The Wrong Miss Richmond

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The Wrong Miss Richmond Page 15

by Sandra Heath


  There was a shallow sheltered combe leading down from the south of the house, extending to the trees in the valley below. Terraced gardens were laid out down the combe, each one different, and each one immaculately tended.

  The carriages bowled the final yards to the entrance porch, and the studded double doors opened as a butler emerged to welcome them. He was a tall, well-built man in his late forties, with the ruddy complexion of one who spent many hours in the open air.

  His gray-streaked hair was worn long, and tied back with a dark-blue ribbon that went with the blue of his plain, serviceable coat. He looked as much a steward as a butler, and Christina was to discover that he did indeed perform both duties. His name was Campion, and he was held in justifiably high esteem by his master.

  The carriage swayed to a standstill, and Robert alighted. “Is all well, Campion?”

  “It is, my lord.”

  “My aunt included?”

  “Her ladyship is very well indeed, my lord. She isn’t at home at the moment, but is paying a call upon Mr. and Mrs. Grenfell. I believe Mrs. Grenfell is a little unwell, and her ladyship took some peaches from the greenhouse.”

  “Will she be returning for dinner?”

  “Yes, my lord. She was very clear upon the point.” Campion’s glance moved toward the carriages. “I trust you had an agreeable journey, my lord?”

  “Excellent, thank you.” Robert turned quickly, assisting Mr. Richmond down, for long journeys and gout did not blend easily together.

  “ ‘Pon my soul, I’m not getting any younger, that’s plain enough to feel,” grumbled Mr. Richmond, rubbing his stiff back and placing his foot down very gingerly.

  “I’m sure a rest will soon restore you, sir,” said Robert, turning then to assist Christina and Jane.

  Christina glanced around at everything. She took in first the magnificence of the old house, and then the glory of the Exmoor scenery, caught in the gold and crimson of the sunset. From this elevated position on the hillside there was so much to see, from the curls of smoke rising from the cottages of Darchford, to the wild openness of the high moors rolling away all around.

  Looking down through the park toward the lodge, she could see the gates quite clearly, and beyond them the bridge over the Darch. The sunset burnished the autumn foliage so that the valley was bright with warm colors, from the palest of rose to the deepest of copper. There was something magical about it all, an enchantment that wove around her in those brief moments; she understood why this place meant so very much to Robert, and why the diversions of London no longer held any charm.

  Robert was presenting Jane to Campion, and Mr. Richmond came to stand next to Christina, savoring the view with her. Suddenly he stiffened, staring at something on the far horizon.

  “Good God above,” he breathed in disbelief.

  “What is it, Father?”

  “Over there. D’you see?” He pointed.

  She followed his finger, and her heart sank with dismay as she saw something she recognized only too well, the crimson-and-blue orb of William Grenfell’s balloon. It floated above the moor, small but bright in the rays of the sun.

  Mr. Richmond shook with anger. “The man’s impudence knows no bounds! He obviously intends to pursue Jane here as well!”

  “Hush, Father,” replied Christina in an undertone, glancing uneasily toward Jane and Robert as they spoke to the butler.

  “The fellow should be clapped in irons!”

  “Father, he has every right to be here, he lives here!”

  Robert offered Jane his arm to proceed into the house, and as they vanished into the shadows of the porch, Christina looked urgently at her father.

  “There’s nothing we can do about Mr. Grenfell, Father. It would be better to appear uninterested in him than to make our displeasure known.”

  He nodded, drawing her hand through his arm and patting her fingers. “You’re right, my dear, as you usually are, but I won’t be able to relax until Jane is safely betrothed to Robert.”

  “She will be, and then Mr. Grenfell will cease to matter, if, indeed, he matters anyway. After all, she hardly noticed he’d left Bath.”

  “The fellow’s besotted with her—of course he matters. Love is a very powerful emotion, as even I know.”

  “Even you?” She smiled. “I’ll vow you were a real breaker of hearts when you were younger.”

  “On the contrary, my dear, for mine was the heart that was broken.”

  “Alicia Partington?” she asked, remembering his words in the drawing room at Johnstone Street.

  “Ah, sweet Alicia,” he murmured, a faraway look in his eyes. “She was the loveliest creature in all London, but she possessed a fickle and cruel heart. No doubt I was better off without her.”

  “Well, you’ll never know that for sure, will you?”

  “No. Anyway, it’s time for us to go inside.” He turned to escort her to the porch, and Christina glanced back at the balloon, still clearly visible just above the horizon, close to where Grenfell Hall must lie. William’s presence was going to cause trouble of one sort or another, her every instinct told her as much, for to be sure, things had begun to go wrong from the moment that same balloon had been espied above the rooftops of Bath.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The entrance hall was a lofty place, its dark-paneled walls hung with fine Flemish tapestries. A grand staircase with carved wooden lion newel posts rose at the far end of the stone-flagged floor, dividing at a half-landing to reach the great open gallery that surrounded the entire hall. There was a huge stone fireplace where long flames crackled around fresh logs, and in the recesses on either side of the chimney breast stood suits of armor of considerable age.

  A number of doors opened off the hall and gallery, all of them heavily carved and studded, and each one was flanked by rich green velvet curtains. The setting sun shone through high stained-glass windows, casting spangled lights over the gallery and staircase, and there was a timelessness about it all that captured Christina’s imagination. It was possible to conjure Queen Elizabeth into life again, and see her descending to the hall in her jewel-adorned gown, perhaps pausing at the bottom with a pale hand on one of the lion newel posts.

  A line of servants was waiting to one side of the main entrance, and Robert was introducing Jane to them all. When he then proceeded to introduce Christina and Mr. Richmond, it soon became apparent that Christina’s presence was causing some consternation, for the housekeeper discreetly whispered something to Campion, who immediately turned apologetically to Robert.

  “My lord, I fear there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding?’’

  “Yes, my lord. The housekeeper did not realize that there would be two Misses Richmond, and as a consequence, only the queen’s chamber has been made ready.”

  Robert looked at the housekeeper. “Is this true, Mrs. Tremayne?”

  The woman bobbed a hasty curtsy. She was short and rather round, with a handsome country face, and she was very tidy and precise in dark-brown taffeta. “Yes, my lord, I’m afraid it is. When your letter arrived informing me that guests were to be expected, I fear I misread your writing, thinking you’d made a mistake when you wrote ‘Mr. Richmond and his daughters.’ I thought it must really mean ‘daughter,’ and I’ve made arrangements accordingly.” She looked more than a little flustered, for she knew the fault was entirely hers.

  Robert smiled a little. “Don’t distress yourself, Mrs. Tremayne, for I can understand the error.”

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “I think perhaps Miss Christina would appreciate the garden room. Can you see that it’s made ready without delay?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Nodding sharply at some of the maids, the woman hurried away toward the staircase, her skirts rustling and her bunch of keys chinking. The maids scuttled after her, striving to be out of earshot before beginning to whisper together.

  Robert turned to Christina. “Your unexpected appearance on the
scene has caused a little upset, I fear, and the fact that your room has yet to be prepared makes my original plan somewhat awkward. I was going to suggest we all adjourn to our various chambers to refresh ourselves after the journey, and then take a welcome dish of tea together in the great parlor.”

  Christina was anxious not to be the cause of any difficulty. “I’m sure we can still do that, for I can accompany Jane to her room.”

  Jane nodded immediately. “Oh, yes, of course.”

  Robert looked at them both. “If you’re quite sure ... ?”

  “Quite sure,” they replied together, smiling because they’d spoken in unison.

  “Then you will both be shown directly to the queen’s chamber, and when the garden room is ready, word will be brought to you. That is the door of the great parlor”—he pointed—”and shall we say tea in half an hour’s time? I’m sure the garden room will take only a little time, for Mrs. Tremayne is always careful to keep everything aired.”

  Mr. Richmond nodded. “Half an hour? Excellent. But, I say, sir, when will dinner be served? I vow it seems an age since we had luncheon.”

  Robert smiled. “Dinner is always at half-past eight.” He glanced at his gold fob watch. “That’s in an hour and a half, and since it will be the best Exmoor venison, I promise you’ll find it well worth waiting for.”

  “Venison, eh? Couldn’t be better.” Mr. Richmond beamed with approval, the tiresome matter of William Grenfell evidently forgotten for the moment.

  Robert beckoned to two waiting footmen. “Please show the ladies to the queen’s chamber, and Mr. Richmond to whichever room has been prepared for him.”

  Mr. Richmond followed his footman up the staircase, and Christina accompanied Jane behind the other footman.

  The queen’s chamber was at the front of the house, directly over the main entrance, with the same wonderful view that Christina had admired on alighting from the carriage. It was a very regal room, with a great four-poster bed that Queen Elizabeth herself had once slept in. Adorned with Tudor emblems and the initials “ER,” and rich with scarlet-and-gold damask, it was impressive enough to stop Jane’s breath as she entered.

  The setting sun was shining directly in through the west-facing windows, but the footman lit a number of candles before withdrawing.

  As the door closed behind him, Christina turned to face her sister. “Did you know William Grenfell was here in Exmoor?” she demanded without preamble.

  Jane looked at her in hurt surprise. “No, and I’m offended you should ask.”

  “Your recent exploits have left me justifiably suspicious.”

  “So I’ve begun to realize.”

  “Do you blame me? You haven’t exactly inspired confidence, and there have been one or two rather odd occurrences—”

  “Oh, no, not the yellow pelisse again! I’ve told you all about that, Christina.” Jane unpinned her hat and tossed it crossly onto the bed.

  “Yes, you’ve told me all about it, and you had an equally ready explanation for having gone out into the garden in the middle of the night, but I find it curious that you bothered to change into the apricot wool first.” There, she’d put her doubt into words at last.

  Jane stared at her. “So that’s what’s been on your mind these past few days, is it?”

  “Yes. I suppose you’re going to airily explain it away, just as you did the yellow pelisse?”

  Jane drew a long breath, hesitating before speaking. “There is an explanation, but you probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.”

  “Very well. I decided to undress myself that night, and so I sent Ellen away, but instead of getting on with changing, I sat in the chair for a while. I had my bottle of scent in my hand, the essence of roses Aunt Brooks sent to me, and the stopper can’t have been in properly, because the scent spilled all over me while I slept. When I woke up I was simply reeking of it, and I had a dreadful headache. I knew I had to get some fresh air, and I was about to change into my night things, because my evening gown smelled so of the scent, when I realized it would be very cold outside. So I changed into the first warm dress that came to hand, the apricot wool.”

  It was plausible enough, and Christina might have believed it, except for one glaring detail. “If you’d spilt scent all over yourself, and then slept for several hours, the whole room would have smelled of roses. When I looked in, I didn’t notice anything.”

  “Well, it did smell of roses.” Jane met her eyes squarely.

  Christina simply didn’t believe the story, reasonable as it was, and with that disbelief came strong doubts about the forthcoming betrothal. “Jane, are you absolutely sure that you wish to marry Robert?” she asked quietly.

  Jane nodded. “Absolutely sure.”

  There wasn’t time to say any more, for the housekeeper came to say that the garden room was ready, and to personally escort Christina to it along the gallery and down a passage.

  It was a charming room, facing south over the combe and terraced gardens. Like the rest of the house, it had paneled walls hung with tapestries, and there was a collection of Tudor miniatures on the wall opposite the mullioned bay window. The last of the sunset cast a very faint light over everything, a light that was added to by the candles that had been lit in readiness, and by the new fire.

  The four-poster bed was smaller than Jane’s, and hung with pale-green brocade. The same brocade had been used to cover the chairs by the fire, and the window seat that filled the bay. There was an immense wardrobe, big enough to step into, and Jenny was already unpacking her clothes.

  A kettle simmered on the fire, and the maid hurried to it the moment her mistress entered. There was a fine French washstand in a corner behind a screen, and soon Christina had been relieved of her pelisse, bonnet, and gloves. All journeys, no matter how comfortable and luxurious the carriage, made one feel so stale and untidy, and it was good to rinse her face in warm water.

  Within a few minutes she was refreshed and seated at the dressing table in the corner, while Jenny unpinned and recombed her long hair. Her cream sprigged-muslin gown still felt comfortable, and looked well in spite of the journey, and she elected to continue wearing it until it was time to change for dinner.

  Jenny put down the comb and pins. “Which gown shall I put out for dinner, Miss Christina?”

  “The lilac satin, I think, provided it isn’t too crumpled.”

  “I’ll see it’s ready, miss. Will you wear the amethysts with it?”

  “No, my mother’s pearls.”

  “But, miss, you still haven’t had the clasp repaired.”

  “It was all right at the ball, and to be honest, I really don’t think there’s anything wrong with it. I’ll have the Stroud jeweler look at it when we go home.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Now, then, I can find my own way down to the great parlor for tea, but I’m sure you must be gasping for a cup yourself, so you can take yourself down to the kitchens if you wish.”

  “Oh, thank you, miss,” replied the maid gratefully. “I’ll be sure to finish putting everything away before you need to dress for dinner.”

  Jenny hurried out, and after a moment Christina got up to go to the window. She looked out over the shadowy gardens, which were almost in darkness now that the sunset was little more than a dull stain of color on the western horizon. A fountain played on the third terrace down from the house, and in the valley beyond, the trees marking the Darch’s way were thick and mysterious.

  Her gaze moved along the valley toward the village of Darchford, visible only as two or three lights in cottage windows. Suddenly she noticed two other lights as a carriage crossed the bridge and drove through the lodge gates. It must be Lady Chevenley returning from her visit to Grenfell Hall.

  Christina remained at the window for several minutes after the carriage lamps had passed out of sight around the front of the house; then she turned to look at the clock on the mantelpiece. More than half an hour had passed,
and the promised dish of tea would be being served in the great parlor. Dismayed to think she was going to be late, she picked up the shawl that Jenny had put out for her, and hurried from the room.

  She wasn’t the only one to be late, because her father was only just descending the staircase ahead of her, and had reached the bottom to cross the hall by the time she began to do gown as well. As she hurried across the hall behind him, she heard his startled exclamation from just inside the great parlor.

  “Good God above! It can’t possibly be .”

  “Yes, Hal,” replied a woman’s amused voice, “I am Lady Chevenley.”

  Christina halted in astonishment, listening.

  Her father spoke again. “Alicia. Alicia Partington, after all these years ...”

  Taken as much by surprise as he, Christina moved hesitantly closer to the door. Should she go in? She was undecided, for it didn’t seem right to intrude. She was almost certain her father and Lady Chevenley were alone, because surely there’d have been some reaction from Jane or Robert, had they been present.

  Mr. Richmond and Lady Chevenley were indeed alone, for Jane was still in her room, and, unknown to Christina, Robert was at that very moment descending the staircase behind her.

  He paused at the bottom, looking curiously at her rather furtive figure by the door of the great parlor; then he came quietly over, making her jump by putting his hands suddenly on her shoulders. “Are you much given to ear-wigging at doors, madam?” he asked softly, laughing as she stifled a gasp.

  Recovering a little, and blushing at having been caught in the act, she quickly put a finger to her lips, pointing toward the door. “I really don’t think we should go in just yet,” she whispered. “Did you know that your aunt was once my father’s great love?”

  He stared at her. “No, I didn’t.” He said nothing more, for Lady Chevenley was speaking again in the parlor.

 

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