Whack! Daddy yelled something inaudible as the side of the Daimler connected with a long, sharp branch of a tree. As Stella struggled to control the steering wheel and keep them from careening off the road, the ponies trotted out of harm’s way. With a final swerve and swish of the back wheels, the car straightened in the lane again.
Stella laughed with relief.
“What the hell was that?” Daddy said.
“New Forest ponies,” Roy said from the backseat. Leave it to the groom to know about every breed of horse and pony in the world.
Like a creature from a mythical land: unicorn, centaur, New Forest pony. Stella looked at the groom in the side-view mirror. He’d pushed his goggles onto his high forehead, exposing two clean rings around his eyes, where the dust hadn’t settled. Although gripping the edge of his seat, he studied the ponies as they passed.
“The New Forest region is famous for them,” he said.
Stella smiled at the term the New Forest. On the ship, Roy had told her all about it and its mythical ponies. An odd name for a place created as a royal hunting ground by King William the Conqueror over eight hundred years ago.
“The Ancient Forest is more appropriate, don’t you think?” Stella said.
“Wild ponies?” Daddy said. “Shouldn’t they be rounded up? They look hardy enough to be good workhorses. Left to wander, they’re a nuisance.”
Stella waited for Roy to say more—to tell Daddy that New Forest ponies weren’t wild at all and were rounded up on occasion, or to explain why the region was called “new” when it was ancient or “forest” when it was mostly heathland. Stella had even overheard the locals say ‘on the forest’ like they would say ‘on the range’ back home. But the groom had fallen silent again.
“Actually, Daddy,” Stella began, “the ponies—”
“Finally,” Daddy grumbled. Stella gazed up at the arch as she passed through the wrought-iron gates. “I thought we’d never get here.”
“Me neither.” Stella eagerly glanced around her.
As she drove the mile-long gravel drive, passing more ponies grazing out on the lawns, Morrington Hall came into full view. Stella was used to luxurious homes. The Kendricks had a townhome on Fifth Avenue in New York, a summer cottage in Newport, and a three-story white-pillared “farmhouse” in Kentucky. But nothing rivaled Morrington Hall, which was more reminiscent of Grand Central Station in New York City than any home Stella had ever seen, in opulence and grandeur. The large bricks of gray and yellow stone that made up the house, if one could call it that, spoke of its unquestionable permanency. With a half a dozen gables and four turrets, the building rose four stories, like a castle. Chimneys, haphazardly placed and too numerous to count, climbed at least a dozen feet more. Stella guessed it would take her several minutes, walking swiftly, to cross from one end of the house to the other. Surrounding the colossal home were sculptured gardens, a large pond, wooded parklands, rolling pastures, extensive grazing lawns, fenced paddocks, and heathland as far as she could see. The stables, tucked away on the edge of the woodland and made of the same stone as the house, were almost as large as her house in Kentucky. She couldn’t wait to explore.
“Slow down,” Daddy said.
Stella let the car coast as they approached the house. Waiting for them on the front steps and in the gravel drive were the Searlwyns, owners of this grand estate, and their household staff.
The Earl of Atherly, in contrast to Daddy, fit his morning coat impeccably, with his lean, athletic build. Only the silver threading through his dark brown hair attested to his being Daddy’s peer. Beside him stood his wife. Lady Atherly’s high-necked collar, the lace brushing the bottom of her chin, her curled hair mounded on the crown of her head, and her Roman nose tilted up created the impression that the countess nearly matched her husband in strength and height. Standing beside them, clutching the lapels of his morning coat, was a man in his midtwenties. With the addition of a dimpled chin and high cheekbones, he was a younger and more dashing version of Lord Atherly. Viscount Lyndhurst, no doubt. Unlike his father, who stood as erect as a rooted tree, Lord Lyndhurst exuded barely contained energy, like a cat ready to pounce. Beside Lord Lyndhurst stood a wisp of a girl a few years younger than Stella. With a sweet face and rounded shoulders, she withered in the shadow of the others around her. She had to be the viscount’s fiancée. Stella didn’t envy her.
Lined up in single file off to the side on the gravel drive were members of the household staff, or at least some of them—the butler, his nose rivaling his mistress’s in heightened angle; the housekeeper, her eyes darting about, noticing everything; a lady’s maid perhaps, with a tidy, stylish coiffure; a handsome footman in full livery; and two housemaids in black dresses and crisp white aprons. With a house this big, there had to be an army of servants out of sight.
Without exception, every face wore a stern or, at best, blank expression. Stella couldn’t understand it. Wasn’t there to be a wedding in a few days? Weren’t they receiving two champion racehorses from Daddy as gifts? Not to mention the excitement of the upcoming Derby at Epsom Downs. She’d heard about the race all her life. Why weren’t they all giddy with excitement?
As Stella untied the motoring veil from her chin, a slight breeze caught it, and it floated in front of her face. It turned the world—the clouds, the sky, the gravel drive, the close-cut lawn, the towering stone mansion, Lord Atherly and family, even Daddy—into a pale pink haze. How lovely it all was.
And then Daddy smiled. Nothing good ever came when Daddy smiled.
* * *
Reverend John Bullmore came to a decision. He set his empty teacup on the square oak inlaid side table and stuffed the last lemon biscuit in his mouth.
It will be awkward once the Americans have arrived, but needs must.
He pulled out his pocket watch; he still had a few minutes. He snapped it closed and approached the glass-paneled mahogany display case set against the one wall of the library not lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. He’d been staring at the birds in the display case while he sipped his tea, while he considered what to do next. Each bird specimen had a label. Each had been collected on or near the grounds of Morrington Hall by the current Earl of Atherly and his father: honey buzzard, sparrow hawk, curlew, lapwing, hawfinch, stonechat, even a tiny, rare Dartford warbler. Unable to decide which was more reminiscent of himself, the scrawny purple heron or the gray-feathered shrike, Reverend Bullmore bent over to look at the magpie in the case. Its glass eyes stared back. He’d always been fascinated by the black-and-white bird. A crick in his back forced him upright.
If only life were black and white.
The vicar hobbled to the fire. Warming the spasms out of his back, he licked the glistening butter off his fingers, the scent of lamb and roast chicken mingling with the tea on his breath. It would be sinful to let even a taste of such a lovely meal go to waste. He appreciatively patted his slightly bulging stomach. A rare treat indeed.
When was the last time he’d committed the sin of gluttony? He couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember the last opportunity. Three years at Everton Abbey had seen to that. Had it been worth it? After yesterday, he had his doubts. Either way, he hadn’t been this satiated or this comfortable in years, thanks be to God.
And thanks be to Lord Atherly for allowing him to officiate at his son’s approaching nuptials. Reverend Bullmore eagerly anticipated the invitations to many more sumptuous meals. He’d been unpacking down at the vicarage when he received his first summons here. Was he worthy of such a sacred task? Lady Atherly had asked as he bit into an exquisite slice of Victoria sponge. He’d faltered a moment.