Note: I must make an editorial change here due to a typo. Sir Jack died in 1765, not 1761, and the box was immured with him then.
Chapter 69: Shadows in the Crypt
It had rained again. The roads heading north out of London were mud tracks. If Tavington had planned an outing, it would not have been on this day, but there was no choice in the matter. They must get to Wargrave as soon as possible. To the surprise of the servants, the carriages were called for early in the morning. Nothing was said about the destination. Tavington wanted to keep their business a secret until the last moment.
Some people needed to be apprised, though. Tavington himself rode to the Protheroe's house on Tudor Street before breakfast.
The startled manservant who opened the door clearly thought it was too early for a call.
"The master is at his breakfast, sir—"
"I need to see him and my sister instantly. Take me to them." When necessary, it was best to tell servants what he intended to do, rather than letting them think about it. Without further discussion, he pushed past the surprised man and strode swiftly to the dining parlor.
"William!" Lucy called in alarm. "What is wrong?"
Protheroe rose at the sight of him, and came forward. "You have news. Will you have some breakfast?"
Hesitating only a moment, Tavington said, "I thank you. I did not have time at home." He shut the door behind him, and lowered his voice, as he sat down and let Lucy pour him a cup of tea. "I have news for your ears only. We have news of the box. It is at Wargrave Cross Church."
Cutting through the hushed exclamations, Tavington told them Letty's story. "—So even if it is not true, we must investigate it. We are all going, because—" Here he took a deep breath. "—there have been threats, Protheroe. You might wish to stay close to home until I send word. Lucy—you and Ned should keep to the house." He felt he must tell them about yesterday's confrontation. Lucy was concerned for her sisters. Protheroe looked very grave, but was still thinking about the ramifications of Letty's story. He politely refrained from pointing out that he had told the Tavington brothers previously that they should be looking for the papers at Wargrave.
"I am puzzled, I confess. If the documents are so old—from twenty years past, it seems—why are they so valuable? Surely any scandal from those days would have died of old age!"
"I've no idea. I had thought it involved the Prince of Wales, but obviously I was wrong. What could have happened in those days that would still be of any moment now? Could it involve the old king? Perhaps he left a few more bastards to be provided for? The present king has never dabbled in mistresses or scandal—"
"Well—" objected Lucy, hesitantly. "There were those stories—" When the two men looked at here. She cocked her head with a hint of mischief. "Well, all those years when I was in society, I did listen to simply heaps of gossip! You know, I'm sure, that Lady Sarah Lennox thought the King was going to ask for her hand, and then was beyond humiliated when he married the German princess instead."
"Well," Tavington dismissed this with a sneer. "that disgrace was not the King's, but the Lennox family's. Yes, everyone knows how Lady Sarah ran wild until she married Napier. Typical of that family. She's aunt to the Foxes, after all."
"Please don't start on the Whigs so early in the morning, Will," Lucy said in exasperation. "Let me see—there was something about the King when he was young, but I cannot remember it. Mamma would gossip with Lady Anne Wexham, who was the Princess of Wales' chief lady of the bedchamber. They were good friends, until Lady Anne died—oh—years ago. Before the King married, there might have been someone—someone not in society."
Tavington laughed. "Oh? 'Farmer George' might have a bastard, after all? There would be some laughter all around, I suppose, but I hardly see that the world would care that much—"
Protheroe cut his eggs very precisely, considering the matter. "Perhaps the King might, though? It would make him look a great hypocrite. And with all the disasters about him, having his personal life called into question as well might seem too much."
"What? Who would care if he had a mistress before he was married? Would he be embarrassed for the world to know that he would actually have congress with a woman outside of marriage? Forgive me, Lucy. That was coarse."
"It certainly was. Eat your bacon."
-----
Letty insisted that a note be sent to Bellini, so that he not come all the way in the wet to see her as he did everyday. She waited until Tavington had left for the Protheroes, and then gave Dunner the note to personally deliver.
My good friend—
Family business forces me to leave the city for a few days. It is very secret, and I cannot tell you, on my honor, what it is. I am very well, and feel stronger everyday. I shall write as soon as I return. Do not tell anyone about this note.
Forgive the mystery. It is not of my choosing. We shall soon be making music once more.
L. F.
One more messenger must be sent. They could not simply arrive at Wargrave without some warning. Peter would be sent ahead on horseback to give the household at least an hour's notice. He left in good time. The Tavington brothers had considered giving him a written message for Bordon, but decided against it. All they were telling the servants was that they had suddenly decided that Mrs. Martingale ought to see her future home, and that Lady Fanshawe would be the better for some rest and quiet in the country. If Peter were to be accosted, they did not want him to have any information that an enemy could use against the family.
Jane tried to make the carriages as comfortable as possible with blankets and cushions and baskets of refreshments. She was not sure that it was a good idea for Letty to ride with three little boys, but the babies needed to be close to Jane, and Letty wanted very much to be with her sister. Thus, the Tavington coach contained the two sisters, Harmonia James, Rose and the children. On the coachman's box with Scoggins rode Dunner. In Sir John's coach rode the baronet with his fiancée, Fanny and her nurse; and Caroline and Penelope. The ladies' maids followed in Letty's barouche. The valets accompanied the coachmen. Only Tavington did not ride in the coaches, but elected to be on horseback, scouting the road ahead. The coachmen were ordered to keep together and to keep a good watch.
Jane and her companions were very much occupied with keeping Ash quiet and entertained. He was happy enough to "go see Moll," but the journey to Wargrave was a long one for an active little boy. Tom, too, was growing very independent, and fussed and struggled as they tried to keep him still. The women told a round of stories and sang songs. After an hour or so, the babies napped, and Ash began talking about Fanny. Unknown to Jane, Fanny was complaining about the absence of Ash. There was a general halt sometime later, and to Jane's unspeakable relief, Ash went to ride with his new friend Fanny, and the children, a little closer in age than Ash and the babies, were better amused together, listening to Sir John's deep voice raised in old English ballads. or telling them the story of "Mister Fox."
After a time, Fanny and Ash also grew drowsy, and the Tavington sisters told Emily more about Wargrave and the neighborhood, and the neighbors, and about the interesting characters she would meet.
"The clergy are all lovely people," Caroline informed Emily. "And at Wargrave Cross, close at hand, are the Bordons. Mr. Bordon was a soldier and a comrade of Will's until John gave him the living last year. He and his wife are delightful! They have two sweet children, and the elder is a girl, just Fanny's age."
Fanny stirred a little, hearing her name mentioned. Her mother cuddled her closer and smiled, glad that Fanny would have a playmate.
Penelope added, "Mr. Somerville, the steward, is a bachelor, and quite respectable. And then—" she blushed self-consciously, "the schoolmaster, Mr. Strakes, is a remarkable man. Very learned and genteel. He is a grandson of the old Duke of Barcaster."
"Really?' Emily asked in astonishment. "A country schoolmaster? Was he disinherited?"
"No," Penelope told her with a touch of indignation. "His mother married beneath her station, but the duke always supported his grandson. After his death, the new duke and his family suppressed the will and refused to pay Mr. Strakes his grandfather's bequest. Of course, without the necessary money for lawyers, Mr. Strakes had no recourse."
"How wicked," Emily sympathized, thinking of her marriage portion, frittered and gambled away by Peter Martingale. "How cruel and dishonest. Disrespectful of the dead as well. I am very sorry for Mr. Strakes."
John shrugged. "His loss is our gain. A fine schoolmaster—if a bit strict—at least to Will and me—" he grinned boyishly at Emily. "It's always pleasant to have a gentlemanlike man to dine with in the country. If we have a look at those Roman remains in the spring, I daresay he'll be in the thick of it."
"All the same," Penelope reminded him, "you should have the builders repair his cottage. I think I told you of it before. When we were at Wargrave for Mamma's funeral, I noticed it was quite forlorn. Oh, and the thatchers, too. His roof is not what it should be."
Caroline turned her head away and smiled. Penelope had always had a soft spot for Mr. Strakes, from the time they were girls and he was newly come to Wargrave—a tall, dark young man. Caroline did not think him the least handsome, with his beaky nose and grim air, but Penelope had regarded him as a man of mystery. Apparently, the sentiments had not faded.
Meanwhile, in the Tavington carriage, there was quiet. With the babies napping, and Ash no longer demanding everyone's attention, Letty was able to rest, her head on Jane's shoulder. Rose nodded herself, and Jane was lost in her thoughts. She had brought William's book with her, and would finish her work on it whenever she might have an odd hour or two. The references in it to her kind friend Lieutenant Nettles made her sorry that they were unlikely to meet again in life. And then there was the final chapter, which still seemed unsatisfactory to her…
Only Harmonia watched the passing scene with any interest. She had never been anywhere but London since she could remember. Even in March there was much to see, and picturesque villages and cottages were new to her. Even farm wagons and sheep grazing in a meadow were objects of curiosity. She had hoped that Lady Fanshawe would move immediately to the house on Half Moon Street. However, she did not object to the novelty of a country house visit. Sir John wished to show his intended his property in the country called Wargrave Hall. Harmonia could not understand such old people marrying. It seemed faintly indecent. Older men married all the time, of course, but Mrs. Martingale was a widow, and must be over thirty years old! She had said as much to Lady Fanshawe, who told her it was none of their affair. Harmonia submitted to that, and consoled herself with the idea of telling her old school friends about her visit to "the estate of Sir John Tavington, my step-mother's brother-in-law."
Of course there was more to it. The Tavington ladies had been accosted yesterday by a ruffian, and there was a mystery involved. The Tavingtons were doing their best to keep it quiet, but Harmonia had heard them talk about a box and Wargrave Church and an ancestral tomb! What an exciting adventure! Lady Fanshawe had told her she must say nothing to anyone, and most especially nothing that the servants might overhear. Happily imagining shadowy crypts and leering villains, her eyes fell shut with the rhythm of the coach wheels, and she slept for some time.
Jane saw it all. She smiled at the sight of everyone else in her coach, all of them lolling about in unconscious attitudes, heads thrown back or noses squashed against the wall. Letty, thank Heaven, had removed her hat, and so Jane was no longer being tickled by the innumerable plumes of her sister's magnificent headgear. Her sweet-scented hair, curls piled high, gently teased Jane's cheek. Despite the danger they might be in, Jane was feeling rather happy. Her sister was sitting by her side, free of her odious marriage, restored to health and raised to prosperity. Her children were growing strong and beautiful, and her husband was riding along—there he was now!—escorting her and protecting her and looking wonderfully handsome and dashing whilst doing it. The triple capes of his greatcoat billowed out behind him very dramatically as he galloped along on his splendid steed. Jane smiled, watching him until he spurred on a little ahead, and could no longer be seen through the little window.
She had not realized that she was asleep until Tom awakened her, very indignantly wanting his elevenses. Jane did not want to suckle the boys in front of a comparative stranger like Harmonia James, so she had planned ahead. She and the sleepy Rose produced a covered pot from the hamper under the seat, and Jane held the boy on her lap while Rose helped him to a little bowl of sweet porridge with finely-chopped apples. William Francis stirred, and looked hopefully at the treat.
"I'll help him, sister," Letty offered. "I love holding him. Here, my sweet boy, come to Aunt Letty. Harmonia, dish him out some of the porridge, too. That is his porringer and spoon—yes, those. Lord Rawdon gave him those when he was christened."
Harmonia knew nothing about boys or babies, and it was with great trepidation that she helped feed one of the alien creatures. She watched what was being done, and put the laden spoon in the open pink mouth . This was apparently the correct thing to do, for William Francis granted her a brief, sweet smile before opening wide for more. He smacked his lips, his green eyes fixed on Harmonia. She yielded to an unaccountable impulse to make a silly face. This was apparently acceptable entertainment. Harmonia found that babies could, in the right circumstances, be very engaging creatures.
Peter, despite a few stops he had made on the way, had arrived in good time, and so by the time the Tavington cavalcade was rumbling through the village, the servants were already preparing to come out and greet Sir John and his guests. The maids had hastily made up the requisite number of beds, and extra provisions had been brought in.
Mrs. Smith nearly tore her hair at the number of the party, and vowed to send to Chelmsford that very day for additional supplies. Sir John had invited his brother and six ladies! There would be four children in the nursery! If they stayed anytime at all, there would be more guests at the table. Mrs. Tavington would be of the party, of course, and Mrs. Smith was anxious to show that lady that her confidence in her had not been misplaced. Even more frightening, Peter had told them that Sir John was bringing his intended bride. Mrs. Smith hoped she would not be one of those high-handed, fine London ladies, for whom nothing was ever good enough.
Tom Young was surprised himself, and a little put out. The Tavingtons had not seemed the sort to fly about without giving a body proper notice. He sent word to Moll at the cottage, and she came up to the house and bustled as she set the nursery to rights.
"I'll be mighty happy to see them! And our Lady Fanshawe is coming too! Do her good to get some air out here in the country. I'd have guessed the old lord was good for a few more years, but the hand of God is on us all. Don't you worry none, Tom. I'll finish up in here, and help out with the other beds. Could be that this widow woman of Sir John's wants to see what she's getting afore she agrees to tie the knot."
Young thought this might be true, and set about making the best impression he could on Sir John's behalf. It was very pleasant for the servants to have the house and grounds to themselves, but after all, they really belonged to Sir John. He had a right to be here whenever he liked. As a conscientious butler, Young was very glad that he had just obtained a fresh crate of candles.
Moll saw the carriages coming, from her vantage point on the second floor. She was not the only person to witness their arrival.
Robert Bordon was in his study, working on his sermon for the following Sunday, when he became aware of the sound of quick hoofbeats. He looked up and saw, of all people, his friend Tavington, outside on horseback, waving to him. He dashed to the front door and stepped outside, not pausing to put on his coat.
A little further down the road, three carriages were approaching. Tavington called out, "A surprise visit, Bordon!" He walked his horse closer and leaned down, speaking low. "We have had some startling news and will need to confer with you. Come up to the Hall as soon as you can, I pray you."
"Of course."
He hardly had time to blink when Tavington was gone, cantering back to join the procession. What is he at now? An escapade? Who are all these people?
"Who is it, my love?" Harriet asked, coming to the door. "Oh! Come inside! You'll catch your death!" But she paused too, as the carriages thundered by, and then smiled brilliantly back as Jane waved to her in passing. "So soon! Sukey from the Hall was just here, telling the news. Sir John is bringing his betrothed. Did you know they were coming?"
"Not at all. Tavington asked me to come up and talk to him. Something's afoot, it would seem. I must go at once."
"You must wear your coat at once!" Harriet insisted, laughing.
Sir John's carriage paused briefly in front of the house. Emily's Martingale's artless joy and wonder were all that Sir John had hoped for. Her hand found his, and she gave him a quick smile as she took in the beauties of Wargrave Hall. Caroline and Penelope loved her even more, for loving the place so dear to them. Ash chattered happily to Fanny about "Wambler," and his friend Moll.
The servants met them at the wide front door, and Mrs. Martingale was introduced to each of them. Rambler was there too, his russet coat brushed to a mellow shine, his tail wagging at the appearance of so many people he loved. Ash squealed at the sight of him, and threw his arms around the dog's neck, tumbling onto his bottom as Rambler licked his face.
John had told his sister-in-law beforehand that he would be grateful if she would act as hostess, this last time before the Hall was to have a new Lady Tavington. Jane had therefore given some thought as to whom was to be placed where. She and William would stay in their former bedchamber, of course. Sir John was in the Great Chamber by right, and she decided to put Mrs. Martingale in the Tapestry Room at the same end of the house. Caroline and Penelope wished to be in their old rooms, and these were in better condition than they had been a month before. Harmonia she put in the Print Room, and Letty in the pretty room beside her own which had been Moll's. New hangings and a fresh coverlet on the big bed had given it the new name of the Rose Room. The children were taken to the nursery and Jane was busy with them for some time. Ladies and maids rested and washed and prepared themselves, as necessary. A general tour was settled on for later in the afternoon.
The Tavington brothers had closeted themselves in the library almost immediately, with orders to admit Mr. Bordon as soon as he arrived. He came soon, and was surprised by his two friends' air of urgency and secrecy.
Three glasses of good brandy were poured, the servants dismissed, the doors closed, and Tavington explained what had brought them there today.
"My dear Bordon, when my mother died in January, she mentioned in her will a box of ivory and ebony, which she intimated contained valuable documents. We have been approached by various parties wishing to obtain them, but until yesterday we had no idea how to find the box."
"And may I ask what happened yesterday?"
"Well—as you may know—or may not know—Lord Fanshawe died last Monday."
"Yes, I saw it in the paper two days ago. Please convey my condolences to Lady Fanshawe."
John snorted. "There's a story in itself. Lady Fanshawe is here with us. We'll tell you about that in a bit, but we'll start with our own concerns."
Tavington agreed. "Yes. First things first. Fanshawe told his lady that he knew where the box was, but would not permit her to tell us. With his death and her arrival at our home, she was able to reveal his secret."
The two brothers looked at each other, both reluctant to speak.
Bordon asked, with careful patience. "—And that secret was—?"
"Fanshawe told Letty--" Tavington grimaced, and continued, "that our father gave him the box to conceal from our mother, and that when our father died, Fanshawe placed it in the coffin just before it was shut."
Bordon eyed them without expression. "I see. You wish to retrieve it."
"Sounds bad, I know," Sir John admitted, "but we're hard pressed by these fellows after the papers. We're not sure what they are, but someone is vastly exercised over them."
"We believe they may pertain to a royal scandal of twenty years ago," Tavington said. "We have been threatened, our ladies have been threatened, and now the children. We must have the papers and put an end to this mystery, for good or ill."
"You may find it very ill indeed. Who are these people threatening you? Perhaps it is mere bluster."
Tavington told him the worst. "We believe our mother was murdered."
Bordon paused, thinking it over, and said only, "Good God. You are not certain?"
"Pretty certain," John replied.
"Her regular nurse left our employ under mysterious circumstances, and was replaced by a woman who we think was acting for one of the parties interested in the documents. There was some evidence that she might been searching the house, and when she was surprised, she placed a pillow over our mother's face and smothered her."
"Hard to prove," John said grimly, "but I think it's very likely. We haven't seen her since the day, nor the other nurse either. They seem to have vanished from the earth."
Bordon was considering the matter. "Very well. Someone is serious. Who has contacted you?'
"Sir Edward Claypoole, one of the King's equerries, and an anonymous letter-writer named 'Harmodius.'"
"'Harmodius?'" Bordon mused. "That could be a clue."
"Yes, it's likely some political enemies of the Crown. We believe them behind the recent threats against our family. We would have come here directly last night, but the women were afraid to be left unprotected, and after considering the matter, we were not easy with the idea of leaving them behind."
"You did well. Who else knows about this?"
"Only Protheroe. We told him to watch himself and his family. Not even the servants knew we were coming here until this morning."
"Were you followed?"
"I saw no suspicious characters," Tavington shrugged.
"While you may wish to go to the church immediately," Bordon said slowly, "I think it would be noticed if you went to the crypt now. There are too many people about the church during the day."
"Tonight, then?"
"Very well, " Bordon agreed. "The darkness outside is of no matter, since it is dark in the crypt anyway. You will need lanterns and a pry bar or two. Obviously, you will want only the most trusted servants."
Tavington shook his head. "I don't want to involve the servants in this at all. We should be able to manage among ourselves well enough."
The plan was settled, and after another half hour Bordon went home, eager to confide to Harriet the extraordinary story, and to tell her that they were invited to dinner at the Hall the following day. The Tavington brothers joined their ladies, and the promised grand tour of Wargrave was undertaken, a tour which dawdled over the house for nearly two hours.
Letty and Harmonia joined the tour: Letty because she thought it was the polite thing to do, and Harmonia because she was fascinated. Letty admired dutifully, not extolling the glories of Salton Park, which was so much larger and grander in every way than this place.
Wargrave Hall was interesting, and it was roomy enough, but with its oak wainscoting it looked plain and dark and old-fashioned to her. Wistfully, she thought of the painted ceilings of Salton Park, covered with a riot of gods and goddesses and nymphs and centaurs and fauns. The Grand Saloon, the State Dining Room--even her own lovely parlor had been all satin and gilt and brilliant sunlight. Then, too, there was the little temple in the garden, and the sparkling waterfall tumbling into the green pool below.
She sighed. It would be rude and silly of her to go on about it. She had only been there twice, and she would never see it again. This was a nice house: better than any she had ever seen in South Carolina. Jane was so proud of the work she had done restoring it. Letty liked it better than Colneford Castle, at least. The Great Hall was a fine, big room, and Letty admired the bronze goddesses on the chimneypiece. She knew them from other works of art, and from the book of mythology Lord Fanshawe had given her to read.
"Ceres," she said, studying the womanly figure holding a sheaf of wheat. "And Diana." This figure was lithe and energetic, depicting in the act of drawing a bow, hair loose in the wind. "I think Diana is a pretty name," she murmured, thinking to herself.
All in all, it would be a fine home for Sir John and the sweet-tempered lady he was to marry. And so, she smiled and praised and accepted the invitation to visit again in the summer with every appearance of pleasure. It would have to be the early summer, of course, because she would be close to her confinement by then.
Harmonia, on the other hand, thought the house magnificent. She listened to every word, enraptured at the stories of Wargrave past. Here Queen Elizabeth had stayed during one of her royal progresses. Here Lady Frances Howard had been briefly imprisoned before her trial for poisoning her husband's friend. Here King Charles had been hidden, when he was fleeing the Roundheads. Here Sir Richard Tavington had crossed swords with his brother-in-law, and the two had leapt from the library window, still fighting, at odds over the Hanoverian Succession. She stored up thrilling stories and noble names, hoping for a chance to repeat them to less favored mortals. And what a wonderful room she had here, full of pretty pictures of flowers. Her windows looked over the gardens. Already she could imagine what a good time she would have in the summer, straying through the hedges and walkways. Perhaps she would even have a chance to ride!
Afterwards, Jane went to the nursery, to feed the babies and to have a long talk alone with Moll. She smiled at the sight of Ash and Fanny playing with Rambler, and then beckoned Moll into the next room.
"Letty is resting in her bedchamber She is much recovered now, but she was very weak for a few days," Jane said, at the close of the story of the Storming of Fanshawe House. Somehow, as she nursed her little boys, the story distressed her not at all. It had ended well, and could have ended so very badly.
"I'm mighty glad to hear it. Wish I'd been there. I'd 'a taught that rascally doctor a lesson. Good thing that Italian feller was there with you. Might useful, seeing as how you go off half-cocked sometimes, if you don't mind me saying so, ma'am."
"No, I don't mind. I know I can be—impulsive. If I weren't, I wouldn't be married to Colonel Tavington and here right now. Anyway," she laughed, "you should have seen Mrs. de Vere's face when I snatched her bald!"
Moll laughed with her, shaking her head. "Well, 'tis all for the best. The old lord left your sister well fixed, and the baby's took no harm. She'll be with you now, I reckon."
"No," Jane replied, feeling a little sulky. "Lord Fanshawe left her a house of her own."
"That was right handsome of him!"
"I suppose. It's only a few minutes walk from me, but I had hoped she would stay with us. But she saw the house and fell in love with it."
"A fine place, I reckon."
"Not as big as mine, but very pretty. Lord Fanshawe furnished it with great elegance. There is a portrait of him in the drawing room. Letty is so excited. As soon as we go back to London, she will live there."
"Alone?" Moll frowned. "That's not so good."
'Not alone. Lord Fanshawe's natural daughter will live with her. The pretty blond girl, Miss James. She came and warned us about Letty, after all. It took some time for the two of them to make friends, but she seems well behaved enough now. She is almost seventeen, I understand. She will live with Letty and be her companion. After offending the de Veres, she has nowhere else to go."
"Then that seems fair enough. And now, ma'am," said Moll, fixing a keen eye on Jane. "Why did you all turn up without a by-your-leave today? Sir John usually sends better notice than an hour!"
Jane did not want to lie to Moll. Besides, she thought it a good idea for someone so observant and resourceful to be on the watch. "Part of the reason is the one given: Sir John wants Mrs. Martingale to see her future home. She is a very nice woman, and you will like her and her little girl very much."
Moll gave her a slow, understanding nod, and waited for the rest.
"The other reason," Jane admitted, "involves something the Colonel and his brother have been looking for since their mother's will was read." Briefly, Jane told Moll as much of the mystery of the box of ivory and ebony as she knew. Moll was entranced and somewhat scandalized.
"Break into their own father's coffin! I never heard the like. Well, suppose they find the box. What'll they do with it?"
"I'm not sure. Whatever papers are in it they will read, of course. If they are things that belong to the royal family, they will be returned, most likely. The Tavington family has always been very loyal to the King."
Moll frowned, thinking it over. "I hope they get proper thanks for it! Seems to me they could have gotten a little help, 'stead of orders and smirks! And what about this other feller, the one who sent the letters? Maybe they're one and the same!"
"Oh, I don't think so." Jane dismissed the idea, and then thought again, hoping it were not true. It would be just possible that the King's Friends might issue threats, disguised as the hated opposition. "I hope not." Actually, she could not decide which situation would be worse. "We just want to find the papers and be rid of them. And we will always be more careful about people we allow into the house in future. That horrible Mrs. Venable! Going about and searching through our rooms! And no one's seen her since Lady Cecily died."
Moll was impassive. "Most likely dead."
"Oh! Do you think so?"
"Don't you? No more use to them that hired her, and she might talk."
"Oh."
"But just look at these little men of your'n! Finest lads I ever did see! You, Little Will, you come on here so's I can give you a squeeze!"
-----
Tavington sat impatiently through dinner, wanting to be off and settle the business of this damned mysterious box of Mamma's. John was eager to go too, but equally eager that his Emily have a pleasant dinner. Tavington fidgeted and fumed, while John carved slices of perfectly done beef delicately thin for his lady. Simpering and smirking like a schoolboy. I'm glad I've never made such an idiot of myself over a woman. He looked away and caught his wife's eye, and remembered that he should be tending to her and the ladies at his end of the table as well. Smiling resignedly at his amused wife, he conscientiously served her some of the roast duck he knew she liked, and then made certain Letty and Harmonia had everything they wanted. A crackle of tension hung over the table. Everyone knew that after the meal the two men would depart immediately to meet Bordon at the church. Tavington spoke low to Jane. "When we leave, stay in the drawing room and keep the others with you."
"I want to go, too!" Jane declared to Tavington. "I can carry a lantern. I want to know everything!"
"Absolutely not!" he snapped back.
The two of them argued in whispers, while the rest of the table pretended to hear nothing. When the meal was over, Jane was forced to rise and invite the rest of the ladies to follow her. She made a last, murmured attempt. "What if we were followed?"
"All the more reason for you to be safe at home!"
"But there shall be only three of you!"
"Jane," he growled, "do you really want to be present when my father's coffin is opened?"
She winced. "I could keep watch outside, and make certain no one is sneaking up on you!"
"No!"
There are times and certain tones of voice that make clear to a wife or husband that their spouse will not be moved.. Clearly, William was not about to change his mind about this. Scowling ferociously at him, Jane swept away to the drawing room. Uneasily the women seated themselves, the crackling fire a vivid contrast to the chill out-of-doors. No one had the heart for music, and conversation languished. Harmonia had a few questions about the history of the house, and she and Penelope spoke softly together. Emily chatted a little with Caroline about the Berkeley Square house and the delay in furnishing the nursery to her taste. Distantly, the front door closed, and there was a general rustling sigh. After another deep breath, work baskets were taken out. Letty tried to apply herself to some embroidery, while Jane paced restlessly, now and then peering out the dark window in the direction of the church.
Letty tried to distract her. "Come sit by me. What do you think of this? Should I use a darker color?"
Jane glanced at the exquisite work briefly. "It's lovely as it is." She scowled again, thinking that women were always left behind until everything went to pieces, and then only later were welcomed to come and put the pieces together again. Moll is right: the King and his friends ought to be grateful, after all the bother and anxiety this wretched business has put us through. I must know what was in the box. I shall make William's life a perfect hell if he tries to keep it from me!
-----
A moonless night. The black sky was sprinkled with stars twinkling dimly through scudding clouds. Little gusts of wind whistled through the trees. Tavington trudged down the lane in the darkness, his coat snapping about him. John was humming to himself.
"Stop that," Tavington muttered.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Your humming. I'm trying to listen."
"Sorry."
They walked on in silence, alert to the thousand stealthy noises of a sleeping forest. An owl hooted nearby, and Tavington started, remembering his Cherokee scouts. Wolf Claw had made that sound as a signal to his fellow warriors. It generally bode ill to his enemies. Tavington shook his head, laughing at his fears. Their dark lanterns were shuttered to keep from leaking light and betraying their presence. They would need them in the crypt. The church was up ahead, a blacker bulk in the darkness. Tavington quickened his step and was at the door, knocking softly three times, the signal they had agreed on amongst themselves.
The door opened. Bordon was silhouetted against the feeble light of a single lantern. The wind nearly blew the Tavington brothers through the doorway, and made their lanterns sputter and flicker. Bordon said nothing, but shut the door behind them, and locked it.
"I brought some tools that may prove useful," he told them quietly. Tavington nodded.
A chisel, a sledgehammer, a heavier pry bar than the ones they carried. Good, stout tools for the business at hand.. He acknowledged a faint flutter of dismay. He had never been afraid in battle, but this was something quite different. He admitted to himself that he did not want to see what Death had done to his father. John, too, looked faintly sick. It was gruesome and dreadful, and smacked of grave-robbing. Tavington tried to make himself believe that his father would not have minded. It's true: he would think it a tremendous joke. That idea, Tavington found, did not make him feel any better. Father's idea of a joke had often been cruel or grotesque. He would laugh, because the joke is on us.
The church was oppressively dark. Without a moon, there was almost no illumination from outside. What little there was filtered dimly through the stained glass of the gothic windows, creating mere smudges of sombre light. Tavington felt uneasy. The church was full of shadows. Anything or anyone could be hidden in the pews or the chancel. He made to open his lantern a little more, but stopped himself. Any light they made would be visible to the outside. Once in the crypt, they could indulge themselves.
"Well, the sooner we begin, the sooner all will be over," John sighed.
They walked back into the chancel, and Bordon unlocked the door to the crypt. Tavington unshuttered his lantern, and hot yellow light illuminated the dusty stone steps. Bordon led the way down the long flight of narrow stone steps, holding his own lantern up. Black shadows swayed with the motion of the lanterns, crossing and weaving strange patterns on the cobwebbed walls. There was a scrabble of small claws as a rat ran over Sir John's foot.
"Bloody little villain!" He reached out to steady himself. "A man could break his neck on these steps!"
"It's only a rat, John."
"Little villain," John muttered to himself. "Disgusting creatures. They must run riot down here."
"Only at night." Bordon was perfectly calm. "We startled them."
The steps took them to the crypt itself, a dim and ghostly realm only partly illuminated by their lanterns. The fall wall, at the end of the narrow passage between the free-standing tombs was their goal. The three men edged their way past the sepulchers of long dead Tavingtons. In the middle of the crypt the crumbling stone tomb of Sir Richard Tavington presided, the first of the name to own Wargrave, back in the days when it was only a bare stone tower on Old Wargrave Hill. His effigy was serene and meditative, hands pressed together in prayer, a dog lying at his armored feet. His son, another Richard Tavington, lay a little beyond.
"Not many ladies have effigies," John remarked. "I just noticed that. I wonder why."
Bordon shrugged. "Not many ladies control the family fortune."
Tavington pushed a cobweb aside, and grimaced, brushing at his coat. He would be filthy before this night was over. Up ahead was the wall that held his parents and paternal grandparents, a spinster great-aunt or two, and his father's two brothers, who had died in childhood. John followed him in silence, and then grunted.
"Are you all right?"
"Just caught the corner of the fellow over there. Ouch."
"Be careful, for God's sake, John."
A sudden cold draught blew through the crypt, and the ragged drapery of cobwebs stirred. Tavington shivered, a cold chill tickling the back of his neck. Like someone walking on my grave…
John touched his sleeve. "There they are."
"Right."
There they were, indeed. A rectangle of white marble indicated the final resting place of Lady Cecily Anne Tavington, born May 10,1720, died January 29, 1782. To the left was a similar marker, only dustier and more mellowed. John Rupert Manners Tavington, Bart., born September 22, 1716, died October 25, 1765. The tombs were set into the wall nearly four feet from the floor. Below them were Sir Jack's parents, Sir Richard Tavington and his lady, born Sarah St. Leger.
"Grandmamma Tavington was the sweetest old lady," John told Bordon, very fondly. "She always forgave Father, no matter what he did, and she gave us the jolliest presents!"
"I hardly remember her at all," Tavington shrugged. "I vaguely recall her letting me hold a pomander scented with apples and cloves. It smelled very nice."
"Your loss," John remarked gruffly. "A pity she didn't live longer. Our grandfather, of course, was gone before any of us were born."
Tavington spared the inscriptions of his grandparents a glance. He supposed it would have been nice to have known them. A kind grandmother would have been something of a buffer between parents and children when things were particularly acrimonious. At any rate, they were not here to mourn their grandparents, but to retrieve something from his father.
"It's going to be the very devil, pulling out the coffin and prying open the lead sheath."
Bordon ran his hand over the tomb of Sir Henry Tavington nearby. By the sixteenth century, either effigies had gone out of fashion or Sir Henry's family would not pay for one. The top of the tomb was flat. "This will do for a workplace. We shall withdraw your father's coffin, and set it here."
"Very well."
They set to work with chisels and hammer, knocking the fine marble out of the mounting into which it had been so carefully set.
Tavington gave it a hard blow, and chips crumbled away, trickling down to the floor.
Bordon observed, "It will certainly damage the stone."
"Can't be helped," Tavington said brusquely, grunting as he levered in the pry bar again. "We cannot stop now."
"I'll hire some masons from Colchester to repair it," John growled, "but get in there we must. Here, let me have a turn at it, old fellow," he urged his brother impatiently.
"I'm almost there," Tavington snapped, mightily irritated. Another blow, and a cracking of stone. The marker tottered, and began tumbling out toward them. "Here, catch the wretched thing!
John grunted at the weight, and leaned the inscribed marker carefully on its side against the wall. "Not irreparable," he noted, almost cheerfully. Then he looked, along with his brother and Bordon, into the dark opening beyond, and his smile faded. "This won't be easy."
It was not. Heavy as the coffin was, it was difficult to reach in, find the filthy handles, and get enough leverage to start it moving backwards from its secure stone shelf. The brothers had to stand facing each other, with each able to use only one arm at first. Tavington used his left, guessing that it was still stronger than John's right.
"On the count of three—again!"
"One—two—three!" Bordon called. The brothers heaved together, and the massive coffin began to emerge. A foot—another heave—another foot.
"It's a little easier now," Tavington panted. "Again!"
The coffin was nearly out now. Bordon rushed to help, and the three men strained together, supporting the object the few feet necessary to the flat-topped tomb. The thin lead sheathing scraped over the marble with ugly squeal and a great streak of grey. The three men stood there, catching their breath, before taking the next, worse step. Tavington had glimpsed his mother's coffin in the opening, and forced his mind away from imagining his mother's ravaged body, now two months dead.
It was his father's remains that concerned him. He picked up a sharp chisel, and attacked the lead sealing the coffin tight. It peeled away readily, once the first breach was made. John joined in, taking care with the sharp edges. Bordon brought one of the lanterns over, holding it to help them see what they were about. It took a good quarter of an hour, before the coffin was ready to be opened. Tavington leaned back against the damp outer wall, gathering himself for this last ordeal.
John looked red-faced and miserable. Bordon was pink with effort, but his usual calm self. No—not quite himself. He was grimmer than usual. Tavington remembered that expression from America. It was invariable the sign that Bordon was displeased by something Tavington had done. Well, he certainly could not be happy about their current adventure. He was a clergyman now, and his bishop would hardly approve of his complicity tonight.
"Best to get it done," Tavington said quietly, and reached for a pry bar. It took some pushing, but he had it lodged, and pushed down. The wood squeaked and resisted. Bordon took another bar, and set to work at the other end.
"Loosen it a bit at all four corners first," he advised.
Reluctantly, John joined in, working his bar into the corner opposite Bordon's. Tavington suspected it was because that was at the foot of the coffin, and John was hoping to see as little of their father as possible. Tavington found this experience horrible, not because it was a corpse, but because it was his own father. In the war, he had had endless experience of the ugliness that time and decay and war and pitiless Nature could inflict on the dead. What he would see here would not be nearly as bad as those things he had witnessed a thousand times. Sir Jack had died in his own bed of natural causes, after all; he had not been eaten alive by wild pigs like the poor brave men he had seen in the aftermath of King's Mountain. Tavington fixed his mind on that thought, and moved to another corner, quickly prying the nails loose.
Very shortly the lid was free. Tavington took a deep breath, and he and Bordon lifted the coffin lid away. John flinched and looked away.
An indescribable, musty odour drifted up: rot and mould and the stale perfume of long-dead flowers scattered in the coffin. Tavington found himself looking at his father's legs, the white silk stockings stained and yellowed, hanging loosely from the shriveled flesh. His gaze traveled down to the feet. No box. It just couldn't be that easy…
John moaned as if against his will. Tavington looked past the dirty, once-priceless lace at bony wrist and crumbling throat. His father's face was still oddly recognizable. The grave bindings were loose, but the jaw had not dropped entirely into the gruesome gape of a bare skull. The eyes were vacant holes, blind to his son's presence; and the blackened lips were drawn back, baring yellowed teeth in a mocking grimace. The elegant powdered wig was rakishly askew, and crowned the whole display with vain absurdity. Tavington absently decided that when he wrote his will, he would say something about not being buried in a wig.
Next to the ridiculous wig, an elegant little box had fallen upside down, The corner was black and highly polished. The body of the box was creamy yellow ivory, the same colour as his father's exposed bone at wrist and temple. Tavington sighed deeply and reached for it.
"All of this for such a trifle," he remarked.
A clear voice from the top of the steps disagreed. "Hardly a trifle, Tavington. But all the same, hand it over."
Next: The Battle of Wargrave Cross
A "dark lantern" has a shutter or slide arrangement by which the light could be shut off at will.