by Amanda Scott
“That’s enough!” he roared, bringing his fist down upon the Pembroke table with enough force to rattle the dishes. “I have warned you, Sybilla—”
“Yes, indeed you have, sir,” she retorted, able to ignore the fierce expression in his eyes only by forcefully reminding herself that he was not nearly so menacing as he looked. “I tell you now that you may warn as you choose and believe what you choose. I don’t care a rap. Indeed, I deny nothing! ’Tis beneath me to deny such outrageous things. I tell you also that you are no longer welcome in this house, so you can either leave peacefully or I shall ring for Robert to show you out.”
“Do you think he can make me go if I do not wish to go, Syb?” he asked grimly.
“No,” she retorted, “but I do not think you will want me to send for him either.”
He shrugged. “It would not matter, but I will not force you to put me to the test. I will advise you instead to have a care. You may believe you have won by these little diversionary tactics of yours, but if you will think about what I have said, I believe you will agree that in future Brandon must not expect me or mine to get him out of his troubles.”
She opened her mouth to tell him he was wrong about everything, but he didn’t give her the chance. Making his bow, and not nearly so gracefully as Mr. Saint-Denis had done, Ramsbury turned on his heel and left the room, slamming the door behind him.
When he had gone, Sybilla sat for some time deep in thought, wondering why she had not made a stronger push to convince him that he was wrong about her. For one thing, she remembered now that he had mentioned London, that his mother had thought she was there rather than in Bath. But surely, although she knew he had been at Axbridge for a fortnight himself, she could easily prove she had not been in London since Christmas. She had not thought to point this out to him, however, for as always they had seemed to strike sparks off each other, making it difficult to pursue calm conversation. If only Ramsbury had not been so accusing of manner. If only he had remained calm and listened to her.
“He never listens,” she muttered to the ambient air.
But her conscience stirred at the sound of her own voice, and another voice deep inside her suggested that the fault was a mutual one. He had certainly been right in accusing her of employing diversionary tactics. To divert her opponent was as natural as breathing to her, a method she had used from childhood in order to control such confrontations as best she might. In the past, she had done it to protect herself and her brothers and sister from the displeasure of adults in general and her father in particular, for Sir Mortimer had not always been a recluse—only since her mother’s death. But as was generally the case between her husband and herself, it had meant that they never really discussed the point at hand.
She knew that Ramsbury had gone away more furious with her than he had been at the outset, and for that she was a little sorry. Her own elation at seeing him had surprised her, but the feeling had quickly been replaced by fury once he had accused her of taking money from the marchioness. And her fury had ruled her tongue. It was no use wondering now if she might have done better to discuss the matter calmly, for the thing was done. There was a mystery though, to be sure, for someone had clearly appealed to Lady Axbridge for money, and had done so in her name.
But Ramsbury had assumed her guilt without even asking her if she had done it, and that was unforgivable. For all that he seemed to believe she could lie at the drop of a hat, he of all people ought to know that she had never been able to do so in response to a direct question. To deceive someone a little in a good cause was no great thing, after all, but a direct lie would be dishonorable and thus an altogether different matter.
It was no use to hope that once he had had time to think the matter over, he would realize he was wrong about her and begin to look for the real culprit, because she knew from experience that he would not bring the subject up again unless he was forced to do so. Indeed, she would be surprised if he even remained in Bath longer than overnight, for he disliked confrontation, and once he had made his point, it was his habit to assume that me other party would bow to his wishes. Moreover, whoever had duped the marchioness would get no more, for he would certainly have forbidden her to send so much as another penny.
Sybilla had no time to consider the matter at greater length just then, for she had not been alone longer than a few minutes before one of the maidservants came in search of her to inform her that her father was displeased.
“Goodness, Elsie, what is the trouble now?” she asked, getting up at once.
Elsie held out a slip of paper. “Here, m’lady. I found it on the side table near the top-floor landing. Near as I can make out, it says he don’t like potted beef and Cook isn’t to serve it anymore in this house. Only Cook says as how she’s got jars of the stuff and won’t throw it out, not if the master shouts from the rooftops, ever so. ’Tis wasteful and not what she’s used to, Cook says. And Mrs. Hammersmyth is out, and I didn’t know what else to do. Not but what she would take Sir Mortimer’s side, and right to do so, I’m thinking, but Cook won’t heed her, whatever she says, ’cause she knows Mrs. Hammersmyth can’t do a thing without your leave or the master’s.”
“ ’Tis the anchovies Papa doesn’t like,” Sybilla said. “I’ll speak to Cook. She can continue to serve the potted beef for our supper and for the servants. Papa will never know. And if she makes him up a nice savory dish of veal scallops, she will soon find herself in favor again.”
“Does the master never come downstairs, m’lady? I been here only the two months, but I’ve never even seen him. Only the little notes on the table.”
Sybilla said with calm dignity, “Sir Mortimer speaks to his own man, Borland, of course, but he is shy with womenfolk, Elsie. He’d as lief never speak to a female if he can avoid doing so.”
“But your mother, m’lady, he must have spoke with her.”
“Well, of course he did. There are four of us children, after all. But when Mama passed on, Papa retired to his books and his writing, and we’ve scarcely laid eyes on him since.”
“You mean you never see him neither?”
“Rarely,” Sybilla admitted. “Oh, I’ve braved his wrath more than once, to be sure. No one else was willing to tell him of my betrothal, for example, and I would not let them write to him about so important an occurrence. My aunt Eliza was my mother’s sister, you know, and it was her advice that I should ignore his protests and tell him personally. I did so, and my ears rang with his reproaches for hours afterward. And even when Aunt Eliza died, he did not leave his rooms to attend her funeral.”
“But what about your brother, Mr. Charles, m’lady? He bein’ the heir, ’n’ all—surely, he talks to him.”
Sybilla sighed. Though it was not customary to have such conversations with one’s servants, her father’s behavior had made it necessary that she make exceptions if she did not wish certain rumors activated regarding his mental health. “Mr. Charles,” she said, “sees Papa once a year. He writes for an appointment, stays twenty minutes, and then leaves again, usually redder of face and diminished in spirit.”
Elsie went away shaking her head, and Sybilla closed the pianoforte and went to speak to Sir Mortimer’s cook. These little contretemps cropped up every day, and she had become most adept at handling them. Better than anyone else. How anyone—naming no names—could think the house in Royal Crescent could run without her, goodness only knew.
II
THE FOLLOWING MORNING SYBILLA was in the little ground-floor office she used to tend to household matters, engaged with Mrs. Hammersmyth, her father’s plump, amiable housekeeper, when her footman entered to announce the arrival of a visitor.
“Mr. Beak, m’lady.”
“Mr. Beak?” Sybilla raised her eyebrows. “I do not know a Mr. Beak, Robert.”
“From Haviland’s Bank, he says, m’lady.”
The housekeeper clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Sir Mortimer deals with Mr. Haviland himself, Robert, as you ought to
know if you’d a lick of sense. And he deals with him through the post, never in person.”
Sybilla smiled, taking pity on the young footman. “Never mind, Robert. Show Mr. Beak to the library. I’ll see him there. Mrs. Hammersmyth, we can go over these linen inventories later.”
“Begging your pardon, Miss Sybilla, but I can attend to them myself, if you like. There’s naught here but lists of what’s been done and what’s to be done.” She didn’t add that she could attend to the business better without interference from her mistress, but Sybilla recognized the tone.
She smiled ruefully. “You do as you think best today, Mrs. Hammersmyth. After all the years you’ve served this house, you must sometimes think it a nuisance to have to discuss all these daily details with me.”
“No, my lady. I know my place. Not that I won’t admit that things would sometimes run smoother if it were not necessary to describe—before and after the fact, as it were—every fold of a sheet and every sliver of larding in a fowl.”
“But if I did not keep my hand in,” Sybilla said with a broader smile, “I should become dreadfully lazy, you know, and then the day will come when it will become obvious to one and all that I have begun shirking my duties.” It would not be tactful, she knew, to point out that if she did not have the details of running the house firmly fixed in her head, when crises arose she would not be able to handle them efficiently. “But here I am gossiping while poor Mr. Beak awaits my pleasure. I wonder what he can want. I do hope Papa has not outrun the constable.”
Mrs. Hammersmyth looked shocked—as well she might, Sybilla thought, hiding a smile. Rising and shaking out the skirts of her light-blue morning frock, she left the office and hurried up the service stair, pausing before the pier glass on the landing only long enough to smooth her hair before walking at a more ladylike pace along to the library, where Mr. Beak awaited her.
The library was her favorite room. Its windows, overlooking the street, were draped in velvet the color of ripe peaches. The walls, which were trimmed with painted white molding, were a shade lighter and the Axminster carpet several shades darker. Mr. Beak stood in the center of the carpet, regarding the magnificent Chippendale mahogany bureau bookcase that filled the greater portion of the wall opposite the carved white marble fireplace.
He proved to be a small man with wisps of brown hair clinging to his balding pate, and a double chin rising above his stiffly starched neckcloth. His dark coat and cream-colored breeches fitted him so snugly that they looked more like sausage casings than a proper suit of clothes, and his tall neckcloth made it necessary for him to hold his head higher than was natural as he turned and hurried forward to greet her.
“Lady Ramsbury, I am sorry to have disturbed you. “His voice was high and his manner fussy, and he went on without giving her an opportunity to reply, “I made it perfectly plain to your footman that my business is with Sir Mortimer, so I cannot think what he was about to insist upon sending for you.”
Realizing at once that she would deal better with Mr. Beak from a position he would recognize as one of authority, Sybilla moved to the desk, saying nothing until she had seated herself. Then, gesturing toward one of the straight-backed chairs, she said with gentle dignity, “Do be seated, Mr. Beak. Surely, Mr. Haviland must have told you that my father does not see people.”
“Mr. Haviland has been ill,” he said, taking his seat with finicky care, “and his doctors insist that he remain away from the bank until he is fully recovered.”
“I see. Is there some trouble with my father’s account?”
“Trouble?” He blinked at her. “Certainly not, ma’am. Haviland’s Bank never has trouble with its customers’ accounts.”
“Then …”
“Please, Lady Ramsbury, I cannot discuss your father’s business with you. To do so would be most improper. You will not tell me, I hope, that Mr. Haviland ever did so.
“No,” Sybilla admitted. “Mr. Haviland wrote letters to my father, and my father replied by the same means.”
“Well, I cannot see my way clear to entrusting the post with the sort of things I wish to discuss with him,” Mr. Beak said in his fussiest manner. “One’s finances are private matters, after all, and although I am frequently assured that the post is entirely to be trusted, I simply cannot do so. As soon as I do, the letter will fall into the wrong hands or be lost altogether.”
“Surely not a letter traveling no farther than across the city of Bath,” Sybilla said, amused.
“Perhaps not. But a precedent once set, you know, leads to other things. First across Bath, then across England, then no doubt, across the world. Although, of course, one cannot travel across the world merely to ask or answer a question or two.”
“I am glad to hear you say so. Nonetheless, I suggest that you write to my father. Surely, one letter …”
“I cannot undertake so great a responsibility, ma’am. I fear I must insist upon seeing Sir Mortimer and receiving his instructions in person. There is a matter of grave importance at stake, you see.”
“No, I don’t, but I suppose if you won’t explain, you won’t.” Sybilla paused hopefully, but he only stared at her, so she sighed and said, “Very well, Mr. Beak, I will see if I can arrange for him to see you. What day will be convenient?”
“Day? Why today, ma’am. I am here.”
“So you are. But I am very nearly certain he will not agree to see you today. He will require time to get used to the idea.”
“Used to the idea!” Mr. Beak’s pale blue eyes threatened to pop from his head. “Used to the idea? Why there are eighty thou—” He broke off, swallowing, then yanked a white handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket and wiped his face, saying through his teeth, “Madam, I must insist that you tell Sir Mortimer I am here. The matter is one that must not await his pleasure. I am not to be put off, I tell you.”
“So you do.” Sybilla regarded him thoughtfully for a long moment, but he was able now to return her gaze steadily. Deciding that short of having him ejected from the house there was nothing she could do but attempt to comply with his wishes, she stood and moved to pull the bell.
Her footman entered some few minutes later. “M’lady?”
“Find Borland, Robert, and tell him I wish to speak with him at once. Borland,” she added for the banker’s benefit, “is my father’s manservant.”
“Borland has gone for the day, m’lady. Said Sir Mortimer told him to”—Robert flicked a glance at Mr. Beak, who had got to his feet when Sybilla stood, and visibly altered what he had been about to say—“to take a brief holiday. Said he’d earned one and meant to stay away a full day and let the old—” Breaking off hastily, Robert looked apologetic.
“Yes, I see.” Sybilla bit her lip. “Very well, Robert, since he is not here to attend to the matter, you may take Mr. Beak up to Sir Mortimer, if you please.”
Robert stared at her, his mouth agape. When he found his voice, he swallowed and said firmly, “If it please your ladyship, I’d rather not do any such thing.”
“You did hear me quite clearly, did you not, Robert?” Sybilla spoke sternly.
“Yes, m’lady, I heard you well enough, but I’d as lief not have a boot or a book, or even a poker, thrown at my head, or lose my place, which is what happened to the last footman who dared to intrude on the master, if you will but recall.”
“Very true,” Sybilla said. “It was thoughtless of me to have forgotten that, Robert. I should be very much displeased if you were to lose your position here.”
“Thank you, m’lady.”
“I shall take Mr. Beak up myself.”
“My lady!”
“Come along, Mr. Beak. I hope you do not mind climbing a few more stairs. My father’s apartments are on the top floor of the house. He will not come down to you.”
“Oh, no, ma’am, it is no trouble,” he said, moving swiftly to follow her out the door, leaving Robert to stare after them. “How very odd,” Beak panted a few moments later, for the stairs to
the top floor were steeper than those leading from the ground floor and Sybilla moved up them at her customary, rapid pace. “I should have expected to find only servants’ rooms at the top of these houses.”
“Oh, no, the servants’ rooms are mostly in the basement near the kitchen. Father had this floor rearranged to suit his own requirements.” Sybilla’s heart was beating quickly now, and she told herself it was because she had mounted the stairs too rapidly, but she knew it had more to do with the forthcoming confrontation. She rarely saw her father, and when she did, the meetings were not pleasant. She approached the door to his study now with grim determination. “I hope you are prepared to be offended, Mr. Beak.”
He smiled at her. “I daresay he will not be displeased to see me, my lady. I do not bring bad news, you know.”
“That will not signify.” She tapped on the door and opened it before the occupant had time to deny her, saying hastily, “Father, I have brought Mr. Beak from Haviland’s Bank to see you on a matter of importance.”
Sir Mortimer, a stoop-shouldered gray-haired man with steel-rimmed spectacles perched upon his large, bony nose, looked up from the papers on his huge desk the moment the door opened, the expression on his pale, craggy face one of pop-eyed outrage. His eyes, startling blue, blazed with fury, and when he saw who it was, he flung down his quill and cried out in thundering tones, “What are you doing here, girl? It is expressly forbidden. Get out or I’ll have Borland throw you out!”
“Borland has gone out,” Sybilla reminded him gently.
“Well, he’s no business to be going out! Now, go away!”
Mr. Beak stepped past her and said ingratiatingly, “If it please you, Sir Mortimer, I require instructions from you in a matter of great importance.”
“Wench said Haviland’s Bank, so where’s Haviland?” demanded Sir Mortimer in great agitation. “What do you want here, man? What can you want with me?”
“Sir,” said Mr. Beak, moving even closer to the desk, “I thought it proper to wait upon you, as we now have a very large balance of yours in hand—eighty thousand pounds, in fact—and we wish to have your orders respecting it.”