Writ in blood : a novel of Saint-Germain

by Yarbro, Chelsea Quinn, 1942-

  “It must be,” said Rupert, teasing her as the two shook hands.

  “I thought I told you this evening was for adults,” said Clarice, trying to summon a sternness she did not truly feel.

  “I knew you couldn’t mean it,” said Penelope with her most winning

  Writ in Blood

  135

  smile. “So I decided to join you while you have sherry.”

  “You are incorrigible, young lady,” said her father, his expression more doting than her mothers. As Waithe came into the room bearing the tall butlers table with glasses and bottles on it, Geoffrey Pearce-Manning went on, “I think we shall have a glass for Miss Penelope, as well, Waithe, since she has taken it upon herself to join us.”

  Waithe, who did not find Penelope s precociousness as acceptable as her parents, merely nodded to show he understood. He set down his table and began to pour out sherry, starting with Clarice Pearce-Manning, who asked for shooting sherry.

  “It tastes so much like hazelnuts,” she said, as if this explained her choice.

  “Dry sack, my lord?” asked Waithe of Geoffrey Pearce-Manning, knowing the answer and already pouring.

  “Yes, thank you, Waithe,” said Geoffrey Pearce-Manning, accepting the offered glass with a nonchalance his wife would never achieve.

  “Mister Bowen?” asked Waithe, putting off the moment when he would have to give sherry to Penelope.

  “Dry sack for me as well, Waithe,” he said, knowing what was expected of him.

  “And I’ll have some cream sherry,” said Penelope with an assumed hauteur that made everyone but Waithe smile.

  Waithe poured half the amount of cream sherry that he had poured for the rest into a pony. He handed it over reluctantly, thinking that this child belonged in the nursery instead of being here with her parents and their guest. He also disapproved of her obvious flirtation with Rupert Bowen, believing that such attachments ought to be rigorously discouraged. He looked around the room, then bowed slightly. “If that will be all, Madame?”

  “Certainly,” said Clarice. “Please decant the wine for dinner. Two bottles, I think.” She gave Rupert an encouraging look as she raised her glass. “Well, chin-chin everyone.”

  This toast was recited by the other three, and the first sip of sherry taken; Penelope tried not to make a face, knowing it was too childish, but her nose wrinkled.

  “How is London?” asked Clarice, addressing Rupert. “I have been wanting to get up to the theatre for a month and more.” She stared down into her glass. “I have been trying to prevail upon Geoffrey to take me to see the Divine Sarah when she next performs here. I have seen her before, of course,” she added hastily.

  “I don’t know that Bernhardt is expected to perform again in En-

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  gland any time soon,” said Rupert, who did not completely approve of women on the stage; not even brilliant actresses such as the world-famous Frenchwoman could wholly overcome his feelings on the matter. “They say her mother was a Dutch Jewess.”

  “My father saw her in Paris,” said Geoffrey Pearce-Manning, rather hurriedly, “opposite Jean Mounet-Sully, in Hernani, I think it was. Said it was—”

  “She is astonishing,” Clarice declared. “Even now, though she is not young, there is something about her.”

  “She wears . . . trousers,” said Penelope with a gulp of laughter. “I saw her photograph.” Emboldened, she added, “Its because she lost . . . part of her leg.”

  “She paints, too, so they say,” added Rupert as if this last were the most damning condemnation. He stopped himself from saying more.

  “Those theatrical sorts often aspire to other talents; Caruso is said to make sketches of his colleagues,” said Geoffrey Pearce-Manning, and was spared having to say more by the sound of an automobile arriving. “Ah. Rowena is only twenty minutes late,” he said, glancing once at Rupert as if to assure himself of the young man’s purpose.

  “At least she is home safe and sound, which is the most important thing,” said Rupert, putting down his sherry and looking toward the door to the hall. “I wonder, should I . . . ” He nodded in the direction of the door to finish his thought.

  “Let her change first,” Clarice urged with a swift glance of complicity at her husband. “She will be smirched from the road. Let her freshen up and change.”

  Rupert allowed himself to be persuaded, remarking, “What woman likes to be seen when she is not at her best. You’re right, Clarice. I have waited for many months for this day—I will wait a while longer.”

  Penelope’s eyes sparkled, and not entirely from the sherry. “Oh, Rupert.” She was young enough to find it thrilling to use his Christian name. “Are you going to propose ?” Without giving him time to answer, she added wistfully, “My sister is the luckiest woman in the world.”

  “I hope she thinks so,” Rupert said to Penelope with an indulgent smile. “We’ll have to see.”

  “But she must,” said Penelope as simply as possible. “How could she not?”

  “It is her decision to make, and one she should not make lightly,” said Rupert. “She must know her heart and mind are in accord.”

  “They will be, I know they will,” said Penelope, her cheeks flushing. “I know I would marry you in a moment.”

  Writ in Blood

  137

  “Penelope,” her mother reprimanded her gently. “This is not becoming.”

  “But it is true,” she protested. “I would marry him if I could. If I were older, I would be jealous of Rowena for having Rupert care for her. And I think Rowena would be an idiot not to accept him.” She put down her sherry and frowned at her mother. “I can’t help it if I—”

  The front door opened; Rowena’s steps rang out as she rushed toward the stairs. “Bring in my bags if you will, Waithe, and tell my parents I’ll join them in fifteen minutes, after I repair the ravages.”

  “Very good, Miss Pearce-Manning,” Waithe announced.

  “Fifteen minutes,” said Clarice. “Well, she will have time for a little sherry before we sit down. You may consider the time, if you like. I know it is foolish to keep country hours when we entertain during the week, but we are in the country, after all, and ...” She looked down at her glass. “Well. There will be time for a little more.”

  “When Rowena comes down,” agreed her husband.

  Waithe presented himself at the door to the salon. “Miss Pearce-Manning has arrived.”

  “Yes, Waithe; we know,” said Clarice, doing her best not to make this a reprimand. “Tell her we will wait for her to join us here, when she has changed.”

  “That I will, Madame,” he said, and withdrew once more.

  In the silence that followed, Penelope reminded everyone, “I will be eleven in three weeks.” She looked directly at Rupert.

  “Gracious, Penelope,” said Clarice, doing her best to recover the tone of the evening and trying not to sound upset. “One would think you were raised by prospectors, the way you talk.”

  “Well, I will,” said Penelope belligerently. She lifted up her small portion of sherry and drank a little more.

  “And you shall have a party to celebrate,” said Rupert.

  “Probably,” said Penelope. “If you and Rowena don’t spoil it.”

  “For Heaven’s sake ...!” Clarice protested, going and taking the glass from her daughter’s hand. “That is enough sherry for you, young lady. Until you can learn to master yourself. This is not appropriate behavior.”

  But Penelope was not about to give up. “If they have an engagement party, everyone will forget about my birthday.”

  “Not at all,” Rupert soothed her. “For one thing, we don’t know if Rowena will accept my proposal. I haven’t had a chance to make my offer to her yet.” He looked pleased at Penelope’s single scornful snort. “And if she does accept me, there are a number of arrangements that

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  must be dealt with. We will not have everyth
ing done before your birthday, I can promise you that. You may celebrate without fear of our plans overshadowing your event.”

  Penelope sniffed; she was beginning to feel chagrin at her outburst. “I didn’t mean I would not be happy for you, of course.”

  “I know that,” said Rupert. Had Penelope been a year or two younger, he might have ruffled her hair; as it was, he patted her shoulder.

  “You must think me quite boorish.” It was a word she had enjoyed using for the last year, one that made her feel very grown-up.

  “Never that,” Rupert promised her.

  Clarice cut into their conversation with sudden determination. “Tell Mister Bowen you are sorry for that display of yours, Penelope. You may be getting a modern education, but it does not excuse such behavior. Ask his pardon for your lapse.”

  Rupert glanced at his hostess. “Clarice, its hardly necessary—”

  “If she is to behave well in society, it is,” said Clarice firmly. “Penelope.”

  Turning her eyes up to Rupert, Penelope said in her most fetching way, “Oh, Mister Bowen, will you forgive me for making such a display of myself? I didn’t mean to offend you, or cause you any distress.”

  “Apology accepted, but not—” Rupert assured her.

  Again Clarice interrupted. “Thank him, Penelope.”

  “Thank you, Mister Bowen,” said Penelope, going on winsomely, “And truly, Rupert, 1 did not mean anything wrong. I. . . couldn’t help myself.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Penelope,” he said very seriously. “I must admit I’m flattered. I hope your sister shares your good opinion of me.” He reached out and patted her hand.

  “She must,” said Penelope, staring at Rupert with all the longing of her nearly eleven years.

  “Now, then, Penelope,” said Clarice, hoping to calm down her excitable youngest daughter before Rowena arrived; it would not do to have the child blurt out Rupert Bowen’s purpose in coming to Long-acres. She lifted her glass to Penelope. “May your good wishes inspire your sister.”

  There was a soft, relieved chuckle all ’round. Geoffrey Pearce-Manning beamed at Penelope. “You’re your mother’s daughter, no doubt about it.”

  Penelope colored from her neck to her scalp. “I just want Rupert. . . Mister Bowen in the family.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind, in case your sister refuses me,” said Rupert

  Writ in Blood

  139

  gallantly, winking at Penelope. “You’re so artless and unspoiled, I may prefer you one day.”

  By the time Rowena came down, still fussing with the topaz velvet of her long skirt, to join them, the rest were on their second glass of sherry and the announcement of soup being served had just been made: Rupert’s proposal would have to wait until the end of the evening, for the idea of interrupting dinner for anything less than immediate disaster was unimaginable. So when all the china had been taken, and the napery and silver were waiting to be taken to the kitchen, Clarice rose from the table saying, “Let us leave the gentlemen to their port and cigars.”

  Rupert intervened. “Actually, I would like a word with Rowena, if I might.” He was pleased to see the minuscule nod from her father.

  Rowena frowned slightly. “Can’t it wait until morning?” she asked him, making no excuse for her brusqueness.

  “I’d rather not wait, if you don’t mind,” said Rupert, being as polite as he could. He did not like being put off, particularly at a time like this. “I won’t need much of your time.”

  “Oh, very well,” said Rowena, her face without expression. She looked at Clarice. “I will join you in the lounge shortly.” She did not meet Rupert’s eyes. “This won’t be long, will it?”

  “I don’t know how long I will need.” Rupert sensed he was losing what little advantage he had. He took hold of Rowena’s elbow and guided her toward the door. “I think the morning room will do.”

  “At nine-thirty at night?” Rowena said impishly. “Rupert, how daring of you.” She fell in beside him, saying, “I wish you would not hang onto me so.”

  He shifted his grasp to her lower arm. “I beg your pardon.” They started down the corridor to the octagonal room on the southeast corner of the house.

  “Oh, Rupert,” she exclaimed in exasperation as she tugged to get free, “it’s not a matter of... courtesy. If you hold my elbow that way, you put me off balance, and in evening shoes, it is—”

  He regained some of his optimism. “I understand,” he told her at once, increasing his hold on her lower arm.

  Behind them at the far end of the corridor, Waithe glanced out of the rear kitchen door, and ducked back in as soon as he saw the couple.

  “Then let go, will you? I am not an invalid, needing someone to shepherd me through the halls of my family home,” she said testily. “Thank you,” she added when he complied.

  Chelsea Quinn Yarbro

  The morning room was dark, its many windows with garlanded ornamentation in stained glass showing nothing but night beyond; Rowena twisted the light switch and the room came alight, the windows serving as mirrors. Rupert made his way around the breakfast table to the wide benches under the windows. “Come here, Rowena. I need to talk to you.”

  She went toward him, dreading what was coming. “What is it? I’m tired.”

  He patted the needlepoint cushions. “Sit down, if you will.” When she did not comply at once, he said. “Please.”

  “Very well,” she said, and sat, just a little out of reach, but not so far to be obvious about it. “What do you want?”

  “I must assume you can guess the reason for my wanting to be alone with you?” His smile was indulgent, showing that he credited her with knowing his intentions.

  “I have some idea,” she answered, wishing she were almost anywhere else.

  “No doubt.” Again his smile, now tinged with nervousness, and his well-rehearsed words. “This conversation cannot be wholly unexpected, not after all the time we have known each other.” He inched nearer to her and reached out for her hand, patting it as if it were a puppy when he finally dared to touch it.

  “You have not hidden them from me,” she said, staring down at her knees. There had been many times, she thought, when she wished he had been more circumspect, or more willing to trust her judgment. She had known this moment was coming, and now that it was here, she began to anticipate relief at putting the whole behind her. She started to pull her hand away, but his fingers tightened.

  “You have no reason to be apprehensive. It must be difficult for a girl your age to believe that a change in her state is still possible.” Rupert decided things were going well. “Then it will not surprise you to know that I spoke to your father this afternoon, and obtained his permission to—”

  He was cut short. “You’ve already spoken to my father? Oh, how very like you, Rupert. Have you negotiated the property settlements yet, or would that be precipitous?” she demanded, the flare of her temper unnerving her. “How dare you talk to him before you talked to me?”

  Rupert’s expression was non-plussed. “Of course. I had to get his—”

  “Permission,” she finished for him, her tone sarcastic. “Like a boy

  Writ in Blood

  141

  wanting to ride in his first hunt.” She rose to her feet, her golden eyes shining with feverish intensity. “If you want my consent, you must have it from jne, not my father, not my mother, and not my goose of a sister. From me.” She was astonished at the fury coursing through her now, at the passion of it. Little as she wanted to admit it, in a very odd way, she was enjoying herself.

  This sudden eruption of anger took Rupert aback. He lurched to his feet, reaching out for Rowena, trying to grapple her to him. “Rowena, calm yourself. You aren’t considering-—” He did his best to press his mouth to hers.

  She turned her head away, striking out at his shoulders with her hand that was not pinioned. “Let go of me!”

  He managed to get one arm around her tigh
tly, and made another valiant attempt at a kiss, only to feel his lips slide to her jaw. “Rowena, you mustn’t be afraid of me.”

  “Afraid?” she repeated, shoving him hard enough to break free. “Is that what you think? That I am afraid? I am disgusted !”

  This blighting rebuke stung him; his ardor vanished as if by conjuration and he took a step backward, almost falling as his leg struck the bench. “Rowena ... I know I ought to ... ”

  “To what? Apologize? I have told you again and again that I do not want to marry. Not you, not anyone. I thought you respected my wishes.” She was running her hands down the front of her dress as if to rid it of contamination.

  “I do. You must believe that I do. I could not do anything else.” He took a few uncertain steps toward her only to see her raise her hands to keep him at bay. “Surely you understand that everything I have done has been for—”

  “—the antiquated rules that would keep me chattel and you the over-lord.” She overrode his calming, sensible words. “I’ve told you I will not marry. So you perform this underhanded, cowardly, unprincipled stratagem in the hope that I might be coerced into being your wife—” Her outrage silenced her at last. She stood with her back to the door, panting with wrath.

  “Nothing like that, I promise you,” Rupert said at his most placating. “You’re . . . beside yourself, Rowena. Think of what you are saying.”

  “Blast your eyes, Rupert Bowen, I know what I am saying.” She saw his shock at her language and felt fierce satisfaction. “I am not hysterical, though if you continue to treat me as if I were an imbecile, I might become so.” She turned on her heel. “I will not marry you, not now, not

  Chelsea Quinn Yarhro

  in a year, not in a century.” As she left the room, she resisted the urge to slam the door: the servants would doubtless have more than enough to gossip about already. She gathered up her skirts and would have gone to her room, but the sight of Waithe at the far end of the corridor brought her up short, and she made for the lounge, doing her best to keep from running.

  Clarice was in a high-backed leather chair bent over a copy of A Room with a View, squinting at the page. She did not look up as the door opened, but said, “I meant it, Penelope. You must go to bed now.”