by Mary Balogh
“That was unfortunate,” Justin said. “For them and for her. Most of all for you, perhaps. As a child you missed the pleasure of being part of a larger family.”
“Family is not of primary importance,” she said, frowning. “That is what Mama always said. I have friends, and they are preferable to family. One can choose one’s friends.”
“I think Miss Vane might express a different opinion if she were here,” he said. “She was really very happy to be returning home to her family, was she not?”
“Perhaps,” she said, picking up her spoon and finishing her soup, though it must have been almost cold.
Justin wondered how many happy family memories she had of her childhood. Some of them might include him, though no doubt they had been clouded by her later hatred of him.
He had been ten when his mother died. Perhaps childhood recollections were not always strong on detail or accuracy, but they were on atmosphere and emotion. He remembered their little family— his father and mother and him— as an idyllically happy unit. He remembered sometimes when he was very young running down from the nursery floor in his bare feet while his nurse snored in her own room next to his, and letting himself into his mother’s bedchamber and climbing onto the big, soft bed to burrow safely between her and his father— his father was always there even though he had a room that was nominally his own. If the door was locked, as it occasionally was, Justin would call out and rattle the knob until he heard the murmur of their voices within and sometimes laughter before his father, all flushed and disheveled, would open the door and call him a mighty pest and sweep him up in his arms and cover his face with kisses before tossing him onto the bed and following him there to cuddle both him and Justin’s mother in his arms.
Ah, the innocence of childhood and his puzzlement over that locked door. It was a memory that could bring him to the brink of tears.
Why the devil had his father married Maria’s mother?
“Lady Maple, your great-aunt, will be coming to spend a couple of weeks here too,” he told Maria. “She will be arriving three days from now if there are no unexpected delays.”
Lady Maple had married above her station years ago, having caught the eye of the notoriously lecherous Sir Cuthbert Maple. She had insisted upon marriage rather than the carte blanche he had offered. Or so the story went. It might be wildly inaccurate. She had been a wealthy widow ever since the demise of her husband a mere year or so later. She had sponsored her niece’s fabulously successful debut into society when that niece was a mere seventeen years old and extraordinarily lovely. She had married the widowed Earl of Brandon, Justin’s father.
Maria looked consideringly at him before nodding to a footman to remove her soup bowl. “She hated my mother and quarreled with her,” she said. “I do not want to meet her, Brandon. I loved my mother.”
“I know,” he said. “She will be coming nevertheless, to meet you. It is why they are all coming. I thought it might be good for you to meet them. I thought it might give you the sense that your family consists of more people than just me. Any quarrels that have kept you apart from them were your mother’s. You have never had a chance to decide for yourself if you want any of them to be a part of your life.”
Maria did not argue with him. She waited for the next course to be served before she spoke again.
“You have given me no choice but to be polite to your guests, Brandon,” she said then. “Unlike Estelle and Viscount Watley, these … persons did not insist that I approve of their invitations before they accepted them. I daresay they cannot be blamed for that, however. It is possible they have assumed that I am as eager to make their acquaintance as they would appear to be to make mine. I will be civil. You need not worry that I will behave like a child having the sulks or throwing a tantrum. I will not, however, stand for any disrespect to the memory of Mama.”
“Then we are in agreement upon something,” he said. “Neither will I, Maria.”
“Well,” Bertrand said, breaking a lengthy silence during which both he and Estelle had dozed on and off in their opposite corners of the carriage seat. “It looks spectacular, at least.”
It did indeed. They had just turned off the main road and driven through high wrought iron gates between massive stone gateposts. Two young children, presumably the gatekeeper’s, had been standing side by side outside a solidly square stone lodge, watching them pass. Bertrand had raised a hand and waved to them. Now the carriage was beginning the gradual descent of a long slope and would soon be swallowed up by a band of trees. But before that happened they had a panoramic view of the magnificence of Everleigh Park— of which this hill and the trees and the valley below were a part.
A river flowed through the wide valley floor, spanned by a grand Palladian bridge, a three-arched stone bridge with a roofed structure held aloft by stone pillars, like a Greek temple, built over it. On the near side a footpath followed the course of the river, bordered by rock gardens and low shrubs and flowers, all of them clearly intended to give the impression of profuse wildness. Beyond the bridge, elms and oak trees shaded cultivated lawns to either side of formal gardens, the parterres filled with flowers and herbs and edged with low box hedges. Graveled walking paths separated them and radiated outward from a central fountain. Over to the west there was a lake and what looked like a long waterfall cascading down the steep hill on the far side of the valley. To the east there was a large square maze near long rows of greenhouses. A two-story structure that appeared to be a summerhouse was half hidden among the trees on the slope above them.
And straight across, in line with the road they were on and just where the valley was giving way to the rise of wooded hills, stood a square gray-stone mansion of massive proportions. There were four wings of equal size. But where one might expect a hollow center and a courtyard, there was instead a great dome rising above the crenellated balustrade that edged the flat roof. Before the main entrance at the front, marble steps led up to a pillared stone portico, which somehow echoed the bridge. On either side of it long windows of diminishing size caught the sunlight on all three stories of the house.
To the right of the house the road they were now on continued up into the hills until it disappeared from sight.
“Oh goodness,” Estelle said. “Magnificent does not seem quite superlative enough, does it? It almost robs one of breath. If we must feel duty bound to spend two weeks away from home, Bert, I daresay we could do worse than spend them here.”
She was wishing even so that they were at home, though that was undoubtedly selfish of her. Maria needed them at least for a while until she had settled back into the home she had not seen since she was little more than a child. And until someone could be employed to replace Melanie Vane as her companion. It would not be easy for her with a brother she disliked and an imminent visit from relatives who were Lord Brandon’s rather than hers and who she feared would judge her harshly because they had hated her mother. Though he had invited other relatives too. Would they come?
She and Bertrand could help, Estelle thought. They were adept at socializing with all sorts of people. The key was to be civil, to listen, to be interested, to smile, to look happy. She did wish, however, that she did not have to direct those skills at the Earl of Brandon himself. She found him … disturbing, not least because he had shown a human side of himself when he had walked home with her from Prospect Hall and told her how he had loved Maria after she was born and during her early childhood. Estelle had not wanted to know that about him. It had contradicted everything she had felt about him until then. And everything she had heard of him from local gossip—which she claimed to despise. It had contradicted Maria’s intense dislike of him. But … he still loved his sister. It was hard to deny that. He had gone in person to bring her home from Prospect Hall, not, Estelle had been forced to admit to herself, because he coveted the role of stern guardian, but because he cared about her well-being and her prospects for the future. Sometimes one’s prejudices and preconception
s were more enjoyable to cling to than inconvenient facts that pointed in a different direction.
What a horrible admission to have to make to herself. It made her dislike him even more and feel even more reluctant to be a guest at Everleigh Park. Oh, she wished they had not felt compelled to come.
“We will stay only two weeks,” Bertrand said. “We will be quite firm about that, Stell, won’t we? Oh, I say. This is quite a contrast. How clever.”
The branches of huge ancient trees had closed in a canopy overhead, and the rays of sunlight that found their way through made a magical collage of light and shade over the drive and tree trunks on either side. But … clever? As though the trees had been grown for this specific purpose.
“It is like driving into a cathedral,” she said. “How splendid it is, Bert. Imagine living in a place like this.”
“Well, Redcliffe is no hovel,” he said.
“It is not.” She laughed. “Neither is Elm Court. But— imagine living here.”
“If you can entice Brandon into making you an offer,” he said, “you will not have to just imagine.”
She let out a mock shriek and punched him on the arm. “I think I prefer my imagination,” she said.
The carriage drew clear of the trees, passed by the colorful rock garden, rumbled through the bridge, and crossed the valley floor between trees and lawns before turning onto the cobbled terrace of the house and rocking to a halt. To one side of them wide flagged steps led down to the parterre gardens, which were spread before them in all their geometric precision. On the other side was the long flight of marble steps leading up beneath the great portico. The main doors had opened and Maria hurried out before stopping at the top of the steps to gaze down upon them, smiling warmly and then hurrying down.
The Earl of Brandon came out after her but stayed at the top of the steps while their coachman descended from his perch and opened the carriage door and set down the steps. The earl was not smiling, Estelle saw. His hands were clasped behind him, his feet set apart. Lord of his domain— but this time it really was his domain. She returned her attention to Maria.
Bertrand descended first and handed Estelle down. Maria came hurrying into her arms.
“I was so afraid you would change your minds,” she said, turning to offer her hand to Bertrand. “Did you have a pleasant journey?”
“Long journeys are to be endured,” he said as he shook her hand. “They are pleasant after one has arrived safely at one’s destination.”
“Then it must have been pleasant,” she said, beaming at him. “For here you are, safely arrived.”
The Earl of Brandon watched from the top of the marble steps. Estelle looked up at him, and he inclined his head. She wondered if he stood there for effect, if he knew how intimidating he looked from down here. But it was, admittedly, a spiteful thought. He might just as easily be standing back to give his sister more freedom to welcome her friends. She caught up the skirt of her carriage dress in one hand and climbed toward him.
“Good day, Lord Brandon,” she said.
“Welcome to Everleigh, Lady Estelle,” he said, offering her his hand.
She remembered from the last time, after he had walked her home to Elm Court, how large his hand was, how completely it enclosed her own. She remembered how she had thought then that he could squash every bone in her hand if he chose. Now, as then, he clasped her hand firmly but with some gentleness too, as though he was fully aware of his own strength and chose deliberately not to demonstrate it. Now, as he had not done then, he bowed over her hand and raised it briefly to his lips. She stopped herself from snatching it away, but only perhaps from long practice. Her hand must have been kissed a hundred times or more before now by a hundred different men. It had not always been a pleasurable experience, but never before had she felt such a strong urge to pull her hand away.
“Thank you,” she said. “Whoever decided to build the house in this particular spot certainly had an eye for effect.”
“My great-grandfather,” he said. “He also chose to have the drive constructed just where it is for the southern approach. He wished to awe the masses, I believe.”
“I would guess he succeeded,” she said. “I cannot speak for the masses, but Bertrand and I were certainly awed.”
Her brother and Maria had come up to them by then and the two men shook hands, the earl with formal correctness, Bertrand with easy grace. Oh, there was such a contrast between the two men.
“Come inside,” the earl said. “I will have Mrs. Phelps show you to your rooms. Your baggage coach arrived a short while ago, so all should be in readiness for you. She will bring you to the drawing room for tea after you have had time to refresh yourselves.”
“Thank you,” Bertrand said.
“I will take them up myself,” Maria said, linking an arm through Estelle’s. “And I will remain with Estelle until she is ready to come down.”
Her brother nodded without comment. “In half an hour?” he said.
The hall was vast and was clearly intended to awe the visitor just as surely as the approach to the house was. The floor was laid with black and white marble tiles. Huge landscape paintings in gilded frames hung upon the walls. Marble urns set in curved alcoves about the perimeter overflowed with ferns and flowers. The high coved ceiling was painted with scenes from mythology and edged with gold leaf. Wide staircases rose on either side of the hall. The grand double doors directly opposite the entryway must lead to the domed room, whatever it was. Maria had promised to give them a tour of the house, Estelle remembered. She looked forward to it.
They ascended the staircase to their right.
“You will both be in the east wing,” Maria told them. “You will have the morning sunlight in your rooms. Some people might find that annoying, but I always love it as well as the sound of birdsong through an open window. I never mind being woken early to such bliss in the summertime. But if you do mind being disturbed, you will find that there are heavy curtains in each room to block the light.”
“Provided a cockerel is not paraded beneath my window to herald the dawn each morning,” Bertrand said, “I doubt my sleep will be disturbed.”
Maria laughed as she indicated the door of his room and then led Estelle to the room next to it. Ah, it was like a spring garden, Estelle saw, all fresh greens and pale yellows and gold.
“It is known as the gold room,” Maria told her. “It is next to my room, though there is a sitting room between them. You must feel free to share it with me.”
“The room is quite lovely,” Estelle said, turning to her friend as she closed the door. “But how are you, Maria?”
“It all seems surprisingly familiar,” Maria told her. “Except that Mama is not here. Or Papa. I miss them both more now that I am here. Far more than I did when I was at Prospect Hall. I am determined to make this home again, though. There is no point in moping. I have not yet discussed with Brandon what my role here is to be. Am I just the younger sister whom he is hoping to marry off as soon as possible— at the great marriage mart of a London Season next spring, perhaps? Or am I the lady of the house until I marry, or until he does, the one who is to make certain decisions, like who will escort arriving guests to their rooms and what is to be served for meals? And … oh, and a hundred and one other things.”
“It is indeed something you need to discuss with your brother,” Estelle said, smiling at her. “I understand. I too live with my brother. I daresay you can come to an agreement that will suit you both once he knows your wishes and you know his thoughts.”
“I am sure you are right,” Maria said with a sigh. “There has been no chance for any such discussion so far, and there will not be for a while now. Instead of giving me time to settle here, he has decided to fill the house with guests and make my life far more difficult.”
Estelle raised her eyebrows.
“Oh,” Maria said, looking stricken. “I do not mean you. Or Lord Watley. You are my friends. His own relatives came yesterd
ay— Mr. and Mrs. Sharpe, his aunt and uncle, and their two sons and two daughters, one of whom is married with two young children. They are all strangers to me and have no reason to be fond of me, though they have been polite so far. But today Mama’s family has arrived. And Papa’s. Oh, and Mama’s aunt, Lady Maple. They are all strangers too, and there are so many of them, Estelle, that I feel I will never remember who is who, except that Mama’s family all speak with broad Yorkshire accents while Papa’s family have refined accents. Brandon did not consult me before he invited them. He thought I ought to meet all the branches of my family—though his relatives are not mine at all. I am feeling quite overwhelmed. Though there is no such thing when one is a lady, is there? Nothing is impossible. Even the worst ordeals can be endured. I will endure, then.” She sighed and then, surprisingly, laughed. “At least I will have you and Lord Watley with me now as moral support. What a huge relief it was when I saw that this time the approaching carriage brought familiar people. Friends.”
“You have your brother to thank for our presence here,” Estelle said. “I daresay he asked us here, and everyone else, because he cares about you, Maria.”
“I wish he would not,” Maria said, crossing the room to open the window. “Care, that is.” But when she turned from the window she was smiling again. “Oh, I am determined not to grumble. And I have already admitted to myself that he must have meant well when he sent off all his invitations, just as he did when he went to call upon you and Viscount Watley at Elm Court. I will be civil to everyone. I will emulate you. I will even inject some warmth into my smiles. And I will make an effort to sort out who is who and who belongs to whom before the day is over. Now, you must be tired and hungry and thirsty. And you are probably longing to wash your hands and face and brush your hair and change your dress. There will be warm water in the dressing room by now, and that is surely your maid I can hear moving about in there. Come.”
She led the way to a door at one side of the room and opened it to allow Estelle through.
