The long gallery where the family portraits were displayed was also, Charles told me, where balls were held; now it was an immense emptiness that echoed as I entered. A gleaming expanse of floor, interrupted by carpets in soft shades of moss green and gold, reflected the drab light that entered through the long windows ranging down the length of the room. It was a grey, lowering day, and the sun that filtered through the lace curtains was cool and pale. The unlit chandeliers gleamed dimly, their crystals trembling at our footsteps like rain, and I was struck with the notion that this must be what the ocean floor was like: a vast shadowed place of stillness, with cloudy half-light swimming through the dimness in fitful gleams. Then Charles lit the gas wall brackets, and their bright matter-of-fact glow dispelled the mystery.
“It’s quite a spectacle when the carpets are rolled up and the chandeliers lit,” he said. “My aunt will be giving a ball soon, and then you’ll be able to see for yourself. Ah, here’s a portrait of the family from several years ago. Guess who the dashing young fellow in spats is?”
“You look very young,” I said, assessing the painting. “Not more than eight or nine years older than Herron.”
He grimaced. “Six, in fact.”
Oh. “I’m sorry.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I don’t recommend Sevastopol as a health cure.”
Belatedly I remembered his record in the Crimea. I had thought him over thirty, but he must be no more than twenty-seven. It was certainly no wonder he looked older than his age after all he had been through. Yet his experiences had not hardened him; he looked mature, but not haggard, as were some men I had seen returned from the battlefields.
In the portrait he looked several years younger and a decade less experienced; he had not yet grown his moustache, and he lounged next to his sisters, who wore matching white dresses. On Aminta’s other side stood Viscount Montrose, her husband, and a nursemaid with a small child who must have been Freddy. Viscount Montrose inclined toward gangliness, and was already losing his hair although he could have been no more than thirty-five; but, although he was no beauty, I decided I liked his face. Lord Claude stood a little apart from his offspring, halfway between them and the group on the sofa: the duke, the duchess, and Herron. His position was strangely solitary, as if he belonged with neither group.
The duke was very much as I had envisioned him from Herron’s description: a barrel-chested man with a Roman nose and a great beard flowing over his chest. He sat stiffly, formally, one hand holding his wife’s, his face half turned toward her as if even for the portrait he could not take his eyes from her. They seemed to be kind eyes, but there was a sternness to them that, together with the rigid austerity of his posture, made me wonder if during his life the duchess had been quite the carefree lady I knew now. In the portrait she smiled graciously, but without the merriment I associated with her. She actually appeared slightly older than she did in reality, although this may have been due in part to her gown, which was a severe, albeit elegant, evening dress of dark brocade. Instead of aging her, her husband’s death seemed to have renewed her youth, as Miss Yates had suggested.
Herron, who must have been no more than seventeen, perched on the arm of the sofa, at the far end of the group. The portraitist had not flattered him: his intent dark gaze had a fixed appearance, and his mouth wore a sulky droop. Perhaps he had been chafing over having to sit still for long hours in his best suit.
Charles, too, was gazing at the portrait intently. “What do you think?” he asked at length.
“It’s a handsome family. Was the duke as majestic as he looks?”
“Oh, yes. He had a magnificent deep voice and seemed to tower over everybody else in the room. When I was a boy I imagined that God must look exactly like him.”
“He sounds like a man it would be easy to respect,” I said, and left the last part of the thought unspoken. Charles seemed to sense it, however.
“And not so easy to love, you mean? Perhaps. I certainly went in fear of him until I was almost twenty. One look from those eyes could reduce me to the condition of a gibbering schoolboy caught stealing from the jam cupboard. But he was a deeply fair man, and very wise, and he loved his family a great deal even if he wasn’t as much of a—well, a companion as my father.”
“Did the duchess feel the same?”
He turned to me, arching one eyebrow with half a smile. “I had no idea gossip was so much to your taste.”
“In general it isn’t,” I said, and at his skeptical look I laughed guiltily. “Very well, believe me or not as you please. But since it seems I’m to consider this family my own, I would like to know more about it. It seems to have had an eventful history—recently, at least.”
“That’s certain. Very well, I shall tell you what I know. But only because you badgered me without mercy.”
He led me to another portrait, an older one, in which the former duke and duchess stood together in what I recognized to be the drawing room. It must have been their wedding portrait: the duchess, slightly plumper and smiling all over her cherubic face, was wearing an extraordinary gown of white silk whose train was painted with a design of flowers and ribbons. One gloved hand was tucked in the duke’s arm, and she turned her face up to his. In the magnificent gown and heavy jeweled coronet she looked like a child dressing up in her mother’s finery. The duke likewise wore the full regalia of his rank, but on him it seemed appropriate, and it lent him an almost military appearance that accorded with the formality of his posture. He looked very much as he had in the other portrait. I wondered how old he had been at the time of the wedding, and asked Charles.
“He was forty-three. My aunt was only seventeen—the same age Felicity is now, and, so I understand, much the same in temperament. She loved to dance and sing and attend parties and was always happiest in the midst of a group of young people. I believe there was some surprise when she married the duke: certainly it was an excellent match, and she became a gracious duchess, but I think she must have given up a great deal.” I was surprised at this burst of confidence, and Charles seemed to feel he had been disloyal, for he explained quickly: “There was the difference in age, of course, and being a duchess carries a tremendous responsibility with it, as I’m sure you’ve noticed: she would have had to leave her girlish concerns behind very abruptly and learn how to manage the duke’s affairs and comport herself in an entirely new way.”
This was a new line of thought; I had imagined that she had always been as gay and lively as now. “She must have found it a strain.”
“I’m sure so, even though she loved him devotedly. Now that she and my father are married, she seems a great deal more at ease, and does not work so hard to be formal and grave.”
“Your father is much closer to her in age, isn’t he?”
“Yes; there is less than ten years between them. He married my mother when he was very young.”
My mind went back to the family portrait, where Lord Claude seemed to be set apart from the rest of his relatives. I asked Charles about this, and he hesitated.
“I think,” he said slowly, “that he may have been falling in love with Aunt Gwendolyn at that time.” He gave me a sheepish look. “That’s pure speculation, and I probably shouldn’t say it.”
I hastened to assure him of my secrecy, and urged him to continue.
“You do draw a man out, cousin! I have the feeling that few can keep their secrets around you.” Then he sobered. “But I do remember a change in the atmosphere dating from around that year—a difference in the way my father got along with the two of them.”
“He and the duke quarreled?”
“Oh no, nothing so definite; at any rate, they were always close. That wasn’t what changed.” He seemed to be choosing his words with care, or trying to cast his mind back to that time. “Rather, it was a kind of diffidence on Father’s part, a drawing back. I suppose he must have been trying to conquer his feelings, or to conceal them from Aunt Gwendolyn.”
Or from
the duke, I thought. But no doubt it was the instinct of a gentleman to try to remove himself from such a situation; no wonder he looked so uncomfortable, in such close proximity to the woman forbidden him. “It must have been difficult for him,” I said with genuine sympathy. “I’m glad he found his happiness, even though he had to wait for it.”
“Yes, he’s happier than I’ve seen him in years—my aunt too, I must say. They are well matched in temperament; he is nearly as fond of fetes and entertainments as she.” He grinned. “I expect this house party will be a very lively one indeed.”
“No doubt,” I said, although I did not care either way; I did not plan on taking part in the activities, so they held no interest for me. Nevertheless, the subject provided an opportunity for me to bring up the matter pressing upon me. “Do you suppose it will improve Herron’s spirits?”
After a moment’s silence, during which I kept my eyes on the portrait in affected nonchalance, Charles said, “I doubt it. I expect it will take more than whist and tableaus to bring him back to us.”
It was no use pretending to be unconcerned; I turned my back on the portrait and faced Charles. He met my eyes gravely. “I feel the same way,” I said. “Charles, you said once that he—you mentioned him in connection with Werther. Do you really think…?” I hoped he would cut me off, but he waited for me to finish the thought. To say the worst. “Do you think he might destroy himself?”
He did not answer at once. Looking past me at the painting, he raked his fingers through his hair. It was a habit of his when he was thinking deeply; I had seen him do this when he played chess with his father. “I certainly hope not,” he said at last. “Why do you ask? Has he spoken of it?”
“Yes—more than once. Often.”
He did not ask me when, and for that I was glad. “Does the duchess know of it?”
“I told her some time ago, but she seemed to think it was empty talk, a demand for attention.”
“But you believe it to be more serious.” It was not a question, but I nodded. “Well, you’re probably right to fear for him,” he said, looking at me with uncharacteristic solemnity. “He is certainly very troubled, however much his mother may wish to deny it.”
For some reason I found it comforting that, instead of trying to dismiss or explain away my fears, he took them seriously. I felt I had an ally, someone to help me try to hold Herron back from the abyss. “What can we do?” I asked. “We cannot allow him to—to harm himself.”
“If he is truly determined, there is little we can do.” Then, seeing by my face that he may have been too blunt, he added, “But I’m probably being pessimistic. If he had wanted to end his life, he has had plenty of opportunity before now.”
“That is true,” I said, and in spite of myself my spirits rose. Charles must have heard hope in my voice, for he half smiled. “Perhaps the threat isn’t so great as I feared. It may be that his fascination with death is after all an abstract interest, not a personal one, and he’ll leave it behind in time. I’ve heard of such things. I was too quick to take alarm; he may only be speaking hypothetically.”
“Perhaps,” he said, but there was doubt in the word, and he was frowning again. “If we knew what the cause of his despondency was, we would have a better idea of how to help him. I only wish I knew what was in his mind.” He shook his head, hard, as if to dislodge unpleasant thoughts. “We aren’t as close now as we once were, and I regret that; I would have liked to think he could talk to me about what’s troubling him. I can’t help suspecting it’s more than his father’s death. But you may have some idea of the cause,” he added suddenly, taking me by surprise: “He seems to find it easier to speak freely to you than to the rest of us.”
His forthright blue gaze made me drop my eyes; I could not tell him that his own father was a murderer in Herron’s mind.
Might that be the key to his rescue, though? If I could prove to him that his suspicions were unfounded, he might be freed from his misery. The thought restored me somewhat. It might be an impossible plan, but it was better to have something to do, some way to feel I was helping him, than to be forced to stand by and watch him wrestle with his demon alone. And surely there would be some way to convince him of his error, and then—then he would come back to us.
“He does seem to find that he can speak of his thoughts to me,” I said, evading his question. “It may be that he will wear out his fascination by talking about it, and he will not feel the need to act on it.”
“Let us hope so. In any case, having a confidante can only help him.” He paused, and his voice was gentle when he said, in unconscious echo of the duchess, “You are very good for him.”
I didn’t know what to say to this any more now than I had then. “I hope so. I try to be.”
Charles was the first to look away. His fingers tightened on his cane as he shifted his weight, and belatedly I realized that so long a period of standing must be exhausting for him in his condition. But he did not speak of his discomfort. “I hope Herron realizes how much he would be throwing away, should he act on his threat,” he said instead. “He has one thing at least that’s well worth living for.”
“Oh? What is that?”
“Your love.”
It was the first time a name had been put to my feeling for Herron, but I accepted it. Charles had recognized it before I had.
There seemed to be no reason to reply, and after a moment he offered me his arm. I took it, and we resumed our tour of the house.
Chapter Nine
The next day was unusually fine, and I was glad of this since I was to go with the duchess, Felicity and Miss Yates to take Christmas gifts around to the tenants. By mid-morning, under a pale winter sun, the carriage was drawn up to the door for us.
With our voluminous skirts and the crinolines worn by the duchess and Miss Yates, it was a surprise to me that we were all able to fit inside; indeed, the seat cushions were quickly submerged in a sea of tartan, since all of us wore dresses in that fashionable fabric, popularized by Her Majesty herself. When the hampers of food and the other bundles we were taking with us had been loaded, the carriage groaned on its springs. Lord Claude, seeing us off, laughed at us and said we looked like a gypsy caravan.
This was the first time I had visited any of the tenants’ cottages, and I was favorably impressed by them: clean, well-ventilated, and spacious, they offered more comfortable conditions than much of the housing I had seen in London. Several had new roofs. “That’s Lord Reginald’s doing, miss,” explained one woman. “In the last few weeks we’ve seen a lot of changes for the good.”
“Oh? The late duke did not maintain the cottages as well?”
We were gathered in the kitchen of the cottage, the hub of all household activity now that winter had come. Across the room, Felicity had warmed the soup we had brought and was feeding it to the youngest child, who lay coughing on a cot. The duchess and Miss Yates had discreetly tucked some new blankets around her and now helped to cajole the little girl into taking more soup.
“His Grace the duke was good to us, miss, don’t go mistaking me; but ’e didn’t take what you’d call an interest, like. If the ’ouse was in one piece, you’d not see him from one end of the month t’other. Lord Reginald, now”—my hostess beamed—“’e’s a lovely gentleman, miss. ’E’ll ask after me husband’s rheumatism and me vegetable garden. And ’e says we’re to have a new room built come spring.”
“How nice.” Such extensive refurbishing must be expensive. But it was obvious that the tenants were well pleased with their new landlord. I wanted to ask her more about her impressions of Lord Claude, but Felicity joined us then.
“Mrs. Downing, has the doctor been by to see Tilda? That’s a nasty cough she has.”
Mrs. Downing assured her that Lord Reginald had sent the doctor around just the day before, and he had declared her to be in no danger. I was impressed by this further evidence of Lord Claude’s attentiveness to his tenants. Whatever had been the cause of the old duke�
��s death, a great many people seemed to have benefited from it. Everywhere we went we saw and heard testimony to Lord Claude’s generosity. The gifts of food, wool, leather and candles we brought were almost incidental. Nevertheless, it was a new experience for me to take part in such gift-giving, and I enjoyed the chance to spend a morning as Lady Bountiful—or as one of her handmaidens.
“There!” exclaimed the duchess some hours later, relaxing against the coach’s cushions with a sigh. “I believe that’s everyone. I won’t be able to eat anything for the rest of the day, after having had so much bread and cheese and cider.” Most of the cottagers we had visited had pressed us to stay and eat a bite before continuing on our way, and the duchess had not wanted to disappoint any of them by refusing. Consequently we were all feeling a bit breathless, and I saw Miss Yates tug discreetly at her stays.
“I think a walk would do me good after eating so much,” said Felicity. “I had intended to stop in the village in any case. Would you like to join me, cousin? I only need to make a few purchases, and then we can walk back to Ellsmere. It isn’t far.”
I acceded readily, and the coach pulled to a stop to let us off at the top of the village’s main street. Felicity and I spent a contented half hour sorting through ribbons and other trifles in the shop; she laughed at my delight in the assortment of pretty things. “You must not have done much shopping before, cousin, if our little village store dazzles you so,” she commented.
“Not much,” I agreed.
She chattered blithely as we walked back to the house, telling me more about the families we had visited, exclaiming over the charm and comeliness of the children. Her knowledge of their lives impressed me: she knew just whose son had broken his wrist falling out of a tree, whose daughter had gone into service. I was beginning to realize that Felicity was not as flighty as she sometimes seemed.
“You seem to know them as well as your own family,” I commented after one anecdote.
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