by Cheryl Bolen
He nodded as Aynsley began to push his bath chair toward the door.
It occurred to her that in his somewhat childlike state he had an inordinate attraction to females. Perhaps he’d missed there being no Lady Aynsley these past few years. “Tell me, Uncle Ethelbert,” she began as they continued down the path toward the lake, “would you like to have dinner at the big house tonight?”
“What’s that you say? Speak up, gal.”
“I said,” she shouted, “would you like to have dinner tonight at the big house?”
“Indeed, I would.”
“You must promise to stay in your bath chair,” she said.
“And you’re not to attempt to kiss any ladies,” Aynsley scolded, his voice elevated.
“You must listen to your nephew.”
“He’s a dull stick, just like his father,” Ethelbert said. “Both of ’em as dull as a pair of wooden spoons.”
She cast a bemused gaze at her husband. “Do you, indeed, take after your father?”
“Regrettably. My uncle is right.”
“Uncle,” she said. “I believe you mistake a high degree of propriety for dullness, and they are vastly different.”
“Well of course, they both have a lot of property! They were both earls. But they weren’t different. Two peas in a pod, they were.”
She couldn’t help herself; she began to giggle.
Aynsley joined her.
The next half hour was spent speaking in highly elevated voices to the poor man who still could not hear but every fifth word they uttered. By the time they returned him to the dowager’s house, they were exhausted.
As Aynsley wheeled him up to the cottage door, he leaped from his bath chair, threw both arms around Rebecca and planted his lips upon hers.
She gently eased him away. “My dear Ethelbert, you must not be kissing the ladies tonight.” She could well understand why his behavior had sent the last housekeeper packing.
“Yes, Uncle,” Aynsley replied. “You’re to be on your best behavior tonight.”
* * *
There was one more thing Aynsley wished to show Rebecca that morning.
“Thank you for your superb handling of Uncle. I believe you’ve completely won him over.” He gave her a leg up and handed her the reins.
“He’s a dear. I do hope he will behave tonight for I do not at all like the idea of excluding him from the dinner table, and I know we must if he cannot comport himself in a proper manner.”
He mounted his horse. “I’ll own I don’t like excluding him, either, but I have to be sensitive to Emily. She was not quite fifteen when I barred Uncle from the big house. She was much too frightened by his rash actions and too young to be exposed to his unacceptable behavior.”
“I’m not blaming you. I’m sure I’d have done the same.”
“Before we return to the hall I should like to show you your farm.”
“I wasn’t going to let you forget. It’s undoubtedly the best present I have ever been given. I’m not into jewels as much as most women, but the idea of being given a living thing—land—is so elementally gratifying.”
Somehow he’d known it would please her. Dorothy, on the other hand, would have been incensed over such a gift. “It’s terribly small, there’s no house on it, and it’s completely barren because the neighbor who sold it to me was elderly and unable to farm it anymore. He’s dead now.”
“I don’t need another house, and the fact it’s barren gives me an opportunity to start from scratch. Not that I have half a notion of what I’m going to do, but I look forward to learning something new.”
A few minutes later they pulled up in front of her fallow farm. The road they were on formed one of its boundaries, and hedgerows formed the other three. “It’s not quite two hectares.”
The smile on her face could have warmed the coldest winter day. “Next to Dunton, it shall quite be my favorite place on earth.” She turned to him. “Next to Dunton, is it not the most perfect place?”
“You must be blessed with the ability to see good where there’s only bad. Speaking of the bad, I must tell you that you may not find Dunton’s cavernous rooms and cold stone floors so fine on a dreary winter day.”
“On those days I plan to sit before the fire in my chamber, drinking hot chocolate and peering out my casements as snow blankets the landscape.”
“You almost make me regret spring is just around the corner.”
Having someone who shared so many of his own ideas was a novel occurrence. A pity she did not trust him enough to reveal her secret. Would she, too, practice the deception at which Dorothy had been so very adept?
* * *
Rebecca’s hand gripped the mellow wood banister as she and Emily climbed a staircase in the Tudor section of the house. “Pray, how many staircases are there at Dunton?”
Emily paused. “I’ve never counted. Let me see...”
“This is the third one I’ve seen!”
“I believe there may be eight.”
What have I gotten myself into? Rebecca had to school herself not to act like a wide-eyed child in front of Emily—though it was most certainly an apt description of her. It was obvious from the girl’s icy demeanor that she was not satisfied with her father’s selection of a bride. Even though Rebecca didn’t give a fig about rank, she knew Emily did. And the girl undoubtedly looked down her aristocratic nose at her stepmother.
They began to walk along a long corridor on old oak floors that were laid in a herringbone pattern. “The portraits in this section date to the Tudor period,” Emily told her as they strolled past many aged portraits of bearded men dressed in tights. On the opposite wall hung portraits of unsmiling women whose necks were encircled in stiff white collars.
“It’s hard to believe a lovely girl like you could have sprung from these stern-looking women,” Rebecca said. “There’s not a blonde in the bunch.”
“I believe the blond hair came from Mama’s family. Most of the Comptons have had dark hair, and many of the earlier ones even had brown eyes.”
Rebecca slowed down and gazed at one portrait of a bejeweled, black-eyed woman with a headdress and a stunning ruby necklace lying against milky-white skin. “Now this lady was beautiful.”
Emily’s mouth yielded a tight smile. “That is actually the first Countess Aynsley. She was a reputed beauty.”
“Indeed she was.”
They continued along until they came to a great room with walls of oak, floors of stone in the same gray as Dunton’s exterior and ceilings that soared more than thirty feet overhead. A mustiness hung in the air. “As you can tell, since you are knowledgeable about Tudor architecture, this is the great room where banquets were once held. When Mama was alive we used it as a ballroom. Now, it’s not used.”
“I daresay you weren’t old enough to dance here.”
Emily’s pretty face fell into a frown. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Should you like to once more have balls at Dunton?”
“I grew up dreaming of them.”
“Then we shall have to have one—after you are presented.”
Emily stiffened. “I have no desire to be presented.”
“You have communicated that to all of us, but your father also has made it clear he intends to see that you have a Season in London.”
“He’s being very obtuse!” Emily’s stride quickened as they swept through the great room.
The next room was a chapel that was intimate despite its high, vaulted ceilings. No more than twenty could be seated on its old wooden pews. Rebecca strolled down the tiny nave, knelt before the gilded crucifix that hung on the sanctuary wall between two arched Gothic stained-glass windows and began to pray. Dear Lord, I thank You for this day. I thank You for bringing me to this man and his family, and I pray that You will guide me with Your wisdom.
Her gaze lifted to the windows. The blessed Virgin Mary was on the left, England’s patron saint, St. George, on the right. A sense of peace and deep cont
entment washed over her as she returned to a standing position and faced Emily. “What a wonderful place! Do you come here often?”
“Oh, dear me, no! I daresay it hasn’t been used since the Dissolution.”
“What a pity,” Rebecca murmured.
Emily opened a rounded wood door and began to leave the chapel. “Papa’s rather a heathen.”
“I mean to change that.”
Her stepdaughter whirled at her. “You can’t just come in here and change things.”
The harsh tone of her voice wounded Rebecca. “As to the physical, I plan to change very little. I will redecorate my private chambers because I believe it would be painful for you children to see another woman occupying a room that so distinctly bears the stamp of your dear mother. But as to the spiritual, I’m giving you notice that I hope to be the instrument that reunites God with all the Comptons.”
Emily made no response as she led the way back to the Georgian section where their tour had originated. They began to mount still another staircase—this one as wide as a room and constructed of marble. “Would you like to see the nursery?”
“Indeed I would.”
It was located on the third floor. Emily explained that the servants’ rooms were also on the third floor. Which helped explain to Rebecca why the ceilings here were so much lower.
Chuckie was playing with tin soldiers on the carpeted floor. Knitting in a nearby rocking chair was his nurse, a kindly old woman they referred to as Beaver. They both looked surprised when the door creaked open. “Did you come to play soldiers with me?” Chuckie asked Rebecca, his bright blue eyes filled with hope.
She felt dreadfully guilty to disappoint him. “Not just now, my sweet. Emily’s showing me around my new home, but I promise to come play with you very soon.”
Emily spoke through gritted teeth. “You do not know what you’re getting into.”
“I daresay you’re right, but the poor lamb must hunger for other children to play with.”
“It is a shame. He’s my only brother who was not paired with another of his own age.”
Rebecca wondered if Dorothy would have given birth to another child, had she lived. Before they left the chamber, her gaze skimmed from the old wooden children’s table that could accommodate from six to eight youngsters, to a bookcase crammed with slender, dog-eared volumes to the basket filled with toys, including a doll that must have been Emily’s some years previously. At the far end of the room was a stage complete with curtains.
They said their farewells, and Emily proceeded to show her all the family members’ bedchambers, along with closets for silver, linens and even the larder.
A highlight of the tour was seeing the more recent Compton family portraits. These hung in places of prominence for everyday activities—over the chimneypiece in the drawing room (the last earl) and the dining room (the last countess). Dorothy. John’s wife. Why was it she thought of him as John while gazing at her predecessor? It was as if she wanted to reaffirm an intimacy with this woman’s husband. Goodness gracious, could she possibly be jealous? In her entire eight and twenty years, Rebecca Peabody—now Rebecca Compton, the Countess of Aynsley—had never been jealous.
She did not want to be conspicuous gazing at the picture of Emily’s mother. Besides, she had memorized every detail of the woman’s face the previous night at dinner. Then, she’d been too shy to ask who the woman was. But she had known the handsome woman with wavy blond hair and eyes the same blue as Emily’s and Chuckie’s must be Dorothy.
And now she understood that she had—completely against her will—been imbued with a new vice.
Chapter Eight
Rebecca had been so busy since her arrival the previous afternoon, she’d had no opportunity to see Pru or to learn if she was happy with her new accommodations. Rebecca felt guilt that she could live wherever she chose—a choice never offered to a servant.
As Pru helped her dress for dinner, she inquired about her chamber.
“Oh, my lady, my chamber here has a fire as well as a window with a view of the lake. His lordship provides well for his servants.”
Rebecca had flinched at being called my lady, but this once thought not to rebuke her servant. She was ever so relieved that Pru was not resentful about being displaced.
Just as she was clasping the pearls about her mistress’s throat, Pru’s hand stilled. “I declare, what can all that noise be?”
Rebecca had a very good idea. The sudden pounding of feet outside her chamber and a shrieking remarkably like Lady Emily’s normally icy voice had burst into Dunton’s stately quiet like a cannonball.
When she heard a babyish whimper, Rebecca leaped from her chair and bounded for the corridor. “Pray, what is going on?” she demanded as she threw open the door.
Chuckie skidded to a halt and eyed his stepmother. “She’s being mean to me.”
Rebecca tossed a sympathetic glance to Emily. “I cannot believe your sister would ever be mean to you.”
“I was merely—” Emily started.
“She was, too, mean! She won’t let me wear my
wegimentals to dinner.”
While Rebecca had no objection to Chuckie’s wearing of regimentals to dinner, she could see that taking his side would further alienate Emily. “Come here, Mr. Hock,” Rebecca said in her sternest voice.
Rubbing away the tears, Chuckie obliged.
Rebecca had to school herself not to drop to her knees and take the precious child in her arms, but the children needed to learn she was a figure of authority. “You sister is obviously concerned that your regimentals not get soiled by the food. What would you wear to battle tomorrow if your fine red coat has to be cleaned?”
“Then I won’t spill my food tonight!”
His brothers, who had come to investigate the ruckus, guffawed. “You have the table manners of a swine,” Alex said.
“I daresay that’s why Miss Hatfield left,” Spencer added. “She could not stomach watching you eat.”
Rebecca effected a frown. “Now, boys! That’s a wicked thing to say. I’m certain Miss Hatfield found Chuckie delightful.”
The lad being discussed drew one last sniff and bestowed a radiant smile upon Rebecca as he began to divest himself of the bright red regimental coat.
“You can’t disrobe in the presence of ladies,” Spencer admonished.
“But I’ve gots to keep my uniform clean for tomowow’s important battle.”
In the battle being waged in this corridor, Rebecca had scored a victory.
* * *
Minutes later Aynsley knocked on her chamber door to escort her to dinner. His glance flicked to the pearls. “Careless of me to have neglected to get you the Aynsley jewels. You’ll have them tomorrow.” He proffered his arm, and they left the chamber. “How did your tour go?”
The tour of Dunton with Lady Emily that morning had been as enjoyable as getting a tooth extracted. Though her stepdaughter refrained from disparaging her, the girl’s complete dislike of Rebecca was apparent in her chilling demeanor. But nothing would be served by imparting this information to Lord Aynsley. Rebecca wished to always foster the positive, banish the negative. “I enjoyed it very much. Dunton’s far more grand than I’d expected, and it’s obvious it’s been run by an efficient and capable staff.”
He shrugged. “You’ll have to procure the services of a new housekeeper and a governess.”
“The governess will have to be most qualified. The last one certainly was, if Alex’s reading ability is any judge. Isn’t he awfully young to read such big books?”
“I don’t mean to boast, but he read very well at five. He had begged to sit in on Spencer’s lessons, and despite his youth, he caught up with his brother quickly. So, I do believe the last governess must have been most capable.”
“I do hope I can find one worthy of such brilliant charges.” She paused on the stairwell landing and gazed at his face, which was illuminated by a wall sconce. “I shall look forward to my first offic
ial duties as mistress of Dunton.” But how would she wrestle the controls from Lady Emily’s greedy palms? It was not a question she need pose to her husband. She not only wanted him to be proud of her, but she also prayed fervently that he would never regret his decision to marry her.
“I don’t know if it’s such a good idea to have the children eat with us,” he said.
“After tonight, they can go back to eating in the nursery.” She held her shoulders high and favored him with a smile. “I am determined to be so good a stepmother that I shan’t lose my dinner no matter how much squishy squash or pulverized peas end up on Chuckie’s cravat.”
He burst out laughing.
In the dining room, the children—dressed in their Sunday best—had taken their seats. Alex and Spencer sat on one side, Emily, Peter and Chuckie across from them. Rebecca could well understand why Peter could not remove his adoring gaze from Emily. She looked especially lovely in a pale blue gown that captured the color of her eyes.
“How splendid you children look tonight,” Rebecca told them.
Emily glared at her youngest brother, who teetered on the towering book. “I pray their table manners don’t discredit their agreeable appearance.”
“I declare,” Rebecca said, scooting in her chair at the foot of the table, “what is that heavenly smell?”
“That’s Cook’s special French sauce,” Aynsley said with pride.
Emily sighed. “Cook’s the only dependable upper servant we have.” She smiled at her father. “I daresay that’s because Papa pays her most handsomely. He lives in fear someone will snatch her away once they taste her French sauce.”
During the soup course Spencer and Alex were on their best behavior, careful not to speak while eating—or in their case, slurping—their food. They also refrained from disparaging each other.
Aynsley cleared his throat and addressed his daughter. “Em, your stepmother will be relieving you of the burdensome mountain of responsibilities you’ve had to cope with of late.”
