“Excellent. Next time tell him not to fall out of his boat and nearly drown himself.”
“Aye, my lord, the boy’s properly learnt his lesson. Actually, it was that little nit of a blacksmith’s daughter who’d pushed him out of the boat. It seems he was making advances and she didn’t like it.”
North grunted, at least he tried to, but a smile came up instead.
He rode through the great gates and still upward, the carriage path growing even wider now as it neared that monstrous edifice that had tried over the past three centuries to become more a home than a fortress, and he supposed it had succeeded. There had even once been a drawbridge, considered in the enlightened sixteenth century to be quite unnecessary, but that drawbridge had saved Mount Hawke from Oliver Cromwell’s Roundhead soldiers in the bloody civil war in the next century. Long since, the wide deep gully had been filled in and an orchard planted, now thick with apple trees, rippling down the sides of the slopes, beautiful, really.
Men, he thought, as he pulled Reggie to a gentle halt and looked upward at the massive rising blocks of gray stone that went up and up until they seemed to reac
h the dark skies themselves on overcast days. Men must fight and conquer or die trying. They couldn’t seem to content themselves with what they had even if it was really quite sufficient. He himself had been a soldier, and it had been his goal to stop Napoleon, at least that’s what he continually told himself. Truth be told, he liked a good fight. He liked to test himself, his strength, his wits, on any and all opponents. He supposed he would have done very well in medieval times. With Napoleon tucked away on Elba he couldn’t imagine any more war on such a scale. Sometimes it depressed him. He knew it depressed his friend Marcus Wyndham, as well. And now Marcus was well married and running his own estate, just as North would now do as well. He marveled at the ways of life.
He rode Reggie to the magnificent Mount Hawke stable, a long brick building with tack rooms, large stalls, hay bins, everything his obsessive great-grandfather could think of. He dismounted Reggie, waved to Pa-Dou, and waited until the frail old man had come to take the mare’s reins.
He chatted with old Pa-Dou, watching in amazement. Hard to believe his arthritic gnarled fingers could so skillfully handle the horses’ reins and saddles.
Tomorrow he would go to Goonbell. He found himself grinning as he clasped the huge brass knocker and slammed it against the oak door. Goonbell. Good Lord, what if instead of Mount Hawke—surely a name that sounded rather splendid—he lived in Mount Goonbell overlooking the village of Goonbell.
He was chuckling when Coombe, his butler and his father’s butler before him, opened the doors to him and blinked to see his master actually laughing.
North eyed the astonished Coombe, realized the reason for his astonishment, and said, “I was just thinking how odd it would sound were we called Mount Goonbell, and not Mount Hawke. It both amuses and terrifies.”
Coombe appeared to ponder this for a moment, then said, “Surely laughter is too strong a reaction to such an unfortunate thought, my lord.”
North grunted.
“Much better,” Coombe said. “Welcome home, my lord, though I can’t imagine why you’re here two weeks sooner than we expected you to be here.”
She hadn’t yet arrived in Goonbell and he knew this was where she would come, at the very least to find out how to reach Scrilady Hall. He asked the fishermen, who knew everything about everyone, and the innkeeper, Mrs. Freely, who outdid the fishermen. No Miss Derwent-Jones.
He sighed and remounted Reggie. It took him only thirty minutes to reach Scrilady Hall, just outside of Trevellas, no more than a half mile from the sea.
There were three servants in residence at the seasoned redbrick manor house set amid charmingly wild bougainvillea and roses and jasmine. It was a lovely house and now, he supposed, it belonged to Miss Derwent-Jones, though he wasn’t certain of that.
But it was here she would come, eventually.
He was greeted by Dr. Benjamin Treath, who was showing an unknown gentleman about the house.
“Ah, my boy, do come in. What are you doing here?”
North only nodded, not yet ready to say anything.
“This is Mr. Brogan, a solicitor who is here to make an inventory of everything so that Squire Penrose’s will can be executed.”
“I see,” North said. “When do you expect Miss Derwent-Jones to arrive, Mr. Brogan?”
There was nothing more than a rapid blinking of Mr. Brogan’s large brown eyes to give away his surprise.
He merely fastened his eyes on a point just beyond North’s left shoulder and said, “I hadn’t realized, my lord, that you were so intimate with the family. Indeed, there is Miss Derwent-Jones and there is a Mr. Penrose—obviously on the squire’s side of the family—who is the only other family member standing to inherit. Mr. Bennett Penrose has been here in the area on and off over the past five or so years. Of course I can really say no more about it until I’ve read the will to the two aforementioned individuals.”
“Commendable,” North said. He turned to Dr. Treath. “Are you all right, sir?”
“Yes, but it’s difficult, North, very difficult. Nothing more has come to light since you left for your trip to London. Ah, you weren’t gone for very long.”
“No, not long at all. I assume you wrote to Miss Derwent-Jones, Mr. Brogan?”
Again Mr. Brogan gave no sign of surprise. “Yes, some weeks ago. I don’t know why I haven’t heard from her, but one must suppose that she will arrive shortly. If she doesn’t arrive by the end of the week, I will write again. The post isn’t all that reliable.”
“Yes, you are probably right.”