The visitors traded a look then went out past him. Nicholas turned back.
‘What about Davy?’ he asked.
‘I’ll find him for you,’ said Stratton.
‘Where?’
‘That’s my business, sir.’
And he closed the door firmly in their faces.
Chapter Four
Silvermere lived up to its name. Standing at the very heart of the Greenleaf estate, it was a vast house built of a light-coloured brick that took on a silver hue in the afternoon sun. Visitors first had to skirt the kidney-shaped lake that fronted it, an expanse of water that added to the beauty of the property and acted as a kind of moat. Fringed by reeds and frozen solid, the lake was a silver mirror in which Nicholas Bracewell and Owen Elias could see their reflections as they rode around its edge. It had a fairy tale sheen to it. They were pleased to observe that someone had cleared away the ice at the far end to give the wildfowl access to the water. Two ducks paddled their way bravely across their depleted habitat. A large black swan waddled uncertainly down the bank towards the water.
The house itself made Holly Lodge look modest by comparison. Its central feature was a high turreted gate-tower that rose up defiantly and gave the place the fleeting appearance of a castle. Wings stretched out on either side then turned back to form a courtyard at the rear. Silvermere comprised a Great Hall, a small dining parlour, a chapel, family apartments, guests’ lodgings, steward’s lodgings, porter’s quarters, servants’ quarters, great kitchens, brew house, bake house, larders and cellars. The stable block stood off to the right of the property, linked to a series of outbuildings and a few small cottages. Out of sight at the back of the house was a walled garden with a small pond and a collection of statuary that was covered in moss and pitted with age. There was no hint of timber or thatch in the exterior of Silvermere. Brick and slate predominated.
‘Look at the size of those chimneys!’ said Elias, gaping. ‘They’re enormous.’
‘All the better to warm up the house, Owen.’
‘How many servants would you need to run a place like this?’
‘None,’ said Nicholas, ‘for I’d never covet such a home.’
‘I would. I’d invite the entire population of Wales to stay with me and still have a few rooms left empty. It’ll be a positive joy to perform our work here. Silvermere puts the Queen’s Head in the shade.’
‘Don’t you miss our friendly landlord?’
‘Yes!’ said Elias with feeling. ‘I miss Alexander Marwood with pleasure.’
Nicholas grinned. ‘I fancy that we’ll have a kinder reception here.’
‘I hope that it’s kinder than the one we had at Holly Lodge. If he has a father like Jerome Stratton, I’m not surprised that Davy took to his heels.’
‘But he ran away from us, Owen.’
‘I know and I can’t understand why.’
‘You frightened him off by threatening to kiss him on stage,’ teased Nicholas.
‘Where on earth could he have gone?’
‘His father knows.’
‘Does he?’
‘Yes. I saw it in his eyes.’
When they dismounted at the front entrance, an ostler came to lead their horses off to the stables. A servant admitted them and took their cloaks and hats. The visitors then found themselves confronted by the household steward. Romball Taylard was a tall, stately man in his early forties with an impassively handsome face and watchful eyes. Black hair rose in curls from the high forehead and the beard was meticulously trimmed. Taylard was so immaculately dressed and exuded such an air of quiet confidence that he seemed more like an occupant of the house than someone who was merely employed there. After introducing himself and his companion, Nicholas explained why they had come and asked if they could meet Sir Michael Greenleaf. The steward’s voice was deep and melodious.
‘That will not be possible at the moment, sir,’ he said.
‘Is Sir Michael not at home?’ enquired Nicholas.
‘He’s otherwise engaged. You’ll have to wait until he’s finished. Sir Michael will brook no interruption when he’s working on one of his experiments.’
‘Experiments?’ repeated Elias. ‘Of what kind?’
‘A private nature.’
Taylard managed to make a polite reply sound like a rebuff. Elias smarted under the man’s searching gaze and bit back the sarcastic remark he felt impelled to make. Nicholas, too, caught the faint whiff of disapproval that emanated from the steward. Whoever had conceived the idea of inviting Westfield’s Men to perform at the house, it had evidently not been Romball Taylard but, since they would need to work closely with the man, Nicholas made an effort to win him over.
‘You have a magnificent house here,’ he noted. ‘I suspect that you run it with commendable efficiency.’
‘It’s a huge undertaking,’ said Taylard, grandly. ‘I strive to serve.’
‘We’d be grateful for your help and advice.’
‘Call on me whenever you wish.’
‘We’ll do that immediately,’ said Elias, tiring of the man’s disdain. ‘Show us to the Great Hall, if you will. Nick and I can take stock of it while we wait for your master to finish this experiment of a private nature.’
‘I’m not at liberty to do so,’ replied the steward loftily.
‘Why not?’
‘Sir Michael does not allow complete strangers to wander about his house.’
‘But we’re not strangers,’ argued Nicholas, using a more reasonable tone than Elias. ‘We’re here at the direct invitation of Sir Michael himself. If you won’t conduct us to the Great Hall, can you at least tell us where the company will be housed during our stay in Essex?’
‘Not in Silvermere itself,’ said Taylard crisply. ‘We’ll have guests enough in here when the time comes. The players will have to be lodged elsewhere.’
‘Players?’ echoed a voice. ‘Did I hear mention of the players?’
They turned to see an elegant woman of middle years, smiling graciously and descending the staircase in a dress of almost regal splendour. Lady Eleanor Greenleaf may have lost some of her beauty but she had retained all of her poise and charm. When the steward introduced the visitors to her, Nicholas gave a polite nod and Owen Elias produced the extravagant bow he reserved for audiences at the end of a play. The Welshman discovered that he had an admirer.
‘Owen Elias!’ cooed Lady Eleanor. ‘Of course! I recognise you now. I’ve seen you many a time at the Queen’s Head. And I once watched you perform at Lord Westfield’s house. You played in The Corrupt Bargain, did you not?’
‘I did, indeed, Lady Eleanor,’ said Elias, glowing with delight.
‘Excellently well, as I recall.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’
‘But I liked you best in Love’s Sacrifice. The piece moved me to tears. Shall we have that played here when you come to entertain us?’
‘That’s something I have to discuss with Sir Michael,’ said Nicholas. ‘We need your husband’s approval before we make our final choice.’
‘Oh, he’ll be no help to you,’ she said with a fond smile. ‘I’m the playgoer in the family, not my husband. He only likes the theatre. I adore it. All that he insists is that you give one play its first performance within these walls.’ She turned to the steward. ‘Why keep the visitors waiting, Romball?’ she asked. ‘Please fetch Sir Michael.’
‘He’s involved with his experiment, Lady Eleanor,’ he warned.
‘Then prise him away from it and tell him to come at once.’
‘Yes, Lady Eleanor.’
After inclining his head slightly, Taylard went off into the recesses of the house, moving at a dignified pace and managing to convey both obedience and mild censure. Lady Eleanor ignored him, crossing instead to the south wing to stand before a pair of double doors with ornate brass handles that gleamed as if polished only a second before.