by Diane Gaston
A footman entered the breakfast room with a folded piece of paper on a silver tray. ‘A message arrived for you, sir.’
Tinmore acknowledged the servant with a nod. The footman bowed and left the room again.
Tinmore opened the folded paper and read. ‘An invitation,’ he said, although neither Lorene nor Genna had asked. He tossed the paper to Lorene. ‘From your cousin.’
‘My cousin?’ Lorene picked up the paper. ‘It is from Lord Penford, inviting us to dinner tomorrow night at Summerfield House.’
Genna’s heart beat faster. Was she included?
‘We must attend, of course,’ Tinmore said officiously. ‘He peered over his spectacles at Genna. ‘You, too, young lady.’ He never called her by her name.
‘I would love a chance to see Summerfield House again!’ she cried.
Lorene did not look as eager. ‘I suppose we must attend.’
* * *
The next day Genna was determined not to agonise over what to wear to this dinner. After all, it would be more in the nature of a family meal than a formal dinner party. There would not be other guests, apparently, save his houseguest, perhaps. A small dinner party, the invitation said, to extend his hospitality to his neighbour and his cousins.
Genna chose her pale blue dress because it had the fewest embellishments. She allowed her maid to add only a matching blue ribbon to her hair, pulled up into a simple chignon. She wore tiny pearl earrings in her ears and a simple pearl necklace around her neck. She draped her paisley shawl over her arm, the one with shades of blue in it.
She met Lorene coming out of her bedchamber.
Lorene stopped and gazed at her. ‘You look lovely, Genna. That dress does wonders for your eyes.’
Genna blinked. Truly? She’d aimed to show little fuss.
‘Do I look all right?’ Lorene asked. ‘I was uncertain how to dress.’
Lorene also chose a plain gown, but one in deep green. Her earrings were emeralds, though, and her necklace, an emerald pendant. The dark hue made Lorene’s complexion glow.
Lorene looked like a creature of the forest. If Lorene were the forest, then Genna must be—what? The sky? Genna was taller. Lorene, small. Genna had blonde hair and blue eyes; Lorene, mahogany-brown hair with eyes to match. No wonder people whispered that they must have been born of different fathers. They were opposites. One earthbound. The other…flighty.
Genna put her arm around Lorene and squeezed her. ‘You look beautiful as always. Together we shall present such a pretty picture for our cousin he will wish he had been nicer to us.’
Lorene smiled wanly. ‘You are speaking nonsense.’
Genna grinned. ‘Perhaps. Not about you looking beautiful, though.’ They walked through the corridor and started down the long staircase. ‘What is he, anyway? Our fourth cousin?’
Lorene sighed. ‘I can never puzzle it out. He shares a great-great-grandfather or a great-great-great one with our father. I can never keep it straight.’
Genna laughed. ‘He got the fortunate side of the family, obviously.’
They walked arm in arm to the drawing room next to the hall where Lord Tinmore would, no doubt, be waiting for them. Before they crossed the threshold, though, they separated and Lorene walked into the room first, Genna a few steps behind her. Tinmore insisted on such formalities.
Lord Tinmore was seated in a chair, his neckcloth loosened. His valet, almost as ancient as the Earl himself, patted his forehead with a cloth. Tinmore motioned the ladies in, even though they were already approaching him.
Lorene frowned. ‘What is amiss, sir? Are you unwell?’
He gestured to his throat. ‘Damned throat is sore and I am feverish. Came upon me an hour ago.’
Lorene put her cloak and reticule on the sofa and pulled off a glove. She bent down and felt her husband’s wrinkled, brown-spotted forehead. ‘You are feverish. Has the doctor been summoned?’
‘He has indeed, ma’am,’ the valet said.
She straightened. ‘We must send Lord Penford a message. We cannot attend this dinner.’
Not attend the dinner? Genna’s spirits sank. She yearned to see her home again.
‘I cannot,’ Tinmore stated. ‘But you and your sister must.’
Genna brightened.
‘No,’ Lorene protested. ‘I will stay with you. I’ll see you get proper care.’
He waved her away. ‘Wicky will tend me. I dare say he knows better than you how to give me care.’
So typical of Tinmore. True, his valet had decades more experience in caring for his lordship than Lorene, but it was unkind to say so to her face.
‘I think I should stay,’ Lorene tried again in a more forceful tone.
Tinmore raised his voice. ‘You and your sister will attend this dinner and make my excuses. I do not wish to insult this man. I may need his good opinion some day.’ He ended with a fit of coughing.
A footman came to the door. ‘The carriage is ready, my lord.’
‘Go.’ Tinmore flicked his fingers, brushing them away like gnats buzzing around his rheumy head. ‘You mustn’t keep the horses waiting. It is not good for them to stand still so long.’
Typical of Tinmore. Caring more for his horses’ comfort than his wife’s feelings.
Genna picked up Lorene’s cloak and reticule and started for the door. Lorene caught up with her and draped the cloak around herself.
At least Lord Tinmore was too sick to admonish Lorene for not waiting for the footman to help her with her cloak.
‘I really do not want to go,’ Lorene whispered to Genna.
‘Lord Tinmore will be well cared for. Do not fret.’ Genna was more than glad Tinmore would not accompany them.
‘It is not that,’ Lorene said. ‘I do not wish to go.’
‘Why not?’ Genna was eager to see their home again, no matter the elevated company they would be in.
Lorene murmured, ‘It will make me feel sad.’
Goodness. Was not Lorene already sad? Could she not simply look forward to a visit home, free of Tinmore’s talons? Sometimes Genna had no patience for her.
But she took her sister’s hand and squeezed it in sympathy.
* * *
They spoke little on the carriage ride to Summerfield House. Who knew what Lorene’s thoughts must be, but Genna was surprised to feel her own bout of nerves at the thought of seeing Rossdale again.
The Marquess of Rossdale.
If he expected her to be impressed by his title, he’d be well mistaken. She would not be one of those encroaching young ladies she’d seen during her Season in London, so eager to be pleasing to the highest-ranking bachelor in the room.
Heedless of the cold, she and Lorene nearly leaned out the windows as they entered the gate to Summerfield House, its honey-coloured stone so familiar, so beautiful. She’d seen the house only from afar. Up close it looked unchanged, except that the grounds seemed well tended. At least what she could see of them. A thin dusting of snow still blanketed the land.
When the carriage pulled up to the house, Genna saw a familiar face waiting to assist them from the carriage.
‘Becker!’ she cried, waving from the window.
Their old footman opened the door and put down the stairs.
‘My lady,’ he said to Lorene, somewhat reservedly. He helped her out.
‘So good to see you, Becker,’ Lorene said. ‘How are you? In good health?’
‘Good health, ma’am,’ he replied.
He reached for Genna’s hand next and grinned. ‘Miss Genna.’
She jumped out and gave him a quick hug. Who cared if it was improper to hug a servant? She’d known him all her life.
‘I have missed you!’ she cried.
His eyes glistened with tears. ‘The
house is not the same without you.’
He collected himself and led Lorene and Genna through one of the archways and up the stairs to the main entrance. A guidebook had once described the house:
Summerfield House was built by John Carr, a contemporary of Robert Adam, in the Italianate style, with the entrance to the house on the first floor.
Genna loved that word. Italianate.
The door opened as they reached it.
‘Jeffers!’ Genna ran into the hall and hugged their old butler, a man who had been more present in her life than her own father.
‘Miss Genna, a treat to see you.’ He hugged her back, but quickly released her and bowed to Lorene. ‘My lady, how good to have you back.’
Lorene extended her hand and clasped Mr Jeffers’s hand in a warm gesture. ‘I am happy to see you, Jeffers. How are matters here? Is all well? Are you well?’
He nodded. ‘The new master has had much needed work done, but it is quiet here without you girls.’
Genna supposed Jeffers still saw them in their pinafores. She touched his arm. ‘We were never going to be able to stay, you know.’
Jeffers smiled sadly. ‘That is true, but, still…’ He blinked and turned towards the door. ‘Are we not expecting Lord Tinmore?’
‘He sends his regrets,’ Lorene explained. ‘He is ill.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. Nothing serious, I hope?’ he asked.
‘Not serious.’ Lorene glanced away. ‘You should announce us to Lord Penford, I think.’
How very sad. Lorene acted as if Lord Tinmore was looking over her shoulder, ready to chastise her for performing below her station with servants. These were servants they’d known their whole lives, the people who had truly looked out for their welfare, and, even though Tinmore was nowhere near, Lorene could not feel free to converse with them.
Jeffers looked abashed. ‘Certainly. They are in the octagon drawing room.’
He and Lorene started to cross the hall.
‘Wait!’ Genna cried.
She stood in the centre of the hall and gazed up at the plasterwork ceiling. There was the familiar pattern, the rosettes, the gold gilt, the griffins that hearkened back to her grandfather’s days in India. Why had she never drawn the ceiling’s design? Why had she not copied its pale cream, green and white?
‘Come,’ Lorene said impatiently. ‘They are waiting for us.’
Genna took one more look, then joined her sister. As they walked to the drawing room, though, she fell back, memorising each detail. The matching marble stairs with their bright blue balustrades, the small tables and chairs still in the same places, the familiar paintings on the walls.
They reached the door to the drawing room. Would it be changed? she wondered.
Jeffers opened the door and announced. ‘Lady Tinmore and Miss Summerfield.’
Two young gentlemen stood. One, of course, was Lord Rossdale, dressed in formal dinner attire, which made him look even more like a duke’s heir. The other man was an inch or two shorter than Rossdale and fairer, with brown hair and blue eyes.
Jeffers continued the introductions. ‘My lady, Miss Summerfield, allow me to present Lord Rossdale—’
The Marquess bowed.
‘And Lord Penford.’
But Penford was so young!
He approached them. ‘My cousins. How delightful to meet you at last.’ His voice lacked any enthusiasm, however. He blinked at Lorene as if in surprise and stiffly offered his hand. ‘Where is Lord Tinmore, ma’am?’
Lorene blushed, which was not like her. She might be reserved, but never sheepish. Unless Tinmore had cowed her into feeling insecure in company. Or perhaps she was as surprised as Genna that Penford was not their father’s age.
‘Lord Tinmore is ill.’ Lorene put her hand in Penford’s. ‘A trifling illness, but he thought it best to remain at home.’
Penford quickly drew his hand away. ‘I am delighted you accepted my invitation.’ He glanced past Lorene and looked at Genna with a distinct lack of interest. ‘And your sister.’ He perfunctorily shook Genna’s. ‘Miss Summerfield.’
The stiff boor. Genna made certain to smile at him. ‘Call me Genna. It seems silly to stand on ceremony when we are family.’
‘Genna,’ he repeated automatically. He glanced back to Lorene.
‘You may address me as Lorene, if you wish,’ she murmured.
‘Lorene,’ he murmured. ‘My friends call me Dell.’
Which was not quite permission for Lorene and Genna to do so.
Rossdale stepped forward.
‘Oh.’ Penford seemed to have forgotten him. ‘My friend Ross here is visiting with me over Christmas.’
‘Ma’am.’ Ross bowed to Lorene. When he turned to Genna, he winked. ‘Miss Summerfield.’
She felt like giggling.
‘Come sit.’ Penford offered Lorene his arm and led her to a sitting area, with its pale pink brocade sofa and matching chairs that their mother had selected for this room. He placed her in one of the chairs and he sat in the other.
The Marquess gestured to Genna to sit, as well.
She hesitated. ‘May I look at the room first?’
‘By all means,’ Penford responded.
‘You lived here, I believe,’ Rossdale said, remaining at her side.
‘I did, sir,’ she said too brightly.
So far he was not divulging the fact they’d met before. He stood politely while she gazed at another familiar plasterwork ceiling, its design mimicked in the octagon carpet below. Again, nothing was changed, not one stick of furniture out of place, not one vase moved to a different table, nor any porcelain figurines rearranged. She gazed at her grandmother’s portrait above the fireplace, powdered hair and silk gown, seated in an idyllic garden.
Rossdale said, ‘A magnificent painting.’
‘Our grandmother.’ Although neither she nor Lorene bore any resemblance to the lady. ‘By Gainsborough.’
‘Indeed?’ He sounded impressed.
Genna had always loved the painting, but it was Gainsborough’s depiction of the sky and greenery that fascinated her the most, so wild and windy.
‘I am pouring claret. Would you like some, Genna?’ Penford called over to her.
She felt summoned. ‘Yes, thank you.’
She walked over and lowered herself on to the sofa. Rossdale sat next to her.
‘Does the room pass your inspection?’ Penford asked, a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
He handed her the glass of wine.
Was he censuring her for paying more attention to the room than the people in it? Well, how ill mannered of him! It was the most natural thing in the world to want to see the house where one grew up.
‘It is as I remember it,’ she responded as if it had been a genuine question. ‘I confess to a great desire to see all the rooms again. We were in much turmoil when we left.’ When he’d sent them packing, she meant.
Penford’s face stiffened. He turned to Lorene, shutting Genna out. ‘Do you also have a desire to see the house?’
Lorene stared into space. ‘I have put it behind me.’
‘I imagine Tinmore Hall is much grander than Summerfield,’ he remarked.
Grander and colder, Genna thought.
‘It is very grand, indeed,’ Lorene responded.
Genna turned to Rossdale. ‘I expect the house where you grew up would make both Summerfield House and Tinmore Hall look like tenants’ cottages.’
His brows rose. Now he knew she knew his rank.
‘Not so much different.’ His eyes twinkled. ‘Definitely grander, though.’
‘Ross grew up at Kessington,’ Penford explained to Lorene. ‘You have heard of it?’
Her eyes grew wide. Now Lorene knew Rossda
le’s rank, as well. Wait until Lorene told Tinmore whom he’d missed meeting.
‘Yes, of course.’ Lorene turned to Rossdale. ‘It is in Suffolk, is it not?’
‘It is,’ he replied. ‘And it is a grand house.’ He grinned. ‘My father should commission someone to paint it some day.’
He leaned forward to pour himself more wine and brushed against Genna’s leg.
Secretly joking with her, obviously. What fun to flaunt a secret and not reveal it.
‘I paint, you know,’ she piped up, feigning all innocence. ‘I even paint houses sometimes.’
‘Do you?’ Penford said politely. ‘How nice to be so accomplished.’
Genna waited for him to ask Lorene her accomplishments, which were primarily in taking excellent care of her younger siblings for most of their lives. He did not ask, though, and Lorene would never say.
Genna could boast on her sister’s behalf, though. ‘Lorene plays the pianoforte beautifully. And she sings very well, too.’
Lorene gazed at her hands clasped in her lap. ‘I am not as skilled as Genna would have you believe.’
‘Perhaps you will play for us tonight,’ Penford said, still all politeness.
‘After dinner, perhaps?’ Genna suggested.
‘Perhaps after dinner you would show me the house, Miss Summerfield,’ Rossdale asked. ‘It would kill two birds with one stone, so to speak. Ease my curiosity about the building and give you your nostalgic tour.’
How perfect, Genna thought. Lorene would simply spoil her enjoyment if she came along and Lord Penford’s presence only reminded Genna that all her beloved rooms now belonged to him. With Rossdale, she could enjoy herself.
She smiled. ‘An excellent plan.’
CHAPTER THREE
Ross enjoyed the dinner more than any he could recall in recent memory. Genna regaled them with stories about the house and their childhood years. She made those days sound idyllic, although if one listened carefully, one could hear the loneliness of neglected children in the tales.
