The first member of the household Rollo encountered did nothing to put his mind at rest.One minute, the front door was shut tight, and the next, it opened wide, half-filled by the most fragile-looking butler Rollo had ever seen.
“Sir?”he queried in a voice so wavery Rollo would not have been surprised if it was the last word he ever uttered.
“Rollo Duchamps-Avery,” declared Rollo, stepping forward.And then added with a confidence he most certainly didn’t feel, “Good day to you.I’m to be a houseguest of Lord Lyndon.My father is a dear friend of the duke.”
There was a pregnant pause whilst the butler looked him up and down, then peered beyond him with the air of a man hoping another visitor might appear.Rollo squared his shoulders to make himself look more impressive.An enduring challenge when one was short of stature and as slender as a willow.Even more so at the end of a miserable three-day expedition.
“My father being Henry Orlando Fitzwilliam Albert Duchamps-Avery, the Earl of Rossingley,” he elaborated firmly.
The servant squinted up at him, then nodded as if rearranging his expectations.“Ah.Then a very warm welcome to Goule Hall, sir.Do come this—”
A crashing sound rent the still air, as brief as it was sudden.As far as Rollo could tell, it emanated from somewhere deep inside the house.
“Good heavens!”He cupped a hand to his ear.“Was that a…” Another splintering noise stilled him.
“I’m Berridge, head butler here at Goule.At your service, sir.”
Perhaps the butler was a trifle deaf.
Rollo tried again.“Forgive me, but that sounded awfully as…as if someone was pitching rocks through panes of glass?”
“Oh, no.”Berridge ushered Rollo inside, relieving him of his hat and gloves.“That’s just his lordship and his old toy soldiers in the drawing room.You’ll soon get used to him and his ways.”
Not a single part of that response allayed Rollo’s concerns whatsoever.“His ways?”
“Yes, until you work some magic on him, obviously.Begging your pardon, sir, but you’re a bit younger than I was expecting.Your man can bring your things inside the back way.”
Greaves, a younger, fitter footman, showed Rollo up to his bedchamber, along two sets of stairs and various passages.His valises appeared at about the same time, and Greaves set about unpacking and arranging Rollo’s belongings whilst Rollo drank in the monotonous views from the window.At least his room was decent and his mattress comfortable.Though the large oil painting hanging above the bed was atrocious—a bird of some description, or possibly a large-gilled fish.Either way, the poor creature was half gutted and in its death throes.Dejecteddeclared the title in the lower left corner.Personally, if he were being disembowelled, Rollo’s vocabulary would be far riper.
Curious art aside, the household staff seemed to know what they were about.More importantly, if Rollo overlooked the hall’s generally forbidding air, nothing untoward suggested it was haunted.
“His lordship prefers to dine alone,” Greaves explained as if that were a perfectly natural thing to do when one had an expected houseguest.Rollo didn’t have much experience for comparison, although his father wouldn’t have dreamed of it.“Though hopefully not for much longer, now you’ve arrived.Dinner will be brought to your chamber, sir, in about half an hour.”
A little later, alone, washed, and in fresh clothing, Rollo steeled himself to count his blessings.The alternative was to burst into tears, and that just wouldn’t do at all.Far too self-pitying.After all, his bedchamber was well-proportioned, and the water in his basin plentiful and warm.The door had a working lock, and his belly filled with tasty venison stew.He was in good health and much loved.
Regardless, a lonely tear trickled down his cheek.There was no shame in feeling homesick, he told himself as he wiped it away.Willoughby, Papa, and Kit would be in the informal cosy drawing room at Rossingley by now, reading, playing cards, or simply chewing over the matters of the day.And Rollo’s favourite chair would be empty.
Determined to push those thoughts aside, he reflected instead on Berridge and Greaves’s peculiar comments.Work magic?What on earth had Berridge meant by that?What were they expecting from Rollo?And playing withtoy soldiers?Was his host wrong in the head?
As it was far too early to turn in for the night, Rollo rang for Greaves.“I’d like to meet my host,” he informed him.“If his lordship is available.”
“Certainly.”Greaves nodded, though Rollo detected hesitation.“Lord Lyndon generally retires to the drawing room after dinner.Allow me to escort you.”
Once more, Rollo traipsed behind the footman along unfamiliar corridors.This time, Greaves pointed out a few useful interior landmarks along the way.When he came to a halt outside a forbidding oak door, he gestured to Rollo.
“You may enter, sir,” he advised, clearly reluctant to do so himself.“I have no requirement to present you.His lordship doesn’t stand on ceremony.”
Nonetheless, after the man gave a small bow then left him loitering there alone, Rollo felt obliged to make some sort of effort.He couldn’t simply barge in.Instead, he scratched on the half-opened door, a little feebly if he was being honest.Then, annoyed with himself, he scratched again more boldly.And as no response was forthcoming, he pushed it wide.
In most ways, the drawing room was unremarkable, much in keeping with the interior of the rest of Goule Hall.It seemed a little dated, perhaps, compared to stylish London drawing rooms, yet the heavy furniture and rich carpets still spoke of centuries of Ashington money.Uninspiring oils adorned the walls—portraits of ancestors in the main, though he spied another peculiar animal disembowelment hidden amongst them, probably by the same inept artist.
Feeling bold, Rollo took a pace forward.Though neither hot, cold, nor draughty, the room smelled of stale alcohol and used lamp oil.In anticipation of the last of the daylight, someone had lit a couple of oil lamps, and the embers of a fire burned in the grate.In all, it was reassuringly familiar.As a boy, Rollo had whiled away many an interminable hour in similar spaces belonging to his father’s wide circle of acquaintances.
One feature, however, drew his eye and held it: A man, sprawled on a low settee and facing away from the doorway.His booted feet rested on a worn pouffe, and a tumbler of dark liquor clung precariously to a narrow armrest.Rollo jerked his head around, hoping Greaves might be hovering to perform the introductions, but the servant had vanished.
If the man occupying the settee was aware he had a visitor, he gave no sign.Frozen to the spot, Rollo found himself caught in a dilemma.Did he retreat and postpone presenting himself to his host until tomorrow?Or take another step forward and boldly announce his arrival?
“You’re either in or out.There’s no in between.”
