Scarlet Shadows

by Elizabeth Darrell

  “She will conduct you to your room, where you will wish to refresh yourself with some tea and to rest before dinner. I shall come to escort you to the withdrawing room a half hour before the dinner gong in order to introduce you to my parents.” He took her gloved fingers and kissed them. “Until then, my dear.”

  In something of a state of shock Victoria glided up the staircase in the wake of a smiling housekeeper. So she was not to meet Lord and Lady Blythe until just before dinner! It was hardly the welcome she had expected. Her aunt and uncle never packed guests off to their rooms without greeting them warmly and inquiring after the comfort of their journey. Her spirits sank.

  So many corridors without a soul about! Mrs. Trume smiled but said nothing. It did not occur to the girl that the housekeeper was trained to speak only when approached by her superiors: Victoria’s own silence governed her behavior. The corridors were vast and silent. It seemed to Victoria they had been walking forever, and her heart grew heavier and heavier. Finally, the housekeeper paused before a door. Thank heaven Charles was to collect her, for she was certain to lose herself if she stepped outside her suite of rooms. It had never occurred to her that her future husband’s home would be quite so splendid.

  There was a little comfort to be gained when she was shown into a small set of rooms where a pretty young maid awaited her, blushing to discover her mistress no older than herself. The sitting room was pale blue and rose, with touches of ivory. A chaise longue, low round-seated chairs and two round vanity tables clustered before blazing logs in a fireplace that dominated one wall. The soft lighting, the warmth and the comforting youth of the maid brought a smile from Victoria as she hurried toward the fire, untying the ribbons of her bonnet.

  Sipping tea and sitting on one of the low chairs before the fire, Victoria plied her maid with questions as she unpacked her mistress’s luggage. The task took a long time, because the girl was forced to keep walking to the connecting doorway in order to answer more fully. At last, when Victoria could manage no more muffins and the warmth that had crept over her body was making her sleepy, she allowed Rosie to undress her and make her comfortable on the chaise longue with a soft rug to cover her.

  But no sooner had the maid discreetly closed the connecting door and Victoria was left alone than she was wide awake, her mind racing on a course that robbed her of all serenity. As she went over the details of her arrival it occurred to her that she was doing just as she was told until her future parents-in-law were ready to meet her. A little flame sprang up in her breast, and she began to think over the other grievances she had felt.

  Since Charles had been at great pains to leave her in no doubt of her important role in the continuation of the Stanfords, some acknowledgment of it should have been made on her arrival. After all, she thought pettishly, if she were to supply an heir to all this she should never have been packed off for muffins and a rest, like a child. As she dwelt on this, her anger swelled until she had persuaded herself Charles’s parents should be quite falling over themselves to please her. Why should they not? she asked herself crossly, bouncing into a more comfortable position on the padded brocade.

  If she should decide not to have an heir, where would they be? Quite who decided the matter she was not sure, but gentlemen were always so surprised when their wives were in a delicate condition it must be supposed they had no say in it. How a female came to be in a delicate condition was a complete mystery to Victoria, except that she had an idea it was something to do with showing one’s ankles. Since great insistence on never doing such a thing with gentlemen present was always made by matrons, young girls could only suppose something quite drastic would befall them if they did.

  The thought of revealing her ankles to Charles brought an uncomfortable ache to her stomach, and she felt herself grow uncomfortably warm. Her cousin Charlotte had once whispered that the officers of the 44th Foot — or was it the 54th — often attended a theater in London where vulgar actresses displayed not only their ankles but even their knees! It seemed likely that cavalry officers also attended such places, in which case there was the possibility that Charles was among them. She bit her lip. He was so very proper with ladies it did not seem possible that he could do such a thing, but there were times when a strange intensity came into his eyes when he looked at her, and since their engagement he had alarmed her from time to time with embraces she would not like anyone to witness.

  Forcing her mind from something that only caused her agitation, Victoria once more gave rein to her indignation against the Blythes. What kind of lady would allow her son’s promised wife to arrive in her home without bustling out to welcome her? Her surprise that she had not been introduced to Charles’s parents before he spoke for her was satisfied by Uncle Garth, who explained that a man of thirty-eight did not expect to have to ask his father’s permission to marry, although Lord Blythe had been informed of Victoria’s pedigree in advance and had approved the alliance. That small confidence had increased Victoria’s chagrin, since it suggested that it did not matter about her appearance or manners so long as her blood was right.

  She had been offhand with Charles for several days as a result, but no one could remain so for long. Hardly a week passed without some beautiful present arriving at her door; he never called upon her without bearing flowers or sweetmeats; and, most important, he seemed to worship her. He might have made it plain what her duty was to be, but, unlike his parents, he recognized her importance and doted on her.

  This comforting fact might have lulled her anger had it not been for a note that had been delivered by Charles’s valet into the hands of Rosie, the maid. Victoria opened it with great curiosity.

  Dearest,

  I cannot wait to show you to my parents. It will be a proud moment for me.

  Victoria thought him charmingly absurd to write to tell her such a thing. But the next sentence added the finishing touches to her anger against her hosts.

  I shall be pleased if you will wear your simplest gown. Mama has a great dislike of over- ornamentation. She also abhors unpunctuality, so I earnestly request you to be ready when I come at the half hour.

  Color flooded Victoria’s cheeks as she crushed the sheet of crested notepaper and flung it into the fire just as Rosie tentatively asked which gown Miss Castledon wished to be laid out. In high dudgeon Miss Castledon marched to her wardrobe and indicated an extremely elaborate, silver-green satin dress, swathed with silver net caught up all around the skirt with bunches of artificial snowdrops. It had been intended for a party, but it would make its debut tonight. She would be ready on time, for punctuality was a matter of good manners, but Charles would see she had no intention of playing the good child any longer.

  The withdrawing room was dark and impressive. Rich wood paneling hung with heavy portraits, carpeting of royal blue and crimson that offset deep red upholstery, and gigantic jars and platters of oriental design placed on cumbersome pedestals, all gave Victoria a feeling of drowning in splendor. The ceiling was high and vanished into shadows, the carpet went on forever and the three people already assembled there were marooned on chairs at all points of the compass, like strangers who occupied a small kingdom and ruled it in isolation.

  Charles’s arm held her firmly as he led his bride-to-be across the room. The glint was still in his eyes, but he had not said a word about her costume. Indeed, as he escorted her down the stairs, he had not said a single word at all. Now, they were marching across an endless expanse of carpet toward a matron in crimson taffeta whose proportions vanished into the matching upholstery so that Victoria could not tell if she was tall or short, slender or plump. That she had once been pink and pretty was still apparent, but the liveliness of youth had disappeared. Charles stopped before her and raised her hand to his lips.

  “Mama, I have written to you of my deep regard for Miss Castledon, and she has been so anxious to be presented to you I could delay no longer in bringing her to Wychbourne.”

  Victoria sank into a deep curtsy t
hat would have delighted Aunt Almeira with its gracefulness.

  “Get up, child,” said Lady Blythe in a faded voice. Close-set eyes raked Victoria up and down. “So you are my son’s choice! Well, you are very pretty and, I suppose, have the winning ways that please gentlemen, but did no one advise you on your dress? Ah, of course, you are an orphan, are you not? Never mind, we can see to it before the nuptials…and before any harm is done. Augustus,” she called to the occupant of a chair away to her right. “Here is Miss…” then louder, “Augustus!”

  Lord Blythe looked up from a paper he was reading and rose quickly. “Bless my soul, I had not noticed you come in, Charles. Forgive me, Miss Castledon.” He came across, a tall, elegant figure in the evening clothes that suited him and his son so well. “I have been awaiting this moment, yet was so deep in an account of land taxes that I must have appeared unforgivably rude. Welcome to Wychbourne, my dear. How do you find it?”

  Victoria rose from another graceful curtsy. “Rather lonely, sir, when I find one is compelled to communicate by the sending of notes.”

  Charles reacted visibly, and she had the delight of knowing he was staring at her, nonplussed.

  Lord Blythe laughed. “Yes, yes, well, one grows tired of trundling back and forth along all the corridors. Of course, the place has changed beyond recognition. Too many laws and statutes these days. Endless paperwork. Industry ruins anything rural, you know. Yes, it is all changing,” he repeated, introspection glazing his blue eyes.

  “I hope it does not alter too much, for what I saw on the way from the station was quite charming,” Victoria told him.

  He seemed to shake himself mentally. “Eh? Yes, yes, it is a fine part of England.” A smile lit his face. “That is a dashed pretty dress, if I may say so. Very astute of you, Charles, to choose a wife with such looks.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Charles’s eyes still glared at the subject of the compliment.

  “Well, I cannot agree,” put in Lady Blythe waspishly. “The essence of good taste is simplicity. You will never find Charity Verewood in anything but the plainest styles.”

  “One cannot compare Miss Castledon with Miss Verewood,” protested Lord Blythe. “Charity’s personality is such that austereness better suits it.”

  Victoria was already beginning to regret her impulse to defy Charles. “I always consider Charles when selecting a gown,” she put in, hoping to end the subject. “He has always admired individuality. Is that not so, Charles?” She looked up at him with wide eyes, but was not prepared for the binning intensity in his as he replied with difficulty, “Yes, Victoria.”

  “You will have the pleasure of meeting Miss Verewood before long,” said Lady Blythe. “Her parents own the neighboring estate. Such a goodhearted girl. Now Charles has selected a bride of his own choice, the way is open for his brother. Hugo knows such a union would please me more than anything.”

  Charles gave his father a quick glance, then said, “I should not depend upon it, Mama.”

  “Am I never to meet this girl?” demanded a strident voice from the third chair. “You all imagine I have long since passed on, I know, but I will see the boy’s bride. I insist upon it.”

  Charles put his hand beneath Victoria’s elbow and said in a low voice, “My great-aunt Sophy is very deaf, but that is her only failing. She is very sharp in wits for a lady of eighty-nine.”

  The old lady wore a dark-green dress of Regency style and an enormous taffeta turban on her head, and she appeared to be smothered in ropes of pearls. Victoria soon discovered that Aunt Sophy was not only stone deaf but imagined everyone to whom she spoke suffered from the same affliction.

  “Aunt, may I present Miss Castledon?” asked Charles after dutifully kissing the stick-like fingers she offered.

  “I suppose this is Miss Castledon,” she declared loudly, unable to hear the volume of her own voice. “Oh yes, I know the young lady’s name. There is not much I miss. Well, you are very lovely, Miss Castledon, for which you must be congratulated. It is a woman’s duty to look as beautiful as possible. You show excellent taste, despite the terrible bell shape that is so fashionable these days. One might suppose females had no legs…but if Her Majesty approves, one cannot condemn it.” Her turbaned head turned, and she gave her great-nephew one of her completely audible asides. “She’ll do, Charles. Youth is a great asset. You can depend on her bearing you many fine children.”

  Victoria flushed with rage. It was plain Charles was fighting a terrible battle against laughter. The moment was saved by the dinner gong. Lady Blythe rose with every sign of impatience, and Victoria was given an example of the lady’s temperament.

  “We shall be late if we do not go in immediately. Charles, you may take me and Miss Castleford on your arm. Your papa can bring Sophy. She is sure to take an age.”

  “It is Miss Castledon, Mama… Victoria, if you please.”

  “Do hurry, Augustus, the soup is sure to be cold if you keep us waiting.”

  Now that she was standing, it was revealed to. Victoria that the lady was short and plump — the picture of motherly kindness in every way but for her manner. That was eccentric in the most hurtful way. Lord Blythe was charming, like his son, but appeared too greatly absorbed in the worries of the estate, which put a frown on his face when he was not taking part in the conversation.

  They had settled around a table that obliged each person to sit at least six feet away from the other, when Lord Blythe said, “I trust you will not find life too dull at Wychbourne. We do not entertain overmuch, my dear, but I expect you young people will be going to parties and such like.”

  “Where is Hugo?” cried Aunt Sophy, making Victoria jump. No one took the slightest notice of her.

  “The Verewoods are giving a ball, are they not, Charles?” Lady Blythe signaled for the soup plates to be removed the minute the last spoon was lowered.

  “Yes, Mama. I hope it does not snow. Last year James Ferriston landed his gig in the ditch and had to walk home.”

  “I trust you do not encourage his acquaintance. I believe it was not so far back that a Ferriston tilled the land with his own hands. They try to hide it, of course, but everyone knows.”

  “I suppose he will arrive late, as usual,” Aunt Sophy complained in her cracked voice. “Hugo is never dependable, but it will be a shockingly dull Christmas without him.”

  “I quite like old Ferriston,” commented Lord Blythe as if the old lady had not spoken. “He gave me some excellent advice on vines once.”

  “Quite!” said Lady Blythe, attacking the turbot with enthusiasm. “That bears out my point. Nobody of any consequence is an expert on plants.”

  “My uncle is an eminent physician, yet he can coax even the most stubborn plants to thrive,” put in Victoria determinedly. “He says horticultural interest relaxes the nerves. I do not know how true it is.”

  Lady Blythe leaned forward and said across the table, “How long have you been orphaned, Miss…?”

  “Victoria,” supplied Charles instantly. “Her parents died in India when she was an infant.”

  “Dear me… India! Well, of course, it is such a heathen country.” She waved a hand at the butler. “Pray, do not stand there, Norton. We are waiting.”

  The fish was replaced by duck beneath Victoria’s bemused eyes, but she could not begin to eat any of it. All at once she felt weak with homesickness and longed for Aunt Almeira, who now seemed the embodiment of loving maternity. Lady Blythe, on the other hand, appeared so uninterested in her successor as to forget her name…and it was all too plain that the simply dressed Miss Verewood had been the lady’s choice for Charles.

  Victoria was too young to have suffered much from deep hurt, but this was the second occasion since her engagement that someone had drawn that knife edge across her emotions. Harry Edmunds’s rebuff at the regimental review had been a cruel shock, but the young lieutenant was not likely to cross her path too often. This was different. Not having a mama of her own, Victoria had cherished
a hope that Lady Blythe might see her as the daughter with whom she had never been blessed.

  For a few moments Victoria feared she would succumb to tears, but at the thought of her cousins, who had been filled with envy at her good fortune, her head came up again. She would not let herself be cast down by this ill-mannered woman. If defying her preference for plain dressing was not enough to impress herself on Lady Blythe, she would do something less easily forgotten. If she were expected to provide an heir for the noble Stanfords, she would be recognized as someone of importance.

  The conversation had turned to plans for the carol singing that took place in the grounds of Wychbourne each year.

  “I depend more and more on Charity to help me with social tasks. I do hope Hugo will do his duty to me and to her when he is next here.” Lady Blythe turned to Victoria in the most confiding way. “Hugo is greatly attached to her, and it is no wonder, for her looks are only exceeded by her wealth.” Her glance shot across to her son. “Really, an excellent match for any gentleman.”

  Victoria felt her color rising. “If we are to be sisters, I trust it will not be long before I meet the delightful young woman.”

  “You are certain to get on famously,” put in Charles, “for she has the sweetest of natures.”

  “And does your aunt also consider she will bear many fine children?”

  It was out before she had known she was about to say such a thing, and Victoria’s heart thudded against the silver-green bodice in the silence that followed.

  Suddenly, Lord Blythe began to laugh until he was forced to wipe his eyes with his napkin. “Damme, if you have not chosen yourself a saucy little miss, Charles.”

  “Yes,” he breathed. “Damme, if I have not!”

  “Gentlemen!” wailed Lady Blythe. “I will not have such language at the dinner table. It has come to a pretty pass when I find coffeehouse manners in my own dining room. Silver spangles and unsuitable conversation! If these are town ways, I declare I want no part of them.”