How could there be more? He was a confirmed bachelor, having renounced the pleasures of illicit relationships, while she was a confirmed spinster, doomed never to know such pleasures, licit or il-.
“There. Perhaps now you see what I mean,” Justin said, sitting back in his seat and waving his hand at the diagram.
Evelyn slid her chair closer to his. “But if they’d posted their men like so,” she dotted in some men, “and come down the field thus,” she traced a thin arc, “they would have carried the day.”
“My dear Evie.” For some reason, Justin called her his “dear Evie”—she’d quite given up trying to get him to call her Evelyn or, God forbid, Lady Evelyn—whenever he pontificated on a subject he considered solely a male province. There were a lot of them. “You are wrong.”
He covered her hand with his own and, using her finger as his stylus, sketched a fat line straight through the middle of the impromptu map. That was his manner; he was utterly insensible of personal boundaries. If Justin had need of a finger, he was as likely to co-opt hers as use his own. It was an uncomfortably intimate sort of thing—uncomfortable for her, that is. He didn’t appear to realize anything untoward in it.
“And that is why,” he was saying, “the men on the left flank kept them from doing so.”
With a smile as kindly as it was annoying, he dug a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and dabbed her finger clean before returning it to her.
She, however, was not done. “Not if these men,” she said, pointing, “had secured the area. With the opposition’s attention diverted, the center could have advanced.”
He shook his head. “Impossible. They weren’t strong enough to clear the center.”
She drew a deep breath. “If they had used their heads rather than their—”
“Ahem.” They both looked up. Beverly stood over them, looking annoyed. “Perhaps I misheard your directions, but I was under the distinct impression that you wish this room cleaned. All of it.”
Evelyn looked around, surprised to find that while she and Justin had been debating, the library had filled with an army of workers. A pair of girls were scrubbing the floor, chatting amiably to one another, while three men fitted new panes of glass into the mullioned windows; overhead, a plasterer worked diligently on the coved ceiling. She’d been so absorbed with Justin she hadn’t noticed them come in.
“Forgive me, Lady Evelyn,” Beverly drawled as she stared about in bemusement. “Clearly I slipped into a foreign language for a moment. Let me repeat my question.”
Beverly’s gibe awoke her from muteness. “Yes, I asked you to have this room cleaned.”
“And might I suppose that edict included this table? Or is the grime on it part of the intriguing ‘Midsummer Night’s Folly’ decor?”
The man was an incorrigible troll. Evelyn glanced at her timepiece. Gads, she’d been here an hour. She stood. Justin rocked his chair onto its back legs and hung a long arm over the back of it.
“I am sorry to inconvenience you,” she told Beverly.
Justin’s mouth curled with amusement. Let him be amused. She would have given Beverly a handwritten apology to keep him at his job. There were plenty of people willing to work and work hard, but finding someone capable of organizing all that energy into productivity had been another task altogether.
She’d asked Justin for the loan of his butler after witnessing Beverly grab his chest in horror when one of the workmen had dropped a dingy old ginger jar Beverly later claimed had been a Ming dynasty vase. Justin had obliged, ordering Beverly to submit to her direction.
Beverly had acceded, assuring Justin that he was not only qualified to perform the task but indubitably more qualified then anyone else present. He’d been looking straight at her when he said it.
To do him credit, he’d done a wonderful job, coordinating the workers into a smoothly oiled engine that rolled doggedly from one end of the abbey toward the other, leaving in its wake a series of clean rooms.
All in all, everything was going swimmingly. The abbey was quickly being repainted, replastered, and repaired; the various trim and trappings for the wedding were being assembled; supplies were arriving daily.
“Mr. Powell and I will get out of your way at once. We were just going anyway, weren’t we?” Evelyn gave Justin an encouraging smile.
“Dear me, yes,” he agreed, standing up, and then adding, “Remind me. Where were we just going?”
“I’m going to town to fetch the ribbons Merry ordered,” Evelyn said, “and you were going to look for birds.”
“So I was.” He plucked his jacket from the back of the chair and shrugged into it. “But before I go . . .”
“Yes?”
“The Marlborough rugby team would have lost the Nationals no matter what strategy they employed. And that’s the end of the matter.” With that pronouncement, he strolled off, before she could frame a reply, leaving her stifling a laugh she knew would only encourage his hubris. She watched him with unwilling admiration.
He’d donned his “birding jacket,” a wrinkled and disreputable-looking tweed, so he must have been planning to go out before he’d stumbled upon her ordering the removal of debris from the entrance’s circular drive.
Not that he ever looked appreciably different dressed for birding than he did for dining. Apparently, he didn’t own a pair of cufflinks, for his sleeves seemed to be perennially rolled up over his forearms. He seldom bothered wearing a tie, or buttoning his collar, or sometimes even putting on a collar, for that matter.
She might be dowdy, but at least she was a neat dowd.
“Lady Evelyn, if I might have a word?” Beverly said.
“But of course, Beverly,” she replied with an inappropriate sense of anticipation. Trading barbs with Beverly had become one of her daily pleasures. And Beverly’s baggy little eyes were positively twinkling. “What is it? You feel the siren pull of a magnum of Lafite-Rothschild and wish to abdicate your current responsibilities in order to pursue it?” she asked.
“Not at all, madame,” Beverly said smoothly. “I am simply on tenterhooks to see if you approve my choices in the main corridor.”
She followed him out into the hall, stood, and looked about admiringly. Overhead—miracle of miracles—Beverly had discovered a skylight so choked with leaves and mold it had gone unnoticed for years. Now it glistened, pouring sunlight down on a brilliant antique Oriental runner he’d found rolled up in the cellar. On the freshly waxed sideboard, shaggy-headed parrot tulips amassed in a huge silver urn. A series of paintings he’d discovered in a closet hung sentinel on the freshly painted walls. “It looks fine, Beverly.”
“I grow faint at such praise.”
“Don’t let it go to your head. We still have, what? Another six rooms to ready before the wedding guests arrive?”
“Yes,” Beverly replied. “We have six rooms left to arrange. After which we will have to make haste to see that the kitchen is well stocked for the arrival of our chef.”
She smiled winsomely. “I’m delighted you’ve come on board so enthusiastically, Beverly.”
He was such an unbridled wretch, but such fun to trade unpleasantries with. No wonder Justin kept him around. The thought brought with it curiosity.
“Beverly?” she said.
“Lady Evelyn.”
“Are you a confirmed misogynist or am I special?”
His smile was sublime. “My appreciation of the fairer sex is universal, madame.”
“Mr. Powell must find it rather disconcerting to have such a confirmed woman-hater about,” she said, “being a ladies’ man and all.”
“Mr. Powell? A ladies’ man?” He snorted.
Why should that phrase provoke such a reaction? But then Evelyn recalled that Justin had reformed. Perhaps he’d reformed before taking Beverly into his employ.
“Perhaps I should have said ‘having been a ladies’ man.’ Didn’t you know?”
Beverly stiffened. “I have been in Mr. Powell’s ser
vice since he entered the army fourteen years ago.”
She frowned, doing the math. It didn’t add up. She’d caught Justin with Mrs. Underhill a mere decade ago. But then, whatever Beverly’s faults—and they were many—he was extremely loyal.
“Mr. Powell comes from a military family on both sides of his family, doesn’t he?” she asked, fully aware she was being nosey, but unable to let an opportunity to learn more about Justin go by.
“Yes, indeed.” A hint of pride had crept into Beverly’s usual ironic tones. “Mr. Powell’s maternal grandfather was with Wolseley in Africa, and his father saw action in India.”
She would have been in the army if she’d been born a male. The adventure, the danger, the excitement, and the opportunity to organize all sorts of people under her command would have been just her forte.
“I’m surprised Mr. Powell didn’t pursue his career.” She thought of Justin. He could barely stand to correct his butler, let alone a stranger. Besides, with his hair in permanent disarray and his ill-fitting jacket askew, he was hardly a model for those popular “war hero” cigarette cards. “On second thought, maybe I’m not surprised,” she said. “I suppose his grandfather and father were disappointed when he cashiered out.
“My uncle Hugo was a military man. Thought the sun rose and set on his regiment. He was stiff with pride.” Evelyn smiled. “Only thing that could have made him prouder would have been if he’d had a son to enlist, too. Though cousin Mary Elizabeth could have easily passed as . . .” She trailed off. Beverly’s usual bland countenance had turned grim.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing, ma’am.”
“Out with it, Beverly. Why are your eyes growing bloodshot?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Lady Evelyn.”
She sighed heavily, as one would when challenged by a recalcitrant four-year-old. “You know what I’m capable of.”
“I recall, yes.”
“You know I will badger you until I have an answer. You know how persistent I am when I want something.”
“Unhappily, yes.”
“Then don’t you think you ought to just give over graciously and be done with it?”
He vacillated. She could see it in the minute shift of his eyes. She pressed on. “Something to do with Mr. Powell’s grandparent and the army. What of it?”
“It’s the injustice of it is all.” The words burst from between his compressed lips, his virulence catching her off guard. “It’s so unfair. The old ba—goat had no idea what was what.”
“Yes?” she prompted softly. This was not simply the verbal scrimmages she and Beverly usually engaged in. For the first time, Beverly was speaking sincerely to her.
“Eleven years ago, at the family Christmas celebration, Mr. Powell announced he was leaving the army,” Beverly said. “The Brigadier General didn’t even wait for him to finishing speaking before standing and declaring that he would rather Mr. Powell had died in Africa than live a coward. He never spoke to Mr. Powell again.”
Evelyn stared, stricken. To be called a coward in front of your entire family . . . ! “How horrible.”
Beverly’s eyes shifted. “I am sorry I spoke. I have been indiscreet. Mr. Powell would be most annoyed. I only told you this because you seem to have an empathy with him.”
“Did they never reconcile? No? How terrible. How he must hurt,” Evelyn said, shaking her head.
“Pray do not concern yourself. Mr. Powell is not the sort to waste time looking back, is he? And he’s made of sterner stuff than to allow his grandfather’s blustering bigotry to ruin his life. Besides, it’s a long time ago. A lifetime.”
She smiled sadly and, for a fraction of a second, Beverly returned it. Then he cleared his throat.
“Now, if you are entirely finished with the interrogation, Lady Evelyn, perhaps you’d let me return to my work?” He didn’t wait for a dismissal before hastening off.
She followed him at a more sedate pace, wondering if it was possible Justin really hadn’t given a rap for the Brigadier General’s opinion. It was an interesting thought.
Evelyn had spent her entire life enjoying the approval, deference, and esteem of her entire family. If that were to be taken away, what would she have left?
A little frisson of panic speared through her at the very thought. It wasn’t going to be taken away. She wasn’t going to fail. Not her family name, not her aunt, not Mrs. Vandervoort. Things were going exceedingly well.
Calming herself, she ducked into the great hall and appreciatively studied the work being done in the courtyard. The weeds had all been dug up and the flagstones scoured clean. The romantic moss creeping up the stone urns had been allowed to remain and the small, stagnant fishpond was being cleaned out and restocked with large goldfish. A few gardeners were busily nesting flowering plants into crevices while a diminutive latticed and arched bridge was being erected over the pool, the center topped by a tiny, intricately wrought gazebo.
It would be a wonderful. It would be a success.
“The gray worsted, again?” Merry hailed her from the French doors. Evelyn turned.
Thank heavens, whatever her personal susceptibilities, Merry had a magnified sense of duty. She had not only completed Mrs. Vandervoort’s wedding dress but was almost finished with the veil. Yesterday the plush satin for the table bunting had arrived ahead of schedule, albeit a bit wrinkled—Justin had admitted he opened it, mistaking it for something or other he was expecting.
“Merry,” Evelyn said, ignoring her question, “I am going to bicycle into town. Can I get you anything?”
“Another five hundred straight pins.”
“Lovely. I’ll be back in an hour or so.”
“Take your time, Evelyn. You’ve earned yourself a bit of a holiday,” Merry called, watching Evelyn leave.
Merry went back to her workroom and sat on her stool, still shaking her head with Gallic mournfulness. “If only she would put on one of the dresses I made . . .”
“Aye?” Buck asked, entering with his arms piled full of bolts of materials. He deposited them and wandered over to where she sat.
“Lady Evelyn. Poor pigeon. You would not think it to look at her now, but in my creations . . .” Merry paused and kissed her fingertips, her eyelids swooning shut with self-congratulation.
“I’m sure she’d be a treat.”
“Treat.” Merry pronounced the word with distaste. “She could be more than a ‘treat.’ She could be a lover.” She looked at Buck thoughtfully. “You have not failed to see how very taken she is with the unkempt Mr. Powell.”
Actually, Buck hadn’t noticed but he didn’t want to admit that to Miss Merry. “Oh, aye. Poor puss.”
“She doesn’t need those hideous tinted spectacles she wears, you know,” Merry revealed.
“Go on,” he said, trying to sound suitably impressed. “Then why does she wear them?”
“She says she feels naked without them. Oh!” She covered her mouth with her hand and giggled. “I have used a not nice word.”
“No matter,” he said gruffly.
Merry set down the piece of satin she’d been working on and peered up at him. “She hasn’t any notion of how to attract Mr. Powell’s notice. Why, the little goose acts like she thinks a man wants a friend or someone to trade sallies with.” Her face scrunched up in repugnance. “But what to do about it? What to do?”
Buck nodded, though he wasn’t listening very carefully. Merry had twisted on the stool and the motion had rucked her skirts up, revealing a neat pair of ankles.
“A man wants someone he can be proud to have on his arm,” Merry mused. “Not someone he always has to be on his toes around, because she’s that sharp-witted.”
She regarded him seriously with her big brown eyes. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Newton?”
“I do, indeed, Miss Merry.” He bent over and kissed her.
And, for the next hour or so, all conversation stopped.
Chapter 9
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EVELYN STOOD ON her bicycle pedals and took off down the drive, heading for Henley Wells. Though she half expected to see Justin stomping around in the shrubbery, other than a pair of placid cows lifting their heads to watch her sail by, Evelyn had the road to herself. It was a glorious afternoon for a ride. The apple orchard was in full bloom, scenting the brisk spring air, while overhead grand heaps of white clouds sailed sublimely through a cerulean ocean.
She loved cycling: skimming along above the earth under her own power, her legs pumping the pedals, her body canted above the handlebars, the sound of her bonnet ribbons rippling behind her. All too soon, the lane curved around a hill and dropped into Henley Wells.
She parked her bicycle in front of the dry-goods store and righted her bonnet before entering. A few minutes later, she returned with a paper parcel. She’d just secured it to the front fender of her bicycle and was about to start back when the train station’s portly manager, Mr. Silsby, stepped out of his office and hailed her.
“Lady Evelyn! A moment, if you please!”
Curiously, she walked her bicycle across the road.
“Thank you,” Mr. Silsby greeted her, mopping at his face with a bright paisley handkerchief. “Glad I am to have caught you, Lady Evelyn. The afternoon train came in late today and delivered four crates for you. Leastwise I think they’re for you. I’m not rightly sure.”
“I don’t take your meaning.”
“Well, they be addressed to North Cross Abbey but they don’t have any name posted anywhere on them.”
“Perhaps they’re Mr. Powell’s?”
“Nah.” Mr. Silsby tucked the handkerchief in his jacket pocket. “Anything comes for Mr. Powell, it says ‘Mr. Powell’ on it.”
“Maybe there’s been some mistake,” she suggested as the station door opened and a stocky, pleasant-looking blond man wearing a trilby hat emerged.
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