Something Wonderful

by Judith McNaught

  The hundreds of guests who surreptitiously watched their return to the ballroom a few moments later, noted that Lady Grangerfield seemed tense and left the ball at once.

  However, the Duke of Hawthorne looked as smoothly unperturbed as ever as he returned to the beautiful ballerina who was the latest in his long string of mistresses. And when the couple stepped onto the dance floor a few moments later, there was a glow of energy, a powerful magnetism that emanated from the beautiful, charismatic pair. Elise Grandeaux’s lithe, fragile, grace complemented his bold elegance; her vivid coloring was the perfect foil for his darkness, and when they moved together in a dance, they were two splendid creatures who seemed made for one another.

  “But then that is always the way,” Miss Bildrup said to her friends as they studied the pair in fascinated admiration. “Hawthorne always makes the woman he is with look like his perfect mate.”

  “Well, he won’t marry a common stage performer no matter how excellent they look together,” said Miss Morrison. “And my brother has promised to bring him to our house for a morning call this week,” she added on a note of triumph.

  Her joy was demolished by Miss Bildrup: “My mama said he plans to leave for Rosemeade tomorrow.”

  “Rosemeade?” the other echoed blankly, her shoulders drooping.

  “His grandmother’s estate,” Miss Bildrup clarified. “It’s to the north, beyond some godforsaken little village called Morsham.”

  Chapter Three

  IT DEFIES THE IMAGINATION, Filbert, it truly does!” Alexandra announced to the old footman who shuffled into her bedchambers carrying a small armload of wood.

  Filbert squinted nearsightedly at his seventeen-year-old mistress, who was sprawled across the bed on her stomach, her small chin cupped in her hands, her body clad in her usual ensemble of tight brown breeches and faded shirt.

  “It positively boggles the mind,” Alexandra repeated in a voice reeking with disapproval.

  “What does, Miss Alex?” he inquired, approaching the bed. Spread out before his mistress upon the coverlet was something white and large, which the myopic footman deduced was either a towel or a newspaper. Squinting his eyes, he stared hard at the white object, upon which he perceived there appeared to be blurry black blotches, which in turn led him to correctly conclude that the object was a newspaper.

  “It says here,” Alexandra informed him, tapping the newspaper dated April 2, 1813, with her forefinger, “that Lady Weatherford-Heath gave a ball for eight hundred people, followed by a supper consisting of no less than forty-five different dishes! Forty-five dishes! Can you conceive of such extravagance? Furthermore,” Alex continued, absently brushing her dark curls off her nape as she glared at the offending newspaper, “the article drones on and on about the people who attended the party and what they wore. Listen to this, Sarah,” she said, looking up and smiling as Sarah Withers padded into the room carrying an armload of freshly laundered linens.

  Until Alexandra’s father died three years ago, Sarah had held the title of housekeeper, but as a result of the dire financial circumstances resulting from his death, she had been discharged along with all the other servants— excepting Filbert and Penrose, who were both too old and infirm to find new employment. Now Sarah returned only once a month, along with a peasant girl to help out with the laundering and heavy cleaning.

  In a gushing falsetto voice, Alexandra quoted for Sarah’s benefit, “Miss Emily Welford was escorted by the Earl of Marcham. Miss Welford’s ivory silk gown was adorned with pearls and diamonds.” Chuckling, Alex closed the paper and looked at Sarah. “Can you believe people actually want to read such tripe? Why would anyone care what gown somebody wore or that the Earl of Delton has lately returned from a sojourn in Scotland, or that ‘Rumor has it he is showing a particular interest in a certain young lady of considerable beauty and consequence’?”

  Sarah Withers lifted her brows and stared disapprovingly at Alex’s attire. “There are some young ladies who care about making the most of their appearance,” she pointedly replied.

  Alexandra accepted that well-intentioned gibe with cheerful, philosophical indifference. “It would take more than a little powder and puce satin to make me look like a grand lady.” Alex’s long-ago hope to emerge from a “cocoon” as a classically beautiful blonde had not come to fruition at all. Instead, her short-cropped, curly hair was dark chestnut, her chin was still small and stubborn, her nose still pert, and her body was just as slim and agile as a lad’s. In point of fact, her only truly remarkable feature was a pair of sooty-lashed, huge aqua eyes that completely dominated her face—a face that was now lightly tanned from working and riding in the sun. However, her looks no longer concerned Alex in the least; she had other, more important matters to occupy her mind.

  Three years ago, after the death of her grandfather was followed almost immediately by the demise of her father, Alex had become technically, albeit inaccurately, the “man of the house.” Into her youthful hands had fallen the job of looking after the two elderly servants, stretching the meager family budget, providing food for the table, and dealing with her mama’s temper tantrums.

  An ordinary girl, brought up in the ordinary way, would never have been able to rise to the challenge. But there was nothing ordinary about Alexandra’s appearance or her abilities. As a young girl, she had learned to fish and shoot for sport to become a good companion to her father when he came to visit. Now, with calm determination, she simply used those same skills to feed her family.

  The clatter of wood being dumped into the wood box banished from her mind all thoughts of ball gowns dusted with diamonds. Shivering from the chill that seeped through the thick walls of the house, making it damp and cold even in the summer, she wrapped her arms across her chest. “Don’t waste that, Filbert,” she said quickly, as the footman bent to add one of the small logs he’d brought up to the feeble little fire. “It’s not really cold in here,” she prevaricated, “it’s merely a little brisk. Very healthy. Besides, I’m leaving in a few minutes for Mary Ellen’s brother’s party, and there’s no point in wasting good wood.”

  Filbert glanced at her and nodded, but the log slipped out of his grasp and rolled across the scuffed wooden floor. He straightened and glanced about him, trying to distinguish the brown log from the sea of floorboards about him. Conscious of his failing eyesight, Alexandra said gently, “It’s by the foot of my desk,” then watched with sympathy as the old footman padded over to the desk and crouched down, feeling about him for the log. “Sarah?” she asked suddenly, as the same strange feeling of expectation she had occasionally experienced over the last three years gathered in her breast. “Did you ever have the feeling that something special was going to happen?”

  Sarah briskly closed the drawers of the bureau and bustled over to the armoire. “Indeed I have.”

  “Did the feeling come true?”

  “It did.”

  “Really?” Alexandra said, her aqua eyes bright, inquisitive. “What happened?”

  “The chimney caved in, just as I warned your papa it was going to do, did he not see to having it repaired.”

  Musical laughter erupted from Alexandra and she shook her head. “No, no, that’s not the sort of feeling I mean.” A little embarrassed, Alexandra confided, “I’ve had this feeling now and then since shortly after Grandfather died, but it’s been ever so much stronger and constant this past week. I feel as if I’m standing on a precipice, waiting for something that’s about to happen.”

  Taken aback by Alexandra’s dreamy voice and prolonged languor when she was normally matter-of-fact and a whirlwind of busy activity, Sarah studied her. “What is it you think is going to happen?”

  Alexandra shivered deliciously. “Something wonderful.” She started to say more, but her thoughts were scattered by a loud feminine screech that came from Uncle Monty’s bedroom across the hall, followed by the sound of a slamming door and a pair of running feet. Alexandra flipped upright and jumped off the bed in a
graceful, energetic motion that was far more natural to her nature than her previous state of dreamy stillness, just as Mary, the young peasant girl whom Sarah brought with her to help with the laundering, charged angrily into the bedroom.

  “ ’E swatted me, ’e did!” Mary burst out, rubbing her ample bottom. Raising her arm, she pointed an accusing finger toward Uncle Monty’s room. “I don’t ’ave to take that from the likes o’ him, nor nobody! I’m a nice girl, I am, an’—”

  “Then act like a nice girl and mind your tongue!” Sarah snapped.

  Alexandra sighed as the full weight of her responsibility for this household settled around her again and drove away all thoughts of forty-five-course dinners. “I’ll go and speak to Uncle Monty,” she told Mary. “I’m sure he won’t do it again,” and then with smiling candor, she added, “At least, he won’t do it if you don’t bend over within his reach. Sir Montague is something of a . . . well . . . a connoisseur of the female anatomy, and when a female has a particularly well-rounded bottom, he tends to show his approval with a pat—rather like a horseman who pats the flank of a particularly fine thoroughbred.”

  This speech had the effect of flattering and subduing the peasant girl, since despite Montague Marsh’s ungentlemanly behavior, he was nevertheless a knight of the realm.

  When everyone had left, Sarah glowered gloomily at the empty room with the Gazette left upon the bed. “Something wonderful,” she snorted, thinking with bitter sorrow of the seventeen-year-old girl who was trying, without complaint, to carry the burden of a bizarre household whose only servants were a stooped, elderly butler who was too proud to admit he was going deaf and a hopelessly nearsighted footman. Alexandra’s family was as much a burden to her as her servants, Sarah thought with disgust. Her great-uncle Montague Marsh, although good-natured, was rarely sober, while never drunk enough to overlook any opportunity to show his amorous attention to anyone wearing skirts. Mrs. Lawrence, Alexandra’s mother, who should have taken charge after Mr. Lawrence died, had abdicated all responsibility for the running of Lawrence House to Alexandra, and was the greatest of Alex’s burdens.

  “Uncle Monty,” Alexandra said in a mildly exasperated voice to her father’s uncle, who’d come to live with them two years ago when none of his closer relatives would have him.

  The portly gentleman was seated before the feeble fire, his gouty leg propped upon a footstool, his expression soulful. “I suppose you’ve come to ring a peal over me about that girl,” he muttered, eyeing her with baleful, red-rimmed eyes.

  He looked so much like a chastened, elderly child that Alexandra was unable to maintain a suitably stern demeanor. “Yes,” she admitted with a reluctant little smile, “and also to discover where you’ve hidden that bottle of contraband Madeira your friend Mr. Watterly brought here yesterday.”

  Uncle Monty reacted with a poor imitation of righteous indignation. “And who, may I ask, dared to presume there is such a bottle present in these rooms?”

  He watched askance as Alexandra ignored him and began methodically and efficiently searching his favorite hiding places—beneath the cushion of the settee, under his mattress, and up the chimney. After trying a half-dozen other places, she walked over to his chair and held out her hand good-naturedly. “Give it over, Uncle Monty.”

  “What?” he asked blankly, shifting uneasily as the bottle of Madeira beneath him poked him in one side of his ample rear end.

  Alexandra saw him shift and chuckled. “The bottle of Madeira you’re sitting upon, that’s what.”

  “You mean my medicine,” he corrected. “As to that, Dr. Beetle told me I’m to use it for its curative benefits, whenever my old war wound kicks up.”

  Alexandra studied his bloodshot eyes and rosy cheeks, assessing the extent of his inebriation with the expertise that came from two years of dealing with her reckless, irresponsible, but lovable old uncle. Stretching her hand nearer to him, she insisted, “Give over, Uncle. Mama is expecting the squire and his wife to supper, and she wants you there, too. You’ll need to be as sober as a—”

  “I’ll need to be foxed in order to endure that pompous pair. I tell you, Alex m’gel, the two o’ them give me the shudders. Piety is for saints and saints aren’t fit company for a flesh-and-blood man.” When Alexandra continued to hold out her hand, the old man sighed resignedly, lifted his hip and withdrew the half-empty bottle of Madeira from beneath him.

  “That’s a good fellow,” Alexandra praised, giving him a comradely pat on the shoulder. “If you’re still up when I return, we’ll have a cozy game of whist and—”

  “When you return?” Sir Montague uttered in alarm. “You don’t mean to go off and leave me alone with your mama and her insufferable guests!”

  “I do indeed,” Alexandra said gaily, already heading off. She blew him a kiss and closed the door on his mutterings about “expiring from boredom” and “being cast into eternal gloom.”

  She was passing her mother’s bedchambers when Felicia Lawrence called out in a frail but imperious voice, “Alexandra! Alexandra, is that you?”

  The angry note in her mother’s plaintive voice made Alex pause and mentally brace herself for what was bound to be another unpleasant confrontation with her mother over Will Helmsley. Squaring her thin shoulders, she stepped into her mother’s room. Mrs. Lawrence was seated before a dressing table, wearing an old mended wrapper, frowning at her reflection in the mirror. The three years since her husband’s death had added decades to her mother’s once-beautiful face, Alex thought sadly. The vivacious sparkle that had once lit her mother’s eyes and enlivened her voice had faded, along with the rich mahogany color of her hair. Now it was dull brown, streaked with grey. It wasn’t just grief that had ravaged her mother’s face, Alex knew. It was also anger.

  Three weeks after George Lawrence’s death, a splendid carriage had drawn up at their house. In it was Alex’s beloved father’s “other family”—the wife and daughter he’d been living with in London for over twelve years. He had kept his legitimate family tucked away in near-poverty in Morsham, while he lived with his illegitimate one in grand style. Even now, Alex winced with pain as she recalled that devastating day when she’d unexpectedly come face to face with her half-sister in this very house. The girl’s name was Rose, and she was excessively pretty. But that didn’t hurt Alex nearly so much as the beautiful gold locket Rose was wearing around her slender white throat. George Lawrence had given it to her, just as he had given one to Alex. But Alex’s was made of tin.

  The tin locket, and the fact that he had chosen to live with the lovely little blond girl, made her father’s opinion of Alex and her mother eloquently clear.

  Only in one area had he treated both his families equally —and that was in the matter of estate: He had died without a shilling to his name, leaving both families equally penniless.

  For her mother’s sake, Alex had buried the pain of his betrayal in her heart and tried to behave normally, but her mother’s grief had turned to rage. Mrs. Lawrence had retired permanently to her rooms to nurse her fury, leaving everything else to Alex to handle. For two and a half years, Mrs. Lawrence had taken no interest in her household or her grieving daughter. When she spoke, it was only to rail about the injustice of her fate and her husband’s treachery.

  But six months ago Mrs. Lawrence had realized that her situation might not be so hopeless as she’d thought. She had hit upon a means of escape from her plight—and Alexandra was to be that means. Alexandra, she had decided, was going to snare a husband who could rescue both of them from this impoverished life-style. To that end, Mrs. Lawrence had turned her acquisitive attention to the various families in the neighborhood. Only one of them, the Helmsleys, had enough wealth to suit her, and so she decided upon their son Will—despite the fact that he was a dull, henpecked youth, greatly under the influence of his overpowering parents, who were nearly puritanical in their religious leanings.

  “I’ve asked the squire and his wife to supper,” Mrs. Lawrence sa
id to Alex in the mirror. “And Penrose has promised to prepare an excellent meal.”

  “Penrose is a butler, Mama, he can’t be expected to cook for company.”

  “I am well aware of Penrose’s original position in the household, Alexandra. However, he does cook better than Filbert or you, so we will have to make do with his skills this evening. And with fish, of course,” she said, and a delicate shudder shook her thin shoulders. “I do wish we didn’t have to eat so much fish. I never cared overmuch for it.”

  Alexandra, who caught the fish and shot whatever game she could find for their table, flushed, as if she was somehow failing in her duty as head of the strange household. “I’m sorry, Mama, but game is scarce just now. Tomorrow, I’ll ride out into the countryside and see if I can get something better. Just now, I’m leaving, and I won’t be home until late.”

  “Late?” her mother gasped. “But you must be here tonight, and you must, must, must be on the most excellent behavior. You know what sticklers the squire and his wife are for modesty and decorum in a female, although it galls my soul that that man has left us so low in the world that we must now cater to the preferences of a mere squire.”

  Alexandra didn’t need to ask who “that man” referred to. Her mother always referred to Alex’s father either as “that man” or as “your father”—as if Alexandra herself were somehow to blame for choosing him and she, Mrs. Lawrence, were the mere innocent victim of that choice.

  “Then you mustn’t cater to the squire,” Alexandra said with gentle, but unshakable firmness, “for I wouldn’t marry Will Helmsley if it would save me from starving—which we are not in the least danger of doing.”

  “Oh yes, you will,” her mother said in a low, angry voice that sprang from a mixture of desperation and terror. “And you must comport yourself like the wellborn young lady you are. No more gallivanting about the countryside. The Helmsleys won’t overlook a breath of scandal if it is attached to their future daughter-in-law.”