Midsummer Night Read Free Page B

were made in the morning, and the linen cupboard was on another floor entirely. But Hoots had been growing more and more feeble in the head, and there was no telling what instructions he had given to the girl. I made a note to suggest to Aunt Hermia that a housekeeper might prove a useful addition if Hoots were terrorising the maids. The last one had quit in rebellion against his tyrannies, and it was proving harder and harder to keep good staff so long as he was in command.
    I gave the girl a friendly smile to put her at her ease. “You must be one of the new girls taken on for the wedding, is that right?”
    The bundle nodded.
    “What is your name?”
    “Bess,” she said, her voice a muffled squeak.
    “Well, Bess. Welcome to Bellmont Abbey.”
    The wide eyes blinked furiously, and I left her then. No point in discomfiting the girl further, and the dinner gong had just sounded. I hurried off while she struggled out from under the linen, hoping she would find her way.
    I hurried my maid, Morag, along in the dressing so I could be among the first down to the hall to mingle with the guests before dinner. Brisbane was expected to dine with us, and I had high hopes of stealing a few minutes alone with him in the course of the evening. With that in mind, I had Morag lace me into my most daring gown, a delicious scarlet taffeta affair that rustled like autumn leaves when I moved. My colour was high enough I needed no rouge, and the only jewel I wore was a pendant Brisbane had given me at the conclusion of our first investigation—a silver coin struck with the head of Medusa 3 . The code incised on the back of it was a secret between us, but it had been my first proof of his affections, and as such, that pendant meant more to me than any other jewels I had owned—even the Grey Pearls. Famed for having once belonged to Catherine the Great, the exquisitely matched set had been a gift from my late husband, Edward. They had been purchased by his family as a conceit to their last name of Grey, although the gems themselves had been named for their dusky hue. I had never worn them easily. They were heavy, monstrous things, and the double-headed imperial eagle clasp had always pecked me in the neck.
    But they had been a glorious temptation to Charlotte King, and in our previous encounter with her, she had cached them in the most ludicrous hiding place one could imagine—inside the moth-eaten pelt of Maurice, the grizzly bear my uncle had shot in the Yukon and sent home to Bellmont to be stuffed and given pride of place outside the great hall.
    He stood there still, his pelt somewhat the worse for having been torn open to retrieve the pearls after Charlotte’s flight and apprehension. I gave him a little pat as I made my way into what had once been the Chapel of the Nine Altars. Before the Dissolution, the good Benedictine brothers had worshipped in this space, but under the Marches, the great stone chamber had been transformed into a sort of reception space, grand and imposing, with an enormous vaulted ceiling soaring high overhead and windows of stained glass that shone like rare jewels in the setting sun. It was very nearly the longest day of the year, and the sun lingered, gilding everything in the gardens and sending shafts of violet, crimson, and blue light across the grey stone floors. Here and there a broad Turkey carpet warmed the floor, and even though it was high summer a fire had been lit in one of the great fireplaces—once an altar niche—to drive the chill from the stones. It was a ludicrous room, really, but one of my favourites at the Abbey, and not least because it was where the drink was kept.
    I made a beeline for the table that held the spirits and nodded to my own butler, Aquinas, who had been recruited to help with the festivities—a polite way of saying Aunt Hermia had begged him to take charge of everything while she petted old Hoots and told him he must only supervise so as not to tire himself unduly.