The Countess

by Catherine Coulter

  I waited.

  When Pratt and Betty had left the parlor, loaded down with platters and silverware and dishes, my husband sat back, his glass of port gracefully held between slender fingers, and regarded me from beneath those thick dark brows. I wanted to tell him that Grandfather approved and he’d been even older than Lawrence, perhaps another whole generation away. No, better to keep my mouth shut if that was all I could think of to say to justify my drinking. I knew he wouldn’t let this go. I waited. The reproach wasn’t long in coming. However, it wasn’t a screaming condemnation, as I was used to. No, when he spoke, his voice was cold and precise. “I presume the duke is responsible for your unusual taste in drink?”

  “It certainly wasn’t my idea at the beginning,” I said, hoping perhaps to disarm him with candor. “I found it revolting when I was thirteen. At fourteen, Grandfather informed me he was pleased that he had educated my palate. Now it is merely a habit of long-standing. I trust it doesn’t offend you.”

  It wasn’t a bad defense, I thought. What made it better was that I hadn’t lied. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps a lie would have served me better when my husband said in a very calm voice that didn’t fool me for an instant, “It is entirely inappropriate for a lady to drink port. It smacks of commonness, of trollops in alehouses. I have always detested commonness.”

  “I believe that excellent port is far too expensive for the mouths of trollops, my lord. Oh, goodness, don’t blast me. My mouth is amazingly fast, isn’t it? My brain is somewhere off in the corner, just watching. Do forgive me.” I decided not to mention my love of brandy, from Armagnac, in the Gers region of France, as every educated person knew.

  He stared at me as if I was an amazing sort of creature he had never seen before.

  “My grandfather,” I said, slowly, ready to do battle, because I wasn’t all that different from any other young lady. I stopped, cleared my throat, and began again. “My grandfather wasn’t ever common, not even for an instant in his entire life. If he approved of something, then anyone who dared to question it would be regarded as the common one, not him.”

  I thought he would stand up and dump the table over on me, but he didn’t. He drew a deep breath. “I should know by now that one must accustom oneself to the habits of one’s spouse. I have the experience. You do not. You are very young. I don’t wish to break your spirit, Andrea, no, Andy, but I cannot allow you to continue this habit when we will be in company. No, don’t argue with me. I offer you a compromise. Your port drinking will be between the two of us. Isn’t that fair?”

  “I never drank port in company,” I said. “It was always just between Grandfather and me.”

  “Then we have no argument.” He raised his glass and clinked it lightly against mine. “To my beautiful new wife. May she not ever believe that she has married a stodgy old man.”

  “Hear, hear,” I said, and grinned at him like a sinner who’d escaped punishment. I sipped the port. It wasn’t nearly as good as the port from Grandfather’s cellar. If I’d been drinking it with Grandfather, I would have made a rude noise and dumped it. I kept sipping. He was certainly fair, but life sometimes wasn’t. I believe some people would say that I’d been hoisted on my own petard.

  “You are perhaps strong-willed?”

  “Not at all,” I said, blinking a couple of times. I looked down at my napkin. I’d spread it, then folded and refolded it. “If I do anything to displease you, you must tell me. As you said, when married, one must learn compromise. One must bend. Perhaps one must even be in the wrong upon occasion.”

  “Do I understand that you’ve just given me permission to correct you if I happen to feel strongly about something?”

  I hadn’t said that at all, but he was being quite indulgent, something I’d heard older husbands many times were toward young wives. I was struck again how kind he was, and so I said easily, “That’s right. You are a gentleman, Lawrence, just as Grandfather was a gentleman.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I stalled. I just stared at him. To my absolute horror, I started crying.

  I swear I don’t know where those blasted tears came from, but they just seeped out of my eyes and trickled down my cheeks to drip off my chin. “Oh, goodness, I’m sorry.”

  When he helped me to my feet and pulled me against his chest, I didn’t hesitate. No one had held me after Grandfather’s death, no one until Peter had come. I relaxed against him. He was tall. He was comfortable. I cried and cried.

  His breath was soft and warm against my hair. “It’s all right. It has been a difficult time for you. That’s all right, Andrea, no, Andy. Just cry, my dear. That’s right.”

  I would have given up my port had he asked it of me, willingly. But he had chosen to indulge me. He was offering me companionship and friendship. He was giving me comfort. I was very lucky that he had come to see me, and had found me acceptable.

  I sobbed and hiccuped, then raised my face. “If you really don’t like it, I will stop drinking.”

  He laughed a bit and hugged me again. “No, a countess and her port shouldn’t be separated.”

  I would have killed for him at that moment. I smiled up at him through a veil of tears. “If you have any skeletons at all in your family closet, I swear upon my honor to keep quiet about them.”

  He paused for just the smallest moment, then said easily, “I would expect no less of you. Your grandfather raised you well. I hope you won’t be disappointed, but my ancestors have been a fairly staid lot, one succeeding the other without much fanfare, much scandal, much treachery. Well, perhaps a bit, but not all that much. But I appreciate your vow.

  “Now, my dear Andy, you have held up very well. I hope your new home, the new people you will meet, will help lessen your grief. But you know, my dear, grief is important. Eventually your memories of your grandfather will settle about you like a comfortable old cloak. They will comfort you, make you smile, perhaps even laugh, at the oddest moments.

  “My shoulder will always be near should you desire to use it again.”

  “God made you a very good man, sir,” I said, sniffed, and blew my nose on the handkerchief he handed me. “There are skeletons in my family, some quite scandalous ones actually, but none of them are old enough to be romantic.”

  “Between us, we will contrive to come up with one excellent horrifying tale of the past to entertain us on cold winter evenings.”

  “We must hurry, since winter is nearly upon us.”

  “I will check my history again to see what offensive lout I can dig up.”

  He walked me to my bedchamber, smiled down at me silently for a moment, and gave me a gentle pat on the cheek. “Pleasant dreams, my dearest Andy.”

  I watched him walk down the dimly lit corridor. He gave me a small wave before opening the door to his bedchamber. I wondered where his valet Flynt was sleeping. I personally wouldn’t want Flynt sleeping anywhere near me.

  I went inside to hear the delicate sleeping sighs of Miss Crislock, and George’s loud snores. I remembered the steak bits I’d put aside for George. I’d left them wrapped in my napkin on the table. The thought of George’s delight in the morning when I presented him a bite of steak made me finally pick up a candle and make my way back downstairs. Perhaps the bosomy Betty hadn’t yet cleared everything away.

  “She is very young.”

  I stopped instantly, my hand outstretched to turn the knob on the parlor door. It was a man’s voice, and I didn’t recognize it. It was coming from inside the parlor where Lawrence and I had shared our dinner, where I had cried for Grandfather and he had held me.

  Who was the man speaking to?

  “No woman is ever young,” said Lawrence, and that stalled me. Of course I was young. There was a good deal of scorn in his voice that set me frowning. He had certainly gotten back downstairs very quickly.

  “We will see,” my husband continued. “Go on ahead. We will arrive at Devbridge Manor by dinnertime the day after tomorrow, barring any nasty weather. All goe
s well. Don’t worry.”

  I ran back up the stairs, George’s steak forgotten. Who was he talking to? Why?

  Perhaps his man of business. I didn’t plan to forget his voice. I was sure to meet him soon.

  Because I was young and healthy, my stomach full, I fell asleep quickly. I slept throughout the night, deeply, even George’s snores close to my ear, never breaking through my dreams.

  Betty’s knock on our bedchamber door came at promptly seven o’clock the next morning.

  Miss Crislock shook my shoulder. “Andy, my dear, you must wake up now. If I don’t take George for a walk this very minute, I fear there will be a mess that neither of us wish to face.”

  “Poor George,” I said, stretching. “He never got his steak.”

  “He doesn’t need any steak. Now, I will take George for a walk. You have your bath, Andy. I’ll be back in a little while.”

  “Thank you, Milly. I am in your debt as is my fine beautiful George.” At that moment I would have killed for Miss Crislock, as well as for my husband. I prayed that neither Miss Crislock nor Lawrence had any particular enemies, else I’d be hung for sure.

  After a light breakfast, we came out of the inn to find a gray damp day. George growled. I kissed his head. “Now, George, at least the sky is gray because of the weather and not because of the ghastly pollution in the city. Don’t whine.”

  Lawrence allowed George to ride with us part of the day. George, not a stupid animal, licked his hand. “You have no shame,” I told him. My husband smiled.

  It was a pleasant day, passed comfortably. We spent the night at the Hangman’s Inn in Collingford.

  “Just one more day,” Lawrence said when he left me at my bedchamber door that evening. “We’ll arrive home in time for dinner.”

  That was what he had said to the unknown man the previous night.

  “Tomorrow,” he said after I’d yawned, “I’ll tell you about Hugo, my only ancestor of somewhat interesting gruesome parts. He even wrote a diary so all succeeding generations would know of his obsession with the cursed heretics. Sleep well, Andy.”

  And so I found out the next day that Hugo Lyndhurst, then Viscount Lyndhurst, was raised in 1584 to the earldom of Devbridge by Good Queen Bess.

  “His diary still exists?” I asked. “You weren’t joking with me?”

  “Parts of it. The pages that remain are under glass in the Old Hall. I will show them to you. He built Devbridge Manor, completing it in 1590. After he obtained his earldom, he became less enthusiastic about butchering Catholics in large groups. He contented himself with an occasional auto-da-fé for a random Catholic who happened to wander onto his land. He died of old age in his bed at the age of seventy-four, surrounded by his seven children.”

  I thought about Hugo Lyndhurst. “He sounds villainous enough, Lawrence, but he isn’t the least bit romantic. Haven’t you anything better to offer?”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment. “After Hugo, there were no particular earls of interest. We did flourish under the Stuarts, being stout royalists. Unfortunately, this proved to be our undoing. Cromwell and his Roundheads took the manor when James Lyndhurst, then Earl of Devbridge, was hosting a very nice dinner for a regiment of royalist troops. Most of the manor was destroyed during the fighting, and only the Old Hall remains intact today.”

  “Now James Lyndhurst sounds more promising. What happened to him?”

  “He followed the king and went to the executioner’s block. I am forced to admit that your ancestors, who managed to skirt trouble with Cromwell, were more wily than mine. A good thing for the Devbridge line that the Stuarts came back quickly. From then until now, we have flourished. My most immediate ancestors managed to please their most Germanic highnesses and have been duly rewarded. And that, my dear, brings us to today.”

  “And the manor itself, when was it rebuilt, Lawrence?”

  “As I said, the Old Hall remains from Tudor times. Every Devbridge since then has added on with his own particular artistic notions, and the manor today is a somewhat ungainly mixture of architectural styles.”

  I laughed. “It is just the same at Deerfield Hall. I first arrived when I was ten years old. I’ll never forget getting lost at least once a day for a good three months.”

  “It will take you awhile to learn your way around Devbridge as well. I’ve closed off the north wing, so there will be fewer dark, musty corridors for you to worry about.”

  I have always loved Yorkshire. You know you’re in a special part of England when you can see and smell the moors that seem to stretch on to Heaven. My husband’s ancestral lands weren’t more than twenty miles southwest of York, one of my very favorite cities. We spent nearly a half an hour in among rolling green hills with thick wide forests of oak trees. Better yet, Devbridge Manor was only fifteen miles from Deerfield Hall. I felt like I was coming home. Only Grandfather wouldn’t be there.

  When we rounded the last bend in the immensely long carriage drive, it was to see Devbridge Manor still glistening beneath the dying rays of bright sunlight. It was as my husband had said, a motley assortment of architectural styles, but all of them blended beautifully together, from the single crenellated tower to the lovely Palladian arches.

  I was in love before we even stopped in front of the huge front doors. They were flung open by Moses. I will swear to my dying day that the Biblical Moses couldn’t have appeared more impressive than the Devbridge butler, Brantley, with his flowing white hair, his stark black costume, his pale eyes surely alight with prophecies.

  He snapped his fingers, and two footmen magically appeared, garbed in dark blue and white livery. One of them opened the carriage door and the other set a stool to step out upon.

  Lawrence called, “Brantley, this, of course, is your new mistress.”

  I expected a commandment to issue out of Brantley’s mouth, but when he spoke no hillocks shook and no bushes burst into flames. He said in a rich voice as smooth as brandy, “Welcome home, my lord, my lady. All the family is inside waiting for you.”

  I walked beside my husband into an ancient old hall that was dismal and smelled faintly of lemon wax and decaying wood.

  Brantley preceded us to a beautiful set of walnut doors off to the right. He opened the doors, flinging his arms wide, and said, “The Earl and Countess of Devbridge.”

  The drawing room was long and narrow with a high-vaulted ceiling. Dark red hangings and heavy mahogany furnishings dominated the room. There were three lovely Turkey carpets dividing up the room, and the floor, showing between the carpets, shone with a dark, rich patina. Everything glowed in the soft light of at least fifty candles set all about the room in large ornate branches.

  I saw three people in the room. They looked from Lawrence to me and back again.

  They didn’t look very happy.

  Chapter Six

  “Into the ogre’s den,” my husband said near my ear, and then he chuckled and squeezed my arm.

  I tried to laugh, but it was difficult. I pulled myself together and swallowed hard as I looked over at the three people who were still staring. They hadn’t moved an inch toward us, but just stood there. I cleared my throat, and walked forward.

  Then I stopped cold. No, it simply wasn’t possible. It just couldn’t be him, it just couldn’t. But it was. The man stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the fireplace. It was John, the John George had adored, the John who had wanted to meet me on three different occasions.

  He was my husband’s nephew and heir. The sullen one, the one who did not deal well with my husband, the one who was now home from the wars. To stay.

  My step-nephew.

  I decided then and there that I hated coincidences with all my heart.

  Suddenly, without warning, I heard George’s mad barking behind me. He must have spotted John, recognized him from the park, and broken free of dear Miss Crislock’s arms. I didn’t know he had such acute eyesight.

  George came dashing in, his tail waving so wildly that it w
as hard to see. He barked and yipped and jumped as he ran full tilt at John, who quickly knelt down and gathered him up, laughing at he hugged him. George was well on his way to licking his face off, and John was still laughing. He was trying in vain to duck away from George’s wildly licking tongue.

  Lawrence said slowly, “What is this, John? You know this dog?”

  John was laughing one moment, but at the sound of his uncle’s voice, he stopped. He tucked George under his left arm, but didn’t stop pulling on his ears and stroking his fingers through his soft topknot.

  “Yes,” he said slowly, not moving an inch, “I know this dog. His name is George. I met him a while back in Hyde Park. His owner was with him. However, I never met her.”

  Lawrence turned to look at me. “I don’t suppose this is the John you spoke of?”

  I was surprised he remembered. I still didn’t want to believe this was possible, even with the proof right in front of me, holding and petting my extremely happy dog. “Yes, that’s the John. If you remember I also told you he was magic with animals, at least that is what he claimed. He certainly stole George’s affections.”

  “Well, then,” Lawrence said, “this makes things a bit easier. Major John Lyndhurst is my nephew and heir. John, this is Andrea Jameson Lyndhurst, my wife, the Countess of Devbridge. She mentioned meeting you, but all she knew was your first name.”

  John continued to stroke George’s head. My terrier’s eyes fluttered in ecstasy. He pushed his head against John’s fingers. “Yes, I know who she is, Uncle. She is Peter Wilton’s cousin. I am, however, surprised that she even remembered me, much less mentioned me to you.”

  I couldn’t believe I’d done it, either. He was still too big, even at a distance of twenty feet. “I believe I mentioned you because your uncle spoke of you as being his nephew and heir. You had the same name. It was a coincidence, that’s all.”

  I could tell nothing at all from his expression. He said finally, his fingers now lightly rubbing George’s left ear, “Was Peter at your wedding? Is he well?”