by Anne Gracie
At the door Rose added, “You certainly know how to make a homecoming memorable, Brother Dear. Lily was so happy to see you—and now look at her. I hope you’re proud of yourself.” She shut the door quietly, leaving Cal alone with his guilt and his frustration.
He hated it when females cried. Nothing made him feel so helpless. He felt like a complete brute, bringing Lily to tears. Lily was a little sweetheart, warmhearted and innocent. She obviously wasn’t the problem—Rose was.
Rose hadn’t turned a hair. By God, she was a tough little nut. She’d defied him all the way, cool as you please, making it quite clear that, brother or not, she had no intention of knuckling down under his control.
She’d soon learn. He wasn’t going to put up with her disobedience. Or her insolence.
Part of him was secretly almost proud of her refusal to be intimidated. If only she’d been born a boy, what a soldier she would have made. He’d given the girls the kind of raking down he’d give a careless young officer under his command, but had she cared? Had she buckled? Not a whit.
But Rose wasn’t a boy. She was a damned nuisance. And for the moment at least, she was his damned nuisance.
And he still didn’t know where they’d been or what they’d been doing.
* * *
The moment the kitchen door closed, Rose released Lily from her comforting grip and the two girls hurried up the stairs. They entered their shared bedroom and closed the door behind them.
“You can stop now,” Rose said, tossing Lily a handkerchief. “He won’t come in here.”
“It takes a moment,” Lily said, carefully wiping her cheeks. “I’m not a tap, you know.”
“You’re as good as one—better! I so wish I could do it. It’s such an excellent weapon.”
“Not a weapon, a defense,” Lily corrected her. “Or a distraction. But I felt a bit mean tonight, doing it to Cal on his first night home.”
“Pooh! He deserved it. He was being perfectly horrid. All that talk about white slavery and Turkish brothels and being stripped and left naked in the gutter. He was trying to make us feel bad, and so we—well, you, made him feel bad in return. It worked a treat, I must say. Did you see his face?”
Lily nodded. “I still feel mean.”
“Nonsense, it was excellent strategy. He doesn’t care about us, Lily. He’s just like Papa and Henry—he doesn’t give the snap of his fingers about us, or how we feel, as long as we’re no trouble to him. He’s not even staying in England.”
“Perhaps, but—”
“Ten years he’s been gone, with barely a word, and what’s the first thing he does when he comes home? Stays up late to trap us and yell at us.”
“He didn’t actually yell,” Lily pointed out. “He was scary, but very quiet.”
Rose grinned. “Like your tears.”
“I wish you hadn’t told him I get nightmares.”
“You do sometimes.”
“Yes, but not often.” Lily hung up her dress, a leaf-green hail-spot muslin with dark pink piping. “I remembered him as such a kind big brother.”
“The few times we ever saw him.”
“Yes, but that wasn’t his fault. He was away at school most of the time, and then he went to war.”
“And the war’s been over for several years now, but did he come home? Did he show any interest in us? Or did he leave us here to . . . to stultify!” Rose hung up her own dress, a cerulean-blue polished cotton, and smoothed it with a longing hand. “Last year’s fashions and I still love this dress. I am so sick of wearing black! I’ll be more than twenty by the time we’re out of our blacks next year, Lily. I want to start my life now, not next year!”
Lily sighed again and tucked her socks, one inside the other. “I know.” She pulled her nightgown over her head. “Do you think Aunt Dottie really did cry about us being out?”
“If she did, it was his fault. She might not like us going out from time to time, but she doesn’t fuss, not since that time we climbed out the window. And she knows we can look after ourselves. She, at least, cares about us and doesn’t see us as inconvenient nuisances.”
Lily nodded. “Aunt Dottie is a darling.”
Rose glanced at her. “You’re a lot like her, you know.”
Lily sighed and pressed her hands over her rounded stomach. “I know. I try not to eat so much, but I’m still fat.”
“Silly, I meant that you’re kind and loving and sweet-natured. And how often do I have to tell you, you’re not fat, you’re curvy.”
“I’d rather be beautiful, like you.”
“Hah! I’d rather be free to do what I want.”
* * *
The following morning, Cal sat down before breakfast to pen some letters, the most important of which was to Aunt Agatha in London. He should have paid a call on her when he first arrived in England—she was a high stickler for correct form—but it was too late for that.
Aunt Dottie was famously softhearted; her older sister was frankly feared. He couldn’t see the girls getting the better of her.
He also sent a note to Phipps, informing him he was in Bath for the next three or four days, and to forward any mail here. There were several more men on his list he could check on from Bath.
He found some wax to seal the letters, signed the outside with an army free frank and realized that he could frank them as Lord Ashendon now. He added a brief note to the outside of the lawyer’s letter requesting he find the Ashendon seal and send it on to Cal.
The clock in the hall chimed ten as he placed the letters on the hall table, ready for the post. At that moment his aunt and the two girls came down the stairs.
It was like a parade of crows. Each of them was dressed in unrelieved black. Cal blinked. It hadn’t occurred to him until now, but the girls had not been wearing black the previous night.
Black quite suited Rose, setting off her bright coloring, but it sapped any color from Lily’s cheeks. Or perhaps her pallor was the result of nightmares, courtesy of her long-lost brother.
He stifled the pang. Better a few nightmares than the kind of thing that could happen to young girls out at night alone.
“Good morning, Aunt Dottie, Rose, Lily.”
Beaming, Aunt Dottie turned to her nieces. “See, girls, this is the delightful surprise I promised you—it’s your brother Cal, returned at last from the wars.”
Clearly the girls hadn’t told Aunt Dottie of the previous night’s meeting. They didn’t move. Aunt Dottie laughed and gave them a little shove. “Don’t be shy, girls, he’s your brother. He’s the same dear boy he always was, just taller and broader in the shoulders. Go and give him a welcome-home kiss. Remember how much you missed him when he first went away?”
“Good morning, Cal,” Lily murmured, and came forward and planted a light, polite kiss on his cheek. It was a far cry from the warm and enthusiastic embrace of the previous night.
“Good morning, Brother Dearest,” Rose said, kissing the air next to his cheek. “A delightful surprise indeed.” She bared her teeth at him in a parody of a smile.
It was war, then.
Aunt Dottie didn’t seem to notice the tension. Cal stood back to let the ladies precede him into the breakfast room, Aunt Dottie first, and Lily bringing up in the rear.
“How did you sleep, Lily?” he murmured as they entered.
She gave him an odd, almost guilty look. “Very well, thank you.”
“I’m glad,” he said quietly.
Breakfast was a fairly stilted affair. Aunt Dottie chattered happily, throwing questions at Cal and encouraging the girls to do likewise. They sat there like oysters. She seemed to think they were shy in his presence.
Cal knew better. He wasn’t forgiven yet. Not that he needed their forgiveness; he’d done the right thing, he knew. Lily was reserved, not yet trusting the man who’d made her cry at
their first meeting as adults. And Rose—well, Rose turned every opportunity for conversation into an indirect snipe at him. It was almost amusing. She was very sharp and quick witted.
“And what are your plans for today, Aunt Dottie?” he asked as he buttered a piece of toast.
“Well, of course we always start the day with a visit to the Pump Room, don’t we, girls?” The girls gave an unenthusiastic murmur of agreement.
“Don’t look like that, girls—the waters are nasty tasting, but they’re very good for you. Lily’s spots cleared right up, remember?”
Lily flushed and looked down.
Her complexion was smooth and unmarked, as perfect as her sister’s. Cal remembered the agony of his own spotty period. “But Lily’s complexion is perfect,” he said. “I can’t believe she ever had a spot in her life.” He grimaced. “I, on the other hand, suffered with them terribly as a youth.”
She looked up and gave him a shy smile. Rose shot him a hard-eyed stare. Suspicious little cat, she was. He winked at her and she bridled.
“What are your plans today, Cal?” Lily asked.
“He’s coming with us to the Pump Room, of course,” Aunt Dottie declared.
At Cal’s ill-concealed look of dismay, Lily giggled and Rose’s scowl turned to a grin of pure pleasure. “Won’t that be delightful, Brother Dearest?” she purred.
Aunt Dottie continued, “Well, you don’t imagine I’m going to let Almeria Bracegirdle think she’s the only one who can enter the room on the arm of a dashing young gentleman, do you? Her grandson, Albert, looks well enough on his own, but beside Cal he will look like a . . . like a . . .”
“Like a poodle,” Rose said.
“A poodle?” Aunt Dottie laughed. “You have a wicked tongue, Rose dear, but you’re quite right. He is a poodle. Oh, dear, I shan’t be able to keep a straight face when I meet him now. A poodle!”
“And how long does this Pump Room visit usually last, Aunt Dottie?” He was hoping for a quick visit: make their entrance, eclipse the poodle, drink the nasty waters and leave. “Half an hour? Forty minutes? It’s just that I have some business to transact today.”
“Forty minutes? Oh, no, it will take much longer than that,” Rose said with spiteful relish. “We’re usually there for hours.”
She was teasing, of course. He glanced at his aunt, who nodded complacently. “Rose is quite right. An hour at the very least, but more usually two. We have so many friends and acquaintances there, you see, it’s quite the social occasion.”
“It’s our only social occasion,” Rose muttered.
“Oh, no, dear, you know that’s not quite right,” her aunt said reprovingly. She turned to Cal and explained, “After the Pump Room, we usually visit some of the shops on Milsom Street and elsewhere. Bath has some delightfully modish shops, you know, for all that people say it’s not as fashionable a place as it used to be.”
“And we go to the library,” Rose said. “Lily loves the library.”
Cal frowned. There was some undercurrent there he didn’t understand.
“It’s a very good library,” Aunt Dottie agreed. “And we frequently stop for a bun and a cup of tea at one of the tea rooms—there are several elegant establishments we like to patronize, don’t we, girls? And we quite often attend a concert—what was the one we attended last month?”
“The string quartet,” Lily murmured.
“That was it, and a very superior performance it was too.”
“And we can even go for a walk in the Sydney gardens—that’s quite acceptable for people in mourning,” Rose said in a bright tone that was almost savage.
“Yes, on a sunny afternoon, it’s very pleasant,” Aunt Dottie agreed placidly. “But if you have business, Cal dear, this afternoon is quite free. I usually take a nap around three while the girls read and embroider.”
And there, in a nutshell was the cause of his sisters’ restlessness: They were bored. Restricted from the livelier social events by their state of mourning, and spending most of their time in the company of an old lady and her friends. And from the sounds of things, with no friends of their own age.
He’d likely be kicking over the traces too, if he were forced into such a dull routine at that age. Anything would be better than that.
“Whereabouts is the school you girls attended?” he asked. “It’s in Bath, I know, but what’s the address?”
“Why would you want to know that?” flashed Rose. “You never wrote to us when we were there, after all, so why now?”
“Rose dear, that’s no way to talk to your brother,” Aunt Dottie said gently. “He’s head of the family now and must be treated with respect.” She gave him directions to the school, finishing with, “But I confess, I’m curious too, as to why you’d want to know.”
“Business,” he said. “Would you pass the marmalade, please, Rose?”
She passed it, watching him through slitted cat eyes.
Chapter Three
One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other.
—JANE AUSTEN, EMMA
The Pump Room experience was as gruesome as Cal expected. Aunt Dottie paused outside the building, ran a critical eye over him, straightened the black armband she’d produced for him after breakfast and then stood on tiptoe to smooth back his hair, as she had when he was a small boy. Then she placed her hand on his arm, took a deep breath and moved forward.
Clearly they were to make An Entrance.
All kinds of people patronized the Pump Room and came to drink the waters or bathe in them, people from all levels of society, but the worst invalids and the poorest folk usually came—and went—first thing in the morning.
This was the fashionable time, and the place was crowded with elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen, mostly elderly or middle aged, some in bath chairs or resting on sticks, most with an attendant, a servant, a poor relation or a companion.
Aunt Dottie stepped inside and paused—or perhaps the right word was posed—her hand resting possessively on Cal’s arm. They stood framed in the doorway, while Aunt Dottie surveyed the room with all the triumph of a hunter returning to a starving village, having bagged a nice fat buck.
The buck concerned swallowed, reminded himself of all those red woolen socks and allowed himself to be displayed.
A snort from behind him indicated that one at least of his sisters found the spectacle vastly amusing. He didn’t need to turn his head to know which sister.
There was a short hush, then a buzz of speculation rose.
“See? They’re all dying to know who my tall, handsome escort is!” Aunt Dottie said gleefully from the side of her mouth.
She then led him forward in a slow triumphal circuit of the room, greeting everyone and introducing him as “My nephew, the new Earl of Ashendon. The dear boy has been away at the wars for the last ten years, defeating the Corsican Monster.”
“Single-handedly,” Rose interjected from time to time in a low voice that only she, Lily and Cal could hear.
“And the minute he arrived in England, he came straight here to see me and the girls,” Aunt Dottie would conclude proudly. Cal tried not to squirm.
What followed was invariably a brief, polite exchange, touching a little on Cal’s experience abroad before venturing delicately (or otherwise) toward the only subject most of the ladies there were interested in: whether Cal was married or betrothed.
The moment he admitted he wasn’t, the invitations came gushing forth. Unmarried and widowed daughters, nieces, granddaughters, great-nieces and a few more distant relations were produced and introduced to Cal—no, to Lord Ashendon.
Presented for his inspection, they blushed prettily (or otherwise) while their relations extolled their various virtues, skills and aristocratic connections. In one case, a very blunt grandmotherly type pointed out of an excellent pair of child-bearing hip
s. The poor girl turned beet red and looked as though she would happily sink into the floor, but she rallied when Cal gave her a sympathetic smile, and fluttered her eyelashes at him hopefully.
They invited him to tea, dinner, picnics, intimate family parties and musical afternoons, all designed to further his acquaintance with the female of the moment.
Cal did his best to parry the flood of invitations politely but firmly, claiming that he had no time for courting, that he wasn’t at the moment looking for a wife, that this was a brief visit only and that he would be returning abroad shortly on important government business.
It didn’t seem to matter to the ladies. Their girls were not so fussy or demanding as to need extensive courting. Would it not be better for Lord Ashendon to marry now and leave his wife to look after his estates, a wife who even as she tearfully waved him good-bye might be bearing his heir, thus securing the Ashendon succession?
To think he’d fled London because of the Frampton sisters. Out of the frying pan . . .
He was very aware of his sisters’ amusement, and as he progressed through the room his apologies became firmer and less regretful, and his government business more immediate and urgent.
And, dammit, it was.
He was almost grateful to be presented with “the poodle,” a ridiculous young dandy with elaborately curled, fluffed and pomaded yellow locks. He wore tight breeches in a shade he told Cal was called primrose—“the latest mode, I do assure you”—a lavender coat so nattily cut that it no doubt took all his valet’s strength to squeeze him into it and a profusion of fobs and chains that reminded Cal of the Christmas trees he’d seen in Vienna the year before.
But as the fellow had no unmarried sisters or cousins, offered Cal no invitations to tea, dinner or any other social occasion and showed no interest whatsoever in Cal’s marital prospects, Cal decided the poodle was a fine fellow.
