by Mary Balogh
Dora had been able to avoid all but a nodding acquaintance with Mrs. Parkinson since that dreadful afternoon at Mrs. Yarby’s. She sat at some distance from the lady this afternoon and drew her mother to sit down beside her. She was certainly not going to allow another such tête-à-tête as the one she had suffered on that occasion.
There was another surprise in store, however, before the socially acceptable half hour of their visit was at an end. It came with the arrival of another guest, whose appearance so took both Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Parkinson by surprise that Dora did not believe for one moment that it was unexpected.
“My lord!” Mrs. Clark exclaimed, leaping to her feet and smiling and curtsying as the Earl of Eastham was announced. “I could be knocked right off my feet with a feather, I do declare.”
“Well, this is a delightful surprise, I must say,” Mrs. Parkinson said, rising and curtsying more deeply than her hostess. “You did not tell me, my dear Isabella, that you were expecting his lordship.”
“But how could I, Vera,” Mrs. Clark asked, all amazement, “when I did not know he was even in Cornwall?”
Her daughter was curtsying, her eyes fixed upon the floor.
“How d’ye do, Eastham?” Mr. Clark said, shaking his guest by the hand. “In the neighborhood for a while, are you?”
“I am on a tour of the West Country,” the Earl of Eastham explained, “and am currently staying at an inn a mere three miles away from here. I thought I would call in upon the friends who were so kind to me many years ago when my sister died. But . . . the Duchess of Stanbrook?” He started with surprise.
Dora had been regarding him in some dismay. She had seen him only once before in her life—when he was accusing her bridegroom of murder and trying to put a stop to their nuptials. She had tried since then to view his actions in the most sympathetic light possible, but it was really quite ghastly to find herself in a room with him without any decent chance of escape.
“Oh, do allow me to present you,” Mrs. Clark said. “But . . . oh, dear me, I had quite forgot. You have met the duchess, have you not? In London a couple of months ago. Oh, this is very distressing.”
“Pray do not upset yourself, ma’am,” the earl said, making his bow to Dora and looking at her, concern in his face. “Duchess, allow me to apologize now for any pain I caused you during our last encounter. I do assure you I meant you no harm whatsoever. Indeed, the whole of my behavior on that occasion was ill-considered. I am your servant to command. I will immediately withdraw from this house and from this neighborhood if it is your wish.”
Dora thought him sincere, though it was hard to believe that all this had not been deliberate. She inclined her head slightly.
“Your call is being made upon Mr. and Mrs. Clark in their own home, Lord Eastham,” she said. “You must not withdraw upon my account.”
“My lord,” Mrs. Clark said, “do allow me to present Lord Everard and Lady Havell. Lady Havell is Her Grace’s mother.”
Dora had felt her mother stiffen beside her as soon as the earl was announced by name and knew that she had made the connection with what she must have heard had happened at Dora’s wedding.
After acknowledging the introductions, the earl first made brief conversation with the gentlemen and then, after Mrs. Clark had set a cup of tea in his hand, came to sit on a stool close to both Dora and her mother. He then proceeded to make himself agreeable to them with details of his travels and questions about their own impressions of Cornwall.
It was perhaps one of the most uncomfortable half hours of Dora’s life, though she did admit to herself afterward that she was not altogether sorry it had happened. The Earl of Eastham had appeared to her as a complete monster at her wedding, and even as she made excuses for him afterward, she had not quite been able to believe in his humanity. Now she did. He was older than George by a number of years and looked it. Even so, he possessed the remnants of the good looks he must have enjoyed as a young man, his manners were engaging, and his conversation was amiable. He left the Clarks’ house at the same time as they did, and he handed her mother into the barouche with great courtesy before Sir Everard did the like for Dora.
He made his bow after they were all seated and addressed himself to Dora.
“I thank you most sincerely, Duchess,” he said, “for permitting me to remain at the home of my . . . sister’s erstwhile friends and my own. It was good to see them again after so long. I will remember your kindness and hope the time will come when you can forgive me for my impulsive and offensive behavior on your wedding day. Your servant, Lady Havell. Yours, Havell.”
Her mother’s hand sought Dora’s as the barouche moved away. “How dreadfully unfortunate that was,” she said. “I am inclined to believe, though, that he does indeed regret spoiling your wedding day, Dora. I daresay it is hard for a man to see his sister’s widower marry someone else. Love of a sibling is different from love of a spouse. In some ways it is more enduring because of the bond of the blood relationship. A wife can be replaced; a sister cannot.”
“She was his half sister,” Dora said. “Do you think Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Parkinson were really surprised. Was he?”
“It did not occur to me,” her mother said, “that perhaps they were not. Do you mean you believe he wanted to meet you and enlisted their aid? But even if that is so, Dora, it would not be a bad thing. It would suggest even more that he has been suffering remorse and wished to apologize to you in person. What do you think, Everard?”
Sir Everard, thus appealed to, looked thoughtful. “If the man wished to make his apology to Dora,” he said, “he might have written to her. Or he might have presented himself at Penderris Hall and asked to speak with her. Though I daresay Stanbrook would have had something to say to either of those approaches.”
“Meeting her thus was . . . clandestine, then?” Dora’s mother asked him.
“Or merely accidental,” he said with a shrug. “You will tell Stanbrook, Dora?”
“But of course,” she said. It would not occur to her not to tell George. Though she did not look forward to it. She felt almost guilty. Perhaps when the Earl of Eastham had offered to leave the house, she should have left instead. But it would have been very ill-mannered to her hosts, and word of it would have been around the neighborhood in no time.
It would be around the neighborhood anyway. But at least it would be reported that she and the Earl of Eastham had been civil to each other.
* * *
There was a tap upon the door of George’s dressing room just before dinner, and Dora answered his summons to enter. His valet had just finished knotting his neckcloth with his usual flair for elegant artistry without any added ostentation. George waved him away before he could add the diamond pin that lay waiting on the dresser. Something was bothering Dora and had been ever since her return home this afternoon, though she had denied it and merely smiled brightly when he had asked her.
“You are ready to go down?” He got to his feet.
“There is something you ought to know,” she said. “You will probably be . . . upset about it, though I do not believe you need to worry.”
He raised his eyebrows and clasped his hands at his back. “You are not feeling unwell, I hope,” he said.
“Oh, nothing like that,” she assured him. “Mother and Sir Everard and I called upon the Clarks this afternoon. Mrs. Parkinson was there too.”
“Ah,” he said. Both ladies had been Miriam’s friends. “Was the visit a severe trial to you, then, Dora? I hope there was no repetition of what happened at the Yarbys’.”
“Not at all,” she assured him. “Mr. Clark drew Sir Everard into conversation, and the ladies were perfectly amiable to Mother and me. But . . . another guest arrived while we were there. Mrs. Clark reacted with great surprise when he was announced, as did Mrs. Parkinson, but I had the feeling they had been expecting him. He was the Earl of Eastham.”<
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What the devil? George felt rather as though his head had been plunged into an ice bucket.
“He is traveling in Cornwall,” she told him, “and staying at an inn a few miles from the village. He called upon the Clarks because they were kind to him after . . . after his sister’s death. They were delighted to see him, as was Mrs. Parkinson. But it did seem to me that his visit was not the surprise they pretended it was. Mr. Clark did not look surprised at all, and Miss Clark looked merely embarrassed. And then he—the earl—was shocked to see me.”
“Good God, Dora.” George exploded into wrath. “The impertinence of it. Did you leave immediately? I hope Havell—”
But she was holding up both hands, palms out.
“I was given the impression that the meeting was contrived,” she said, “but I believe the earl’s motive was a sound one. He apologized to me most handsomely for what happened on our wedding day. He admitted that he behaved very badly on that occasion and begged my pardon in everyone’s hearing when he might have taken me aside to speak privately and so saved himself some embarrassment. Are you very annoyed that I stayed and listened?”
Annoyed? He was almost vibrating with fury. He was also curiously . . . afraid.
“I daresay,” he said, “it was those kind friends in the village who wrote to inform him of my upcoming wedding.”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I had not thought of that. And of course everyone here knows what happened at the church. Perhaps he felt he really ought to make his apologies for all to hear, for the Clarks were surely dismayed to hear of his misuse of the information with which they had provided him.”
“Dora,” he said, stepping forward and taking both her hands in his, “stay away from him.”
“I am quite sure I will be able to do so without any effort,” she said. “I doubt I will see him again. He will be continuing his travels. But he made himself very agreeable to both Sir Everard and Mother during tea—and to me. I do believe he really is sorry for what happened. And if he did know I was to be at the Clarks’, then it was even more commendable that he came there to speak with me. It must not have been easy and could very well have been avoided. “
“Dora.” He squeezed her hands more tightly. “Mrs. Clark and Mrs. Parkinson were at the forefront of the vicious, baseless accusations that were bandied about after Miriam’s death. They, together with Eastham himself. The man wrecked your wedding day.”
“Oh, not quite,” she protested. “And he certainly has not wrecked my marriage, has he? This afternoon could not have had any malicious motive behind it. What could they have hoped to accomplish beyond my embarrassment? That would have been very little reward for a malevolent conspiracy. It seems far more likely that they all wanted to mend some fences, and I appreciate it even if I cannot feel any great liking for those ladies. As for the Earl of Eastham—George, he was once your brother-in-law, and he was clearly very fond of his sister. He was upset by the news of your upcoming marriage to me and behaved badly. It happens. He has apologized. That happens too. I suppose in a sense he still is part of your family. People do not stop being your in-laws just because the person who formed the link between them has died, do they? Agnes would still be your sister-in-law if I were to die.”
“Don’t,” he said, raising both her hands to his lips. “Don’t die before me, Dora. In fact, I expressly forbid it.”
She tipped her head to one side and smiled at him. “I shall try to obey,” she said, “since you have not commanded my obedience much since our marriage. George, I think it would be a wonderful gesture if we invited him to our ball. The whole neighborhood would see that all that unpleasant business is over and done with. And then I daresay he would go on his way and we would never see him again.”
“No!” His head had turned icy again. “Eastham will not be invited to the ball or to this house, Dora. Ever. He might once have been my brother-in-law, but there was never an ounce of love lost between the two of us. Never. Quite the opposite, in fact, and it grew worse toward the end. I am not much given to hatred, but I can say without hesitation and without apology that I loathe Anthony Meikle, Earl of Eastham. And I can assure you beyond the shadow of any doubt that he has always returned the sentiment with interest. Stay away from him.”
She gazed at him, an inscrutable expression on her face. “Is that a command?” she asked.
He released her hands and turned jerkily to pick up his diamond pin, which he proceeded to secure in place among the folds of his neckcloth.
“No,” he said. “I hope I will never try to command you, Dora. It is a request. But we must be keeping your mother and Sir Everard waiting in the drawing room and—worse—the chef in the kitchen.”
She continued to gaze at him for a few moments longer before stepping forward and batting away his hands to adjust the pin more to her liking.
“Shall we go to the music room after dinner?” she suggested.
“If you were willing always to play the harp,” he said, “I would live in the music room.”
She laughed. “Mother used to have a beautiful voice,” she said. “Perhaps we can persuade her to sing to the harp’s accompaniment. Or to play the pianoforte while I play the harp.”
He leaned forward and kissed her lips.
“You are glad we invited her?” he asked.
She lifted her eyes to his. “I am glad,” she said. “Very glad. But them, not just her. I believe I like Sir Everard.”
18
For the week before the ball Dora was unable to concentrate upon much else, though there was remarkably little for her to do beyond occasionally flitting about looking busy. A few times she felt guilty over her idleness, but it was a very good thing to know that one had such a good and efficient staff. She had told George once that she could easily grow accustomed to having so many servants, and indeed it had happened. However had she managed in her little cottage with only Mrs. Henry for help? The answer was obvious of course. It had been a little cottage, and she had never tried to host a grand ball there.
The servants at Penderris were being even more solicitous of her than usual, she came to realize, because of the delicate state of her health. She always smiled to herself at the memory of what Ann Cox-Hampton had had to say about that word delicate. Dora had never felt in better health in her life.
By the day of the ball the whole vast house gleamed with cleanliness; the ballroom floor had been polished to such a high gloss that it resembled a mirror; all the chandeliers had been lowered onto large sheets spread over the floor and had been cleaned until the crystal drops that were suspended from them sparkled, and each holder had been fitted with a new candle, dozens in all; the ballroom and the balcony outside the French windows had been decked with large pots of purple and fuchsia and white flowers and leaves and ferns; so had the sides of the staircase; a red carpet was rolled up at one side of the hall ready to be fitted down the outside steps late in the afternoon; the kitchens and the pantry were so laden with food it was a wonder anyone could move around without knocking some of it off surfaces onto the floor, which was almost as spotlessly clean as the tabletops; a number of the guest rooms had been aired and the beds made up and a vase of flowers, a bowl of fruit, and a bottle of wine with a tray of crystal glasses arranged in each.
There was really nothing for Dora to do after an early luncheon but await the arrival of those guests who would stay the night, though it was doubtful any of them would come for hours yet. Julian and Philippa had arrived before luncheon, but they were family and had come for a visit as well as to attend the ball. They had come early so that there would be plenty of time to settle Belinda in the old nursery with her nurse. Dora had mentioned to Mrs. Lerner that she intended to find some toys and books for the child’s amusement, but even in that she was thwarted. One of the attic rooms was filled with suitable items, moved there after they were no longer needed by any children of the house.
A couple of footmen were sent to fetch them down and make sure they were clean. They included an old rocking horse, which George remembered as a great favorite when he was a child.
George took Julian and Sir Everard out riding with him after luncheon, using as an excuse that they would be out of the servants’ way if they made themselves scarce. Soon after they left Belinda settled down for an afternoon nap and Dora’s mother went into the village with Philippa, who wanted to see if the shop had a length of ribbon in just the shade of pink she had been searching for to trim the bonnet she had purchased in London. Dora did not go with them. She stayed to receive any of the guests who might by chance arrive early. She had also promised both George and her mother that she would retire to her room at some point during the afternoon to rest.
She did spend half an hour in her room, but she could not sleep, and there was no point in lying on her bed staring at the canopy over her head. Her brain and her stomach were too busy churning with mingled excitement and apprehension about her coming duties as hostess of her very own ball. She so very much wanted every moment of the evening to be perfectly happy and memorable.
Her mother and Philippa found her upon their return in a salon that had been set up for card playing—it was too much to expect, of course, that everyone would wish to dance. She was moving a table an inch here, a chair half an inch there, just as though the furniture were not perfectly arranged as it was. Philippa waggled her reticule triumphantly from the doorway before hurrying off to the nursery.