Cleo knew that it was improbable that any of them would have known what her father was about considering the lengths that he had gone to keep it secret, but she would inquire, nevertheless. It was the only way that she could bear the thought of being forced away at such a time. Not only had she lost her father, but she had lost any semblance of choice that she had remaining to her about her own affairs. It would not be questioned if she were to invite her father’s friends for tea as such things were considered perfectly acceptable.
I see no reason why such a thing would raise eyebrows, but what I am not certain of is how I am to properly question them without anyone realizing what it is I am doing. I cannot go about discussing riddles and legends with strangers without drawing undue attention to myself and my quest. Aunt Caroline would be certain to know that something was amiss with my intentions the moment that I brought up my father’s obsession. I know not what to do. I cannot let it alone and yet I cannot get the answers that I need without causing further difficulty.
Frowning, Cleo slipped from her room and walked quietly to her father’s study. She took the paper containing the riddle out of the drawer where she had stashed it earlier, and folding it, placed it in a pocket she had sewn into the skirt of her dress. She turned to stare at the portrait of her mother but could see no way of keeping it any safer than it was hanging upon the wall. If anyone were to break into the house while they were gone, she prayed that they would not have the uncanny forethought to lift the portrait from its place and expose the message beneath.
Looking about her, she eyed the crates of her father’s things, at a loss as to where she could conceal them. Sighing, she did her best to make them look as inconspicuous as she possibly could but hiding crates full of books and papers was not an easy task. She gathered up the pieces of paper that she had used to decipher the code and failed. Momentarily regretting the waste of paper, but knowing it had to be done, Cleo threw them into the fireplace.
Standing in the middle of the room, she surveyed the professor’s lifetime of works with an air of regret and sorrow that weighed heavily upon her heart as if she were bidding them farewell even though she would be gone but a brief time. The air of her loss hung over every cover, every piece of paper, every inkwell and quill. She could feel the echoes of her father all around her and it caused a sharp pain in her chest. It was as if she were losing him all over again. It was not rational, she knew that, but she could not help herself.
“Are ye in there, lass?” Mrs. McGrath called as she knocked on the door.
“Yes, you may enter.”
Mrs. McGrath entered the room. She took in the changes to the room and the expression on Cleo’s face. “I promise tae do all in my power tae protect yer faither’s house in yer absence. Ye will return in nae time at all and all will be as ye left it.”
“Do not place yourself at risk, Mrs. McGrath.”
“Should any danger present itself, I will nae hesitate tae call for the constables.”
“If anyone comes with the intention of harm, flee. Do not stand your ground to protect what amounts to naught but mere possessions. Finding my father’s killer is important to me, but not at the cost of your own life. Swear to me.”
“I swear it.”
Chapter 11
The morning came entirely too soon for Cleo’s liking, and it was not long before the Earl of Dustshore’s carriage was standing on the street in front of their door. Aunt Caroline had been running about much as that of a chicken whose head had just been cut off. Had Cleo not been so displeased about going, she would have found her aunt’s excitable behavior to be humorous.
When they exited the house, they were greeted by the Earl of Dustshore at the door. “Mrs. Brown, Miss Wallace, it is a pleasure as always to see you again. I am looking forward to spending more time together on our journey to London.”
“As are we, My Lord,” Aunt Caroline answered, accepting the Earl of Dustshore’s hand.
“May I present my mother, Lady Agatha Chapman. Mother, may I present Mrs. Caroline Brown nee Wallace and her niece Miss Cleo Wallace.”
“My Lady,” Caroline and Cleo curtsied in unison.
“Mrs. Brown, Miss Wallace,” Lady Chapman inclined her head in greeting. “I was so very sorry to hear of your recent loss. Most unfortunate indeed.”
“Thank you, My Lady,” they murmured once more. Lady Chapman motioned for them to join her and they climbed up into the carriage, handed up by the Earl himself. Dustshore followed suit and sat down across from Cleo next to his mother.
The journey was a long one, especially for someone who had not wished to leave home to begin with. Lady Chapman dozed in and out of slumber at odd intervals forcing everyone to remain quiet for lengthy periods of time. The silence in conjunction with the rocking of the carriage lulled the rest of them to sleep as well for brief periods of time, but they would soon awaken to the sounds of the Lady Chapman’s snoring. The Earl and Aunt Caroline attempted a quiet polite stream of conversation, but that seemed to only increase the volume of the Lady Chapman’s sonorous chorus, so they ceased their efforts.
Cleo herself was only too glad to remain quiet during the journey. It gave her time to think and she used that time to her best advantage. She stared out the window in the guise of being absorbed by the surrounding landscape, but her mind was focused internally on the Arthurian riddle in her hidden pocket. She mused over each phrase individually to reassert her original impressions, to reassure herself that she was on the right track in believing it to pertain to the King Arthur of old.
“He the great,
he who pulled
sword from stone,
for doomed love
he swallowed fire,
the truth you find
beneath his feet.”
Cleo scrunched her forehead in thought. She had scoured her father’s library for any other legends or historical events in which a man pulled a sword from a stone but had not found anything. There had been a reference to a literal sword in a stone located in Italy at the Monte Siepi Chapel of the San Galgano Abbey in the region of Tuscany, but no man had ever pulled it out of its rock encasement and her father’s notes had indicated that it appeared to have little to no relevance to his own work.
