by Dorothy Mack
It was not that she even desired to feel close to any member of her father’s family; she had not been drawn immediately to any of them with the exception of William, the person closest to her in age and the one with the least share of what she now recognized as Ridgemont family traits, but she would never cease to regret that they could not have all met on equal terms, free to like or dislike each other as personal preference alone decreed. She was being well and truly punished for the original lie, she thought on a hiccoughing sigh, but lying here wallowing in regrets would change nothing.
Although Sir Hector had admitted his son into his presence briefly, he had not left his apartment for dinner or seen any others of his family, including his daughter, who had unsuccessfully sought admittance to his room before dinner. Somers had impressed this upon Sarah when she had brought up more custard and proposed taking it in to Sir Hector herself. The custard had gone in with Somers, and she had been sent away with an impersonal injunction to “try again tomorrow.”
Sarah was not looking forward to tomorrow. Her position vis-à-vis her uncle’s family had been difficult enough, but at least they had been prepared to accept her at face value and cooperate with Sarah Boston, housekeeper. Her Aunt Adelaide had been another matter entirely. She and her daughter had arrived about two hours after her brother and his family, with, according to Joseph, the footman, as much baggage as the entire Ridgemont contingent combined. Not that Sarah had needed this information to form an accurate idea of her aunt. One look at the beautifully groomed and richly dressed woman being escorted into the hall by an obsequious Millbank told Sarah that here was what was meant by the term “a lady of fashion.” And her aunt’s first sentence, pronounced in carefully cultivated, imperious tones, was sufficient warning of difficulties ahead.
Sarah had come forward to relieve Lady Townsend of a huge sable muff. Her quiet introduction of herself as the housekeeper had sent two arched brows soaring upward and two disdainful dark eyes roaming her person with every evidence of displeasure in what they found.
“Nonsense,” stated Lady Townsend, looking down a feminine version of the Ridgemont nose from her superior height. “You are obviously too young and inexperienced for such responsibility. Where is Grace Medlark? She knows how I like things done.”
Sarah had explained that Grace returned home to her family each evening, a consideration that Lady Townsend clearly found unacceptable and that she proposed to suspend during her stay at Beech Hill.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Lady Townsend, but Grace has personally supervised the preparation of your favourite rooms, and the maids have been instructed in the way you like your bed dressed. We shall all try to make you comfortable.”
Sarah’s speech was so pleasant and conciliatory that the sense of her words didn’t sink in at first. When Lady Townsend realized that her wishes were being denied, albeit politely, her dark eyes froze and her lips thinned. “I’ll speak with Grace myself,” she declared.
At that point her ladyship’s daughter, who had been wearing a bored expression on her pretty face throughout this dialogue, intervened. “Yes, Mama, but that can wait till tomorrow. Let’s not stand in this draughty hall arguing about servants while our baggage is being brought in. I wish to supervise Elsie when she unpacks for me or she’ll have all my gowns creased.”
Without another word to Sarah, Lady Townsend had turned on her heel and headed for the suite reserved for her use. Sarah had trailed along after her just long enough to see her in the rooms and promise that her abigail would be sent up immediately. The words has scarcely left her lips when a thin, redheaded female with an expression that outdid her mistress in superciliousness appeared in the bedchamber doorway and announced that they would require another lamp for the dressing table. Sarah could only hope she had concealed her surprise as she promised to rectify the omission and send refreshments to the apartment at once.
“Tea only,” Lady Townsend had ordered, “unless you wish something to eat, Arabella?”
Eager to be on her way, Miss Townsend had denied any interest in food. She had offered no other remarks while being shown to her rooms on the first floor. When Sarah had asked tentatively if they were not to have the pleasure of Lord Townsend’s company, after all, she had replied shortly that her brother always drove himself. To a further question about when they might expect Lord Townsend, she said airily that it was anybody’s guess when Vincent would turn up.
The first dinner, Sarah had concluded, held the promise of disaster. After conferring with Mrs. Hadley, she had decided to put it back a half-hour to give her absent cousin a bit of leeway. Her uncle had merely grunted when she explained it to him. She had sent a maid to the other guests with the message.
It was by the merest chance that Sarah had caught a glimpse of her eldest cousin when he arrived. She had been crossing the great hall after delivering this message to her uncle with some idea that she might catch her grandfather in a receptive mood when she saw Millbank escorting a tall dark man toward the east staircase. Unmistakably a Ridgemont in colouring and features, on Vincent the family nose was a dashing aquiline model that enhanced virile, slightly dangerous good looks.
In her bed, turning restlessly despite her fatigue, Sarah admitted that her aunt’s children were definitely more physically impressive than her Ridgemont cousins, though she had been both attracted and repelled by an assurance in their demeanour that bordered on arrogance. Of course it would not do to judge hastily; first impressions could be misleading. One thing she hoped she had misjudged was the potential for discord among such strong personalities. Millbank had reported that the atmosphere at dinner had been constrained though not actively hostile. Lady Townsend, as expected, had reviewed most of the culinary offerings unfavourably, but all the others had done ample justice to Mrs. Hadley’s beautiful roast of beef and well-presented side dishes, for which Sarah was heartily thankful.
But she could not look forward to tomorrow with any lessening of apprehension as she finally drifted into an uneasy slumber.
CHAPTER 6
Mark Trebeque, sixth Viscount Eversley, made his way through the fine stand of trees that separated his estate from Beech Hill, more or less setting his horse a walking pace on a brisk late-winter morning with more than a hint of spring in the air. He breathed in deeply of the cool pine-scented air, enjoying the earthy undertones of decomposing vegetation, and glanced around for signs of budding life, determined to rein in an eagerness he was reluctant to acknowledge, though why this should be so was puzzling in itself. Surely there was ample reason to be curious, even concerned with what was going on at Beech Hill. It was he who had set the wheels in motion, so to speak, with his letter to Horace Ridgemont; therefore, it was not surprising that he should feel some concern for how that unfortunate girl was faring at the hands of a family long noted for its internecine tendencies.
There was no denying he had experienced a stab of compunction the other day on leaving Sarah Ridgemont to the doubtful charity of her relatives. She had faced him so valiantly, but those beautiful sombre eyes had betrayed her self-doubts. Indeed, she had all but confessed her shame at even approaching her estranged grandfather for assistance. If she had been an able-bodied male, he might have agreed with her scruples, but the simple truth was that she was bearing a burden too great for even the most valiant-hearted female to shoulder. He had found himself wishing to offer his support when she confronted her grandfather, but of course he had no rights where she was concerned.
He had sent off a letter to his man in London that same afternoon directing him to investigate the truth of what she had told him. He owed this much to the general, though he would take his oath that the girl was genuine. If eyes like hers could lie, then there was indeed little hope for humanity.
Yesterday had seemed a thousand hours long while he forced himself to stay away from Beech Hill. The household would be at sixes and sevens, frantically preparing to house more guests at one time than had come under the g
eneral’s roof all told in the past half-dozen years. Still, he would not have been surprised to receive a peremptory summons from Sir Hector demanding an accounting of his behaviour in not challenging the identity of the alleged housekeeper the other day.
A disturbing thought caused the viscount to slacken his control on the reins, and the big black bounded forward, eager to stretch his legs. Mark let Heracles have his head while he examined and rejected the idea that Sir Hector might have sent his granddaughter packing. Adamantine though his nature assuredly was, the general had lived his entire life by a rigid code of honour; that was really at the core of his harsh treatment of his son. Gerald’s failure to adhere to his father’s standards had tarnished the Ridgemont name in Sir Hector’s view. He was not an ungenerous man, however, nor one to permit innocent children to suffer for the sins of their elders. If Mark understood the general’s sense of duty at all, he could be assured that the old man would make provision for his son’s children, even if he declined to associate with them personally.
Having worked his way to this conclusion, Mark gradually slowed Heracles to the decorous trot he deemed appropriate for a neighbour arriving to pay a morning call as he approached the Beech Hill stables. He had deliberately timed his arrival for an hour when the men might be expected to be out riding, since his main concern was to see how the Ridgemont women were treating Sarah. Simple human kindness was not a commodity in great supply among the Ridgemonts at any time. If the general really were dying, the fortuitous appearance of two more heirs was not an event calculated to tap the wellspring of human kindness that the charitably inclined might expect to locate deep within Lady Townsend. The knighthood died with Sir Hector, and Beech Hill was unentailed. He could leave his fortune and property wherever he liked.
The viscount banged the knocker, a little smile tugging at the corners of his firm mouth at this last thought. How he would have liked to have been present when the Ridgemont clan had been apprised of the existence of two additional members.
The footman’s ready smile appeared in response to the remnants of Lord Eversley’s as he pulled back the door. “Good morning, sir. A nice day for a ride.”
“’Morning, Joseph. Yes, it’s beginning to smell like spring. How is the general today?”
“Not too chipper, sir. At least, he’s seeing no one this morning.”
Mark paused in the act of handing hat and gloves to Joseph. “Oh? I’m sorry to hear that. Is Mr. Ridgemont in?”
“No, sir. He and Mr. Cecil and Lord Townsend are out riding. The ladies and Mr. William are in the drawing room if you’d care to step upstairs, sir.”
“Thank you, I’ll do that.” Mark ran a smoothing hand over his black hair and followed Joseph down the length of the great hall to the west staircase on the left. He had his rather stern features composed into a mask of social affability by the time the footman announced him.
The mask nearly slipped when a swift sweep of the elegantly appointed room showed him that Sarah was not among those present. Consciously he smoothed back an incipient frown and pasted on his best imitation of a courtly smile as Lady Townsend crossed the few feet of floor between her chair and the door to greet him enthusiastically. In London last season she had done her best to drag him into her net for her daughter, failing a bigger fish, but her best had not been good enough. The girl was a dazzler, he admitted readily as he bowed first to Mrs. Ridgemont and then gratified Miss Townsend by bringing the hand she extended up near his mouth, but he’d seen the dazzlers of more seasons than he cared to admit degenerate into shrill and shrewish wives after a year or two of marriage. His eyebrows rose as William Ridgemont limped across the room to shake his hand.
“What is all this? A martyr to gout at your age?”
William grinned good-naturedly. “Not yet, thank goodness. I twisted the cursed ankle while boxing last week. It’s taking its own good time to heal.”
“The gout,” exclaimed Mrs. Ridgemont indignantly. “Oh, I see. You are funning, Lord Eversley. I am happy to be able to say that in the ordinary way William enjoys superb health, but he was ever prone to accidents even as a child. Why, I recall once when he was only ten —”
“Mama, I hope you don’t plan to disclose all the foolish peccadilloes of my childhood,” her son said with a teasing smile. “Lord Eversley must already think me a clumsy oaf on the evidence of his eyes.”
“Of course he does not,” stated the fond parent unequivocally, her mild blue eyes daring the viscount to contradict her.
“Of course not, ma’am,” he agreed with composure, avoiding the mocking amusement in Miss Townsend’s sparkling dark eyes.
“Come and sit here by me, Lord Eversley,” that young lady invited with a flirtatious sweep of curling black eyelashes. “Your arrival must have been divinely designed to rescue me from terminal boredom. There’s never anything to do at Beech Hill,” she continued, treating him to a delectable pout of rosy lips as he seated himself beside her on one of the pink damask settees placed facing each other at right angles to the fireplace. “Grandfather is such a hermit these days that no one ever comes to visit and —”
“Speaking of your grandfather,” Mark said, ruthlessly interrupting her complaints, “Joseph told me he is seeing no one today. Is his condition worse?” He directed the question to Lady Townsend, who shrugged pettishly.
“I am not the one to answer you, Eversley, not having been admitted to his presence since our arrival.”
“You’ve not seen him yet, ma’am, none of you?” Mark asked, startled.
“Horace saw him yesterday, but Somers has taken it upon himself to deny him to everyone this morning. He said Father had a bad night and was sleeping this morning.”
“What did Mr. Ridgemont think after seeing him yesterday?”
“Horace said he looked much weaker than the last time he’d been here but remarkably alert for all that. His voice had lost none of its power, and my brother noticed nothing of the shortness of breath you described in your letter.”
Mark’s dark-complexioned face wore a look of attention that was deceptive, for he was actually cudgelling his brain for an inspiration that would shed some light on Sarah’s situation, though by now he’d been in the room long enough to find the silence on the subject of a long-lost granddaughter ominous. In the next moment he was saved further fruitless cogitation by a light tap on the door, followed by the entrance of Sarah herself.
There was a flash of panic in the soft eyes that flew to his before Sarah got her expression under control. Lady Townsend had just finished speaking, and the loudest silence he’d ever heard outside of a classroom where no one knew the answer descended on the group in the drawing room as all eyes fastened on the young woman in the sober black-and-white gown standing just inside the door.
Sarah straightened her shoulders and gripped her hands together. “You sent for me, Lady Townsend?”
“Yes. You will be good enough to explain why Grace Medlark has not been to see me this morning.”
“But I thought you knew, ma’am.” Sarah’s eyes widened. “I gave your abigail the message that Grace sent. One of her children is ill, so she was not able to come today.”
“I received the message. I then sent a maid to the village to Grace’s house to stay with the child while Grace reported to me. That was over an hour ago.”
“I knew nothing of this, Lady Townsend. Which maid did you send?”
“Do you expect me to know the name of every maid in this house?” Lady Townsend’s face assumed a haughty mien. “If you were competent at your job, you would know where your staff was at all times.”
Sarah’s eyes dropped. “If you will excuse me, I shall check with the maids to find out who went to Grace’s house and what the situation is.”
“Other than walking into the village myself, I suppose I have no choice. Very well, you may go.”
Mark had sat embalmed in shock during the first part of Lady Townsend’s tirade, but rising anger soon thawed his muscles
and he stood up as Sarah slipped out of the door. His face an urbane mask, he bowed to the ladies and apologized. “I must beg you to excuse me too, ladies, for the moment. I must see Mrs. Boston about something … something I brought for the general.”
After an all-encompassing glance around a stunned circle, he took himself out of the room, giving no sign of the urgency that propelled him. His rudeness would be talked about, but he couldn’t help that. As he set off in pursuit of Sarah, his mind remained for a second on the scene he had just witnessed. William Ridgemont, he was pleased to note, had looked as embarrassed as he had felt at the public chastisement that arrogant harpy had handed the person she still obviously thought of as her father’s housekeeper. Mrs. Ridgemont’s face had worn a vaguely sympathetic expression, and Arabella Townsend had been frankly bored by the incident.
“Sarah,” he called in low tones as the young woman ahead of him was about to start down the stairs. He caught up with her when she halted in surprise, and taking her arm in a firm clasp, he pulled her along after him into the room above the library, which functioned as a picture gallery. Once inside, he released her and stood with his back against the door, his arms folded in front of his chest.
“Now, my girl, you may tell me why this hideous masquerade is still going on. Why have you put yourself in a position to be abused by that termagant? You promised me to tell your grandfather the truth two days ago.”
Sarah considered objecting to the familiar form of address employed by Lord Eversley, but one look at the set furious face of the man looming over her decided her on the more prudent course of restraint. “Do you think I have not tried?” she cried, frustration ringing in her voice. “I have tried to speak to my grandfather at least a dozen times in the last two days. He won’t see me.”
“Why not?” Mark’s features took on a puzzled cast. “He was not so dangerously ill two days ago that a short conversation should prostrate him — at least not an ordinary conversation,” he amended, shooting her a look that spoke volumes. “Lady Townsend told me he saw his son briefly but has refused as yet to see her. Well, he won’t refuse to see me. Come along!”