H ester had enough self-perception to know when she was thoroughly blue devilled and likely to spend the rest of the day moping by the fire. And she knew that only some brisk activity or something else to concentrate upon would snap her out of the megrims. A walk was out of the question; a chill mist had descended, bringing with it a promise of frost later according to Jethro, summoning up the knowledge from the rural upbringing Hester suspected he had experienced.
After luncheon she cleaned the pane of glass rescued from the shed, mixed herself up a bowl of flour paste, cut the canvas free of its frame and with camel hair brushes set to reconstruct it. She dusted the tattered fragments of the picture and carefully laid each strip on to the glass, securing them with the paste.
Gradually the picture took shape as the portrait of a lady shown from the waist up. Her hair tumbled in unpowdered blonde curls around her bare shoulders, her gown was of leaf green satin in the elaborate style of perhaps fifty years before and around her neck was a long rope of exquisitely graded pearls matching the drops in her ears.
As the first of the pearls appeared under the gentle brush strokes Hester stopped wondering why the lady was not
She realised her hands were trembling and took a hold on herself. This portrait was as much a focus of the blind hatred that had invaded this lovely house as the dressing room had been; of course the pearls were the same ones.
The picture built up slowly, for it was difficult to coax the fragile, brittle pieces to lie flat and to ease slashed edges devoid of paint under their neighbouring strips.
The light was fading fast as she smoothed a soft cloth over the last piece; as she did it, Susan entered, lamp in hand, ready to set a taper to the candles.
‘Why, who would have thought you could have done anything with that dirty old thing, Miss Hester?’ she remarked comfortably, bustling round the room. The candles lit, she came to peer over Hester’s shoulder.
‘Oh, my Gawd!’
‘Indeed,’ Hester agreed shakily, too startled by the effect of the candlelight on the completed image to reprove Susan’s language.
‘It’s his sister, surely?’ Hester could see the resemblance too plainly to enquire whose sister her maid meant. The hair colour, the modelling of the face, an indefinable
‘It cannot be his sister, Lady Broome. See how dated the gown is. I doubt it could be his mother either.’ Hester tried to do calculations in her head. ‘If Guy is about thirty, it means he was born in ‘84. This was painted when? About 1750, perhaps-and the lady is in her early twenties, which means she was born in about 1726 or ‘27 which would make her-’ She broke off, her brow furrowed. ‘In her late fifties when he was born.’
‘His grandmother, then?’
‘That is more likely. But see how green her eyes are, not blue like Lord Buckland’s.’
‘They look familiar.’ It was Susan’s turn to wrinkle her brow. ‘No, I give up. Will you show him?’
‘No.’ The negative emerged with more vehemence than Hester had intended. ‘Take it up to my dressing room, please, Susan, and set it up on that shelf next to the dressing table. It will be safe there. No, on second thoughts, ask Jethro to carry it, it is too unwieldy and you’ll need to open doors.’
Hester hardly noticed Jethro’s exclamation of surprise as he came in and carried the picture away, and certainly did not register Susan’s murmured explanations and speculations as she led the way up the stairs. The portrait had affected her deeply, she realised. ‘Guy,’ she murmured out loud, running her fingers along the frayed edge of the empty frame as though touching his hair.
It was a glimpse into his secrets and an insight into the reasons he had not felt able to share with her for his interest in the Moon House. It began to explain why he was so determined to buy it, but it did not explain who the woman was or why she had been the focus for such hate.
Susan’s shriek tore through her thoughts and she was on her feet and running for the foot of the stairs before a low- voiced stream of swear words from Jethro and Susan’s furious exclamations reassured her that the two of them were safe.
‘What is it?’ Then she saw without having to wait for their reply. Propped up carefully against the door of her bedchamber was another bunch of dead roses, only this time their stems were caught together with a trailing bow of black satin.
‘Six, of course.’ She edged past Jethro, who was standing in the middle of the landing taking up a considerable amount of room with his hands spread wide to carry the portrait, scooped up the bunch and pushed open the door. All within was exactly as she had left it.
‘I do not think they came in here.’ Hester opened the dressing-room door for Jethro to set his burden on the shelf.
‘But how did they get into the house?’ Susan demanded, checking the windows as though the ‘ghost’ could have scaled the front of the house in broad daylight.
‘Through the front door, I suspect,’ Hester said. ‘I found it open when I showed Lord Buckland out. I assumed you had left it ajar when you all
Susan had the grace to blush, but Jethro protested, ‘I know I shut it behind us-it is too cold to leave doors open.’
‘Well, if this is the Nugents, no doubt they have a key and would have no trouble with an unbolted door.’ Hester went to the window and looked out. It was dark now and the cold panes gave her back only her own reflection.
Then the stable-yard gate opposite opened, letting light flood out, and a rider on a black horse emerged. Hester stared. Who on earth would be riding out on this dark, freezing night? The mist had cleared and the moon was not yet up. Then the horse backed and fidgeted and was brought under immediate control as the rider, a shadow in black, bent to speak to the groom who had opened the gate. Guy, of course. His style was somehow unmistakable. But why-and where?
‘Shall I go and tell his lordship?’
‘No.’ Hester snapped the answer, Of course, this was what Guy had meant when he said the Nugents did not have the monopoly on breaking and entering. He could be walking straight into danger.
‘No. His lordship has gone out-and so must I. Jethro…’ She eyed him up and down in a way that had him backing nervously towards the door, convinced that his usually immaculate clothing was all awry. ‘Yes, they should fit. Go and fetch me a pair of your breeches, a thick shirt and a jacket, if you please, and then saddle up Hector. Use your saddle, not mine. Susan, please find me my riding boots, gloves, my whip and a dark shawl.’
‘Saddle Hector. Miss Hester? Will he stand to be ridden?’
‘So the man who sold him to me said. I shall doubtless find out. Susan?’
‘You mean to ride him
‘Nothing to any effect if she is still dozing by the drawing- room fire and you do not wake her. Now hurry and get those clothes from Jethro.’
It took perhaps twenty minutes before Hester was standing in the yard, tying the shawl around her shoulders in an attempt to find some extra warmth. Hector seemed to take being saddled well, but Jethro was still protesting.
‘But, Miss Hester, you can’t ride astride and how am I going to keep up?’
‘I rode astride in Portugal, and you, Jethro, are staying here to look after Miss Prudhome and Susan. Now, give me a leg up.’
‘Where are you going’?’ Susan wailed as Hester turned Hector’s head to the gate and urged him into a trot.
‘Winterbourne Hall.’
The trot soon turned into a walk, for the road was far too dark for her to make out more than a trace of the verge, but the cob seemed both happy to be ridden and confident to stride out in the dark. Even so, the way seemed endless and Hester was beginning to lose sense of both time and place when she reached the barn that
