He bowed. ‘Better than that, I shall accompany you, if you will permit?’
To be alone with him?
She had no hesitation, for it was the one thing in the world she wanted at this moment. The advantages of a house party and no chaperone... ‘Of course! But I do not wish to make you late.’
He shrugged. ‘I can change in approximately a third of the time it takes Carmichael, so I have no concerns on that score.’ He indicated the way, and they walked silently together down the hallway towards the Blue Chamber end.
My chamber, normally his. She hugged the thought to herself.
A small, discreet door opposite the chamber led to a steep staircase too narrow for them to walk abreast. He followed, three stairs behind, and her senses were alive to his presence, behind and just below her.
I am to be alone with him!
At the top was a narrow corridor running the length of the house, with narrow doors on both sides and two dull roof windows letting in dim light. An old carpet, threadbare in places, dulled the sound of their footsteps. Unlike the rest of the house, which was ornately decorated, here there were no brocade hangings, rich colours or gilt-framed paintings. The walls were simple, unadorned whitewash.
‘The nursery is here, next on the left,’ he murmured. ‘The rest are servants’ quarters. Until yesterday I had not been up in the attics for many years.’
‘Just like Crow Wood.’ They had stopped outside the door.
‘Yes. This is a time for past things to return, I think.’ He opened the door, and they stepped inside.
The room was bright, the shutters having been opened to admit the spring sunshine. There was a faint smell of polish in the air, and it was clear that the chamber had just been cleaned. Cecily saw three beds—two small ones against the wall on their left, as well as an adult bed near the window on the right.
That is where he slept last night. Where he will sleep tonight. I should not be here, alone with him, and yet...
The Earl paused, looking around as if seeing the nursery again for the first time. ‘This room...’ His gaze flicked from the window to the dresser to the two small beds.
‘Which one was yours when you were a boy?’ Cecily asked softly.
‘That one.’ His voice croaked slightly. He walked across to the bed nearest the door. ‘Tilly would tell us stories and kiss us goodnight.’ He looked stricken, as if almost overwhelmed by the memories that must be flooding through him.
‘What happened to your nurse?’
His face hardened. ‘She left. A better job, with a higher salary.’
Cecily frowned. ‘Really? That surprises me.’
‘Why?’ His face twisted. ‘At the end of everything, money is the only certainty. There is no place for softness.’
She desperately wanted to challenge him, but her throat was too tight to speak. Tight with his grief. His, and Tom’s.
He opened a drawer in the dresser and, bending, reached in towards the back. ‘It is still here!’
She looked curiously at the small figure in his hand. Whittled from wood, the paint chipped in places, it looked like a knight. ‘Tilly got the gardener to make this for me—a present for my sixth birthday. I used to carry it everywhere, even putting it under my pillow at night.’ His voice lowered, he murmured, almost to himself, ‘Soon after I came home from school to find her gone, I put it away in this drawer. I have not looked for it since.’ Straightening, he sneered briefly, before handing the figure to Cecily. ‘I think it is finally time to throw it away.’ His voice was thick, his eyes narrowed, and his shoulders tight with—with something. Anger? Pain? Both?
‘Are you sure?’ Cecily eyed him calmly. ‘This was important to you. I do not believe that you truly—‘
‘It was important to a boy, a long time ago.’ His tone was curt. ‘This man has no need of such things.’
Cecily knew better than to argue in such a moment. ‘Very well. It is gone.’ Opening her reticule, she dropped the figure into it. ‘Now, may I suggest that I move to the Countess’s chamber, for this is clearly not a suitable sleeping chamber for you.’
‘Nonsense!’ His tone was brisk. ‘I have already informed you of my decision. The matter is not open for discussion.’
His tone brooked no argument. Striding back towards the door, he held it open for her. Stifling a sigh, she passed him, leading the way back down to the main upper level. Where had he gone, the man who had gently kissed her finger and looked at her with such warmth? As they emerged back into carpeted elegance, she stole a glance at him. His expression was blank, his eyes cold. He was every inch the Empty Earl.
Chapter Sixteen
Cecily was glad of her warm pelisse, for the village church was rather chilly. Before the service, the vicar had led their entire party up the aisle to cushioned pews at the front, and Cecily had been conscious of the whispered attention of the congregation. The pews faced the altar, so she could not satisfy her curiosity until the service was over. By the time they made their way outside, many of the villagers were already dispersing, although there were curious stares from those still leaving.
Naturally, the local gentry had remained, standing chatting in pairs and clusters in the porch, along the path and even on the edges of the graveyard. Cecily spied at least five different groups of richly dressed people, although the level of elegance varied. Despite trying her best not to be harsh, and with the half-heard words of the vicar’s sermon still ringing in her ears, she nevertheless had to stifle her horror at the puce day gown on one lady, the over-elaborate feather headdress on another, and the almost slovenly appearance of a couple of the gentlemen. Others, though, looked perfectly respectable, including one family with a smiling young matron in an elegant scarlet redingote with fashionable braiding.
The Earl had chosen to stand directly beside Cecily. This made up a little for the fact they had been seated apart inside—he flanked by his two friends, Cecily between Mr Carmichael and Nell. Throughout the service, she had allowed herself to daydream of him, and had devised all sorts of scenes that ended with a warm kiss. Now he was standing dangerously close, and she had to remind herself that she had no right and no expectation of receiving kisses from him. Nevertheless, her entire side tingled with a delicious awareness of his nearness.
Mrs Martin, the vicar’s wife, had naturally come to speak to them, and was soon joined by her husband. This encouraged the neighbours to hover more closely, awaiting introductions, and the vicar duly obliged. Cecily soon lost track of the names and relationships but managed to smile and curtsey and join in the conversation with what she hoped was graciousness. The general tone was that the county families were delighted to see the Earl in residence, along with his dear brother, sister-in-law and guests. The Beresfords had clearly met many of the locals before, although Cecily had no sense of any true friendships between any of them.
The lady with the feathers remarked upon the presence of the ladies with particular gladness, as it would enable her to call on them on the morrow, if His Lordship would allow? His Lordship smiled, and allowed, but Cecily could tell that he was not particularly comfortable with the notion. How did she know this? She shrugged inwardly. She just did.
Her assumptions were confirmed on their walk back to the house, when the Earl declared that one of the blessings of Hazledene being a hunting-box was that their parties had not before included ladies, which therefore meant they had hitherto been protected from visits, invitations and general intercourse with the local gentry. The Squire—the grey-whiskered gentleman wearing the red waistcoat—would apparently normally have made a social call, involving a half-hour’s discourse smoothed with brandy, but apart from that the Beresford brothers had been, the Earl said, left in relative peace.
Tom, naturally, could not let this pass. ‘My wife and her dear friend are perfectly welcome at Hazledene, brother, and if it is such an inconvenience to yo
u, I wonder that you should have chosen to join us!’
Oh, dear!
Up until now the hostilities between the brothers had been conducted beneath a veneer of politesse. Tom, his dander up at what he perceived to be an insult against his Nell, had clearly been unable to resist a direct attack.
The Earl was quick to reply. ‘Of course I meant no slight to the ladies, Tom. I wonder that you should even suggest such a thing.’ His tone was flat, but Cecily spied a telltale flush along his cheekbones.
Tom snorted, but said only, ‘I am happy to hear it!’
There could be no doubt that all was still not well between the Beresford brothers, and the knowledge of it niggled at Cecily like a splinter in her hand or a speck in her eye. She wished everyone to be contented. Tom and Nell. Jack. It mattered to her, much more than anything had for a long, long time.
Although, on the surface, the brothers joined in shared conversations, they rarely spoke directly to one another, and while the Earl frequently conversed with Cecily, he exchanged only occasional pleasantries with Nell.
His stubbornness is adding to the schism between him and Tom.
Cecily bit her lip. She so wished to meddle, to bang the brothers’ heads together and give them both a sound trimming! Strange how the most capable of men could revert to childhood patterns, given the right circumstances.
The Earl, clearly making an effort, turned the conversation towards the ride the gentlemen had planned for the afternoon, and politely asked Nell what her intentions were while they were gone. She coloured, clearly uncomfortable with his unexpected attention, and murmured something about writing to her stepmama. Cecily, encouraged by this development, was still concerned. Nell had never been so timid before. Clearly, the Earl’s disapproval was affecting her deeply.
‘Yes, I am acquainted with Mrs Godwin,’ he returned amiably. ‘You are from Kent, are you not?’
‘I am,’ she returned, with a little more confidence. ‘Wyatt House, where I was raised, is near the village of Chiddingstone.’
‘A pretty area,’ he commented. ‘I once visited Tunbridge Wells, where my friend the Duke of Leyswood has a house.’
‘Oh, Langton House is a delight!’
‘You have been there?’
‘Yes, many times, when I was younger.’
‘My wife’s mother’s family, the Wyatts, are a notable and long-established family in Kent.’ Tom’s tone had a slight edge to it; he was clearly trying to educate his older brother about Nell’s suitability to join the Beresford family. His message was clear: despite any vulgarity on Nell’s stepmother’s part, Nell herself was a Wyatt.
The Earl nodded. ‘Your father is still alive?’
Nell shook her head. ‘He died two years ago.’ Her voice was tight with grief.
‘Ah.’ He frowned slightly. ‘Actually, I recall now someone had told me of your father’s death. I am sorry.’ He looked and sounded sincere.
‘Thank you.’
The conversation turned then, and Cecily let out a breath she had not known she had been holding. Some progress at last!
* * *
‘Cecily, there is a carriage coming up the drive!’ Nell stepped back from the window, anxious not to be seen by whoever was arriving at Hazledene. It was Monday afternoon, and the ladies were in the parlour. The gentlemen had been gone for hours, as today was their first long hack, and Nell and Cecily had been enjoying a relaxed day of conversation, reading and, currently, embroidery.
‘Oh, thank goodness! I can put this away now.’ Cecily eyed her handiwork ruefully. The handkerchief looked reasonable, with a cluster of primroses and forget-me-nots emerging in yellow, orange, blue and green silk in one corner. The reverse side, however, was the usual tangled mess. She could never figure out how to achieve reasonable neatness on the back. She stole a glance through the window. ‘And here are the gentlemen, also returned!’
‘Really?’ Nell joined her at the edge of the window. ‘It seems Tom and his brother both know these visitors, whoever they are.’ Both Beresfords had brought their horses alongside the carriage, tipping their hats to the people inside. Mr Harting and Mr Carmichael were holding back, seemingly conversing with each other as their horses followed slowly up the drive.
‘Well, I do hope they can change out of their hunting clothing quickly, for otherwise we shall be forced to entertain their guests alone!’ They laughed nervously at their own shocking inhospitality, then quickly took their seats.
* * *
Jack called for his valet, aiming to change from his riding gear as quickly as possible. As host, he could not leave the ladies alone with the visitors for too long—particularly as he had only spoken with them briefly as their carriage had come up the drive.
The sense of urgency within him was strong, and it occurred to him that he would not normally have been so hurried. Was it that the locals did not normally visit, and he wanted to create a good impression? He had no doubt that the ladies were socially accomplished—indeed he had no worries on that score—yet this particular family, particularly the matron, had been known to sorely test his patience during his brief encounters with her in the village.
Being honest, he acknowledged that there was more to it. The truth was that he had been looking forward to returning to Hazledene, having been gone from the house for a number of hours. A sense of home had spurred him on. Such a notion was alien to him, yet today it had definitely been in his heart as he and Tom and the others had approached the house. It was an unfamiliar urge, something he had not felt since death and abandonment and boarding school had made him cynical, and he was astonished to find traces of it within him still. Summers in Hazledene had been his childhood idyll. No Papa. Just him, and Mama, and Tom, and Tilly.
And now Papa’s ghost was a distant memory, and the old hurts seemed far away—for today at least. The character of the house was reshaping itself in his heart. Dinners, walks and afternoon tea with his friends, and his brother, and the ladies. It was becoming a place of joy, of comfort. Of safety even. Card games, and repartee, and a sense of deepening ties. He shuddered. Such ties were dangerous. His head knew it, yet his gut could not be denied. An image of Lady Cecily came to him, her pretty face lighting up in the way it sometimes did when he smiled with her. She was behind this change, he knew. She had brought light to his Hazledene.
‘You rang, sir?’ It was the valet.
‘Yes. Help me change, please.’
‘Very well. If you will permit...’
Jack was only half-listening. As he cooperated with the valet, his inner ear still retained his own words.
Help me change. Please.
It meant nothing, of course. He had been referring to his clothing. Why, then, did the words reverberate with such depth in his soul?
* * *
The ladies were the picture of elegant serenity when the footman opened the parlour door, announcing the guests. ‘Squire Standish, Mrs Standish and Miss Standish!’
Together, Nell and Cecily rose to greet their guests, who were already sweeping in with effusive cheeriness. ‘Good day, good day, Lady Cecily, Mrs Beresford!’ It was Feathers Lady, although today she had contented herself with a purple satin turban. Since her dress was in multiple shades of purple and lilac, with contrasting roses in bright orange embroidered across it, the effect was just as frightful as her huge headdress had been the day before. Here, clearly, was a lady who liked to be noticed. The Squire, his whiskered face beaming in good-natured joy, bowed, and said all that was proper, and they re-introduced their daughter, a shy-looking damsel of about seventeen, who was wearing a hideous chartreuse green gown.
They all sat, and Nell, as hostess, rang the bell for tea. Cecily assisted her friend by taking a full part in the conversation, which focused mainly on the delights of the area, the ladies’ impression of the western Weald and their plans for their stay. Tea arrived, Nell
served, and they all bit into sweetmeats, smiling politely over their teacups.
‘Tell me,’ Cecily offered, ‘do you yourselves live near the village?’
‘We do, we do!’ declared the Squire, his ruddy face animated. ‘Not three miles from here, in a neat little house—‘
‘Oh, please, husband,’ his lady interjected. ‘You are too modest! Rywell House is a substantial dwelling, and—apart from Hazledene, of course—quite the most notable house in the district!’
‘Indeed?’ returned Nell, politely. ‘Is it an old house like this one?’
‘Oh, Lord, no!’ Mrs Standish waved this away as if the very notion was abhorrent. ‘Our house is only fifty years old, and with all modern conveniences. I really do not know how you put up with these old-fashioned windows and chimneys, Mrs Beresford!’
‘I think they are beautiful,’ Cecily declared firmly, ‘although I understand the challenges of an old house. Over the past few years my guardian has made a number of improvements to my own family home, Ledbury House, including the chimneys.’ Quite why she felt the urge to defend Hazledene, and its owners, from what felt like an attack, she was not exactly sure.
‘I understand,’ Nell added, ‘that my husband and his brother have completed substantial renovations at Hazledene over a number of years.’
Mrs Standish sniffed. ‘Well, an old house will always be an encumbrance, even if it is dressed up to look like new.’ She laughed at her own wit, while Cecily resisted the temptation to look Nell’s way. While itching to defend Hazledene, she decided to hold her tongue, having met people like Mrs Standish before. Such individuals, in Cecily’s experience, had no insight into themselves, or the impact of their words, and they believed merit to lie in the simple act of having an opinion. Whether such opinions were well-informed or ill-informed was irrelevant, for they were convinced of their own wisdom, and of everyone else’s folly.
Captivating the Cynical Earl Page 13