Hebe had been quite dismayed to learn of Lord Ernest’s presence at the castle and had considered whether to cancel this trip, but the opportunity to paint her beloved horses and not wanting to disappoint the duke had vanquished any concerns over pestilent rakes. In any case, the duke had told her that his castle contained three dining rooms, two drawing rooms, three libraries and thirty-six bedrooms, so it was wholly possible that she could avoid Lord Ernest for her entire visit.
“Prissy Prunella Pinchface,” Aunt Beatrice mumbled.
“Pardon?”
“Girl at school. You know the type. Wears her chemise in the bath.”
Hebe avoided her aunt’s gimlet eye and looked to the floor of the coach instead. “Hmm.”
“It’s not your fault, Hebe. I blame your father. And then marrying you off to that man.”
“I was the one who pleaded for the marriage, Aunt.”
“A caring father would have made enquiries about your betrothed.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered. I…I thought I loved Tobias.”
“Hah!”
“What do you mean by that? Do you not believe that with seventeen years one can fall in love?” Hebe slanted her head.
Now it was Aunt Beatrice who avoided Hebe’s gaze, twisting to the window and the dripping trees that clasped each other like passionate weeping lovers.
“Oh, yes, Hebe,” she whispered. “Young and unencumbered by life’s portmanteau, I believe one can. But what we do not fully comprehend when young are the dictates of society and a woman’s place in those, with no choice but to obey.” Her lips thinned. “We do not necessarily understand our darker emotions. Jealousy. Malice. Anger.” She shook her head. “And your husband had those in abundance. A handsome countenance masking such ugliness, but at seventeen, you wouldn’t have seen it and–”
The carriage slammed to a halt, throwing them to their knees.
“Get them bloody sheep off the drawbridge!” the coachman yelled from his perch.
“Drawbridge?” both Hebe and her aunt mouthed from the carriage floor, before they reclaimed their seats, thrust their heads out the window and…gawked.
For ahead, drifting upon a lily pad of an island was a beautiful golden flower of a castle – monumental and wondrous.
Formidable walls of square-cut stone defended, but within were turrets stretching to the low clouds while glimpses of mullioned windows and crenelated parapets beckoned any invader to test their mettle.
An arched gatehouse guarded the entrance to this island castle, its drawbridge linked to a lengthy wooden bridge construction which spanned the wide surrounding moat.
And streaming from that bridge like a flurry of drifting snow was a flock of sheep chased by a ruby-faced man togged in tidy Rothwell blue.
“Who bloody let them in here?” he screamed. “And where’s that damnable shepherd?” He shooed the flock from before the carriage, panting and cursing. “They’ve pissed in the wine cellar aga–”
“Evening, Mr Garvey,” the coachman bellowed. “Ladies aboard.”
“Oh, don’t mind us,” cooed Aunt. “We’re very broad-minded, eh, Hebe?”
But the fellow had regained his mien and hastened to the carriage window to bow with a flourish.
“Ladies, myabjectapologies. The name’s Garvey. I am the castle’s butler. And Lord Ernest also requests your forgiveness as he is unable to greet you. His lordship is in Witney for the day on important matters and then to Wychmere village.”
“With Lydia again, is he?” called the coachman. “She’s a demanding one, and no mistake.” And he snapped the reins to continue across the moat bridge.
Leaning back to their seats, Hebe rolled her eyes. “You see, Aunt. Lord Ernest is otherwise occupied.”
The dissolute buck fitch.
And with a true Prissy Prunella Pinchface purse of lips, Hebe turned to the window.
The moat lay calm as they crossed it, like a vast expanse of melted silver, rain mist shrouding the castle in drab petticoats, and Hebe could not prevent a tremor as they clattered beneath the arched gateway and into a sizeable, cobbled courtyard. A limestone wall of some eight foot rose ahead with a sturdy double wooden door concealing the principal buildings beyond.
