The Countess (9 page)

I literally shoved her toward the door.

Amelia the worrier, I thought, as I firmly closed the door. I guessed there had to be one in every family. Actually, I was pleased that she felt such affection and concern for her uncle-in-law.

I didn't even have time to take three steps when Stella, her lady's maid, a woman I wouldn't want to meet on a dark night in an alley, suddenly appeared and gave me a niggardly curtsy and a stingy smile. She was of middle years, her dark hair, threaded with gray, pulled back in a harsh bun. She was taller than I—nearly everyone was—and so skinny I swear I could nearly see the shape of her bones in the candlelight. She had a dark mustache above her upper lip.

She didn't want to be here. I wasn't her mistress, Amelia was. I said, “Thank you for your assistance, Stella. Please fetch me a small glass of brandy for my headache, then you may remove yourself for the night.”

A thick black eyebrow hoisted itself halfway up her forehead. She gave me the barest of nods and took herself off.

Oh, dear, I thought as Stella disappeared through the doorway. Would Stella now rush to the kitchens and announce to everyone that the new countess was a tippler? Probably so. Well, it would give them some nice gossip until they learned how truly innocuous their new mistress was.

Alone, I quickly walked to the long wall of drawn draperies and pulled them back. It was a dark night,
with just a sliver of moon, and clouds were in constant shift over the stars. I tied back the gold curtain tassel. I couldn't see much, just thick dark shadows that I thought must be the home wood. There was no movement of any kind. Everything was calm and still.

I walked to the cherry wood armoire that had to be at least two hundred years old and pulled out a lovely crimson velvet cloak lined with ermine, and wrapped myself up. Dear George must be pacing by now. I didn't want any dog accidents our first night in our new home.

At that moment Stella reappeared with my brandy, a very full glass of brandy, and she handed it to me with a barely suppressed smirk. Once she was out of sight, I downed several sips, drew a deep breath, and told my headache to get a grip on itself.

A few minutes later I knocked lightly on Miss Chrislock's bedchamber door. I heard her call out, and opened the door to see that George was indeed pacing. When he saw me, he set up a din until I had him in my arms and was alternately kissing him and rubbing his ears. “You're ready for your before-bedtime stroll?” Once I was satisfied that Miss Chrislock was comfortably settled, I wished her a fond good night, kissed her cheek, then bore George away. Thankfully, he didn't bark at all until we were outside. Then he looked up at the dark sky, at the house and grounds he wasn't at all used to, and whimpered. He plastered himself against my leg.

“It's all right,” I said, leaning down to pet him. “This is our new home. It is not all that different from Deerfield Hall. We can't explore tonight, it is too late, and my head feels like it wants to fall off
my neck and go bouncing across the ground. I promise to take you all about tomorrow. Go find a suitable bush, George. I'll wait for you here.”

The night was cold. Thank God there was only a slight breeze. I wrapped myself more tightly in my cloak and watched George pause at a bush, decide it was not to his liking, for whatever reason, then trot to the next, and the next.

“When will he come to a decision?”

It was John. I was quite alone with him. It didn't matter. He was my step-nephew. There was nothing more to fear from him.

“His record is eleven bushes and one skinny tree. As I recall, the weather was particularly warm and pleasant that evening. Since it's cold tonight, I doubt he'll dawdle.”

George didn't dawdle at all. He appeared quite pleased with the fifth bush. When he came trotting back, he saw John and yipped wildly until John finally picked him up.

“I have never seen George toady up to anyone like he has to you.”

“I told you that very first time I saw you that I had magic with animals.”

“Yes,” I said, “you did. Give me my dog now. Good night, John.”

He didn't say another word, for which I was profoundly grateful. But I knew he was watching me cross the vast entrance space of the Old Hall, George in my arms, watching me climb the stairs. I never turned around. But George did and wuffed at him, and that's how I knew he was still there.

While I changed into my nightgown, George explored The Blue Room. He sniffed every corner,
every piece of furniture, even sat in front of the fireplace for a moment, watching the orange embers twist and tumble and explode lazily into small bursts of flame. Then he stood in front of me and wuffed. “It's all strange, isn't it? However, you and I are young and flexible. We'll adapt.”

It took me nearly ten minutes to snuff out all the candles that were arranged in beautiful candelabras all about the bedchamber, and climb into bed.

Once George was settled against my left side, his usual sleeping spot, I said, “I want you to be vigilant, George. If a wandering spirit comes for a visit, I expect you to alert me.”

George was snoring.

We both slept throughout the night. I always hoped that I never snored as loudly as George did. If any spirits came to call, I didn't know it.

To my surprise, the early morning knock on the door wasn't Stella or my curious Amelia. It was Brantley. He averted his eyes, since I was wearing a dressing gown. He looked toward the armoire and said, “I am here to walk Mr. George.”

George, who was sunk so deeply in the goose down that he had to bounce up and down on his short legs to see what was going on, glimpsed Brantley, jumped down from the very tall bed, and stretched. Then he trotted straight to Brantley, and lifted his paw. Brantley could have been charmed, I wasn't certain. He didn't say anything, just shook George's paw and picked him up. “We will return shortly, my lady.” And he was gone.

Mr. George, I thought, had arrived.

However, I didn't have a clue about myself. I hoped that Lawrence would take care of all the
questions that had bubbled out of Amelia the previous night.

Because I'd left the draperies open, early morning sunlight poured into the room. I visited the small bathing room just next to the dressing room, then walked about the very big bedchamber. There were three different seating arrangements, that wonderfully soft bed set up at least three feet on a dais, tall, very wide windows, with rich, pale blue draperies that I'd drawn to let in the dangerous night air.

I turned and looked about my new bedchamber. My first impression was that I had suddenly been immersed in the bluest of seas. Varying shades of blue wallpaper covered three of the walls. The fourth wall was painted the palest blue I'd ever seen, nearly cream. The carpet was a soft, pale blue, as light as a summer sky. Lawrence was right. The room was charming, large, airy, and filled with light.

It wasn't too fussy, either, which I appreciated. As I wandered over to the bell cord to ring for hot water, I wondered why anyone, no matter the age, wouldn't be thoroughly delighted with The Blue Room.

What the devil was wrong with it?

A
very pretty young girl appeared not ten minutes later hauling a large can of hot water and panting hard.

“For your bath, my lady,” she said, and tried to curtsy while holding that can of hot water that was nearly half her size.

“Goodness, where is a footman?”

“I don't need a footman,” she said between pants. “This is my job, and I can do it. You'll see, my lady.”

“I do see,” I said, grinning at her show of independence. “Who are you?”

She set down the huge can and took a few moments to catch her breath. “I'm Belinda, formally a sometimes-maid to Mrs. Thomas when Stella is out of sorts, which she many times is, since she just stopped speaking to the butcher in Devbridge-on-Ashston, our village just a mile to the east.”

I stared at her, fascinated. “Why did Stella stop speaking to the butcher?”

“Well, naturally I'm not one to gossip,” she said, stepping closer, “but since you're the new lady of
the house, you should know about this fellow, who, Stella heard, had been seeing Mrs. Graystock, a female of very loose repute who lives in a charming cottage just outside the village.”

“Oh. That explains it very well. I am glad to meet you, Belinda. If you would pour the hot water, I would appreciate it.”

“I'll do more than that, my lady. I'll scrub your back for you.”

No one had ever scrubbed my back. Not even once in my life. “That sounds marvelous.”

And it was. I didn't even think of dismissing Belinda after that. I had left all my black gowns in London. She helped me dress in a soft gray muslin gown, then sat me down at the dressing table and plaited my hair quite nicely atop my head. “If it were evening, I would thread ribbons in and out, but it's morning and we don't want to make Mrs. Thomas feel like a dowd compared to you.”

When I rose, I felt my spirits also rise considerably when she said, all sincere and enthusiastic, “Oh, you're beautiful, my lady, just beautiful. Such glorious hair you've got—all red and brown and every shade in-between, and ever so nice and curly.”

I would have kissed her for her splendid opinion if Brantley hadn't returned with George at that moment. “Mr. George,” Brantley informed me, “walked all the way to the Devbridge stables with Jasper, a young footman of great energy and goodwill. Jasper reported a satisfactory conclusion to Mr. George's constitutional.”

“Thank you,” I said. Truth be told, I'd forgotten all about George once Belinda was rubbing a soft sponge over my back.

“It's only eight o'clock in the morning, my lady,” Belinda said, eyeing the beautiful old clock on the mantel. “Mrs. Thomas won't be downstairs until at least ten o'clock. Just gentlemen, I fear, except for Mr. Thomas. Ah, that poor gentleman must be so terribly careful, you know. You will learn that Mr. Thomas's health isn't always steady. All of us want him to move slowly in the morning, to be certain that all his parts are operating well before he begins to partake fully of the day. We want to keep our beautiful young man as healthy as possible.”

“He does look like a god.”

“That is true. It is hard not to just stand and gawk at him.” Belinda added with absolute conviction, “We won't let him get ill. All of us are vigilant.”

George and I went to see Miss Crislock, who was still in bed, her lovely black hair, barely peppered with gray, plaited in a thick braid that fell over her shoulder. She was such a kind lady, about my mother's age had she lived. Miss Crislock had come to me when I had moved to Deerfield Hall to be with Grandfather. I was very fond of her. “You must let everyone in the family meet you today, Milly,” I said, leaning down to kiss her smooth cheek. “I don't suppose you remember that man, John, whom I saw on three different occasions?”

“Of course, dear. You were afraid of him, although you didn't say so.”

However had she come to think that? “Oh, no, I wasn't. Truly, Milly, it is just that he was very forward, perhaps even overly anxious, until he finally let me be.” I drew a deep breath. “John is Lawrence's nephew and heir. It appears that he lives here.”

Miss Crislock said thoughtfully, her brow
fur-rowed, “The Lord works in mysterious ways, Andy. Very mysterious indeed.”

I wasn't about to ask her what she meant by that.

“Regardless,” I said, “he is now my step-nephew, surely somewhat odd, but we will doubtless learn to rub together well enough.”

“It will prove interesting.” She had never said anything either for or against my marriage to Lawrence. I suppose I had been afraid to ask her, and thus I hadn't.

I smiled at her and picked up George, who was now bored and wanted attention. “It's rather a strange household, but then again, I've never been in a house that wasn't strange, each in its own way. The house is large and complicated. So many different people building on over the years. You will want to go exploring. You have met Mrs. Redbreast, the housekeeper?”

“Yes, Andy, she is a very nice woman. A fount of information. I shall begin my explorations with her this afternoon.”

“I will send my new maid, Belinda, to you. You will find her delightful. She is independent and brimming with tales about everyone who lives here.”

“Be careful, Andy,” she called after me.

Of what, I wondered.

I left her bedchamber, George trotting beside me. Because his legs were so short, he had to do little leaps from step to step down the staircase. I was laughing by the time he collapsed onto the ancient polished oak floor in the Old Hall. He immediately went to sniff out one of the suits of armor.

“I hope he won't pull one of them down on top of himself,” John said.

To my absolute horror, George raised his leg and relieved himself on a suit of armor. “Oh, no. George, how could you?”

John was laughing behind me. The moment George heard his voice, the knight was forgotten. This time, however, John just smiled down at him and said firmly, “George, you will mind your manners. I know the armor was an overwhelming temptation. At least you relieved yourself on Flemish armor and not on English armor. But you will have to learn to contain yourself.”

I was horribly embarrassed. I stared down at George, who was gazing up at John with naked adoration on his ugly little face, his topknot flopping up and down. “I can't believe you did that. You have never done anything like that before. You are a heathen, George.”

“Has he ever been near so many old, smelly, and soon-to-be-rusted suits of armor?”

“No, he hasn't. But Jasper took him walking just an hour ago. He is fully housebroken. He shouldn't have done that. Oh, dear, what am I to do?”

“I will inform Brantley that the Flemish armor needs to be cleaned down. Don't worry. I imagine that Mrs. Redbreast will turn up a recipe to remove any odors.” He ruffled his hand through George's hair. “If you wish, George, you may accompany us to the breakfast parlor.”

“He loves bacon.”

“Yes, I remember you telling me that. I believe my uncle just went in. You are an early riser.”

“Yes.”

“Somehow I am not surprised.”

When we came into the small, quite charming,
circular breakfast room, with windows bowing around its entire perimeter, Lawrence immediately rose from his chair. “Good morning, my dear. I trust you slept well?”

“Immensely well. I instructed George to alert me if any otherworldly specters paid us a visit. If any did, we both slept right through their welcome.”

“Don't listen to Amelia. She's her father's daughter, and that means that she must believe in ghosts and bizarre phenomena that naturally don't exist here at Devbridge Manor, or anywhere else for that matter.”

He turned to John. “You are the first one about, John. I am pleased. I have alerted Swanson that we will be in the estate room promptly at nine o'clock. Your education will begin.”

John only nodded then turned to the sideboard that held at least a half dozen silver-domed trays. I joined him, delighted that the plates stacked at the end of the sideboard were nice and large.

To Lawrence's evident surprise, no sooner had John and I sat down to eat than Amelia and Thomas came arm in arm into the room.

“I didn't cough a single time when I opened my eyes this morning,” Thomas said, and beamed at us all. “Amelia pronounced me well enough to come down.”

He looked so beautiful, his face so pure in its lines and planes, that I simply stared at him, a forkful of scrambled eggs halfway to my mouth.

“Do get hold of yourself,” John said.

“It is difficult. Is there not anything ugly about him?”

“Not that I have ever seen,” John said, and smiled
toward his brother, who was dishing up an immense amount of food onto his plate, all the while telling Lawrence about the very brief bout of elevated breathing he'd awakened to at about two o'clock in the morning.

“I massaged his chest until his heart rate slowed,” Amelia said, all seriousness and concern. “I must admit to being alarmed for a moment there.”

John cocked a black eyebrow at his brother. “Whatever were you doing at two o'clock in the morning to increase the speed of your heart?”

Thomas blushed scarlet, from just above his cravat to his hairline.

“Oh,” John said, and saluted his brother with his knife. “If your heart had not speeded up, Thomas, then it wasn't worth the effort. It's natural, trust me on this.”

“That's what I told him,” Amelia said, in a voice as cool as the two slices of toast she slipped onto her plate.

I fed bacon to George, who was thankfully minding his manners, sitting between me and John. I kept my head down, all my attention on George chomping down on that bacon. I knew what they were talking about. I wasn't stupid. I couldn't believe they'd talk about such things at the breakfast table.

Lawrence cleared his throat and lightly touched his hand to my shoulder. “Ah, here is Miss Crislock. Welcome, dear lady. May I serve you some eggs and kippers?”

I had not expected to see her until the afternoon. “Yes, Milly, do join us.”

Once Miss Crislock was seated, a cup of tea placed gently in front of her, and everyone had been
introduced to her, Lawrence said to the table at large, “Are you familiar with Oliver Wilton?”

“Yes,” Amelia said. “He was the Duke of Broughton. My father knows him, said he was an old fossil with a splendid brain. I believe he died recently.”

“Yes, that's right. Actually, he was Andy's grandfather. Her first cousin, Peter Wilton, has inherited the dukedom. He is the seventh Duke of Broughton. He is the former duke's grandson. Peter and Andy were raised together when they were young because Peter's parents were killed when he was a small child.”

“Actually,” I said, trying to smile at everyone, “Peter and I are more brother and sister than first cousins, and have treated each other as such since I was just a little girl.”

“Then, what is your name, Andy?” Thomas asked as he carefully studied the crock of sweet butter at his elbow. Was there a bug of some sort in the butter? Finally, he pushed it away and began looking over the apricot jam, which was absolutely delicious.

I said, even as I fed George another bit of bacon, “When I went to live with my grandfather, he was going to adopt me and change my name to his, but my mother requested that he wouldn't, and so I still have my father's name. I'm Andrea Jameson.”

“Andrea Jameson Lyndhurst,” Lawrence said. “Regardless, she is Oliver Wilton's granddaughter, only offspring of his daughter, Olivia, who was named after him.”

“Both you and your cousin orphaned at such early ages,” Amelia said. “No, dearest, I think you would prefer the scrambled eggs from this platter. They're
more firmly cooked, thus reducing the chance of inflaming your stomach.”

Thomas nodded, smiled at his wife, and helped himself to a huge helping of the firmer scrambled eggs.

George barked.