"You have an excellent team” was her next effort. “David will be enjoying himself immensely."
"He seems a nice lad. Does he give you much trouble?"
"David, trouble? Good Lord, no. I don't know what I should do without him.” Now, why was he frowning like that?
"You will soon find out,” he said. “He is returning to Penworth when you remove to London, is he not?"
"Indeed he is, but I shall have other company once I reach London. I know people there. He has provided good company on a long evening,” she added.
It was a relief when the spires of Cove House appeared before them, soaring into the misty sky. The house was indeed a Gothic heap, complete with moldy stone, pointed windows, and even a pair of flying buttresses. The land around it was so damp and low-lying that it created a sort of moat, unfortunately without a drawbridge. The road had been raised to allow carriages to enter. Hartly thought it a derelict old place, but when he glanced at Lady Crieff, he saw her face was dazed with ecstasy.
"Oh, if I had known it was this lovely, I would have come when Cousin Vera invited us to live here!” she exclaimed.
A quick frown creased Hartly's brow. He had assumed Lady Marchbank was some kin to the Crieffs. Why would she invite Lady Crieff and David to live with her when David had Penworth Hall?
"After your husband's death, do you mean?” he asked.
For a fleeting moment, she stared at him, startled. “Yes, that was my meaning."
"She wanted you and David to live with her?"
"Yes. David was younger then, of course, as I was myself. David has an uncle who is his legal guardian. He would have managed Penworth. Cousin Vera thought we might like a holiday away from home. I did not mean ‘live’ in the sense of move here permanently."
"I see.” Yet she had said “live here,” in no uncertain terms.
Moira was glad when the carriage rattled to a stop and the groom hopped down to open the door. Jonathon was right behind him.
"By Jove, that was something like! Cooper let me take the reins-he held on, too, but I was driving."
"Best take off Mr. Hartly's coat before we go in,” Moira said.
Jonathon did so and picked up the basket. It was clear Lady Marchbank had been awaiting their arrival, for she was at the door herself to greet them. Moira searched her mind in vain for a memory of this relative. She knew Lady Marchbank had visited her parents fifteen years earlier, but there had been many relatives visiting in those days. She was looking at a stranger: a tall, raw-boned elderly lady wearing an old-fashioned lace cap with lappets hanging over her ears. She had a large nose, not unlike Jonathon's, but it seemed more prominent on a lady. Her gray eyes were moist with tears.
She threw her arms around Moira and kissed her on both cheeks. “A beauty! You have grown into a beauty! I knew it would be so when I first laid eyes on you a decade and a half ago.” She turned to Jonathon. “And this is little David,” she said, with a sly eye at Moira, as if to say, “See, I remembered not to call him Jon.” Then she turned to Hartly. “Now this lad I do not remember. Is he your cousin Jeremy, Bonnie?” The journals had not given Lady Crieff's first name. They had selected Bonnie as appropriately Scottish.
"This is Mr. Hartly, a gentleman who is staying at the inn and has given us a drive here,” Moira explained hastily. She should have sent Cousin Vera a note to alert her to this change of plans.
Hartly bowed.
"So kind of you,” Lady Marchbank said to him. “But why are we standing on the doorstep? Come in, come in. I have had Crook prepare us a dandy tea. How is that for a name, eh? My cook is called Crook. I always call her Crook. She hates it.” On this ill-natured speech she emitted a tinny laugh.
They were led into a dim hallway that belonged in one of Mrs. Radcliffe's Gothic novels. A dark stairway curved sinuously at one end, to disappear in shadows. Antique portraits in aged frames glowered at them from the walls. A stuffed eagle was perched on a pedestal, wings spread, as if he were about to attack. His glass eyes glittered menacingly
"I say! Look at that, Lady Crieff!” Jonathon exclaimed. “Do you have a dungeon with chains and bones, Cousin Vera?"
"No, but we have a secret passage to the caves below. My husband's ancestors made their fortune smuggling wool in the old days. Oh, we are a wicked crew here, wicked!” She cackled like a witch.
Lady Marchbank led them into the main saloon, another tenebrous chamber with creaking Jacobean paneling and faded window hangings.
"There is no point trying to be stylish here,” she told them. “Between the damp sea air and the smoke from the grate, everything is destroyed. I had those window hangings put up only three years ago. Or was it five? No matter, they cost me a small fortune and looked like rags within a twelvemonth."
She bundled them onto a pair of sofas before the grate, where a few logs burned desultorily. “Danby! Danby, I say. I want my tea!” she hollered into the depths of the hallway beyond.
An aged butler appeared at the doorway. “Just coming, your ladyship,” he said, and vanished into the gloom.
"I have brought you the tablecloth I wrote about, cousin,” Moira said, handing Lady Marchbank the basket.
Lady Marchbank opened it with age-speckled hands. The knuckles were swollen, but she could move her fingers quite well. She drew out a large linen tablecloth, worked around the edges and down the center with intertwining vines and flowers in pale shades of green and gold.
"Oh, Bonnie! You shouldn't have! This is gorgeous. Much too fine for an old lady like me. We never entertain anyone who deserves this. I shall put it on my bed for a coverlet. That is what I shall do. If I put it on the table, John would only spill his brandy on it."
"I am glad you like it. Where is Cousin John?” Moira asked.
"Out and about somewhere. He will be back in time to meet you."
Hartly remembered that the excuse for not putting up with the Marchbanks was Lord Marchbank's ailing health, yet he was well enough to be up and about. Another small mystery. He was surprised to see that the wicker basket did not hold a padlocked case. He took a surreptitious peek into it while the ladies examined the tablecloth. The cloth had not filled the basket. There were newspapers folded up below it, obviously with something else beneath.
"We brought some preserves as well,” Moira mentioned. “The marmalade you like so much."
Lady Marchbank continued examining the cloth. “Such a lot of work. I don't know how you found time to do it, so busy as you must have been."
Moira knew the old lady was thinking of her real life-trying to make ends meet on the estate-and spoke up quickly to remind her of her role.
"I had a deal of help running Penworth Hall,” she said.
"Of course you did, but a young gel likes to ride and entertain and that sort of thing."
The tea tray arrived, a veritable feast, with a pigeon pie, cold cuts, bread and three kinds of cheese, a plum cake, and various sweets. It was impossible to do justice to it so soon after lunch.
After they had eaten, Hartly said, “I shall go out and have a walk along the beach while you cousins catch up on all the family gossip."
"I shall go with you,” Jonathon added. “I saw a nifty ship through the window. It looked as if it was coming into your dock, Cousin Vera."
The lady gave him a sharp look. “That would be Homer Guthrie's fishing smack. He stops here to let us choose what we want from his catch. I would not bother him if I were you, David. He is a testy old fellow. Why do you not take Mr. Hartly to see the stables? No, on second thought, that is not a good idea. One of the colts has been gelded and is in a bad mood… I have it! Take Mr. Hartly along the west cliff. You will get a pretty view of the cove there. Turn left when you go out the front door."