She claimed the other armchair. “I came in to mention that Mr. Burnell was spinning all sorts of nonsense on our journey down, about how he dislikes the idea of his sister’s matchmaking so badly he’s prepared to pretend an attachment to me to ward off the young ladies the duchess has invited.”
“A tendre! How thrilling.” Blanche immediately swung her legs out of bed. “Once he’s playacting the role, he’s sure to fall desperately in love with you, Cornelia.”
Eustacia put down her magazine. “We did hope, didn’t we Blanche. Mr. Burnell couldn’t keep his eyes off you on the train. It was très romantique.”
“What are you wearing today, dear?” Blanche looked about for her slippers. “I know it’s rather chilly but something showing a little shoulder would be flattering—or some supplémentaire décolletée?”
“Stop it, both of you! I won’t be walking around half naked, risking catching pneumonia, just to lure a man; and certainly not that man in particular. Moreover, there was nothing romantic about his proposal.”
“Proposal?” Her aunts squeaked in unison.
“Enough! If I’d realized I was going to be forced into such games I never would have agreed to come. As it is, I shall inform Mr. Burnell that the idea is preposterous, and I want no part in it.”
Blanche looked crestfallen. “But, darling, it really is rather a good plan—especially the part about making other men sit up and take notice. They’re terribly competitive creatures; Mr. Burnell is right.”
“Eavesdropping is beneath contempt!” Cornelia stood, ready to march back out.
“But very useful, on occasion. We meant no harm.” Eustacia sniffed and buried her face back in The Strand.
There was nothing for it but to depart, before Cornelia said something she would regret.
The abbey contained a veritable labyrinth of passageways and staircases, the walls bare stone in places and oak-panelled in others, the level of the floor changing as one moved through the various wings. There were unexpected steps in the middle of corridors and dead ends containing only locked doors.
In a house of such size, there might be fifty indoor servants, but they’d obviously been well trained, for none crossed Cornelia’s path.
At last, she located the wide staircase they’d climbed the night before, the sweeping oak balustrade taking her downward in gentle spirals before opening to a suspended vestibule overlooking the entrance hallway. By evening light, she’d hardly taken in its expansive proportions, nor the richness of its furnishings.
While red velvet draped at every window, the walls were tapestry covered, depicting the usual hunting ensembles and chivalrous gentlemen escorting maidens through pastoral scenes. Higher up, several fearsome stags looked down with bulging eyes, flanked by arrangements of vicious-bladed weaponry.
Clearly, the interior had been updated since its days as a monastery, for there was nothing to denote austerity, and the double-headed axes mounted so prominently had surely not been used for devotional purposes.
A chandelier of the old-fashioned sort hung by a long chain, while sconces of candles lined either side. It appeared electricity was yet to be installed at the abbey, though Nancy had mentioned there being a proper bath adjacent to Cornelia’s room, with a modern boiler to provide the water—an amenity she intended to make full use of.
Most breathtaking of all was the tree—a fir perhaps thirty feet in height—placed to the right of the main entranceway. Covered in every sort of bauble, from individual wrapped sweets and glass-blown balls to miniature toys and brightly-coloured ribbons, it was a feast for the eyes.
How she’d avoided noticing it the night before, Cornelia had no idea! She must have been in a daze, consumed by her desire to escape Mr. Burnell’s dominating presence and to seek the comfort of a much-needed bed.
Pausing at the foot of the staircase, she pondered where her hosts might be. Blanche and Eustacia would be at least another half hour in having their hair dressed, and she ought to introduce herself before wandering any further in the house.
From somewhere beyond the nearest row of antlered heads, Cornelia caught the sound of children. It was doubtful their mama or papa would be with them at this hour but they’d have a governess surely, and she might direct Cornelia in where to go.
Luckily, the door was ajar, enabling her to listen in before committing herself fully.
“That’s it. The ribbon has to pull tight or it won’t hold the mistletoe fast. We want it to stay up until twelfth night, so you better tie the knots properly, Tom.”
A rather cross voice responded. “I know how to tie a knot. You needn’t always be telling me what to do.”
Leaning forward a little, Cornelia saw the room was wonderfully bright, receiving the full morning sun—an effect exacerbated by the walls being a pretty shade of pale yellow. The children, both fair-haired, sat side by side on a green sprigged sofa.
“It’s only natural that I know more than you. When you’re nine, you’ll understand.” The sister’s voice was decidedly disdainful. “And you’re wrong about the song. On the tenth day, it isn’t drummers or pipers, it’s lords a’leaping.”
“It’s a daft song anyway. What are they leaping over for a start? It’s all nonsense.”
The girl gave a loud sigh. “It’s fertility rites, silly. Almost everything is. You have to imagine yourself at a medieval feast, with swordsmen jumping about, over a fire pit probably, showing the ladies how virile they are.”
A feminine voice wafted from an unseen corner of the room. “Good Heavens, Melinda. Where do you hear such things?”
“I read it,” came the peremptory reply. “It was in one of the books Uncle Ethan sent last Christmas from Hatchards; the other was about conquistadors. Papa said I could look at the pictures, but I was able to read most of it perfectly well.”
“So I see…” The woman’s voice trailed off.
“All this green stuff is pagan as well—just ask Reverend Nossle. The church adopted most of the old customs centuries ago, to keep congregations happy.”
Smiling to herself, Cornelia gave a cough before stepping inside. No sooner had she done so than a flurry of furry bodies leapt up from the hearth rug and bounded over. Tails wagging, they sniffed at her skirts and licked madly at her hands. The smallest barked excitedly as one final canine—a sleepy-looking spaniel whose belly almost touched the floor—brought up the rear.
“Lie down, naughty things! And stop that Hercules! No one wants to hear you making that horrible racket.” The voice was that of the woman whom, Cornelia now saw, was half way up a folding ladder, attempting to attach one end of a garland to a hook.
With her back to Cornelia she called down, “Put the extra ribbon on the table please Betsy, and can you ask Carruthers to come and help after all. I’m two inches short of reaching and I daren’t climb higher.”
Turning, she blinked, peering down at Cornelia. “Oh Goodness, you’re not Betsy!” Giving a wan smile, she stepped carefully from the ladder.
“And you’re besieged by beasts; I’m so sorry.” At the click of her fingers, the dogs trotted back to where they’d been.
Cornelia extended her hand. “I’m Cornelia Mortmain, and it’s I who should be apologizing, walking in without knocking. I was looking for our hostess.”
“Then you’re in exactly the right place.” Despite her obvious weariness, the woman gave a smile which lit her face. “Delighted to meet you.”
“Oh, your Grace.” Cornelia fell into a bobbing curtsy. “I didn’t think…and I wasn’t expecting.” She took in the gown of dark grey, made not of serviceable serge but of fine silk, and the bodice delicately embroidered in violets—a bodice which sat high above a prominent roundness.
Pushing back a lock of hair the same blonde hue as the children’s, the duchess shook her head. “By the by, I must reassure you that I’m not usually to be found up a ladder. I know I shouldn’t really.” She patted the heaviness she was carrying before her.
“T
here’s still three months to go, would you believe. I’m convinced it’s triplets; at the very least, robust twins. And, it’s absolutely the last time I allow Lord Studborne to go leaping over the gardener’s bonfire.”
Her accent bore only the slightest trace of her American origins but, in that moment, as the woman’s eyes creased in laughter, Cornelia recognized her as the young lady who’d sat with her aunts on the beach a lifetime of summers ago.
Across the room, the children giggled, then looked at Cornelia shyly.
“Give your mama a kiss, then run upstairs for a while my twinkles.” The duchess eased herself into one of the fireside chairs, and indicated for Cornelia to do the same.
She wrapped her arms around her son and daughter as they embraced her. “I’ll be up soon to play a hand of Snip-Snap.” Once the door had closed, she rolled her eyes. “Melinda is more precocious by the day, but I don’t like to squash her.”
The duchess gave a rueful sigh. “She’s destined to blaze her own trail, and I fear it may not be an easy one.”
Cornelia nodded. She knew only too well what it meant to diverge from the expected path.
“Would you mind pulling the bell?” Lady Studborne indicated the rope hanging to one side of the mantel. “We’ll have some tea brought in, and some drop scones I think. It’s one English custom I’ve had no trouble embracing—the endless drinking of tea—although I’m on the fence about a few other habits; the eating of black pudding for one.”
The duchess pulled a face. “As well as all these seasons for gunning things down. Fortunately, Benedict’s eyesight makes him a terrible shot. He prefers to fish on the lake, which seems a slightly more humane way of catching supper.”
Cornelia couldn’t help but notice how the dogs, of which there were five in all, had shifted a little closer to the duchess since she’d seated herself. The smallest of the pack, a wiry border terrier with a mischievous glint in its eye, had laid claim to her left foot while the overweight spaniel had its head on the other. The remaining three—all Labradors—looked on with obvious jealousy.
The door opened a moment later, the elusive Betsy appearing—and swiftly given a list of cakes and fancies to seek out for her ladyship.
“It’s such a pleasure to meet again after all these years. As soon as your aunts are up and about, I intend to monopolize them. They were marvellous company for myself and my mother that summer.” The duchess’s gaze drifted to the window, through which the snow could still be seen falling.
“Such an age, yet it seems almost like yesterday. Everything was so different then, of course, but I think of those times fondly.” Absentmindedly, the duchess picked up a few sprigs of holly laying on the side table and began tying them with ribbon.
“You won’t be disappointed. My aunts are just as eccentric as they ever were—except they apologize far less these days.”
“The very thing we should all aspire to.” The duchess gave a warm smile which made her look much younger, so that Cornelia was reminded of that long-ago time again. She hadn’t paid much attention to Ethan’s sister, since she’d always sat decorously with the adults, but her brother’s mouth pulled in the same shape when he was amused.
“I don’t remember much, I’m afraid. Except Ethan playing with me, and then he wasn’t there, and my aunts soon after returned me to London, where there was a governess newly installed.” Cornelia hesitated.
“We didn’t get on awfully well. For ages, I asked my mother to put me on the train to Dorset again. It had turned autumnal but I was convinced that if I returned to the beach, it would still be sunny there.”
Cornelia wasn’t accustomed to sharing personal details with strangers, but the duchess was so warm and open, like an old friend she hadn’t known was waiting for her. Something about her manner invited confidences. Nevertheless, the outpouring left Cornelia feeling self-conscious. “Sorry. Rambling on! Funny what stays with us, isn’t it?”
Lady Studborne looked up from the holly in her lap. “I know just what you mean. It was rather an unusual summer for me, too—or the beginning of something unusual, I ought to say.”
She gave a sudden, stifled cry, uttered a rather unladylike curse, and popped her finger into her mouth. Drawing it out, she grimaced. “So pretty, but I always forget the thorns.”
Seeing the blood beading red, Cornelia offered the handkerchief from her pocket and, at the duchess’s nod, folded it neatly, tying the ends tight.
“Thank you, Mrs. Mortmain.”
“Please do call me Cornelia, your Grace.”
“But, of course.” She smiled again. “And, when we’re alone, I’d welcome your calling me Rosamund, especially as I hope we shall soon be more intimately connected. I must say, I’d no idea you’d kept in touch with my brother all these years, or that an attachment had formed between you. It was a great surprise to receive Ethan’s telegram, explaining his intention of bringing you as his guest, but a wonderful surprise, naturally. I’m immensely pleased you’re here.”
Cornelia’s chest constricted. What exactly had he been telling his sister? They hadn’t even discussed his plan until the day before—and she now had every intention of breaking it.
She felt herself blushing. “Really, your Grace—I mean Rosamund. I must tell you that there’s no formal arrangement between your brother and I. In truth, we’re only very recently reacquainted.”
“Your unassuming manner does you credit, Cornelia, but there’s no need to be shy. Truly, we couldn’t be happier. I’ve been telling my brother to settle down for years. To see him finally thinking of doing so is such a relief.”
She held up her finger as Cornelia made to protest. “Even to have him considering the matrimonial state is an achievement, so I congratulate you.”
Cornelia found she didn’t know what to say. Rosamund would surely have heard what everyone else knew about her mother, and the embarrassing circumstances of Oswald’s death, yet she spoke so sincerely, and so very kindly.
A knock on the door announced Betsy’s return and the next few minutes were taken with the ritual of tea pouring and the duchess recommending one sort of pastry over another, while taking one of everything for her own plate.
“I’m not usually such a fiend for sweet things but, lately, I can’t help myself.” She licked some iced-sugar from her fingers.
“Binky understands me, don’t you?” She reached down to scratch the ears of the spaniel. “She’s due to deliver any time now and has been ravenous for weeks. We’re expecting a bumper litter, which is just as well; Benedict has promised a puppy to almost everyone we know—though I do rather fear how they may turn out. Benedict arranged for his cousin’s pedigree champion to do the deed, with the promise that Lord Fairlea could have first choice, but naughty Hercules got to her first.”
On cue, the border terrier looked up, pressing his head to the duchess’s skirts. “He really is a terror. Being too short-legged to mount her, he climbed onto my embroidery box to have his way.”
Her eyes flashed with wicked humour. “Mind you, Binky was hardly putting up a struggle, so they’re equally culpable. I’m hoping the pups will be such a muddle of the two breeds that we’ll be obliged to keep them all.”
“I’m sure they’ll be adorable.” Cornelia laughed. “My own little Minnie is mostly Jack Russell but she has a secret ingredient no-one is quite sure of—Lhasa Apso perhaps, or a dash of Shih Tzu. Her tail has the most wonderful curl.”
“Oh yes, you brought your dog.” Lady Studborne clapped her hands. “You must bring her down to meet everyone. Hercules will flirt dreadfully, of course, and make Binky jealous, but I’m sure they’ll work it out.”
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, listening to the crackle of the fire, the soft breathing of the dogs and the occasional thump of tail.
At last, Lady Studborne spoke again. “I’ve been wanting to say, my brother had a difficult time growing up, returning to Texas without my mother and I. As to what passed between
him and my father, I can only guess.”
“Families can be difficult.” Cornelia frowned. “That is to say, having no choice, we’re obliged to make the best of things. Even where we’re better off without someone, we don’t stop loving them, or missing them when they’re gone.”
“Very true.” Lady Studborne darted another smile Cornelia’s way, then looked down, chasing some crumbs around her plate.
“I hope you won’t think me interfering.” The duchess cleared her throat. “Whatever is between you and my brother, I’m sure it will unfold just as it should, but I’ll be wishing most ardently for you to find true happiness together. It’s frightening, I know, to say how we feel, to open ourselves to the possibility of caring for another person so deeply, of needing them—but l’ve learned that love is worth the risk. I almost lost my chance, years ago. If I hadn’t told Benedict how much I loved him, I’d have regretted it forever.”
Cornelia found her eyes were pricking.
True love?
Of course, in her secret heart she yearned for someone who would love her so ardently that nothing else would matter; for someone she could admire, respect and love in return. But, to wish for such things was inviting disappointment.
She’d yet to meet a man capable of giving himself to her in that way.
Oswald hadn’t even tried.
There was no doubt in her mind. She’d rather be alone than tied to someone who cared nothing for her feelings.
Ethan wasn’t the worst sort, she sensed, but he’d made himself plain. He cared more for spiting his father than for anything else. There would never be a ‘happy ever after’ for him, however hard his sister wished it.
The thought made Cornelia terribly sad. Her own circumstances were beyond her control but Ethan had chosen his, and she doubted any woman would change how he viewed the world.
If she played the role he’d invented for her, pretending to care for him, pretending a future he had no intention of ever making real, she’d be deceiving Rosamund.
The Lady's Guide to Scandal Page 6
