The fifth day was Sunday. Lina put on her usual costume for attending church since she had arrived at Dreycott Park, the once-white gown that had been dyed to a soft grey, tied with a deep amethyst ribbon under the bosom. With white cuffs and narrow white lace at the neckline it looked sombre yet attractive, she thought, as she pinned up her hair into a complex plaited twist that her aunt had taught her. Simple pearl stud earrings, her gold cross, plain black-kid ankle boots and a bonnet trimmed with more of the amethyst ribbon completed the ensemble.
She picked up her prayer book and went down to breakfast. It was proper to join the men in the small dining room, she decided, instead of taking her tea and toast in the kitchen as usual.
They stood up as she came in. ‘Good morning. It is a lovely day, is it not?’ Then she saw that they were both clad in immaculate and conventional tailcoats, pantaloons and Hessian boots—and that they were both staring at her.
‘Celina, good morning. We are all dressed for church, I see.’
So that was what they were staring at. This was the first time she had worn her Sunday best. ‘You are coming to church, too?’ It had never occurred to her that they might; Gregor because she assumed he was not of the Protestant faith, Quinn because she found it hard to visualise him sitting attentively through a sermon with the eyes of the entire parish on him, speculating about his past and present sins.
‘We make a point of attending the religious rites of whatever community we find ourselves in,’ Quinn said. ‘Unless, of course, non-believers are unwelcome, which they are in some parts of the world. Religious observance is usually of great significance to a tribe,’ he added as though they were discussing diet or clothes.
‘You are not a believer, then?’ Lina asked, taken aback at the concept of the parishioners as a tribe to be studied. She did not think she had ever met someone of an atheistical persuasion before.
‘I am a sceptic. Certainly my great-uncle’s spirit has not visited to inform me that we were both wrong and I should repent immediately.’
It was a shocking thing to say, but the image he conjured up of old Simon’s spectre appearing in the bedchamber with dire warnings about repentance while Quinn sat bolt upright in bed in alarm almost made her laugh out loud. Lina fought to keep a straight face. ‘It is a charming church and Mr Perrin delivers an interesting sermon.’ Despite his dry appearance, the vicar had a mild sense of humour and a genuine concern for his flock which she admired.
‘Is there a box pew for the Park?’
‘No. We—I mean you—have a pew set aside, but all of them are rather charming medieval benches with carved ends, not enclosed ones.’ And the congregation will have an uninterrupted view of their shocking new lord of the manor, she thought, wondering if that had prompted his question. He did not appear alarmed at the prospect.
Trimble came in with a newspaper on a salver. ‘A newspaper at last, my lord. Friday’s Morning Chronicle has only just arrived from London. What has happened to The Times I regret I cannot say—some inefficiency at the receiving office, I have no doubt. I will enquire. I trust those two papers will be suitable?’
‘Eminently, thank you, Trimble.’
Lina stared at the folded paper beside Quinn’s plate. If it had been The Times she would not have worried: sensational crimes several weeks old would not feature there. But the Chronicle always ran crime stories, and followed them up whenever a titillating snippet came out; there was a chance that something about the fugitive Celina Shelley would be in there.
Quinn showed no inclination to look at the paper yet and Gregor scarcely glanced at it. ‘I wonder…might I see the paper for a moment? I…there is an advertisement I would like to find if it is in that issue.’
‘Of course.’ Quinn handed it across and went back to his gammon and eggs.
The front page was all advertisements as usual. She made a show of skimming past notices about artificial teeth, anatomical stays, the Benevolent Society of St Patrick’s annual general meeting, Essence of Coltsfoot for coughs and several notices of lotteries. The inside two pages were without notices, but a glance showed her it was all international and court news. The back page, however, was full of snippets. Fire at Kentish Town…protest against threshing machines…bizarre accident to a pedestrian in Newcastle…the Tolhurst Sapphire.
There was only an inch, but to Lina’s eyes it seemed to be printed in red ink. Sir George Tolhurst, lately succeeded as baronet after the tragic death of his father, Sir Humphrey Tolhurst, has offered a reward of one hundred guineas for information leading to the capture of Miss Celina Shelley, a young woman of dubious character, who removed the famous Tolhurst Sapphire from the finger of the expiring baronet after inveigling herself into his Duke Street house. Miss Shelley, a well-favoured and genteel-seeming young female, is of middling stature with long straight yellow hair and blue eyes.
She laid the Chronicle down beside her plate, the blood loud in her ears as she fought down the panicky instinct to grab the paper and flee.
‘More coffee?’ She picked up the pot, newly refilled by Michael, and moved it towards Quinn’s cup. ‘Oh! Ouch!’ She jerked, the coffee splashed out and on to the folded paper. ‘I am sorry.’ Quinn reached out and took the pot from her hands. ‘It was so heavy and my arm is still sore from falling the other day. Oh, dear, your newspaper!’ Lina took her napkin and dabbed fiercely at the coffee stain, the soft newsprint disintegrating under the assault. ‘Now I’ve made it worse!’
‘Allow me, Miss Haddon.’ Trimble removed the paper and held it up. ‘It will dry by th
e range, my lord. There is now a hole, but it can be made readable, at least.’
‘Have you scalded yourself?’ Quinn sounded more concerned about her welfare than the state of his newspaper. He certainly did not seem suspicious. But why should he be? It was only her own awareness of danger that made the item seem to leap from the paper at her. ‘No? But those bruises are still bad? Gregor, you must lend Celina your pot of bear fat. A sovereign remedy, I understand.’
‘Thank you, but arnica is perfectly adequate.’ She smiled at Gregor, not wanting to offend, although she suspected he had probably killed the animal in question himself with his bare hands. The restrained elegance of formal morning wear made him look, if anything, larger and more forbidding than usual. ‘We should be going soon,’ she added with a glance at the clock. ‘The carriage will be at the door.’
Jenks had sent round the barouche with the top down so they could enjoy the sunny weather. With the betraying newspaper announcement safely illegible her mood lifted and Lina wished she had a parasol to twirl. Instead, she allowed herself to be handed into the forward-facing seat opposite the two men and prepared to enjoy the treat of a drive through the park to Upper Cleybourne church.
The bells were ringing, the cracked tenor that had so annoyed Simon spoiling the joyous peel. ‘Listen,’ she said, ‘that’s the bell the legacy will replace.’ They came out of the gates and pulled up on the little green outside the church. It was already thronged with parishioners chatting in the sunshine and heads turned as the Dreycott barouche came to a halt.
Lina descended, preoccupied with sorting out reticule and prayer book and smoothing down her skirts. Then the change in the sound penetrated and she looked up. All around the little groups were falling silent as they stared and the faces that watched them were set and unwelcoming.
So, the gossip mills have been working to grind out all the old history and they’ve made up their minds, have they? she thought. There were people with whom she had thought herself on cordial terms, with whom she expected to exchange smiles and greetings and village news, who were staring now. They froze her with the same disapproval they directed at the men—it was much worse than she had feared.
We’ll see about that, Lina thought. Inside she quailed—disapproval had always shrivelled her soul—but now she lifted her chin, set her shoulders back and made herself walk up to Mr and Mrs Willets and their family.
Mrs Willets had been amiable when Lina stepped off the stagecoach in Sheringham, tired and confused. Lina had fallen into conversation with the Willets’s new governess, who was being met by Mrs Willets in their carriage, and, after a whispered word from Miss Greggs, the matron had been happy to take up Lord Dreycott’s guest. Now the squire managed an uneasy smile of greeting, his wife looked daggers and their daughters edged behind their father.