Thomas idly rolled a grape between his long fingers. “Will you sell off some land?”
“No.” The vehemence of his response surprised them both, but the certainty was there, James discovered, as solid and enduring as the Cornish cliffs. “I never expected to inherit,” he continued slowly. “And God knows I never wanted the earldom. But now that it’s mine, I’m not parting with a single acre, save as a last resort. Pentreath deserves better of me than that.”
He might have few pleasant memories of Uncle Joshua and none whatsoever of Gerald, but Pentreath had been home to the Trelawneys for centuries. Even for him, coming there as a desolate orphan of twelve. Once again, he saw the estate in his mind’s eye: gracious and silver-grey, its mullioned windows facing out upon the surging sea. Pentreath—one of the few things his uncle had loved with all his flinty heart.
But Gerald, like his fashionable mother, had disliked Cornwall, spending most of his time in London or the Shires once he was of age. Certainly he’d never troubled himself about maintaining the estate that was his birthright or looking after those who lived and worked there.
Well, that would have to change. “I suppose,” James began dubiously, “I could borrow the money to make the most pressing repairs to Pentreath and the tenants’ cottages. And arrange to pay it back out of my profits from the mines. It would take time, of course, but—”
“There’s a quicker solution,” Thomas interposed. “Marry an heiress.”
“Marry?” James stared at his friend as if he’d grown another head.
“Why not? That’s what many men in your situation do, if they can manage it. And you’ve arrived just in time for the Season, so there should be plenty of candidates to choose from.”
James pulled a face. “I hadn’t thought to turn fortune-hunter.”
“Think of it more as a trade: your title and estate in exchange for your bride’s dowry.” Thomas’s mouth crooked in its familiar ironic smile. “According to Mother, there are a number of eligible young ladies who’d be delighted to make your acquaintance.”
“None of whom would have given me the time of day when I was plain Mr. Trelawney,” James pointed out. “If Gerald were alive, they’d be setting their caps at him just as eagerly.”
“Perhaps not quite as eagerly,” Thomas corrected him. “Your cousin may have been a peer for a good deal longer, but he was also a prize boor. You, on the other hand, have no such prejudice to overcome.” He added, more sympathetically, “It needn’t be as cold-blooded as you think. Some of the ladies Mother mentioned are good-natured as well as rich—and pretty, especially the Americans. Not that you heed such things, but it’s practically the fashion these days for an English lord to take an American bride—and the wealthier the better.”
James paused, his glass halfway to his lips, as a memory rose in his mind: a radiant, golden-haired girl laughing as she waltzed. It was succeeded almost at once by that of another girl, alike and yet so different from the first. Joy and sadness, sun and shadow…
“—and there’s a Miss Leiter from Chicago,” Thomas’s voice broke into his thoughts, “who’s been much admired this year, ever since the Prince danced the quadrille with her at Grosvenor House. She’s got at least one sister, too.”
“Talking of sisters,” James began, keeping his tone casual, “what about the Newbold twins? Have they returned to America?” Just his luck if they had.
“One of them has gone abroad for her health, I hear. But Miss Amelia is still among us—and unmarried.”
“Unmarried?” James felt his heart give a slight lurch at the news. “But what about Glyndon—or that other fellow, Kelmswood?”
Thomas shrugged. “Kelmswood tired of the chase last summer. No staying power. Glyndon still fancies her, but as I’ve said before, his parents have other plans for him.”
“You don’t think he’ll defy them and go his own way?”
“Not on this. There’s too much at stake. He might bluster and fume at first, but in the end, he’ll dance to their piping.” Thomas paused, his eyes oddly hooded in the lamplight. “So, you have a liking for Miss Newbold?”
James fidgeted with his glass. “That might be putting it too strongly. We haven’t even been introduced yet. I spoke to her sister once.”
Spoke to her, danced with her…He remembered the painful flush on her cheek, her low, vehement words: Scars on a man may be distinguished. On a woman, they’re merely ugly.
And now she’d gone abroad—to recover her health, as Thomas had said. He hoped she found it, along with some peace of mind. Aurelia, fragile and brittle as a blown-glass butterfly.
“But you do find her attractive, don’t you?” Thomas pressed on.
“Who wouldn’t?”
“Indeed.” Thomas steepled his fingers. “My mother’s holding a garden party this weekend,” he announced, almost abruptly. “At Richmond. Miss Newbold will be there, along with several other heiresses. That should be as good a place as any to start looking.”
***
Havenhurst—Lady Julia Sheridan’s Richmond estate—was a haze of purple bloom. Sprays of lilac and dangling clusters of wisteria filled the air with their intoxicating perfume.
Amy Newbold blended in perfectly; indeed, she had taken great pains to do so. A little complacently, she smoothed the lavender kid gloves that matched her lavender muslin afternoon dress. Not every lady showed to advantage in lavender, but the color became her admirably well, as did the straw hat trimmed with white and violet flowers. She’d spent a good ten minutes before the mirror getting it positioned at just the right jaunty angle. The perfect ensemble in which to stroll through the gardens—and receive a proposal of marriage.
She glanced about the garden, seeking Glyndon’s broad shoulders and golden-bronze hair. As Lady Julia’s nephew, he was certain to attend this affair; he’d said as much to her two nights ago at the Eveshams’ ball. And surely, if he were familiar with Havenhurst’s grounds, he must know of some secluded place where they might go to settle things between them. As a matter of fact, he’d made a point of mentioning the Wilderness Garden…
A few feet away, Aunt Caroline was conversing with Viscountess Ashby and her daughter Harriet, who were both noticeably more cordial this Season, now that Lord Kelmswood was no longer paying court to “that encroaching American girl.” Privately, Amy wished Miss Ashby joy of the earl. Handsome though he was, he’d proven quite dreadfully fickle. She felt a renewed surge of fondness for Glyndon; at least his affections hadn’t changed with the seasons!
Talking of seasons, would a June wedding be too soon? If not, they could have it in London, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, that church so popular with English aristocrats. Or a September wedding in New York, after everyone was back from Newport. Maybe at St. Thomas’s: fashionable, Anglican, and large enough for a choir of more than fifty strong.
Yes, the more Amy thought about it, the better she liked the idea. A grand New York wedding—and one in the eye for those stodgy Knickerbocker families who had never been able to decide whether to welcome her and Aurelia because of their father’s name or snub them because of their mother’s money. Too often it had turned out to be the latter.
Aurelia…Amy’s heart lifted at the thought of her twin. Just one month and they’d be together again. It had been wonderful to see her at Christmas, looking and acting so much more like her old self. Amy would ensure that every door in London was open to her and she had her pick of suitors. A peer would be ideal, though Aurelia had never cared about titles. But someone splendid, nonetheless, who could make her forget all about that stupid Charlie Vandermere!
Of course, she conceded, that might have to wait until after her own nuptials. But once that was accomplished, surely no one would dare to snub the sister-in-law of a future duke. Pity Glyndon’s younger brother was only a schoolboy, but he might have a cousin who’d be suitable. What a coup it would be if Aurelia could marry into the family too!
She looked for her ardent suitor again
, but failed to find him. Well, perhaps he was running late. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw Aunt Caroline still in conversation with Lady Ashby, and a pretty redhead whom she didn’t recognize was now speaking to Miss Ashby. Having already met the people her godmother had most wanted her to meet, Amy saw no reason not to take advantage of her momentary freedom and explore the grounds—the Wilderness Garden, for example. Aunt Caroline, an indulgent chaperon, would not mind as long as she didn’t stay away too long or wander too far afield. And if she happened to come back engaged, Amy thought with a secret smile, her peccadilloes would be forgiven in an instant.
Catching up her skirts, she hurried across the grass. Paths unrolled in all directions before her, some leading to formal gardens where spring flowers bloomed in exquisitely regimented order, others to plots where nature had been permitted freer rein. The Wilderness Garden probably lay down one of the latter. Her guess confirmed by a passing footman, she set off down the indicated path and soon found herself in what appeared to be the very heart of spring.
No sign of Glyndon yet, but rhododendrons and azaleas—in every shade of white, pink, and red imaginable—bloomed in splendid profusion on every side of her. Some bushes were short, reaching barely to her knee, while others towered over her head. For a moment, Amy imagined her arms full of azaleas as she drifted down the aisle toward Glyndon, then she reluctantly abandoned the fantasy. If she meant to marry in September, azaleas would be long gone by then. But roses would still be available, and orchids—even more magnificent.
She wandered through the flowering wilderness, her mind still full of wedding plans. Gown by Worth, of course, satin trimmed with seed pearls…no, pearls were for tears and she didn’t want those on her wedding day. But Brussels lace, a train, and a veil of the finest tulle.
What should Aurelia wear as maid of honor? Ice blue to set off her eyes, or perhaps a delicate peach to flatter her complexion. It might be Amy’s day, but she wanted her twin to shine as well. She had no patience with brides who dressed their attendants unbecomingly so they might look better by comparison. Such a petty thing to do!
“—a paltry thing to do!” A male voice spoke up suddenly from the other side of a towering wall of rhododendrons.
Amy stopped, jolted from her reverie. That voice—she knew she’d heard it before.
“Leave off, Thomas!” snapped a second voice that sent a shudder of recognition down Amy’s spine. Glyndon…“It’s none of your affair!”
“On the contrary, it’s very much my affair since you’re on my mother’s property,” Thomas retorted. “You were thinking of meeting Miss Newbold here, weren’t you?”
“And if I were?” Spoken with sulky schoolboy bravado. “I’m still a free man, cousin.”
“Not for long. Your engagement to Lady Louisa’s due to be announced any day now.”
Amy froze. Blood, breath, and heartbeat slowed to the speed of a melting glacier.
“You have no matrimonial intentions toward Miss Newbold,” Thomas continued inexorably. “And it’s no kindness to let her think you do.”
Amy closed her eyes, willing Glyndon to assure him otherwise. Seconds dragged on like hours, like days, and then—
“All right,” the viscount said heavily. “I’ll stay away from her.”
There was a pause, then Thomas said, “You don’t intend to tell her about the engagement?” His tone was oddly devoid of expression.
“What’s the point? She’ll find out soon enough, when the notice appears in the Gazette.” Glyndon gave a short laugh. “Miss Newbold’s sharp enough to figure things out from there.”
“You show touching concern for the lady’s well-being.”
“Don’t pretend you care, Thomas,” his cousin scoffed. “You’ve said yourself these American girls are all pirates. I’ll wager she has another string to her bow, even as we speak.”
Amy clenched her fists, her fingernails digging into her palms even through her gloves. Mortification and rage flooded hotly through her, dissolving the ice in the pit of her stomach.
Glyndon was continuing, “I suppose Mater and Pater are right. Harford Park would best be served by a proper English duchess, not an American upstart.”
Amy had heard enough. Head high, she spun on her heel and stalked from the garden. She reached the path again within moments, following it back the way she had come. Her face was flushed—she could tell by the rising heat in her cheeks—and her heart thumped against her ribs with healthy fury. Fury at herself as well as at Glyndon, a small part of her was perceptive enough to recognize. How stupid she’d been, how complacent and naïve to have believed his protestations for even a moment! She’d have married him in good faith, done her best to be a loyal wife and a worthy duchess. And all the time he’d just been amusing himself, flirting with the “American upstart” before taking a proper English bride. How dare he? How dare they? Well, they could both go to the devil, Glyndon and that supercilious cousin of his!
Buoyed by her anger—infinitely preferable to tears—she rounded the last corner and saw Aunt Caroline standing almost exactly where she’d left her. Amy paused to collect herself further, then assumed a polite smile and ventured forth. Her face had cooled slightly; she hoped that meant her flush had subsided into something less hectic and more becoming.
“Amy, my dear,” Lady Renbourne greeted her with a fond smile. “I was hoping you’d return from your rambles soon. There’s someone I should like you to meet,” she added, indicating the tall, dark-haired man standing beside her. “Amy, this is the Earl of Trevenan. Lord Trevenan, my goddaughter, Miss Amy Newbold.”
An earl. Summoning up all the charm and grace in her arsenal, Amy extended her hand to the newcomer and flashed her most dazzling smile. “How do you do, Lord Trevenan? I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.”
Four
Two lovely berries moulded on one stem;
So with two seeming bodies, but one heart…
—William Shakespeare,
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Bad Ems, May 1891
The trunks were packed and the porter summoned to carry them downstairs. All that remained was to wait for the carriage that would take them to the station.
Aurelia took one last look in the glass as she pinned her hat into place with hands that trembled only slightly. The face that gazed back at her was a far cry from the one she’d seen on arriving here eleven months ago: fuller and rosier. But it was the expression that made all the difference; her eyes were no longer shadowed but bright with anticipation, and, despite her apprehension, her mouth wanted to turn up in a smile.
She could not see her leg in the glass, as it was decently covered by her traveling dress. But she knew how much it had improved as well. Oh, her limp did become more pronounced when she was fatigued, but most of the time it was scarcely noticeable. And as for her scar…
A discreet knock on the door broke into her thoughts.
“Mother?” Aurelia called. Laura Newbold had been finishing her own toilette when her daughter had looked in on her five minutes ago.
“Mais non, m’amie—it is I.” The mellifluous, slightly amused female voice that replied had been known to bring countless audiences to their feet.
Smiling, Aurelia opened the door. “Claudine,” she greeted her friend with equal warmth. “I hoped I would see you before we left.”
Claudine Beaumont, the sometime toast of Paris, brushed her cheek against Aurelia’s in a fleeting caress. “Vraiment, I have come to wish you and your mother le bon voyage. You will give my love to Paris, when you see her?”
“I will, though I’ll miss you terribly. I feel you helped me just as much as Dr. Strauss.”
Claudine gave a slight shake of her head. “Eh bien, I could not have done so, were you not so apt a pupil, ma petite.” Slipping one elegant finger beneath Aurelia’s chin, she gently tilted her face up to the light and, after a long considering moment, smiled. “Bon. I see the queen and not the little mouse. Even the so
-cold English will notice the difference.”
“Do you think so?” Aurelia asked, unable to keep the eagerness from her voice. “I should so like to make a…better impression than I did last year.”
“Mais oui.” Claudine’s dark eyes regarded her shrewdly. “Is there someone in England you particularly wish to impress?”
Aurelia felt herself coloring. “Well, ‘impress’ might not be the word, exactly,” she temporized. “But someone I might like to see again, now that…things are different.”
Mr. Trelawney—the name was never very far away. Other young men had come to Bad Ems this past year; some had even been quite attentive, especially after she and Claudine had become friends and taken to wandering about the town together. But Aurelia had to admit—if only to herself—that, compared to him, they all seemed rather bland and characterless.
What harm could there be in making discreet inquiries after Mr. Trelawney when she returned to London? He was Lady Talbot’s nephew—that much she did recall. And what could be more natural than to ask after an acquaintance when she had been away so long? And if some thought her forward and gauche for doing so—well, so be it. She was American, after all.
Claudine’s voice, laced with amused affection, recalled her to the present. “I shall wish you bon courage then. And hope that you meet again this someone who has put the stars in your eyes.” She took Aurelia’s hands and kissed her lightly on both cheeks. “Au revoir, ma chere.”
Aurelia embraced her friend in turn. “What of you? Are you staying on here?”
Claudine shook her head. “Non. I shall be leaving for Nice at the end of the week. A dear friend has invited to me to stay. Should you like to have my direction?”
“Very much.” Aurelia wondered if Claudine’s “dear friend” was a man or a woman, but decided it would be impertinent to ask. “I can give you mine too, if you like. According to my sister, we’re renting a house in London for the Season.”
Waltz With a Stranger Page 3