“No.”The earl tilted his white-blond head, so like Rollo’s own, in gentle acknowledgement.“But then, my dear, Napoleon Bonaparte wasn’t a spoiled second son of an earl, caught swiving one of my stable boys when he’d been given explicit instructions not to manhandle the servants.Pritchard?Ring for Dobson, if you would be so kind.I do believe Rollo’s valises are already packed.”
Chapter Two
My dearest Willoughby,
Papa is an ass.You were paying an afternoon call to Miss Lavinia when we left.He didn’t even allow me to track you down and say farewell.Needless to say, three days sharing the landau with Dobson has been insufferable.On his return to Rossingley, please ensure somebody acquaints him with a bar of soap.
God, I miss you already.
We rode into the county of Norfolk two hours ago, yet still no sign of Goule Hall.Dobson has family around here.He says Goule isn’t on the way to anywhere, an end in itself.For all that his breath is foul, I think he may be onto something.The landscape is bleak, a never-ending cycle of green marsh and grey saltings, with limitless skies and a church tower on every horizon.Though sobering, it imbues me with an incredible urge to do peculiar things, such as hunting for wild garlic or skimming stones across the marshes.Mostly, however, it makes me want to demand that the landau turn around.
I am being so terribly brave, despite everything.
PS In your last ode to Lavinia, you may wish to revisit the definition of iambic pentameter.
Your Grace, I write to thank you for permitting me to spend the summer at one of your country homes.I am truly blessed.
MANY YEARS AGO, Rollo’s papa had a veryspecialfriend named Charles.Like Rollo, he was also terribly brave—a soldier.After fighting Napoleon’s finest on the battlefields of La Coruna, he returned home alive, only to sadly perish a few years later of consumption.Willoughby and Rollo never knew him particularly well because they’d been away at school, but Papa grieved his loss as if a cloak had been cast over the sun.Then, a couple of years later, Kit came along, and Papa went back to being his usual incorrigible, annoying, adorable self.
The point being that if ever Rollo were in the doldrums, Papa would remind him that something terrific might be waiting just around the next corner.And if not that corner, then the one after, or perhaps a corner Rollo was unaware even existed until he stumbled around it.Though peeved at his father’s decision to send him away, and still smarting from his humiliating dressing down, Rollo would do his best.He’d spend his three months at this blasted Goule place, and even if, privately, he believed that making the best of things was a damned poor way of dealing with them, then that was what he’d do.
Despite padding his brain with optimistic, courageous intent, as the landau rounded a sharp bend in a rutted track, affording him his first glimpse of Goule Hall, Rollo concluded his special corner had yet to reveal itself.
“If this place ain’t haunted,” declared Dobson, leaning towards Rollo to get a better view, “then my prick’s a kipper.I reckon I can hear the creaks and bumps in the night from all the way out here.”
Rollo breathed through his mouth for a few seconds; after three days in the confines of the landau, he concluded Dobson had a rotten tooth.Though, if his member really was a kipper, then it would explain the unfortunate odour.
“Nonsense,” Rollo said.“You’ve been listening to too many of Cook’s silly stories.There are no such things as ghosts.Old houses simply make strange noises.When the wind blows and the windows rattle and such.”
All the same, as the stark flint façade loomed closer, he wrapped his travelling rug a little more snugly across his lap and vowed to lock his bedchamber door that night.And then he vowed to stop harbouring mean thoughts about people.It was not a nice trait in him.Dobson was a good man.He’d also fought for his country.Big and strong, too, which was why Papa had selected him for this errand.Thieves would think twice about waylaying their carriage.The smell alone would be a deterrent.
“Anyhow, I think it’s a pretty house,” Rollo lied, staring up at the three-storey, double-fronted hall.Cut in severe straight lines, as though someone had taken a sharp knife to it, the hall defiantly stared back.Half-hearted curls of smoke puffed from two of the chimneys.Considering it was the first week of June, the country air still carried a chill.“Good.The fires have been lit.”
Even the slate-grey chimney pots appeared precisely drawn, four on the front aspect of the roof partnered with four identical ones on the rear, as if ready to join hands and dance a terribly sedate, terribly depressing minuet.
As the carriage drew closer, Rollo picked out more odd details.The unwelcoming front door, for instance—too narrow—as if squeezed in as an afterthought.The ornate gables swooping down on either side of each window, like elaborate fringes disguising plain faces.On another house, they would have been a delight; on this one, they only drew attention to the meanness of the window proportions.In contrast, immaculate gardens flanked the property.Dobson sniffed noisily.
“It’s as ugly as a mud fence,” he declared.
“It’s romantic,” Rollo contradicted stoutly.“And evidently well cared for.”
“Nope.”Dobson shook his head.“Needs knocking down.And a pretty penny spent building another in its place.Mebbe this lord ain’t got enough blunt to do it.”
“The Duke of Ashington is one of the richest men in the country.”Rollo’s own father was possibly the only man richer.“And generous too.I daresay his brother’s portion is more than enough.”
Rollo hadn’t anticipated a large welcome party, and Goule Hall didn’t disappoint.He knew and liked the Duke of Ashington well enough.The man occasionally dined with his father at the earl’s London house.Pleasant, handsome, and unassuming, he talked to Rollo like a man, not a boy, about serious things, such as politics and the poor.The duke’s youngest brother, Lord Francis, lacking the duke’s natural timidity, was an absolute hoot.If Lord Lyndon, the duke’s twin and Rollo’s imminent host was anything like his brothers, then Rollo wouldn’t be feeling quite so down in the mouth.Except, as a gleeful Pritchard had informed him, the lord was none of those things.He had a reputation as a drunk, a rakehell, a gambler, and the possessor of shocking ill-temper.
So what?Rollo told himself crossly, adjusting his gloves and donning his hat.He could be quite loutish himself if he chose.Perhaps this Lord Lyndon person was simply unhappy.Perhaps he hurt others because he was hurting himself.It must be hard having a revered duke for a twin brother and playing second fiddle all the time.Especially when said duke never put a step wrong.Why, Rollo could relate to that.He adored Willoughby, though they were as different as oil and vinegar.
Aside from the crunch of his boots on the pristine pebbled driveway, Rollo stepped from the carriage into a deathly silence, not broken by even a dog bark or the crow of a bird.
“I do hope they’re expecting me.”A note of alarm crept into his voice.“I’m famished and ready for a hot bath.”
“Mebbe the bunting is strewn around the back,” replied Dobson with a mean little laugh.Rollo ignored him.
Papa had written, and the duke had confirmed.Rollo had seen Ashington’s slanting penmanship himself when he’d still prayed the duke had erroneously substituted the word Norfolk for Mayfair.He assumed the duke’s instruction had been passed on to the household at Goule Hall, but what if the letter had become lost or…
The first of Rollo’s valises hit the ground with a dull thud, swiftly followed by another.Even those noises failed to alert anyone inside the house.Dobson and the driver had arrangements to pass the night at a local inn before heading back to Rossingley; already they were discussing directions.Feeling a long way from home, Rollo wished that Willoughby were by his side.And that he was a little older.
