Chapter Ten
Cleome tossed and turned in her solitary bed, strangely unsettled by Drake’s kiss, reliving every moment of their embrace and wondering why it instilled within her such delicious fear. Shortly before the first light of morning streaked the sky, his words, T’was a kiss . . . nothing more, echoed inside her head. Suddenly, she understood the source of her fear. Perhaps it was just a kiss for him, but to her it was much more; and his words troubled her. In spite of her inexperience in such matters, she knew she was falling in love with Drake Stoneham. But she had not the slightest idea how to—or even if she should—act on that awesome fact. Reflecting over and over on the sweet caresses she and Drake had shared, she felt too excited to sleep but soon the velvet clutches of a dream in which Drake bent close to her and his mouth captured hers enveloped her.
A little while later, she sat up, suddenly alert and remembering Mr. Landshire’s impending visit. A fire was burning brightly in the hearth, and she saw that Mary had already been in and pulled the curtains back, revealing the gray, rainy day that awaited her. As she threw off the covers and got out of bed, there was a tapping on her door and then Jacqueline entered with a large copper can of hot water. She smiled upon seeing Cleome standing barefoot in the middle of the room like a confused child.
“Mademoiselle!” she chuckled. “Your death will catch you if you do not remain warm in your bed. But no, is better to go into the hot bath I prepare for you.”
“Nonsense. Why was I allowed to oversleep so shamefully? I had hoped to have my work done before Mr. Landshire arrives.”
“Non, cherie. The master has ordered every consideration for you.” And the determined French woman would have it no other way. Soon Cleome was out of her nightgown and in the steaming tub Drake had loaned her only the night before, so that she could prepare for the Harvest Ball. After her bath, Jacqueline brought up her breakfast and fussed over her in a delightful mixture of English and French. She helped Cleome into her best day dress and then insisted on arranging her hair.
“When you are so great a lady, you will remember that Jacqueline make a good lady’s maid, oui?” she said.
At last Jacqueline was satisfied with her appearance and Cleome walked slowly downstairs as if enroute to the guillotine instead of the parlor. Drake was waiting for her there, and when she entered he held his hand out to her. She took it and he escorted her to the big chair that had been her grandfather’s favorite. Before either of them could speak, the bell over the door in the reception hall clanged loudly, announcing the arrival of a guest.
“I wish you the best, Cleome,” Drake said, and he brushed her hand with his lips before he released it.
She longed to ask him what his kisses meant. Instead she replied simply, “Thank you, sir,” as Fanny came in and curtsied before him.
“Two gentlemen to see Cleome, sir,” Fanny announced resentfully as Garnett rushed into the room, Oliver Landshire at his side.
“I say, Cleome, you look positively ravishing,” declared Garnett as Fanny relieved him and Mr. Landshire of their hats and coats. “Drake,” Garnett nodded to their host and continued pleasantly, “I trust the onset of this foul weather has not kept you from anything important.”
“No,” Drake replied without returning his neighbor’s smile. “It has not.”
“Miss Parker, may I say how delighted I am to see you again,” Oliver offered.
“Thank you, sir. Won’t you sit down?” she responded politely, and Drake ordered Fanny to bring in some tea. They made pleasant conversation until Mr. Landshire had warmed his gnarled hands around a cup of the hot brew and turned to Cleome, at last ready to begin.
“Well, miss. I hope you are prepared for a delightful surprise—and I trust you have a strong heart,” the barrister announced.
“I am eager to hear of any relative charitable enough to undertake my care, and my mother’s,” Cleome replied. “There’s one thing, however, that Mr. Easton neglected to mention in his correspondence; and that is my mother’s condition. She has not been well for some time and of course, I wouldn’t expect any relation, no matter how generous, to extend support to both of us, in such a situation.”
“Relatives?” Mr. Landshire looked at her curiously. “I’ve discovered absolutely no kin of yours anywhere, Miss Parker, for which you can be most grateful.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Cleome said. “Your letter stated—”
“My letter stated that I have some interesting information for you, and because this sort of news is usually greeted with joy and thanksgiving, I did not wish to disclose it in an impersonal letter.” He rubbed his hands against each other, and then holding his cup out for Cleome to refill, he went on, “My dear young lady, you and your mother have inherited the entire Houghton estate, which has remained in my care and jurisdiction since the death of Lord Henry’s only brother. You see, the old man’s will provided that in the event his brother died childless—and he very considerately remained a confirmed bachelor to his last breath—the estate would revert to Adelaide’s descendants. Now, I understand from young Easton here that your mother is not quite . . . ah, well . . . able to take any of this in, or to make decisions for herself. So naturally, my dear, you must take responsibility. You are next in line.”
“Next in line for what, precisely?” Drake asked when Cleome remained silent.
“Why, her inheritance, sir. The figures have not been brought up to date, but I can assure you they run high, very high. The interest alone is over eighteen thousand pounds a year. There is the property and income from various enterprises, and the title. No small matter, that. How do you think you’ll like being addressed as Lady Cleome?”
Cleome was speechless, so great was her amazement; but the energetic Mr. Landshire suffered no such malady. He poured himself another cup of tea and continued. “It is a bit of a shock at the moment, I’m sure, but believe me, one gets accustomed to wealth in a scandalously short time.”
Garnett, too, was speechless but only for a moment. “Mr. Landshire, do you mean to say Cleome is her own mistress, free to go or stay anywhere she wishes?”
“Indeed, I am. Exactly that.”
“Why—you never said a word about it last night.” He turned to Cleome, happiness lighting his face. “After asking a few questions about you and your mother he refused to divulge one scrap of information.”
Cleome stared at Garnett, unbelieving. “How can I ever thank you?” she finally managed, offering her hand, which he accepted and pressed to his lips.
“We must share these glad tidings with my mother. And my father—not even he can discount such wealth,” he said. “You must come to tea at Easton Place,”
“Garnett!” She exclaimed, laughing. “I couldn’t! It is unthinkable.”
“Nothing is unthinkable,” Drake put in quietly, “when one has inherited eighteen thousand a year, and that just the interest.”
“And you must get to know my scamp of a niece a little better,” Oliver put in. “She will be a good companion for you when you come down to London.”
“I cannot go to London,” Cleome protested. “My mother is an invalid, Mr. Landshire. I cannot leave her side. And I need time to . . . to sort all this out.”
“Nothing to sort out, except your wardrobe, of course,” Landshire countered. “And then deciding when you’ll go. We’ll see that your mother has a nurse round the clock, for we’ve much to do. I must explain all your holdings and you must take up your residence at Houghton Hall, which is out near Cambridge. You have a vast estate to manage, my dear, for your mother and yourself. There’s no one else to do it—at least not until you’ve a husband to look after your interests.”
“I am sure she will soon see all the possibilities now before her,” Drake said coldly, ending the interview. “Mr. Landshire, we cannot sufficiently express our thanks for this happy news. Of course, you gentlemen will stay to lunch with the right honorable Miss Parker before braving this storm again.” Even thou
gh she was still trying to take in the implications of the barrister’s astonishing news, Cleome noticed how easily Drake referred to her with the title appropriate to her new station. He bowed slightly to her. “And then, milady, we shall decide the best course of action for you,” he said.
**
Her grandfather had once told her that life was full of surprises, and that each new dawn could be the beginning of an entirely different existence. But as Cleome’s existence had to that point gone on the same from day to day, she could not accept his philosophy as fact. Now, within a few short hours, her world had turned completely topsy-turvy, and she was not at all sure it would be to her liking.
Garnett departed as soon as he’d finished his tea and Drake chatted pleasantly with Cleome and Oliver Landshire, waiting a little impatiently, she thought, until the lawyer took his leave. Then he escorted her back into the little parlor and shut the door.
“I must congratulate you on your good fortune, mademoiselle.”
“Good fortune would have been a kindly relative willing to lend a helping hand. Now I must be a lady, and curtsied to and fawned over. I don’t believe I shall like that.”
“You will like what use the money can be. What will you do now?”
“I would like to go to London, but only to see the opening of Stoneham House. Until then, continue to work here—”
“That is out of the question,” he said. “Absolutely.”
“But why?”
“Because, little baroness, you must consider your new position. I’d be honored if you continue to take your meals with me, but no more work. You must prepare for your journey, and your new life.”
“But I like my life the way it is,” she proclaimed.
“You confound me!” He was puzzled. “Do you not wish to spend at least one season in London, and enjoy a life of luxury in Houghton Hall?”
“Mamma is not well enough to go to London. I cannot possibly leave her.”
“She is quite well enough to do without you for a few weeks, Cleome.” His tone was sober. “And you must face your new responsibilities. I’ll wager Lady Easton will want to introduce you into society, as you certainly must be.”
“Why must I be?” she asked, anxious. “It’s not something I’ve ever wished for.”
“Nevertheless, it is important,” he told her. “And you have a great deal to learn from Oliver Landshire. You must know how to properly manage your estate, at least until you marry.”
“You forget, sir, why that is impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible with eighteen thousand a year—”
“And that just the interest,” she finished, and they both laughed.
“I want you in London,” he told her warmly and again she felt drawn to him, pulled as if by a powerful, invisible magnet. “Properly chaperoned by Lady Easton, you will be able to enjoy the opening of Stoneham House with no fear of gossip or infamy, as you would likely suffer in my employ. Take Jacqueline—she’ll make an efficient lady’s maid. Mr. Landshire will hire a staff to reopen Houghton Hall and your mother will be fine with Mary and the others to look after her.” He took her hands and looked into her eyes. “Will you go? I’d like to have you there.”
“Yes,” she said at last. “I will go, at least for the opening; and then Mamma and I will decide together what to do and where to live. In the meantime, I would rather the servants not be told anything.”
“And why is that?”
“They will start to think of me differently and I cannot bear to be placed apart from them. They are my friends . . . my family, in a sense.”
There was a light knock on the door and Fanny came in to curtsy before Drake. With an aggrieved attitude, she said, “Excuse me, sir, but footman’s here from over to Easton Place, with a note for Miss Cleome. He’d like to take back her answer, if you please, sir.”
“Well, show him in, then.”
“And there’s a messenger come for you, sir. Just arrived on the noon coach. From the looks of ’im, he’s had a long, hard journey.”
“Take him into the kitchen and give him something to eat. Tell him I’ll be with him shortly,” Drake ordered.
Fanny curtsied again and ambled slowly out of the room. Moments later, a liveried footman entered with an envelope addressed to Cleome.
“Elizabeth Easton has invited me to take tea with her tomorrow,” she told Drake on reading the contents. To the footman, she said, “Please thank her ladyship, but I must decline.”
“Wait outside,” Drake ordered the manservant. When he had stepped from the room, Drake went on, “You shouldn’t be so hasty in your refusal. And don’t be shy—it doesn’t become you. The world is waiting, Cleome. Why do you hesitate?”
She wanted to cry out to him, because it’s not the world I want—it’s you! Instead, she said, “Lady Easton has never invited me to tea before. Why should I go now and be bored and uncomfortable?”
“You’ll need people like the Landshires and the Eastons,” he reasoned. “They’ll smooth your way into society so that you can enjoy the advantages of wealth and position, and so that your children can have a better life than you did.”
“You forget my situation, Mr. Stoneham. You know I cannot marry.”
“I know nothing of the sort. You are now wealthy enough to make your own rules.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded. “But I must confess—this strange turn of events is overwhelming.”
He took her small hand in his large one and held it securely. “Have no fear, milady. I shall not desert you. We’ll take London by storm.” He made no mention of the kiss or the feelings he said they would explore; and the next day, when she came down to have breakfast in the kitchen with the servants, he was gone.
She asked if the master had been down to breakfast yet, and Fanny informed her that after he’d spoken with the messenger, he had gone immediately out to the stables and told Young Sam to prepare his horse for a long journey.
“So suddenly,” Cleome said. “I hope nothing is amiss.”
“Oh,” Fanny said slyly, winking at Della. “But ’tis a miss. At least, that’s what messenger said. Something about a lady what’s in trouble or sick or some such. Said the master must come straightaway . . . and ‘e did. First to Newcastle and then perhaps all the way to Rome.” Leveling a spiteful look at Cleome, she finished gleefully, “So it is a miss, and one what’s important to ’im, I reckon.”
**
Tea with Lady Easton, without the presence of the charming Edwina, would have been torture for Cleome, in spite of Mr. Landshire’s approving smile and Garnett’s solicitude. She had never thought to sit in the Easton’s lavish parlor in her least mended dress and try to make polite conversation while at the same time wondering about the mysterious woman who had called Drake away from the Eagle’s Head. But Edwina, who was educated and gregarious, drew her out. They discovered that they liked the same books and music, although Cleome’s experience with the latter was limited.
“What a delight to find someone else who has read Mary Shelley’s monster book!” crowed Edwina. “Have you read her mother’s work?”
“Not as yet,” Cleome replied a little stiffly. “Books are somewhat limited here.”
“My mamma thinks Mrs. Godwin was a terrible bluestocking—and I one as well, for agreeing with her philosophy,” Edwina quipped, heedless of Lady Easton’s disapproval. “When you come to London, I shall loan you my very own copy of her essays, which of course I keep at Uncle Oliver’s house.”
It was decided, during that fateful tea, that Cleome should be ready to leave for London within a month. Mr. Landshire would go on ahead to arrange for suitable rooms in his residence where she and Jacqueline would live until Houghton Hall was ready for occupancy; and Edwina would stay at Easton Place and travel with Cleome and her maid from Oakham down to the city. Cleome’s wardrobe could be brought up to date once she reached London, where she could also enjoy museums, fine restaurants and the theatre while learning her new r
ole and beginning to claim her proper place in society.
“And you shall have music,” Edwina assured her. “Concerts and operas to your heart’s content.”
“Do you play, my dear?” Elizabeth asked Cleome.
“No, milady. I’m afraid I do not.”
“And you, Miss Landshire?” Elizabeth politely included Edwina though her disapproval of the bold young lady was thinly disguised. Edwina seemed not to notice.
“Oh, a little,” she replied modestly and Oliver Landshire laughed out loud.
“A little, indeed!” he exclaimed. “Without much coaxing, Lady Easton, we can persuade the lass to give us an exhibition of her modest talent.’”
“I shall be glad to turn the pages for you, little one,” volunteered Garnett.
“I have no music with me sir,” Edwina responded. “But no matter. I’ll play one of my own composition.” With growing excitement, she went to the piano, taking a moment to caress the black and ivory keys as she looked at them with pure, unadulterated love. Then she sat down before the instrument; and as if offering a sacrament to heaven, she began to play. Magnificent sounds filled the parlor, trilling upstairs to fill the house and drifting out through the window, making even the field hands pause in their harvesting to listen. Her passion was evident as she swayed with the music, carried away on wings of splendor, hardly aware of where she was. When she was finished, there was a stunned silence in the room.
Oliver began to applaud and the others joined in. Edwina rose from the piano stool, glowing with happy exertion, her hair falling in damp curls around her face. Embarrassed, she refused to look at Garnett but she accepted her uncle’s hearty embrace. As Lady Easton stiffly ordered the maid to bring in more tea, Cleome heard Edwina whisper to Oliver and was touched by the fear in her tone.
The Lodestone Page 17
