Kathryn Caskie (28 page)

Mrs. Hopshire bobbed a rigid curtsy. “Yes, my lord. Right away, my lord. Beggin’ your pardon, my lord.”

“Stop your babbling, woman, and fetch the tea, will you?”

Griffin stiffened at the earl’s outburst. “My lord, I will not have Mrs. Hopshire spoken to in such a manner. When she returns, I trust you will show the respect due a woman of her years and position within my household.”

The earl just shook his head. “I just asked for my tea to be hot, that is all. I daresay, that is not too much to ask,” he snapped in retort.

There was a thud in the passage, and Hannah glanced up from her own, suitably heated, tea to see Pinkerton enter the room.

“My lord, your portmanteau is packed and ready for the journey.”

The earl flicked his fingers in the air dismissively. “Very well, very well. See that it is lashed atop the carriage within the hour, for I do not wish to keep my bride waiting. I wish to depart for Devonsfield the very moment she is prepared to leave. I have waited long enough.” The earl glanced up to see everyone staring at him. His cheeks colored. “Well, we’ve been married for two days—but it is no secret we have yet to reside in the same household! I am a newly married man, I’ll have you know, but still she puts me off—until I can carry her over the threshold of Devonsfield. Well, I do not have to tell you, I am not a well man. How am I supposed to carry her over the threshold? How, I ask you?”

Hannah pinned Griffin with her gaze and inclined her chin toward the earl in silent communication.

Garnet strolled into the parlor with his wife at his elbow. “All of the documents are signed, my lord, and a barrister has been dispatched to see that all are filed with the correct authorities.” He smiled as broadly as the heir of an earldom possibly could. “As far as anyone is concerned, I am firstborn.”

“And heir.” Griffin grinned at his brother.

Garnet turned and smiled at his bride, then at his brother. “Well, yes, there is that, too.”

Then, Hannah noticed the most peculiar thing—Garnet winked at Griffin, who, like a reflection in a mirror, winked at his brother at the very same moment. What in blazes? Hannah narrowed her eyes suspiciously. There was something she wasn’t being told.

She was all set to quiz her husband about it when Mrs. Hopshire entered the room. Without delay, she poured the earl a steaming cup of tea, then pulled a card from her apron and turned to Griffin. “Begging your pardon, but
this
was just left for you, sir.”

“Another card of wedding congratulations, I am sure. Thank you, Mrs. Hopshire.” Griffin reached out his hand and took the card she handed him. He looked twice at it, reading the few words written upon it, then set it back down on the table, pushing it toward Hannah.

Hannah glanced down at the cream-colored card. She had to admit to herself, she was ever so anxious to read it, and wondered if, as Griffin’s wife, she could simply snatch it up and do so. Or if she should wait until she was given leave to do so, which, sadly, she knew was likely the appropriate course.
Blast
.

Griffin persisted in staring at the card, not speaking a word.

Finally, Hannah intervened, for she could not bear not knowing the meaning of the card any longer! “Dear, who . . . um . . . sent us thoughts of congratulations? Shall I read the card?”

“No one.” His gaze was blank, as if he were off gathering wool.

“No one? Griffin, someone sent a card. I can see it on the table between us.” She laughed, trying to make light, but heavens, she could not endure the suspense even a moment longer!

Griffin poked his index finger to the card, then pushed it across the surface of the table to Hannah. He raised his eyes to hers and waited as she lifted the card in her hand and read it.

Miss Caroline Herschel, Twenty-six Brock Street, Bath

She flipped the card over and read the slanted inked words.

A letter arrived from the Royal Observatory at Greenwich. Should you like to read it, please call at your earliest convenience.

CH

One hour later, Griffin and Hannah sat across from Miss Herschel in the library of Twenty-six Brock Street. In the older woman’s tiny hand was a letter, the wax wafer having already been broken. She raised it to Griffin, and he hesitantly accepted it from her.

“You should read it. No sense in my reiterating what it says.” There was no emotion on her face. No disappointment. No joyfulness. Her expression was as flat as the plaster ceiling above. “You can read well enough.” She flicked her fingers at Griffin, urging him to begin.

Hannah could see that his fingers were shaking as he unfolded the foolscap. Her first inclination was to reach out and take it—to read aloud for him. But she knew, favorable or foul, Griffin had to read the news for himself.

He sat very still, staring at the letter, though Hannah knew he had to have finished reading it already. “Griffin, what does it say?” He said nothing, but handed it to Hannah, then fixed his gaze on Miss Herschel. Now, the old woman’s expression was dancing.

Dear Miss Herschel—

I wish to thank you for your letter detailing your protégé’s account of a possible new comet. I do hope you did not think low of me for not replying before this day, but you must know that we at the Royal Observatory at Greenwich had to judge the merits of the calculation and observational accounts independently to either accept or deny its validity.

Having completed our own study, I wish Mr. St. Albans sincere joy and our fondest congratulations on his discovery. It is not so often that one so young as he is able to immortalize his name. I also wish to commend you on your assiduity in astronomy and for encouraging such a bright young stargazer as your Mr. St. Albans.

Per your request, I requested for Mr. St. Albans a royal appointment and immediate membership in the Royal Astronomical Society. To my utter delight, and I am sure yours as well, I am pleased to tell you that the request has been approved this morning. Mr. St. Albans will be expected in London on the 14th of April to accept this great honor he is so deserving to receive.

Your most obedient and obliged humble servant,

Alexander Aubert, Esq.

“Griffin! This is the best of all possible news!” Hannah sprang from her chair and threw herself into Griffin’s arms, heedless of possibly embarrassing the old woman sitting across from him.

It seemed that Hannah had nothing to fret about anyway, for Miss Herschel threw back her head and laughed aloud. “Now, my dears, you must excuse me. I have a caller due at any moment.” And then the tiny astronomer threw them both a mischievous wink.

The day was sunny and bright, a good day for a walk, as Hannah had predicted. They had just stepped from the steps of Twenty-six Brock Street, when who should stop in front of Miss Herschel’s home but Mr. Hercule Lestrange.

He removed his gleaming beaver hat from his oddly shaped head and gave a neat bow to Hannah. “Fine day we are having, Mrs. St. Albans, Mr. St. Albans.”

“The best,” Hannah replied.

“I wholeheartedly agree. Good day!” With that, Mr. Lestrange replaced his hat on head and bounded up the steps of Twenty-six Brock Street.

At precisely five minutes before five o’clock, the earl waved his walking stick in the air and quite literally herded the St. Albans brothers and their brides into the town carriage, and they started up Gay Street toward Number One Royal Crescent.

The earl impatiently thrummed his fingers on his knee as the sturdy team of horses huffed and strained up the steep incline.

Pinkerton, who had already seen that the earl’s portmanteau and trunk were lashed atop the conveyance, had been required to walk up the hill in the direction of Royal Crescent, as there had been no room for him inside the cab. But Pinkerton did not truly mind this inconvenience in the least, for he was not at all convinced that the carriage would make its way to the top of Gay Street.

At the earl’s request, or rather because the testy, squat earl demanded it, Pinkerton had not only carefully loaded the carriage with the earl’s belongings. He had also prepared for the first leg of the long journey to Devonsfield by packing three large baskets of breads, cheeses, sweets, an assortment of dried fruits, and a generous selection of brandy and wine.

The carriage was heavily weighted, even without the new Lady Devonsfield’s travel trunk, despite his protestations to the earl that another carriage be secured for stowage.

From the steps of the St. Albanses lodgings, Pinkerton watched with a wicked sense of pleasure as the carriage slowed to a stop and, indeed, rolled back a few feet, despite the driver’s best efforts to spur his team up the hill.

When the cab door was angrily kicked open from the inside of the carriage, Pinkerton disappeared back inside the St. Albanses house, deciding that this was the most opportune time to share a parting cup of tea with dear old Mrs. Hopshire.

Having been unable to locate a pair of chairmen, or even a hackney to convey the party up the incline, then on to Royal Crescent, the earl arrived in the Featherton ladies’ elegant drawing room near dripping from the exertion.

“Oh, my dear husband, come in, do come in.” Lady Devonsfield rushed forward and kissed her husband’s damp cheek. “My things are folded and packed, and I am ever so eager to be on our way to Devonsfield just as soon as we all toast our good-byes.” She reached out and squeezed his hand twice, then whispered, a little too loudly, “I am
very
eager, my lord, if you grasp my meaning.”

Hannah swallowed and bit the inside of her lips to quiet the amusement that otherwise would have flown from her mouth. “Where is Lady Viola Edgar?” she asked the countess.

“She and Mr. Edgar shall be down presently. They are . . . dressing, I believe.” Lady Devonsfield caught Hannah’s arm and drew her close. “Dear, might I have a word or two with you privately, in the study?”

Hannah looked quizzically at the elderly woman. “Why . . . certainly, if you wish it.”

“I do, Hannah. I wish immensely.” Her faded blue eyes grew wide with some meaning Hannah could not fathom.

Hannah turned to her husband and the others who had hiked Gay Street so that the carriage might progress up the rise. “Please take your ease in the drawing room. I shall only be a moment.”

Lady Devonsfield seemed to exhale her relief the moment the quartet retreated from the passage. She grabbed Hannah’s wrist and hauled her down the passage and into the study.

“Oh, Hannah, I am in such a quandary, I know not what to do or where to turn. You must assist me. Please.”

“I will help you in any way I might, Lady Devonsfield.” It was then that Hannah noticed the old woman was trembling. Trembling! How strange. Why, she could not recall a single instance when Lady Devonsfield seemed the least but fearful—but now, it was clear, she was terrified. “Tell me what troubles you.”

Her powdered cheeks glowed red like ash-covered embers in a hearth. “I admit, what I am about to say is most . . . most embarrassing.” She pulled Hannah to a settee near the window and looked, with all seriousness, into her eyes. “’Tis about the wedding night.”

“Your wedding night?” Hannah searched Lady Devonsfield’s eyes until she thought she saw something. “Oh, I see. The earl was simply overwrought, ’tis all. I am sure next time, all will be well with . . . the earldom.” She patted Lady Devonsfield’s hand comfortingly.

“What?” It took some seconds for the old woman to gather Hannah’s meaning. “No, no. The problem is not the earl—I am the problem.”

“I do not understand.”

“There has been no wedding night.” She widened her eyes twice. “We haven’t . . . well, we simply haven’t.”

“But you are married. Why haven’t you . . . been close?”

“Hannah, I am an old woman. Unlike my sister, I haven’t . . . I haven’t—oh, perdition—I am still
a maid
.”

“So this is why you and the earl have not slept in the same house since the wedding. It had naught to do with the tradition of a husband carrying his wife over their home’s threshold.”

“Oh, please, Hannah. I am not daft. I know the earl cannot support my weight. He is not a well man, you know.”

Hannah fought the urge to smile. “Sadly, you are right.”

“But what else could I say? I have not the faintest notion what truly happens between a man and a woman on their wedding night. I have some notions, but I do not know what to do. He is a widower. He has experience in these matters. I do not. I do not wish, after waiting all these years for the man of my dreams to marry me, for my husband to be . . . disappointed in me.”

Tears budded in her eyes, and for the first time Lady Devonsfield appeared completely lost and vulnerable.

“Dear, dear. Have you not spoken to your sister about this?”

Lady Devonsfield seemed startled by the question. “Ask Viola about lovemaking? Heaven forbid. I am her older sister, after all. She looks to
me
for guidance. Can you not, secretly, educate me?”

Hannah donned a confident smile. “I will do my best, but truly, there is naught to worry about. As you said, the earl has been married before.” She drew in a deep breath, then played her fingers across her lips. “Now then, where shall I begin?”

Twenty minutes later, Hannah and Lady Devonsfield emerged from the study. Hannah wiped her brow with a handkerchief, the old woman’s probing questions having quite exhausted her.

But it seemed she had been successful in quelling Lady Devonsfield’s fears, for as they quit the study, they passed a glowing Lady Viola Edgar and Mr. Edgar, wearing a saucy grin on his lips of a sort Hannah had never before observed.

Lady Devonsfield didn’t even seem to notice her sister and Mr. Edgar. Instead she caned her way into the drawing room and straightaway poured two crystals of cordial.

She handed one to the earl and kept the other for herself. “My lord, it seems . . . er . . . the lock on my portmanteau will not latch.”

“Is that all? When Pinkerton arrives I shall just send him up to manage it for you.” The earl sipped his cordial slowly.

“My lord, I do not think Pinkerton can fix it. Come, let me show you.”