The Unlikely Rivals

by Megan Daniel

  Before the sound of that knocker had echoed through the house, the door slid open to reveal an awesome figure at least six feet in height, with dark polished skin and ebony hair and a very large ruby glittering in the center of his forehead. He was very properly, though seemingly a bit uncomfortably, garbed in basic butler’s black. At mention of her name, white teeth flashed briefly in his chocolate face, and he gave her a bow that might have done credit to a courtier of Old Queen Bess. She stepped into the hall.

  This room was decorated in a style that could only be called eclectic, even to Saskia’s untutored eye. An inlaid Adam table, an Aubusson carpet, and a pair of satin striped Hepplewhite chairs would have been at home in the most modem and elegant house in Bath. This could not be said, however, for the dominant feature of the room. It was a huge bronze statue of a skimpily clad dancer, one foot uplifted in an acrobatic posture, who

  seemed to enjoy the advantage of eight arms, a circumstance Saskia had frequently thought would be a real benefit. Bubbling just below his sandaled feet was a small, blue-tiled fountain. Flower petals floated about on its surface, and small jets of water created delightful water music. The fountain was flanked by a pair of ferocious-looking and very large Oriental jade dogs. The total effect was dramatic to say the least, but surprisingly effective and dignified for all that.

  The voice of the butler intruded on Saskia’s enjoyment of the setting, calling her to attention in deep, clipped, and heavily accented tones.

  “Of Eccles House we bid you most welcome, miss. My Ladyship, she is at three o’clock awaiting you in the Divan. First you go now with Mrs. Beach to be comfortable.” He bowed again, his right palm to his forehead, and gave her over to a rather more ordinary and altogether more comfortable woman in black bombazine and a white bun. After a thoroughly English curtsey, Mrs. Beach bustled up the stairs with Saskia in tow, bestowing kindly and vastly reassuring smiles all along the way.

  Saskia’s bemused thoughts must have been mirrored in her face, for the housekeeper turned to her with a twinkle in her eyes.

  “You needn’t be alarmed by Rahjim, miss,” she said with just a hint of a conspiratorial whisper. “He’s really a good sort of chap for all he’s a heathen. Only takes a bit of getting used to, is all. It’s a mite easier now he’s given over wearing that white robe of his—kaftan he called it—and the turban or whatever it was on his head. We’ll turn him into a proper Englishman before long, we will.” She became suddenly conscious that she was chattering rather too much for the dignity of her station and closed her lips with resolution, but her eyes still twinkled. Saskia liked her immensely.

  The corridor through which they passed bore mute witness to its mistress’s travels in the form of luxuriant Persian carpets, intricate ivory carvings on sandalwood

  pedestals, and porcelain bowls filled with exotic, sweet- scented flowers. From the wall at the end of the hall, the head of a large and proudly antlered gazelle watched their progress.

  The room into which Saskia was finally ushered encouraged her to think the best of her eccentric aunt. It was thoroughly modem, elegant, and comfortable. The only touches of the East which had been allowed to intrude were thoughtful improvements: a lovely red silk canopy prettily draped over the bed like a tent, some dozen of embroidered cushions and pillows in jewel tones piled on the windowseat, and a set of combs in mother-of-pearl set out for her use. And, most thoughtful of all, large bowls of tulips were dotted about the room. How could a Dutch girl resist such an attempt to make her feel at home?

  She turned her most gracious smile to the housekeeper. “Thank you, Mrs. Beach. I’ll come below to join my aunt at three, then. In the ... the Divan, did he

  say?”

  “That’s what he said, miss. Don’t see why he can’t just call it the drawing room, for that’s what it is and always will be. Or the Crimson Saloon, as Lady Hartingdale used to call it. Still and all, it don’t rightly look like any drawing room I’ve ever seen, as you’ll discover for yourself, I fancy.”

  “My aunt. Is she a trifle . . . well, eccentric, would

  you say?”

  “Oh, Lord yes, missl Balmy as a meatball, that onel” The complacent smile on the housekeeper’s face said clearly that this was a quality to be cherished. “Why, she’s the loveliest mistress I’ve ever served, miss, and I’ve served a good few in my time.”

  “You don’t mind the . .. the oddity?”

  “Oh, not at all, miss. That’s just what I like best about Her Ladyship. Unexpected, she is. Why a body never knows what to look for next. And the stories she can tell! Well, you’ll see soon enough, miss.”

  “Yes. I imagine she must have many interesting tales of faraway places.”

  “Oh, miss,” sighed Mrs. Beach, enraptured at the idea of the life her mistress had led. “I always wanted to travel myself, you know. Had the wanderlust on me ever since I was a girl. My brother too. Of course, boys are always luckier that way. Joined the army, he did, and went jauntering off to Spain and Belgium and I dont know where else besides. But my skirts kept me close to home. Never been much of anywhere. But living in a house with Her Ladyship, it’s, well, it’s real adventurous, if you know what I mean, miss.”

  Saskia stifled her amusement sufficiently to show it only in a benign smile. "Yes, I fancy I do.”

  “Well, and just listen to me prattle on! I swear I never opened my mouth to a guest when I served old Lady Hartingdale. A regular Tartar she was. The house is ever so much more comfortable now, if you know what I mean. But I’ll leave you to rest from your journey now. RinaTl be up directly with some nice hot water for your bath. She's a heathen too, of course, but a good girl all the same, and learning fast. She’ll take fine care of you, miss, never fear.”

  With that, Mrs. Beach bobbed out the door. Clearly Lady Eccles’s eccentricity was catching.

  What followed her introduction to the Eccles’s household was two delicious hours of unaccustomed luxury. Mrs. Beach hadn’t been five minutes from the room when a soft scratching at the door heralded the entrance of a dark-haired young serving girl whose face seemed all huge black eyes and shy smile. With a sort of dipping bob that might have been a curtsey, she glided into the room with an economy of movement and innate grace, moving silently about as though she had rollers for feet.

  She set out steaming water scented with orange blossoms for Saskia’s bath, unpacked her valise with a degree of care that Saskia unhappily knew the simple gowns and muslin underthings did not warrant, and

  gently scrubbed her back as she soaked in the soapy water. Then she carefully combed out her soft brown hair, pinned it up again with deft fingers, and made Saskia feel very much pampered in general. Saskia loved it.

  Her bath finished, the next treat in store for Saskia was a delicious nuncheon, brought to her room on a silver cart, consisting of cold meats, little unleavened breads, exotic fruits, molded rice balls sweetened with honey and nuts, and a heavenly water ice flavored with raspberries. She wondered how she would ever be content with Eynshant and Jannie’s Dutch stew again.

  She ate the meal at a satinwood table set by the window. As she munched contentedly and gazed down on the sweep of street and the lush field beyond, a chaise drew up below. A gentleman stepped down and entered the house. From her vantage point she could see only the top of his hat and a pair of broad shoulders encased in green wool. She could clearly see, however, that a portmanteau followed him into the house. It would seem that she was not her aunt’s only houseguest. Curious, she thought idly.

  The little clock on the mantel chimed three just as Saskia began to make her way down the long, curved staircase to meet her aunt in the Divan. She was much refreshed and was looking her best in a simple but neat afternoon dress of ecru muslin.

  The majesterial Rahjim appeared as if from nowhere as her foot touched the bottom step. He showed her not into the mysterious Divan but into a smallish anteroom, ornately paneled with lattice screens and filled with ferns and palms. Then with a bow
he left her to wonder what was to come next in what was rapidly taking on the appearance of a carefully staged performance.

  Her wondering had little time to take her anywhere as she perceived almost at once that she was not alone in the room. Sitting at his ease in a large fan-backed wicker chair was an aubum-haired gentleman with a look of as-

  tonishment on his face which nearly equaled S as Ida’s own.

  She recognized at once the fine broad shoulders of the gentleman who had entered the house an horn- earlier. But she also recognized the face. It was the rude young man with the odious opinions from the Castle Inn.

  He immediately recognized her as the disagreeably independent and snippy young woman who had sneered at his worn boots and made him feel altogether ridiculous that morning.

  “Lord Rudesby . . .” she began before her manners could overcome her surprise.

  “What the deuce . . . ,” Derek spluttered, springing from his seat as though burned.

  Saskia was the first to regain her lost composure. Seating herself stiffly in the opposite chair and folding her hands primly in her lap, she cast furiously about in her mind for some explanation of the presence in her aunt’s house of this disagreeable fellow.

  “I collect you are here to see Lady Eccles, sir?” she finally asked in an effort to cover her confusion.

  I am. Am I to understand that you are here for the same reason, ma’am?” he asked coldly.

  I am. Neither could then think of anything further to say, which was just as well, Saskia considered, as she had no desire to further her very limited experience of hun. They sat thus a few moments in a stony silence until Rahjim appeared once more, the ruby in his forehead seeming to glow with malice.

  My Ladyship, she sees you how,” he intoned, hot making it clear to which of the two he was speaking. He crossed the room to a set of double doors, threw them wide (rather dramatically, thought Saskia) and proclaimed loudly, “Miss van Houten and Mr. Rowbridge, Ladyship.”

  With so many new sensations and surprises this day, Saskia was still not ready to hear that name attached to this gentleman. She stopped and stood stock still on the threshold, staring at him. As he was very properly waiting for her to enter before him, their progress was effectively halted.

  “Well, don’t just stand there with your mouths at half-cock. Come in. Come in!” came a deep, gravelly, but strangely musical voice from within. Drawn from their reverie, the two young people did as they were told. The double doors closed silently behind them as they entered the Divan.

  Chapter Six

  Whatever Saskia had expected, and now she thought about it she wasn’t sure what she had expected, her fertile imagination could never have outdone the reality that was her great-aunt Hester. A tall, angular, well- bronzed lady, she peered down at them from atop a sort of platform, fully four feet high, ornately carved and decorated, piled high with cushions in rich jewel colors, and canopied in sky-blue silk caught up with silver cords and tassels.

  Here Great-aunt Hester perched, very erect, her legs crossed beneath her. Her feet were bare, excepting only some half-dozen rings adorning her toes.

  It was rather difficult to determine just what it was she wore, but it quite clearly bore no relation to any feminine garment her young relatives had ever seen before. A sort of tunic, high at the throat, fell in embroidered magnificence nearly to her knees over a pair of crimson silk trousers, very voluminous, caught in and banded at the ankle in gold. A small jeweled dagger glittered on her belt. Her exposed arms displayed a myriad of bangles in silver and gold, ivory and jade; rubies and sapphires glowed on her fingers. The vision was topped with a gossamer veil shot with gold, draped over abundant silver hair.

  All in all, she was quite the most magnificent sight Saskia had ever beheld.

  She didn’t speak for a full minute, but raised a snaky hose to her lips, inhaled deeply, and expelled a series of perfect blue smoke rings to waft toward her guests and mingle with the subtle fragrance of incense that permeated the room.

  Finally she laid her pipe reluctantly aside and spoke.

  “Rather as I expected.”

  She didn’t seem inclined to elaborate on this elliptical remark just at present, and reverted to her scrutiny of them. Saskia, undaunted, stood comfortably at her full, not inconsiderable height, projecting calm self-assurance, tinged with just the right touch of curiosity and obvious admiration. Derek Rowbridge was rather too busy being amused at his aunt’s performance to be disconcerted by her odd manners. A hint of a smile touched one comer of his mouth and twinkled in his eyes.

  Lady Eccles, apparently satisfied with what she saw, broke into a deep, warm, and endearing laugh.

  “Yes, yes, that’s all very well, children, and I dare say we shall get on quite well. Sit down, sit down.”

  The two guests were quite willing, and even anxious, to comply. There seemed, however, to be a marked shortage of chairs in the Divan, the furnishing consisting instead of a pair of large stuffed peacocks in full sail, various pieces of statuary in sandstone, limestone, and uncomfortable-looking poses, and any number of cushions, pillows, and hassocks dotted here and there around low tables.

  “Gladly, ma’am,” said Mr. Rowbridge, “if I wished to put my neck permanently out of joint by being obliged to gaze up at you from an ignominious position on the floor. As it is, I prefer to stand, thank you.”

  Lady Eccles allowed an enchanting smile to steal across her fine features. “Well,” she said happily, “I am glad to see you’re not a simpleton, Rowbridge, nor a man easily cowed. Can’t stand that sort of niminy-piminy behavior.” She turned to Saskia. “And, based on first impressions, which I long ago learned to trust implicitly, I nourish some hope for you, my girl, though I’ve yet to hear a word out of you.”

  “I do beg you will forgive me, ma’am,” replied the girl with cool self-assurance and a neat curtsey. “But as we have never met I thought it would be prudent to assure myself as to your identity. You are Lady Eccles, I assume?”

  Derek was amazed at her audacity, but Saskia’s instincts had not led her wrong.

  “Hah!” Her aunt laughed delightedly. “Served with my own sauce! I am Lady Eccles, my girl.”

  “Oh. I really thought you might be a genie and was only looking about for your lamp. Are we to be granted any wishes, ma’am?”

  Pert! Well, I’m glad to see you’ve a clever tongue, but I’ll thank you to keep it between your teeth, and you may get a wish after all.” To this Saskia gave another curtsey.

  Lady Eccles slid to one end of the howdah (for such it was on which she perched) and swung her long legs over the side. Then she picked up a brass hammer that lay next her and struck a resounding blow on a massive gong. The sound filled the room, and almost at once Rahjim appeared. At his gesture, a pair of footmen entered and speedily shuffled the haphazard arrangement of cushions dotting the room into something strongly resembling three chairs. Rahjim himself crossed directly to the howdah, pulled on a silver cord, and Lady Eccles was slowly lowered, as if by magic, until she could stand upright on the floor. She took a silver cane from the butler and motioned him away.

  Give me your hand, Rowbridge,” she demanded. “Damned camel broke my leg last year. It has not healed properly. Persian doctors, you know.” She walked stiffly but grandly to a chair, and soon they settled, Saskia having to concentrate only a very little on sitting

  directly in the center of the pile of cushions so as not to throw oЈF her balance and send herself toppling.

  Lady Eccles gestured to the elaborate tea set which had just glided in on the strong arm of Rahjim. “You may pour us some tea, girl, and I suppose I d best introduce you to each other, though you’ve the look of folks who’ve met and were none too pleased about it.”

  Saskia poured the smoky amber liquid and refrained from looking at Derek, turning instead a slightly incredulous smile to her aunt.

  “Oh, no, ma’am. We have not met. At least not in a formal way. Of course, we did just ch
ance to pass each other at the Castle Inn, as I rather fancy you knew we would.”

  “Just so,” said Lady Hester, not displeased by the slight brittle edge in die girl’s voice. “In any case,” she went on with a negligent wave, “Miss Saskia van Houten, meet Mr. Derek Rowbridge ... your cousin.”

  “Cousin?” said Saskia faintly.

  “Cousin?” said Mr. Rowbridge, somewhat more forcefully.

  “Yes, cousin,” said their aunt calmly.

  “But I haven’t got any cousins!” demanded Mr. Row- bridge. “That is to say, no Rowbridge cousins.”

  “And who, pray, was your grandfather, young man?” asked Lady Eccles.

  “Your brother, ma’am, Edward Rowbridge, as you very well know,” was his stiff reply.

  “Just so. And you, miss?”

  “My grandfather, ma’am, was Edward Rowbridge. Your brother.”

  Derek was on his feet now. “That is impossible! My father was Edward Rowbridge’s only child. My grandmother died when he was born.” He turned to his aunt in some disgust. “I understand he was a frisky old gentleman, ma’am, which I don’t condemn. But if you are seriously asking me, as head of the family, to acknowledge the offspring of my grandfather’s by-blows, you’re fair and far off!”

  By now, Lady Hester was the only member of the party seated. Saskia had sprung to her feet in anger. “I suspected this morning, sir, that you were not a gentleman! You have now entirely convinced mel I won’t pretend not to understand the meaning of your offensive language, and I take leave to tell you, sir, that my mother was born with as much right to call herself a Rowbridge as you. Her mother was my grandfather’s second wife.”