The baroness informed her elder daughter. “Good gracious,” said Emeline. “Thank the lord Papa is not at home,” and fluttered to the grand hall to await her cousin by marriage, carefully rearranging her hair pins as she ran down the stairs.
Adrian had not brought his sister with him. “She is not in the best of humours,” he told his hostess, “and I instructed her to remain at home. Many of the servants expired during that unfortunate outbreak, and we are now sadly understaffed. So Sysabel and Aunt Elizabeth must busy themselves to reorganise the household, hardly an exhausting task.” He was stiff, a little uncomfortable, yet he had come, and remained polite. The baroness had already built up the fires in her husband’s absence, even though the April showers were light and the spring warmth shimmered over the Cotswolds. Immediately upon her guest’s arrival, she ordered larger and more elaborate meals from the kitchens, and lit more candles than she had ever risked before.
Adrian sat in the blaze of candlelight, his dun brown hair turned gold and the square simplicity of his face etched into the interesting shadows of determination. “But I have heard nothing,” he admitted. “In all this time no message from Nicholas has been delivered. It seems he is as irresponsible as always. We have encountered our own considerable difficulties, being informed of devastation in Nottingham and the Great Mortality sweeping through the poorer quarters. It was some considerable time before I felt it safe to venture home, and on arrival discovered the household had been virtually abandoned.”
“How, how – awful,” whispered Avice, gazing wide eyed at Adrian.
“We were still in extreme discomfort,” Adrian continued, “when your letter arrived, my lady.” He bowed slightly to Emeline. “Appalled at what might have happened to Nicholas, I came at once.”
“But,” sighed Emeline, “you’ve no idea how he is? Where he is?”
“I shall attempt to discover both where, and in what condition,” Adrian nodded. “My cousin is most reprehensible not to have informed you before now.”
“But if he’s dead–?”
“He had his secretary with him? And if both are ill, there would be all the greater impetus to send a message.”
There was the consolation of a hearty supper, good wine, and the unaccustomed pleasure of warmth and light, but Emeline drifted unsmiling, played with her food instead of eating it, and drank far too much.
“I think,” said Avice later that evening, though no one had asked, “that Adrian is quite beautiful. And handsome. And so kind. He is an exceptional gentleman.”
“You,” said Emeline, “are a silly little beetlebrain just like Sissy. I admit Adrian’s been exceedingly kind in coming all this way, but frankly he’s plain and square and not very clever. And I don’t like the way he picks at Nicholas.”
“Well,” said her mother, “he seems very willing to try and find out what has happened. Though speaking of what has happened, I do find it a little odd that your Papa chooses to travel to London at such a time. April can be such a wet month. Of course it isn’t as if he was summoned to court, and her highness, poor lady, died over a month ago so paying his respects is now a little overdue. He has left on what he calls business rather often lately, yet I had not the slightest knowledge of there being any such thing previously.”
“Don’t mention Papa,” Avice begged her mother, “just when I was enjoying myself. Anyway, perhaps he has gone to visit the stewes in Southwark.”
Baroness Wrotham turned in a hurry and slapped her youngest daughter’s hand. “Avice, I should have you flogged. First for knowing about such things – and then for speaking of your father in such a shocking manner. There is no humour in flagrant vulgarity, nor in the most appalling disrespect. If your Papa were here, he would take his belt to you.”
“Well, if Papa were here, I would never have said it, would I!”
Emeline was staring out of the window. “Papa is the last person in the world to behave – well – him of all people – as if he would. But I was thinking of Nicholas. I mean, I don’t know him very well yet. What if he has simply run away from me?”
“To a bawdyhouse?”
“Stewes and bawdyhouses,” exclaimed her mother, “are from this moment forbidden as a subject of discussion. I am shocked, Avice. Indeed, I am horrified. Of course Nicholas has done no such thing.”
“Well,” whispered Emeline to her lap, “I just wonder if he has.”
Entertaining Sir Adrian broke the monotony and soon the gentle entrance of May, the sunshine on the opening flower heads in the hedgerows, the calling and swooping of the birds and the sweet smells of blossom and briar rose, helped rid the estate of brooding melancholy, opening shadows to light. Recovering from the tedious journey between Nottingham and Gloucestershire, Adrian and his two retainers spent several restful days at the Wrotham manor, wandering daily into the village of Wrotham Under Wychwood. He was generous with praise, and promises.
“The kindness and comfort I find here,” he told his hostess one morning, “are tempting me to prolong my visit, my lady. But I must leave and fulfil my promise to discover Nicholas and his fate. I shall leave tomorrow.”
So that evening after bidding her cousin good night and thanking him for his care and interest, Emma scuttled to her bedchamber, threw off her little gauze headdress, uncoiled her hair and climbed into bed with relief. “Thank goodness,” she muttered, hugging her knees while scrunched up under the counterpane, sheet pulled to her chin. “At last the pompous bore is leaving, and soon I shall know where Nicholas is.”
Avice cuddled beside her, having crept from her own bedchamber moments before. “How can you say such things?” she demanded. “I am in love with him. He is Sir Lancelot embodied, but more handsome, and kinder. The nobility of riding all the way here – and all the way to London – and risking his life and limb both on the road and perhaps because of the pestilence –”
“Honestly, Avice, you are immediately in love with any man that appears between the ages of nine and ninety,” her sister complained. “If all you can think of is childish nonsense, then you can go back to your own bed.”
Avice scowled. “It used to be your bed too, and you know how lumpy it is. Now just because you’ve got the guest chamber, you think you can order me around.”
Emeline glared back. “Here’s me worried sick about Nicholas, and your wretched hero Adrian sits around here eating all our food and buying Maman silly little gifts so she weakens at the knees and gives him the best wine, when he should be riding at full gallop for London.”
“I wish he’d give me little gifs.”
“That would be most improper.”
“Who cares about boring old ‘proper’? I wish he’d seduce me. I wish he’d abduct me. I dream of him kissing me. And it’s wonderful.”
“This,” Emeline sniffed, “is even more ridiculous than the swineherd’s boy or Papa’s secretary. At least they were frightened of you. Who knows what Adrian might do if you tempt him. You know what the priests say.”
“I don’t know what the priests say,” insisted Avice, “because I never listen to them.”
“No one,” declared Emeline, “could fail to hear Father Godwin. His voice is like thunder.”
“Oh, all right,” admitted Avice. “So the horrid old man spits and sneers about a woman’s wicked sins, and how feminine vice tempts honest men away from their moral determination. Well, I only wish it was true. I’ve been trying to tempt nice young men for ages and ages and they take no notice of me. What’s wrong with me? Am I so ugly? Papa says I’m plain and everything else is vanity, but I think he’s just being mean because people say I resemble Maman, and she’s beautiful.”