The Vanishing at Loxby Manor by Abigail Wilson (grave mercy .TXT) 📕

breath. “Who else indeed?” Then, for his father’s benefit,he said, “We’ve not had our invitation as of yet, but the banns have been read.” Piers’s voice sounded hollow as he grappledto fill the silence. “It shouldn’t be long now.”

“Ah.” His father made a show of nodding. “I hope your mother hasn’t quibbled with you about Miss Gervey, for I thought hera silly little chit who was always beneath your notice.”

A strange smile crossed Piers’s face. “We never were suited for one another, were we? Mother should have seen that from the start.”

Having stumbled all too awkwardly into a private conversation, I began to wonder if the two of them had forgotten I was there,which is precisely when Piers gestured to me with his chin. “There was something else I came to speak with you about today,Father, and I hope you won’t take my mentioning it amiss. You see, Miss Halliwell and I stumbled upon an old book of yoursin the library.”

Mr. Cavanagh shifted in his seat. “Oh?”

“It contained information about the Gormogon’s society you were once a part of. Do you remember telling me about your secretgroup?”

Something flashed in those lifeless eyes. “My dear boy, I’d forgotten all about that book, but yes, I remember discussingit with you and Avery long ago. What brings that to your mind now?”

“Several things actually. First, answer me this: the society was disbanded in 1799, is that correct?”

He was slow to nod. “As I understand it, yes.”

I inched forward in my seat. “A secret society? Will you tell me about it?”

Mr. Cavanagh stifled a small chuckle. “Not a topic for a young lady, I’m afraid.”

I feigned irritation. “Well, since it was disbanded long ago, can you at least tell us what the society was for? If it’s nottoo impolitic, that is.”

A smile joined the wrinkles on Mr. Cavanagh’s chin. “The Ancient Noble Order of the Gormogons was never impolitic, my dear.” He rested his head on his hand. “The society was brought over to Britain from China, but it was really a Jesuit scheme to establish a Jacobite club. The members of my particular sect, however, weren’t Jacobites at all.” A raspy laugh. “No, we simply enjoyed ridiculing the Freemasons . . . and the government at times.” Then his face grew serious. “Regardless of our affiliations, joining was a serious matter, and every member gladly did so to seek justice for the people of Britain. Such a commitment was not taken lightly.”

Piers stood, his brow tight, before pacing to the window. “Have you heard from any of the former members of late?”

“Not at all. I suppose they’ve all moved on with their lives. The society was for young, healthy men, not gentlemen in theirdotage. I daresay my friends and I would make a poor set of revolutionaries now.” Mr. Cavanagh turned his attention back tome. “Did you bring a book to read to me today?”

Caught off guard by the sudden change of subject, it took me a moment to answer. “I did actually. I found a copy of The Monk by Matthew Lewis.”

Piers cleared his throat, darting me a look. “Apropos, I daresay.” Piers had not finished his questioning, but we both knewMr. Cavanagh had ended any further conversation on the subject.

I attempted a slight shift. “I must confess, I’ve never read The Monk, but the other day Piers reminded me about the stories you used to tell us as children—to keep us away from the remains ofKinwich Abbey. I found the book in your library earlier today. An inspiration perhaps?”

Mr. Cavanagh dipped his chin. “I’d forgotten all about that silly novel. It’s been some time since I read The Monk, but if my memory serves, I must warn you that it has a decided horror aspect to it.”

Piers smiled as he paced back to the fireplace. “Dare you proceed, Miss Halliwell? Doing so might keep you up at night—withthat view of the abbey from your window.”

“I’ve never been one of the simpering females I detest.” I settled the book on my lap and opened the cover. I tempered my voice. “What do you think, Mr. Cavanagh? Shall we proceed?”

“I believe so, but pull the bell, my dear, if you would. I’d prefer to move back to my bed. I’ve had enough sitting up forone day.”

Piers took a step toward the door. “If the two of you will excuse me, I must beg my leave. Father, I shall visit you againbefore nightfall to discuss the business I came about. Though I’d enjoy doing so, I haven’t the time to sit and listen toThe Monk.”

Though I thought him curiously anxious to leave, Piers bent down to my ear on his way to the door, his voice a fervent whisper.“Rose garden. One hour. Understand?”

I looked up helplessly, and he raised his eyebrows.

Caught in his pointed gaze, I couldn’t help but nod. If Piers requested to see me, I would always go.

*  *  *

I found him an hour later as planned in the far section of the garden where we used to meet in our youth. He stood with hisback to me, his arms resting on the trellised wall. Piers had always been a thinker, a student of the world before him, andI found his mind a restful one. When we were younger, I could watch him for hours as he drew every last detail of whateversmall plant he was curious about at the time.

Today his focus was on the fields as the sun melted into a far hill, crafting rose-colored hues that swept across the cloudsand the countryside below. Small insects glistened in the waning light, dipping in and out of the tall grass; the ruins ofKinwich Abbey stood artfully within the valley’s thin mist.

Slowly I drew up beside him. “Beautiful.”

He turned at once, surprise clearly written on his face. “I didn’t hear you enter.”

I motioned beyond the wall. “I found the sunset so reverent; I didn’t want to disturb it.”

“Gardens have always been a special place of mine . . . of ours, I mean.” He glanced around. “I’m pleased to see the undergardenerhas done a fine