by Jo Beverley
They shook hands. Servants came forward to take away outer garments.
Everdon said to his cousin, “Lend a hand? With what, pray?” But he didn’t sound annoyed, merely resigned.
“Oh, anything,” said Renfrew vaguely. “Did you know you have mayapples growing in the sunken garden?”
Everdon steered them all into a room, which turned out to be a wainscoted saloon hung with family portraits and furnished in a motley manner. The contents seemed to be the casual accumulation of generations, and as such, it held an air of being well used and comfortable, rather than a room reserved for guests. Deirdre rather liked it.
“No,” Everdon said to Renfrew. “I did not know about mayapples, but then I don’t know the half of what I have in the garden.”
“Quite rare, mayapple is. Your gardener was going to pull them up.”
“I assume he’s changed his mind.”
“Oh yes. Very reasonable sort of fellow.”
“I’ve always found him rather jealous of his territory.”
Deirdre had been admiring a stunning portrait of the dowager as a young bride with wicked, flashing eyes. Now she turned, fascinated by the strange conversation.
“And how’s Ian?” Everdon was asking. “The last I heard, he’d rallied a little.”
“Yes. Stopped by there the other day, but didn’t stay. Fusses him to know I’m next in line.”
This was said without resentment, but Deirdre could sympathize with Sir Ian Renfrew, the Daffodil Dandy’s older brother. She’d heard talk of the sad case; Sir Ian was stricken by a wasting disease from which he would not, it seemed, recover. Not yet thirty, he would leave a widow and three young girls. No wonder the thought of the Daffodil Dandy inheriting his property and the responsibility for his family was bad for his health.
“Stopped by?” asked Everdon. “Have you not been there these last months?”
“No. Like I say, it does him more harm than good.” Renfrew’s lips quirked in a sad little smile. “Though I did wonder whether my hanging around might perk him up, give him even more need to get well. There’s nothing in it, though. He’s done for, Don. Don’t seem any point in fussing him. I’ve been in the Shires most of the year, doing over a place Verderan inherited there.”
“Piers Verderan? The Dark Angel? You’ve been decorating a house for him?” Even Everdon was beginning to sound bemused.
“Yes.” Kevin Renfrew drifted over to a pier table and absently rearranged the three figurines that stood on it. “Rather interesting actually,” he said. “The foundation in the northwest corner is crumbling.”
“Then if you were doing the house over, you should have looked to it.”
“Not there. Here,” said Renfrew. “I’m reading about gilding.” With that he wandered off.
Deirdre shared a hilarious look with her brothers. Everdon, however, rang the bell.
When his butler appeared, he gave orders for refreshments, but then said, “Has the foundation been checked?”
“I did take the liberty of making that arrangement, milord. It appears work is necessary.”
“Put it in hand, then.” Everdon turned to Deirdre. “I think you would like to remove the dust before tea. I’ll have a maid take you to your room.”
Deirdre had been staring at the three figurines that Kevin Renfrew had rearranged, realizing with astonishment that their new placement was subtly, but clearly, more pleasing than the old. Now she started, and glanced in the mirror above the pier table. She gasped at the sight she presented. She was turned almost dun brown with dust, and her hair was escaping its pins and the bonnet in all directions. “Heavens! I look a perfect sight!”
Everdon’s eyes met hers in the mirror. “Yes, you do.” His smile, however, gave the words quite a different meaning, and their gaze held for a breathless moment.
Deirdre fled the room in a flustered state, flustered by more than casual flattery. The assaults on her stability seemed never-ending. She’d end up as daft as that Daffodil Dandy.
What was she to make of Kevin Renfrew? He appeared to be lacking a large portion of his wits, and yet Everdon had taken his words about the foundation perfectly seriously. And with reason.
She wondered if there were mayapples in the sunken garden.
As she took off her bonnet and cloak in her small but pleasant room, she felt a new range of insecurities.
She hadn’t anticipated the effect of being in Everdon’s home. It drew her to him in a disturbing way. She certainly hadn’t anticipated the introduction of a fey daffodil. There was something in the air in this house.
It felt like a place where things could change.
9
BY THE NEXT DAY, however, Deirdre had decided that her anxieties had been the result of weariness, or too much sun. Everdon’s home was surprisingly simple and old-fashioned, but it was comfortable and well run. There were no strange undertones at all.
Everdon had a number of matters awaiting his attention, as he had not spent more than a night here for some months, and so he arranged for his guests’ comfort, then disappeared. Deirdre had expected an attempt to keep her away from Howard, and was perplexed that this was not so.
Howard, too, perplexed her. Perhaps it was that he was away from his cottage, but he was not himself; for one thing, he did not appear to be working at all. He was completely available for walks in the grounds, games of cards, and even angling. Deirdre knew she should have been delighted by this evidence that he could enjoy such normal pursuits, but it just made her feel even more uneasy.
Perhaps that was because she had the impression that Howard was not really enjoying himself, but joining in these activities for a purpose.
He even agreed to join Rip and Henry in cricket practice.
As she stood in the shade by the lawn, watching Howard face a cricket ball tossed by Rip, the Daffodil Dandy appeared at her side. “Clever chap, that.”
“Yes. Brilliant.” Her heart did not, however, swell with pride. Anyone coherent would appear brilliant to Kevin Renfrew.
“Cares a lot about you.”
“Do you think so?” she said, heart swelling despite her earlier thoughts.
“Oh yes. Wouldn’t be out here knocking a ball about if he didn’t. Very purposeful man.” He wandered off to stand by Henry, though whether he was fielding or not was unclear.
Deirdre looked at Howard and realized that, of course, he had no interest in knocking balls about. And his purpose was plain—he was trying to please her, poor lamb.
When the game was over, she linked arms with him as they wandered over to the table where a footman was serving ale and lemonade. “I’m sure you must be longing to return to your studies, Howard.”
“True, but I don’t mind taking a few days off. I have things to think about.”
“If that’s what you want, of course. But I just wanted you to know that I don’t expect you to dance attendance on me. I know how important your work is.”
He smiled warmly and patted her hand. “I know you do. That’s one reason I know we’ll suit. I probably will spend some time in my room this afternoon making some notes. That Renfrew chap said some interesting things this morning about negative numbers.”
“Kevin Renfrew?” Deirdre asked blankly.
“Yes. Strange fellow. Didn’t know what he was saying, of course, but triggered an idea or two.”
So, after luncheon, Deirdre was deserted. She took the opportunity to visit Lucetta. Here, even more than in Missinger, it was Lucetta’s duty to be with Lady Harby, but on this occasion Deirdre’s mother had developed a headache and was lying down in her room.
Deirdre went into the dowager’s suite and looked around with pleasure. “Oh, how lovely!”
Lucetta smiled. “I think so. My husband had it decorated this way for me, to remind me of home.”
The boudoir was painted white, and the floor was tiled in a mosaic of reds and golds. Gilt-framed pictures of Spanish scenes decorated the walls, and ornate grilles covered
the two long windows, softening and diffusing the bright sun.
“In Cordoba, where I grew up, there is a lot of Moorish influence,” said Lucetta. “There is also a lot of sun, so we hide from it. In the English winter those screens come down so I can appreciate what sunlight the good Lord sends this northern land.”
Deirdre looked at a bas-relief of the Madonna and child. “Was it hard to leave your land, your family?”
“It was not easy,” admitted Lucetta, “and my English was not good then. When I had Marco, I spoke to him almost entirely in Spanish, which is how he came to know the language so well. By the time Richard was born, it was less the case. And then he was the one to go to Spain…”
Lucetta’s eyes turned to a small portrait on the wall, and Deirdre looked, too. It showed a smiling man in regimentals, clearly Everdon’s brother, who had died at Vittoria. He and Everdon must have been very different, for Richard Renfrew looked more like Kevin—a longer face and paler coloring.
“I’m glad the war is over,” said Deirdre, feeling it was an inadequate expression of sympathy, but not knowing what else to say.
“As are we all. My poor Spain…But,” Lucetta said more briskly, “it was doubtless a blessing that I came north with Marco’s father and escaped the horrors.”
Deirdre wandered the room thoughtfully. “I’m not sure if I could leave England to live in a foreign land.”
“Not even with Howard?”
Deirdre paused and frowned. “But why would he want to leave?”
“Who can say? There are famous universities in Germany, for example. He might wish to study there.”
Deirdre felt a creeping unease. “Then I suppose I would go.”
“Of course you would. Marriage is always a cause of change, and a change of country could be part of it. I found it hard to come to England, but I would have found it harder to have separated from John.”
She indicated another, larger portrait, and Deirdre went over to look at Everdon’s father.
“He was so special to me,” Lucetta said softly. “Only a poet could have expressed it. You can see that he was not terribly handsome, nor did he have a golden tongue. He had honest eyes, though, and what they said to me was very precious.”
Deirdre felt tears in her eyes as she looked at the portrait. John Renfrew, Earl of Everdon, had been a young man when this was done, but his wigless state showed a hairline that already receded. His face was long, rather like his second son’s and Kevin Renfrew’s, and his mouth was wide and humorous. His blue eyes were doubtless honest, but they were saying little of importance to the portrait painter. But he had been deeply loved, and Deirdre did not doubt he had loved deeply in return. Lucetta would have left her home for nothing less.
“Everdon doesn’t look like him,” she said.
“No, but there is a great deal of John in Marco. Marco looks just like my family, but he has the English restraint. It can be dangerous. He holds things in, covers them up, so that even those who love him do not see what is inside. My family,” she added dryly, “concealed nothing, held back nothing.”
Deirdre moved on to a portrait of a young Don Juan, done perhaps when he was twenty or so. He was standing by a tree in country clothes, riding crop in hand. His hair was rather long and curling, and his dark eyes bright with laughter. His stance was both relaxed and supremely confident. He was handsome now, but something had disappeared that had been caught in this picture. A sense of invulnerability, perhaps.
“That was done in 1804, when he was little older than you, Deirdre. Just before his father died.”
Was that what had tarnished some of the gold? Grief and responsibility?
Lucetta spoke again, deliberately. “And before his marriage, of course.”
Deirdre looked around. “Is there a portrait of his first wife here?” Then she could have bitten her tongue for such a tactless, stupid question.
“I would hardly keep one,” said Lucetta dryly. “There was a miniature. I do not know where it went. Perhaps it was returned to her family with the rest of her possessions.”
Deirdre knew this subject was best left alone, but she felt a pressing need to know more. Lucetta, she was sure, had raised the subject with some purpose. She faced the dowager. “He must have been very young when they married.”
Lucetta looked down at the embroidery in her hands. “He was twenty. She was seventeen.”
“So young?” Deirdre said in surprise. “Why…?” She swallowed what she had been about to say.
“Why did I permit it?” Lucetta queried wryly. “You are contemplating marriage at eighteen, Deirdre.” She sighed. “But you are right, it was not wise. But they were very much in love.”
Deirdre felt a stab of pain at that. “I understand she was very beautiful.”
“Very.”
Deirdre hesitated to ask, but she had to know. “What happened?”
Lucetta laid down her work and looked up. “You will have to ask Marco. I do not know the whole, and it is not my story to tell. But Iphegenia Brandon was a wild flame destined to burn bright and fast. I should have realized that. Soon after the marriage, she made it clear that she found Marco lacking in some essential way.”
“I find that hard to believe.” The words escaped Deirdre before discretion could stop them. She colored and turned away from Lucetta’s perceptive eyes. “He’s handsome and charming,” she added quickly. “What else did she want?”
“What else do you want?”
The words were a challenge.
Deirdre sucked in a deep breath, but something in the moment demanded honesty. “I want to be crucial to someone’s life,” she said quietly.
“Ah.”
Lucetta said nothing more, and so Deirdre turned. Her friend was now sewing calmly. “Ah? Is that all you’re going to say?”
Lucetta glanced up. “What else is there to say? I do not know if you are crucial to the life of Marco or Howard Dunstable.”
“Everdon would scarcely notice if I were to disappear,” Deirdre said firmly. “Howard certainly would. Then he’d never get his eggs cooked correctly.” She bit her lip. More words she wished unsaid. “I mean, that’s not important. It’s just that he needs me in so many little ways. He’d be miserable without me, and then he’d never get his work done, and I’m sure it’s dreadfully important…”
“I’m sure it is, too,” said Lucetta calmly. “You didn’t bring any needlework with you? If you wish to sew here with me, you will always be welcome.”
“Thank you,” said Deirdre, feeling that she had yet again failed to convey the reality of her relationship with Howard. Why was it always so difficult? “I think I need a walk just now, though.”
“Very well.” As Deirdre turned to go, Lucetta picked up a piece of paper. “This account needs to go to Marco. Do you think you could put it in his study?”
Deirdre took it. “Yes, of course.” She was no fool. She knew Lucetta was hoping Everdon would be there, and was throwing them together. But Deirdre did not intend to avoid him. To avoid him would be to admit that being with him could endanger her feelings for Howard. That was simply not true.
All the same, when she knocked on his study door and his voice said, “Enter,” she felt a frisson of doubt.
He was sitting behind a desk thick with ledgers and papers. He was not alone. A plump young man rose, blushing, from behind another desk.
Everdon rose, too, a smile lighting his face. “Deirdre. What a delightful excuse to rest from my labors. Morrow, why don’t you walk down to the agent’s cottage and see if he has those missing records? The fresh air will do you good.”
The young man’s eyes flickered between them, and he made himself scarce. He carefully left the door wide open.
“A young gentleman of unimpeachable rectitude,” remarked Everdon with a smile. “I don’t know how he bears with me.”
Deirdre held out the paper. “Your mother asked me to give you this.”
He took it and raised a brow. “
She clearly thinks I’ve been neglecting you.”
“Not at all…”
“Don’t you think so?”
“No.”
He tapped the paper thoughtfully. “Where’s Dunstable?”
“Working. He had an insight.”
“Excellent.”
Deirdre considered the earl suspiciously. She didn’t forget the way he’d encouraged Howard on his little jaunt out of Reading.
He smiled blandly. “I want all my guests to be happy here. Do you have everything you need?”
“Yes, thank you.”
He tossed down the account unread. “Have you had the grand tour of the house? No? Come on.”
Deirdre found herself swept along, but wasn’t reluctant. She was feeling edgy and unable to settle. A tour of the house seemed just the ticket, and in such a small and crowded building, there could be no real danger.
She had, of course, seen the drawing room, the dining room, and the breakfast room, but he took her through them again, pointing out items of interest. For the first time she realized how unplanned the rooms were, how old most of the decor and furnishings.
“No one in your family seems to have been inclined to modernization,” she remarked.
“No. The last major work done inside the house was my mother’s rooms. Would you want to change everything?”
The question seemed to have singular importance, but Deirdre responded lightly. “No. I think it charming.”
“That’s as well. It would cost the earth.”
She gave him an uneasy look, but he said nothing more.
They looked in the library, which was only moderately stocked, and gave nodding recognition to a small, bleak reception room that was surely only used for unwanted visitors.
Then they went to the back of the house to a small garden room. This had glass doors that opened onto a tiled patio edged on two sides by rose trellises. Beyond was the west lawn.
“This is lovely,” Deirdre said, and leaned over to smell a red rose. It was strongly perfumed, almost too strongly.
He plucked a pink one and gave it to her. “Red roses are for my mother. This will suit you better.”