Grenville confessed to me as we started that he did not travel well. We had journeyed together in his coach as far as Hampstead that spring, but a longer journey like this one, he said, brought out his motion sickness. I offered him the seat facing forward, but he declined it as manners dictated. I thought this damn fool of him because as soon as we began rocking along the country road, he turned green and had to lie down.
He smiled weakly and assured me that it mattered little whether he sat facing front or rear; his illness was not particular. Besides, he had fashioned his carriage to cater to his malady-the seat pulled out to offer him a cushioned platform upon which he could lie.
"Odd thing in a gentleman who enjoys travel as much as I, is it not?" he observed shakily.
"How do you fare aboard ship?" I asked.
"I moan a great deal. Strangely, though, a ship in storm does not affect me as much as a ship on waters calm as glass. Odd, I think, but there it is."
He spent most of the day lying on his back with his hand over his eyes. I perused the stack of newspapers provided for us and served myself the smooth and velvet-rich port contained in a special compartment in the paneled wall. Silver goblets and a crystal decanter reposed there, along with snowy linen and a box of sweet biscuits. Everything the pampered gentleman traveler could want.
I wondered, uncharitably, how Grenville would have fared crossing water in the naval ships I had boarded that transported my regiment across the Channel and down through the Atlantic to our destinations. Officers fared only slightly better than the men on these trips-which was to say, we had room for a hammock and a box and had first choice of rations.
Many times, what we ate and where we slept depended entirely on the competence and charity of the ship's captain. I'd voyaged with captains who were intelligent and competent, then again, I'd sailed with those who spent the time drunk and dissolute, locked in their cabin with their whore of choice, while their lieutenants ran the ship like a pack of petty tyrants.
As we rolled onward, I regretted my speculations. Grenville did not sleep but remained still, breathing shallowly, obviously miserable. I supposed a strong stomach was something to be thankful for.
The newspapers I read contained several more spurious stories about Mrs. Westin and her new devoted dragoon, the friend of society's darling, Mr. Grenville. How long would Mrs. W- remain a widow? they wondered.
I threw the newspapers aside, the country air spoiled for me.
We paused for lunch at a wayside inn near Faversham. Grenville hired a private parlor, and we were waited on by the publican himself. I feasted on a joint of beef and a heaping bowl of greens, while Grenville watched me shakily and took only brandy and a few sweet biscuits.
Grenville wanted to rest before we departed again, so I took a short walk through the village to stretch my cramped leg. The publican's daughter, a plump young woman with a space between her front teeth, sent me a hopeful smile, but I resisted her charms and simply enjoyed the country air.
In the village square I indulged myself in a few fresh strawberries, picked that morning, then strolled back to the inn, hoping Grenville was ready.
As I entered the yard, I spied a furtive movement, as though someone had ducked back out of sight behind the wall. As a light dragoon, I had become very familiar with signs that someone wished to observe without being seen.
Silently, I retreated through the yard gate and moved as quickly as my bad leg would let me to the corner of the wall. I stopped and peered around it, then made a noise of annoyance. I had thought the inn wall connected to the end house of the village, but closer examination showed me a narrow passage between house and inn, one of those crooked, windowless paths between buildings. I heard a step at the far end, but by the time I hurried through and emerged on the other side, no one was in sight.
Trying to suppress my feeling of disquiet, I returned to the inn yard. I might simply have disturbed a stable lad who was shirking his duties or the publican's daughter, whose smile may have won her success elsewhere. But I did not think so, and I could not shake my feeling of foreboding the rest of the day.
Chapter Seven
Grenville was on his feet and looking slightly better by the time I gained the parlor again. He gave me a weak nod and marched down the stairs to the carriage like a soldier preparing to face battle.
I looked warily about as we climbed aboard the carriage, but saw no shadowy figures or furtive persons watching. Still, I could not shake the feeling, born of long experience, of being watched.
We turned south here and made for the edges of the North Downs. The second part of the journey was quite similar to the first except that the woods became a little thicker on the edges of the hills.
We reached Astley Close, the Fortescue manor house, at seven o'clock that evening. It being high summer, the sun still shone mightily, though it was westering. We rolled through the gates and past the gatehouse to a mile-long drive that curved and dipped through a park and over an arched bridge to the main house.
The house itself extended long arms from a colonnaded facade. A hundred windows glittered down on us like watchful eyes, their eyebrow-like pediments quirked in permanent disdain.
A butler wearing a similar expression stalked from the house and waited silently while Grenville's two footman sprang down from the roof.
Bartholomew placed a cushioned stool in the gravel while Matthias opened the door and reached in to help his master. Grenville descended, put his hat in place, and tried to look cheerful. He greeted the stoic Fortescue butler, who merely flicked his eyebrows in response. Grenville's own majordomo always greeted guests by name and made it a point to inquire as to their health or other events of that guest's life. The Fortescue butler looked put out to have to receive guests at all.
Matthias assisted me out in such a way that an observer would think I needed no assistance at all. In truth, my leg was stiff with hours of riding, and the ache when I unfolded it made my eyes water.
The butler did not even bother with an eyebrow flicker at my greeting, and turned and led us silently into the house.
The cool foyer swallowed us, and we emerged into a three-storied hall that ran the depth of the house. Far above, octagon-framed paintings of frolicking gods and goddesses radiated across the ceiling from a central point. A staircase rose to a railed gallery that circled the hall below.
The butler took us up these stairs and then into the left-hand wing. The house was strangely silent, with no sign of any other inhabitants. I wondered when I would meet my hostess.
The butler showed us to our bedchambers, mine next to Grenville's. He announced that a light supper would be served in a half-hour's time, and departed. Grenville stumbled into his room with a look of relief, and I left him to it.
My chamber was only slightly larger than the one in which I'd stayed in Grenville's Grosvenor Street house that spring. His guest chamber had been quietly opulent, but this one contained so much gold and silver gilt-on the panel frames, ceiling moldings, chandelier, and the French chairs-that it was almost nauseating. I hoped Grenville's stomach calmed down before he looked hard at his surroundings.
I washed the grime of the road from my hands and face and changed into my dark blue regimentals, the finest suit I owned. I returned to Grenville's chamber and found him, to my surprise, in his dressing gown just settling down with a book and a goblet of port.
"What about the light supper?" I asked. "Shall we go down?"
He took a sip of wine. "No. We let them wait. And descend when we are ready."
"Is that not a bit rude?"