Carson peeked around the bend, finding an empty hall. Stepping carefully along the creaky wood, he traced his fingers along the tomes that lined the tall shelves. Skirting a ladder, he read the titles. Histories, shipping ledgers, wars. Geographies, sciences, literature. A wealth of knowledge hidden in the attics of the manor.
His progress stopped. Carson grasped the worn binding of a hagiography dated to the 8th century. Removing the large book, he shuffled down the hall until he reached a desk near the back of the room. Dust billowed when the tome landed.
The chair groaned under his weight. Pulling a matchbox from his coat, he struck a light and lit the three candles nearest him. Wax dripped onto the table as he opened the aged pages.
Portraits were drawn into the margins, biographies detailed beside pretentious names. The illuminated pages outmatched modern work in realism and detail. The script curled and twisted into letters, difficult to read in comparison to the more organized spellings of newer recreations.
But only the past could answer the questions of Carson’s charge.
A title page announced a transition, from speaking of saints to relaying details on war heroes. Men who gave the utmost sacrifice and were deemed important enough to be remembered.
Carson wet his lips, hesitating on the page. Sir Timothy required knowledge of a single name: Icarus Gendler. He and Lady Wilhelmina had returned from the palace ball with a strange visitor in tow. One claiming to own the valley village that separated the estates of them and Sir Perseus Danshire III. According to his tale, his late grandfather Icarus was awarded the land for his great valor.
This Eustace Gendler now wished to possess the land. And given his lingering gazes, he desired the Lady Wilhelmina. Patron of a village would make him a suitable match for the lord’s sister.
Carson flipped through the pages, seeking the G’s. Gael, Ganther, Garrison. Names and faces flew past his vision, men who died for their country and future generations. Geir, Geldin, Gemblie.
Gendler. There were two, an Icarus and a Patrick. Icarus had lived in the village, drafted at the top of the war. He fought valiantly, braving harsh weather and rescuing the innocent. His efforts in a particular battle were astonishing.
But he’d died without an heir.
Patrick Gendler did return to bear children with his wife, but he’d lived in a distant land. Once more, no land awarded.
Carson’s stomach churned. Seemed Eustace was a schemer. One with no shame, stealing the respect and valor of a patriot for his own gain. He should be hung for such lies.
After finding some parchment and a quill, he took notes on the two Gendlers and their status. Pocketing the paper, he blew out the candles and returned the book to its place on the shelf.
A creak stilled his heart. A hazy glow flickered along the floor. Carson stepped carefully, ears tuned to the quiet. He watched the light grow brighter with every rustle of fabric.
Carson launched out of the aisle, grabbing hold of the newcomer. Candle falling to the floor, a familiar squeak left the small creature. “Eleanor?”
“Gracious, Carson. Must you sneak around in the dark?” She pushed him off and retrieved the dish that held her light. Reddish locks pinned under a maid’s bonnet, her most defining feature was her round freckled face.
Brushing off his coat, Carson replied, “Force of habit. What ever are you doing down here?”
Eleanor’s face scrunched in an attempt to bury a secret. “I shan’t say.”
“Something for Lady Wilhelmina.”
Her expression relaxed. “Were you a soldier or an investigator?”
“Both professions require discerning honesty.”
She glanced behind her, voice lowering. “My lady requested I do some research on our guest.”
Carson smiled, revealing the paper in his pocket. “So did his lordship.” They left the library together, Carson explaining his discovery while they descended the stairs.
Eleanor gripped her black skirts with white knuckles, cheeks burning red. “The horrid brute. And he seemed so charming.”
Carson opened the door for the maid, light momentarily blinding him. The windows of the main level were being opened for the day, servants tying back the lush purple curtains. Coming alongside Eleanor, he said, “Sir Timothy certainly thought so. Hence why he wanted to check for the lady’s sake.”
Eleanor snorted. “He believed her smitten like the staff. How wretched.”
“Was she not?”
She turned to face him, stopping their progress in the hall. The staff cleaned and prepped for the day around them. “She never was. Not for this Gendler, and certainly not for Barret.”
Brow rising comically, Carson folded his hands. “With Gendler disproven, Barret is her best option for station and care. What more could she ask for than the hand of a duke?”
A sly grin decorated the maid’s face. “The heart of a nobleman.”
“I don’t believe I understand.”
She glanced out the window, the valley beneath the treeline while the Perseus estate glittered in the sunrise. “Some of the best men aren’t found in your hagiographies. They go unnoticed, pawned off like her ladyship in a game of status and society.”
Carson pursed his lips, eyeing the busy staff. “Sadly, I don’t believe either the lord or lady have the luxury of bypassing the shell game.”
Eleanor’s smile fell into mourning. “No, though I wish it were so.” Her gaze met his. “It’s almost like war, requiring strategy and cunning.”
His gaze darkened. “Dear Eleanor, societal affairs are nothing like war. The secrecy is troubling at times, conflict uncomfortable. But the comparison is that of spring and winter: a part of life but lacking resemblance.”
“Of course. My apologies.”
He bowed slightly. “Very good. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must dispel a lie. And hope the charlatan is punished dearly by God himself for his stolen valor.”