Authors: Vanessa Gray
Gritting her teeth, Faustina held in her rising anger. “Leave my father out of it!” she said. “My decisions are my own!”
“And that’s the trouble,” said Louisa promptly. “He should have seen that you fulfilled your duty. But he’s too selfish. He’ll keep you here until it’s too late to settle yourself—”
Faustina said, with a quiet note in her voice that would have sent her staff sidling from the room, “I must really beg you not to trouble yourself further about the Kennetts. We will manage very well on our own.” In her agitation, she had risen from her chair and moved restlessly around her sitting room. Outside, through the open windows, she could hear birdsong from the tall trees, borne in on the sun-warmed breeze.
With the deftness of practice, Julia diverted her mother. “Surely it was not your fault that Faustina did not snare an eligible man. But if you did not succeed with her, then there’s no hope for me. She is so beautiful.”
Louisa rounded on her. “You’ll do what I say, young lady. And when I receive an eligible offer for you, you will accept it!”
Faustina laughed. “Here in Devon, Aunt? Perhaps the vicar?”
“Don’t be hen-witted,” said Louisa, reluctantly smiling. A small silence fell, while each of the three pursued her own train of thought. Louisa broke in with a question that gave a clue to her thoughts. “I do hope that Vincent will not take it upon himself to pursue such an alliance. Certainly he knows better?”
The question hung in the air. Faustina, with her usual reaction to criticism of Vincent, said with a touch of asperity, “He is a Crale, Aunt Louisa.”
“But his mother! I cannot like it that he is such a near neighbor. And,” she added with a dark glance at Faustina, “surely too familiar with this household?”
Faustina lifted her chin. “Would you have me deny him? If the earl is to feel well disposed toward us, it would surely be the height of folly to offer such an insult to his half-brother?”
“I rather like Vincent,” said Julia with an abstracted air that scarcely veiled her provocative intent. The remark served its purpose well.
“That’s enough!” rebuked Louisa with force. “I have certain plans for you, Julia. And I will expect you to know your duty to me.”
Irrepressibly, Julia said to her cousin, “Don’t worry, Faustina. Even if Mama didn’t get you off in London, you can always marry your neighbor. The earl might be in desperate case, you know.”
*
At this very moment, the object of discussion in Faustina’s sitting room was in fact walking soundlessly across the century-old turf of the Kennett Chase lawn. Hugh Crale, Earl of Pendarvis, had for once thrown off the bitterness that seemed to have become part of him — as well it might, after being nourished for almost eighteen years. First his mother’s untimely death, then his father’s too-swift remarriage.
And the quarrels — the many searing, bitter quarrels between him and his father. The escape from home, the relentless driving unhappiness that pursued him right into his marriage — all this slipped away as the old scenes came back, as the familiar surroundings of his childhood insensibly worked their healing magic on him.
Although he would not have admitted it, he had missed the Crale estates, the softness of a Devon spring, the thought that in this place his grandfather and
his
grandfather had ridden along the lanes, breathed deeply of the fragrance of the hawthorn in the hedges, watched the rooks circling homeward at evening.
Crales had been lords of this small piece of England since the days of the second Tudor king, and while the duties were heavy, the privileges were great. The earl was not given much to speech on the subject, but his thoughts ran deep, and his considerable intelligence recognized that land does not improve without the careful supervision of its master. His father had been so engrossed in his personal trials that the Crale fields had suffered.
Now there was much work to be done, not only on the farms but also in reknitting the fragile fabric of friendship. Therefore, Hugh was on his way to see his nearest neighbor, Lord Egmont. It was not a duty, Hugh reflected, but a pleasant prospect — he had always liked Egmont.
His thoughts moved by rational degrees from Lord Egmont, a pillar of steadiness, to the baron’s daughter, the honorable Faustina. He vaguely recalled her as a biddable child, too shy to speak. A memory only of wide, frightened eyes, full of pity for the snared bird. Strange, he thought, how clear that recollection was after so many years.
But the fury who had rounded on him in Trevan the other day, pointing out his deficiencies…
The earl had had a sufficiency of railing women — even though this one was beautiful beyond the average. Lost in his recollections of the lady’s flashing eyes — and an obscure wish to put her in her place — he did not see the man kneeling at his feet until he nearly stumbled over him.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he said, frantically searching his memory for a name. Surely he remembered that seamed brown face, the startling blue eyes under beetling brows. “Jugg!” he said, conscious of a small triumph, and holding out his hand.
Jugg beamed upon the earl, wiped his hand thoroughly on his pants before responding to the earl’s outstretched hand. “Now, fancy you remembering, your lordship!”
“Of course I remember,” Hugh said. He looked around him at the faultless lawns, the rigidly disciplined beds of roses, glistening green against the red soil, and turned back to the gardener. “I wish you could deal with my own grounds as fairly as you have done here. I should like to consult with you a little later, if Lord Egmont agrees.”
“Aye, sir,” said Jugg, nearly bursting with pride and a happy anticipation of expanding on the earl’s words over a bowl of bread and fresh milk at supper that night. His wife would be amazed to hear!
“And here’s your son?”
“Aye, sir. A bit lazy,” lied his father to cover up his pride, “but he’s learning.”
The earl spoke a few encouraging words to young Jugg, who stood speechless, unable to gulp down the lump in his throat, and then went on his way.
The house was still out of sight, lost among the mazy shrubbery carefully planted to afford as much privacy as possible. The earl was in no hurry. He had only begun to shed some of the worry that had ridden him like an incubus since he had last lived in Devon.
If he had not posted out of here in such angry haste, perhaps he might not have succumbed to the glittering affection that Renée had lavished upon him, might even have seen that it was shallow as a goldfish pond, enduring not so long as the first month of their marriage.
He had wed, he must confess, to disoblige his father, but he had paid for that bit of revenge over and over and over. But now that was finished, done with, except for the child, and with any luck he would not be drawn into any feeling for her.
She looked not at all like her mother, he reflected, and that was a blessing. To see her would then not be a daily reminder of his folly. But for now he had given Mademoiselle Deland strict instructions to keep the child in her own quarters.
His household did not suit him, but he would take his time in making changes. He must marry again, and that, he thought with some satisfaction, would be a blow to young Vincent. Vincent had apparently grown to think of Crale Hall as his own, not expecting Hugh to return to take up his responsibilities.
Marriage — Hugh rounded the last shrubbery peninsula thrust into the ocean of lawn — he must look for a wife. A suitable one, this time. He would go to London in autumn, and begin the search. Duty was indeed a hard mistress.
He found himself in strange surroundings. Had he been dreaming and lost his way?
No, this was, he remembered with an effort, the herb garden that was the late Lady Egmont’s pride and joy. How good she had been to the small unhappy boy from across the road, and how little — he thought with a wry twist to his lips — her daughter resembled her!
The sun warmed the half-grown shoots of sage and sweet marjoram, spiky rosemary, sending pungent aromas into the air. He remembered them all. Not of themselves, but of Lady Egmont beguiling his unhappiness with calm, ordinary small things.
He moved on through the orchard, seeing the vineyard in the distance — what great grapes grew on those thick-stemmed vines!
He hastened. He had taken the wrong turning after he had talked to Jugg, he realized. Essentially, the earl was a shy man. He did not want anyone to think that he felt so much at home that he approached the house through the kitchen gardens.
Thus, beguiled by memory and a sudden realization that he was at home in Devon once again, Hugh reached the front lawn, hesitated a moment to savor the remembered brick terrace covered with sunshine and light cane chairs, the mellow brick facade of the Georgian front of the house, and started toward the front door.
Just in time to pass below Faustina’s window, open to the spring air.
The voices were not known to him, not then.
Louisa had been speaking to some effect for some time. “The earl is a great catch, Julia, and I do not wish to hear any more about it from you. You will do my bidding. I hope you have been well enough brought up for that.”
There was a moment of comparative silence, while someone — the rebellious Julia, thought the earl, jarred out of his reverie — murmured an answer.
“To think that I have put myself out for you,” Louisa continued, “and your cousin too — only to receive such an answer. Of course you don’t love him. You’ve never seen him.”
“Will that make a difference?” said the voice he remembered only too well from that incident in Trevan. Faustina herself. “I assure you he is not one of those whom to know is to love!” Her dry tone seemed to infuriate the older woman.
In addition, it rooted the subject of the conversation to the ground beneath the open window. An eavesdropper never hears any good of himself, the earl knew, and so it was. But he could not for a hundred pounds have moved away.
“You used to like him,” marveled Louisa. “In fact—”
“In fact, nothing!” said Faustina crisply. “Aunt, I assure you that you are making a grave mistake. To throw a child like Julia—”
“I’m not a child!” Julia’s protest might have gone unsaid, for the difference it made.
“You can’t be serious, Aunt!” exclaimed Faustina.
“On the contrary,” said Louisa smoothly. “I have never been more serious. Faustina, look at the child. She will never take in a season, or two or even three. You could have married anyone you wanted, but … I vow, I despair of ever getting this child betrothed properly. And with only a small dowry to recommend her…”
Lady Waverly’s voice rose to a wail. Even Faustina, hardened as she had become over the months she had been exposed constantly to her aunt’s moods, was aware of a pang of sympathy — surprisingly, not for Julia.
She steeled herself to consider her aunt’s mood. Would she, in fact, seize upon the first opportunity to force gentle Julia to marry — no matter how unfortunate the match? With the sole object of freeing herself for untrammeled pursuit of frivolity?
Faustina felt impelled to protest. “You are counseling a grotesque match,” she said. “Pendarvis is a monster. There may be reasons for his change in character,” she added, scrupulously fair, “but the fact remains that he is entirely unsuitable.”
“A monster?” echoed Julia faintly.
“Nonsense!” said her mother in bracing tones. “Faustina hasn’t seen him since he returned from the continent.”
“Oh, yes, I have,” protested Faustina. “And a more odious, self-satisfied, callous
tyrant
I have never seen!”
Even Lady Waverly was daunted by the force of her niece’s remarks. The object of her strictures, implanted in the lawn below, possessed a fleeting resemblance to a man struck, for example, on the road to Damascus by a great light.
“My dear, we will see what the earl is like,” resumed Lady Waverly after a pause.
“Not at your ball,” pointed out Faustina. “He is far too high in the instep to be seen at a country affair. I doubt he even responds to your invitation!”
“He could not be so uncivil!”
“Couldn’t he?” Faustina surprised herself with the heat of her feelings against her nearest neighbor. “All I can say is that whoever marries Pendarvis is a complete and utter fool!”
A succession of thoughts passed swiftly through the mind of the listener underneath the window.
A certain surprise revealed itself — how had the sweet-natured girl he dimly remembered, near tears over the plight of a baby lark, have turned into the virago who had flown at him only days ago in the yard of the Green Man? On that occasion he had been merely amused.
Rarely given to introspection, he had not for a long time cared much for the impression he left on others. He was well aware that there was much bitterness and a core of ice-bound anguish in him that he believed he had successfully hidden from the world. But the abhorrence with which the very lovely Faustina Kennett clearly regarded him was shockingly revealing. She had far too much insight!
His thoughts raced furiously. His lips clamped tightly in a manner his servants would have recognized, just before they took pains to examine their own recent activities and found urgent duties elsewhere.
Clearly, something would have to be done about this self-satisfied termagant.