"You do?" Portia was impressed. At home Nancy had had to share her cramped room beneath the eaves with the other maid. "The house must be quite large, then."
"Thirty rooms, not counting the servants' quarters," Nancy provided, repeating what Gwynnen had told her. "And there's a town house in London, too, although it's not been used in years."
The tea and the delicious food, along with the warm bath, were beginning to have a soporific effect on Portia. She set the tray on the side table and snuggled down beneath the thick covers. "Really?" she asked around a yawn, her eyes already drifting closed. "Why is that?"
"Gwynnen didn't say, miss, but I think it's got something to do with the earl. Gwynnen said his lordship won't go to London, not even for Parliament."
"Mmm." Sleep beckoned, and Portia welcomed it gratefully. Her last conscious thought was to wonder why a man so obviously duty-bound as Doncaster should be so neglectful in his responsibilities. She'd have to speak to him on the matter . . .
"So you're the young lady who tried to kill my son with a bed warmer." Lady Elizabeth Dewhurst's bright-green eyes, a color she had bequeathed her son, sparkled with amusement as she greeted Portia. "Well, I suppose I ought to be grateful your aim wasn't any better. Come closer, and let me have a look at you."
Portia bit back a smile as she obeyed the older woman's teasing command. She'd walked into the countess's bedchamber expecting to find a wan and fading woman, but the vibrant lady dressed to the nines in a fashionable gown of lilac silk was the furthest thing from an invalid she had ever encountered. Indeed, had her ladyship not been sitting in a Bath chair, she would have suspected the earl of spinning her a Banbury tale.
"Ah, that is better." Lady Eliza's lips curved in a pleased smile as she studied Portia with unabashed curiosity. "Yes, you'll do nicely, I think. What did you say your name was?"
"I am Miss Portia Haverall, my lady," Portia said recognizing the earl's full mouth and high cheekbones in his mother's face. "My great-aunt is Lady Lowton. Do you know her?"
"Georgianne? I should say I do. But don't think I shall hold that against you," the countess informed her with a tinkling laugh. "We are none of us responsible for our relations, and I thank God for it. My own family, I fear, leaves a great deal to be desired. Whigs, you know."
"No, my lady, I did not," Portia answered, thinking what a shame it was that the earl had not inherited his mother's warmth and wit along with her good looks. "I shall try to remember that, and not say anything insulting about the party."
"Oh, you may say what you like, for it can't be any worse than what Connor says. A Tory, like his father, for all the notice he takes of politics as a whole. Sheep, now—sheep are another matter, for he positively dotes on the tiresome creatures. Do you know anything about sheep?"
The leap in the discussion made Portia smile. "No, my lady, I fear I do not," she said, thinking she would enjoy the coming days with the countess. Perhaps she'd even tell his lordship there was no hurry in finding a new companion. Until she heard from her great-aunt, she had nowhere else to go.
The countess gave a dejected sigh. "Pity," she said, the jewels on her fingers winking as she threaded them together. "Ah, well, it was too much to hope, I suppose. Shall we have tea, then? I shall tell you about our home and you may tell me about yourself. I want to know all about the young lady who managed to get the best of my son."
Portia's first morning at Hawkshurst passed quite pleasantly. The countess was a delight, and by luncheon Portia felt as if she'd known the other woman all her life. Lady Eliza had a wry sense of humor, and she showed a lively interest in everything and everyone about her. Portia decided it was because her infirmity made it difficult to leave the house, and tried not to take offense when she began quizzing her about her wardrobe.
"I can understand why you would wish to continue mourning for your father," the countess remarked as Portia wheeled her Bath chair into the dining room. "But surely a bit of color would not be considered improper after all these months! A deep-sapphire, perhaps, or ruby-red. You would look lovely in red."
Portia recalled a gown she had seen in one of the gazettes. It had been fashioned of shimmering red silk, with tiny puff sleeves and a décolletage that was just this side of proper. It was precisely the sort of gown she would have favored in her old life, but now that she was determined to be a lady, she put the dress firmly from her mind.
"It is very kind of you to say so, my lady." she replied quietly, "but I am afraid such colors are unsuitable for an unmarried lady."
"Posh!" Lady Eliza retorted, shooting Portia a disbelieving look. "You can not mean that nonsense! However is an unmarried lady to attract a husband at all if she goes about draping herself in dismal grays?"
Portia was uncertain how to respond to the scorn in the countess's voice. Chipping Campden was a small village to be sure, but they had never lacked for assemblies and other entertainments. She'd had ample opportunities to observe how the ton conducted themselves, and one of the things she noted first was the importance they placed in appearance, a preoccupation she had always viewed with an amused sense of superiority.
"I did not mean to imply that I would dress as a sparrow, your ladyship," she said at last, choosing her words with care. "But neither do I intend to deck myself out as a peacock. I would not wished to be considered fast."
"Better to be thought fast than a slowtop," Lady Eliza retorted, her expression making it obvious she was far from pleased. She slumped lower in her chair, her fingers drumming an impatient staccato on the chair's front lever. Suddenly she straightened, her expression softening as she smiled at Portia.
"If it is a matter of money which is making you hesitate, I am sure Connor can be persuaded to advance you some funds on your salary," she suggested gently. "He mentioned your father had disinherited you, and if your purse is a bit light, I should be more than happy to help you."
Portia's cheeks flushed a bright-rose. "It is not the money, my lady," she muttered, all but writhing in embarrassment as she realized the countess thought her destitute. "My father may have cut me from his will, but I still receive a considerable sum from my mother. I am not quite an heiress, but so long as I am prudent, I shall never lack for anything."
"Now I have offended you," the countess said, looking properly penitent. "I didn't mean to. No one knows more than I what it is to have more pride than pounds in one's pocket, and I only wished to help. May I hope you will forgive me?" She cast Portia a hopeful look.
Portia relented, ashamed for having upset the older woman. "Of course I shall forgive you," she said with a gentle smile. "And now that you mention it, I suppose a few gowns would not go amiss. It seems forever since I have had anything new."
"And the colors?" the older woman asked, quick to press her advantage. "You will choose something bright and cheerful, won't you? I know you must think me an interfering old lady," she added when she saw Portia hesitate, "but I adore clothes, and it is no fun choosing gowns for myself so long as I am stuck in this thing." She indicated her Bath chair with a wave of her hand.
Portia leaned over and gave the countess's hand a gentle squeeze. "I will consider it," she promised, then settled back in her own chair and unfolded her napkin. They were just starting the soup course when she remembered the earl's promise to show her about the estate.
"Will his lordship be joining us for luncheon?" she asked, glancing out the large mullioned windows to the rolling hills of deep-green.
The countess gave a haughty sniff. "I am sure I do not know," she said, raising her spoon to her lips. "I am only his mama, and he seldom sees fit to inform me of his plans. Why do you ask?"
Before Portia could explain, the door to the dining room swung open, and Lord Doncaster strode in, dressed in clothing better suited to a laborer than a peer. "I am sorry I am late, Mother, Miss Haverall," he apologized, bending to press a kiss on his mother's delicate cheek. "There was trouble with seepage in the north field, and we have spent all morning trying
to drain it."
The countess eyed her son's mud-spattered boots with pained resignation. "Talk to Mr. Willowby," she suggested before turning her attention back to her food. "Your father always set great store by that wily old shepherd."
"I'd forgotten he was back at the home farm," Connor said, his expression thoughtful as he took his seat. "Perhaps after luncheon I'll—"
"After luncheon you will take our guest for a ride," Lady Eliza interrupted, fixing Connor with a stern look. "Have Grayson consult with Mr. Willowby. The lad does little enough to warrant the salary you pay him."
"Mother—"
"Not that I blame Grayson, mind." Lady Eliza addressed her remarks to Portia. "The lad is quite good, but this son of mine refuses to give him any real responsibility. He considers it his duty to see to every little detail of the estate."
Portia saw the look of chagrined exasperation that flashed across the earl's face. It was obvious his mother kept him firmly under the cat's paw, and given her experiences with her father, she felt a surprising empathy for him.
"If your lordship is too busy to accompany me, I understand," she offered, not wishing to add to his discomfiture. "There will be other days, I am sure."
Rather than appreciating her charitable offer, he shot her an angry glare. "As I had already planned to take you about, Miss Haverall, there is no need to wait." His voice was as cool and remote as she remembered. "Shall we say twenty minutes after we have finished our meal?"
"Twenty minutes will be fine, sir," Portia responded stiffly, vowing it would be a cold day before she gave in to another altruistic impulse. It was just as she had always suspected: being a lady was a thankless task.
4
After luncheon Connor retired to his study for a quick look at his accounts while Miss Haverall went up to her rooms to change. He was going over his tenants' accounts when his mother, pushed by a footman, maneuvered her Bath chair through the door.
"Aha, I knew I'd find you here," she accused, bending a disapproving frown on him. "I thought you were taking Miss Haverall riding. What do you mean by holing up in here like a hermit?"
"I am but waiting for Miss Haverall to join me, ma'am, and then we will ride out," Connor replied, experiencing the familiar pang of shame he always felt when he saw his mother in the chair. Each time he remembered he was the one who put her there, the guilt would lay heavy on his heart.
"She is a lively thing," the countess said after dismissing the footman with a wave of her hand. "A trifle nice in her notions, perhaps, but I must say I like her much better than any of the others. Thank you for bringing her to me."
Connor left the papers on his desk and crossed the room to kneel beside her chair. "You know this is only temporary," he warned, hating the feeling that he was snatching away her happiness. "The moment I find you a new companion, Miss Haverall will join her great-aunt in Edinburgh."
"Yes, but that could take weeks," Lady Eliza reminded him, her lips curving in a crafty smile. "And even if you do hire some other silly girl, I do not see why I should lose Miss Haverall's company. She could always remain as our guest, could she not?"
Connor frowned as he considered his mother's suggestion. He'd already forgiven Miss Haverall for assaulting him with the bed warmer, but that didn't mean he was ready to welcome her as a permanent fixture in his home. "That is so," he conceded with a sigh, "but I think we should wait before suggesting it to her. She may have other plans, or her great-aunt may not grant her permission to remain."
"Posh." Lady Eliza dismissed his objections with another wave of her hand. "I am sure Georgianne will be delighted to have the child remain with us. Now, where do you mean to take our guest?"
"I thought to show her the north fields near the old Roman ruins," Connor replied, accepting the change of subject with resignation. It was a familiar ploy of his mother's, and he knew better than to argue with her.
"Excellent." Lady Eliza nodded her approval of the plan. "Although we spoke only briefly I gather she is something of a bluestocking, and I am sure she will enjoy seeing something so ancient. Perhaps you might translate some of the carvings for her. You took honors in Latin when at school." She added this last with a spark of maternal pride that made Connor smile.
His classical studies had been the favorite part of his years at Oxford, and he'd enjoyed losing himself in his books. If only the rest of his time there had passed half so pleasantly, he thought, his eyes growing bitter as he remembered the humiliation he had suffered out of the classroom.
A sound at the door drew him away from his dark thoughts, and he glanced up as Miss Haverall hurried into the room.
"I am sorry if I kept you waiting, my lord," Portia apologized, feeling flushed and rushed after having spent the past half hour attempting to pin up her old riding habit. She'd lost a great deal of weight in the fifteen months since buying the habit, and it had taken all of Nancy's skills to make it fit with some semblance of style.
"Not at all, Miss Haverall," Connor replied, his deep voice giving no indication of the pleasure her appearance gave him. Her habit was fashioned of mulberry serge, lavishly trimmed with gold and black braid, and it showed her delicate figure to advantage. A velvet hat of the same color with a black veil and curving feather completed the ensemble, and he thought she looked completely enchanting.
"What a charming habit, my dear!" Lady Eliza exclaimed, clasping her hands together. "There, did I not tell you bright colors would suit you?"
"Yes, my lady." Portia's cheeks grew warm at the countess's praise and the admiration in the earl's eyes. "I know it's not appropriate for mourning, but—"
"Nonsense," Lady Eliza interrupted, her tone indicating she would brook no opposition. "It is perfectly lovely, and as it is doubtful you and Doncaster will encounter anything other than sheep on your ride, I am sure it hardly signifies. Off with you now." She gave them both a stern look. "And I don't want you to bring her back, Connor, until she has roses in her cheeks. She is much too wan."
Half an hour later Connor and Portia were riding over the green hills, the cool, damp wind stinging their faces. When they reached the top of a rise, Portia pulled up on her horse's reins and turned to the earl with a laugh of sheer delight.
"I hope your mother will be satisfied with the roses in my cheeks, my lord," she teased, forgetting her reserve in the pleasure of the moment. "My face feels as if it is frozen!"
Connor leaned forward in the saddle, the reins held competently in his hands as his gaze rested on her flushed features. "Do you wish to turn back?" he asked, determined to act the dutiful host.
"Heavens, no!" she exclaimed with a light laugh, her eyes dancing. "I was only funning, my lord, I assure you. Do let us go on."
An emotion he refused to identify as relief welled in Connor's heart, and he inclined his head in a grave manner. "There are some ruins just over the next hill," he said, indicating the direction with his riding crop. "They are said to be Roman in origin, although I have my doubts."
"That sounds delightful, sir," Portia replied, remembering the many ruins she'd seen in the area around Colchester when on holiday with her father. She'd been captivated at the thought of standing in the same spot where eighteen hundred years ago the emperor Claudius had stood, and she'd enthusiastically thrown herself into researching every detail she could find of the Romans. She smiled sadly, recalling how she and Papa had disagreed over the influence of Roman architecture on the Normans. He'd cut her out of his will for almost two months before finally restoring her.
Less than ten minutes later, she and the earl were standing before massive columns of marble that had been stained black from centuries of grime. She ran her gloved hands over the grooves cut deep in the ancient stone, awed at their immense size and age. "Why do you doubt that they are Roman?" she asked, slanting him a curious look. "They look much like the other ruins I have seen. And that is Latin." She pointed at the words carved above the arch.
"Yes, but a Latin of a much later period than
the Roman occupation," he answered, enjoying her inquisitiveness. The last time he'd showed the ruins to a lady she'd pronounced them frightful and asked to be taken home. Or perhaps it was himself the lady had found frightful, he thought, remembering that the lady had departed Hawkshurst soon afterward.
"I had no idea there was any difference between one form of Latin or another," Portia said, apparently much struck by the thought. "Why would it change?"
"All language changes," he replied, stepping closer to indicate a specific word. "Do you see that? Dei. It is Latin for 'God.' The Romans practiced polytheism, the worship of more than one god, and has this been one of their buildings, they would have dedicated it to a specific god like Jupiter or Minerva. I would say this was probably a chapel or a monastery, and that it dates from a later period, possibly the twelfth or thirteenth century."
"Indeed?" The casual expertise he displayed intrigued Portia, and she tilted her had to one side to give him a considering look. "You seem certain in your facts, sir. Is antiquities an interest of yours?"
Connor hesitated, as if unwilling to share so private a part of himself. "You might say that," he said at last, his eyes fixed on the ruins. "I made a study of it while at Oxford." He turned his head suddenly, his eyes narrowing at the expression on her face. "Why are you smiling?"
Portia gave a guilty start at being caught behaving so poorly. "No reason, my lord," she denied, and then spoiled her disavowal by adding, "It is just that you do not look like a scholar, and I find it difficult imagining you bent over a pile of dusty books."
"I see," Connor answered, his lips twitching at her disarming frankness. "And pray, what does a scholar look like, Miss Haverall?"
"Slender, interestingly pale, with shabby clothes and a vague, distracted air about him."
He blinked at her prompt reply. "That is certainly specific enough," he said, leaning one broad shoulder against the pillar as he studied her. "Might I ask how you came to be so familiar with the species? Have you an older brother?"
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