Chapter 4
The carriage jolted through a rut, bouncing Phoebe as she made a grab for the leather strap. Major Stantonâor Lord Merritt, as she must now think of himâsmiled at her from the other bench, his solid frame undisturbed as they rumbled over London's cobblestone streets.
Not that she could possibly hurt herself. That seemed impossible in the velvet and leather cocoon of Lord Merritt's town coach. Phoebe had never ridden in such a luxurious vehicle, and she had to resist the urge to stroke the rich burgundy fabric on which she sat. She
was
trying hard to feel guilty about enjoying such earthly pleasures, but could not muster up the appropriate concentration.
“I hope you slept well last night, Phoebe,” said Lord Merritt. “I imagine London is quite a bit noisier than you're used to.”
“Yes, but I am sure I will get used to it.” She hoped so, anyway. London was a veritable din of competing sounds, many of them unpleasant. She had grown up with silence, both that of the country and the Silence practiced by Friends. Rarely had she chafed against the quiet peace of the countryside, but in many a Meeting or in silent family prayer, her thoughts had wandered and her body had betrayed her with a bad case of the fidgets.
“True silence is the rest of the mind,” George would intone, quoting William Penn in a doom-laden voice. “It is to the spirit what sleep is to the body, nourishment and refreshment.”
Phoebe had never understood that particular epigram until now.
Lord Merritt's eyes held amusement, as if he could see right through her false cheer. He had a disconcerting ability to read her expression or guess her thoughts. Not that one needed a great deal of perception to deduce she had passed a restless night, given her pale complexion and fatigue-smudged eyes. Appalled by her appearance, Phoebe had donned her best gown and allowed Agatha to ornament her just-washed curls with a pretty blue ribbon.
She had even pinched some color into her cheeks, loathing the idea of appearing before Lord Merritt or her London relatives looking like a poor country miss. Both Mrs. Tanner and Mrs. Poole had looked shocked when she entered the drawing room, but Lord Merritt had given her such an approving smile that Phoebe had silently vowed to spend an extra fifteen minutes before bedtime meditating upon the sins of vanity and false pride.
He had that same smile on his face right now as his gaze roamed over her body and came to rest on her face. She sat very straight against the velvet squabs, determined not to squirm like an undisciplined schoolgirl.
“You'll get used to the noise,” he said. “Soon enough, you won't even notice it.”
“I shall look forward to that day with great anticipation.”
He answered with a low, husky laugh that made her skin prickle with heat. She gave him a small smile and looked pointedly out the window, determined to control her disturbing response to him. Surely, it was all the confusion and distress of the last few days that made her react in such an odd fashion.
Grandfather's death
had
been a terrible blow, but the man sitting across from her had transformed despair to hope. Only one more obstacle lay ahead, and all questions would finally be answered. Would the Stanton family truly be willing to take her in, an impoverished, unknown relation? She hoped so, because the prospect of going back to her dreary life in America filled her with gloom.
Taking a deep breath, she pressed her hand against her stomach. Lord Merritt eyed her, then launched into a colorful commentary on the various landmarks they passed on their trip to Mayfair. Despite her nerves, she began to enjoy herself. He had a knack for description, and he seemed to know a great deal about history and architecture. She had not thought a military man would be so knowledgeable about the city passing by the carriage window.
She studied him as he lounged across from her, casually pointing out scenes of interest. Initially, she had thought him arrogant and intimidating, but he had consistently surprised her with his well-informed mind and his no-nonsense compassion. He did still make her nervous, because she was not used to men like him. He was a soldier, and a wealthy and powerful aristocrat. Tough, handsome, and, as far as she could tell, possessed of an outrageously confident character. He was as far from being a Quaker as she could imagine.
She would certainly ignore Grandfather's instructions to marry him. Why Lord Merritt had agreed to those instructions was a question that kept her awake much of the night. She had finally concluded that the answer was exactly as he had statedâhe felt obligated to honor Grandfather's dying wish. Why else would a wealthy and handsome peer marry a plain Quaker spinster with barely a penny to her name?
Lord Merritt interrupted his monologue to stare at her. “Is something wrong, Phoebe?”
“Ah . . . not at all, sir. Why do you ask?”
“You have an odd look on your face. Are you not well?”
She held back a sigh. Why must everyone assume she was always on the verge of some kind of collapse? “Not in the least.”
He nodded wisely and gave her gloved hands a reassuring pat. “I expect all this jostling about is making you rather sick to your stomach. Not to worry, we're almost at Stanton House.”
Not for the first time, Phoebe wished she could swear. Some of the interesting words she had heard the sailors use on the sea voyage would do quite nicely.
Instead, she conjured up a smile. “You are too kind, Lord Merritt.”
He looked dubious, but their timely arrival cut short any further expressions of concern.
Dismissing her irritation, Phoebe drew in a nervous breath and waited for the steps of the carriage to be let down. Lord Merritt unfolded his long legs, ducked his head, and stepped to the pavement. He then carefully guided her to the pavement as she gazed, mouth open, at the building in front of them.
She clutched his muscular arm and stared up at the huge, imposing town house. The short trip through London's streets had not made her sick, but taking in all the gleaming marble, polished windowpanes, and glittering brass fixtures made her feel more than a little dizzy.
“Don't be nervous,” he murmured. “Everyone will love you.”
“Lord Merritt, you cannot know that,” she said, hating the quaver in her voice. She had never thought of herself as a coward, but right now she wished she could turn tail and run.
“I wish you would stop calling me
Lord Merritt
in that gloomy voice,” he said as he led her to the front door of Stanton House. “It makes me think you're likely to box my ears.”
She cast him an uncertain look. His eyes laughed back at her, and a reluctant smile tugged at her mouth. Under other circumstances, she might have been tempted to scowl at him, but his methods worked. Her nerves began to settle.
Until he knocked and the gleaming white door flew open. Phoebe's mouth dried up at the sight of a brawny footman dressed in colorful and very ornate livery. Just taking in all his magnificence made her feel exactly like a poor country cousin.
The very trimming of the vain world would clothe all the naked one.
The Quaker epigram popped into her head, steadying her. Having to memorize all those quotations had always seemed pointless, but for once the tedious work served a useful purpose. All men and women were equal before God, and that included the Stantons.
She lifted her chin and gave the footman a bright smile. He slowly blinked, rather like a large owl, then bowed and stepped back.
Lord Merritt squeezed her elbow. “Ready?”
“I am.”
He ushered her across the threshold into a spacious and beautiful entrance hall with a grand staircase that rose in a graceful spiral to the upper floors. Several enormous paintings of men and women in the elaborate costumes of days gone by rose almost from the floor to the wainscoting. Portraits of Stanton ancestors, she assumed. Her ancestors, too. She could not help staring at them, hoping to see a resemblance to her mother.
A dignified older man dressed in sober black garb approached from an alcove under the staircase. “Lord Merritt,” he said, “it is a pleasure to see you.”
“Tolliver, you're looking fit as a fiddle,” Lord Merritt replied with an easy grin. “This is Miss Linville, General and Lady Stanton's young relation. She'll be coming to live with you one day soon, and I expect you to look after her. Cousin Phoebe, this is Tolliver, my uncle's butler. He's been with the family as long as I can remember, and knows exactly where all the bodies are buried.”
Phoebe blinked, but not even by a twitch of his white brows did the butler acknowledge Lord Merritt's jest. Instead, with a precise and formal dignity, he gave her a welcoming bow. “Miss Linville, I am at your service. You must be sure to let me know if I can help you in any way.”
She had no idea how to respond to such a gracious salutation delivered by a servant in the employ of an aristocrat, since the few servants in her brother's household were generally treated on equal footing with the family. Surely, it would be rude not to acknowledge it.
“Thank you, Mr. Tolliver,” she said, dipping into a shallow curtsy.
The butler's eyes widened in shock.
Drat.
Lord Merritt's big shoulders shook with suppressed laughter. Likely it would not be the last time she amused him with her social blundering.
“Don't worry,” he whispered as the butler turned to slide back a set of pocket doors. “He'll recover from the shock soon enough. Besides, you look very fetching today, especially with that ribbon in your hair. Tolliver could never resist a pretty girl. Come to think of it, neither can I.”
He murmured that last bit right in her ear. After casting him a reproachful glanceâwhich only made him grinâshe fixed a smile on her face and allowed him to lead her into a tall-ceilinged, light-filled drawing room. Despite her annoyance, she dug her fingers into his arm, holding on as if he were safe harbor in a stormy sea.
Four people stood to greet them. The petite, dignified woman with snowy white hair was obviously Lady Stanton, and the tall, slightly stoop-shouldered old gentleman with the fierce eyebrows must be General Stanton.
The other man and woman, decades younger, caught Phoebe by surprise. They were both tall and strikingly handsome. The golden-haired man bore a strong family resemblance to Lord Merritt. The woman by his side had a wealth of glossy black hair, and a face and figure that would draw the eye of every man she met. Although the man looked proud and a little aloof, the woman studied her with a friendly and open curiosity.
The older woman spoke first as she moved to Phoebe, hand extended. “My dear child,” she exclaimed with a warm smile, “I can't tell you how happy we are to finally have you with us in London.”
Phoebe glanced up at Lord Merritt. He gave her a slight nod. She dropped into a proper curtsy, certain this time that she was doing it right.
“Aunt Georgie,” said Lord Merritt, “this is Miss Phoebe Linville.”
Lady Stanton pulled her into a soft, lavender-tinged embrace. “Welcome to England, my child. We have waited so long for this day.”
Phoebe clutched her, the unexpected tightness in her throat making it difficult to answer. “Thank you, Lady Stanton. I am most happy to be here.”
Lady Stanton gave a brisk click of the tongue. “No titles, my dear. You are to call me Aunt Georgina, or Aunt Georgie, as this rascal of a nephew calls me. We do not stand on formality within the family, and you are quite obviously a Stanton, just like your dear mother.”
“Told you so, little doubter,” murmured Lord Merritt.
Phoebe ignored him. “Thank you, Aunt . . . Aunt Georgie,” she stammered.
The older woman smiled. “Come meet your uncle. He's been most eager to welcome you.”
Phoebe doubted that, given the stern expression on her uncle's craggy features. Even his iron gray eyebrows seemed to bristle with a fierce life of their own. But to her surprise, he took her hand and gave it a fatherly pat.
“Well, Miss Phoebe, it's about time we meet. Can't think what that old scoundrel Merritt was about, leaving you to languish away in that colonial backwater. Should have brought you home the minute your father passed away. Most irregular.”
Phoebe froze, uncertain how to answer. Part of her was offended for her grandfather's sake, but another part could not help thinking he was correct.
“Really, Arthur,” Aunt Georgie said, “I hardly think now is the time to rattle old family skeletons. Phoebe, greet your uncle, and then I will introduce you to your new cousins.”
Phoebe began to drop into another curtsy, but the old man pulled her into an embrace so vigorous it made her squeak.
“We're all happy to have you here, gel,” he murmured in her ear. His bushy sideburns tickled her cheek, just like her father's had when he hugged her as a little girl. “We hope you'll stay with us for a very long time.”