Chapter 27

27

MERCY KEEP, PRESENT DAY

I t was late afternoon by the time Ben and Ellen made the long walk down the slope from the Keep and returned to the manor house. While Ellen went up to her room to fetch the rose folio, Ben went to the library and cleared space on the large desk. The outside light had faded to the shade of golden honey where it streamed through the windows and he switched on a pair of lamps. He arranged comfortable chairs side by side then set up a laptop and found a pad of paper and pens. He laid two pairs of white cotton gloves on the desk and double-checked the battery in his camera. He also poured two glasses of Henry's Teeling Single Malt, sipping on one while he spooled through the pictures he had taken of Ellen at the wall. One or two of them took his breath away, but when she came into the room, he had eyes only for the wooden box she carried.

She set it carefully on the desk and open the top, releasing the instant scent of cedar wood.

Before she went any further, he handed her a pair of gloves.

"The pages are old and the vellum can be damaged by the oil on our fingers." He noted the horrified look in her eyes and waved it away. "You couldn't have known and I'm sure a number of ungloved fingers have leafed through it over the years. I just happen to be slightly anal about such things. As was Henry, who insisted that Ethan lock it away for safekeeping."

"But you have seen it before."

"Not the actual folio, no. Henry showed me a couple of pages he'd had photocopied. A challenge, I imagine, to see if I could read them. But as I said, it might well have been a grocery list written in Klingon. He never really talked much about the contents, just that it was written by a medieval farmgirl accused of being a witch. And of course, there was nothing extraordinary about that, since half the population was accused of witchcraft at one time or another. Any phenomenon that couldn't be explained was credited to demon sorcery. You thought the Salem Witch trials were bad? The English not only invented witch-hunters, but the horrific trials and tests used to prove innocence or guilt. Imagine, if you will, an iron cross at the bottom of a cauldron of boiling oil. If the accused could reach in and pick up the cross without any damage to the flesh, he was innocent."

"I would have thought it was the other way around."

Ben smiled. "They were not called the dark ages from lack of sunlight."

Ellen would have been quite happy basking in that smile for a few moments more, but his eyebrow twitched from the need to hold his impatience in check.

She peeled back the folded layers of red velvet to reveal the leather cover of the folio. The light from the lamps made the velvet glow and revealed little flecks of gold where the tooling of the rose emblem had once been embossed .

Ben reached out a gloved hand as if to touch it, but withdrew again. "May I just look at it for a moment?"

"Of course."

"I can name twenty curators off the top of my head who would have orgasms on the spot if this was offered to their museum. I, myself, am teetering on the edge."

Ellen bit her lip to keep from laughing. "Let me know when it is safe to take it out of the box."

"Oh… it is quite safe," he said with a small huff and a deadpan expression. "I believe I can contain myself. For now."

Her smile faded and for a long moment, he avoided looking directly into her eyes.

"We both saw it, didn't we?" she asked. "And heard it."

His mouth drew into a thoughtful pucker. "A speck of dirt, dislodged by the breeze. Those shutters haven't been opened in a while. As for what we heard, it could have been rust on the hinge or the wood creaking slightly. Again, those shutters…"

"Haven't been opened in a while," she finished. "Yes, that would be the logical explanation."

"You prefer an illogical one? That we were in some sort of time warp? A parallel universe when Enndolynn Ware was scraping her initials into the window casement and we were standing there watching?"

Her eyes searched his. "I know it sounds foolish. But first the mirror, and the painting on the wall. How do you logically explain how I knew it was there, behind a padlocked door for which you had the only key? And how do you explain the writing in this book that only I can read?"

His stare remained steady… until it couldn't and he looked away. "I can't. I can't explain any of it."

"Neither can I," she admitted. "But I'm not going to shut my mind completely to the possibility that there might be a completely illogical answer. ‘Once you eliminate the impossible,'" she quoted, "'whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.'"

"You're quoting Sherlock Holmes to me?"

"I'm pretty sure he encountered ghosts. Or ravens. Or something. And you did say you thrived on solving mysteries."

Ben tried not to smile. "The ravens were Edgar Allen Poe."

"Well our ghost is Enndolynn Ware, and if it's true she was a witch—"

"Don't say it. Please. I'm a scientist. I believe in what I can see and touch and taste and feel."

On impulse, Ellen leaned in and kissed him. It wasn't much as kisses went, just a warm pressing together of lips.

"Did you feel that?" she asked softly.

He stared a moment longer then frowned. "I'm not entirely sure. We might have to try it again."

"Will you admit we saw something over at the Keep that we can't explain, and that we're about to look at something else—" she waved a hand at the folio— "that defies all scientific logic?"

"At this precise moment, I'll admit to just about anything you'd like me to admit to."

He leaned in this time and the kiss was far from warm and casual. His lips were firm and possessive, they parted hers with a gentle insistence and she melted into the heat of his mouth. She felt his hand at the nape of her neck drawing her closer and she tasted the smoky richness of Henry's whisky on his tongue as it sought hers. He probed deeper and she was horrified to hear herself whimper but he either didn't hear or didn't care because he just kept kissing her .

When he finally released her, her lips stayed in a soft, startled O.

"Ask me again," he murmured.

"Ask you what?"

"If I felt that."

"Did you feel that?"

He smiled and the hand at her nape slid around and tucked under her chin. "To the tips of my toes."

Ellen blushed a little and looked at the mahogany box. "I suppose we should do what we came here to do."

"I suppose we should," though his voice did not sound entirely convincing. His thumb gave her chin a final soft stroke before he took his hand away.

Ellen reached into the box and carefully lifted the book out of the box. She set it on a sheet of snow-white linen that Ben had spread, then untied the thin strip of rawhide holding the leather covers together. Her mind was still whirling in a thousand different directions. Her lips were tingling and she was super-conscious of him watching her every move, which made her acutely aware of every part of her body that had responded to his kiss. She was a bartender in a nightclub, for heaven's sake. Men made passes at her all the time and she was not averse to letting the occasional one get past the flirting stage. But this was different. She was now an heiress and he was a handsome and charming professor who might very well have ulterior motives.

Thank you Wormsley for planting that nasty little thought in my mind.

When she opened the top covering, Ben was all business again. He scooted his chair closer and adjusted the lamp, then pulled on his cotton gloves .

"Remarkable," he murmured. "It is in remarkable condition. Are all the pages like this one?"

"I've only looked at a dozen or so, but yes, they appear to be."

"Remarkable." He flexed his fingers to tighten the gloves and looked at her. "May I?"

"Of course."

Ever so carefully, he picked up the top sheet of vellum.

The page was yellowed with age, but the script was black and legible apart from the occasional ink blot or smear. The words were neither straight nor written on uniform lines, suggesting the author was able to read and write but not at a highly disciplined level. Errors were simply scratched out by an impatient hand. That was all he could discern by looking at it, however, for the ‘words' were just marks and squiggles.

Even so, he was holding a page that someone had written over seven hundred years ago. It wasn't the first time he had done so and likely would not be the last, but as always, the initial sensation of reaching back into history, touching it, envisioning the hand that set the goose-feather quill scratching their thoughts, perhaps their dreams and wishes across the page, brought the past and present flowing together as one.

Making the moment even more poignant was the fact that the Enndolynn Ware who had written these pages was a direct descendant of the Enndolynn Bowe who sat beside him now. What's more, if what she claimed to have seen in the mirror was in any way remotely possible, the two women shared more than just a name.

"Would you like me to read some of it to you?"

"I would like you to read me the whole damned thing," he agreed. "But would it be possible to see the Langton document first? "

"You know about that?"

"Forgive me if I ruined your surprise, but Ethan let it slip. He told me you found it tucked between the pages of the folio. I have not seen it; Henry never mentioned it, and you can have no idea the resolve it has taken not to ask about it. The fact this common girl, this fletcher, witch… whatever she was… was carrying around a document written several decades before she was born by arguable the most famous and controversial Archbishop of England… it sets any and all parameters of logic spinning."

"I put it back between the pages," she said, and carefully lifted a few of the vellum sheets until she found the gap made by the bulk of the folded letter. "How is your Latin?"

"Better than my Klingon, but not by much."

She handed him the quarter-folded paper without opening it and watched as he reverently placed it on the linen and gently unfolded each quadrant of vellum to reveal the wax seal that had been placed inside.

Ellen was intrigued by his facial expressions, seeing the faint flush of excitement rise in his cheeks, noting how his lips parted so he could take slow, measured breaths. One dark coil of hair had fallen forward over his eyes and she had to lace her fingers together to keep from reaching over and brushing it aside.

With far more care than she had taken that first night, he produced a pair of tweezers and lifted the disc of wax, angling it to the light. The one side featured a depiction of the archbishop in his long robes. The reverse, which Ellen had barely noticed, bore a less defined image of a man on his knees with three men striking him with swords. She leaned closer as Ben studied it under the light, almost resting her chin on his arm.

"Thomas Becket," he said with unabashed awe. " Langton was a bit of a political radical and wanted to keep Becket's murder prominent in men's eyes to show the corruption of absolute power in the hands of a king. His concerns were supported by a rebellion of the barons who eventually forced King John to sign the Magna Carta, which took away his absolute power to rule and would eventually lead to the creation of parliament. Considering the journey this document has taken down through the years, it's remarkable that the seal hasn't been discarded or the wax hasn't broken into a thousand bits."

He set the seal to one side then focussed his attention on the document. It was, he confirmed, written in Latin, in a precise, formal script by a hand that had likely spent years apprenticing in an abbey, painstakingly copying out pages of scripture. There was no colorful illumination on the letters, but a good many words began with capitals that bore the exaggerated scrolls and whirls of someone accustomed to ascribing grave importance to his writings.

"I certainly can't swear absolutely to this being Langton's handwriting, not without an expert's opinion, but with the foxing on the corners and the general age of the vellum, plus the seal which is definitely Langton's, I think we can confidently say this is bloody real." Ben touched a line with a gloved finger and read, "We also have a date: Anno Domini Centum Decem Duodecim ."

"In non-Klingon that would be…?"

"The year of our Lord twelve hundred and ten."

He continued to read, saying the odd word out loud, mouthing the ones silently that he was unsure of. " In Oculis Domini … in the eyes of God… Solennes Testimonium … solemn witness… Nuptias ."

He sat up straight and blinked. "It would appear he presided over a marriage. "

"A marriage?"

"Unless my Latin is rustier than I thought, nuptias is marriage. Most marriages were simply recorded in parish records, no one was actually issued a formal certificate, which this would appear to be. Written by the archbishop. And with witnesses, no less."

Ellen followed his gloved finger. Langton's was prominent, but below, near the bottom of the page, there were faint lines that were smudged to the point of being illegible. She hadn't even recognized them as signatures when she first saw the document.

"A pity someone tried to wash them away," he mused, tipping the page into the light.

"What? Wash them?"

"You can tell by the damage to the vellum. It either fell into water at some point or someone deliberately tried to wash away the names."

"Why would someone wash away the names? Why wouldn't they just destroy the document itself?"

"No idea. I did some quick research when Ethan mentioned you had this. Langton was in Paris until 1206, then Pope Innocent called him to Rome. He was elected Archbishop of Canterbury the following year, which did not sit well with King John, who refused to acknowledge him and expelled all the Canterbury monks who supported his nomination. In a counter move, Innocent placed England under an interdict. That was in 1208 and lasted four years, meaning no one could attend a service or get married in a church or have their babies baptised. So. One can safely assume Langton wasn't even in the country in 1210. As far as I know, Langton was living in an abbey in Burgundy until 1213 when the interdict was lifted."

He looked back down at the document. "So now we have two mysteries. Or three. Or four. Whose marriage did Langton preside over? How did the document, which had to have been drawn up and signed in Burgundy, end up in the hands of an English fletcher-slash-witch eighty years later who could read and write in some indecipherable archaic language? What happened in the interim?"

"Perhaps I could ask the girl in the mirror."

As a joke it fell flat since Ben seemed not to hear her. He was frowning, scanning down the page, trying to read the tight script, having to search entire sentences to find the verb at the end. Every other word was capitalized, the calligraphy making it difficult to find actual names, but when he did, he murmured a quiet "Eureka! A name. Alianora Comitissa de Richmond . The bride, I presume." His gloved fingertip hovered over the page, travelling back and forth three more lines before he found another. "Ha! And the groom was Henrici de nobili sanguine sanctae Clarae . Some dude name Henry of noble blood."

He leaned back in his chair, looking quite pleased with himself for solving at least one of the mysteries.

"A marriage certificate," Ellen said. "So nothing truly earth shattering that might change the course of history?"

She was smiling when she said it, but Ben looked at her quite solemnly.

"We could send the document to Cambridge, they would be able to tell us more about it, including the age of the vellum. Perhaps restore the signatures. At the very least they could give us a full and accurate translation."

"If you think that would help."

He tapped his gloved fingers on the desk and she could see the professorial side of him waging a little war with a more cautious side. "You might want to think about that for longer than five seconds. I am, of course, all for sending it away and finding out as much as we can about the who and why of it, but once we do, I regret to say it would be highly unlikely its existence could be kept secret for long. Scholars, historians have a way of rooting out conundrums. Should they hear a rumor about a previously unknown document from the thirteenth century with Stephen Langton's signature on it, they'll descend on Lincolnshire like a flock of locusts. They would demand some form of provenance to prove ownership and it would be a short leap to the folio itself, something that, for whatever reason, has been kept a closely guarded secret for a dozen or so generations. Well, no. One can guess the reasons its existence has been kept within the family. Bandy the word witchcraft around, combined with a journal that is written in a language only legible to direct descendants… you would have that guy who hyped the opening of Capone's empty bank vault into a two-hour television special camped on the front doorstep." He paused and sighed. "I am talking myself out of exposing a major find of the century, aren't I?"

"You're doing an admirable job of it, yes. Isn't there a colleague you can trust to keep a secret?"

"I wouldn't even trust me to keep it after I've had a few pints at the local."

"Okay then, is there any way you can restore the washed-out signatures by yourself?"

He shook his head. "Unfortunately, there is no reliable way to actually restore ink, especially on a document this old. The good thing is, it's vellum, so it's held up through the ages and the wear and tear. The bad thing is, it's vellum, which is plant based and doesn't get along very well with most modern chemicals. There are a couple of alternate ways of trying to make it more legible. One is with computer software. Sometimes the darker pixels can be manipulated enough through a photoshop program to bring the writing forward. A better way is to take a photo with a UV light and a camera fitted with a special filter. Ink in the thirteenth century was made with a lot of pigments and minerals which fluoresce under ultraviolet light."

"Can you do that?"

He feigned an offended expression. "I wouldn't be much of an archaeologist if I couldn't. Wait here, I'll fetch my equipment."

Ellen glanced out the window to the darkness beyond. She laid a hand on Ben's arm as he was rising. "I still smell like castle cobwebs and would really like to have a shower before dinner, which is precisely at eight o'clock, as you know, or we risk Mrs. Winklebottom's wrath. We could do this first thing in the morning, could we not? Fresh eyes and all that."

Ben sank back down. "I suppose, after seven hundred years, it wouldn't hurt to wait a few more hours. And in case I have neglected to say it: Thank you for trusting me with this."

He smiled at her and all the little prickly sensations started to radiate down her spine again. She reached for the glass of whisky he had poured for her.

"You told me to trust Ethan. Both he and Mrs. Winklebottom trust you, so…" She did a little bottoms-up toast, and downed the half inch of amber liquid in a single swallow.

She set the glass down and looked at the folio and the Langton document. "Should this be put somewhere safe?"

"Indeed, it should. Go and enjoy your shower, I'll join you in a few. Er… not in your shower, of course, but in my own. For my own shower." Seeing her grin, he gave up trying to stammer his way out of the situation and sighed. "I would, however, like to sit here and savor a few more mo ments with Stephen Langton, if I may, before I lock it away?"

"Of course." She stood, which prompted him to stand as well. "I'll see you at dinner, then?"

"Absolutely." He leaned in and gave her a perfectly chaste kiss on the cheek, which kept her smiling all the way up the stairs to her bedroom.

Ellen's shower turned into a half hour long bath. The thought of soaking in a deep claw-foot tub scented with a blanket of bubbles proved to be far more appealing than listening to the water pipes rattle and howl. Miriam had set out a dazzling selection of shampoos and cream rinses, bath salts and soaps, creams and conditioners along with towels that were thicker and softer than anything Ellen had felt before.

Miriam was also there to offer a manicure and a pedicure, if she so wished; to dry and style her hair, and steam away the tiniest wrinkle out of whatever outfit she chose to wear down to dinner.

Remembering the half dozen cases Veronica had brought with her, and the extremely colorful and formal gown she had worn to dine on the previous two occasions, Ellen chose one of the silk dresses she had bought in London on her brief spree. Knowing her options would soon be running out, she supposed a shopping trip to a larger city than Bryony Tofts might be in order. She still felt uncomfortable with the idea of spending a lot of money and once again, Miriam came to the rescue.

"My mam used to make all of Miss Rachel's clothes. Finest dressmaker in three counties, she is. Miss Rachel would show her a picture out of a magazine and before she knew it, it would be hanging in her closet. I'm sure she'd do the same for you… if you wanted her to, that is. You're so lovely and slim and tall, she'd be tickled out of her shoes to have you wear her clothes."

"I would absolutely love that. My roommate used to say I was an embarrassment to my sex because I found shopping for clothes to be a chore and a bore."

"I'll have her come see you, then, shall I?"

"Whenever it's convenient for her."

"Faugh! If I called her right now, she'd be here before you went down for dinner."

They shared a laugh and Ellen glanced at the door that led to the adjoining wardrobe. "Speaking of clothes, I must confess I was doing a little snooping and saw some exquisite gowns in the dressing room."

"Oh, aye. Miss Rachel had them made for the fetes and costume balls they used to have here. Folk dressed up like they were living at the turn of the century or in the 20's, 30's, 40's. They also hold a Medieval fair in Lincoln each year where everyone dresses like Robin Hood and Maid Marian, or clank around in armor. Mam even made Miss Rachel one of them big fancy wide gowns, all in satin with everything pushed up so her nipples were almost showing and with skirts so wide she had to walk sideways to get through a door. A gown like the first queen Elizabeth wore. Master Henry had most of them put in proper storage after she passed. He only kept out a few that were his favorites. I think he liked to look at them and remember."

"Well, the yellow one I saw was spectacular."

"Yellow, Miss? No, I don't think so. Miss Rachel never wore yellow and mam never made her anything yellow. Miss Rachel couldn't abide it. Said it made her feel like she was wearing a banana peel. "

"I'm sure it was yellow. Sort of a silvery yellow velvet with long sleeves and elongated cuffs."

Miriam frowned and bit her lip to keep from arguing but the contrary look was evident on her face.

Feeling contrary herself, Ellen stood up from the vanity chair and walked through to her uncle's dressing room. She found the light switch and went straight to the back row of closets. She opened the one that held the gowns and ran a hand across the rainbow of colors and fabrics but even after searching twice, there was nothing in yellow. Not bright yellow, not pale yellow, not even light gold. Certainly nothing amongst the silks and satins that resembled plush yellow velvet.

She opened the closet beside it, thinking perhaps Mrs. Winklebottom had collected some clothing to give to the vicar, but all of her uncle's suits were still hanging there. The business suits, tuxedos, morning suits, and pin-striped Edwardian suits.

She opened a third and fourth closet in case she had put the gown in the wrong place, or it had been moved, but there was only more of Henry Ward's clothing.

"Green was her favorite color," Miriam said from the doorway. "And blue."

Ellen closed the last set of closet doors and stood a moment staring at the dark wood.

"Perhaps I was mistaken," she murmured, and turned. "That will teach me for snooping."

"Not snooping, Miss, if it all belongs to you now."

Ellen forced a smile and walked out of the dressing room, turning the light off behind her. She slipped her feet into her shoes and took a last, quick peek at the mirror, happy to see it was herself looking back, then left Miriam to tidy up while she went in search of a large glass of wine .

Ellen found the wine as well as Ethan and Veronica enjoying pre-dinner cocktails in the main reception room. Ethan looked quite dapper in a dark suit with a pale burgundy waistcoat, complete with a gold fob chain looped across his belly. Veronica's hair was sprayed into a tall pillar that leaned noticeably to one side. Aside from that she looked quite reserved in fifties-style pale green dress with a flared skirt and a wide white belt around the waist.

Ellen had barely taken a seat in a comfortable leather chair when Ben arrived. He had changed into a white turtleneck sweater and black pants; his hair was still damp from the shower.

He eyed everyone's glass and headed to the sideboard bar, where he poured himself a gin and tonic. "I passed through the kitchen on my way and damn near stayed there. The starter is cod loin poached in coconut milk and tarragon. The main is a chine of beef roasted to a state of such perfection, Abigail had to slap my wrist to keep from eating it right out of the pan. We took a lunch with us when we went up to the keep, but forgot to eat it."

"Time does seem to fly past the first time you visit," Ethan said, looking at Ellen. "You found the ruins interesting, I assume?"

She opened her mouth to answer but Ben cut in first. "Dark and gloomy and smelling of cobwebs. I believe that was Ellen's evaluation. And that was just the great hall. But the afternoon was not a complete waste. I was lucky enough to be given a glimpse of the rose folio."

Ethan nodded. "And? What was your opinion?"

"As an archaeologist it is always fascinating to discover an unknown language. As a non-expert in the realm of witchcraft or magic or whatever you care to call it, I find it well beyond my understanding that someone who has never seen that language before could actually read it."

"Makes my skin crawl, it does," Veronica said, shivering visibly.

"Oh pish. Ellen's grandmother could read it and nothing crawled on you then."

"Nothin' that ‘ad more than two legs, at any rate."

Ethan rolled his eyes and looked at Ben again. "What of the Langton document? Did you have a chance to look at it?"

"Briefly," Ben nodded. "I haven't really had a chance to establish if it is genuine or not. In any case, it would not appear to be anything more earth shattering than a certificate of marriage. The year it is dated, 1210, falls squarely in the dark years when England was under an interdict and church marriages were prohibited. I expect there may have been some urgent reason two members of the nobility would have travelled to France to have the service performed. Children born out of wedlock carried the stain of bastardy regardless of their bloodlines."

The lamplight flashed off his spectacles as Ethan glanced briefly at Ellen then back at Ben. "I've not yet seen the document myself, did not even know it existed before Miss Bowe made the somewhat startling revelation on the train from London. I cannot begin to think why Henry would have kept such a discovery to himself."

"He never mentioned it to me either." Ben paused and bowed his head slightly, appearing to focus on his drink while he dredged up a memory. "He did show an interest in the general time period, as I recall, and asked a lot of questions about the Plantagenet kings, the interdict and the feud between King John and Pope Innocent, so he must have known it was there. He never initiated a direct discussion about Langton, however—I would have remembered if he had—although I am equally certain I must have mentioned him several times in the context of our conversations, if only to impress him with my vast knowledge as we dusted our way through the old crypts."

"There are crypts?" Veronica's eyes widened like those of an owl.

Ben nodded. "There is a chamber in the undercroft that holds about dozen old stone vaults. They are all empty, the lids removed or smashed by grave robbers looking for valuables buried with the bodies. Even the bones are gone. Henry did find a small gold band in some rubble. It was crudely hammered and looked like a man's ring, inscribed in Spanish, roughly translated to say: ‘This is all I have to give thee'."

Ellen jumped on the chance to rejoin the conversation. "I do remember you mentioning something about the Spanish armada?"

"Indeed," Ethan smiled. "A good many galleons from the ill-fated fleet were wrecked along the eastern coast of England and Scotland. It would not have been unusual for some of the crew to have been buried on the moor, or, in the case of an officer of high or noble ranking, to be given a more ceremonial resting place." He shrugged. "The Elizabethans were a curious breed. They fought like devils but respected their enemies once they were dead."

"I can see I am going to be doing a lot of reading," Ellen said. "English history before 1776 was not exactly a high priority on the curriculum."

"Ungrateful colonists," Veronica pronounced over a sip of her martini.

"Water well under the bridge, Ronnie dear, or, tea in the harbor as it were," said Ethan, eyeing the level of spirits in his assistant's glass. "And unless my ears are ringing, that would be Mrs. Winklebottom banging on the dinner chime."

Ellen had never had cod poached in coconut milk, nor did she know that cods had loins, but she ate every succulent morsel and might have asked for a second serving if a maid hadn't come through the dining room door carrying an enormous platter of roasted beef that had to have tipped the scales at twenty pounds. The meat was tender and delicious, the crown of fat broiled dark and crisp. It was accompanied by fat Yorkshire puddings, braised carrots and ‘smashed' potatoes, the lot of it drowned in a rich brown gravy.

At Ellen's insistence, Ethan did the honor of carving, after which all four dug in and conversation turned to short sentences that came between mouthfuls. Mrs. Winklebottom appeared as the cleaned dinner plates were being removed, and at Ethan's behest, left and returned again so that they might pay compliments to the cook. Ben and Ellen had already met Mrs. Amborski, however briefly, when they passed through the kitchen earlier in the day. She looked much the same as she had then: short and plump, with a mop of pale curly hair trapped under a kerchief, and wearing an apron that fell almost to her ankles.

While Ethan was distracted with bestowing praise and asking for recipes, Ellen leaned over toward Ben.

"You didn't seem to place much importance on the Langton paper, dismissing it as nothing more than a simple marriage certificate."

"Ethan's priority for the past few decades has been this estate." Ben lowered his voice to match hers. "Anything with Langton's signature on it would not only set scholars on their ears, but undoubtedly be worth a small fortune. And the fact that an archbishop in exile had personally presided over a secret marriage… well, I should like to try to untangle the mystery a little more before we present it to Ethan."

"I'm finding it all a bit curious myself," she admitted.

"What are you finding curious, my dear?" Ethan asked, returning his attention to the table.

"Oh… crypts, folios, that sort of thing."

Wormsley chuckled and raised his wine glass. "Then we shall endeavor to do our very best to keep you intrigued and curious, Miss Enndolynn Eleanor Bowe, for a year and a day, at the least."

They all raised their glasses to join in the toast, but the extra wine was too much for Veronica. She missed her mouth and spilled some down the front of her dress. She leaned forward and the weight of her hair would have crushed down over the remnants of desert on her plate if Ethan had not hastily intercepted.

"I believe it is time to make another early exit. I am leaving first thing in the morning for London… papers to file, what?" He winked at Ellen. "I should be back before week's end. Come along, Ronnie. I'll help you find your room. No, no, Ben don't get up, I can manage. Finish your pastry and enjoy your tea."

Ben stood anyway as the two waddled out of the dining room, squabbling all the way. When he sat back down, he looked distracted for a moment, then it was as if something tweaked in his mind and he turned slowly to stare at Ellen.

"Your middle name is Eleanor?"

"Yes. But I prefer Ellen. And much prefer both over Enndolynn."

"In Latin, the name Eleanor would be Alianora. "

When she still looked blank, he added, "The bride. Alianora, Comitissa de Richmond. It was Eleanor, Countess of Richmond."

Seeing the spark of excitement in his eyes, Ellen arched her eyebrows, wondering if he expected the revelation should be making her sparkle too.

"Eleanor, Countess of Richmond," he said again, then drew a shallow breath as if his chest was suddenly too tight to handle anything more. "Of course you wouldn't be expected to know, since it was well before 1776, but in the history books, she is better known as the Lost Princess of Brittany."