Kit and Elizabeth

by Tuft, Karen

  “Blue?” the former duchess said. “Blue, Elizabeth? You have other gowns better suited to the occasion, and yet you managed to pick this one?”

  “I will concede that my niece looks well enough in her blue gown,” the duke said, raising his quizzing glass to inspect her further. “But it is my opinion that one’s daughter—nay, not just one’s daughter but one’s womenfolk, in particular, should adhere to the social customs surrounding the death of the head of the family, as my dear wife and you yourself have done, Duchess.” He directed this last comment to Lady Elizabeth’s mother. “Gentlemen, naturally, are merely required to make a nod to such things, as I have done with my armband here”—he gestured to the black band on his arm as though they all needed tutoring on the subject—“but for the fairer sex, full mourning is to be expected. I will credit your lack of judgment, dear niece, to your unfortunate mishap in the rain, which has undoubtedly given you a mild fever of the brain.”

  Kit straightened away from the mantel.

  “Perhaps you need a doctor?” the new duchess asked Lady Elizabeth.

  “I have never had the privilege of visiting Marwood Manor,” Kit interrupted loudly, stating the obvious. “And my legs feel the need to stretch themselves after our long coach ride. Perhaps, Lady Elizabeth, you would be so kind as to show me the portrait gallery?” He assumed there was such a gallery. Cantwell Hall had one, so it was safe to assume the ducal estate of Marwood Manor would as well.

  Lady Elizabeth rose to her feet. “Certainly, Lord Cantwell. I should be delighted to show you the gallery. The family portraits there are instructional, historically speaking, and the opposite wall is a bank of windows that give a lovely prospect of the formal gardens. Lady Walmsley, would you care to join us? Uncle? Aunt? Would you, Mama?”

  Blast her for feeling the need to extend the invitation to one and all.

  Her mother rose from her chair. Double blast.

  Lady Walmsley began to rise from hers. “Ohh,” she moaned, her hand flying to her forehead as she sat back down with a plop. “Ohh,” she said again. “I am feeling a bit faint, I’m afraid. Such a bother I am. This getting-old business can be such a nuisance at times. I expect all that jostling to and fro in the carriage has taken a toll on me.”

  “Toll, ha!” The duke chortled to himself. “A play on words, that. In a carriage on toll roads.”

  “Really, Duke,” the current duchess said. “I doubt it was intentional on the poor lady’s part.” She began to fan Lady Walmsley while the former duchess poured more tea into Lady Walmsley’s cup and offered it to her, a muscle in her cheek jumping over and over.

  “Ah, thank you,” Lady Walmsley said after taking a sip. “I’m sure this will pass in no time.” She sent a discreet, knowing glance to Kit.

  “Thank you all for keeping my dear friend company while I stretch my legs,” Kit said with magnanimity. “We shall return shortly. Come, Lady Elizabeth; the gallery awaits.”

  Since the others—with the exception of the former duchess, who shot Kit a knowing glance of her own—seemed willing to remain behind with Lady Walmsley, Kit led Lady Elizabeth to the parlor door with as much alacrity as he could manage and still remain decorous . . . and then through.

  To freedom, for however long he could make it last.

  Chapter 8

  “Is your trunk being packed?” Lord Cantwell asked Elizabeth as soon as they were alone together outside the parlor.

  “I—I don’t think so,” Elizabeth replied. “What is all this about my leaving with you and Lady Walmsley today? Mama already refused to allow me to accept Lady Walmsley’s invitations, and she will never—”

  “‘Mama’ has no say in the matter, as far as I’m concerned,” he replied. “And right now, I’m not sure you do either. Which way to your rooms?” He took her by the hand and started off toward the staircase, pulling her along with him.

  “But the gallery—”

  “Was a ruse to get you away from those people. Any additional explanation will have to wait until later. Now, which way—”

  “You cannot simply barge your way through the house,” she said as he dragged her up the staircase in a rush. “Wait, please!”

  He paused briefly, just long enough for her to grab her skirts with her free hand and catch a quick breath. “I informed Stokes that you were to have your trunks packed. I mean to assure myself that that is happening, for you are leaving with us this afternoon.”

  At the top of the landing, Lord Cantwell looked down one corridor and then the other. “Which way from here, Lady Elizabeth?”

  “To the left,” she replied. “You can let go of my hand now.”

  He glanced down at their clasped hands but didn’t let go. “Come,” he said. “Which door is yours?”

  “The last one on the right.”

  He led the way, still holding her hand, and opened her bedroom door.

  Sally was inside, straightening the room. She curtsied, eyes wide, when the two of them burst through the door. “My lady?” she asked.

  “Where is her trunk?” Lord Cantwell asked. “You must pack her things at once. She will be leaving for London this afternoon, so anything she wishes to take with her must be packed immediately.”

  “I cannot simply abandon Mama and my uncle and aunt like this.” Could she? Her heart was fluttering inside her.

  “Immediately, your lordship,” Sally replied with another curtsy. She fairly flew into the dressing room and returned with Elizabeth’s large traveling trunk and then repeated the process, bringing out two large portmanteaus this time. She proceeded to empty Elizabeth’s wardrobe of her gowns, folding and tucking them into the trunk.

  How mortifying to have Lord Cantwell standing here, witnessing Sally’s removal of chemises and petticoats and stockings from her chest of drawers and her placement of them in one of the portmanteaus. “Is this all really necessary? Perhaps merely a dress or two will suffice—”

  “If you think you will be allowed back into the manor after today, you are mistaken,” he replied, taking a pile of gowns from Sally and putting them in the trunk himself. “Pardon me for speaking bluntly, Lady Elizabeth, but your uncle and aunt already appear to be calculating the assets of their new domain, and your mother does not seem to be feeling sympathetic toward you at present. You will take everything you can.”

  Elizabeth felt as though she were choking. “But I can’t . . . Don’t you see?”

  He turned from his task to face her. “Don’t I see . . . what? What I don’t see is the young lady I met last summer. What I don’t see is a light in her eyes or health in her countenance. What I see is a thin, beaten—”

  “Stop!” Elizabeth cried, her knees crumbling beneath her, his words stabbing at her like knife blades. “Please stop!”

  Lord Cantwell rushed to her and caught her before she ended up in a heap on the floor.

  He was right. He was right. Oh, how she hated that he was right!

  “Lady Elizabeth,” he said, his tone gentling as he guided her to the chaise near the window. “I am sorry to have hurt you. But it grieves me to see you like this.” He crouched down next to her so his eyes were level with hers. “I am asking you to be strong. Or at least allow Lady Walmsley and me to be strong for you, only for this afternoon, if necessary. You have become a prisoner here, whether you realize it or not.”

  “And I can be strong for you too,” Sally exclaimed behind them. “Begging your pardon, my lord, but perhaps I could go with you and be of service to Lady Elizabeth, if I may? I would love nothing better. Please say I may.”

  Elizabeth looked at her in surprise. “But your family.”

  “They’ll be fine, remember? And I can visit them on occasion, now, can’t I? Besides, what better way to build my reputation as a seamstress than by serving as your personal maid—although that’s not my reason for saying any of this. Truly, it’s not
. But remaining at the manor if you’re not here—well, it’s a bleak prospect. I’d be looking for another position soon as can be. Please, my lady, my lord, allow me to go with you.”

  “I have no objection, if Lady Elizabeth does not,” Lord Cantwell said, looking at her, trying to gauge her reaction to Sally’s words.

  It was utterly overwhelming. “Very well,” she finally said.

  Sally clutched her hands together at her breast. “Oh, thank you, my lady! You shan’t regret it, I promise.”

  Elizabeth watched the wardrobe empty, watched her jewel box and writing box and personal letters disappear into a portmanteau. Watched a few pieces of her needlework get laid carefully on top before it was closed.

  “I doubt Stokes will be able to lift any of these,” Lord Cantwell remarked when the trunk and portmanteaus were packed. “Sally, on your way to go pack your own belongings, perhaps you would be so kind as to locate our coachman and ask him to help us here.”

  “Certainly, my lord,” Sally said. “Straightaway.” And she scurried off.

  “There is at least one person here who cares for you,” Lord Cantwell said. “I’m glad of that.”

  “It hasn’t been so bad,” Elizabeth said. It had been though, hadn’t it?

  Did she dare hope this was really going to happen? That Lady Walmsley and Lord Cantwell had traveled all this way . . . for her? Elizabeth hadn’t replied to Lady Walmsley’s letter, not after Mama had forbidden her to go. By not answering the letter, by not officially declining Lady Walmsley’s offer, she had kept a tiny bit of hope alive in her heart—the idea that there was at least one single person in the world who wished to have her company.

  Hope.

  “I must get my cloak,” she said to Lord Cantwell. “It is drying in the kitchen.” And there were three little acorns nestled within one of its pockets that she must take with her from Marwood Manor.

  “We will not forget to take it with us,” he said.

  ***

  By the time Kit, along with Lady Walmsley and Lady Elizabeth, had extricated himself from Marwood Manor, Lady Elizabeth’s luggage had been stowed securely in the coach, as well as Sally’s—which had only made those who remained at Marwood Manor doubly upset.

  They made a brief journey back to the neighboring village of Marham Cross, where they took rooms for the night, and Kit felt he might understand, to a small degree, what Anthony had experienced during his time fighting in Spain. No swords had been drawn, it was true, no pistols or cannons had been fired, but it had been a battle, nonetheless. He and Lady Walmsley had ultimately prevailed. They had been the victors.

  He wasn’t sure that Lady Elizabeth necessarily agreed with his assessment.

  She hadn’t uttered a word during the entire journey to Marham Cross. She had sat quietly, unmoving, her gloved hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed on those gloved hands. She’d not responded to any attempts at conversation by Lady Walmsley or himself. Even Sally, who’d seemed so eager to join their company, had gone silent during the ride.

  Kit was beginning to wonder which was worse—people speaking at lengths saying virtually nothing or people who said nothing at all. As it was, he’d spent the journey listening to the creak of the coach, the pounding of the horses’ hooves, and the slash of rain against the windows.

  If the weather was better tomorrow morning—even if only slightly—he intended to lease a horse for himself.

  The inn at Marham Cross was clean but small, the couple who owned the place genial in nature. Sally had been shown to a room in the servants’ quarters for the night, and Lady Walmsley had decided—because Lady Elizabeth had remained mute—that the two of them would share a room. Kit took a room down the hall from theirs.

  He washed and prepared to escort the ladies to supper in the dining room of the inn. They’d had nothing to eat since leaving London, and he was starving.

  He left his room, walked the few steps it took to reach the ladies’ room, and knocked. Lady Walmsley immediately answered the door. “I cannot convince her to go down to the dining room,” she whispered. “Perhaps, since this is all a bit new, we should take supper in our rooms. We did, at least, manage to get her away from Marwood Manor.”

  “May I try?” Kit asked, hoping his voice sounded normal. Being hungry didn’t help, but his patience was frayed after the ordeals of the day, not that any of this was really Lady Elizabeth’s fault.

  Lady Walmsley nodded and gestured for him to enter the room. Lady Elizabeth was sitting on a small wooden chair near a chest of drawers, looking lost.

  “Lady Elizabeth,” he began, hoping his tone sounded gentle but firm. “I am here to escort you and Lady Walmsley to an early supper. I have it on good authority from our host that a roast joint of beef is being served with root vegetables and that our hostess here at the inn is a particularly gifted baker. I can hardly wait to taste what she has in store for us for dessert. Hearty food and a tasty dessert sound just the thing. You must be as hungry as either Lady Walmsley or myself.” He held out his hand to her.

  “I cannot go down there,” Lady Elizabeth said after a lengthy pause that had begun to get under Kit’s skin.

  “Why not?” he asked, his hand dropping to his side.

  “People know me here,” she replied.

  “But think, Lady Elizabeth,” he said. “This inn, as you’ve undoubtedly observed, is small; therefore, the number of guests staying here this evening will also be small.”

  “They will have heard,” she said.

  “Heard what? That your father, who has been gone this long year, has passed? I highly doubt it. What they will see is a young woman in the company of friends, eating a meal. Nothing more. Nothing any of them wouldn’t do themselves of an evening.”

  “My dress,” she said.

  “Is lovely,” he replied.

  She sighed and looked at the bed. “I’m tired,” she said.

  “And we shall all retire after supper so we may be well-rested for our journey to London tomorrow.”

  “I’m not very hungry,” she said.

  He clenched his teeth in frustration and glanced at Lady Walmsley, who merely shook her head at him, as if to say that she’d engaged in the exact conversation before he’d arrived at their room.

  His stomach rumbled—thankfully, the resulting sound wasn’t too loud. But, blast it all, he was starving, and he was trying to convince someone who appeared to be wasting away before his very eyes to eat. It was nonsense. She needed to eat. He needed to eat. He expected Lady Walmsley needed to eat as well.

  Daughter of a duke or not, it was time for him to assert himself. “Lady Elizabeth,” he said, extending his hand to her again. “Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. I am here to escort you and Lady Walmsley to supper. A roast joint is being served with root vegetables, and there will be dessert following. I intend for us all to partake.”

  “Lord Cantwell—” she began, shaking her head.

  “Lady Elizabeth Spaulding,” he said, cutting her off. He’d had enough. “You need to eat. It is apparent to all of us that you haven’t eaten properly for some time now. You are too thin. Therefore, you will be joining Lady Walmsley and me for supper in the dining room this evening. I should like to escort you down properly, but if I must hoist you over my shoulder and take you downstairs like a bale of hay, I am most willing to do so. Which way do you choose?”

  “You’re bluffing,” she said, but there was a tremor in her voice.

  “Not in the least,” he said. “Which way do you choose?” He inched closer to her.

  She sighed and stood. “Very well.”

  “Excellent choice. Shall we, then?”

  She placed her hand in his and gave him a forlorn look that pierced through his hungry irritation and went straight to his heart.

  ***

  Elizabeth hated him.

 
It was bad enough that she had allowed Lady Walmsley and Lord Cantwell to convince her to leave with them—she would never forget the look on Mama’s face when they had bid each other farewell—but the entire ordeal had robbed Elizabeth of any appetite she might have had. A simple meal in the confines of their room would have been fine, but to be seen in public made her stomach churn, and the idea of eating seemed even less appealing. Her appetite had been off for months, as had been blatantly obvious when she’d put on the blue gown. Not to mention the blunt remark Lord Cantwell had just made.

  It had been selfish of her to leave Mama to deal with Cousin Samuel and Cousin Minerva on her own. Cousin Samuel had always let it be known that he would make a better duke than Papa, and he would begin immediately to demonstrate just that. The transition would be difficult for Mama. Thank goodness Mama had written Uncle John and would be joining his family in Yorkshire.

  Mama had also expressly forbidden Elizabeth to join Lady Walmsley in London—appearances were important, and any suggestion that she might be Lady Walmsley’s paid companion was beyond the pale in Mama’s opinion—so Elizabeth, essentially, had rebelled against Mama.

  Mama would not forgive her.

  They made their way downstairs, and Lord Cantwell arranged for them to be seated at a table in the corner of the dining room, which, of course, was not as empty as he had assured her it would be. Besides the three of them, there was the host and hostess, who were overseeing supper, the serving girl, who had just brought them soup, and seven other guests. Seven! Thirteen people altogether, including themselves. Elizabeth could feel all of their eyes on her. And Lord Cantwell was watching her too carefully; she could feel his eyes too.

  She took a small mouthful of soup and swallowed it. It was hot on her tongue but not too hot and had a nice, savory flavor. Perhaps in other circumstances she could manage a bite or two.

  She pushed the bowl away from her.

  “Surely you can do better than that,” Lord Cantwell said.