“I hold the American view that self-made men are the most worthy,” I told him. “If a man can better himself through his own gifts, his own native wit and determination, why are we so quick to think the worse of him for it?”
Ludlow considered this for a moment. “Perhaps because we have a thousand years of history instructing us to the contrary. We are taught that a man is born to his place, and in his place must he die,” he finished, with the faintest edge to his voice.
“You must be quite invaluable to him, that he would entrust such responsibility to you.”
A fleeting wistful smile touched his lips. He nodded toward Snow, who stood just at the fringes of the crowd gathered round the hunter. Snow had doffed his hat and was raising his face to the fading sunlight. He looked like a man thoroughly contented with his lot in life, his expression one of perfect contentment.
“That gentleman has the life I would have chosen for myself.”
“Really? I should think you would have made an excellent curate. You have a soothing voice. One does not like to hear about damnation from a man who sounds as if he were pronouncing a sentence from the Queen’s Bench.”
Ludlow laughed. “I was reared for it. My mother and Sir Cedric’s were sisters, daughters of a vicar with a country living. Sir Cedric’s mother married a miserly merchant who died when Cedric was but a lad. Cedric was brought up in poverty. He was apprenticed at the age of seven, if you can imagine it. My lot was quite different. My mother married a gentleman, the fourth son of a baronet. It was always hoped I would be given the living attached to the baronetcy’s estate.”
“And you would have been happy there?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “It is the most sublime place I have ever seen. It is in Cornwall, sheltered in a valley so beautiful, it must have been wrought by the hands of angels. I went there only once, but the memory of it lives with me still. The rectory was small, a doll’s house, but perfect in every detail. There was a rose garden and a chicken house and a nuttery and every last gift that nature can offer.”
He sighed, and in that one small exhalation I heard a lifetime’s anguish. “My father quarrelled with his brother, the current baronet. They did not make it up before my father died, and though I tried to apologise and make amends, my overtures were not received with approval. I was given to understand my father’s sins would not be forgiven, nor mine for being his son. It was up to me to make my way in the world, as best I could.”
I shook my head. “I cannot approve this system we have of keeping young men on leashes to be led about by their betters. My sisters and I are settled with some degree of independence, but my brothers feel the weight of my father’s authority, even as grown men. And my father has been the soul of liberality. Any other man in England would have thrust my brothers into the church and the army and the navy just to be rid of them, whether they had any vocation for those institutions or not.”
Ludlow gave me a look of approbation. “Most ladies would have no sympathy for impecunious gentlemen, tossed by fortune’s whims.”
“Mr. Ludlow, I like to believe I would have sympathy for anyone thwarted in his happiness.”
He smiled, the first genuine smile I had seen from him. The corners of his eyes crinkled; he looked younger suddenly and almost content.
“My lady, I may at least lay claim to being useful. Believe me when I say that service has its own rewards.”
I thought of my own exhilaration when I embarked upon the investigation into my husband’s murder, and the killing boredom when it was finished, the restlessness that came with stitching cushions and pressing flowers day after monotonous day.
“On that point, Mr. Ludlow, we are in complete agreement.” I rose, and he jumped to his feet. “No, no. Stay where you are, I insist. I mean to walk a bit and admire the scene. Perhaps you will make that sketch after all.”
He laughed, a light, pleasant sound, and reached for his sketchbook. “I may at that, my lady.”
I left him then, and turned my steps toward the path to the river and Brisbane.
THE NINTH CHAPTER
You would look up to heaven, but I think The devil, that rules i’th’air stands in your light.
—The Duchess of Malfi
Iwalked nearly to the river before I spied him, his good shoulder propped against an ancient willow. He was staring at the dark water as a soft river breeze ruffled his hair. He did not turn, even when I drew close enough to touch him.
“Curiosity is a character flaw, and a dangerous one,” he remarked in an acid tone. “Or didn’t your father teach you that?”
“He tried,” I said cheerfully. “But I am afraid that lesson, like so many others, simply did not take.”
He turned then and looked directly at me. I had forgot how singularly intense his focus could be. He had a trick of staring quite through me, stripping me bare while revealing nothing of himself. There had been moments, only a few, when he had been unguarded with me, giving me the smallest glimpse into the man behind the impenetrable façade. This was clearly not to be one of them. He kept his arms folded over the breadth of his chest, and I wondered if the gesture was meant more to contain himself or to keep me at bay.
With some effort, I was able to breathe evenly, and when I spoke, my voice was steady.
“I do hope you are enjoying your stay at the Abbey. Have you been in Sussex long?”
He ignored my opening gambit. “I will not tell you anything,” he said flatly.
I opened my eyes very wide and blinked at him. “Of course you mustn’t. I should not expect it of you. You are a professional, after all.”