Page 6 of The Virtuoso
“Are you planning on becoming eccentric?” Darius inquired as he steered his gelding past a pothole. “Or will it just overcome you gradually, like the vines obscuring Sleeping Beauty’s castle?”
“We’ll have to wait and see. For the present, I rather like all the rhododendrons.”
Darius peered at the foliage. “They have misplaced their self-restraint.”
The drive was lined with towering oaks that created a dense canopy of greenery overhead. The understory had been taken over by the rhododendrons, and it being the proper season, they were awash in blooms. In the lengthening shadows, the pink, purple, and white flowers stood out luminously against the dark foliage and shifting dapples of sun.
Val rode on in silence until the manor house itself stood before him.
“Oh dear,” Darius said softly, “and that is an understatement.”
The house lay north-south in orientation, so the full impact of the westering sun hit the entire façade. The southern wing and the center section were unkempt and dilapidated. Shutters hung crookedly, windows were missing panes, porch bricks had come off and tumbled to the grass.
The northern wing, however, was a complete shambles. The slate roof was visibly sagging near the soffit in the front corner, three of the chimneys were on their way to becoming piles of mortar, the north-facing porch was listing hard to port, and as Val watched, bats flew out of the missing attic windows.
“Well, come on.” Val swung off his chestnut. “The light won’t last forever, and I’ve a mind to look around.”
For Val, there was an incongruous sense of pleasure just looking at the place. Last year when he’d been ostensibly looking for property to purchase, he’d needed a key to gain access. This year, any number of broken ground-floor windows afforded the same privilege. Many a boy had obviously tested his aim against mullioned panes without thought to the cost of replacing them. Still, as Val gazed upon the wreck fate had dumped in his lap, he had the thought:She’s waited for me.
In the mellow evening sunbeams, the house held on to a kind of dignity, despite disrepair, neglect, and abandonment. The native stone blended beautifully with the surrounding wood, while patches of wildflowers splashed color in unlikely spots around the yard. Opportunistic saplings were encroaching, but a liberal use of imagination put the former serenity and appeal of the place within sight.
“The stables aren’t bad at all,” Darius said as he caught up with Val at the back of the house.
“A silver lining for which the horses will no doubt be grateful.” Val’s gaze traveled toward the largest outbuilding. “And the springhouse looks large and sound, and the carriage house nearly so.”
“Where is your home farm?”
“That direction, being worked by a tenant most likely.”
“You’re fortunate to have stone walls.” Darius frowned as he turned slowly where he stood. “They’ll take some effort to repair, but the materials are at hand, and most of your tenants should have the skill.”
“It so happens, while in Yorkshire enjoying my brother’s hospitality, I acquired the skill. It’s more a matter of wearing gloves, cursing fluently, and not being able to walk or rise from one’s seat the next day.”
“And who wouldn’t enjoy such an undertaking as that?” Darius smiled as he spoke. “Are we going inside?”
“Not tonight.” Bright morning light would serve better for an inspection, and Val had seen enough for now. The place still stood, and that was what mattered.
Though why it mattered escaped him for the present.
“Let’s peek inside the carriage house, though, shall we?” Val suggested. “There might be usable quarters above, and the first thing we’re going to need is a stout wagon to haul supplies and debris.”
“You’re staying?”
“Think of the privacy.” Val’s smile widened at the incredulity on Darius’s face. “The insipid teas and dances we’ll miss, the scheming young ladies we won’t have to dodge under the arbors, and the unbearable stink of London in summer we won’t have to endure.”
Thepianoshewouldn’t have to abstain from playing. Hot cross buns… Hot cross buns…
“Think of your back hurting so badly you can hardly walk,” Darius rejoined as he crossed the yard beside Val. “The endless small talk at the local watering hole, the pleasures of the village churchyard on a Sunday morning, where no man escapes interrogation.”
“You’re not”—Val paused in mock drama—“afraid, are you, Lindsey?”
While giving Darius a moment to form the appropriate witty rejoinder, Val pushed open the door to the carriage house. No doubt because vehicles were expensive and the good repair of harness a matter of safety, the place had been built snugly and positioned on a little rise at the back of the house. The interior was dusty but dry and surprisingly tidy.
“This is encouraging.”
Darius followed him in. “Why do I have the compulsion to caution you strenuously against going up those stairs, Windham? Perhaps you’ll be swarmed by bats or set upon by little ghoulies with crossbows.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, what could be hiding in an empty old carriage house?”
