The Doublet Affair (Ursula Blanchard Mysteries) by Fiona Buckley Page B

long, end to end, but nearer ten feet from wingtip to wingtip. Its tail was a huge fan, tipped with feathers, but the rest seemed to be made of wood and paper. It wavered unsteadily through the air, came down on its nose and cartwheeled in front of our horses.
    Bay Star snorted in alarm, and several of the others shied. Brockley’s grey cob, Speckle, backed away, and Rob’s tall black gelding let out a whinny of fright and reared.
    “What in the world . . . ?” gasped Rob indignantly, from an awkward position astride a saddle which was now slanting upwards at an acute angle. One of the grooms, a gangling fellow, clearly the type who believedin delegating tasks to others, pushed a young stableboy forward and the lad caught helpfully at Rob’s bridle. The rearing black horse rolled its eyes wildly but responded at last to gentle persuasion and coaxing noises from Rob and the stableboy, and brought its forefeet down again, narrowly missing a trailing wing.
    “Careful! Don’t let the horses trample it!” cried a voice from above.
    We all looked up, and I saw another face I knew, though in an unlikely place. Master Leonard Mason, Ann’s husband, stood on the roof of the tower, peering down at us over the ornamental battlements.
    “I’m coming down!” he announced. He stooped, presumably to a trapdoor, and then disappeared.
    A moment later, Leonard Mason, formally gowned like Dr. Crichton but in tawny velvet with fur trimming, and not looking in the least as though he had just come from a windy rooftop, hurried out to join us and rescue his extraordinary plaything. It was evidently not heavy, since he picked it up easily. He beckoned to the butler.
    “Take it back to my workshop, will you, Redman? Watch the wings as you go through the porch.”
    The butler took the curious device and bore it away, and Mason then turned his attention to his astonished guests.
    “Just a little experiment of mine. I am sorry it upset your horses. My apologies. So here you are, Mrs. Blanchard.”
    He had a long, serious face, with vertical furrows on either side of his mouth, and as he looked at me, I saw to my disquiet that they had deepened with distaste.
    “I trust,” he said, with unexpected sharpness, “that you will not object if we call you Mrs. in the modern style? It is true that in many respects I am old fashioned. I wish my daughters to grow up modest and virtuous, as young women did in times gone by . . .”
    I would have loved to remark that judging from what I had seen of his daughters, his efforts hadn’t so far succeeded too well. The thought of Matthew suddenly overwhelmed me. I wanted him with me, so that I could whisper my uncomplimentary opinion of the Mason girls’ upbringing to him, and hear him say, “Saltspoon!” The longing was so great that my head swam, but Mason was still talking.
    “. . . In other ways, however, I am trying to bring up my children to live in the modern world, so here at Lockhill, we have adopted modern forms of address. If you agree?”
    I pulled myself together. “I am sure you’re wise, Mr. Mason, and I will do my best to help you with your daughters.”
    “I trust so,” said Mason, still sharply. “You seem rather young for the task!”
    So that was behind my unfriendly welcome. Or was it? Once more, I experienced that uneasy quivering in my guts. Well, I was here now. If something really was amiss in this house, then my best course would be to seem as innocent and harmless as possible, to keep suspicion from arising, or disarm it if it already existed. I was Ursula Blanchard, who had been unwell and had come to Berkshire for a rest, and to help Ann instruct her daughters in needlework and dancing. I smiled sweetly and said I would try to be of use.
    “I’m sure you will be the greatest help to me!” Ann’s kind blue eyes were anxious, but I also saw her give her husband a slightly irritated glance, as though wishing he had greeted me more pleasantly. “Please,” she said,