From: Lady Corinna Capener — 32 Portman Square — London
To: Lady Georgiana Seymour — Farindel Hall — Sandgate, Kent
November 1, 1792
My dearest friend,
The days of adventure are over. Romance is dead. We were not waylaid by a highwayman on our way to London.
Instead, my brother arranged everything so that we traveled by easy stages and stopped each night at inns along the way. I wish I could have traveled to town as Rupert did, on the back of a horse. Instead, Jaminna and I rode in the carriage and took turns trying to entertain little Henry. Six-year-old boys should never be closed up in a carriage for three days on end. Neither should twenty-year-old ladies.
You know I cannot read while traveling in a carriage without becoming quite ill, so I watched out the window and tried to think of games and stories engaging enough to while away the time. Lacking imagination, I borrowed some of yours.
But Georgie, there is one particularly lonely, atmospheric stretch of road between Highgate and Islington that sparked my imagination. I will try to capture the flight of fancy it inspired and the story I told Minna and Henry.
‘Millions of stars shimmer above us. A low mist eddies over the road. I, the stupendously beautiful and spoiled Lady Corinna Anne Capener, wealthy beyond words, (it is my story after all), am making my way to take London by storm.
‘But what is this? Just as the full moon rises over the trees on the eastern horizon, a daring thief rides out of the woods, shoots into the air, and bellows, “Stand and deliver.”
‘The carriage pulls to a shuddering stop. The horses buck and blow, mist rising from their backs. The carriage door opens, and a tall, dark man looms over us. His face is lean and chiseled—No wait, the lower portion of his face is hidden by a mask, and his eyes gleam from beneath the shadow of his hat.
‘I lift my chin and climb down into the terrifying night, bravely shielding my fellow travelers. Just like in the accounts of Claude Duval, that famous 17th century knight of the road, my gentleman highwayman bows over my hand and agrees to accept less plunder if I dance with him on the moonlit roadside.’
I admit I felt quite proud of this gripping beginning to my story. Both Henry and Minna were enthralled. Then Rupert rode up beside us to ask after our comfort. He reminded me of more prosaic probabilities, and I laughed. Even if we were stopped by a thief who was dressed in the latest fashion and acted in the most gentlemanly manner, you know my brother would not like to be relieved of fifty guineas and tied to a tree.
And with my luck our highwayman wouldn’t be a nobleman in disguise, forced by his evil, usurping uncle to make his living on the high toby, but only a garden variety crook, determined to take my pearl ring and necklace and the few pence I had in my reticule.
Worse, it is much more likely I would stare mutely, like a dullard, rather than banter and jest with my creation. I hate to disappoint you, but I am not made for adventure, except as it happens in books.
Despite the uncomfortable monotony (and lack of romantic highwaymen), we arrived in London yesterday and settled into Capener Court. Minna says she is eager to take me shopping to update my wardrobe for the coming season. Can you believe it? She is the most generous soul and exceedingly kind to me when any other lady would resent having to chaperon her husband’s younger sister for a second year.
Really, I don’t know how Rupert convinced her to marry him. Not that he isn’t a good brother, but you know how stuffy and conventional he can be. And we won’t even mention how miserly, not that Minna regards that for one moment. She seems to find it an amusing challenge.
I thank you for the note you slipped into my reticule. It was a delightful interlude on the long journey, although I am not concerned that you will languish as you predict in your note. Before the month is out you will find something to entertain you, even in Folkestone. Exciting things always happen around you. To illustrate, I remind you of the infamous ‘mystery of the purloined handkerchief,’ and the questions surrounding ‘who put the toad in the Vicar’s soup bowl?’
I so wish you could have come with me to town this season as we planned. It is a tragedy that your uncle chose this precise time to ride into a fence at Chester Racecourse and die. I am truly sorry for your family’s loss, but you never knew him, so even three months of mourning seems too long to me.
I just read the last and realize how heartless I sound, but I am feeling selfish. If you were here, the season would be bearable. Instead, I am doomed to endure another string of parties and balls where I must pretend interest in men who have no interest in me beyond my portion, and whose conversation is limited to the weather, their horses and carriages, and the hunt. They would never discuss any interesting topics, with a ‘delicate lady.’
On that topic, I ask you, why is a woman who is as tall as many of the men she stands up with considered delicate? That question is impossible to answer, so I will admit to the more selfish reason I wish you were here. Dearest Georgie, I don’t know how I am to continue my correspondence with Lord Wycliffe if you are not here to smuggle my letters out to the post.
I have thought to beg one of the servants to help me, but they are loyal to Rupert and Minna. No sooner than I reveal my need to one of the maids, I fear she will expose me. I don’t like to think of what my brother will do if he ever discovers that I’ve been exchanging letters with an unrelated, unmarried gentleman, even if it is under the guise of his name.
It must end, I know. I only await Lord Wycliffe’s response to the abstract of my article on Maria Theresa, and then I will stop writing to him. I have already tempted fate far longer than is safe.
Pray for me. Or, upon second thought, don’t pray for me. The last time you prayed to be released from attending Lady Marianne’s birthday celebration, we had pouring rain for weeks.
My dearest friend, Minna is at my door. We are to go to Bond Street this morning to replace my torn pelisse. I hope my letter finds you well, and that you’ll write soon and report all the news. I know you well enough to believe you will have at least one exciting tale.
Ever your affectionate friend,
Corinna
P.S. I have tried to follow your request to give every detail and write as if I’m telling a story so you can imagine you are here with me. Please do the same. I miss you terribly already.
* * * * *
From: Lady Georgiana Seymour — Farindel Hall — Sadgate, Kent
To: Lady Corinna Capener –32 Portman Square — London
November 5, 1792
Dear Corinna,
You were right as you so often are. Exciting things happen, even on the Kentish coast, when you watch for them. For your entertainment, I will now share the account of Lady Georgiana Jane Seymour and the Haunted Keep.
Yes, I’m talking about Remington Keep. I have always loved that old, rambling medieval fort with its crenelated curtain wall and round towers. Under many false names, it figures in most of the stories that I write in my secret journal.
I am pleased to report that I have now been inside those cloistered halls. You are shocked, I’m sure.
Not only did I finally get to explore the keep, but I got permission to bring the children from the Folkestone-Sandgate-Hythe Blue Coat Charity School to forage next week around the pond and in the woodlands on the west of the estate.
When I rode past the keep recently, I saw walnuts, crab apples, and elder tree berries. The he hedges were full of red currant and bramble berries. The pond is bound to have watercress and water pepper in abundance.
But I must tell you how this miracle came to be.
Mama was ill again yesterday, so I attended the charity school board meeting at The Church of St. Martins in her stead. After the meeting, I waited in the church yard for my groom to bring the cart around, and what should I happen to see but Lord Remington’s old bulky carriage, loaded down with baggage and rumbling down Horn Street? When it passed, I could see the old baron, himself, riding in sullen, stately splendor.
It came to me in a flash of inspiration. This was my chance. The baron would never invite me into his home, but with him gone, I might be able to trick my way in. All I had to do was think of a reason why we needed to meet with John Caney, the baron’s steward.
I turned right around and convinced Miss Marjorie Hoskins, the primary school teacher, to go for a ride with me. (You will see why in a few moments).
I listened to all her objections while we rode up the hill. By the time I pulled up to the front steps of the keep, I had almost convinced Marjorie that we should try to get this treat for the children. She is devoted to her charges, so I prevailed, but only because I assured her that Lord Remington was away from home.
Our knock was answered by a sour-faced butler, almost as gloomy a character as the baron himself.
“We’re here for our appointment with Mr. Caney,” I announced.
He looked at me so disbelievingly, I am sure he guessed the truth, but I lifted my chin and looked down my nose at him. Then I took Marjorie’s arm and stepped forward. To my relief the butler backed up before I ran into his black clad chest.
“Please tell Mr. Caney that Lady Georgiana Seymour and Miss Marjorie Hoskins have arrived. We’ll wait for him in the drawing room.” I handed him my card.
Cora, it worked! He narrowed his eyes at me, but he took the card, bowed, and led us to the drawing room.
Marjorie sat, but you know I cannot be still when I am nervous. I wandered around examining the stonework of the fireplace and the carved moldings.
Just when Marjorie was about to retreat, Mr. Caney came. His hair was wet and newly brushed. His cravat crisply tied.
Marjorie popped up like a cork float and turned red. My suspicions were confirmed. I thought I’d seen some warmer feelings growing between them over the last few weeks. (They are far more entertaining to watch than the vicar).
It wasn’t long before Marjorie and Mr. Caney were talking as if I wasn’t there. In fact, it was Marjorie who broached the question of foraging on the grounds. While they planned, I slipped out to explore, watching ever so carefully so the butler wouldn’t catch me.
You would not believe the state of that lovely old keep. Every upholstered piece of furniture is faded and frayed. The carpets are worn through in places, and the trim work is grimed by smoke and dirt. I know Sir Alfred let most of his staff go, but it looks like those who are left don’t even try anymore.
Worse, the air smells musty, like no one has opened a window since before we were born. The walls echo with loneliness. How could you own this glorious home and not care for it? It broke my heart to see it this way.
The old skinflint doesn’t give a mite to help support local charities and barely patronizes the village shops. What does he do with all his money?
I wandered those haunted hallways and remembered every bit of gossip I’ve ever heard since I can remember.
Old Miss Barrows says that before Lord Alfred Remington inherited, some twenty-five years ago, he fell in love and married an aristocratic French girl he met while he was visiting Ireland. They had a child, but for all I’ve heard, no one remembers whether it was a son or daughter.
Some say his parents threatened to disown him, and Sir Alfred threw his wife out. Some say the young French baroness hated his family and ran away from him. She went to America, or Ireland, or back to the continent, depending on who is telling the story.
Everyone agrees that after she was gone, the baron locked himself up in his tower in rage and sorrow.
But Cora, what if it wasn’t sorrow at all? What if it was guilt at murdering her and her child in a moment of rage? I’m sure I heard the crying of the baron’s heartbroken wife echoing through the dark, deserted halls. Maybe a baby too. He probably dumped the bodies in the moat.
Do not point out that the keep doesn’t have a mote. I’m developing a story here.
My story and my exploration were cut short when I heard footsteps coming toward me. I ran as silently as I could and slipped back into the drawing room.
By then John and Marjorie were seated side by side, and he had given her permission to bring the children, not only next week but the week following as well.
I am pleased for our school children, but even more, I am determined to investigate further and learn more of the details of ‘the case of the haunted keep.’ I’ll keep you apprised.
Now before I close, my dear Corinna, do not think that I haven’t given any thought to your difficulties. As I see it, you have two options. The first is the most boring course of action. I wish you will ignore it, but you might just take your letters to the post yourself. You’d have to create a story to explain your sudden fascination with the mail, but I have faith in your ingenuity.
My second idea of how to get your letters into your brother’s outgoing post is better. All you need is to offer your brother his favorite drink and accidentally spill some of it. While he is distracted, you can slip your letter into his correspondence. He will never know.
Of course, this won’t work more than a few times. Soon he will refuse your every offer of refreshment, but it will give you time to watch the servants and try to discern which might be willing to help you.
Yours in every adventure,
Georgie
P.S. The latest response from your gentleman acquaintance in Paris arrived on the same day I received your letter. Mother was ill again, and I almost missed the post. I only had time to write your new direction on his letter and send it with mine. I sincerely hope by the time it arrives you have found a way to receive his letters without your brother’s knowledge.
* * * * *
From: Lord Daniel Wycliffe –35 Rue du Faubourge St. Honoré –Paris, France
To: Lord Rupert Capener (Intercepted by Corinna) –Rosecrest Manor –Sandgate, Kent
November 2, 1792
Dear Lord Capener,
You may not receive this letter before you remove to London, butI do not want to delay. I understand your determination to complete your work in a timely manner.
I read the abstract of your biography with interest. Your writing is clear and concise, your point of view unique and thought-provoking. I was intrigued by your choice of topic. While Maria Theresa is indeed a fascinating historical figure, she is seldom recognized for her capable governance. She made important, sweeping reforms through all the Hapsburg dominions over which she reigned, Suo jure.
I have one suggestion for you to consider. If you added more political and social context in your work, her life and reign would take on added interest and show the significance of all that she achieved.
In her father’s time, the War of Polish succession and the Russo-Turkish war weakened the state Maria Theresa inherited. Then immediately, when she came to the throne, she faced the war of Austrian succession.
I reference below some articles that you might find helpful should you decide on further research. Some of these works are difficult to find, so I have taken the liberty of submitting your name for membership to the London Republic of Letters.
You might also consider a subscription to the Gentleman’s Magazine. That periodical regularly publishes scholarly works, not only about history and politics, but also of the arts of various eras.
I find expanding my research enriches my feel for the culture and philosophies of my chosen subjects. You may find the same.
You ask about the situation in France. The news is not good. Every day that the Jacobins grow in power, conditions deteriorate. The food riots in January, France’s declaration of war with Austria, Hungary, and Bohemia in April, and the two invasions of the Tuileries over the summer with their attendant massacres were brutal in the extreme.
Now they have arrested King Louis XVI and abolished the monarchy, establishing themselves a Republic. After months of debate, the National Convention is recognized as the governing body, but the people’s rage does not diminish.
Even the old forms of address are banned, and everyone is now titled citoyen or citoyenne.
As a fellow student of politics and history, I know you will mourn as I do that not only are the revolutionaries determined to build a new future, but they are also trying to destroy any record of the past.
This is not so prevalent in the north since the National Archives were established two years ago. But in the south, mobs break into church property where priceless historical documents have been stored for centuries. They throw the priests out, take their scrolls—some medieval in date—to the town squares and build bonfires. All the while, the people cheer.
Then the monasteries, cathedrals, and parish churches are used as stables. French farm animals live surrounded by ruined centuries-old frescoes.
As the common people take over castles and palaces, they confiscate any record of the feudalism that bred the current political and social systems—medieval deeds, charters, genealogies, and titles. Every time I witness the destruction, I can barely contain my outrage. Not only do they seek to dispossess the nobility, but they are also determined to destroy any proof or legal justification for the control of the aristocracy and clergy.
Before this revolution is over, I expect that millions of volumes will burn.
In their zeal, they have forgotten the power of understanding our past. What they destroy today may hold the answer to future questions.
My time in France is nearing an end. Now that England has broken diplomatic relations, it is inevitable the French will soon banish all British citizens who are not sympathetic to their new cause and government.
Though our political leaders have declared we will remain neutral, they understand the importance of current intelligence. I will stay until I can no longer fulfill my charge.
Along with my government work, in what time I have, I will try to save as much of their history as I can.
I have found others who share my interest. We have banded together to save as many historical documents as we can from the widespread destruction. Surprisingly, my most valued ally is an aged French priest, Father AntoineDubois. Most of Father Antoine’s brothers have been killed or forced to sign the Civil Constitution of the Clergy. Those who refuse to sign have fled, but he is determined to stay in hiding.
I met this good man last year when I stopped in Toulouse on my way to carry papers to Spain. I believe I wrote about that debacle.
When I offered to help him escape, he told me, with a twinkle in his eye, “I already have one foot in the grave, mon fils. How can I go in peace to meet my Maker if I run away from the work to which He calls me.” He lifted a finger and nodded sagely. “What if I am sent here, like Esther, for just such a time as this?”
We smuggle what documents we can save and store them in a well-hidden cellar beneath his kitchen floor in his childhood home in the countryside near Carcassonne. It is a dangerous undertaking, but we must do what we can. As a fellow student of history, I’m sure you understand.
My friend, I thank you for your letters. Amidst the madness that is France right now, it is good to communicate with someone of sound judgement and clear insight.
I hope we can continue to correspond even through the coming changes. My courier remains in place and undetected by the French. I trust him more than the daily packet, so continue to address your letters in the same manner.
I have arranged for your letters to be forwarded to my next posting when that time comes. I will write to inform you when I know of my new situation.
Respectfully,
Lord Daniel Wycliffe
* * * * *
From: Corinna –32 Portman Square –London
To: Lady Georgiana Seymour –Farindel Hall –Sandgate, Kent
November 8, 1792
Dear Georgie,
You’ve been dreaming of Remington Keep for ages. I’m impressed at your cleverness and courage to find a way in. I wish I could have been there to explore with you.
Your solution for posting my letters to Lord Wycliffe, however, was a little too clever for me. I didn’t feel confident enough for such an intricate ploy, nor brave enough to face Rupert’s ire at my repeated clumsiness.
Lacking any other ideas, I decided to do as you first suggested. I have cultivated the habit of taking a walk every morning, no matter the weather. Minna thinks I’m very eccentric, but she is happy to let me do her errands if I take my maid Mary with me.
After receiving Minna’s charges, I wait, skulking, in the dining room until Rupert’s secretary comes out of the study with my brother’s correspondence. I meet him, quite by chance, on my way to the door.
The first few days, I said, “Good morning, Mr. Fairly. I would be happy to drop Rupert’s correspondence at the post while I am out.”
He no longer waits for me to offer. Now he just smiles and holds out the stack of letters. I put Rupert’s letters in my reticule with mine, and the thing is done.
I also bring home the letters coming to us from the general post office, and I’m so glad I thought of it, for thus, I avoided some uncomfortable questions earlier today.
I saw your handwriting, and in my anticipation of reading your news, I didn’t look through the rest of the letters right away. I didn’t expect to receive a response from Lord Wycliffe for another week or more.
I stopped for a few moments to stuff the remainder of the post in my reticule when an impatient and very rude gentleman walked into me and made me drop all the letters on the ground at my feet. Then he looked down his nose as if I were the most simple-minded dunderpate in London.
I was so stunned I didn’t even try to defend myself. I see more outright disrespect in the city, perhaps because people assume they will never see the recipient of their bad manners again. I try not to let it affect me overmuch.
In this instance I was grateful to that boorish gentleman. When I stooped to collect the post, I saw the second letter, the one from Lord Wycliffe.
You were right to encourage me to overcome my fear and send a sample of my work thus far on the biography of the Empress Maria Theresa Walburga Amalia Christina. Lord Wycliffe was so accommodating as to read it immediately and reply to me.
I mean to my brother.
Oh, how I hate to deceive Lord Wycliffe. I have the greatest respect for him and his scholarship. I tell myself that other than Rupert’s name at the end of each letter, the words and thoughts are mine, but he doesn’t know that.
You have this before, so instead of repeating myself and protesting a remorse that is clearly not strong enough to stop my misdeeds, I’ll tell you what he said. He was quite positive about my topic and my writing style but encouraged me to do more research on the culture and politics of the time to add richness and meaning to the story of Maria Theresa’s life.
Of course, Lord Wycliffe is right. I’m excited to delve deeper into European history in the first half of the eighteenth century. To that end, I am pleased to tell you that Rupert now has a subscription to the Gentleman’s Magazine. He just doesn’t know it.
I also wrote a letter to Lord Peter V. Alstone and the Honorable Mr. Victor Thorne, the founders of the London Republic of Letters. I expressed my, I mean Rupert’ desire to join their society. I asked them to report the results of their deliberations via post.
How to gain access to their library, I do not yet know, but I will think of something. I must.
Now I will leave discussion of Lord Wycliffe’s letter. Although, when he talks about conditions in Paris, I am both fascinated and horrified. I’ll share more later.
Instead, since I’m here to participate in the season, I will report one good development this week. One of Minna’s school friend, Lady Ballantyne is in town to help a Miss Philippa Moreton make her come out. Minna is hosting a ball to introduce Miss Philippa, and we have been spending a good deal of time together planning that entertainment. I feel like an insipid giant next to Miss Philippa’s tiny, dark-haired beauty, but she has been very kind to me.
I would prefer if you were here, but I am so relieved to have a new friend close to my age who will be present at social events. I feel more able to face it all.
For example, last night we attended a supper party at Lord and Lady Windham’s. I was seated next to Lord Craven, one of the most puffed up and boring young men alive. But periodically I would meet the understanding in Philippa’s eyes, and I was able to laugh inwardly and endure.
There was one interesting gentleman in attendance who is friend to Lady Moreton and Philippa. Sir Julian recently returned from India, so while I smiled and nodded at Lord Craven, I trained my ears to eavesdrop on some of Sir Julian’s stories, so the evening was not a total waste of time.
I also met Lady Delia Markham, daughter of the Duke of Langford. She is making her come out this year as well. I liked her very much, even though her blond, blue-eyed beauty will render me invisible in company. But now I have the comfort of knowing that no matter where I go, I am bound to have some much-needed support.
I look forward to hearing about the school foraging day. It is only a guess, but I will not be surprised if you find a way to sneak into the manor again.
Affectionately yours,
Corinna
* * * * *
From: Lord Rupert Capener (Corinna using her brother’s name) –32 Portman Square –London
To: Lord Daniel Wycliffe –35 Rue du Faubourg St. Honoré –Paris, France
November 8, 1792
Dear Lord Wycliffe,
Thank you for your letter of October 2nd. It arrived first at Sandgate and caught up to me in London yesterday.
I believe you are right about historical context for my biography. Your list of articles and books will be invaluable. I await response from the founders of the London Republic of Letters. In the interim, I have purchased a subscription for the Gentleman’s Magazine. My primary concern now is to find a source for back issues of the magazine where I hope to find articles about the historical events leading up to Maria Theresa’s birth in 1717 until her death in 1780.
Since we have begun corresponding, I have more closely followed events in Paris. Your recent news is disturbing. My concern grows each day.
As I read about the terrible state of the poor in France, I notice more often the poor in our own nation’s capital. I admit to a certain sympathy for the cause of the common people. After generations of abuses by the privileged classes, I understand their desire for change. But I question how a new and better government can be built on a foundation of such an excessive cruelty and widespread violence.
The debate over fair government has spread to England’s shores and in some instances has flared into violence here. Though not anything like you describe.
We are also seeing an increase in émigrés, both royalists and priests, those who refuse to take the oath of loyalty to the government and who escaped the recent massacres in Paris. I read that 1200 were not so fortunate and were killed.
Of course, you are more than aware of all these events as you are in the center of this maelstrom. I just mention it because of my concern for your safely, indeed the safety of all British subjects residing in France in these unsettled times. While I applaud your determination to save as many historical documents as possible, I beg you will take special care.
Your concerned friend,
Lord Rupert Capener
* * * * *
From: Georgie –Farindel Hall — Sandgate, Kent
To: Lady Corinna Capener –32 Portman Square — London
November 12, 1792
Dear Corinna,
I have so much I need to say in response to your letter, but first I must tell you what happened yesterday.
Our first day of foraging was successful, but you were right. I did slip away and sneak into Remington Keep.
I never was so frightened in my life when I climbed the stairs to the second floor to look at the portraits, and I—
But wait, I should tell the story in order.
Many of our older children at the charity school obtained work in the harvest, so we had a smaller group of fifteen. We started early yesterday morning after the children finished their toast and tea. The vicar offered the use of his carriage and came along to help shepherd the children. I had my cart, and Mr. Caney drove down into the village to help us bring the children up to the keep.
The morning was cool while we harvested by the hedges. As the day warmed, we moved into the woods. For every berry or apple that went into a basket, two went into the children’s mouths, but we didn’t scold. It was a rare day of freedom, and we all felt the joy of fresh air and plentiful fruit and greens.
After a light breakfast, the teachers, the vicar, and Mister Caney led the children to the pond. Mr. Caney thoughtfully provided a few small skiffs so that the older children could pole out onto the water.
I made some poor excuse that I wanted to tend to the horses and slipped away.
Only the choleric butler and the ineffectual housekeeper would be in the keep. I was sure I could avoid them, so I made my way through the woods, keeping out of sight of the windows, and came finally to the side entrance.
It was blessedly unlocked, and not a soul was near. I was sorely tempted to open windows as I walked through the house, but I left everything as it was, even the dust on every surface I passed. I did consider for a full minute writing a little note to the housekeeper in the dust on a table in the back parlor. “Clean me. –Sincerely, Your Keep Ghost.” I resisted the temptation.
As I looked into every room, I made a list in my mind of the cleaning and polishing for my imaginary staff. And then I refurbished each room to my taste. It is a grand, historic pile, somber and solid, made of our own Kentish ragstone. I could see it in my mind restored to its former glory.
I explored to my heart’s content everywhere except the servants’ quarters and the kitchen and didn’t see a soul. That is until I decided to climb the stairs and walk down the gallery to view the family portraits.
I was strolling down the hall, moving from the oldest paintings to the more recent, causing no stir. I turned a corner and screamed when I collided with a monster of a man who was lurking there.
Before I took another breath, he pulled me against him, twisting me until my back was pressed to his front, and put his hand over my mouth.
Cora, I’ve never felt more frightened, but I couldn’t give up without a fight. I lifted my head and bit him. He swore on a breath but pushed harder against my face and pulled me into the shadows.
I couldn’t breathe. I kicked and struggled, but he held me firmly. His unyielding arm was as hard as iron under my ribs.
Just when I started to see stars, the pressure on my face let up a little. I gulped in the air and fought dizziness.
He whispered, “Unless you want Mr. Willis to find us, you won’t scream again, ma petite.”
I stiffened then nodded, and he let me go.
You know better than anyone how I sometimes act before I think. He had frightened me so much, I turned and kicked his shin. It probably hurt my foot more than his leg, so I kicked him again and hit him on his arm for good measure. But I did it without making a sound.
In a second, his arm banded around me again, but this time I faced him. I gasped and leaned back as far as his grip would allow.
He took my chin and held it tight when I tried to turn away.
He hummed and breathed the words, “You’re dressed too à la mode to be une servante. I can only think of one other reason for you to be here.” He lifted my face to the meager light coming from a window at the end of the hall. “Well, one cannot question Sir Alfred’s taste in women.” Something in his eyes made me quiver, something I didn’t understand behind the derision and regret.
I was puzzling over it, so I was slow to understand his next words. “He’s quite a bit older than you, almost old enough to be your grandfather. If you hope he’ll be generous, I can tell you he won’t. The baron doesn’t take care of his legal responsibilities. He’s even less likely to compensate you for your time and . . . services.”
Cora! I have never been so insulted. He caught my wrist before my slap landed. “I wouldn’t, if I were you, little fox,” he said. “You won’t like what happens next.”
“I am not,” I could feel the heat rise on my face, “not Sir Alfred’s—” I couldn’t finish.
His hand loosened, and his thumb slid over my racing pulse. His voice deepened. “Non? That’s something, anyway. So, who are you, ma belle?”
I’m sure I looked like a landed fish. How was I supposed to respond to such a forward man? I’d already tried and failed to slap him, and I refused to faint.
He smirked. “Are you come to the keep on a sunny afternoon to try your hand at a little burglary? What do you hope to find?”
My anger overpowered any lingering fear, and I hissed, “How dare you? It’s you who doesn’t belong here. In the keep or in England.” I stamped my foot. “Unhand me and leave immediately, and I won’t report you to the authorities.”
He did drop his hands then, but only because he was laughing so hard, he had to put his hand to his side. Even then, he made no more sound than a wheezing breath. For another minute, he shook with mirth. He leaned down and put his hands on his knees, still shaking.
I folded my arms and waited, tapping my toe and scowling, while this insufferable man finished.
Finally, he stood straight, and for the first time I really looked at him.
He wasn’t as large as I’d thought. Tall certainly, but lithe in build. And his face—Some Bible verses came to mind. Those lines in Ezekiel about “the seal of perfection, full of wisdom and perfect in beauty.” For this man had a dark and savage allure. His black hair was tied back with a leather strap. His eyes, almost as dark as his hair, sparkled with bright intelligence and a cheerful daring. His thin, almost austere face was a study of honed lines and interesting shadows. It took a moment for me to remember that Ezekiel had been talking about the devil.
Which, I assure you, is apt. While many would think he’s handsome, his behavior to me was abominable.
As I studied him, his eyes roamed over my face. A small smile softened his full lips. “I do not think you will report me. How would you explain your own trespass to the authorities.”
I had no quick answer, although I’ve thought of many since then. Why does it always work that way?
When I said nothing, he cocked his head and listened. “We have both stayed longer than is safe.” Then he took my arm. “Come Mademoiselle, I will escort you safely out of the keep.”
And he did just that. Silent and agile as a cat, he led me through the empty halls. Questions crowded my mind, but I could not speak.
We slipped out the same door I had entered. In the daylight, I turned to face him and saw that he was younger than I had thought. I would guess only a few years older than we are. His good looks were a little less sinister, but still arresting.
He stepped closer and whispered, “It was an unexpected pleasure to . . . bump into you.” He lifted one dark eyebrow before he bowed deeply, took my hand, and kissed my fingers. My breath caught, and he grinned. Then he turned and loped off into the woods. I did not dare to follow. I had already been gone from the children too long.
By the time I returned, our party had moved into the sun again, and the children were playing a rigorous game of blind man’s bluff.
I smiled and laughed with the others, but I couldn’t stop thinking about every one of the stranger’s words and looks.
Corinna, I think he must be one of the French émigrés that come in greater number every week. He spoke like a gentleman if you ignored his words and bold looks. If that is the case, he must have been stripped of everything when he left France. His trespass in the keep may have been a desperate search for money. Or maybe he is a French smuggler or spy. Either way, I will never see him again. And I don’t even know his name!
I will never have another adventure like that. He was—But that is enough of that. Anything else I say would be mere speculation, and useless besides.
Instead, I will respond to your letter. Sir Julian sounds interesting. Tell me more about him.
And don’t let me hear another word comparing your new friends’ looks to what you see as a lack in yours. You are exceedingly beautiful. I don’t care if Miss Philippa is dark and petite with doe-like eyes, and Lady Delia is the British blond ideal.
If I were a man, I would admire your large, expressive gray eyes, and your thick, annoyingly well-behaved chestnut hair, and what I wouldn’t give for your willowy, graceful form.
You must know that while men, as a group are stupid, as individuals they do occasionally use their heads for something other than holding up their hats. I am confident you will have your share of admirers if you only try something new.
Last year you worked so hard to obey every societal stricture. That didn’t work. This year you should try if you can have some fun and a little adventure. Even if you don’t make a splendid match, at least you will enjoy the season.
I am relieved to hear you received your Lord Wycliffe’s letter without being discovered. As to the contents of his missive, if you are pleased, I am pleased. He sounds a little stiff and boring to me, but I haven’t your bent for scholarship.
Mama calls, so I most go. More later.
As ever,
Georgie
* * * * *
From: Corinna –32 Portman Square –London
To: Georgie — Fraindel Hall –Sandgate, Kent
November 15, 1792
Dear Georgie,
I can’t believe it. You were faced with a desperate looking stranger in a deserted hall of a lonely keep, and you kicked him and hit him? And then you stayed to bandy words with him. Why didn’t you run? I can’t decide if you’re courageous or foolhardy. Anything could have happened! You are lucky to be alive.
But I admit, my curiosity is provoked. Who is this man? It is frustrating to know that we may never find out, especially if he is, as you suggest, a smuggler or spy. If that is the truth, what was he doing in the keep? Like you, he must have known that the baron was away from home.
I am constantly amazed at the adventures that find you. We could write a novel like the ones we used to sneak out to read in the folly at Rosecrest. An innocent damsel runs into a deserted ruin to escape the importuning of a rich, but cruel suitor. There she meets a dark, mysterious French spy. Of course, he really is the son of a Duke, who has emigrated because he has been wrongly accused of murdering the prefect of his town.
In all seriousness, do you believe the man you met is dangerous? How could you find a way to report him without revealing your trespass?
I urge you to be careful. Next time you meet a suspicious character in a dark, deserted hall . . . run!
As to my news, nothing so dramatic has happened to me. Although, I did find a way to access the back issues of The Gentleman’s Magazine.
A few days ago, we spent the afternoon at Mr. Hatton’s house where Lady Moreton and Philippa are staying while in town. Lady Ballantyne who helps to chaperon Philippa—you remember I mentioned she is one of Minna’s school friends—had hired a dancing master so that we could brush up on the latest dances.
Afterwards, Lady Ballantyne invited us for tea in the parlor. The conversation was lively, but it wasn’t long before Philippa and I moved to a corner to talk about Queen Charlotte’s ball. She is quite nervous about being presented. I could only commiserate. I’m sure I have never felt more awkward than I did last year. Part of it was knowing I was to be presented to the Queen, but most of my nerves came from the old-fashioned hooped dress and the required three feathers in my hair.
As we talked, I happened to look down at the desk near us and what did I see? Yes! The most recent issue of The Gentleman’s Magazine was right at my elbow. It felt providential.
I picked it up and turned my back to the room before I whispered, “Miss Philippa, does Mr. Hatton subscribe to this magazine?” I could not hide my excitement.
Philippa raised her brows but looked over my shoulder before she lowered her voice and answered. “He must. He has dozens of older issues in his study.”
I looked down at the cover. “I suppose I might be labeled unladylike, even a bluestocking, if I were to express interest in reading some of the articles in those back issues.”
Philippa cleared her throat. “I suppose if I told people that I recently read Mary Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Woman, I might be labeled, as she has been, a ‘hyena in petticoats.’”
I looked behind me to check that we were still private. “I could claim the same label.”
She let out her breath in a chuckle and said, “I don’t believe society should place limits on a lady’s interests or belittle her intelligence.”
We grinned at each other in happy accord.
She said, “Most mornings before breakfast, Mr. Hatton rides for an hour. If I were to slip in while he was gone, I could borrow a few issues.”
I reached out and grasped her arm. “I have a list of articles I am especially anxious to read.”
She patted my hand. “Send me a copy of your list with a footman, and I will bring the magazines when I come to call on Friday.”
That easily it was done, and I have spent my days since Friday in frenzied reading and note taking. Lord Wycliffe was right. I can already see how this information will enrich my biography.
I still await an answer from the London Republic of Letters. I have decided to take Philippa into my confidence about my need to get into their library. Maybe she will have an idea about how I can gain access. I hope to have more to tell you about that when I next write.
When I read your request for more information about Sir Julian, I laughed until I cried. Even if he wasn’t so obviously enamored with Philippa’s mother, Lady Moreton, he is much too old for me. He must be only a few years shy of forty. Still, he is more interesting than Lord Craven, who has taken to following me around at every social event since that cursed supper party where we met. I have yet to hear him make a comment of any sense.
Sometimes I despair of ever meeting a man who will meet my brother’s standard of a worthy applicant to my hand, at least one who won’t bore me to tears and is more interested in me than in my dowry. That such a paragon exists and would look on me with favor seems nearly impossible.
I will close before I get maudlin. Truly, this season is so much better than last that I have no cause for complaint.
Yours,
Corinna
