Her birthday began on a bitterly cold January day. Frost had made delicate patterns on the windows, one could not see out to the white-clad trees, the furry look of the bushes. Valerie put on one of her warmest dresses, a lilac wool with a matching shawl, and shivered on her way down the draughty stairs to the first floor.
She was one of the first into the breakfast room. The earl stood up when she came in — he was always first there — and Louis Kenyon soon came in. She stood at the buffet, debated as usual whether to take ham or kidneys, settled on ham this morning, and a boiled egg. The footman served her coffee, she added thick country cream and sugar, and drew a deep breath.
The earl looked fidgety, pleased though, as well. Mr Kenyon was his usual calm self, bent over his kidneys and eggs, his muffins and marmalade.
The countess came in, early for her, every silvery-white hair in place about her broad forehead. Instead of going to her place, she paused beside Valerie and bent to her, and kissed her forehead.
“Happy birthday, my dearest Valerie,” she said, with a smile.
“Now, you have spoiled the secret,” said the earl, displeased, though grinning from ear to ear.
“Oh, I didn’t know — you remembered!” cried Valerie, flushing and a little tearful.
“Remembered? Why, Malcolm has had all of us in fidgets —” The countess broke off, moved in stately fashion to her chair, and was seated by the footman devotedly. “Dear me, I never can keep a secret,” she said mildly.
Malcolm dashed in, rather flushed and guilty-looking. “What, you are all before me? I had hoped … never mind…”
“She knows,” said the earl. “Mother let it out.”
“Oh, dash it all,” said Malcolm, crestfallen. “About the party this afternoon and all?”
“No, you just let that out,” said Louis Kenyon, and began to laugh. Presently, they were all laughing and talking at once.
Malcolm had planned a surprise party for her, some twenty guests for afternoon and dinner. Valerie was bewildered, a little frightened at the attention, but pleased and guiltily happy for all that. And she had thought they would not notice her birthday!
Malcolm crammed his breakfast down, earning his mother’s look of reproach. He could not wait. “We are going into Mater’s sitting room after breakfast, Valerie, the packages are there. Family first, you know!”
“Oh, you should not have bought presents for me,” said Valerie, feeling more and more self-reproachful.
“If you don’t like them, I shall be angry,” said Malcolm, grinning across the table at her, looking five years younger than his age. “I went all the way to London for them — I must have certain items — and Mater piled additional commissions on me!”
“I already had mine planned,” said the earl, with great satisfaction, and gave her a wink.
She could scarcely eat or drink, though Malcolm scolded her, and teased her that she was more excited than at Christmas. She was, she admitted.
She was thankful that Deidre had overslept, as she often did. It was the family only that went into the countess’s drawing room. There Valerie exclaimed over the pile of gifts, parcels, bundles, boxes, on the tables, the sofa, and even on the floor.
“Do not be overwhelmed, my dear,” said the countess, sounding more affectionate than usual. “These are just the dresses we ordered.” She nodded at the boxes. “You can open them later. I do hope you will wear one of the most charming for the party this afternoon.”
“Whatever you like,” breathed Valerie. Malcolm pushed her gently into a big chair and handed her the first parcel, a heavy box.
“Open this first,” he commanded eagerly. “I want to see if you are pleased with it.”
She managed to get it open, felt in the piles of soft paper for the object within. Finally she grasped it, but it was heavy. Malcolm impatiently helped her, lifting out a huge Chinese porcelain vase of softest rose pattern.
“It’s called famille rose, I think,” he said, eagerly. “Like it? It’s for the flowers.”
“Oh, Malcolm, it is the most exquisite … how beautiful…” She stroked the side of the vase, with its lovely oval pattern filled with flowers, the background of rose and white. It felt silky to the touch.
Malcolm took the vase from her, threw the box to the floor, and brought her another. She opened one box after another, as the others watched her, indulgent smiles on their faces at Malcolm’s eagerness and her bewildered pleasure.
The countess had given her — besides a dozen lovely gowns for summer and winter, and two cloaks — four bonnets, half a dozen pairs of slippers, a delicate reticule of gold embroidery, a long strand of pearls with earrings and brooch to match.
From the earl, a pair of huge boxes, which contained more than twenty-five books! She lifted out one and another, gazed at the titles, exclaimed over them. “Just what I wanted, oh, I have longed to read this … how did you know…”
From Malcolm, the Chinese vase, a box of ivory objects — carved elephants, a delicate house of ivory, a cute pair of puppies, the most beautiful fan she had ever seen. She opened the ivory sticks, and beheld the design on the silk fabric: a Chinese house, a rounded bridge, two lovers in kimonos, cherry blossoms on a tree.
“Wherever did you find —?” she began.
“An import house. Reggie wrote, said you would like them. He took me round when I got to London, they had saved some fine things for me, on his request. He is a good chap!”
She smiled at Malcolm. “And you are so … very kind to me,” she said, her voice choking. “I shall enjoy these all … so very much.”
Even Louis Kenyon had thoughtfully ordered something special for her — some thick folios of fine paper for her manuscripts, some new quills, black ink and blue, and a rare book of poetry in an old leather binding.
“I am quite overwhelmed,” she finally said. “How can I thank you all? You are so generous, so thoughtful…”
“You have given us such pleasure, my dear,” said the countess. “You are a dear girl.”
The party that afternoon passed in a daze. There were gifts from all the guests: scarves, gloves, perfume. The squire’s son had the distinction of the most unique gift. Valerie peered into the box in surprise and wonder.
“Whatever is it?” asked Deidre, strolling up. She sniffed, her face crinkled up. “Dirt!” she said, in disgust.
“No, bulbs,” said Valerie, as she drew out one, then gently patted it back. “These are some of your mother’s prize lilies, I think!”
“Right you are,” grinned the young man. “Shows how much she thinks of you and your gardens! I know she shall be over to scout around and see that they come up properly!”
“I shall plant them at once in the greenhouse! Oh, how happy I am to have them! I have never seen such lovely white lilies as she has.”
The dinner table that night was gay and happy. Laughter flowed as lightly as the champagne that Malcolm had ordered. Many wishes were given to Valerie for a happy year, and many more of them. She was dazed, to think they were all so kind to her and wished her well. Deidre watched, a set smile on her face, her jerky movements at times revealing her impatience with all the fuss over Valerie.
But best of all, the following days showed that Malcolm had not ceased to think of her. He invited her to accompany him on his rounds. He had decided to go to all the farms, to acquaint himself with all the tenants, the farm situations, the problems of each.
Valerie went with him gladly, wearing her warm blue velvet cloak, the blue velvet bonnet with bright blue ribbons tied under her chin. At each house, she sat with the woman of the family and the children, while Malcolm and the farmer would discuss the farm. They would go over the crops, the animals, plans for the future.
Going home, she would talk with Malcolm, or more often listen as he mused over the situation aloud. “The chap needs more help, he is getting old, he cannot farm that much land,” he said. “If his daughter does marry young Jim, then Jim could take over some of the
land. We could build them a cottage on the edge of the lane, down near the river. That would be close enough for her to come up and help her mother…”
Or he would discuss the breeding of the horses. “A chap I know has an Arab, a beauty. I could bring the stallion down for a time, breed him to our mares, and come up with a much stronger line of riding horses. For the farm work, of course, we need the heavy dray horses…”
She listened, and marvelled. Malcolm had taken long to bring himself to the work, but now, as was usual with him, he had thrown himself into it with enthusiasm. Would the feeling last? Would he continue to take a keen interest, to work with his father, to learn the estate business? She fervently hoped so.
Had he changed, really? She knew he still longed for his regiment, read the gazettes in so absorbed a manner that he scarcely knew anyone else was in the room. She caught him gazing absently in the distance, a sad look to his mouth.
However, the earl was gruffly approving of Malcolm’s change and gave him even more work to do. He seemed to think all was settled now, that they would give him the grandchildren he longed for, that Valerie would remain, that Malcolm had come to see his destiny on the land the earl loved so.
Valerie kept her thoughts to herself. If Malcolm had truly changed, then she would remain with him, she thought. He seemed to like her immensely, he studied to please her. There were no more jaunts about in the carriage with Deidre, she did not wish to visit the farms, and Valerie was invited constantly to accompany him.
When Deidre wished to visit one of her friends, a maid and grooms accompanied her. All went to balls, even the countess, as a family party, in those wintry months. The great town hall was filled to capacity, and Valerie wore her newest, smartest gowns, as the countess urged her to do. She did not wish to flaunt her tiara, but usually wore the amethysts that Malcolm had given her. She would touch them wistfully, like a talisman, the amethysts that were a token of love and friendship — steadfast love, constant friendship.
If only that could be true, how happy she would be to stay! Malcolm did not love her, but he seemed to respect her and to desire her. That should be enough. And if she gave him a child, then he would be happy, as happy as his father!
That is, if Malcolm had truly settled down, and this was not just a phase he was going through.
If the marriage did not work out, if he reverted to his old ways of gambling, running off to London, then she would leave him and return to teaching. She would not be a meek, abandoned wife when she could turn her talents to writing and teaching. She would keep her pride, she vowed fiercely, if nothing else. So she thought, and the winter days went on, with little sunshine, but happier hearts at Arundel.
CHAPTER 12
Spring came in, with the flowers in the Shakespeare garden blooming sweetly amid rows of fragrant herbs. Valerie spent much time out there, grubbing happily as she replanted flowers and shrubs from the greenhouse, forming the patterns again of red roses, scarlet carnations, pink columbine; the yellow pansies, tiny purple and yellow heartsease, yellow tea roses. And in another bed, the blues, of larkspur, columbine, and later, the asters.
Deidre had become more and more restless with the coming of spring. Still she stayed, and clung the more to the countess, continually reminding her, “But two years ago, Eustace and I were dancing at the Vauxhall Gardens. Just two years ago, we went together to the plays and laughed so much.”
She rarely went to her own home, only on brief absences. She said, prettily, sadly, “I cannot leave Maman.” And she meant the mother-in-law she would have had, not her own mother.
Valerie endured her presence, not liking her, yet feeling sorry for her, because the pretty mouth drooped, the eyes were sad. What she had missed, by insisting on yet one more season of gaiety before marriage! Eustace might have lived, they might have had a child or even two by this time. She would be Viscountess Grenville instead of Valerie.
She was more friendly to Valerie these days. Sometimes she would come to the drawing room when Valerie sat there with the countess over embroidery, and talk to her earnestly.
“You manage so very well, Valerie, one would never believe you had not been born a viscountess,” she said, one day.
Valerie eyed her cautiously. “Thank you, Lady Deidre,” she said, drawing another mauve thread through the fabric.
The countess looked pleased. “She is a lady,” she said, her hands fluttering gently over the silks as she tried to choose. “Shall it be the cream or the yellow? Dear me…”
“It only wants a season for you to be accepted,” said Deidre, nibbling her forefinger thoughtfully. “I can see how you would become more polished as you plan dinners in London. The ton are different from the country folks — oh, nice as they are!” she added hastily. “But the sophistication there, the manners, the intelligent talk — how you would enjoy that!”
Valerie knew then which way she was driving. “I do not long for such,” she said drily, her gaze on her embroidery. “I am quite satisfied with country ways. I was brought up in the country. All I would care for in the city would be the plays and the book shops! And of course, ladies like Lady Darlington…
“Of course! How you would like to meet her! Such a woman, with frank, scathing tongue that makes all fear and respect her,” smiled Deidre. “I understand she holds meetings of bluestockings, and all discuss some subject, such as the care of orphan children, the education of females…”
Valerie’s busy fingers paused, she gazed into space. She would enjoy that!
“And sometimes they invite a speaker to address them,” said Deidre, watching her shrewdly. “A famous author, some explorer from South America or the Canadian regions. Eustace invited some of them to come to hear a man … oh, dear, what was his name, Maman?”
“Was it Frost, or Dost, or Cost?” mused the countess. “I do not recall, dear.”
“Well, anyway, it was an immense success. There is a large drawing room in the town house, and we had quite thirty guests to hear him lecture.”
“I thought you were not amused by him,” said the countess, cocking her head over the colour she had chosen and peering at it through her lorgnette. “Dear me, is this the colour I wanted?”
“Well, I did not understand him much,” said Deidre. “Of course, Valerie would have understanding of such! She is so much more an intellectual! Dear me, all the foreigners you would meet, and you could talk to them, in French and German and Spanish! I recall one evening, I was quite in dismay, for my partners at the home of the prince regent were all speaking in foreign tongues, and understood little English!”
She went on at this rate, until Valerie was reluctantly interested in going. She must have been talking to Malcolm also, for one evening he said to them all, “You know, we really ought to go to London for the end of the season, at least, Mater! Valerie has not been presented to society. Reggie Darlington writes, asking when we come, saying his godmother is most impatient to meet Valerie and to welcome the rest of us. What do you think?”
The earl looked at Valerie. The countess was frowning slightly.
“We are still in demi-mourning,” said the countess. “And I confess, I do not look forward to the chore of opening the town house … such memories.” She sighed deeply.
“Nonsense, my dear,” said the earl heartily. “You shall have all the help in the world. Valerie will be much in command, I warrant you! She has taken over much of the work here for you, choosing the menus, arranging the flowers, supervising the servants along with the housekeeper. The town house she could manage with one finger! Should you like to go, my dear?”
“Well, I don’t … know…” Valerie looked from the earl to Malcolm to Deidre, who kept her gaze demurely on her coffee cup.
“It should be jolly, give us a relief from the work,” said Malcolm eagerly. “I heard that Peter Pratt and Lord Maitland are in town, returned from the Peninsula. How I should love to talk with them. I cannot figure out what is going on!”
“Valerie?�
�� urged the earl.
“Well, if all wish to go…” she said, and finally it was settled.
The housekeeper, the butler, two footmen, and two maids were sent ahead to open the town house, which had been closed for almost two years. Then there was much packing of trunks, deciding what clothes to take, letters scurrying back and forth like white leaves in a spring wind of excitement. Lady Darlington wrote hastily, almost incoherently for her.
How happy I shall be to receive you! I have been much housebound by a plaguey stiffness in my bones.
However, do call upon me once you arrive, how happy I shall be! Someone to talk to upon my own interests! Reginald shall come for you. I am informing all my friends that you are most intelligent, my dear Valerie, they are almost as anxious as I am to receive you. We shall have lectures and meetings as soon as you come! My dear friend, Lady Alice Prost, has much praised your recent article on education. When I told her that you were now writing on the works of Shakespeare, she declared that she herself would attend you to the theatre, to a play that is now going on.
Even Glenda was caught up in the excitement. “Oh, my lady, once we have arrived, I shall study the latest arrangements in hair! You shall be the grandest, most elegant lady at every ball!”
“Good heavens,” said Valerie, weakly.
It took three closed carriages and the great barouche to convey them all to London, in a solemn procession, complete with outriders in the Arundel blue and gold. Upon arrival, late in the evening, they were all glad to go to their rooms, to find beds freshly made with sheets smelling of lavender, and the housekeeper bustling about happily, sending trays of food and tea here and there.
After the quiet of Kent, London seemed huge, bustling, covered with grit and grime, loud, brassy, like a great aging mistress demanding attention from her lovers. The streets rang with wheels drawn over its cobblestones, the cries of the vendors: “Sweet lavender! Oranges, sweet, sweet oranges! Buy my fish, buy my good fresh fish!”
Amethyst Love: A passionate Regency romance Page 15
