by Edith Layton
Anthony moved into the room as if he were indeed to the manner born. And as she followed, Elizabeth was aware of a group of people posed as if in tableau, in various indolent positions in various parts of the room. They looked, she thought with despair, as intimidating and as unreal as figures from a fashion plate. The brightest spot of color in the room came from a grouping on an elegantly curved gold settee. There sat an exquisite little Dresden figure of a woman, looking in all her gold-and-pink splendor much like the very figurine poor Uncle had sold in order to purchase the stylish tea-colored walking dress Elizabeth now wore. Next to that blond vision of a female sat a small, plump boy, all done up to match the lady, even down to his golden ringlets and lacy cuffs. A tall gentleman sat in a maroon chair to the fair-haired couple’s left; another exquisitely stylish-looking fellow with buff pantaloons and boots so shined they twinkled in the afternoon light stood near him, seemingly interrupted in midsentence by their arrival. And a tall, imposing man stood easily by the fireplace mantel, one hand upon a gold-tipped walking stick, the other cradling a tall snifter of brandy. Caught in that one frozen moment of interruption, they were all gazing at Anthony and Elizabeth with the liveliest curiosity. And for that one moment, Elizabeth had the mad impulse to simply drop a curtsy, pick up her skirts, and flee out the door, back to the coach, and back to her home again.
It was the tall man by the fireplace who first spoke in a slow, deep, rich voice. “Welcome, Cousin,” he said smoothly as Anthony came toward him. “You come in good time. We were just having some refreshment and conversation. Surely you will join us, and then you will have time enough to rest and shake off the dust of your journey before dinner.”
“We’d be happy to,” Anthony replied with what to Elizabeth seemed to be supernatural aplomb, and bowing slightly, he went on, “Sorry to arrive so late in the day, but there was some misunderstanding with the innkeeper at our last stop, and that delayed us. The fellow toted up a bill for us fit for a regimental banquet and then expected us to pay up without a whimper.”
Elizabeth winced inwardly at any mention of money and feared Anthony had instantly put a foot wrong, but in a moment the curly-haired exquisite with the miraculous boots spoke up eagerly. “Dashed impertinence,” he cried. “Those fellows all seem to think that if you’re dressed as a gentleman you’re so well larded you’ll pay anything without a blink. I hope you gave him a piece of your mind.”
“Oh, I did,” Anthony said, “and that’s why we are so late.”
“Well, then, Cousin Anthony,” the tall man said, “come sit and tell us all about it, and, Cousin Elizabeth, come have a chair here as well, you must be weary from your journey. All the way from…Tuxford, wasn’t it?”
As Elizabeth speechlessly sank into the chair the gentleman had indicated, Anthony accepted a glass from the curly-haired fellow, who seemed incapable of retaining one position for more than a few moments, and said carelessly, “Aye, Tuxford. But you’ve got it wrong. Elizabeth ain’t your cousin, she’s my cousin.”
“Well, never you mind, m’dear,” the curly-haired young man said as he handed Elizabeth a glass of some red liquid, which she grasped on to as though it were a lifeline, “for I ain’t a cousin of anybody’s at all. But, Morgan, if she’s young Anthony’s coz, surely she’s got to be yours?”
“It would be an inestimable honor if she were indeed mine, Bev, but I don’t think that’s what you meant.” The tall man laughed. “Rest easy, Miss Elizabeth,” he added with an intent look toward her. “It’s genealogy Bev’s discussing.” Seeing Elizabeth’s faint blush, the fair-haired woman gave a tinkling laugh. “Oh, Morgan, you are a one. See how you’ve discomposed poor Miss Elizabeth. No need to color up, my dear, it’s only Cousin Morgan’s way of joshing. Come, Morgan, Miss Elizabeth’s clearly not used to such raillery.”
Since the other woman’s tone seemed to imply, “See how you’ve upset the poor rustic, she’s not used to more than the conversation of cows,” Elizabeth, to her further embarrassment, felt the more color flooding to her cheeks. She searched for an answer to turn the attention from herself, but before she could think of one, the tall gentleman seemed to take pity upon her and said swiftly, “But my wits have gone begging. We’ve pitchforked you both into a roomful of strangers. I’ll remedy that in a moment. Cousin Anthony and non-Cousin Elizabeth, allow me to introduce Lady Isabel Courtney and her son, Owen, from London.”
Lady Isabel smiled and placed her arm about her son, creating yet another “mother-and-child” set piece.
Gesturing toward the silent thin gentleman in the maroon chair, the speaker went on, “And this is Cousin Richard Courtney, also from London, and the noisy fellow with all the brandy at his elbow is, you’ll be relieved to discover, just as he claimed, no cousin at all, but only a dear friend of the family, Sir Reginald Beverly, called ‘Bev’ for friendship’s sake. And I,” the tall gentleman concluded, with the merest tilt of his head, suggesting a bow, “am Charles Morgan Courtney, called ‘Morgan,’ as there was once a surfeit of Charleses in our family.”
“Delighted to meet you,” Elizabeth murmured inadequately, but her answer was lost in a welter of “Delighteds” and “Charmeds” from all parts of the room.
Lord Beverly immediately began to engage Anthony in conversation, and Elizabeth relaxed as soon as she overheard they were discussing no more than the wicked way that local innkeepers sought to cheat travelers on room-and-board rates. Since Anthony stood staunchly against any kind of criminal behavior, save for the radical sort, Elizabeth felt it was a safe enough topic and allowed her attention to wander toward the other assembled guests. The tall morose gentleman in the maroon chair who had been introduced as Richard Courtney was giving monosyllabic answers to Morgan Courtney, who still stood at the fireplace near him. Lady Isabel, after giving Elizabeth’s dress, hair, and face a long searching look, seemed uninterested in starting a conversation with her and instead turned to the plump little boy at her side and began to talk with him in light, happy accents.
Left completely alone, Elizabeth sipped at her glass, stopping with sudden disgust as she realized it contained only ratafia, dull watered-down sweetened stuff that her uncle had warned her ladies were supposed to prefer. For herself, Elizabeth much preferred good wine, for Uncle had at least a decent palate left over from the days of his high fortune, and had taught her the nose for a fine wine. So she merely nursed her glass and watched the others with interest.
Although Lord Beverly was certainly the most fashionable gentleman in the room, and Lady Isabel the most beautiful female Elizabeth had ever seen outside of a picture book, Elizabeth’s gaze kept straying to the tall gentleman by the fireside. He was the most imposing, virile-looking man she had ever laid eyes upon. For a certainty, Tuxford had never held such a gentleman. His simple presence diminished the others, making their attempts at fashion into mere foppery. He had a commanding air of certitude and a slow smile of inner amusement. Not above five-and-thirty, she guessed, he was tall, and while slender, by no means as gaunt and rawboned as Cousin Richard, with whom he was chatting. Rather, he had the graceful, easy look of an athlete, from his lightly tanned, strongly planed face, with its high cheekbones and strong jaw, to his wide shoulders and trim waist, to his long, well-muscled legs. His hair was a dark auburn, worn slightly longer than was fashionable, and his eyes were so deep-set they seemed hooded. But when he turned, as though her glance had compelled him to, Elizabeth saw, in the one moment before she dropped her gaze in embarrassment, that his eyes were long and clear and the color of blue and green intermixed.
“But we have neglected you,” he said with an easy smile. “Perhaps because we don’t know how to call you. As you are not our cousin, may we then name you only ‘Elizabeth’ and still remain in your good graces? For this is a family gathering, and we do not stand upon ceremony here.”
Elizabeth, with the full weight of his attention upon her, was so intimidated that she could only blurt out a graceless, “Yes, of course.”
“And,” he persisted, still looking at her, with Richard Courtney and Lady Isabel both now doing the same, “I see you have not touched your ratafia. Would you care for something a bit more full-blooded? I have an excellent claret, or at least I did before Bev arrived on the scene.”
Now, with all conversation stopped, for Lord Beverly had turned at the mention of his name, Elizabeth found herself the focal point of attention again. Remembering Uncle’s admonitions as to manners that prevailed in the highest circles, she only dropped her head low and whispered a polite, “No, thank you,” adding rather weakly, “I do not drink,” and as the insipidness and dishonesty of the comment reached her own ears, added softly again, “Before dinner.”
“Well, then,” Cousin Morgan said briskly, his smile rather fixed, and his attention leaving her, “that’s a fine idea at that. Cook has been in ecstasies all day planning this family reunion. Let us not disappoint her. We do keep country hours here, so we must adjourn this pleasant gathering till later and continue it at dinner. “
As Lady Isabel began to gather up her possessions—her fan, her shawl, and her little boy—Anthony broke in, “But what of the Earl? Isn’t he coming to meet us here? Or shall we see him at dinner?”
Lady Isabel tittered, and even the long face of Richard Courtney showed some animation.
“But surely you know—” Lord Beverly began, but the tall man at the fireside cut him off with a wave of the hand.
“Cousin Anthony, what more would you have me do? Before dinner at any rate?”
Anthony stared at Cousin Morgan blankly.
“Why, Morgan’s the Earl, of course,” Lord Beverly said in consternation at the look upon Anthony’s face.
Elizabeth, having already risen, turned to stare at the man who had introduced himself as “Cousin Morgan” and blurted before she had time to stop herself, “But you said you were ‘Cousin Morgan.’ ”
“And so I am,” he returned.
“But the Earl of Auden is old. Very old,” Anthony stammered.
“From your point of view, young Anthony, that’s sadly true.” The Earl grinned.
Before Elizabeth could signal to him, Anthony went on in tones of outrage, “Uncle said as how the Earl was at his last prayers.”
“So he was,” the Earl said gently, “but the Earl your uncle doubtless remembered was my father. And he has since passed from this mortal coil.”
“Then we missed the funeral?” Elizabeth asked, aghast at her social gaffe in not offering condolences when she entered the house, and then wondering why relatives who were mourning would be so gaily attired, so lacking in funeral sentiment.
“By about five years,” the Earl answered.
“Then if you are Auden, why did you summon us?” Anthony demanded passionately. “How can it be that you need an heir? Do you indeed need an heir? Or is it all a hum?”
“Every man needs an heir, young Anthony, and, yes, I summoned you to that purpose,” the Earl said abruptly. “You are my last living male relatives. And I welcome you. Now, I think we really must adjourn. Anthony, you may remain and hear me out if you wish, but the others will doubtless want to go and change for dinner.”
“No,” Anthony said petulantly, “no need for me to stay. I quite understand now.”
Elizabeth knew that Anthony understood no more than she, but she knew of his pride and wondered if their misunderstanding of the situation would cause him to give up the whole enterprise.
Feeling three kinds of a fool, Elizabeth stood and let her teeth worry at her lower lip. Then, as the whole company rose, chatting lightly to dispel the air of outrage that Anthony had summoned up, the Earl came slowly across the room. Only then did Elizabeth see that the walking stick he carried was no mere fashionable ornament. Only then did she see how tightly clenched his hand was as he bent his weight upon it. And only then did she see how even his air of grace was hampered by the obviously painful halting manner in which he made his way to the door.
He turned once to say something to Lord Beverly and startled the look of dismay upon her face. His face set still and she could not see the expression in his eyes. But, she thought in chagrin, first I act like a dumbstruck rustic, then as a pokered-up teetotaler, then a fool, and now I gawk at a man’s impediment as if it were a raree-show. And, she thought, wishing she would wake in a moment and discover the whole incident to have been a disturbed dream taking place on the coach somewhere between the inn at Stourbridge and Lyonshall, Uncle thought it was Anthony he had to worry about!
Dinner, from Elizabeth’s point of view, was a disaster. Immersed in her confusion, she had no way of knowing that the Earl would have agreed with her appraisal of the meal completely. Indeed, no one else at the long table would have guessed his opinion either. For he was a most gracious, pleasant, conversant host to them all. Elizabeth sat on his right and Lady Isabel on his left, with the Earl at the head of the table. And he divided his time between them. Rather, he attempted to divide his time that way, but as every least comment made to Elizabeth was met with some subdued, noncommittal answer, it was impossible. As facile as he was, even the Earl would not poke a conversation out of her polite little “Of courses” and “Yes, quite sos” and “No…nevers,” no matter how deftly he tried.
Elizabeth had known she was dressed correctly even though she had refused the services of Lady Isabel’s maid. She had never used a lady’s maid, and did not wish to start with an employee of a fine London lady. The look in the Earl’s eyes as she sat down was frankly admiring and so settled her worries on that score. But in the clear light of so many candles and in such close physical proximity with such an overwhelming gentleman, she had soon found herself totally at a loss. It was not just that he was the most compelling man she had ever met. Under natural circumstances, her quick understanding and interest in the many challenging questions that were tossed up for her to catch at would have soon evaporated her shyness. For she would not have cared if it were Adonis himself conversing with her once she got a good conversation under way. It was her total misery at the way she and Anthony had misread the situation, coupled with her sense of failure at the start of her mission, compounded by her fears for her uncle’s plans, that made her unable to participate in any of the Earl’s gentle raillery. And the deadly knowledge that she was behaving like a simpleton only served to increase her state of unease, and thus, of course, her frightened air of silence.
When the Earl turned to Lady Isabel, he was greeted by such an air of concentration upon her part as to point up Elizabeth’s reticence even further. Lady Isabel hung upon his every word, her great blue eyes fastened upon the Earl’s lips as though she were a deaf person, only able to comprehend him by watching each utterance as it formed there. Lady Isabel’s face was a mirror of the conversation, Elizabeth thought sadly, as she wondered whether to try the potted prawns even though she did not know which of the many silver implements that surrounded her plate like a shining army was fit for the purpose in this establishment. But then, one could speak only Greek and still be able to follow their conversation just by watching the lady’s animated face. For she laughed becomingly at every witticism and batted the Earl’s arm with a lace handkerchief at any comment she considered a trifle “warm” in a lady’s company. And she listened with such concentrated efforts to his soft discourse, one would think he were telling her fortune.
Little Owen Courtney sat silently at his mama’s side, eating with an intensity that equaled his mama’s conversational performance. He said very little, and except for occasional grave requests for more of his favorite foods, seemed to wear the popular sampler motto, of children being seen and not heard, upon his very heart. He was already so rotund that even Elizabeth, used to the ways of small boys, had to pinch herself from leaning across the table and cautioning him against taking yet another helping of caramel pudding.
Richard Courtney sat at Elizabeth’s right and mercifully paid her little attention. His concentration was not upon his meal as he a
te automatically and without zest. But it was not upon anyone at the table either. That seemed to suit Lord Beverly and Anthony down to the ground, for the two were deep in their own conversation throughout the meal. By watching carefully through the side of her eyes and listening closely, Elizabeth was able to ascertain that the two had struck up an immediate friendship. Their talk never had a chance to turn to politics, they were so immersed in discussing topics which Anthony had always admired, though could little afford, such as horses, racing, and hunting.
When at last even young Owen had partaken of as many sweetmeats as he could hold, Lady Isabel, with a sweet smile, rose and said lightly, “I expect the gentlemen wish to be left to themselves for a while. Elizabeth, let us have a pleasant coze by the fire.”
And Elizabeth, feeling once again put firmly in her place, trailed after Lady Isabel as she made her way out of the room.
But Lady Isabel had scarcely time to settle herself artistically against the background of the beige settee which most complimented her pink gown, and scarcely time to ask Elizabeth how old she was, why she was as yet unmarried, and whether she had any prospects of matrimony, when the gentlemen came into the room.
“Scarcely any reason to leave this young gentleman to his port,” the Earl said as he made his halting way in, “for his eyes are half-closed as it is. His next port of call, I believe, should rightly be his bed.”
“Oh, no, Cousin Morgan,” Owen said quickly in his sober little voice, opening his blue eyes wide, “for I am not a bit fatigued. Truly I am not.”
“He had yards of rest on the trip here in the coach,” his mother protested.
“I wish I could have,” Lord Beverly said with a yawn, “for the deuced thing rattled my teeth out. And I just had it resprung.”
