The year the Countess of Holbrook ran away with a Colonel of the Horse Guards, I thought; and from Henry’s looks, his mind was reverting to the same. But whatever the Earl’s past feelings towards the house, he did not seem disposed to hold it in contempt now. So much sudden and expensive activity, on behalf of a putative heir — or an elegant daughter with habits of expence?
“Stonings frightened me when I was little,” Lady Imogen confided. “It was always cold and cheerless, and the servants were not the ones I knew. I used to lose my way in the upper storeys and be found crying behind some moth-eaten curtain, convinced I had been buried alive. But now I am grown, I see the place for what it is: an ancient and honourable seat that ought not to be allowed to fall into ruin.”
“Mr. Dyer’s folk have much to do, I presume?” Mr. Prowting enquired.
Charles Spence inclined his head. “They have been engaged on the repairs nearly three months, and are likely to continue their labour a year or more. The roof tiles had given way extensively in a number of places — the south end of the east wing, and the central hall — so that there is damp in nearly every ceiling and wall, and the plaster has required to be replaced throughout. Then there are the ravages to wainscoting and floors from a variety of feral creatures we are even still discovering in various corners, and the collapse of stone walls about the property. For you must understand, Mr. Prowting, that however grand the house itself, it is as nothing to the gardens, which were extensively improved in the last century by the present Earl’s grandfather, with the assistance of Mr. Capability Brown.”
“Major Spence is a fund of knowledge regarding Stonings,”
Lady Imogen observed, “and his work is tireless. I believe Charles loves this place better than all of us.”
“When one has been far from home, and privileged to defend it,” he replied, “one cannot help but hold English soil more precious than anything else in life.”
“My father would not agree with you!” Imogen chortled. “If you could hear him deplore this rackety old barracks!”
“And yet he chose wisely, in placing the Major here,” I observed. “Perhaps the Earl will descend upon Hampshire soon, and inspect the progress.”
“The Earl will be arrived in less than three weeks’ time,” said a voice from the music room doorway, “and intends, so I believe, to give a ball. I will be three-and-twenty then, you know — and you must all drink to my health!”
It was Mr. Thrace, arrayed in his riding dress; he strode towards us, bowed, and was made known to Cassandra, who alone of the party was yet a stranger to him.
“A ball!” Ann Prowting cried. “I am longing for a ball!”
“Then you must certainly come,” Mr. Thrace returned easily, as tho’ the office of inviting guests to Stonings was already his, “and as the distance between our homes is so great,” his gaze moved with warmth to Catherine Prowting, “you and all your family must certainly spend the night.”
“Julian,” Major Spence interposed gently, “we must leave the details of her party in Lady Imogen’s capable hands.”
“Does she plan to attend? I had not thought she would remain so long in the country.” Mr. Thrace bowed, a satiric expression about his lips. He lacked her ladyship’s high animal spirits this morning — the natural result, perhaps, of his losses at the faro table; but he appeared no less certain of himself than when I had first observed him. He was determined to display himself as the lord of Stonings. The battle, then, was well and truly joined.
But which of them —which of them? — had Lord Harold’s proof ranged on their side?
It seemed unlikely that Lady Imogen should have hired Old Philmore or his nephew to steal the chest; she was too little known in the country, and too high in the instep to condescend in Normandy Street or at Thatch Cottages. But necessity might work the cruellest alteration in a person’s habits, and necessity was Lady Imogen’s goad. She was distressed in her circumstances, and on the brink of losing her fortune. In such a case, might she avail herself of those same bonds of obligation and custom I had remarked in our servant Sally Mitchell? Lady Imogen’s maid might be familiar with every soul in Alton, and be despatched with certainty to the very man required to do the job.
In the case of Mr. Thrace, the matter was entirely easy. He came and went from Chawton and Alton as tho’ Hampshire born and bred. He was in the habit of dining at the Middletons’, and might have encountered Old Philmore any time these past several weeks; for a gentleman to engage the discreet services of a labourer was a simple matter of pounds and pence. And there was this that must arouse the deepest suspicion in my breast: Thrace had regaled our entire dinner party with the history of the Rubies of Chandernagar — a story which must be apocryphal, and employed for only one purpose: to explain the sudden appearance of strangers at Chawton Cottage, searching by stealth for a hidden treasure — or entering the house by force when its owners were absent.
“Pray come through to the terrace,” Lady Imogen commanded. She did not rebuke the upstart Beau for his pretensions, or throw down her gauntlet in public; indeed, she looked blithely unconscious. “It is in a dubious state of repair, but will serve charmingly for a nuncheon. See, Charles, how I have ordered Rangle to scatter the little tables about, and arrange the pyramids of fruit so delightfully? This is the only sort of picnic I will bear: with firm stone underfoot, and ample accommodation for every guest, and no fears of dirt or damp to tarnish one’s clothing.”
“An excellent arrangement,” he replied with playful courtesy, “but hardly so like a picnic.”
“Bah! You cavalry officers are never content unless you may bivouac on the hard ground, with a fire at your feet and a Spanish maiden to boil your coffee. I know how it is! Don’t attempt to beguile me, Charles — I know you for a blackguard of old!”
When the raspberry cordial and the Madeira wine had been drunk, and a quantity of cold meat and peaches eaten, there was nothing to do but watch the Middleton girls chase one another through the grass. Mr. Prowting, with all the beauty of the lake spread before him, expressed a regret that he had not thought to bring rods and tackle; and this began an exhaustive discussion of coarse fishing among the gentlemen, Mr. Thrace in particular being addicted to the sport. He and Mr. Prowting determined to walk down to the water itself, but could not tempt the ladies to join them. Mr. Middleton and Miss Beckford elected to rest in the shade before the arduous journey back to Alton; Cassandra was observing the little girls at play; Henry amused Lady Imogen with an anecdote regarding their mutual acquaintance in Town; Major Spence listened courteously to some effusion of Miss Benn’s. I guarded my privacy jealously, and cast about for the most effective means of searching the vast property.
It seemed a ridiculous hope, this idea that I might discover a single chest amidst all the objects of a noble household amassed over more than a century, and that house presently under repair. Even to attempt such a search was folly, and dangerously offensive to my hosts. I suspected Mr. Thrace and Lady Imogen equally, but I could not bring myself to steal away from the company, and lose my way in the passages of Stonings, where I might encounter any number of servants duly engaged in their proper affairs. How was I to discern which bedroom belonged to the principal parties, and how to justify my presence in either of them?
“Do you hunt with your brother, Miss Austen?”
Lady Imogen stood before me, her arm through Henry’s.
“As my brother will expose me to derision without remorse — I must confess I am a sad horsewoman.”