“No, no, no, no!” Rising, she handed Dorrie to him, her face contorted. “I heard about you and your womanizing ways, but I ain’t going to be one of your conquistadors. You may be a lord and fine-looking as well, but it ain’t worth burning for!” She backed from the room as she talked. “I—I do thankee for the offer, though, but ... get thee behind me, Satan!”
With that, she dashed away.
Lord Ambrose stared after her, his mind a jumbled mass of dashed hopes. As if sensing Annie’s rejection, Dorrie began to wail. He looked at her in bewilderment, stared hopefully at the bedroom door, and prayed the wet nurse behind it would come to his rescue, but no one did. Helplessly, he stood and began to pace, patting the orphan’s back.
“Never mind,” he told Dorrie. “We’ll find your mother yet.”
A few minutes later, Betsy huffed into the room. “What in blazes have ye done now, milord? Annie’s gone and quit, and right before dinner’s to be served!”
Chapter 5
In the moments before Lord Ambrose joined them in the library, Madeleine and her parents were introduced to the Reddings by Mr. Brandt. The older Mr. Redding reminded Madeleine of a stern ancient who attended their chapel in Kent. Everything about him seemed fierce; even his profile, which resembled a bird of prey—all downturned, sharp angles. But while Mr. Heilig had been soft as goose feathers on the inside, Mr. Redding did not give that impression.
His son George stood a trifle less than average height, like his father; but there the physical similarity ended. His figure was ... cuddly, to give it the kindest name. To her delight, he possessed the rollicking laugh of other such cuddly persons of her acquaintance. She found his blatant flattery to herself and her mother endearing rather than offensive, since he offered it in such good spirit.
But of the three Reddings, it was Alice who commanded one’s attention. She embodied that paradoxical exception that sometimes happened in families—rather like a flowering tree among a petrified forest, Madeleine fancied. Miss Redding possessed beautiful features, made the more so by her expression of friendliness. In height, she almost matched her brother and father; yet she did not seem gangly or ashamed of her stature as some women might; therefore, one did not think of her as tall, but striking. Her figure was lean, but suitably proportioned for her frame. When she sat beside Madeleine on the settee, Madeleine felt insignificant in comparison.
Alice did not allow her to feel so for long. Her eyes sparkled; her voice resonated low and vibrated with enthusiasm; her laughter rang sincere and often. While she and Madeleine conversed, Madeleine became the center of Miss Redding’s universe. Suddenly, she felt witty beyond all nature; her remarks compelled the deepest interest; she was a creature to be cherished. She suspected she was being charmed, but Alice was so guileless, she could only respond in kind. In the space of minutes, Madeleine and Alice were on a first-name basis, and the young woman seemed to fill a void Madeleine never knew was there.
That Miss Redding would treat others with the same generosity of spirit could not be doubted. Therefore, when Lord Ambrose entered, and Alice trilled his name while lifting her hand to be kissed, Madeleine shivered at her sense of abandonment. Such a small, mean spirit she had, to feel a pang that the viscount’s eyes brightened in a way they never had for her! Naturally he was happy to see his friend; they shared a lifetime of experiences between them. How petty she was to feel threatened.
The older Mr. Redding broke off his conversation with her father to greet the viscount with a brief bow. “Just looked out your window a few moments ago. Thought I saw Farlanger’s daughter running across the garden.”
Madeleine felt surprised to see the viscount blush; she hadn’t guessed he could. “Yes,” he replied, “she had to return home unexpectedly. I trust her leaving won’t delay dinner overmuch.”
“Won’t be unusual if it does. I ate before I came, thank the gods. I’ve learned to do so when invited here.”
Alice’s laugh was tinged with embarrassment. “Father, you are so droll. Whatever will the Murrows think of you, criticizing our host for the crime of inviting us to dinner?”
“Hear, hear,” George exclaimed. “We’ve been rescued from Magdala’s cooking for one night—what does it matter when we’re served, so long as we don’t have to eat curry!”
Mr. Redding bristled. “A well-ordered house runs on time.”
“Ordinarily, I would agree,” said Mrs. Murrow from the chaise lounge which had been brought downstairs for her. “But here the food is worth the wait; the viscount’s cook is marvelous. And personally, I find the spontaneity of this household refreshing, Mr. Redding.”
The older gentleman’s eyes softened as he looked at Madeleine’s mother. “No doubt you are right, madam. You may call me William if you wish.”
“And you may call her Mrs. Murrow,” Madeleine’s father said, knotting his fists on his hips and glowering in an extravagant display of jealousy. Although this act brought the desired chuckles, Madeleine knew her father had conveyed his point. He still felt toward her mother as he had when they were young, and it made the possibility of losing her even more poignant.
Surely her mother would rally from what the physician believed to be her final decline. She had more color in her cheeks since coming to the viscount’s home and appeared to possess greater energy. Of course, those improvements could be attributed to the prospect of seeing her daughter betrothed. Madeleine moved uncomfortably. The days were flying past; a decision must be made soon.
Mr. Redding meandered to her parents’ side of the room and began to talk about the cook he had brought from India. Lord Ambrose took that opportunity to move his chair closer to the young ladies and George. He was followed by Mr. Brandt, who had seemed strangely invisible since the arrival of the Reddings.
“Do you like to ride, Madeleine?” Alice asked, moving aside her white-silvered skirts to allow the viscount more leg room. “Has Ethan shown you the countryside?”
Madeleine admitted she did enjoy riding but no, they had not yet had such an excursion. And why not? she wondered with an abrupt sense of neglect. The only outing she’d had since coming here was a trip by coach to the village, and that was with her parents.
“I cannot believe it.” Alice glared playfully at the viscount. “Whatever can you be thinking, Ethan? You haven’t shown her Viking?”
“We’ve not had time,” he said, sending her a telling look.
“Since when do you need time to show off your black? Madeleine, he is quite mad about his horse, not that I blame him for that. Viking is stunning! But do not allow him to start talking about him, for he’s worse than a schoolmaster.”
“Worse than MacAllister!” laughed George.
“MacAllister?” Madeleine asked, smiling vicariously.
Alice touched her knee briefly, instantly including her. “He was our tutor years ago, and Father brought him back last spring to help us learn the latest waltzes and improve our Italian and French for our grand tour next year. The trip will be our way of celebrating the end of the war.” She turned her large, lapis lazuli eyes upon the viscount. “None of this explains why you haven’t taken Madeleine for a ride.”
“There is the matter of a suitable mount for Miss Murrow,” he said reluctantly, obviously pained at the lack in his stable.
“Oh, nonsense. We can supply her a beast. Madeleine, why don’t we plan something for this week—shall we say Friday? We could all go—you and Ethan, George and I.”
“And Mr. Brandt,” Madeleine prompted, certain that Alice meant to include him but had only forgotten.
“Oh, of course,” she said quickly. “Scott, you’re welcome to join us as well.”
His smile was thin. “Thank you, but I’m afraid I cannot.”
Lord Ambrose tilted his head. “Come on, old man. What else do you have to do?”
“Oh, many things—the accounts for one, and the agricultural expert might come by that day—”
“Put them off,” said the viscoun
t. “You need to lighten—”
“The Abbotts have arrived,” Burns announced at the doorway.
A middle-aged man and woman entered, followed by a young lady Madeleine soon learned was their daughter. A flurry of introductions gave her to know that the Rev. Joseph Abbott was Brillham’s only vicar. He was a lightweight man who moved with the hidden strength of a caged lion. His thick, dark skin made her wonder at an Italian ancestry, and it was repeated in his daughter, Leah. Her poreless complexion stretched over pleasant but for the most part unremarkable features, excepting a pair of small, beautifully shaped eyes with large brown irises. These she kept well hidden, being either too shy or naturally reticent to look up often. Her mother, Mrs. Abbott, was gray-haired, stout, and had the demeanor of a woman accustomed to voicing her demands and having them obeyed.
By the time greetings were exchanged, dinner was announced, and the company retired to the viscount’s cavernous dining room. Madeleine had not yet become accustomed to this chamber. Its high, narrow dimensions and lack of carpet or tapestry caused resounding echoes. Tonight, the eeriness of sound and stone threw her imagination into furious activity. She could easily visualize a second set of phantom diners sitting between each guest. Even worse: as in the grand hall, a suit of armor rested here; this one leaned against the wall next to the butler’s pantry. She halfway expected it to creak into motion while moaning some cryptic warning.
The diners took their places, and Madeleine was delighted to find herself seated close to Alice. While conversations murmured around the table and the first course began, that young lady leaned past her brother to speak to Madeleine. “Are you cold?” she asked. “I thought I saw you shiver a moment ago. Shall we send for your wrap?”
“A wrap will do little for me,” Madeleine responded. She hushed her voice, conspirator-like, her eyebrows lowering dramatically. “I’m experiencing a coldness of spirit, not flesh.”
“Ooh, you frighten me!” laughed George, who was caught in the middle and had little choice but to listen.
Alice pulled a face. “Oh, I do understand what you mean. The dining room is quite medieval, isn’t it? My father says this table and chairs have been here since he was a boy, and who knows how long before that! I can almost see King Arthur at it, can’t you?”
“Except the table’s rectangular, not round,” George reminded.
“Don’t be so literal, George. Oh, but Madeleine, does the atmosphere not make you fear the Ambrose curse could be true?”
“The Ambrose curse—what is that?”
As it happened, Madeleine’s question, spoken in a more piercing tone than she normally used, fell loudly into a conversational lull. The silence that followed her words was so profound her ears began to burn.
“Curse?” Thomas echoed after a moment. “What curse?”
Madeleine looked to Lord Ambrose’s place at the head of the table. His face had gone as white as the cloth, and she felt his anger whipping past her like a lash.
“I’m sorry,” Alice said in bewildered tones. “Did you not”—she looked at Madeleine, then her parents. “Has no one told you?” Her worried gaze returned to Ethan. “I should not have brought it up! Only ... I thought you or one of the servants would have spoken of it by now.”
“Why would we?” he asked curtly.
“I apologize, Ethan.” She looked crushed.
“No need to beg pardon, my girl,” Mr. Redding said between slurps of soup. “Someone would have mentioned it sooner or later.”
“What’s this about?” Thomas asked again.
“Nothing but foolishness.” The viscount’s gaze continued to rest resentfully on Alice. “The kind of story old women whisper to their grandchildren at night.”
“Is it, indeed? I’d like to hear it.”
Antonia placed her hand over her husband’s. “Dear, if he doesn’t want to speak of it, then he shouldn’t.”
Reverend Abbott waved a piece of bread, drawing the attention of everyone. “I’ll tell it if you like, lad. Telling stories is part of my vocation, just as it was my Master’s.”
“No. I’ll do it.” Ethan slowly set down his fork. When he raised his eyes, Madeleine had the ridiculous conviction he was no longer behind them.
“Three-and-thirty years ago, a band of gypsies came to the door of Westhall requesting a place to stay for a few days. My father was a young man—a rash young man, or so I’ve been informed. He wanted nothing to do with ne’er-do-wells who hadn’t the strength of character to earn an honest wage and their own place to live, and that’s what he told them.
“Unfortunately, it had rained for several days straight, and the river that bisects the back acreage of our property was swollen. Since the gypsies couldn’t stay, they attempted to cross the river as a short route to the village. Several of them drowned, including two children, the matriarch of the tribe, and her adult son.”
Antonia breathed in sharply, and Madeleine clenched her hands together at the needlessness of those deaths.
The viscount’s mouth twisted ironically. “The matriarch survived long enough to pronounce a curse on the Ambrose family. ‘No male in the family shall live past three decades of life,’ she decreed. Why she chose that number, I don’t know, unless her own son was thirty. Or perhaps she guessed my father to be that age. In fact, he was twenty-seven, and by an unfortunate coincidence, he lived only three more years before losing his life.” His gaze flickered from Madeleine to her parents. “I will tell you before you hear it somewhere else, and probably exaggerated for its drama. My father died while overseeing his attempt to build a bridge across the river. The structure collapsed while he stood upon it, crushing him.”
“Oh, my dear,” said Antonia, her eyes glistening. “To have lost your father so young ...”
He sent her a gentle smile. “The tragedy happened a few months before we—my brother and I—were born. Although we grew up wishing for a father, we did not have to recover from the sorrow of losing one, as that was the only way of life we knew.”
Madeleine believed him to be softening his loss for her mother’s sake, and his compassion moved her. His speaking of his brother as if they were of one mind—the only way of life we knew—folded her heart. She also felt intrigued by his sire’s actions.
“We haven’t seen all of your property yet, Lord Ambrose,” she said. “Was the bridge ever completed?”
“Never. My mother had the pilings torn down and every stick of wood burned. She forbade my brother and me ever to go near the river.”
George, his mouth stuffed with bread, laughed. “Which made it into the forbidden fruit, naturally.”
“Yes, it did,” Alice said, smiling tenuously in the viscount’s direction. “We spent much of our adolescence there fishing and floating boats and learning to swim. I’m afraid I was a nuisance much of that time, being so much younger and a female. I am happy to say the boys were tolerant of me; at least, reasonably so.”
She was attempting to restore herself in Lord Ambrose’s eyes, Madeleine saw. When he responded with a faint smile of recollection, she felt relieved. If he were so vindictive he couldn’t forgive his lifelong friend a simple slip of the tongue, she would have been disappointed in him.
“Do you know your father’s intention in building the bridge?” she asked Lord Ambrose. “Do you think he had a change of heart?”
“Was he sorry for his part in the gypsies’ deaths, you mean? My mother never spoke of his motivation or anything to do with the accident, but it’s a compelling notion.”
His gaze lingered on hers, warm and lively with interest. She found herself returning his look, her pulse quickening. From the corner of her eye, she saw her mother observing them with pleasure. This made her self-conscious, and she resolved to concentrate on her meal instead of asking so many questions.
Mr. Redding clattered his spoon into his empty soup bowl. “Knowing your father as I did, he might have thought building a bridge would dissolve the curse.”
“A
re you implying my sire was a superstitious man?” Lord Ambrose asked.
At that moment, Betsy entered the dining room carrying an enormous tray of creamed pork and vegetables. Blowing the hair from her forehead and sighing deeply, she set the tray on the sideboard.
“Burns could help but thinks he’s above it,” she said under her breath, but Madeleine heard her plainly, as did the viscount, from his irritated expression. “He ain’t above a worm’s droppings, should anyone ask me.”
Madeleine placed her hand in front of her lips to hide her smile. When Lord Ambrose flashed a look of fury at the maid, and Betsy returned it with a fierce scowl, she had to laugh. The maid gave her a grudging grin and began to serve the meat. Feeling the viscount’s glance return to herself, Madeleine spotted a twinkle in his eye that shot delight down to her toes.
Redding eyed the platter hungrily. “Seems obvious to me. When he lost his firstborn, how could he not think of it? He thought the sun rose on that boy. Either he meant to protect himself, his future offspring, or both. He’d have been a fool not to take all precautions.”
“Now who is sounding superstitious?” Reverend Abbott said in a playful voice, shaking his finger at the older man. “Curses and the occult world have no place in a good Christian’s home or his conversation.”
“You don’t know, Joseph,” said his wife, who looked mightily intrigued by this topic. “Everything in the world is not in the Bible. Phaetons are not in the Bible, are they? Yet they do exist. Maybe not in our household, but for some people. Or do you think phaetons have no place in a Christian’s conversation?”
Reverend Abbott bowed his head and smiled the smile of the long-suffering. “Now, my dear, this obsession you have with phaetons—”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand,” Madeleine said, directing her comment to the viscount. “Since your father was so young when he died, how did he know about the loss of your brother?” Her eyes widened. “Or . . . surely your family did not lose another son?” Her amusement had faded into tension. She felt as if she were watching the approach of a runaway carriage and had no place to hide.
The Bridegroom and the Baby Page 6
