“Very likely not.” Lady Crawley examined her face closely. “You feel it too, my dear, I can tell just by looking at you. And by how much better you already seem thanks to the tranquillity of the place.” She smiled conspiratorially. “Alex thinks I cannot manage alone and that is why he will not leave me. He is such a considerate boy. But that is not it at all.” She looked over her shoulder and lowered her voice. “I am sure you will respect my confidence, Miss Tilling, when I confess to knowing how keenly he feels the loss of his father. He tries to hide it from me, of course, but I know him too well to be deceived. And so I exaggerate my need for him in order to give him a sense of purpose.”
Estelle allowed her surprise to show. “I would not have thought you capable of such stratagems, ma’am.”
Lady Crawley smiled. “When you become a mother for yourself, Miss Tilling, you will understand that it is sometimes necessary to indulge in the tiniest falsehood for the sake of one’s children.”
–—
From his library window Alex watched his mother and Miss Tilling walking arm-in-arm at a snail’s pace through the orchard. He wondered with amusement who was supposed to be supporting whom. He was relieved to see Miss Tilling out of her chamber at last. It was difficult to tell from this distance, but she appeared to have a spring restored to her step and, if he was not much mistaken, the sound drifting through the open window was that of her muted laughter.
Who was she? Where had she come from? Alex told himself repeatedly that it was of no consequence and attempted to redirect his attention to the papers he was studying. But his steward’s recommendation for a series of drainage ditches in the lower acres was as dull as the ditchwater they would be intended to channel and stood little chance of diverting his thoughts from the enigmatic Miss Tilling.
On a whim he quit the room and slipped up the stairs to the chamber she was occupying, unsure what he hoped to achieve by intruding. He searched her belongings, careful to put everything back exactly as he had found it, but found few clues as to her identity. A few gowns of a quality too superior for a mere governess, even if they were no longer the last word in fashion.
The only item of interest was a writing case, the initials EST entwined in the leather. Damn, it was locked. It would have been the work of a moment to force the lock. But, even though any letters that might shed light on her background were likely to be inside, he would not invade her privacy to that extent. He left the room, with more questions than answers jostling for position in his brain, determined to discover, at the very least, what the initial E stood for.
Returning to his study, he sighed as he directed his attention towards his steward’s long-winded report again. He disciplined himself to concentrate but had not got beyond the first page before voices in the hall distracted him. He shuddered when he recognized that of the vicar’s wife, who had presumably come to consult his mother about parish affairs. He trusted his mother would not be insensitive enough to expose the convalescing Miss Tilling to the woman’s overbearing company. His mother did not disappoint in that respect since, when Phelps approached her a short time later, Alex observed the two of them return towards the house, leaving Miss Tilling in solitude in the courtyard.
He did not pause to examine the reasons for his urgent desire to bear their guest company. Instead he left his study by a side door to avoid any possibility of encountering the formidable Mrs. Gibson, who would be more than capable of delaying him for a considerable time.
“Miss Tilling.” He approached her position from the southern path. “I trust I do not intrude?”
She started violently. “Oh, I did not see you there.”
“I apologize if I appeared to creep up on you. It was not my intention. May I?” He indicated the seat his mother had just vacated.
“Please.”
“May I enquire after your health?”
“Thank you. How could I be anything other than greatly recovered, given the exceptional care Lady Crawley is taking of me?”
“Yes, indeed.” He chuckled as he examined her face closely. There was a rosy hue to her delicate features. It had not been present on the only previous occasion he had been in her company, but the haunted expression was still firmly entrenched in her eyes. She bore his scrutiny with apparent equanimity, staring directly ahead, unsmiling. The air of despondency and self-containment he had previously sensed about her lingered still. This girl had learned to keep her aspirations and disappointments to herself, if he was not much mistaken. The realization unsettled him. She ought to be revelling in being young and so uniquely beautiful, not pretending to be someone she was not in order to escape some nameless torment. “I observe that you now have colour in your cheeks and rejoice in seeing you on the road to recovery.”
“Thank you.” She inclined her head in his direction. “Fresh air and exercise were my only requirements.”
“Then I must beg a favour, Miss Tilling.”
“What favour, sir?”
“That you do not partake too freely of those remedies.” She raised a brow. “I have not seen my mother so happily occupied for many a long month and would not have her newfound purpose taken away from her too soon.” He met her gaze and held it. “You comprehend my meaning, I feel assured. Dare I hope you will oblige me?”
“You would have me play the part of the invalid?”
“Do not look so outraged, Miss Tilling. I merely wish you to exaggerate your symptoms for the sake of my mother’s well-being.”
“I see.”
“Is it such a bad thing to concern oneself with the feelings of an aging parent?”
“Not at all.”
But she still looked discomposed and Alex wanted to kick himself for handling the situation so ineptly. So convinced was he that Miss Tilling had conspired with Susanna in her efforts to procure a companion for his mother that it had not occurred to him that her story might actually be true. He considered the possibility now. Perhaps she really was a displaced governess recuperating from the fever.
“Forgive me, Miss Tilling, I fear I have offended you.”
“No, Lord Crawley, you have done nothing more than demonstrate concern for your mother’s well-being, which is laudable.” She turned to face him for the first time since the commencement of their conversation. His reaction to the full force of her glowing eyes resting on him was embarrassingly visible and entirely inappropriate. He shifted his position in an attempt to conceal the evidence. “I can assure you, your mother’s peace of mind is almost as important to me as it is to you. She has shown me a kindness out of all proportion to my due and there is little I would not do to repay her.”
“Then we are agreed.” He was aware that his voice sounded strained as he struggled to regain control of himself. “I believe there are worse places in this world to recover from illness than Crawley Hall.”
“Indeed, but if I am not to be permitted to roam the grounds then I must find some other activity. I do not care to be idle.”
“A consequence of your occupation, no doubt.”
“Indeed. But, Lord Crawley, there is something I must ask of you.”
“Anything, Miss Tilling.”
“Well, the thing is…” Her words trailed off and she looked away from him in evident embarrassment.
“Miss Tilling?” The colour had left her face again and he felt genuine concern for her welfare. “Whatever it is, you may be assured of my discretion.”
“No.” She shook her head. “It is of no consequence.”
In spite of his attempts to persuade her to give voice to whatever it was that concerned her, she refused to be swayed. Being a gentleman, Alex could not insist and politely changed the subject. “Tell me, what does a governess do when she is not supervising her charges?”
She offered him a veiled look. “She has little time for leisure since she shoulders a great deal of responsibility. But when she does find herself with time on her hands she might fill it by embroidering—”
“Did you ma
ke this yourself?” He fingered the colourful shawl which was draped over her shoulders on the outside of her pelisse.
“Yes, when I was myself at school.”
“I know little about such matters,” he said softly, “but even I can see that it is exquisite.”
“Thank you.”
“But I interrupted you. What other pursuits do you enjoy? If there is something that Crawley Hall is not in a position to furnish, that situation could readily be rectified.”
“You are too good.” Again she almost smiled and Alex was now determined to entice her to do so, not stopping to consider why it should matter to him so much. “I must own that I also enjoy playing the harp.”
“Then nothing could be simpler. My mother will be delighted when she learns of your partiality for that particular instrument, if you have not already confided in her. She herself favoured it when she was younger but has not played now for many years. Her fingers, you understand, do not permit it. But we have an excellent harp in our drawing room and I beg you to feel free to utilize it at your leisure.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” He smiled at her but she did not reciprocate, rather looking away from him, her attention apparently completely taken up by a vine creeping across the western corner of the courtyard. “Perhaps if you are not too fatigued you will play for us after dinner this evening? I assume you will be coming down this evening.”
“If you do not consider that it would be too much for me in my delicate condition.” Her response was formal and entirely correct. Even so, Alex thought he caught a glimpse of mischievousness flash through her remarkable eyes and was almost sure she was teasing him.
“I believe it a risk worth taking.”
“Very well, but I think it only fair to warn you that I am shockingly out of practice. I have not played these several months.”
“Because of your illness?”
“Yes, because of that.” She shivered and pulled her shawl more closely about her.
“Come, Miss Tilling, I am afraid you are cold.” He stood and assisted her to her feet. “And your timing is impeccable. I believe that is Mrs. Gibson’s gig I can hear making its way down the drive. I would recognize the sound of her ancient cob’s hooves anywhere.” He smiled. “It will be quite safe to return to the house now.”
She accepted his hand and placed her arm on his sleeve. They made their way back to the house in silence but Alex was acutely aware of her presence. He was struck by the elegance of her posture, the economically graceful manner in which she moved and the carefully guarded expression he could not begin to interpret. The touch of her fingers on his sleeve was gossamer light at first but as they progressed, she leaned a little more of her weight upon him. He sensed she was tiring and, concerned that she was still so weak, he was ridiculously glad to offer her this small service.
As they slowly traversed the lawn he wondered how she would react if he gave way to the capricious whim that was bubbling away inside him. Whatever would she say if he swept her into his arms and carried her back to the house?
Chapter Six
Estelle went down to dinner that evening, in spite of Lady Crawley’s conviction that the exertion would set back her recovery. She wore a cream muslin gown, an old favourite. Her clothing was a little too grand for her supposed situation as a displaced governess but there was no help for that. All her gowns were of the finest quality since they dated back to the days before her union with Mr. Travis. Her father was parsimonious when it came to his domestic arrangements but dressed his daughters in the finest garments his money could procure. He exploited their physical attributes in an effort to establish himself as a man to be reckoned with, looked up to and respected.
Estelle regretted that she had not paid much heed to Susanna’s management of her packing. She should have anticipated that Susanna, with her flair for the flamboyant, would not focus on the practicalities of her situation. Upon arrival at Crawley Hall she discovered that only the very finest, brightest coloured of her gowns had been placed in her portmanteau. They were no longer fashionable since no money had been spared for additions to her wardrobe once she had been married, but they were also far from unremarkable.
Fortuitously their inappropriateness did not appear to register with Lady Crawley, who greeted her arrival in the small sitting room with warmth. She exclaimed over and over how delighted she was to see her looking so much better.
“The benefits of fresh country air to the recuperating invalid cannot be over-emphasized,” she said, as though she had encouraged her to venture out of doors instead of being seized by dread at the very prospect.
“Indeed, ma’am, I feel a vast deal better.”
Lord Crawley stood as she entered the room and examined her lazily from beneath heavily lidded eyes. His scrutiny commenced at the hem of her gown and drifted slowly upwards, lingering here and there, until his gaze came to rest upon her face. From his exacting perusal she suspected the discrepancy in her attire did not escape his notice and that he wished her to be aware of the fact. But he did not put his thoughts into words.
“I rejoice to see you looking recovered, Miss Tilling.” He spoke in a laconic drawl as his eyes continued to appraise her person.
She suddenly felt very warm but bore his examination with every appearance of equanimity. Not so much as a flicker of an eyelid betrayed her appreciation for his robust masculinity and the peculiar effect it was having upon her. He was dressed all in black, his broad shoulders emphasising the superb cut of his coat. He escorted her to a chair by the fire. She seated herself and took longer than necessary arranging her skirts, using the time to regain her composure. Only then did she deem it safe to thank him. But she had miscalculated. He was still looming over her like a predatory animal, smoothly formidable, smiling as though he perfectly understood her difficulty. Her eyes collided directly with muscular thighs showcased to perfection by his tight-fitting inexpressibles. She licked at her lips, which seemed inexplicably dry, and averted her gaze.
“Be sure that you do not overtax your strength this evening, Miss Tilling.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall endeavour not to do so.”
During a very fine dinner Lady Crawley chattered in her usual disjointed manner about people and places unknown to Estelle. Lord Crawley was adept at keeping his mother’s rambling discourse on track without making it apparent that he was doing so. At times Estelle was conscious of such closeness between them she felt she was intruding.
But Lady Crawley demonstrated remarkable sensitivity and drew her into their conversation by frequently requesting her opinion. If ever a lady deserved to have a whole brood of children to fuss over, it was she. She was a natural, so at variance with Estelle’s own cold, selfishly inept mother that she had not, until that moment, realized that such warmth and intuitiveness could exist between two generations of the same family. She felt a sadness for all she and her siblings had missed during their austere childhood in that show house in Hampshire that had never been a real home.
Upon learning that Estelle played the harp, Lady Crawley’s face turned pink with pleasure at the prospect of hearing her.
“How I wish my hands still permitted me to play.” She glanced down at her fingers, swollen and disjointed from the pain of arthritis.
“I should warn you that I have not played for some months, ma’am. I would not wish to excite your expectations only to disappoint.”
“Nonsense, child, something tells me you will excel. You are in possession of a great sensibility, and I wager that you intuitively feel the music inside you as your fingers bring it to life. I was once the same. Is that not so, Alex?”
“Most assuredly.”
“It is the mark of a true musician, Miss Tilling. To be able to express the passion which the music engenders in one, I mean.”
“You are obviously knowledgeable critics. I feel a little fearful about performing in front of you.”
“Surely your profession has giv
en you ample opportunity to overcome any such feelings of self-effacement, Miss Tilling?” said Lord Crawley, his tone mildly hectoring. “You must be accustomed to displaying in front of your charges, I should have thought.”
“Indeed, but one cannot alter the way one feels inside, my lord.”
“That is where you are quite wrong.”
“Come, come, my dear, do not allow Alex to bandy words with you, not when I am most anxious to hear you play.”
Lord Crawley did not stay at the table when the ladies quit it and offered an arm to each of them as they made their way towards the drawing room. It was Estelle’s first foray into the vast chamber and she felt a little intimidated by its splendour. When she espied the magnificent harp situated in the corner she could not prevent an exclamation of pleasure from escaping her lips.
“Another gift from my husband,” said Lady Crawley, following the direction of Estelle’s gaze.
“It is quite the most extraordinary instrument it has ever been my good fortune to encounter.” Estelle ran her hand reverently over the beautifully carved and gilded harp, her nerves driven away by the urgent desire to test it out.
“Please, Miss Tilling.” Lord Crawley nodded to the stool at the side of the instrument, as though sensing her impatience.
“Very well, my lord, but pray to not expect anything out of the ordinary.”
Estelle seated herself and ran her fingers tentatively over the strings. She trusted that the hours of practice she had put in over the years would compensate for her recent neglect. There was no harp in Mr. Travis’s house. Her father had recognized her fledgling talent when she was quite young and spared no expense on instructors. He had made her practice for hours to perfect her performance in order that she might play for his artistic circle of friends and show him up in a good light. No one else played the magnificent harp in the salon in her father’s house but he would not hear of her taking it to Hertfordshire. There had been no one useful to him to hear her play it there.
A Reason to Rebel Page 6