Her son and daughter bore no resemblance whatsoever to her, thought Bryony, and must therefore take after their late father, the fourth duke. She felt something akin to dismay as she watched the duchess glance coldly around the quadrangle and then proceed into the house, for there was something about that haughty expression and stiff manner which suggested that everything Delphine had said of her mother was true, and that did not bode well for the future Lady Sheringham, of whom the duchess could hardly approve, especially since the business of the letter from Anthony Carmichael.
Bryony did not have long to wait before being summoned to the presence. A footman led her through the house to the great drawing room, which, being at Gothic Polwithiel, was known as the solar. It was another baronial room, this time with a splendid oriel window high in the north wall, but Bryony did not have time to inspect her surroundings; she could only look at the upright, rather intimidating figure seated upon a sofa close to the immense fireplace. Bryony paused in the doorway, around which there were dark red velvet draperies, and then she slowly approached the sofa, at the last moment sinking into what she prayed was an elegant curtsy.
“Hmm,” murmured the duchess, her pale blue eyes moving critically over her charge, “I suppose one must hope that appearances are deceptive, for when I look at you I fear that my misguided nephew is about to make a most monumental error. To be sure, I think he has lost his senses anyway, for he could have had virtually his pick of the daughters of the greatest families in the land. However, I have agreed to take you on, and I intend to do my duty, which duty begins with matters concerning your appearance. Does that wretched rag of a dress pass for high fashion in County Down? Yes, I suppose it probably does. Well, it won’t do here. Long trains are the thing at the moment, missy, but yours barely brushes the floor behind you, and as to those dreadful ringlets, well, they will simply have to go. Is that clear?”
Bryony was shaken by the severity and dislike in the woman’s expression and words. “Y-yes, your grace,” she stammered, “it is quite clear.”
“Good, then I trust that when we dine tonight you will appear with your
coiffure
looking a little more up to the mark, either cropped short or worn up in a Grecian knot. Either will do. As to the gown ... well, if you have something with a longer train, you must wear it. No doubt you have been informed that the
couturière
Madame Colbert is to visit Polwithiel to discuss the details of an entirely new wardrobe, and I trust that before the summer ball you will have one of her gowns to appear in. Cornwall society will be gathered in strength to cast its critical eyes over my nephew’s intended wife, missy, and you will not let him down. Is that also clear?”
“Yes, your grace,” replied Bryony, disliking her but endeavoring not to show it by so much as a flicker of an eyelid.
“Madame Colbert will attend to your outward appearance, but it is my misfortune to deal with everything else. I am a very strict mistress, as you will soon discover, and I also expect a very high standard. I do
not
expect to discover that you have had further dealings with your lover.”
Bryony flushed angrily. “I have no lover!” she protested. “And Mr. Carmichael had no right to write the things he did.”
The duchess’s face was cold. “Do you deny the existence of a liaison?”
“Yes. I admit to knowing him, but I strongly deny that he is my lover.”
“I trust you are right, missy,” said the duchess softly, “for it will be the worse for you if I discover you to be lying. I have been against this foolish match from the outset, because I regard it as a hopeless misalliance for my nephew. I warn you here and now that if I suspect anything where you are concerned, then I will consider it my duty to inform Sebastian and to strongly counsel him against proceeding with the betrothal.
“The thought of you as Lady Sheringham appalls me, Miss St. Charles, and the further thought of you as a member of my family brings me to the edge of the vapors. I sincerely hope that you do not come up to scratch and that my nephew will see sense, but I will not deal dishonestly with you, of that you may be sure. If you do as you are told and learn what I have to teach, then I will swallow my considerable prejudice and will inform him that I am satisfied you have made the necessary grade. The betrothal will follow almost immediately. Have I made myself perfectly clear on all points, Miss St. Charles?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Then you may go.”
Bryony curtsied again, and then withdrew gladly from the room. In the corridor outside she paused for a moment, her eyes closed. This was far worse than anything she had dreamed of, and the duchess was more of a Gorgon than anything her daughter had hinted. Trembling a little, she endeavored to regain a little of her composure, and she presented a calm, collected face to the curious eyes of the servants she encountered as she retraced her steps to her private rooms. She had to endure it all, she simply had to! For the sake of Liskillen and her father.
It seemed to Bryony that the hour for dinner approached at alarming speed. Feeling almost sick with apprehension at the thought of Sebastian and the countess, she still had to be mindful of what the duchess had said concerning appearance. She had always been proud of her long, curling hair and the thought of cutting it
à la victime
or
à la guillotine
was a little too drastic to contemplate, even though she conceded that on Delphine such short fashions were very becoming indeed.
Kathleen was not used to modish
coiffures,
and she struggled a great deal to twist the light brown hair into a neat Grecian knot, but each time she tried to pin it in place it spilled from her fingers and she had to begin again. In the end, however, she managed to persuade it to remain where it was wanted, although she needed rather too many pins in order to achieve this. The pins had to be concealed with small sprays of artificial flowers, which Bryony trusted would meet with the duchess’s approval.
The matter of a gown with a long train was quite another matter. Bryony simply did not possess one, and the only item in her entire wardrobe which presented some possibilities was a blue muslin spotted with silver. Kathleen had the clever notion of removing the fine lace from Bryony’s nightgown and applying it in neat gathers down the back of the blue muslin’s skirt. The gathers continued beyond the hem, being cleverly stitched one to another, so that a train of sorts emerged where none had been before.
A little more of the lace was stitched to the puffed sleeves, and as the clock on the mantelpiece was pointing to eight o’clock, Bryony was at last able to step into her “new” gown. The clock ceased chiming just as Kathleen fixed the final hook and eye, and Bryony stared at her reflection in the cheval glass. The moment had arrived. Now she must go down and face Sebastian and his mistress.
Picking up her silver reticule, she glanced at Kathleen. “Wish me luck.”
“You will not need luck, Miss Bryony, for you look beautiful. Sir Sebastian will be dazzled by you and he will soon turn from the countess.”
Would he? Bryony doubted that very much. Taking a deep breath to steel herself for what lay ahead, she left her rooms and proceeded along the gallery, on her way to the solar, where it was the custom for everyone to gather before going in to dine in the winter parlor. She pondered that at Polwithiel every room appeared to have been given a Gothic name, the entrance hall becoming the great hall, the main drawing room the solar, and the dining room the winter parlor.
Passing through the folding doors, she came to the landing surrounding the well of the grand staircase and saw Felix coming up toward her, having evidently only just left the
salle d’armes,
for his hair curled damply against his forehead and his coat was tossed carelessly about his shoulders. His valet, looking totally exhausted, followed a few steps behind, hurrying on past when his master stopped to speak to Bryony.
Felix smiled at her. “I fear I am going to be exceeding late for tonight’s exciting diversion, but then, I hardly wish to be prompt when I must look at Sebastian over the epergne.”
She returned the smile. “Have you really been in the conservatory all this time?”
“The
salle d’armes,
dear lady,” he reproved. “l am a swordsman, not a damned gardener.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Granted. Yes, I have been there all this time, but I have rested now and then and I have taken the refreshment necessary to keep body and soul together.”
“Your valet looks extremely fatigued.”
“As I said earlier, Frederick is out of condition. He is knocked up after five minutes.” He smiled, his glance moving slowly over her. “So, it seems we are to be denied ringlets with the mulligatawny?”
She flushed a little. “Yes.”
“Mother’s work, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
“And are you ready to meet my damned cousin face to face at last?”
“As ready as I ever will be, I suppose.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What an enigmatic reply. Surely it cannot mean that you do not look forward to your brilliant catch?”
“No doubt I look forward to it as much as does Sir Sebastian.”
“However much that may be.” He glanced again at her hair. “A more fashionable
coiffure
suits you. Those ringlets were decidedly out-of-date.”
She didn’t quite know what to say, for while he had complimented her, he had at the same time been more than a little rude. “Possibly your grace thinks everything about me is decidedly out-of-date,” she said then, her tone cool.
“Oh, no, Miss St. Charles,” he replied, seeming to find her reaction a little amusing, “for your beauty is timeless, and your spirit ... well, interesting.” He inclined his head then and walked on in the direction of his private apartment.
She remained where she was for a moment. Felix, Duke of Calborough, was an extremely handsome man, and conscious of the fact. He appeared to find it entertaining to be one moment charming and the next hurtful. He was a contradiction which she did not particularly care for.
Slowly she walked on in the direction of the solar. Thoughts of Felix faded into the background as she approached the massive doors, guarded by liveried footmen. Had anyone else arrived yet? Were Sebastian and Petra even now waiting beyond those doors? Her nerve almost failed her and she hesitated, but then she drew herself up once more, determinedly walking on toward the doors, which were immediately flung open to admit her. She passed through into the silent, deserted solar; she was the first to arrive.
She did not know whether to be relieved or not as she walked slowly across the vast room to sit down gingerly on the edge of a sofa, for if she was spared the moment of meeting now, it simply meant that the ordeal was postponed for a few more minutes. She glanced nervously around, feeling very ill-at-ease and wishing with all her heart that her father had never fallen into the clutches of that crooked land agent, never listened to his grandiose farming schemes, and never consequently found himself in the predicament he had! If only all that were so, then she would at this very moment be seated in the drawing room at Liskillen contemplating nothing more disagreeable than whether the cook had again boiled the cabbage to a pulp.
The sun was low in the western sky and the fading light glowed beyond the magnificent oriel window. The solar was already lighted by a great number of candles, the gentle light bringing the tapestry scenes to life, as if a pageant of medieval ladies and gentlemen moved in silent concourse around the walls.
It was all so quiet that she almost started from her seat when the long-case clock next to the harpsichord in the corner began to chime the half-hour; a second later she did start to her feet, for without warning the solar doors were flung open to admit someone. Her pulse began to race until she realized that it was only Kathleen, hastening to bring her forgotten shawl.
“You will need this, Miss Bryony,” she said, “for it will be cool after sunset.”
“You gave me such a shock,” said Bryony, taking the proffered shawl. “I thought the others were coming in.”
Kathleen glanced suddenly at her hair. “Oh, no, some of the pins are coming out already!”
In
dismay Bryony put up a hand to test, and as she did so a long curl tumbled down from the knot.
Horrified, Kathleen immediately began to repair the damage, and she was thus engaged when the doors were opened again and Delphine was admitted. She was alone. She looked breathtakingly lovely in a gown of delicate cream-colored muslin, its long train dragging richly over the floor behind her. The muslin was stitched with countless tiny golden spangles which shimmered and flashed at the smallest movement, and the tall white plumes fixed to the side of the circlet on her head streamed as she walked toward them.
Smiling at Bryony, she waved her fan at Kathleen to continue with what she was doing. “A catastrophe already?” she inquired.
“Unfortunately.”
“But you look very lovely, Bryony. I think you should wear your hair up all the time.” She sat down on the sofa, her fan held neatly on her lap. “You are very prompt, Liskillen must indeed be a brisk establishment.”
“Prompt? But is this not the time I should be here?”
“Dear me, no, no one comes down on time. A delay is positively expected. When my maid told me she had seen you coming in this direction, I could not believe it, and then I thought I would be angelic and hurry so that you would not have to sit alone, dreading what lies ahead. We can dread it together.”
Bryony smiled. “And what have you to dread?”
“Well, I told you that the last time I saw Sebastian we had an argument, didn’t I?”
“Yes.”
“It was rather a singular disagreement and we parted somewhat acrimoniously. I know that I was right and he was wrong, but it will still fall to me to be agreeable and conciliatory tonight, even though I do not feel in the least like being nice to him. However,” she went on more briskly, “I did not only come down to be an angel, I came down to be selfish, as is my wont. I thought that as there would be at
least
half an hour before anyone else put in an appearance, you and I could chitter-chatter. As I said, I have been positively
starved
of female conversation of late. One doesn’t converse with Mother, one pays attention, and there is only Petra, who is otherwise occupied for the most part.” She blushed suddenly. “Forgive me, I should not have said that.”