Tangled Destinies

by Bancroft, Blair

  The gentlemen accompanying us were Sir Harry Lyttleton, Mr. Philip Draycott, and Anthony, falling neatly into an array of three couples, with myself playing odd woman out. Ah well . . .

  My mount was a delightful chestnut mare named Princess. The sun shone in my heart, if not in the sky, as we set off on a path through a thick copse on the opposite side of the park from the grotto and the narrow cascade. My summer habit was forest green, piped in gold à la hussar, with double rows of gold buttons; on my head, a stylish matching cap with a single gold feather bending down toward my chin. Not even gray skies could spoil what, to me, was a glorious morning.

  At one point the trees thinned, and off to the left I caught a glimpse of the sheep I had seen the day I discovered the ha-ha. We rode out of the trees into a sheltered meadow bisected by a small, burbling stream, very likely the same stream that crossed the park not far from the ha-ha. And also harboring trout, which I could see lurking in the deeper pools as I rode across the narrow wooden bridge. We traversed yet another copse, and then we were in the open once again, this time climbing a hill toward what would likely be a superlative view. Ah yes! Before us was a view of the Cotswolds in all its glory. Just at that moment, the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, glimmering off wet green grass, tree leaves swaying in the breeze, the village and its church spire in the distance. England. No lovelier place on earth. My heart swelled with pride, well-being—whatever one wishes to call it. Nothing could go wrong. Not here in this place God had so clearly blessed.

  “Nature has done as well as Repton—would you agree, Miss Neville?” Anthony’s voice startled me as, lost in the view, I had not heard him ride up.

  “Surely he used this view as one of his models,” I replied, jerking my eyes back to the landscape instead of the view I preferred, the dashing gentleman next to me. “Did Humphry Repton design your park?”

  “All but the maze and the gardens below the terrace. I understand my grandfather insisted on keeping the maze and my grandmother insisted on keeping the garden, declaring landscapes were delightful but not at the expense of flowers. I believe it took a goodly bit of cajoling, not to mention an application of guineas, in order to reach a compromise.”

  I laughed, right out loud. And received looks of censure from all three young ladies. Their thoughts screamed across the hilltop: Not one of us!

  Anthony tossed me a roguish look, clearly designed to console. The other two gentleman smiled. Fine. It had always been thus. I should be used to it, and yet it stung. Day after day after day, there seemed no way to break out of the pit into which I’d fallen. Women hated me; men liked me too well. I wheeled my horse toward the path home, descending the hillside at a pace just short of reckless. The riding party, well rid of the gooseberry, would settle down to delicious flirtations all the way back.

  Princess and I made our way in solitary silence through the first copse, across the meadow, over the bridge, and were almost to the cluster of trees nearest the house when I heard a commotion behind me. Agitated cries reached my ears; the hoofbeats behind me came to an abrupt stop. Princess, bless her, took my sudden command to turn like the fine lady she was. My pique forgotten, I galloped back toward the bridge.

  Lady Ariana was on the ground, sobbing, though delicately, while Anthony knelt at her feet, and the others, still mounted, clustered round. The far side of the narrow stream was so crowded, I stayed on my side, which gave me an excellent view, as well as allowing me to hear every word. Between sobs, Lady Ariana was crying, “My ankle, my ankle, I’ve broken my ankle.”

  Somehow I doubted it. How could anyone fall off a horse on a perfectly flat ride?

  As if she’d heard my thoughts, Lady Ariana proclaimed, “My horse balked at the bridge, and—” With a great sob, she broke off, rocking back and forth and presenting a most pitiful picture.

  To the tune of sympathetic murmurs from the onlookers, Anthony delicately probed the alleged broken ankle so gracefully peeping out from beneath the voluminous folds of Lady Ariana’s blue velvet habit. I wondered how she had managed to fall into such a perfect posture. And velvet in July? Really!

  If she’s truly injured, you’re going to be ashamed of yourself.

  So be it. I’d save my remorse until Dr. Hobart himself pronounced the bone broken.

  Anthony looked up, addressing the rest of the riding party. “Return to the house and bring help. I will remain with Lady Ariana.”

  “Indeed,” that lady declared, switching to die-away accents, “there is no need for any of you to linger. Lord Thornbury will be quite enough.”

  The minx. The veritable minx. And of what would she accuse him when help arrived? “I will stay,” I announced, positively basking in the dark look she sent flying across the stream.

  “It is not at all necessary,” Lady Ariana pronounced.

  “I believe it is,” I returned sweetly. And smiled.

  I caught the look Anthony sent my way. Amusement. And gratitude. Plot foiled. I could not help but wonder what she would try next—a midnight visit to his bedchamber?

  To the surprise of few, an hour later Dr. Hobart pronounced Lady Ariana’s ankle sound, no need to favor it for more than a day. To my shame, I rather enjoyed the knowing looks exchanged by Lady Dalrymple, Lady Carewe, and some of the other houseguests. Or were those looks of appreciation, inspiring them to similar creative maneuvers to trap Anthony into an offer of marriage?

  With so much food for thought, it was only later that night that I realized another day had gone by and I was still at Winterbourne. Nick and I, somehow, surviving.

  Chapter 22

  Strangely, in spite of all the underlying tensions, the second week of the house-party settled into some semblance of routine. I rode alone. Eschewing any further excursions into the countryside, the ladies settled to planning a series of modest evening entertainments, while devoting more and more of their time to details of the ball scheduled for the last evening before the guests’ departure. At no time did Lady Winterbourne indicate she knew of Nick’s visit to her husband. Anthony was playing least in sight, making me highly suspicious of what he might have said to his father, to his mother, and to our visitor from Greece. He knew quite well how much my life was affected by all this, yet not a word. Our gracious host had turned oblivious.

  Beast!

  As for Petros Andreadis, he tended to play least in sight. A brisk argument had ensued after Anthony invited him to stay. Lady Winterbourne asserted the Greek was “not one of us,” while Anthony stubbornly insisted that Andreadis might be of the merchant class, but he was a guest and would be treated as such. Which meant he dined with us each evening. His manners, as it turned out, were impeccable, his clothing of good quality. As he became more comfortable with us and with the language, we discovered that the Andreadis family owned a fleet of fishing boats, as well as passenger vessels. No wonder he had found it possible to follow his love to England.

  The few times I had occasion to speak with him, he was always pleasant but never gave the slightest hint of any accommodation he might have reached with Anthony. Yet I admit my suspicions ran rampant. How could we know he was who he said he was? That his motives were pure? That money could not tempt him to attest to Nick’s illegitimacy? Imagination, Luce! He’s not dangerous. He’s a good, kind man, even if sorrow always lingers in the back of his eyes.

  Vengeance? my inner voice offered.

  Nonsense. Hartley Deverell was his rival, not the present residents of Winterbourne. And surely he wants to see Adara’s child become heir to a great title.

  That’s as may be. My inner voice, skeptical as always.

  On this particular day Nick and I were seated on a marble bench watching the swooping maneuvers of a butterfly flitting from flower to flower when one of the gardeners approached, hat in hand. “Miss,” he said, “I were wondrin’ . . . there be a wagon tha chil’n had long ago. Built by m’da, who were head gardener in his day. There be a seat with back on’t, so’s even tha littlest one can
sit up—if’n there be pillows round ’im . . .”

  “This wagon still exists?” I admit the idea caught my imagination. Nick was eating like a horse, growing by leaps and bounds. A wagon would allow us to wander farther from the house without strain on my right shoulder, which reminded me daily of the knocks it had taken in the coach accident, further aggravated by the fall down the stairs.

  “Yes, miss. If y’ like, I’ll bring it by.”

  Fifteen minutes later, he was back, grinning from ear to ear. “There ’tis, miss. Cleaned and polished it yesterday, I did.”

  “It’s lovely! Thank you,” I cried, gazing at the little wagon, painted blue and boasting a wooden seat complete with a leather strap—clearly a bit of old harness. “Nick, look! You’re going to be able to go for a ride.”

  I admit Nick did not reflect my enthusiasm, evidently finding the stationary object far less interesting than the butterfly. I, however, unable to wait, said to the gardener, “I wish to try it out immediately. Please go to the kitchen and ask someone to fetch pillows from the nursery.”

  “Yes, miss.” He flashed a beaming smile before heading briskly toward the house.

  It was Petros Andreadis who brought the pillows—I should not have been surprised. He was often to be found in the warm comfort of the kitchen, and who could blame him for seizing any ripple in his present sedentary routine. He stood by like a high-bred cart horse, faunching at the bit, while I mounded pillows around Nick. So many, in fact, it was wonder the poor babe could see anything at all. Nick was little more than a round little face in a sea of white.

  As I reached for the wagon’s handle to begin the grand experiment, a hand clamped down over mine. “I do,” said the dark-haired man bending over me. “You tell where go.”

  My shock must have been apparent. Mr. Andreadis let go my hand instantly and stood tall. Though several inches shorter than Anthony, he still presented an intimidating appearance. “I work,” he said. “You watch baby.”

  He was absolutely right. If I pulled the wagon, my back would be to Nick. If he pulled the wagon, I could keep a sharp eye on Nick every moment. Chagrined, I begged his pardon. And off we went on a short experimental excursion around the garden. Tomorrow, I promised myself, we would venture farther out. Today, I would see how bumpy the ride was, how Nick adapted to this new experience. Was he frightened, indifferent, interested, enthusiastic?

  The answer, after initial moments of apprehension as the wagon jounced along the pathway, was total joy. Nick loved his new toy. When we returned to the house, I made an appointment for the next morning with both Mr. Andreadis and the gardener for an excursion into Winterbourne’s park. I could hardly wait. Is this what it was to be a mother, to share a new experience, enjoy simple moments of pleasure with a child?

  I could swear I heard Aunt Trevor groan. And she’d be right. Nick had his hooks into me so tightly I did not know how I could ever let him go.

  Love could be a demon, I realized. What if the day came when I would have to choose between Nick and Anthony?

  Alas, it came much sooner than I anticipated.

  Not long before tea time, Lady Winterbourne and I, with the help of Aunt Trevor, were planning an evening of charades when Josie approached, looking wary, and said, “Beg pardon, miss, but his lordship wishes to see you in his study. ‘Right now,’ he said, and was scowlin’ somethin’ fierce.”

  Aunt Trevor appeared as surprised as I, but Lady Winterbourne merely raised her brows and said, “The men have been out all day, so I cannot imagine what has sparked this request. You must go, of course. And don’t look so, child. Anthony won’t eat you.”

  How lovely to remain naive into one’s fiftieth decade.

  Not that I didn’t want to see the young master of the house, but the summons sounded ominous. Certainly, Josie thought so. I took my leave of the ladies and followed the rotund maid to the study.

  Despite the sunshine casting beams of light which flickered to the sway of leaves on the ancient oak outside the windows, gloom—or was it doom?—seemed to permeate the room. The purported Earl of Thornbury stood behind his desk, glowering. With an imperious jerk of his hand, he waved me toward my usual chair. I dropped a curtsy and sat, while frantically considering what I might have done to anger him. And angry, even furious, he surely was. It was far too late for a scold about the incident with his father, so what else . . . ?

  Anthony flipped up the tails of his coat and sat, still glowering, his steel gray eyes unwavering on my face. “You have a taste for peasants, Miss Neville?”

  “I beg your pardon.” I had no idea what he meant.

  “As well as allowing my alleged nephew to associate with chance-met strangers?”

  I sat there like some great lump, sifting through his words. Chance-met strangers? If Anthony meant Petros Andreadis, he was fair and far out. There had been no “chance” about the Greek’s arrival at Winterbourne. Nor was he still a stranger. He was a houseguest, for heaven’s sake! My own temper flared.

  Eyes wide, incredulity in every syllable, I said, “You are objecting to my allowing Mr. Andreadis to pull a wagon with Nick in it? With me by the babe’s side every moment? You cannot possibly be serious?”

  “I don’t want him anywhere near the child. Or you!”

  “Why?” My voice rose to a height unbecoming enough to be called a shriek.

  “We know nothing about him or his intentions, except that he is not happy with our family. For all we know, he may blame us all for my brother’s indiscretion.”

  A moment of silence as my jaw dropped. I drew myself up and said in something close to a hiss, “You call your brother’s marriage an indiscretion?”

  Anthony dropped his head, staring at the desktop. “That is how my father sees it,” he said in a much quieter tone. “And yes, I realize his hearing about the babe was not preventable. I do not blame you. It was indeed my mother who told him the whole, and there is no way you could have refused his command to present the child for his inspection.”

  I savored the apology as he raised his head and continued, “Yes, the Greek is our guest—a necessity until the matter of inheritance is made clear. That does not mean I wish him to be treated as one of the family.”

  “But what is the harm, my lord? The poor man has nothing to do, and I assure you he is most respectful at all times. It was he who pointed out that if I pull the wagon, I cannot see Nick, so what difference does it make if he or a footman helps with Nick’s outings?”

  Sparks flashed in steel gray, like stone struck to flint. “Because I trust our footmen to have the best interest of the Deverells in their hearts and minds.”

  To which, of course, I could have no rebuttal. “As you wish, my lord.” I started to rise.

  “Stay.”

  “My lord.” I sank back into the chair, hands folded. What now?

  “I fear we have had a rocky time of it,” Anthony murmured. “You and I. I would like us to be friends, but we always seem to be at sixes and sevens.”

  “The burden of authority, my lord. Isn’t there something about ‘uneasy lies the head’ . . . ?”

  He laughed, a short, sharp explosion with a distinct dash of rue. “In my case, extremely uneasily. More like, about to be toppled at any moment.”

  “A difficult position, my lord. I understand that.”

  “Do you?” His fingers drummed lightly on the desktop. “It can’t be easy wondering if I wish to be rid of my alleged nephew. Wondering just how far I would go to keep what I have?”

  “My lord!” I made every effort to sound shocked but only succeeded in exacerbating his temper.

  “Stop it! You know quite well you have doubts. You would have to be incredibly stupid not to. Well, say it, Nell. Say what you think!”

  I hung my head. Of course I had doubts, but I didn’t want to believe a single one of them. Heart torn, I lifted my head and said, “I would like to think we live in the best of all possible worlds, with everyone remembering to act according
to God’s will, but I have suffered the loss of a great love, endured humiliation in more forms than one. I have had to face that my will is far from infallible. And, I fear, so must you. I can only pray that the truth will not hurt either the babe or you, though how that is possible I cannot at this point comprehend.”

  Silence hung between us, our eyes locked, my heart pounding, flashes of dreams I should never have had obscuring my view of Anthony Deverell, my personal Nemesis.

  He drew a sharp breath, breaking the spell. “Well said, Nell, but you have avoided addressing your doubts about me.”

  Which was true. I squirmed. “I do not wish to doubt you, my lord. But my responsibility to Nick forces me to consider that you, or someone in this household, might wish to do him harm.”

  “Ah . . . a qualifier. How delightful.” He was peering at me from beneath his lashes with something that almost looked like approval. “Metcalfe is the culprit, perhaps? Babcock?” His lips curled in mockery. “Mrs. Randall?”

  “Do not be absurd!” But Anthony pressed on.

  “A gardener, one of the stableboys—somehow touched in the head after long years of devotion to the Deverells and determined to keep the line pure?”

  “Your father?” I shot back. Speaking of touched in the head.

  The rage I’d seen when I first entered the room flared up on the instant. “You will leave my father out of this, Miss Neville. Do. You. Understand. Me?”

  “Yes, my lord. I’m sorry, my lord.” I kept my eyes down to conceal my own rage. If Anthony Deverell, erstwhile Lord Thornbury, thought to direct my thoughts, he was very much mistaken. The moment of decision had come, and I chose Nick, for I was all the army he had in a battle against the vast power of the Deverells.

  I managed to convince my feet to stand. I curtsied. As I reached the door, I thought a heard a faint “Nell.” But likely it was merely an echo of what might have been.