by Jane Ashford
Ada’s aunt made a sound rather like pish.
Ada let her thoughts drift back to their destination. A few hours and she would see him again. Would he also be glad? Surely he remembered her. But what, precisely, did he think?
* * *
Peter was startled when two post chaises pulled up in the drive at Alberdene that afternoon. Another arrival so soon after Macklin’s! This was unprecedented. What the deuce was going on?
He saw the carriages from the drawing room, where Tess was showing him the dreadful state of the sofa cushions, most of which had rips and frays. Peter was even more astonished when the vehicles began to disgorge females—a whole flock of them it seemed at first. What could this be?
Abandoning the maid as she was demonstrating the impossibility of mending the cushions without the stitches showing, he went down to the entry. Conway would require some bolstering to deal with this new influx.
Indeed, the old footman stood frozen in the open doorway, staring at the newcomers. The travelers resolved into only four young ladies, standing behind an older woman built like a mountain. She wasn’t fat, merely massive, nearly as tall as him and sculpted on heroic lines. “I believe you are expecting us,” said this colossus in the voice of a town crier.
“I?” said Peter. They must have the wrong house. He thought of his neighbors. None of them seemed likely candidates for this feminine visitation. He hoped they weren’t meant for Preston’s place. The old man had grown irrationally crusty. He would shower them with oaths they had undoubtedly never heard before.
“You are not expecting us?” asked the woman.
She, and the others, turned to look at one of the girls.
Following their gaze, Peter recognized her. It was Delia’s school friend Ada Grandison. He’d met her and her parents when he’d taken Delia to the place where she died. A stab of grief went through him. What was she doing here?
“My letter must have been lost,” she said.
The way she evaded her party’s frowns suggested deception to Peter. Her young companions’ faces hinted that they suspected the same. The older woman merely looked indignant.
“The mail is exceedingly reliable,” said the latter. She frowned at Peter as if the missing letter was his fault. Indeed, as if he were some species of repellent insect.
“We’ve come because of Delia,” blurted out Miss Ada Grandison.
He winced. He didn’t want to hear that.
“Her last wishes,” the girl added.
Peter stared at her. What in the name of all the gods was this?
Macklin came out of the house and flanked him. Peter welcomed the support of his illustrious houseguest, particularly when the earl said, “Julia Grandison? How are you?”
“Macklin?” replied the large woman. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting.”
“Indeed?” The colossus scanned her surroundings, with special emphasis on the ruinous bits of Alberdene up the hill.
“Seeing my friend Compton.”
The claim of friendship lent Peter consequence, and as the target of five pairs of feminine eyes—no, six, there was a superior servant behind them—he appreciated it. The elder Miss Grandison looked a bit less forbidding.
A tiny, cinnamon-colored dog jumped from the leading post chaise, first to the step and then to the ground. It trotted over to the pillar flanking the door and raised a leg.
“Ella!” cried the younger Miss Grandison.
The dog looked back at her, frozen in position. The girl hurried over and moved the little creature behind an overgrown yew.
A tremor shook Peter. Not a laugh exactly. More a frisson of concern mixed with amusement. Obviously, his situation was primed for disaster. And yet it was rather pleasant to welcome company. “Do come in,” he said. The day was waning. There was nowhere else to send them. Whatever was going on would have to go on here. They must be accommodated. As they filed in, he wondered if Mrs. Anselm would resign her position over the demands of so many guests. One of them clearly a high stickler.
His entryway filling with appealing female figures and high-pitched voices, Peter thought of ways to placate his cook. He’d find something to say. Surely they could manage for a day or so. And just as surely, no gently bred female would want to stay in his crumbling home longer than that.
It was astonishing to see the place bustling with people. He’d spent far too much time in empty rooms and echoing corridors.
Except, what had the girl meant about Delia’s last wishes?
Two
“I apologize for the state of this neckcloth, my lord,” said Clayton as he handed Arthur the square of linen. “The flatirons here leave much to be desired. They all appear to date from the last century.”
Macklin could see no flaw in the cloth, but his valet’s standards were often higher than his own. He began to tie it. “I’ve thrown you into some odd households this summer, haven’t I, Clayton? What do you think of this one?”
“It hardly qualifies as a household, my lord.” The valet tidied away the shaving gear. He’d been with the earl for more than twenty years, and Arthur valued his canny insights as much as his personal services. “Mrs. Anselm is a fine cook, and she tries her best to manage the rest of it, but she wasn’t trained as a housekeeper. As she would be the first to admit, my lord.”
“I wonder Compton doesn’t hire one.”
“He has tried, I believe. No one found it a…desirable position.”
Arthur gave his valet a sidelong glance. Clayton was an unassuming figure in middle age, with a round face that was pleasant rather than handsome and brown eyes. He had the ability to…exude criticism, however. Clearly, he didn’t think much of Compton’s large, crumbling house, or their host’s obvious lack of money. “Understandable, I suppose.”
“Indeed, my lord.”
This was the greatest contrast so far to the luxurious house parties where they usually spent their summers, Arthur thought. He would have to find some way to reward Clayton for his outstanding service. If he could just find something the man wanted. He’d offered more than once to help the valet into another profession, one befitting his sharp mind and deep well of common sense. Clayton always refused. “I’m sorry for any difficulties the place is causing you,” he told him.
“I like a challenge, my lord.”
“You always rise to them admirably.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Clayton helped him into his evening coat, smoothing it over his shoulders. “If you don’t mind me saying so,” he added. And stopped.
“You know I want you to say what you think,” replied Arthur.
The valet acknowledged this with a nod. “The traveling matchmaking—”
Arthur burst out laughing. “Oh lord, what a phrase. Makes me sound like some sort of marital mountebank.”
Allowing himself a brief smile, Clayton said, “Hardly that, my lord.”
“I suppose this was prompted by the arrival of a bevy of young ladies? Seemed almost like a sign, eh?” He sometimes teased Clayton, just a little.
“I was…concerned you might see it that way, my lord.”
“Because?” Arthur asked. He was fairly certain he knew the answer, but he wanted to discuss it. Clayton was a valuable sounding board when he was working out a course of action. And Arthur reasoned better by talking aloud than through introspection.
“A young lady’s parents require certain attributes in her husband.”
“And no fortune at all is not among them.” The signs of poverty were all over Alberdene, from the state of the furniture to the ill-kept gardens to the nearly empty stables.
“Disappointment seems likely,” said the valet.
“Compton is a duke. An heiress is the traditional solution.”
“Yes, my lord.” Clayton’s voice was expressionless.
“But it seems rather too much to expect that one has dropped by uninvited, eh?”
Clayton nodded. He appeared to suppress a sigh. “Perhaps a family set on…acquiring a title?”
“A rich merchant or a nabob’s daughter? I’m not so taken with matchmaking that I’m willing to hunt one down, Clayton.” Arthur shook his head. “No. We’ll follow our customary course and watch what happens. And what may be done to…ease Compton’s situation.”
“Yes, my lord.” His concern voiced, the valet visibly put the matter from his mind. That did not mean he looked happy, however.
Julia Grandison’s voice boomed from the hallway. The words were indistinct, but the tone was plain. “Miss Grandison would have made an excellent sergeant major,” said Arthur. He’d been loosely acquainted with this lady for nearly thirty years. They were of an age and had entered London society at the same time, Julia Grandison with an impact rather like a cannonball striking the venerable walls of the haut ton. Even at seventeen, she’d loomed, taller than most of her dance partners and built along such heroic lines that they’d appeared feeble. Her voice carried over the buzz of any evening party, and her opinions were strong even then. She seemed to flout the rules of convention simply by existing. Yet Arthur couldn’t recall one instance when she’d actually transgressed.
Clayton said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes.
“You don’t like her?” asked Arthur.
“I wouldn’t presume,” said the valet. “But a person might see that there’s no sense barking at the staff over things they can do nothing about. As you saw, my lord.”
There had been a misunderstanding about a bath, which had been sensibly resolved in the end.
“The elder Miss Grandison changed her room three times and then scolded one of the maids for the abominable state of the house. As if Rose or Tess could replace fifty-year-old draperies with a snap of their fingers.”
“Ah.”
“And the footmen are not accustomed to carrying so much wood,” Clayton continued.
Or up to it, Arthur thought. Conway and Evan were undoubtedly older than he was.
“Tom has taken to helping them.” Before Arthur could express any concern, Clayton added, “He says he’s happy to be busy, and he does seem to be. He’s pitched in with Rose and Tess as well, when they seemed like to break down. He’s a good lad.”
“That he is.” Arthur hadn’t meant Tom to work as a servant, but he couldn’t quite say that to Clayton. “The influx of young ladies seems to have rendered him tongue-tied for the first time, however. He’s flatly refused to dine with us.”
Clayton looked amused. “Indeed, my lord. But he’s the only one who can manage Miss Tate.”
“Who is Miss Tate?”
“Miss Julia Grandison’s dresser. Absolutely at the top of her profession, according to her.” Clayton’s tone was dry.
“Oh yes, tall, forbidding woman. Turned-down mouth and a stare designed to depress pretensions.”
“All but her own.”
Arthur smiled. Clayton seldom allowed himself such comments. Miss Tate must have irritated him personally. “I hope things are not too annoying in the servants’ hall.”
The valet’s amusement grew sly. “She won’t trouble me, my lord.”
Arthur had no doubt. Clayton was more than up to the challenge. “I must go down to dinner.”
Clayton opened the door and bowed him out.
His dining room had been transformed, Peter thought as the evening meal was served. His table had gone from a silent, empty stretch of boards to a brightly colored festival. The change seemed more engaging with each passing moment. He just hoped the higher level of noise would discourage the bats. He’d put the paddle on the floor, praying he wouldn’t have to use it under Miss Julia Grandison’s censorious eyes. Macklin’s startled amusement at their first dinner had underlined the oddity of his method, and Peter very much wished not to demonstrate it before a bevy of young ladies. Yet he couldn’t let the bats run rampant. That would be even worse. And there was no better means of removing them.
Miss Grandison loomed on his right side, a monumental presence in blue satin. Her brown hair was dressed in a way that must be all the crack, Peter thought. One could just tell. A diamond necklace and a cashmere shawl draped over her shoulders added to the impression of fashion and wealth. She ought to have been born a monarch, he thought. She was larger than life.
The lady smiled, and Peter was surprised to notice that her features weren’t harsh. Indeed, her oval face, straight nose, and bright-blue eyes were quite attractive. The impact of her personality simply outweighed any details of appearance.
Peter had wished he could place Macklin on the woman’s other side to help carry the conversation. But with only two gentlemen in the party, he’d had to put the earl at the opposite end of the table. They were separated by a stretch of young ladies in bright dresses, chattering to each other nonstop. He found it difficult to tear his eyes away from this charming sight.
Peter had never had the chance to stand in a fashionable ballroom surveying the range of potential partners, deciding which to choose. He supposed he never would. But here he had a bounty of beauty at his own board, and he was even confident he remembered all their names.
The one on the other side of Miss Grandison was Miss Sarah Moran. She was the shortest of the four, a smiling, round little person with sandy hair that made her brows and eyelashes indistinct and a sprinkling of freckles. Her light-blue eyes sparkled with intelligence, scanning continually, as if she couldn’t get enough of the house. Her interest was gratifying. Peter had worried that his domestic arrangements might inspire disdain.
Beyond her sat Miss Charlotte Deeping, the tallest of the young ladies. Indeed, if Miss Grandison hadn’t been present, Miss Deeping might have been thought quite tall. The effect was made more pronounced by her slender frame. She had black hair, pale skin, and a sharp, dark gaze. When it fell on him, Peter was suddenly more conscious of his shabby evening dress. There was an edge of dispassionate analysis in that look. She’d cut her roast beef into precise bits, all the same size.
After her came Macklin. Seeming to sense Peter’s regard, the earl looked up and smiled. His solid presence was reassuring. Indeed, Peter didn’t quite know what he would have done if this feminine influx had descended upon him alone. They definitely needed more gentlemen in their party, he thought, but young Tom had refused to join them. Overwhelmed by the visitors, Macklin had said. Peter could understand that.
On Macklin’s other side sat Miss Harriet Finch, who was the prettiest of the four, Peter decided. Her red-blond hair glinted in the candlelight. Green eyes and a pointed chin beneath a broad forehead graced a beautiful figure. If this had been a real choice, he’d have asked her to dance. She turned her head, found him looking, and raised her chin and her brows. Her gaze was cool. He dropped his own. He hadn’t meant this as a challenge.
He shifted his attention to Miss Ada Grandison on his left side. Miss Ada, he corrected silently. Her aunt was enough Miss Grandison for anyone. He placed her at his other side because at least he’d met her before this visit.
It was too bad about the eyebrows, he thought. He’d noted them when he was first introduced to this girl by his sister. They were heavy, authoritative, hinting at a scowl even when Miss Ada was smiling, as she was now. They dominated the smooth brown hair, brown eyes, straight nose, and full lips that were rather too tempting for her schoolgirl’s evening dress. Which was not a thing to be thinking. What was wrong with him? Peter turned away.
“This dinner is quite well cooked,” said Miss Ada’s aunt, sounding surprised. She poked at her roast beef as if it might yet reveal some shortcoming.
“Thank you, ma’am,” replied Peter. “Mrs. Anselm will be pleased to hear that you think so.”
“She is nearly up to town standards.” Miss Grandison
stirred a puree of potatoes with her fork. “You may tell her I said so,” she added with gracious condescension.
Peter nodded and kept his smile to himself.
“I can’t wait to look inside the ruined tower,” said Miss Moran on the large lady’s other side. “It reminds me of an engraving of Tintagel.”
“Tin-what?” asked Miss Deeping.
“Tintagel. The castle where King Arthur’s mother lived.”
“Wasn’t she mythical?”
“Be very careful where you walk,” said Peter. “There are places up the hill where you could fall and be hurt.”
And just like that, Delia’s death entered the room and settled at the table with them, the specter at the feast.
Everyone went silent, no doubt remembering that Peter’s sister had been told to avoid a dangerous cliff path. She’d ignored the warning, slipped, and fallen.
“In fact, please don’t wander about alone,” Peter added. “Or at all. Until I can show you where it’s safe.”
“You may consider that an order,” said Miss Julia Grandison, scanning her charges.
She received a chorus of subdued agreements. Everyone returned to their dinners.
As the pain of his sister’s death came flooding back, Peter wondered why they had come. He would never forget Delia, but the immediacy of loss had been fading before they arrived. Now, her absence loomed over this gathering of her friends.
Gradually, conversations revived. Macklin, clearly a master at smoothing over awkward moments, helped them along with kindly remarks. Miss Deeping and Miss Finch debated the merits of Chantilly cream versus apple pie. Their chaperone cast her vote for the latter.
“You will show us the house?” Miss Moran asked Peter after a bit. “I would so like to see the older bits. Where it’s safe to walk, of course.”
“Sarah is terribly studious,” said Miss Ada from his left side. “I expect she’s read tomes about old towers in Shropshire.”
Miss Moran’s flush confirmed this guess, though she corrected it to “towers on the Welsh Marches.”
