Emeralds & Ashes
Page 7
Connor Kearney laughed. His eyes crinkled, and he seemed a long way from the fiery speaker he had been a moment ago. “I take it you are against an independent Ireland.”
“I think it would be an absolute injustice to the Ulstermen.”
“And what about the injustice of cutting the head from the shoulders of a great nation?”
“Ireland’s fate is bound to England’s—”
“In spite of what the Irish people want.”
“And now, in the midst of this crisis, is exactly the wrong time to pursue Irish nationalism.”
“The wrong time for England, perhaps. For Ireland, it may be perfect timing.”
“Oh, you are insufferable!” she exclaimed. Then she flushed, realizing how inappropriate her tone had been. To her relief, Kearney was laughing again; he did not seem to have taken offense.
“Do walk as far as the bridge with me, Lady Ada,” he said, moving toward the door. “I am sure your reputation can stand it, and it is always delightful to talk to someone who has strong feelings and is not afraid to express them.”
Ada was about to reply, but as they reached the door of the lecture hall, a telegram boy came running up to them, his feet pounding on the parquet floor.
“Excuse me, miss—are you Lady Ada?” he inquired breathlessly.
“I am,” Ada said in surprise.
He handed her a telegram. Ada took it automatically. Her hands gripped it and she suddenly felt a wave of dread roll through her mind. Telegrams meant so much these days. But there was no one she loved at the front, was there? Unless Michael had been sent…or Rose—oh, please let it not be bad news about Rose! She tore the envelope open, her fingers trembling so hard that the thin paper inside almost ripped in half.
LAURENCE KILLED IN ACTION NOVEMBER 1 STOP
WANTED YOU TO HEAR BEFORE THE PRESS STOP
AFFECTIONATE SYMPATHY STOP CHARLOTTE
Ada did not realize that she had gasped aloud until she heard Kearney’s concerned voice. “Lady Ada? I am afraid you have had some bad news.”
His voice brought her to herself again. Memories of Laurence—his strong arms around her as they danced, his cool confidence, the way he’d stepped in to save her from those horrid duns demanding William’s debts, the passion of his kisses—flooded into her mind. Numbed, not knowing what she was doing, she turned the telegram over as if something might be written to explain it all away, to say it was a joke. But there was nothing. Killed. The word was stark and simple.
“There must be some mistake,” she murmured to herself.
“Won’t you sit down? You look faint.”
Ada accepted his help to lower her to a nearby chair. His grip on her arm was strong yet gentle. The telegram boy had gone, backing off in wide-eyed sympathy. They were alone.
“I’m sorry,” she managed. “It was just the shock. We were—I always thought…”
“So many of these telegrams, and more every day. I’m very sorry,” he said gently.
Ada looked down at the telegram again. Charlotte’s kindness in telegraphing struck her. She knew that it must have hit Charlotte as hard as it did her—perhaps harder. They had been rivals for Laurence, in a way. But what had happened had left them both knowing their own hearts better than ever before.
She became aware that Kearney was speaking to her again. “Shall I call a cab? I expect you will want to go home to Somerton as soon as possible. If there is anything I can do to help—”
“Home!” Ada sat forward. “No, no. Oh…” She blushed as she realized what he had assumed. “No, it isn’t anyone close to me.”
“Oh! I am glad. I thought from your reaction, that it might be—”
“I am not engaged,” she said, quickly. She thought guiltily of Ravi, but that was a different matter. “It is someone I used to be close to…in a way. An old friend.”
“That hits very hard too,” he said. “I know that.”
Ada looked up to his sympathetic face. She saw that she was understood. “It does hit hard,” she replied, quietly. “I can’t seem to imagine it. It seems there must be some kind of mistake. He is so young—was so young.”
She found herself suddenly in tears. Kearney’s arm was around her shoulder and he was murmuring kind, comforting words. Ada sobbed until she was exhausted.
“Oh, I have been so silly,” she managed at last, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief. “I am sorry.”
“Not at all, there is nothing to apologize for. Let me see you back to Somerville.”
“You’re very kind,” she replied.
They stepped out into the street, Ada conscious of his reassuring presence. She felt that she owed him an explanation, and yet it was all such a shock to her, so confusing, so horrible, so chaotic, that she did not feel she could even explain it to herself. The vigor of their pleasant argument had slipped away like the sun behind a cloud. All that was left was the dreary certainty that someone she had once cared for was dead.
“He gave his life for his country,” she said, speaking almost to herself. “I don’t think he would ever have regretted that.”
“He must have been an honorable man.”
“I believe he was. Oh, I can’t bear that he should have died in vain. It makes me feel I should have the courage to make the same commitment. And yet…how am I to do that?”
“Surely by helping to establish women’s place in every part of England, in public life and in private, so that when this war is over, we may all rise renewed.” Kearney looked at her for her response.
“You have put it so well,” she murmured. She felt that he had expressed her feelings. She did not want to die for her country, but to live for it.
“I understand your patriotism,” he said softly.
Ada glanced at him, realizing it was a veiled reference to his own feelings for Ireland. “Do you know,” she said abruptly, “there is something about you that reminds me of him.”
“Of your old friend?” He looked at her with a smile in his eyes. “I’m flattered.”
“That is, you are quite different from him,” she said, stumbling. “There is just something…”
She trailed off. She could not, of course, tell him what it was. That she felt safe with him, just as she had always felt safe with Laurence.
They walked in silence until they reached Somerville. Ada’s mind could not settle; she kept seeing the words of the telegram in front of her: Killed. How could they apply to Laurence? Why, she’d seen him just a year ago. How could he be gone?
“I don’t think you should be alone this evening,” Kearney was saying to her. “You must find someone—friends who will understand. Are you listening? Ada?”
She looked up, startled at the use of her first name. He looked at her seriously.
“I am concerned about you,” he said.
Ada managed a smile.
“Thank you. I shall do as you say, but now I must go, or I am afraid I may break down again—so silly.”
“Of course.” He stepped back at once, and Ada went quickly up the stairs to her room. Alone at last, she placed the creased telegram onto the table. Silence surrounded her. She wished now that she had not let Kearney go. She wanted to talk about Laurence to someone. In the end she snatched the writing paper and began to write to Ravi. She poured out her heart—the sorrow she felt at Laurence’s death, how impossible it was to believe that he was dead.
I can’t believe he has gone forever—so young, so full of life. When I think that all over England families are suffering far worse than I am, when I think that women are losing men they love as much as I love you, I can’t bear to think of my country suffering so. Laurence and I had many differences, but I always admired his patriotism. I feel so powerless, so angry that I cannot do something to defend my country also. How strange that it should be Laurence’s death that should make me realize that is how I feel.
Before she could have second thoughts, she sealed the letter and went downstairs to put it in the post.
Evening fell, but instead of growing tired she felt more and more restless. She threw on her coat and went out into the rain. Through the wet, gleaming cobbled streets she walked, without paying attention to where she was going. Everywhere she looked were recruiting posters and khaki uniforms. England was on a strange, new, terrible path, and she was pulled in its wake. All she could think was that she, like Laurence, loved this country—the rain, the stone, every bit of it. And she could not think of leaving it.
Somerton
Georgiana came into the hall, and stopped as she saw the door of her father’s study was still closed. In the drawing room the new parlormaid, Rebecca, was dusting. She quickly turned to leave as Georgiana came in.
“No, wait, please—I wanted to ask you. Has the earl been in his study for long? I wish to speak to him and would like to know how long he is likely to be.”
Rebecca curtsied. “The earl is with Mr. Bradford,” she said. “They have been inside for an hour already.”
“Mr. Bradford!” Georgiana said thoughtfully. He was the earl’s lawyer. She wondered if this meant he was taking steps to change his will and disinherit William. She hoped so.
“Very well, thank you, Rebecca.” She turned aside, ready to wait until he was free. She wanted to ask her father if there was any news of Michael. Even saving Somerton from William had slipped to the back of her mind; her fear for Michael and Rose, both in grave danger, had taken over every thought. The shocking death of Lord Fintan, which the countess had written to them about, had brought home to her how much real danger both faced. I cannot rest until they are both home safely, she thought.
On an impulse she went into the music room. She had once loved to play, just as Rose had loved to compose, but now, with managing the house, she had so little time for it. She sat at the piano stool and began playing a composition of Rose’s, “Eastern Dance,” from memory. Tears came to her eyes as she played. It brought back memories of an earlier time, before the war, when Somerton had been a happier place.
She became aware that someone was standing in the doorway, and brought the music to an end. Turning, she saw Thomas hovering.
“Yes, Thomas, what is it?” Discreetly she wiped the tears from her eyes.
“Excuse me for disturbing you, my lady. The countess telephoned and desired me to inform you that she is returning from London today, but that Miss Charlotte will remain to attend some charity events with Mrs. Verulam.”
“Oh, goodness!” Georgiana was overwhelmed at the thought of yet more work for the already stretched staff. “So her room will need preparing, and we will have to have a full waiting service at dinner, otherwise she will be displeased. Do you think you can manage it? Shall I send to the village for extra staff?”
“Untrained staff are more trouble than they’re worth, my lady, if I may say so,” Thomas said. “We’ll manage.”
“I do so appreciate it.”
She followed him with her eyes as he walked away. He looked tired and overworked, and most of all, she was not sure that he enjoyed the job. He did it, but without passion. Georgiana was troubled; she wanted everyone at Somerton to be happy.
But before she could think how to achieve that, she heard the door of the study open, and the earl and Mr. Bradford came out, deep in conversation. Georgiana got to her feet at once and made for the corridor, ready to intercept them. The two men paused at the foot of the stairs. Thomas hovered, ready to show the lawyer out.
“…yes, it all seems in order. Yes, indeed.” The earl shook his lawyer’s hand. He was smiling, which made Georgiana’s hopes rise.
Mr. Bradford bowed, and the earl rang the bell. As soon as Mr. Bradford had left, Georgiana half ran over to her father. The earl clearly saw the question in her eyes and smiled, although he looked sad.
“Well, my dear, it is done,” he said.
“You have changed your will?”
“I have.” The earl’s voice was heavy. “I wish it did not have to be done, but there was no choice. I cannot let William take possession of Somerton Court on his accession to the title, not now that I know him for the cad that he is.”
“His accession to the title? You mean he will still be Earl of Westlake?” Georgiana asked. The thought left a sour taste in her mouth.
“I am afraid so.”
“But how can that be just!” Georgiana said. She could not bear to think that the title of the Earl of Westlake—her father’s title—should pass to a man who was a gambler, a drunkard, a rapist, and in her view no better than a murderer.
“I am afraid that justice and the law do not always coincide,” the earl said with a humorless smile. “The title is not mine to bequeath: it was bestowed upon my ancestors by a previous monarch of England, and it passes, according to the law of the land, to the most direct heir in the pure male line. Since I have no male children, I count as a dead end. The next in line, strange as it may seem, is William. The title could not be taken from him even if he were convicted of murder—and in my view he should be, for what he did to that poor nursemaid. Titles do not care if they lodge in an honorable man or a cad.”
Georgiana said angrily, “Well, I think it’s simply unspeakable. It feels like a stain on our family, that such a man as William should be the earl.”
“I know it, but there is nothing to be done. At least I have taken the estate away from him. Thank heaven it was not entailed. The house and land of Somerton, together with the majority of my fortune, will pass to my firstborn grandson.”
“That, at least, is a relief,” said Georgiana. She sighed. “I do wish that all this was not happening at once. Have you had any news of Michael?”
Her father snapped his fingers. “In all the business discussions, I actually forgot. Yes, I think I have traced him. He is in a training camp in Kent. I shall go down as soon as possible.” He shook his head. “He is a brave boy, but his mother is firm. He must come home.”
“Mr. Wright, you must let me help you with the silver,” Rebecca said, appearing at the door of the butler’s pantry. She was breathless after having run down the flights of stairs from the countess’s rooms, but she was satisfied that she had left the place in perfect order and ready to welcome the mistress of the house.
“Thank you,” replied Thomas, who was already sweating with the hurry and hard work of getting everything ready for the countess’s arrival. “But I think you have plenty to do already, preparing her room.”
“It’s done. I did it as soon as I heard she had telephoned.”
“Is the sweet jar filled up? And the flowers?”
“Yes, with lavender comfits and yellow roses, just as she likes. You really must let me help you; you don’t have time to do all this and your usual duties as well.”
“I think I’m capable of deciding what I have time to do, Rebecca.”
Rebecca came into the room and boldly shut the door. Thomas turned to her in surprise. Rebecca was aware of how close they were together, and her stomach was suddenly full of butterflies. But she pushed bravely on, knowing that if she didn’t speak now, she would be putting up with this behavior for the rest of her time at Somerton. “I must say my piece, Mr. Wright. I feel that you are trying to prevent me from doing duties that are rightly mine, as parlormaid, and I won’t have it.”
Thomas raised an eyebrow. “That’s a very high-handed way to speak to your superior.”
“I have to speak out if I see the house being run in a way that’s not efficient and that will lead to problems.”
“Oh.” Thomas’s sarcasm was deep. “And you think that I am doing such a thing?�
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“I do. As parlormaid, I am engaged to fulfill the duties of a first footman. Not simply dusting and preparing rooms, but pantry work, keeping the library in order, silver polishing, brushing the gentlemen’s clothes—all the things a footman would do. And you are not allowing me to do those, and you are keeping them for yourself, and as a result, you are overworked and nothing is getting done well.”
“Very well. To be honest with you, I don’t agree with the post of parlormaid. I think there are some jobs that women are simply not fitted for.”
“Oh? And what gives you this insight, may I ask?”
“Rebecca, I am in charge here, and I expect you to obey orders. Otherwise you can find another place.”
“So that’s how it is, is it?” Rebecca felt her face flush as red as her hair. “Well, Mr. Wright, I’m pleased to tell you that you are a fool.”
She jerked open the door and stalked out, her blood thumping in her head. It took her only a few paces down the cool passage to regret her temper. She couldn’t do with losing her job, and she was bound to lose it now.
The bell jangled above her head. Rebecca looked up: the countess. She hastily tried to calm herself, tidying her hair and smoothing her hot cheeks. Then she took a deep breath and went upstairs to answer the bell. Work didn’t stop just because she was upset.
She found Lady Georgiana in the countess’s bedroom. The countess’s furs were spread on the bed.
“Oh, Rebecca.” Rebecca saw at once that Lady Georgiana looked tired and tearful. “Moth has got into the countess’s furs! Oh, what are we to do? This would never have happened when Mrs. Cliffe was here.”
Rebecca looked closely at the furs. “They must have been put away without the mothballs, my lady.” She knew how serious it was—the furs were worth hundreds, and if they were ruined, the countess’s temper would be unspeakable and everyone’s life made a misery. Her mother had told her a good deal about the care of furs, learned when she was in service herself.