by Kruger, Mary
“Don’t be silly, child! Of course you’ll stay. You are a Carrick. This is where you belong.”
“So lovely. So sweet,” Fanny murmured incoherently.
Sabrina bit back a giggle. “If you truly want me, I would be honored to stay,” she said.
“My dear, if that is not what you intended, why did you come?” Gwendolyn asked, regarding her curiously.
It is what I intended, but what happens when you know the truth? “Oh—curiosity, perhaps. To meet my father’s relatives, to see where I belong. But I never thought to aspire so high.” Me, Sabrina Van Schuyler!
“Just to New York aristocracy, perhaps?”
Sabrina’s eyes twinkled in response. “Perhaps.”
“You will soon discover that your New World aristocrats bear no relation to the ton. Thank goodness you arrived when you did. We can plan a proper season for you.”
“A season? Oh, but ma’am, I don’t want—”
“I’ll hear no arguments. Now that you are here we must make up for abandoning you in the past and see you settled. At the very least, we must find you a husband.”
“Dear ma’am, please listen to me,” Sabrina said. “I did not come to England to find a fortune, no matter what the duke might believe, or a husband, either.”
“No? Why did you come to England, child?”
“To find a family.”
“Oh, my dear child.” She laid her hand, parchment-cool and wrinkled, on Sabrina’s work-roughened one. “And we didn’t give you much of a welcome, did we? We must make up for that.”
“Ma’am, I must warn you that I don’t intend to take charity. I will be more than willing to do any task you have for me. I am a fair housekeeper, and I’m good with figures—”
“Don’t be silly. The only figure you should concern yourself with is your own.”
“Ma’am!”
“Sabrina, you are the great-granddaughter of a duke. Pray do not ever forget that.”
“But, ma’am—”
“No, Sabrina, I will not argue this with you. Now.” She rose from her seat and Sabrina followed suit, still inclined to argue. “In the morning I usually see to my correspondence. You will doubtless wish to become acquainted with the Abbey. Later we can make plans for you. Do you ride?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Gerald never taught you? For shame. You have the opportunity now, my dear.” She looked Sabrina’s dress over, and shuddered. “And you must have some new clothes. Do you know,” she said, tilting her head, “I don’t believe your gown fit you quite that way yesterday.”
Sabrina turned slightly pink. “‘Twas cold at sea. I often wore two dresses, to keep warm.”
“I see.” And to keep the sailors away as well, Gwendolyn thought, shrewdly. Poor child, but she was safe now. “Well, you must have at least a riding habit and a traveling costume. The rest we can get in London.”
Sabrina swallowed hard. The dowager’s unexpected generosity was making her feel uneasy and guilty. “Ma’am, there is something I must tell you—”
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Partridge stood in the doorway, looking mournful. “There is a visitor for you.”
“Who is it, Partridge?” Gwendolyn asked.
“The Vicar, Your Grace.”
“Oh, bother!”
“Such a distinguished man,” Fanny said, still chewing her toast. “Such address, such charm.”
“Such a fool,” Gwendolyn said, tartly. “He’ll take up my entire morning. I suppose I have to see him.” No one answered. “Oh, very well. Where is he, Partridge?”
“In the morning room, Your Grace.”
She sighed. “Please tell him I shall be there directly. I am sorry, my dear,” she said, turning to Sabrina. “I had hoped to spend some time with you this morning, to tell you about the family. I probably will not be able to now, but perhaps after luncheon we can go to the gallery and I will show you your ancestors.”
Ancestors! She, Sabrina Van Schuyler Carrick, had ancestors! “I’d like that, Grandmama.”
“Very well. Run along, now, and enjoy yourself.” She stood for a moment, watching Sabrina’s quick youthful movements as she left the room. “Oliver is all wrong about that girl.”
“Oh, no, Aunt Gwendolyn, how can he be?” Fanny said. “He is the duke! And besides,” her voice dropped confidingly, “he is a man.”
“Oh, finish your breakfast, Fanny!” Gwendolyn said, and went in search of the Vicar.
When the luncheon gong rang, Oliver walked into the breakfast parlor with a jauntiness in his step that had not been present that morning. “You seem to be in much better spirits, Oliver,” Gwendolyn said, approvingly.
“Oh, I am, Grandmama,” he answered, smiling. He felt relaxed for the first time in months. His life in town was so busy and hectic, with the war in the Peninsula dragging on and the Americans becoming increasingly belligerent, that he sometimes forgot what it was like in the country. He was lucky to be here; had his duties at the Foreign Office been pressing, he would not have been able to get away, family crisis or no. It was good to be back on his own lands, looking things over for himself. He had a competent bailiff, of course, to manage his estates, but his father had taught him, long ago, that there was no substitute for the presence of the master. Oliver had spent the morning reacquainting himself with his lands, and it had left him feeling at peace. “Shall we be seated?”
“We must wait for Sabrina.”
“Of course,” he agreed. Even the problem of his ward didn’t seem so serious today. He would return to London, and she could make her home here; plain and dull as she was, what more could she ask for? As long as she made herself useful, he would allow her to stay.
“I’m sorry I’m late,” came a husky voice from the doorway. Oliver turned, and then frankly stared. Though Sabrina wore the same gray dress, somehow it fit her differently, and her hair, no longer dull, was neatly pinned back. Her skin glowed with fresh air and exercise, and her eyes, slightly tilted, were exotic and attractive. Good God, he thought, rather dazed. Who would ever have thought she would clean up so well?
Gwendolyn glanced at Oliver and then looked again, startled. Well! she thought. This was something to consider. “There, we all just got here,” she said. “Come in, child.”
“I was upstairs when the gong rang, and then I got lost,” Sabrina was saying. She had hardly dared to glance at Oliver, but she was aware of him, with all of her being.
“Pray do not let it bother you, child. Did you have a pleasant morning?” Gwendolyn asked.
“Oh, yes, Grandmama. It was most enjoyable.”
“You must tell us about it over luncheon. Come, I believe they are about to serve. Oliver?” She turned to him. “Is there something wrong?”
Oliver shook his head slightly. “No, ma’am,” he said, and walked over to the table.
“The vicar kept me talking nearly all morning,” Gwendolyn said, as they sat at the table and a footman served the first course, a clear soup. “I didn’t tell him about you, child, but you may be sure the news will be all over the neighborhood by the end of the day.”
“How will that happen, if you didn’t tell him?” Sabrina asked.
“The servants will talk, if they haven’t already. We must be prepared, Sabrina. Everyone will be wishing to meet you.”
“I don’t see where that’s necessary, ma’am,” Oliver said.
“Really, Oliver.” Gwendolyn frowned at him. “She is a Carrick. Naturally everyone will want to meet her. You can’t keep her to yourself.”
“Grandmama—!”
Gwendolyn ignored him, as well as the blush that had turned Sabrina’s face scarlet. “Here, I was looking through my jewel box this morning, and I found this.” She handed a small object to Fanny.
“Ooh, how lovely,” Fanny said. “Such delicate features, and that skin. So charming.” She glanced up at Sabrina and then back down at the object. “Oh, my.”
“Let Sabrina see it, Fanny.”
“What is i
t?” Sabrina asked as Fanny handed it to her across the table.
“It is a miniature, child. Look at it.”
A bit puzzled, Sabrina looked at the portrait of a lovely young woman, exquisitely painted on ivory. For a moment the significance of the portrait eluded her, but then she saw it. Sabrina’s hair had come from her mother; her hands, from her father; her small, firm chin was hers alone. Everything else, she saw mirrored in this portrait: eyes, nose, even the fresh, healthy glow of her complexion. It was like gazing into a looking glass, save that the woman’s hair was a rich auburn.
Sabrina raised wondering eyes to Gwendolyn. “Who is she, ma’am?”
“She was my mother.”
Sabrina gazed down at the portrait again. All her life she had wished for a place where she would belong. Now she had found it. This was her family.
“May I see?” Oliver said, breaking into her reverie, and she handed the miniature to him. He regarded it in silence, one eyebrow raised, before passing it back to Gwendolyn.
“The resemblance is remarkable, wouldn’t you say, Oliver?” Gwendolyn said. “I saw it immediately.”
“Oh, my, yes,” Fanny said, her voice covering Oliver’s lack of response. Gwendolyn gave him a quick look before turning back to Sabrina.
“Now, child, tell us about your mother and her family.” The rest of the luncheon passed in a discussion of Sabrina’s forbears, both Carrick and Van Schuyler. At length Gwendolyn sat back, satisfied. The Van Schuylers obviously were not Quality, but neither were they a source of shame. Of course people would talk about Sabrina and wonder about her origins, but the girl could hold her head up with pride. She was a Carrick. “You will be a credit to us, child.”
“Grandmama, what are you planning?” Oliver said, wearily.
“Why, nothing Oliver. Yet.”
Oliver raised an eyebrow again, and as he glanced at Sabrina his gaze darkened. Hadn’t taken long for her to get herself into Grandmama’s good graces, had it? She might be attractive, but that, and his own surprised reaction to her, only added to his initial distrust of her. Miss Carrick would soon find out that he was not as easy to cozen as Grandmama. “Pray keep it that way, Grandmama. I’ve no desire to turn my life upside down.”
“No one asked you to, Oliver. But we do have a duty to see her settled, don’t you think? At the least we should find her a husband.”
Sabrina, in the act of raising her napkin to her lips, glanced quickly at Oliver, who was very still. He already thought the worst of her; this would only confirm his opinion, and she didn’t think she could bear it. “Grandmama—”
“I see,” Oliver said, cutting across her words. She glanced at him again, and then looked hastily away. So the chit had set her cap for him, had she? They’d see about that. He had no intention of being trapped by any woman, and certainly not by this one.
He sat out the rest of the meal in tight-lipped silence, speaking only when addressed and not looking at Sabrina at all. She could feel the force of his disapproval, however, and though she didn’t know what she had done to cause it, it weighed her down. She was relieved when luncheon was over and she could escape.
Oliver stood aside at the door to let her precede him, and then followed. “So, Miss Carrick,” he said, his voice soft so that Fanny and Gwendolyn, walking ahead, would not hear. “You have succeeded, I see.”
Sabrina did not turn. “At what, Your Grace?”
“Come, miss, don’t play the innocent with me.” He pushed past her and stood glaring down at her. “I am not so easy to cozen as Grandmama.”
Sabrina’s chin went up. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“No?” His voice was almost pleasant as he took her arm. “I think you do. I’m onto you, you see.”
Chapter 5
For the space of a heartbeat, Sabrina forgot to breathe. “Are you,” she said, and was amazed at how calm she sounded.
“Oh, yes. I tell you again, miss whoever you are. You’ll get nothing from me.”
A very tiny sigh escaped her. So, he did not know the truth; his distrust was based on his initial suspicion of her. Nor was he going to learn it, she decided quickly. Not yet, at least. “I expect nothing, sir.”
“Do you?” His eyes were cold, penetrating steel. “And do you take me for a flat? I know what you’re up to.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“You plan to catch me as a husband, do you not?”
Sabrina stared at him and then began to giggle. “I’m sorry, Your Grace,” she gasped, “but that is a—pompous and conceded thing to say, and—”
“Enough!” He said, loudly enough to attract Gwendolyn’s attention, though she was far down the Hall.
“Oliver?” she called. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Nothing of import, ma’am.” His eyes returned to Sabrina, and their coldness froze her heart. “Remember, miss,” he said, his voice lowered. “I shall be watching you. You had best behave. I do not want Grandmama hurt.”
Her gaze was level. “Nor do I, sir.”
“And, I warn you. You will not have a chance at me.”
“I don’t want one,” she retorted, and at the moment it was true. Attractive he might be, but never could she live with such an arrogant, pompous man. “May I go?”
He gave her one last, penetrating look before turning away, his hand raised in dismissal. “Yes. Go.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” she murmured, dropping a brief curtsy.
Only after she was walking down the Hall did he turn to look at her. She was, undeniably, an attractive girl. She was, equally undeniably, treacherous, like the majority of her sex. It was unfortunate that news traveled so slowly between her country and his; he would give much to have the information on her he had sent for. He would just have to wait. In the meantime? In the meantime, he decided, starting down the hall, he would be very careful.
News travels fast in a closed society. By that evening the entire neighborhood knew of Sabrina's presence, and no one talked of anything else. Nothing so exciting had happened in a very long time. At the Vicarage, Reverend Hewlett, an unworldly, garrulous man, was roundly scolded by his sister for not knowing of the arrival of the newest member of the Carrick family, though he had been at the Abbey that morning. The wife and daughters of Squire Sanderson, whose lands adjoined the Abbey, chattered excitedly about Miss Carrick and wondered if she would outshine them; none of the three girls had any pretensions to beauty, though they believed they did. In the little village of Twyford, the merchants went to sleep with thoughts of profit filling their heads. Life at the Abbey had been very quiet of late, but with a young person in residence there were sure to be parties and entertainments and guests, and that meant more business.
It was not at all surprising, then, when all the world found its way to the Abbey the next morning, to pay calls on the dowager duchess and hope for a glimpse of their newest neighbor. To their great chagrin, all but Miss Wilson, the village dressmaker, were turned away. The dowager was not receiving visitors, and until her wardrobe and manners were up to snuff, neither was Sabrina.
After breakfast several mornings later, Gwendolyn led Sabrina into the drawing room, followed by Fanny. In no other room did Sabrina feel quite so much like an interloper. Not even the State rooms, which were much grander, affected her quite like this. Perhaps it was because of that first tense interview here, she thought, glancing over at Oliver. He was sitting in a comfortable wing chair, incongruous with the Oriental tone of the rest of the furnishings, reading a newspaper, and he was apparently oblivious to the presence of the three women. Sabrina, on the other hand, was aware of him down to her fingertips.
“Now,” Gwendolyn said, after she and Sabrina were seated on a sofa of Chinese Chippendale design. “It is nice to see you in proper clothes at last, Sabrina. You are beginning to look like a young lady. But, my dear, we must discover what else you lack.”
“Thank you, ma'am,” Sabrina murmured.
“Do not
be insulted. I believe in plain speaking, as you will soon discover. You are very pretty, but you lack polish. We must discover what we need to work on. What can you do?”
The question rather took Sabrina aback. “I—tell me what is required, and I'll tell you if I can do it.”
“Very well. We already know that you cannot ride. That can be remedied. Can you dance?”
“No, ma'am.”
“No, I suppose not, coming from that wilderness.”
“Ma’am, New York is hardly wilderness,” Sabrina said, smiling.
“Pray do not contradict me. We shall have to hire a dancing master for you. I suppose you cannot play on the pianoforte, either. Can you at least sing?”
“Only where no one can hear me.”
“Oh, dear. Well, then, do you know how to paint?”
“I've had some practice whitewashing.”
“Not quite what I had in mind,” Gwendolyn said, dryly.
“I'm said to be good with the needle,” she offered.
“Thank goodness for that.”
“Yes, I usually make my own clothes.”
Gwendolyn briefly closed her eyes. “It shows. I do not suppose you speak another language.”
“Oh, yes.”
“Thank goodness! Which one? French? Italian?”
“Dutch.”
“Merciful heavens!” Gwendolyn threw her hands up in despair. “Sabrina, what on earth are we to do with you? You have none of the accomplishments of a proper young lady.”
“But I'm not a proper young lady,” she said, mildly. “At least, I wasn't.”
“There must be something you can do.”
“Keep shop.”
“My dear, pray do not tell anyone you were in trade!” Gwendolyn exclaimed. “Oliver, have you any suggestions as to what we can do?”
“Don't ask me, ma'am,” Oliver said from behind his newspaper. “This was all your idea.”
Gwendolyn looked at him for a moment. “At least she's pretty.”
“And I can pluck a goose clean and stuff a feather mattress,” Sabrina said, beaming.
Oliver's newspaper shook in a suspicious manner. “I'm partial to goose,” he said.