by Dorothy Mack
“You are very wet too,” she contributed inanely. “You must change also.”
“There will be a fire in the green saloon,” he replied offhandedly. “I’ll dry out there. My clothes offered more protection. Go now.”
Cleone, in an agony of embarrassment, risked one quick glance at set features, muttered an almost inaudible thank-you, and fled.
When she joined Lord Altern and Emerald in the picture gallery later that afternoon, no one could have guessed at the stern resolution that had been invoked to enable her to present a serene uncaring front at this first meeting with the man who had seen her in that appalling state of disarray. The full impact of her condition had not hit her until, having safely gained her own chamber unseen, she had gone directly to the mirror over the wash-stand and taken deliberate stock of her appearance. Even knowing her wet dress was moulded to her figure had not prepared her for the wanton effect of barely veiled curves and wet hair streaming over her shoulders like so much seaweed. The battering from wind and rain had started the process, and being tossed over a man’s shoulder had doubtless completed the loss of the pins securing her heavy knot of hair. Another uncontrollable blush covered her whole body, but the shudder that succeeded it brought her back to the present as she rang for Tilly.
Her cold stiff fingers had still been struggling with the buttons on her dress when the maid arrived. Cleone had cut off the girl’s astonished cluckings, though not before the latter had fervently thanked the stars that no one had seen her mistress in such a state. Cleone had agreed, perjuring her soul without a qualm, though she had averted her eyes quickly. Hot tea had revived her, and her present appearance had been carefully calculated to eradicate, or at least counteract, any impressions Lord Altern may have received earlier.
He looked up now as she stood in the doorway attired in a gown of sober hue fashioned high to the throat with long sleeves and a rather voluminous skirt. Her hair, hastily dried in front of the fire, was scraped back in a severe bun without the usual softening waves around her temples, and a close observer might have noticed that a certain defiant light in her eyes belied the serenity of Madonna-like features.
Lord Altern, indeed a very close observer, assimilated this in one all-encompassing glance, but his face betrayed nothing of his thoughts as he greeted her cordially, “Ah, Miss Latham, come in. I have been treated to a most enjoyable tour of this marvellous old place by Miss Hardwicke, and am eagerly looking forward to viewing Lord Brestwick’s collection, which I can see is an extensive one.”
“Yes,” agreed Cleone, relaxing her shoulders and taking her cue from him, “there are some very fine paintings here as well as the typical collection of indifferent family portraits accumulated over the years — centuries, really. Shall we start at this end?”
“You surely do not intend to subject our guest to a lecture on each and every painting, do you, Cleo?” Emerald laughed gaily. “Most of them are too utterly dreary. He will expire from boredom.”
“I am quite fond of good painting actually and, if you will forgive the boast, eminently capable of escaping from situations productive of ennui.” A teasing smile accompanied this outrageous claim, and Emerald subsided with an answering smile.
Cleone, who had arrived with the firm intention of showing him the Van Dykes and one or two of the better landscapes brought back from Italy, discovered as they progressed the length of the seventy-five-foot room that was part of the original structure that Lord Altern had spoken no more than the truth. He possessed a discriminating eye and was quite knowledgeable about painting in general, so that she soon lost her wariness and began to enjoy herself.
It wasn’t to be expected that any two strong-minded persons should always see eye to eye on a subject offering such wide scope for varying opinion. Emerald, whose interest in painting was minimal at best, found her spurious enthusiasm increasingly difficult to maintain in the face of numerous little arguments, some of them quite spirited, that arose in the course of viewing the works. When it became evident that she invariably sided with Lord Altern in these disputes, her opinion was no longer sought by either side and her contributions dwindled to periodic reminders that they need not try to see everything in one afternoon, each of which was ignored by the disputants.
A small painting of the present earl’s father on his favourite hunter done by Stubbs was proclaimed a gem by Lord Altern over Miss Latham’s strong objection that the horse was the better portrait of the two. Their guest threw back his head and laughed at her indignation, rousing Miss Hardwicke from the state of lethargy into which she was rapidly declining to renewed vigilance. A lovely portrait of the late Lady Brestwick and her only child by Thomas Gainsborough late in his career was dutifully admired for its graceful composition while Emerald produced a sentimental tear at this depiction of her father as an eager handsome lad of twelve.
“Young Henley favours his mother more in looks,” mused Lord Altern, scrutinizing the portrait.
“I agree. Charlie is actually more like my cousin Jack, and the resemblance is increasing as he gets older.”
When Cleone would have walked slowly past the next painting without comment, Lord Altern halted in his tracks.
“Now this is something like!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. The subject was Lord Brestwick painted sitting at his cluttered desk, and it was obviously a fairly recent study of vigorous old age. “After knowing Lord Brestwick for only a few days, I can see that the artist has captured the essential impatience and intensity of his personality. I don’t recognize the style or the brushwork, though,” he admitted, bending forward to look for a name. “C.L., 1812,” he read aloud, none the wiser.
“Cleo did it when she first came here,” Emerald said carelessly. “She did one of me last year. It’s nearer the door.”
Cleone was looking very self-conscious when Lord Altern’s steel-grey eyes sought hers in astonishment. “You are the artist, ma’am? Good Lord, why did no one say? This is a wonderful study of your great-uncle, worthy in every respect to be placed in this company.” He waved an embracing arm at the walls. “Are portraits your specialty? With whom did you study?”
A flush of gratification was tinting Cleone’s fair skin as she basked in the warmth of his praise. “You are too kind, sir. I am still the veriest amateur, I fear. I have never studied in a great studio, though I should like to very much. And, yes, people are my preferred subjects, though I enjoy doing an occasional still life. I’m afraid I have no gifts for landscape painting.”
“Come see the one she did of me,” invited Emerald, “though I do not think it is as good as Grandfather’s portrait. I always said you made me look too childish, Cleo.”
A still-bemused Lord Altern and a silent Cleone allowed themselves to be directed to the full-length portrait of Miss Hardwicke a few feet farther on. It was indeed the quintessence of youth, with its graceful subject standing poised at the top of a flight of stairs ready to make her descent. Emerald’s flawless features and striking colouring were accurately recorded. Also rendered was the innocent pride and self-awareness of a beautiful young girl verging on womanhood.
Glancing into the expectant face of the picture’s model, Lord Altern was suddenly aware that despite the veneer of sophistication acquired through a season’s exposure to society, this was still a girl merely verging on womanhood. The thought must be pursued at a convenient moment, but not here and now, where the two young women awaited his comments, one with a wooden expression designed to conceal her anxiety for his verdict and the other with a complacency she could not quite disguise as modesty.
“I can only say that it is perfectly lovely,” he offered at last, choosing his words with care, “which I realize is sadly inadequate both to the sitter and to the artist. Lord Brestwick is to be felicitated on the superb talents of the women in his family, both musical and artistic.”
The rest of the time spent in the gallery was sheer anti-climax, and no one was sorry when Philip popped his head in to tell his sist
er she was wanted by their mother. He then challenged their guest to a game of billiards. They all trooped out of the room, heading for their separate destinations, Cleone having declined an invitation to join the men — to Emerald’s transparent relief.
Lord Altern contrived to get near enough to say for Cleone’s ear alone, “I can see that I have done a favour for posterity in rescuing your sketchbook this afternoon.”
Cleone stiffened at this untimely reminder of that hideously embarrassing incident. Her eyes reflected the coolness in her voice as she demurred lightly. “I apprehend I am being used with that most agreeable of all abuses, flattery, but I shall not allow you to turn my head, sir.”
“I am persuaded that would be a feat beyond my ability, ma’am,” returned Lord Altern, having the last word as they caught up with Philip, who fell into step with him.
Cleone walked away from the men, trying to convince herself she did not regret the abruptly extinguished friendliness in his eyes that had instantly followed her flippant remarks.
CHAPTER 7
Not a muscle moved in Gregson’s austere countenance to betray the active state of his mind as he moved about the large guest chamber with that quiet efficiency that was his trademark and upon which he would have prided himself had he not held rigid beliefs about the sinfulness of pride. From time to time as he folded away various garments, he cast searching looks at the man sitting in a fireside chair paring his nails. There was something different about his employer tonight, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. The present Lord Altern was not an easy man to know, not as approachable as his brother had been. Having served the last earl until his untimely death from pneumonia, he had been retained on a trial basis by his heir on his arrival in England after selling out of Wellington’s army in Spain. It had been a grim-faced, silently grieving man who had thrown himself into learning the essentials of being a large landowner. Even after two years of close association, his valet would scarcely describe his lordship as a communicative man, but he was a just employer who never made unreasonable demands of his staff. While it would be stretching the point to call him affable, he had proved to be even-tempered, and when it was necessary to reprimand any of his servants, he adopted a cold judicial manner that could prove more daunting than explosions of anger from lesser men.
Two years of silent observation had led Gregson to the conclusion that his lordship’s polished manners concealed a rather cold nature, or perhaps a solitary nature might be a better description. He had a wide acquaintance but few real friends, his closest friends being still with the army in Brussels. Only with his aunt, Lady Pendleston, had he ever displayed any emotion approaching warmth. As an extremely eligible bachelor, he was inundated with invitations from London’s top hostesses, but it was Gregson’s opinion that his lordship grew restless in London; he hadn’t removed there until well into the season either year that he had been in his employ. Last summer they had returned to the country without even spending a week or two in Brighton.
As far as the fair sex was concerned, Gregson’s scope for observation had been severely limited, to say the least. On rare occasions, Lady Pendleston had served as the earl’s hostess for small dinner parties in the London house. No unmarried lady had ever graced more than one such affair. Any liaisons with another class of female had been so discreetly conducted that his valet was kept in the dark as to the identity of the women. Coming here to Bramble Hall was enough of a departure from the earl’s routine that Gregson had dared to hope there might soon be a new mistress at Seven Oaks. Within twenty-four hours of arriving, the resident servants’ attitude had confirmed that they were expecting his employer to cast the handkerchief to the Earl of Brestwick’s granddaughter. Lord Altern, of course, was his usual uncommunicative self, but as Gregson laid out his evening apparel for the dinner party that was being given this evening, the feeling persisted that something in the situation had changed. A thoughtful frown creased his lordship’s brow, and surely he had never given such minute attention to his nails before. Gregson was not so naive as to expect to learn anything from his employer, but perhaps later in the servants’ hall he might get some inkling of what, if anything, had happened to bring about this pensiveness. He had caught a glimpse of Miss Hardwicke with his lordship in the corridor today and found her as beautiful as reported, though rather young. Perhaps the quarry was proving elusive? It seemed unlikely, but stranger things had happened.
At the exact moment when Lord Altern rose to remove his dressing gown, Gregson reached his side to take the garment from him in his unhurried fashion. As expected, the final stages of his lordship’s toilette were completed without any revelations of any kind. Though Gregson would have been happy to see his employer adopt a slightly more dashing mode of dress, he could not but approve the neatness and propriety that always marked his appearance, undoubtedly the military influence. He watched with satisfaction as his employer finished arranging his snowy cravat in the modest folds of the Mathematical style and moved into place to assist him into his long-tailed black coat.
The subject of Gregson’s speculations could rightly be called pensive this evening, but that pale adjective was woefully inadequate to describe his mental state. After three quite pleasant days at Bramble Hall, Lord Altern had finally confronted and acknowledged the disconcerting truth that he no longer felt any desire to make Miss Emerald Hardwicke his wife. And he should be kicked all the way to London and back for the impulsivity that had embroiled him in this mess, he thought savagely, dragging a brush through his crisp dark hair with a force that destroyed its effectiveness. Her beauty had enchanted him in London, and he had found her company charming and amusing for the short periods of time when he had been granted it. It was necessary that he marry, and he was tired of hanging out for a wife, making the rounds of fatuous social affairs where the eligible candidates were to be found. He thought he had accepted the unlikelihood that he would ever be struck in a heap by a woman; love, if it existed, was apparently not for him, so he would go about the thing rationally, selecting a female who would grace his home and bear his children and not disgust him with any high-flown flights of sensibility. All of which made his present revulsion of feeling all the more reprehensible.
Miss Hardwicke had not changed. She was still the most beautiful girl he knew, she was amusing company, and she didn’t lack for wit. If her interests were limited to the newest fashions and society gossip, the same could be said of the vast majority of women. She could scarcely be blamed for his discovery that the amount of time he had formerly been allowed to spend in her presence was actually quite adequate. Nor was it a reflection on her that he tended to become bored after a limited exposure to feminine society. This being the case, it was highly probable that almost any other eligible young lady would have the same effect on him. No, these considerations really should not be classified as objections to marriage with Miss Hardwicke.
On the other hand, though Emerald was essentially unchanged, being on her home ground with her afforded him a perfect opportunity to deepen his knowledge of her personality and character. By their very nature, social encounters during a London season were artificial situations, not really reflective of normal life. The fact that a girl shone in a ballroom was no guarantee that she was equally capable of running a house. Not that he was interviewing a housekeeper, of course, but it had been borne in on him after three days at Bramble Hall that Miss Hardwicke’s sole function appeared to be decorative. From what he had seen, the same could be said of her mother and sister. Unless his powers of observation were at fault, the running of this household was solely in the demonstrably capable hands of Miss Cleone Latham. Naturally it would be unfair to take this as an indication that Miss Hardwicke would be any less capable than her cousin when established in her own home. The fact remained that, whatever the reason, he had yet to see one of the Hardwicke ladies lift a finger, even to something as non-fatiguing as flower arranging. He could not repress the suspicion that Miss Hardwicke was,
at this stage of her life, concerned primarily with her own amusements and comforts. He had glimpsed no real interest in the concerns of her brothers and sisters or her parent and grandparent despite her pretty manners. What he had glimpsed — too often — was a high-frequency pout that was amusing at present, but might not seem so on a permanent basis.
Jason finished brushing his hair, impatient with himself for these efforts at rationalizing what was after all a volte-face on his part, and one that was going to complicate his life exceedingly in the immediate future. There were four days left of his scheduled visit, and by the end of that time everyone from the autocratic old earl to the youngest stable boy would expect to celebrate a betrothal.
He was not bound in honour to marry the girl. He’d never spoken a word to her that couldn’t be heard by the Archbishop of Canterbury, let alone tried to kiss her, but there was no denying that expectations had been raised. His first thought, once he’d admitted he didn’t want to go through with it, was to cut and run. It wouldn’t be impossible to arrange for a message to be delivered calling him away on a matter of urgency, but apart from the embarrassment this would afford his hosts when no resumption of the courtship occurred, it was not the action of an honest man. Unless, or until, some other solution presented itself, he had no option but to carry on with the farce. Frowning heavily, he laid the brush down on the chest and pulled his shirt cuff to a more comfortable position below his coat sleeve.
Gregson picked a piece of lint off the back of the black coat that fit so admirably across the impressive breadth of Lord Altern’s shoulders, approving the final touch of a discreet gold and onyx pin in his employer’s cravat. He acknowledged the earl’s thanks with a bow and watched him walk out the door. He had not expected to be invited into his lordship’s confidence but felt confirmed in his hunch that something was bothering him, or at least occupying his mind more than was fitting during a visit of pleasure.