The Bridal Quest

by Candace Camp

  Of course there would be other young ladies there, and there was always the possibility that he would turn to one of them. Irene unconsciously narrowed her lips at the thought. It would be a reasonable thing to do, of course—no doubt one of the other young women would be far more likely to accept his suit, willing to give up her freedom for the opportunity of being a countess—and, Irene reminded herself, she certainly hoped that the earl would set his sights on someone else. But she was honest enough to admit that it would be somewhat lowering to have it proved to her so clearly that she was not special in Lord Radbourne's eyes, and that any other woman would serve his purpose just as well.

  She told herself that it was absurd to experience even a twinge of discomfort over the matter. Certainly she did not want the earl to continue his pursuit of her, and her visit would be far more pleasant if he did not. And she was not the sort to be dog-in-the-mangerish about things. Her pride might feel a twinge of hurt, but that would be quickly over. It would be a vast relief, really, to have him cease importuning her.

  Along with her heavy old-fashioned carriage, Lady Odelia had sent her conservative old coachman, as well, so their trip was slow. However, Irene did not mind. Francesca was a lively companion, and her mother, once away from her critical daughter-in-law, had talked and laughed happily until she fell asleep, so the time had passed pleasantly. And when they fell silent, Irene always had her thoughts to occupy her. She enjoyed looking at the countryside, for she had never traveled this way. Nor was she accustomed to staying in inns, as most of her journeys, such as from their rural home to London, had taken no more than one day. It was a wonderful new experience, she thought, and she intended to squeeze every last drop of enjoyment from it.

  Now, as they grew close to their destination, anticipation rose in her. She pushed aside the window curtain from time to time, hoping to catch a glimpse of Radbourne Park, but she saw nothing except a tall hedge beside the narrow lane along which they rode. The carriage turned from the road onto another lane, smaller and less well traveled, and Irene pushed the curtain back again and peered out, thinking that they must have turned onto the drive to the house.

  They passed a small cottage, but after that they entered into a stretch of woods and were surrounded on both sides by tall trees, whose branches arched over the carriage. They rattled along, crossing a stone bridge over a stream, and then, a moment later, the carriage emerged from the trees.

  Irene unashamedly stuck her head out of the window to get her first look at the house. Before them was a vast expanse of green lawn, sloping gently upward, intersected by the drive that curved in front of the house. The house lay at the highest point, alone in its splendor, with no trees or shrubbery in front or to the sides to soften its lines.

  Irene sucked in her breath. "Oh, my."

  It was not the largest house she had ever seen, but it was, in its way, perhaps the most imposing. The central square of the mansion, built as a magnificent gatehouse, was a full four stories tall, anchored on the ends by twin circular towers that rose another two stories into the air. The rest of the house spread out on either side of the towers in dormered wings of a more normal three-story height. The entire thing was built of red brick, its shading varying slightly from section to section, with a few darker bricks mixed in. The ornamentation atop the towers was of terracotta, a molded brickwork resembling stone, as were the window frames. The pale autumnal sun, low in the afternoon sky, glittered off the mullioned windows and cast shadows beside the towers, adding to the majestic appearance of the house.

  Both Irene's mother, who had awoken on her own, and Francesca leaned over to join her at the carriage windows, and Lady Claire uttered a soft echo of Irene's words.

  "Well," Francesca commented drily. "Obviously the Bankes family thinks well of themselves."

  "It's ... Well, I'm not sure what the word for it is," Irene said, still gazing at the house. "It is not what I would call beautiful, but it is certainly grand. It has an appeal."

  "It looks to me the sort of place that probably has a skeleton or two moldering in the cellars. Or mayhap a mad uncle locked up in the attic," Francesca told her.

  Irene chuckled. "No, it looks to me more like—oh, something that one of those Elizabethan corsairs might have built for himself. Doesn't it have the look of an adventurer? Brash and bold?"

  "Mmm, I suppose." Francesca cast a teasing glance at her. "Irene, you have deceived me. I believe that there is something of a romantic in you."

  Irene blushed a little as she sat back in her seat. "Nonsense. Simply because one can see the appeal in something does not mean that one necessarily succumbs to it."

  Francesca said nothing for a moment, merely smiled a little to herself, then changed the subject. "I feel sure that Lady Odelia will be there to greet us. Do you know Lady Pencully, Lady Wyngate?" she asked, looking toward Irene's mother.

  "I have met her. I would not say I knew her, really," Claire replied carefully.

  "I think to meet Lady Odelia is to know her," Francesca replied with a quick grin. "She is not a woman of subtlety."

  Claire smiled back and admitted, "No. I believe that Lady Pencully is quite ... true to herself. Which is an excellent quality."

  "No doubt," Francesca agreed wryly.

  "I have never met Lady Pencully," Irene said, and looked toward her mother. "Have I? She sounds the sort whom one would remember."

  "Oh, yes," Lady Claire agreed. "I do not think that you have met her. She does not get about much anymore. At least, she rarely comes to London."

  "A fact for which we should all be grateful," Francesca told Irene. "I feel sure that she will not frighten you, Irene, but I was always terrified of her. Whenever she would come to Dancy Park to visit, I did my best to get out of calling on her. She never misses anything—whether it's a torn ruffle, a curl out of place or an unflattering style."

  "You sound as if you know Lady Pencully well," Irene commented. "Is she a relation?"

  Francesca's eyes widened, and she exclaimed, "Goodness, no! My family's home is near Dancy Park, one of the Duke of Rochford's estates. It is a pleasant place, and Lady Pencully, who is the duke's great-aunt, often came to visit him when he was in residence there."

  "Do you know the others at Radbourne Park?" Lady Claire asked.

  "No. Indeed, I have never been here before," Francesca explained. "I have never met Lady Pencully's sister. She is the present earl's grandmother, as I understand it. I am rather curious to meet her. I cannot help but wonder if she is like Lady Odelia. It is difficult to imagine two such in one family."

  "Who else is in residence at the Park?" Irene asked.

  "I would think that the late earl's second wife must live there, as well. He remarried late in life, I understand, but I have never met the countess. They did not visit London, I suppose because of the earl's advancing years and ill health. I do not even recall her name. They had a son, as well, only a boy still. I remember there was much talk about his losing his inheritance when Radbourne was restored to his family. I know little about them, though. And I am not sure if there are any other family members present. Lady Odelia has a way of skipping over 'minor details.'"

  "Well, we will find out soon enough," Irene commented, looking out the window again.

  They had almost reached the front steps of the house. The door had been opened, and a dignified-looking man dressed all in severe black made his way down the steps, followed by two liveried footmen. It was, Irene assumed, the butler.

  He waited until the carriage pulled to a complete stop, then opened the door and bowed to the ladies inside. "Please allow me to welcome you to Radbourne Park, my ladies. I hope your journey was not too taxing."

  "No, indeed. We made it in excellent spirits," Francesca assured him, taking his hand to step down from the carriage.

  Irene and her mother followed Francesca. All three of them paused for a moment, looking up at the towering house. The butler allowed a brief smile of pride.

  "The gat
ehouse was built by the first Earl of Radbourne," he told them. "Of course, there was an older home, a rather good specimen of the early Norman keep, but it has been unoccupied since the reign of King Henry VIII, when the first earl constructed his masterpiece. It was intended, you see, to rival Hampton Court itself, but sadly, Lord Radbourne died before anything more than this gatehouse was constructed. The second earl did not share his father's architectural vision and simply added the other wings to the gatehouse."

  "Is there anything in the towers?" Irene asked, looking up to the tops of the round corner structures.

  "Only winding stairs, my lady, and of course a magnificent view of the countryside from the top, if one is willing to make the climb."

  "I should like to see it," Irene said.

  "You will have to find a companion younger than I, then," her mother said. "I believe that I will be quite content to view the bottom floors."

  "There is much to see everywhere in the house, my lady," the butler assured her. "My name is Horroughs. Please let me know if you need anything. Now, if you will allow me to show you into the house, the dowager countess and Lady Pencully are awaiting you."

  While the footmen unloaded the carriage, the three women followed the straight-backed butler into the house and through the large formal entry hall to a large, well-appointed drawing room. Three women sat in the room, and they turned as the party of travelers entered.

  Irene saw at a glance that Lord Radbourne was not there. Not that it mattered. It was actually a relief not to have to greet the man. Although, of course, it was rather rude of him not to be there to greet them. She wondered where he was and if he had meant to deliver a set-down to her by not being there when they arrived. Not, of course, that it mattered, she repeated to herself.

  "There you are!" boomed one of the occupants of the room, an older woman with iron-gray hair under a lace-trimmed black cap. She was wearing a dark purple silk dress with old-fashioned wide skirts and a stiff bodice. She was a woman of large proportions that matched her voice, and she pushed herself up off the sofa on which she sat and came forward with all the power and majesty of a grand ship in full sail. She was, Irene assumed, Lady Odelia Pencully.

  The woman who had been sitting beside Lady Odelia on the sofa was of a similar age, but the opposite of Lady Odelia in looks and style. Her hair under her lacy black cap was snow-white and softly curled, and the black dress she wore was of a modern style, slim-lined and high-waisted, and trimmed with black lace. She was thin almost to the point of frailness, and shorter than Lady Odelia, as well, though it was hard to tell her actual height, as she held herself in a hesitant, drooping manner. Everything about the woman seemed wispy and insubstantial, from the soft white curls escaping their pins beneath her cap to the folds of silk and lace that draped her body. A black fringed shawl was pulled around her shoulders, though one end slipped loose and trailed along behind her as she stood up, hesitated, then took a few steps forward, smiling tentatively.

  "Hallo, Francesca," Lady Odelia greeted Irene's companion. "You look none the worse for your journey." She half turned back to the fragile-looking woman behind her and said, "You see, Pansy, I told you they were not likely to come to harm. Not everyone is such a bad traveler as you are."

  "No, of course not, Odelia," the other woman responded with a smile and a shy bob of her head. Her voice was as slight as the rest of her, and though her smile was friendly and her eyes kind, there was a certain vagueness to her expression, as well, as though she were not quite connected to the others in the room.

  Francesca introduced Irene and her mother to Lady Pencully, who in turn swept her hand toward her sister, the dowager Countess of Radbourne.

  Lady Radbourne took Irene's hand in hers. Her hands were light, like bones covered with skin, the knuckles knobby, and they were chilly despite the warmth of the room. "I am so pleased to meet you," she said, smiling into Irene's eyes. "We will be good friends, I am sure."

  "Thank you, Lady Radbourne. It is very kind of you to say so." She was not certain why Lord Radbourne's mother seemed so eager to be her friend. She presumed it was simply the woman's way and hoped that she had not been misled by her sister into thinking that Irene was there to accept her grandson's proposal.

  She shot a glance at Francesca, who gave a small shrug, but at that moment Irene's attention was drawn to the third woman in the room, who had stood up and was walking toward them.

  The woman was blond and pretty, with pale skin and large, round light blue eyes. Her figure was voluptuous, and though her white and black dress of half-mourning was high-necked and her breasts covered, their fullness was unmistakable, accented by the high waist, sashed just beneath them.

  "How do you do?" she said, her eyes sweeping coolly across Francesca, then Irene and Lady Claire. "I am the Countess of Radbourne."

  "My son Cecil's widow," Pansy explained, sadness in her eyes. "He has been gone from us for a year now."

  "Welcome to Radbourne Park," the younger Lady Radbourne went on coolly, ignoring Pansy and her words.

  Irene studied the woman, intrigued. The widow of the late earl was quite a bit younger than Irene would have imagined. She was older than Irene and Francesca, she thought, but not by too many years. The countess did not seem especially friendly. Her words were polite, but her attitude was distant and formal, and there was a certain glint in her eyes that she could not conceal. Irene had the definite impression that she was not eager to meet the three of them. In fact, if Irene had to guess, she would venture that the countess would have preferred that they were not there at all.

  What Irene was not certain of was whether the woman's dislike was aimed specifically at her and Francesca, or if she would dislike any woman who she thought wanted to become the new Countess of Radbourne. But then, given the way she had ignored her harmless-seeming mother-in-law, Irene supposed it could be that the woman was simply unpleasant.

  "No doubt you would like a bit of refreshment after your trip," Lady Odelia said. "I'll ring for tea."

  Then she marched over to the bell pull, not seeing, as Irene did, the hard glance that the younger countess shot at her back.

  "Perhaps our guests would rather be shown to their rooms," the younger Lady Radbourne said. "I am sure it has been a tiring trip."

  Odelia turned, a frown on her face. "They will want to say hello to Gideon."

  The countess sniffed. "As if he would have the good manners to greet his guests."

  Lady Odelia drew herself up, somehow attaining an even more formidable stature. "I beg your pardon, Teresa," she said in a voice as firm as iron. "I am sure that my great-nephew has been unavoidably detained—in all likelihood by some estate matter, for I can see that the Park has been allowed to fall into a shocking state of disrepair the past few years."

  Lady Teresa shot a brief venomous glance at the older woman, but she clearly did not have the courage to stand up to Lady Odelia, for she said only, her voice taking on a bit of a whine, "My husband was not feeling well the last few months of his life. And I ... well, I did the best I could, but I do not have a head for business, as some do."

  This last comment, Irene suspected, was another swipe at the new earl, who had amassed a fortune of his own even before he was restored to his family. Irene knew that his business acumen was considered another of the many blots on his reputation. A gentleman, after all, was above the mundane matters of money, and a lady even more so. But frankly, as far as Irene was concerned, ignorance and incompetence on any matter were little cause for pride, and it was even more foolish when such ignorance caused one to lack for money. She had lived for too long with too little money, thanks to her father's extravagances, to find genteel poverty satisfying. And the fact that, despite his circumstances, Gideon Bankes had managed to not only survive but to thrive, seemed more admirable than despicable.

  Clearly the widowed countess did not share Irene's opinion, however. Indeed, Irene was coming to realize that Lady Teresa held a rather healthy dislike of the
new earl. It was somewhat understandable, of course, for if Gideon had not been found, Teresa's own young son would have inherited the title. Irene supposed that any mother would dislike the loss for her son—though she also suspected that, given this woman's proud manner, Lady Teresa equally disliked the loss of her own importance as mother of an earl still in his minority. And since Lord Radbourne intended to marry quickly, the woman's place would soon be completely usurped.

  Although Irene could understand the lady's dislike of the new earl, she could not like her for it. Irene suspected that she would not be spending much time with Lady Teresa during her visit here and was glad of it. And, given the cold look in Lady Teresa's eyes when she spoke to her, Irene guessed that Lady Teresa had equally little interest in becoming friends.

  It came as no surprise that Lady Odelia had her way, and the new arrivals sat down to tea with the other women. They discussed their journey with Lady Odelia in rather tedious detail, but finally the tea was consumed and the little cakes eaten, and Lady Odelia allowed the new arrivals to be shown to their rooms, even though Lord Radbourne had not yet made an appearance.

  Irene's room was commodious and well situated, with a set of windows on either side of the bed looking out over the side gardens. She peered out of one window, her eyes going beyond the garden, largely denuded now that the weather was growing colder, to the stand of tall trees beyond. She could see, as well, a slice of the rear gardens, and past them a meadow. Far in the distance, a stream they had crossed earlier that afternoon curled like a bright ribbon through the rolling land. The place would provide a number of pleasant afternoon walks, she thought, something she sorely missed in London.

  The wagon with the bulk of their luggage had not yet arrived, so her choice of garments was limited to those she had carried in the smaller bags that had been placed on top of the carriage. She thought that the deep blue evening gown that lay in one of those bags would do quite well.

  One of the upstairs maids popped into the room, offering to return later to help Irene with unpacking and getting ready for supper. But Irene was not tired from the journey. Rather, she was still filled with a sense of anticipation. So, forgoing a nap to recover from the trip, she was soon bathed and dressed. Sending the maid on her way, she brushed out her own hair and began to pull it into a circumspect knot at the crown of her head.