"Curious," Jocelyn murmured softly, remembering his expression when she met him at the top of the stairs. "But if he is still in mourning, why would he suggest this betrothal house party?"
"Tarkington is no longer in mourning, Jocelyn. That's not the problem. He has let Diana go. It was not easy, I'll agree; but he came to terms with Diana's death for Anne's sake. . . . At least, that is what he told me, and I believe him. Oh, Jocelyn, Anne is the dearest child who delights in each discovery!" Lady Mary laughed, though her eyes glistened with unshed memories. "I took her with me when I had my last fitting for my gown. The seamstress let her play among the baubles." She shook her head in rueful memory. "Soon she demanded the seamstress put all manner of odd beads and ribbons on my dress. I had a time convincing her otherwise! We had to promise to make her up a dress with a certain blue bead as part of the decoration and miles of trailing ribbon. That is to be her play ball gown, she told me."
"She sounds incorrigible."
"She is. But she has not become snide, like so many children do. She merely knows her own mind quite well. Tarkington is awed by her, I believe," she mockingly confided, her blue eyes dancing with humor.
"Awed? By his own daughter?"
"Well, he says prior to Diana's death his London activities kept him from home too much. Consequently he's lost track of the time from when she was an infant until now. She's grown without him noticing. When did she stop being an infant in arms? When did she learn to talk? To walk? he says. He's lost a part of his child's life that he can never recover. It is for Anne that he remains at Bayneville, you know. He doesn't want to miss a moment again."
"Gracious. That sounds rather morbid."
"Hmm, I suppose, but Anne is such a joy one wants to be near her. Still, though I do understand, I fear he is making a grave mistake. He was born and bred to take his place in society. I fear he is using Anne merely as an excuse to shun society."
"The maid who escorted me to my room, she mentioned something about a rocking horse . . . ?" Jocelyn ventured.
Lady Mary nodded. "He's building one for her."
"Building a rocking horse?"
"Yes. And doing much of the work himself."
"Himself?"
"Tarkington says doing the work himself will give the present more meaning. Making the rocking horse will represent his love for her." Lady Mary shook her head. "I asked him for whom, himself or Anne, but he didn't give me an answer."
"Probably didn't dare to! And I suppose that accounts for his work-roughened hands," Jocelyn said, then blushed at the admission she'd noticed his hands.
"True! And though I disagree, I do understand a bit of what he's saying. Christmas at Bayneville has always been a marvelous and very special time. For everyone."
"How do you mean?"
Lady Mary smiled. "The house is a beehive of activity. For two days before Christmas, the smells of baking sweet cakes and breads permeate the kitchens." Her voice increased its speed and enthusiasm. "Throughout the house everything is dusted and shined. The day before Christmas a Yule log is chosen, and pine, boxwood, holly, and ivy are gathered for garlands to lavishly decorate the house. Afterward, mistletoe is gathered by footmen and—with giggling help from the maids—is hung from kissing boughs throughout the castle. With the advent of night, candles are lit everywhere until the house is a blaze of light as brilliant and warm as the sun." She paused and shook her head as she considered the work involved. "They shall probably prepare the entire estate for the holiday better than they do for my wedding! Of course, I cannot say I blame them. Last year Christmas at Bayneville was bleak. Mama and I were here, and every time one or the other of us would do something that Diana normally did, everyone would burst into tears. Not even our traditional gift line brought laughter."
"Gift line?"
Lady Mary enthusiastically nodded, her color high. "On Christmas Eve the servants gather and we give them two presents each. The first is useful, like a new pair of boots or a shawl. The second is always fanciful or funny, and the household rings with merry laughter when those are passed out."
"What an enchanting tradition!"
Lady Mary sneezed as she nodded. "Excuse me. . . . It is, isn't it?" she said, her eyes watering. "My grandmother began the tradition. She was the tiniest of creatures, but she possessed the heart of a lion." Sneezing again, she dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief.
"Gracious, Lady Mary, don't say you're becoming sick! It only wants days until Lord Killingham arrives!"
"No, no. . . . It's nothing—a trifle."
"Perhaps, my dear, but one can't be too careful," Lady Maybrey said gravely.
Jocelyn and Lady Mary turned to see Lady Maybrey in the doorway followed by Lady Tarkington.
"What is this? Is my Mary ill?" Lady Tarkington's naturally high voice shrilled with concern.
Lady Maybrey's skirts softly rustled as she crossed the room. She stopped in front of Lady Mary and laid a cool wrist against her brow. "My dear, this is no trifle. Your brow is warm and damp from fever!"
"No . . . I can't be. . . . I tell you I'm all right!" Lady Mary pulled away, panicked denial in her voice and face.
"Oh, you are! You are ill!" shrilled Lady Tarkington, coming up by her daughter and repeating Lady Maybrey's actions.
"Oh, Mama," Lady Mary protested. She sniffled, then straightened to bestow her sunniest smile upon her mother. "It's nothing," she insisted again until her body betrayed her with an involuntary shiver.
"No!"
The harsh, single word startled the ladies. They turned to see the marques standing rigidly while myriad emotions chased across his face.
"Tarkington!" exclaimed his mother.
He spun away from them to shout at footmen in the hall: "Joseph! Fetch Dr. Linden. Matthew, tell Lady Mary's maid to turn down her bed!" He turned back to the room and crossed to the couch. Unceremoniously he picked up Lady Mary, holding her high against his chest.
"Tarkington! Put me down!" She squirmed in her brother's arms.
Looking at Tarkington's clenched jaw, Jocelyn knew he wasn't going to listen to his sister. Swiftly she gathered up Lady Mary's shawl from where it had fallen on the floor and ran ahead of the marques to open the music room door wider.
Lady Mary began weeping softly, muttering denial.
Jocelyn followed the marques and her friend as far as the stairs. From the base of the staircase she watched him carry her upstairs. Lady Tarkington followed behind, calling out further instructions to the servants as she went.
Lady Maybrey came up behind Jocelyn and laid her hand on her shoulder. Jocelyn turned her head to look at her mother and smile wryly. "I am beginning to feel this will be one very long day."
Thirty minutes passed. The butler had supplied Jocelyn and Lady Maybrey with sherry and had informed them in solemn tones that dinner would be set back an hour. They heard a flurry of activity when the doctor arrived; otherwise silence ensued, leaving them with only each other's company. For a time they exchanged prosaic remarks on the house and Lady Mary's illness. Still, time crawled, and Jocelyn paced the room like a caged animal. Finally she stopped at the beautiful gold-inlaid white harpsichord and let her fingers idly play over the keys, listening to the rich, unique, bell-like pinging sound. She sat down on the bench before the instrument, and her left hand joined her right in chords to accompany simple melodies, then to intricate patterns, and finally to songs. She sang softly, her eyes drifting shut as she allowed the music to fill her soul.
Lady Maybrey leaned back against a nest of pillows on the sofa. "I'd almost forgotten how well you play the harpsichord," she said when the last note of a song faded away. "You haven't played the instrument in months!"
Jocelyn shrugged slightly, a soft, almost sad smile on her lips. "When has there been time? We have been so busy the last months, I scarcely have time for myself. And, too, the time I have devoted to my music has been spent practicing the pianoforte for some soiree or another, learning songs others can sing as well." She sighed. "The harpsichord is not as favored an instrument as it was in the past. Reminiscent of hooped skirts and heavy brocades, I think. It is, you must admit, Mother, considered old-fashioned and therefore boring in the bon ton."
"And, of course, one must accommodate the ton," the marques said from the doorway, his voice a deep, mocking drawl.
"Well, naturally."
"Why?"
"Why? I'm afraid I don't understand."
"Jocelyn, the marques is teasing you!" Lady Maybrey said with a laugh.
"Am I?"
"Of course you are! Now come and sit down and tell us of Lady Mary. What has the doctor to say?"
He raised an eyebrow at her sweeping summation of his action but did as she requested. "He believes it to be just a grippe that will pass in a few days if Mary remains in bed and takes the medicine he prescribes." He turned toward Jocelyn. "I'm afraid, Miss Maybrey, that this shall put a damper on your visit. I apologize. We shall try to compensate."
"Please, there is no need. I find Bayneville so fascinating that I vow I shall be well occupied in exploring your marvelous estate. That is, if I may?"
"Of course, Miss Maybrey. You are most welcome. And should you desire to ride, I shall arrange a horse for you and one of my grooms to accompany you."
"That will not be necessary, my lord. I am a city-bred girl and not given to riding. However, I should be grateful of a pony cart if there is one available."
"Yes, of course. I have one that we take Lady Anne about in."
"Well, then, perhaps Lady Anne and I could go about together!"
"As you wish." He looked at her quizzically.
"Dinner is served, my lord."
"Ah, about time. I'm certain you ladies must be famished." He rose and offered Lady Maybrey his arm.
"No, though we thank you for your concern. We are actually accustomed to eating much later," Lady Maybrey answered.
He nodded wryly. "My mistake. I had forgotten how different London time is kept from the country. We shall begin immediately to accommodate our timetable to that of our London guests."
Though his words were bland enough, Jocelyn could not help hearing an underscore of mockery. She looked at him curiously as she followed her mother and him out of the room.
Late rising was another London tradition. When Jocelyn rose the next morning, the sun was almost at its zenith. She stretched and yawned, feeling that she'd compensated for the atrociously early start they'd made from London the previous day. She rose from her bed, rang the bell to summon a servant, found her wrapper, opened the drapes, and settled down in a chair by one of the windows where she could look out across land and buildings.
Jocelyn reveled in the openness of the scene cast before her. From the windows of her home in London, and from her boarding school in Bath, all she'd ever seen was a city of stone and brick layered in soot, and perennial dirty fog. Here, though the day was cloudy, the landscape was mantled in a dull silver light—a presage to winter pewter when damp winds would pierce the thickest bundling. But there was a beauty to this scene that the city lacked. These late morning clouds resembled a thick down-filled tick, all warm and cozy.
For all of Bayneville's grandeur, it remained a working estate, not a rich man's toy. White curls of smoke rose from estate buildings, attesting to their usage and utility. She watched two maids carry between them a large wicker basket laden with soiled linens, a young lad in a leather apron sweeping the stone flagway leading to one of the outbuildings, a weather-beaten man in a slouch hat carrying a rake, and an old woman dressed in black carrying a covered basket. Grooms exercised horses, dogs raced across the open ground, and a cat stalked a fat winter wren resting on a low wall. There scarcely could have been more activity in the yard of the busiest London coaching inn.
The knock of the maid at her door roused her from her absorbed interest. "Come in!"
Emmie backed into the room bearing a large tray.
"What's this?"
"Breakfast, miss."
"Breakfast! All this!" Jocelyn exclaimed, waving her hand at the array of covered dishes and pots on the tray.
"Yes, miss. I didn't know what you'd like, so I brought a bit of everything, I did. And as soon as you've eaten, Miss Barnes will be up to dress you, she says."
"How is Lady Mary this morning?"
Emmie shook her head. "Poorly, she is. Up most o' the night, I hear, sneezin' and snifflin'. Wouldn't take no laudanum, nor the medicine the doctor left, until my lord wur called. He made her sure enough." She shook her head. "My lord, he wur that determined. Fearful lest he lose his sister as he done his wife. But my Lady Mary, she's sleepin' now, her maid says. And what would ya like, miss? Coffee or hot chocolate?"
"Hot chocolate," Jocelyn said slowly, her mind engaged in considering all the maid said. Then she recalled herself and smiled at the maid. "And thank you, Emmie. I promise I shall not inconvenience you again in this manner. All this food, and the size of that tray!"
"No bother, miss. 'Tis a blessed change it is to see visitors again at Bayneville, y'know. And my lord said to let ya sleep late after yur travels yesterday."
"What time is breakfast normally served, Emmie?"
"Nine, miss."
"Nine!" Jocelyn burst out, then laughed. "I see this is another difference with which I shall have to accustom myself between the city and country. At home I seldom rise from my bed before nine. No one does."
"I've heard tales, miss."
Jocelyn laughed again. "I'm sure you have. Only don't believe half of it," she said, winking. "Mmm, this chocolate is delicious. I'd been noticing before you arrived how busy the estate is," she said, glancing back out the window.
Emmie laughed. "We're not busy, miss. 'Tis winter. Not like it be in summer—or at harvest! Lud, miss, it's an anthill, we are. But pardon, miss, I shouldn't be standin' jawin' with ya like this."
"Why not? I enjoy it. And with Lady Mary ill I must take my enjoyment where I can. Or shall you be missed belowstairs?"