A Conspiracy of Ravens (35 page)

“Why, you—” Bertha was shocked beyond measure. Dora, in her entire life, had never once challenged Lady Bertha’s decisions, and now it was as if she were looking at a girl she had never seen before. Dora was standing straight and meeting her gaze.

“You will not pursue this any further, or I will be forced to speak to my father. He’s very fond of Matthew, and he would not be pleased if he knew about this conversation. We’ll hear no more about it.”

She turned to leave, and Bertha stood there, her face red and words boiling to her lips. “I don’t know what the world’s coming to! Policemen coming to spend the holidays. Actors with the run of the house! Next it will be the dustmen coming to have dinner with us.” She turned and stomped off down the hall, her back rigid with anger.

In the morning, the sun, red in the east, cast a rosy gleam over the unbroken snow that covered the countryside like a blanket. The trees were all rounded off, and there were no sharp corners or edges to any of the outbuildings. The fences also were rounded with small mounds of snow, and David had woken up excited. Serafina had insisted that he have a good breakfast, and after they had finished, the maid had come in and said, “Mr. Tremayne is here, Lady Trent.”

“Dylan!” David shouted and slid off his chair, running headlong from the room. Serafina laughed and followed him as quickly as she could. It was David who opened the door and stood looking up, his face excited. “Dylan, you came!”

“Why, of course I came, old man. You don’t think I’d miss Christmas, do you?” Dylan had a long package in his hands, something wrapped in paper.

“Is that a present for me?”

“David, that’s not very polite.”

“Why not, Mum?”

“Well, if it’s a present for you, Mr. Dylan will tell you about it.”

“Now don’t fuss the boy around on Christmas morning. I did come bearing gifts. One for you, Lady Trent, and one for Master David Trent.”

“Can I open it now?” David asked instantly.

“We have several other gifts for you, David,” Serafina said. But she saw the excitement in her son’s eyes and said, “Well, if you’d like, you can open your present now, David.”

Dylan handed the package over to David and said, “I’m not much on wrapping.”

“I don’t care.” David ripped the paper off, and Serafina found pleasure in the sight. They both turned to watch the boy, and finally as the last bit of paper fell to the floor, David’s eyes grew large. “It’s a sword,” he breathed, holding it in his hands.

Indeed it was a curved saber in a sheath decorated with silver. Dylan pulled the sword from the sheath. “There you are, Master David Trent, a genuine saber from Her Majesty’s cavalry—the Royal Dragoons.”

“Where’d you get it, Dylan? It’s wonderful!”

“I carried it when I was in the Dragoons, old man.”

“What a wonderful gift,” Serafina said. “David will treasure it always, I’m sure.”

David took the sword and had to use both hands to hold it. He started to swing it around, but Dylan laughed, “Wait just a minute or you’ll cut somebody’s head off.”

“Did you ever kill anybody with this, Dylan, an enemy soldier?”

Serafina saw the smile leave Dylan’s face, and he dropped his head. Ignoring the question he said, “One of these days you may serve in the cavalry yourself, then you’ll have a sword already made.”

“I’ll keep it always,” David said, his eyes shining as he looked up at Dylan. “Thank you very much for giving it to me.”

“Can’t think of anyone I’d rather have it.” He turned then and said, “I have a gift for you, too, Serafina.” He saw her look for a package and said, “It’s a little different from David’s. It’s an invitation. They’re doing
Handel’s Messiah
at the Music Hall this afternoon. Have you ever heard that performance?”

“Yes, I’ve always loved it.” She realized what she had said and then tried to cover by saying, “One doesn’t have to be a practicing Christian to enjoy music like that.”

Dylan smiled at her. “No, but it certainly helps.”

“I want to show this sword to Grandfather,” David piped up.

“Well, don’t run with it. That wouldn’t be a very good Christmas if you impaled yourself,” Dylan said, smiling.

Dora and Grant had left the kitchen and gone for a walk. They’d had a lovely breakfast, presents had been opened, and now they were walking in the snow. Dora was wearing boots, and Grant, of course, the same. They walked along the path, and Dora said, “I hate to mess up the snow. It’s all perfect and smooth, and then you walk in it.”

“Still beautiful though,” Grant said. “I’ve always disliked snow. Cold weather was the enemy when I was growing up, but this is beautiful.”

The two walked along, and she asked him about the case at Lord Darby’s, and he told her what the situation was.

Finally they stopped at a fence and looked out in the field where a flight of black birds had swept low over the snowy ground. She turned to him and said rather breathlessly, “Matthew, I brought you out here for a very special reason.”

“And what might that be, Dora?” He studied her and noticed that her smile was wide and pleasantly firm. She’d had an effect on him from the first time they had met that no other woman had ever had. She seemed to colour the world and add something to it, something like a faint charge of electricity. His darkest moments had come when he had thought it impossible that they could ever be anything more than mere acquaintances.

“I wanted to ask you for a Christmas present.”

“Why, I don’t know what I could give you. You’re one of those women who has everything. What could I buy you?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders. “Not clothes or jewellery. Inspectors from Scotland Yard don’t make that kind of money.”

“No, it’s not that I want. I’ve always had those things. It’s something . . . very special.” Suddenly she looked down, avoiding his eyes, and he saw that she was twisting her fingers together. She was wearing mittens, but he could see that her hands were unsteady.

“Why, you’re troubled, Dora.”

“I’m . . . I don’t know how to say this to you . . . about what I want you to give me.”

“Why, Dora, you can ask anything of me. You know that by this time.”

Then Dora lifted her eyes and was still, and he was conscious of her gentle fullness. Her eyes were shadowy, and her breast softly rose and fell with her breathing. The pull of her presence served to strain Matthew Grant forward against his sense of propriety. “I’d give you the world if I had it, Dora. Just ask.”

“I want . . . I want you to ask me . . .” She paused and had trouble with the words. “To marry you.”

Matthew Grant could not have been more surprised than if the sun had fallen out of the sky. It was the desire of his heart to love this woman and to be with her the rest of his life, but he was a hard realist and knew that the daughters of aristocratic families did not marry policemen. For a moment he could not speak, wondering if he had heard her right, and then he saw the softness in her eyes and the tears gather there.

“Why, Dora, don’t cry,” he said. He reached out and brought her forward like a man reaching for something he is afraid he might lose. He saw the faint colour stain her cheeks, and she held him with a glance. And then something whirled rashly between them, swaying them together. He kissed her, and there was a sense of a wild sweetness and an immense shock that came to him. He knew that his whole life was changed at this moment out here in the snow with this woman. He lifted his head and said with triumph in his voice, “I’ll have to talk to your father.”

It was almost midnight by the time Serafina and Dylan arrived home from the performance. Dylan had purchased three tickets and given one of them to Givins so that he could get in out of the cold. After the performance they had gone to a restaurant to eat before coming home. When Givins had opened the door and helped Lady Serafina out of the carriage, he had put out his hand to Dylan, who took it at once.

“Thank you, sir. It was a wonderful, wonderful thing. I never ’eard such music.”

“Why, I’m glad you liked it, Albert.”

The two walked up the steps, and Dylan expected Serafina to go inside at once, but she paused and turned to say, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. There’s probably a name for it, but I just find myself, somehow—I don’t know—unsatisfied, I suppose.” She turned to him, and the moon cast its skeins inside the observatory, which seemed to coat her face with silver. “I suppose I want more than science. That was always enough for me before, but it isn’t now.”

Dylan was standing so close he could hear the sound of her breathing. “What is it you want, I mean, as a woman?”

“I want to give David a good start in life.”

“That’s for him, and you’re doing that. But what’s for you?”

Serafina was confused, and in the silence and the closeness of that room she heard herself say something she had not intended to. “I’m envious of women who have good marriages.”

“Are you now?”

“Yes. I need someone to talk to. There are people all around me. My parents have a good marriage. They can tell each other anything. I guess I need someone too.”

“Someone to love?”

“I don’t know about that. I had a wretched marriage. You know about that, Dylan. It scarred me deeply. I—” She was going to say something but changed her mind. “It was not a good marriage.”

“Well, I know what I would do.” Dylan stepped forward and put his hands on her upper arms. She felt the strength of his hands, and looking up she saw a slight smile on his face. “If you weren’t the Viscountess Serafina Trent, but were just—oh, say Sara Newton, a cook maybe—I’d know what to do then.”

His imagination had always intrigued Serafina. “What would you do if I were Sara Newton, cook?”

“I’d do—this.” He pulled her forward and kissed her, and for a moment she resisted. And then, with hesitation, she lifted her arms and put them around his neck. At that moment, to Dylan Tremayne, it was like falling into softness, through layer and layer of softness, and the feeling of it was a goodness without shame. And then he stepped back, and he heard her let out a small sigh as she reached up and brushed her fingertips across his lips. She started to speak but found she could not, for there was thickness and a fullness in her throat, and tears burned in her eyes. Suddenly she leaned forward and put her head on his chest, and then her shoulders began to shake. She had not cried like this since she was a small child, and she was horrified at herself.

Dylan simply put his arms around her, saying nothing. He held her close and put his cheek against the top of her head and smelled the fragrance of her hair.

Finally Serafina, who had been stirred by the moment, looked at him and whispered, “Sometimes, Dylan, at times like this, I wish I were plain Sara Newton, cook.” She turned then and left, and he followed her, knowing that somehow they had stepped over a line and could never be to each other what they had been all this time in the past.

TWENTY-TWO

S
ergeant Sandy Kenzie met Matthew Grant as the inspector came through the door to the outer office. Kenzie was a small man with a spare frame and the echoes of old Scotland in his voice. He reached up, stroked his mustache nervously, and said, “How are you today, sir?”