The Countess (6 page)

“His diary still exists?” I asked. “You weren't joking with me?”

“Parts of it. The pages that remain are under glass in the Old Hall. I will show them to you. He built Devbridge Manor, completing it in 1590. After he obtained his earldom, he became less enthusiastic about butchering Catholics in large groups. He contented himself with an occasional
auto-da-fé
for a random Catholic who happened to wander onto his land. He died of old age in his bed at the age of seventy-four, surrounded by his seven children.”

I thought about Hugo Lyndhurst. “He sounds villainous enough, Lawrence, but he isn't the least bit romantic. Haven't you anything better to offer?”

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “After Hugo, there were no particular earls of interest. We did flourish under the Stuarts, being stout royalists. Unfortunately, this proved to be our undoing. Cromwell and his Roundheads took the manor when James Lyndhurst, then Earl of Devbridge, was hosting a very nice dinner for a regiment of royalist troops. Most of the manor was destroyed during the fighting, and only the Old Hall remains intact today.”

“Now James Lyndhurst sounds more promising. What happened to him?”

“He followed the king and went to the executioner's block. I am forced to admit that your ancestors, who managed to skirt trouble with Cromwell, were
more wily than mine. A good thing for the Devbridge line that the Stuarts came back quickly. From then until now, we have flourished. My most immediate ancestors managed to please their most Germanic highnesses and have been duly rewarded. And that, my dear, brings us to today.”

“And the manor itself, when was it rebuilt, Lawrence?”

“As I said, the Old Hall remains from Tudor times. Every Devbridge since then has added on with his own particular artistic notions, and the manor today is a somewhat ungainly mixture of architectural styles.”

I laughed. “It is just the same at Deerfield Hall. I first arrived when I was ten years old. I'll never forget getting lost at least once a day for a good three months.”

“It will take you awhile to learn your way around Devbridge as well. I've closed off the north wing, so there will be fewer dark, musty corridors for you to worry about.”

I have always loved Yorkshire. You know you're in a special part of England when you can see and smell the moors that seem to stretch on to Heaven. My husband's ancestral lands weren't more than twenty miles southwest of York, one of my very favorite cities. We spent nearly a half an hour in among rolling green hills with thick wide forests of oak trees. Better yet, Devbridge Manor was only fifteen miles from Deerfield Hall. I felt like I was coming home. Only Grandfather wouldn't be there.

When we rounded the last bend in the immensely long carriage drive, it was to see Devbridge Manor still glistening beneath the dying rays of bright
sunlight. It was as my husband had said, a motley assortment of architectural styles, but all of them blended beautifully together, from the single crenellated tower to the lovely Palladian arches.

I was in love before we even stopped in front of the huge front doors. They were flung open by Moses. I will swear to my dying day that the Biblical Moses couldn't have appeared more impressive than the Devbridge butler, Brantley, with his flowing white hair, his stark black costume, his pale eyes surely alight with prophecies.

He snapped his fingers, and two footmen magically appeared, garbed in dark blue and white livery. One of them opened the carriage door and the other set a stool to step out upon.

Lawrence called, “Brantley, this, of course, is your new mistress.”

I expected a commandment to issue out of Brantley's mouth, but when he spoke no hillocks shook and no bushes burst into flames. He said in a rich voice as smooth as brandy, “Welcome home, my lord, my lady. All the family is inside waiting for you.”

I walked beside my husband into an ancient old hall that was dismal and smelled faintly of lemon wax and decaying wood.

Brantley preceded us to a beautiful set of walnut doors off to the right. He opened the doors, flinging his arms wide, and said, “The Earl and Countess of Devbridge.”

The drawing room was long and narrow with a high-vaulted ceiling. Dark red hangings and heavy mahogany furnishings dominated the room. There were three lovely Turkey carpets dividing up the
room, and the floor, showing between the carpets, shone with a dark, rich patina. Everything glowed in the soft light of at least fifty candles set all about the room in large ornate branches.

I saw three people in the room. They looked from Lawrence to me and back again.

They didn't look very happy.

“I
nto the ogre's den,” my husband said near my ear, and then he chuckled and squeezed my arm.

I tried to laugh, but it was difficult. I pulled myself together and swallowed hard as I looked over at the three people who were still staring. They hadn't moved an inch toward us, but just stood there. I cleared my throat, and walked forward.

Then I stopped cold. No, it simply wasn't possible. It just couldn't be him, it just couldn't. But it was. The man stepped out of the shadows at the far end of the fireplace. It was John, the John George had adored, the John who had wanted to meet me on three different occasions.

He was my husband's nephew and heir. The sullen one, the one who did not deal well with my husband, the one who was now home from the wars. To stay.

My step-nephew.

I decided then and there that I hated coincidences with all my heart.

Suddenly, without warning, I heard George's mad
barking behind me. He must have spotted John, recognized him from the park, and broken free of dear Miss Crislock's arms. I didn't know he had such acute eyesight.

George came dashing in, his tail waving so wildly that it was hard to see. He barked and yipped and jumped as he ran full tilt at John, who quickly knelt down and gathered him up, laughing at he hugged him. George was well on his way to licking his face off, and John was still laughing. He was trying in vain to duck away from George's wildly licking tongue.

Lawrence said slowly, “What is this, John? You know this dog?”

John was laughing one moment, but at the sound of his uncle's voice, he stopped. He tucked George under his left arm, but didn't stop pulling on his ears and stroking his fingers through his soft topknot.

“Yes,” he said slowly, not moving an inch, “I know this dog. His name is George. I met him a while back in Hyde Park. His owner was with him. However, I never met her.”

Lawrence turned to look at me. “I don't suppose this is the John you spoke of?”

I was surprised he remembered. I still didn't want to believe this was possible, even with the proof right in front of me, holding and petting my extremely happy dog. “Yes, that's the John. If you remember I also told you he was magic with animals, at least that is what he claimed. He certainly stole George's affections.”

“Well, then,” Lawrence said, “this makes things a bit easier. Major John Lyndhurst is my nephew and heir. John, this is Andrea Jameson Lyndhurst, my
wife, the Countess of Devbridge. She mentioned meeting you, but all she knew was your first name.”

John continued to stroke George's head. My terrier's eyes fluttered in ecstasy. He pushed his head against John's fingers. “Yes, I know who she is, Uncle. She is Peter Wilton's cousin. I am, however, surprised that she even remembered me, much less mentioned me to you.”

I couldn't believe I'd done it, either. He was still too big, even at a distance of twenty feet. “I believe I mentioned you because your uncle spoke of you as being his nephew and heir. You had the same name. It was a coincidence, that's all.”

I could tell nothing at all from his expression. He said finally, his fingers now lightly rubbing George's left ear, “Was Peter at your wedding? Is he well?”

“Yes, he is quite well. He stayed in London only briefly, then he had to return to Paris.” It was none of his business that Peter hadn't come to our wedding. I realized that I couldn't put it off any longer. I had to face it and accept it and deal with it. I pinned a dazzling smile on my mouth. “It is certainly a pleasure to meet you, John. I suppose it is a relief that we are now related, since you have quite captivated my dog. George, do have some dignity. Stop licking his fingers.”

John laughed, which was a relief, and set George down on the floor—only George didn't move. He just sat there at John's feet, his tail wagging, his tongue out. He waved his paw at John.

“George,” I called out. “That is quite enough. You will come here to me, where you belong. I am your mistress, the only one in the world you can really count on for your next meal.”

George whined, then, after about ten indecisive seconds, came trotting back to me. At the very least, George had broken the stiff-necked scene we had walked in on. Lawrence said as I scooped George up in my arms, “Now, my dear, this is Thomas and his wife, Amelia.”

I walked to them and stuck out my free hand., “How do you do. Your uncle has told me all about you. I am very pleased to meet you both.”

Thomas kissed my hand, and Amelia lightly touched her fingertips to mine.

“This is quite a surprise for us, madam,” Amelia said, a beautifully arched black eyebrow hiked up at least one incredulous inch.

Madam?
I beamed all my good will up at her. She was a good six inches taller than I was and very effectively looked down her nose at me. I said in a voice so oozing with affability that it would make even a vicar suspicious, “Do call me Andy. Even Lawrence does now. It is ever so much more friendly, don't you agree?”

“Oh, yes, I do agree.”

“Why are you surprised?” I turned to cock my head to my husband as I spoke.

“We didn't know that Uncle Lawrence was getting married until a messenger arrived yesterday,” Thomas said. “That was our first surprise. I suppose we were all expecting a motherly lady, not someone so very young and beautiful.”

“I suspect I'll become quite motherly in the years to come, Thomas.”

“What? Are you already breeding?” This was from John, his tone low and quite vicious. He pushed
away from the mantelpiece and took two long steps toward us.

My tongue was dead wood in my mouth.

“No, John,” my husband said easily, taking my free hand in his, “what she means is that she'll become quite comfortable with all of you in the years to come.”

I said nothing, just let all my new relatives look me over to their hearts' content. What did they see other than a girl who was on the small side with curling reddish-brown hair? I wasn't plain, but I doubted that I could lay claim to the “beautiful” that Thomas had just used to describe me. I knew I had nice blue eyes, “all summery,” my grandfather had said, but the three of them were too far away to be able to admire them, if they so chose.

Why hadn't Lawrence told them he was marrying me? What was going on here?

Lawrence said to Amelia, “My dear, has Brantley told you when we can expect dinner? Andy here has a healthy appetite. I believe her stomach began complaining some ten miles distant from Devbridge.”

My stomach had growled, but not loudly.

I gave him a sunny smile. “Perhaps a pheasant or two, nicely baked, mind you, would suit me just fine.”

He lightly touched his fingers to my cheek, caressing me. I froze. I knew he felt me withdraw, even though I didn't move or twitch or anything at all. And I knew it, too. His smile never slipped.

“I'll ring for Brantley and see about your pheasant.”

“Thank you, Lawrence.” He hadn't meant anything. He was just showing me affection. I had to
accustom myself to that sort of thing from a man. From my husband. It meant nothing. He was simply fond of me. I could deal well enough with that.

Amelia had sat down again on a lovely mahogany chair with scrolled arms from the last century and arranged her dark blue silk skirt. She was perhaps three years my senior, no more. And lovely, what with hair as dark as a sinner's dreams, as my grandfather had said upon occasion, all done up atop her head in a knot of loose curls.

I asked, “You don't ride, Amelia?”

George barked because John was walking toward us. He strained against my arms.

“Why ever would you think that I don't ride? John, don't encourage that dog.”

“You are so very white,” I said. “I can't imagine the sun ever touching you. You look like one of the statues of the goddess Diana I saw in the British Museum. George, maintain a modicum of decorum, if you please.”

“Too white, I tell her,” said Thomas. He was standing behind her, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. “Perhaps even dead-white in the winter, and that's just around the corner now. I don't like death or anything to do with it. My constitution, you know, isn't what it should be.”

“I don't like freckles,” Amelia said. “The instant a single sun's ray gets to my face, I grow freckles.” She smiled, and I was struck that the white skin on her face had flushed a bit.

“Freckles have always reminded me of age spots,” Thomas said. “Age spots arrive just before death. No, I don't like freckles, either. Amelia, my dearest, I prefer the dead-white skin to freckles. The more I think
about it, the more I believe I like all your white flesh. Yes, I now count myself content.”

John, who was staring at his brother, a look of bafflement on his face, said then, “Thomas, what is all this talk about death? I see nothing at all wrong with you. You are healthy as a stoat. You will outlive us all.”

“That is nice of you to say, John, but you haven't been around enough in recent years to see just how very precarious my health really is. Why, I coughed just this morning. It wasn't even seven-thirty in the morning yet, and there came this cough, very deep into my chest, perhaps just a bit on the liquid side. I immediately feared a congestion of the lung. I'll tell you that Amelia was right on it. Poured a potion right down my throat and wrapped a hot towel around my neck. Because of my careful darling, I have escaped something that could have put a period to my existence. Yes, it could have been a close thing. I say, Andy, that dog wants John very badly.”

“Each day that God allots to Thomas is a gift to be treasured,” Lawrence said to no one in particular, no expression at all on his face. Did I scent a hint of sarcasm? Just a bit of loving contempt? I couldn't be sure. Like John, Lawrence seemed to keep his thoughts close to his shirt pockets. “Yes, John, move away or take the wretched dog. He is creating a scene.”

I looked beyond Thomas to John and held tightly to George. He had still not come forward, but now his eyes met his uncle's. I began humming softly to George, one of his favorite tunes, the one about the dog catching the rabbit and chewing on its ear.

“Well, John, I am glad to see you. You're home to stay this time?”

“I had believed so,” John said slowly, looking at me now, or at George, I couldn't be sure.

“What, you're changing your mind again? You wish to be in peacetime Paris?”

“No, that isn't it at all.”

“Dinner is served, my lord.”

“Ah, Brantley, your timing is perfect. My dear, would you like to do something with George?”

“Let me carry him upstairs to Milly. She will take a tray in her chamber, you know. Did she already ask you, Brantley?”

“Yes, indeed, my lady. Mrs. Redbreast, our housekeeper, is taking fine care of your Miss Crislock. She simply told me to inform you that she would be delighted to meet everyone in the morning, when she is rested. Shall I remove the dog, my lady?”

I looked at George. “Would you trust a man who looks like Moses to take you to Miss Crislock?”

George leaned toward Brantley and sniffed at those long white fingers of his.

I'll say this about Brantley. He might look like a Biblical figure ready to hurl tablets to the ground, but he had a sense of humor and a good deal of kindness. He slowly eased his hand in George's little face and let George sniff for all his worth. Finally, George wuffed.

“Excellent,” I said, and handed him over. “Thank you, Brantley.”

“Now, my dear,” Lawrence said, “let's see to your stomach.”

We ate in the large formal dining room, the four of us seated around a table that could easily seat
sixteen. I was gently placed in the chair at the foot of the table, or the bottom of the table, as my grandfather referred to as the lady's place, by a footman Brantley called Jasper.

John sat in the middle of the table, between his uncle and me. Thomas and Amelia sat on the other side opposite John. It was in that moment that I got my first really good look at Thomas. He was surrounded by candlelight.