And there was the Hall ahead of him. Will lengthened his stride and stuffed all thoughts of mistresses, and amorous activity generally, into the locked mental cupboard where they belonged when he was in his own home surrounded by his young brothers and sisters.
* * *
It took him another twenty minutes to reach his front door, by which time he had recovered his composure, had mentally bullied his body into submission and discovered that he had neither the energy nor the will to dragoon his family into attending evensong.
‘Unless anyone wishes to accompany Miss Preston?’ he enquired over luncheon. The governess beamed approval at him and six pairs of eyes regarded him with varying degrees of horror, scorn and disbelief. ‘No? You amaze me. Miss Preston, the carriage is at your disposal. Benjamin, kindly pass me the cold chicken.’
‘When is Miss Wingate coming to visit us?’ Basil demanded, regrettably through a mouthful of bread and butter. Will glared, he swallowed. ‘And the Bishop. We like the Bishop. And Mr Hoskins. He told us all about the creepiest tombstone with skulls and bones on it in the churchyard. I bet he knows ghost stories. He might even get the Vicar to let us into the crypt.’ He shuddered at the delicious horror of it.
‘No doubt they will call when the Bishop is feeling well enough.’
And if Verity Wingate is speaking to me again.
Will could not understand what the attraction of the Bishop was for these six unruly children. ‘And you are not visiting a crypt. It will be dirty, most unhygienic and it would give you nightmares.’
‘Can’t we invite them to spend the day, then the Bishop would be able to rest between journeys?’ Althea asked. ‘The weather is lovely and he enjoys gardens so he would like ours, even if we haven’t got a maze.’
‘But we do have a lake,’ Araminta said. ‘He hasn’t, so he might like that. And the Bishop can tell you what you have to do to grow a maze, Will. We ought to have one, but it takes ages and ages to grow, as much as twenty years, I expect, so you’ll be ancient and decrepit by the time it is a proper one. But we will enjoy it,’ she added, as though in consolation.
‘Thank you,’ Will said drily, contemplating the prospect of being decrepit before he was fifty. ‘The Bishop is a very worthy and learned man, but I had not expected you to like him so much.’
‘He smiles a lot with his eyes and he tells jokes with his hands and Mr Hoskins translates them. We want them to teach us how to talk with our hands.’
‘Oh, yes?’ So they could get up to more trouble in secret, presumably.
‘Then we would be much quieter and not disturb you,’ ten-year-old Bertrand announced with a wide-eyed earnestness that would fool no one, let alone an older brother.
The Bishop and the Chaplain could only be a good influence on the children, of course, and if Will managed to interest his siblings in projects like the design and construction of a maze, then that might be a useful bridge to earning their confidence.
‘I shall write and invite them to spend the day on Wednesday,’ Will said. ‘But you must promise not to plague the Bishop.’
‘Of course,’ they assured him earnestly. ‘We never plague anyone.’
* * *
‘A letter from Stane Hall, Papa?’ Verity took the sheet of paper that Mr Hoskins passed her. ‘An invitation to spend the day?’
Her father nodded, smiled and made encouraging gestures.
‘You would like to accept? Would it not be rather tiring? Oh, I see. The Duke proposes setting aside a ground-floor bedchamber for you to rest. How very considerate.’
Drat the man. I really do not want to discover any good points in his favour.
She read the rest of the letter.
Our garden is looking at its best, although nothing to compare with yours at the Old Palace, of course. The children are most anxious that I plant a maze at Stane Hall—before I am too decrepit to appreciate it, they say—and I would find your advice on the correct position, design, et cetera, most welcome...
At least Will had an acceptable reason for asking them, other than to subject her to his disapproval—or his kisses—at close quarters, Verity thought irritably.
I must stop being cross with him. It will turn me into a sour old maid and produce unbecoming wrinkles.
She should simply ignore him except for the exchange of social niceties. That would restore their relationship to its proper balance and stop her having lurid dreams. Her father would enjoy the proposed outing and he seemed to like the unruly brood of young people. It would be selfish to show any reluctance just to save herself some embarrassment. ‘It sounds delightful, Papa. Shall I write and accept?’
It was Monday. She had cleaned, measured and drawn the skull from the burial mound on Saturday and reburied it carefully early that morning and now the excavation could be refilled with earth, the turf laid back. Within a few months, no one would know the ground had been disturbed.
It had been an interesting project, although it had revealed no objects other than the skull. But perhaps that was because she could only investigate one side. Or perhaps the people who buried the body did not leave offerings with their dead. She jotted a note to think about it. Was that normal for a pre-Christian burial?
If she had an entire mound to work on she could have a trench cut right across it. Verity spread butter on her toast and wondered if Will might agree to letting her try with the smallest one on their shared boundary. It might be worth biting her tongue on Wednesday, smiling at him and cajoling the wretched man to see if he could be persuaded to cooperate.