Page 65 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

“Perhaps,” I said. I glanced over to my nightstand, where I had put the beekeeping book that he had given me. I don’t know why. Every so often I opened it again to read the inscription. I simply couldn’t work the man out.

Downstairs I could hear the strains of music as the orchestra warmed up. There would be no grand entrance tonight, I – like the rest of the house party – would be there from the beginning.

There was a knock at the door, and Matilda sprang across the room to open it.

The dowager countess swept in. She looked extremely grand in a plum-coloured gown, trimmed with airy cream lace.

She didn’t try to hide the top to toe inspection that she gave me; it probably took a full minute, and her face remained expressionless throughout.

“Well,” she said resignedly at the end, “I’ll say this for young Nicholas, he certainly has style.”

“Thank you, Lady Wynter. I think that was a compliment?” I said, pulling on the long gloves which had been dyed to match my gown.

“There’s no need for smart comments, young lady,” the dowager countess tutted. “I get quite enough of that from my grandson. I can see the two of you are going to be a terrible trial as a couple.”

I said nothing to that, only smiled politely.

She made a harrumphing sound then, looking for all the world like a disgruntled camel.

“Now,” she began, as I followed her out of the door and down towards the party, “as your chaperone I shall be keeping a watchful eye on you.” She stopped suddenly, so that I almost ran into the back of her, and turned, fixing me with a beady stare. “There will be no shenanigans on my watch.”

“Shenanigans?” I repeated weakly.

“I will not allow you to be compromised, Miss Fox. Not while you’re my responsibility.” There was that hard stare again. “I know what these parties can be like. I was young once, you know.”

“And did you often fall into compromising situations, Lady Wynter?” I asked, my eyes wide and innocent.

“Impertinent chit,” she replied, turning away, but not before I caught the glimpse of something that may have been a smile. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten that chat you and I need to have about your intentions towards my grandson.”

“My intentions?” I murmured, but she was already striding ahead.

The ground floor of the house had been decorated lavishly with candles and flowers. Twining greenery and dancing candlelight filled every room. Helena had opened up the saloon, the largest room in the house, for use as a ballroom, and it was certainly of a grand enough size. It had been remodelled over a century ago in the rococo style, the ceiling covered in clouds and cherubs, with pale duck-egg-blue walls and a liberal amount of gilt and marble thrown in. It was like an enormous, overdecorated wedding cake. Father had hated it, but I rather liked it – it was certainly dramatic, and when I was a child, imagining being a lady at a fine ball, it had seemed the perfect setting to me. Just like in a fairy tale.

As the guests had not yet arrived, Lady Wynter and I had an opportunity to take it all in without the crowds.

“I must say,” the dowager countess murmured, “Helena knows how to put together a party. The old marquess – her husband – never had much interest in entertaining. He was a bit of a recluse.”

“I didn’t know that,” I said, though Mrs Chambers had mentioned something similar. Had my father been a recluse? It was never how I thought of him. He just liked being at home, the three of us.

“Oh, yes,” the dowager countess went on. “Of course, when Helena married him there was talk. She always was a social butterfly and he wanted to shut her away, just like the first marchioness. Invalid-ish, they said the first Lady Scott-Holland was, but I heard Lord Scott-Holland as good as locked her in the house. A shame – I remember her as a debutante. Pretty girl, gentle, wouldn’t say boo to a goose. Still, Helena had no choice really – not with the straits Weston had left her in.”

I was silent, trying to absorb all this information that was being delivered so casually. My mother – not an invalid, but a prisoner in her own home. My father, not an affable, loving husband, but her jailer. No – that couldn’t be right, it must be some wild society gossip, taken out of context.

“Though with Helena of course there’s no saying, she might have taken Scott-Holland anyway,” the dowager countess continued airily. “She certainly fancied the title. Nicholas’s wife will be a countess, of course…” She paused meaningfully here and fixed me with a knowing look.

“A countess, yes,” I said mechanically.

“Still, Helena did well out of it in the end. Holland Hall is a fine old house, and I must say that she does seem to be looking after it. Her husband was never much interested in the place. Apart from the stables, that is.”

“Was he a sporting man?” I asked, suddenly desperate to hear something of my father’s accomplishments.

“Yes,” she said slowly. “Though not so much by the end. He took to drinking, had a nasty accident while out riding – that’s how he died, you know. It was all a terrible mess. Helena was fortunate that the property was not entailed, or it would have gone to some cousin thrice removed, I believe, and this is what I keep saying to Nicholas.” Her eyes flicked to me. “One must secure the chain of succession.”

“Of course,” I said hollowly. “Succession.”

The dowager countess kept talking, but I was far away. Was my father’s drinking really such common knowledge that a distant acquaintance like Lady Wynter could speak of it so casually? Had I really been so oblivious?

Everything I knew and believed in was shifting under my feet and I longed for solid ground.