery tacks beneath her fingers. She was wary of this sort of conversation—the same one she’d had every year since her eighteenth birthday, in parlors just like this one an ocean away.
“Surely you and your sister are of marriageable age and status?” Polly prodded.
“Yes, but . . .”
“Well,” Sarah interrupted, “I’m wed this past spring, but my husband dislikes social functions. They give him dyspepsia. I’d rather like to see the two of you there. I’d imagine you cut fine figures on a dance floor.”
“Do they have coming-out balls where you’re from?” Polly asked.
“Of course, Miss Whitby,” Lydia said, her tone measured.
Polly sniffed. “Yet, neither of you have married?”
Eliza sighed. Mon Dieu, this one wasn’t giving up. “Obviously not.”
“But who controls your inheritance and your allowance?”
“We do,” Eliza and Lydia answered in unison.
Sarah clapped her hands and perched on the arm of a nearby chair. “Independent women. How admirable!”
“Still,” said Eliza, “it would be lovely to have the occasion to dress up. It’s been too long since we danced. If your grandmother is receptive to two more guests on her list, we’d be honored, Mrs. Nelson.”
“It’s settled! I’ll send a carriage to your door at nine o’clock next Tuesday night!”