by Jane Feather
“Your bronze silk is quite elegant,” Aurelia suggested.
“It’s probably the best I can find, but is it suitable for the morning? I only ever wear it in the evening at home,” Cornelia protested.
“I’m guessing that what’s suitable for an evening in the country is suitable for a morning in town,” Livia stated, drawing out the gown. “Depressing as that may be when and if we venture forth upon the town.” She held up the dress. “It is very pretty, Nell.”
“It’s also the best we can do,” her friend observed with a resigned shrug. “I could wear the cashmere shawl with it. That is elegant…besides which it’ll keep me warm,” she added, picking up a fold of the gown. “This silk is so thin. I’m not going to make much of an impression on the viscount if my lips are blue, and I can’t talk for chattering teeth.”
“It’s not that cold in the parlor,” Aurelia said. “And you can wear those silk mittens, they’re perfectly acceptable for morning wear, even in the town.”
“Here’s yer ’ot water, mum.” One of the twins appeared in the open doorway with a copper jug. It was as if she’d wafted there on some current of air, Cornelia reflected. The twins moved around utterly soundlessly, and none of the three women could get accustomed to their sudden materializations sometimes but not always accompanied by a monosyllabic explanation for the appearance.
“Thank you.” She smiled warmly in lieu of addressing the woman by name. It seemed rude after two days not to be able to tell them apart.
The twin set the jug down on the dresser and wiped her hands on her apron before casting a glance around the room, rather as if she’d never seen it before, then glided out into the drafty corridor.
Cornelia poured water into the basin and, shivering, cast aside her dressing gown. She sponged herself rapidly. “What I’d give for a bath.”
“Maybe this evening we could fill a tub by the kitchen fire and take it in turns,” Livia suggested. “We could give Morecombe and the twins the evening off.”
“I don’t think they ever leave the house,” Aurelia said. “Judging by Morecombe’s reluctance this morning even to go to the shop for the children’s chocolate. He sounded as if just venturing onto the street was the equivalent of a trip into enemy territory.”
“Well, living with a recluse probably rubbed off.” Cornelia dropped her chemise over her head. “Now which drawer did I use for my stockings?”
“This one. Do you want silk or wool?” Livia held up two pairs.
“It had better be silk with that gown, but I’d be much more comfortable in wool,” Cornelia responded with another shiver as she reached for the silk stockings. “Ellie, will you do my hair? You’re so clever at it.”
“One of my minor talents,” Aurelia agreed with a slightly smug smile. She gave her sister-in-law a shrewd glance. “You seem to be going to a lot of trouble for this pompous viscount. You must want to make an impression on him.”
“It’s not so much that as erase the one I made yesterday,” Cornelia replied, but a slight touch of pink tinged her cheekbones as she buttoned the wrists of the long sleeves of the gown. She wanted to think that thoroughly erasing that impression would drive home to him the realization of his rudeness. But honesty obliged her to admit, at least to herself, that injured pride played its part. The viscount had presented an impeccable appearance, which made his arrogant, insultingly pompous assumptions all the more unbearable. This time she was giving him no advantages.
“Do they wear jewelry in the mornings these days?” Livia was trawling through Cornelia’s jewel box. “You need something for that neckline, I think. It looks very bare.”
“It is very bare,” Cornelia said, peering down at her bosom. “I could wear a fichu?” She sounded doubtful.
“Too matronly,” Aurelia pronounced. “Just because you’re the dowager mother of two doesn’t make you matronly.” She reached into the jewel box, saying with authority, “The amber beads are perfect. It’s not done to wear precious gems before sunset in the town or the country, but amber, topaz, amethyst, they’re all quite acceptable.”
She clasped the amber beads around her sister-in-law’s long neck and stood back to examine the effect in the dresser mirror. “Yes, much better. Now for your hair.”
Her fingers went to work and within five minutes she had braided the luxuriant honey-colored mass into a neat coil around Cornelia’s head and teased ringlets to fall about her ears. “How’s that?”
Cornelia tilted her head from side to side. “Pretty,” she said, playing with one of the ringlets. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come tumbling down at a crucial moment.”
“Did he say what time he would call?” Livia asked.
“No, but the usual time for morning visits is around eleven. Or at least it used to be.” Cornelia glanced at the clock on the mantel. “It’s only ten now. I’m going up to the nursery.”
She spent the next hour with the children, planning their day with Linton, and just before eleven descended the stairs in search of Morecombe. Livia had asked him to clean the tarnished silver that was littered around the house, and Cornelia found him in the butler’s pantry muttering to himself as he polished.
“Don’t see no point t’ this,” he said, as she knocked on the open door. “’Twas good enough for Lady Sophia just as it were.”
“Perhaps Lady Sophia’s eyesight was not very good,” Cornelia suggested. “Those cruets do look lovely now they’re polished.” She picked up one of them and held it to the light. “I’m sure it’s Elizabethan.” She was reminded of the thimble as she looked at the intricate designs on the salt cellar.
“Mebbe so,” Morecombe muttered, not sounding convinced as he attacked a sugar caster.
“I’m expecting a visitor, Morecombe. When he arrives he’ll ask for Lady Livia. Could you show him into the parlor. I’ll wait for him there.”
“Oh, aye?” Morecombe regarded her with his rheumy gaze. “An’ where will Lady Livia be then, m’lady?”
“Oh, she asked me to see him for her,” Cornelia said vaguely. “Just show him in. There’s no need for you to explain.”
“Oh, aye?” The lack of conviction was more pronounced, but he returned to his sugar caster, and Cornelia beat a prudent retreat.
Livia was waiting for her in the hall. “For a minute I forgot all about Mr. Masters. You remember he’s supposed to call this morning too. Where shall I see him if you’re in the parlor with the viscount?”
“The salon?” Cornelia suggested, opening the door onto that bleak chamber, where the furniture was still under dust covers, the curtains drawn tightly across the long windows to prevent any possibility of daylight, or, heaven forfend, sunlight from penetrating its dusty shadows.
She crossed the room and pulled back one set of heavy velvet drapes, releasing a cloud of dust. “Aunt Sophia’s lawyer must know what condition the house is in,” she observed, moving to another window. “He must have visited her on occasion. He won’t be surprised at the state of this room, but at least we could let in some light.”
“Not that there is much,” Livia said, drawing back the third set of curtains and sneezing violently. “Even if the windows were clean. With all that rain, it’s dark as a dungeon out there.”
“And cold as charity in here,” Cornelia added. She rubbed a circle in the grime on one long window and stared out at the rain-drenched street. “Oh, I think this must be our viscount. That’s quite a turnout he’s driving. He’s obviously not short of a guinea or two.”
“Let me see.” Livia came to her side and peered through the cleared glass. “Oh, yes, I see what you mean. Beautiful pair of horses.” She rubbed a wider circle in the grime. “I can’t see much of the driver, though. He’s all wrapped up. The collar of his greatcoat is turned up to his ears.”
“It would be in this weather…fancy driving an open carriage,” Cornelia said with a shake of her head. “Why didn’t he take a hackney? Any sane man would.”
“Perhaps he isn’t,�
� Livia murmured. “Sane, I mean. Would a sane man want to pay that kind of money for this wreck?” She waved a hand around the room.
“Money, enough of it, will put the house right,” Cornelia said. “It has some very aristocratic lines to it. A noble house under all this neglect.”
“Perhaps you’re right…oh, he’s drawing up. He’s giving his reins to his tiger. You’d better go into the parlor before he knocks at the door. I’ll wait in here.”
Cornelia went swiftly into the hall and whisked herself into the parlor. She debated where to position herself to best effect when Viscount Bonham walked in. Before the fire? Over by the window, in an armchair deep in a book? No, not the latter, she decided. The chairs sagged too much for a graceful rise from their depths. The window seat was a possibility. She could be found there, her head bent over her sewing. But she’d left her workbox upstairs…no the secretaire. She would have her back to the door, apparently occupied with letter writing.
The knocker sounded as she sat down and picked up an ancient quill. It hadn’t been sharpened in years, and she looked at its ragged tip with some dismay. But there was no time to change her position now. She aimed the pen at the inkstand, only to discover it dry as a bone. Now she could hear voices in the hall. The viscount’s clipped tones, Morecombe’s broad Yorkshire monosyllables. And then the parlor door opened.
“In ’ere, sir,” Morecombe declared without embellishment, and departed, closing the door firmly behind him.
Harry stood for a second, hat in hand, torn between amusement and indignation at his unceremonious admission to the house. The man hadn’t even offered to take his hat and his dripping driving coat.
The woman at the secretaire didn’t turn around immediately, then she said in a soft voice that immediately brought his hackles up, “Forgive me, Lord Bonham, just one minute more.” She reached for the sander and sprinkled it liberally over her page, then turned slowly in her chair, regarding him with a half smile, which only a fool would mistake as friendly, before rising to her feet.
“I believe we have already met, sir.” She continued to regard him quizzically, but the glitter in her blue eyes was unmistakable, as unmistakable as the quiet, well-modulated voice he had heard the previous day.
Harry drew off his gloves one finger at a time. “It would appear so, ma’am. I confess myself amazed at the transformation. You must forgive me for my error yesterday, but I’m sure you’ll agree it was an understandable one?” An eyebrow flickered in a faint question mark. “Had you done me the courtesy of correcting the error, matters might have gone rather more agreeably between us.”
Cornelia had been intending to bring the charade to a close immediately after the initial discomfort that she had been certain the man would feel. But now he was putting the blame upon her, looking not in the least discomfited. Indeed, there was a glint in his green eyes that seemed to be issuing a challenge to match her own. To her astonishment, she felt a stir of interest, a flutter of anticipation at the prospect.
“Your manner, sir, did not encourage such an introduction,” she declared, drawing the cashmere shawl around her as she instinctively folded her arms and regarded him steadily. “I have no desire to prolong this interview, so perhaps you will state your business.”
Harry tossed his hat and gloves onto the gateleg table. In the absence of an invitation to sit down, or even to remove his driving coat, he was obliged to stand dripping on the faded carpet. The magnitude of his mistaken assumption astonished him, and for an inconvenient moment he was hard-pressed not to laugh at the contrast between his preconception of an elderly lady wrapped in shawls with her feet in a mustard bath and the reality of this poised woman very far removed from her dotage.
Without volition he found himself taking inventory. She was tall, something he had failed to notice the previous day, and held herself erect. Her gown was hardly in the first style of fashion, but the bronze color suited her hair, which was, he thought absently, a combination of dark honey and golden butter. Her eyes, an intense and penetrating blue, were set beneath straight brown eyebrows, and her complexion, slightly flushed at present, was of the creamy variety.
Cornelia wasn’t at all sure what to make of this silent and close examination. For some reason, it made her skin prickle. “Well, sir?” she prompted.
“Ah, yes,” he said coolly, deciding it was time to take charge of this interview. He unbuttoned his coat but made no attempt to take it off. “I believe, ma’am, you are aware of my business. I am interested in purchasing this house. The lawyer who is handling Lady Sophia Lacey’s estate has already made my offer known to you. I thought to make it in person.”
“Mr. Masters has already been instructed to give you a response to your offer,” Cornelia stated, choosing her words carefully. She was not going to lay verbal claim to Livia’s identity. He was to labor under a misapprehension, not a direct lie. “That settled the matter, I believe.”
He pinched his chin between finger and thumb, regarding her thoughtfully for a minute. In certain circumstances he could imagine enjoying a sparring match with the lady, but these were not they. The matter was too urgent for dalliance of any kind. “I would ask you to reconsider your response,” he stated carefully. “I am willing to increase my offer.”
“Do you generally misunderstand clear statements, viscount?” Cornelia inquired. “I had believed that the response to your offer was an unequivocal rejection. Could I have been mistaken?” She regarded him, her head tilted slightly to one side, with an expression of polite disbelief.
Harry frowned, considering his next move in this pas de deux. Nothing she had said could be considered discourteous—unhelpful certainly—but the words contained no insult. But everything about this woman, her posture, her expression, most particularly those expressive eyes radiated a challenge that he was finding difficult to ignore. But however tempting, he must not deviate from his path.
“I came here, ma’am, in good faith,” he said, hoping to strike a conciliatory note of reason.
“On a fool’s errand, sir,” Cornelia stated bluntly. “It seems I have not spoken plainly enough so allow me to state the position in the simplest of terms. This house is not for sale.”
He inclined his head slightly as if in acknowledgment of her statement, then he walked casually across the room towards where she stood beside the secretaire. She held her ground, meeting his steady gaze, her arms still folded beneath the cashmere shawl.
He stood close to her, close enough to smell the faintest hint of rosemary. An herb used with lavender when storing clothes not often worn. His eyes flicked to the secretaire over her shoulder. The sheet she had so elaborately sanded was blank. He reached around her and picked up the ragged quill.
“Dear me,” he murmured, waving the dry pen with an air of incredulity. “I trust your correspondence isn’t vital, ma’am.”
He was rewarded by a conscious flash in her eyes, the sudden tightening of her lips. Then she observed, “I believe this concludes our business, Lord Bonham.”
He smiled at her. “Perhaps so…at least for the present.” He strode to the table and picked up his hat and gloves, then turned and bowed. “Your servant, Lady Livia.” He spun on his heel and walked out.
Cornelia followed him to the door. As he crossed the hall the salon door opened, and Livia emerged with a stout, stiff-backed gentleman in the black cloth coat and britches of a man of business. He fussed with the sheaf of papers in his hands, his air that of a man who constantly expects an unpleasant surprise.
Lord Bonham stopped in his tracks. “Masters? You here?”
Masters looked astounded to see the viscount. “Why, yes, m’lord. I came to settle some matters with my client, Lady Livia,” the lawyer said, gesturing to the young woman behind him. “I did not expect to see you here, sir? I was unaware that you were already acquainted with Lady Livia.”
“It appears that I am not,” Harry said dryly, casting a glance at Cornelia, who stood a few feet behind him.
“I seem always to be laboring under misapprehensions these days,” he murmured.
He turned to Livia and bowed. “Ma’am. Allow me to present myself. Viscount Bonham at your service.”
There was something so contained about him, something so intrinsically authoritative in his presence, that Livia began to have doubts as to the wisdom of their little game. She offered him an apologetic smile as she said in a rush, “Good morning to you, sir. I’m sorry I was not able to receive you. I had another engagement…Mr. Masters…Lady Dagenham offered to stand in for me. She knew what I…” Her voice trailed away as it became clear that the viscount’s interest was elsewhere. His attention was once more focused on Cornelia.
“I see,” he said slowly, beginning to draw on his gloves. “So I’ve been enjoying the…uh…pleasure, shall we call it, of Lady Dagenham’s company.”
“The Viscountess Dagenham,” Cornelia said, her own voice cool and steady. “I don’t believe I said otherwise.”
His eyes narrowed. “No,” he agreed. “I don’t believe you did.” He turned back to Livia. “Lady Livia, your servant. I trust I may wait upon you when you have no other engagement.”
Livia murmured a somewhat incoherent response, glancing nervously between the viscount and Cornelia. The air seemed to be crackling around them.
Harry bowed once more and strolled to the front door. He turned and looked again at Cornelia. “Tell me, Lady Dagenham, are you in the habit of playing scullery maid?” he inquired in a tone of mild inquiry.
Cornelia struggled for a second as her ready sense of the absurd threatened to get the better of her. It was clear as day that Viscount Bonham had no intention of leaving the house without evening the score.
“I only ask,” he continued in the same mild tone, “because I fear that such an eccentricity might expose you to some discourtesy. And that would be a great pity.” He smiled, offered a small nod in lieu of a bow, and let himself out into the rain.