Page 20 of The Wordsworth Key (Regency Secrets #3)

Chapter Eleven

Rydal

R ydal Hall, a moderately-sized gentleman’s residence remodelled in the last century, presented the world with a greystone facade and a semicircular central bay.

A little austere, it sat above terraced water gardens looking down on a long sweep of land to the lake.

Though not as grand as his family home at Levens, Jacob could see how Rydal had become the principal house in this valley.

The cottages didn’t give it much competition.

‘The ball was what– four days ago?’ he said. ‘Guests must be thinking of departing.’

‘Or the host dropping hints.’

‘Let’s divide and conquer.’

Dora brushed a deep red rose that arched over the gate and he thought how he’d like to paint her like that. ‘Very well. I’ll seek out the servants.’

As she headed to the kitchen entrance to ask about the manuscript, Jacob made his way to the front to enquire after the guests.

Once the butler was reassured that Jacob was the brother of the new Viscount Sandys and therefore unimpeachably respectable, he told him that the young gentlemen were fishing and could be found on the shore with a party of friends.

They didn’t spend much time under the roof of their hosts, enjoying their time walking, fishing and occasionally conquering the peaks when they had the energy and no hangovers.

Jacob walked slowly so Dora could catch up with him.

‘Any news from the maids?’ he asked when she met him on the path down to the lake.

‘You see before you Mr Barton’s new and very temporary maid.

’ She bobbed a pert curtsey. ‘I enquired on behalf of my employer who, in my story, feared he might’ve left something behind after the ball.

They accepted the explanation without question and volunteered plenty of gossip about that event.

The kitchen is still buzzing with excitement.

’ She waggled her eyebrows at Jacob. ‘There were several assignations that would ruin reputations in London, apparently. The girls I spoke to were thrilled by how shockingly behaved were our social superiors. The hosts had invited visiting gentlemen to make up the numbers for the dancing– the area usually has an imbalance of ladies– so it was a very gay evening by all accounts.’

Jacob could imagine the scene– Dora encouraging the maids to be increasingly indiscreet with her exclamations of shock and delicious horror. ‘Anything pertaining to our investigation?’

‘Sadly not. They showed me the lost items that the housekeeper had collected. No notebooks or papers. None of the young gentlemen have been seen carrying such items around or left anything out in their rooms– they are sporting and dancing gentlemen rather than scholarly types. Unless we think it worth breaking in to search their luggage, we can assume we’ve gone as far as we can this morning.

’ She swung his hand playfully. ‘So, how about it?’

‘How about what?’

‘Breaking in?’

‘Might I suggest committing a felony that might get us transported in pursuit of a poem is not worth the risk?’

Dora pulled a face. ‘Spoilsport.’

Thankfully, she wasn’t serious. ‘Talking about spoiling sport, let me tackle the young men. Do you want to go back to the cottage?’

‘And face your brother alone?’ She mock-shivered. ‘Brrr. No thank you.’

‘In that case, I’ll take the lead with the questioning.’

‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. I will be your demure companion.’ She arranged her features into the vapid smile of the society ingénue.

‘Damn me– that’s terrifying! Bring back my Dora!’

Dora grinned and, arm in arm, they followed the path to Rydal Water.

* * *

They entered upon an idyllic scene, one that made Jacob regret not bringing his sketchbook.

Three gentlemen were fishing from a boat halfway between the shore and Heron Island.

The rest of the party were casting their lines from the rocks at the edge of the lake.

Jackets, stockings, shoes and neckerchiefs discarded, the men looked at their ease.

Give them scarlet banditti hats and they could be posing for a Salvator Rosa landscape.

‘Gentlemen!’ Jacob waved his hat in greeting. ‘How’s the fishing?’

One young buck lounging against a rock jumped to his feet, his gaze going instantly to Dora. ‘We have company!’ He dusted off the top of a flat stone with what looked suspiciously like someone else’s cravat. ‘My lady, do sit down. You must be fatigued after walking so far.’

Dora, doing a creditable impression of a society belle, murmured her thanks and sat down, hands folded demurely in her lap. Jacob stood sentinel at her shoulder.

‘Are you an angler?’ asked the gallant gentleman, addressing Dora. He seemed intent on engaging her in conversation without even an introduction, which told Jacob everything he needed to know. He’d wager the buck was one of those engaged in scandalous assignations at the ball.

‘Indeed, I am,’ said Jacob, taking the enquiry as directed to him. ‘Newton at the village inn supplies capital pike floats if you decide to go for bigger quarry.’

‘There are pike here?’ The man looked over the water dubiously.

‘If you know where to fish. I see your friends are trolling with a running line. In my experience you will have more success at night.’

‘A complete angler indeed,’ the gentleman said with a smirk, probably thinking Jacob a fishing bore. There were plenty of those to be met in the local taprooms eager to share stories of mythical catches. ‘Do you live nearby, sir?’

‘I do– when not in town. Dr Jacob Sandys– from Levens originally.’

A second man dropped his rod and scrambled to join his friend.

‘Oh, gosh, he’s the son of the late viscount, brother to the new one.

Sir.’ He bowed low. ‘Luke Knotte, also native to these parts. And this fellow is Andrew Langhorne of Barrow. And my friend doing an impression of one of the seven sleepers is Thomas Wright of Colebrookdale.’ Langhorne slyly kicked a chap who was snoozing with his straw hat over his eyes.

‘Wha—’ said the unfortunate Wright.

‘We have visitors,’ said Knotte, his manner fidgety. He didn’t hold Jacob’s gaze and barely looked at Dora, his awkwardness unsettling.

‘Including a pretty one,’ said the unrepentant Langhorne, flashing a debonair smile at Dora.

That one needed watching, thought Jacob, as Dora did a most un-Dora like simper in response.

‘Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ said Jacob. ‘My brothers, including the viscount, are in fact visiting me at present.’

‘By golles, really?’ Knotte seemed overly excited by the news, but then viscounts were as rare as a four-leafed clover in the valley.

‘I have a little cottage in Loughrigg Tarn– perhaps you know it? Miss Fitz-Pennington is one of my party.’ If he mixed Dora in with the viscount and entourage, he hoped she would be less remarkable.

‘Yes, yes, know it well. I’ve always considered it a perfect spot for a cottage,’ said Knotte, talking thirteen to the dozen. ‘One could say I grew up there. In and out of the tarn.’

‘Didn’t we swim there last week?’ asked Wright blearily, rubbing his temples. The gentleman had signs of one who regrets the night before.

‘And your friends in the boat?’ asked Jacob.

‘They are guests at Rydal Hall– Captain Cooper, Lieutenant Crawford and Mr Moss,’ said Knotte. ‘They came for the ball but they’re staying on for the Rush Bearing ceremony this Sunday. Hi there!’ He waved at the fishing party.

Langhorne whistled. ‘You lot! Time to swap over.’

With so many of the suspects before them, Jacob mentally sorted the gentlemen into two groups.

These three on the shore were the ones that Wordsworth had mentioned as being among his admirers.

The three afloat were on the list Barton had provided– the ones he’d told Dora mocked his admiration of the poet.

The gentlemen on shore would covet, the others disdain, a manuscript.

‘I believe you know Mr Barton?’

Knotte gave a squeak but shut up at a look from Langhorne.

‘Forgive him: he’s very excitable,’ drawled Langhorne. ‘We do know Barton– an old university pal– went up in ’07 with me and Knotte here. If you’re looking for him, I’m afraid the blighter stood us up,’ said Langhorne. ‘He was supposed to be bringing a second boat.’

‘Is he a friend of yours too, sir?’ asked Knotte. His wide grey eyes darted from boat, to Jacob, to Dora, like a squirrel bounding from twig to twig. The other two were like dogs Jacob had owned, happy to lie in a patch of sunlight.

‘We’ve met a few times at social occasions,’ said Jacob. ‘We have a mutual friend in Mr Wordsworth.’

‘Isn’t he marvellous?’ said Knotte.

‘I think he is,’ agreed Jacob.

‘Whereas those barbarians think Marmion the best poem of the last decade. Fools!’ scoffed Langhorne raising his voice so the approaching boat could hear. ‘Scott is nothing but an entertainer– not even worth quoting.’

The incoming boat boo-ed that remark.

‘ Oh, what a tangled web we weave when first we practise to deceive ,’ said Dora.

The occupants of the boat cheered. ‘She knows her Scott!’ declared one.

Langhorne clapped his chest. ‘Oh, you wound me! A fair damsel quoting Marmion in the land of Wordsworth. There should be a law against it. I will allow him that one line– the rest is bunkum.’

When the fishermen tied up the boat at the little jetty and lined up to make their obeisance to Dora, Jacob knew their plan to make her unremarkable had gone awry with that single quote.

Her actress brain for recalling lines had made her stand out.

The Scott lovers declared her to be the Lady of the Lake.

The young men arranged themselves in a circle around her, some lounging, some perched on stones or logs.

A picnic was produced– courtesy of the kitchens at Rydal Hall– and Jacob and his fair companion were invited to partake.