“It is what both of you said. Such a book would be a rare thing, and we might not find it in a library or museum.”
“Might we not?” Her father was unconvinced.
“It would only be of any use in close proximity to the book which was ensorcelled, do you see?”
“As a key must be readily available to a lock,” John suggested.
“Or a piece of a puzzle at hand to fill a blank space,” her father agreed.
Hecate grinned. “Or the remedy to a poisonous plant growing close at hand,” she said, thinking of Mr. Sadiki’s words and the drab, unremarkable book that lay on the lower shelf of the locked cabinet.
Brockhampton Manor was markedly smaller than Holme Lacy House, but no less impressive. What it lacked in size and grandeur it made up for in age and significance. If Clementine’s family home was the largest house in the county, Lord Brocket’s was certainly one of the oldest. Its black-and-white timber frame and limewash, beneath a stone tiled roof, with its own miniature moat and gatehouse, had their origins in the mid-fifteenth century. Its stone chapel, now fallen into ruins, was thought to date from the early eleven hundreds. Even the lonely gable wall with the tall, pointed arch of its window space held a romantic charm and a strength of presence that had stood the test of time. Such was the ancient provenance of the place, and the renown of the family it was home to, those later, grander, redbrick Georgian constructions with their classical allusions, could not compete for importance. The family were as old as the manor house, their connections unrivaled, their reputation impeccable. Until now.
Hecate could not fail to be moved by the beauty of the place as they approached it. She did not wonder that the earl had rejected the more modern house that his grandfather had built elsewhere on the estate and chosen this as his home. Surely a man who was born to such a house could never entirely besmirch his name.
“All will be well,” Hecate promised them. “We three together, in daylight, are surely safe enough.”
Her father put away his pipe. “Brocket will, I’ll wager, be keen to keep what friends are prepared to be seen in his company still,” he pointed out. “It would not strengthen his case were anything untoward to happen to us.”
The driver brought the horses to a halt. A footman emerged through the gatehouse but Hecate was out of the carriage before he could perform his duty of opening its door for her. If he was surprised by her appearance he managed not to show it. She was wearing her best day dress, made of a fine cotton print, dark green with tiny brown leaves. Being of the day, it had a bustle, which she had left in place, as there was no time to make the adjustments to length, the gown having been designed for this extra padding. Stella had helped her shorten some of these swags so that her long brown boots were exposed. The purpose of this minor alteration was not for appearance, however. It meant that she could more safely ride her bicycle in the dress, should she wish to. It also meant she could more easily run, should she need to. She had pinned her precious Hekate cameo to the lapel of her dress, the day being too warm for a coat or jacket. The gold cross that John had given her hung around her neck, visible in the open collar of her dress.
The three followed the young man under the arch of the gatehouse. They passed through it only briefly, but as they did so Hecate was assailed by a feeling of dread. From the stairs to the right she heard her name being called by a chorus of unknown souls. She glanced at her father and John but it was clear they had heard nothing.
They were led down the garden path, and into the house itself. The footman left them in the great hall, assuring them that their host would be with them very soon. The room had a vaulted ceiling, with a gallery across one side, but it was not grand in the way some fine houses were. The overriding sense of the place was one of timelessness. The walls of the interior were timbered in the same way as the exterior, with dark beams and here and there runs of burnished oak paneling. One wall was taken up by an enormous fireplace, and three latticed windows looked out over the moat. The furnishings were antique and valuable rather than fashionable. The effect was quite medieval, and Hecate doubted it had altered greatly for centuries. There were several portraits, one or two particularly large and bearing a patina of age and grime. Hecate stepped closer to inspect the severe faces of the nobles looking down upon them. One was identified as John Buckler and dated 1872. There was an elderly woman with no inscription and another painting of a child, but the one that caught her attention was of a handsome man, his clothes suggesting the sixteenth century. There was nothing remarkable about his appearance; it was his name that made her grab her father’s arm.
“Look!” she whispered urgently, directing him to the nameplate set into the frame. “James Habington. The name that was mentioned in Father Ignatius’s letters. Do you remember? He said a young preacher had come to the abbey to help and his name was—”
“Habington! I knew I had heard the name before. I recall now that His Lordship mentioned his ancestor during a talk he gave to the chamber of commerce. He has always made much of his lineage and of how ancient his family is. Never passes an opportunity to tell us how long his forefathers have inhabited Brockhampton.”
“Father, it cannot be a coincidence. I will not have it! We know Lord Brocket is harboring Embodied Spirits, and now we know his family connection to spirits being summoned goes back centuries!”
“But how does this sit with your key cutter’s assertion that some Frenchman’s family is at the heart of it all? Habington is an English name.”
“It is, but only think, there has been a dwelling on this site for centuries.… Consider the chapel. The style suggests it was built in the eleven hundreds.”
“After the Norman Conquest of 1066.”
“When most of the important land was given to invading nobles. Nobles with French names, Father.”
“If both your Frenchman and Habington have their origins here…”
“We must look for anything bearing the name of de Furches. Perhaps there are some old graves in the chapel.…”
Their conversation was interrupted by the earl himself striding through the door.
“Ah, Cavendish, Miss Cavendish, Reverend Forsyth, how pleasant to have visitors,” he said, his whole manner that of an acquaintance practiced in the art of social sincerity, hand outstretched in greeting. He took Hecate’s hand and gave a stiff formal bow over it, leaning to touch it to his lips. She was glad she was wearing her kid gloves. His touch, even through the leather, caused her to shiver. Now that she knew what he was about, she felt she was in the presence of someone capable of extreme deeds.
“Lord Brocket,” she said, returning his greeting as neutrally as she knew how, a little wrong-footed to see how at ease he was. How good humored, almost jovial. But then, she told herself, her father was in all probability correct. The earl would wish to maintain the pretense that nothing serious had taken place, that his behavior and that of his cousin were things that could be smoothed over and accepted, given time.
“I have not received many guests of late. As you might imagine, recent circumstances have somewhat shortened the list of people who might consider me friend.”
“Circumstances!” John was unable to help himself. “You phrase the events as if you yourself were not their instigator.”
“Ah, I see the reverend gentleman has come to chastise me. To rescue my soul, perhaps, or at the very least my reputation,” he replied, continuing to smile, casting a glance in Hecate’s direction when he uttered the word “soul.”
Her father stepped forward. “Come, come, man. You must have known your actions could not go unchallenged.”
“Is that why you are here?” He made a point of addressing this question to Hecate. “To challenge me?”
She felt a deepening revulsion for the man with each passing moment she was required to spend in his company. He was not, she was certain, himself an Embodied Spirit, but there was something malevolent in his gaze, hidden behind the charming, aristocratic smile. Before he could form an answer her father spoke again.
“We’ve come to see if you might not reconsider. Your behavior … you realize it has set you quite apart from society.”
“Ah, society.” There was pity in the earl’s tone. “How limiting to have to shape one’s life according to the dictates of society.”
John moved to stand closer to Hecate. “We hoped you might take this opportunity to grant Miss Cavendish the apology she is due. Your cousin’s behavior at the ball…”
“Was deplorable, yes.” He gave a nod of agreement. “A man who cannot hold his liquor should not be given unfettered access to it. I confess, I hold myself as much to blame as he, and therefore”—he put his hand over his heart and bowed again—“please, my dear Miss Cavendish, accept my most sincere apology.”
“Yours I accept. I should sooner hear one directly from your cousin, however. Is he at hand?”
The earl frowned at this but did not let his annoyance infect his voice. “He can be called upon. Indeed, you are right, he should be held to account.” He pulled a bell rope by the fireplace and when a footman appeared instructed him to ask the viscount to join them.
“You suffered no lasting ill effects, I trust?” he asked her.
“None.”
“I am glad to hear it. Though not surprised. Cavendish, your daughter strikes me as a singular young woman. One in possession, perhaps, of unusual qualities, beyond those of her appealing appearance. Would you not agree?”
