by Amy Lake
"London is hard on the best of us,” said Pam, who found that she was curious, despite herself.
"Indeed. And how a wall can crack on its own, merely standing there, I do not fathom. The plastering takes time, and the repair of the woodwork. One of the dukes must have been inordinately fond of mahogany paneling. ‘Tis beautiful, but—"
"I'm accounted a poor plasterer, I fear. Lady Pamela, on the other hand..."
Lord Torrance looked so alarmed at this suggestion that the two women laughed.
"Very well,” said Pamela, “but if I can be no help with trowel and lathe...?"
"'Tis what's needed afterwards,” replied Lord Torrance. “After the windows are replaced and the walls are patched and the benighted hole in the roof-one hole, mind you, right above what's left of the old duke's bed-after that is fixed—” He broke off.
"Hmm?” Lady Detweiler murmured her encouragement, for the duke's expression was now truly irresolute, as if he had only just realized what he was about to say, and was thinking better of it.
"Ah...” He forged ahead. “Mrs. Throckmorton tells me, for a start, that every scrap of fabric in the house needs to be sent to the middens and burnt."
Lady Pamela was remembering her visit to Marchers. The draperies, now that she thought of it, had been in tatters, their colours obscured by years of London dirt. “I shouldn't wonder,” she said. “Between the moths and the damp—"
"Precisely,” said the duke. “And all of us are quite sick of the odor of mildew, I assure you. But ... the housekeeper is quite busy already. I've asked her to do the hiring, you see—"
"How brave of you,” commented Amanda.
"No braver than if I were to do it myself, knowing nothing of the city,” replied Lord Torrance. “Still, I can hardly ask Mrs. Throckmorton to redecorate Marchers on top of everything else."
"Ahh,” said Lady Detweiler, drawing the syllable out until Pamela wondered what could have pleased Amanda about the sad state of the duke's townhome. Lord Torrance was correct, she knew, in his estimation of how much work there was yet to be done. ‘Twould be months, perhaps, before he had any hope of relaxing in a manner that the rest of the ton took for granted. Amanda seemed about to elaborate, but Lady Pamela interrupted.
"Why do you stay there?” she asked him. “Surely you could let another house, and wait for renovations before moving in."
"'Tis tempting,” said the duke. “I've considered doing exactly that, I'll admit-especially on the nights with rain. Waking to puddles in the bedroom floor is not for the faint of heart."
"There are several homes nearby, entirely suitable—” Lady Pam broke off, wondering if her suggestion of homes nearby would be taken as forward. But Lord Torrance was nodding.
"'Twould be easier for the servants as well, to have the master less underfoot,” he added. “Still, Marchers seems more than in ill-repair. The house was abandoned, and sometimes ... sometimes I think it feels it."
Lady Pamela remembered her own impressions of Marchers, the glimpses into a past of sadness and regret. She thought of the painting of Helène's mother hung above the fireplace. Why had the old duke kept it? wondered Pam. A painting of a daughter whose name he refused to speak, whom he had disinherited and run from the house. Had he forgiven her, then?
Lord Torrance's thoughts seemed to have paralleled her own.
"You will be wishing me to Bedlam,” he said. “'Tis ridiculous, I know, to be giving feelings to bricks and mortar. But there is some sorrow to the place I cannot explain. As if the house mourns. As if it needs me."
Pamela was caught by the change in Lord Torrance's demeanor as he said these words. The old sorrow he spoke of was reflected in his face, into some new despair-that human beings are fallible, that affairs cannot always be arranged as we might wish. A headstrong girl, a bitter old man, and a house that had fallen apart—
His gaze found hers and locked for a single beat of her heart. The breath caught in her throat. He remembers, she thought. He remembers as I remember.
There are some pains, you know, that forgiveness cannot touch. That time worsens and does not cure.
She could not breathe.
Lady Detweiler was watching them both.
The moment passed, and Benjamin found himself no longer at Luton Court but back in Lady Pamela's salon, as before. Lady Detweiler was saying something to Pam, who smiled in reply. As if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. As if they could go on like this, remembering.
He'd been a fool to come here, thought the duke. He had wanted to see her, had needed to see her. He'd told himself that they could start again, even after that bedamned waltz. That's what these visits were for, were they not? To establish firm friendships, outside of the artificial amusements of a society ball. Friendships on a more logical, long-lasting basis. Common interests and good conversation were all he wanted, and he knew he could find those in Lady Pamela. They could still be friends, and surely such a relationship would be better than no relationship at all.
Ha.
What had he hoped to accomplish, seeing her again? She hated him, it was clear. She wanted to have nothing more to do with him. And why should she? He had wronged her horribly, insulted her—
But was not the offense hers, at the first? He did not want to think about this, about any manner in which Lady Pamela might have offended him.
"Ah, yes.” Amanda was nodding, seemingly pleased. “I understand. ‘Tis a pretty problem, as they say."
Lord Torrance forced his attention back to the conversation with Lady Detweiler, having forgotten, for the moment, what they were discussing.
"What you really need, then, is someone to select fabrics and furniture, and determine an overall style. The Roman style is all the crack these days, but I really think, for rooms of that size, that chinoiserie—"
Marchers. She's talking about Marchers. Benjamin, brought back to the reality of where he was and who he was with, could have groaned. Amanda was correct. The duke had indeed intended to ask for assistance in the re-decoration of his townhome. He had wanted an excuse, hadn't he? An excuse to visit her, to see her again, but he had thought no further than the asking, had no idea of what might follow.
It had seemed like such a good idea the night before. Josiah had made some similar suggestion, as the duke recalled.
"The ladies love that sort’ a thing,” the valet had said. And Benjamin had agreed, telling himself that it was what a friend might do, was it not? A friend might ask for some small piece of advice.
More fool the friend. Now that he was here, now that the words were spoken, the duke called himself mad.
What must she think of him? And how could he attempt such a scheme, working with Lady Pamela, seeing her every day, when he could hardly bear the pain of another moment in her salon?
Too late. Too late. Lady Detweiler, it seemed, would not let the fate of Marchers go.
"Now the Etruscan style might be worth considering. ‘Tis named Etruscan, you know, though ‘tis really Greek, and why it's called the other is quite beyond me."
The duke sighed inwardly. He knew Amanda Detweiler. The woman was stubborn, an unstoppable force, and she understood him too clearly. ‘Twould be absurd to pretend that he had not, only minutes ago, requested their help.
In for a penny, in for a pound.
"Yes,” said Lord Torrance. “I had thought to ... But I'm afraid it's a great deal too much to ask."
"Not at all,” said Lady Detweiler. “We'd be more than delighted. Lady Pamela's taste is impeccable-look around you-and I believe she has become bored with her own rooms. Nothing more to do, you see."
The duke ventured a glance in Lady Pamela's direction. She was silent, caught up in a contemplation of her tea, but she was not glaring at him. Benjamin felt bold enough to add-"There's so little left of the furniture, that I scarce know where to start. The old duke must have taken most of it to Wiltshire, and half the rest is riddled with worm."
Lady Detweiler made a face.
"And I know nothing of fabric or fashion, or the London shops—"
"Whereas Lady Pamela and I,” said Lady Detweiler, “are accounted experts in each of these fields. Pamela, dear, should we direct his lordship to Claremont's for the muslin?"
"Certainly not.” Lady Pamela's answer was unexpectedly tart, but the duke took this as a good sign. “I can't imagine that his lordship has any need of badly woven cotton."
Muslin? Cotton? “I beg your pardon?” said Lord Torrance.
"'Twill be needed for the lining of the drapes,” said Pam. She tapped her finger on the side of the teacup, frowning in thought. “Haraldson's, perhaps, but Claremont's has nothing of interest, I assure you."
Perhaps, given time, they could learn to rub along well together, to make pleasant, innocuous conversation. Perhaps, in time, they could both forget. ‘Twould not be as it was before, but he would see her again. He would see her again. It would have to be enough.
"Then, you will help?” he asked, looking from Amanda to Pam.
Lady Detweiler did not hesitate. “We would be delighted to help,” she assured him smoothly, “won't we, Pam?"
Lord Torrance held his breath.
"Yes. Of course,” said Lady Pamela Sinclair.
CHAPTER NINE
Lady Detweiler, thoughtful, watched Lord Torrance as he bid them farewell and followed Smithers to the door.
Brilliant! she was thinking. A brilliant plan, simplicity itself, requiring no deception, no assignations in covered carriages, no endless scheming to ensure that the star-crossed lovers met at that evening's soirée or musicale.
My dear Lord Torrance, you could not have contrived a more perfect plan.
She felt admiration for the duke, almost a sense of kinship. Even if the odd Mr. Cleghorn had some hand in the matter, his grace had carried it off remarkably well. A trifle awkward at the start, perhaps, but ‘twas all to the better. It made him appear open and vulnerable, two characteristics which would otherwise never apply to this particular gentleman.
I find myself in need of advice, he had said. Advice! What woman could resist such a plea? And with no further ado, Lady Pamela would spend the rest of the autumn in the nearly exclusive company of the Duke of Grentham, closeted together, working on a project that would no doubt take months longer than anyone yet dreamed. These re-modellings never went as easily as one anticipated, there was always some new dry rot or worm to be found. And if progress was too swift, Lady Detweiler could always claim to have changed her mind.
Not Etruscan in the drawing room, she would tell the duke. Oh, dear me, no.
But she was getting ahead of herself. Lady Pamela had been temporarily won over, but ‘twas due in large part, thought Amanda, to the duke's presence. His physical presence. The man simply exuded the male essence, whatever it was, but now that he was gone Pam might begin to think less kindly of the scheme. Lady Detweiler would need to keep her convinced long enough to visit Marchers, for once that was accomplished, once the first piece of furniture had been selected, or the first draperies blocked out, she was caught.
Lady Pamela had an artist's eye with fabrics and design. She loved a challenge of this sort, thought Amanda, and Marchers was huge, there must be dozens of rooms, scores of nooks and crannies, and all the other assorted bits of a great London townhouse.
And the garden! Of course! All gone to honeysuckle and weeds, according to Lord Torrance. The garden would be a project of itself, and ‘twould no doubt need to be put off until the spring. Nearly a year's work, then.
Oh, Lady Detweiler would be there as well, of course. Claiming the headache, napping long on the library sofa-the perfect, oblivious chaperone.
* * * *
The duke was gone. She had been contemplating the fine planes of Lord Torrance's face, the deep blue of his eyes, when suddenly Smithers was standing there, and the duke rose from the sofa, kissing her hand, and the hand of Lady Detweiler. And he was gone.
It was hours before Lady Pamela's heart reclaimed its accustomed pace.
She had never expected to see him again, certainly not as a visitor in her own salon, and then-to be so amiable, so kind.
Those beautiful lilies.
And did it all come down to this? He wanted someone to help him decorate Marchers? To pick out fabric for the draperies? He wanted their advice?
She had suspected Lady Detweiler's hand in the matter.
"This was your idea,” Pam accused her, seconds after Smithers had shown Lord Torrance to the door.
"Nonsense,” said Lady Detweiler. “Absolutely not."
Amanda was not above schemes and deception in the best interests, as she thought, of her friends. But she seldom lied directly to Lady Pamela's face. Pam was forced to consider that Lord Torrance might have chosen the visit of his own accord.
"'Twill be a lark,” said Amanda.
"A lark? A lark?” sputtered Lady Pamela. “You've just put us at the Duke of Grentham's beck and call for ... for months!"
"I have, haven't I?” replied Amanda, smugly.
"You encouraged him!"
"Mmm."
"Amanda, I can't do this! You, of all people, should understand."
"Pah."
"I refused his offer of marriage—"
"London society knows nothing of that."
"-and it just isn't done!"
Amanda stood up and reached for her shawl. “That line of reasoning has always bored me,” she said to Lady Pam.
Lady Pamela let out a long sigh. “Why?” she finally asked.
"Because, my dear, you are in love with the duke—"
"Amanda."
"-and the duke is in love with you."
* * * *
That evening Pamela sent her regrets to Lady Curtis and remained at home, intending to relax in front of her boudoir fire and read an improving book. In the end she regretted her solitude, as her mind was unable to remain fixed on anything other than that morning's call from the Duke of Grentham.
'Twas an outrageous request, insisted a little voice. Not a sennight ago the man was insulting you to your face. If he came here for anything, it should have been to apologize. You should have instructed the butler to refuse him entrance. You should have thrown him out.
But Lady Pamela, it seemed, could not refuse the Duke of Grentham. And this morning she had spoken with him publicly, and acceded to his request for assistance. She could not back out now, ‘twould be the worst of form.
The duke is in love with you. So Amanda said. Lady Pamela had once thought it true, only to find that Lord Torrance's love was less sure than his condescension.
Pamela imagine what it would be like to spend hours and days with the duke, walking through his home, opening closets and doors, perhaps talking and laughing as they had done before. So much to talk about...
The thought of decorating a ducal townhome was pure cream to the cat, of course; and on a ducal budget as well, as nothing she had ever known about Lord Torrance suggested that he was not possessed of the appropriate fortune. This was the scheme's attraction, decided Lady Pamela. Nothing more.
The duke had said something about his bedchamber. The roof, a hole—His bedchambers would need extensive renovation as well as everything else, she realized. A new bed, perhaps, and bedcoverings as well.
Her thoughts fled in directions she was loathe to follow.
Perhaps he had come to London in search of a wife. Lord Torrance was in his later twenties, a few years old than Pam herself, and a duke of that age should marry. Perhaps the house was to be readied for its new mistress. Pamela imagined what the duchess's chambers might be like, what it would feel like to see them, watch them take shape with new furniture, new hangings. To imagine what could have been had only she—
Pam shook her head, willing even these thoughts away.
Had only she been willing to swallow her pride, to say yes to an offer which had been made out of a sense of obligation.
I am not yours to save, she had told L
ord Torrance. I have no need of your condescension.
It was not possible. He hated her. Oh, perhaps hate was too strong a word, but the duke had made it very clear how he felt, very clear that she was not the female of his dreams, that a fallen woman was not good enough for him.
He wants me to redecorate his home? Of all the nerve, of all the presumptuous, ill-begotten nerve. She would not do it.
Lady Pamela applied herself once more to the Life of Samuel Johnson, but even an account of the great man's youthful eccentricities could not hold her attention, for she found the book in her lap sometime later, the fire burned low. She had once again dreamed of the duke. Dreamed of his face above hers, his lips on her lips, his touch leaving streams of fire against her skin.
She thought, drowsily, of Marchers House, and the months of work still remaining to be done. Under other circumstances it would have been the opportunity of a lifetime. To mold such a house to one's own tastes, one's own ideas of what was beautiful, and elegant—
But she would certainly not be a part of Amanda's absurd schemes of decor. Chinoiserie! She had never understand Lady Detweiler's fascination for that style, with its overwrought ornamentation and disturbing selection of colours. Pam remembered Amanda's description of the music room at Brighton, the blue of the carpeting mixed in with the gilt, with carmine, vermilion, and chrome yellow. Good heavens, how could one stand to remain in such a room?
She was sure Benjamin would hate chinoiserie as well. Etruscan would be better. Better still ... Pamela wasn't sure. Something strong, and masculine. Something like Benjamin. She remembered the feel of his hands in her hair, his fingers untwining the strand of pearls...
An entire houseful of furniture to be purchased, in addition to the fabrics, the wall-papers, rugs, and a proper selection of smaller items. Paintings and a reasonable assortment of sculpture, pillows matched to the fabrics, candlestands and clocks, not to mention carpetings and rugs, and bedcoverings.
Bedcoverings. Lady Pamela thoughts drifted to a consideration of Lord Torrance's private chambers. The bed itself needed to be replaced, she had understood. She imagined a large, four-posted structure, hung with burgundy silk, and fitted with the finest sheets and coverlets. A matching mahogany wardrobe and dressing table, an overstuffed chair before the fire...