by Colleen Ladd
If Portia could make Clary shine for her coming out, the young lady’s success would bring other girls to her door. If Foxkin was to be believed, Clary wasn’t the only chit in the neighborhood whose behavior was unsuitable one way or another. Portia wasn’t cut out to be a companion or governess, but she had one thing she could sell: she’d been brought up by a duke and knew the manners expected of the highest in the land. It was not only the hoydens like Clary that she could help, but the daughters of the lesser lights of nobility, who needs must appear quite proud and polished to make good matches. But if Portia was to avoid being tarred with the brush of Service, she could not go from house to house. She must accept girls into her home for the lessons, and that meant relying on Clary not only to show well, but to pay her well. Lady Clarissa was willing to accept the Hall as it was, but it would produce no good effect on other prospective customers. The morning room, dining room and great hall, at a minimum, must be made to look like a proper lady’s country home.
Portia stepped to the bellpull and gave it a delicate tug. It did not, thank heavens, snap off in her hand, and she thought she heard the chime of the bell from deep in the house. With any luck, Mrs. McFerran would put in an appearance, for it would be too lowering to have to go in search of her housekeeper. “The first lesson,” she told her new pupil, “is that a lady doesn’t enter a house uninvited, let alone go poking around on her own. She gives her card to the butler or housekeeper or footman, and waits for her hostess to send word whether she is receiving or not.”
“I do know that,” Clary objected. “But there’s no door knocker and—”
“No servant to answer the door in any case. Just remember that you’re going to have to get over your impetuousness if you don’t want to be labeled a quiz or worse. Next, I will ask you to dress appropriately the next time you come. That means a morning gown or walking dress, Lady Clarissa.”
“But—”
“There’s no point to teaching you how to act like a lady if you persist in attending your lessons in men’s clothing.”
Clary opened her mouth to protest, then thought better of it. “I take your point, Lady Ashburne. I’m to learn to be a lady, which means dressing like one.”
“Precisely.”
Mrs. McFerran tapped at the open door and went away again with her lips pinched when Portia said, “Tea, please.” Now what was that about? Mrs. McFerran went about with a permanently sour expression, and Portia wouldn’t be the least surprised if she felt put about by being asked to fulfill her duties, but that had actually looked more like disapproval. Why should the housekeeper care if Portia had Lady Clarissa at the Hall? “Besides, I’m quite certain you don’t show up at table with the Duke of Ransley in riding breeches.”
“Not that he’d notice if I did.” Clary sighed and plumped down on the nearest chair. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“We’ve only just started.”
“Yes, but to sigh and simper and flutter my eyelashes and hide behind my fan...”
“Good lord! There’s no need for all that.” Portia seated herself in the chair nearest Clary’s. “All you need do is follow the proper forms and meet the expectations of the Society sticklers, thereby ensuring you receive plenty of the invitations, your vouchers for Almack’s, and—”
“Offers from eligible gentlemen.”
“Those too.”
“But if I don’t sigh and simper and so forth, how will I capture one?”
“If you do sigh and simper and snabble yourself some cloth-headed husband who thinks that’s what he wants in a wife, then where will you be? No, Lady Clarissa—you have to be yourself and find a man who loves you for who you are.”
Assuming there was such a thing. Portia kept the thought to herself. It was not her place to discourage Clary’s romanticism. A good marriage was vital to a lady’s well-being; not even the niece of a duke could afford to drift into spinsterhood.
They got through tea without major mishap, Clary proving that her manners weren’t nearly as bad as she made out by not commenting on the lack of dainty pastries to go with the tea. Portia found herself almost grateful that James and his wife had descended on Rosewood Close after Roger’s death, forcing her to brush up on her manners, grown rusty from five years’ lack of exposure to Quality.
“I think,” Portia said when tea had come off almost without a hitch, “that’s enough for our first day. If it will suit—” A thunderous crash from upstairs made her jump. Portia ignored it with an effort, Clary following suit after her first involuntary flinch. “—perhaps you might return tomorrow?”
“Oh, thank you, Lady Ashburne, I—” At Portia’s look, Clary cut off the effusive flow and composed herself. “Tomorrow would be quite acceptable, Lady Ashburne. Thank you.”
They emerged into the great hall the same moment Ellie came dashing pell-mell down the stairs, in a state even a maid should not succumb to. “Oh my lady,” she gasped, hanging on the balustrade, “oh come quickly, do! He’s fallen through the ceiling!”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
For a moment, Portia thought Ellie was talking about Giles Ashburne. Then she came to her senses. For one thing, Ellie’d be in a quite unimaginable state if a strange man had fallen through the ceiling. And, much more to the point, Ashburne was dead.
Portia dashed after her maid, taking the stairs at a pace even Clary in her men’s riding breeches couldn’t outstrip. She was in too much of a taking to reflect on how badly such behavior undercut her ability to teach the young lady decorum.
Ellie led her to one of the servants’ rooms on the second floor, where Mrs. McFerran was attempting to help her husband out of a litter of moldering lathe and plaster. As soon as he saw Portia, Mr. McFerran corked up the groans and curses that had been audible from the landing, but he was dead-white and utterly unable to put any weight on his right leg. Portia rushed forward to take his free arm and help Mrs. McFerran get him gingerly perched on the bed.
Portia took one look at his rapidly greying complexion and said, “Where’s the nearest surgeon?” The housekeeper didn’t seem to hear. “Mrs. McFerran,” she snapped, “the nearest surgeon?”
Mrs. McFerran looked at her with strangely dazed eyes and murmured, “The surgeon? Yes, Mr. Millbank.”
“Can you take care of Mr. McFerran until I get back with the surgeon? Ellie will help.”
Mrs. McFerran stared at her without comprehension, looking wholly human for the first time since Portia entered the Hall. In the next moment, something had broken open in her eyes, and Portia had to turn away from the helplessness she saw there.
“Well,” Portia said, mostly to herself. She squared her shoulders. “Well then. I’ll go find this surgeon.”
“Pardon me, Lady Ashburne,” Clary said from the doorway, startling Portia, who had forgotten her. “But it’ll be quicker if I go. I know the way and besides, my Gunpowder’s faster than any horse you have here.”
Especially as they didn’t have any. The thought chimed strangely against something already in Portia’s mind, but she couldn’t think what and now, she acknowledged as Mr. McFerran groaned through clenched teeth, was not the time. “Yes, please, Lady Clarissa. Go.”
Clary was off like a shot, and Portia turned back to the McFerrans. “There must be laudanum somewhere in the house, Mrs. McFerran. Where is it?”
The housekeeper slowly dragged her eyes away from her husband. “Stillroom, my lady.”
“I’ll get it. In the meantime, Mr. McFerran can’t remain in this room.” The gaping hole in the ceiling would prove problematic if it rained and generally unhealthy even if it didn’t. “How far is your room?”
“It’s just a few doors down,” Ellie said when Mrs. McFerran didn’t immediately answer.
“Mr. McFerran, do you think if we hold you up, you can hop to your room?”
“Yes’m.” He began to struggle to his feet, and Mrs. McFerran quickly put her arms about him.
“Let me, my lady.” Ellie pushed forward
before Portia could move to McFerran’s assistance. “I’m taller.”
Portia ran ahead to open the McFerrans’ door, then downstairs to get the laudanum. She felt as completely useless as ladies of Quality were expected to be, doing nothing more helpful than running to get the laudanum, though it was patently obvious that moving Mr. McFerran must be left to Mrs. McFerran and Ellie. Not because Portia was a lady, but because she was not of a height to offer much support, even to a man of Mr. McFerran’s moderate stature.
The stillroom shelves were full of crocks and bottles and jars, some broken, others containing only a crystallized remnant of whatever mixture they’d once held. It seemed like she fumbled in the dimly lit stillroom for ages before she at last lit on the right bottle. She dashed back up the stairs to the McFerrans’ room.
Having regained some measure of control, Mrs. McFerran took the laudanum from Portia and administered it to Mr. McFerran, who grimaced at the taste, but drank it down. Portia stayed long enough to see the laudanum begin to take effect, smoothing the distress from Mr. McFerran’s face, before returning downstairs to wait for the surgeon.
He took an eternity to arrive, during which Portia paced on the carriageway, barely noticing the weeds reclaiming the white gravel, the unkempt trees leaning ominously over the drive. Finally, a trap pulled by a proud, if somewhat shaggy, gelding crunched up the drive, a tall spare man in black at the reins.
“Mr. Millbank?” Portia asked as he reined in his horse before her.
“The same. Lady Ashburne, I presume.”
Well, thank heavens he hadn’t taken her for a servant in her dowdy black dress. “Where’s Lady Clarissa?”
Mr. Millbank descended from the trap and lifted down his bag with a grave dignity quite out of keeping with the station of a mere surgeon. A physician might, perhaps, be forgiven for such self-importance. As it was, Portia could only guess that he must be the sole medical man in the area or his pretensions should have been deflated some time ago. He turned a penetrating look on her, finally unbending enough to say, “I sent her home.”
His tone was that of a man who’d rescued some impressionable young chick from bad influences, and Portia had to remind herself that in her experience Ashburnes were bad influences. Still, it was difficult not to bristle at being relegated to the same company. “This way.”
Mr. Millbank ascertained from her which room the McFerrans were in and headed up the stairs with the terse pronouncement that she need not trouble herself further. Fuming, Portia went into the library to finish putting the books away and try not to fret over a man toward whom, despite hearing him plot against her with his wife, she could wish no ill.
*****
“The leg is broken.”
Thankfully, Portia was not on a ladder this time. She picked up the book she’d dropped, straightened the pages, and slid it onto the shelf before turning to Mr. Millbank. “How badly?”
“He may walk again, if he keeps still and receives proper tending.” His tone suggested it wasn’t likely in such surroundings.
Portia ignored the slur. “You have informed Mrs. McFerran what needs to be done?”
“I have.”
Portia gathered her courage with her next breath and said, “If you would be so good as to send me your bill, I will be able to pay it within the month.” It never got any easier to admit her empty pockets, though one would think after all this time, she’d be quite good at putting off tradesmen and running up tabs. Certainly, it had never seemed to bother Roger.
The surgeon’s lip curled. “I will leave you my bill, Lady Ashburne,” he said, handing her a neatly written sheet of paper. Portia set it on the library table, all the lessons of her childhood going into keeping her face impassive when she saw the amount he was dunning her for a bare half-hour’s work. “I will also take the liberty of informing you that I shall be unable to attend your servant further until this bill has been paid.”
With that, he donned his hat and marched out of the library. She heard the front door bounce off the jamb and swing back open with a spine-grating creak. Her head high, though there was no one to see it, Portia went out to close the door properly. She slumped against it, her hands on her burning cheeks, and didn’t notice Ellie until the maid huffed, “What a skinflint, the beak-nosed old bastard.”
Portia dropped her hands and took a slow breath before turning. “I can’t blame him,” she said wearily. “When the Quality run out of money, it’s never other Quality who go unpaid.” A man couldn’t hold his head up if he failed to discharge his gambling debts, but there was no shame in letting his tailor, chandler, or doctor go begging.
No one in the village was likely to be in any doubt about the state of Lady Ashburne’s finances—the Hall’s condition could not but be a byword in the neighborhood and the gossips would surely have spread the sad state of her wardrobe to all and sundry by now. Mr. Millbank had probably only come because it was Lady Clarissa who fetched him, not wanting to appear in a bad light before the Duke of Ransley’s ward. He’d obviously come prepared to ensure he wouldn’t suffer for Portia’s financial woes, and Portia truthfully couldn’t blame him, though he’d never have dared speak so to a man, even a badly strapped gentleman with his accounts well in arrears.
“Still, my lady—”
“Never mind, Ellie. I’ll see he’s paid, somehow.” She started for the stairs, Ellie at her heels. “Now, how is Mr. McFerran?”
“Sleeping like a baby. That surgeon strapped his leg up good, dosed him with laudanum, and lectured Mrs. McFerran like she were a half-wit afore he took himself off. And dared charge you dear for it, I’ll be bound.” More dearly than if he had been a physician. Though a physician would have been of little use in the instance, as most would refuse to sully their hands with such injuries.
Ellie trailed Portia into the bedchamber Mr. McFerran had fallen into and stood watching her survey the patch of blue sky visible through the hole. Unless Portia very much missed her guess, or the roof was worse than she feared, it was the same hole she’d spotted in the attic the day before. The floorboards under it had indeed rotted away from the constant wetting, though Portia wished Mr. McFerran had not proven it the hard way.
“Fetch me a candle, will you Ellie? We’ll have to get into the attics again.”
It took them the better part of an hour to stretch enough oiled canvas across the hole Mr. McFerran had left in the attic floor as to render it mostly rainproof. It required the shifting of some remarkably heavy furniture to hold the canvas in place, and Ellie was muttering under her breath by the time Portia decreed it would serve. She stayed after Ellie had squeezed back through to the door and spent several precarious minutes determining how much she could see of the roof through the hole in it.
When Portia rejoined Ellie at the attic door, she was in lower spirits than at any time since she first saw Ashburne Hall looming out of a gloomy night.
“What is it, my lady?”
“I’m afraid that’s not the only hole in the roof.” Portia started down the stairs, holding her candle high as she navigated the steep steps. “Nor will our patch hold for long.” She sighed. The money she’d sent for would not only not cover both the roof and the doctor, she was very much afraid it wouldn’t pay for either one. “There’s nothing for it. We’ll have to pawn the silver.”
She opened the door to the second floor landing and came face to face with Mrs. McFerran. Gone was the all-too human woman fearing for her husband. In her place, a flat-eyed gargoyle met Portia with an expression that could turn flesh to stone.
“How is Mr. McFerran?” Portia asked.
The housekeeper didn’t appear to have heard. “If you pawn the silver,” she said stoutly, “I shall have to inform Lord Ashburne.”
Portia was taken aback. It was for Mr. McFerran’s sake, in part, that she was even considering such a course. How dare Mrs. McFerran take her to task for it! Portia lifted her chin, her voice icy as she said, “If you feel you must. Of course, Lord A
shburne has two other estates to keep up, plus the expense of his Town entertainments, while I need only support this one establishment. I will pawn only what I must, but Lord Ashburne.... Well, I really don’t know what he will do.” She made herself smile sweetly and said, “I feel quite certain, Mrs. McFerran, that you will do what is best for the Hall,” and left her impotently fuming.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Damn her, how dare she! She deserved all the horrors of Hell.
Giles paced up and down the great hall, his boots on the bare stone raising a racket that echoed off the high ceiling. He contemplated disturbing her sleep with a different racket, filling the Hall with a wailing that could wake the dead. But no, Mr. McFerran didn’t deserve to have his painful sleep interrupted.
Portia did. By God, she did. How dare she see the old man injured like that—because she could not be bothered to get proper workmen in—and still think of nothing but her dresses? The doctor had barely left when that woman and her maid were back in the attics looking for more gowns to make over. And when she didn’t find any....
The Ashburne silver was the only thing besides the library that had survived these last ten years. Damned if he was going to let her turn it into fripperies.
He took himself off to his bedchamber and went from there into the dressing room, where a strange noise startled him. He lifted his candle in time to see an awkward-looking cat disembowel a mouse. “Where did you come from?”
The animal stared at him, reflected candlelight shining from its eyes. Now there was an idea….
But first. He surveyed the dressing room, her dresses and his mother’s hanging side by side. He’d already taken much of it back—the fancy ballgowns he remembered from his youth, his mother bending her sweet-smelling cheek for his kiss before she went out. He’d given Portia no opportunity to rip those apart for her selfish vanity. But he’d been too easy on her. He’d left the day dresses and shifts and other odds and ends.
