Sabrina

by Kruger, Mary

  Unlike Sabrina, he was not impressed with what he saw. At close quarters the girl was no more attractive than she had been in Warrenton’s offices, and the better light served only to show how dull were her complexion and hair. She had shown no interest in the world outside herself, and she sniffed continuously. She had not even made any effort to charm him. Having been on the marriage mart for years, Oliver had no illusions about women. He knew he was handsome. He also knew that, were he a foot shorter, bald, fat, and lame, he would still have been considered attractive. One must never discount a title, or all that lovely Bainbridge money.

  “You’ll not see a penny from me, you know,” he said pleasantly, and Sabrina’s eyes, which had closed again, opened.

  “Excuse me?” she said.

  “Let us be honest with each other, Miss Carrick. I know why you’ve come here. I tell you now, it won’t fadge.”

  Her head hurt so much. She put her fingers to her temples to rub them. “If you will excuse me, sir, I don’t feel up to this conversation. I am excessively tired and I have the headache.”

  “Miss Carrick,” he said, his voice icy. “If you have forgotten, let me remind you that I am a duke. You do not excuse me. I excuse you. We will have this conversation whether you will or not.”

  She stared at him blankly. “Oh. I’m sorry, sir. Um, I mean, Your Grace.”

  Oliver leaned back against the squabs and studied her with distaste. “I am taking you to Bainbridge Abbey. I am sure you know of it.” He ignored the shake of her head. “The dowager duchess is in residence there, and if she approves of you—and by no means is that certain—you may stay. What you will do then and how you will live is of no concern to me. I trust you will find ways to make yourself useful. But.” He held up a warning finger. “If she does not approve of you, then you are out. Either way you will not get a penny from us. Do you understand?”

  Arrogant, haughty, cold, unfeeling and odious! she thought. She would have had some misgivings about concealing her background from the loving family of her imaginings, but she had no compunction about doing so from this man. “What will people say when they learn you’ve turned out a relative in need, Your Grace? Particularly your own ward.”

  “Why, Miss Carrick. Are you threatening me?”

  “No, Your Grace. I wouldn’t dare.”

  He gave her a sharp look. “Very good. Because it occurs to me that you cannot prove your relationship to me, can you? Even now, how can you prove you are not an impostor?”

  She went pale. What would he do when he learned that, in a very real sense, she was? “The rings—”

  “Ah, yes, the rings. Which are now in my possession. I could throw you out right now and no one would care.”

  “London cannot be so very different from New York.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “There are sure to be people here, as there, who will believe anything bad of a person, true or not.”

  He gazed at her steadily for a few moments. “Miss Carrick, for your own good, I suggest you hold your tongue.”

  “Fine. Then I can go back to sleep,” she said, closing her eyes. Oliver opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again. Few people had ever treated him in such a way, but he let it pass. He would deal with her later.

  Chapter 3

  Bainbridge Abbey was a long, weary, drive from London, and the day was drawing in by the time they arrived. Sabrina’s head ached so much she could barely see, and she was too exhausted to appreciate the occasional view of the Thames off to their right or the glimpse, in the distance, of Windsor Castle. So far she didn’t like England very much. It was either rainy or abysmally dusty, the people all spoke differently, and London was large, bewilderingly noisy, and dirty. A wave of homesickness for a place left far behind washed over her, and then passed, leaving her feeling empty and bereft. She was not wanted here. She should not have come.

  The coach turned in through large, wrought-iron gates displaying the Bainbridge crest and topped by gleaming brass globes. A man ran out of the gatehouse and then, seeing the duke, bent low in a bow and then ran back inside to tell his wife the news. The coach continued on down a winding drive that seemed to stretch on forever, and at length pulled up before a building that Sabrina assumed to be the Abbey. She was so tired that she received no impression of the building other than its size as she stepped down onto the graveled drive. In the twilight, it seemed to loom above her.

  The door was opened before they had ascended the marble stairs, by a properly correct butler with a face like a basset hound. He beamed at Oliver, totally ignoring Sabrina. “Welcome, Your Grace. I must say, this is a pleasant surprise,” he said.

  “Thank you, Partridge,” Oliver said, his voice echoing in the cavernous entrance hall. “Is my grandmother in?”

  “Yes, Your Grace, in her studio. Shall I announce you?”

  “No, thank you, Partridge. I’ll just go up.”

  “And the er, young lady?”

  Oliver turned to look at Sabrina, who was staring blankly at the gilt-framed paintings on the walls and the suit of armor that stood at the base of the wide, carved staircase. “The young lady may wait in the book-room until we send for her.”

  “Very good, Your Grace. If you’ll come this way, Miss.” Oliver watched as Sabrina followed behind the butler, his very stance expressing rigid disapproval, and then turned toward the stairs. Squaring his shoulders, he went up.

  Gwendolyn Carrick, Dowager Duchess of Bainbridge, was busy painting in her studio when Oliver walked in. He watched her for a moment, and received the second shock of the day. She looked—ill. Well, not precisely ill. She was no thinner, and her color was good, but there was something about her, some fine-drawn quality, that troubled him. For the first time he realized, deep within himself, that his grandmother was old, and that he could very well lose her. And if that happened, he thought, a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach, he would be alone. Oh, nonsense, he thought, and stepped forward.

  Gwendolyn looked up. Outside of her family, painting was the one enduring passion of Gwendolyn’s life, and ordinarily, once she was absorbed in it, it took a great deal to disturb her. There were, however, exceptions. Oliver had always occupied a special place in her heart. “Oliver!” she exclaimed. “This is a surprise. Come give me a kiss.”

  Obediently he walked over and kissed her cheek. “That’s very pretty, Grandmama,” he said, indicating the easel.

  She snorted. “Pretty! You sound just like your grandfather. Pretty, indeed!” She picked up her brush. “Why are you here, Oliver?”

  “Grandmama, I have a problem.”

  “So I thought. Let me finish this before I lose the light. You may talk while I work.”

  He shook his head. “I’ll wait. I need your full attention.”

  She turned from the easel. “That serious?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Of course, it would be. I don’t know when you last came to me with a problem.” She looked at her picture and sighed. Tomorrow would be soon enough to continue working. “Come sit down, then.” She led the way over to a pair of chairs. “Well?”

  Oliver plunged in. “Grandmama, I seem to have acquired a ward.”

  Gwendolyn blinked. “A ward? Good gracious, Oliver, has one of your Cyprians had the nerve—”

  “No, no, nothing like that,” he said, hastily. “So far as I know I have no children, legitimate or otherwise.”

  “High time you did. When are you going to present me with an heir, Oliver?”

  “In due time, Grandmama.”

  “In due time! I’d say the time is past due. I’m sure you know your duty.”

  “I’m sure I do, ma’am, but about this new problem—”

  “Yes. A ward, you say?”

  “Yes. A young woman.”

  “Ah.” Her eyes narrowed. “Someone trying to blackmail you?”

  “Probably. She claims to be Gerald Carrick’s daughter.”

  Gwendolyn dr
ew in her breath. “Good Lord. You’re not serious.”

  “She had the rings, Grandmama.” He held up his hand.

  “The Bainbridge signet,” she said, wonderingly. “Good Lord, then she really is Gerald’s daughter.”

  “I’m not sure, ma’am,” he said, cautiously. “She may be an impostor.”

  “Does she look like a Carrick?”

  “Not at all. She is lumpy and plain and dull. Oh, I grant she must have some shrewdness, to have hit on this plot, but she seems to have no other thoughts beyond her own advancement.”

  “Oliver, that does not surprise me in a child of Gerald’s.”

  He leaned forward, his hands loosely clasped between his knees. “Was he so bad?”

  “Oh, no, not really, or he wouldn’t have been if he’d had the right guidance. But you know your uncle Everett.” Oliver nodded. “Gerald was wild. It was not easy to control him. Of course Everett scolded him. Everett was always scolding him. I don’t know what I did wrong with that boy.”

  “Gerald?”

  “No, Everett. How Lionel and I ever managed to produce such a dry stick—but that’s neither here nor there. Gerald was a true Carrick, high-strung, hot-tempered and selfish—”

  “Am I a true Carrick, Grandmama?” Oliver asked, smiling.

  “—and the more Everett scolded the worse Gerald behaved.”

  “I’d heard there was a duel.”

  “Yes, over a woman. We kept it as quiet as we could, but of course some rumor leaked out. You may be sure that there are people who still remember it.”

  “Did Gerald kill his man?”

  “No, only winged him. He said the other man was such a poor shot that shooting him was no sport.”

  “You sound as if you were very fond of him, Grandmama.”

  “He was incorrigible! And, yes.” She sighed. “I loved him dearly. I’ve often wondered what became of him.”

  “Why did he leave?”

  “After the duel, Everett demanded that Gerald stay in Yorkshire and learn how to comport himself. Gerald didn’t take to that. Everett never did have any tact. There was a terrible row, and Gerald took the rings and went off to America. Your father was furious.”

  “I remember. I’m surprised Gerald didn’t sell the rings.”

  “Perhaps family meant more to him than he’d realized.”

  “Or perhaps he did sell them and that impostor downstairs bought them.”

  “She looks prosperous enough to buy such jewels, then?”

  “Well, no,” he admitted. “But, mind you, Grandmama, I believe this is all a hoax.”

  “It may very well be. Perhaps I should see her now.”

  “I think you should wash your face first,” he said, reaching out to touch her nose, bedaubed with blue paint.

  “Impertinent boy! Very well. I will change my clothes and receive the chit in state.”

  A half-hour later the dowager sat in her drawing room, wearing a regal gown of purple satin, with a magnificent brocade turban atop her head. The chair she had chosen was not her favorite, being unpadded and uncomfortable, but it was massive, of dark carved oak, and strongly resembled a throne. In all, her appearance was nicely calculated to strike terror into an impostor’s heart. Between them, she and Oliver should be able to send the girl packing.

  Sabrina had nearly fallen asleep in the book-room, after reflecting on the irony of twice being in a room devoted to books, and being too tired to read. At Her Grace’s summons, she followed a disapproving Partridge up the stairs to the drawing room. It was an impressive room, twice as long as it was wide, decorated in the exotic chinoiserie style of half a century earlier. The wallpaper was hand-painted, the furniture was enameled and gilded, and the windows looking out upon the drive were hung with brocade. The room was dominated by a full-length portrait of a stern-faced man wearing wig and full Court dress, hanging over the mantel at the far end of the room. Underneath this daunting picture sat the dowager duchess, with my lord duke by her side. Sabrina, who had never before seen anything like this house, was properly awed. Something urged her to correct behavior, and she dropped a quick, inexpert curtsy.

  The Dowager looked startled. “Didn’t know she could curtsy, either,” Oliver whispered in her ear. Gwendolyn didn’t answer, but looked intently at the girl who hovered near the door, as if about to take flight.

  “Come closer, girl, and let me see you,” she barked out.

  Sabrina walked down the length of the room, acutely aware of their unfriendly gazes. This was not the sweet old lady she had envisioned, this tall, fierce woman who looked eminently capable of caring for herself without the help of a long-lost grandchild. Was nothing to be as she’d hoped?

  “So,” the dowager said, her voice milder. “You are Gerald Carrick’s child.

  “Yes, my lady,” Sabrina whispered, her eyes studying a pattern in the Turkey carpet.

  “Got any brothers or sisters?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “Quite alone in the world, then. Convenient.”

  “Excuse me?” Sabrina looked up, startled.

  “That’s better, girl. Look at me when I’m talking to you.” She studied Sabrina closely. “You’re right, Oliver. She don’t look like a Carrick.”

  “I’m said to take after my mother.”

  “Oh? And who was your mother, pray tell?”

  “Annemarie Van Schuyler.”

  “Dutch?” the dowager said in surprise, as Oliver had.

  “No, Your Grace. Patroon, which is New York aristocracy.”

  “Don’t give yourself airs, girl. New York means less than nothing here.”

  “It means something to me!” Sabrina’s eyes flashed. “If I am such a burden to you advance me passage home—”

  “You’ll get nothing from us,” Oliver snapped. “I warned you of that.”

  “You’ll get it back,” Sabrina snapped back. “With interest, if you so desire, my lord!”

  “Children.” The word was spoken quietly, but firmly, and they subsided. “No need to be so hasty. Miss Carrick, I don’t believe I wish to send you back.”

  “Grandmama, are you mad?” Oliver said. The more he saw of this girl, the more he thought they’d do better without her, no matter what it cost. Her savage American ways were certain to disgrace the family.

  “Oliver, don’t question me. I know what I’m doing.” She fastened her eyes on Sabrina again. “Tell me about your father. I have not seen Gerald these past twenty years. What can you tell me of him?”

  Sabrina’s eyes were downcast. “Nothing good, my lady.”

  “Oh? And what do you consider bad, miss?”

  “Probably not the same things as you, my lady.”

  “Oliver, the girl is presuming to judge me. Go on. Tell me what you consider bad.”

  “Well—he liked to drink and to gamble, if he could get the money. I don’t know if he wenched or not. If he did he did it someplace else, else everyone would have known of it.”

  “And these were major sins?”

  “No, my lady.” Sabrina’s mouth closed. She didn’t think the dowager would understand that to her Papa’s worst failing had been his long neglect of his daughter. “Do you wish to know how he died?”

  “That bothers me, girl. I’m told he died six months ago. Why did you take so long to arrive here?”

  “I didn’t know about the Carricks until after Papa died. That was when I found the letters—the one you have, Your Grace,” she said to Oliver, “and one for me. Also the rings. I was quite surprised.”

  “What of your mother’s family?”

  “Papa quarreled with them when I was young.”

  “He would,” Gwendolyn muttered. “Why did it take you so long to come here?”

  “I didn’t have the money.”

  Ah, now we come to it, Oliver thought.

  “How did you get the money, miss?” the dowager asked, in a very good approximation of Oliver’s mannerism.

  “I worked for it.
In a shop,” she said, bluntly. “It was ours until I sold it to cover Papa’s debts.”

  “Gerald was a shopkeeper?” Gwendolyn said in surprise. “I find that hard to imagine. How did he die?”

  “He fell off a horse.”

  “Nonsense! Gerald never fell off a horse in his life.”

  “He was in his cups, my lady. I still do not know where he found the money,” she added to herself, and Gwendolyn and Oliver exchanged looks. “I thought I’d hidden it well enough. He went out and took a horse—we couldn’t afford to keep a stable. It was just a farm animal, but Papa tried to make it jump a fence. The horse balked. He flew over the fence, and he broke his neck. The horse had to be destroyed, of course,” she added.

  “That does sound like Gerald,” the dowager said after a few moments. “Did he leave you nothing, girl?”

  “Nothing but debts.”

  “Oh, well, that goes without saying.” She eyed the girl with a bit more friendliness. “Very well. You may stay here for the night. In the morning we’ll decide what to do with you.”

  “Grandmama, are you sure?” Oliver protested, drowning out Sabrina’s thank-you.

  “I know what I’m doing, Oliver. It is late and the girl has no money. Where would she stay?”

  “That is not my concern,” he said, stiffly.

  Gwendolyn gazed at him for a few moments. “Ring for Partridge, Oliver.” Oliver hesitated. “Ring for Partridge!” Looking mutinous, Oliver walked to the bellpull and tugged on it, vigorously. “Partridge will show you to your room, child.”

  “Thank you, my lady,” Sabrina said, curtsying.

  “Address her as ‘Your Grace’,” Oliver said.

  Sabrina gave him an unreadable look and then turned to Gwendolyn. “My apologies, Your Grace. Might I also have a bath and something to eat?”

  “Partridge will see to your needs. Has a room been made ready?” she asked Partridge, who had just come in.

  “Yes, Your Grace.”

  “Very good. This is Miss Carrick, Partridge. Gerald Carrick’s daughter.” Partridge turned startled eyes on the bedraggled girl. “Please see to it that she has everything she needs.”