by Dorothy Mack
The fact that Lucy and her brother had both tried to mitigate an embarrassing confrontation with her parent just now had touched her heart. They had shown themselves sensitive to nuances in the atmosphere, and she was resolved that the beginning of Lucy’s visit should not be further clouded. Hopefully, her father would be pleased with her restored appearance and they would brush through the tea-drinking ceremony with no additional display of his displeasure.
Long before dinner was over that evening, Gemma was regretting her placatory behaviour, however. The duchess had joined them for tea, and after greeting Mr. Delevan kindly, had begun questioning Lucy about her recent illness with a gentle concern. She had always liked this sensible girl and considered her a good influence on her volatile daughter. At any other time, Gemma would have been delighted to share her parent with Lucy, but this monopoly today had played directly into her father’s hands.
The duke was at his wittiest, entertaining Mr. Delevan with the latest sporting stories from the London clubs and keeping his daughter firmly in his orbit when she would have joined the ladies’ talk. Not that his grace was ever guilty of being obvious; he was a man of the town, a superb conversationalist, and a talented raconteur who could on occasion even give a convincing appearance of listening attentively to others. Mr. Delevan proved to be an appreciative audience: interested, quick to catch the point, and once he even succeeded in capping one of his host’s stories. Her father’s choice was no slow top, Gemma was compelled to admit. She had a shrewd notion that Mr. Delevan did not spend all his days mewed up in a dim dusty office, buried to his shoulders in legal tomes.
As the evening wore on and the duke became increasingly affable and expansive, his daughter’s spirits became correspondingly weighted. Now she bitterly regretted the impulse that had caused her to bestow a boutonniere on the last man in the world she wished to encourage. A lingering hope that the gesture might have gone unnoticed was extinguished during tea when she caught her father’s speculative glance fixed on the white blossoms wilting against the dark-brown coat of his guest. That he was sufficiently needle-witted to make the association was attested to by his suddenly benign countenance and the swift smile for his daughter, though no remark was made. His daughter’s spirits slipped another notch.
Mr. Delevan’s manner toward a girl he had just met could not be faulted, but Gemma derived no comfort from this. She’d have preferred a patent show of indifference to his exemplary civility but was not so unreasonable as to expect such from a man whose very presence indicated the opposite of indifference. Whether there was anything at all of a personal nature to be read in Mr. Delevan’s courtesy was a question his host’s daughter could not have determined even had she wished to do so — which she passionately did not — because acute embarrassment and distress over her own hapless position prevented her from being able to meet the gentleman’s glance for more than the fraction of a second. It required all of the social sense painfully acquired during her London season to enable Gemma to play her part in the cosy family evening without revealing her mental agitation; and by the time the ladies retired — at a thankfully early hour, since Lucy was a bit fatigued from traveling — she had, in desperation, formed the firm intention of laying all her cards on the table before Mr. Delevan at the earliest possible moment. It was inconceivable to her that they could engage in daily intercourse while Mr. Delevan remained ignorant of the attachment between herself and George. It would be the grossest inconsideration to let him continue in the mistaken belief that she was free to consider his suit.
This resolve once taken, Lady Gemma was able to bid her friend goodnight with a cheerful air and an easier conscience. It was not until she was about to climb into her own bed that it struck her that she had no idea whether Lucy was aware of the contemplated match between her brother and her schoolmate. This unwelcome possibility gave birth to a new worry that her refusal of Mr. Delevan might wound Lucy and drive a wedge into their friendship. This new problem would have given her troubled spirit a difficult time indeed had not the sleep of total mental exhaustion claimed her healthy young body very shortly thereafter.
The following morning Lady Gemma arose at an early hour, animated by the urgent need to carry out the decision taken the previous evening with respect to Mr. Delevan before her father’s machinations could become obvious to everyone. This time she dressed quickly, with no thought to pleasing the duke, and was nearly finished by the time her maid entered the room. Thinking her mother might not have had the opportunity as yet to request that Mrs. Benedict detail one of the young housemaids to wait on Lucy during her stay, she sent Polly along to her friend’s room and spent the next few moments rehearsing what she would say to Mr. Delevan. A very little consideration served to convince her that there really was not a tactful approach to such a delicate subject. In the fullness of time, it might be possible by oblique references to George to impress upon Mr. Delevan that her affections were already bespoken, but her father’s behaviour indicated he was not prepared to allow this new acquaintance to ripen at its own unaided pace. This being the case, there was no alternative to a direct confrontation. Bracing herself for the ordeal, she went down the hall to knock at Lucy’s door.
“Oh, I do like that!” Lady Gemma passed an approving eye over her guest’s crisp lilac cotton gown with its dainty white pleated neckline below a narrow frilled ruff. She closed the door and came into the room to wait while Polly finished brushing out Lucy’s shining chestnut tresses.
“Am I late for breakfast?”
Intercepting her friend’s quick glance at the French clock on the marquetry table desk, Lady Gemma shook her own dusky curls. “No, we need not go down for another twenty minutes or so. Quite often Papa and Peter will have been riding before breakfast, and Mama never leaves her rooms much before noontime. Her constitution is not strong, you know.”
“I liked your mother so much when she would visit you at school. I hope having us here will not be a strain on her.”
“Oh, no. Mrs. Benedict and I see to it that Mama is not troubled unnecessarily with the small household crises. Dealing with Papa’s demands is quite as much as she can manage in general.”
“While I am here, you must let me help too in any way I may.” Lucy made no comment on Gemma’s reference to her father, though she was already beginning to suspect that her friend did not enjoy the kind of warm relationship with the duke that existed between Mr. Delevan and his children. “Shall we meet your brother this morning?” she asked, hoping to hit on a happier topic. In the next instant, she wished she had confined her remarks to the weather as Gemma took her underlip between her teeth, anxiety furrowing her smooth brow.
“I trust so, or the atmosphere at table will be sulfuric. Peter is at a stage of life where he much prefers the company of his male contemporaries to that of his family. He delights in evading my father’s watchful eye and absenting himself from home, sometimes for days on end, though he well knows there will be a reckoning due when he does come home. I once asked him why he continues to defy Papa’s edicts, and he told me the freedom was worth the punishment.”
“He does not sound so very different from most young men of his age to me,” said Lucy tolerantly.
“Do you think so?” Gemma brightened. “Mama and I go about in a constant quake that he will do something so reckless there will be no smoothing it over with Papa. It takes a terrible toll on my mother’s nerves when my father and Peter are on the outs.”
Lucy nodded in wordless sympathy, marvelling at her own lack of preparedness for this visit. She had not given a thought previously to the possible existence of undercurrents in her friend’s family life. It was a decidedly thoughtful young woman who entered the breakfast parlour a few moments later, alerted to small nuances in the atmosphere.
The first meeting with the Marquess of Gresham, who seemed refreshingly uncomplicated, passed off very well. Lucy knew him to be just a year senior to his sister, but was surprised to find him quite unlike her i
n looks, favouring, as he did, his paternal parent while Gemma had inherited the warm dark colouring of her mother’s Italian ancestors. He was not as large as the duke, standing just above middle height, with the slim build of youth, but father and son shared the same slightly aquiline cast of countenance and golden-brown hair. Both possessed light-blue eyes set under straight brows. There was little sign as yet that the young marquess would develop the penetrating, somewhat sardonic gaze that rendered his father’s aspect so formidable at times. He was dressed carelessly, with a Belcher handkerchief around his neck that drew forth a scathing comment from the duke that did nothing to dampen his high spirits. He returned Lucy’s frank appraisal with the same masculine appreciation his father had displayed but without the older man’s ease of expression, and he greeted her brother with ready friendliness.
“It will be a pleasure for Gemma to have the company of an old friend,” said the marquess, looking up from the plate of eggs and beef he was demolishing to smile widely at Lucy. “There is never much doing around here in the summer. I hope you won’t find it unbearably dull after London.”
“I’m sure I shan’t. Just being in this lovely countryside will be a treat for me.”
“How could life possibly be dull, Peter, with Aunt Sophronia and Coralee coming for a nice long visit?” Gemma did not see the quickening interest in Mr. Delevan’s eyes at her tone of bogus innocence; she was anticipating her brother’s reaction to her little bomb.
Peter did not disappoint her. After nearly choking on a mouthful of food, he bent a look of pop-eyed horror at his sister’s sweetly composed features. “Good Lord, not —” He broke off under a quelling glare from his father and amended hastily, “I mean, I was not aware that my aunt and cousin meant to honour us with a visit this summer.”
“Perhaps if you stayed at home more often, you would know more of the family’s affairs. My sister and niece arrive today, and naturally I shall expect you to do your part to entertain your cousin while she is with us.” His grace forestalled any attempt on his son’s part to articulate the mutiny writ clear on his face by declaring his intention to conduct Mr. Delevan around the estate after breakfast. “I trust we may hope for your company also, Gresham.”
The mention of Mr. Delevan’s name recalled Gemma to the need to speak privately with that gentleman. “May Lucy and I come too, Papa?” she put in swiftly, unconsciously easing what might be considered the unease of their guests at being present at a family squabble by diverting attention from the rebellious Peter.
“My dear Gemma, Miss Delevan has been cooped up in a carriage for two days. I am persuaded she would far liefer employ her time this morning in a relaxed tour of the old parts of the house.” Turning to Lucy with a charming smile, the duke added, “You appear to me someone who will appreciate the fine linenfold panelling in the queen’s room and the original hangings, Miss Delevan.”
“Oh, yes, indeed I shall.”
Seeing the sparkle of anticipation in her friend’s eyes, Gemma conceded herself outgeneraled and accepted her defeat with good grace, firmly suppressing the sense of frustration that gripped her whenever her glance chanced to fall on John Delevan calmly eating his breakfast with every appearance of enjoyment. His friendly smile seemed to demand a like response, but after responding to it at one point, she experienced an absurd pang of guilt, as though to smile at Mr. Delevan was to betray her love for George. With a concerted effort, she shook off this mood and prepared to enjoy a morning with Lucy.
The morning passed happily and all too quickly. Lucy’s obvious pleasure in exploring the rambling structure that had evolved over the years communicated itself to her friend, who was able to see her home through fresh eyes. As expected, the state rooms, which had been prepared for a projected visit by Queen Elizabeth that never took place, were of paramount interest. The series of square rooms, one following another with their doors lined up for the ease of the royal progression, were preserved intact as far as the original panelling and tapestries were concerned, though the furnishings had been updated at the whim of subsequent owners and their ladies. One mantelpiece still bore the arms of Queen Elizabeth over it, and there was a gloriously carved wooden overmantel in the withdrawing room that had probably been executed at a later date by Grinling Gibbons, who was known to have worked in the area. All the rooms boasted plaster work ceilings of geometric design and exuberantly carved doors in the Tudor arch shape.
Lucy fell in love with a sumptuously carved and upholstered daybed with an exquisite shell-shaped head, but in general she found the paintings of more interest than the bulky furniture. “This is a charming study of the young queen,” she enthused, stepping closer to admire a painting in the royal bedchamber.
“Which is more than one can say for that gruesome copy of the Holbein portrait of her father in the anteroom.”
Lucy giggled at Gemma’s delicate shudder of distaste and agreed. “Having that forbidding face so near one’s bedchamber would certainly drive away my sleep.”
The girls amused themselves by trying, and failing, to discover some likeness to the present duke or his son in the two old portraits of ancestors dating from the time of the early Stuarts that were enshrined in the state rooms, and Lady Gemma promised her guest a visit to the picture gallery on another occasion to pursue this quest further among what she slightingly referred to as a plethora of family portraits accumulated down through the years. By the time they had wandered into a newer wing and peeked into the main guest rooms used by the present duke, it was nearly time for lunch.
The pleasant task of showing Lucy around the hall and answering her numerous questions had successfully diverted Lady Gemma’s attention for hours, but the sight of Mr. Delevan’s brown head in the dining parlour brought her problems rushing to the forefront once more. It was imperative that she seek a private interview with him — and the sooner, the better, for the sake of her peace of mind. But how to accomplish the feat without arousing the curiosity of every other member of the household was a puzzle that occupied her almost to the exclusion of eating.
In the ordinary way, shyness was not an affliction that troubled Lady Gemma, nor was Mr. Delevan’s person particularly intimidating or off-putting. Once granted the opportunity and the requisite privacy, she felt confident that she could make the necessary explanation in a way that would spare his feelings and permit them to deal together without strain thereafter. Numerous opportunities would doubtless arise without her contrivance in the course of time, but time was of the essence. Coralee and Aunt Sophronia would be upon them before the day was over, and her cousin’s sharp eyes and instinct for news gathering were forces not to be underestimated. She was bound to spot any little manoeuvres of her uncle’s aimed at throwing her cousin and Mr. Delevan together, and there would be no restraining that mischief-making tongue of hers.
By the time the meal ended, the duke’s daughter was in a highly developed state of tension, unsure whether to act or not to act, and, incidentally, more in sympathy with Hamlet’s indecision than she had ever expected to be back in her school days when she had read the play. Then, while she sat paralyzed by doubts, the situation resolved itself with the ease of a drawer sliding into its grooves.
Lucy, who had crooned lovingly over the superb pianoforte in the music room that morning, expressed a diffident desire to practice upon the instrument if no one would be disturbed. She was promptly commanded by the duchess to regard it at her own at any time during her visit, since all the family enjoyed music without a single member being in any way disciplined enough to practice regularly. Her grace then requested an interview with her husband concerning some household matters. Peter announced his intention of riding into Bath that afternoon. The duke’s questioning glance fell on his guest, but before he could inquire the latter’s wishes, Mr. Delevan remarked idly that he had glimpsed a lovely garden that morning that he would enjoy exploring. Perhaps Lady Gemma would be so kind as to direct his footsteps?
Avoiding the satisfie
d gleam in her father’s eyes, Lady Gemma demurely expressed herself willing to guide their visitor on a tour of the gardens, hoping she had been able to disguise her eagerness as filial obedience.
“Don’t neglect to take a hat, dearest. The sun is strong today,” warned the duchess as the luncheon party scattered to its various pursuits.
“Yes, Mama,” said her dutiful daughter.
Twenty minutes later, Lady Gemma was conducting her father’s houseguest along the neat, gravelled paths of the rose garden. Mindful of the ostensible reason for this tête-à-tête, she made a conscientious effort to deliver a brief history of each variety that caught Mr. Delevan’s fancy. Again he proved an attentive and encouraging audience, so much so that she forgot for a time her real purpose and discoursed with mounting enthusiasm on her favourite flowers, unaware of the charming picture she presented in her deep-pink dress with its white sash and little neck ruff of goffered lawn. Obligingly, Mr. Delevan directed his attention to all the specimens she extolled, but it returned each time of its own accord to the vivid countenance of his hostess. A tiny smile hovered on his lips as she lifted her face to the sun’s rays with sensual enjoyment. He gestured toward the straw bonnet dangling over her arm by its pink ribbons.
“Was I mistaken or did I hear you promise your mother to wear a hat on this perilous expedition?”
For a second she looked disconcerted until a lambent glance detected the quizzical gleam in his eyes. Incredibly thick lashes descended to conceal her expression. “I promised Mama to take a hat,” she corrected primly, “so you are mistaken sir.”