Last Night's Scandal (The Dressmakers 5)

“Damned if you do and damned if you don’t,” she said. “If one is married, one might have affairs. But marriage is a very bad gamble for a woman. Play the wrong card—wed the wrong man—and spend the rest of your life in one kind of hell or another, some worse than others, but all of them—or nearly all—hells.”

“That’s true enough, miss,” said Bailey, who did not have a high opinion of men. Watching the way men behaved around Olivia would destroy any young woman’s illusions. “All the same, her ladyship, your mother—”

“Pray don’t use Mama as an example,” Olivia said. She’d found the love of her life. Twice. “It’s not the same at all. She’s good.”

Tuesday 11 October

Olivia tried to rise before dawn, as she’d done the two previous days. Today, though, the prospect of dragging those naughty ladies from their beds in the dark—again—and leading Lisle a merry chase had lost its entertainment value.

The sun was well up and streaming through the window when she was at last ready to face the day.

Bailey brought in the breakfast tray. On it lay a letter.

The outside read “Miss Carsington.” The precise, angular writing was all too familiar.

Olivia broke the seal, unfolded the paper, and read:

Alnwick

Tuesday 11th Instant

Dear Olivia,

By the time you read this, I shall have already set out, because I’m determined to reach Gorewood while sufficient daylight remains for reconnoitering. It belatedly occurred to me—and given that I’m a man, you won’t wonder at its being so belated—that we’ve no idea what the monstrosity holds in the way of furnishings. Very little, I suspect. It seems I must impose on your good nature to undertake some shopping in Edinburgh for me. Nichols has made a preliminary list, which I enclose. He’ll make an inventory after we arrive, and I’ll send it on to you in Edinburgh.

Being accustomed to camp beds or blankets on tomb floors, I’m certainly not one to fuss about colors or styles. Use your own judgment—and if you think of anything else that may be wanting, pray don’t hesitate to add it to your purchases. In any event, I’ve no doubt that your taste in such matters is far superior to mine.

I’ve directed a letter to Mains, my father’s agent in Edinburgh, informing him of your errand. All bills are to be sent to him. I know that he, like every other sentient male, will be happy to assist you in any way you require. You will find his name and direction on Nichols’s list.

I shall look forward to seeing you in a week or two at Castle Horrid.

Yours sincerely,

L

“Oh, really, Lisle,” Olivia said. “That crossed-out bit is so childish. Still . . .” She considered. “Yes, you aren’t a complete imbecile. You’ve seen the error of your ways, I don’t doubt. Out of sight, out of mind.”

“Miss?”

Olivia waved the letter at her. “A reprieve, Bailey,” she said. “He’s gone and we’re going shopping.”

Edinburgh

12 October

Dear Lisle,

Rather than Subject the Ladies to another Long Day in the Carriage, I decided to continue to Edinburgh by Easy Stages. We arrived this day in the Late Afternoon—and oh, what a Sight came into view, exactly as Scott described:

Such dusky grandeur clothed the height,

Where the huge castle holds its state,

And all the steep slope down,

Whose ridgy back heaves to the sky,

Piled deep and massy, close and high,

Mine own romantic town.

As you may recall, I had visited in my Childhood, but my Memories were confused, and I thought I’d dreamed it: the Castle crowning the Great Rock, rising through the Smoke and Mist, the Spires and Steeples poking through the broody atmosphere, the Ancient Town with its tall Buildings, perched on the ridge. But there it was, the Most Astonishing City In The World—and yes, I should defy even the Sphinx to match it for Atmosphere.

But I know my Effusions bore you. Therefore I proceed to Business. The Picturesque Old Town is crowded with Shops of every Description. There are still more to be found in the far less romantic New Town of Edinburgh, in a plain to the northwest. (That is where your cousin used to live, by the way, in an Elegant House cluttered to an astounding degree with old Books and Papers.) Beyond a doubt we can fulfill all of our most pressing commissions with a few days of Shopping.

I shall send ahead to you all but the servants we cannot do without. Edwards, who is to act as our Butler, will wish to do what he can to make the Castle habitable in advance of our Arrival. In the meantime, I shall visit the Servants Registry and make our needs known. Given the locals’ FEAR OF THE PLACE, we shall have to rely upon our Own Small Force, at least for a Time. I’m fully confident, however, that we shall speedily Get to the Bottom of this HAUNTING, and re-establish a proper Scottish staff—for as you know, our London Servants are on loan, and must be returned soon, preferably before Mama finds out I’ve Stolen them.

Yours sincerely,

Olivia Carsington

On Wednesday Roy and Jock Rankin returned from Edinburgh, their pockets jingling with the profits from the most recent sale of things that didn’t belong to them. They found Gorewood’s public house buzzing with news: The Marquess of Atherton’s son, the Earl of Lisle, was moving into Gorewood Castle with a full retinue of London servants. One carriage had already arrived with boxes, trunks, and a set of servants, and more were coming in a few days.

Roy and Jock looked at each other.

“Not likely,” Roy said. “Some Londoners coming to stare at the old castle, like they do sometimes. Everyone hereabouts gets fool ideas. Always thinking someone’s moving in. No one’s moved in since the old man moved out—what was it?—ten years ago?”

But the people about them were excited, much more than they ever were when traveling visitors from England turned up wanting to explore the castle.

After a time, the brothers left the tavern and went out in the rain to see for themselves.

Their neighbors, they found, had got the story right for once. From the road, through the steady drizzle, they could make out light in at least three windows. When they sneaked in closer they discovered a carriage and horses in the ramshackle stable.

“This won’t do,” said Roy.

“We’ll have to put a stop to it,” said Jock.

Thursday 13 October

The butler Edwards was not as drunk as he wanted to be. It had been raining steadily since he’d arrived at Gorewood Castle. It was an ugly heap of stones, dank and stinking of disuse. They’d brought bedding but there were no beds. It was one thing for the master, who was used to sleeping on stone floors or bare ground, but it wasn’t what Edwards was used to.

They’d been working from sunup to long after sundown, trying to make the great dungeon of a place habitable for the ladies. The villagers were not cooperative. They steadfastly refused to understand simple English and even the master, with all his knowledge of heathen languages, couldn’t make heads or tales of their sp

eech.

The London servants were treated like an invading army. You would think the shopkeepers would want the custom, but ask them for this or that and all you got was a blank look. And when at last they condescended to recognize you as a customer, they got the order wrong.

At least they’d got it right at the Crooked Crook public house—after making him go through a dozen gyrations and finally having to write it down. He’d stopped there to warm his insides before trudging back to the curst castle in the wet.

The road was lonely, not a streetlamp anywhere. To one side he made out the ragged outlines of the church that had burned down last century. He could see the churchyard, the gravestones sagging at untidy angles, as though the rain and the dark and the cold weighed them down.

He was looking that way, shivering, when he heard the rustling. Then suddenly it loomed in front of him, a white figure with glowing eyes.

He screamed and turn and ran.

And ran and ran and ran.

Gorewood Castle

Friday 14 October

Dear Olivia,

You had better find another butler. Edwards has disappeared.

Yours sincerely,

L

Chapter 10

Gorewood

Monday 17 October

She stood in the road, looking up at the monolith that crowned the rise.

Lisle had left the village and arrived in time to see Olivia’s carriage stop next to the graveyard and ruined church. He’d watched her alight and move to one side of the road. There, hands clasped over her bosom, she gazed, obviously enraptured, at Gorewood Castle.

A parade of vehicles—mainly carts and wagons, heaped with who knew what—had preceded hers. Others followed. All of the village’s inhabitants had stopped whatever they were doing and come out to gape.

He’d gaped, too. He hadn’t seen a line of vehicles that long since King George IV’s coronation, a decade ago.

She was oblivious to the horses, carts, and wagons passing by her. She was oblivious to everything but whatever it was she saw in that great, grim rectangular heap of stone.