by Cindy Anstey
“How can you say that? To flatter an obviously comely young lady is merely courtesy. I could never turn my thoughts from dearest Miss Pyebald. She lives in my heart—”
“You will have to pardon my lack of enthusiasm, Bobbington. We have been friends since Eton, and in that time, I believe your complete and exclusive devotion has been passed from—let me see, there was darling Miss Wilson last autumn, virtuous Lady Harriet in July, stellar Miss Barnard just before Easter, beloved Miss—”
“But this is different.”
“Really? How so?”
Bobbington flushed and shifted his weight from one side to the other. “Because my feelings are returned.”
“The beautiful Miss Pyebald, daughter of Lord Reginald Pyebald, has informed you of her devotion though you have had but three encounters and she is not yet out? That is miraculous. Have you spoken to her father?”
“Oh, Northam, leave off, will you? You know I have done no such thing. She has been gone since March. I am simply awaiting her return.”
“Then why, oh why, do you believe that Miss Pyebald returns your regard?”
“We had a moment just before she left.”
“Would you care to elucidate?”
“That would not be gentlemanly.”
Spencer sighed. He rubbed at his temple. “Well, then, my friend, you might want to leave off flirting with strangers on a lonely cliff-side, or you might find yourself in a compromising situation, thereby losing all hope of winning your fair Miss Pyebald.”
Bobbington shook his head in sharp jerks. “That is not likely to happen.”
“Despite your lack of funds, your title holds great allure. You would not be the first to fall victim to a scheming mama and her daughter.”
“Our miss has an aunt.”
“Do not be so literal, Bobbington.”
“You cannot believe the girl threw herself off a cliff in order to gain my attention.”
“Perhaps not. That would be going a bit too far.”
“Indeed. I believe the true nature of your disapproval is not that I brought her to blush, but that I did it before you had the chance.”
“Rot.”
Bobbington gave him a victorious smirk.
Spencer bent over the table and hit his ball with a little more force than he had intended. As he watched Bobbington play out his turn, he fingered the delicate ornament in his pocket. He wondered about the lock of dark hair and the fleur-de-lis etching. It had been lying in the thatch beside the oak. Was it a love token dropped by the traitorous French spy? Did it indicate a cliff-top vigil or simply a passing vehicle? Was there any significance in its location? Was it a signal? It was not a busy thoroughfare; the locket could have been there for some time—perhaps it meant nothing.
As he speculated, Spencer lamented his inexperience—the ability to know and understand exactly what an object represented might be years away. He looked forward to when his espionage skills were honed enough to match those of Bibury and Lord Winfrith. It is likely that they would have been able to see the locket for what it was.
However, Spencer did not yet have their mastery, and he reasoned that St. Ives Head would need another look as a result; it would also afford him another opportunity to observe Ryton Manor.
* * *
“GIRLS, come down here at once.” The tenor of Aunt Phyllis’s voice was unreadable. But the variables were small: She was either annoyed or very annoyed.
Juliana didn’t wait to find out. With as much haste and grace as she could—lest she bring on a tongue-lashing for unladylike behavior—Juliana scrambled down the wide staircase. Carrie followed closely behind. Aunt abhorred dawdlers.
“Juliana, it has come to my attention that…” Aunt Phyllis began the minute Juliana’s feet touched the ground floor. Then she stopped.
Chester, the footman, entered the main hall carrying a large candelabra destined for the dining room. Maisie was busy in the back corner, dusting the family portrait, and Mrs. Belcher, the housekeeper, passed into the little hall with her keys clunking and jingling as she moved.
Aunt Phyllis swooped her hand impatiently to the morning room, indicating that their private discussion would continue in there.
Juliana entered the pastel blue room with a surge of resentment taking up residence in her spleen. She simply would not allow the woman to rail at her again for nothing. Aunt might deserve respect for the mere fact that she was older, well positioned in society, and Father’s sister, but that did not give her the right to—
“Juliana, do not slouch.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Juliana acquiesced as sweetly as possible. Position and familial connections did not give Aunt Phyllis the right to belittle her moral character, insult her education, or—
“Juliana, straighten your gown.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Juliana ran her hands down the perfectly placed bodice. She simply could not … would not allow her aunt to intimidate her. Juliana raised her chin and turned to face the enemy.
Aunt Phyllis was a beautiful woman. She was small in stature, but her fine bone structure was in proportion to her height. She had thick honey-colored hair, with a few touches of gray that were allowed to see the light of day only occasionally, very occasionally. Her voice was always calm but held a sting, a malicious message that seemed indiscernible to gentlemen but was infinitely clear to other women.
Juliana slowly descended onto the closest brocade settee with exaggerated grace. Aunt did not like that most people towered over her, even when it was by mere inches, as was the case with Juliana.
“There must be some mysterious voice emanating from the shadows that only you can hear, Juliana, for I am quite certain that it was not I who suggested that you sit before I do—the height of disrespect.”
“I beg to differ, Aunt. The voice I heard was, indeed, yours—just yesterday you mentioned the strain of having to look up.” Juliana smiled sweetly. “I wouldn’t want to be a pain in the neck.” After appreciating the ceiling for a calming moment, Juliana returned her gaze to the martinet, doing her best to look attentive—while clenching her jaw.
If this had not been the only way that she could get to London with her true purpose undetected, she would have gracefully marched back up the stairs, neatly thrown her possessions into her trunks, and calmly run from the house. As it was, she had to put up with the derisive treatment and snide remarks, or return home unpublished. It was now or never—for she had heard that another natural scientist was putting his theories forward—studies that borrowed heavily from the Telford research.
“Juliana, it has come to my attention that you were out alone. Again. This, after I so delicately stated that such wanton behavior is vulgar and common. You must refrain from voyaging abroad immediately, even in our own park as you were today. What if you had been seen? Walking, without an escort. It is likely that you only barely avoided an incident today. I will not brook another one.”
“Yes, Aunt.” Thank the heavens she had requested the silence of her cliff-side rescuers. “However, you must recall that I am unused to such restrictions and find them chafing.”
Aunt Phyllis’s small but strong hand drummed dramatically on her upper bodice, in the general area of her poor, taxed heart. “That is irrelevant. You are no longer in the primitive environs of Compton Green. The Ton has standards, and I will not be associated…” Aunt Phyllis artfully collapsed into the small chair next to her escritoire. Her hands fluttered like a small bird and then came to rest, with a twitch, in her lap. The exquisite lavender gown flowed and puddled around her.
“I will not be associated,” she began again for emphasis, “with anyone about whom there might be a hint of poor breeding. We must do our utmost to hide your mother’s French taint.”
This proved too much for Juliana’s sense of justice. “Aunt Phyllis, how can you deride Mama’s heritage? She was the daughter of a comte. Hardly an example of poor breeding.”
Aunt Phyllis arched her left brow in a practiced exp
ression of superiority, then she turned toward the fireplace, staring at the painting above the mantel. It was a depiction of a tree—the Telford family tree to be precise.
“I shudder to think what my great-grandfather, the Earl, would say about your bloodlines, Juliana. France is our enemy. We are at war.” She continued to stare with her lips curled into what could be mistaken for a smile; she was entranced by the long list of names.
Juliana refrained from pointing out that Phyllis Reeves had never actually met “the Earl” and that her name was on one of the lowest branches of this revered family tree. With great forbearance, Juliana placed her tongue between her teeth and held it there on the off chance that it would escape and say all manner of vulgarities, with great force.
“Now I must tell you the glad tidings.” Aunt turned back to the girls, looked critically at Carrie, and then frowned. Her eyes focused on the soft tendrils curling prettily about her daughter’s neck. She pursed her lips momentarily but continued with no reference to the altered coiffure. “Our vigil is over; Lady Pyebald and Vivian have returned. An elegant, articulate letter arrived just a few hours ago. Apparently, the holiday in the Lake District was most successful, although the journey home has been overlong and taxing on the delicate constitution of our dearest Vivian. A brief respite is required, but we will be able to leave for London within five or six days … perhaps a seven-night. Certainly not more—now what say you to that!”
Despite herself, Juliana smiled. “That is good news, indeed, Aunt.” Juliana glanced at her cousin. Their eyes met in mutual excitement. At last they were going to London.
When Juliana had arrived at Grays Hill Park, it had been with the expectation of leaving for London within a fortnight. She had planned to use those fourteen days to procure the necessaries for the Season, catch up with her cousin, whom she hadn’t seen since the previous summer, and be apprised of the who’s who of London society by Aunt Phyllis. It would have been a tight schedule, but one that Juliana had thought was best suited to her needs—predominantly, her need not to spend any more time with Aunt Phyllis than was absolutely necessary.
However, no sooner had Juliana arrived than she had been informed of a delay. The ladies of great Ryton Manor, with whom Carrie and Juliana were to share the Season, had not yet returned from their visit with relatives in the Lake District. Some sort of ailment had laid Vivian low, and they had been required to postpone their departure by a full week.
As the Pyebalds were to enjoy the hospitality of the Reeves family while in London—their own opulent residence being in need of unspecified repairs—there was nothing to do but wait upon the return of these grand dames if the entrance into good society was to be assured. Now at last came news of their return.
“We have been invited to the Great-House tomorrow. You, in particular, Juliana. Although it was not stated, I do believe Lady Pyebald wishes to assess your suitability to our little party. You would do well to keep your mouth firmly closed, your eyes cast upon the floor, and your opinions to yourself. Do you take my meaning, girl?”
“Yes, Aunt. You would prefer me to be someone I am not.”
“Good, then we understand each other. You will not attract the attention of anyone, least of all the good lady. Wear the yellow gown I directed you to buy.”
“Yes, Aunt.” It was the least attractive of her new gowns, fashioned in a pallid yellow that made her look sallow. However, Juliana would match it with her apple-green pelisse, and the effect would be charming.
Having imparted the required warnings, Aunt Phyllis rose and glided to the door. No doubt she had Cook to harass or Mrs. Belcher to criticize. The moment the door closed behind her, Carrie was on her feet.
“Oh, this is too splendid by half, Juliana. I thought this day would never come.” Carrie reached over and gave Juliana’s hand an affectionate squeeze.
“Do you refer to the social call or the Season?”
“Goose, the Season, of course.” Carrie laughed, then sighed deeply and stared dreamily into the air. “The balls, the gowns, the music. Handsome gentlemen and starry romance. It is too delicious.”
“Lechers with sweaty palms and crowded smelly rooms.”
“Juliana. One would almost think you had no interest in catching a man’s eye.”
“Well, I do not.”
“Then why, pray tell, are you about to place yourself upon the most notorious marriage stage?”
“To dance the night away, laugh at deplorable comments, and be frivolous and lighthearted. Go to the theater, visit the museum, and ride down Rotten Row. Need there be more than that?”
“Yes. A handsome man who picks you as his one and only and asks you to marry him. I could go on.”
“No need.” Juliana laughed. “I don’t think the gentleman exists who would support my research—something I would not be willing to give up.”
“Is it that important, Juliana? I mean, would you forgo a home of your own for your bugs?”
“Insects, Carrie, lady beetles.”
“Yes, but—”
“I already have a home of my own in Compton Green with Father and have had the running of it for many years now.” Juliana understated her aversion to the institution of marriage—not wanting to scare her cousin off. Carrie, after all, would face a lifetime of Aunt Phyllis should she be unsuccessful in the marriage mart.
“Yes, but—”
“Fine, Carrie dear. I shall keep the possibility open in my mind … but without any expectation.”
Juliana’s hopes were not pinned on any gentleman but on a small red insect with black spots … and years of research. Yes, and a fascinating compilation of facts:
COCCINELLIDAE: A THOROUGH STUDY OF THE HABITS AND HABITAT OF THE LADY BEETLE AS OBSERVED IN THE VILLAGE OF COMPTON GREEN—BOOK ONE.
“Glad to hear it.”
Juliana started and then realized that while her mind had gone off in a different direction, Carrie’s had remained focused on her romantic dreams.
With a sigh, Juliana shrugged. They stood together, locked arms, and proceeded to the hall. While Carrie sustained the conversation with a seemingly endless list of diversions, Juliana turned her thoughts to another subject altogether. She tried to conceive of where she could have dropped her locket.
CHAPTER
3
In which there is a lengthy discourse on the advantages and disadvantages of marriage
THERE WAS A MUTED BUSTLE AND SCURRYING about the nether regions of Grays Hill Park as Juliana crept down the back stairs. The family rooms held no occupants and were, therefore, devoid of sound. This welcome tranquillity would not be shattered for quite some time. The sun had only just come up over the horizon, bringing with it an unusually fine day. The warm yellow glow of the dawn was invigorating.
Or was it just the thought of defying her aunt yet again?
It was a mark of his thorough training that Chester did not start or remark when he came upon Juliana in the main hall unlocking the front door. He merely grasped the handle, pulled the door open, and bowed a graceful sweep that would have satisfied even Aunt Phyllis.
“I am not going out, Chester,” Juliana said as she stepped across the threshold. “I am sleeping in due to a slight sick headache.”
Without any obvious glimmer of interest or amusement, the tall, lanky footman nodded. “I am sure Nancy will be pleased to look in on you from time to time, Miss Juliana. Perhaps a cup of tea would be in order.”
“Yes, indeed. That might do the trick.”
“Shall I instruct Nancy to bring it to you, say, just as the family begins to make an appearance?”
“Thank you, Chester. I am sure that will help. I will likely be feeling better shortly after that.”
“Perhaps you will be taking air in the garden, to rid yourself of the remnants of your ache before breaking your fast? I am sure Nancy will find you there. I understand the red roses are beginning to green.”
Juliana smiled broadly. “Why, what a coincidence, I had
thought to look in on them this morning. I am not sure how long I will be out there and, in fact, might not need too much air.”
“I am sure Nancy will see you the moment you are feeling better.”
“Thank you, Chester.” Had Juliana looked away, she might have missed the wink that flashed across the bland, expressionless face.
“Any time, Miss.”
Juliana was dressed in her old riding costume. She did not want to repeat yesterday’s fiasco—no more ruined outfits before she saw the chimney pots of London. The deep blue material was not as much out of mode as the rest of her original wardrobe, and it was comfortable and flexible. At this time of day, the likelihood of encountering anyone but a dairymaid or tenant farmer was rather small, and they would care not a whit about the unfashionable style of her jaunty but weathered top hat.
As she had expected, Juliana found Paul amenable to her early-morning escapade. He had a horse saddled and ready in quick time. He even offered to accompany her, with a nominal nod to propriety, but Juliana’s stubborn independence cut too wide a swath, and her fear of Aunt’s discovery too strong for her to risk the notice of a missing groom.
Juliana led her horse behind the stables to a little-used path that meandered through the back hills of the park and then out to the coast road. It was a picturesque passageway, well worth the extended time to travel west by going east. It was also the best way to avoid being seen from the house.
It was another handsome day, which made two in succession. The trees and hedges were alive with multitudes of skittering squirrels and trilling birds. Their songs, the sweet smell of dew-covered earth, and the lack of pursuit instilled in Juliana a sense of calm that had evaded her since the discovery of her missing locket.
When the rugged spit of St. Ives Head came into sight, Juliana directed her horse to the protective oak of yesterday and swung the reins lightly across a gnarled branch. She turned, giving the ground a cursory glance, but, as usual, providence was not on her side. There was no glittering hint of the locket. The probability of recovery was minute.
