The Trials of Alaric (Twist Upon a Regency Tale #8)

Chapter Eight

A laric and Versey reached the next two villages without any trouble, continuing the easy pace they had adopted all the way through. They were approaching the castle again. It sat on its hill in the distance, between them and the town. The ride they were on curved toward the coast, but the fields in the straight line had been harvested.

“Race from here?” Versey proposed.

Alaric nodded. If the worst came to the worst, he’d cling to the horse and hope Dhone had the sense to follow Versey’s steed. And that he didn’t fall off at Lady Beatrice’s feet.

It wasn’t too bad. Only two hedges to jump until the next village, and Dhone’s gait at the gallop was as smooth as a man with a splitting headache could want. Alaric even arrived a few seconds before Versey and had his disc and was on his way before Versey could remount and follow.

He lost the advantage as they climbed the spine of hill that terminated in the cliffs holding Cashtal Vaaich . The English translation of the name was Castle Death, Colyn had told Alaric. It was on his right as Versey passed him and drew slightly ahead, but Dhone objected to the other horse being in front and put on a spurt of speed as they came down the slope on the other side. They galloped into the last village neck and neck. Versey was a stride ahead to the race steward at the church, but only because Alaric had to pause after he had dismounted, clinging onto the saddle to let the dizziness subside.

That meant Versey led off, and despite Dhone’s best efforts, he kept the lead along the road that led into Bailecashtel —Castletown, in English.

Two other riders joined them, leaping a hedge from the left. Fairweather and Howard. They thundered into town, jostling for position, but a child darted out of a house after Versey had passed, and Fairweather and Alaric pulled up to avoid him. Howard put his horse into a leap without slowing, the horse’s hooves clearing the little head by fractions of an inch.

He looked over his shoulder as he rode to see that a woman ran out of the house to retrieve the boy, who was laughing as if it had been a game. Fairweather and Alaric raced the few hundred feet to the square, Alaric just in the lead as they arrived. Alaric all but fell from his horse but remained conscious enough to praise Dhone for his magnificent efforts. Versey hurried to his aid, and so did Lady Beatrice, but Alaric assured them he would be fine if he could just sit down for a minute.

One of Claddach’s grooms led Dhone away, and Colyn materialized from somewhere to offer him a shoulder. Lady Beatrice accompanied them to a chair, and Alaric sank into it with a thankful sigh. “We are waiting for the rest of the riders,” she told him. “And for the race stewards and others to report to Papa so he can decide the winner.”

Alaric had lost. He knew that. But he could hope he’d garnered enough credit to carry him through. He’d lost the archery, too. Please God, may I do better in some of the other trials . Especially now, as he beheld Lady Beatrice, he wanted to win the right to propose. He did not think she was impervious to him.

She was not fussing over him. She was chatting to the other ladies. But he caught the glances she aimed his way every minute or so, just checking on his welfare without being obtrusive or embarrassing.

He wanted her. More, perhaps, than was good for him. He was, he realized, seriously in danger of falling in love. Or perhaps it was already too late.

*

Bea had a long wait. Papa had people arriving every few minutes to give him information about the gentlemen and their conduct. In terms of who had arrived in the square, Lord Lucas Versey held first place. Beverley had arrived second, coming into the square only a few paces before Mr. Howard. Beverley was not on Looby, but on another horse. Looby, it turned out, had arrived at the stables riderless and appearing quite pleased with himself, long before any of the other horses or riders. The stableboys had groomed him and put him out to pasture, and then set about informing the rest of the household staff that the mischievous horse had come in first, though not as Lord Beverley had expected, much to their amusement.

Beverley told his mother that he’d borrowed another horse from someone who was watching the race. “He was reluctant to lend it to me, Mama, but I informed him that I was the earl’s nephew, and he would be rewarded for his trouble. Though I don’t know how a great gawk of a farmer had such a fine horse.”

Oh dear. Bea recognized the horse, which belonged to Viscount Stowell’s son, Hugh. How Hugh must be laughing at Beverley’s mistake!

Mr. Redhaven was fourth into the square, and then Mr. Fairweather. Misters Maddrell and Whittington arrived together some ten minutes later, and Mr. Meadowsweet was not far behind them. They were waiting for Sir Henry Dashwood, and his mother was becoming anxious.

Bea was more concerned about Mr. Redhaven. He had been deathly pale when he rode in and needed Colyn Mugtin’s help to stay upright and to walk to a seat. He was recovering, though. He had some color back in his cheeks and no longer looked as if he were about to swoon.

At last Sir Henry arrived, in a farmer’s gig, with his horse tied to the back. The horse was limping. “Oh, poor Henry,” said his mother. “His horse has let him down. Perhaps it was unfit when he took it out.”

Mama was offended. “Claddach would not offer an unfit horse to a guest,” she told Lady Dashwood.

“I daresay the poor beast was injured in the chase,” Aunt Joan commented. “I understand that these steeplechases are hard on both men and horses.”

“That is true,” Lady Dashwood decided. “Indeed, I was very concerned poor Henry had been injured. I must go and speak to him. Lady Joan, Lady Claddach, you cannot know how we mothers of sons suffer. Our boys will do these dangerous things, is that not so, Mrs. Howard?”

She bustled off to where Sir Henry was explaining to anyone who would listen about the stupidity of his horse and his own superior riding skills, which had saved him from a nasty tumble.

Papa finished conferring with his stewards and stepped up onto the platform. Everyone stopped talking to hear what he had to say. “Here are the results. Lord Beverley and Sir Henry Dashwood failed to finish the course on the horse with which they started, an automatic disqualification. Five gentlemen—those two, and also Mr. Howard, Mr. Fairweather and Mr. Meadowsweet—are disqualified for failing to comply with the rules, as laid out by me at the beginning of this trial. I am happy to meet with each gentleman individually to explain which rule they infringed and how.”

There was a buzz of comment, but the crowd hushed again when he held up his hand. “The winner is Lord Lucas Versey. Mr. Redhaven was second. Congratulations to those gentlemen and to all who successfully completed the course.”

Alaric had his hand pumped by an ecstatic Versey and then by various others. He had lost interest in the whole event. He just wanted to go back to the castle and go to bed, and when Colyn came to tell him that a carriage was available to take him back up the hill, he was only too happy to leave.

He took some of the laudanum the doctor had left on the first night and woke up three hours later. He was still groggy, and he couldn’t have named any part of his body that wasn’t sore, but Colyn was waiting to dress him for dinner.

“Perhaps I should make your excuses, sir,” Colyn said, looking worried.

That was enough to get Alaric out of bed. He wasn’t going to have the other suitors thinking him weak. Or Lady Beatrice worrying about him, for that matter, though it warmed him to be certain she would. “Nonsense,” he said. “I haven’t ridden for a while, Colyn, that’s all. A bit of pain is inevitable.” At least his head no longer felt as if someone was inside it with a hammer and a pickaxe.

He was glad he’d made the effort. Not so much at dinner, though he’d hate to have missed walking in with Lady Beatrice. It was Versey’s reward for his win, but he had declared he was already committed to Lady Eleanor Fairweather, so the privilege fell to Alaric as the second-place winner.

“Interesting,” Lady Beatrice murmured to him, inclining her head to indicate the other couple as they walked ahead of them into the dining room.

Alaric leaned close to her once they were seated, keeping his voice low to avoid being overheard. “A match, do you think? Lord Lucas and Lady Eleanor?” It would be one less rival for me to beat . The thought took him by surprise. Had he made up his mind, then? His own thoughts jeered back at him. He had gone and fallen in love. Again. After he had sworn he would not. But perhaps it was not so bad. Perhaps it was just infatuation, and he would fall out of love with her as soon as he knew her better.

Lady Beatrice said something, and he had to swim up from the depths of his own thoughts to figure out what it was. An answer to his question. “Yes. I think so. She certainly has a high regard for him, and he requests her to partner him at every opportunity.”

She showed not a hint of chagrin that one of her suitors was looking elsewhere. In the same circumstances, Delphine, the first woman he had fallen in love with, would have been smiling sweetness on the surface but with barbs and poison in every remark. She could never stand anyone to have even the attention she herself had rejected. As for Eloise… No. He would not think about Eloise.

“They would be a good match, I think,” Lady Beatrice said.

Alaric nodded. “They have similar interests, from what I have seen. That bodes well for a happy marriage, does it not?”

“I note,” she commented, “you don’t say they are from the same level of Society, or some such.”

“Is it blasphemy to say I’m not certain how much that matters?” Alaric asked, and they exchanged smiles. They were of one mind on that, though as the second son of an earl, Alaric was certainly qualified to be on Lord Claddach’s list. And there he was again, thinking of himself as husband material, if the wife in question were Lady Beatrice.

She was not his usual sort. He had to admit he had previously been attracted to women who seemed to need him—fragile creatures whose helplessness made him determined to defend them from all storms. Lady Beatrice would scorn to be considered helpless. Indeed, her practical good sense and her competence were evident at every turn. He rather liked it.

Enough self-reflection. He exerted himself to converse, first with Lady Beatrice and then, after the first remove, with her cousin, Lady Lucy Hetherington, who was on his other side. The contrast was edifying. Lady Lucy was younger, of course, perhaps by four years. He’d had to force himself to listen to her prattle about the clothes she’d worn to the race and the music piece she would play after dinner and the items she bought in a village during the day out. No. Lady Beatrice had surely never been so shallow.

Later, he would acknowledge he owed Lady Lucy a debt of gratitude, for he might have gone straight up to bed had she not begged him to come and listen to her play, “…for you are such a kind gentleman, Mr. Redhaven, whatever Beverley says, and I know you will be nice about my music.”

So, he went with everyone else to the music room, to listen to the ladies take it in turn to showcase their talents. Some sang, some played on the piano, Lady Eleanor played the harp, Miss Howard declaimed a poem.

Lady Lucy played competently, but without a real feeling for the music. He clapped enthusiastically anyway, and she beamed at him. His enthusiasm wasn’t for her, though. He had just noticed the mural that ran all along one wall—two scenes from the story of Persephone and Hades. It was the words above those scenes that had set his pulse racing. They belonged to a long frieze of sayings, but these two spoke straight to the poem from the treasure hunt. Tempus serpit. Tempus fujit. Time creeps. Time flies.

In the flickering candlelight, perhaps he was seeing what he wanted to see. But no. He was certain. He had found the answer to the clue, or at least where the answer to the clue lay. He couldn’t study it properly tonight, with everyone else around, but tomorrow, as soon as he could, he was returning to the music room.

*

Bea had had a revelation last night. The frieze in the music room! It had proverbs in pairs all the way around the room, each pair containing opposites. They were written in Latin, which Bea had never learned, but Papa’s previous secretary had translated them for her one afternoon.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. Out of sight out of mind.

Birds of a feather flock together. Opposites attract.

The pen is mightier than the sword. Actions speak louder than words.

And on and on around the room, including the pair, Time creeps and Time flies.

This was what Mr. Redhaven’s clue was pointing to, but she couldn’t tell him, in front of everyone else. Besides, perhaps she was wrong. She had been unable to check without drawing attention to the frieze, but she was on her way there this morning, as soon as she was washed and dressed, before even breaking her fast.

She was careful not to be seen, staying away from the breakfast room where servants would be coming and going, and early risers might be making their selections. Early as she was, it was easy to glide down the secondary staircase from the family quarters and take the long way around via the great hall to reach the music room.

She let herself inside and shut the door firmly behind her, then stopped. Someone else was examining the mural below the frieze. The momentary indignation at being beaten to the answer faded as she recognized that Mr. Redhaven was before her.

He was intent on the mural and didn’t see her until she was right behind him, and she spoke. “You saw it too,” she said.

He turned with a smile. “Last night. But I could not see properly by candlelight. This must be it, don’t you think? Time creeps , here on the right, and on the left, Time flies .”

She nodded. “But does the poem refer to the paintings on the ceiling or on the wall?”

“ Beneath , the last line says. And look. In the second picture, beneath the words Time creeps, the maiden is asleep. The son of night, the poem says. The god of sleep. In the myth of Persephone as I heard it, she is awake and picking flowers, but here she is in a darkened field fast asleep, while Hades approaches in his chariot.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It must be, for under Time flies , it is a sunny day and Persephone is picking flowers. It is Persephone, is it not?”

“You can tell by the pomegranate, the seeds, the flowers, and the deer,” Alaric explained. “They are her symbols. See? In both panels. And see here, in the second panel, near Hades? A screech owl, the chariot, a dog, and a serpent.”

“Then is ‘Persephone’ the answer?”

Alaric wasn’t certain. “These two panels are the answer, I am sure of that. But is it Persephone, or Spring, or something else?” He turned to look at her. They had both bent in to see the symbols of Hades in the corner of the second panel, and his face was only inches from hers. His eyes dropped to her lips, and his pupils grew huge, darkening his hazel eyes.

Was he going to kiss her? Was she going to let him?

He blinked and the moment was gone. “I shall take what I have to your father and see what he says.” His voice was huskier than usual.

Bea’s breath had been stolen by might-have-beens. She swallowed hard and told him, “At this time of the morning, he will be in his study.”

He nodded and took two steps away, then turned back. “Colyn tells me today is a recovery day. Will you take a walk with me after? In the garden? I will show you my second clue, if your father gives me one.”

“Meet me in the breakfast room,” Bea said. “You need to eat to regain your full strength. You are still healing. Then we shall walk.”

His smile was warm. “In the breakfast room, then.”