He could, of course, ask her to become his mistress. He shrank from the prospect. He had heard her at her nightly prayers, and knew how firm were her religious convictions. Almost, he could hear her saying, “I’ll die a old maid ’fore I sell meself to any cove who wants to have me without loving me enough to give me his name!” He saw again the bag of onions whizzing at his jaw, and smiled wistfully. So fierce was the pride of his little love, God bless her.
There was only one logical answer: to put her out of his life. Provide for her—buy her a shop, perhaps, and a cottage where she and Absalom could live together in comfort. Put her out of his life … Anguished, he kissed the top of her head and hugged her closer.
And he thought achingly, ‘Lord, why did you bring her to me, only to part us forever?’
CHAPTER X
The news swept Glendenning Abbey with the speed of a grass fire. Lord Horatio had arrived in somebody else’s carriage, and he hadn’t come alone, but was carrying a fast asleep lady into the house. A young lady! And with the countess and Miss Marguerite in London town! And the earl expected back at any minute! Whatever next?
Thus it was that, as the massive doors were swung open and Glendenning stepped across the threshold with Amy in his arms, he heard the faintest sound, like a muted and collective sigh, and he wondered how many of their small army of servants had gathered where they might view his scandalous behaviour. His jaw tightening, his eyes flashed to the butler. On Darrow’s usually imperturbable countenance he caught a glimpse of dismay. It did not occur to him that his recent illness had left its mark on him, and his only partially correct interpretation of that expression sent his brows twitching into his rare frown.
“Miss Consett is fatigued,” he said crisply. “She has had a most harrowing experience. I shall want two of our best maids to care for her.”
The butler’s eyes darted to the steps.
“She brings neither servants nor luggage,” said Glendenning in a voice of ice. “Require Mrs. Burnaby to have the Duchess Suite readied at once, if you please. And a fire lit in the hearth.”
Darrow inclined his head. “Yes, milord. Perhaps the footmen could carry—”
“No. I shall take her upstairs.”
Darrow stood motionless for a second, looking after that resolute figure. A shushing of draperies alerted him to the fact that Mrs. Burnaby was beside him. He turned and sent one round-eyed lackey running for the maids, and the other hurrying to summon the fire boy.
A tall woman, with a graceful carriage and a meticulousness in dress that caused her plain brown gown to appear elegant, the housekeeper ruled her domain with firm but not unkind authority. Just now, her fine hazel eyes were aghast, and she murmured, “’Pon my soul, Mr. Darrow, he’s in a proper rage. Only see how he limps. Whatever do you think…?”
“Trouble, is what I think,” said Darrow. “And there’ll be more and to spare when the master comes home.”
“Which he is liable to do at any minute,” she nodded.
“Lord Horatio wants the Duchess Suite for Miss Consett. Best get it ready. Fast.”
“The Duchess Suite!” Full of questions and speculation, Mrs. Burnaby knew better than to give voice to either, and after that shocked remark she rustled away, torn between concern and indignation. His lordship looked properly wrung out, true, but he knew very well that the Duchess Suite was reserved for important guests. Not for his new lightskirt!
Striding towards the main staircase, Glendenning was already regretting his quick-tempered high-handedness. Amy weighed very little, but the Duchess Suite was miles away, and his confounded ankle made stairs a nuisance. On the third step, he stumbled.
At once a hand was supporting his elbow. Michael’s valet said, “I think you are tired, sir. Permit that we help.”
“Gently, then.” Glendenning relinquished his burden into the arms of a large and magnificent footman. “Gently. The poor soul is worn out.”
He saw by the footman’s suddenly round eyes that his words had provided fuel for the scandal, and was too weary to care. Quite unable to keep up, he hobbled after Whittlesey, longing for his own bed, but with no intention of seeking it as yet.
By the time he limped into the luxurious suite, more servants had scurried up the back stairs. Two upstairs maids were flying around the great bed, whipping sheets and blankets about; the fireboy was coaxing a fire into being; a blushful abigail carried in a nightgown, dressing gown and slippers, undoubtedly borrowed from Marguerite; another was lighting candles. The footman stood stolidly with Amy in his arms.
Mrs. Burnaby bustled in. “Oh my, what a lovely creature,” she observed, peeping at Amy. With the slightly proprietary manner of one who, having served the family since the viscount was in short coats, did not stand on ceremony, she added, “Now, you really must be off, my lord, and let us care for her.”
“Egad,” said Glendenning, comprehending fuzzily that he was in a lady’s bedchamber. “So I must. You will look after her, Burny?”
“Of course. And you must look after yourself, my lord. You are worn to a shade. I trust you have not been ill?”
“Oh—a little. Nothing to matter. I must see my mother. Is the countess downstairs?”
“Why, no, sir. Lady Nola and Miss Marguerite are both in Town.”
“Oh, my God,” gasped Glendenning, causing several loyal but worried hearts to beat a little easier. “What’s to be done, Burny? Must I go into Windsor for the night? Miss Consett has been entrusted to my care, but we’d no chance to bring a chaperone, and—”
Smiling her relief, the housekeeper said that since Miss Marguerite had left her abigail at home, they would set up a truckle bed, and the girl could sleep in here with Miss Consett, which should satisfy convention, at least for one night.
The viscount hesitated, but suddenly the humour of it struck him. Whatever, he wondered, would the redoubtable Mrs. Burnaby say if she knew he had spent considerably more than one night alone with Miss Consett, with not a whiff of a chaperone within miles! He rested a last searching glance on the peacefully sleeping face of his beloved, and limped out. Mr. Whittlesey, waiting at the open door, had seen the betraying softening of the drawn features and he exchanged a quick glance with the housekeeper. He had hoped for a minute that they were out of the bog. It appeared that his hopes may have been premature.
* * *
Amy had never indulged in the wastefulness of sleeping late. When a distant clock chimed six she awoke to the strange sensation that she was still dreaming. She lay in a bed big enough for five and soft as a cloud. Silken sheets and a quilted pink and white eiderdown covered her, and her head rested on an even prettier pillowcase than the satin one she had prigged from a bazaar last summer. She closed her eyes, but when she opened them she was still in the dream, so she sat up, and pulled back the pink silk bedcurtains. The room was a dream, all by itself. Someone had shared it with her, apparently, because there was a small bed at the foot of her own, which had obviously been slept in.
Unaware that the embroidered and tasselled pull by the bed would summon maids, she got out of bed and wandered about, gazing in awe from one delight to another. Thick rugs were strewn on gleaming floors, the furnishings were white and gold, the walls were hung with a hand-painted paper of pink, mauve, and white, and so exquisite one might chop out bits, she thought, and frame them. The casements stood wide, although the morning was cool and clouds still covered the sun. She hurried over to look out upon a great sweep of gardens and ornamental water, with a park beyond that stretched to the distant hills.
“Cor!” she whispered. “This dream is a bit of all right, it is!”
Dancing over to the wash-stand she poured water from a porcelain pitcher into a bowl so fragile that she dreaded lest she break it. When one dwelt in a dream palace, one must be clean, even if the water was much colder than the stream wherein she usually performed her morning ablutions. She applied soap to sponge and washed bravely.
Afterwards, she went shiveringly i
n search of clothing, and gingerly opened one of the presses. There hung the gown from Mrs. Wilks’ little village shop.
A long time later, she was still sitting on the floor, holding the gown pressed against her. But smells came wafting in through the open windows. Delicious smells of frying bacon and coffee brewing. And instead of sharing whatever time she had with him, she was sitting here, grieving. Uncle Ab would say that was stupid. Dear old Ab. He’d likely led those varmints a proper dance yesterday, and got clean away. But she wondered where he was, and knew he’d be worrying about her. She said a prayer for him, then jumped up and began to brush her hair.
Soon, wearing the pink gown that she would cherish for as long as she lived, she crept into the hall and caught her breath at the splendour of it. She wandered along, edging around carpets too lovely to be stepped upon, and looking about her as she searched for breakfast. Half an hour passed, and she was still wandering. She had seen rooms with red velvet furniture, and rooms with sofas and chairs of blue brocade; gold rooms and cream rooms; and a great big chamber, all scarlet and white, that she’d have thought must be a ballroom, but was evidently a sort of state dining room, for it had a very big table sitting all by itself in the middle of the highly polished floor. It was quite the strangest dining table she’d ever seen, for the top was covered in a fuzzy sort of green stuff with a bunch of white balls huddled in the middle of it. There was a high edge all around the table that would get in the way when you was trying to eat, and most strange of all, there was round holes at each corner of the green cloth, going clear through the table and with little bags hanging under them. She’d stood and puzzled at that table for some time, wondering why the balls was there, and had finally decided they must be for guests to heave at the servants if they was too slow. Going on then, she had been awed by two rooms, one big and one huge, the walls covered from floor to ceiling with crowded bookshelves. Entranced, she had crept in, but she’d heard someone walk past, and, afraid they might think she’d prigged something, she’d hidden under a long thin table until the footsteps receded. Now, she tiptoed back into this wide corridor that seemed to go on forever. Where, oh where was the kitchen? And would she ever find her darling Lordship in this great echoing place?
She turned a corner and, in the middle of another endless corridor, discovered a curving flight of stairs. Very grand. She ran down them, and could hear voices and, distantly, the rattle of dishes. The entrance hall was vast and very beautiful in a royal sort of way, but she mustn’t stop to look at all the great mirrors, and the paintings on the ceilings, and the fine but naughty statues, and the vases and bowls of flowers. She skipped along lightly and turning into yet another corridor almost collided with a very big gent who had a rather tired face, and carried a parcel under one arm.
He stopped and stared at her. He wasn’t all dressed up fancy like, and he wore a ordinary kind of wig, which was crooked. He must, she decided, be a servant, and a overworked one by the look of him.
“Where’s the vittles, mate?” she whispered.
He scowled and looked very angry indeed. “What?” he thundered.
Amy jumped to put a hand over his lips. “Crumbs!” she hissed. “D’ye want to wake the lot of ’em? What you getting all beside of yerself fer?” She recollected belatedly where she was, and that she mustn’t disgrace her love. Stepping back, she held up one hand to silence him as she straightened her gown. Then, “Does you work here, my good cove?” she enquired with a regal smile.
“No, I do not, madam,” growled the Earl of Bowers-Malden, setting aside the gift he had brought from Ireland for his wife. He added with a curl of the lip, “Do you?”
His sarcasm was lost upon Amy. She must, she thought, have done well, for he had called her “madam.” “No, I do not neither,” she said, enunciating carefully. But the thought of seeing Tio again was making her too happy to maintain a proper reserve. Her sunny smile dawned. “And it’s a good thing,” she went on, taking his arm in her friendly way. “Straight, a body could starve to death in here, before he found the fork-and-gaiters.” An oddly glazed look came into his eyes, and she bit her lip. Perhaps she’d better talk fancy, at that. “A funny way of gab what I picked up from my second abigail,” she explained airily, “meaning pork and taters.” And she added, “I’m a—er, sort of guest, you might say. Of Viscount Glendenning. Have you et?”
The earl took a deep breath and a slightly purple hue darkened his face. So Horatio was here, for once. And believing his trusting sire to be safely from home he had dared—had dared come slithering into the abbey with his trollop! He’d skin the young dog alive, be damned if—
“Poor old duck,” said Amy, peering up at him anxiously. “Ye looks proper gut-foundered.”
Reeling, the earl nonetheless managed to declare in tones calculated to freeze Salome in the middle of her dance, that he was neither old nor a duck.
“No, but you better eat, ’cause you do look poorly. It’s always the way with big co—men,” she imparted, pulling him along with her. “They got to keep their strength up. Don’t you worry, mate. I’ll see you get fed.”
With a muffled snort, the earl pulled free so violently that he cracked his elbow on an armoire chest and had to grip his lips together to keep from swearing.
Amy’s arm went around him. “Here, just lean on me. You’ll feel better once you got—pop something in yer—your belly.”
The earl started a furious rejoinder, but she smiled up at him with such radiance that he experienced the odd sensation that the sun had broken through the clouds and lit this rather gloomy hall. Jove, but she was a pretty little chit. The ridiculous aspects of the situation began to intrigue him. He chuckled and entered the farce. “The breakfast room is over here, miss,” he whispered, and opened the door, hoping it was still too early for many servants to be about.
They weren’t, but because he had sent a courier on before him, and was expected by eight o’clock, the sideboard had been prepared, and the covered tureens were ready. He ushered Amy inside.
“Here,” she said, pausing uncertainly. “You won’t get turned off, will you? I mean, is—are you let eat in here?”
“Occasionally, yes,” he said. “But thank you for your kind concern. Perhaps you’ll allow me to serve you?”
“With what, mate? There ain’t nowt to serve.”
He grinned, pulled out a chair for her, then crossed to the sideboard and began to dish out eggs and bacon and kidneys and buttered muffins. Placing a full plate before her, he excused himself, went swiftly into the large breakfast parlour and gave an imperative tug on the bell rope. Rejoining Amy a few minutes later, he carried a fragrant pot of coffee which he set beside her. “Now,” he said, “we may be comfortable.”
“I don’t know about comfortable,” she said dubiously. “I can’t help but feel sorry for ’em, you know, Mr.—What’s your name? Me good man,” she added, since she was Tio’s guest, and must act the part of a nob.
“Gregory,” he said, enjoying himself more by the minute. “And yours, ma’am?”
“Miss Consett. You gotta eat more than that! Big cove like you. Better grab some of them—those there pork slices. Don’t no one take care of you?”
“Alas, no,” he lied, callously disposing of his beloved wife and family, countless relatives and friends, and an army of loyal retainers. He selected a slice of cold pork and conveyed his laden plate to the table. “But—do tell me, why are you sorry for the—er, folks that lives here?”
She threw a glance at the doors and, forgetting her status, leaned closer. “Well, I don’t think Horatio likes living here much,” she said confidingly. “And I reckon I wouldn’t, neither.”
Frowning a little, he asked, “Did Lord Glendenning tell you he doesn’t like the abbey?”
“No, but it’s plain as the nose on yer phiz,” she answered, daintily licking jam from her thumb. “His old man’s got a proper bad case of the dafts.”
Fascinated, he murmured, “Indeed?”
/> “Must have, poor old gaffer.” She waved a piece of bacon at him. “What gent in his right mind would stick pictures up on the ceiling where anyone’s going to get a crick in their neck looking at ’em? Unless he didn’t like ’em, maybe, only I thought they was quite nice.”
At this point the earl, who had choked over his coffee, was obliged to resort to wiping his eyes with his napkin. Amy left her chair to pound him on the back, urge him to drink some water, and enquire with warm solicitude if he was better.
He said gratefully that she was a “kind-hearted creature,” and after she had returned to her chair, he asked breathlessly, “What do you suppose caused Bowers-Malden to be short of a sheet? I’ve heard his son and heir is something of a serpent’s tooth. Perhaps he drove the earl to—”
Indignant, she interrupted. “What, Lord Horatio? Stuff! They don’t come no finer than Tio.” A dreaming look came into her eyes. She sighed wistfully, then realized her companion was staring at her with a rather odd expression. She added hastily, “No, mate. I ’spect it’s this house what done it. Give the earl the miseries, I mean. After all, it ain’t a proper house, is it? So awful big and lonely.” Being a fair-minded girl, she sought about for some redeeming feature, then amended, “Well, I ’spect you could play a good game of bowls in lots of the rooms. But they got the funniest table in their big dining room, with the cloth stuck down and all green and furry, so how they’d ever wash it I don’t know. I suppose it’s all of a piece, ’cause if they live in places like this it’s small wonder most of the Quality’s clear off their tibbys!”
Had We Never Loved Page 20
