by May Burnett
“That depends on who they are,” Amanda said. “Are they relatives or particular friends of the earl?”
“Not that I know of . . . There are two gentlemen that look like mischief to me, rather too young and boisterous to be cronies of his lordship. The ladies are older—the Dowager Baroness Micklesham, her sister-in-law Mrs. Rillsford, and a Miss Dorston.”
“I never heard of any of them in my life,” Amanda said, “not that that signifies much. What is the usual procedure?”
“Visitors of rank are offered tea and refreshment and a guided tour of the public rooms. Given your state, my lady, nobody would expect you to receive them personally, but they are unaware of it and have asked to pay their compliments to you.”
Amanda felt no desire to meet the uninvited guests, especially after two of them were described as boisterous.
“The thing is, as it is so late in the afternoon, they may be expecting to be housed overnight,” Mrs. Struthers said with an air of faint worry. “That is why I came to consult you, my lady, while Rinner is showing them the portrait gallery and cook is preparing a light repast.”
“Racking is not a hostelry,” Amanda decided. “Be polite, but do not offer them hospitality overnight. Where is my cousin?”
“Mrs. Smithson has gone to call at the vicarage, my lady.”
“Very well, carry on. I trust you and Rinner to speed these visitors on their way without giving offense or offering them fodder for gossip once they return to town.”
“Yes, I suspect curiosity is their main reason for calling here,” the housekeeper said and retreated with a curtsy.
Amanda shook her head and tried to focus on her novel again but could not. She walked over to the large window. Her view was of the gardens rather than the large terrace in front of the hall’s main entrance, but as she looked, she saw a lady and gentleman walk across the lawn and look up, curiously, at her windows. Who were those intruders who invaded her home like that, without leave? If only Racking Hall were a castle with a stout wall and moat so that she could draw up the bridge and shut them out. Of course, old castles were said to be highly uncomfortable, almost impossible to heat properly.
A footman—George, she thought, though the angle from above made it hard to be certain—herded the couple back towards the front of the house. Her servants were doing their best to protect her. How would Lucian deal with the intruders if he were at home? But perhaps they would be welcome to him; one of these ladies, or all of them, might be his former lovers.
Amanda was cross with Lucian and everyone for no good reason. Was her delicate condition making her so moody? She did not know what was delicate about it, a euphemism if ever she had heard one. The child kicked hard against her stomach. She tottered back to her chaise lounge, leaned back, and let out a long breath. At least she had wealth, security, and comfort when it might so easily have been the opposite. She had been, albeit briefly, a ruined—a fallen woman as most would see it. Without Lucian’s inexplicable and quixotic offer, her life and good name would be irretrievably spoiled. Instead, she was a wealthy countess with hundreds of people at her beck and call.
Had he done it out of guilt that he could not save his sister, and was there any way of finding out about Amaryllis’s fate? Had she left a diary, letters? If that doll had still been in the nursery until Amanda had banished it to the attics, where might her other possession be stowed? Which had been her room? That cook Mattie had mentioned ought to know all, at least some, of the answers and so might some of the other retainers. It was a more intriguing mystery than she had found in her novel, which teased the reader with supernatural wonders that were later reduced to implausible ‘scientific’ solutions.
She really must inspect the rooms in the family wing one of these days, and look for other relics of the tragic Lady Amaryllis.
Her own child, if she was a daughter, would be styled Lady something-or-other. She really ought to think of a name, something pretty enough to help her forget the child’s unfortunate origin.
Maybe something simple like Lucy? But Lady Lucy did not sound right. Too many similar letters. Mary might do, Anne or Jane. Though simple, they were all royal names. True, Queen Mary had not exactly left a splendid reputation as a monarch, and Lady Jane Grey had suffered tragic bad luck. Mattie might offer more inspired suggestions.
If it was a boy kicking her from inside . . . what would Lucian wish? He claimed he had never wanted children, so he would likely leave the decision to her even if he were present. Mark, her father’s name, was the most obvious choice; perhaps in the longer Roman form, Marcus, befitting a future Earl. The family name was Rackington, the same as the title. Was there a courtesy title to be bestowed on the heir? She had better find out. All her neighbours and the older servants would know, as it would have been Lucian’s before he became the Earl. It would be embarrassing to confess her ignorance of such a matter; she must ask Tennant or get Mattie to inquire on her behalf.
Presently, Mattie joined her for dinner.
“Did you meet this party of surprise visitors, or were they gone when you returned from the vicarage?” Amanda asked.
“I talked to them for a few minutes before their departure. They were angling for an invitation to stay, but I made it very clear that it was outside my authority to issue it.”
“Ah. What was your impression of them?”
Mattie unfolded her napkin and arranged it on her lap. “Not the kind of people you or I would easily be friends with. Lady Micklesham was determined to find fault with everything, and I can only commend your good sense not to receive them personally. But I must say that one of the men—he was introduced as Sir Rudiger Mills—was the kind that might show a woman a good time. He would have liked to flirt with me but was cut short by their departure.”
“Would you have flirted back?” Amanda was surprised at her staid cousin’s reaction to what sounded like a libertine. “You know nothing of him, after all.”
“A handsome man paying me compliments is not such a frequent occurrence that I would have quickly rebuffed him, you may be sure. Of course, it is unlikely the matter would have gone much further, even had they stayed. Mrs. Rillingham looked quite jealous. But a lady can dream, can’t she? I do so miss having a warm body against mine in the night.”
Amanda choked on the spoonful of soup she was about to swallow. “You do?” A quick glance reassured her that no servants were within hearing distance.
“Don’t you, Amanda? With a husband reputed to be a famous lover, I would imagine that you feel lonely for him. At least you know he’ll be back in a few more months, while my poor Luke is cold under the ground. He can never again make me feel the bliss in his arms that I remember every single night.”
“Bliss?” Amanda stared. “Are you not exaggerating in your memory what it was like?”
Now Mattie began to frown. “Oh, Amanda, don’t tell me you are one of those poor females who dislike intimacy even with a skilled and careful lover? You look so wholesome and robust . . . please forgive me if this subject makes you uncomfortable. I assumed that, as a wife with an absent husband, you would share my own frustration and loneliness, but I see from your face that it is different. If there is anything I can do—any advice you might need, to find greater enjoyment, don’t hesitate to apply to me! Or that midwife, I imagine she would also be a fount of knowledge. Though, with your husband’s experience, it really should not be necessary at all.”
Amanda bit her lips in vexation. She was curious how such ‘bliss’ was to be achieved, but to ask any questions would expose her ignorance and lead to unwanted inferences and suspicions. Already, she had given away too much. Besides, what light did her ignorance cast on her husband? Lucian hardly deserved to be considered inept when everyone agreed he could write books on the subject of sensuality.
“You mistake; I am in no need of advice or tutoring,” she said a little stiffly, forcing herself to frown. “It merely startled me that you would raise such an unsuitable subject
at the dinner table. If my mother heard you, this would cause her palpitations.”
Mattie looked repentant and a little guilty, but that was better than additional probing into the dangerous subject. “I do beg your pardon, Amanda. I had not realised that you shared your mother’s dislike of warm talk, but it is only natural, I suppose. I shall not bring it up again.”
Amanda smiled to show that there were no hard feelings after her cousin’s lapse. “Let us rather discuss names. I have almost decided upon Marcus if I should have a boy, after Father, but I am less certain about a girl.”
“Marcus Rackington, Lord Bernay,” Mattie said. “I like it, except perhaps an additional first name or even two?”
“Bernay is the heir’s courtesy title? I had not known,” Amanda confessed.
Mattie’s eyes opened wide. “You must be the only woman in England who would reach the fifth month of her pregnancy and not know what title her son will bear once he is born! I cannot believe it.” At least Mattie was suitably distracted.
“A girl would be Lady Mary Rackington,” Amanda mused. “With such a long last name, a short given name would be best.”
“Yes, but Mary is so pedestrian and unimaginative. What about Doris or Alma? The latter means soul.”
“No,” Amanda said, “let’s take the soul as given. I always would have preferred a simpler given name myself, something that does not arouse curiosity or remark.”
“Your daughter may feel differently,” Mattie objected. “At least give her another, more fanciful, middle name. Then she has a choice which to use once she is grown.”
“Does little Sigurd have a middle name?” Amanda asked idly as she studied the deep red of her wine.
“Micah, after my grandfather,” Mattie said. “Sigurd was Luke’s wish, you know. He loved the ancient German sagas; they inspired him to join the army.”
“Hmm.” Amanda refrained from saying what rose to her mind, that the name was entirely unsuitable for the little boy who bore it. Would Luke have been disconcerted to see his child grow up so very different from what he had presumably imagined?
Perhaps her child would also be very different from what she feared, so that, in time, she could simply accept it for his or her own sake.
Chapter 14
Mattie’s remarks, even though she had successfully avoided any deeper discussion, stuck in Amanda’s mind. The next afternoon, blessedly free of would-be houseguests, she wandered to the gallery, which ran through the first floor of the south wing, and studied her husband’s portrait by Thomas Lawrence. It showed him at the age of eighteen—her current age—slightly larger than life-size. The painted young man was dressed in the fashion of the day with powdered hair and a bicorne hat, holding the reins of a magnificent stallion. The trees in the background resembled the park around Racking, though she did not recognize the exact spot.
Lucian’s younger self stared down at her with an expression of arrogant contempt. Here was an aristocrat certain of himself and his position in life, who would ride roughshod over all opposition. Had the famous painter so mistaken his character?
If he stepped down from the picture that moment, she would not feel at ease with the handsome youth. He would be careless and indifferent. If it was a true picture of Lucian at eighteen, then she definitely preferred the older, more mature version.
Would she really engage with the older Lucian in the kind of bed sport that Mattie missed so much? They had half promised it to each other before his rushed departure. What would it feel like? She wanted to erase the unpleasant memory of that brief encounter in Sussex with more pleasant, more deliberate activities. She was young and healthy, as Mattie had said—provided she survived the impending birth—and she was curious. Mattie’s sentiments on the matter of intimacy were diametrically at odds with what her mother had always taught her. Who was right? Or did it depend on the woman? Or, as Mattie had seemed to imply, on the man?
Her gaze wandered back to the portrait, staring down at her in judgemental silence. What had changed Lucian? Because something had, she was certain. That cold-hearted young buck would not have raised a finger to help her. From the tip of his hat to the glossy riding boots he exuded the shocking philosophy Lady Evencourt had expounded, that the rules binding ordinary mortals did not apply to him, to his caste.
Childish as it might be, Amanda put her tongue out at the portrait and made a rude noise. “You are gone,” she told the young man, “and I’m glad. I don’t think we would have been friends.”
Perhaps it would be possible with his older, more humane version. Something drastic, more than just the passage of time, must have chastened Lucian in those twenty years since he had posed for Lawrence.
It could not have been his sister’s death, after all; by the time he posed for that portrait, Lady Amaryllis had been four years dead and buried. Besides, family members died all the time; it was a reality most people came to terms with out of sheer necessity. Amanda had lost a baby brother to a fever when she was still barely out of leading strings. Her parents had mourned him, though she had been too small to remember, but with five surviving children, they were luckier than most.
She turned her back on Lucian and studied the picture of Lady Amaryllis, in a diaphanous white gown against a rose garden. The girl’s hair was also powdered, but from the smooth features and lack of curves, she probably was no older than twelve or thirteen. Painted by Mr. Gainsborough, Tennant had mentioned, though he had not named the subject. Did he even know? Mattie and she only supposed that she was the earl’s sister; the portrait was not labelled in any way.
The brown eyes of the painted child stared into hers with youthful disdain. No shadow of tragedy troubled that smooth brow when she had posed in the rose garden in front of those white blooms, long faded just like herself. What could cause a pretty girl like that to drown in a horse pond? It made no sense. Had Amaryllis lived, she’d be forty now, likely a mother and society hostess.
Perhaps Amanda could yet discover what had caused Lady Amaryllis’s untimely death.
She rang the bell, and presently, the butler arrived with silent steps. “Rinner, do you know which rooms were occupied by my husband’s late sister?”
“You mean Lady Amaryllis, my lady? The yellow room and the adjoining dressing room were hers.” He did not ask why she cared or betray the slightest surprise at the inquiry.
“What happened to her possessions?”
“Nothing was touched on orders of the old earl.”
That would have been Lucian’s father. Had he been very attached to his only daughter? Amanda looked around questioningly. “I don’t think there is any picture of him.” That was rather strange, now she thought about it.
“There was one by Mr. Gainsborough, my lady, that showed him on horseback in heroic posture. Bigger than any of the other portraits in here. The earl—the current earl—ordered it burnt.”
Amanda blinked in shock. “Burned? It must have been worth a great deal.” Apart from the cost, it seemed sinful, almost sacrilegious, to destroy a work of art. But she must not sound as though she were criticizing her husband. Lucian might have his reasons. “When was this?”
“A few months after he inherited the title, my lady. In 1796, if my memory does not fail me. I was only a footman at the time.”
So Lucian had been twenty-three when he succeeded to the title. Destroying the portrait of one’s father was an impious act as well as amazingly spendthrift. She could imagine banishing a hated picture to the attics, but to go so far as to actually destroy it . . . extremely strong feelings must have been involved. She remembered Lucian’s strange resolve to let the family name die out and his indifference at the prospect of her child inheriting it. What could possibly cause such enduring hatred and anger? She would not have guessed that Lucian was prone to strong feelings of any kind.
It might just be a question of aesthetic preferences. “Has the earl ordered any other pictures burned?”
“No, my lady. That was the o
nly time.”
“What of the previous countess?” Amanda was just as glad she was long dead. A mother-in-law would surely despise her and strongly disapprove of Lucian’s imprudent match. “Is there a portrait of her?”
“A very good one, my lady, also by Gainsborough. It hangs in the library of the London house.”
Amanda had not noticed it there, nor had Lucian pointed it out. Well, they had both been very busy for those few days in town.
“Show me to the rooms used by Lady Amaryllis,” she ordered.
Rinner conducted her to a spacious and elegant set of adjoining rooms. Though they were not far from her own suite, she had never entered them.
Old-fashioned but pretty and expensive clothes filled the spacious wardrobe. Taking one out and holding it against her body, Amanda concluded that Amaryllis had been slim and rather taller than herself. In a drawer, she found a jewel box with some insignificant pieces. Anything more valuable might well have been locked away to prevent temptation to the servants. The sturdy bed was large enough to sleep three or four and was covered by a faded yellow silk canopy with lace curtains tied back to the posts. It had been the room of a pampered young lady, one who did not have to share with a sister, as she had with Eve. Not that she’d ever minded. In fact, she would not have wanted to change with Amaryllis; to be the only daughter of the house must have been lonely, especially if her parents were off to enjoy London society and various house parties for most of the year.
Would her child be lonely at Racking? Nonsense, it was far too early to worry about that. First, it had to arrive in the world. Birth was at least as dangerous for a babe as for the mother, and all too many infants died within days, weeks, or months. Many parents tried not to become attached to them before they learned to speak, as it only added to their disappointment when the babes succumbed to some fever. Of course, it also happened to older children and even adults and, in Amanda’s observation, left the bereaved family more saddened than when it was just an infant.
