Page 38

A melia had gone ahead while she waited for Sir Frederick to ask for the key to the Pendleton family crypt.

The late afternoon sun cast long shadows across the manicured lawn, and a cool breeze stirred her skirts.

She certainly didn’t want to be seen in company with him more than she already had been, though her heart quickened at the thought of another private moment in his presence.

As a majority of guests had gone on either a picnic or a ramble, leaving mostly the elderly to lounge about in the drawing room, Amelia felt beneath scrutiny.

Waiting by the large wooden door with its heavy iron studs, weathered by centuries of rain and wind, she observed Sir Frederick’s approach.

His limp, which hadn’t been in evidence when he’d shepherded them around the castle, caught her attention.

Despite it, he moved with a quiet dignity that she found herself admiring against her better judgment.

“A mishap during croquet, or were you practicing the waltz?” she asked with a smile, trying to mask her concern with light teasing.

“An old injury aggravated when I tried to follow my sister in Mr. Greene’s phaeton,” Sir Frederick said, raising an eyebrow as he closed the distance between them, holding up a large iron key. The way his eyes met hers held a warmth that made her chest tighten.

“Oh, dear, I wondered where you were when she was whisked away amid a group of admiring and envious lads and ladies.” Amelia waited as he inserted the key, watching his capable hands work the ancient lock.

“I don’t think he’s as serious as you might have feared earlier, though,” she added softly.

“I have seen him send other young ladies indications of his interest.”

“Indeed. Ah, there we have it.”

Screeching on old hinges, the door opened outwards, and Sir Frederick raised his lantern, its warm glow creating a golden sphere around them.

He offered Amelia his arm with an old-world courtesy that touched her more than she cared to admit.

She hooked her hand through his elbow, feeling the solid strength beneath his coat, and allowed him to lead the way along a row of effigies.

The air grew cooler as they descended, heavy with the weight of centuries.

These were the plaster casts of the more senior members of the family, their stern faces watching their progress in the flickering lamplight.

The last one depicted Lady Pendleton’s own parents, committed to the crypt during the last ten years.

“Here is Lady Pendleton’s great grandfather, Sir William,” murmured Sir Frederick, his voice pitched low in deference to their surroundings.

“Pernilla could have inherited the viscountcy due to the special provision—the reason that the current Lady Pendleton was able to inherit—but Pernilla died childless. The title and estate went to her cousin, William, Lady Pendleton’s great grandfather. ”

Sir Frederick stopped and his voice was hushed as he said, “See, and there is Pernilla’s crypt.” Pointing, he guided her towards a small crypt at the end of the row.

“Pernilla Pendleton. Born May 13, 1698. Died August 9, 1719.”

“Poor Pernilla,” Amelia murmured before gasping, “Why, she died the day after her last diary entry!” The chill of the crypt seemed to seep into her bones as the reality of the young woman’s fate struck her.

“And we have no reason to doubt that what Lady Pendelton says is true: that her great-great aunt Pernilla died falling out of a window while trying to elope.”

“Or jumping, as some others have said. It seems no one really knows the truth.” Amelia sighed, aware of how close she stood to Sir Frederick, of how his presence seemed to ward off the crypt’s gloom.

“What a short life. And to be denied the happiness she writes about in her diary and letters with such hope.”

“She did enjoy some happiness,” Sir Frederick reminded her as they stepped outside, blinking in the sudden sunlight. His hand covered hers where it still rested on his arm, a gesture that felt both protective and intimate.

“Too little,” Amelia responded, trying to ignore the warmth of his touch. “In her last diary entry, she imagined her life’s dream was to be realized the following day.”

“If that was indeed really her diary,” Sir Frederick said mildly, though his eyes held a spark of challenge that made her breath catch.

“Do you not believe it? Do you truly think that could be another of Lady Pendleton’s fabrications just for the entertainment of the guests?

” Amelia challenged him, turning to face him fully.

“Then why was it hidden in a false bottom of the chest? No one would go to the effort of writing a whole diary for a game.”

Sir Frederick shrugged, a gesture that drew her attention to the breadth of his shoulders.

“I can’t answer that, but clearly Miss Pernilla did not live to marry.

” He indicated her crypt. “Not to William or to the man her father had lined up for her and which, I might remind you, did not make him especially tyrannical. A hundred years ago, a love match was not the common occurrence it is today.”

Amelia sighed, feeling the weight of generations of arranged marriages pressing upon her. “I daresay the love would have died, besides. To fall in love is not to guarantee happiness in perpetuity, and the romantics who think that when they walk down the aisle are bound for disappointment.”

Sir Frederick patted her hand, which still rested on his forearm as he moved her towards the iron door. The gesture felt more intimate than it should have, his touch lingering a moment longer than strictly necessary.

“As you do not speak from experience, I wonder how you can have formed such a dismal outlook on the institution.”

Amelia sighed. “My mama was a renowned beauty when my father married her. He’d courted her, fought a duel over her, and said once he’d considered himself the luckiest man in the county when she’d consented to be his wife.”

“And?” His voice was gentle, encouraging, holding none of the judgment she feared.

Amelia bit her lip, studying the weathered stone beneath their feet. It would be the height of disloyalty to say what she’d never said to a living soul. And to Sir Frederick, of all people.

Yet, perhaps he, of all people, needed to hear home truths like this one. Something about his steady presence made her want to confide in him, trust him with the tender places in her heart she usually kept guarded.

“He soon tired of her once her beauty began to fade. I loved my Papa. He was a good man, but he did not value my mama as he should have, God rest his soul.”

Her voice trembled slightly on the last words. She certainly could not have imagined revealing such a thing to her Thomas, she realized with a start that made her question everything she thought she knew about her own heart.

“What else did she offer apart from her beauty? A lively mind like yours? Did you inherit your humor and curiosity from her?” His questions were probing but gentle, his gaze holding hers with an intensity that made her forget to breathe.

She thought it a strange response, but replied, “Oh, Mama did not have a sense of humor and no interest in book learning. That all came from Papa.”

“Then do you not think that perhaps your papa might have hoped for more than a pretty face when he entered into a lifelong contract with your mama?” He stopped, growing serious as he looked at her on the threshold to the outdoors.

The sunlight caught the silver threading through his dark hair, and his eyes held a warmth that made her heart flutter.

“The lady I wed must have a keen intelligence as well as a pretty face for we all grow old and while our bodies age, our minds continue to offer diversion and entertainment. That has to be a reason for marrying, since I intend to remain true to the wife I choose.”

Amelia shivered, and not from the crypt’s lingering chill.

She must not allow herself to be susceptible to his words, though they seemed to reach past all her carefully constructed defenses.

He knew her just a little too well. No doubt this was carefully calculated to make her want to kiss him again, though the thought sent a thrill through her that she couldn’t entirely suppress.

She glanced about her, suddenly aware of their solitude. The crypt was far away from the castle and there was no one about. It was, perhaps, not seemly that she should be alone with him, though she couldn’t bring herself to regret it.

Slanting a nervous glance up at him, she was about to suggest they take a circuitous route back to the castle when a stranger’s voice intruded.

“Sir, would ’ee like to hand over the key to the crypt and save yerself the trouble o’ taking it back to her ladyship.”

A gnarled and bent old man stood deferentially to one side as if he’d been waiting for a suitable moment to interrupt, his weathered face as much a part of the landscape as the ancient stones around them.

“Why, of course,” Sir Frederick said affably, though Amelia thought she detected a note of regret in his voice as he handed over the heavy iron key. “You are one of Lady Pendleton’s groundsmen?”

“We’ve just been to see Pernilla’s grave,” Amelia told him, grateful for the distraction from her turbulent thoughts.

The old man looked almost ancient enough to have been alive in her time.

On a whim, she asked, “Do you know the story of the young Lady Pernilla? The current Lady Pendleton’s great-great aunt? ”

“Aye, were a strange tale and not all will agree to the fate of the poor lassie,” said the old man, his rheumy eyes holding a glimmer of something that made Amelia lean forward eagerly.

“We just saw her grave in the crypt,” said Sir Frederick, his hand coming to rest protectively at the small of Amelia’s back. “There’s little doubt about her fate.”

“Not according to the rumors from when I was a wee boy passed down to me by me da.”

“And what were those rumors?” Amelia prompted, barely noticing how she’d shifted closer to Sir Frederick’s warmth.

“Lady Pendleton says her great-great aunt fell to her death shortly after planning to elope with a man of whom her father disapproved.” Sir Frederick raised an eyebrow. “And her grave is in the crypt, so I don’t see there can be any rumors to discount that.”

“Oh, there are rumors, to be sure,” said the old man, a knowing look crossing his weathered features. “Rumors that when she ran away, her father chose to declare her dead.” His hand closed over the key that Sir Frederick handed him.

“Is that what your father told you?” Sir Frederick asked and the old man nodded, his eyes taking on a distant look as if seeing into the past.

“The old Viscount Pendleton—Miss Pernilla’s father—was a proud man and he would rather his daughter be dead than that he be publicly shamed by her defiance.” He nodded. “That’s what me own da told me, him wot were but a boy when it all happened and remembered it clear as daylight.”

“And what else did your da tell you?” Amelia asked, feeling her excitement grow, her hand unconsciously finding Sir Frederick’s arm again.

“That Lady Pernilla ran away with the man wot had been courting her and of whom her papa disapproved. Yes, ran away to start a new life while her da declared her dead.”

Amelia jerked her head up and caught Sir Frederick’s surprised glance.

He smiled slightly, his eyes holding a spark of shared adventure that made her heart skip, then said, “Well, as it’s hardly going to be possible to exhume Lady Pernilla’s grave, perhaps, Miss Fairchild, you would like to accompany me to see the vicar.

You did suggest earlier that a perusal of the Church Register could be informative, did you not? ”