Oh, Aunt. “She sent for him directly?”
“Said I wasn’t to tell you. ‘Just bring the earl here, and don’t argue with a dying woman.’ I am very sorry, my lady.”
“You did as Aunt wished, Thiel. I suppose you’d better send Casriel up.”
Addy considered changing back into a proper outfit, but she was more decently covered in a plain dressing gown than she would be fully clothed. Aunt could slip away at any moment, and this was not a time for observing conventions.
“Do you need a tray, my lady? The kitchen is keeping vigil with you.”
Aunt would take so much as a sip. “No tray, and you may seek your bed, Thiel. There’s nothing more for you to do.” Nothing for anybody to do but wait and mourn.
“I’ll bide in my chair for a while yet, if your ladyship has no objection. Allenway will take my place in another hour or so, and I’ll relieve him at dawn.”
Even more than Aunt’s cough, this consideration from the staff confirmed that Addy was soon to be alone, that she was indeed keeping a final vigil.
“I heard voices.” Grey Dorning stood in evening attire at the top of the stairs. “I apologize if I’m intruding at such an hour, but Mrs. Beauchamp apparently asked for me. I hope I am not too late.”
The sound of his voice, the sight of him, the knowledge that he was near… Those realities filled Addy with a comfort and relief disproportionate to all sense.
“I am glad you’ve come, my lord. Aunt Freddy longs to hear her harp played. Perhaps you could oblige?”
Thiel retreated down the steps, though Addy didn’t dare touch her guest. She didn’t need to, because his presence was miracle enough.
His lordship closed the distance between them. “You are exhausted, my lady. I can sit with Mrs. Beauchamp. I’m no stranger to sickrooms, and I’d count it an honor to allow you some rest.”
And miss the chance to spend these few remaining hours with Aunt Freddy? Miss the chance to spend that time with Casriel? Very likely, Aunt had asked for the earl in part to put him in the same room with Addy, and Addy had not the fortitude to thwart that plan.
“I can rest later, my lord. Aunt Freddy will be very pleased you’ve come.”
They stood simply gazing at each other, alone in the shadows cast by the sconce. The moment was intimate and precious beyond telling, an unlooked-for gift from a true friend and gentleman.
Grey opened the bedroom door. “Mrs. Beauchamp, good evening.”
A smile wafted across Aunt’s pale features. “You came. Good of you, my lord, but then, one hears much about your faultless manners. I have a harp that wants playing, and you have been neglecting your music. Beatitude, take his—” The dratted cough plagued her.
Grey sat on the edge of the bed, slid a gentle hand behind Aunt’s shoulders, and held the water glass to her lips, suggesting he truly had attended an invalid or two.
“Take his coat,” Aunt said, sinking back into the pillows when the coughing spell had passed. “The harp does not tolerate Bond Street vanities.”
Grey passed Addy his coat and moved the harp and its stool closer to the bed. “What shall I play?” he asked, taking a seat and positioning the harp against his shoulder. “Simple tunes at first, I think, because my skills are rusty.”
“Beatitude, don’t neglect my knitting,” Aunt said. “To have a pleasant tune for my ears, my dear niece at my side, is all I could wish for.”
Aunt was saying she was happy. In a peculiar way, that gave Addy permission to take not joy from the moment, but peace, perhaps—something good. Grey had said that Addy could call on him at any time, and in the capacity of friend, he’d not fail her.
He’d meant that. Clearly, honestly, with all the considerable honor in him, he’d meant that.
“An old-fashioned air to start with,” Addy said. “Something from Aunt Freddy’s youth, in a major key but not too sprightly.”
“A lullaby,” Grey said, stroking an arpeggio from the harp. “As it happens, I know more than a few. I used to play them for my Tabby.”
He set his hands on the strings, random notes at first, a test of the tuning, a bow and curtsey between instrument and musician. Aunt closed her eyes. Addy took up the knitting, draping the soft blue wool over her knees.
And Grey began to play.
Chapter Fifteen
Grey’s musical technique had faded from disuse, but as he reacquainted himself with the soft strains of lullabies, his mind wandered as it hadn’t since the last time he’d fished the stream beside the abbey ruins.
He’d given up his music because Tabitha’s skill had been approaching his own. He’d set aside a treasured pastime to make room for his daughter’s ambition.
He’d set aside his painting—one of the finest ways he knew to solve problems without thinking of them directly—when Oak’s talent became obvious.
He’d delegated many of a steward’s tasks to Thorne, who had an aptitude for farming. Care of the land and livestock was one aspect of being the earl that Grey enjoyed, and yet, he’d passed those responsibilities to his brother because Thorne needed to feel useful.
As surely as Aunt Freddy was fading on the bed, Grey had been letting parts of himself slip from his own notice. This insight changed nothing, but he had at least put together causes and effects in his own heart.
Addy was snoring in her chair, a swath of blue knitting draped over her knees. Mrs. Beauchamp was asleep as well, or in the untroubled twilight wherein many awaited death. Grey recalled his grandfather’s last hours being spent in a similar state, as had his father’s.
Had those men been at peace? Had they regretted a short-lived affair that should have been the love of a lifetime? Grey did not regret his encounters with Addy. Just the opposite. He was profoundly grateful to have been allowed even those brief interludes to be himself, not the earl, not the head of the family, not the fortune hunter.
Himself.
He played on, and Aunt Freddy’s breathing changed, becoming more audible.
Addy’s eyes opened, and when Grey would have brought the tune to a close, she shook her head. “She should leave us while lovely music fills the air.”
Addy took her aunt’s hand, though the old lady gave no sign she was aware of the gesture. For the space of two soft, sweet choruses, Mrs. Beauchamp continued to breathe, while Addy held her hand.
Then… nothing. No sound of breathing came from the bed. No movement of the covers suggested life yet lingered. Fredericka Beauchamp had departed the mortal realm, a pretty tune in the air, her niece at her side. Grey could not be sad for the old woman, but his heart broke for Addy.
“Play one more,” Addy said. “I need you to play one more lullaby for her.”
Grey did not play for Mrs. Beauchamp. He played for Addy. His music was offered as a consolation, a promise of peace, and the only gift he could give her. When he’d played the piece through twice, he rose and set the harp back in its corner.
“You’ll want some time to make your farewells,” he said. “I’ll let the household know you are not to be disturbed and have word sent to Mrs. Beauchamp’s domestics.”
Addy remained seated, the blue knitting still in her lap. “Are you leaving?”
Grey knew exactly the state of her mind, both because he’d lost many older relations and because he knew her. Addy appeared calm and accepting of the realities, but on a level beneath words, she was dealing with a blow.
Nothing would be the same. A loss had to be grieved.
“I’m going to the kitchen to let your staff know of your aunt’s passing. I will write a note to Mrs. Beauchamp’s solicitor and send for her senior staff. They will want to assist with what comes next. I will not leave the house without bidding you a proper farewell. If you have no crepe, I can lend you my stores.”
“I have crepe,” Addy said, gaze on the small, still form in the bed. “Mr. Ickles has offices near the Inns of Court. I’d not thought… I’d forgotten how much effort a death can be.”
An aunt need not be mourned as a spouse or parent was mourned, but this aunt had been dear to Addy. The rituals would be observed out of respect rather than duty.
“I’ll return shortly.” Grey longed to take Addy in his arms, wanted to at least hold her hand, but he had not the right.
The staff took the news with sadness and relief—a lingering invalid could turn a household upside down for months—and despite dawn being two hours away, Grey jotted off notes to Mrs. Beauchamp’s housekeeper and to her lawyer. The message to her vicar could wait until morning and should be penned in Addy’s hand.
Grey collected a tea tray from the kitchen, waved away a tired footman, and took the food upstairs himself. Addy’s housekeeper, in nightgown and cap, trundled at his side, occasionally sniffing into a handkerchief.
“You’re most kind to trouble over us, my lord. Most kind.”
“If mourning cannot inspire friends to kindness, then what can?” He set the tray in Addy’s sitting room and accompanied the housekeeper to the sickroom.
“Mrs. Fortnam,” Addy said, rising from her chair. “Aunt Freddy has left us.”
“His lordship said as much, my lady. I am so sorry, and I know Mrs. Richards will want to pay her respects as soon as may be. I can sit with Mrs. Beauchamp now, if you’d like to rest.”
Addy rose, gathering the blue knitting into a bunch. “I don’t want to leave her.”
Grey knew that feeling too. “If you choose one of Mrs. Beauchamp’s favorite frocks, Mrs. Fortnam and Mrs. Richards will see that she’s laid out in it.”
Addy’s composure faltered. She blinked several times and clutched the knitting more tightly. “I would… I would appreciate that. The green dress with the pink embroidery, then. Aunt had it made in Paris. It’s delicate. You will be careful?”
“Very careful, my lady. I promise.” The housekeeper sent Grey a look: For pity’s sake, help her.
“A tea tray waits across the corridor,” Grey said. “I could use a cup, even if your reserves of energy have yet to fail.”
Addy spared the bed one final glance, bit her lip, blinked, and nodded.
Grey resigned himself to pouring out another pot of tea nobody much wanted, and held the door rather than take Addy’s hand.
“Mrs. Quinlan, I suspect we have a small problem.”
Charles raised this small problem at breakfast, for Sarah had not deigned to join them at such an early hour, thank God.
“I am plagued by small problems,” Edna replied, “such as a modiste who has forgotten the meaning of modesty. Madam claims fashion all but requires a young lady’s attributes to fall from her bodice, and Sarah abets her.”
Sarah was at the heart of most of the household’s difficulties, though Charles honestly did not care how many new riding habits his daughter demanded or how many slippers she threw. He cared very much that Edna hadn’t smiled at him for three days.
“Sarah is worried that she won’t bag her earl,” he said. “Quinlans are ambitious by nature, and I don’t apologize for that.”
Edna took a sip of her coffee. She liked it black and strong, as did Charles. “I fear Sarah did not make a good impression on her earl—if Casriel is hers. She’s convinced they are off to a roaring start, but nobody was smiling when I returned to the formal parlor.”
Charles did not care for the formal parlor. Sarah, aided by her finishing governess, had seen to the decorations, and they struck Charles as gaudy. Edna had said not to criticize Sarah’s first efforts at shaping a household, and he’d held his peace.
“Casriel was not at Lady Bellefonte’s do last night,” Charles said, sawing off a bite of steak. “He has a family connection to the Haddonfields. His brother Willow is married to a Haddonfield, and you’d think Casriel would put in an appearance.”
Charles had nothing against music, but evenings spent with caterwauling sopranos or young couples too besotted to stumble through a duet at the pianoforte were an annoying waste of time.
“The earl has not been socializing much lately,” Edna said, peering at her coffee. “Sarah claims that’s because he’s made his choice, and he’ll soon declare himself.”
“Does Sarah know that Casriel spent all of last night with Lady Canmore?”
Edna set down her cup, carefully. “He’s an aristocrat, as is her ladyship. They regard marriage differently than we do.”
“Lady Canmore’s auntie apparently expired in the middle of the night, but what does it say that a pretty widow sends for Sarah’s earl when the hour is well past midnight, and the damned man arrives on the instant and hasn’t left the premises as we speak?”
The hour was quite early—Charles did not believe in wasting daylight—but sending for an undertaker and ordering the servants to hang crepe did not take all night. Casriel’s affections were clearly engaged, and so were Lady Canmore’s.
“Mr. Quinlan, are you having Sarah’s earl followed?”
No judgment colored Edna’s question. Much was learned simply by observing a potential business associate from a discreet distance. A future son-in-law merited at least the same scrutiny.
“Of course I am. Wish I’d had the younger brother followed. That one hasn’t taken ship, so where the devil is he, and what’s he about?”
Edna selected a triangle of buttered toast from the rack at her elbow. “Perhaps he’s enjoying the hospitality of a sponging house. More likely, Sycamore Dorning has gone home to Dorset for a respite from London’s pleasures. Lord knows, I’ve had enough of this place.”
And that was why Sarah must have her earl. Charles’s daughter would be miserable if she failed to land a titled husband, but Edna was miserable now. The hunt needed to come to an end, before Edna lost patience with the whole endeavor, or Sarah made a complete fool of herself.
For his own part, Charles expected polite society’s snickers and whispers, but for his daughter, he demanded better.
“We won’t be here much longer, Mrs. Quinlan. I do not begrudge a bachelor and a widow their diversions, but staying the night is not done, no matter who has gone to their reward. Casriel needs to understand that he’ll be a faithful husband, or I’ll have a thing or two to say about it.”
Edna dipped her toast in her coffee. She would not have done that if a footman had hovered at the sideboard.
“Casriel is not of our ilk, Charles. You cannot expect him to behave like a besotted yeoman when he’s an earl making an advantageous match. Earls keep mistresses. They have affairs. He already has a by-blow and makes no secret of it. Sarah likely won’t care what he gets up to, provided she can continue to spend your money.”
That last observation was not intended to compliment Sarah—or her father.
“Say what’s on your mind, Mrs. Quinlan. We have ever been honest with each other, one of many things I treasure about you.”
Edna munched her toast, and Charles waited. His wife was slow with her judgments, also thoughtful and shrewd. Her insights frequently astounded him.
“Ever since Sarah came back from that fancy finishing school,” Edna said, “I have felt as if I do not know her. She speaks French when she knows I can’t understand a word of it. She was a good girl, Charles. I want my good girl back, not this preening twit. We sent her off with a good opinion of herself, and she came home determined to look down on her own upbringing.”
Charles’s steak had grown cold, which bothered him not at all. There had been a time when steak hadn’t been on even his Sunday menu.
“She should look down on her own upbringing. We’re common as dirt, despite all of our money. My Sarah does not have to be common, and my granddaughters will have the title lady. My grandson will be an earl, and nobody will dare look down on him. That’s what Sarah wants, so I’ll see that she gets it.”
Edna took another bite of soggy toast. “I would far rather my grandchildren be happy than titled, and I suspect Sarah has simply adopted her father’s priorities when it comes to progeny and titles. Sarah is setting herself up for an empt
y marriage, among people she won’t understand. She is not of the aristocracy, and she knows little of the gentry. Country life will leave her bored and lonely, and resentment is sure to follow. I want better for her. I want her to have what I have—a wonderful man who is her best friend and intimate companion.”
Edna on the scent of truth was a fearless warrior, but Charles understood ambition, and thus their daughter, in a way Edna did not.
“Sarah wants a title,” he said, “and Casriel in particular. He’s a bird in the hand, Edna. If I send him packing, Sarah will be impossible. She’ll be the butt of unkind talk, and then we’ll never get back to Cheshire.”
Edna poured herself more coffee, but Charles was not fooled. She was allowing him the last word. She was unhappy, she did not agree with him, and she was not entirely wrong.
“If it becomes necessary,” Charles said, “I’ll have a word with Casriel. He’ll not play Sarah false. To the extent an earl can make his wife happy, Casriel will exert himself to that end, or I’ll ruin him.”
Edna blew gently on her coffee. “Sarah will be his countess, Charles. Not merely his wife, perhaps not his wife in any meaningful sense, but his countess. You cannot ruin him without also ruining her.”
The sun was rising, as the sun always did. In early widowhood, Addy had clung to that evidence of life going forward. The sun rose, and Addy had risen from her bed. The sun traveled across the sky. Addy had dressed, eaten, received friends, eventually received the mourning callers. She’d traveled across first and second mourning and into the terrain of the proper, settled widow.
“I think some part of me was always anticipating Roger’s death,” she said.
Grey had led her to the back garden, an oasis of green a mere dozen yards wide and three times as long. Just enough of a garden to attract birds at daybreak and grow one stately shade tree.
“You anticipated Roger’s death because he was reckless?”
A Truly Perfect Gentleman Page 25