“No, no!” She caught at his arm, and said tearfully, “Lyon, please do not be so unhappy. I care for you deeply, for you are one of my dearest friends. It is just—I have no plans to marry yet. But—but when I do, it will not be for wealth or rank or social position, but because I love with all my heart and soul. And am as loved in return.”
He was not greatly surprised, for he had sensed she did not return his devotion, but he had clung to hope, and it was very obvious that for him there was none. All his pride in his really splendid achievements crumbled to dust. For the first time he wished that Guy Sanguinet had never taken him up; that he had been left in the gutter, where at least he would have been with his own kind, and not inspired to aim for the impossible in life. A life that now loomed ahead in cold emptiness.
Some of his bitter despair showed in his face, and Josie was shattered. “Lyon,” she pleaded brokenly, “do not hate me. You’ll find the right—”
“Oh, spare me! Shall we go back to the house?”
Head down, half blinded by tears, she started to walk beside him.
Hating himself because he had made her cry, he yet could not curb his disappointment, and muttered, “I suppose if I were an aristocrat, I’d take it with a smile and tell you not to be distressed and that I’d try again. Well, I won’t!”
“N-no. I would not blame you at—at all if you … never spoke to me again.”
He halted, and with a muffled groan swept her to him. She wept openly and he fought to control his own grief, and even in that painful moment was exultant to hold her in his arms. Somehow, he regained his control, took out his handkerchief, and dabbed clumsily at her tears. “Let’s pretend,” he said huskily, “that it never happened. Let’s pretend I never asked you.”
“All … right,” she gulped. And they went on, and did not speak again.
Devenish was crossing the Great Hall when they walked in. He paused, his shrewd gaze flashing from Josie’s averted countenance to Lyon’s pale, stony face. He could guess what had transpired and, because he had experienced that agony of loss, he ached for the boy.
Josie mumbled something and fled to her bedchamber and Fletcher’s consoling arms.
Lyon went silently past Devenish and down the hall to the drawing room, where Guy sat chatting with Pandora Grenfell. The Frenchman took one look at his adopted son’s face, and was still.
“I must get home, sir,” said Lyon, with the vestige of a smile.
Guy said with grave courtesy, “I am sure you know best what it is for you to do. Ride safely, my Lyon.”
Cahill smiled again with that bleak curving of the lips that lent no warmth to his empty eyes and, bowing to Mrs. Grenfell, he stalked away.
Guy sighed and glanced to the large lady. They had come to understand each other during their work on the tapestries, and a deep friendship had sprung up between them.
“We sympathize,” she rumbled.
“Merci, Madame. Though—it was not altogether the result unexpected.”
“Naturally not,” she said.
* * *
To go down to dinner that evening was one of the most difficult things Josie had ever done. She could not know how wan she looked, nor how that look wrought upon her guardian, but she was grateful that Lyon had gone home, and more grateful that not by word or glance did Devenish, Guy, or Pandora betray their awareness of what had happened. Devenish was in high form, winning a laugh from Mrs. Grenfell by describing an encounter he and Josie and Craig Tyndale had once had with a performing bear, and teasing Guy about his solitary rides. The Frenchman’s thin face became quite pink and, forgetting her own sorrow, Josie cried eagerly, “Guy, you have been seeing Mrs. Bliss!”
Sanguinet’s colour deepened. He stammered and evaded, but at last admitted that he had “chance to meet the lady quelquefois, de temps en temps,” this, of course, leading to more teasing until poor Guy begged for mercy. It was all very light and frothy and, as each of them knew, designed purely to bring the light of laughter back into a certain pair of haunted brown eyes.
By the time Devenish handed her her candle at the foot of the stairs, Josie was much restored. Mrs. Grenfell had already made her majestic way to her bedchamber, and they were alone in the Great Hall. Standing on the second step, Josie hesitated and, looking down at her guardian, began hesitantly, “Dev … I…”
He said in a very gentle voice, “Do you want to talk about it, dear?”
She shook her head.
“Then go to bed with a good book and read until you drop it. Then go to sleep.”
She blew him a kiss. “Goodnight, then.” But halfway up the first flight she again turned back. He was still standing there, watching her, and with a flurrying whisper of silks she was beside him again. “Dev—I did not mean to hurt him so!”
“If you cannot bear to give your suitors an honest answer, my sprat, you will end up with fifty husbands.”
Her laugh was rather shaken. “I have not near that many suitors.”
“You cannot know how that relieves my mind. Even so, I am preparing to be besieged. You must let me know which you favour and which I am to frigidly repulse. Give me your candle and I’ll light it again. There. Now, do pray contrive to move less precipitately, Milady Elf!”
Promising to draw up some Frigid Repulsion Lists, she went upstairs.
Devenish limped across the hall smiling to himself. The white and the ginger cats stalked him and a black and white kitten bounced along ahead.
* * *
Two days later John Drummond arrived from Park Parapine, escorting his sister Rosemary to the ball. Josie and Mrs. Grenfell were visiting an ailing pensioner in Devendale Village when the Drummonds arrived. Devenish, who had been engaged in a rather bewildering discussion with Wolfe regarding the numbers of cases of champagne that had been ordered, hurried to greet these, the first of the guests to arrive. Rosemary, always struck dumb when she was near Devenish, blushed and stammered and amused him with her obvious hero worship. John, who had never seen his sister behave so, was as amazed as she was overawed, and told her audibly to stop being such a figure of comedy. Devenish gave the embarrassed girl into the hands of Mrs. Robinson and took John into the bookroom. The young man lost no time in enquiring when Josie would return.
Devenish looked at him thoughtfully. “Within the hour, I fancy.”
“Oh, good,” said Drummond with a sigh of relief. And then, in new anxiety, “Does Fontaine stay here, Dev?”
Lifting the white cat from his chair, Devenish snapped, “Certainly not!”
Drummond saw the flare light up those incredibly blue eyes. “My apologies. I only meant—Well, I suppose I should approach you first, Cousin.”
‘My God!’ thought Devenish. ‘It’s a deluge!’ “Regarding my ward’s friendship with Lord Fontaine? I’d not thought your acquaintanceship with Josie of such duration that you would seek to influence her friendships.”
Reddening, Drummond said, “No! Of course not, only—Well, I did see her often when you brought her to Sussex before I went abroad, and—I’ve a great admiration for her. In fact—er, it is my hope you will allow me to address her with—ah, regard to … to her becoming my wife.”
His voice positively squeaked on the last rush of words, and Devenish took pity on him. “I would have not the least objection to your doing so—” He heard the breath of relief, and added, “At some future date.” The green eyes, so reminiscent of Yolande’s, scanned him anxiously. He went on, “Josie has been most upset of late by the—the sad experience of a friend to whom she is very attached. I think it would be in your best interests, as well as hers, if you did not speak of this until—at least after the ball.”
A beaming smile lit the rather sober young face. “Whatever you wish, sir. I’d not dream of adding to her distress. I’m only glad you do not object, after my sister—” He broke off, biting his lip in an agony of mortification at having blundered into such a morass.
Devenish, who had been thinking that every
time one of these young bucks called him “sir” he felt a hundred years old, laughed. “No, no, do not be embarrassed. Yolande is dear to my heart, and always will be, as are all your family. Speaking of which, John—have you discussed this matter with Sir Martin?”
Drummond’s lips tightened and the smile left his eyes. He said slowly, “Yes. I expect you may guess that he does not approve.”
“I expect you may guess that fact infuriates me.”
From what Drummond remembered of this fire-eater, it took very little to infuriate him, but he nodded. “I can, indeed. Papa is a very good man, but—well, old-fashioned.”
“And you mean to go ahead, over his objections?”
The earnest eyes met his steadily. “I do. I—my regard for Josie is such that I cannot be swayed by what I consider to be unwarranted prejudices.”
Although they had grown up on neighbouring estates and were distantly related, Devenish had seen little of John Drummond. His own activities since leaving University had kept him so occupied as to preclude anything but an occasional encounter at family holiday gatherings, and the eight years that separated them inevitably resulted in a minimum of shared interests. He found now that he liked this young man very well. There was an indefinable air about Drummond that met Devenish’s ideal of the true gentleman: strength, coupled with good sportsmanship; an impeccable sense of honour; an obligatory gentleness towards all creatures weaker than himself. But …
Watching him, Drummond said apprehensively, “You have reservations?”
“I wish I could say I did not. Certainly, I approve of you as a candidate for my ward’s hand. Only—I know her, perhaps better than anyone knows her. And I doubt she would wed against the wishes of her prospective parents-in-law. Especially if they are people of whom she is very fond.”
“I know. I’ve worried about that also.” Drummond said with a sigh, “In which case I can only hope that, if Josie will have me, we can win my father over. I know he likes her. It’s just her lack of background he—er, objects to. Even so … I do not see how he can resist the sweet soul.”
Tight-lipped, Devenish said, “No more do I.”
* * *
With each day the great house became more a beehive of activity. New servants were arriving, and Wolfe took on the manner of a stern major domo, issuing strict orders that he as often amended; assigning supervisory tasks to long-time staff, and then interfering with them. Carts rumbled up the drivepath delivering cleaned draperies, eiderdowns, and new bedding that would replace items taken from storage and in many cases found so moth-eaten as to be unusable. Storage cabinets in the basements were unlocked and treasures rediscovered that had long since been forgotten. Hunting for suitable vases and urns for flowers to be placed in guest suites, Mrs. Grenfell unearthed a magnificent silver epergne and four cruets, all black with tarnish. These, she declared, must be used, and the kitchenmaids began to polish frenziedly, eventually producing a dazzling, if somewhat startling, design of scantily attired Grecian maidens and their completely unclad admirers. Devenish, amused when he discovered Josie and Rosemary giggling over the epergne, protested its placement on the dinner table, and pronounced it more shocking than their naughty tapestries.
By this time it was no secret that Guy and Mrs. Bliss were fast friends, and the Frenchman had several times ushered the lady into the house upon his return from his afternoon drives. Faith was among the select group summoned to the ballroom on the Wednesday afternoon before the party, to view the now hung tapestries. Guy had made quite a ceremony of it. A table had been set up in the adjoining music room, with tea and cakes and tiny sandwiches. The guests were to assemble there at four o’clock, by which time Lyon was expected to return from Gloucester. Mrs. Grenfell, Rosemary and John Drummond, Josie, and Devenish, arrived as instructed. Mrs. Bliss, flushed and happy, poured tea, and Josie nudged her guardian and winked at him when she saw the smile the widow bestowed on Guy. Lyon arrived as they were chattering over the refreshments, and if he seemed less talkative than usual, he was courteous to all and apparently much taken with Rosemary.
They were preparing to go into the closed ballroom, when Cornish strutted in, to bellow, “Major and Mrs. Craig Tyndale!”
Josie put down her cup with a hand that trembled, and turned, smiling brightly to join Devenish in greeting his cousins.
Major Tyndale was tall and fair complected, his hair a few shades darker than that of Devenish, and his features sufficiently good that he was termed a very attractive man. His parents had migrated to Upper Canada when he was three years old, and he had lived in the Crown Colony until he had returned to Europe in 1813. He had fought gallantly against the French, been twice wounded, and arrived in England, after a long convalescence, in an attempt to find his relations. He and his cousin Alain had disliked each other on sight, but fate had thrown them together, and a deep friendship had resulted. That friendship had been sorely tested when Tyndale fell in love with and eventually won the girl to whom Devenish had been betrothed since childhood. Time, and Tyndale’s persistent efforts at reconciliation, had eventually bridged the gap between the cousins, and Devenish had by now quite forgiven the Canadian for stealing away his lady.
Josie liked the quiet, rather reserved Tyndale, and welcomed him warmly. To his lovely wife she was properly courteous. Yolande, perfectly aware of the fact that Devenish’s ward disliked her, exerted every ounce of her considerable charm to extend Josie’s smile from her lips to her cold dark eyes, and failing, wondered sadly if the girl she so longed to befriend would ever unbend towards her.
The Tyndales, who had left their three little boys with the Leith children in Berkshire, were soon drawn into the merry company, and the tapestry viewing was delayed until they had shared the refreshments. Lyon made no attempt to engage Josie in private conversation, as she had dreaded he might do, and since Yolande and Mrs. Bliss had struck up an immediate friendship, she was able to relax and enjoy herself.
At half past five, Guy rang a little bell and announced, “The exhibit, she is now open!” and they all went along the hall to the ballroom.
Cornish and one of the new lackeys stood rigidly at attention before the closed doors. At a nod from Guy, those doors were flung open and the little party trooped inside.
Devenish’s earlier misgivings about the chandeliers had been well justified; each individual lustre had been removed, washed in hot soapy water, and replaced. As a result, the chandeliers, now ablaze with light, glittered like four enormous diamonds. The walls had been thoroughly cleaned and all the woodwork washed down. The floors shone, and between each soaring pair of windows hung the tapestries, majestic now in their narrow, carven frames, the colours much restored. The whole was an impressive sight and, after a moment’s admiring silence, everyone broke into applause. Guy and Mrs. Grenfell, who had stood side by side waiting anxiously, beamed at each other.
Josie thanked “the restorers” with real delight, and Devenish exclaimed, “My little Elf, your ball must be a great success! How could it fail, now that it is to be set in such sumptuous surroundings?”
“And launched with such an impressive alliteration!” teased Craig Tyndale.
They all laughed, but, glancing at Mrs. Bliss, Devenish wondered if it was just his imagination, or if for a moment her eyes had reflected the same foreboding that had inexplicably taken possession of his own mind. He detached the black and white kitten from his shoe, and stroked it absently.
Chapter 10
The last of the new servants had reached Devencourt on Tuesday, and by Thursday many of those guests who had travelled long distances to attend the ball were arriving. Notable among these were most of the men the King had dubbed his Nine Knights, these being Lord Mitchell Redmond, as controversial as he was admired; his brother, Sir Harry Redmond, who had earned such a splendid reputation with his Regiment during the Peninsular Wars; the Reverend Mordecai Langridge, uncle to the brothers Redmond, who looked very mild and middle-aged in his clerical garb and not at all
like the fine fighting man he was; golden-haired Lord Jeremy Bolster, unfailingly amiable and good-natured—until aroused; and Justin Strand, fair-haired, wiry, and intense, his blue eyes as alert, his manner as brisk as ever. These gentlemen and their wives soon gathered together with those of their number already present, and there was much back-thumping and hand-shaking among the gentlemen, and hugs, kisses, and merry chatter among the ladies. All were concerned for Lord Mitchell, whose handsome head had made such violent contact with the brick, and who, although rather pale still, assured his friends that he was “perfectly fit” and had in fact been readying his next blast to be delivered before the House of Lords. The laughter that followed this blithe remark was struck to dead silence by a piercing whistle.
All heads turned. A tall, untidy footman stood at the open doors.
“What the devil…?” demanded Devenish angrily.
“Sorry, guv,” said Cornish with his leering grin. “Couldn’t get through and you’ve got another lot toddlin’ up the drive-path.”
Mitchell Redmond exchanged grins with his brother, and several ladies hid amusement behind their fans.
Cornish, however, saw the look in his master’s sparking eyes. “Cor, lumme!” he muttered, and beat a hasty retreat.
Josie went out with her guardian and, slipping her hand into his, heard Devenish’s muttered oaths. She said cheerfully, “Isn’t it lovely, dearest, to have our good friends here with us?”
“It’d be a dashed sight lovelier,” he grumbled, limping rapidly along the hall, “if we’d one or two halfway human servants to receive ’em. I tell you, Josie, I dread to think what may happen! Do you apprehend that we’ve the Duke of Vaille and his Duchess invited, to say nothing of—”
“Yes, but Vaille’s not a royal Duke, dear,” she interpolated soothingly.
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