“It’s all right, John,” Rose said, giving him an encouraging look. “What is it? Is Albert setting his dogs on us? Not that it matters. I rather like dogs, and they like me.”
John listened in perplexity, his handsome face drawn into a frown as he tried to work through this.
“Never mind,” Steven said. “Tell us what you came to say.”
John stood to attention. “Yes, sir. It’s this, sir. Housekeeper said you’d want to know, Your Grace, that His Grace—the duke that’s passed, I mean—had us shift a cartload of furniture out to the summerhouse in the months before he married you.”
Rose’s mouth popped open. “Did he? What on earth for?”
“I don’t know, Your Grace.” John truly must not know—he wouldn’t know how to lie about this or why he should.
“I see.” Rose looked thoughtful, and also a little sad, no doubt remembering her sunny wedding on a summer’s day. Steven decided not to take it as an omen that since he’d met Rose, the weather had been confounded awful.
“Housekeeper forgot, Your Grace,” John said apologetically. “We all did. But she remembered today when you were searching the house and couldn’t find what you were looking for. Whatever that is.”
They hadn’t said specifically, Steven not trusting Albert not to lay his hands on it and trundle it away.
“Thank you, John,” Rose said, looking a little more cheerful. “We’ll have a look in the summerhouse.”
John nodded and started patting his pockets. “Housekeeper said you’d want the key. Ah, here it is.” He pulled it out in triumph, stepped to them, and handed the key, not to Rose, but to Steven.
“Good on you, lad,” Steven said. “Give the housekeeper our thanks.”
John beamed like a puppy who’d been praised. He bowed to Rose, mumbled a thanks, and scooted off.
“Curious,” Rose said, her excitement returning. “Shall we adjourn to the summerhouse?”
Steven glanced through the high window, which showed nothing but rain and clouds. “The weather is wretched. Why don’t you sit in a comfortable room with the housekeeper bringing you tea and cakes, and I’ll tramp through the mud and search the summerhouse?”
“No, indeed.” Rose leaned to him and closed her fingers around the key. “I’ll not sit here, trembling and nervous, waiting for your return. I’m going with you, and that is that.”
***
Rose regretted her eagerness a bit when they were halfway to the summerhouse, the wind biting them and bringing tears to her eyes. The summerhouse lay on the far end of the huge formal garden, right on the edge of the estate, a lengthy tramp along paths that had become overgrown and rough.
Rose, bundled up warmly, walked with Steven, arm in arm, their heads down into the wind. One of the dogs that had come back to the house with the steward and Albert—a black bird dog with a lolling tongue—followed them, and nothing could dissuade him from it.
Rose had never been to the summerhouse. According to Charles, they’d stopped using it years ago. It was an old thing, apparently, built at the beginning of the century, when every gentleman had to have a summerhouse or folly to simulate Roman or Greek ruins.
This summerhouse was reached by a narrow path beyond a gate at the end of the garden, and up a rather steep hill. The small building was round, imitating a rotunda, with pseudo Roman columns encircling it. It looked as though it had once been painted warm yellow, but years of wind, rain, fallen leaves, and English damp had rendered it a streaked gray, with the original stones showing through. A true ruin, instead of a false one.
Steven inserted the large key into the rusting lock of the summerhouse’s door. He had to put all his strength into turning it, grunting with the effort. Just as Rose feared the key itself would break, the lock screeched, the tumblers moving.
“No one’s oiled this lately, that’s for certain,” Steven said.
He pulled at the door—which nearly fell on top of him. The hinges were weak, rust flaking from them as they pulled partway out of the wall.
Steven started to laugh. “I see I needn’t have bothered wrestling with the lock. Careful, Rosie.”
He propped the door open, took Rose’s arm and steered her inside. The dog, who’d sat down patiently while Steven had fought the lock, pushed past Rose, his head up, nose working.
The interior of the summerhouse was dank and dim. The rotunda floor had once been paved with fine marble, but now the blocks were chipped and loose. Light came from windows high above to show them dirt and bird droppings, niches containing now-empty pedestals, and a jumble of furniture, covered with overlapping sheets, in the middle of the floor.
The dog sniffed around this pile curiously, then sat down and wagged his tail as Steven reached for the sheets.
“Hold your breath,” Steven advised.
Rose backed away, grabbing the dog by its scruff and dragging him with her.
Steven started pulling the old sheets away. He gathered them into his arms, trying to mitigate the cloud of dust that rose from them, but he lost the battle. Rose sneezed, pressing her finger under her nose. The dog sneezed as well, throwing droplets of moisture through the air. His entire body rippled as he drew another breath and sneezed again.
The dust settled over Steven, coating his black coat a light gray. He ruffled his hair, sending up another cloud of dust, and tossed the sheets aside.
The furniture beneath didn’t look like much. Odds and ends, much of it broken.
Rose started to express disappointment, then she wiped her streaming eyes and pointed. “What’s that?”
Steven waded among the chairs with no seats, the canted table with a broken leg, and lifted a shell of a bookcase out of his way.
Buried beneath the jetsam of mahogany and walnut was a hint of black and a gleam of gold. Steven started throwing aside the broken furniture, which shattered to the floor like so much firewood.
“This is it,” he said, then he stopped. “Dear God, what a mess.”
Rose hurried to him. The dog, caught up in the excitement, dove under the wrecked furniture, emerging with a large stick that once belonged to a spindle-backed chair. The dog presented it to Rose, wagging his tail faster.
Rose absently took the stick and tossed it for the dog to chase. “It’s ruined,” she said dispiritedly.
Steven pushed more furniture aside, revealing what once had been a finely crafted, if ugly, settee. “No wonder it was brought out here with the discards.”