Page 69 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“To Noak Hill,” Griselda added.

“To The Laurels,” Violet said, “and to whatever we find there.”

Phelps, Penelope’s coachman, had had to stop several times to allow the groom, Conner, to descend and ask for directions, but eventually the carriage rumbled up to a country crossroads and halted. Their last direction had come from the Bear Inn, less than half a mile back down the road, so this had to be it—Noak Hill.

The ladies peered out of the carriage windows. Griselda reported, “The signpost on this side says ‘To the Priory.’ ”

Penelope nodded in the opposite direction. “The rest of the village looks to lie this way.”

The carriage rocked as Conner jumped down. He came to the window and saluted; when Penelope let down the window, he asked, “Which way, ma’am? Church lies straight ahead, but most houses seem to be down there, to the left.”

Penelope debated. “We’re here to visit the vicar’s wife, and I assume she’ll be at the vicarage.”

Conner nodded. “Looks like the vicarage is next to the church just ahead.”

“Hmm, yes—but it would be useful to see if we can locate the Halsteads’ house, The Laurels, first. From the look of things, it most likely lies somewhere along the village lane.” Penelope looked at Conner. “Tell Phelps to drive slowly through the village, and if we spot the house—I would imagine it will have its name up somewhere—to roll past and come around again. We just want to get a good glimpse of it so we know what we’re talking about.”

Conner bobbed his head. “Yes, ma’am.”

He climbed up to the box seat. A minute later, the carriage ponderously rolled forward, rounded the corner, and bowled slowly and sedately along the lane.

Violet and Penelope peered out of the windows on one side of the coach, while Griselda looked out at the opposite side of the lane.

“Cottages,” Penelope reported.

“A set of three small terrace houses on this side,” Griselda said. “The sort estates are building for their farmworkers these days.”

They passed one larger house set back from the lane. “The Orchard.” Violet pointed to the name on a brass plate embedded in one gatepost.

Several more medium-sized houses in their own yards followed. They were nearing the end of the village when Griselda said, “There it is!”

Violet and Penelope scrambled to that side of the carriage. They stared out at a substantial, free-standing house built of red brick, set back from the lane in a garden plot that had in large part been allowed to run to seed.

“The lawn—such as it is—has been recently trimmed.” Penelope sat back as the house fell behind.

Across the carriage, Griselda met her eyes. “The curtains in several upstairs rooms are open, while in others the curtains are fully drawn.”

“Odd if the house was closed up,” Penelope observed. “I think it’s safe to accept that the vicar’s wife’s intelligence is sound—someone is living there.”

The house had been the last in the village. The carriage slowed, then turned as Phelps brought it around. Penelope rose and pushed up the trap in the coach’s ceiling. “Back to the vicarage, Phelps, but as slow as you can past the house on our left.”

Phelps complied, and, shifting to the other side of the coach, the three again peered out at the house. Ivy had completely overwhelmed a high, stone garden wall and was well on the way to claiming the tall wrought-iron gate set between a pair of pillars directly in front of the house’s front door. Above the gate, a decorative wrought-iron ribbon carried the name The Laurels.

“The ivy’s been cut back to reveal the name,” Violet said. “But they’ve left it growing over the gate itself.” She frowned. “How odd.”

Beyond the blocked gate, a straight gravel path led directly to the narrow sweep of drive before the front door. Weeds strewed the path, and the lawn had encroached over its edges.

As the carriage rolled on, they drew level with the gates to the drive; of similar design to the smaller gate and also in heavy wrought iron, the much wider gates stood ajar. A gravel drive, clear of weeds and in reasonable state, led to the house; it ran along the front before curling around the far side of the blocklike building.

Penelope glanced up at the house, then sighed and leaned back as it passed once more out of view. “Three stories—there’s dormers above that parapet around the top of the first floor. So it’s of reasonable size, but not large—exactly what one would expect of a family of the Halsteads’ means.”

“So,” Violet said, “the house itself holds no surprises—the only questions are who is using it, and for what.”

Penelope nodded. “Let’s hope Mrs. Findlayson can shed some light on those points.”

It was early afternoon when they walked up the path to the vicarage front door. At their request for an audience, Mrs. Findlayson came to the door; she proved to be a kindly-looking woman of generous girth, with curly white hair surrounding a soft-featured face from which aging blue eyes looked upon the world with a certain calm serenity.

Violet took the lead, making the introductions and explaining that she was calling on Lady Halstead’s behalf, having realized from Mrs. Findlayson’s recent letter that Mrs. Findlayson had known Lady Halstead well.