by Sandra Heath
DIAMOND DREAMS
Sandra Heath
Chapter One
If anyone had told Ellie Rutherford that having a dish of deviled kidneys spilled into the lap of her mourning gown would lead to a passionate kiss with a complete stranger, she’d have thought them utterly moonstruck. But that was exactly what happened at the Crown Inn, Hounslow, on a bright morning at the beginning of October 1804.
The year was proving a terrible one for Ellie and her father, Josiah, who were on their way to London from Rutherford Park, their pleasant home on the Isle of Wight. Not only had Ellie’s mother passed away early that summer after a long illness, but now a shocking letter from the Unicorn Bank of Ludgate had advised Josiah that there were no funds left in his account. He was penniless.
Already stricken by the loss of his beloved wife, Josiah found this new catastrophe almost too much to bear. He’d believed his financial situation to be secure, only to learn it was the very opposite. It was therefore hardly surprising that as he picked at his breakfast in the crowded dining room of the Crown Inn, he looked very frail and older than his fifty-five years. He’d been a handsome man in his youth, tall and straight, with dark coloring and a roguish smile, but now his hair was white and his features marked with grief and despair.
He and Ellie were both clad in black, and barely aware of the Crown Inn’s racket going on around them. Neither was hungry, in their present mood finding even toast and marmalade beyond them, let alone the gargantuan meals so many other travelers demanded.
Hounslow was the first stage out of London and the last stage in, and its hostelries were busy night and day. Although the Crown prided itself particularly on its clean and comfortable beds, Josiah hadn’t slept at all the night before. His anxiety about the future so oppressed him that he hardly knew how he was going to cope with that afternoon’s important appointment at the Unicorn Bank.
Ellie—short for Eleanor—was twenty-six years old, unmarried, and content to remain that way. She had always been allowed the liberty of waiting until she found true love before venturing into wedlock, and now she was determined to remain single in order to take care of her father.
Beneath the swathes of mourning she was slender and attractive, with a gently feminine face and a quiet disposition. Fate had not chosen to grant her beauty, but her eyes were the color of bluebells, and her light brown hair, at present completely concealed from the world by a black bonnet and veil, was long and curling, with honey glints that always shone in the sunlight.
She was at pains to bolster Josiah’s spirits if she could. “I’m sure this business with the bank will prove to be a terrible mistake, Father,” she said, but her voice expressed more hope than she felt.
“Ellie, my dear, I fear we must face it that my funds have all been wickedly embezzled.”
“But the Unicorn is a trusted bank.”
Josiah gave a mirthless laugh. “Caesar trusted Brutus.”
“Even so—”
“Don’t pin your hopes upon a happy outcome, Ellie, for I have been in this world long enough to know when I have been rooked. Someone at the bank has been very clever, and I am his victim. Mark my words, there will be nothing whatsoever I can do to extricate myself from this. Nothing at all.”
Ellie fell silent. There must be another Mr. Rutherford, she thought. What else could explain it? Her father had never gone against the bank’s advice, as was being suggested now, nor had he withdrawn vast sums, thus emptying his accounts. As for mortgaging Rutherford Park to the very hilt ... It was totally monstrous, and went against everything in which he believed.
He looked sadly at her. “My dear, I do so hate to see you in black, so you must promise me something. When my time comes, you are not to wear mourning for more than a few weeks. Promise me.”
“Father—”
“Promise me,” he insisted.
“Very well, but God willing, that time is a long way off yet.”
“God willing indeed,” he murmured.
She lowered her eyes to the folded newspaper on the table. Her father had bought it from the boy in the courtyard, but had yet to even look at it. There were headlines concerning the self-crowned Emperor Napoleon’s warlike intentions in Europe, and the British government’s need for allies, but it was another column entirely that caught her eye:
It has been announced that prior to its inclusion next summer into the hilt of the new Sword of Concord that has been commissioned for the royal regalia, the famous red diamond of India will be put on display with the Crown Jewels in the Tower of London. This will be the first time it has been seen in public since it was presented to King George I in the year 1721.
Just as it crossed Ellie’s mind that she had never heard of diamonds being red, the deviled kidneys cascaded into her lap. An overworked maid, hailed from several directions at the same moment, had been trying to squeeze past Ellie’s chair in order to take the fateful dish to a large and disagreeable Somerset squire at the next table. The squire had a rather snappy dog, which chose that very moment to get in the maid’s way.
She tottered, and screamed in dismay as the deviled kidneys splattered hotly over Ellie’s mourning clothes. Ellie leapt up with a cry, the farmer roared that his breakfast had been ruined, and his disagreeable dog began to snap at the maid, who, fearing dismissal for such a calamity, dissolved into tears.
Ellie could have burst into tears as well, because the chenille-trimmed black silk gown was the only one she had that was suitable for the all-important visit to the bank. She tried to mop the mess away with her napkin, but the Crown Inn’s cook did not believe in skimping with hot spiced sauce.
The innkeeper, drawn by the commotion, appeared from nowhere and immediately ushered Ellie and the maid away from the dining room. Josiah followed as they were taken to the kitchens, where a number of maids flocked to do what they could to clean the gown.
Josiah was placated by the genial innkeeper who led him into an adjoining parlor, ushered him into a particularly comfortable old armchair by the fire, and pressed upon him a glass of the hot ale flip that many travelers thought beneficial in the colder weather. The parlor was warm; the innkeeper lingered to talk; and the combination of his droning voice and the ale flip upon an empty stomach gradually sent Josiah into a deep doze.
Ellie, in the meantime, had been told that the inn maids were certain they would be able to return the gown to its former perfection. It would only take an hour, they vowed. She was loath to unpack another gown from the luggage, which had already been loaded onto the carriage for the remainder of the journey into London.
Not only would another garment have to be pressed, but by the time that was done, the black gown would probably be ready anyway; so, when it was suggested that for the brief interlude she might wear one of the maid’s dresses and remain in the kitchens, she accepted. The suggestion was made tentatively, because such a dress was hardly suitable for a lady, especially one in mourning, but it was, after all, a very temporary measure, and full propriety would soon be restored.
So the spoiled black silk with its fashionable train was replaced by a faded blue linen that barely covered her ankles, even though it had been let down several times. Her black bonnet and veil were superseded by a starched mobcap that looked brittle enough to crumble into fragments if she did not take good care.
She could have joined her father in the parlor, but on learning that he was asleep, she decided not to disturb him. Instead, she sat on a bench, just outside the back door of the inn, to enjoy the October sunshine and look at the kitchen garden. It was a beautiful early-autumn morning, still almost as warm as summer, but with that subtle change of light that told of winter’s approach.
Two men were digging up the last of the potatoes and carrots;
another was planting spring lettuce under glass; and two boys were up ladders, gathering rosy apples from a rather old tree by the gate into the adjacent inn yard. All was noise and clatter beyond the gate as stagecoaches came and went, but the garden was tranquil. A robin sang on an outhouse roof, and at the far end of the garden, secluded among tall straggling clumps of goldenrod and Michaelmas daisies, was a small pond where ducks chuntered contentedly.
Ellie adored ducks. There was something about them that always made her smile; so when a plump kitchen maid came out with a bowl of scraps for them, Ellie was on her feet in a moment. “Oh, please, may I feed them?”
“Why, yes, madam, of course,” the maid answered, looking at her as if she had taken leave of her senses.
Ellie gladly accepted the battered enamel bowl of scraps and went to the pond. She scattered some of the scraps, then, laughing as the ducks’ bills pattered against her skin, crouched with some crusts of bread in her palm. The October sunlight shimmered like diamonds through strands of cobweb among the Michaelmas daisies, and lay in bright shafts across the dew-soaked goldenrod. For these few moments she was carefree again, and the feeling was good—almost intoxicating, in fact.
She did not see the tall gentleman come to lean on the gate from the inn yard while his carriage team was changed; nor did she see how swiftly he straightened again on seeing her. She knew nothing of his startled expression, as if confronted by a ghost, or of how he hurriedly opened the gate to approach her. But she did hear his step at last, and rose to her feet in some embarrassment, forgetting that he could not possibly know she wasn’t really a maid.
She was horribly conscious that instead of being in deep mourning, she wore a really dreadful dress that displayed her ankles to the world, and her hair was topped by a flimsy mobcap that had been laundered and starched so many times it resembled paper.
She guessed the gentleman was about thirty, maybe a little older. He was dark-haired, muscular, and dressed so superbly that his tailor had to be one of the very best in Bond Street, for his dark blue tailcoat fitted him to perfection, and his cream cord breeches might almost have been sewn onto his form. An intricate neckcloth burgeoned at his throat, a wine-red silk waistcoat was visible beneath his coat, and the simple frills of an exquisitely starched shirt peeped from his cuffs.
All this she saw in a glance, but what transfixed her most was his face, which was handsome in a way that cut through her defenses like a knife. Perhaps it was his eyes, clear and gray, with a directness that was almost commanding; or maybe it was his lips, so firm and finely formed, so ready to smile ... or to kiss....
Shocked by the intensity of her reaction to this complete stranger, she emptied the last of the scraps onto the grass, then looked awkwardly at him. “Sir?”
“Who are you?” he asked, unable to tear his gaze from her.
“I ...” She didn’t know what to say, for the inquiry was rather blunt. Was this what maids were to expect from gentlemen? She felt the urge to put him in his place by making him aware he was speaking to a lady, but knew it would do her reputation no good to divulge her real identity. “My name is Ellie,” she said at last, opting to continue being a maid.
A faint smile played upon his lips. “Just Ellie?”
“I see no need to tell you more, sir.”
“Then I will simply say that my name is Athan.”
“Sir.” She bobbed a curtsy, thinking that Athan was a very unusual name, and that it suited him well.
He continued to gaze at her, and she became self-conscious. “I ... I had better go back inside,” she said, and began to walk past him, but he barred her way.
“Please don’t go.”
“Sir—”
“A few moments of your time is all I ask.”
“Why?” Let him see what it felt like to be asked something in a blunt manner.
He was taken slightly by surprise, and gave a quick laugh. “Because I implore you?”
She had no idea which way to take him. Was he flirting with her? Or merely amusing himself by teasing an inn maid? “Is it your custom to go about bothering maidservants?” she asked then.
Her well-spoken voice brought a shadow of puzzlement to his gray eyes. “No, it isn’t, and if that is what I appear to be doing, I apologize.” He regarded her closely. “Are you really a maid?” he asked then.
“Yes, of course. Why else would I be dressed like this?” she answered.
“It’s just that you do not sound like a maid, and now that I look at your hands, they seem rather smooth and ladylike to be accustomed to hard work.”
The situation was running away with her, and she didn’t know how to stop it. “Must a maid look or sound a certain way, sir? Must she be ill-educated in order to fit her position? Perhaps I am a great heiress fallen on hard times.” Oh, how true, how true!
He hesitated. “Or an actress?” he ventured.
She was insulted, knowing that gentlemen were usually interested in actresses for the basest of reasons. “If you have set out to offend me, sir, I assure you that you’ve been successful.”
He hastened to right the wrong. “Forgive me, it’s just...”
“Yes?”
“It’s just that I could think of no other explanation for ...” Again he didn’t finish.
Whatever was on his mind now seemed too awkward to say, and Ellie would dearly have liked to know what it was, except that it was hardly likely to be flattering to her. She wanted to be thoroughly incensed with him, but was somehow unable to be so. There was something about him, something so gentle and appealing that she wanted to forgive him everything.
He smiled a little sheepishly. “Believe me, my intentions are not base.”
She knew she should leave him and go back to the inn, but somewhere deep inside her there lurked a little of the coquette, for she made no move. Her pulse had quickened, and she was aware of a flush on her cheeks that had nothing to do with the heat of the sun. There was something in the air, a wild magic that would make her remember these moments for the rest of her life.
“It’s just that I feel I know you,” he said then.
“We have never met before, sir.”
“I realize that,” he said softly, so softly, almost like a sigh.
They gazed at each other, and she had to look away. What was happening? She ought to bring the encounter to an end, but simply could not bring herself to do it.
He reached out suddenly, putting his gloved fingers to her chin and making her look at him again. “Do you really and truly work here?”
“No,” she admitted reluctantly.
“Ah, I thought not. You aren’t a maid at all, are you?”
She hesitated. “No,” she whispered.
“And you will not tell me who you really are?”
“I cannot.”
He searched her eyes. “Do you know Lawrence, the royal artist?” he asked suddenly.
She drew back slightly. “I am acquainted with him, yes. He painted my portrait a few years ago.”
Ellie had found Mr. Thomas Lawrence, fashionable genius or not, a trifle too amorous for comfort. For the princely sum of one hundred sixty guineas he’d agreed to paint her full-length portrait, and although it was more usual for the sitter to go to the thirty-two-year-old artist’s London studio, in this case Lawrence made an exception because he wished to visit the Isle of Wight.
He had come to Rutherford Park in 1801, after completing a portrait of Lady Mary Templeton and her small son. There had been whispers about his attachment to Lord Templelon’s sister, and it was said that his lordship had been most relieved when the artist departed for the Isle of Wight. Ellie had been equally relieved when Lawrence’s carriage drove away from Rutherford Park.
After completing her portrait, he’d returned to London to paint Mrs. Wolff, the beautiful wife of the Danish Consul, another lady with whom he was subsequently rumored to have had an affair. Gossip also connected him with the Princess of Wales, and the actress, Mrs. Siddons,
as well as the latter’s two daughters.
When it came to the fair sex, the royal artist’s name was always improperly prominent. Nothing about him would have surprised Ellie, who knew how he’d striven to add her name to his list of conquests. Nevertheless, the portrait he’d painted of her had been a wonderful likeness and exquisitely finished. Say what she would of him as a man, she could not fault his artistic brilliance.
While this was going through her head, the gentleman’s eyes had sharpened. “He painted your portrait? May I ask what sort of composition it was?”
“What sort of—?” Perceiving a possible unwelcome implication, she gave him a cool look. “What, exactly, do you mean, sir?”
“Please answer.”
“It was just a portrait, sir, very formal, with a pedestal, ivy, and heavy dark red curtains. Nothing untoward, I assure you.”
“And that was the only likeness Lawrence painted of you?”
“Yes.” She was bewildered by his persistence. “What is this, sir?”
“Humor me, Ellie, and tell me if you can be categorically certain that he painted just one portrait of you, a formal pose, with your name to identify the canvas?”
“Absolutely.”
“There is no chance whatsoever that it is marked simply as a portrait of a lady?”
“Certainly not. Mr. Lawrence would not have received a single guinea if he had been so thoughtless and remiss as to cast doubt upon my virtue.” Well, now she understood his inquiry if she was an actress, for such persons were seldom named on portraits.
“Sir, if you think you have seen another likeness of me, which I imagine is what prompts your interest in me now, then the sitter is someone else, and if she is identified merely as ‘a lady,’ then your suspicion about her being an actress is probably also correct. However, if I am right in my guess that this other portrait is less than proper, then I find it offensive that—”
He broke in again, clearly desperate to find answers to something of great importance to him. “Perhaps you have a sister? A cousin even?”
