“But at least hunting they are not squaring off and shooting at each other!”
He chuckled. “No. But they also do not have a gun in the boxing ring. And in a proper bout, not one man is drunk, something that cannot be said on the hunting field, I am afraid.”
Andromeda folded her hands together. It was inappropriate, she felt, to speak of drunkenness with a child present, but she let it go. “I am still not convinced that this is a safe sport, nor one that should be encouraged. Let the brutish masses fight, but Colin is not a brute.”
“No, but he is a damn . . . excuse me. My apologies . . . not quite used to a lady present and all that, and the child, too, of course.” Sir Parnell’s dark hue intensified. “He is a fine fighter, miss, if I may say so, judging by the rounds he went with my fellow last night.”
“I don’t care,” Andromeda said, rising. “I do not approve, and I will not condone it with any appearance of approval. Come, Belinda, we have calls to make today.”
• • •
Rachel sat in the Haven House drawing room listening to her mother and grandmother verbally spar, a sound so familiar to her that she could have taken either lady’s part and prolonged the argument with ease.
“I say we have a perfect right to redo this frightful room, regardless of anything Jane may wish. We are Haven ladies too.” That was Rachel’s mother.
“But she is the current viscountess,” her mother-in-law, Rachel’s grandmother, said. “The London house should reflect her taste, not ours.”
They sat opposite each other in hard, straight-backed chairs at a small table by the window. Spread in front of them were fabric samples and pattern books, all used in the debate whether they should consider going further with the necessary renovations to the dreary, glum Haven House.
“Pshaw,” the other woman said. “Jane does not have a care in the world one way or the other. She hates London and likely won’t set foot in Haven House again, if she has her way. You know she doesn’t care, you unpleasant old woman. You are just taking the other side to be contrary.”
That was a shot close to the truth, thought Rachel, as she watched her grandmother. The old lady’s watery blue eyes, so like Lord Haven’s, Rachel’s brother’s, glittered with enthusiasm. The two women had been verbally jousting for decades, the give and take of their sometimes bitter quarrels ringing through the Yorkshire mansion on every subject. There was nothing upon which they agreed, except that the Haven children were the most brilliant and beautiful of any children anywhere.
Rachel, seated on a brocade settee, picked up her needlework and sewed, listening to the fight. Who would win this time? It could be either. Not that she really cared one way or the other. She would be married and then the Haven London house would not matter to her. She would rarely see it.
She dropped her sewing and looked around the room, suddenly panicked, intent on memorizing every stain on the wallpaper, every wear spot in the carpet. It became dear to her as she knew she was going to lose it, trading it for the elegant Yarnell house. She felt sick with anticipation . . . or fear. Marriage was supposed to mean a measure of freedom for a lady, but she felt like she would be going from one cell to another, more secure and guaranteed to last a lifetime. Yarnell and his mother together made an indomitable force.
Her conversation with Miss Danvers the day before had been repeating over and over in her mind. What had the woman meant? What more was there to Yarnell? He never seemed to be more than a pleasant, well-dressed, perfectly mannered gentleman. The way the other lady spoke of him you would think him a veritable beau, spouting poetry, reading literature, having romantic adventures. And it was up to her to bring that out of him? Ludicrous.
The butler bowed his way into the room and handed a tray to Lady Haven.
That woman frowned down at the card presented. “Miss Millicent Danvers? And she is here in person, not just leaving her card? Rachel, do you know . . . ?”
“I know her, Mother. I met her yesterday at the music recital; she is an acquaintance of Yarnell and his family. Do have her shown in,” she said, rising and turning to the butler. Their guest was shown in and introductions were performed. Rachel’s mother and grandmother, their interesting dispute interrupted by company, joined in the conversation for a while, but soon the elder Lady Haven, exhausted by the day, retreated and the younger Lady Haven, pleading an appointment and apologizing for any appearance of rudeness, disappeared.
“I must apologize if this visit is unexpected,” Miss Danvers said, now that they were finally alone. “But my acquaintance in London is not large, and I thought since we are soon to be neighbors—”
“Please, don’t give it another thought,” Rachel said, waving away her misgivings. She was not sure whether she was happy to see Miss Danvers or not, after the odd emotional outburst of the day before. Miss Danvers had, after her outlandish statements about Yarnell, preceded Rachel into the house. After that all conversation by necessity became general, and so there had been no further explanation. But still, she would be a neighbor and friend in future. It behooved Rachel to keep their relationship cordial. And in truth she was not ill-disposed toward the young lady. “Do not feel the need to explain. We are ‘at home’ and happy to have company.”
“Are you . . . are you expecting any others?” Miss Danvers said, glancing toward the door.
“No,” Rachel replied, not sure how to interpret the lady’s hopeful, fearful glance to the door. “I believe you and I shall be quite uninterrupted.” She paused for a moment, but then took a deep breath. She might as well use the time to her advantage. “Tell me about Barcombe, Miss Danvers. I do not think I will see it until after the wedding, you know, and I am so very curious.”
“It is, unfortunately, too far for a day trip,” Miss Danvers admitted. She sat on the worn brocade settee beside Rachel and played with the strings of her reticule. “Barcombe is home,” she said simply, shrugging. “I suppose there is the same proportion of good people and bad, pleasant and unpleasant, but I confess I like no place better.”
She talked for a while, creating word pictures of a tiny village with a pond and green in the center, a row of snug shops, a tidy church and vicarage, and a few fine homes, set in the placid countryside. There were lovely country walks and another larger town within a couple of hours’ distance, and there were monthly assemblies through the winter at the community hall that drew all the better families for miles around. It sounded delightful.
But unbidden, wild Yorkshire and the high fells came to Rachel. All her life the dark majesty of craggy cliffs, heather-covered hillsides and sparkling, trickling gills had been the background of her days. It had been years since she had roamed them in the free way Pammy still had until recently but they were still always there, beyond Haven Court, rising above Lesleydale. She had a sudden powerful urge to see those hills again and to walk them, climbing to the highest prominence and taking in the valley where Lesleydale lay, snug and pretty. She adored London and the excitement of the Season, enjoyed the balls and parties, but there was something to be said for Yorkshire, too.
Miss Danvers’s gaze slid to the door again, and Rachel glanced in that direction, wondering what the fascination was. They spoke for a while longer, but finally Miss Danvers rose. “I have overstayed my fifteen minutes, I fear.” She put out her gloved hand. “Thank you for this,” she said, sighing deeply. “Thank you for . . . for this feeling that there will be someone in the Yarnell household who will be a friend to me.”
Rachel stood too, and they shook hands. “Don’t thank me. I enjoyed the visit likely more than you. And I, too, am glad I shall have a friend in Barcombe. It is so good to hear about the place that will be my home in so short a while.”
“Yes. Your home.”
Just then the door swung open.
“Miss Neville, I have made myself at home by asking the butler not to announce me. I suppose that is untoward, but I have a surprise.”
It was Lord Yarnell struggling through
the door with a large wrapped package, and he stopped what he was saying in mid-speech and stared at the young woman, Rachel’s visitor. “Millicent,” he gasped.
“Francis,” she replied, her voice trembling.
Rachel looked from one to the other. Her fiancé’s face was bleached a dead white and a fine sheen of perspiration had broken out on his forehead.
“Millicent, I . . . who . . . why are you—”
“Yarnell,” Miss Danvers said, straightening her backbone and standing tall. Rachel noticed she had quickly reverted to a more proper form of address for her childhood friend. “I was introduced to Miss Neville yesterday by your mother and aunt at the musical afternoon we all attended. And she was kind enough . . . I wanted to talk to her about Barcombe.”
Rachel, feeling a tension and not sure of the source, said, “Miss Danvers was kind enough to visit and tell me all about my new home. I know so little.”
“I never thought . . . you should have said something, Miss Neville,” Yarnell said stiffly. “I wrote a monograph on the topic of Barcombe; you might like to read it. Fascinating, really, the water drainage, and about the vole population balanced by the viper, and the presence of the Common Polyporus and Sulphur Tuft fungi.”
“She is going to live there, Francis, not study the flora and fauna.” Millicent Danvers’s tone was acerbic and she slipped back into her familiar mode of address. “She will be your wife, not a botanist!”
Rachel gazed at her in surprise. Lord Yarnell was one of those naturally intimidating gentlemen who carry with them an aura of stiffness and rectitude. She would never think of addressing him thus, and again, the lady had used his first name! But then, Miss Danvers had known him since they were children.
Since they were children.
Suspicions born the day before took root. She glanced from one to the other of them. Yarnell put down his burden, leaning it against a chair and seeming to forget about it as he stared at Miss Danvers, his face going from white to quite pink, all the way to the tips of his ears. Her lovely complexion colored, too, roses blooming in her cheeks as she cast her eyes down to the floor, the picture of maidenly confusion.
Oh, dear, Rachel thought. What to make of this? The confusion of her conversation the day before with Miss Danvers was suddenly becoming much clearer. She and Yarnell had once been in love. Or . . . were they still?
Chapter Eight
A restless night after two days of turmoil created in Rachel an unusual desire to set things right in her own heart. She had never given much thought before to what affects her actions might have on other people. But seeing the wide-eyed horror on Andromeda’s face and fear even on the intrepid Belinda’s youthful countenance at the theater had made her aware that what she did had real consequences, and she would not always be the one to pay the price for a thoughtless action. It plagued her mind, and she decided she must try to make up for it.
In the normal course of the day she would never see Andromeda, she decided, and so she must make an effort. She had thought about it long and hard, but there was no way to avoid this; she must make amends or . . . or she risked being thought of as a liar and Colin would hate her for her abysmal treatment of his sister. She might not want to marry Colin or care for him as anything but a friend, but their acquaintance was long and friendly, and she would dislike being on bad terms with his family. It was not just the fear on Andromeda’s face, evident even at a distance, that haunted her, it was the disappointment.
That Belinda would carry the tale of Rachel’s ill treatment back to her sister, Pamela, and new brother-in-law, Lord Strongwycke, also occurred to her. If there was anything in life she feared, it was being disliked as much as her behavior sometimes warranted.
Her maid at her side, Rachel stepped down from the Haven carriage at the Strongwycke residence, a lovely house in a good part of town, much better than Haven House’s location. She gazed up at the gleaming white façade and desperately hoped that Andromeda was there—even though this visit was going to be awkward, she would not put it off—and even more so that Colin should be there and see her better behavior. For she had no doubt that the silence from the Varens the last few days had a resentful edge. Andromeda could not have failed to tell her brother all about the awful mêlée at the theater, and that while they suffered the insults of the pit, Miss Rachel Neville was sitting in her comfort up in a box. How else could it be construed, when the box around her was virtually empty, but that Rachel had reneged on her invitation on a whim?
And thus this silence from the Varens. Haven House had not gone one day previous to that without their notice, a note or a visit, or just a calling card left. Even Rachel’s mother had remarked just that morning that the Varens had not visited for two days, and with no other acquaintance in the city, she wondered what they were doing. Grandmother had shot her a look, then, catching the guilt, perhaps, on her face.
Later, alone together, she said to her middle grandchild, “If there is anything you should be telling us, perhaps now is the time.” Rachel, unable to admit to her grandmother what had occurred, had pled ignorance of any problem between the Haven household and the Varens and fled the room.
She would mend this trifle, explain it away, and then they could all be comfortable again. How, she was not sure, but depended upon inspiration. She sent her card in with the butler, who then came back and said, “Miss Varens is not at home.”
“Not at home” could mean she really was not at home, she was not home to visitors, or she was not home to Miss Neville in particular. Accustomed to feeling comfortable about her manners, at least, having had them always lauded as the height of perfection even if she was thought overcool or aloof, for the first time she knew the shame of being snubbed, and rightly so. Or perhaps not. Until she actually saw Miss Varens and could explain away her behavior, she could not be sure.
She hesitated, and then, gazing down the street, she said to the sedate butler, “I have called this morning to beg an interview with Miss Varens on a matter of some urgency. Perhaps the lady will have . . . er, come back in from . . . uh, the garden. Would you be so kind as to ask again if the lady is home? It is a matter of utmost importance.” This was humiliating to virtually plead for an interview.
The butler, a faintly supercilious expression on his face, bowed, departed, and when he came back it was to say, “Miss Varens begs you to enter.”
In that moment Rachel remembered all the times she had pled a headache, or a stomachache or a prior engagement when the Varens came to call at Haven Court in the country, and she was ashamed. It was not pleasant to be snubbed by an old friend, and she would never do it again, she vowed.
Her maid took a seat on a bench in the hall, and Rachel, taking a deep breath, tried for an expression that at once announced contrition, pleasure, and gratitude. She could not but fail, and hoped at least the contrition remained. “Miss Varens, how good of you to admit me!” she said, entering the elegant drawing room and advancing to where Andromeda was standing by a table, laying her gloves upon the polished surface.
The older woman cast one quick glance toward the doors that led off to another room, and Rachel wondered if Colin had been there but would not see her. She quashed a quick resentment. She was trying to do the right thing, if only they would cooperate. She put out her hand and the other woman took it, a calm, neutral expression on her gaunt face.
Rachel took a deep breath as they both sat on hard chairs near the empty hearth. “It is a lovely day, is it not?”
“It is,” Andromeda said, sitting only on the edge of her seat, as if ready to retreat from the room any moment. “But I do not think you came to discuss the weather, Miss Neville.” She glanced toward the partly open door again. “I believe Larkson said you had something of importance to discuss?”
Had she ever apologized in her whole life for anything? Rachel wondered. If she had, she would likely be better at it this moment. She looked down at her gloved hands, unconsciously noting a loose thread and a wear spo
t on the index finger. She would have to bring it to her maid’s attention. “I was so unhappy to see you at the theater the other night, and know you must have been in the middle of that frightening riot,” she began, not sure where to go from there.
Andromeda took a deep breath in, and let it out slowly. Her shoulders sagged. “Yes. I’m afraid I misjudged the prudence of taking a thirteen-year-old girl to the theater when only pit seating was still available. But I had promised the theater, and I never break my word.”
Rachel met her eye then, and knew she had a choice to make. A social lie would suffice. She could say that Lady Yarnell had others coming to the box who were late, or that the others had just stepped out. Or she could say the other party had canceled at the last moment. It trembled on the tip of her tongue. It would hurt no one and would smooth over the incident. The other woman was waiting, and there was a question in her eyes.
But at that pivotal moment an incident came back to Rachel, a scene from her childhood. She was seven and Andromeda was a grand fifteen, a full-grown woman to the little girl. Rachel was staying at the Varens estate because there was fever at Haven Court, and little Pamela was ill. One day, bored and at loose ends, Rachel had taken a perfume bottle from Andromeda’s dressing table, had spilt most of the contents on the rug, and then lied about it. Though the perfume was clearly important to Andromeda, costly and treasured, she had taken Rachel aside and said to her, in a very kind tone, Rachel, if you did spill the perfume—and I am not saying you did, mind—and are afraid of the consequences, know this; I will be a little upset that you were playing with my toiletries, but it is more important to me that you are honest. I can forgive anything if you are just honest.
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