Page 12 of Ambition (The Chaplain’s Legacy #6)
“Of course,” she said, but there was no smile, only a little frown.
Poor girl! What a strange life, to have fallen out so spectacularly with her own family that she could not go home, or even tell her father her good news.
It seemed odd that she would not simply hurry along her wedding to Eustace in order to have a settled home again, but perhaps it was important for her father to give her hand in marriage.
Olivia could understand that. She would not want anyone but her own dear Papa to take her to the altar to meet her husband.
That led to some pleasant speculation on the nature of that husband, but although she knew quite definitely that he would be the Marquess of Embleton, and placed him firmly beside her at the altar rail, when she turned to face him and take his hand for the plighting of troths, it was Robert Osborn’s laughing eyes which gazed down at her. How very odd.
The day of the grand ball was happily free of rain or other depressing weather events, for it was not unheard of for Corland to have snow in November.
Olivia had early planned her attire from the bejewelled fillet for her hair to the dainty slippers on her feet, so there was nothing to do but watch the clock, bemoan the slow movement of the hands, and go upstairs half an hour before the usual time, just to be sure not to be late.
Naturally, it took a great deal of time to ensure her appearance was exactly right, so the great hall was already filling up when she arrived, with more guests pouring in every moment. Papa saw her, his face lighting up, and waved her across.
“That is just what I need, a lovely lady on my arm, and who better than my own charming daughter?” he said, smiling down at her affectionately.
Happily, she rested her hand on his arm as they moved from group to group, smiling, greeting everyone, enjoying the crowds.
They were alike in that respect, in being at their best in company.
Olivia was so excited she practically bounced from one group to another.
After a while, Olivia saw Captain Edgerton and his wife descending the stairs, eyeing the armoury display on the half landing with a baleful glare.
It was Eustace’s little hobby, to collect weapons of various sorts, and the castle too had a fine collection, so he amused himself by arranging various displays around the castle, including the one on the half landing, flanked by two large Chinese urns.
The axe which had been used to murder poor Uncle Arthur had come from that display, hidden in one of the urns until it was needed, but even now, five months after the event, no one knew who had wielded it.
A murmur ran round the great hall. The principal guests were arriving.
There was a general milling around as some people made their way outside to watch the arrivals, while others moved aside or reformed into new groups.
Olivia pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders and ventured through the passageway to the entrance hall, and out of the front doors.
Corland Castle was a modern construction, but the architect had designed it to resemble an authentic castle as much as possible.
Thus, it boasted a dry moat, which surrounded the basement level and allowed access to underground stables and store rooms. There was no drawbridge to be pulled up, there being no enemies to defend against in modern times.
Instead, a sturdy stone bridge connected the carriage drive to the entrance of the castle.
Here on the bridge a number of people gathered to watch the arriving carriages.
Torches all around and light spilling from inside the castle lit up the early evening gloom, showing two carriages approaching.
The rather stylish new one belonging to Lady Esther and Mr Franklyn arrived first, from which also emerged Uncle George and Aunt Jane.
The second carriage pulled up behind it, a more old-fashioned affair, belonging to Uncle George and Aunt Jane.
The butler opened the door and let down the steps, Cousin Bertram stepped into view, followed by Bea Franklyn’s smiling face and black curls.
Bea waved exuberantly to the servants gathered at the top of the service steps to the lower level, then they moved towards the bridge.
Olivia caught a glimpse of something, a movement, perhaps, in the bushes further down the drive.
Abruptly there was a blinding flash and a thunderous bang that echoed off the castle walls.
Someone screamed, there were shouts and people running.
Someone pushed past Olivia — Mrs Edgerton, running forwards to the carriages.
Was that a gunshot? What on earth was happening?
“Quick, back inside, everyone!” someone shouted.
Olivia froze, still clinging to Papa’s arm, who was craning his neck to look this way and that.
There was a general movement of retreat, some ladies scurrying, picking up their skirts and racing across the bridge towards the safety of the castle, while the men gathered protectively behind them, like a wall.
Lady Esther and Aunt Jane were hustled past to safety by Uncle George.
Some men ran the other way, forward to the carriages or down the drive.
She saw Captain Edgerton in amongst the bushes searching for something, then Lucas ran down to join him.
Mr Franklyn had a narrow sword in his hand, as if prepared for a duel, his gaze scanning backwards and forwards, this way and that, before he, too, ran down to join Captain Edgerton.
And all the time a thin, keening wail rent the air.
“You had better go inside,” her father said to her in urgent tones. “If there is a gunman on the loose—”
“He has gone,” she said. “The captain is looking just where he was, but there is no one there. Is someone hurt? I cannot see.”
“Bertram,” he said, his voice harsh. “Bertram fell. Come, daughter, let me take you back inside. This is no place for a lady.”
“That is Bea crying,” Olivia said. Shaking with terror, nevertheless she could not bear to see Bea in such distress.
Running forward to the little crowd of men clustered around the door of the carriage, she saw Bertram lying unmoving, a dark pool emanating from his shoulder.
Crouched over him, Mrs Edgerton was pressing a shawl against the wound, its pale wool already sodden with Bertram’s blood.
“Do you need another shawl?” Olivia said, removing hers.
“Thank you, I will need it very soon. Leave it on the ground. Can you see to Miss Franklyn? Convince her if you can that he is not going to die.”
“Of course.”
Olivia had never much cared for Bea Franklyn, who had set out with ruthless determination to marry Walter and thereby make herself a countess.
When the disaster had happened and she learnt that Walter could not inherit the earldom, she had turned her sights on Bertram instead.
But now she was a lady in the utmost distress, and Olivia could not withhold the comfort she needed.
So she wrapped her arms round Bea and held her in a fierce hug.
“It is all right, Bea. He is not going to die. He will be well, just you wait and see. Mrs Edgerton knows what she is about.” Just then, a groom galloped past at full pelt and was away down the drive.
“There, he will have gone for help. Mrs Edgerton will keep Bertram safe until the surgeon arrives. You are not hurt?”
Mutely she shook her head, but Olivia could see spatters of blood on her gown and cloak. Bea wept piteously, and Olivia wept too, the two clinging to each other in desperation.
Mr Franklyn returned, the narrow sword now hidden away in a cane. “No sign at all of the miscreant, and Captain Edgerton feels it is safe.”
Eustace came out of the house at a run. “Whatever happened? There is such a commotion inside and I thought I heard a shot. Dear God! Bertram! Is he… will he…?”
“He will live,” Mrs Edgerton said calmly, without looking up.
“Thank God!”
“A pistol was fired, a single shot, from those bushes down there where Edgerton is looking,” Mr Franklyn said, “but there is no sign of the fellow. He seems to have got clean away.”
“Down the drive?”
“No, or we should have seen him. Nor has he jumped over the wall into the lower level.”
“He would break his neck doing that,” Eustace said. “But what can have happened to him?”
“It is a mystery,” Mr Franklyn said grimly. “Another mystery to pile onto the great mountain of them already accumulated with the death of Nicholson. And the greatest of them all, in my view, is this — who on earth would want to shoot Bertram Atherton?”