by Lisa E. Pugh
“I'm glad for that, at least.” She paused, unsure if she should ask the question dominating her thoughts.
This woman was obviously fond of her master and would not want to gossip about the family. Given his avoidance of others since the accident, he clearly did not wish others to gawk at or pity him. Should Margaret put this woman in the uncomfortable position of either revealing too much or insulting a guest?
Finally, the writer in her gave in to her curiosity. “What happened to him exactly, if it’s not too awkward a question to answer?”
The housekeeper dropped her voice. “It was horrible, miss. Just gone eighteen, his lordship had. Got himself one of those newfangled horseless carriages, as they were known then. Dreadful mechanical monsters! Death traps, that’s what they are—begging your pardon, miss. I know you own one, but they are terribly dangerous.”
“I agree. Even driving my Morris motor can be treacherous, and it is far more modern than anything from 1913.”
“Indeed. Well, it was an afternoon very much like today, all rain and wind and cold. The young viscount, as he was then, was driving on the road just outside town, the one they call the London road. A deer or something ran into his path. His lordship swerved to avoid it, lost control of his car, and… It was a miracle the thing didn’t catch on fire. His face went right into the broken windshield, though. Scarred up for life, he was.”
“How awful! And that’s when he stopped visiting the village?”
“Yes. You see, when a man of his lordship's standing has something like that happen, the last thing he wants is pity, and the thing he fears most is ridicule and deceit.”
“I quite understand—what Ronstand’s De Bergerac called, ‘The mockery behind a woman’s smile.’ ”
“Exactly, miss.” She hesitated. “I really shouldn’t have told you about it. He wants you as a genuine friend, not one who wants to be kind to someone less fortunate.”
Though she knew what the older woman meant, she glanced around and wondered if he could be considered 'less fortunate' to anyone but the king himself. “Did all his friends abandon him?”
“They all did eventually. Some he drove away, some ran. Even his fiancée deserted him. But then, I believe she never really loved him anyway.”
“His fiancée?” she replied, shocked. She had never heard about a betrothal, not in all the stories her friends told her.
The old woman blinked, perhaps noticing what she’d said, flushed red, and looked away. “I’ve said too much already, and his lordship is almost done talking with Brenlaw. We’re lucky the young man was able to be distracted from you this long.” She sniffed. “I’ll have to scold him about that.”
Margaret suppressed a laugh. Mrs. Niles’ tone was so haughty and irritated, and she sounded so much like an annoyed schoolmistress that the young woman had to try to keep from snorting. That would not be a very polite or ladylike thing to do.
Lord Yawron turned toward them as though on cue. With a cryptic look at his old nursemaid, he reprimanded lightly, “Mrs. Niles, you should not monopolize our guest.”
Trying to save the servant from discomfort, Margaret smiled sheepishly. “I’m afraid it's my fault. I kept the conversation going, asking questions all the time.”
He bowed. “Then all is forgiven. I only mentioned it because Brenlaw is about to tell us his famous anecdote. Proceed, O’ bard!”
Margaret would not have believed it was possible, but the tale did surprise her. The story recounted almost verbatim a lengthy, rambling, insult-filled argument between Brenlaw’s father and Mr. Logan’s father over the price of vegetables. Finally, Brenlaw’s father, having lost the confrontation, collected his parcels and stormed out of the shop into the snow-covered streets. As his foot hit the pavement, he slipped and fell, bottom first, onto the pointed end of a banana squash.
“The results, to his trousers, were tragic,” Brenlaw concluded with a somber tone.
Everyone laughed. The noise grew to a roar when his lordship remarked on Margaret’s red face. Though the sudden, out-of-nowhere aspect of the squash's appearance was the real shocker, Margaret accepted the implied “I told you so” gracefully and laughed with them.
“That’s what I like,” Lord Yawron declared, “A girl who not only has spirit but can laugh at herself as well.”
“Thank you, my lord, for giving me an opportunity to do so.” The servants responded to the quip with a cheer.
“Any answer to that, my lord?” Brenlaw asked dryly.
“No,” Christopher replied with playful petulance. “I’ve been bested at my own table. How will I ever live this down?”
“By accepting it like a man and downing that bitter pill with fine wine.” Margaret refilled his glass and hers and raised her crystal in salute. “To Lord Christopher Tobias, may his mind never soften, may his heart never harden, and may his pride accept that his wit was beaten.”
“Again!” His lordship exclaimed.
“Be careful, my lord,” Brenlaw remarked, with a sly grin. “So quick a tongue can often prove to be quite sharp.”
“I assure you not,” Margaret replied with her hand to her chest in impish earnestness. “I ‘do but jest, poison in jest.’ ”
“Shakespeare again,” the earl declared. “Then I shall answer you in kind; ‘My wit faints.’ I concede this duel to you. I hope we may still be friends.”
“Of course, and here’s my hand on it.”
He took her offered palm in a firm grip. She tensed at his unexpectedly tight grasp. It almost seemed like he captured her hand. Despite her anxiety, he simply shook it in a very short and business-like manner.
“Gosh,” one of the younger footmen laughed. “She handles herself as well as any man.”
“A man? Really?” Margaret glanced over with a raised eyebrow.
“Yes.” The fellow’s slightly defiant tone was greeted by a growl of reprimand from Brenlaw.
Margaret ignored the servant’s disrespect and replied like she was sparring with a friend. “Coming from a man, I suppose I should take that as a compliment.”
He flushed and replied, “It was meant as one.”
Lord Yawron rapped a spoon on the table. “Children, children, please, pull in your claws.”
“Sorry, my lord,” the footman replied.
“Yes, sorry, my lord,” she repeated with a smirking bow of her head.
“Margaret.” the earl’s cowled head turned toward her, apparently flashing her a disapproving look. She just grinned impishly and shrugged. The hood rotated back to face the table. “If everyone is done digging into their dinner and each other, I think it’s time for the cake.”
“Yes, my lord,” Mrs. Niles rose.
“I’ll help,” Margaret added, getting up.
“Please, sit,” Lord Yawron said, resting his hand on hers. “You’re the guest here. She can get it.”
She gently disengaged his fingers. “I want to. Don’t worry, I’ll be back shortly.”
Without looking back, she followed the older woman. The room was completely silent behind her. She felt eyes following her all the way.
“Why did you follow me?” Mrs. Niles asked, after they entered the servant’s hallway. “His lordship is right. I can handle it by myself.”
The cake lay on a small side table that was used to provide a surface to hold food until it was served. An elaborate cloche protected the celebratory pastry. To the side, a bone-handled blade lay ceremonially on a cushion.
“I don’t know why really. It was an impulse. I tend to be impulsive.” She paused. “Did I do something wrong? I meant nothing by it. My father had a small estate, but it’s been years since I’ve dealt with manor-house etiquette.”
“No, it’s all right.” The housekeeper lifted the cover and began lighting candles. “You can carry in the knife.”
Margaret lifted the pillow and carefully followed Mrs. Niles back to the dining hall. Upon their entrance, expressions of admiration rose from those still at the t
able. The traditional song was sung, and applause erupted as the earl blew out his candles. The knife was then brought forward. Lord Yawron took it and cut the cake.
“The guest gets the first slice, is that right?” He inclined his head slightly toward Margaret, apparently expecting her to answer his question.
“In my house,” she replied carefully, so as not to insult him in front of his servants, “the tradition was the one whose his birthday is celebrated receives the first piece. It’s good luck.”
“Of course.” He obediently took the first portion of cake. Then he handed the knife to the housekeeper. She cut the pieces, and Margaret handed them down the table. Several of the servants seemed uncomfortable being served by a visitor, but they were too polite or too aware of their station to refuse.
As the cake was passed around, it suddenly occurred to Margaret that, in holding the knife, she was unable to see Lord Yawron’s face as he leaned over to blow out the candles.
He’s probably grateful I went to help, she thought. A moment later, she reconsidered. That is, unless he wanted to give me an opportunity to see his face.
“Miss?” Mrs. Niles called gently. The housekeeper was studying her with a worried look.
Margaret blinked and focused on the older woman. “Hmm?”
“If you sit down, I will serve you your piece of cake.”
“What? Oh, yes, of course.” Embarrassed, and with everyone's attention on her again, she hurried to her chair.
“Are you all right, Margaret?” The earl asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. My mind drifted off for a moment, that’s all.”
“If you’re sure.”
“Yes, I’m sure. Thank you, my lord.” Feeling his unseen eyes watching her, she took a forkful of cake and popped it into her mouth. The morsel melted, the taste of chocolate and brandy exploding on her tongue. She closed her eyes, savoring it. “Delicious!”
With a nervous movement, his lordship took a bite and declared to the cook, “Yes, Mrs. Hinten, you really have outdone yourself tonight. But then you always were a wizard with desserts, weren’t you?” The subject of the compliment at the far end of the table grinned, blushing, and thanked her admirer.
After dessert was over, Brenlaw gave a signal. The servants who were not clearing up dispersed to their duties. Rising, the earl offered Margaret his arm and led her back to the drawing room.
Chapter 5
The drawing room had mysteriously gained more candles during their absence. Someone had lit the gas jets and lamps as well. With the extra light, the room was revealed as a large but remarkably cozy affair, the decor nearly two decades out-of-date.
Even with the added illumination, Lord Yawron still managed to keep his face in shadow. He knew the precise location of every lamp and how the light would fall. He had undoubtedly had a lot of practice.
“What did you think of the celebration?” he asked, as they resumed their positions on the settee.
“It was marvelous. I half-expected to be sent out of the room with the women, while the men drank brandy, smoked cigars, and discussed politics of the Empire.”
He chuckled, leaning back against the cushions. After a short silence, his voice turned wistful. “Those days are long past. Long past.”
“I suppose they are.”
“Besides,” he continued, his voice lightening, “the kitchen staff would want to get started on the dishes. But we have sherry here if you wish. It’s quite good too, though I say so myself.”
“I think I might have a little.” As he rose to pour the drinks, she remarked, “Only a little, though. I’ll have to be setting off for home soon.”
He scoffed, “You couldn’t possibly go in this weather.”
“Why not? Thank you.” She took the offered glass. “The rain’s slowed down, and it looks like the wind’s dropped as well. Your drive, while dark, is very broad and well marked.”
“The roads will be wet and slippery, and the approach to the house is steep. None of the manor roads are paved, and the turn onto the main road is very sharp.” He hesitated just a moment and then added, “You might have an accident.”
Margaret was about to reply that her car could handle it. She was a good driver, and her Morris motor was excellent on muddy roads and sharp turns. She had driven it through Scotland and Wales several times, often in a thick fog.
However, she suddenly realized why he might be uneasy at the thought of a journey on such a night. The scenario was far too close to the circumstances of his crash. She would have to tread carefully here.
She took a sip of the sherry. As he had said, it was excellent. She asked, “What do you suggest?”
“You could stay here,” he suggested offhandedly. “We have plenty of rooms. It will only take a few moments to air one out.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am.” He sounded very sincere.
She shook her head. “But that’s ridiculous. My house isn’t that far from here. Opening a room seems an excessive step.”
“It’s nothing. We certainly don’t lack accommodations here, and it's probably good for the rooms to get a little use now and then.”
“I could just as easily sleep down here.” She may have been grasping at straws, but she did not want to stay the night at this man's house. That was just asking for rumors and gossip. If she stayed on the ground floor, she could always try to slip out later.
“I'd never hear of such a thing. Guests at Tobias Manor do not bed down in drawing rooms overnight.”
“Well…” She hesitated a moment.
With a slightly affronted dignity, he added, “I promise you, nothing will happen to you here.”
“I wasn’t thinking that.”
Strangely, that was mostly true. She'd considered what might actually happen for a second, but it was not what made her resist staying. The way it would look to others was a far more compelling reason to leave.
“Not for long, perhaps, but it did cross your mind. I might not let people see my face, but I am very good at reading theirs.”
Margaret veiled her eyes. “Yes, you are.”
“Then you were wondering?”
“Maybe I was, a little,” she retorted.
Mentally, she swore at herself. Damn her temper. Her tone had slipped into something unintentionally defensive.
She knew what small villages were like. She grew up in one and had been driven out by nasty lies. This time, she was trying hard to develop friendships and keep out of trouble. Staying overnight at Lord Yawron's mansion would be suicidal to her reputation.
“Thought so.” He seemed grimly satisfied.
“I don’t know you. I can’t risk staying.”
“And I won’t risk you leaving here with the roads as they are. Not when I can provide a safer alternative. It seems we are at an impasse.” He straightened imperiously, his natural arrogance surfacing again. “Just know, I won’t let you drive tonight.”
She winced slightly and put down her glass. “Please, Christopher, It’s been such a lovely evening. Let’s not spoil it now. Of course I’ll stay, if you think it’s best.”
“I do.”
“Then I shall remain here the night, as you wish.” Suicide it is then, she thought.
“I’ll see they get a room ready for you.” He rang for Brenlaw.
She bit her lip, unsure what to say or do next. He was obviously upset, both by the storm and her hesitation. She had justifiable reasons. He knew that. She did not mean for her refusal to be a slight, but he was bound to take it that way.
Suddenly, he froze. Spinning around swiftly, he rejoined her on the settee. “I’m sorry, Margaret. It was beastly of me to talk to you that way. Can’t say what came over me.”
“I understand.”
“I should have understood too. A woman in your position would have to be mad not to consider all possibilities. I had no right to take offense.” He took her hands in his and asked earnestly, “Am I forgiven?”
She smiled at his boyish intensity. “Absolutely. We all have our dark moments.”
“Thank you, Margaret.” He straightened up and released his hold. “Margaret. That seems so formal, like something out of a novel.”
“You could call me Maggie. Most of my friends do.”
“Perhaps I will. And you?”
She would not under any circumstances call him such a familiar name as Chris. “I think Christopher is a beautiful name. I’ll continue to call you that, if I may.”
“Of course.” His lordship looked up as Brenlaw knocked discreetly and entered. “Ah, Brenlaw! Due to the weather, Miss Taylor will be staying the night with us. See that a room is made ready.”
“Yes, my lord.” If the butler thought anything of the instruction, he didn't show it. He merely bowed and closed the door quietly behind him.
Turning back to his companion, the earl gazed at Margaret as she stared into the fire. She was lovely, her modern dress enhancing her classic beauty. Yet her expression was pensive, almost tragic. Had he put that look there?
“Maggie?” He placed a hand on her arm. “Maggie.”
She started. “What?”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I was just thinking.”
“Well, I wish you wouldn’t go wandering off like that.” He shivered, frowning. “Dashed unnerving.”
“Sorry, Christopher, it won’t happen again.”
He hesitated, his curiosity rising. “What were you thinking about?”
She glanced about her with admiration and perhaps a touch of melancholy. He liked the first reaction but not the second. It smacked too much of pity.
She shrugged. “I was considering what a beautiful house this is. I wondered what it must have been like fifty or a hundred years ago. I tried to imagine the rustling of floor-length skirts and measured footsteps. Given your family's history, the men would be mostly officers from some regiment or other. The multicolored reflections of candlelight off jewelry and medals were probably dazzling.”
He looked around and sighed like a man remembering a long-gone love. In some ways, he was. The joy and vitality the house had once known was lost forever. And he was the cause.
