Joan Wolf (9 page)

Julianne let her hand move up to lie gently on his shoulder. After a minute, and with obvious reluctance, he raised his head from hers. “When?” he murmured. “When will you marry me, Julianne?”

“That will be for Grandmama and your parents to say, my lord,” she answered serenely.

“You must call me William.”

“William,” she repeated and he kissed her again.

This time it was Julianne who halted the embrace, pulling back against his arm. It dropped immediately. “I think we ought to be returning to Minton,” she said softly, and, with a sigh of regret, he agreed.

Lord Rutherford’s announcement brought only happiness to his parents and the Dowager Duchess of Crewe. It seemed to be one of those fortuitous matches often dreamed about by fond parents and all too seldom seen realized. Both young people were well-born, good-looking, and wealthy. But more than that, they were so well suited in temperament and in interests that their future happiness seemed completely secure.

Lord Minton was particularly pleased with the daughter his son proposed to give him. He saw in Julianne more than just a pretty face. He saw sweetness of temper and strong family affection. Her dedication to her father during their years in Africa was particularly impressive. And Lord Minton was flattered by her obvious admiration of himself. The earl had three sons but no daughter and Julianne filled a gap in his family circle that he had not been aware existed until she came.

The visit to Minton lasted two weeks during which time Julianne came to feel more and more comfortable and at home. Lord Rutherford had told her that his father would give them the family estate in Sussex to live in if she would prefer that, but Julianne said she would
like
to live at Minton, and the matter appeared to be settled. There was no more talk of Sussex and Julianne looked forward to the day when she could truly call Minton her home. She was perfectly contented with the position of daughter; she felt no desire to be mistress of the house.

They were beautiful weeks, those weeks in June at Minton, before her engagement was officially announced to the world. Julianne felt more content than she could ever remember feeling. There was something so peaceful about Minton. The long vistas of lawn, the clipped trees, the tumbling fountains and broad gravel walks were balm to her soul. She and Lord Rutherford would canter together in the leafy glades of the park, stroll up and down the paths in the garden, and feed the ducks in the ornamental lake. In the evenings she would sit over the chessboard with Lord Minton or they would look at albums of prints of paintings by old masters, and he would talk and she would listen attentively.

It was an idyllic time.  Lord Rutherford was entranced by his promised bride. He had always thought her beautiful, and now, seeing her in his home, so gentle, so dignified, so feminine he fell more deeply in love than ever. When she allowed him to kiss her, and he felt her soft lips under his, it was very difficult to restrain his passion. He would look at her in the evening as she sat listening to his father, would look at her extraordinary, luminous eyes, her softly smiling mouth and lily-slender throat and feel himself impatient for his wedding day to arrive.

It was set for November. He had not wanted to wait so long, but the Dowager Duchess had insisted and Julianne said they must abide by her grandmother’s wishes. She was so sweetly compliant with the desires of those in authority over her. He looked forward to the day when she would have to be sweetly compliant to him.

The Fosters, of course, had no inkling of Julianne’s true character. They would not have recognized in her the girl who had shot a charging elephant, who had withstood the assault of her father’s anger and disapproval for years, who had stood at a slave auction with regally frozen dignity, who had shouted at John Champernoun and then kissed him back with passionate abandon. It was not that Julianne was deliberately trying to be deceptive about the kind of person she was. She thought she was being the person she was or, at any rate, the person she meant to be in the future.

 How was it possible to be anything but pleasant and admiring at Minton,  she asked herself. She would always be happy and secure and safe in such a place as this, surrounded by such people as these. This was the kind of life she wanted. She wanted to be like Lady Minton: good and peaceful and satisfied with her domestic arrangements. Lord Rutherford would be the husband she wanted. Formed for family life and country pleasures, he would give her all she desired out of life. She regarded as totally negligible the fact that she felt not a spark of passion for him. There were other things in life, she told herself, that were more important
.

Chapter Eleven

Drawne was thy race, aright from princely line ...

—Sir Walter Ralegh

On April 9, 1815, the tenth Earl of Denham died of pneumonia. The Earls of Denham had lived at the family estate of Lansdowne in Kent ever since the time of Edward
III. They were among the most aristocratic of England’s nobles; the name of Plantagenet appeared more than once on the Champernoun family tree. But the fortunes of the late earl had not been equal to his nobility. Lansdowne was neglected and mortgaged; it seemed that the new earl would be faced with the painful task of selling one of the most ancient family homes in the country.

The tenth earl had not been fortunate in his progeny either. He had three daughters and no sons. His younger brother had predeceased him, killed three years earlier in a carriage accident. He too had left only daughters. In consequence, the title, the estate of Lansdowne, and the debts all devolved upon the late earl’s first cousin, John, who had been out in Egypt for the last fifteen years.

* * * *

Julianne may have heard of the death of the Earl of Denham, but the news made no impression on her. Her grandmother was aware of the significance of the event, but did not trouble to enlighten Julianne. No one even knew if John Champernoun would come home. He had certainly never evinced much family feeling in the past.

The dowager duchess and her granddaughter returned to London at the end of June and the announcement of Julianne’s engagement was sent off to the newspapers. There was some collecting on bets in the clubs and the general feeling was that the dowager duchess had arranged a very advantageous marriage for her granddaughter. There was some gnashing of teeth among the matchmaking mamas who were not happy to have such a notable prize as Lord Rutherford taken off the market, but no one in the ton was really very surprised.

There was one person, however, not of the ton, who was surprised by the announcement he read in the
Morning Post:
“A marriage has been arranged between Miss Julianne Wells, granddaughter of the Dowager Duchess of Crewe, and William Foster, Viscount Rutherford.” John Champernoun, now the Earl of Denham, stared at the words in astonishment. Then he slammed the paper down disgustedly on the table. For some reason he did not care to define to himself, the announcement had put him out of temper.

John had been in England for almost two weeks. When the lawyer had written to inform him of the death of his cousin, he had also communicated the unpleasant news that unless John could arrange for a miracle, Lansdowne would have to be sold. John did not care for Lansdowne, but neither did he want to be the one to sell the estate which had housed Champernouns for six long centuries. So, reluctantly, he had told the pasha he would have to return to England to straighten out family affairs.

He had put up at Grillon’s Hotel, and for almost two weeks he and Mr. Stevens, the Denham family lawyer, had gone through the late earl’s financial records. After all the debts had been verified, John had paid them. He paid off the mortgages on Lansdowne. He went to see his cousin’s widow, who had returned to her father’s home with her daughters and he arranged to settle some money on the girls. All in all, he ‘appeared to the family and its devoted retainers to be an angel from heaven. He was the only Champernoun Mr. Stevens had ever known who had any money; and this Champernoun apparently had a great deal of it.

So far John had avoided returning to Lansdowne itself. It was a place where he had been deeply unhappy and he associated it with feelings of repression, anger, and hostility. He had been sitting over breakfast in his hotel room, pondering his next move, when the announcement of Julianne’s engagement caught his eye. It did not take him very long to decide it was time he paid a visit to his great-aunt, the Countess of Avanley.

Lady Avanley was his grandfather’s younger half-sister and the only person whom John remembered kindly from his childhood. She had paid periodic visits to Lansdowne and had always managed to bring a special treat to the orphaned little boy who was growing up there. When he had gone away to school it was she who would send him a few guineas for spending money. He supposed she was the closest thing to a mother he had ever had.

Lady Avanley had a house in Grosvenor Square. She had written him a note about a week before, asking him to come and call on her, but somehow he had not yet managed to find the time to do so. He had not managed to find the time to see her when he had been in London last December either, but suddenly the hour seemed propitious. He called a hackney and in a very short time was being ushered into an elegant drawing room where he was greeted warmly by a stately looking old lady.

“John! My dear, how lovely to see you.” She stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “Good heavens, how large you are!”

He smiled a little ruefully. “It’s been a long time, Aunt Cecily.”

“It most certainly has. Much too long. Sit down,” she said firmly, “and tell me about yourself.”

He sat down and regarded the straight-backed white-haired old lady whose blue eyes hadn’t faded at all. “Well, I’ve been out in Egypt for the last fifteen years,” he said easily. “When I heard George was dead and the estate about to be sold, I thought I’d better come home and see to things for a bit. I suppose you know Lansdowne was to be sold.”

“Yes, I do know. And I know also that you have apparently become as rich as Croesus, something new in the annals of the Champernoun family. Mr. Stevens tells me you have ransomed Lansdowne and even settled money on those wretched girls.”

He looked annoyed. “I thought lawyers were supposed to keep quiet about their clients’ affairs.”

“Mr. Stevens is perfectly trustworthy, my dear. However, he could hardly be expected not to inform me.”

He sat back and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “You cross-examined the poor man,” he said resignedly.

“Of course I did,” she returned composedly. “You must have a glass of sherry with me, John.” She rang the bell. “My husband has been dead for the last ten years,” she informed her nephew with perfect kindliness as they waited for the butler to answer.

He came in, the wine was served, the butler departed, and John was once again alone with his aunt. “I suppose I ought to have written to you,” he began a little defensively. His Aunt Cecily’s tactics while rarely direct were always effective.

“I’m sure you would have had you known,” she replied serenely.

There was a little silence as she sipped her wine and he looked at her. Quite suddenly he grinned, his eyes blazing into brilliance. “All right, I give up. I apologize. I ought to have written. I ought to have come to see you sooner. Mea culpa. Will you forgive me or shall I leave?”

She met those eyes and her own softened. “I am pleased to hear you express such proper sentiments. I forgive you and you may stay and tell me what you plan to do with yourself for the next fifteen years.”

He stayed with his aunt for another half an hour and when he left he had at least accounted for the next few weeks of his life. Lady Avanley was going to introduce him into the society to which he had always belonged by right of birth and in which he would hold some eminence by right of his newly acquired title and his undoubted wealth. He had managed to discover, by roundabout means, that the Dowager Duchess of Crewe was a friend of his Aunt Cecily and that he could expect to meet both the duchess and her granddaughter at the various affairs to which his aunt would sponsor him.

When John had been in London in December, he had made no attempt to broach the social scene. His mission had been purely political, and he had confined himself to meeting with the appropriate government ministers. He had been successful in his endeavors; at any rate, Britain showed no signs of moving against Mohammed Ali at present. But then, he told himself, there had been virtually no one in London in December. July was a different matter. It was the last month of the season and the ton were all gathered in the capital for their annual ritual of balls and receptions and dinners and love affairs and matchmaking. It might be amusing, he thought, to see what it was all about. It would be interesting to discover if anything about the English had changed during the years he had been away.

Chapter Twelve

He was a tall, handsome and bold man ...

—John Aubrey

After the gardenlike atmosphere of Minton, Julianne found London to be oppressive and irritating. Most girls would have relished their triumph in catching one of the ton’s most eligible men, but Julianne felt merely restless and bored. Lord Rutherford had returned to London as well, and he was diligent in his attendance upon his betrothed. It was not Lord Rutherford who was making her feel so dissatisfied, she told herself. He was as sweet, as good-natured, as agreeable as ever. It was the social whirl that was making her so edgy. There was no time, no space, no quiet. She longed to be back at Minton.

One afternoon she screwed her courage to the sticking point and took the manuscript of her revised journal to a publisher. She asked to see Mr. John Murray with a cool confidence she was far from feeling, and was secretly overwhelmed when she was ushered into his office. She had rarely felt more vulnerable in her life. The journal she was holding was like her child.  It was part of her, more important than she would dare admit to a living soul. On her own she doubted she would have had the nerve to show it to a publisher. It was only her promise to John Champernoun that had brought her here on trembling legs.