Angel in Scarlet

by Jennifer Wilde

  Sighing, I turned just as Mrs. Rigby came into the room, her black taffeta skirts rustling crisply, the keys at her waist making a merry jangle. Mrs. Rigby was the housekeeper, a plump, efficient woman with clear blue eyes and a number of silver streaks in her severely bunned black hair. A pleasant, tactful woman who had done all she could to make things easy for me, she was a tyrant with the staff of maids, seeing that all work was done promptly, correctly and as unobtrusively as possible. While others might have been martyred by the invasion of workmen, Mrs. Rigby took it in her stride without a complaint. She and I met here in the drawing room every day at nine so that she could receive “instructions” for the day. They generally consisted of her suggestions that today might be a good day to clean the chandeliers or polish the silver or air the linens in the upstairs cupboards and my agreeing that yes, that would be a dandy idea. Mrs. Rigby was eager to acknowledge my authority and pleased that I had no intentions of usurping her own.

  Greystone Hall employed some twenty-seven servants, including footmen and grooms, and Mrs. Rigby and Putnam, the butler, ran things so smoothly that one was rarely aware of their presence except when they were serving. Putnam had been with the family for thirty years, rising from footman to his present exalted rank, while Mrs. Rigby had only been here for twelve. I considered myself fortunate indeed to have so splendid a staff, but I often thought longingly of Tabby, whose bossy ways had kept me in line at Leicester Fields. That cheeky young lady was now working for the Gainsboroughs and making life hell for Jenkins, whom she had married shortly after Clinton and I were wed. Mrs. Gainsborough’s letters were full of humorous descriptions of the newlyweds’ antics, and I invariably smiled when I thought of them together.

  Having listened to Mrs. Rigby’s tactful suggestions for the day, I agreed to them all and dismissed her. It was nine-fifteen, and I had three hours to fill before Clinton came back for lunch, another four after that before he was through for the day. While I was pleased that Clinton took his duties so seriously, I had to admit that time frequently hung heavy on my hands. Adam didn’t want me underfoot, the house was run beautifully without my lifting a hand and there was precious little for me to do. It had been several weeks since I had been to see Eppie, and I decided to pay her another call this morning, although the other visits had been curiously strained and uncomfortable.

  Fetching my heavy cloak, I left the house and went around to the stables. Ian, the brawny young groom, greeted me with a wide grin and told me ’e’d ’ave Cynara all saddled up an’ ready quick as a flash. With his sun-streaked brown hair, lively blue eyes and sunny disposition, Ian was a particular favorite of mine, always polite and prompt but never obsequious. He was a merry lad, not quite eighteen but already a rogue with the ladies, causing quite a stir among the pretty housemaids. It was Ian who had picked out the right saddle for me when I had decided to ride astride, abandoning the fine leather sidesaddle. I found riding astride much more natural and comfortable, although Clinton wryly informed me that I was scandalizing the countryside. Ladies, it seemed, didn’t ride astride like red Indians. It wasn’t done.

  Standing there in the sunny cobbled yard in front of the stables, I could smell damp hay and horseflesh, old leather and manure, an earthy, not unpleasant odor that invariably reminded me of Hugh. I tried not to think about him, but it was difficult not to do so. His ghost seemed to haunt the stables, the grounds. I carefully avoided that section of the garden with rose trellis and marble bench where, from my perch in the tree, I had first seen him and he had called off the dogs. Over a year had passed since he had left me there at the cottage I had taken for the summer, and although I told myself that I was completely over him, the memories were still painful.

  Poor Hugh, traveling around Italy at this very moment no doubt, driven by his obsession, spending his ill-gotten gains searching for evidence that had never existed. Happiness could have been his, could have been ours, if only he had been willing to give up that futile quest. How supremely ironic it was that I was now living at Greystone Hall and had the title, the wealth, all the luxuries he had claimed I couldn’t be happy without. And I was happy, I assured myself, not because of the material things but because, for the first time in my life, I was loved by a man who put me first. I didn’t love Clinton with that consuming passion I had felt for Hugh, nor did he make me feel the wild exhilaration and joyous abandon Jamie had stirred within me, but love him I did, in my way. It was a quieter love, much more genteel, and, ultimately, much more satisfying, without the emotional highs and lows that took so heavy a toll. I was very lucky to have him, and I was determined to make him happy.

  “’Ere she is, Milady!” Ian announced, bringing Cynara around. “An’ full of spirit this mornin’!

  Cynara whinnied with delight when she saw me, prancing quite outrageously on the cobbles. Her chestnut coat gleamed with glossy highlights in the morning sun. I patted her cheek, told her to behave herself and, with Ian’s help, swung up into the saddle, arranging my skirts demurely around me. Ian handed me the reins, and I was soon on my way, leaving house and grounds behind, riding at a brisk gallop down the road, amidst countryside I knew so well. There were the woods where I had climbed trees and searched for mushrooms as a child and there the fields where I had picked wildflowers, there the old gray wooden stile I had used to get over the low stone wall. Up ahead, branching off the road, was the familiar lane with its masses of rhododendrons, and as I rounded a curve I could glimpse the rooftops of the village in the distance.

  I rarely went to the village except for an occasional trip to Blackwood’s to pick up the newest books. As a child I had known everyone, been readily accepted as the schoolmaster’s daughter, but there had been a complete change in the villagers’ attitude toward me. I had left the village, and I had gone to wicked London. I had become an actress, which most of them equated with becoming a prostitute, and now I had returned as Lady Meredith and all those people who had welcomed young Angie with a smile weren’t about to be friendly with me now. Oh, they were polite enough. They called me “Milady” and “Lady Angela,” but there was a distinct reserve and, I suspected, a bit of resentment as well. I was no longer one of them. I was an outsider, and I was treated as such. I was rejected by my own class, and Clinton’s had never accepted me in the first place.

  Our marriage had, of course, caused a furor of talk among those affluent, beribboned, beplumed and powdered dames and dandies who thought themselves the select few of this world. Though there wasn’t a closet not crammed with skeletons, as Solonge had pointed out, and though their behavior set new standards in rudeness and frequently in depravity as well, a common actress would never, never be welcome in their drawing rooms and salons. One slept with an actress and bought her bright baubles and kept her in a plush apartment, but one never married her. Lord Clinton Meredith had done the unthinkable, and his friends and fellow aristocrats were deliciously scandalized. Not a single one of them had come to visit since we had returned to Greystone Hall, nor had we been invited to any of their hunts or balls. It mattered not a jot to me, but I was rather concerned for Clinton’s sake.

  Clinton told me not to worry. We would win them over, he assured me. As soon as they met me they were sure to respond to my beauty, my charm, my natural breeding. They hadn’t come to call, true, but as soon as the renovations were finished we would give an elaborate ball and invite them all. They would all come, he promised, out of curiosity if for no other reason, and they would find the new Lady Meredith enchanting and welcome her into the ranks with open arms. I had my doubts about that, but I wasn’t going to argue. How free and easy, friendly and caring Covent Garden seemed now that I had left it. There were no class distinctions in the theater, and wit, talent and personal accomplishment were the only criteria by which one was judged. Would that the rest of the world could be as tolerant.

  It was a bright, crisp morning as Cynara and I sped along, my hair bouncing about my shoulders, the cloak billowing out behind me. Gently tu
gging the reins, I directed Cynara onto a side road and we passed more fields and a bank of trees, and then I saw the McCarry place in the distance. The farmhouse was seriously in need of a new coat of paint. The roof could stand repair. Three small boys were playing in the front yard, and a little girl sat on the porch, gently cradling a beautiful doll. The boys stopped playing and stared when I rode up and stopped, slipping out of the saddle. The little girl clutched her doll as though she feared I might take it away from her. No more than three, she had large blue eyes, a dirty face and fluffy pale blonde hair.

  “Hello, Millicent,” I said. “My, what a beautiful doll.”

  Millicent lowered her eyes shyly, holding the doll even closer. The oldest little boy came over and, taking the reins, informed me that he would take care of Cynara. I thanked him and turned as the front door opened. Eppie was wearing a yellow cotton dress sprigged with tiny brown flowers, a garment that had seen better days. Her hair, a listless blonde now, was stacked on top of her head, stray locks spilling down, and the enormous brown eyes had lost that lively sparkle. Her face was sadly lined. Eppie was exactly one year older than I, and she looked forty. Smiling a shy smile, she led me inside.

  “So nice of you to call, Lady Angela,” she said.

  “It’s Angie, Eppie,” I told her. “I thought I made that clear last time I was here. We’re old friends.”

  She nodded, still shy and ill at ease. What had become of that vivacious silly goose of a girl who resembled a giraffe with her long neck and lean, angular body? She had married her handsome Jamie McCarry and moved to this farm and given birth to four children. The vitality and zest for life had vanished long ago. It seemed a tragedy to me. Eppie had gotten exactly what she wanted from life and was quite content with her lot. Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy of all. She led me into the “parlor” of which she was so proud, a small, spotlessly clean room with cheap, shiny furniture. A vase of wildflowers, the colored shawl spread over the sofa and the seven blue and gold plates hanging on the wall made a rather pathetic attempt at elegance.

  “I’ll just run make some tea, Lady An-Angie. Won’t take a minute.”

  “It’s really not necessary, Eppie. I just finished breakfast. I thought we might just—visit for a while.”

  Eppie smiled again and asked me to sit down, indicating the sofa. When I was comfortably settled, she sat down herself in one of the armchairs. Eppie and I had grown up together and she had been my closest friend for years. Now she was uncomfortable around me, clearly in awe.

  “I—I want to thank you for the things you sent the children,” she said shyly. “The boys loved their presents, and Millicent hasn’t let that doll out of her sight. I must thank you for—for the things you sent me, too. I never had such a lovely dress. I’m keeping it to wear on special occasions. You didn’t have to send all those things, Angie.”

  “I wanted you and the children to have them.”

  “Lord Meredith takes wonderful care of his tenant farmers, has ever since he came back from London and settled down at Greystone Hall, but people didn’t expect you to take an interest in ’em, too. Expected you to be flashy and affected, they did, all paint and put-on. Angie ain’t like that, I told ’em. I wudn’t at all surprised when I heard about all the nice things you’ve done for people. Folks in the village might be standoffish, but the wives of the farmers think you’re a regular Lady Bountiful.”

  “I haven’t done that much,” I said.

  “You took medicine to Claire Weatherford when she was down with the fever and nursed her yourself. You bought shoes for all the Miller kids and a brand new stove for Anna Henderson. You’ve taken an interest in all the families of the tenant farmers, ain’t too good to go visit ’em, stay for a cup of tea. No other Lady of Greystone Hall ever did that.”

  “I have a lot of time on my hands,” I told her.

  Eppie didn’t reply. She toyed with her hands in her lap, her brown eyes thoughtful. I could tell she was remembering earlier days.

  “I—I guess we both did pretty well for ourselves, Angie,” she said after a while. “I got Jamie McCarry—all the other girls were after him, but I was the one who got him, and he’s still as handsome as ever. I’ve got my four kids and a nice house and a lot of pretty things—you noticed my plates, didn’t you? Jamie bought ’em for me one at a time. And you—you became a Lady. Who’d of thought it when we were girls?”

  “Who indeed,” I said. “I’m so glad you’re happy, Eppie.”

  “Me, I wasn’t ever ambitious like you. I wasn’t ever special, never wanted to set the world on its ear. You were always different, Angie. I knew it way back then when we were gadding about the village and giggling at the boys. You had something. Didn’t surprise me at all when you became a famous actress in London. Didn’t surprise me when you married Lord Meredith, either. He always had an eye for you. Remember that time we were sitting in the square and he came riding by on his horse and tried to get you to go off with him and you were so lippy?”

  “I remember.”

  “Funny how people change,” she said. “He was something back then, handsome as a god and randy as a ram, only one thing on his mind. And he grows up to be such a fine man, sober and fair-minded, admired by everyone. Life sure is full of surprises, isn’t it?”

  “It is indeed,” I replied.

  I left Eppie’s a short while later and, without really planning to do so, circled around the village and rode past the square with its sun-warmed benches and rusty cannon, then came to the weathered old church, its pale tan stone walls brushed with shadow from the oaks, its tarnished copper spire soaring up toward the pale blue-gray October sky. I dismounted and opened the gate, moving into the churchyard. Several of the old white marble tombstones were toppling and covered with moss, but my father’s was brand new, of the finest marble. Fresh pink flowers stood in the white marble vase. Clinton had ordered the new tombstone, had given instructions that fresh flowers were to be placed on the grave each week. He had done all this without consulting me, and I had been deeply touched. Clinton hadn’t known my father, but he knew his reputation and knew that we had been very close.

  Late morning sunlight slanted through the boughs of the oaks, making patterns on the ground, flecks of sunshine alternating with shadow. I stood beside the grave for a long time in silent communion, remembering. Once, a long time ago, I had vowed that I would make my father proud of me, and in my heart I knew that he would indeed be proud of me now. He would be proud of Clinton, too, pleased that I had married so fine a man. The title, the wealth wouldn’t have impressed him, but the man and his integrity would have had his approval. I had been dubious of this marriage, had hesitated quite some time before giving Clinton my answer, afraid I might be making a dreadful mistake, but I knew now my decision to say yes was the wisest I had ever made.

  Bidding my father a silent farewell, I left the churchyard, mounted Cynara and rode home to join my husband for lunch.

  Work on the ballroom was completely finished by the first of November and Adam and the workmen departed, the architect declaring himself more than satisfied with the job he had done on Greystone Hall. Five days later three dozen beautifully embossed invitations were mailed to all the neighboring gentry and a number of Clinton’s aristocratic friends, requesting their presence at a grand ball to be held at Greystone Hall on the evening of November fifteenth. Mrs. Rigby and her staff were in a positive flurry, making preparations, and Henri and staff were in a flurry, too, planning the menu, ordering foodstuffs. Twelve cases of the finest champagne were delivered, stored in the wine cellar, and on the morning of the fifteenth three lorries arrived from the hothouses in the next county, loaded with literally thousands of white and salmon pink roses and huge sheaves of white fern as delicate as lace, with four florists to see to the arrangements. Everything was in chaos, it seemed. Nothing would possibly be ready in time.

  Clinton was completely unperturbed at breakfast, enjoying his eggs and bacon, having an extra piec
e of toast spread with strawberry preserves. I was a mass of nerves, drinking cup after cup of black coffee and working myself into a state almost as bad as those on opening nights. He calmly informed me that there was nothing for me to worry about, the ball would be a huge success, and then he left to go supervise the repair of a stone fence in one of the fields. That didn’t help at all. The house was bustling with activity, the silver being polished, the Sevres china being washed, flowers being arranged, dozens of last minute tasks being seen to. I thought I just might possibly go mad.

  The day seemed interminable. Clinton returned for lunch and told me all about mending the fence and said the men had done a damned fine job and I told him that was absolutely marvelous. He smiled at my sarcasm and told me to relax, and then he suggested I take a nice long nap so that I would be fresh and lovely for our guests. I didn’t throw the sugar bowl at him, staying my hand just in time. My dear husband would never know just how close he came to being crowned. He finished his meal, said he had to spend the rest of the afternoon in his office and, coming around the table to give me a kiss on the brow, left the room. Oh, he was very supportive, very understanding, going blithely about his business when I was on the verge of a nervous collapse. I stared at my untouched crabmeat salad with loathing and pushed it aside. Hours to fill, and nothing for me to do. Everything was under perfect control Mrs. Rigby assured me as she hurried past me in the hall a few minutes later. The florists were almost finished with the arrangements and the footmen were setting up the small gilt chairs around the ballroom. She bustled on down the hall, taffeta skirts crackling, and I moved glumly up the stairs.