“Thank you,” murmured Elliot, “but I shall try not to inconvenience anyone. Do I take it that Miss Stone entertains with some frequency?”
Mrs. Penworthy nodded and beamed at him. “Oh, indeed! I don’t scruple to say this house loves a guest here better than any I ever saw. Expect ’tis because they don’t go about much.” The housekeeper threw open an ancient, heavily carved armoire, tugged out a stack of thick towels, and dropped them onto a stool by the tub. “But I do say that Quality will tell, and a proper English gentleman—for I can plainly see, sir, that’s what you are—is a fine treat for house and staff alike.”
Elliot rose from his seat by the deep, mullioned window and strolled slowly toward the tub, lifting his gaze to watch the housekeeper carefully. “Does Miss Stone not normally entertain Quality?”
Mrs. Penworthy’s eyes widened in obvious consternation. “Oh, no, sir! I mean, indeed, sir, she does—nothing but the finest ladies and gentlemen, to be sure! But foreigners, mostly. Sometimes a London customer, but usually Frenchies and Italians and, oh, I don’t know what all! All friendly enough, too, I suppose—could you but understand a word what gets said. ’Twas a regular Tower of Babel here when that nasty little Corsican got loose, and no mistake! Mrs. Weyden and the young miss had foreigners tucked into every cupboard and cranny.”
“Ah, yes. I see.” Elliot nodded, choosing his next words carefully. He had to evaluate his risk of exposure. “And, of course, I expect Peter Weyden is here regularly?”
The housekeeper was smiling broadly again as she picked up the top towel, threw it open with an efficient snap, then spread it carefully alongside the tub. “Oh, yes, sir. Regular’s what he is,” she answered cheerfully, but Elliot’s momentary alarm was quickly allayed. “Reliable as the calendar, that one! Comes two hours afore Christmas Eve dinner and then leaves a’ Plough Monday at first light. ’Tis his curious way of things, you know. A right partic’lar fellow he is!”
Elliot felt himself relax and bent to dip a finger in the deep tub. It was, indeed, pleasantly hot. “And Miss Stone’s family—I expect they are regular visitors as well?”
At this, Mrs. Penworthy’s sharp eyes narrowed, but her smile did not waver in the slightest. “No family but what’s under this roof, sir. Leastways, none as I’ve ever heard tell of, and I’ve done for the Stones since the young miss took me on in 1810.” And with that, the housekeeper bade him enjoy his bath and trundled out the door, pulling it shut with a hearty thump.
Though Elliot had certainly never considered provincial family life interesting—indeed, he found little that interested him these days—such an odd mix of people living in apparent harmony under the same roof nonetheless intrigued him. Mrs. Weyden, Evangeline had said, was her companion. She was also Peter Weyden’s sister-in-law. Yet Mrs. Weyden had two sons: the handsome, irrepressible Augustus and the accident-prone Theodore, both of whom appeared to reside in the house.
In addition to her brother, Michael, and her sister, Nicolette, Evangeline Stone had an unusual cousin, the exceedingly pretty and obviously foreign Frederica d’Avillez. An interesting child, that one. And given her olive skin and black hair, there was an interesting story to go with her, Elliot had no doubt. And who the hell was Stokely? Another cousin? Another uncle? Elliot, who had very little family at all—and certainly one couldn’t count his bloodless mother—was already struggling to keep up with the identities of the pleasantly rambunctious crowd occupying Chatham Lodge.
Slipping deeper still into his steaming bath, Elliot asked himself why he cared. It was the painful contrast, he supposed. Though he’d never considered his home precisely cold, he had certainly felt it to be so this afternoon when he had stood outside looking into this lovely oasis. But Elliot’s home was lovely, too, and far more grand. Nonetheless, his stately residence, soaring four stories above the south bank of the Thames, seemed always empty, despite the fact that his infamous uncle, Sir Hugh, maintained extensive secondfloor apartments within. But Sir Hugh, when his gout permitted, preferred to warm the beds of London’s middle-aged widows and neglected wives, who were always, he argued, generous with their brandy, obliging in the boudoir, and willing to listen to his war stories. Oh, he and Hugh were exceedingly fond of each other, albeit in that “hail fellow” way that was so common among men. But Sir Hugh was a busy fellow, more apt to be seen across the river in Chelsea than in Richmond where Elliot’s vast house was located.
And then, of course, there was Zoë. Elliot felt a rare and unexpected wave of guilt for having left his eight-year-old daughter behind, but surely by now she was used to it. Zoë had never known her mother, who had been but another of Elliot’s many affairs gone awry. Maria had been a capricious Italian dancer who had cheerfully deposited her babe on Elliot’s doorstep en route to a carefree life on the Continent. Now, Elliot himself was often absent for days at a time, and Zoë had learned never to question his absences. With her innate sensitivity, she seemed to know what was expected. And what not to expect. It was his own doing, too, for in his inexplicable, withdrawn way, Elliot knew that he had deliberately isolated himself from her, for he did not know what else to do.
But he loved her. God, yes, he loved Zoë. He loved his child with all his heart, black though it most certainly was. He had not, however, loved Maria. Indeed, Elliot had allowed himself to need no woman since Cicely, yet the abiding love he felt for his daughter was like a sure and frustrating ache in his belly. Elliot had no notion what one did with such an overwhelming emotion. He wanted to tell her, to show her, to hold her. And yet he rarely touched her and almost never conversed with her. Not in any meaningful way. Why? Elliot was not certain, but in the dark of night, when he was sober enough to think clearly, Elliot sometimes began to fear that perhaps he was far more like his father than he wanted to be. Was Zoë paying the price for that shortcoming, too?
It was a horrifying notion, and Elliot did not realize that he held a death grip on the soap until it spurted from his hands and skittered aimlessly across the floor. He looked about himself, taking in the antiquated but comfortable bedchamber Miss Stone had provided him. The room was small, warm, and richly furnished. Outside, the chilling rain continued to hammer at Chatham’s ancient, mullioned windows, cutting him off—no, sheltering him—from the vast emptiness of the world beyond this place. His bath now tepid, Elliot looked down to see that his toes, and a few other things, had begun to shrivel. With an inward sigh, he shoved away his fanciful thoughts, then heaved himself from the tub in a cascade of soapy water.
The dining parlor at Chatham Lodge was large, well proportioned, and elegantly fitted with all the appointments necessary to a genteel country house. Nonetheless, as with every nook in the Stone-Weyden household, it was warm and comforting. The tableware was sturdy Chinese export, while the delicately carved table itself was long and narrow and laid with good linen. Across the corridor, Elliot noticed what must once have been a breakfast parlor, which, being far too small to accommodate a family of this size, had been converted into a schoolroom. In the rear was a door that undoubtedly connected to Evangeline’s studio.
Elliot was greeted at dinner with all the bonhomie and felicity due an old friend, an honor that served to warm his heart while heightening his guilt. It soon became obvious that the entire family dined together, an unfashionable practice but one that Elliot found oddly charming. At the table, Evangeline and Mrs. Weyden were seated at the head and foot, and as a practical matter, the smallest children, Frederica and Michael, sat to their left sides. Much to Elliot’s satisfaction, he was placed at Evangeline’s right and somehow managed to fold his awkward length into the delicate chair without accident. As they were seated, the remaining family fell automatically into their places, filling every chair.
Elliot, piously dropping his chin as Mrs. Weyden said grace, sent up his own fleeting prayer that a thunderbolt would not descend from the heavens to send his aberrant Presbyterian soul straight to the perdition it undoubtedly deserved. But Elliot evaded the we
ll-deserved lightning strike yet again and, following the soft chorus of amen, relaxed in his chair and began to survey his lively companions, mentally summarizing what he had learned. Augustus, Mrs. Weyden’s elder son, sat across from Elliot. The young man, who looked about nineteen, was possessed of all the good looks, dapper elegance, and youthful charm of a Bond Street beau in the making. On the verge of adulthood, his brother Theo was about three years younger. Nicolette, Evangeline’s sister, looked about Theo’s age and seemed serene and rather sweet. The youngest Stone, Michael, was the typical, effervescent English schoolboy, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and easy laugh.
On Mrs. Weyden’s right sat Harlan Stokely. Introduced to Elliot as the children’s tutor, Stokely was a thin, shortsighted fellow with narrow shoulders and soulful eyes that seemed permanently fixed upon Evangeline. Scanning the crowd, Elliot was left to wonder who normally took the chair at Evangeline’s right. The fact that he did not know was strangely disconcerting. From across the table, the youngest child, Frederica d’Avillez, looked up at him expectantly. “This is Wednesday,” she announced in a shy voice.
“Indeed it is,” agreed Elliot, secretly pleased that the child seemed drawn to him but quite uncertain as to the significance of her statement. His confusion must have shown.
“On Wednesday, we speak only German at dinner,” explained the little girl with a rueful sigh, “but my German is very poor. Thursday is Italian, and I am quite good at that.” Her gaze dropped back down to study her plate.
Evangeline paused, a basket of bread in one hand. “Not tonight, Frederica,” she corrected the child gently. “Since we have a guest, tonight we shall speak only in English, please. Mr. Roberts would not wish to suffer through our rather rudimentary vocabulary.”
Elliot glanced at her but saw only kindness in her blue eyes. She knew, he suspected, that he spoke not a word of either German or Italian and was giving him a gracious way out. “Thank you, Miss Stone,” he replied solemnly. “As it happens, I cannot speak it at all and must prevail upon Miss d’Avillez for future lessons.” His efforts were rewarded by a beaming smile from Frederica.
To an outsider, the interaction of the dinner party was a fascinating exercise in group dynamics. Other than Gus, each child deferred readily and equally to both Evangeline and Mrs. Weyden in matters of discipline and direction. Together, Gus and Evangeline interacted much like grown siblings, while the two ladies obviously held each other in great esteem and genuine fondness. This circumstance appeared to Elliot an aberration of nature, for in his vast experience with the opposite sex, females were invariably treacherous and territorial.
As the younger children struggled with the soup course, Evangeline initiated what Elliot learned was a routine of discussing current events over dinner. Each person in turn was asked to raise a topic of interest to the group, and then a few moments of lively discussion—and occasionally a fierce argument—ensued. The subjects ranged from Mrs. Weyden’s interest in the regent’s latest bilious attack to Nicolette’s mention of the newest member of the royal family. Although undoubtedly too ill to comprehend the significance, George III had been blessed with a healthy granddaughter. A legitimate one, for a change.
On the matter of the babe’s future, the table was loudly divided. The females agreed that the profligate royal dukes ought now to do England the favor of dying off without further issue and allow a woman to ascend to the throne. However, the men argued that the obnoxious duchess of Kent should be sent packing to her German relatives and the newest heir sent with her.
“My dear friend Lady Bland has written me from town,” interrupted Mrs. Weyden in a gossipy tone. “Rumor has it that the regent has refused his brother’s request to name the baby Georgiana, in his honor. Instead, she is to take a Saxe-Coburg name, Alexandrina Victoria!” Upon this cruel bit of news, the entire table promptly agreed to throw their collective support squarely behind the new Lady Alexandrina Victoria and urge her forward to the throne.
Given the lively enthusiasm and pithy commentary that followed, Elliot experienced a moment of concern on behalf of the royal dukes, worthless laggards though they were. But his worry was quickly forgotten when Theo seized his turn and commenced a dark and detailed narrative about the infamous exploits of a local highwayman who had been hanged just the preceding week. When, however, Theo began to expound upon the vivid specifics of the actual rope, platform, and gallows, as described to him in lurid detail by Crane the footman, his mother set down her wine glass with a sharp chink. “Oh, Theo! I vow, that is quite enough, if you please! Nicolette”—she gestured encouragingly down the table—“I collect ’tis your turn. Pray speak of something pleasant.”
Nicolette cut a sly glance down the table toward her sister, then returned her gaze to Mrs. Weyden. “I call for a debate!” she announced regally.
“A debate!” agreed Gus cheerfully.
“Yes, let’s do,” chimed Theo. “Choose sides and throw us a topic, Nick!”
Nicolette’s full mouth curled up into a mischievous smile. “I propose we debate upon the subject of who has been the handsomest guest to grace our table of late—is it Mr. Roberts or Squire Ellows?” Beside him, Elliot heard Evangeline gasp as if horror-stricken.
“Oh, that’s gammon, Nick!” groused Theo. “ ’Tis of no consequence to us fellows!”
“I vote for Mr. Roberts,” piped Frederica.
“Oh, indeed!” chimed Michael. “I agree with Frederica. Squire is losing his hair on top.”
“Children, children!” Mrs. Weyden’s voice was shrill now as she flapped her napkin admonishingly. “Such a want of comportment! I vow, this can hardly be described as proper entertainment for—”
“Oh, on the contrary, ma’am,” interrupted Elliot dryly, pausing with his wine glass aloft, “I find it to be highly entertaining.”
Mrs. Weyden stilled her napkin and turned to coo at him soothingly. “Poor Mr. Roberts! First we ignore you whilst we quibble amongst ourselves like barbarians. Then we scrutinize you, as if you were naught but some odd Elgin marble!”
“Thank you, ma’am!” Elliot replied cheerfully. “Though I have hardly felt ignored, and surely every man must desire comparison to—to marble, was it?”
Farther down the room, Gus and Theo snickered, having obviously chosen to misinterpret Elliot’s repartee. Across the table, Elliot spied Frederica giggling softly behind her hand. “Psst—Miss d’Avillez!” he hissed. “Whatever is an Elgin marble?”
Her brown-black eyes danced mirthfully. “Grecian sculptures,” she whispered back. “From the Parthenon.”
Winnie Weyden glared at them, then deftly changed the subject. “Do tell us something of yourself, Mr. Roberts, since you seem to be a subject of much interest. Have you, for example, a profession?”
“No, ma’am. None to speak of,” replied Elliot, acutely aware that he was now the center of attention. He hoped desperately that the thorough brushing of his expensive but previously filthy clothing did not completely give him away. Apparently, it did not.
“Down on your luck, eh?” chortled Gus. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, then. Evie’s a good ’un. She’ll take you in—even a profligate wastrel like me, rusticated from Cambridge ’n’ all that.” Gus hung his head in mild embarrassment. Elliot suppressed a laugh.
“Pray do not be foolish, Gussie!” snapped his mother. “And I beg you will not mention your illtimed exploits at school. I think it obvious that Mr. Roberts is a gentleman born, and he has simply come to have his portrait painted for his fiancée—”
“Oh, indeed, I think that’s romantic!” breathed Nicolette, a fork full of parsnips suspended in midair. “Do you not think it romantic, Mr. Stokely?”
“Indeed, I do, Miss Nicolette,” agreed Mr. Stokely, still staring at Evangeline. “But what does your sister think?”
“Oh, I find it infinitely romantic,” murmured Evangeline, looking somewhat impishly up at Elliot from beneath a sweep of thick lashes. “All the more so since it ta
kes money from Mr. Roberts’s pocket and puts it into mine.”
“Miss Stone!” Elliot said in feigned mortification. “Your callousness alarms me. I was given to understand that all great artists were possessed of a fiery, romantic nature.”
“Hah!” snorted Gus. “You thought wrong, indeed. Evie ain’t got a romantic bone in her body. Unless, of course, she’s working on—”
“Augustus!” Evangeline’s voice held a distinct warning.
“—those great battle scenes and allegoricals.”
Elliot looked at his hostess in some surprise. “Indeed, Miss Stone? I assumed your work was limited to portraits and landscapes.”
“That’s ’cause Uncle Peter carts the good stuff off so fast we never have any of it hanging around here,” muttered Gus as he chewed around a mouthful of beef.
Elliot watched as Evangeline began to twist uncomfortably in her chair. “Does he indeed?” he asked softly.
Gus continued. “Aye—she’s getting prodigious famous, too. But Evie don’t use her full name—just her first initial and her middle name.” He put down his fork with a clatter. “Do you know art, Mr. Roberts?”
Elliot paused. “Well, I know what I like, but isn’t that what everyone says?” He turned his gaze upon the woman to his left. “Pray what is your professional name, Miss Stone?”
His hostess looked thoroughly vexed now.
“Van Artevalde,” supplied Gus obligingly. “E. van Artevalde.”
As was customary after dinner, the family retired to the drawing room for music, reading, and cards. Evangeline could not help but notice that Elliot Roberts hesitated, lingering by his chair until the dining parlor was all but empty. With a discreet sideways glance, Evangeline let her artist’s eye take in his tall, rangy length as he stood, arms braced casually against his chair, watching the stragglers file out of the room. Long, elegant fingers fanned across the chair’s front, almost touching in the center. But despite his easy manner, Evangeline could sense the restlessness and doubt that radiated from him. What was it that so troubled this man? Something most assuredly did … but perhaps it was nothing more than boredom. And why not?
Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] Page 5
