The laughter was still bubbling out when they crossed over a stile and came upon a farmer and his son plowing. The farmer stood and stared silently as the ragged apparitions came near. When they had come within a few feet, Tom halted, his arm still around Miranda’s shoulders, and nodded a greeting. “Good day,” he said. “I am Merton. My lady and I have been shipwrecked, and must beg your assistance.”
Miranda was impressed in spite of herself. She had never thought of Tom as behaving in a particularly aristocratic way, but here he was, bruised, battered, wearing a horse blanket and very little else, and nonetheless he was a commanding presence. Was that what a title did for people?
No, she realized. It had nothing to do with his title. It was Tom himself who was worthy of respect.
The farmer and his son certainly thought so. Their eyes widened. “Run home and tell your ma,” said the farmer, waving a hand at his son. He then bobbed his head to the apparitions before him. “Will Parkins, at you service, my lord. My house is just a bit down the road. If your lady would be willing to sit on Bessie here, we’ll have you there in no time.”
Parkins promptly set about unhitching the elderly gray mare, and Tom lifted Miranda onto the broad back. It was rather like sitting on a swaying table, she thought, but wrapped in little but the horse blanket, she couldn’t help feeling like Lady Godiva, wrapped in her long hair. She caught Tom’s eye and stifled a laugh. Mr. Parkins was looking both proud and nervous as he led the mare along, while Tom walked beside her, a hand at her waist.
The Parkins’ house was, indeed, just a bit down the road, and Mrs. Parkins, forewarned by her son, came scurrying out to greet them, bobbing a curtsey. She was a small brown wren of a woman, forever in motion it seemed. Tom picked up Miranda and carried her in while Mrs. Parkins fluttered around them, insisting that the lady be taken into the bedroom. She then shooed Tom out.
“What a dreadful thing to happen to you, my lady, and on such a nice day, too. What was it that sank your boat?” Miranda was none too sure what to say, but her hesitation did not matter, because Mrs. Parkins never stopped for an answer. “Well, you never know when the sea will turn rough on you, and the currents here, if you don’t know the waters well, you can be on a rock before you know it’s there. Now, you’d like a chance to wash up, I’m sure.” At this point, she looked abashed. “I’m afraid the only tub we have is the wash tub and, at the moment, it’s full of sheets. It’s my laundry day, you see.”
“No, really, do not trouble yourself,” Miranda tried to protest.
“But I can bring you a wash basin and a pitcher of hot water straightaway,” said Mrs. Parkins triumphantly. “And some clean clothes. You’ll feel much better when you’ve had a chance to clean up a bit.”
Mrs. Parkins bustled about, bringing in not only a blue dress that Miranda suspected was her very best and the promised wash basin and hot water but also a sliver of scented soap. This, Miranda was sure, was one of Mrs. Parkins’ treasures. She promised herself that she would send the dear woman a box of the finest scented soaps England had to offer as soon as she could.
Soon enough, Miranda had washed herself off as best she could and dressed herself in Mrs. Parkins’ blue dress. With Mrs. Parkins’ help and a borrowed comb, she got most of the tangles out of her hair and managed to get it into a plait. No amount of urging, however, would convince her to take a pair of shoes. The shoes were on Mrs. Parkins’ feet, and Miranda was determined that there they would remain.
It was bad enough that Mrs. Parkins kept calling her “my lady”. Miranda couldn’t think of a way to correct her that would not involve somewhat embarrassing explanations. Especially since the explanations would have to include the night spent in the barn when Mrs. Parkins obviously thought they had come straight from the sea that morning. Miranda decided that she would leave the explanations to Merton.
When she entered the kitchen, the main room of the cottage, Miranda was barefoot, wearing a dress that was a bit too snug in the bosom and a good six inches too short, with her hair in a plait like a schoolgirl. Merton looked at her and felt as if his heart would burst with love. He took her hand and kissed it, and then just held it while he looked at her. Mrs. Parkins beamed at them proudly, as if she were somehow responsible.
The silence was broken when Mr. Parkins coughed politely, and Merton seemed to wake up. He, too, was barefoot and wearing borrowed clothing—a too loose shirt and too short trousers, which made him not in the least self-conscious. He appeared as much at home here as in the drawing room of Schotten Hall.
“Now, my lord and my lady,” said Mrs. Parkins, “you’ll be wanting something to eat. Not a word will I hear. You just sit yourselves down here and I’ll bring you a bite in just a moment.”
She waved them to chairs at the table and bustled about once more, fetching food and drink from the larder. Neither Miranda nor Merton was at all inclined to protest, since they were, in truth, very hungry, having had nothing to eat since yesterday’s picnic. They both did justice to the meal of eggs, ham, bread and ale that Mrs. Parkins put before them and were effusive in their compliments. Merton particularly praised the ale which, Mr. Parkins told them proudly, was of his wife’s brewing. She flushed with pleasure under the praise.
When they had eaten their fill, it was time to assess their situation. Merton discovered, to his relief, that the Parkins’ were Ashleigh’s tenants and asked for writing materials.
That produced an awkward silence.
Miranda kicked him. It hurt her more than it hurt him, since she was barefoot, but it did remind him where he was. Few farmers could read and write, and even if they could, they had little opportunity to do so. If they ever needed to write a letter, paper and ink would be purchased specially for the occasion. It would be difficult to say who was the most embarrassed.
“How far is it to the duke’s residence?” asked Miranda brightly, filling the silence.
“Not above three miles, two across the fields,” said Mr. Parkins eagerly. “Our Rob could take Bessie and be there in no time at all. And he’s a good lad for carrying a message. He’ll repeat it word for word, he will. Never you fear.”
“I’m sure he will,” said Merton with relief. “Anyone can see that he’s a bright lad.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Ashleigh was in the library immersed in a treatise on crop rotation when he was told that there was a messenger from the Earl of Merton. Further informed that the messenger was somewhat grubby and had arrived on what appeared to be a plow horse, Ashleigh did not blink. He requested that the messenger be shown in.
The boy bobbed to him and then stood holding an old, somewhat battered hat and turning it in his hands as the duke inspected him. He appeared nervous, but not cowed.
Ashleigh thought the boy looked familiar. After staring at him for a minute in silence, he said, “You’re the Parkins boy, are you not?”
“Yes, Your Grace. Rob Parkins.”
“How is it that you have a message from the Earl of Merton?”
“Him and his lady was shipwrecked”—Ashleigh did blink at that—“and they washed up near our place. They be in our cottage and he said as I was to ask you to please send a closed carriage, shoes, a lady’s cloak and five.”
“Five?”
“That’s what he said. He said you’d understand.”
Ashleigh nodded. “Shipwrecked. He is not injured?”
“No, they didn’t seem to be hurt at all. They’re all cleaned up now and Ma and Pa gave them some clothes.”
“And the lady?”
“She’s ever so nice. And pretty, too. It’s a real treat just to see her smile.”
Ashleigh nodded. Merton managed to end up shipwrecked with a pretty girl, and needed help. Of course.
He calmly arranged for the dispatch of the carriage, shoes, cloak, and a purse of five gold guineas. He sent young Rob down to the kitchens for a meal before his return trip. He instructed the butler to see to it that rooms were prepared for the coming
guests. Merton would have the blue chamber, where he usually stayed. The young lady was probably Miss Rokeby. He frowned slightly, uncertain as to which chamber to assign to an American hoyden. The yellow suite, he decided. It was by far the most elaborate of the guest chambers, rarely used for anyone not of royal birth. He disliked climbers and putting her in those rooms might be considered a way of doing her honor or a way of demonstrating her inadequacy. It would be interesting to see her reaction. He paused for a moment to consider, and then decided that everything necessary was being done.
Still calm, Ashleigh returned to his chair in the library. However, he did not immediately return to the topic of crop rotation. Instead, he stared into space.
What the devil had Tom gotten himself into now?
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Four hours later, the coach returned, and Miranda received her first glimpse of Kelswick. Nothing had prepared her for this, not even Carlton House. The regent’s residence was a palace, overwhelming in its opulence and intended to be so.
Kelswick made it seem tawdry and pretentious.
Its facade of pale gray stone was austerely classical, and it commanded the surrounding countryside by dint of its sheer size with no need of embellishment. Twenty-one windowed bays marched across each of the three stories, each just slightly shorter than the one below, giving an illusion of even greater height. The three bays at each end and the three in the center protruded just enough to avoid monotony in the facade.
The coach pulled up onto a smooth gravel courtyard before broad limestone steps leading to a double door, all seemingly designed to accommodate giants—or to overawe anyone daring to approach. Before the coach had even come to a stop, a pair of footmen in black and silver livery were there, one to hold the door and one to lower the carriage step. At the top of the steps to the house, the doors were held open by another pair of footmen and an austere gentleman who was doubtless the butler stood within to welcome the guests.
It had all been deliberately designed to impress and to intimidate, thought Miranda. And despite herself, she felt impressed and far too aware that her feet were bare and she was wearing a borrowed ill-fitting dress. She refused to be intimidated, however, and straightened her shoulders as she prepared to follow Tom out of the coach. It did not matter what she was wearing. She would be clothed in her dignity.
Unfortunately for her intentions, her dignity vanished in a gasp as Tom swept her into his arms to carry her into the house.
“For heaven’s sake, Tom, put me down. I can walk.” She could feel her face turning scarlet.
“Nonsense. I have shoes and you do not.” Tom was laughing.
He was still laughing when he finally set her on her feet—her bare feet—inside the doors. She looked around her quickly and tried not to gawk. This was a private house? The floor was of marble, of course, white with strips of dark green making a trellis pattern. All immaculately clean, as if no foot had ever trod here. Columns that looked suspiciously ancient supported arches that divided the entrance hall from the staircase hall beyond. A hundred people could have gathered in this hall and it would not feel crowded. This was nothing like Schotten Hall, which was, at least comparatively speaking, a friendly place.
Ashleigh stepped into the hall as she was still gaping. He timed it perfectly, she thought bitterly. Her mouth was still hanging open. She wanted to vanish.
Tom did not appear in the least intimidated. “Hullo, Peter. Don’t give me that fish-eye look. It wasn’t my fault the boat sank.” He kept a hand on her shoulder. “Miranda, you remember Ashleigh.”
For someone wearing an ill-fitting dress and no shoes, Miranda thought she managed a quite creditable curtsey. “Indeed, Your Grace,” she said.
Ashleigh bowed in return, as coolly as if he saw nothing unusual in her appearance. “Miss Rokeby.” Then he looked at Tom again and waited.
Tom sighed theatrically. “We went sailing and the boat sank. I am sure Miss Rokeby would appreciate a bath, cup of tea, some clean clothing if there is any in this mausoleum that might fit her, and a chance to lie down.”
“Of course,” said Ashleigh with a courteous—but not friendly or welcoming—smile at her. “My sister, Lady Talmadge, will take care of you. Alice, allow me to present Miss Rokeby.”
Miranda turned to face the beautifully elegant lady who had come hesitantly into the hall behind Ashleigh. She appeared to be in mourning, or at least half-mourning. Her dress of fine muslin was gray, with several rows of darker gray pleats at the hem and around the neck. Her hair, like her brother’s, was so dark as to be almost black and she wore it in a crown of braids. Her eyes were gray, too, almost as if to continue the mourning, but she appeared not so much sorrowful as timid. Nonetheless, her smile, unlike her brother’s, was friendly and welcoming.
“Miss Rokeby, we have a room prepared for you, and a bath is being filled as we speak. Please come with me.” She held out a hand as she led the way to the staircase. “You must tell me all about your adventure. Or was it an ordeal, and you do not wish to speak of it? Never mind. It will all come out.”
If the brother imposed his will by force of arrogance, thought Miranda as she trailed along, the sister did so by gentle kindliness.
At the foot of the staircase, she stumbled to a halt, however. The steps were of white marble, of course, a good ten feet wide at the base. Halfway up, there was a landing, and the stairs divided, continuing up at either end of the landing. That was not what had stopped her. Miranda had seen imposing marble staircases before. But at the landing hung a painting, a larger than life-size portrait of a gentleman.
She would have thought it a portrait of Ashleigh—it was his face, with his expression of bored superiority. However, the man in the portrait had a wig of long black curls on his head and was dressed in a full-skirted coat of velvet with a good deal of lace at his throat. He carried a plumed hat in one hand and with the other, gestured behind him to what was clearly this house.
As if the painting were not enough in itself, it was surrounded by a tortuously carved and gilded frame surmounted by a pair of stags holding up the ducal coat of arms. Miranda was not certain if she was expected to bow down or burst into laughter.
Lady Talmadge was startled by the sudden halt until she realized that Miranda was staring at the painting. She looked somewhat embarrassed. “A portrait of the first duke. It always startles people the first time, but one eventually grows accustomed and ignores it. I fear my ancestors have always been excessively taken with their consequence.”
“Well,” said Miranda, “it does fill up the space.”
After a startled gasp, a look of almost awe appeared on Lady Talmadge’s face, and she smiled nervously. “Well, yes, I suppose it does do that.”
At the top of the stairs, they were met by the housekeeper, Mrs. Quilby, an imposing figure in black bombazine wearing a crisp cap of blazing white on her equally white hair. Her small bow of greeting was perfectly correct but seemed less submissive than condescending. Miranda was impressed that timid though she might seem, Lady Talmadge was not at all impressed by the housekeeper.
“There you are, Mrs. Quilby,” she said. “Have you rooms and baths prepared for our guests?”
“Certainly, my lady. Lord Merton has his usual room, and His Grace instructed me to put the young lady in the yellow suite. The bath should be ready by now.”
Lady Talmadge could not hide a look of astonishment. “My, my,” she said, recovering with a smile, “I hope you will feel suitably honored. The last guest I remember who was given that room was the Comte de Roubillion in—I think it was 1793. He had escaped the Terror with his head and his title and not much else. I particularly remember because he sneered at the rooms as barely adequate even though they were the very best in the entire house. My mother was quite annoyed, as she had just overseen their decoration.”
“Perhaps he was simply trying to hide his discomfiture over having lost everything,” suggested Miranda.
“Perhaps,”
said Lady Talmadge, “but I cannot help but think it a pity that so many take out their own inadequacies on others.”
Miranda thought she saw a look of pain cross her hostess’ face, but it vanished so quickly she was not quite sure of what she had seen. If it had not been an illusion, it was nonetheless close to imperceptible as Lady Talmadge handed Miranda over to the housekeeper with a promise to send along some garments and a maid to make any necessary adjustments.
It was not far to the suite that had been assigned to Miranda. All the doors on the corridor were some ten feet high, more than adequate to accommodate the towering wigs of the previous century, and of a width that would also have provided easy entrance to a lady wearing wide panniers. Miranda could not help it. In her borrowed dress and bare feet, she felt decidedly inadequate, and it required considerable effort to disguise her discomfort. Mrs. Quilby ushered her into a sitting room, which opened into a bedchamber which, in turn, led to a dressing room. Miranda, pretending to be Marie Antoinette, thanked the housekeeper and dismissed her. Then she looked around.
The walls of the suite were painted cream with elaborate boiseries picked out in yellow. Draperies of a deep yellow brocade hung at the windows and the same brocade was used for the canopy and curtains on the huge bed with its carved and gilded posts. The sitting room, approximately the size of the drawing room at Schotten Hall, had a plethora of delicate chairs upholstered in straw-colored silk. In a dozen landscapes hung about the room, nymphs and shepherds disported themselves gaily.
Miranda could not deny that the thick pile of the Axminster carpet felt delicious under her sore feet as she moved through the rooms to the bathing room, where steam was rising from a deep tub and a maid waited diffidently to help her disrobe. Minutes later, she sank into the water, scented with lavender, and slowly relaxed. This amount of luxury might be decadent, even obscenely decadent, but it did have its appeal. Still, suspicion lingered. She could not bring herself to believe that the duke had placed her in these chambers in an effort to please her. More likely, he wanted to awe her. He may be Tom’s friend, but I am not at all certain that he is mine.
The Earl Returns Page 15
