Chapter 2

Two

M arch Manor was not at all as Stephen had imagined it. When he at last pulled into the drive after a rattling, exhausting carriage ride, he was pleasantly impressed by the size and scope of the lands. He had heard of the manor in only distant terms, as people spoke of their country homes, and considering his reclusive aunt’s reputation, had imagined a dilapidated cottage of the sort used for winter hunting trips.

In truth, the grounds were well kept up. There were sheep grazing the lawns, beautiful trees bending in welcome over the gravel drive, and a few well-kept ponds glistening in the light. The house itself was monstrous, a fine stone place with three stories of elegance and a great marble staircase leading up to the door.

Stephen stepped out of the carriage and motioned to Smith to carry his bags inside.

“Do you know what room you will be in, my Lord?” Smith asked. He was taking the abrupt change in stride, but Stephen knew his valet disapproved of spontaneous journeys.

“We are not expected,” Stephen admitted, a little sheepishly. “But I will speak with the butler and see that your duties are made as simple as possible.”

Smith waited at the carriage to unload the luggage while Stephen climbed the stairs to the door. He didn’t have knock: it was already standing open, and in the doorway a slim old man in fine-tailored livery was waiting.

“Mr. Tylor, I presume?” Stephen asked upon stopping in front of the door. “I am Lord Richmond’s son, the Earl of Darnley. He sent me to see to the welfare of the Dowager Duchess. I’m sorry I could not send word, but, unfortunately, I felt the need to set out at once.”

The butler looked him over carefully; almost suspiciously. “I sent many letters,” he said after a pause. “I had expected someone much sooner.”

Stephen winced. It was a fair rebuke. He had set out shortly after hearing the news for the first time, but from the butler’s perspective he had hardly arrived “at once.” It had been three weeks since the first plea for assistance.

“I am sorry for any delay,” he said, rather lamely. “My man is there, Mr. Smith. Could one of your servants show him to my chambers, and then lay a room up for him in the servants’ hall?”

The butler nodded, his lips still pursed disapprovingly together, then stepped aside into the house so Stephen could enter. The interior was even more fine that the stone exterior. The floor of the entryway was marble, a continuation of the steps outside, and the high ceilings were painted in an intricate fashion with scenes from various Greek tragedies.

The marble entryway gave way to the fine wooden floor of the drawing room, planed beautifully and covered in lush rugs. This room had better light, but still sported the heavy murals of Greek inspiration and furniture gilt with gold. It all felt rather heavy and decadent.

The butler paused here, turning to face Stephen. He seemed to have a gentler countenance. “It is kind of you to come,” he said. “I am quite at my wits end as to how to help her. She clearly needs a doctor, but will brook none to step through the front door. She needs supervision, too, but I have other duties about the house and cannot be always on hand.”

“I am not certain how helpful I will be,” Stephen said, feeling the first stab of uncertainty. “I have never met her, after all. I fear we have no shared history upon which to draw.”

“You are family, and that means something to her,” Mr. Tylor said quietly. “And it is not as though you will do worse than anyone else in the house. She won’t listen to a soul. She goes about dressing as she wishes and doing what she wishes, and she has fits of confusion that quite undo the household staff. Before you meet your aunt, I think it best if you speak with some of our servants first, so as to have a fuller picture of the matter. Does that meet with your approval?”

“It does,” Stephen said slowly, growing more intrigued by the minute.

The butler then led him through the servants’ door in the great wooden wall of the drawing room, taking him down a narrow flight of stairs to the kitchen below. The upstairs had been quiet and almost morose, but down here Stephen felt his spirits lift at the bustle of light and activity. Here was evidence of the force that had kept March Manor from falling into disrepair. Here were the smells of a garlic and roasting meat; the sound of servants calling instructions to one another, and the sight of a chamber maid scurrying down the hall with a basket of firewood.

Stephen took a deep breath, following Mr. Tylor into the main dining room for the servants. There was a long plank table upon which had been laid a simple tea, and various servants gathered around in conversation. A few of them were mending, some were pressing, and one man at the front was packing a pipe. They all dropped what they were doing upon seeing Stephen, and stood with a great scraping of chairs, all conversation ceasing.

“I would like to introduce to you Lord Darnley,” the butler intoned. “He will be staying with us for some time, helping in the care of Lady Cecelia at this difficult time in her life. I appreciate the discretion you have all shown in this matter — keeping her situation to yourself — but before Lord Darnley meets her, I think it would be good for him to have some idea of who she is and what he might…” he paused a moment and finished rather quietly, “…expect.”

Nobody moved. It seemed the servants were uncertain what precisely was expected of them. Mr. Tylor cleared his throat and turned to a plump little maid standing beside him.

“Miss Stewart, perhaps you could begin. Tell Lord Darnley what happened last week.”

The girl looked positively frightened, and when she began to speak her words came out slow and shaky. “My Lord, I don’t wish any disrespect.”

Stephen nodded kindly. “Please speak,” he said. “You will not be held accountable for your honesty.”

She took a shuddering breath. “I lay the fires for Lady Cecelia and tend to the tidiness of her chambers. I came in three days past and found her scribbling on the walls with a quill. There wasn’t any ink in it, my Lord, but she kept scribbling and scribbling, saying she was writing a beautiful letter to her…” the girl paused, blushing deeply, “…to her lover, my Lord.”

“Ah.” Stephen frowned. “So, you are concerned about madness.”

“Concerned about madness?” chimed in a lad in footman livery in the corner. “My Lord, she doesn’t dress properly; and she scares off her few remaining guests with little tricks and illusions. She pretends she is a ghost.”

“I’m not sure she’s pretending,” another man chimed in. “I think she believes she is a ghost.”

Stephen felt a sudden urge to smile. He restrained this, wanting to appear professional. “What sort of tricks?” he asked.

The nervous maid spoke again, her voice stronger now. “The constable came to investigate a theft of sheep that had occurred with one of the manor flocks. She let him wait in the hall for an hour; wouldn’t see him or allow us to show him into the drawing room. When the clock struck ten, she came down the great staircase, dressed in only a plain shift as she often wears these days, and shrieked at him in a chilling cry.”

“What did she say?” Stephen asked.

“She said, ‘I know it ‘twas you that did it!’” The girl looked quite frightened herself, and then added, “The poor man didn’t know what to make of it. He told her he wanted to ask her some questions about the missing sheep. She shrieked again that she knew it was him who had ‘done it,’ and then added, ‘you stole those sheep, and tonight you shall find their wool in your bed.’”

Stephen raised his eyebrows. “Eerie.”

Mr. Tylor took a long, strained breath. “That wasn’t all. The constable left, and as he walked down the great stone steps she ran back upstairs in her bare feet and, taking a basket of wool she’d torn out of her comforter, dumped it down upon his head like thick snow.” He shook his head. “We are fortunate that he is a discreet man, but even so it was badly done. He kept the matter to himself, but other tricks have been less secret. There are busybodies in the village that are only too happy to spread whatever tales they can about our lady.”

“You believe she is not right in the mind.” Stephen ran his fingers along his bearded chin. “It certainly seems strange.” What have I gotten myself into? He was embarrassed to remember how he’d spent time imagining his aunt’s sickness on the carriage ride to the manor. I thought she was going to be some poor woman, confined to her bed and wasting away, that I could read to and help with the management of the home, he thought wryly. This is another business entirely.

“I think you have a picture,” Mr. Tylor said, interrupting his reverie. “Are you quite prepared to go upstairs and meet her in person?”

“I am not sure any person could be prepared after what you have shared,” Stephen said slowly, “but I greatly appreciate your honesty. Perhaps I can help after all.”

They walked up, through the drawing room, and down a narrow hall to a room the butler called “her personal sitting room.” This place was quite small, and decorated very differently from the rest of the house. There were a few books and a great many windows; a small fireplace, and a single painting of a peaceful landscape against a pale blue wall. Sitting in a chair by the window, her legs curled underneath her, sat his aunt.

Stephen would have been able to recognize her, even if he didn’t know all the stories about her nor have the butler at his side to mace introductions. She looked very like his mother, only older. She had the same freckles that dotted his own face, and though her hair was now snowy white and loose to her shoulders, he could see it feel just as his mother did about her face. She was wearing a gown that looked as though it had been a dressing gown years ago. It was an elegant brocade, but there was no waist anywhere in the garment. Instead, it was loose and baggy, slipping off her frail shoulders. Her feet were bare; he could see them poking out from beneath the folds of her dress. She held a book in her hand, but she was not reading it. Her face was instead studying her free hand, as though she was seeing it for the first time.

She looked up suddenly when Mr. Tylor cleared his throat, and seemed startled.

“Who are you?” she asked, drawing away into the chair. “What are you doing in my home?”

Before Stephen could answer, the butler stepped forward with an impressive show of ritual and tradition. “Lady Cecelia,” he said in a deep voice, “allow me to introduce Lord Darnley. He has come to stay with you for a time. I am putting him up in the east wing of the manor. He has his own man, and will not have any demands on your time—”

“I know you,” she said, her eyes on Stephen. She stood from the chair, stepping toward him in an eerie, wraith-like manner. She seemed not quite steady on her feet. “I have seen your face before.”

“We have never met,” Stephen said quietly. “But you might remember my mother.”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s it. You have Matilda’s eyes.” She began to circle him, walking around him very slowly as they talked. It was most disorienting, and Stephen felt off balance. What precisely is required of a gentleman in a position such as this? It was all very unconventional.

“I hope my visit is not unwelcome, Aunt,” he said gently.

“All visits are unwelcome,” she snapped. Still, he thought he saw a look of interest in her eyes. “But before I send you packing, perhaps you can tell me why you’ve come.”

Stephen drew himself up slightly. “My parents received your letter,” he said. He fibbed slightly, wanting to protect her feelings. “They sent me in their stead,” he said. “I have come to help in your convalescence, and to find a doctor who can adequately care for you. I want—”

His words, however, seemed to be having a truly dreadful affect on his aunt. Her face, already quite pale, grew even more drawn. In the apple of her thin cheeks a bright red appeared, and her eyes flashed.

“Who told you I was in need of care?” she snapped. Then, as if answering her own question, her eyes flew to Mr. Tylor. “You.” She turned towards him menacingly. “ You!”

Before Stephen knew what was happening, the frail little woman in front of him drew back her arm and let loose her book in the direction of the butler. It was a good throw — surprisingly direct for someone who looked as though they might be knocked over by the slightest breeze — but the butler had more experience than Stephen and had apparently seen such an action coming. He ducked, mumbled something about his sincerest apologies, and disappeared through the door.

Aunt Cecelia ran to where the book had fallen and, picking it up again, shrieked at the door. “You’ll not hide from me, old man! Who are you to go around sharing my business with those heartless people? Did you get a good laugh from it?” She whirled to Stephen, her eyes wild. “Did you laugh, young man?”

“No,” he said quickly, his heart beating quickly. I don’t know what to do. That one, useless thought, was running on repeat in his mind. “I didn’t laugh,” he said lamely.

She paused, breathing heavily, and then sank down into a little puddle of brocade on the floor, sitting on the rug and fiddling wearily with the book.

“I’m so tired,” she said weakly. “You shouldn’t have come. I didn’t need anyone to come.”

Stephen came over to sit beside her, lowering himself carefully onto the floor. He saw his mistake now — it was the worst possible way to begin the conversation, referencing her illness. He tried again. “I needed to get away from home,” he said, surprising himself with his own honesty. “I got the letter, and I thought it would be a chance to escape for a time. Will you let me stay?”

She looked down at her hands. “You came because of Tylor, the old rat,” she mumbled.

He ignored that. “You have fine gardens here,” he said, looking out of her window. “Perhaps when your energy is back you can walk with me there.”

“I’m too tired for the gardens,” she said simply.

“That is why we ought to get a doctor here,” Stephen urged her. “He could see what is bothering you. He could help you feel better.”

“No doctor,” she shook her head violently and began struggling to rise. Stephen helped her to her feet. “No doctor,” she repeated again. “Never a doctor.” She seemed to be growing agitated again.

“Alright,” Stephen said quickly, knowing it would be futile to fight the battle at present. “I won’t force you to go to a doctor.”

She leaned in close as though she was planning on telling him a secret. He froze, listening. After what felt like an eternally long pause, his aunt said quietly. “You can’t force me, even if you wanted to.” Then she sat back, her face bizarrely peaceful, not a shred of the insanity he’d seen previously. “I remember your name,” she said. “You’re Stephen, aren’t you?”

He nodded, dumbstruck.

“Tell me if your rooms are to satisfaction, Stephen,” she said, walking toward the door with all the dignity and composure of a woman in a full ball gown. “I am afraid I must retire at present.”

Then she whirled around and was gone, the door still open behind her. Stephen stood quite still for a moment, and then sat down heavily in a nearby armchair. What just happened? She was like some sort of natural disaster, flying unpredictably around and causing havoc wherever she went. This will not be as easy as I thought, he thought drily. He was suddenly, guiltily glad that his parents weren’t here to see this first introduction. They would laugh at me, or at the very least tell me that they were right all along.

Mr. Tylor appeared at the door again, peering around the frame as though making certain Lady Cecelia was not lingering inside.

“She’s gone,” Stephen said wearily. “You were right about the state of things. I’m surprised you waited as long as you did to ask for help.”

“I knew she would not want help,” the butler said quietly. “I felt loyal to her. I had to wait until it was more disloyal to leave her alone.”

“You did right to ask for our aid,” Stephen stood up, blowing out his breath and trying to think. “I think we need more help than myself alone, however. She needs something more steady — a lady’s companion, perhaps — who can watch her changing whims and help predict her responses to things. Do you think you could put an advert in the newspaper to that effect?”

The butler nodded, mild surprise on his face. “I should have thought of it myself.” He paused a moment, looking uncomfortable. “Perhaps I should have thought of it before contacting her family.”

“No, you were right to contact me,” Stephen reassured him. “Lady’s companion or not, I think it correct that I am here to see her condition and try to help her.”

The two men spoke briefly about what the next day would hold, and then the butler left to place the advertisement, and Stephen wearily retired to his own bedchambers.