“Oh, nonsense, Miss Lark. You have never been overset by your arrangement in the past. Why begin this journey of self-pity now? You know very well that Lord Peter would not attach you to his son unless he thought it was a fine idea.”
Rebekka came to kneel by Lark’s side and took the younger girl’s hand in her own. “Dear girl, could you not try to speak?” She asked softly. “It would be so much easier were you to talk to the lord with your own lips.”
Lark viewed her abigail through tear-pooled eyes and shook her head slowly. How she wished she could speak, but no matter how much she desired it, conversing with Jonathon was not possible. Even if she did speak, he would never understand how she had come to rely on his father for so many years—indeed for the majority of her life. He would still think she was the conniving wench he’d called her that day in the library.
Rebekka patted Lark’s hand. “All right, then. I must go to Lord Somerset. I advise you to be quiet until I return. I am quite sure the guests have gone since Lord Somerset made his appearance in these rooms, but I cannot be certain.”
Lark nodded, knowing full well her dreadful role. She had spent her life in silent exile, and for all appearances, her situation was not going to change any time soon.
~*∞*~
Jonathon stared at his mother’s portrait. It had been such an age since he had resided in this house that it was rather comforting to be able to see her staring back at him on a daily basis. She was smiling on him in the dainty way he remembered of old—quite comforting, indeed. What would she think of his father’s odd behaviour? And of this new development?
Perhaps he would have some answers once he spoke with Smythe. Jonathon had attempted to contact the solicitor, but his business associate had said he was away on some family errand. It had quite perturbed Jonathon. However, the past fortnight had kept him occupied with family and grieving, and now it would not be too much longer before Smythe was at his disposal. Presently, Jonathon’s most pressing concern was Lark.
He sat on the settee and drew a long taste of claret. How was he going to introduce Lark into society without the entire ton prattling to one another about her sudden presence? He could hear the chatty questions already. “From where does she hail?” “How did you make her acquaintance?”
Well, he had six months of mourning to discover the answers to those forthcoming questions.
The library doors slid open, and Rebekka stepped in. Jonathon rose to his feet. “There you are. Come in, come in,” he said.
Rebekka approached. “You wished to see me, m’lord.”
He bestowed on her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Do sit down, Rebekka. I do not mean to sound the ogre. I am merely overtired.”
“I think no such thing of you, m’lord.” She perched like a nervous sparrow on the edge of a chair.
“I wish to know about Miss Lark. We must be sure she is ready to make an appearance in society.” Jonathon began to pace the floor. He felt like a caged animal, knowing not whether the cage was a sanctuary or a prison. Silently, he cursed his father for putting him in this predicament. He stopped and turned to face Rebekka. “With her inability to speak, she shall have to be impeccable in every other respect in order to escape the gossipmongers.”
“Yes, m’lord. There has not been any need to worry about the social graces until now, but I assure you, I have been coaching her this fortnight past.”
“Miss Lark seems to have many social graces. That is not to what I refer. She must be apprised of the latest fashions, on-dits that every acceptable young miss must know.”
“I quite comprehend m’lord. Lark is a bright gel. Had no choice really, what with only books and me for company. But her brain is sharp. She learns quickly.”
“I suppose she knows nothing of dance?” He sipped his claret.
“No, I would daresay Miss Lark knows nothing of dance, and it is unfortunate that I do not possess that knowledge or skill myself. I cannot instruct her.”
He lifted his hand in deference. “It is of little consequence. I may not enjoy the activity, but I am accomplished enough to teach her, I suppose.”
“I am sure Miss Lark would be most grateful. She does so want to please you, m’lord.”
“Does she? She did not bestow an enthusiastic reception when I arrived at her rooms earlier. She would rather this entire wedding be forgotten, would she not?”
“No, m’lord, I assure you. It is best difficult for Miss Lark to believe you are willing to take her to wife when you haven’t seen her longer than this past decade.” Rebekka smiled confidently. “Lord Peter said you were a willing husband.” She lowered her eyes, the smile barely fading from her lips. “I must confess, even I did not understand how you could hold regard for Lark when you thought she no longer lived. Still and all, it was a surprise to us both when you seemed put off by the idea. If I may be so bold, did you not wish the marriage, my lord?”
Jonathon tried to appear relaxed. He needed information from her, and so had to appear as if he were completely aware. “What exactly did my father say to Miss Lark?” He asked carefully, not wanting to alert Rebekka to his prying mind. One who thought they were discussing mutually shared knowledge often sang a much prettier song than one who thought they were divulging secret information. When she didn’t respond, he repeated the question. “What exactly did my father say to Miss Lark?”
Confusion marred Rebekka’s countenance for a moment. “He said you had always held a fondness for Miss Lark.” Her brows came together in worry. “Is that not so, m’lord?”
“Did it not occur to Miss Lark that I had not seen her since she was a mere child?”
“Of course, m’lord, but Lord Peter informed Miss Lark that he had discussed her with you after your illness some time past, and that you had quite fallen for her quiet disposition and willingness to please. Being aware of the manner which Lord Peter could tell a tale, it did not seem so farfetched that he could tell you of Miss Lark’s true disposition in a way that would win your heart.”
Yes, Peter Rexley certainly was good at spinning a yarn—just how good, Jonathon was just beginning to understand. Without doubt, the man could’ve sold London Bridge to the Americans—indeed, to someone with no water to cross for miles. His father had been quite astute in days gone by—perhaps unto his end, Jonathon considered, now that he knew his father was not as insane as everyone believed.
“One more thing, and then I will allow you to return to attending Miss Lark. What say you about this hand language of hers? Is it something easily learned?”
“Are you asking if I could teach it to you, m’lord?”
He nodded, and a grin that stretched across the room blossomed on her face. “’Twould be considerably easier for me to converse with my wife if we spoke the same language, would it not?”
“Oh, indeed, m’lord,” the abigail answered, a curious glow in her deep brown eyes. “There is but one complication. You see, the language she speaks is French.”
“What do you mean? She understands English when we speak to her, does she not?”
Rebekka nodded. “The fellow who developed it, well, he developed it for French.” She laughed. “I had a time with the language myself when first Lord Peter had sent me to study. But my lady, she took to French as if it were her natural tongue—the hand language, too, for that matter.”
Jonathon was thoroughly intrigued. A woman who could not utter a sound actually understood two languages. Quite fascinating. “You mean to tell me, you not only translate her hand language to the spoken word, you also translate French into English?”
Rebekka let out a giggle. “’Tis not as difficult as it sounds.”
“And there is no way for her to make the signs in the English language?”
“Not that I know of, my lord. In order to understand her hand signs, you must know French.”
Fascinating, Jonathon thought. “Not to worry. I am quite fluent in French. It should not be a hindrance.”
Reb
ekka stood, clapping her hands like an excited child. “Oh, Miss Lark will be so pleased!”
“Tell Miss Lark nothing,” Jonathon ordered. He was preparing for the worst but still planned to find a way out of this charade. She did not need to think he had succumbed to this ridiculous situation.
Chapter Seven
Lark spied herself in the looking glass, tilting her head this way then that, trying to decide if the angouleme suited her. The bonnet’s fluted crown caused her face to appear too long, she decided with a frown, but the extensive broad brim would nicely shield her from the sun.
Sun, what a delightful word, that. Soon she would be able to enjoy sunlight without fear of discovery, without a time ration looming over her like some ominous, unbearable death warrant. What would it be like to stroll through a park on the arm of Lord Somerset? Her handsome lord would turn the heads of many ladies, Lark was sure, and despite the conflict that warred within her, she would be served a platter of pride to be seen with him.
She was a ninny, in infatuated with a man who offended her every feeling, a man who considered her a disgrace, a man who would never return her feelings.
She removed the bonnet and returned it carefully to its place, her mind overfull of the image of Lord Somerset. Her childish romantic ideas had imbedded themselves so deeply within, she could not bring herself to remain angry with him. To the contrary, she sympathized with his situation—regardless of what Lord Peter had said, this marriage had obviously been sprung on Jonathon. It shredded her pride, and tore her heart, to know that he held her in such contempt, would feel no pride bubble within him at the image of her by his side. If only she could bring herself to speak. If only she could prove to him her worth. But how could she accomplish such a task when she was unsure of her own merit?
A seed of uneasiness sprouted in her stomach.
She had so much to learn in so little time. She was positive she would make a mistake in the midst of the ton and bring dishonor to her betrothed. That knowledge weighed heavy in her middle.
The door opened and Rebekka entered with a huge smile brightening her face. Lark frowned. “Why do you return in such a mood?”
Rebekka gave the lady a shrug. “I am happy for you, Miss Lark. Your betrothal will be a great event.”
“Nonsense,” Lark protested, her stiff fingers emphasizing her uneasiness. “’Twill be disastrous. I am sure to shame the poor man in public, and he already believes my brain to be as deficient as my voice. I am sure to do something to confirm his suspicions.”
Rebekka’s eyes glowed as if she possessed a secret. “I fear you are to be surprised by his lordship, Miss Lark. Find patience, and you will be rewarded. Of that I would stake the world.”
“A worthless wager,” Lark protested, “since the world is not yours to mortgage.” She relaxed in a chair and began to make a note in her journal.
A rapping came at the chamber door. Lark froze, her thoughts in unexpected turmoil. She motioned for Rebekka to open the door. Jonathon stepped across the threshold with such ease and presence that it seemed he had crossed under that lintel on a regular basis.
Lark rose to greet him, but he spoke before she could scarce raise a finger.
“I would you take dinner with me this evening, Miss Lark. It seems if we are to wed, we should become acquainted with one another.” His booming tone was authoritative, almost demanding. “Rebekka will escort you down the rear stairwell and around to the front door. This way all suspicion will be avoided.” He bowed politely and left, leaving Lark standing with her mouth fallen open.
She stared at the closed portal before snapping her mouth shut. She wasn’t sure he could practice any manners at all. How could she have fallen for such a thoughtless man? She let out a grunt. “He is pomposity itself,” she signed.
“Aye,” Rebekka agreed, “but such a handsome fellow.” She turned her back on her charge and opened the carved mahogany doors of the wardrobe. “We had better be sure you look your best tonight.”
Lark would have liked to comment a few choice words, but Rebekka refused to turn around to receive them. In a disconcerted frump, Lark sat in the chair and allowed Rebekka to pick out the evening’s dinner attire.
A short time later, Lark gave Chauncy a demure smile when he greeted her and Rebekka at the front door. What must he think of this situation? He and Penelope, his wife and Chief of the Kitchen, knew about her living arrangements. He must think it awfully strange to be summoned to the door by Lark herself.
“Ladies,” he said quite politely. “Do come in. Lord Somerset has instructed me to show you directly into the dining room.” He escorted them into the dining room as if Lark were as important as the Prince Regent.
The room was aglow from the sconces on the decorated walls, the table illuminated by two silver candelabra that revealed the most delicately decorated china—small pink roses encircled by a band of gold. Crystal wine glasses, three to be exact, frosted with etched roses graced the place settings.
Lark glanced at Rebekka then back to the table. She had taken meals in this room several times over the years, but never had it appeared so elegant. While Lord Peter was not exactly the eccentric most had thought him to be, he genuinely did not go for show, either.
He had lost his zeal for life after the death of his wife and of that, Lark could sympathize to the full. Although only a child when the fire claimed the lives of all but a few of those whom she loved, she had felt the loss with the heart of an adult. Perhaps more so, for through these many years there had been something—a touch of doubt, perhaps fear?—that had chipped away at her consciousness. A feeling deep inside, almost tangible, yet elusive, that hinted of an understanding of what had happened that fateful night. There were times she strove at remembrance, hopeful her secretive mind might know something that could free her from the guilt of having been the only survivor of that house—save Rebekka, of course.
Penelope came into the room with a platter of something hidden beneath a dome of silver. Her graying hair was neatly capped, her blue dress covered by a protective white apron. Lark smiled at her warmly.
“Good evening, Miss Lark,” Penelope said in her thick southwestern brogue. “I trust you an’ ’is Lordship will ’ave a fine sooppa.”
“A fine supper, indeed, if you have done the making,” Lark said with her hands and waited for Rebekka to translate the reply.
“Ah, sooch a loovely gel, y’are.”
“I see all is prepared on schedule.”
Lark spun at Jonathon’s voice resonating directly behind her. He appeared a touch startled by her sudden movement, but then his dark eyes softened and he reached a hand out, although he did not actually touch her. “I did not mean to frighten you, my dear. Please accept my humble apology.” He took her hand and bowed over it.
Dear. The sentiment resounded in Lark’s mind evoking a wonderfully joyous resonance. Perhaps he would come to realize she was not to blame for this betrothal and would treat her kindly.
She gave him a hopeful smile and signed.
“Miss Lark says she looks forward to the evening meal with you, my lord,” Rebekka translated.
He proffered his crooked arm. “Shall we dine?”
She showed him a polite smile then slipped her arm into his. The warmth of his essence penetrated his dark brown velvet coat sleeve and extended itself to Lark. She closed her eyes as it traveled through every nerve in her body, wrapping her in a warmth replete with comfort and hope. She forced the corners of her mouth to remain in a constant line, lest he realize her response to his touch. She needed to be indifferent to him, but her emotions refused to cooperate with her head. He was marrying her only out of obligation and respect for his father’s dying wish. The best she could hope for was a cordial friendship that would make both their lives tolerable. Regardless of how much she secretly wished otherwise, she had to remember that.
With a word to Rebekka to join them, as Penelope quit the room, Jonathon escorted Lark to the table and offer
ed her a chair, then sat at the head of the table to her left. Noticing Rebekka still loitering by the entrance, he turned his attention to the abigail. “Please join us, Rebekka,” he said.
“But my lord—”
“Please do not argue, Rebekka. There is already a place set for you. Don’t waste time while our supper proves ready to be served.”
Rebekka inclined her head and took her place opposite her charge. Lark smiled reassurance at her abigail in an odd exchange of roles.
Penelope reentered the dining room and served a delightful dinner of lamb, roast potatoes, and an array of vegetables as pleasing to the eye as to the palate. Lark sat in awe as the delectable aroma filled the space, a combination of sweet cherries and unknown spices. She politely commended the meal to Lord Somerset, and he replied in stiff monotones between bites. She found her earlier hope snuffed out quite effectively. If this foreshadowed the meals they would take together once they were wed, companionship was definitely missing. Lark once again doubted the sanity in Peter Rexley’s entire scheme.
As Penelope removed the soiled supper plates, Jonathon turned his attention to Rebekka. “I trust you have enjoyed the meal?” She looked puzzled for a moment, gazing at Lark as if awaiting a reply. “I was asking you, Rebekka, not Miss Lark. I have, of a certain, learned to address her directly by now.”
Rebekka nodded slowly. “Yes, my lord. The meal was delicious, and you are most kind.”
“And a dead bore,” Lark added with her hands. Rebekka must have caught the rebuke out of the corner of her eye, for she threw Lark a scathing reprimand.
“What did she say?” Jonathon asked Rebekka.
Rebekka faltered only for a moment before replying. “She added her opinion of the evening, my lord,” she replied evenly.
Jonathon eyed Lark for a time. He felt like the odd one out of a joke, and he didn’t know whether to be insulted or incensed. He was most definitely going to have to learn this hand-language; otherwise, she might cut him to the quick at every turn and leap. Besides, there were truths his father had omitted regarding Lark and the Blackwell estate, and if he were going to uncover what was presently well-concealed, he was going to have to understand everything his pretty intended was saying.
The Resurrection of Lady Somerset Page 6
