by Sandra Heath
“As befits the emperor of Russia,” she said with a smile. “Do you have a particular design in mind?”
“Flowers, I think, for that is what I do best. Prince Valentin intends to visit here when he comes to Britain in a few weeks’ time, and he will choose which tureen will go to St. Petersburg.”
“Nantgarth is to be graced by a Russian prince? How very grand we will be.”
“Indeed.” He drew a rather trembling breath. “So much hangs upon this, Ellie. When I have finished the decoration and gilding, there will be no other pieces to compare with their rare beauty. The czar’s soup will be served from a veritable Holy Grail!”
She smiled. “If anyone can do it, Uncle, you can. No one has a more delicate brush, or more artistic ability.”
“And no one else has my secret formula.” He winked and tapped the side of his nose, but then became serious again. “Would that this new connection with St. Petersburg could put the past entirely to rights, but that can never be.”
“I don’t understand, Uncle.”
“Nor is there any reason why you should, my dear. Take no notice of my ramblings.”
She wasn’t entirely reassured. “Is there something it’s better I should know about, Uncle?”
“Nothing at all, my dear, nothing at all. Oh, don’t look so worried, and just be thankful, as I am, for the stroke of unutterable good fortune that crossed my snowy path with Lord Griffin’s on the Pennines. If it were not for his generosity in setting me up here, his tolerance concerning the ground rents, and his undoubted hand at work on my behalf in Russia, I would not be in this hopeful position now. I owe him a great deal.”
Ellie was reluctant to accept the change of subject, but had no real option, for it was clear her uncle had no intention of elaborating on anything else about his past in St. Petersburg. “What is Lord Griffin like?”
“You ask that in a way that suggests some preconceived opinions.”
She colored a little. “Well, I do rather have a picture of him in mind.”
“And what picture might that be?”
She told him, and he roared with laughter. “My dearest Ellie, you could not be more wrong. A widower he may indeed be, and rightly keen on the Griffin stud, but certainly not to the point of stinking of horses and wearing his boots in bed! He is young, fashionable, exceedingly good-looking, charming, and amusing, and I have the honor to be able to address him by his first name, Athan.”
Chapter Nine
Ellie’s heart lurched. “His name is Athan?” she repeated faintly.
“Indeed so,” her uncle confirmed.
“It’s such an unusual name....” She felt quite numb with shock that fate could be so arbitrary as to bring her here. It was just too cruel after everything else that had befallen her.
“Well, the name is not common, I grant you, but I’ve come across it twice since being here. It seems there was a Celtic saint called Athan, and he has a village named after him.”
She wanted to be reassured, but had to probe further. “Does ... does Lord Griffin have dark hair and gray eyes?” She described in detail the man she had encountered on those three memorable occasions in London, to say nothing of an even more memorable—if completely fantastical—occasion that morning!
“Well, it certainly sounds like him,” John replied, and looked curiously at her. “Am I to understand that you and he are acquainted, Ellie?”
“I ... I may have met him,” she said lamely. Then she thought of something that to her mind would confirm it beyond doubt. “Is Lord Griffin a director of the Unicorn Bank?”
John was a little offended. “My dear, if he were I would have told you before now, and I would certainly have promised to approach him about it the moment he returned from St. Petersburg.”
“Forgive me, I ... I didn’t mean to ...” She was too relieved to finish.
“As it happens, Lord Griffin and I have often discussed business matters, and he has mentioned his various connections. The name of the Unicorn Bank definitely did not come up.” John observed the expressions crossing her face, then frowned a little. “Have I understood properly, Ellie? You may have met Lord Griffin, but did not realize it until I informed you of his first name? How might that be?”
Please don’t let her cheeks be as on fire as they felt right now! She had to think of a convincing explanation. “You jump to conclusions, Uncle,” she said brightly. “There was a gentleman of that name in a party that called at Rutherford Park two years ago. I noticed the name because it was so unusual, and because of that I also noticed that he came from Wales and was a director of the bank. That’s all.” May God forgive her such glib untruths. She smiled again. “So ... you like Lord Griffin a great deal?”
She must have sounded dismissive enough, for he didn’t question her further. “Most definitely I like him, and I sincerely hope that his forthcoming marriage to Miss Tudor will prove to be infinitely more happy than his first.”
“Oh?” Her unease began to return as she recalled Athan’s conversation with Freddie Forrester-Phipps at the bank, including the references to Athan’s so-called ward. Miss Tudor and her mother resided at Castle Griffin, so might that mean that Miss Tudor could be referred to as Athan’s ward? It was a freshly discomforting possibility.
“Lord Griffin met his first wife, Caroline, in Naples, I believe, and loved her dearly, but she deserted him within months of the marriage in order to run off with a lover. At least, that is my understanding from Lord Griffin himself. Certainly his bride never came to Castle Griffin. But I’m sure Miss Tudor—her first name is Fleur, by the way—will make up for all that sorrow.”
“So you do not share Mrs. Lewis’s poor opinion of her?”
He leaned against the table, folded his arms, and smiled. “Well, I fear Mrs. Lewis has only herself to blame for falling foul of the Tudors, because she took a dislike to them and allowed them to know. Had she dissembled more, and Gwilym too for that matter, she would still be up at the castle, and he would be having an easier time of it during Lord Griffin’s absence. The Tudors are as good as Lord Griffin’s family now, and one cannot blame them if they are not prepared to put up with surly servants.”
Ellie raised her eyebrows. “Surly? Mrs. Lewis and Gwilym? Oh, surely not....”
“However you describe it, the fact remains that Miss Tudor and her mother were displeased, and as there haven’t been upsets with any other servants at the castle, I can only assume that Mrs. Lewis and her boy were indeed guilty of letting unwelcome feelings show. However, Gwilym’s position at the castle is assured, for there isn’t anyone else in the whole of Glamorgan who has such a fine touch with horses. As for Mrs. Lewis, well, I am more than happy to have her here. Lord Griffin didn’t want to lose her, but he had to back Miss Tudor. It was a very unfortunate business all around.”
“Who are the Tudors, exactly?”
“The widow and only child of his lordship’s old friend and commanding officer, General Tudor of Ty Newydd, Bridgend. The general, a wealthy man, was not only Lord Griffin’s mentor, but once saved his life at considerable risk to his own, so as you can imagine, his lordship felt the death most keenly. Mrs. Tudor feared her daughter would be pursued by the unwelcome sort of fortune hunter, so she asked Lord Griffin for his protection. He felt it was his duty to take care of both ladies, and they have been at the castle ever since.”
“Does that mean that Miss Tudor is actually his ward?” Ellie ventured.
“Not in the legal sense of the word. He has simply behaved most honorably, and his kindness has been rewarded by the discovery of new love. Or so it is romantic to think.” John pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I only hope the two ladies are being honorable too,” he murmured.
Ellie was puzzled by the remark. “Why do you say that?”
“Oh, something and nothing. Apparently there are one or two whispers circulating Cardiff drawing rooms about Miss Tudor’s conduct in London during last Season. Lord Griffin had to return to the castle b
ecause there was so much needing his attention, and while the Griffin cat was away ...”
“... the Tudor mouse played?”
“Maybe. It’s suggested, erroneously, I hope, that Miss Tudor spent time in the company of unsuitable gentlemen.”
If it were true, Ellie thought uneasily, one of those gentlemen might well have been Freddie Forrester-Phipps, who certainly seemed all that was lecherously unsuitable. It began to seem that her Athan might be Lord Griffin after all. Maybe her uncle simply did not know that his lordship was a director of the bank.
Her uncle spoke again. “But I must emphasize that there is no proof about Miss Tudor’s misconduct, just a lot of speculation. I hope it’s wrong, truly I do, for I’d hate to think the second Lady Griffin was going to be as unworthy as the first.”
“What is Miss Tudor like?” Ellie asked.
“A very striking redhead. I suppose it would not be amiss to say she is beautiful. I’ve heard her described as a fiery piece, if you’ll forgive the expression, but my experience is that she is quiet and charming. Anyway, you’ll be able to judge her for yourself, for I do not doubt we will soon be invited to the castle. It will not have escaped Lord Griffin’s attention that you will be an ideal acquaintance for Miss Tudor.”
An ideal acquaintance? That was open to discussion, Ellie thought unhappily, because if her fears were well founded, the moment Athan, Lord Griffin, saw John Bailey’s niece, his most likely reaction would be to keep her away from Miss Fleur Tudor at all costs!
At that moment there were sounds from the stone steps from the kitchen; then came Mrs. Lewis’s rather urgent voice. “Mr. Bailey? Miss Ellie? Miss Tudor has called.”
Ellie and her uncle glanced at each other; then he answered the housekeeper. “We’ll come directly, Mrs. Lewis. I trust you’ve shown our visitor into the parlor?”
“Oh, yes, sir. Not that it’s good enough for Miss High-and-Mighty.”
“That’s enough, Mrs. Lewis, for whatever your quarrel with the ladies at the castle, I will not have it spill over here.”
“No, sir. Of course not, sir.”
The housekeeper’s steps retreated to the kitchen again, and Ellie’s uncle reached for his coat from the hook behind the door.
“Does she call here often?” Ellie asked, smoothing suddenly trembling hands on her skirts. She wasn’t prepared for a meeting with Athan’s bride-to-be, but then she doubted if she ever would be.
“She’s never called here before,” he replied, ushering her through the door, then locking it and putting the key in his pocket.
Soon they were up in the kitchen again, where Ellie saw that Gwilym was now visiting his mother, who had given him a still-warm slice of the traditional Welsh currant bread called bara brith. Needless to say, the clock on the mantel was now ticking merrily. The youth scrambled to his feet as the two emerged from the cellar.
“Good morning, Mr. Bailey, Miss Rutherford.”
“Good morning, Gwilym,” Ellie’s uncle replied.
Ellie smiled, then turned unhappily to her uncle. “I cannot possibly meet Miss Tudor in this old green dress. I’ll have to change.”
“Hurry then, for it doesn’t do to keep visitors waiting,” he replied.
Ellie fled into the passage and then upstairs, pausing at the top as she heard her uncle enter the parlor below. “Why, Miss Tudor, what an honor this is,” he declared, then the door closed behind him.
Ellie hastily took a cream woolen gown from the wardrobe. She had only hung it there that morning, and it was still a little creased, but it was good quality and decoratively woven, and she felt it would enable her to better confront Fleur Tudor.
Putting her blue-and-gray cashmere shawl over her arms, she went nervously downstairs again. The longcase clock in the hall ticked slowly, and the murmur of voices from the parlor was interjected now and then by a tinkle of feminine laughter, suggesting the visit was going well. Ellie took a deep breath before entering the room.
Fleur was seated looking away from the door, and all Ellie saw at first was a graceful, narrow-backed young woman in a bright red velvet riding habit that was surely the very last word in modishness. Her profile was beautiful, and her eyes strikingly large; she had a slightly retroussé nose, and an alabaster complexion unmarred by freckles. A single heavy ringlet of rich auburn hair had been permitted to fall past the nape of her neck, the rest of her curls being tucked beneath a black beaver top hat.
She was exquisite, poised, beautiful, and clearly everything a man could desire in a wife, but there was something about the tilt of her head and her pretty laughter that seemed as studied as if she had practiced in front of a mirror. It was a first impression that placed Ellie very firmly on Mrs. Lewis’s side of the discussion about the ladies at the castle. The future Lady Griffin was not what she seemed on the surface, and Ellie was reminded of an old verse:
I do not love thee, Dr. Fell,
The reason why I cannot tell;
But this I know, and know full well,
I do not love thee, Dr. Fell.
John rose immediately when his niece entered. “Ellie, my dear, do come in and allow me to introduce Miss Tudor.”
Fleur gazed at Ellie with eyes as green as emeralds, and her radiant smile became fixed, as if she had been confronted by a horned devil. The reaction was so reminiscent of Mrs. Lewis’s the night before that it seemed Fleur must also have been acquainted with the housekeeper’s late lamented cousin.
Ellie’s uncle did not notice anything untoward. “Miss Tudor, may I present my niece, Miss Rutherford? Ellie, this is Miss Tudor.”
Ellie inclined her head. “Miss Tudor,” she murmured, giving the polite bobbed curtsy convention demanded.
Fleur stared at her, “Miss Rutherford,” she said then, and returned the nod.
Now even John noticed the atmosphere, and cleared his throat. “Er, do sit down, Ellie,” he prompted.
She smiled and obeyed, all the time wondering what on earth there had been about Mrs. Lewis’s cousin that produced such a response to someone who resembled her? Given the strange talents of the housekeeper and her son, maybe the cousin had been a witch! Perhaps she had flown around the mountains on a broomstick every full moon. Or dried up the canal, or....
She remembered meeting Athan in the garden at the Crown Inn. He too had mistaken her for someone in what might have been a rather shocking portrait. Surely Mrs. Lewis’s late cousin couldn’t have afforded an artist as fashionable and expensive as Thomas Lawrence?
Fleur drew herself together. “Forgive me if I stare, Miss Rutherford, it’s just ...”
“... that I remind you of someone?”
“Yes.” Fleur gave an awkward little laugh. “But I suppose you know already.” The green eyes were sharp and penetrating, like those of a hawk.
“Know? Well, I understand I am the very image of Mrs. Lewis’s late cousin,” Ellie explained. “That’s Mrs. Lewis, the housekeeper here,” she added a little awkwardly.
“I know to which Mrs. Lewis you refer, Miss Rutherford,” Fleur replied, her manner changing yet again, relaxing slightly, as if Ellie’s answer had removed some anxiety.
Ellie’s uncle was puzzled. “Just who was this cousin of Mrs. Lewis’s?” he asked Fleur. “I was under the impression that Mrs. Lewis had no family at all, except Gwilym.”
But Fleur ignored the question and spoke of something else. “Do you expect to be in Nantgarth long, Miss Rutherford?” The tone of the question suggested strongly that a negative response was hoped for.
Ellie felt awkward. “This is now my home, Miss Tudor.”
“Indeed? That is good news.”
Clearly it was very bad news indeed, Ellie thought, beginning to read the other woman like a printed page. Fleur had come here today to play the gracious lady of the castle, to bestow favor upon the china maker’s niece, and perhaps take her in hand during the coming summer. Such thoughts had flown up the chimney as soon as Ellie entered the room. Ellie did not know whether t
o be pleased or not, for although she did not care for Fleur, it wasn’t very pleasant to keep finding that one’s face had such an effect upon people.
“I trust Mrs. Tudor is keeping well?” Ellie’s uncle said courteously.
“My mother is very well indeed, sir.”
Ellie’s uncle cleared his throat. “Is there any news of when Lord Griffin will return from St. Petersburg?” he inquired, and glanced fleetingly at the portrait of the young man above the mantel.
“We have not heard from him in some time, Mr. Bailey,” Fleur replied. “I fear the need for recuperation after the grippe will keep him in Russia for some time yet.”
“Let us hope not.”
“Indeed so.”
The clock on the mantel suddenly ceased to tick, causing a noticeable silence because there happened to be a lull in the conversation at the same time. Gwilym Lewis must have left the house, Ellie thought.
Fleur rose to her feet suddenly. “I really must go now, for it won’t do for my mount to become too cool.”
Ellie’s uncle got up hastily. “It was most thoughtful of you to call, Miss Tudor.”
“Not at all, Mr. Bailey, for it is my duty.”
Ellie looked at her. Duty? The creature wasn’t Lady Griffin yet, merely a guest at the castle, so it wasn’t incumbent upon her to bestow social largesse upon the latest addition to the peasant population. But as Ellie got up from her chair, her smile was as false as Fleur’s. “You are too kind, Miss Tudor.”
Fleur inclined her head graciously. “It was nothing, believe me, for I was passing by on my way up to the mountain. I like to ride up there. Perhaps you would walk me to my horse, Miss Rutherford?”
“Yes, of course.” Surprised at the request, Ellie conducted the visitor out into the hallway, where Mrs. Lewis, stiff, eyes coldly averted, handed Fleur her gloves and riding crop.
Ellie drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders as they stepped out into the January sunshine, which shone brightly on the berries of the holly bush over the wall. The only flowers in the garden were snowdrops and the white and pinkish blooms of the Christmas rose. The smell of kiln smoke drifted now and then as the breeze played around the eaves of the house, and she could hear the voices of the china workers and the canal boatmen.
