Page 10 of A Widow for the Earl
Blankets had been arranged on the grass, with pillows and cushions to sit on, alongside baskets of treats and delicacies that she had prepared herself, despite Mrs. Stephens’ protests.
“It is, my lady,” Mr. Bolam whispered back with a boyish giddiness that brightened his weathered, fifty-year-old face.
“Excellent.” Beatrice flashed a grin as she walked up to the stage. “Take your seats. Sit wherever you please and do enjoy the delights of your baskets. The performance will begin shortly.”
She waited until the servants hesitantly began to find their places, no doubt discussing the peculiarity of their new viscountess, before she ducked behind the tall, enormous sheet of canvas that had been constructed as part of the stage.
Four men sat casually inside a simple tent of sticks and canvas, jumping to their feet at the sight of Beatrice.
“Are you ready to begin?” she asked cheerily, grateful to be wearing something other than black again, and even more grateful to have free rein to do as she pleased at Wycliffe.
The men nodded.
“We are, my lady,” a redhead said.
Beatrice grinned, her heart fluttering with excitement. “I hope you chose a few good tales to tell. The scarier, the better.” She hesitated. “Although, not too scary; I do not want to have to send for a physician at such an hour.”
A man with dark hair, striped with silver, laughed. “We heeded your requests, my lady. I think you’ll enjoy the stories. They are always our most popular.”
“Then, enchant us!” she urged, before slipping back out to find her own place among the blankets and cushions.
She stifled a snort of amusement as she noticed the spot at the very back of the audience, at the foot of a hawthorn, which had more blankets and cushions than the rest. Despite her insistence that she should be shown no special treatment, it seemed that Mr. Bolam had ignored her, making sure her place was fit for the lady of the house.
Once she was seated, resting her back against the hawthorn trunk, the performance began.
A fiddler struck up an eerie tune, mournful and haunting, accompanied by the steady, heart-like thump of a hand-drum. Someone in the audience yelped as hazy light suddenly splashed across the canvas, illuminating a many-spired castle with wafting flags. Riders in knightly helmets moved across the screen, charging toward the castle, wielding banners and swords.
A hush fell across the servants, as enraptured as Beatrice had hoped they would be by the shadow puppet theatrical.
“Long ago, in the treacherous Carpathian Mountains, there lived an evil king that none could conquer,” a rich, gravelly voice narrated from behind the canvas, sending a pleasant thrill down Beatrice’s spine. “A king who demanded a bride each year from the terrified villagers. Brides who were never seen or heard of again, though it was said that, climbing the path to that high-up castle, one could hear the screams on the wind.”
Oh, this will be a good one.Beatrice opened up her basket and took out one of the strawberry tarts that Mrs. Stephens had baked. She was still somewhat full after her dinner, but she always had room for desserts.
She was just about to take her first delicious bite, when a startling crash nearly made her drop the tart. The rest of the audience jumped, the sound perfectly timed with a fork of lightning that splintered across the canvas… but Beatrice frowned, realizing that the noise had not come from the four performers, but from behind.
Did I miss someone?
Puzzled, and not wanting to distract any of the staff from the glory of the puppet show, she carefully got to her feet and slipped away, back toward the manor.
She searched the sun room first, finding nothing amiss: no vases smashed on the floor or ornaments knocked from side-tables orpedestals. Unsatisfied, she pressed on into the hallway outside, pausing to listen for any unusual sounds.
A faint rustle greeted her ears, as of someone looking through papers or laying a fire. She frowned down the hallway, her heart beating a little quicker. There were four rooms down there: an old study she did not use, a storage room so crowded no one ever went in, a small reading room where she liked to spend her evenings before bed, and the secondary drawing room.
My books…
Horror gripped her, quickening her pace as she tiptoed down the hall. She had informed the servants that no one was to go into the reading room, that she would clean it herself, but what if curiosity had gotten the better of one of her staff? They would think the worst, seeing the nature of those tomes.
It did not occur to her that most of her staff were illiterate, until she was outside the reading room door, her hand on the doorknob.
Yet, there was definitely someone in there. The rustling was louder now, accompanied by the hiss of frustrated breaths, and a faint thud as something dropped to the floor.
Beatrice willed herself to turn the doorknob, to confront whoever might be inside, but she could not do it. Frozen in fear of what that person was looking for, and what they might make of her education into the unnatural.
She was about to muster the courage to shout, when the door swung inward, nearly taking her with it. A figure marched out, noticing her too late. A hard chest collided with her face, where the swing of the door had bent her forward, her brow smarting at the impact.
In a daze, she jumped backward, putting up her fists in readiness for a fight as she struggled to blink the blur from her watery eyes. Her nose stung, her forehead throbbing, but she would defend Wycliffe Manor to the death if she had to.
“Name yourself, thief!” she barked, the darkness of the hallway and the lingering haze in her eyes conspiring to keep the figure’s identity hidden.
