"Yes, yes! Oh, how frightening it was to see the poor broken thing tossing about on your rocks, and to know how many lives were lost! Everyone was agog in Town when I described it, for there have been so very many. And I actually saw one!"
"A rock?" he asked innocently.
"Wicked tease! The shipwreck. Papa says 'tis a veritable epidemic."
"Yes, well our wreck took place in February, m'dear— considerably more than a 'month or so ago!' And as I recall you stayed for three days only. Did I not know better, my lady, I'd think you dislike Lac Brillant."
"Well, you
do
know better, Mr. Chandler! I adore it. But I'd not want to live there."
He slanted a startled glance at her, and she retrenched swiftly. "All the time, I mean. I enjoy to visit your dear papa, and I know you do not like to leave him, now that Quentin is gone." She sighed. " 'Tis so very sad."
Her sorrow was genuine, if fleeting. It had once seemed to her a pity that Quentin had not been the heir. He was the dashing one; the one always with a laugh on his lips and some outrageous escapade either in hand or in mind. She glanced up at Gordon. His face was stern again. He did not like to be reminded of his brother. Beyond doubting, he must envy Quentin his good looks, his popularity, and the fact that he was Sir Brian's favourite. Such emotions she found perfectly understandable.
When, at seventeen, she had made her come-out, she had also made a private vow to ensnare Quentin Chandler. But although she had flirted with him determinedly, and although she had swiftly become a reigning Toast, Quentin, while always ready to flirt, had never succumbed to the point of becoming a member of her court. Eventually, he had vanished from the London scene without so much as a farewell. Not for one second had she entertained the notion of marrying anyone but the heir to the Chandler fortunes, of course, but she had been piqued. If handsome Quentin Chandler was ever able to return to England, he would find her the mistress at Lac Brillant, and she would see to it that he received short shrift for his folly.
Gordon had not responded to her remarks, and she tightened her clasp on his arm. "Do not be grumpy, dear sir. Stay for the boat party. Gilbert offers a fine breakfast on the barge, strolling minstrels, and a cruise down to Hampton Court." She saw his lips parting, and said cajolingly, "You would not say no without so much as considering my feelings?"
Repentant, he said, "Of course I consider your feelings, Nadia. But I do not see—"
"You never see! You are a young man, Chandler! Not a hoary old sage!"
"Well, yes, but I do have obligations at home, and—"
"Oh, pish! Do not be so adamantly set 'gainst a merry, frolicsome party. The best of the
ton
will be there. Fowles, of course, and Samantha Golightly, and my dearest friend, Lady Melissa Coombs, and her silly husband. And Reggie Smythe—such a droll gentleman! And Albert Harrier, and Duke, and…"
'Oh Lord!' thought Chandler as she rattled on, not once naming anyone with whom he cried friends.
"And you need not be anxious for dear Sir Brian," she finished at length, "for you told me he is happily involved with that grubby old fresco he unearthed. Only look at those cherry ribbons! Such a delicious shade! Pray be sweet and buy me some."
Obediently, he detoured to a stall and made the transaction, and my lady went on as though there had been no interruption. "Besides which, now he has found a restorer, you are free of that charge 'pon your time." Intrigued by his scowl, she asked, "Why so murderous a look? Do you not like the man he hired?"
"If 'twas a man, I might," he grumbled.
Lady Nadia's mouth fell into a very pretty O of surprise. "You never mean— Oh, you quiz me, you naughty thing!"
"Would that I did. No, I am perfectly serious. My father has taken on a female artist."
"
If—ever
I heard of such a thing!" she gasped, scandalized. "Why, 'tis… 'tis
monstrous
! Did you not protest?"
"You may believe I did, but—" Her sudden faint scream interrupted him, and he bent to chase away the emaciated little dog that had cringed with a pleading whimper about her skirts. "Poor fellow," he said, looking after the animal. "He is starving by the look of—"
"Oh! How dirty he is! And he touched my gown! You never think there are fleas?" Lady Nadia shook her voluminous skirts anxiously. "Do look, Chandler! I vow I cannot
abide
creatures!"
Irritated, he said, "A fine figure I should cut, shaking out your skirts in public! How many would believe 'twas fleas I sought?"
"Chandler!" But she had seen his vexation and knew he was not in sympathy with her dislike of livestock—as though a lady of fashion could have anything but abhorrence for filthy little mongrels! "I am sorry I am not brave," she said meekly. "But I count on you to protect me, and—" It was apparent that her effort to please had not succeeded. Moving closer to smile her enchanting smile into his frowning eyes, she said, "I cannot blame you for being impatient with me, when I am so silly… Gordon." .
In that moment she was all clinging and coquettish femininity, and very beautiful indeed, so that he relented and said warmly, "How could a man be cross with so lovely a creature?"
"La, la! I am forgiven!" Her merry little laugh rang out. "Now, do pray tell me of this female. What like is she? Old, and one of those dreadfully strange artist types?"
"She is about five and twenty, I suppose, and—"
"
Five… and… twenty
? Why—why 'tis
immoral
!"
" 'Tis nothing of the kind! An you fancy my father would bring his lightskirt to Lac Brillant, ma'am, disabuse your mind of such nonsense! The woman is not particularly attractive, and is besides installed in the most distant guest cottage, with—"
"My God in heaven! Why ever would Sir Brian permit the woman to dwell on the estate?"
Through his teeth he said, "I do not scruple to say, ma'am, that I mislike the inference."
He was far from having a silver tongue, but in spite of his often brusque ways had never used such a tone to her.
"But my dear Gordon," she said earnestly. " 'Tis not your kind papa whose motives I question, but hers! You may depend upon it that anyone so bold as to insinuate herself into a post which should have been given to some worthy male can only be an adventuress! What it is, she means to become your step-mama, and—"
Halting, Chandler threw back his head and laughed so heartily that several heads turned, the shivering little mongrel crept closer again, and a vendor with a tray of lace-trimmed caps and fichus hurried up to suggest that "the happy milor' " might like to buy some for his lady.
Lady Nadia said huffily, "You may laugh, sir! But the day will dawn when I'll remind you of your gullibility!"
Ruth awoke to the sound of birdsongs and the smell of coffee brewing. She yawned and stretched luxuriantly before pulling back the bed-curtains. Sunshine flooded the room and the air was already warm. She got up and went over to open the casements wider. The weeping willow tree that trailed its long green fingers in the stream was full of birds and each one had its own branch that must be hopped on, and its own hymn to the sun that must be rendered before the business of the day began.
Drinking in the beauties of this breezy morning, Ruth suddenly recollected that today was the first anniversary of their arrival. One week since their hired coach had crept in the back way and violated Sir Brian's velvet lawns. She smiled reminiscently. How very angry Mr. Chandler had been. When Sir Brian had viewed the damage later, he'd also been angry, but by that time Grace had busied herself with some improvised garden tools so that the wheel ruts had not been quite so raw and glaring, and the flower bed less flattened. The head gardener, Mr. Swinton, had caught Grace at work and had all but danced his rage. It had been necessary, she'd said with a tilt of her chin, to speak sharply to him. That intelligence had rather worried Ruth, but so far as she knew there had been no further incidents.
There were no stirrings as yet from the boys' room. They slept so much more soundly here. And, bless them, they were happy, although they were obliged to spend so many hours indoors. After the first few days she had made them take a nap in the afternoons, and when dinner was over they were allowed to slip outside to play in the woods behind the cottage. They went armed with strict instructions that they must be very quiet, and at once return when she lit the lamp in their bedchamber, or if they saw or heard anyone. They seemed to have turned the situation into a game in which they were Chivalrous Knights, with gardeners, grooms, or gamekeepers designated variously as Enemies of the King, Outlaw Knaves, or Dragons. Gordon Chandler was inflexible in demanding a good day's work from those who served his father, but in return they were well paid, comfortably housed, and never required to labour outside after the evening meal. As a result the twins had not yet been obliged to hurry home, and they very obviously counted the hours until their early evening forays.
Two days after their arrival here, there had been a close call. While Ruth was at work in the chapel, Mrs. Tate had suddenly appeared at the cottage door and had been irked to find it locked and all the curtains tightly closed. Grace, loyally fulfilling her role as the feeble-minded chaperone, had evidently been convincing, for that afternoon the housekeeper had so far unbent as to tell Ruth she had met her "cousin" and had added with a shake of the head, "poor creature."
It was all going so well, Ruth thought gratefully. The work was slow and taxing, and at first she had been very tired, her back and arms one large ache. She had experienced the same difficulties in Italy, but Papa had taught her how to pace her initial efforts and gradually she was able to work a little longer before being obliged to rest.
Sir Brian came often to the chapel. Initially, he had commenced his visits with a concerned question as to whether such labour was not too hard for a lady. No matter how exhausted she felt she'd always found a bright smile for him and denied being in the least tired. She'd been afraid that she must certainly look tired and feared he would question her further, but he instead had passed at once to other subjects, and she had realized that although he was not unkind, he was not one to be deeply interested in the affairs of others. He neither enquired into her family background, nor invited her opinion on anything save the estate or the fresco. Often, when he wandered in to view the progress of the work, he would bring his chaplain with him, and the Reverend Mr. Aymer was unfailingly gentle, grave, and in complete agreement with whatever Sir Brian chanced to remark. Amused by these traits, Ruth was not at all offended by them. She had, in fact, been relieved that Sir Brian did not complain over the slow progress of the work, but was instead almost childishly delighted by the brighter colours that were beginning to appear from under the mantle of grime that had for so long concealed them.
Had Mr. Gordon—as everyone seemed to call him—been present, she was sure he would have found fault with her painstaking methods, but heaven was kind; he was still away, doubtless paying court to his betrothed who was, so Mr. Aymer had imparted, the most beautiful lady in London Town. If that were so, Ruth had said rather tartly to Grace Milford, it was unfortunate, for very beautiful ladies were often extreme spoiled, and Mr. Gordon's disposition would not be improved did he marry someone as ill-tempered as himself.
She experienced a twinge of guilt for that unkind judgment, but at this point her introspection was cut off abruptly as a shriek, followed by hysterical outcries, broke the stillness. Snatching up her wrapper she ran downstairs, her heart hammering with dread. In the kitchen, Grace stood on a stool, her skirts tight clasped about her knees as she sobbed and pleaded to be forgiven and protested herself "innocent of all but steadfastness and loyalty to my poor Mrs. A.!"
Her apprehensive gaze having swept the room and found nothing to cause such behaviour, Ruth said sharply, "Have done, or you will frighten the twins! To whom are you talking?"
"S-Saint Paul," sobbed Grace. "He w-was a sinner afore he came to be a saint… so he'll be more like to understand and's-speak up for… a good and honest woman. I
knowed
we shouldn't have done it! I
knowed
as we'd be punished!" Her voice rose to a wail. "Oh, Lord save us all! 'Tis—'tis retribution!"
"Good gracious, what a state you've come to! Get down from there at once. At
once
, you silly creature! Now, sit here and calm yourself." Ruth patted the trembling hand she held, and when Grace was breathing more evenly and some colour had returned to her pale cheeks, demanded, "Whatever upset you so? Was it a mouse?"
"Oh, how I wish it had been, Mrs. A!" Her eyes still haunted with terror, Grace said, " 'Twas a great hugeous…
d-daemon
!"
"Nonsense!" declared Ruth, after a surreptitious re-checking of the sunny kitchen. "If truth be told, you saw but the shadow of—"
"That's
just
what I see! And heaven grant I
n-never
see no more'n its shadow, for it was a foul fright, Mrs. A." She lowered her voice to a half-whisper, clutching at Ruth's arm with her cold hands, and staring apprehensively into the corners. "A most
drefful
thing! A great wild boar… with its fur all sticking up round its shoulders like any mane! And—a long pointy snout! Oh!" Poor Grace threw her apron up to her face and wept again. " 'Tis all them wicked lies we told! The devil hisself is coming after us, sure as sure!"
There was no doubt but that the poor woman was terror-stricken, and Ruth's conscience was made no easier by the knowledge that she really had, as dear Jonathan would have said, told some raspers. "But we have done nothing so evil as to bring daemons after us," she asserted with as much confidence as she could muster. "We have heard no complaints from Chef about the amount of supplies he sends us. The boys have been so good. And Sir Brian is getting full value for the wages he pays me, for truly, Grace, I work very hard. Surely, the Lord would not punish me only for trying to keep us together?"