by Amanda Scott
“But I haven’t seen anyone in a fortnight!” Gillian protested automatically. “And we were going to Drury Lane with Lady Harmoncourt tonight!”
“Abigail will excuse you,” he retorted, his voice hardening again. “Have you anything further to say?”
“No, sir.” She looked away, ashamed of her outburst. She had sounded exactly like a child denied a treat, and he was perfectly right. The penalty was a fair one, lighter than she deserved. She had protested out of habit, no doubt simply because he always seemed to stir her to rebellion. She sighed and rose gracefully to her feet. “May I be excused now, my lord?”
He nodded, watching her narrowly as though he questioned the ease with which she submitted to his decree. But she said nothing further, merely dropping a small curtsy before letting herself out the door.
Back in her bedchamber, however, Gillian did not feel so acquiescent. Despite the fact that her better judgment told her she was being let off easily, she could not help being provoked by the way Landover so peremptorily assumed control of her life. It was true enough that her actions the previous night had been disgraceful, and she had to admit that had any of her friends been discovered in so compromising a position, their punishment might have been a good deal more severe. It was not unheard of for fathers to beat their well-beloved daughters for such an offense. She tried to imagine what Lady Harmoncourt’s reaction might have been, had it been Sybilla who was discovered in Darrow’s arms instead of Gillian. The thought brought forth a small shudder. Poor Sybby would no doubt have been locked in her room for a month on a diet of bread and water.
But even such thoughts as these did not reconcile her to her own lot. Landover was scarcely her father, and if she had behaved badly, well then, so had he, and he certainly had no intention of remaining cooped up until Saturday. She realized now that he had not even apologized for his actions, and Lord knew they were far more reprehensible than Darrow’s had been. Blushing at the memory, she nibbled on her lower lip. If she deserved punishment, so too did his lordship.
The chambermaid popped her head in a few moments later to announce that a light nuncheon was being served in the dining room.
“I’m not coming down, Bet. I’ll have something here—a bowl of soup, bread, cheese, and some fruit.” She was famished, but she certainly didn’t feel up to a meal with Landover and no doubt her brother as well. In fact, if she had her own way about it, she would just as soon avoid the marquis altogether for the time being. Her eyes gleamed. That was it. If he wanted her to stay home, she would obey him, but his lordship would soon discover that she would never march tamely to his piping!
The maidservant brought her meal on a tray, and Gillian set to with gusto. It was delicious, and when Bet returned for the dregs, she asked that the fruit and a small basket of sweet biscuits be left to nibble on later. The girl smiled at her.
“Ye shouldn’t stay cooped up on such a day, miss. The ol’ sun’s been peepin’ out this hour past, and the day be gettin’ warmer. Like as not ye’ll be wantin’ a stroll in the park a bit later.”
Gillian glanced outside. The girl was right. The sky was clearing. She sighed. It would be a good afternoon to ride with her friends in Rotten Row. Giving herself a mental shake, she got up and went in search of paper and ink. Whatever else she did or did not do, she must reply to Princess Charlotte’s note. While she was explaining that she was mildly indisposed but would visit her highness early Saturday afternoon, Ellen entered to discover her mistress’s plans for the rest of the day. Gillian explained that she had been ordered to keep to the house until Saturday.
“Oh, my poor lamb!” exclaimed Ellen in suitable outrage. “That beastish man! Whatever possessed him?”
Gillian made a wry grimace. “’Tis a punishment, Ellen, and not undeserved, I’m afraid. But it means you will have little to do for a day or two, so if you’d like to have the time off …”
Ellen, grateful for the offer, said she really had no place to go but that she wouldn’t mind a free afternoon or two for shopping or just a leisurely stroll. Gillian grinned at her and agreed that it sounded like heaven.
“If you wait but a moment or two until I finish this note to her highness, perhaps you might send one of the footmen with it to Warwick House.”
Ellen agreed cheerfully, and a moment later, Gillian was alone again. She curled up in the window bay with The Castle of Otranto. The book held her attention easily, sending delicious shivers up her spine from time to time, and the afternoon passed quickly until Mrs. Periwinkle’s return. That lady sailed blithely into the room and greeted her charge with a cheerful smile.
“I won three pounds at silver loo!” she announced.
“Good for you, ma’am.” Gillian marked her place and set the book down upon the seat beside her, quite ready for some conversation. But Mrs. Periwinkle had returned only in order to prepare for the evening ahead. When Gillian informed her of Landover’s orders, the old lady was quite taken aback.
“Not go! Then I shall remain with you, of course, my dear. ’Tis only an impromptu outing, after all. Her ladyship will quite understand.”
“Nonsense, ma’am,” Gillian protested. “It is a family party, and you know Lord Harmoncourt has promised to take everyone to dinner at the Clarendon Hotel after the play. You will not wish to miss such a treat. I shall be perfectly all right here by myself. A light supper and an early night will be good for me, I expect. You are not to worry.”
Mrs. Periwinkle was easily persuaded, and Gillian went back to Mr. Walpole’s thriller until Ellen returned to ask what she would wear to dinner.
“I’m not going down,” Gillian said. “Please ask Mrs. Trueworthy to send up a tray. Then you may do as you please for the rest of the evening. I shall not want you.”
She glanced at her book again until Ellen had gone, but deciding she had done enough reading for one day, she got up and went to the washstand, pouring cool water into the basin to wash her face and hands. Then she stepped over to the dressing table and smoothed her hair into place. But after that, she was at a loss. She had, all protests to the contrary aside, already had a good deal more solitude than she was used to, and the thought of another full day of it was rather daunting, to say the least. But everyone else was going out anyway, so even if she went downstairs, it would be to a solitary supper. And if she should chance to encounter Landover, he would expect her to be civil, submissive. Far more sensible to remain safely in her room.
The door opened, and plump, gray-haired Mrs. Trueworthy stepped inside, a worried frown on her usually placid face. “Miss Gillian, the master says …” Her voice faded slightly, and she stilled her hands in the folds of her bombazine skirt. “I’m sorry, Miss Gillian,” she went on more firmly, “but his lordship has ordered that meals be served only at the table. He said to tell you dinner will be served at eight in the dining room, as usual, and that he will look forward to your company.”
“I thought he was dining out with Lord and Lady Harmoncourt.”
“No, miss. He sent his regrets. I suspected that might have been why you ordered a tray sent up, and so I told his lordship. Shall I send Ellen to help you dress?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Trueworthy.” Dine tête-à-tête with Landover! Never! At any rate, certainly not while she was out of charity with him. Let him have a taste of solitude. It was better than she could have hoped. “You may tell his lordship, if you please, that I am indisposed. A headache, I think,” she added musingly. “Yes, I feel sure a headache is coming on.”
Mrs. Trueworthy was distressed. “I don’t think he will allow me to send up a tray, my dear, even for a headache. And there’s some lovely roasted partridges,” she added temptingly.
“I’m sure they will be delicious, but don’t worry. I shan’t starve overnight,” Gillian answered with a twinkle. Mrs. Trueworthy returned a smile, albeit a weak one, and went off to face her master.
Gillian found the next half hour oddly unnerving. She could not sit still, nor could s
he seem to think straight. Finally, she realized she was listening for Landover’s approach. Somehow she had not expected him to accept her indisposition lightly but to storm the bastions, so to speak, to demand her attendance at table. But the time passed by, however slowly, until she knew he would not come. She ate the fruit and biscuits left over from her lunch and finally, after a good deal of searching, discovered some working candles in a drawer, and took up a piece of embroidery she had begun some weeks earlier, but it was not long before she was thoroughly bored, and by ten o’clock, she was in bed and sound asleep.
A twinkling Bet brought extra hot rolls and quince marmalade with her morning chocolate, and Gillian fell upon the feast hungrily, wondering what on earth she would do for lunch, not to mention dinner! Perhaps Ellen would be willing to visit a bakeshop for her. But when Ellen came to help her dress, and the suggestion was made, she shook her head unhappily but firmly.
“I dare not, Miss Gillian. His lordship’s made it plain as a pikestaff that such a thing would be worth my place.”
“Nonsense, Ellen. You don’t work for Landover!”
“He pays my wages, Miss Gillian,” replied the maid simply. “It may be Harris money, but ’tis his lordship who decides where it goes and how much be spent. I send half my earnings to my family in Sussex, and much as I love you, I cannot afford to take such a risk.”
“No, of course not,” Gillian said contritely. “I wasn’t thinking properly.”
“I’m right sorry, Miss Gillian.”
There were tears in Ellen’s eyes, and it took some time to coax her into a sunnier temper. Gillian was upset, too. Landover was ill-using her and his power over her. Well, it would do him little good. She would not give in.
She ordered a bath and washed her hair, which effectively disposed of the morning. But by noon, she was certain she would swoon if she did not soon have a decent meal. Mrs. Periwinkle came in scolding and extracted an apple from her flowered knitting bag.
“I am a very foolish, fond old woman,” she twittered fretfully, smiling a moment later, however, at Gillian’s pleasure. “You are being very naughty, my dear. Landover did not confine you to your room, after all, and he is most displeased by your stubbornness.”
“It’s good for him,” Gillian replied, munching her apple. “Perhaps he will learn that the sun does not rise and shine by his rule.”
Mrs. Periwinkle shook her head. “I think you will only vex him further, which will make us all uncomfortable. But we shall not harp upon that string,” she added, rallying herself. “I have brought two new magazines for us to examine. I know you must be bored, and it will cheer you no end to argue the merits and demerits of the latest fashions. We had not made any particular plans for this afternoon or evening, you know, so we are not missing a thing, and I know you will prefer my company to your own.”
Gillian could only agree with her, and the long afternoon ahead began to look a good deal brighter. No sooner had they gotten their heads together with La Belle Assemblée spread out before them, however, than the door opened unceremoniously and Sir Avery stood upon the threshold. His expression was grim.
“Cousin Amelia, will you excuse us, please? I want to speak privately with Gillian.”
“Of course,” she agreed, rising at once. “I shall be in my own sitting room when you want me, dear.”
As Mrs. Periwinkle passed by him, Gillian watched her brother appraisingly. He seemed irritated but not really in a temper. She relaxed. “What is it, Avery?”
He shut the door carefully and stepped nearer. “What game are you playing now, Gillian?”
“Game! ’Tis no game, sir. ’Tis merely that I have no mood for company.”
“You refuse to eat.”
“That is not the way of it at all. Landover refuses to feed me.”
“Don’t quibble.” He paused, pushing agitated fingers through the windblown look he had striven so hard earlier to achieve. “Dash it, Gillian, you have set up his back just when I need to have him in good spirits!”
“You need!” Her eyes widened. “What has happened, Avery? Are you in the briars again?”
He shook his head, pulling out a straight chair and straddling it backward, folding his arms across the back. “Nothing like that. My slate is a good deal cleaner than yours, my girl. Why, I’ve scarcely touched this quarter’s allowance, and we’re nearly ten days into the month!”
“Then, what is it?”
He seemed hesitant to explain but then, gathering himself, took his fence in a rush of words. “I want to marry Sybilla.”
She grinned at him. “An admirable ambition.”
“You think so?” He seemed boyishly grateful for her approval.
“Of course I do. But I cannot see what it’s got to do with me.”
“Well, it’s because of Landover, of course. We can scarcely afford to set up housekeeping on the pittance he allows me, and if you continue to keep him at odds, what chance have I got to convince him to loosen the purse strings?”
“Have you discussed it with him?”
He nodded. “As soon as he got back from Sussex. He said I must show I can behave myself responsibly for six months before he will consent to a betrothal. But, dash it, Gillian, I don’t even care about behaving any other way, and I know I could persuade him to allow me to make an offer if only you weren’t so intent upon putting him in a temper.”
Gillian knew he couldn’t make a valid offer of marriage without knowing what sort of income Landover would allow him. And in a good temper, Landover might eventually consent to a reduction of the six-month time period. But even if Avery could convince him to change his mind, Gillian didn’t think her behavior would influence the marquis one way or another. And certainly the next day or so shouldn’t prove to be particularly crucial. She said as much, but it merely served to set Sir Avery off again.
“Dash it, it ain’t just the two days! It’s the way you have of constantly plaguing him. It’s as though he has only to say the sky is blue for you to attempt to refute it. It wouldn’t hurt you to behave in a civilized manner for once, my girl!”
She didn’t want to make him any angrier, but Gillian could not feel that her brother had made much of an attempt to see things from her point of view. In his opinion, it was “dashed unfeminine” to refuse to let herself be “guided” by the two men—namely, himself and Landover—who cared only for her best interests, and “damned foolish” to be always insisting upon making her own decisions. Gillian sighed. She could make him no promises, she said at last, though she would agree to think matters over. With that, Sir Avery had to be content, but his attitude when he left her was not that of a man who thinks he has won any great victory.
Gillian did try to think. At least, she thumbed through the pages of La Belle Assemblée without paying much heed to the fashion illustrations. She knew she was being stubborn, and aside from showing Landover that he could not command her every move to his liking, she didn’t know exactly what she meant to prove. The notion that she was merely sulking passed through her mind and was summarily dismissed, but its memory lingered, and Mrs. Periwinkle, returning a half hour later, was no help. Her attitude showed quite plainly that she was merely bearing Gillian company, not supporting her stand.
At six o’clock, when the elderly lady had departed to change for dinner, Ellen entered, bearing a folded sheet of notepaper which she handed to her mistress with hesitant hand and downcast eye. Gillian unfolded it curiously, experiencing a sudden nervous tremor somewhere in the region of her stomach when she recognized the firm black copperplate hand:
I have warned you before that I shall deal with childishness as it deserves. You will dine with us this evening or be prepared to answer to me.
Landover
There was no way to mistake his meaning. Gillian sighed, folding the note again slowly. “Fetch my green silk, Ellen. The one with the white sash and embroidery ’round the hem.”
“Yes, Miss Gillian,” Ellen replied with heartfel
t relief. It was clear that she had dreaded another sort of response to the message.
Promptly at eight, Gillian descended the stairs to the dining room. Her breathing was regal, her manner calm. She behaved herself prettily, responding warmly whenever Mrs. Periwinkle or Sir Avery spoke to her, but replying to the marquis in polite monosyllables. She took great care not to be rude to him, to give him no valid cause for rebuke, and as soon as the port decanter was placed at his elbow, she excused herself and returned to her room. She learned later that the marquis, after scarcely half a glass of port, had flung himself from the table, muttering oaths and an intention to spend the rest of the evening at Brook’s Club.
XII
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, GILLIAN awoke to a sense of freedom. Today she could do as she pleased. The morning disappeared quickly in a series of visitors, and after a hasty luncheon, she ordered a carriage to take her to Warwick House.
When she arrived, there seemed to be some hesitation on the part of Charlotte’s servants as to admitting her, but this was soon set right, and Miss Knight herself came to conduct Gillian into the royal presence. The princess was sitting quite alone at a writing table, quill in hand, obviously in a state of agitation.
“Miss Harris!” she cried. “How wonderful to see you today! You may leave us,” she added firmly to her companion.
“Very well, madam,” replied Miss Knight, clearly reluctant, “but pray remember that the letter must be delivered today.”
“Yes, yes, Notti! Am I not doing my best?” Charlotte gestured almost angrily at the scattered sheets of notepaper on the table before her. She turned with a rueful smile to Gillian when they were alone. “They have given me an impossible task, as you see.”
“May I inquire, your highness, what it is you are attempting to write?”
The princess chuckled. “’Tis a letter to my father.” Gillian blinked. “Yes, already you perceive the difficulty. He has been prodigiously angry ever since I returned that stupid invitation list to him, and now it seems that I must submit to him. He has said so.”
