by Joan Smith
As the carriage rounded a curve in the road, the stone walls of the Abbey loomed in the near distance. It had been given a new facade a century before, so that it did not look at first glance like an ancient heap. The facade was long, with rows of identical tall, mullioned windows on two stories. A tower in the center and at both ends rose another story, the central one topped with a spindled balustrade. It seemed the Harwells had always been egotistical. The ancestor who had refashioned the facade had had his initials, E.G., carved in fretted stone atop the central tower. The letters stood out against the paler sky. The family name was Gaunt. The E, she had been told, stood for Edward, the traditional Christian name of the eldest son, though she had never heard anyone call Harwell Edward.
“We should have that done at Apple Hill, Dick,” Annabelle said.
Rosalind turned to see where she was looking. As she feared, it was at the initials atop the Abbey. Rosalind was relieved that Dick laughed.
“Using initials is all the crack,” Annabelle informed them. “I saw in a book a letter Queen Bess had written, and it was signed E.R., for Elizabeth Rex. The Rex means queen.”
“Rex means king, don’t it?” Dick asked Rosalind.
“I believe the R stands for Regina,” Roz replied.
“Oh, was that her family name?” Annabelle said, dismissing the whole conversation to wonder again who else would be dining with them and whether there would be dancing.
They were soon deposited at the oaken door with the massive iron knocker fashioned in the shape of the family crest. It was only when one was inside that any lingering sense of the Abbey’s history was felt. The arrogance of the exterior was transformed to quiet serenity within, with touches of elegance that did not overpower the senses.
There were no Grecian statues sequestered in their niches, but old tapestries hanging on white walls. A lovely carved prie-dieu and six chairs were the only furnishings in the entrance hall. The prie-dieu was of ancient vintage; Harwell had casually tossed his curled beaver, York tan gloves, and riding crop on the hand rest.
“An odd sort of table,” Annabelle said with a tsk. “And not even a flower arrangement. What this place needs is a woman’s touch.”
The sound of Lord Sylvester’s fluting voice issued from the saloon. When they were shown in, Rosalind’s gaze traveled first to Lord Sylvester. He had changed for evening into a gold velvet jacket that she thought a little too flashy for true elegance, but it looked well with his golden curls. Harwell wore a simple bottle green jacket and dark gray pantaloons. He looked massive and dour beside Sylvester’s more brilliant presence.
When she glanced at Harwell’s face, she noticed he wore an air of utter ennui that he did not bother to try to conceal. Of course, he would be bored with anything cultural. No doubt it was being rescued from intelligent conversation that brought that smile to his face and caused his warm greeting as he rushed forward to welcome the new arrivals. He made the necessary introductions, wine was served, and while Miss Fortescue subjected Lord Sylvester to a catechism, Harwell got Rosalind aside for some private conversation.
“I was never so glad to see anyone in my life,” he said, and wiped his brow.
“I take it that is less a compliment to myself than a disparagement of Lord Sylvester’s conversation,” she replied, already angry with him.
“Conversation? He doesn’t know the meaning of the word. I have been subjected to an hour’s monologue on the Faerie Queene. Did you know it’s about King Arthur, among other heroes? Who would have thought that rousing tale could be made so tedious—in six books? Sylvester was lamenting that the other six never got written, or published—I can well believe it!—or something. No doubt Spencer died of boredom. I don’t know how you can tolerate that fellow.”
“I have no particular fondness for Spencer.”
“I mean Sylvester.”
“You invited him—just why you did so is unclear, but having done it, you must be polite.”
“Why must I? Is it polite for him to bethump a man with an hour of the Faerie Queene?”
“Is it polite for you to ramble on forever about your Guernseys?”
He looked chastened. “Do I ramble? Tell me the next time I do it. I would not knowingly trespass on anyone’s patience the way that fellow does. Can the man talk nothing but poetic drivel?”
She reined in her temper. “All things look yellow to the jaundiced eye, Harry.”
“I doubt it is my jaundiced eye that makes that jacket so—yellow!”
“What I meant is, to some of us, poetry is not drivel. And there is nothing amiss in Lord Sylvester’s jacket. I think it is quite stylish.”
“Then it is high time you had that visit to London.”
“There is no reason a gentleman need dress like an undertaker when he is out enjoying himself.”
He stared at her as if seeing her for the first time. “Good Lord, you’re serious! I thought I knew you pretty well, Roz. I had no notion you were— romantical,” he said, flinging out his hand in disgust.
“I, on the other hand, always knew you were a Philistine, interested in nothing but cows and pigs and whoring around with loose women.”
A smile quirked the corner of his lips. “You forgot politics. I once wrote a letter to the Times.”
“Yes, about cows.”
“About enclosures!”
“You just wanted the extra acres as pasture for your herd.”
He noticed that her eyes were flashing and her bosom heaving. “Your chest is heaving, Roz,” he said, gazing at it with keen interest.
“That is no excuse to stare! I’m sure you’ve seen many a bosom before.”
“Not your bosom, though. That gown you wore this afternoon was a tad risqué as well. When did you start wearing stylish gowns?” he demanded irately.
“When I learned Lord Sylvester was coming to visit,” she replied, to annoy him.
“Aha! So you are after him!” Harwell felt a wince of some unpleasant emotion he did not care to identify too closely. It certainly wasn’t jealousy. No sane man could be jealous of that popinjay. His masculine pride was injured, perhaps. Roz had never bothered to make herself pretty for him.
“What if I am?” she asked, with a memory of Dick’s impending marriage. Harwell’s mouth fell open in shock. “I find him quite charming.”
“He might be tolerable, when he grows up and learns the difference between a monologue and conversation. He’s still wet behind the ears. Living in a world of make-believe. Of course, he’s only two and twenty, he tells me. I would have thought eighteen or nineteen was closer to it.”
Rosalind had thought he was a little older, perhaps twenty-five, but she didn’t intend to let Harwell know it. It was Sylvester’s encyclopedic knowledge of poetry that had misled her.
“He is two years younger than I am,” she said. “I was not considered a babe in arms last year when you made me help you get rid of Mrs. Molson by pretending to be on the edge of an engagement to you. Or two years ago, when you were in London and I arranged the offer to purchase Elder’s farm for you. Or five years ago when—”
“I take your point, Roz. I have abused our friendship. I am sorry.”
“That’s not what I mean! We are discussing my age and Lord Sylvester’s. He’s not a child.”
“Well, he acts like one, and apparently his family knows it. He don’t come into his estate for another three years, when he’s twenty-five. No doubt that is why he dunned me for a thousand pounds for Camena. Foolish name. How is one to know from a name like that that it’s about poetry? He’s trying to con folks into thinking it’s something interesting.”
Rosalind was shocked to learn Sylvester was still under his family’s guardianship. Harwell studied her with growing astonishment as she gazed across the room at Sylvester, with a look not much short of scheming. “You are interested in him!” he charged.
“Yes, as my mentor,” she said.
She continued looking at Sylvester, who was just givi
ng Annabelle a lovely setdown.
“One does not indulge in poetry for filthy lucre, Miss Fortescue,” he was saying. It seemed Annabelle had inquired how much money was to be made at it. She would! “I do not consider myself a magazine merchant, after all.”
“But how do you live?” she asked. “You are only a younger son.”
Sylvester looked at her as if she were a worm. “But the younger son of a marquess,” he said. “A Staunton is hardly expected to wheel a barrow through the streets, or set up as a solicitor.”
Annabelle turned a little pink about the ears and smiled, and said not a word about her papa. Before anyone spoke, the butler appeared at the door to announce the last arrival, Lady Amanda Vaughan.
Chapter Five
Lady Amanda was a widow thirty some years of age. Her title was a legacy from her papa, Lord Siberry, who had little but a title to leave his brood. Her fortune was from her late husband, who had owned a string of gaming houses of dubious reputation before he was killed in a duel. Her looks were entirely her own doing, for very little of her natural endowments was now visible.
She had enlivened her mousy brown hair to a pretty Titian, her fading cheeks to a rosy pink, and fed her fulsome curves to repletion in the belief that this made her look attractive. She still dressed in the garish style that had pleased her late husband and the clients of his gaming houses.
On that evening she wore a large set of emeralds and a coral gown that hugged her rounded curves like a plaster. She was not unattractive, but her attractions were akin to those of a friendly barmaid or actress. She had a lively brown eye and a warm smile.
“Harry, you old dog!” she said, undulating across the room to place a kiss on his cheek. “Summoning me at the very last minute! I know someone called off, and I am merely here to warm an otherwise empty chair. But there, when you summon, we all run to obey.” She made a deep and surprisingly graceful curtsy.
Harwell made some polite excuses to which Lady Amanda did not listen. She was too busy scouring the room for gentlemen. The pickings were exceedingly slim. She knew from long experience that she had no hope with Harry. Dick was engaged. That left only the young dandy in the yellow jacket. She squeezed Harwell’s fingers, took his wineglass from him, and hastened across the saloon, waving about, but never slowing her pace until she reached her new quarry.
“Lady Amanda Vaughan,” she said, giving his hand a vigorous shake. “I think I recognize that pretty face. Don’t tell me!”
When Sylvester recovered from his shock, he ignored her command and gave her his name. “Ah, old Dunston’s lad,” she said. “Whatever brings you to Drayton Abbey? You don’t look like a farmer.” A raucous laugh trilled from her lips. “Harwell never entertains anyone but glorified farmers, you must know. He and Farmer George are a pair. I shouldn’t be much surprised to see him land one of the royal princesses.”
Lady Amanda’s name was well known in London. That she had sold up Vaughan’s gaming houses for fifty thousand pounds and had no children were the facts that had stuck in Lord Sylvester’s mind. He was not tardy to mount his hobbyhorse and speak of Camena. And Lady Amanda, having run through all the eligible gentlemen in the parish, put on her brightest smile and claimed a great interest in poetry.
She held him captive until dinner was called and ignored Harwell when he came to lead her to the dining room. Harwell shrugged and offered his arm to Rosalind instead.
“You must look to your laurels, Roz,” he said. “Your mentor has got the whiff of money for his magazine. I, it hardly needs saying, did not oblige him with the thousand pounds he tried to dun me for. I would advise you to be deaf to his hints as well.”
“He didn’t ask me. Camena is not the sort of magazine where one pays to have her work published,” she said with lofty disdain. “In fact, the magazine paid me a tidy sum.” She did not mention the extremely minuscule tidy sum paid. It wasn’t the money that drove her.
If Sylvester was courting Lady Amanda as a backer, he was too clever to mention money, but he certainly harped on Camena until the table was sick and tired of hearing it.
“Fascinating!” Lady Amanda said, smiling relentlessly between sips and sups. Next to dalliance, food and drink were her main pleasures.
When Sylvester realized that his plate was still full while all about him had cleaned theirs, he applied his fork to a tenderloin of mutton.
“You must come to Merton Hall, Lord Sylvester,” Lady Amanda said. “I have a wonderful library there. I bought the place fully furnished from old Lord Dinsmore, you know. He was a literary gentleman, like yourself. He mentioned some original manuscripts of John Donne’s love poems. There is half a poem there that he never finished. You might like to publish the fragment in Camena as a literary curiosity.”
Lord Sylvester was suitably impressed. A previously unpublished Donne fragment would be a coup, and it wouldn’t cost him a penny if he played his cards right. Unfortunately, Lady Amanda could give him very little notion what the poem was about. “It is written on the back of a laundry list,” was all the poetry lover could tell him.
Throughout dinner, the usually voluble Annabelle Fortescue scarcely spoke, except a few words in a low voice to Dick. She was listening avidly, for she sometimes felt the lack of breeding in her background, never more so than when Lord Sylvester’s bright eye had speared her and hinted that a solicitor was no better than a costermonger. Anyone who could insult her like that must be a real gentleman. Lord Harwell never spoke so haughtily.
Three couples were not enough to form even one square, so there was no dancing when the gentlemen joined the ladies after taking their port. And, as no sane person ever sat down to cards with Lady Amanda, who had picked up a bag of sharp tricks from her late husband, conversation had to be the postprandial entertainment. Lord Sylvester sat with Rosalind, discussing her autumn series of poems and her remove to London until the tea tray arrived.
Harwell watched with growing concern and was relieved when Lady Amanda joined them. Sylvester asked Rosalind if he could call on her in the morning, and she graciously agreed, before going to have a few words with her host.
“You must have diverted him from his favorite subject,” Harwell said. “You were actually smiling.”
“We were discussing my favorite subject: my visit to London.”
“Shall I write to my housekeeper to let her know you will be using the house?”
“I think not, but thank you for the offer, Harry. Lord Sylvester’s papa owns a set of flats on Glasshouse Street. I am thinking of hiring one of them. As I may be staying for some time, I cannot impose on your hospitality. You use the Grosvenor Square house on and off yourself, and it would look odd if I were staying with a bachelor.”
“It could hardly be construed as a love nest! My aunt is always there, and God only knows when I will get Uncle Ezra bounced off.”
Rosalind hesitated a moment before answering. “When I said I would be staying for some time, what I meant was that I hope to remove permanently to London.”
“Permanently!” Harwell spoke loudly enough to draw the attention of the others, who turned in surprise.
“Lower your voice!” she said.
“But why on earth would you do a thing like that? You have always lived at Apple Hill.”
“Yes, as its mistress the past several years. When Dick marries, I shall be reduced to little better than a pensioner. I have some money of my own, enough to hire a flat.”
“What of Sukey?”
“She will stay at home and have a governess, of course. There was never any talk of my giving her lessons.”
“I think you are behaving rashly. Surely you and Annabelle can rub along without coming to cuffs in a house that size. It has dozens of rooms.”
“There speaks the voice of inexperience. And besides,” she added with a new twinkle in her eye, “I should love to live in London.”
When Lady Amanda’s advances became a little hotter than Sylvester could handle, he rose
and moved toward Harwell and Rosalind, where he immediately collared the conversation and brought it back to his favorite subject. With nothing but another lecture on poetry to look forward to, the guests began to speak of a busy day on the morrow as soon as the tea had been drunk.
“Lord Sylvester must be fatigued after his trip,” Harwell threw in, although his houseguest was by no means inclined to drowsiness. He seemed ready to prose on for hours.
Sylvester and Harwell accompanied the dinner guests to the front door. “What time will be convenient tomorrow, Miss Lovelace?” Sylvester asked.
Harwell listened fretfully. Had this dull scald of an evening not been enough to show Roz what her new fellow was like? Tearing after Lady Amanda for half the time and delivering his screeds the other half. No wonder he was so thin; he didn’t even stop talking to eat.
“Elevenish?” Rosalind suggested, with every appearance of eagerness.
“Fine. We’ll work out an outline for your autumn poems. You may count on half a dozen pages.”
“When will you come to Merton Hall to look at the Donne manuscript, Lord Sylvester?” Lady Amanda asked. “Let us make it tomorrow evening. I have a few appointments during the day.” The leer of invitation was in her eyes.
An evening visit was fraught with peril. Sylvester blushed and said, “So kind of you, but I’m afraid I shall be leaving tomorrow afternoon. I am on my way home to Astonby. Papa is not well.”
“Pity,” she said, and drew him a little away from the others. “I so seldom get an opportunity to meet a poet. I was hoping I might involve myself in some manner in your magazine. Oh, not as a contributor! I fear that is not where my talents are,” she added, allowing her wicked eyes to suggest her particular talents. “As an investor, perhaps,” she said leadingly. “One likes to do her bit for the arts.” This was added to let Sylvester know she did not actually expect any monetary dividends from her investment.