Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  “He does indeed.”

  “He still won’t paint me, incidentally. Says I’m too piquant, not ethereal enough. I’m deeply wounded.”

  “You’ve a right to be.”

  “It’s this damned pert nose. The bane of my existence.”

  “Charles likes it,” I pointed out.

  “There’s that,” she agreed. “What am I going to do, luv?”

  “Marry him, of course.”

  “I suppose I’ll have to,” she said wearily. “He’ll pester me to death if I don’t.”

  We heard the men coming down the hall, their footsteps heavy, their voices hearty as they discussed stocks and barrels and range and such. Megan made a face and brushed her bronze velvet skirt. I smiled and, moving over to her, gave her a hug. She sighed once more and assumed that wry, sophisticated expression I knew so well.

  “The son of a bitch is in for it now, luv,” she told me. “He opened his mouth and asked the question and if he thinks he can back out of it now, he has a huge surprise in store. I might as well marry him. Someone has to protect him from all those adoring women who’re always hurling themselves at his feet. Someone has to pick up after him and see that he eats the proper meals and remind him it’s time to go to the theater. It might as well be me.”

  “Might as well,” I agreed.

  “I love him, Angel.”

  “I know you do, darling.”

  “I never thought it would happen,” she said. “A girl like me—turning respectable. Next thing you know I’ll be baking cookies.”

  “I rather doubt that.”

  Megan stepped away from me and placed her hands on her hips. “Well, it’s about time you got back to us,” she scolded as the men walked into the room. “Leaving us alone all this time while you were looking at a lot of guns! How rude and thoughtless can you get? We’ve been frightfully lonely, pining away the whole time.”

  “I’ll bet,” Charles said.

  “No lip from you, Charles Hart. I’ve had just about enough of your sauce for one day. Shall we play some whist? Angel and I will take on the two of you, and tonight we’re playing for high stakes and real money. There’s a hat I fancy in London and it costs a bloomin’ fortune. I’m going to win enough tonight to buy it—a new pair of shoes as well.”

  “Oh?” Clinton inquired.

  “Just you watch, sweetheart.”

  It snowed that night, and fluffy white flakes were slowly swirling in the air as I dressed the next morning. Everything outside was blanketed in a pure glistening white, the gardens transformed into a spectacular wonderland. Sitting at the dressing table, I brushed my hair, feeling happy and replete after a marvelous night with Clinton. Megan and I had won at whist and she had been saucy and triumphant and Charles had accused her of cheating and accused me of being a cardsharp and there had been a wonderfully stimulating scrap, Charles threatening to haul us both off to Bow Street, Clinton grinning, vastly amused by our shenanigans. Later, in the privacy of our bedroom, he had taken me into his arms and kissed me for a very long time, a tantalizing prelude to pleasures that would soon follow.

  Setting the hairbrush aside, I pushed gleaming chestnut brown waves away from my face and stood up, my silk petticoats rustling. I was wearing a dusty rose frock of fine linen with a low, square-cut neckline and a full, spreading skirt. Stepping over to a window, I gazed out at the wonderland of new snow. Sunlight reflected on the glistening white, creating lovely silver-violet sunbursts. Clinton sauntered into the room, tucking the tail of his loose white silk shirt into the waistband of his snug gray trousers. His pale blond hair was tousled, his eyes still sleepy. I smiled. He grinned at me and finished tucking his shirt in.

  “Up early, aren’t you?” he said.

  “It’s almost nine.”

  “I slept that late?”

  “You had a very active night,” I told him.

  “Seems like I remember that.”

  “And you owe me twenty-four pounds.”

  “Charles was right about you,” he grumbled. “You are a cardsharp, and you taught Megan everything you know.”

  “I hate a sore loser,” I replied. “I intend to collect from Charles too before they leave this afternoon.”

  He joined me at the window and, moving behind me, slipped his arms around my waist. I leaned my head back against his shoulder, and we watched the snow swirl slowly in the air.

  “You’ve really enjoyed their visit, haven’t you?” he asked.

  “Tremendously.”

  “I’ve enjoyed it, too. Seeing you with them, so bright and vivacious, so full of fun, makes me realize just how dreary these past months must have been for you.”

  “I haven’t complained.”

  “Indeed you haven’t, but it’s hardly been a picnic for you with me so involved with the estate and gone so much of the time and you with nothing to do for hours on end.”

  “I take rides. I read. I—”

  “It’s been dreary for you, darling, don’t try to say it hasn’t. It’s going to be better, I promise. We’ll leave for London the first of December and stay through the holidays. You’ll be able to see all your friends, go to the theater, give parties at Hanover Square. We’ll have a grand time.”

  “I’m having a grand time right now,” I told him. “Just being with you is enough to keep me quite content. I don’t need anything else.”

  “A little outside stimulation wouldn’t hurt, though. Besides, you probably need some new clothes.”

  “I have all the clothes I need.”

  “What? You expect me to believe that? A woman never has enough clothes, at least that’s what I’ve been led to believe. Everything will soon be caught up here. We’ll leave for London in a couple of weeks.”

  “If you insist.”

  “What time did you say it was?”

  “A little after nine now. Breakfast at nine-thirty.”

  “Damn,” he said. “Logistics are against it.”

  “Against what?”

  He pulled me closer. “Guess.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “Megan and Charles will be expecting us. It took me a good twenty minutes to dress, and—”

  “That’s what I mean,” he complained. “Not enough time.”

  “It’ll keep, darling.”

  “What time are they leaving?”

  “Around two, I believe.”

  “We’ve got an appointment at two-thirty. Same time. Same place. We’ll stand here in front of the window and. I’ll hold you like this and you’ll turn around and give me one of those looks and I’ll smile and we’ll adjourn to the bedroom.”

  “At two-thirty in the afternoon? The servants will be horrified.”

  “To hell with the servants,” he said.

  “I think you’d better go wash your face with cold water, darling, then I suggest you brush your hair and think of something terribly mundane and unexciting for a few minutes. Those breeches are very snug.”

  Clinton glanced down, saw the bulge, grinned and gave me a quick, affectionate kiss and then sauntered off to his own dressing room. Twenty minutes later, as we entered the breakfast room, he wore a neat gray frock coat matching his breeches, a handsome dark blue vest stitched with black fleurs de lis and a dashing light gray silk neckcloth, very much the country gentleman with no telling bulge to mar the fit of those snug breeches. Our houseguests had already come down, Charles heaping his plate with sausage and eggs and slices of ham, Megan seated, buttering one of Henri’s flaky croissants.

  Charles made his official announcement as we were having coffee. I wasn’t at all surprised, of course, although I pretended to be. Clinton was delighted and said we must have champagne. At this hour? I inquired. At this hour, he insisted. Robert fetched a bottle from the wine cellar. It was deliciously cool. Clinton poured the bubbly wine and toasted our guests.

  “It’s about time,” I told Charles.

  “Don’t know what came over me,” he confessed. “It must be something in the air do
wn here. I didn’t intend to propose, the words just came out. I’m having second thoughts already.”

  “Too bloody bad,” Megan said.

  “And when is the happy event to occur?” Clinton asked.

  “I had in mind sometime next spring—April, May, somewhere around then, but Miss Sloan informed me that if we’re going to do it, we’re going to do it promptly, so we’ve decided to do it next month, before the holidays. She isn’t giving me a chance to back out.”

  “Bloody right I’m not.”

  “That leaves precious little time to plan a trousseau,” I said. “Dottie will have a fit.”

  “She’ll manage,” Megan replied.

  “What about the wedding gown?”

  “Something simple. White, naturally. Dottie will know exactly what to run up. An antique lace veil perhaps, and orange blossoms from The Market of course.”

  “Listen to them,” Charles told Clinton. “They’ve already forgotten the groom.”

  “We’re coming up to town on the first,” I said. “I’ll be able to help you with all the arrangements. What fun, Megan! Do you remember that wedding gown Dottie made for The Inconstant Wife a few years ago? Creamy white satin, I believe, overlaid with fragile lace, with tiny white satin rosebuds stitched onto the veil.”

  “I don’t want anything quite that fancy. She might modify the design a bit. I did love the veil.”

  “More eggs?” Clinton asked.

  “Might as well,” Charles said. “They’ll go nicely with this champagne. Might have a bit more of that sausage, too.”

  “And I’d like some more buttered wheat toast. I like a hearty breakfast to start the day.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Maybe pale mica sequins on the veil instead of rosebuds,” I suggested. “Remember that veil Titania wore in Midsummer? Of course it was yellow, with gold sequins, but you could get the same effect with mica on white. It would be stunning with your auburn hair.”

  “I have a feeling this is going to cost me a fortune,” Charles said.

  “I have a feeling you’re right,” Clinton replied.

  Megan and I were both rather tearful as the four of us stood outside under the front portico, waiting as the footmen strapped bags on top of the carriage. It had stopped snowing, but the snow covering the ground was dazzling white with a soft blue tinge, the sky a cloudy gray-white. Megan was wearing a dark golden velvet gown with matching golden velvet cloak trimmed in golden brown fur, the hood pulled up over her head. She took my hand and gave it a tight squeeze. Charles and Clinton were chatting idly about their afternoon of shooting. The footmen secured the last bag and scrambled down. The driver climbed up onto his perch and took up the reins, and the four strong grays stamped impatiently, eager to be off. The men shook hands. Megan and I exchanged hugs, and then Charles gave me a brotherly kiss.

  “I like your husband, love. Be good to him.”

  “I intend to be.”

  They climbed into the carriage. Clinton slipped his arm around my waist and we stood on the steps, waving as the carriage pulled around the drive and drove through the graystone portals, and then we went upstairs to keep our appointment. It was lovely and leisurely, the bedroom windows frosted from the snow, a fire crackling quietly in the fireplace. A delicious languor possessed us both afterwards, and we dined late on chilled lobster soup and wonderful goose-liver pate and retired quite early for another appointment.

  The snow lasted a week and was replaced by rain that seemed to fall constantly from a bleak, dark gray sky. As we would soon be leaving for London, Clinton found it necessary to spend a great deal of time in his office, going over the accounts. The Meredith holdings were extensive, I learned, with tin mines in Cornwall, a textile mill in Leeds and a pottery factory outside Coventry, these efficiently managed by trusted employees and requiring very little personal attention from Clinton, whose main interest was the tenant farms. Although he rarely inspected these other holdings in person, he received regular reports on all transactions and kept an eye on everything, which meant a huge amount of paperwork to catch up with before we left for the holidays.

  I was in the library late one afternoon, leafing through a volume of sixteenth-century prints and listening to the rain splattering against the leaded windowpanes. Although the Merediths had never been big readers, the towering floor to ceiling shelves were crammed with thousands of volumes. Adam had stained the shelves a rich golden brown and installed an elegant gold and brown marble fireplace, and I had decided to keep the comfortable leather sofa and chairs, scattering Oriental carpets patterned in gold, brown and green on the dark oak floors. Despite its size, the library was still quite cozy, with that musty, dusty smell of old books I found so pleasant. A fire crackled in the fireplace. I turned a page of the heavy leather-bound volume and then, sighing, closed it and watched the rain making slippery patterns on the windowpanes. The day had seemed interminable, and it would be at least two hours before dinner. I missed my morning rides. Would the rain never end?

  “Been missing me?” Clinton inquired.

  I looked up, startled, for I hadn’t heard him enter the room. His white lawn shirt was open at the throat, the full sleeves rolled up over his forearms. His pale blond hair was mussed, and there were faint shadows under his eyes. He looked weary, I thought, which wasn’t at all surprising, for he had been working in his office most of the day. Many of the landed gentry might live idle, pampered lives in luxurious surroundings, but I didn’t know anyone who worked harder than my husband.

  “Actually, I was missing Cynara,” I said. “I haven’t been able to ride her in over a week.”

  “This rain’s been hard on you, I know. It should end soon.”

  “You look tired, darling.”

  Clinton smiled wearily and moved over to the fireplace to warm his hands. “I have things pretty well under control—some problems with the pottery factory, missing orders, I won’t bore you with the details, some major reenforcement work on the tin mines in Cornwall, profits down—” He sighed and turned his hands over, warming the backs. “How I hate it all. I’d much rather just concentrate on the land, but it’s a necessary evil.”

  “Did your uncle take an active interest in the holdings?”

  He shook his head. “Left it all to hirelings, rarely glanced at the accounts. Things were in quite a tangle when I took over—some of those hirelings had been robbing us blind.”

  “Was he interested in the land?”

  “He never sullied his hands, never visited any of the tenant farms. He let his bailiff handle any problems. Later on he turned the work over to his bastard.”

  “Hugh,” I said.

  Clinton looked at me sharply. “You knew him?”

  “I—Everyone in the village knew about—what went on at the big house, darling. I seem to recall Hugh Bradford managing the farms for a while, before he ran away. It—it was a very long time ago.”

  “He managed the farms, yes,” Clinton said, “and he did a damn fine job of it, I’ll have to admit that, but—” He cut himself off, scowling darkly. I had rarely seen him look that way.

  “There was bad blood between you, wasn’t there?” I asked quietly.

  “You might say that. Yes, you just might. He was an arrogant, surly, impertinent lout, seething with hatred and resentment—the disposition of a cur dog and every bit as vicious. I tried to make friends with him when both of us were boys, felt sorry for him, but he would have none of my friendship. He hated me, felt I had usurped his rightful position.”

  “He—I understand your aunt wouldn’t allow him in the house.”

  “Quite true. Would you want a vicious cur inside your house? He was insolent and hateful to her, snarled at her every time she tried to make things pleasant for him. She finally told my uncle she could take no more of it and he was given rooms over the stables. My aunt was not the most admirable person I’ve ever met—she was a miserable shrew, in fact—but she was perfectly justified in banishing him from th
e house.”

  “I—see,” I said. “She accused him of stealing her jewels, I believe. After your uncle died, she claimed he had taken her emeralds—something like that. I—I can’t remember the details. Hugh had to flee, with Bow Street in hot pursuit.”

  Clinton nodded, still scowling. “I’m not particularly proud of that little episode,” he told me. “Hugh Bradford caused my uncle’s death, as surely as if he’d shot him, and my aunt wanted to have him arrested. When she found she couldn’t she hid her emeralds and accused him of stealing them. I helped her press charges, was eager to see him arrested myself—I actually believed he had stolen the emeralds, you see.”

  “You weren’t—in league with your aunt?”

  “I hated the bastard, blamed him for my uncle’s death and wanted to have him hang for it, but I wouldn’t have set him up like that. Later on, when I discovered my aunt’s treachery, I insisted all charges be dropped. I wasn’t the most admirable character myself back then—I was spoiled and headstrong and very full of my own importance—but I was never a villain.”

  No, my darling, you weren’t, I thought. You weren’t nearly as bad as I believed you were. You were spoiled, true, and you were indeed full of your own importance, but your youth and your upbringing had a lot to do with that. You were an inveterate womanizer too, but why wouldn’t you be, looking like a young god, women hurling themselves at you. You were never a villain, only a willful youth who eventually grew up and took on responsibilities and matured into a remarkable man. The rain splattered on the windowpanes, still making slippery patterns. The fire crackled, tiny flames consuming the log. Clinton’s eyes were hard as he thought of those days gone by. I only saw one side of the picture, I thought, Hugh’s side, and it was always colored by his bitterness and hatred.

  “Hugh Bradford was consumed by his own obsession,” my husband informed me. “Somehow or other he had convinced himself that he was not illegitimate at all, that he was the rightful heir to Greystone Hall, that all the rest of us, his father included, had conspired to take it from him. It turned him into a vicious cur, as I said, and no one could help him. A cur only snaps at the hand that tries to pet or feed.”