Far Beyond Rubies

by Rosemary Morris

  His valet returned to help him dress for the journey, in the coat and breeches he wore when he first met Juliana. In silence, Gervaise held out his arm for Peter to help him into his waistcoat.

  Gervaise sat down. He looked at his reflection in the dressing table mirror. After Peter brushed his hair and secured it at the nape with a black ribbon bow, Gervaise adjusted his neck cloth, which suddenly seemed as tight as a matrimonial noose.

  No, he thought, he could not despoil Juliana’s innocence. Did he want to marry? To love again would be to betray his heart’s darling. He grimaced, remembering his pain when, in accordance with her people’s custom, he had scattered her ashes on the holiest of all Indian rivers, the mighty Ganges. After the rite, still grief-stricken, he had resumed his duties until the time came for him to return to England.

  Juliana, what am I going to do?

  This morning, after Gervaise rescued her from William, her manner toward him changed. Juliana seemed more yielding, her eyes more luminous than ever before when she looked at him. Dash it, did she—could she—desire him? No, he must be mistaken. She had just undergone a dreadful ordeal at the hands of a relative who shamefully neglected his duty to care for her. Doubtless, she looked at him with no more than gratitude for saving her.

  Peter cleared his throat and held out a small gold box containing tiny black patches to adorn the face and, if necessary, to conceal scars left by smallpox. “Would you care to place one high on your cheekbone?”

  “No.”

  His valet did not conceal his disappointment, but sighed, opened the powder box, and looked at him hopefully.

  Gervaise relented. “If I go to court I might submit to the convention of powder and patch.”

  Peter snapped shut the lid of the powder box and looked at him reproachfully.

  Gervaise chuckled. A valet’s reputation could be made or broken by his master’s appearance. “I fear I am a sad disappointment to you, Peter,” he said and then went to the dining room to partake of sustenance before going to collect Juliana.

  While he made a meal of bread still warm from the oven, cheese, thinly sliced red onion, a wedge of curd tart, and a sallet dressed with oil and vinegar, he thought of Juliana.

  His nostrils flared. “‘Above all else, to thine own self be true,’” he murmured. If he ever decided to ask her to do him the honour of being his wife, he must be honest about his past.

  Chapter Nine

  Barbara recognised her brother’s distinctive tiger’s head seal impressed on the wax, which she slit with a knife. She scanned his letter and then looked at her husband across the display of fine silverware on the dining table. “Gervaise is on his way to see us, my love.”

  Ralph smiled and wiped the perspiration from his face with a linen handkerchief.

  Barbara’s heart went out to him. Less than a year ago, at the age of twenty-eight, he was wounded at the Battle of Blenheim. Now his sensitivity about his battle scar—a livid red line from his temple to the bridge of his nose—and his sweet vanity, had him sweating in his furbelow, his finest dress wig; the one he had always worn at court, that he always wore regardless of the weather, because it partially concealed the scar.

  Barbara studied the profuse curls around Ralph’s forehead and cheeks. “Make yourself comfortable, my love. Remove your wig, ’tis prodigious warm today. Indeed I wonder how you can bear its weight.”

  Her husband shook his head.

  How she loved him and admired his fortitude. She never spoke to him of his disfigurement, which loomed so much larger in his eyes than her own. Instead, she sought to put him at ease. “You must be hot and uncomfortable wearing it,” she persisted, “and I assure you I have no objection to seeing your bald pate.”

  Ralph did not look at her. Instead, he turned aside to massage his temples beneath the powdered curls. She pretended not to notice the indication that he was suffering from a headache. “I vow that periwig weighs as much as a pound, and the white powder, with which it is dressed, weighs at least two more. Lord, sir, you need not wear it on my behalf. I love you, with or without it.”

  He ignored her continued expostulation. “It will be good to see Gervaise.”

  “Yes, I am thrilled to the bone by the news that he will arrive today.”

  Her husband raised his eyebrows. “Stap me, how excited you are at the prospect of seeing your brother.”

  “You know you will be as pleased as I am when we see him,” Barbara said with dignity. With dainty steps, she made her way around the table to press a kiss on Ralph’s cheek.

  “Upon my word, madame, you are most affectionate.” He chuckled. “If this is the result of a letter to say Gervaise will visit us, the more often he does so the better.”

  “Lud, sir, you are more than bold.” She stood behind his chair and put her arms around his neck. “There is more.”

  Ralph twisted around to look up at her. “More?”

  “Yes, he is bringing a Mistress Kemp to stay with us while he visits my family. She is an orphan. Oh, the poor creature, ’tis rumoured her brother cast her out of his house alongside her younger sister.”

  He screwed up the nostrils of his Roman nose. “No, impossible, she cannot stay with us.”

  “Why not?” Barbara returned to her place at the table and then watched him stroke his scar with his fingertip.

  “You know why.” He grunted.

  She knew company would benefit Ralph. How could she convince him? To get her own way, she forced tears into her eyes by concentrating on her misery when Gervaise, her best-loved brother, had gone to India. “You are cruel, my lord,” she said with a contrived quaver in her voice.

  The expression in his eyes softened. “Upon my honour, I have never knowingly been unkind to you. I swear I never wish to cause you a moment’s pain.”

  She pouted. “Is it not unkind to deny me the company of an agreeable lady?”

  “How do you know she is agreeable? The lady might be a termagant.”

  “Impossible! Gervaise would not foist her on us if it were so.”

  Ralph glanced at his portrait, which hung above the fireplace. It depicted him dressed in his scarlet regimentals before he was wounded. “Enough! You know I dislike strangers seeing me as I am now.”

  “Oh, Ralph, what a fuss you make over naught. You should condemn that portrait to the attic. It lowers your spirits whenever you look at it. As for me, my spirits rise in your company because you are the dearest, kindest, and most indulgent of—”

  “Hen-pecked husbands?”

  She choked back a giggle. “Tut, what can you mean? Have I ever hen-pecked you?”

  “I fear you are going to.”

  Barbara drew the platter of bread rolls closer to her. She would have pelted him with them if Baines, their dignified, silver-haired butler, had not entered the room. Barbara restrained her laughter at the sight of Baines’s pale face set in granite-like lines. She knew he did not approve of their dining in private. More than once he had indicated that he would prefer lackeys to serve them under his supervision.

  “Do you wish to partake of more coffee, my lady?”

  “No thank you, I am going to the nursery.”

  “Very well, my lady.”

  “Baines,” she said, raising her eyebrows when she glanced at her husband, “later today, my brother will arrive with Mistress Kemp. Have the rose bedchamber made ready for the lady, and the bedchamber opposite your master’s prepared for Mister Seymour.”

  Baines bowed low. “Yes, my lady.”

  Despite her efforts, she had never managed to persuade her butler to relax his constant execution of conventions such as always addressing her as “my lady.” Sometimes, like a naughty child, she wanted to poke her tongue out at him.

  His face set in mock severity, Ralph eyed the bread rolls amassed by her plate. “Ammunition?”

  Conscious of Baines’s presence, Barbara contented herself with a mocking laugh at her palpably amused husband before visiting the nursery.
/>
  * * * *

  When Juliana opened her eyes in the coach on the way to The Grange, she realised Gervaise’s arm supported her. “I beg your pardon.” She removed her head from his shoulder.

  “Do use me as a cushion whenever you please.”

  She put her hand over her mouth to conceal a yawn.

  “Did you sleep well, Mistress Kemp?”

  Juliana put her hands to her hot cheeks. “You should not have held me so close,” she scolded, although she loved him and yearned for him to embrace her.

  “I apologise, but please instruct me. Next time you fall asleep in my coach shall I allow you to slip to the floor?” A mischievous light crept into his eyes.

  She straightened her head-dress and tidied her hair. “Wretch, how you tease me, I will not do so again. I did not intend to doze. In fact, I wish I had not, for I have much to think of.”

  Gervaise frowned and studied her face, an alert expression in his eyes. “What do you have to consider?”

  “Nothing of importance.”

  “Everything concerning you is of consequence.”

  Her heart beat faster. Could he have fallen in love with her? “My thoughts are trivial.” She looked down at her black velvet cloak, spotted by rain during her flight from Riverside House. What would his sister think of her shabby appearance? She should have purchased some new clothes.

  Gervaise’s frown deepened. “You will be safe at my brother-by-law’s house.”

  Juliana did not want Gervaise to think she was cowardly, so she did not admit to her fear that William might make another attempt to abduct her. “I promise my thoughts could be of little interest to you.” Her eyes widened involuntarily. “Oh.”

  “What is it?” Gervaise asked.

  “I should have sent a message to Anne-Marie to inform her I am leaving town.”

  “Anne-Marie?”

  “The servant at my aunt and uncle’s house. I have not told you about Anne-Marie’s visit.” She relaxed for the first time since leaving her childhood home. How at ease she felt with him. “Anne-Marie told me she attended my parents’ marriage in the chapel at Riverside House.”

  Gervaise’s eyes glowed. “That is good news! We have a witness. Did you ask her who conducted the ceremony?”

  “I forgot to. How stupid of me. But it must have been Doctor Anstey. He has been the incumbent of the parish for forty years or more. What is William thinking of to deny the marriage took place? Did he really think he could make mud stick to me?”

  Gervaise inclined his head. “Indubitably, yet he made the mistake of not realising it could be washed off.”

  She twirled a short curl around and around her finger until it formed a ringlet. “I need to question dear Doctor Anstey.”

  The coach slowed. Gervaise looked out of the window. “Ah, we have reached St. Albans. Would you care to partake of a glass of wine while the horses are changed?”

  After Juliana alighted from the coach, she stood still for a moment, looking at the busy forecourt of The Black Lion in Fishpool Street, and then she gathered her skirts to raise them clear of her ankles. Before stepping forward, she looked up and took a deep breath in appreciation of azure skies and sunshine. How good it was to be away from London’s stench.

  Juliana had often stopped at this inn when she travelled home, secure in her father’s company. She gazed up at Gervaise. “I feel as safe with you as I did with my father.”

  Gervaise raised an eyebrow.

  “What is it? Why do you look so dismayed?”

  “Nothing is further from my wishes than for you to think of me as a father.” He smiled wryly.

  She bent her head to conceal a smile. How did Gervaise want her to think of him?

  * * * *

  Juliana, with Gervaise at her side, followed by Sukey, who stepped down from her seat beside the coachman, entered Lord Carr and Lady Barbara’s country mansion, The Grange, an old red-brick building with many windows. Before the butler could announce them, a guinea-gold blonde, all rustling silks, satins, and laces, rushed down the stairs. “Dearest,” she said as she flung herself into Gervaise’s hastily opened arms, “we received your message. You are welcome. Indeed, both of you are welcome.”

  Barbara released herself, leaving a dusting of violet-scented powder on Gervaise’s coat. She spun around. “Welcome, Mistress Kemp.”

  Juliana curtsied. Gervaise extended his arm. Conscious of Gervaise’s powerful muscles beneath the sleeve of his coat, Juliana put her hand on it and then rose from her curtsey. “You know my name, Lady Barbara. Have we met?”

  “Lud, child, this is the first time we have met. My brother sent a message to tell us to expect you.” Lady Barbara drew breath. “Now, you must meet my husband. Do not allow him to unnerve you.”

  Juliana noticed a hint of apprehension in Barbara’s large, topaz-coloured eyes.

  “He is not the ogre you might think but, I warn you, he does not like strangers to stare at him,” Barbara whispered.

  She followed her hostess into a book room furbished in a masculine manner with book presses, a globe, oil paintings of famous battles, garnet curtains trimmed with gold tassels, and richly-coloured rugs scattered on the oak floor.

  “My love,” her ladyship began, “here is Gervaise come to visit us with Mistress Kemp.”

  A tall, whippet-slim gentleman dressed in a snuff-brown broadcloth suit and a cream waistcoat peered through the curls of his powdered wig which fell around his temples and the sides of his face. He rose from his wingchair.

  Juliana curtsied, rose, and then stepped forward. Without wavering, she regarded his scar. “’Tis a pleasure to meet one who helped Marlborough to defeat French ambition. Why, my lord, without gallant soldiers such as you, we would not sleep sound in our beds at night. I hope you will describe the battles in which I have no doubt you distinguished yourself.”

  His lordship smiled. “You flatter me, child. Allow me to bid you welcome.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Juliana caught her lower lip between her teeth to choke back her protest at being called child.

  “There, did I not assure you any friend of Gervaise must be delightful, my lord?” Lady Barbara asked.

  Juliana stifled her amusement over the faux pas which indicated Lord Carr doubted she would be pleasant company.

  “Come, Mistress Kemp,” Lady Barbara said, “I will take you to your bedchamber. We shall leave these rascals to gossip.” Shaking a slender finger at her husband, she looked roguishly at him. “Now, now, do not deny you mull over all the latest scandals. Why else would there be so many clubs and coffeehouses for gentlemen to frequent? Perhaps I should open some for the benefit of ladies. What do you think, Mistress Kemp?”

  Ralph laughed like a carefree youth. “Be off with you, my lady.” He inclined his head to Juliana. “Do not allow my wife’s prattle to exhaust you.”

  Her ladyship chuckled, slipped an arm round Juliana’s waist, and then led her out of the room. “Thank you, Mistress Kemp. I babble, plague, and tease my dear husband to keep him from fits of sullen misery about his scar. Your charming manners will do him more good than any medical man.”

  “’Tis not long since his lordship was wounded, Lady Barbara. He has no need for concern. The scar will fade in time. Then, with the application of powder, it will scarce be noticed.”

  Barbara’s eyes, full of fascinating gold flecks, widened. “Truly?”

  “Yes, a village lad on my late father’s estate had an accident. It caused a hideous scar, similar to Lord Carr’s. Within two years, it faded to silver.”

  The petite lady hugged her. “I know we are going to be friends.” Barbara’s incredibly beautiful topaz eyes gazed at her shrewdly. “Perhaps we shall be much more than friends.”

  “Whatever do you mean, my lady?” Juliana asked, pretending she did not understand the innuendo, although nothing would delight her more than becoming Mister Seymour’s wife.

  * * * *

  In the book room, Ralph sat at eas
e on a wingchair set at an angle to the sash window from where he could view the scythed lawns leading down to ancient woodland. “Gervaise, I must say your Mistress Kemp is a charming child.”

  Replete after an excellent meal, Gervaise removed his coat and laid it on the chair behind a small desk. “You are mistaken, Ralph, she is neither mine, nor is she a child.”

  “I grow old. In my eyes, all the young unmarried ladies are children.”

  “Yes, they must be now you are too decrepit to totter along without a cane,” Gervaise teased. He lowered himself onto the sopha and swung his legs up. “Come, come, man, you are only a year older than I am. I assure you I do not feel old.” He grinned. “To the contrary, I am in the prime of manhood.” He rested his head on a brocade bolster at one end of the sopha and propped his neatly shod feet on the one at the other.

  “The cares of fatherhood age me,” Ralph murmured with laughter in his eyes.

  “Indeed?” Gervaise made no other comment for he knew Ralph doted on his small son and daughter. He opened his eyes wider. “Speaking of fathers, do you know aught about Mistress Kemp’s father?”

  Ralph gazed into the depths of his glass of ruby-red wine. “I heard rumours concerning him.”

  “Such as?”

  “Not done to speak ill of the dead.” Ralph put his glass on a low table beside his chair.

  “Do not speak ill, but please tell me whatever you know of him.”

  Ralph shrugged.

  “Please do not pretend to be ignorant, Ralph. Although you live in retirement, I suspect you are as well-informed as ever.”

  “If you insist, Gervaise. I only met his lordship on two or three occasions. He was a handsome man, elegantly dressed, and with the good manners of any ambitious courtier. I discerned nothing objectionable in him.”

  Gervaise frowned. “But?”

  “M’father never trusted turncoats. If memory does not fail me, Lord Kemp changed both his religion and politics more than once. Come to think of it, he and his first wife were Roman Catholics. After her death, he renounced his faith and became—or at least he gave the appearance of becoming—a staunch supporter of the Anglican Church.”