“I – have a letter for you – in my muff,” ventured Eugenia at last.
The Marquis raised an eyebrow. “In your muff?”
Eugenia looked up. “Yes. It – it thanks you for your gifts – ”
The Marquis bowed.
“But – ”
He waited.
“But?” he prompted.
Eugenia faltered. “P-perhaps you should read it.” She withdrew the letter from her muff and held it out.
The Marquis took the letter and opened it. He read in silence.
“You put it most succinctly,” he said when he had finished. “You neither sought nor welcomed my gifts – ”
Eugenia nodded.
“ – and you do not wish to accept my invitation to Lady Bescombe’s ball.”
Eugenia bit her lip and nodded again.
“Miss Dovedale,” he said, “I understand that I may have in some way offended your pride. In my defence, I should explain that I simply wished to help the family of a gentleman for whom I felt both affection and respect.”
Eugenia felt uncomfortable. This was not how she had imagined the Marquis would respond.
“You – are speaking most kindly – considering that I have been – rather rude,” she murmured in a low voice.
“Rude?”
“At Lady Granton’s – I commented on – ”
She could not finish.
The corner of the Marquis’s lips twitched. “The fact that I – was of a greater age than when we last met?”
Eugenia dropped her head. “Yes.”
“My dear Miss Dovedale, I must admit I was nonplussed at your remark, but it did not take long for me to see that I should attribute it to the – inexperience of tender youth. A youth,” he added with a slight smile, “so far behind me it is almost a mystery!”
The vein of humour caught Eugenia off guard.
Well,” she whispered. “I am sorry all the same.”
“No more of that then,” said the Marquis brusquely. “Now. May I hope that you will reconsider the invitation to the ball?”
Eugenia’s head shot up. “That’s not possible! Mama would have to sell her jewellery and – oh!”
Her hand flew to her mouth as she realised what she had divulged.
The Marquis was frowning. “Sell her jewellery?”
“No, no, I should not have said it! Mama would be so distressed – “
“I shall say nothing, Miss Dovedale. But you do realise – this now makes two secrets that we share?”
The Marquis’s tone was teasing but this did not reassure Eugenia. Reminded of the recent unpleasant encounter in the gardens she became agitated. The Marquis knew too much about her altogether!
Her fingers closed nervously over each other in her muff.
“You will excuse me now, my Lord. I must return and see how my mother is faring.”
“Miss Dovedale, my carriage is at your disposal.”
“Thank you, I shall walk.”
“May I call on you and your mother tomorrow?”
Eugenia dreaded her mother using such a visit to further entertain notions of a romance between her daughter and the Marquis. Yet she did not feel it proper to decline on her mother’s behalf.
“I suppose – you may,” she replied.
She turned towards home. Bridget sprang to her feet and trotted after her.
Eugenia was puzzled by the Marquis. He seemed genuinely interested in the fortunes of herself and her mother. Perhaps he really did want to help them. On the other hand, he had wealth and that meant he had power. People enjoyed power and often used it to entertain themselves. Perhaps having power over his late High Steward’s family gave him pleasure.
‘Well, I shall not allow him to have power over me,’ Eugenia decided.
Reaching home, she threw off her coat and hat in the hall and bounded up the stairs, anxious to check on her mother. Bridget picked up the coat and scowled after her.
Mrs. Dovedale was not in her room. Perhaps, feeling better, she had gone to see Great-Aunt Cloris.
Eugenia hurried towards the next flight of stairs.
Half-way up, a piercing whistle startled her. Hand on the banister, she halted and raised her head.
A young man stared down at her from the landing above.
Eugenia felt her heart lurch in her breast.
The eyes that surveyed her were unlike any she had ever seen. Green as agate, blazingly intense, they compelled her gaze. The face in which they were set was striking with its large nose and wide cheekbones. White-blond hair flopped untidily over the young man’s face and hung to his shoulders.
Tossing the hair from his brow, the young man began to descend the stairs. All the while his eyes seemed to burn into Eugenia’s. Slowly and one step at a time he came, murmuring to her all the while.
“I was thinking, how can I paint here, in this old house? There is no light, no light! Everything is brown. Then you appear. You are like the sun! You bring this gold, gold hair. Is it really gold? May I touch it? I must touch it!”
Eugenia – lips parted, eyes wide – found herself nodding. This was obviously Gregor Brodosky the painter.
One step above her, he halted and plunged his fingers into her hair.
“What are these pins? They are like spears. Out, out!”
Eugenia began to tremble as Gregor tore pins from her hair and tossed them aside.
“Now. See. It falls. It is gold, melting over you. Ah, what a face! You I could paint! But my fate is to paint the old gorgon upstairs!”
Shocked, Eugenia pulled her head away. “Oh, you must not speak like that. Great-Aunt Cloris appears cross but underneath she is good and kind – ”
Gregor roared. “She is good. She is kind. She is ugly. Never mind. Maybe I paint you later. If she will pay. Maybe I paint you anyway. She does not like to pay. But I think she is rich, all the same?”
Eugenia faltered. Was he really asking her this question. “I – don’t know. I do not enquire.”
“No. You do not ask. You are angel!”
Before Eugenia could protest, Gregor caught her chin in his hand and, bending his head, planted a kiss on her startled mouth. Then he let go and ran off down the stairs, whistling again. He neither looked back nor waved goodbye.
Fingers to her lips, as if to seal in Gregor’s kiss, Eugenia turned and stumbled to her room.
She could not face Great-Aunt Cloris and her mother. Something had happened to her and she did not want them to know. They would be able to tell if they saw her, she was sure. Her lips must be blood-red, her cheeks full of fire.
She sank onto her bed and clasped her hands to her bosom.
At last, at last, she had met a man who was the essence of romance.
And he was surely a lover of whom her mother could never approve in a million years!
CHAPTER THREE
Mrs. Dovedale was not with Great-Aunt Cloris. She had suspected that Eugenia would oppose her selling the jewellery and so she had pretended to have a headache in order to stay behind while Eugenia and Bridget visited the park. Once they had left the house, she had snatched up her hat and coat and taken a hansom cab to Hatton Garden.
She had not received quite the amount for her jewellery that she had hoped, but it was enough. She would be able to dress Eugenia and perhaps even herself for the ball and then – and then all their problems would be solved.
Mrs. Dovedale was convinced that the Marquis was smitten with Eugenia. She was equally convinced that Eugenia would ultimately succumb to the Marquis’s undoubted charms, not least of which was his ownership of Buckbury Abbey.
She returned home in the same hansom. A light rain was falling as the vehicle drew up outside Great-Aunt Cloris’s house.
The following day Gregor arrived with his brushes and tubes of paint and an easel to paint Great-Aunt Cloris.
Eugenia listened eagerly to the sound of his voice as he greeted Bridget in the hallway below.
She stood inside her d
oor, thrilling to the rhythm of his footsteps as he mounted the stairs and passed her room. He was so close to her and yet she could not see him. She dared not see him. She envied Bridget when later she opened her door a crack and observed the maid carrying lunch up to Great-Aunt Cloris’s room.
“What are they doing?” she whispered as Bridget came down again with an empty tray.
Bridget stared at Eugenia. “Your great-aunt is sitting in a chair, miss, and the painter is – painting.”
“Thank you.” Eugenia sighed and closed her door again.
She would love to have watched Gregor at work. But her mother and great-aunt had obviously exchanged words on the subject for, over the next few days, Eugenia was never invited to Great-Aunt Cloris’s room while the young Russian was present.
Each morning she found her heart racing as she waited for the sound of the bell. She stood inside her door, willing Gregor to raise his voice as he passed by with Bridget.
So infused with thoughts of Gregor was she that Eugenia never once thought to enquire about the jewels that her mother had decided to sell. The jewels – the Bescombe ball – the Marquis – seemed subjects from another world and time entirely.
One bright morning, she at last plucked up the courage to open her door just a fraction as Gregor and Bridget passed on their way.
She opened the door so carefully that there was not the slightest creak from the hinge and it was no surprise that Gregor did not turn his head as she peeped out at him. But as he mounted the stairway to Great-Aunt Cloris’s room, he suddenly lifted his hand and gave her a backward wave.
She closed her door quickly.
When she heard him descending the stairs at the close of day, she opened her door fully and came out. He was alone. Great-Aunt Cloris had not rung for Bridget to show him out.
“I was just – going down to the parlour,” Eugenia said, wondering how it was that the loud clamour of her heart was not audible.
Gregor grinned. “No, little flower. You want to see Gregor.”
Eugenia gasped. “How did you know?”
Quick as a flash, Gregor caught hold of her hand and pressed it to his breast.
“What can you hear?” he asked mysteriously.
“H-hear?”
“Boom boom. Boom boom. A Russian heart. Very loud, no? When you are near, very loud! And your heart too, when I am near, very loud.” Gregor threw back his head and laughed. “That is how I know! Ha ha ha. Very loud.”
With that, Gregor dropped Eugenia’s hand and strolled on down the stairs, whistling.
Eugenia stared after him in wonder.
She had never met anyone like him. There was no one like him, not in London, not in England, not in the whole wide world.
And he had said that his heart beat extra loudly when she, Eugenia, was near!
The next day was Saturday. She paced her room, waiting for the doorbell to ring. The hall clock chimed ten. He was usually here by now. Ten thirty. Eleven.
Her heart sank. Obviously he did not work on a Saturday.
Her week had been so taken up with waiting to hear Gregor’s voice, waiting to catch a glimpse of him, that a break in this routine left her feeling beached on some grey and deserted island.
At last she ambled to the dark old library at the back of the house. She needed a book to take her mind off the long, desolate weekend that lay ahead.
Her great-aunt’s late husband, Mr. Dewitt, had been interested in cloth, trade, the distillation of whiskey and little else. It was some time before Eugenia found anything that might absorb her – a biography of Peter the Great. She tucked the book under her arm and left the library.
Bridget was hovering in the hallway.
“Oh, miss, I’ve been looking for you everywhere. You’re wanted in the drawing room. There’s a visitor.”
Eugenia knitted her brow. “A visitor? I never heard the bell.”
“No, miss. You wouldn’t in there. That door is covered with baize.”
Eugenia did not dare ask who the visitor might be, but her fancy ran ahead of her. Surely it was Gregor, on his day off, invited to take tea in the drawing room at the end of his first week of painting Great-Aunt Cloris’s portrait!
Her mother and great-aunt looked up from the tea table as she entered. “Ah, here’s Eugeeenia.” Eugenia’s eyes flew round the room. A figure at the window turned and smiled a welcome.
The Marquis! Eugenia’s face was such a picture of disappointment that the Marquis himself could not but notice. The smile faded from his lips and his eyes hooded over.
“I am afraid Miss Dovedale was expecting someone else,” he said stiffly.
“Someone else?” cried Mrs. Dovedale in alarm. “There is nobody else! We are closeted like nuns here.”
Great-Aunt Cloris grunted in surprise but said nothing.
Eugenia, aware that she had revealed her emotions in a manner that was both discourteous and a little dangerous, summoned up a rush of gaiety.
“It’s true!” she cried. “We eat, sleep and pray to the chime of the clock as if it was a convent bell. It is a mercy that I am not forced to wear a habit!”
The Marquis’s profile seemed unyielding. “Like nuns?” he repeated.
Eugenia raised her face staunchly to his. “Yes.”
“Well, I am sure that you would make even a habit look the height of fashion, Miss Dovedale.”
Eugenia, regarding him closely for the first time, thought she detected a twinkle in the corner of his eye.
“Thank you,” she muttered, somewhat chastened.
Mrs. Dovedale, who had been listening anxiously to this exchange, detected the easing of tension.
“Do come and have some tea,” she suggested with relief.
Eugenia and the Marquis moved together to the table.
To Mrs. Dovedale, it was as if he was committing to memory every flicker of her daughter’s lashes and every glance of her eye.
She could almost hear the wedding bells ringing in her head!
She gave a little cough as she poured the tea. “I am sure plans are proceeding apace for Lady Bescombe’s ball?”
The Marquis dutifully tore his gaze away from Eugenia. “Indeed. I believe Lord and Lady Bescombe have hired a Viennese orchestra.”
“And Italian pastry cooks,” interposed Great-Aunt Cloris. “Why a plain old English baker will not do, I cannot imagine.”
The Marquis’s eyes had already strayed back to Eugenia. Her hair gleamed in a halo of light from the window.
“Might I hope that Miss Dovedale has changed her mind with regard to the ball?” he asked her softly. “Might I hope that she will now accept my invitation?”
Eugenia stared into her teacup. “I-I am afraid I remain quite resolute. I shall not accept.”
“She jests,” cried Mrs. Dovedale in horror. “She would love nothing more.”
“Mama,” said Eugenia sharply. “I should hope to be allowed to know for myself what I would love or not love.”
The Marquis, his regard flicking from mother to daughter, felt that painful matters were about to be broached. His presence must only increase any discomfort for Eugenia. He rose graciously from the table with a bow.
“Ladies, I must beg permission to leave. I have – urgent business to attend to.”
Mrs. Dovedale threw an angry glance at Eugenia before replying.
“You will call on us again? I am sure you are always very welcome.”
“Thank you,” replied the Marquis.
Mrs. Dovedale insisted on showing the Marquis out herself. She wanted to reassure him that she would do everything in her power to ensure that Eugenia attended the ball.
As the door closed behind them, Great-Aunt Cloris folded her hands into her lap and stared at Eugenia.
“I have half a mind to take your place at the Bescombe ball, if you won’t go,” she mused.
Eugenia was amazed. “But, great-aunt, you do not like such events.”
“No. But Lady Bescombe is goin
g to exhibit the portrait that Gregor painted of her at the ball. I should like to see that! And that is the only place I can see it, for she intends to send it down to her country house after the ball. And I shall never go there. Nasty, damp place.”
“Gregor – painted Lady Bescombe?”
“Indeed. You may remember that it was Lady Bescombe who recommended him. You would think he was the son of Peter the Great himself, the way she treats him.”
“You think – Gregor will be at the – at the ball?” Eugenia asked in a low voice.
“Undoubtedly. I shouldn’t wonder if he dances with Lady Bescombe herself.”
Eugenia rose trembling from her seat. “Excuse me, Great-Aunt Cloris. I have to – I have to – speak to the Marquis before he departs.”
“Hmph! Everyone is deserting me now,” she grumbled, but she waved her great-niece away.
Eugenia flew from the room. The hallway was empty. She glimpsed her mother at the front door, waving jauntily. She heard the sound of a carriage drawing away from the house. The Marquis had left. No matter. She would write to him.
She hurried up the stairs and into her bedroom. In the desk she found a sheet of headed notepaper. She dipped her pen into the inkwell and wrote quickly. She waved the letter in the air until the ink was dry and then she sealed it.
She had accepted the Marquis’s invitation. She would go to the ball, she would dress in a gown of rose pink silk and she would dance with Gregor Brodosky. She would dance all night, only with him, and his Russian heart would go boom, boom, boom to hold her in his arms!
*
Eugenia stood waiting to be announced. The stairway that led down to the ballroom was of white marble, with a runner of thick red carpet. Below, the ballroom was already crowded and the orchestra playing. Figures in resplendent costume swirled by. But something was wrong. Each figure wore a mask. Eugenia felt her face with her fingers. She wore no mask. Would she be allowed to dance?
“Miss Eugenia Dovedale”
At the sound of her name, the various instruments of the orchestra began, one by one, to cease playing. Soon only the sound of a violin floated in the air. The dancers stopped and turned to watch Eugenia descend.
The House of Happiness Page 4
