A Curious Beginning

Some half an hour later the train arrived and we disembarked amid the bustle of late morning London going about its business. My inclination was to hurry, particularly when I spied a bobby about his rounds, but Stoker held my elbow, restraining my pace. He pointed out, quite rightly, that undue haste might attract unwelcome attention, and so we strolled, for hours it seemed, until we came to our destination. A high brick wall separated us from what I had begun to think of as the Promised Land, but Stoker made no effort to enter by the main gates. Instead he led me to a smaller gate accessible only to those on foot.

“Why are we going in this way?” I asked.

“Because the main gate is always busy. Servants, tradesmen, the family—everyone sees what happens in the main court. This entrance is hardly ever used, and my friend has left us a key.”

The brick wall was thickly tapestried in ivy, and Stoker began to burrow behind the fall of greenery, testing the bricks for a loose one.

“That was kind of Lord Rosemorran,” I remarked.

“I was not speaking of Lord Rosemorran,” he said, removing a brick and brandishing the key that had lain behind.

Before I could ask whom he meant, the gate swung open, and a slender figure clad in black stepped out.

“Cordelia!” Stoker exclaimed.

The lady in question smiled faintly as she beckoned us inside. “Hello, Stoker. Keep the key,” she instructed. “You will need it to come and go.”

Stoker did as he was bade and we slipped inside the gate while the lady locked up carefully behind.

“Cordelia, you were supposed to be in Cornwall. What are you doing here?” Stoker demanded. He looked none too happy to see her, but it did not seem to distress the lady.

She turned to me, her gaze as forthright as it was welcoming. I must have presented quite a sight, travel-stained and weary, but she was as courteous to me as if I had been a duchess. “You must be Miss Speedwell. I am Lady Cordelia Beauclerk. My brother is Lord Rosemorran and this is his home, Bishop’s Folly.”

We shook hands, behaving for all the world as politely as two acquaintances at a tea party while Stoker fairly vibrated with impatience. When the niceties had been observed, she turned to him.

“I was in Cornwall, but I decided I could be of more use to you if I were close at hand. I’ve only just arrived back.”

Stoker began to speak, but Lady Cordelia shook her head. “Not here. Come.”

She turned and we followed. This part of the Rosemorran estate was a sort of pretty wilderness, thick with trees and laced with paths. She led the way down one and then another, twisting us around to the heart of the property. Dotted here and there were the most fantastical buildings I’d ever seen—a miniature Parthenon, a small Gothic chapel, and even a Chinese pagoda. These she sped past, but when we came to a little pond overlooked by a small cottage joined to a miller’s tower, she paused.

“Is that—”

She looked at me and smiled. “A replica of Marie Antoinette’s toy village? Yes. My great-grandfather was a trifle eccentric. He collected miniature buildings for his amusement. They’re mostly crumbling to bits. Fortunately, the Belvedere is quite a different matter. It is utterly enormous and in somewhat better shape, although it is not luxurious,” she warned.

“Fear not, Lady Cordelia,” I said. “I have lived rough everywhere from the slopes of a Sicilian volcano to an island in the Andaman Sea.”

She smiled. “The Belvedere has another advantage. We shan’t be disturbed there.”

Another bend in the path led to the Belvedere, and I stopped in my tracks, overcome with delighted surprise. The building was far larger than I had imagined, but it was not the size that charmed—it was the complete hodgepodge of architectural styles. A combination of Chambord, Castle Howard, and its namesake in Vienna, this Belvedere was an expanse of honeyed stone capped with lacy towers and a small, elegant dome. Somehow the effect was harmonious even though upon closer inspection it was clear that the place had been imperfectly cared for. One of the towers was crumbling a little, and the windows were overgrown with tendrils of ivy reaching to clasp each other across the panes of glass.

I realized then that Lady Cordelia had paused for my reaction. “It is spectacular,” I told her truthfully.

She smiled. “You may not be so generous after you have seen the inside.” She made to enter, but just as her hand came to rest upon the latch, there was a noise behind us, the scrape of a shoe upon gravel, and the three of us whirled as one.

A servant stood there, a lady’s maid judging from her sober silk gown and elaborate lace cap. Her expression was avid as she looked from Stoker to me to Lady Cordelia. She held in her hands a taffeta evening slipper.

“I beg pardon, milady, but I have only discovered your slipper is torn. If you wish to wear it tonight, I must mend it now, but there is the unpacking to do. Which shall I do first?”

The question was the rankest pretense for snooping—that much was apparent even to me. She must have smelled an intrigue and followed her mistress to discover what she was about. But the intrusion did not seem to ruffle Lady Cordelia, who merely inclined her head.