Page 14 of Devil at the Gates
“George Halifax.” Harriet was almost afraid to breathe it aloud lest she summon him like some demon.
“I can say in all honesty that we haven’t had anyone by that name visit here. His Grace rarely goes into town. And we are a ways from Faversham. Of course, I’ve only worked here a few months. Could be that I’m wrong, but is it possible your stepfather lied to you?”
Harriet wanted to believe her, but she was afraid. If she was wrong, George might catch up with her and… She shuddered and tried not to think about what he would do.
“It’s possible, but I do not wish to risk it.”
“Then I shall keep silent, miss.”
“Thank you, Maisie.” The two of them shared a smile.
“Come on. The housekeeper, Mrs. Breland, will want to show you the house. I told her I would fetch you once you were dressed.”
“Mrs. Breland? I didn’t meet her last night.”
“Most of us were in bed when you arrived.” Maisie giggled. “She gave Mr. Grindle quite the dressing down this morning for not waking her, but if you ask me, he let her sleep because he fancies her.”
“Does he? Is she lovely?” Harriet asked.
“She is, but she tries to act severe. But when she thinks she’s not being watched, she smiles and lights up the room.”
They continued to gossip about the staff as Maisie escorted her downstairs to the great hall on the ground floor. A tall woman with auburn hair threaded with silver was busy issuing orders to a pair of footmen. She turned at their approach and offered a polite but reserved smile.
“Miss Russell?”
Harriet nearly dropped into a curtsy at the housekeeper’s regal beauty. She wore a black dress made of fine silk, and the cut was simple but elegant. “Yes, that’s me.”
“I am Mrs. Breland. I regret I was not able to assist you last evening when you arrived. I trust you are feeling better this morning?”
“I am, thank you. Maisie has been wonderful looking after me.”
“Maisie is a good girl, though I hope she did not talk your ear off.” Mrs. Breland nodded at the maid, who smiled encouragingly at Harriet before leaving her alone with the housekeeper.
“Now, I will take you on a quick tour of the house so you won’t lose your way. At night the corridors can feel much the same, and it can be very easy to get lost.”
For the next hour, Harriet followed Mrs. Breland and became acquainted with the rambling old manor house with its progression of stately rooms. There was a great hall, which had once been the toast of kings, at least according to the housekeeper. Now it was a room full of marble busts and sculptures. The timber beams along the walls had been removed twenty years before and replaced with fluted stone Doric columns that reflected a pure Italian Renaissance style.
Harriet had never seen such a grand home; it dwarfed Thursley Manor. There seemed to be a magic that had settled into the stones, sometimes a dark and frightening magic in the shadows of some rooms. But at other times, when sunlight streamed through high windows, it painted brilliant colors upon walls covered with damask silk wallpaper or intricately woven tapestries, creating a light, joyful enchantment. In those moments, she felt love burning clear through her, almost overwhelmingly so. This house had seen much over the centuries. Heartbreak and blinding love in equal measure.
Harriet’s heart swelled as Mrs. Breland next ushered her into a portrait gallery. At its entrance stood a tall suit of armor. The metal was polished to a shine, but there was evidence of nicks and scratches on its surface. Whoever had worn this armor had seen battle. It had tasted the bite of a blade. She looked at the helmet and swore she could feel the grave gaze of a medieval ghost staring back at her. But the armor said nothing. It was a mute, stalwart guardian over the gallery of portraits just beyond.
Mrs. Breland gestured down the massive corridor. “This is the long gallery.”
Filmy red curtains caught the light, so as to prevent the sun from fading the abundance of oil paintings that covered the walls. Harriet strained to see each and every piece. In the center of the room, three portraits were hung close together. There was a man in the middle, flanked by another man on the left and a woman upon the right.
“A fair likeness, I think,” Mrs. Breland mused next to Harriet.
“That’s the duke in the center?” She knew it was—there was no mistaking his eyes and the red flame of his hair. He stood with quiet intensity, posing for the artist without flair or pomp. Harriet’s eyes drifted to the other man. He was beautiful, his features perfect in every way, and there was a glint of humor about his mouth that made him instantly likable. “Who is that?”
“That is Thomas, His Grace’s younger brother. He passed seven years ago.”
Harriet desperately wanted to ask how, but she dared not upset Mrs. Breland.
“And that next to them is the late Duchess of Frostmore.”
Harriet focused on the pretty woman with graceful features and dark hair. A tingle of foreboding rippled like quicksilver beneath her skin. She had no doubt that this was the woman she had dreamt about.
“Mrs. Breland, how did she die?” She regretted the question the instant she spoke it.
