The upper floor was done up with velvet wallpaper and carved wooden panels, alternating to regal effect. She’d never looked at the carvings, not having lived here very long, but now she decided she must. She went up the wide, double curved staircase to the upper walk, with Wescott’s father at her heels.
“Who made these carvings?” she asked, as she went around studying each one.
“Sixteenth century craftsmen. Half of them are mythological figures, and half are saints. I’m sure a pagan or two passed along these balconies.”
She recognized some of the carved figures, but not many. Some of them were women, perhaps from the Bible, while others were clearly ancient gods, some with multiple heads, or strong arms holding up the sun. She stopped short when she encountered a carved figure wielding a sword. She was almost certain it depicted brave St. George battling his fire-breathing dragon, the flames glancing off his armor, his hefty weapon held aloft.
The armory might be behind the panel, according to her vague calculations. Perhaps St. George was a hint. While the duke watched, Ophelia tapped at the edges of the carved rectangle, looking for hidden notches or levers.
“Don’t be gentle, my dear.” His voice was warm, perhaps even proud. “Give it a good push.”
She stood back and pushed the middle of it with both her hands, and was surprised when the panel popped outward rather than inward, moved by a set of hidden springs. “It’s in there, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice going soft with excitement. “I’ve found it.”
“I was sure you would. You seem the driven type, when you put your mind to something.”
Was she driven? Wescott would say stubborn. “Can I go inside and look? Is it safe?”
“It’s safe enough if you don’t touch anything. A lot of the weapons are ancient, but his aren’t, and he keeps them very sharp.”
She stood back to let the duke go first, since he had the lamp. They entered a low, narrow corridor that might have been nothing at all until it took a sharp turn. A few more steps, and a space opened up, higher and more spacious than she could have imagined.
“Jesus and Mary,” she breathed.
When her father-in-law held up the lamp, it illuminated dozens of shields, swords, and other battle arms mounted in neat rows upon the walls. Some of them looked very ancient and dull, even rusted, but others sparkled as if they were shined daily.
While the walls were full of pikes, knives, shields, and swords, the center of the room was empty, just a cold stone floor. One corner of the spacious room held an age-blackened fireplace. When she’d sung in Armide, she’d worn fake armor and used a fake sword, but the swords around her were substantial and real, their polished finishes glinting by lamplight.
“It’s beautiful to see them all lined up and stored so smartly,” she said. Even her whisper sounded loud. “I’ve never seen such a thing.”
“Wescott enjoys his hobby,” he answered. “He spends many hours here, and often adds to his collection of antique arms.”
He lifted the lamp toward another corner, as she wondered how big the room could possibly be. Did the fireplace light up this entire dark, windowless space when Wescott came here to practice at his fights? Then her breath caught. Someone else was here, some ancient intruders, some ghosts advancing toward them. She let out a scream, and it bounced deafeningly off the walls.
The duke laughed, touching her arm to reassure her. “They’re only suits of armor, Ophelia. There’s no need to be afraid.”
He moved the lamp closer to show her the four stately, steel sentries, complete with metal gloves, pointed metal shoes, and conical helms. She blinked at them, wondering that her very eyelids didn’t make some sound in the chamber.
For the acoustics were marvelous. Her scream had echoed beautifully.
It made her want to sing.
Chapter Fourteen
The Armory
The note from his father had been short and to the point. You can’t fall in love with your wife if you aren’t here with her.
That was it. He hadn’t even signed it. He didn’t need to; Wescott knew his father’s angry handwriting by now.
He should have started back to the Abbey a couple days ago, as soon as he’d gotten the note. Now the weather had turned as stormy and angry as his father’s terse missive, and he was marooned in his luxurious London home, feeling as empty as the opposite side of his bed.
While he walked the halls and ate solitary luncheons and dinners, he tried to find love for his wife, for his tragic Ophelia, but he kept coming up against an impediment. He didn’t know her. He hadn’t tried to know her. He hadn’t done much to understand her, as she’d accused him several times.
By the time the weather cleared, he was no closer to solving the problem of his broken marriage, but he would return to Oxfordshire and keep trying, because once he loved her—if he could love her—things would get better. Hadn’t his parents said so? If they couldn’t find love, he’d settle for harmony, or at least cooperation, so they weren’t tense with anger all the time.