Page 40 of The Lady Makes Her Mark

Chapter 13

All Constantia’s efforts not to form expectations about Rylemoor Abbey had been in vain. And now that she saw it, all her expectations were—no, not disappointed. That word was wholly inadequate.

Exploded, then.

She had seen abbeys before, of course. Some still in use. Some crumbled into interesting ruins that people traveled far to see and sketch.

Rylemoor was neither. And both.

Lights, draperies, and other evidence of habitation in the two lower wings disguised the building’s great age. The former church, however, had long since surrendered to the wildness of the moors around it, battered by centuries of wind and rain since its lead roof had been stripped away in the time of Henry VIII.

To one side, something approaching coziness beckoned. To the other, a skeleton of stone that loomed in awful splendor and fired her artistic imagination. It was everything that the little stone church in the village was not.

She was drifting in that direction without conscious thought when Lord Ryland touched her elbow and directed her the other way. “I know better than to forbid you from exploring the west wing, like some ogre of old,” he said with a small smile. “But be advised, it’s not in safe condition. I certainly don’t recommend it after dark. And besides, my sisters will be eager to meet you.”

She stumbled against the crushed stone of the courtyard. “How can you be certain?”

“Because . . .” His voice trailed off and he shook his head. “You’ll see.”

The tall carved door was surrounded by elaborate stonework softened by time, and as they approached it swung inward. A man well past his middle years, the butler presumably, bowed. “My lord. We did not realize—”

Ryland waved off the explanation. “Not to worry, Wellend. Our arrival was unpredictable. I was delayed in Town by . . . circumstances beyond my control. This is Miss Cooper.”

She curtsied, a little uneasily. She might as well have been wearing a placard around her neck bearing the word circumstances. “Good evening, Mr.—Wellend, was it?” The butler inclined his head.

“Are my sisters abed, Wellend?”

“Not yet, sir. I believe you’ll find them in the family sitting room.”

“Excellent. Please have Mrs. Swetley make ready the chamber near the old schoolroom for Miss Cooper.”

“Very good, my lord.” With another bow, the butler left them, betraying no hint of surprise.

“I think you’ll find the light in the schoolroom well suited to your purposes, Miss Cooper,” Lord Ryland explained. Constantia only nodded, fully absorbed by the task of taking in her surroundings.

She knew enough about architecture to recognize the Tudor influences on the entry hall in which they stood: rough-hewn beams, walnut paneling, arched windows. At one end of the room stood a fireplace tall enough to roast a stag. But the fire was low and gave off too little heat to stave off the room’s stony chill. Three centuries ago, there would have been tapestries to soften and warm the room, but now the walls were bare.

“This way to the family parlor.” He gestured toward a short passageway, and at the end of it a winding staircase, the treads polished and worn by generations.

“Oh. I, um . . .” She glanced down at her travel-stained and wrinkled dress. “I hadn’t thought to meet your sisters quite so soon.” Not that she had a fresh, unwrinkled dress into which she might change. But at least she might be fresher.

“Nonsense. Once they get wind of your arrival, no one in this house will be permitted a moment’s rest until you’ve been introduced.”

She couldn’t imagine why anyone would be so excited to meet her, or why, given that she was an entirely unexpected guest, it would be difficult to keep her presence under wraps a bit longer. She gathered from Lord Ryland’s instructions to the butler that she was to be placed in some corner of the abbey little used by the family.

But she followed as she was led, rather than risk being left alone in the entry hall, watching the fire sputter and eventually die.

The stairs ended at a small alcove, which opened into what must be the family sitting room, with a cozy fire blazing in the hearth and comfortable furniture collected over several generations. On those furnishings were seated four young women, ranging in age from about fifteen to one- or two-and-twenty, employed in various tasks: letter writing, embroidery, and a contentious game of chess. Constantia stood for a moment, taking in the scene over the earl’s shoulder, until he cleared his throat and drew their attention.

“Alistair!” they cried out almost as one, and two of them—one of the chess players and the one at the writing desk—leaped up and came toward them.

“We were wondering what had become of you,” said the other chess player, who nonetheless had returned her attention to studying the board. “We expected you yesterday, on the mail coach.”

“Instead, it brought us a letter from Aunt Josephine,” said one of those who had approached to hug her brother. She made a sour expression to indicate that the substitution had not met with her approval.

“I wish you’d been half an hour earlier, at least,” said the one beside her. “I was forced to play Georgie instead, and she’s not very good.”

“Is that so?” The aforementioned Georgie—Lady Georgiana, that was—stood up from the table so abruptly that she jarred the board and several pieces toppled over. “Then I quit.”