Chapter 1
February 16, 1852. On the road to Bellamy Hall, Northamptonshire.
Gregory Cynster kept his matched bays to a steady pace along the gently winding road heading southwest from Wellingborough. It was barely two o’clock in the afternoon, and despite the chilly temperatures and overcast skies, no rain threatened; he saw no reason to hurry.
Seated beside him, his gentleman’s gentleman, Snibbs, who hadn’t visited Bellamy Hall before, surveyed the pleasant but unremarkable countryside with eager interest.
Gregory’s groom, Melton, occupied the box seat behind Snibbs. Melton had been with Gregory’s family all his working life and had visited the Hall several times, including the last time Gregory had been there—for his great-aunt Minnie’s funeral in November ’43. More than eight years ago, Gregory realized with mild surprise.
Time passes more swiftly than one thinks.
Hard on the heels of that thought came another.And what have I to show for those eight years?
Much as he didn’t want to think it, the answer was: very little.
He’d been drifting. Idly floating through life, utterly purposeless and cast hither and yon by the currents about him. He knew it, but had been unable to fix on a direction—an occupation, a project—that called to him. That excited his interest. So he’d drifted on.
Gregory noticed Snibbs was peering through the trees on their left; glancing that way, he glimpsed several roofs on the other side of long, sloping fields. “That’s Earls Barton, the nearest village. Once we take the next turn, the village will come up on our left, and the Hall’s lands will lie to our right.”
“We’ve made good time,” Melton rumbled.
“Indeed.” Gregory spotted the lane that led to the village and also, eventually, to the front gate of Bellamy Hall. He’d spent the last week in Lincolnshire, hunting with friends—a prior engagement he hadn’t seen any reason to break—before finally making for the Hall. They’d left the hunting box south of Spalding after breakfast and traveled via Peterborough and Thrapston to High Ferrars, where they’d stopped for lunch before continuing to Wellingborough and out along the road to Northampton.
Gregory slowed his horses and turned onto the lane. Once the pair were trotting steadily, he glanced at where he knew Bellamy Hall to be, although the lie of the land hid the house from view.
He hadn’t informed the staff he would be arriving that day, but they had to be expecting him. He’d learned of his unexpected inheritance at the end of January, and the Hall staff would have been informed soon after. The news that he was now the owner of Bellamy Hall had come out of the blue; initially, he hadn’t known what to make of it, much less how he felt about it.
Snibbs straightened and pointed through the trees. “Is that it?” Amazement and something like awe tinged his voice.
Gregory looked, then halted the horses. This was the one spot along the lane that afforded a clear view of the house, nearly a mile distant over the fields. He nodded. “That’s Bellamy Hall.”
Lowering his hands, he drank in the sight. He’d first visited as an infant, and for many years, every summer, he and his family had made the pilgrimage from their home in Kent to spend a few weeks with their mother’s aunt, Araminta, Lady Bellamy, better known as Minnie. And forever by Minnie’s side had been her devoted companion, Mrs. Timms, known to all as Timms. As he stared across the winter-brown fields at the massive house, he could easily imagine Minnie and Timms eagerly waiting in the parlor to greet and embrace him and ply him with tea, ginger biscuits, and seed cake.
“It’s rather…imposing,” Snibbs managed.
Gregory’s lips twitched. “That’s one way of describing it.” To the uninitiated, Bellamy Hall was a gothic monstrosity.
The land surrounding the house was relatively flat, allowing the grotesquerie of the hodgepodge of styles—punctuated by random turrets and towers, some round, others square, capped by mismatched roofs—to achieve maximum impact. Built in gray limestone, over the centuries, the original manor hall had sprouted five wings, some of which had floors that didn’t align with those of the abutting sections, resulting in a roofline of many and varied heights and uncounted flights of stairs within.
Despite the place’s unabashed ugliness, Gregory viewed it with warm affection. He and his siblings had spent many richly satisfying days pretending they were explorers and haunting the twisting corridors, discovering odd alcoves and rooms shut up for years. It was, indeed, a house that stirred imaginations young and old.
Narrowing his eyes, he tried to envision the place as, under his ownership, he hoped it would be—a comfortable, gentleman’s country residence. He was there to pick up the reins, assess the situation with the wider estate, and make any decisions necessary to bring the vision in his head into being.
He could imagine himself in the library, comfortably sunk in one of the armchairs, reading the latest news from London. There would be hunting in winter, out of Northampton and nearby Kettering, and in the summer, who knew? He might even host a few of his friends for a house party.
His vision was one of bucolic country peace, soothing and free of social drama. An easygoing, relatively uneventful life that, he felt, would suit him. He could see himself sinking into such an untrammeled existence. Should he feel the need for something more, there was always London, or he could invite his siblings, their spouses, and his associated nieces and nephews to visit, just as he and his siblings had when they’d been children.
He could see it clearly. A quiet, peaceful existence with carefully curated excitements to add spice whenever he wished, with everything under his complete control.
His lips lightly curving, he shook the reins and set the horses trotting again.
They passed the turnoff that led to the village and, shortly after, came to the entrance to the Hall’s drive, and he deftly turned the curricle through the perennially open gates.
The first section of the drive was bordered on both sides by closely planted trees. Although the leaves of the beeches and oaks were brown and shriveled, the conifers between were huge and dense and arched over the drive to create a dark tunnel.
The wind was rising. Not quite howling, yet whistling through the trees and rattling the dried leaves in a vaguely menacing way and sending chill fingers sliding over any exposed skin.
Ahead, framed by the end of the tunnel, the sky had darkened, clouds louring, heavy and thick, but as yet showing no overt sign of rain.
