Violet v-5

by Jane Feather

  “I'd recognize that red head anywhere,” he said.

  “And he doesn't get any smaller does he?”

  “No, but clearly less of a prude these days.” Charles rested his shotgun on his saddle bow. “Either that or he's a hypocrite. Didn't think much of the whore, though. Scrawny little thing.”

  “Looked more like a lad to me,” David observed, bringing his own gun down. “Perhaps the army's given him different tastes.”

  They both laughed. Two men with lean, pointed faces, mouths a mere slash, small, deep-set brown eyes, hard as pebbles. They were thin, sharp-shouldered, narrrow-chested, but what they lacked in physique they made up for in the general air of malevolence that surrounded them like an aura. Men tended to cross the street when the Penhallan twins approached. They rarely appeared singly, and conversed together in oblique sentences, presenting an intimidating front to the world, with which not even their few intimates were comfortable.

  “I wonder if the governor knows St. Simon's at Tregarthan?” David said, frowning now. “He's probably back from Bodmin by now.”

  “If he doesn't know now, he'll know soon enough. We'd best get off St. Simon land,” Charles said reluctantly. “We don't want anyone seeing us here and carrying tales.”

  “Can't think why St. Simon made such a fuss,” David declared with a curl of his lip. “The girl was nothing, just some whore's daughter.”

  “She was his tenant and it was on his land.” Charles spurred his horse, turning him to the boundary of Tregarthan land, and his brother followed, his expression sullen.

  “He's a prude and a hypocrite,” he declared. “One of these days I'll see that damnable St. Simon pride in the dust.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charles promised softly. “One of these days we both shall.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “SO WHAT IS IT YOU WANT TO SAY ABOUT MY POSTURE?” Tamsyn strode into the library. Hitching her skirts up, she sat astride the arm of a leather sofa and regarded the colonel with an air of intelligent inquiry.

  Julian looked up from the Gazette and stared at her.

  “Don't sit like that! Quite apart from the fact that it's disgracefully inelegant, you'll split the seams of your gown.”

  Tamsyn swung both legs to the same side of the arm and perched there, her head to one side, her eyes bright, reminding him yet again of a cheeky robin. “Is this better?”

  “Only marginally.” He tossed the newspaper onto a side table. “Ladies sit on chairs, with their legs together, their hands in their laps. Go and sit on that chair by the window, the straight-backed one.”

  Tamsyn marched over to the window and sat down in the required chair, looking at him expectantly.

  “Sit up straight. You're always slouching.”

  “But why should that be important?” She was genuinely puzzled, never having given a moment's thought to something as irrelevant as how she held herself

  “Because it is.” Julian stood up and came over to her, going behind the chair. Taking her shoulders, he pulled them back sharply. “Feel the difference?”

  “But it's ridiculous,” Tamsyn said. “I can't sit like this, I feel like a stuffed dummy.”

  “You must sit like this, stand like this, walk like this, and ride like this,” he declared firmly, keeping his hands on her shoulders. “You ride like a sack of potatoes. It's all the fault of that Spanish saddle. It's more like an armchair than a proper saddle. It encourages you to hunch over.”

  Tamsyn did not consider wholesale criticism of her riding to be part of the contract. What could it possibly have to do with learning to be ladylike? “You can't ride a hundred miles over rough terrain sitting up like a stuffed dummy,” she retorted. “And I can ride without tiring all day and all night, as you well know.”

  “You won't be required to ride all day and all night as an English society lady,” he informed her. “The hardest riding you're likely to be doing is to hounds, and that won't start until October. You must learn to ride elegantly before then. But an English saddle should put that right.”

  “You relieve my mind,” Tamsyn muttered, but Julian chose not to hear.

  Releasing her, he walked round to the front of her chair and examined her. “Put your feet together, so your anklebones are touching, and let your hands rest lightly in your lap.”

  Tamsyn followed these instructions with exaggerated care, then sat staring fixedly in front of her.

  “Relax.”

  “How can I possibly relax sitting like this?” she asked, barely opening her mouth so her expression remained as rigid as her posture.

  Julian refused to be amused. “If you're going to insist on making a game of this, then I'm washing my hands of the whole ridiculous business. Believe it or not, I have better things to do with my life than playing governess and dancing master to an uncivilized brigand. Stand up.”

  Tamsyn obeyed. The colonel was clearly not in the mood to be diverted. She stood with her hands hanging loosely at her sides, gazing straight ahead of her, awaiting further instruction, trying to keep her expression impassive.

  “For heaven's sake, you're as round-shouldered as a hunchback.” Impatiently, he pulled her shoulders back again. “Tuck your bottom in.” His palm tapped emphatically against the curve in question.

  “Anyone would think I was made of wire,” Tamsyn grumbled. “My body doesn't bend like this.”

  “Oh, you forget, buttercup. I've seen you perform some amazing gymnastic feats,” Julian stated, stepping back and examining her critically. “Now smile.”

  Tamsyn offered him a simpering smile, elongating her neck, pushing back her shoulders and clenching her backside. “Like this?”

  “Sweet Jesus,” he muttered, losing the battle with his laughter. He turned away abruptly, struggling to regain his critical demeanor. He swung back to her just in time to catch her satisfied grin before she wiped it off her face and tried to look once more suitably solemn.

  “This is not a laughing matter!”

  “No,” she agreed. “Of course not, sir.” But her lips twitched.

  “If you can't do it on your own, then you'll have to have some help,” Julian stated. “A backboard should do the trick.”

  “A what?” All desire to laugh vanished.

  “A backboard,” he said, explaining with great gravity. “It's used in most schoolrooms. Girls wear it strapped to their backs to correct posture. Of course, they're usually a lot younger than you, but it might do some good, nevertheless.”

  “That's barbaric!” Tamsyn exclaimed.

  “Not at all. My sister wore one for several hours a day for a year or two,” he responded with a bland smile. “I'll go into town and procure one. We'll see how you improve by wearing it every morning. If that doesn't have the desired effect, then you must wear it all day.”

  Tamsyn regarded him in fulminating silence, recognizing that he'd fired the opening shots in a war that she had hoped would become a game, even if for her it was a deadly serious one.

  “But until I can procure a board, we'll try something else,” Julian continued with the same suave insouciance. Going over to the bookshelves, he selected two heavy leather-bound volumes. “Come over here.”

  Tamsyn approached him warily.

  “Stand very still.” Delicately, he balanced the books on top of her head. “Now, walk around the room without dislodging them. You'll have to keep your head up and absolutely immobile. It'll also ensure you have to take small steps instead of galloping along like some unruly puppy.”

  Tamsyn drew in her breath sharply but closed her lips and refused to rise to the bait. Her neck wobbled under the weight of the books. Grimly, she fixed her gaze on a knot in the paneling and balanced herself If Colonel, Lord St. Simon was trying to drive her to give up her scheme, he'd discover she was a lot tougher than he bargained for. She took a hesitant step, and the books shivered but stayed put.

  Julian grinned and flung himself down on the sofa, casually picking up his discarded newspaper. “An
hour of that exercise should prove beneficial,” he said. “And when you've learned to keep your back straight, I'll teach you how to curtsy, as you'll have to if you're intending to be presented at court.”

  That didn't figure in Tamsyn's plans, but she could hardly admit that. Julian returned to his reading as if he considered his morning's task accomplished.

  Tamsyn swore silently, allowing her mental tongue free reign as she cursed him for a self-satisfied odious, vindictive, gloating cur. She walked up and down the room, trying to keep the books from falling. Several times they did so, crashing to the carpet with a loud thump. The colonel raised his head waited until she'd replaced them and begun her walk again, then returned to the Gazette.

  Her neck was aching, her shoulders cramping, and her head began to feel as if the books were wearing a hole through her scalp. She glanced at the clock and saw a bare fifteen minutes had passed. It was a torture to beat anything, even riding through the broiling midday heat of a Spanish summer with an empty water flask, flies feeding on her sweaty face, every muscle in her body aching.

  Don't be silly! Of course it isn't as bad as that. She'd endured much worse, although she didn't think she'd ever looked more ridiculous. But the damned English colonel wanted her to throw in the towel, and she couldn't afford to do that, even if she was prepared at this point to give him that satisfaction.

  Julian could guess her thoughts; they were clearly written on the mobile countenance where disgust warred with determination. He leaned back, linking his hands behind his head, watching her through half-closed eyes, contemplating what other diabolical little training methods he could devise. She did have a very dainty figure in that dress, he thought dreamily; it somehow softened the athletic lines of her body without in any way diminishing her compact grace.

  There was a knock at the door. Tamsyn immediately ceased her promenading, reaching up to lift the books from her head.

  Hibbert, the butler, entered. “Visitors, my lord. Mrs. and Miss Marshall, Lord and Lady Pendragon, the Vicar and Mrs. Thornton.”

  He cast a swift covert glance in the direction of his lordship's guest. The household was in a ferment of speculation about the young lady and her foreign maid and the giant Scotsman who was a law unto himself Lord St. Simon had offered only the information that the young lady was in his care and would be spending the summer at Tregarthan before making her debut in London the following October.

  Julian grimaced. Presumably every kitchen in the vicinity had been buzzing since early morning with the interesting news from Tregarthan. And what was told in the kitchens was taken above stairs with the morning chocolate. The local gossips hadn't waited long before coming to see for themselves.

  “You've shown them into the drawing room, Hibbert?”

  “Yes, of course, my lord.”

  “I'll join them directly. You'd best bring up a bottle of the ninety-eight burgundy for Lord Pendragon and the Reverend Thornton. Tea for the ladies, unless they'd prefer ratafia. Do we have any ratafia?” he asked in afterthought.

  “Yes, my lord. Miss Lucy is partial to it, if you recall, so we always keep a few bottles in the cellar.”

  “What's ratafia?” Tamsyn asked when the butler had departed.

  Julian's expression of distaste grew more pronounced.

  “A disgusting sweet cordial.”

  “Who's Miss Lucy?”

  “My sister.” He stood for a minute staring at her, frowning. “You're going to have to be introduced, since that's what they've come for… unless I say that you're unwell after the journey.” He shook his head. “That won't wash for more than a couple of days. We'd best get it over with.”

  “I'm not a complete social pariah,” Tamsyn protested, rather hurt at his obvious dismay.

  “My dear girl, you're impossible. In this society you'll stick out like a sore thumb,” he said shortly. “You can't even sit properly.” He glanced up at the clock, his frown deepening. “I'll go and greet them and explain who you're supposed to be, and you may join us in about ten minutes. When you're introduced, you must bow, just a slight bend from the waist, like this.” He demonstrated while Tamsyn nodded solemnly.

  “Now show me,” he demanded, watching critically as she imitated his movement. “Not perfect, but it'll have to do,” he said. “From my description they'll expect you to be shy and retiring as befits the convent-reared daughter of a hidalgo grandee.”

  He strode to the door, then stopped, remembering something that had somehow never come up, “You'll have to have a surname. Miss Tamsyn is fine for the staff, but not for the rest of the world. What is your last name?”

  Tamsyn shrugged, still struggling with her chagrin.

  She hadn't believed she was impossible. “I don't have one. My father was only ever known as El Baron.”

  “Then you'll have to be the daughter of Senor Baron,” he said crisply. He came back to her, one hand catching her chin, his expression menacing in its gravity. “One indiscreet word or gesture in front of these people, muchacha, and that's the end of it. You'll be out of this house so fast you won't know what hit you. Is that clear?”

  “Why would I be indiscreet?” she demanded. “It's hardly in my interests.”

  “No, but just you remember that, because believe me, I have never been more serious. One slip of the tongue, however accidental, and you're on the road. I have my own reputation to consider in the county, and I'm not jeopardizing it for you.” His eyes held hers in a ferocious glare; then abruptly he released her chin and left the library.

  Tamsyn dropped the books onto the desk. What did he think she was going to do, fling her arms around him and engage him in a lascivious embrace? Or was he simply afraid she would say something indiscreet, something overly familiar? Of course it was possible she might, since she didn't know what these strangers in this strange land might consider out of order. Her lessons hadn't reached that stage yet.

  She stood on tiptoe to examine her reflection in the mirror above the mantel, combing her hair with her fingers, flicking at the wispy fringe. It really was getting too long. How would a convent-reared hidalgo maiden conduct herself? She tried a shy smile but somehow it didn't look convincing. Perhaps she should pretend she didn't speak English very well. That would ensure she made no accidental errors. She would sit in meek silence, smiling and nodding, willing to be agreeable but suffering from blank incomprehension.

  It would have to do, for safety's sake. The colonel had meant every word he'd said, and she couldn't risk an accidental slip at this stage of the game. She marched out of the library and across the Great Hall to the drawingroom on the far side. Just in time she remembered to correct her stride. Shoulders back, bottom in, head up, neck straight… Por Dios! but how could one remember all these things?

  She opened the drawing-room door softly and stood hesitantly on the threshold, waiting for someone to notice her. Her heart began to beat fast as she realized that this was the beginning, and for the first time, as she absorbed the group of people gathered in a circle at the far end of the room, she understood what a daunting task she'd set herself She'd never faced such a group of people before. Indeed, she'd never stood on the threshold of a drawing room before. What would they see when they finally noticed her? One thing she knew with absolute, instinctive certainty: despite her conventional gown, they wouldn't see a woman who looked like one of them. It was not so much her physical appearance that set her apart, as something indefinable she felt· in herself… something that grew from the way she'd lived her life and what she expected from that life. It marked her like a brand.

  Three of the women were matrons in their middle years, clad in dark satins with severe lace caps. The younger one wore a driving dress of soft beige cambric and a chip-straw hat. For all her youth, it was clear in every line of her body, in the way she wore her clothes, that she would look exactly like the other women when she reached matronhood. Tamsyn knew she would never ever resemble any of the women in the room. She felt as alien as if she'd
descended from the stars.

  Lord Pendragon and the vicar stood in front of the empty hearth, sniffing appreciatively at the wine in their glasses. They were both corpulent gentlemen, with the self-satisfied air of those who knew their place in the world. The Reverend Thornton saw Tamsyn first.

  “Ah,” he boomed genially. “Our little foreigner has come among us.”

  The colonel rose from a spindle-legged chair that looked too fragile for his large frame. “Tamsyn, come and be introduced.” He came toward her, his expression grave. “I've been explaining to my guests your unfortunate circumstances.”

  “Perdon?” Tamsyn said, smiling anxiously, “No comprendo, Senor St. Simon.”

  Julian's expression was so astounded, she forgot her moment of apprehension and nearly gave herself away with a peal of laughter, but resolutely she maintained her composure, peeping around him to the visitors, offering them her nervous little smile.

  Julian's hand closed over her bare elbow. “I think you will find that you do understand if you listen carefully,” he stated deliberately, his fingers hard on her flesh. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Senorita Tamsyn Baron?”

  Tamsyn maintained her fatuous smile during the introductions, offering a series of creditable bows that nevertheless made her feel absurdly like a bird pecking in the dust. She was aware of the sharply assessing eyes of the elder women, who all offered noncommittal nods as she bowed and smiled. Lord Pendragon's scrutiny, however, was of a very different kind. She might be under the auspices of Lord St. Simon, but she was still a young woman, and he was appraising her as such. The vicar took her hand in both of his and said unctuously that although he assumed she practiced the Catholic faith, he hoped she would find his church not too strange. They were very High Church in the parish of Tregarthan, and he would be happy to hear her confession if that would comfort her.

  Tamsyn took refuge in incomprehension, with lowered eyes and an inaudible murmur, before turning with relief to Miss Marshall, whose smile was warm and uncritical.