She swallowed. In a voice that did not seem to belong to her, she took the plunge.
“How do you do, Uncle Vere? I am Isolde Mary Cavanagh.”
For several nerve-wracking moments he did not speak. His gaze travelled over her, dwelling on her bosom as if he sought to find the truth of her assertion there that she was indeed female. Astonishment died out of his face and he rose, gesturing to one of the chairs. “You’d better sit down.”
Isolde moved into the room, warily regarding him. His manner was baffling. She did not know what she had expected, but not this urbane politeness.
He held out a hand. “Allow me to take your cloak.”
She slipped it off and relinquished it, and removed her hat, holding it as she eyed him. He threw her cloak over the back of a straight chair by the wall and held out his hand for the hat. Without looking, he threw it in the general direction of the chair. Isolde glanced to see it fall to the floor and brought her gaze to bear on her uncle again.
Vansittart indicated the chair, a faint supercilious smile curving his lip. “Pray be seated. I won’t bite, you know.”
She moved to the chair and perched on its edge, watching him cross to the one opposite and settle into it, throwing one leg over the other and leaning back at his ease.
“So, Isolde Mary Cavanagh, what can I do for you?”
No clue to his thoughts was visible in his face, no matter how hard she studied him. She knew not how to begin. Out of her mouth came words for which she was quite unprepared. “You recognised me. Do you have a portrait of my mother? Am I like her?”
“You don’t know? Ah no, you were a mere child when she died, as I understand it.”
Quick suspicion kindled. “How do you know that?”
The brows rose, giving him a cynical look. “Cavanagh wrote to tell me so.” A faint sigh escaped him. “I don’t know if he hoped I might be induced to take you in then.”
“No, he didn’t,” she returned, unable to help the snap in her voice. “Papa never expected anything from you. He didn’t want me to come to you at all.”
Vansittart’s lip curled. “Then why are you here?”
Isolde felt the warmth rush into her cheeks and she looked quickly away. Her voice sounded gruff and resentful, even to her own ears. “I had no choice.”
“Indeed?”
She drew a breath. “Did — did Richard write to you about me? I mean, Lord Alderton.”
His rather hard eyes seemed to consider her. “No, he did not write to me about you.”
A tiny hope flickered inside her. Had Richard intended to keep her? If he had not approached Lord Vansittart, could he have decided not to palm her off on her family? Or had he not yet made up his mind? He had not of course had much opportunity lately to do anything about her situation, which seemed the more probable reason.
There was nothing for it. She would have to tell her uncle just what had occurred. She gathered her forces. “I dare say it may seem an odd question to have asked you. You see, Papa was a great friend of Lord Alderton’s father, Sir Thomas de Baudresey as he then was. When he died, he commended me to his friend’s guardianship, only he didn’t know Sir Thomas was already dead, and so Richard — Richard…”
She faded out, quite unable to find words to express her status regarding Richard.
“Inherited you, so to speak?”
It was said with the inflexion of suggestion, and Isolde relaxed slightly, unable to help a faint smile.
“Yes, in a way. But the truth is I have no real claim upon his guardianship, and although Lady Alderton advised me to trust him, when she died…”
“Ah, I see. When did this unfortunate event take place?”
“A fortnight since. Richard has been too busy to … and he had to go to London.”
“And so you took the opportunity to escape, is that it?”
Isolde looked quickly back at him. The supercilious smile was back on his lips.
“No, it wasn’t like that. Coming to you is a last resort.”
His brows flew up. “I am flattered.”
She felt her cheeks grow warm again and broke into hasty speech. “I didn’t mean — I knew Mama’s family were against the marriage. Papa told me she was cut off when they eloped. I could not suppose you would welcome me, and I would not have come if it had not been for Alicia.”
“Alicia?”
“Alicia de Baudresey, Richard’s sister. She threw me out.”
He looked startled. “Threw you out? I am not well acquainted with Alderton, but I cannot imagine any sister of his would be so lost to all sense of what is fitting.”
“She is! She’s a vicious, cruel vixen and she hates me. She accused me of all kinds of things, and when she found these clothes in my trunk, she went crazy. She was going to burn them. She hit me repeatedly and then she threw me out bodily.”
Vansittart’s eyes roved her face. “Yes, I see now that you are a little the worse for wear. You must blame the shock of your sudden appearance. In the hubbub, I’m afraid I did not notice.” He wafted a hand as if to encompass her person. “How then is it you are arrayed in this decidedly unconventional fashion? And how did you get here?”
“The servants came to my rescue. I got hold of my things, borrowed a horse and came away.”
“Setting out to find me.”
“Yes.”
There was a pause. Lord Vansittart eyed her, and she stared back doggedly. He smiled at last, this time without a trace of the sneer that seemed to characterise him. He rose and crossed to the bell-pull. Was he going to eject her? He turned.
“I think, don’t you, it might be as well to resume this discussion over refreshments. I dare say you are hungry, and I am sorely in need of a restorer. Brandy, I think, might meet the case.”
The meal proved to be simple fare, consisting of a selection of cold meats, bread and cheese brought into an adjoining room which Lord Vansittart called the breakfast parlour.
“We need not stand upon ceremony. This is quite cosy, do you not think?”
Perforce, Isolde agreed to it, although she could not help a slight feeling of apprehension when the maid withdrew, the same who had answered the door and shown her up.
His lordship supplied her with slices of beef and ham, laid the cheese board within her reach and waved a languid hand at the basket of rolls and the butter dish.
Isolde ate with gusto, slowing only when she saw her uncle did not serve himself, instead making free with the contents of a decanter. She hoped he was not going to become inebriated, at least before she had a chance to broach the question of her future. Anxiety loosened her tongue. “Are you not going to eat, sir?”
“Presently.”
She was disconcerted to find he continued to study her as she resumed her repast. She drank water, having refused the wine he offered, for she wished to keep her wits about her. Warmth crept into her cheeks and she was unable to keep from comment.
“Why do you stare at me so?”
A faint smile creased his lips, but Isolde noted that it did not reach his eyes.
“The resemblance is uncanny.”
“Resemblance to whom?”
The supercilious curve came back to his mouth. “To me, child. There is an early portrait that might easily be you.”
Shock rolled through her. Until this moment, she’d been uncertain whether or not to believe in her relationship to the man.
“My hair was redder then,” he resumed, his tone musing.
“Then that is why you recognised me, even dressed like this?”
“More so.” He sipped at his glass, never taking his eyes from her face. “But tell me, my dear Isolde, why such clothes?” One hand came up as she opened her mouth. “No, I don’t mean at this precise moment. I can conceive that it might be safer for a lone female to travel as a boy, but it is obvious you are quite at home in them. I have no experience of the army, I admit, but I can’t feel it would have gone unnoticed if this was the invariable attire of ladies who follow the drum
.”
Stung by the mocking tone, Isolde hit back. “You must know it isn’t. But I’m not a hoyden, if that is what you suppose.”
“The thought never crossed my mind.”
“Well, it’s what Alicia said.”
Among other things, but she would not disclose the variety of unpleasant names the woman had used. Nor did she feel it incumbent upon her to explain herself to this man. Not until she knew whether he had any intention of offering her a refuge. To her relief, he did not pursue the matter, instead beginning to serve himself from the various viands spread out before them.
Without his attention on her, Isolde felt a degree less uncomfortable. She drew on her courage and took the plunge. “Would you allow me to remain here?”
His glance flew up. “Is that what you want?”
Not in the least, but it would not be politic to say so. Yet, if she could induce him to house her, even for a week or so, it would at least give her a respite to consider what she should do. She decided on bluntness. “I’ve nowhere else to go.”
Lord Vansittart regarded her over the top of a forkful of beef. “Then it appears I have no option.”
By the time the dinner hour came and went, Isolde knew little more of her uncle and family than she had on her unconventional arrival. Lord Vansittart was evidently more interested in finding out about her life than imparting anything about his, despite her questions, which he deflected with his own.
They spent the better part of the afternoon still seated at the table in the breakfast parlour, and Isolde began to wonder if he truly did mean to give her house room. Eventually, he rang the bell and, to her relief, gave instructions for her accommodation.
“Have the bed made up in the blue bedchamber. Our guest is remaining for the night.”
She might have been dismayed had her uncle not explained his words as soon as the maid was out of the room.
“We will keep your identity to ourselves, my dear, until your wardrobe is replenished. Unless you have concealed your petticoats in your saddlebags?”
His mockery daunted her, but she lifted her chin. “No, sir, I have not.”
He smiled, but said nothing further on the matter, instead resuming his catechism.
It did not escape Isolde’s notice that he wanted to know more about the short time she’d spent at Bawdsey Grange than her years in camp, dwelling particularly on Richard’s reaction to having her thrust upon him.
“Any other man might have repudiated the charge.”
“Richard is not like other men.”
The words were out before she could stop them. She must not allow her partiality to show. That Lord Vansittart had noticed was clear from the questioning lift to his brows. Isolde hunted her mind for a way to extricate herself and found one.
“Lady Alderton remembered me, you see. She decided Alicia should educate me for a lady. I didn’t want it, but I couldn’t very well refuse when she was so kind as to take me in.”
The eyebrows remained aloft. “Did you not say she was ill?”
“Yes, but even so, she took time to begin my training because Alicia was in London at the time.”
“Then you were largely unchaperoned, I take it?”
There was no disapproval in his face, but Isolde caught an odd note in his voice that put her on her guard. She could not identify an implication, but she was nevertheless conscious of an impulse to defend.
“It was not for long. And Lady Alderton was in the house. Besides, Richard was busy. I hardly saw him.”
She recalled, belatedly, Richard’s outburst when he’d realised she was related to Vansittart. He’d said the man was trying to ruin him, but he had never explained that remark. Now, in her uncle’s presence, Isolde felt the possibility of his being exactly the kind of man to do someone a mischief. She could not put her finger on it, but she was conscious of growing distrust.
He did not offer to show her around the house, and Isolde did not care to ask, despite a growing curiosity. Why was Lord Vansittart waited upon only by the maid? There must be a cook and she had seen a groom, but what of the rest? Had he no butler and housekeeper as at Bawdsey Grange? She tried an oblique approach. “I understood my mother came from Cheshire, sir. Don’t you have a house there?”
Her uncle eyed her as he sipped at the wine he was still imbibing, the level in the bottle steadily sinking. “Have you a fancy to see my principal seat?”
“I only wondered why you were not in residence there at this time of year.”
“Ah, the festive season. Vastly overrated in my view, my dear. Nothing but one long round of boredom in the company of one’s neighbours.”
“Don’t you get lonely?”
His characteristic smile came, almost a sneer. “No longer, now that you are here, Isolde.”
She forced a laugh, which sounded hollow even in her own ears. She could only hope Lord Vansittart did not notice the unreality of it. Her mistrust of him was increasing, though had she been challenged, she could not have said why.
At last, he reached for the hand bell, rang it with vigour and then pushed back his chair, rising to his feet. “I have no doubt you will wish to relax a little and remove the stains of travel. The girl will show you to your chamber.”
With that, he walked out of the room and left her.
Isolde had risen, but she hesitated, wondering whether to follow. Her uncle was the strangest man. Had his interest waned? What did he expect her to do?
She went to the door and opened it upon the corridor beyond. There was no sign of his lordship, and no sign of the servant either. Isolde moved to the room where she had first encountered him and stealthily opened the door. It was empty.
She took a moment to retrieve her hat and cloak, feeling her anxiety lessen as the weight at one side of the latter recalled the pistol to her mind. Rather at a loss, she hovered in the corridor, looking first one way and then the other. The maid had still not appeared. Isolde struggled to remember which way she had taken to arrive in the small parlour. She chose correctly and came out on the landing above the stairs.
Again, she dithered. When last seen, the maid had been told to prepare a bedchamber. There seemed little point in wandering along the upper floor in search of her. She was more likely to find help below stairs. Accordingly, she ran lightly down. Her eyes swept the hall, taking in the two doors either side closest to the front door. There was another in the back panelling — the servants’ quarters? — and a corridor ran off to the side opposite the stairs.
Isolde chose the nearest and pushed it open. To her surprise, the room beyond was a well-appointed saloon, done out in blue and white. There was not much furniture, but it was well polished and of matching style and there were several paintings on the walls. Untutored in the niceties of decoration she might be, but the contrast between this and the other rooms she’d seen was evident.
Intrigued, she left the place and went across the hall and through the door opposite. Shocked, she stared at the bare walls with their faded papers and the white-shrouded shapes huddled in the centre of the room. Although the shutters were open, it was plain the place was unused. It could not have seen a fire for weeks for the atmosphere was freezing.
Retreating, Isolde slid down the hall and peeped around the corner along the corridor. It was dark and dismal, and she had no desire to venture further. She was just about to take the plunge and go through the door at the back in hopes of encountering a servant, when she heard footsteps on the landing above.
Moving quickly back towards the front door, she looked up in time to see a servant girl hurrying down the stairs. This was a different maid, much younger, and dressed in the ubiquitous grey of the lesser servant.
“Oh, you must be the chambermaid.”
The girl started at being addressed and, having reached the hall, bobbed a curtsy.
“Yes, sir.”
For a moment, Isolde was confused. Then she remembered her attire. Of course the girl thought she was a man. She smiled. “W
hat is your name?”
The girl blushed and dropped another curtsy. “If you please, sir, it’s Aggy.”
Her voice was breathy and youthful and Isolde guessed she was even younger than Becky back at Bawdsey Grange. Without thinking, she tried to put the child at ease.
“Lord Vansittart ordered the blue bedchamber to be prepared for me. I suppose that’s what you’ve been doing?”
Again the girl flushed, and would not meet Isolde’s gaze. “Yes, sir, if you please, sir.”
“Perhaps you’d be kind enough to show me where it is?”
A glance was cast up at her, and Isolde saw admiration there. Belatedly recalling her disguise, she tried for a more impersonal tone, waving towards the stairs.
“After you, Aggy.”
As she followed the child up the stairs, Isolde had occasion to regret her attire. She might otherwise have made a friend of the girl and pumped her for information. Perhaps with care, she could still learn something.
She waited until they reached a door situated a little way along the upstairs corridor, fortunately not in the same direction as that which led to her uncle’s parlour. The girl opened it, and Isolde walked into a sizeable room, dominated by a heavy four-poster and with one large window. The walls were covered in dust-coloured paper and the bed-curtains looked to be a muddy green. Isolde could see no evidence of blue.
The maid was hovering in the doorway, plainly waiting for dismissal. Isolde sought for some means of staying her departure. “Thank you, Aggy. Before you go, can you tell me what time his lordship dines?”
“Five, if you please, sir.”
The curtsies and blushes would be tiresome if Isolde was not uncomfortably aware of her own deception. Throwing caution to the winds, she took a couple of steps towards the door. “Aggy, you have no need to be shy of me. I am not what I appear.”
The maid blinked at her. “Sir?”
“I’m not trying to flirt with you.”
Silence. The child coloured all the more, her eyes shifting away. Isolde gave it up. In her present guise, there was no point in trying to reassure the girl. Nevertheless, she had to try for information. She opted for directness. “Where are the housekeeper and the butler?”
In Honour Bound (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 1) Page 13
