Laura Matthews

by A Very Proper Widow

  “No one could have asked for a braver officer.” Alvescot tried to draw on some memory that would please her. “He sought me out the night of the Richmond ball to announce his daughter’s birth. We drank to your health and Catherine’s.”

  Vanessa nodded in acknowledgment but showed no desire to continue the conversation. Ahead of them, John’s pony had slowed to an ambling pace and their horses soon came up with the boy. At the crossroads John looked up in some confusion, admitting that he didn’t remember which road to take. Vanessa laughed and tousled his hair. “Some guide you are, dear boy. What landmark do we look for at this crossroad?”

  Allowing his gaze to wander down the two lanes, John caught sight of a barn in the distance. “The barn with the red door! I forgot.”

  As they made their way toward the canal, one adult on either side of the boy, Alvescot kept up a running dialogue with John, including Vanessa from time to time, but her distraction had returned and she seemed content merely to listen to them talking. When they reached the bank of the canal near where it entered the tunnel, Vanessa took charge of spreading out their picnic while the earl and John floated twigs on the water in miniature boat races. Their laughter and groans drifted back to her and she turned to watch them, John running along the bank while Alvescot crouched down, one hand shielding his eyes from the glint of sunlight off the water.

  Vanessa hadn’t really looked at Alvescot before. Not as a man. To her he had been only her husband’s cousin, a nuisance at best when added to her other burdens. And she wasn’t in the habit of considering a man in quite the way she found herself doing now. Not for years, at any rate. Perhaps it was his kindness to her son that sparked this sudden interest, she rationalized as she found herself unable to withdraw her eyes. But, it was an unacceptable solution. Paul Burford was good with John, too, and she had never felt this stirring of her senses with him. She had never had the slightest desire to feel the texture of his hair or touch the curve of his cheek. Never once had she wondered what it would be like to kiss him, to be held in his arms.

  Good Lord, she brought herself up abruptly, I’m losing my mind. Still, she sat for some time watching him, troubled by her reaction but unable to deny herself the intriguing sensations of physical attraction. His laughter, for instance, had such a deep timbre that she could almost feel it within herself. And his eyes. Even from this distance she was captivated by the way they crinkled with amusement. What color were they? Brown? No, hazel, she remembered, a vague impression returning that they had those remarkable green highlights which seemed so prominent when they narrowed with annoyance.

  That was something to hold onto. They often narrowed with annoyance. And with suspicion, and a sort of remoteness, and with a haughty disdain. This was a man of far more complexity than the kindly godfather to her son she was now witnessing. He was a determined man, an opinionated man, and a man who would shortly disappear from her life as swiftly as he had entered it. Well, she told herself as she rose to join them, undoubtedly that was all to the good.

  Alvescot was not unaware of her observation, but he could read nothing into it. That in itself he found unusual. Most women in his experience had little control over their emotions, and none over their facial expressions. Vanessa Damery apparently had both. Even when he carefully studied her as he told her of Frederick’s death he could detect no change in her countenance. Which might well mean she was simply a cold, indifferent woman, of course, but somehow he doubted that. And it was not that she’d never shown happiness or sorrow, because she had. But when she wished to conceal her thoughts or feelings, she was perfectly capable of doing so. Alvescot had the sudden realization that this might be something eminently important to understand about Vanessa.

  “Our picnic is ready,” she announced when she came up to them. “And there’s a barge coming, John. We can watch it while we eat.”

  For the rest of their excursion she forced all thought of child-rearing, Frederick, and this unacceptable attraction to Lord Alvescot from her mind. She was accustomed to playing the role of hostess, to entertaining her guests with intelligent and amusing discourse, and she had no difficulty reverting to that role now. Alvescot was somewhat puzzled by her change of mood but quickly adapted himself to it. He was no stranger to playing roles.

  Chapter Eight

  Mabel Curtiss was nothing if not persistent. For the next two days she dragged Louisa to breakfast at the same early hour, hounding Alvescot to take her daughter riding, walking, picnicking, driving, and any other activity that happened to come to her mind. The earl politely agreed to some of these activities, but he had no intention of falling into some murky plot designed to place him in a position where Mabel could accuse him of leading her daughter on. Louisa reluctantly followed her mother’s direction, but Alvescot could see that her heart wasn’t in it. When she spoke, which was rarely, it was usually of her erstwhile suitor—his likes and dislikes, his delicate constitution, his estate in Suffolk which she and her mother had visited on no less than four occasions over the last twelve years.

  “I liked it there,” she said simply one afternoon as they drove through the countryside around Cutsdean in Alvescot’s newly repaired curricle. “It’s very peaceful and his sister is a dear girl. She’s rather ugly, I suppose, and is not expected to marry, and I think she must be very lonely living there alone while William is so often with us. I should like to be her friend; we go on very well when we’re together.”

  Envisioning some poor ugly duckling of a schoolgirl, Alvescot asked, “How old is she?”

  “Meredith? Why, something older than William, I would imagine. Perhaps thirty-eight or thirty-nine. She does a great deal of good in the village, for the poor people, you know.” Louisa sighed and regarded her hands which lay lightly clasped in her lap. “I would do something for the poor people, too, if Mama did not insist that my share of the allowance go to Edward.”

  The blackmail still occupied Alvescot’s mind, but he had not as yet devised a plan of attack and he thought Louisa unlikely to be of any assistance in the matter. Still, it could do no harm to sound her out on Captain Lawrence, and when he did, she said, “Oh, he’s a rather crotchety old man, isn’t he? He treats little John like a cabin boy, barking orders and snapping about everything the poor lad does. And the boy is only four! I do think retired sailors are the worst of the military, don’t you?”

  “I hadn’t actually thought about it,” Alvescot admitted.

  “Yes, well, we had one in our neighborhood, where we used to live,” she said sadly. “His name was Beningbrough and he did nothing but talk of ships and naval actions and rascally powder boys who were rapped on the sconce—whatever that may be. Captain Lawrence only talks of the diseases his sailors got and prides himself on never having had them himself. Which was only because he didn’t have to suffer their horrid conditions, you may be sure! He’s not a very sympathetic man, Captain Lawrence. I don’t think he likes anyone at Cutsdean. I can’t think why he stays!”

  Alvescot felt sure he knew, and it didn’t make his feelings toward the captain any more kindly. Someone of the captain’s age should have laid by for his later years, and certainly could have done so with the prize money he frequently mentioned having received. The self-righteous old stick should have practiced what he preached about economy and ordering one’s life. But the earl merely nodded gravely to this extraordinarily long speech of Louisa’s and said nothing except, “He must have had a rather distinguished career.”

  His companion frowned slightly. “I suppose so. One day Edward was teasing him—about publishing his memoirs, you know—and the captain got all white and stomped out of the room. People do that, though—publish their memoirs—don’t they?”

  “Frequently.”

  “Well, I haven’t read anything of that sort myself, but I was sure they did. I can’t imagine why it upset Captain Lawrence. Perhaps he doesn’t approve of that sort of thing.”

  Directing his pair back toward the estate, Alvescot
looked thoughtful. “Perhaps not.”

  Louisa fell silent for the duration of their drive. What she was thinking, the earl couldn’t tell, as her face became blank when she wasn’t being directly addressed. That it had something to do with William Oldcastle he felt reasonably confident.

  Mr. Oldcastle had become rather a problem. The more time Louisa spent with the earl, the more sulky William became. If Louisa made any effort to conciliate him, her mother was always there to scotch the attempt. Now, Alvescot wanted Oldcastle's bedroom, feeling more and more confined each day he spent in his miniature chamber, but he owned to a certain fastidiousness about acquiring it in such a way, especially since he had no interest in Louisa.

  There were times, when William happened to mention the hangings of Chinese painting on silk or the mirror paintings, when Alvescot was almost tempted to overlook his principles, but he resisted the temptation, steadfastly refusing to precipitate an out and out quarrel between the pair. If Oldcastle had the perseverance to remain in view of Mabel Curtiss’s obvious attempts to rid Cutsdean of him, more power to the man.

  Alvescot had observed the famous squabbles during the first two days he spent at Cutsdean, but since Mabel had made her strategy clear, William was saying very little. He sat in a corner and glowered at Louisa, and at Alvescot if he happened to be speaking with her, but he spoke only when spoken to. Vanessa had taken pity on him, seating him next to her at meals and engaging his attention in the evenings. In turn, he treated her with a rigid formality, though there were occasional bursts of heavy-handed flirtation tossed in at random, as though he had some intention of making Louisa jealous.

  From her sour and stately vantage point, Hortense Damery watched the farce develop with disgusted eyes. Alvescot had heard her berate Vanessa about the conduct of her guests, an attack which the younger woman gracefully ignored. It was difficult to tell whether Frederick’s mother had any interest in the conclusion of the various stratagems. If she sided with Mabel in wishing to see Edward win Vanessa’s hand, it was impossible to tell by her consistently cold aspect. The earl had finally come to the conclusion that Cutsdean was a hotbed of partially hidden problems and worrisome emotions, but as he readied himself for bed that night he decided he was wasting his time in not acting on the most apparent to him: that of Edward’s blackmailing Captain Lawrence.

  Unfortunately, without the curricle, Edward was spending a great deal of time on the premises. His treatment of the captain’s horse had left that poor beast in no fit shape to ride for several days and Vanessa refused him permission to ride any of her horses until he learned to treat the animals with some respect. This move on her part was actually thwarting Alvescot’s plan to search Edward’s room, and he was unhappily considering the desperate measure of offering the young man one of his horses as he snuffed his candle and climbed into bed.

  In the darkness, however, he found that his thoughts drifted to his hostess rather than to schemes for ending Edward’s blackmail. His original annoyance with Vanessa had long since passed, replaced at first by a kind of sympathy for her plight and more recently by some more ephemeral emotion. It had nothing whatsoever to do with his feelings of guilt for not having come to her assistance more quickly than he had. Alvescot didn’t waste emotion on things that could not be changed, except perhaps in the case of Maria.

  And he realized, almost with surprise, that he hadn’t thought of her in days, save that once on his arrival. Well, it was about time he came to terms with that loss, he congratulated himself. Her death could have been no more final than her marriage. But there had been those two years when some sort of hope had seemed to remain, more wishful thinking perhaps than anything with a solid foundation. She might have convinced her parents to change their minds; no unexceptionable suitors might have come along. Both highly unlikely, but they had served as the basis of his hopes for a long time.

  The night was warm and Alvescot had left the window open slightly. A sultry breeze wafted the curtains but there was no moon and the darkness without was as deep as within. The earl was once again contemplating the smallness of his room, his eyes grown accustomed to the dark, when he was severely startled to hear the handle of his door turn. His first thought was that the intruder would be Edward on some nefarious mission which included the stealing of a few crowns from the pockets of his breeches, or in search of some incriminating evidence with which he could blackmail the earl. Alvescot would immediately have sprung from his bed to confront the young man, but he was sleeping in the buff and it did not appeal to his sense of dignity to be caught at such a disadvantage. So he lay still watching the door inch open.

  A head was thrust through the opening and a soft voice called, “William?”

  Alvescot was too surprised to answer.

  The door was pushed a little wider and Louisa slipped into the room. She had on nothing—no nightdress, no wrapper, not even a pair of slippers, but she carried a wavering candle. Stunned, Alvescot lay blinking at the vision of white nakedness.

  “William?” she called again, slightly louder.

  Finally recovering himself somewhat, Alvescot said in a strangled voice, “This isn’t William’s room.”

  “Oh.” The single syllable oozed disappointment. “Do you know where his room is?”

  It was a well-known fact at Cutsdean that Louisa had a difficult time finding her way around the rambling old structure. Mabel had once complained that Louisa wouldn’t be able to find the staircase if she weren’t within sight of it. Neither mother nor daughter admitted to the latter’s short-sightedness, but that was only part of the problem. Louisa had absolutely no sense of direction.

  “Yes,” Alvescot said shortly, “I know where his room is, but you aren’t going there, Louisa. You are going back to your own room and you’re going to stay there.” He felt trapped in his bed, but he thought it his gentlemanly duty to clothe her in something, anything, and he pulled out the sheet which covered him and wrapped it about himself before climbing awkwardly out of bed. He was reaching for his dressing gown when he realized that there might be a certain amount of explaining to do in the morning if it was found by Mabel, or even one of the maids, in Louisa’s bedroom.

  Instead, he picked up one of the blankets he had kicked off the bed and approached her with it, trying not to let his eyes wander to the naked body which Louisa was making no attempt to cover.

  “Here,” he said, draping the blanket around her shoulders. “You can’t walk about the halls naked, Louisa. Someone might see you.”

  Her long hair, ordinarily so youthfully displayed about her face, was pulled back severely into one long braid. The style was surprisingly appropriate to her, making the wide eyes appear more serious and less vacant. But her eyes were filled with tears now and she clutched the blanket tightly about her shivering frame. “I must go to William’s room,” she insisted.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  The coolness of Alvescot’s tone did not penetrate her preoccupation. “Oh, no, but I think he would be glad to see me, don’t you? He’s so terribly hurt by my avoiding him all the time. I don’t do it on purpose, you know. Mama won’t let me so much as say a word to him without dragging me away.”

  “Yes, well, you can’t go to his room, Louisa. It wouldn’t be proper.” The earl found it unnecessary to add anything about her nakedness.

  A gleam appeared in her eyes, which if Alvescot hadn’t known better, he would have called sly. She smiled and said, “Yes, I know it would be improper. In fact, it would be . . . compromising, wouldn’t it?”

  Something clicked in his mind. That second evening the ladies had been discussing neighborhood gossip when he entered the Saloon after dinner, something to do with compromising positions and the supposition of intimacy between two people. He regarded Louisa with wonder. “You intend to trap William into marrying you?”

  “Well,” she said, defensive now, “I really think he would like to marry me, you know. He’s very unhappy without my attention. Everyone can
see that. Mama is hoping that he will go away, but I don’t want him to.” A tear splashed onto her cheek. “I . . . I'm very fond of him.”

  “I see. Still, Louisa, I think it would be better to give him an opportunity to offer for you in the ordinary way. He might resent being forced to marry you, even if he really wants to.”

  “But he’s had twelve years!” she wailed.

  Alarmed by the piercing nature of her cry, Alvescot had visions of being descended upon by some member of the household or staff, who would not think it at all amusing to find Louisa wrapped in only a blanket standing in his room. He said soothingly, “There, there. He’ll come about. Perhaps I could have a word with him. Nothing blatant, of course! Just say a little something that would point him in the right direction.”

  “Mama has tried everything,” Louisa said stubbornly. She tugged more firmly at the blanket but only managed to accidentally uncover one small, heaving breast.

  Alvescot quickly twitched the blanket back into place and turned her toward the door. “Let me have a crack at it. Man to man, you know.” He put a great deal of confidence into his tone. “Can you find the way to your room?”

  “I suppose so,” she said doubtfully, squinting out into the hall as he opened the door.

  It would be too much, Alvescot decided, to be discovered in the hall with her, he wrapped in a sheet and she in a blanket. But there was really no alternative. If he let her leave on her own, she might end up anywhere. She might even decide to have another go at finding William’s room.

  An exasperated sigh escaped him. Really, Cutsdean was more like a madhouse than a placid country home. It would be in his best interest, he felt sure, to pack his valise in the morning and disappear, never to return again. When he thought of all the complications staying meant . . .

  “I’ll take you there,” he murmured, closing the door behind him.

  Every step of the way he listened for the sound of other footsteps or voices. When Louisa started to say something, he hushed her rather brusquely. At her door he whispered, “Go in and take off the blanket. I’ll carry it back with me so there won’t be any question in the morning.”