Page 22 of Ondine

Ondine could not help but stare, fascinated and compelled.

The woman sat upon a crimson-covered chair, a spaniel in her lap.

The artist had captured more than her golden blond beauty and sky-blue eyes.

He had found the essence of the woman, a wistful, ethereal look to the eyes, a gentleness about the mouth, caught in a smile both rueful and hesitant—and lovely.

She was like soft sunlight, most fragile, and yet so stunning as to capture the heart with a gaze.

“She was—charming, beautiful,” Ondine murmured.

“Aye! The earl did love her dearly! Never did I see a man brood so fiercely, so darkly, as when she . . . departed this life.”

“I’m sure.”

“And she carried his wee babe!” Mathilda added tragically.

Ondine stiffened, but was careful to keep her smile.

Perhaps Warwick’s behavior did make some sense.

He had been horribly in love with his wife, stricken at the loss of his heir—and pressured to marry again, when he had no heart to call another wife.

Why not, then, take a gallows’ bride, be free to wander callously where he would, and quell all hopes that he might be a delectable catch once more?

“She is lovely,” Ondine repeated of Genevieve again to Mathilda. “But now I would see the manor, in its entirety.”

“Aye, milady, aye.”

A small spiral stairway led off from the gallery to the floor above—the servants’ quarters. Mathilda rattled off who slept where, perhaps a little annoyed that Ondine bothered herself with such arrangements. Ondine thanked her quietly, smiling pleasantly.

From the servants’ quarters, she discovered that the house was not a U, but a square.

The rooms in the top floor connected in a circle, as did the first; the family quarters did not.

“There’s a passage from Justin’s apartments, but not from the master’s,” Mathilda explained to her.

“There used to be many secret passages, hidden stairwells and chambers, you see. Cromwell’s men discovered many of them, though, and destroyed them, for the old lord was a Royalist, through and through.

’Tis lucky the manor stands at all—yet Cromwell might have feared a bloody northern revolt if Chatham were destroyed.

Even the Scots, with whom the Chathams always feud, would have banded to create havoc.

With one Chatham dead upon the field, the lady dead upon the stairway as it was, Cromwell’s forces but ordered the passages sealed.

The earl’s father liked the wing the way it was; privacy, he thought.

And it seems my lord Chatham now prefers it, too. ”

“You’ve been with the Chathams long?” Ondine queried.

“Aye. I was born here,” Mathilda responded.

She then led Ondine back to the portrait gallery, and from there they passed through Justin’s apartments to the rear wing, where the second floor housed guest chambers.

The ground level of that northern wing was an armory, and like the portrait gallery, it was a place where family history was preserved.

It was stocked with swords and arms and plates in use by the present generation; it also housed ancient armor, subtly different with each generation and century.

The eastern wing began with the laundry and kitchens, then proceeded to the great hall, an immense place.

Once, Mathilda told Ondine proudly, it had been nothing but cold stone wall and a dirt floor.

Now it was whitewashed, the ceiling was elaborately molded, tapestries were hung, and rich embroidered carpeting covered a gleaming tiled floor.

Mathilda sighed with pleasure as she described the various balls and masques that had taken place in the hall.

Warwick’s main office was off the grand hall.

The walls here were completely filled with bookcases, and the books, Ondine noted, covered all subjects.

Bound volumes of Shakespeare, the French and Italian poets, notes by Pepys, Christopher Wren, Thomas More.

There were books on building, on farming, on breeding, on horses, on warfare.

An oak desk angled so that sunlight poured in upon it, and there was a settee invitingly placed in a corner—almost a perfect scene.

Ondine could well imagine that the master of the manor could sit at work while his beloved lounged nearby, a book in her hand.

And she imagined Warwick at the desk, the fragile, gentle blond in the picture curled in the settee, her wistful smile upon her features; Warwick, looking up, offering his flashing white devilish grin in turn, golden eyes softly amber with tenderness.

“Let’s go on, shall we?” she asked Mathilda.

They passed through the grand foyer and through a set of double doors. “The chapel,” Mathilda announced.

Ondine had expected something quite small; it was not. It seemed to stretch forever, a hall with Norman arches, a stone floor with a length of red carpet leading to the main altar and to numerous smaller chapels along the sides, each with wondrous sculptures atop their altars.

“It’s most . . . unusual,” Ondine breathed.

“Memorials,” Mathilda informed her. She pointed to the chapel nearest them, where an angel of mercy with gilded wings held a sword against her heart. The sculpture was stunning. “The earl’s father.”

“He lies in the altar?”

“Nay, he lies in the tombs beneath.”

Mathilda walked forward, crossing herself and genuflecting as she paused before the main altar.

A beautiful gold cross hung down from the ceiling.

Ondine followed suit, then swept around to the left with Mathilda, where they came to an antechamber.

It was a square room with an exit to the courtyard at the right, and an exit leaving the manor at the left.

At its rear was a long wooden staircase that seemed to lead nowhere.

The antechamber was small, the staircase flanked against the wall.

At the upper landing there was simply nothing but paneled archways—nowhere to enter the second story, nowhere to go at all except for the narrow landing.

“The cause of our ghost,” Mathilda explained with impatience, pointing at the stairway.

She seemed eager to exit to the courtyard beyond.

“The earl’s grandfather was killed upon the battlefield, not far from here.

Upon hearing the news, the lady fell against the wood.

It caved in, and she joined her lord in death. ”

“The staircase goes nowhere?”

“The earl plans to destroy it. Once there were cubbyholes above for Chathams in hiding and runaway priests. When our sovereign Charles was on the run, he learned to love many Catholics for their support of him.”

Mathilda obviously did not like the antechamber; they quickly left it to enter the courtyard. Ondine discovered where Warwick had ridden from the night before, from the archway far beneath her window.

“That is it, my lady, unless you wish to view the crypt.”

“I think not,” Ondine said.

“May I serve you further?”

“Nay, not now, thank you, Mathilda. But I think tomorrow that I should like to see about changing some furnishings.”

“Change?” Mathilda inquired, appearing surprised and somewhat stricken. “You would change Genevieve’s bed—” She broke off, lowering her head.

“Genevieve is dead, Mathilda. I cannot take her place, but neither can I bring her back. And I am not her.”

Mathilda nodded. “If you’ll permit me to return to my duties, then, Countess . . . ?”

“Certainly, Mathilda, and I thank you again. You were very thorough and helped me greatly.”

Ondine remained in the courtyard, staring up at the windows about her.

Mathilda lowered her head and started hurrying to one of the eastern archways, an entrance to the kitchen.

But she was muttering, and Ondine was sure she heard the housekeeper’s words correctly. “Change! Oh, nay! I think not when the lord Chatham hears of such plans!”

Ah, Mathilda, I am sorry! Ondine thought. The lord Chatham may think himself master of this game, but there are two who must play it, and at times it is my move.

Then she felt a strange tingling at her nape; she was quite sure she was being watched. She looked up, scouring the windows, and saw high above that a drape fell back into place.

The tingle became a warm and swelling sensation that ebbed and flowed throughout her as she identified the window. It was in Warwick’s chamber; it was her husband who had stared down upon her.