Now, she realized, as the new lady of Amberdell Manor, the finest estate in the area, she was anything but unremarkable. Although the lingering stares felt like an icy wind upon her skin, Callie pasted on a friendly smile and strode on into the belly of the bea—the center of town.
Her first encounter, aside from the suspicious gazes and behind-the-hand whispers, was with the proprietress of a shop signified by gold figured lettering as MDM. LONGETT, DRESSMAKER.
Callie had no intention of ordering a gown, really. She had several at home, waiting to be shipped here. She’d simply ducked into the nearest recognizable refuge. She could not afford a bootlace, much less a new frock.
This sanctuary revealed itself to be a trap. Callie found herself in a shop absolutely filled with titillated gazes. A full dozen persons of the female persuasion occupied the room.
She felt like a mouse suddenly introduced to a boxful of cats.
A woman in a dressmaker’s pinafore whom Callie assumed to be Madame Longett surged forward with a frozen smile. She was rather stout and plain and ruddy faced. Not at all like the exotic presentation on the front window. Still, Callie smiled back.
“Hello. I am—”
“Mrs. Porter!” Teeth still clenched in the unconvincing grin of greeting, Madame wrung Callie’s hand. “How … um, charming to meet you … er, at last…”
At last. Callie had been in the area precisely four days. Apparently that—and an admittedly short courtship, and wedding a man who was never seen without a hood—was all that was needed to cause a storm of gossip and speculation.
Yes. Well. Rather.
Callie tried to smooth matters over by pretending that she’d come especially to see Madame herself. “I’m in dire need of your help, Madame. I’ve just come from London and I find I’ve nothing suitable for the country.”
Callie had simply meant that she was in need of some practical walking dresses, which she wasn’t, really, but even as the watching eyes narrowed in resentment she heard the words falling from her lips.
“—like she’s trading silks for flour sacking.”
The hostile murmur sounded quite clearly in the awkward silence. Gasps and horrified giggles were the group response.
Callie raised her chin and valiantly forged ahead. “A muslin, I think, for the warmest days. Have you anything in a stripe?” She’d find a way to pay for it somehow.
It was no good.
“Naw, we ignorant country folk haven’t progressed to stripes yet.” Again, the snide murmurer had the room in repressed stitches.
Madame was obviously torn between alienating her usual custom and obtaining the patronage of the new lady of the manor. Her eyes conveyed desperate pleas to Callie.
Come back later.
Or possibly, Come back never.
You have a basket of gifts on your arm. Use them.
As what, defensive projectiles?
She had a fine right arm, for a girl, Dade claimed. Callie pictured the invisible murmurer with a face full of lumpy ginger. The absurdity allowed her to turn to the wolves—er, ladies—with a cheerful smile. Reaching into her basket, she pressed a packet into each reluctant hand.
“Just a small token of greeting, so nice to meet you all, do hope you’ll call…”
It wasn’t working. Blasted country imperviousness! In desperation, Callie heard herself uttering dangerous words.
“We’re hosting a ball soon, you must say you’ll come—”
What? No. Oh, Sweet Charlotte’s Arse, what am I doing?
“Such a fine, large house, I can’t wait to fill it with guests—”
There was no hope for it. Her mouth, apparently, belonged to someone rather more impetuous than she.
“Oh, soon, I should think. Mr. Porter is most eager to greet the village at last—” Not impetuous. Suicidal.
Somehow, Callie escaped the dressmaker’s having promised a ball and, without really knowing how, having ordered half a dozen muslin gowns in the “latest style,” whatever that was.
Callie practically ran from the village, blindly thrusting packets of ginger into the hands of everyone she encountered, stammering, “So nice to meet—really must come—what a lovely day—”
Once out of sight, she sat on a grassy hillock near the lane and buried her face in her hands. I panicked, I plead insanity, I don’t know what came over me …
What were the chances Mr. Porter would merely chuckle indulgently and pat her on the head and say, oh, where’s the harm in a little gathering, just the nearest and dearest …
Entire village. I invited the entire village to a ball.
I invited the blacksmith to a ball.
And quite possibly his dog, as well.
Oh, no, sorry. That was his mule.
Hysteria bubbled up inside her, carrying with it the thought that this, indeed, might convince Mr. Porter that she ought to be sent home at once …
Panic subsided like boiling water doused in oil.
Mr. Porter didn’t like strangers. Mr. Porter was going to be furious with her.
Callie’s lips began to turn up in a slow, evil smile. If she’d had a mirror near, she’d have been surprised at the resemblance to her youngest sibling.
Except that even Attie wouldn’t dare go this far.
* * *
In the dressmaker’s, the women of the village were still in full riot, carrying on about the ball. Betrice stepped out from the group and watched Callie’s back as she rushed down the lane.
A ball. It was brilliant, really. Betrice wondered how Callie meant to pull it off in a mere week, but she supposed with Lawrence’s resources, one could have whatever one wanted.
She gave a sigh as she contemplated the blue silk she’d been fingering before Callie had entered. It was far too dear, though it would look fine on her and Henry never begrudged her anything—but a blue silk gown wasn’t worth doing without sugar or the fragrant cinnamon that Henry so loved. Betrice’s mother had raised her to put her husband’s desires first in all things.
Betrice let the silk slip from her fingers and resolutely turned her back on it.
Such a beautiful blue …
She left the chattering shop behind her with relief. Too much temptation by far.
Callie was still in sight in the High Street. Betrice found herself abruptly turning the other way, though she had no business there.
With her head turned, her gaze still on Callie, pondering the capricious nature of fate, she didn’t see the giant man before her until she nearly bounced off his chest.
Vast hands wrapped about her upper arms, catching her when she stumbled in surprise. “That’s it, now, Mrs. Nelson.”
At the deep voice Betrice looked up in recognition. “Unwin!”
She hadn’t seen him for ages, although he likely delivered Springdell’s supplies on a regular basis. Betrice was not one to mind the tradesman’s entrance, leaving that to Springdell’s cook.
Now, she gazed up into a face she knew as well as anyone’s in the village. Wide and coarse now, his features had once seemed manly and rough to her, like her romantic imagination’s pirate or highwayman. A passing fancy, a silly girl’s fascination with the forbidden, that was all.
He’d always wanted her, although she had ever been out of his reach. She, the only child of a very prosperous farmer, and Unwin just the old grocer’s boy. She’d tried out her budding flirtation skills upon him when they were not much more than children, and she’d felt his eyes following her ever since.
Now his gaze had followed where hers had been fixed. He scowled, his thick features darkening in anger.
“Should’ve been you, up in the fancy house. She isn’t as fine as you, nor as pretty.”
Betrice looked down, adjusting her gloves. “Mrs. Porter is from a very old family. I’m sure she’ll make a fine mistress of Amberdell Manor.”
Could she be blamed for the slight hint of bitterness in her tone? Not by Unwin. He was a bully, really the closest thing the village
had to a true ruffian. To Unwin, she could never sink low enough to be unworthy, or improper.
Something of a relief, really.
“Mr. Porter was the next in line. There was no help for it. Mr. Nelson would perhaps be a better master, as far as the village is concerned, but he cannot take what he has no right to, can he?”
“Porter is ill, some say. Some say he’s dyin’ even.”
“I’m sure I cannot say.”
“Well, he ought to die, that’s what. Him dead, there’d be no one standin’ between you and Amberdell Manor!”
Betrice shook her head. “I can wait for Mr. Porter to take his natural time of life. He is a sad man and full of despair … but if he should have a son…” She sighed. “Well, the future will be what it will be, I suppose.”
She turned to give Unwin a quick, sad smile. “You ought not to worry about me. Mr. Nelson keeps me in bread and shelter. The finer things … well, perhaps someday.” His sympathy was a balm, but she wouldn’t like to be seen in long conversation with him. “Now, I must load up my pony cart and be on my way. Give my greetings to your family, Unwin.”
As she left town, traveling a good bit faster than Callie was, she could feel Unwin’s eyes upon her, like always.
It was nice to know she hadn’t yet lost her looks.
Chapter 10
Callie smiled, happy to have found a friendly face at last.
Hadn’t it been kind of Betrice to stop her cart and invite Callie to Springdell for tea? Callie longed for tea, having unearthed none in the Amberdell kitchen as yet.
Betrice showed her into a large and comfortable parlor. To Callie’s newly enriched eye, the room showed the wear and tear of years. Compared to the richly appointed manor, it was apparent that Betrice and Henry lived in genteel poverty.
Of course, compared to the negligent chaos in the Worthington household, this home was a haven of serenity!
Callie wondered if it bothered Henry to live so close to the riches that were almost his. However, when he bustled into the parlor a few minutes later, his open face and welcoming smile dispelled that unworthy thought.
“Calliope! My dear, how are you today? You look well—doesn’t she look well, Betty? Yes, you look very well, indeed!”
Callie laughed aloud at his boisterous greeting and returned his bearlike hug with real affection. Henry’s outgoing nature did a lot to explain Betrice’s reserve—she likely had no choice!
After she’d been seated and served and regaled with Henry’s latest adventure digging out a vitally important spring that had been clogged with a recent rockfall—this story being accompanied by illustrative hand motions and relevant sounds—Callie had a moment to reflect upon the couple when Henry’s foreman appeared to discuss another farming crisis and Betrice rose to pour the man a cup of tea.
When she returned, Callie cast a glance about the room. “I had not the chance to inquire … do you and Mr. Nelson have children?”
“Not as yet.” Betrice smiled wistfully. “I hope we will have children. My Henry is such a paternal sort of man, don’t you think? I daresay he’d like half a dozen children about the place.”
Callie forced a smile and nodded. Mr. Porter wasn’t the slightest bit paternal … was he?
Paternal? He’s barely even human half the time.
He was a protective sort, but when Callie thought about her own sweet grumpy papa, testy when disturbed from his scholarly pursuits, yet always so indulgent and approving—even of Cas and Poll’s semilegal adventures.
Papa never roared.
Mr. Porter had a tendency to do just that. Snarling, certainly. Callie felt as though she were describing a not very well trained pet.
Papa, Papa, take off your hood!
No, perhaps not the most paternal sort …
Callie sipped her own very nice tea and thought about the vast, cold emptiness of Amberdell Manor. Rich and tasteful, indeed, but so very silent and sad.
When Henry returned to the table, Callie was determined to learn more about her new home and her new husband, as well.
“Lawrence?” Henry pulled a contemplative face. “No, we were not acquainted as children. I knew of him, of course. I always envied him, living a glamorous life in London, going to fine schools, traveling the world…” At Callie’s blank expression, Henry paused his expansive speech.
Callie swallowed the sip of tea that had just gone a bit bitter on her tongue. “Traveling the world?”
Betrice poured more tea into Callie’s china cup. “Yes, of course. Haven’t you noticed all the exotic treasures at Amberdell Manor?”
Callie stirred her tea, though she’d added nothing to it. “Yes. I simply thought … well, he did inherit the place.” She cleared her throat and forced a smile. “So these travels—they must have been … before.”
Henry squinted and wrinkled his bulbous nose. “Before what?”
Betrice planted a subtle elbow in her husband’s side. Callie only saw it because she was a proud practitioner of that particular tradition with the males of her former household. With Castor and Pollux she often wished her elbow were encased in armor. With spikes.
“Harrumph! Oh, yes, well … that would definitely have been … before. He used to write to our cousin a great deal … before.” He chuckled in memory. “Rather racy, those letters!”
Betrice did not seem amused. “Cousin John would call for Henry every time a letter arrived,” she said to Callie. “He and Henry would go over every detail, debating what Lawrence might mean by a certain phrase or innuendo. Old John actually suspected Lawrence to be a spy.” She said it with a ladylike hint of disdain.
“Silly notion.” Henry waved a large hand. “I thought him simply a mad adventurist, perhaps planning to write it all down one day as a published memoir. I believe it was the chief source of entertainment for both of us for years.”
Where were those letters? Could she read them? Callie desperately wanted to pry. She shouldn’t. Oh, well, why not? “Has he ever told you what happened to him?”
Betrice shook her head. Henry, however, took on a stuffed expression that Callie recognized. When seen on the face of a man such a look meant that he knew something, desperately wanted to share the aforementioned something, but rather thought he ought not to.
Very well, then. Callie did her best imitation of her sister Elektra and let out a long, sad sigh and turned deeply troubled eyes upon Henry. The big man’s eyes practically crossed in his effort to keep his secret.
Hmm. Add a little Atalanta? Callie let her lower lip tremble ever so slightly.
“I feel terrible asking such things. I know I should wait until Mr. Porter sees fit to tell me … it isn’t as though he knows me … or even l-l-loves me…” To her surprise, actual tears began to swim in her eyes. Goodness. She’d watched Ellie use such tactics on Papa since her sister learned to talk. As Henry began to spill out words so quickly Callie could scarcely keep up, she noticed Betrice eyeing her with something like respect.
Ah. A fellow fighter in the war of the feminine. She turned her attention back to Henry, who was still urging her not to weep.
“It’s not as though I know very much, not much at all, really, considering he’s my very own cousin—but our cousin’s solicitor had to search for Lawrence for a very long time before he was found. There was a time when it was discussed that he be declared dead and that I be named heir. Then a man came—”
“Sir Simon,” Betrice supplied helpfully.
“Yes, Sir Simon came and he met with the solicitor and when he left, the solicitor would speak no more of the case, not even to me, which seemed very odd. To tell the truth, the man seemed to be almost … well, frightened.”
Callie drew her brows together. “Frightened? Whatever of?”
Henry leaned forward. “Well, it was that fellow, that Sir Simon Raines, that was his name. He knew that Lawrence wasn’t dead, that’s what. And if he knew that, then he might also know where he’s been and why he’s so … well, yes, t
hat’s only idle curiosity, I suppose. The sort that killed the cat, I’d wager.” Henry nodded vigorously. “That fellow, he’s the one that found Lawrence and sent him here to us, I’m convinced of it.”
“But found him where?”
Henry shrugged, his big shoulders moving like boulders. Callie turned her gaze upon Betrice, who only smiled and shook her head.
“It isn’t only you who wonders,” Betrice said. “Lawrence is a popular topic in the village. Now, you are, as well.”
Callie blinked. “I? Why, I’m nothing at all.”
Henry found himself called away again at that moment. He left graciously enough, but Callie could tell he’d become uncomfortable with the conversation.
Excellent. Betrice was much more forthcoming.
Callie struggled with the proper opening. “Marriage is certainly an adventure, don’t you think?”
Betrice looked slightly perplexed. “It is the only adventure, is it not, if one is unlucky enough to be female?”
Her statement carried a hint of flat bitterness that made Callie’s fingers twitch with curiosity. There was clearly a great deal going on beneath Betrice’s serene manner.
“Well, yes … I suppose so. I rather think most marriages begin a bit more conventionally—although I wouldn’t mind so much if only I could persuade him to remove his hood.”
Betrice stared at her. “Have you never seen his face?”
“Oh, of course I have! Well, once anyway. Just for a fraction of a second.” She turned to look at Betrice. “Have you?”
Betrice shook her head slowly. “No. Henry has, or did once, when Lawrence first returned. He found him quite terribly drunk and picked him up and put him to bed in one of the chambers … but when I asked Henry wouldn’t speak of it. He only told me to wait until Lawrence learned to trust us.”
Wise and tolerant, but annoying and entirely not useful.
“So … how is that little matter of trust coming along?”
Now it was Betrice’s turn to look embarrassed. “I’ve always tried to be gracious … but I cannot help the fact that he frightens me a little.”
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