“Ow!” A sharp claw raked her ankle and she sat bolt upright to stare into a disgruntled furry face, but as she nursed the wounded limb, the clock chimed five. “Grief,” she muttered, “I might as well stir my stumps and see if Garvey is downstairs and request some tea.”
She arose with a grumble, and after grabbing a shawl, peeked out the door.
Nothing and no one, so she meandered into the Long Gallery, crossing to the tall windows. There she gazed out to the moat and the first stirrings of dawn, an oyster hue sweeping up from the horizon, and a swan was–
Hebe yelped as a sharp object prodded her waist and she spun to a spectral lady in grey robe waving a candle aloft, skin pale as milk.
“Good morning, Hebe dearest.”
“Aunt!” She held hand to galloping heart, noticed the robe was in fact watered Esterhazy-grey silk and shot with silver thread. “What are you doing up at this hour?”
“Same as you, I’d imagine. Couldn’t sleep. I dreamed of swimming the Irish Channel in solely my lemon negligee, only for Redmond to appear as a merman in the water, all muscular fins and green hair. ’Twas ludicrous for I cannot even swim.”
Hebe shook her head. “I was going to try for some tea downstairs.”
“Well, at least I have a candle. Let us go forage. I know Mrs Pettifer lights the range just before five. And it’ll be even earlier today because of the Wychmere Feast.”
They wandered down the stairs, scurried past the library and pottered through the Great Hall.
Garvey was blearily lighting the sconces.
“Can I help you, ladies?” he queried, eyes to the ceiling and not their night-robe attire.
A perfect butler for a perfect castle.
“Would it be too much trouble to request tea?”
“Of course not. Cripps has lit the drawing room sconces if you’d like to partake of it there. Mrs Pettifer’s got the kettle on so it’ll just be a jiffy.” He frowned. “I hope your bedchambers are comfortable?”
“Oh, yes. Just…odd dreams.”
“Well, Wychmere folklore says you will dream of your future spouse the night before the Feast.”
Aunt gasped.
Hebe spluttered.
The shutters were still closed in the drawing room but the stone was a warm butter hue in the sconce light. Aristocratic portraits smothered one wall, and carved in oak, the Rothwell crest hung in pride over the mantel of a vast empty fireplace.
Chairs were scattered, settees facing each other, and the two of them made themselves comfortable upon the pink one, grabbing a blanket and snuggling beneath.
“I suppose,” said Aunt, “that a return to London looms in the near future? When will you have finished the sketches of the duke’s hunter, do you think?”
Hebe rested her head on Aunt’s shoulder. “Yesterday.”
“Ah.”
They sat in silence for a while, listening to the household awaken.
“But…” Hebe pursed her lips and yawned. “I could always sketch Lady Lucy again. She has a most interesting…tail.”
“Hmm. Good idea,” said Aunt brightly. “Tails are tricky to get right, I would imagine.” She patted Hebe’s hand. “Although in all seriousness, dearest, I will be guided by you for when we return. My life is…adaptable.”
“Thank you, I’ll–”
A clatter interrupted as Cripps manoeuvred a trolley through the door. Teapots, milk jugs, sugar jars and a vertiginous plate of biscuits rattled and teetered as the wheels trundled over the parquet floor and the edges of the rug.
“Thank you, Cripps.” Aunt seized the wobbling teapot with haste. “I believe the servants all have the day off for the Feast, do they not?”
