‘Like you do now, you mean?’ Sylvie innocently chirped up. She’d heard that her elder sister was called a nasty flirt. In fact, since she was six years old and the awful thing happened to Isabel, she’d grown used to overhearing whispers about Rachel’s heartless treatment of gentlemen.
As no one ever told her much, still stupidly believing her a baby, she’d learned to glean snippets of interesting news by loitering out of sight when Noreen and her sister, Madcap Mary, were in a confab. She’d learned of Rachel’s poor reputation that way, and of June’s proposal from Mr William Pemberton. She’d looked suitably surprised, though, when her mother told her a few days later she was to have a brother-in-law.
The Shaughnessy sisters would pick things over while polishing silver in the back parlour or making the beds. Noreen did most of the picking and her blockhead sister most of the nodding. But every so often Madcap might bark out her own rough idea on what’s to do in the Meredith household. And sometimes, Sylvie thought, it wasn’t as daft as it ought to be…
‘No, please don’t follow my example…’ A throbbing solemnity to Rachel’s words made Sylvie snap out of her reverie and angle a curious look up at her.
‘I expect we might find the lovebirds in here.’ Rachel abruptly pushed open the door to their little library.
Their sister June and her charming fiancé, William Pemberton, were nowhere to be seen. But the room was occupied: by her parents, seated either side of the table. So earnestly were they conversing across its leather top that it was a moment before they realised they were not alone. Both Mr and Mrs Meredith looked startled and a little discomfited at the sight of two of their beautiful daughters joining them.
Sylvie broke free of Rachel’s sisterly clasp and ran, in a rustle of georgette and an unusual fit of demonstrative affection, to hug her papa. Edgar Meredith patted at his little daughter’s white hands, clasped round his neck.
Rachel, cursed with a heightened perception of other people’s moods—especially her parents’—felt her stomach flutter in anticipation. ‘Is anything the matter? Has Madame Bouillon tendered yet more outrageous suggestions for our costumes next month?’ The modiste making their wedding finery had lately been tendering increasingly bizarre designs for their approval. ‘Never fear, I can deal with her, you know.’
Her papa sketched a smile. ‘I’ve never doubted that, my dear. I took your good advice, Rachel. I hid well away until she was gone. No feathers and fronds for me…’
Rachel’s exquisite powder-blue eyes skimmed the desk top. ‘Has the post been while I was out?’ she asked, noting the letter that seemed to lie portentously between her papa’s squarish hands. The palms were flattened on the leather as though he might at any minute shove himself back from the table.
‘No…not the post. This was hand-delivered by a servant. It’s simply a reply to a wedding invitation,’ Gloria Meredith volunteered in a tone that was far too airily dismissive to properly erase her eldest daughter’s apprehension. Every aspect of June’s marriage preparations was treated very seriously.
Rachel sat in a chair by the hearth. It was not lit as the day was still warm enough to make the idea of a fire positively unwelcome. Instinctively she inclined towards the grate, recalling that earlier, as she had been on the point of setting off in the landau to go to Charing Cross with Lucinda, a smartly rigged servant had been on his way up the steps of their town house. She had supposed the errand that brought him was something to do with her papa’s city affairs. As she believed all wedding invitations issued months ago and all expected replies long since received, she would never have guessed the true nature of his call.
Sylvie wandered away to an open casement and playfully hung herself over the sill. Stretching to a shrub just below, she proceeded to bat at a branch laden with lilac heads. A pleasing, delicate scent spread into the room on the sultry dusky air. Rachel frowned at the disturbance, for there was a disquieting atmosphere within the room her straining senses could detect but not quite fathom. ‘Well, don’t keep me in suspense,’ she lightly chided. ‘Who is this late-invited guest? A celebrity we must have? Or are we simply making up numbers? Have there been some recent cancellations? Whose company are we now to be graced with at Windrush?’
After a pregnant pause, in which her parents’ eyes clashed, then skittered in opposite directions, her papa said with a sigh, ‘It’s from the Earl of Devane. It’s a refusal, or should I say, his lordship declines, with thanks, our kind invitation, for naturally he is too well-mannered to simply reject us. It is obvious he has given the occasion no real thought: he has responded far too quickly for that.’
‘The Earl of Devane?’ Rachel breathed, the shock of hearing that name again so soon quelling her feelings of indignation at the family snub. ‘Lord Devane?’ Rachel repeated in a voice of strengthening incredulity.
‘Yes,’ her father confirmed with a significant look at his wife. ‘You sound as though you know his lordship…’
’Do I?’ Rachel demanded in return.
‘You…you spoke as though the name sounded familiar to you, my dear,’ her papa ventured.
‘That’s because I spoke this afternoon to a man styling himself so.’
‘You did? Where?’ her parents chorused in surprise, unsure now whether to look glad or aghast on learning this news.
‘The meeting was on the highway, brought about by a little carriage accident,’ Rachel informed them, jumping to her feet. ‘No; not the landau.’ She mistook her papa’s obvious consternation on hearing this news as a reasonable anxiety over damage to his new coach rather than to his eldest daughter.
‘What is going on? Lord Devane is Connor Flinte, or I’m very much mistaken. What has he done? Bought himself a title with his army severance pay?’ she scoffed.
‘Nothing so vulgar, my dear,’ her father corrected in a tone of mild reproof, as a paternal eye checked her over for any sign of physical injury. ‘He has simply taken up his birthright. His Irish grandfather, on his mother’s side, has recently died and the Major has inherited his earldom. The succession was gazetted. He is quite entitled to style himself Lord Devane.’
Whilst digesting this startling news, Rachel’s thoughts scampered ahead. She flicked an accusing finger at the parchment laying on the leather-topped table. ‘What…what do you mean, invitation? You surely would not…have not…invited him to June’s wedding after all that went on?’ She fell silent, chewing her lip. All that went on had been of her doing. He was blameless, as her parents, especially her father, had reiterated time and again in absolute despair just after that awful episode. ‘Why on earth would you ask him to attend when it is likely that his appearance would excite every kind of speculation and spiteful probing? People are bound to again ask unanswerable questions about what happened to Isabel and…and—’ She broke off, unable to say more, her burning eyes covered by a cool, pale hand.
‘We don’t talk of Isabel, you know that,’ her white-faced mother faintly chided with a searching look at her youngest daughter. Sylvie appeared to be in her own little world with her chin resting on her clasped hands as she gazed out into a beautiful early evening.
‘He declines.’ Edgar quickly changed subject in a tone laden with profound disappointment. ‘We have Lord Devane’s refusal within a few hours of the invitation being issued. I think that tells us all we need to know. He was his usual polite and dignified self when I gave it him. And he will doubtless continue to be civil. But he has no intention of accepting the olive branch your mama and I have bravely extended. Our intention was to put paid to any residual bad feeling, and in a way that was private, and yet acceptably public too. What better way for us to collaborate in showing the world that all is forgiven and forgotten, than to join together in celebrating a wedding? What more fitting occasion than June’s marriage to William? They are two of the mildest-mannered, most inoffensive people anyone is ever likely to encounter…’ After a dejected sigh he continued, ‘Connor’s co-operation in this would have laid the
scandal permanently to rest. But we have had our olive branch immediately returned to us, in perfect order, of course.’ One of Edgar Meredith’s fingers absently touched the crisp parchment in front of him. ‘I believe I knew all along what his answer would be and I cannot blame him…’
‘No, you never could do that…’ Rachel said with quiet, bitter censure.
‘There was nothing he did that I could arraign. He behaved impeccably even under direst duress,’ her father whipped back with uncommon force and volume. His eyes fixed on his daughter and his withered lips strained thinner. ‘With what should I have charged him? Being too perfect a gentlemen? Being too lacking in greed and self-interest? The contracts were signed, the wedding a little over twelve hours away; he might have successfully sued for breach of promise and taken your dowry, you know. He held it in his power to shame and ruin us all. It would have done me no favours in the city to have contested such a controversial case. And your reputation, miss, would have never recovered from being dragged through such mire. Instead, he took unwarranted humiliation on himself and spared you. He suffered unwarranted financial losses and spared me. The Major was greatly out-of-pocket from his own expenses, yet refused any recompense I offered. I even had to insist he take back your betrothal ring! He wanted nothing, not even that to which he was perfectly entitled!’
Gloria Meredith shot up from the table as her husband’s voice quavered with barely suppressed pain and anger. An unsteady hand was held out cautioning Edgar, the other extended, palm up, appealing to her white-faced eldest daughter. ‘Enough! Let’s not quarrel. How silly this has all been. I believe it was a foolish thing to do, my dear,’ she tentatively put to her husband. ‘Our intentions were good: healing rifts and finally putting the tragedy behind us is what we wanted. Yet, in truth, it is achieving nought but breaking open the scar. The Major…Lord Devane,’ she corrected herself on a tiny, forced smile, ‘manages to act decorously at all times, yet we find ourselves unable to do ought but bicker amongst ourselves. Let’s not make him out too much of the hero in this.’
‘Yes, let’s not.’ Rachel clipped out coldly. For a moment or two she and her father faced each other in a hostile, combative silence that was eventually brought to a close when the library door was opened.
June and William entered, laughing. After a few paces, they hesitated, their similar expressions frozen into mask-like smiles, as they both sensed the tension within the room. Recovering her composure, June, who was barely five feet in height but supple as a sapling, threaded her tiny hand through her fiancé’s brawny arm, and bravely proceeded to haul his tall, sturdy frame into the library, a sunny smile re-animating her sweet, heart-shaped countenance.
‘Ah, there you are, June; come in…come in!’ Mrs Meredith greeted them with such a wealth of welcome and gratitude in her voice, her third daughter might have recently returned from overseas instead of across the street where she and William had been visiting friendly neighbours. ‘How are you, William?’ she demanded. ‘It will be good to see your parents at their musicale later this week. It’s a while since I spoke to them. Your mama and I must catch up on how preparations proceed for the big day…’ In her haste to say something, anything, to ease the atmosphere, Gloria had forgotten that she disliked her daughter’s prospective mother-in-law. Since their betrothal, she had gained the impression that Pamela Pemberton deemed June way below her son’s social station, and that she fully expected any preparations made by the Merediths for William’s wedding would be found sadly lacking in grandeur.
Thankfully, William’s sincere devotion to his betrothed proved he was at odds with his mother. He worshipped the ground that June tripped upon, treating her with affectionate reverence, and on visiting Windrush, venue of their marriage, he had been delighted with the place, claiming that, in all things, he was a very fortunate man.
And indeed he was. By anyone’s standards, June was exceedingly fine in looks and character; and no expense had been spared in ensuring the wedding celebration would befit the union of two wealthy families. It would be a day to remember. Rachel and everyone had said so…and so it must be…
Besides, why accept the role of underdog? Mr Meredith could boast a city salary comparable to, if not slightly in excess of, Alexander Pemberton’s income from his law practice. Thus Gloria was of a mind that the Pembertons had nothing to feel superior about. Perhaps Pamela could lay claim to a distant ducal connection, but it was so far removed as to be utterly worthless. With a wry, private smile, Gloria recalled her sweet Rachel saucily airing that opinion direct to Pamela when they were sitting out a set at the Winthrops’ midsummer ball last year.
In fact, bearing in mind how her eldest daughter had contrived to put Pamela firmly in her place, and bring about a proper introduction between June and that woman’s son on the very same occasion, it was a miracle that her schemes to matchmake the pair had been such an outstanding success. June and William were deeply in love, there would be a grand wedding and nothing must spoil their joyous occasion. Gloria was as determined on that score as was her eldest daughter.
Gloria slid a glance at Rachel; it skipped to Edgar. Father and daughter had retreated, still bristling, to opposite sides of the room, ostentatiously far apart. Yet in many ways they were so close. Both stubborn, protective of people they cared about and apt to act rashly or on impulse. Yet they were also at times ready with very sensible opinions. It was just a shame that they rarely accepted such common-sense advice themselves when it was offered.
A little smile touched Gloria’s lips as she watched her husband making an effort to appear calm and convivial as he chatted to William about the new bay hunter he had that week purchased. For all William’s upright, amenable nature, she knew he would never come close to replacing the marvellous son who had slipped so suddenly through Edgar’s acquisitive fingers six years ago. What worried Gloria was that her husband had never fully accepted that particular relationship was lost to him…And he must…
Her grey eyes traversed to Rachel. In profile she looked quite breathtakingly lovely as she rested her golden head on the casement frame and gazed off over the cloud-darkling lawns. In such a demure, alluring pose it was hard to conceive she couldn’t have any man she set her heart on. But, to Gloria’s infinite regret, she couldn’t now bring to mind any gentleman who seemed to pay serious attentions towards her eldest daughter. For a year or more, since Rachel turned twenty-four, she had accepted that her first-born was likely to remain a spinster, not only because gentlemen were wary of her reputation but because she herself would opt to keep that status.
It was unfair; other women had daughters with squints and buck teeth who had married well. She had a girl blessed with the serene, classical beauty that painters and poets swooned over and strove to capture with their craft, yet still she remained unloved by any but her family. Who would believe that beneath those honed, fragile bones lay a steely will, or that her cool, fair looks concealed a bold and fiery temperament. And then there was Isabel…dear, sweet Isabel, lost to her so young before she had had a chance of making a good match…Gloria felt her eyes fill with tears. She mustn’t think of Isabel…not now. She had another daughter to concentrate on. June was just as worthy of her attention as were Rachel and Sylvie, even though, bless her, she never seemed to demand or require it as did the others…
Approaching the open window where Rachel and Sylvie stood together, Gloria automatically tidied the curtains billowing in a balmy breeze. Sylvie suddenly leaned out over the sill again, snapped off a twig of lilac and, separating the cluster of blooms, presented one to her sister and the other to her mama. Then, careless of her clothes or modesty, she hoisted herself in a white flash of ruffled drawers and petticoats right over the ledge and slipped away into the garden.
‘Oh, that girl!’ Gloria muttered ruefully. ‘Truth to tell, there are days when I wonder if she is a girl at all. She’s the greatest tomboy of the four of you and I thought you were never to be beaten on that score. Do you remembe
r your tree-house and that collection of crawlies you kept?’ Gloria gave a delicate shudder. ‘You had quite a menagerie, as I recall: insects, amphibians from the pond, and that grass snake. Poor Isabel was frightened witless by that enormous furry caterpillar you put in her bed…’ Her mother’s voice cracked and she rapidly blinked her eyes.
Rachel bowed her head, letting the powdery perfumed petals of Sylvie’s gift brush her face. ‘Poor Isabel,’ she softly echoed. ‘Poor Papa, too,’ she added in a wry tone. ‘He has ever been disappointed with me, hasn’t he? He would have preferred it if I had been born a boy, I know. Then I might have collected beasts to my heart’s content and had Windrush as my inheritance to his heart’s content.’
‘All fathers yearn for a son and heir, Rachel,’ her mother responded mildly. ‘It’s the way of the world.’
‘It’s why he wanted me so soon married, isn’t it? To get his son at last. I was but nineteen,’ she reminded her mother in a raw voice.
‘Not so very young, my dear,’ Gloria rebutted. ‘I was a month short of my eighteenth birthday when I married your papa. I was a month short of my nineteenth birthday when you were born…’
‘That was then! I feel differently. Six years ago I wasn’t ready to be anyone’s wife!’
‘You said you were, Rachel. No one coerced you to accept Connor’s proposal, certainly not the man himself. You insisted that you were in love. Your papa needed to know that before he accepted Connor’s suit. Your happiness was paramount. Perhaps I mistake my guess, but I would have said, at first, you were very much in love with your fiancé…’
Mary Brendan Page 3
