He would not think about the vegetable patch, which had fallen victim to slugs so voracious they had all but cleared the ground for him.
“What are you doing out here in all this wind, sir?” a sweet voice called.
Jeffrey turned his head to see his wife coming from the house with his cloak in her arms. “Mourning the departed, my love. I am sorry to say that the last of the roses has sought eternal rest.”
“Ah, well, they will be in good company.” Deidre pulled the heavy wool over his shoulders before she regarded the dead plants. “I am sure they were sorry to leave us. They always are, you know.”
“I am happy it amuses you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “Really, I am an Englishman. We are a nation of gardeners. Why can I grow nothing more than sticks?”
“Perhaps you were meant to be a cane weaver.” She tucked her arms around his waist. “Or a school master.”
Jeffrey narrowed his eyes. “Stop laughing at me.” He glanced down and saw a note in her hand. “Has someone need of their vicar? For I cannot recommend myself as a gardener.”
“It is an invitation.” The smile fled from her pretty face. “We are invited to a masquerade at Dredthorne Hall. There is no signature, but Lady Hardiwick mentioned to me that Mr. Arthur Pickering has leased the property.” She held out the folded paper.
Jeffrey’s first instinct was to tear up the invitation and toss the pieces into the compost barrel. Instead he took it and tucked it into his jacket. “Is there some tea left from breakfast? I am in need of a cup.”
Deidre nodded, and accompanied him into the parsonage, where she prepared a tray and brought it to their sitting room.
Jeffrey inspected the large pile of biscuits she had brought with the pot and their cups. “Ginger nuts?”
“The Sisters Brexley sent a tin for you. They are very good for the digestion,” his wife said as she poured and handed him his tea. “Especially as I did not bake them. That invitation is not going to set well, so do have some. It is too early in the day for brandy.”
“We never drink spirits,” he reminded her.
“If I am to go to that abominable house in a costume and dance, I may begin.” Deidre saw his expression and sighed. “Oh, dearest, must we go?”
Being the vicar of Renwick was more than Jeffrey’s position or calling; he had a spiritual obligation to his parish. As the representative of the church, he regarded his duty as more than simply holding services on Sunday or visiting the sick and elderly. By attending the various gatherings and assemblies he provided a wholesome presence. Often just the sight of him would calm the over-boisterous and discourage the sinful.
The fact that they had been invited to a masquerade did not trouble him; the location did.
Dredthorne Hall had changed hands several times over the last years. Built more than a century past by an affluent merchant name Emerson Thorne, who admired all things French, it had been designed to imitate one of the great chateaus in that country. Enormous, imposing and surrounded by a large estate, the hall had once been regarded as one of the most impressive buildings in England. Then terrible events began to take their toll on Thorne; his wife had suddenly died and he had become a recluse. His descendants had fared little better, and rumors of a family curse began to circulate widely. Soon no one wanted to go near the great house or have anything to do with the Thornes.
Jeffrey did not believe in curses, but he knew from tragic personal experience that Dredthorne Hall seemed to attract evil as surely as a tavern drew drunkards.
At present the house was owned by a property concern that owned many estates north of London, which had been leasing it for hunting parties and private events. The rates, considered cheap by city standards, often lured bachelors to bring their friends to Dredthorne for hunting and shooting. Arthur Pickering’s choice to hold a costume ball there should not have seemed odd, but it did.
“Mr. Pickering seems a very mannerly gentleman,” Deidre said, in the way she had when Jeffrey had gone silent for too long. “I quite liked making his acquaintance when he came to church. I am sure he would not mind if we refused his invitation. A ball held on All Hallows’ Eve is not in keeping with the church’s views.”
He took a nibble from a ginger nut. “You believe we should refuse him.”
“I believe I should trust your judgment, as ever I do.” She put down the biscuit. “There will be no reminders of what your sister endured there. It was so long ago that everyone but you and I have forgotten.”
Jeffrey would never forget learning that his sister Lucetta had been shot by a madman in Dredthorne Hall’s front foyer, or that she had come close to bleeding to death and dying there. He hated the reminder of how hopeless and helpless he had felt as he had waited to learn from the doctor if she would survive. He recalled every day she had spent with him and Deidre at the parsonage, slowly recovering from the savage wound. The ending to that story could only be called joyful, but he would never feel the same about the ordeal.
Many of his young parishioners would go to the ball. Someone had to look out for them.
“I think we must attend,” he told his wife. “We need not stay very long, but I wish to make an appearance.”
Deidre didn’t look happy, but she nodded and held out a ginger nut for him. “We will want costumes to wear, unless you wanted to play the vicar and his wife.”
He thought for a moment. “Perhaps we might employ some metaphor in that.”
Chapter 3
The next day Jennet made sure her mother was sleeping before she set out for the village from Reed Park. Dr. Mallory had stopped in and prescribed rest and an herbal soother for Margaret, and checked with the housekeeper to insure they had some laudanum on hand if her panic escalated.
“I should think she will recover in a day or so, Miss Reed,” the doctor advised her before leaving to attend his next patient. “Until she does, keep her indoors and well-wrapped against chill, and avoid provoking excitement.”
Debny promised to sit with Margaret while Jennet attended to her errands, which included a stop at the haberdasher’s shop. She hoped to find embroidery threads to match the old gown Catherine had lent her, but as soon as she entered the establishment she saw a clutch of young ladies giggling over the fine laces.
The proprietor greeted her with a ready smile. “Good afternoon, Miss Reed. May I be of service?”
“I think I will browse, sir,” she told him, and went over to the threads cabinet, where she pulled out the drawer for shades of blue. She had clipped a tiny piece of the gown’s silk from an inner seam, and took it from her reticule to compare it to the available stock.
“I hear he is very tall, and dark, and has the broadest shoulders,” one of the girls at the laces counter said, cooing the words. “Perhaps he will dress as Wellington, and carry a sword.”
“Surely not, for I have seen the Iron Duke, and he is nothing at all,” another claimed. “He is very short and slight, and has a hooked nose.” She drew an outline of the latter over her own.
“I think he should dress as Mr. Brummel, for I daresay he is just as elegant, and a hundred times as rich,” a third girl put in, making all of them giggle at her shocking remark. “And I will dress as the Queen of France, so he will not be able to resist asking me to dance.”