Hetty nodded. “I believe you must be right, which reminds me, the children have brought you something.”
“Indeed?” He glanced at the girls, who were seated on the grass and playing with Tom. His black tail swished back and forth quickly as Eugenia dragged a long duck feather in front of him.
Hyacinth looked up at him. “Yes, we have.” She rose swiftly and took the basket from Lucy. “We thought you might like something different,” she said.
“These arrived only this morning,” Hetty added. “Muscadel raisins, Portugal plums, and Jordan almonds. Oh, and a little of Cook’s best spice cake.”
He smiled at Hyacinth, who was at his eye level since he was seated on the stool. He pinched her cheek very gently. “How you spoil me. Thank you, my dears, all of you.”
Violet suddenly drew Tom into her lap, then clutched him to her chest. “You cannot have Tom for your own, Mr. Frome, even if you want him very badly. He is our cat.”
“My darling Violet, I would no more think of keeping Tom than I would of cutting off my chin.”
He appeared so serious that Violet’s eyes got very big. “And you would never cut off your chin,” she stated firmly.
“I should think not. Would I not look a queer sight without a chin?” He covered his chin with his hand. “I would look like this.”
Her eyes got even bigger. Hetty laughed and reassured Violet that Tom was theirs to keep forever. She then relinquished the cat, which sped away into the home wood after having been confined so tightly in Violet’s arms. She in turn forgot all about Tom and asked if she might have some of the raisins.
Hetty would have protested, but Mr. Frome lifted a quieting hand. “Of course you may. Raisins come in a box ready for sharing. You shall have the first, if you like.”
Lucy smiled warmly upon Mr. Frome. She had grown very fond of him over the past several weeks. They had enjoyed many long talks together and he had been able to give her much helpful advice, particularly where Lady Sandifort was concerned. Most particularly, however, he was always kind and generous with the children.
At last the children were ready to continue their walk. Hyacinth called for Hetty to help her over the stones crossing the stream. Though Mr. Frome’s caravan was now situated closer to the maze, though a considerable distance north the stream still meandered through the upper reaches of the garden. Eugenia led the way. William nearly pushed her off the last stone so that Hetty felt obliged to call sharply to him. Violet was not far behind William.
So it was that Lucy had one last word with Mr. Frome.
He asked, “What is to become of Lady Sandifort, Miss Lucy? Have you given any thought to her future?”
Lucy chuckled. “I think about such matters every day, as you already know. Although I am hoping that once Lord Valmaston arrives I will know better what next to do.”
Mr. Frome frowned.
“You do not approve?”
“It is not a matter of approval, but are you certain Valmaston is the one to accomplish the necessary task where her ladyship is concerned?”
She shrugged a little. “I hope he is and his reputation certainly indicates he ought to be able to pique her interest.”
“I have no doubt of his abilities on that score because of all that you have told me of him, but I wonder . . .”
“What?” she inquired, exceedingly curious as to the exact nature of his thoughts.
“Well, it is possible that the years have brought a new wisdom to the earl. He may prove to no longer have his former interests.”
At that Lucy chortled loudly. “Oh, Mr. Frome. If you only knew of whom we speak you would not express so much doubt.” She had been in Valmaston’s company a great many times over the past five years and he was as he had always been, quite wild in his pursuits. To think that such a man had relinquished his roguish ways was akin to slashing at the borders of probability with a long sword! Valmaston was and always would be a confirmed rake.
She heard Violet calling to her, and turning, saw her standing on the other side of the stream.
“You are being summoned,” he said.
“I must go to her then. Thank you for the tea.”
“You are most welcome.”
The occasion did not arise that day in which Lucy felt she could properly present to Lady Sandifort her scheme of taking Anne and Alice to the assemblies at Bickfield. Her ladyship seemed particularly out of spirits and not for the world would she choose to overset her with any novel idea, nonetheless one that was likely to set up her back. She did, however, spend much of her time trying to determine in just what manner she could broach the subject once the time was right. However, no brilliant inspiration struck and she retired to bed that night without knowing just how to go on.
She could not sleep. So much did she wrestle with her bedcovers in an attempt to solve the dilemma that finally she rose from the torturous bed and donned her robe, intent on walking the halls a little to see if she might wear out her mind by moving her feet.
She had just reached the bottom of the east staircase when the sound of voices in argument struck her ears. Outside the billiard room, located across from the library, she saw that Eugenia was once more listening secretively to her parents squabbling.
Lucy waved to her and approached her quickly. “What is going forward?” she asked quietly.
“Oh, Lucy, it is quite terrible. Papa has accused mama of being foxed and of something else I do not understand. What is a tryst?
Oh, dear, Lucy thought. However was she to explain this to a ten-year-old girl? “I cannot begin to think what your father might mean by it,” she responded truthfully. “Dear Ginny, do go to bed. Never fear. I shall discover what is amiss.”
“Yes, please do, Lucy. I . . . I rely upon you.”
When Eugenia made no move to leave her post, Lucy twirled her in the opposite direction. “Go to bed,” she commanded softly, then gave her a little push. Eugenia sighed but picked up the skirts of her nightdress and ran down the hall to disappear up the east staircase.
As Lucy stood listening to the quarrel, she did not know what to do. Should she scratch on the door to announce her presence? Should she march in? Perhaps she should start humming a tune to warn them that someone was coming?
In the end, she chose a stealthy course and stole quietly up to the half-open door. Goodness, in this moment she was scarcely better than Lady Sandifort, listening in hallways to conversations behind private doors! Though her conscience smote her, still she took a quick peek inside, then hid herself. In that time she took in the entire scene; George stood over his wife, lecturing her severely about her conduct, about how inappropriate it was for her to return to Aldershaw in such a disgraceful state and how it was perfectly clear to him that she had been doing something other than visiting and comforting an infirmed friend. Secondly, Rosamunde was not taking him in the least seriously. She grinned at him rather sloppily while lounging in a most unladylike manner in one of the chairs that flanked the wide chamber, having slung one of her legs over the arm of the chair. Her gown of royal blue silk was trapped about her legs, exposing her ankles most improperly. One of her silk stockings was torn.
Lucy heard her say, “I forgot how adorable you are. Oh, George, I always loved you so!”
Lucy was about to retreat, thinking that the quarrel would soon take a happier turn, but George shouted, “Who is he, Rosy? Tell me at once! Who the devil have you been kissing tonight?”
Lucy could not have been more shocked if someone had thrown ice water on her face. She had never heard George address his wife so cruelly. From the time of her arrival at Aldershaw she had known that George and Rosamunde’s relationship was quite troubled, but never would she have supposed that George would accuse his wife of unfaithfulness.
To Lucy’s surprise, Rosamunde began to laugh. She was clearly in her altitudes. “I . . . only wish . . . you could see . . . ‘my beloved’,” she said between chortles.
“Then it is true?” George asked
in a quiet voice.
For some reason, this made Rosamunde laugh harder still. “If . . . only you could . . . see your face!”
“You would say such a thing to me when, when it is obvious you have all this time been engaged in—”
There was a loud thumping sound. Lucy peeked again, then hid herself, but barely kept from bursting out laughing.
“Rosamunde! Are you all right?” George cried.
Rosamunde’s laughter rose to the ceiling once more. “I fell off my chair!” she squealed, laughing harder still. “No, no, George! Do not go.”
“Would you please release my leg?”
“I shan’t, my darling. I love this leg! I do! I do!”
“Rosamunde! For heaven’s sake! Do stop kissing my knee. What are you doing? Good God, I believe you must be very foxed, indeed!”
“Only a very little.” Her giggles were nearly incessant. “Oh, please do not scowl at me. Oh . . . oh, dear. The room is moving about in a circle.”
“There, there. Sit very quietly. No, do not try to stand.” Lucy thought the moment opportune. She scratched on the door and entered. “I wonder if I might be of some use.” The scene before her was both endearing and pathetic at the same time. Rosamunde sat on the floor with one arm hooked about her husband’s leg. She weaved to and fro and blinked ever so slowly.
“I do not feel well,” Rosamunde stated.
“I should think not,” Lucy said. “Were you drinking sherry all evening?”
Rosamunde shook her head. “Ratafia. Peach ratafia. Glass after glass. I was never so amused.”
“So it would seem.”
George waved her forward. “Will you help me, Lucy?”
“Of course.” Lucy took an arm and in a slow, careful movement helped George to assist Rosamunde to her feet.
The next several minutes were spent in seeing a quite vocal Rosamunde to her bedchamber, which was thankfully located on the same floor. Even Lady Sandifort, whose room was not far from the billiard room, appeared in her doorway quite sleepy-eyed as they paraded by. “What is wrong with Rosamunde?” she asked, blinking and tugging at her mobcap.
“Ratafia!” Rosamunde called to her quite gaily.
“Well, I hope you have a wretched headache tomorrow for having awakened me tonight!” The door slammed behind her.
All the way to her room, Rosamunde either giggled or sighed heavily and begged George to take her back to Baddesley. “I want my home,” she moaned pitifully. Then she would begin giggling again.
George did not attempt to address his wife except to say “Yes, dear” and “of course, dear,” as was required of him. He remained in her bedchamber only until one of the upper maids arrived. He was about to leave when Lucy called to him, “I should like to speak with you, George. Will you allow me a few minutes?”
“Of course.” There was a great deal of mistrust in his eyes and in his voice. Of all the inmates of Aldershaw, she conversed the least with George. Though he never spoke unkindly to her, she sensed he would prefer not to speak at all. She did not understand what was troubling him so deeply.
Some time later, with Rosamunde settled between the sheets, Lucy went in search of George and found him once more in the billiard room. He was hitting the balls hard with his cue stick, his large frame jostling the table when his abrupt thrust would cause his hip to lurch forward.
She entered the room and felt instinctively that she ought to be straightforward. “Is there anything I can do to be of use to you?” she asked.
“I do not see how,” he returned flatly, once more slinging his cue and hurtling a ball across the table.
“You cannot possibly believe she had an assignation this evening.”
“What am I supposed to believe?” He turned sharply toward her and stood the cue upright. “She returns to her home at a very late hour and in a condition that I find quite appalling. And she was supposed to be visiting an infirmed elderly woman in the village of Chaleford! Do you suppose the invalid actually desired her friend to get foxed on ratafia? Doing it up too brown, Lucy, too brown by half!”
Lucy was not certain what next to say. George did have the right of it in the sense that if Rosamunde was paying her weekly visit upon an invalid, she ought not to have come home in her altitudes. She supposed he had a right to be suspicious.
“Perhaps there is another explanation.”
“It hardly matters what it might be. Besides, this is none of your concern.”
“You are very right. It is none of my concern save that I found your daughter listening to the entire exchange and asking me what a tryst was.”
At that George’s complexion paled. He sat down in a chair against the wall, his cue stick still in hand. His shoulders sagged. “Good God. I never meant for things to come to such a pass as this.”
Lucy sat down in a chair near him.
“Rosamunde longs to go home,” she said quietly. “She misses her gardens and the life she knew before all the repairs began.”
He shot an angry glance at her. “I have told her and everyone, I will not remove my family from Aldershaw until the repairs are complete.” He looked away from her, his complexion now very high.
Lucy watched him closely, trying to understand him. She knew he had just stated his case again but something disturbed her about the way he looked, or perhaps in the way he refused to look at her. She knew then that something more was amiss than just a delay in the work at his home in Sussex.
When he continued staring at the wall opposite, his chin set mulishly, she sensed there was little to be done and rose to her feet. “I shall bid you good night, George. I did not mean to overset you.”
He glanced up at her. “I say, Lucy, I do beg your pardon. I know your interference is meant for good, but I wish you would not. I . . . I prefer to manage my family in my own way.”
Lucy felt her cheeks grow warm. He had spoken of her conduct as Robert did, that she was involved where she was not wanted. She had meant only to offer her help but George saw it as interference. She nodded in response and quit the chamber.
She returned slowly to her own room, pondering what he had just said to her. Was she being officious and interfering without truly having either cause or the capacity to offer real help? Was she overstepping the bounds? Was Robert right in his criticisms of her?
She did not know. She believed that she had been of some use to the household, in particular where Lady Sandifort and the children were concerned, and even more practically in the refurbishing of the gardens. However, was she going too far in attempting to become involved in the difficulties between George and Rosamunde?
On the following morning, Lucy rose early to pay a solitary call upon Mr. Frome. She was greatly concerned about what George had said and she wished to know his opinions.
He welcomed her as he always did, quite warmly and with a twinkle in his eye. “Good morning. Had you arrived a few minutes earlier, you would have seen Sir Robert. He is looking very well these days, as sun-bronzed as he is from riding about the estate so much.”
“Yes, I suppose he is.”
“You seem a trifle distracted.”
“A little,” she confessed. He handed her a cup of coffee, which she took without hesitation. “Thank you.”
“You are most welcome. Sir Robert tells me you were, how did he phrase it, ‘meddling in George’s affairs last night.’ ”
The sip Lucy had been taking spurted from her lips in a strong spray, even reaching the fire and creating a snake-like hissing sound.
Mr. Frome laughed.
“How is that possible?” she cried. “It was but a few hours past when I spoke with George.”
“So you were interfering?”
Lucy felt quite ill-used in a way she could not easily explain. “His wife was feeling very poorly last night. I thought I was being of use to both of them.”
“You speak of Rosamunde?”
“Yes. She returned from her weekly trip to Chaleford, but in a slightly, s
hall we say, indiscreet state—she had imbibed a great deal too much peach ratafia.”
“Ah,” he murmured.
“But then if Robert has already spoken to you on the subject, you must already know as much.”
He shook his head. “Nay. Sir Robert merely said that he had learned from his brother that you were involved again where you were least wanted and he felt obliged to address the matter with you as soon as seemed appropriate to him.”
“Why did he speak of this to you?” she asked, offended.
Mr. Frome sipped his own coffee and crossed one knee over the other. “I believe it helps him to speak with me.”
There was laughter in his eyes and she knew he was poking fun at her, yet she was not offended. After all, she often spoke of Robert to Mr. Frome.
“Well, they may both call it interfering, but I should have liked to have seen Robert put Rosamunde to bed!”
“And that is what you did?”
“Of course. After that I, well, I spoke with George in the billiard room and asked him a few questions. He did not like my asking them nor did he care for my comments about his wife, which I felt were rather harmless. I merely said that Rosamunde wished to be home, a circumstance which everyone, even George, knows quite well, for she hardly restrains herself on that subject!”
Mr. Frome was silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed to the fire. “What ails these two, I wonder?” he offered without the smallest concern for the fact that such a discourse as might follow could be viewed as quite meddlesome.
Lucy sipped her coffee and sighed. “They love their daughter very much and I believe each other quite passionately. When I said to George, however, that Rosamunde wished to return to Baddesley, his face grew quite red, the color of a tomato.”
“Indeed? Well, that is curious.”
“I thought so as well,” she said, meeting his gaze fully. She could see that he had an opinion on the subject. “Only tell me what you think.”
“I am not certain except that I have heard of this dilemma now for I believe five weeks and yet the repairs have not been completed for a period of two years. Does not this seem odd to you?”
Valerie King Page 11
