He went out. She heard him say something to the housekeeper. Then the little woman stepped through the doorway. "Do you find everything to your liking, milady?"
Mrs. Corcoran had been surprised by Sir Patrick's letter ordering her to prepare this long-unused room for Lady Stanford. Strange that a husband and wife, particularly newlyweds, should occupy separate rooms. But then, perhaps that was the custom among the English gentry.
"It is a beautiful room, and I do thank you for the apple blossoms. But, Mrs. Corcoran, would you not agree that the staff, with only Sir Patrick and his brother to please, have become a bit slipshod about their work?"
Seeing the hurt astonishment in the woman's face, Elizabeth instantly regretted her words. It was apparent now that Mrs. Corcoran and the other servants, spurred by the prospect of Elizabeth's arrival, had achieved what were for them new heights of diligence and efficiency.
Elizabeth said lamely, "It is just that I noticed a dust roll under that chest."
Mrs. Corcoran crouched down and stared at the furry gray cylinder as if contemplating something absolutely new to her experience, such as an infant alligator.
"Why, so there is!" Grunting slightly, she stood up. "You need have no fear, milady! I will give those lazy girls a scolding they will never forget."
Elizabeth smiled. "Don't be too hard on them. In time, you and I together will set everything to rights."
Elizabeth did not know it, but with those four words, "you and I together," she had won Mrs. Corcoran's heart for life. "That we will, milady," the housekeeper said. "And now I will go fetch Rose, and she and I will unpack your trunk."
Later that evening, in the large dining hall, Patrick sat at one end of the long oaken table and Elizabeth at the other, with Colin seated between them. Elizabeth soon found that if the housekeeping at Stanford Hall was inadequate, the cooking was not. Hungry after the long day of traveling, she helped herself generously to the roast lamb, green peas, and boiled potatoes proffered by two red-haired footmen. Patrick, silent and seemingly abstracted, left most of the conversation to Colin and Elizabeth.
She said, smiling at her brother-in-law, "How is it that I have never seen you in London during the season?"
He returned her smile. "Since I do not dance, London balls don't interest me. And I have never cared for gaming. Besides, I have much to occupy me here at the hall and at Edgewood."
"Edgewood?"
"The small estate Patrick's father and mine left to me at his death ten years ago. It is less than two hours' ride from here." He hesitated, and then said, with a glance at Patrick, "I suppose that you know we are half-brothers."
It was Patrick who answered the question, his voice curt. "I have told her the circumstances."
For several moments no one spoke. Then Elizabeth turned to Colin. "Is your mother still in Dublin?"
"No. As soon as I inherited Edgewood, I brought her there to live."
"How wonderful for her!" Elizabeth cried. "She must have been so lonely for you all during those years she spent in Dublin."
Patrick said, as if scenting a criticism of the third baronet, "I would assume she was glad that his father and mine acknowledged Colin and brought him here to raise as his son."
Colin's large dark eyes looked steadily at his brother.
"Of course she was glad. But nevertheless, Lady Stanford is right. My mother was lonely in Dublin."
"Please!" Elizabeth said. "Must you call me Lady Stanford? After all, I am your sister-in-law."
He smiled at her. "Very well, Elizabeth."
Abruptly Patrick got to his feet. "If you will excuse me, I will not wait for the last course. I want to go over the ledgers."
After a moment Colin said, "Then I had best go over them with you." He stood up. "Please excuse us both, Elizabeth."
The fact that she ate her plum tart in solitude did not lessen Elizabeth's enjoyment of it one whit. Afterward she went to her room. Mrs. Corcoran and Rose—a stocky girl whose pink-and-white face under a bedraggled cap did indeed somewhat resemble a wild rose—were hanging the last of the trunk's contents in the wardrobe. To judge by the time the task had taken them, they must have examined and discussed each garment. And to judge by the rueful look with which the girl hung up an untrimmed dark cloak, she and Mrs. Corcoran, like Sir Patrick, had found Elizabeth's garments lacking in splendor.
But the smile with which the girl turned to her was both eager and respectful. "Will you be wanting me to help you undress now, milady?"
"Thank you. Thank you both. But I am very tired and would rather do for myself tonight."
A few minutes later she slipped between the linen sheets on the vast bed and blew out the five candles in their branched candelabrum. She had dreaded this first night in a strange house in an alien land, and not only because she feared that Patrick Stanford, after all, might demand his conjugal rights. She had also anticipated that she would lie awake for hours, tormented by the memory of Donald's white, suffering face.
But she was exhausted by almost fifty miles of travel and a host of new impressions. Within minutes she fell asleep.
***
When Patrick Stanford finally went to bed on the other side of that heavy oak door, he was not so fortunate. He lay awake in the darkness, brooding gaze fixed on the barely visible bulk of a bureau across the room. What a damnable situation, married to a woman who probably right now was weeping into her pillow over that parson fellow.
And the way she had behaved at table that night, talking so easily to Colin, and smiling at him. She had never smiled at him so warmly, no, not even that night when they had first met, at the Armitages' ball. Perhaps she had no taste for anyone except bookish men who would sit around discussing Milton with her.
Or perhaps she had been friendly with Colin in the hope that he, Patrick, would react with irritation. In that case, it would be best in the future not to appear irritated. And as a matter of fact, why should he care how often she smiled at Colin, as long as it went no further than smiling? As he had warned her today, he had no intention of allowing her to make him a cuckold. And that was not just because of considerations of honor. To have standing with other men, a man needed their respect, and he could not command it if he wore horns.
Damn the woman! True, he had wronged her dreadfully, but his provocation had been great. And after he had received her letter, he had tried to behave as well as he could. He had not only married her, but had tacitly agreed to stay out of her bed. He had thought that would not be difficult. After all, the world was full of women, many of them both attractive and willing. He had not expected to lie awake like this, thinking of her on the other side of that door....
He needed to get away from her, as soon as possible, so as to sort out his feeling about her. On the tenth, taking a sum of money with him, he was to meet with some men at a Dublin inn. There was no reason why he should not go up there a few days ahead of time. He would start out at daylight tomorrow.
He sat up, thumped the bolster several times with his fist, and then lay down again.
***
In his bedroom off the opposite side of the gallery, Colin Stanford also lay awake. His sister-in-law was not at all what he had expected. Somehow he had pictured her as a plump, rather languid blond. Certainly he had not expected a slender girl with glossy brown hair and clear gray eyes. Now that he had met her, he wondered even more at the brutality to which his brother had subjected her.
True, he himself had known Anne Reardon, and been fond of her, and so he could understand Patrick's bitter grief and rage over her fate. But still, to avenge himself as he had...
Well, Patrick had made whatever amends he could. Besides, Colin reminded himself, the whole matter was something that should be no concern of his.
Colin long ago had become reconciled to the fact that he was a bastard, and a cripple. On the whole, he considered himself a fortunate man, with a number of blessings: an occupation he enjoyed, plenty of books, and the companionship of the pleasant
woman whose bed he often shared. Most of the time, he was content.
He found that tonight he was not.
He groped for his box of flints, found it, and lit the candelabrum on the stand beside his bed. Then he took a copy of Jonathan Swift's A Modest Proposal from the low bookcase on the other side of the bed and began to read.
CHAPTER 18
A knock on the door, blending with the patter of rain against the windows, brought Elizabeth awake. She sat up in bed. "Come in."
The door opened slightly. Rose backed into the room, nudging the door farther open with her hip, and then turned around. She carried a mahogany lap tray holding a silver teapot and a teacup and saucer of pink china. "Good morning, milady." With another deft nudge of her hip, she sent the door swinging closed. Then she moved to the bed and placed the tray across Elizabeth's lap.
"Thank you, Rose." As she poured the fragrant brew, Elizabeth saw her reflection in the teapot's rounded side. "How beautifully this silver is polished."
Rose beamed. "I did it myself, this morning. And I have something else for you, milady." She plunged a hand into the pocket of her black dress and then laid a folded and sealed sheet of paper on the tray. "From Sir Patrick. Gave it to me himself, he did, just before he left."
"Left?"
"For Dublin. He rode off two hours ago."
"In the rain?"
Rose laughed. "If the Irish let rain keep us home, we would almost never stir out-of-doors."
Hands respectfully folded, she waited at the foot of the bed, hoping that Lady Stanford would open the note. She felt concern as well as curiosity. It was strange that Sir Patrick should ride off like that the morning after he had brought his bride to her new home, and such a lovely bride, too. Had they quarreled last night? Rose hoped not.
"You mustn't wait," Elizabeth said, smiling. "I like to take my time over morning tea."
When the door closed behind the reluctant Rose, Elizabeth broke the seal on the note. With neither salutation nor signature, it said, "I shall be away for about a week. I trust Mrs. Corcoran will do everything possible to make you comfortable."
Elizabeth felt annoyed, and wondered why. True, his message was curt to the point of rudeness. But she ought to welcome the news that tonight she and his pleasant brother would dine alone, with no glowering Patrick at the end of the long table.
Rain fell most of that day, and for nearly a week thereafter. Elizabeth did not mind. She had much to occupy her indoors. With Mrs. Corcoran, she toured the house from attic to scullery, and looked into each of Stanford Hall's forty-odd rooms. Many of them, unused for about a century, were so filled with rotting fabrics and cobwebs that Elizabeth abandoned all thought of having them cleaned. But there was much that she could accomplish. Before the week was out, the huge chandelier in the entrance hall had been taken down by two footmen working from tall ladders, disassembled, washed, and then, when put back together again, hung from its long iron chain. Windows had been washed, fireplaces cleaned, andirons polished. Housemaids' caps had been mended, and footmen appeared with a full complement of buttons, all of them shining. She had been prepared to hear a certain amount of grumbling from a staff used to an easygoing bachelor regime. But there was only a little complaining, even at first. And by the end of the week it became evident that the servants, as she had hoped, had begun to take pride in the new, smart appearance of both the house and themselves.
The evenings were pleasant. At no time during her suppers with Colin did she ask him why her husband had gone to Dublin, nor did he volunteer any information. In fact, they scarcely mentioned Patrick. Instead they talked of farming, books, and of the still-not-suppressed rebellion of the American colonists. After the meal they would go into the library to leaf through the now-dusted books, or to play chess. Although she never won, not even when Colin handicapped himself by removing one of his rooks from the board, she enjoyed those games.
She awoke one morning to see sunlight lying on the lovely old carpet. Delighted, she went to a pair of the mullioned windows and flung them wide. A blue sky, apparently cloudless, arched over a world that was even more brilliantly green than it had been a week earlier.
Rose knocked, and then came in with the tea tray. "A good morning to you, milady."
"A good morning to you, Rose, and a fine one it is." With amusement Elizabeth realized that already her speech had taken on some of the rhythms, if not the accent, of the Irish. "Will you please tell Joseph that I would like to ride this morning? I'll let him select a mount for me."
An hour later, wearing a plain brown habit that was more than five years old, she emerged into the rear courtyard. A pack of about a dozen foxhounds penned in a kennel against the far wall, set up a chorus of barks. In front of the stable door, Joseph stood holding the bridle of a sleek black mare with one white stocking. A thin man with dark hair, a long face, and prominent front teeth, Joseph himself looked rather like one of the animals in his care.
"Here she is, milady. There's not a more delicate foot or a softer mouth in all of Ireland. And she's spirited, but not too spirited. Her name is Satin."
Elizabeth looked with appreciation at the gleaming flanks, the slender legs. "A good name for her."
Something cold and moist touched the back of her hand. She looked down, to see a dog of wildly mixed breed looking hopefully up at her. The curly black coat and tufted tail suggested poodle. The ears, one erect and the other drooping, hinted at collie. The friendly amber eyes, partially obscured by hair, might have been those of an English sheepdog.
"Away with you!" Joseph waved one arm. "Don't pester her ladyship."
"He's not pestering me." She put her hand on the dog's head. "Is he yours?"
"No, milady. And I should have put him down before this. To tell you the truth, I haven't had the heart."
"Put him down! But why? Why should he be killed?"
"Oh, milady! Two of Sir Patrick's prize bitches will soon be in heat. We can't risk them throwing whelps sired by that one, now, can we?"
"Surely you can prevent that from happening."
He said, after a moment, "We can, if we take care. And if you have taken a fancy to the animal, milady, there will be no question of putting him down."
With interlaced fingers, Joseph made a stirrup of his two hands, and helped Elizabeth swing into the saddle. The dog still looked up at her, waving his tufted tail and making eager noises deep in his throat. Elizabeth asked, "Where did he come from?"
"I think he belonged to a band of Gypsies who were camped near here until about two weeks ago. Somehow he got left behind. Off chasing a coney, I'll wager, when the caravans moved on."
"Have you given him a name?"
"Certainly not, milady. Give an animal a name, and you find yourself getting fond of him."
"Well, he has a name now." She struck her riding crop lightly against her thigh. "Would you like to come with me, Gypsy?"
Perhaps he understood her tone and gesture rather than the words. In a frenzy of anticipation he chased his tail for perhaps twenty seconds, barking wildly. Then, as Elizabeth and her mount started across the courtyard, he trotted, grinning, at the mare's heels.
Elizabeth struck off toward the southeast, because Colin had told her that the nearest approach to the sea lay in that direction. A few fluffy white clouds, scudding before currents in the upper air, had appeared in the sky, but they only added to the beauty of the day. Their shadows flew across grassy meadows, stone walls, still-blossoming orchards. Elizabeth followed a narrow lane for a while, passing a thatched cottage where a sow and her piglets rooted in the yard, and then took an even narrower path across uncultivated land that sloped upward. When she reached the hill's crest, she halted. From here the land fell away, in gentle green folds, to the still-distant blue of the sea.
She heard a scurrying sound through the long grass and small clumps of gorse. Turning in the saddle, she saw a small brown shape bound down the hill's opposite slope, a steeper one than that the mare had just climb
ed. With a joyful yelp, Gypsy darted after the rabbit. "Come back!" she called, but already he was at the foot of the slope and racing along a narrow gully, invisible among the grass and bushes except for his tufted tail. Then even the tail disappeared, as suddenly and completely as if the earth had swallowed him up.
Puzzled and a little alarmed, she dismounted. There was no path down the slope. Best to descend it on foot. She tied the mare to a birch sapling and then made a cautious descent, holding her skirt close around her to keep it from the spiny clutch of the gorse bushes.
There seemed to be a path of sorts leading through the gully. She moved along it, calling for Gypsy. After a few yards, having caught neither sight nor sound of him, she halted and stood undecided.
A current of cool air touched her right cheek. At almost the same moment, she heard a faint scratching sound. She turned and looked at a tangle of gorse and tall Scotch broom just coming into flower.
So that was it. Cautious of the gorse spines, and steeling herself to the possibility that furry dark shapes might fly out at her, she parted the vegetation with her gloved hands and moved forward. At the threshold of the irregular opening, about five feet high, in the hillside, she stopped.
She need not have feared bats in this particular cave. If such creatures had ever lived here, they must have abandoned the place to human invaders, because she could see no bat droppings on the hard-packed floor, not on the large wooden cases stacked against one rocky wall. There were four of them, each tightly secured with rope.
What did they hold? Tea from Ceylon? Tobacco from Virginia? Whatever their contents, she was sure no duty had been paid upon them. Smugglers had brought these cases ashore at night, and then, through the darkness, carried them up to this natural hiding place.
Elizabeth felt no impulse to inform the authorities. Like most people, she registered smugglers almost as public benefactors. To finance his Majesty's far-flung wars, the government had raised impost taxes so high that, in England, many otherwise law-abiding middle-class folk knowingly bought smuggled goods. And here in impoverished Ireland, surely most of the people would be without even the comfort of an occasional cup of tea were it not for the smugglers.
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