Jane and the Unpleasantness at Scargrave - Stephanie Barron [144]
This was a groined chamber seventy feet long, lit by windows on the eastern side. For nearly three hundred years the Cistercians had dined here in silence, with their abbot at their head. The remains of a fresco adorned one wall, but the fragile pigments had worn to nothing, and the saints stared sightless, their palms outstretched. The refectory was empty.
Or was it?
Just beyond the range of vision, a shadow moved. Light as air and bodiless it seemed, like a wood dove fluttering. My heart in my mouth, I swiftly turned: and saw nothing where a shade had been.
The sound of a footfall behind me—did a weightless spirit mark its passage in the dust?
“Have I the honour of addressing Miss Austen?”
I whirled, my heart throbbing. And saw—
Not a ghost or envoy of the grave; no monk concealed by ghoulish cowl. A man, rather: diminutive of frame, lithe of limb, with a look of merriment on his face. A sprite, indeed, in his bottle-green cloak; a very wood elf conjured from the trees at the Abbey's back, and bowing to the floor as he surveyed me.
“Good God, sir! From whence did you spring?”
“The stones at your feet, ma'am. You are Miss Austen? Miss Jane Austen? “
“You have the advantage of me.”
“That must be preferable to the alternative. I am charged with a commission I dare not ignore, but must require certain proofs—bona fide's, as the Latin would say—before I may fulfill it”
“Are you mad?”
He grinned. “I am often asked that question. Would you be so kind as to reveal the date of your honoured father's death?”
Surprise loosed my tongue. “The twenty-first of January, 1805. Pray explain your impudence.”
“Assuredly, ma'am—but first I crave the intimate name of Lady Harriot Cavendish.”
“If you would mean Hary-O, I imagine half the fashionable world is acquainted with it Are you quite satisfied?
“I should be happy to accept a lady's word.” He bowed again. “But my superiors demand absolute surety. Gould you impart the tide of the novel you sold to Messrs. Crosby & Co., of Stationers Hall Court, London, in the spring of 1803?”
I stared at him, astonished. “How come you to be so well-acquainted with my private affairs?”
“The title, madam.”
“—Is Susan. The book is not yet published.”3
“Just so.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a letter, sealed with a great splotch of black wax. “I hope you will forgive me when you have read that.”
I turned over the parchment and studied the seal. It was nondescript, of a sort one might discover in a common inn's writing desk. No direction was inscribed on the envelope. I glanced at the sprite, but his raffish looks betrayed nothing more than a mild amusement
“I have answered your questions,” I said slowly. “Now answer mine. What is your name?”
“I am called Orlando, ma'am.”
A name for heroes of ancient verse, or lovers doomed to wander the greenwood. Either meaning might serve.
“And will you divulge the identity of these … superiors… for whom you act?”
“There is but one. He is everywhere known as the Gentleman Rogue.”
Lord Harold Tmwbridge. Suddenly light-headed, I broke the letter's seal. There was no date, no salutation— indeed, no hint of either sender's or recipient's name— but I should never mistake this hand for any other's on earth.
From the curious presentation of this missive, you will apprehend that my man has been instructed to preserve discretion at the expense of dignity. I write to you under the gravest spur, and need not underline that I should not presume to solicit your interest were other means open to me. Pray attend to the bearer, and if your amiable nature will consent to undertake the duty with which he is charged, know that you shall be the object of my gratitude.
God bless you.
I lifted my gaze to meet Orlando's. “Your master is sorely pressed.”
“When is he not? Come, let us mount the walls.”
Without another word, he led me back to the turret stair, and up into the heights.