The duchess assured herself that I had fresh linen and hot water before leaving to make her own toilet for dinner. After shutting the door behind her and making a brief tour of my new living quarters, I took off my gown and had begun gratefully to wash the travel grime from my arms and face when there was a knock at the door. I gathered my dress to me and, uncertainly, called out a welcome.
The door opened on the startling sight of a heap of clothes. After the first moment of bewilderment, I saw that the heap was surmounted by two brown eyes and a smart white cap. This, I reasoned belatedly, must be Jane, come to fit me out for dinner.
“Good evening, miss,” said a voice from behind the mass of fabric. “The duchess has sent some things for you.”
“Thank you.” I felt awkward, never having had a personal maid before, and was unsure of what to say or how to behave. “Won’t you come in?”
She did so, moving briskly to place her burden on the bed, and I was able to observe her more fully. She was even smaller than I, although sturdier of build, and looked no more than fourteen. I later discovered that she was every day of twenty and married to one of the footmen, but in that first glimpse she looked too young to be out of the schoolroom.
For her part, as soon as she had laid out the gown and petticoats she had brought in, she turned to give me a look of appraisal even more frank than mine. My surprise and discomfort at this scrutiny were short-lived, though, as she said thoughtfully, “The gown should fit very well with a bit of taking in. You and Her Grace are much of a height. Shall I lace you up?”
To her credit, she did not so much as blink when I told her I did not wear stays. Fortunately the gown fitted me without them, although Jane had to pin starched ruffles to my chemise to fill out the bosom. It was a finer gown than any I had ever worn, although the dark purple color and modest décolletage, cut just below the collarbone, made it appropriate for mourning. It was trimmed only with braid of the same color, but the wide pagoda sleeves and full skirts, swelled by the layers of petticoats, gave it an unmistakably fashionable shape. The duchess must have had it made on the death of her husband, although she wore no mourning now. She could not have worn the gown more than a few times, and I marveled at the extravagance of purchasing a mourning wardrobe that would only be used for a few weeks.
It was awkward being dressed by another person, when I had dressed myself since I was old enough to fasten a button; even though Jane did not subject me to any more measuring looks, I was fiercely self-conscious, and clumsy at getting my arms into the sleeves. When she had hooked me up I breathed an inward sigh of relief, but the ordeal was not over: she had orders to dress my hair as well. Sitting at the dressing table as her hands worked nimbly over my head, I wondered if I would be able to accustom myself to these strange ministrations and cease feeling like an invalid unable to fend for herself, or a spoiled princess who could not be permitted to raise a finger on her own behalf.
In the end I had to appreciate Jane’s efforts, though. Instead of my usual braid, my hair had been coaxed into two shining wings that met in a graceful braided chignon at the back of my neck. The unexpected weight of it made me hold my head carefully, as if a governess had balanced a book on it, but the effect was undeniably attractive. The rich color of the borrowed dress suited me, as the duchess had predicted, and I felt my spirits rise. It was heartening that I would not have to meet the rest of my new family looking like a Quakeress.
I thanked Jane again, more warmly, and she accepted the thanks with a complacent curtsey, well aware of the feat she had wrought. I pinned on my mourning brooch, so bright with Lionel’s gold hair that it seemed too ornamental for mourning. Then I rose to join the others. Despite my new confidence in my appearance, I was aware of my heart beating emphatically beneath the borrowed finery as I followed Jane down stairs and passages to the drawing room where she said the family assembled before dinner.
When I entered I thought at first that Jane had led me to the wrong room, for there was no sign of the duchess or of Felicity. The only sounds were the ticking of a massive grandfather clock and the occasional crack and spit of the fire. Rich, restful shades of russet and bronze warmed the carpet, furniture, and draperies, and two massive, welcoming armchairs flanked the Adam fireplace. As I hovered just inside the doorway, wondering if I should call Jane back, a small brown and white spaniel lifted its head and offered an inquisitive woofle. At the sound, a man’s face appeared around the sheltering wing of one chair. Instantly it was followed by the rest of him.
“I beg your pardon; I didn’t hear you come in.” He used a cane to cross the room toward me, and this confirmed my conjecture as to his identity. “You were so quiet you might have been a ghost.” His smile was friendly and guileless, his voice surprisingly deep.
“I used to be called Mouse, because I am so quiet,” I said. It was probably not the best way to introduce myself, but without an intermediary to perform the introductions I felt uncertain and shy, and said the only words that came to me.
“Not a very flattering nickname,” he said easily, not seeming to find my reply strange. “Or even very appropriate. But perhaps it suited you better when you were a child.”
“Perhaps.” I was already regretting having mentioned it; I had never liked Lionel’s nickname for me, and now it was too painful a reminder of him. I stooped to pat the spaniel, who was investigating my skirts with a cold nose. “What is his name?”
“Zeus.” He met my eye and we laughed. “That was Felicity’s doing, not mine; I would have named him Candide, since he is such an optimist. He greets everyone as if they had a soup bone in their pocket.” He was watching with an indulgent smile as Zeus and I got acquainted, his hands folded on his stick. “If you’ll allow me to say so, you have improved greatly since our last meeting,” he said presently.
I straightened in surprise. “We have met?”
“Yes, indeed. You were crying as if your heart was broken, and I remember asking if I could stuff a piece of sponge cake in your mouth to silence you.” Seeing my confusion, he relented. “You were two weeks old,” he explained, the deep voice solemn although his eyes shone with mischief. “I would be greatly surprised if you remembered.”
“I am surprised you yourself remember,” I commented. “You must have been very young.”
“Oh, the incident is etched in my memory: my father scolded me so roundly for my lack of chivalry that my whole character was altered. Now I am a notorious pest for flinging my coat over puddles for ladies to walk on. May I offer you a seat? Father and Miss Yates should be down soon, but I am afraid we may have a long wait before Felicity and Aunt Gwendolyn join us.”
“Oh? Why?”
His eyebrows quirked in exasperation and amusement. “I thought perhaps you could tell me. I have often wondered why it takes them a full hour to change gowns. Doubtless it is a mystery best not inquired into.”
I took one of the armchairs by the hearth, and when I was seated he resumed his seat in the other. I noticed the way his knuckles whitened on the handle of his stick as he lowered himself into the chair, and scolded myself for having kept him standing; he must find it a strain to be on his feet for long, although he had said nothing.
Now that I met Felicity’s paragon in the flesh, I found that the reality bore little resemblance to the creature I had envisioned. This was no dandy with drooping moustaches and macassar oil in his hair. Charles was indisputably moustached, to be sure, but this adornment was neatly clipped, and his straw-colored hair innocent of pomade. He was tall, but his height was balanced by the breadth of his shoulders, so that he was nothing like the languid weed I had envisioned. The loose fit of his suit suggested that he had grown thinner from his illness, but he seemed utterly unconscious of being an invalid.
He also seemed unaware of his own good looks, which Felicity, to my surprise, had not exaggerated. He had a narrow, fine-boned face, with expressive blond brows and eyes the wide and candid blue of the sky. Except for being so handsome, he
seemed a fairly ordinary fellow, and one whose camaraderie was very welcoming. Already I felt more at ease; his manner was so like a brother’s, although more courteous.
As if he had read my thoughts, he said, “I hear that you have lost your brother, and recently. I am very sorry.”
“Thank you.” I sounded abrupt, even to my ears, and added without intending to, “I still cannot quite believe it. He was away such a short time.”
“He was in the Crimea, I believe.” There was both understanding and concern in my cousin’s voice.
“Yes. At Inkerman.”
I could feel his eyes on my face, gauging whether to change the subject. “Would you prefer not to speak of him?” he asked quietly.
“Not at all; I wish I could speak of him more, in fact.” All at once I wanted to confide in him. It would be a great relief to me, and I felt that Charles would understand. “But nobody will discuss it with me or tell me what I want to know; it isn’t right for young ladies to know about war and killing. No one will let me bring up the subject. You would think it was something indecent.”
“What is it you wish to know? I’ll gladly help if I can.”
“My brother was shot,” I said in a rush. “We were told that he died almost instantly. And everyone tells us what a mercy it was, that he would have suffered so if he had survived to be taken to a hospital. What I need to know is if that is the truth, or if they are only trying to make his death easier to accept. Would he have suffered so? Were the hospitals so dreadful?”
He was silent for a moment, and dropped his eyes so that I could not read them. He reached down to scratch Zeus’s ears, his long fingers moving absently in the spaniel’s fur. “They were,” he said, without looking at me. “The care of the wounded was criminally poor. The conditions of the hospitals… well, if I tell you that what I saw there convinced me to take up the study of medicine, perhaps that will give you an idea of the atrocity of it.”
“You are a doctor?” I exclaimed. In a family as wealthy as the Reginalds, there could be no need for even the son of a younger son to work for a living. Charles must have been deeply affected by his experiences to take up a trade.
“I hope to become one. This summer I leave for Edinburgh to begin my studies in earnest. Now, while I am convalescing”—the wry lift of one eyebrow showed his opinion of that term—“I am trying to learn the fundamentals. I hope to find ways to reform the practices that lose so many lives needlessly.”
“You must have suffered a great deal yourself,” I ventured.
He brushed that away. “Believe me, your friends are not sugaring over the truth for your benefit,” he said earnestly. “If your brother died quickly, he was surely spared a great deal of horror. And many more men died in hospital of illnesses they contracted there than of battle wounds. Your brother’s death was probably the most merciful that could have happened under the circumstances.”
I nodded, feeling a rush of gratitude toward him for having relieved some of my anxious uncertainty. “It is kind of you to be frank with me.”
“Not at all. So many people don’t wish to hear the truth about the war; it is a relief not to have to guard my tongue for once.”
This was more kindness, I guessed; had he spoken with utter candor, I suspected, he could have described horrors I knew nothing of. I wondered if he had been able to talk of what he had experienced to anyone, or if he had been forced to offer only a partial and highly edited account for his family’s hearing.
Although I had not heard anyone approach, Zeus’s head popped up and he gave a pleased bark that announced another arrival. Charles and I rose and I found myself facing a man who must be Lord Claude. I stared to curtsey, but he caught my hands in his and drew me forward, beaming. Before I realized what he intended he had startled me by planting a kiss on my cheek.
“So this is Gwendolyn’s long-lost niece,” he said. “I see that you have already met Charles. I hope he has been making you feel at home. Did you have a pleasant journey?”
“Very pleasant, thank you, sir.” Clearly I had no cause to worry about my reception.
“I am glad to hear it. I know Gwendolyn is delighted to have you here, as we all are.” His eyes twinkled, and I saw the resemblance between him and his son. “I even believe she has given special instructions to Cook for something spectacular to welcome you with.”
“She need not have troubled; I feel very welcome already,” I said, dazzled by the lavish extent of this hospitality.
“It is no trouble, I assure you,” he said with a chuckle, and Charles added, “My aunt would be sorely disappointed to lose the chance for a celebration.”
Lord Claude was shorter and stockier than his son, but with the same good-humored expression, and the crinkles around his eyes suggested that he laughed often. He was a handsome man, the ruddy gold of his hair and beard unmixed with grey, and without any sign of paunchiness. Nevertheless, he was not a forceful presence: his voice and manner were quiet, calm, unobtrusive, never calling attention to himself. In a livelier company he might be forgotten altogether. Once more I was baffled by the difference between my expectations and the reality. Neither Lord Claude nor the duchess looked at all the sort of person I had naïvely expected to be involved in a scandal. For all their wealth and rank, they seemed to be pleasant but fairly normal people. Even their willingness to take in a virtually unknown distant relation bespoke an openheartedness I had not expected to find.
Lord Claude’s voice broke in on my thoughts, although he was not speaking to me. “Have you any idea whether Herron will be joining us tonight?”
Charles shook his head. “I saw him earlier and told him that the ladies would be arriving today, but I couldn’t say whether he will put in an appearance.”
“Does His Grace have other plans?” I asked, and the two glanced at me, then each other, as if silently consulting about how much they should say.
“Not as such,” said Charles—cautiously, I thought. “But he has been keeping to himself a great deal of late, and he does not always take his meals with the rest of the family.”
“But I should hope that he’ll behave himself this evening and put in an appearance, for his new cousin’s sake if nothing else,” put in his father, in what seemed weariness more than anger. “Ah, well, we shall see. Perhaps the boy will remember his manners.”
But he did not sound optimistic, and I wondered for the first time if the duke and his new stepfather were on friendly terms. the sudden change in their relationship might have met with some resistance on one side—or both. I wondered if Lord Claude was being unjustly critical of the duke. My curiosity about this cousin was growing every moment, and I longed to see if he was anything like the idea I had formed of him in my mind. The accuracy of my predictions had certainly been poor thus far.
But I was disappointed in my hope of assessing him in person, since the duke failed to appear that evening. The duchess and Felicity eventually joined us, resplendent after their long toilet, but by the time the dinner gong went we were still only six, with Miss Yates. The duchess and her husband exchanged a long look, and I saw her lips press together as if to keep in her disappointment. But in a moment she gave a laugh, her face restored to its usual gaiety, and slipped her hand through her husband’s arm.
“Well, there’s nothing for it but to start without him. If he has any sense at all he will join us; Cook has outdone herself in your honor, my dear, and Herron will be the loser if he misses this meal. Charles, will you take your cousin in?”
Charles offered me his arm, and with Felicity and Miss Yates following after, we processed in to dinner.
“By the way,” he said in an undertone as we crossed the great hall, a vast vaulted space with an echoing marble floor, “it might be best if you can learn to call Herron by his name. He hates being addressed by his title; in his mind, his father is still the duke.” I said I would bear that in mind, and he added in a resigned tone, “Of course, if he persists in being so coy, you may never
have occasion to speak to him at all.”
This was discouraging, but as soon as we entered the dining room I was so distracted by the grandeur of my surroundings that I almost forgot my disappointment at the duke’s absence. Although when they were not entertaining guests the family usually took dinner in the breakfast room, Charles told me, tonight they were using the banquet hall in my honor. The six of us were a ridiculously tiny group at the end of the long, gleaming table that would have seated thirty. Our voices echoes in the vast arched chamber, and despite the chandeliers, the light did not entirely dissipate the shadows. I felt awed, as if I were dining in a particularly opulent monastery. I wondered how long ago Ellsmere had been built: this room felt centuries old, as if the air was layered with the echoes of many lives.
The duchess evidently still held out hope that her son would join us, and when we had dawdled over the soup as long as was possible, she beckoned the butler over for a brief consultation. It ended in her sigh.
“Well, bring in the fish, Jenkins,” she said in resignation. “I suppose my son is off wandering the cliffs again. We’ll not see him tonight; there’s no sense in waiting longer.” She offered me a sad smile. “My dear, I do hope you will forgive this feeble showing on your first night with us.”
I assured her that there was nothing to forgive, but I wondered at the cause of the duke’s absence. Was it meant to show disdain or to hurt his mother? Surely, no matter how forgetful or grief-stricken, he would have made an appearance otherwise.
“Perhaps I should speak to the boy, remind him of his responsibilities.” This from Lord Claude, who looked anything but eager to do so.
The duchess’s shake of the head sent her ruby earrings dancing; I could not help but reflect that their flirtatious motion was ill suited to the gravity of her expression. “I doubt it would do any good, Claude. I cannot do a thing with him, myself, since his father—” She broke off, perhaps recalling the presence of others.
Sea of Secrets: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense Page 6
