Though she must be under twenty, there was no hint of shyness about Lady Azure. “My mother’s of a poetical disposition, and no one seems able to cure it. I have a sister Viridian and a brother called Madder. My father insisted on normal names as well, so Madder uses his second—George, though we all tease him by using the other. I like Azure,” she declared, “little though it suits me.”
“I don’t think I’d care for such an unusual name,” Cassandra said.
“Do you think Cassandra commonplace?” Pen asked. “A predictor of disasters, was she not?” Stop it, Pen. Quickly she added, “Not so bad as Clytemnestra, which besides being a mouthful is the name of a wife no better than she ought to be.”
“Clytemnestra Ashby,” Miss Gable-Gore said, flourishing her familiarity with the great, for the Ashbys were the family of the Duke of Tyne. “Sadly, she goes by Clytie.”
Julia spoke up. “She could hardly insist on the whole of such an unwieldy name. I’m grateful to have a simple one. Have you ever thought of being Cassie, Cassandra?”
Pen bit her lip. She was sure Julia was innocent of all intent, but Miss Gable-Gore looked as if she’d bitten into an unripe gooseberry.
“I prefer complete names,” she said. “After all, they must be what our parents intended. I will . . .” She accepted tea from a maidservant. “I much prefer Cardross to Ross.”
Had she been about to say, I will insist . . . ? Perhaps there was more steel to the little Gable-Gore than at first seemed, and Pen didn’t like the sound of that.
Lady Azure was asked to play the pianoforte and did so excellently. Julia followed suit. The Gable-Gore went next, choosing the harp. Competent but not gifted, Pen assessed, but far better than any performance she could supply. She’d never been willing to practice any instrument and declined when invited to play.
Cards were another matter.
Two tables were set up, and eight of the matrons sat to play whist. Pen enjoyed whist, but her group of spinsters numbered five, which would leave someone out. “We could play loo,” she suggested.
Cassandra swayed backward. “Gamble?”
“Only for fish,” Pen said “There was always a box of them in that cabinet there. Very pretty ones of mother of pearl.”
“The principle is the same,” Cassandra said. “Gambling is vice, pure and simple, no matter what the stakes.”
“They’re playing whist for tokens,” Pen pointed out. “I do think it unwise to criticize one’s hosts, don’t you?”
Cassandra, cheeks red, rose and went to sit by her mother.
“Oh, dear,” said Pen, sipping her own tea, “I only meant to advise.”
Julia suppressed a giggle, and Caroline bit her lip.
Lady Azure asked the question. “Is she truly a candidate for your brother’s hand, Julia?”
“I fear so.”
Pen said, “Ross used to be very fond of gambling games, though never for high stakes.”
“He still is. We all are.”
Pen raised her brows in a question.
Julia shrugged, but unhappily.
Azure said, “Perhaps he seeks an antidote? I don’t mean as in ugly, I assure you. Only that my brother married a very studious woman, when he never opens a book. It was as if he were trying to balance his lack.”
“How goes the marriage?” Pen asked.
“Well, I suppose, but they are rarely in one another’s company.”
“Which is the key in many marriages, but it seems a shame to me.”
“And me,” Caroline said. “I will only marry where there is true communion of souls.”
That seemed to Pen to be the opposite extreme, but she toasted Caroline with her cup. “Then I hope you find it.”
Cassandra had returned to the harp. It was a pleasant enough noise, but when the men shortly entered the drawing room, Pen wondered if she’d deliberately presented herself well. She certainly sent Ross a sweet, blushing invitation.
For all her youthful sweetness, Cassandra Gable-Gore was as much on the hunt as a fox in the night, but she wouldn’t catch Ross unless he well and truly wanted to be caught. Pen was resolved on that. She watched his reaction to the blushing smile. He smiled back and even gave a slight bow, but then wandered over to watch one of the games of whist.
Pen had the fight of her life not to cheer at Cassandra’s momentary lapse into glaring fury. The girl was smiling again within a second, but she was all harpy underneath.
As was usual at Cherryholt, the men had arrived cheerfully awash with port and brandy, and brought the decanters with them, including one of Madeira, which Pen knew to be Lady Skerries’s favorite. Lady Skerries had done the conventional thing and served tea, but now she accepted a glass of Madeira, as did Pen’s mother. Even Julia took a small glass.
The Gable-Gores declined all the offerings, frostily. What pleasures did they approve of?
Pen requested brandy, which was on the edge of scandalous, for it was definitely a man’s drink, but it was her declaration of war.
Love could take strange paths, but she couldn’t imagine Ross being happy with sanctimonious Cassandra Gable-Gore. Even more importantly, she couldn’t imagine Cassandra would be a comfortable addition to Cherryholt. As the heir’s wife, this would be her home, and in time she would rule here.
Lord Skerries called for more tables to be set, and the players shuffled around so that the partners were a man and a woman. Pen watched as Ross went to the harp to invite Cassandra to play, concealing a smile as he received a reproachful refusal.
Instead of sitting beside his lady, as she was sure was the plan, he came over to her. “Pen, you enjoy whist, don’t you? Come and partner me.”
“When so masterfully commanded,” she said rising, “how can I refuse?”
He grinned. “Did I command? Your apologies, my dear Miss Brockhurst. Of your kindness please partner me in the game. You know how much I enjoy it, and there’s a table awaiting another couple.”
Pen went with him, and with extraordinary willpower she did not glance toward the harp, which was now being played in rather ferocious style. She was sure that if it had suddenly become a bow, an arrow would transfix her, and perhaps him.
“Do you still do archery here, Ross?” she asked.
“Of course. Might be a bit nippy for it, though.”
“It wouldn’t deter me,” she said as she sat.
“Did anything ever?” he said, and took the seat opposite, happily oblivious to all danger.
Chapter 5
Pen woke early the next morning and slipped out of bed without disturbing her mother. A glance outside showed a clear day with only a light frost. Splendid for riding. And the fact that Ross might feel the same was only part of the reason that she put on her habit, glad not to need help. Not wearing a corset could sometimes be a great advantage.
She carried her boots downstairs so as not to wake anyone and only put them on in the hall, sitting on the steps.
Ross caught her at it, coming down the stairs behind, dressed for riding.
“Two minds with but a single thought,” he said, grasping the heel of the right boot to help her stamp fully into it. They’d done this sort of thing for each other in the past, but Pen was aware of her light skirt falling back to expose her leg. A leg covered in breeches, but all the same . . .
He might, she thought resentfully, notice.
He picked up the left boot and held it for her as she put that one on, then offered a hand to help her rise. She didn’t need it, but she took it, relishing the firm grip.
“I see you clomped through the house without a thought for others,” she said.
“Heir’s privilege.”
They walked to the back of the house, and as they passed near cellars and storerooms the familiarity of Cherryholt wrapped around Pen like a shawl.
“I do like this house,” she said spontaneously. “I always have.”
“It is pleasant, isn’t it? I count my blessings for being the heir.”
“Just as it is?” he asked as they walked down the flagstoned corridor by the kitchen. “It’s not a museum.”
“No, not that. But the cozy warmth. The welcome to all.”
In other words, you dolt, not to bring a wife here who’ll curdle it.
“Ah, that, yes,” he said, opening the door for her, but then he paused to inhale. “Crisp fresh air.”
Pen gave up the campaign for now. “It’s going to be an excellent Christmastide,” Pen agreed as they walked on toward the stables. “Clear starry nights and crisp sunny days for greenery gathering. I gather the mummers are to come tonight?”
“It wouldn’t be Christmas Eve without them. You’ve never been here for Christmas, have you?”
“No.”
“That seems odd. You’re such a part of the family. I think you’ll enjoy our Christmas. We do it in the old style.”
What does “family” mean?
“Do the Gable-Gores know that?” Pen asked. “About the old-style Christmas?”
“I don’t know. Why?”
“Miss Gable-Gore seems to have some strict principles.”
“She does, doesn’t she?” he said. With approval?
Caroline Cavendish might have told a relevant story. Was Ross choosing a bride to balance his lack, in this case a lack of sobriety and high principles? What a disaster that could turn out to be.
They entered the stable yard, and grooms ran out to take their requests.
“Side or astride?” he asked her.
“Astride, of course.”
He grinned. “You haven’t changed. I’m glad.” He called for two horses, both with regular saddles. Pen knew hers would be a match for his so they could race.
“I’m sadly out of practice,” she said. “We’ve lived in Town for four months since Will went abroad. Mother doesn’t much care for an empty Lowell.”
“Not surprising. Your brother’s set on a diplomatic career like your father’s, then?”
“Yes, and it doesn’t fit well with being a landowner. Father bought Lowell for his later years, but then didn’t enjoy many, and none in good health. It was never a family home like Cherryholt.”
A thickness in her throat startled her. By Hades, she wouldn’t cry, but why had she never realized how much she loved this place? How in a way it had always seemed her real home?
“What is it?” he asked. “You look sad.”
Pen swallowed, shaking her head. “Silliness. Just that Lowell needs better. It should be cherished as your home is.”
“True enough,” he said as the horses were led out. A rangy bay for him and a white-socked chestnut for her. She stroked the chestnut’s nose, greeting it. He boosted her into the saddle, where she settled, getting the feel of the horse and its nature. Well behaved, but ready to go.
They walked the horses out of the stable yard, then trotted past the kitchen gardens out onto the sweeping grass of the estate, where they loosed them into a canter.
Pen was so exhilarated by the perfect ride that all other thoughts blew away, until they reined in on a rise, with Cherryholt below, comfortably solid with smoke rising from the many chimneys.
“What would you change?” she asked him.
“Change?”
“You said it wasn’t a museum. What would you change?”
“The water supply. There are many improvements available. And I’d like to find space for some indoor toilets. Not in my father’s lifetime, however. He thinks that extremely unhygienic.”
“I agree.”
“More so than chamber pots?” he challenged.
“They are emptied and cleaned outside.”
“An unpleasant job.”
“Many are.”
“Shouldn’t we reduce the number of unpleasant jobs?”
“Goodness, are you become a reformer?” she asked.
He smiled. “Not politically. I’ve become interested in some practical matters. Farming ones, too.”
Pen couldn’t resist, though she knew she should. “What does Miss Gable-Gore think of indoor toilets?”
“No need for her to be involved in such sordid stuff.”
But no concern over talking to me about it?
Pen managed not to say it, and indeed, she was glad he could talk to her about the things that interested him. That didn’t, apparently, have anything to do with whom he married, which was ridiculous.
“She does favor a wall,” he said as they walked the horses back down the slope.
“Around the estate?” Pen asked.
“With a wrought iron gate.”
“I like the openness.”
“There’s a couple of rights of way pass through, anyway, so I don’t see the point.”
Pen suspected that Cassandra would wall them off, too, if she had her way. Many landowners were trying to cut off access to their land, but Pen didn’t like the idea, and she doubted Ross did, either.
They picked up speed again and raced back to the stables. They were soon strolling back through the kitchen area shouting orders for a hearty breakfast before heading for the morning room.
Pen halted in the doorway. The Gable-Gores were there, partaking of tea and toast.
Ross gave them a hearty good morning, which seemed to pain both. Pen did the same, wishing them to the devil. She had no doubt that the ladies normally breakfasted in their room, at home and away, as most people did. This room was small, and the table could only seat eight.
The only explanation for their presence here was that they’d seen her and Ross out riding and taken measures.
Coffee arrived, and she poured some for herself and Ross, who’d taken a seat beside her, opposite the Gable-Gores.
“You must come out riding tomorrow, Cassandra,” Pen said. “Glorious weather for it.”
“I don’t ride,” Cassandra replied.
“What a shame. We must start your lessons.”
Mrs. Gable-Gore entered the fray, stating, “My daughter does not ride.”
“No reason why she should,” Ross said agreeably. “Carriages and roads are so improved, many people don’t care for it these days.”
“But there’s riding for pleasure,” Pen said. “I know you enjoy that, Ross. And it’s the best way to go around an estate.”
Servants came in with two beefsteaks and a mountain of toast that would mostly be eaten by Ross. The steaks were nicely bloody in the middle, and Pen ate her first mouthful with appreciation, also relishing a slight shudder from Cassandra.
What else would make her shudder?
“Christmas Eve,” Pen said. “So exciting. When do we go out to gather the greenery, Ross?”
“In the afternoon, so the light will be going as we return.” He smiled at Cassandra. “We light lanterns and carry them back, singing ‘The Holly and the Ivy,’ which builds the Christmas atmosphere.”
Cassandra’s smile was slight, and Mrs. Gable-Gore was unreadable.
“Light in the dark is such an important part of Yuletide,” Pen said, tossing in the pagan name as if tossing sticks on a fire. “Do you bring in a Yule log?”
“Not as such,” he said. “We don’t have a big enough fireplace for a real one that would burn the whole twelve days, but we light a large log in the drawing room after the mummers leave, and when it burns down, it’s replaced.”
“Perhaps you should enlarge the fireplace in the hall,” Pen said. “A true Yule log is supposed to bring good fortune to the house all the year long.”
Mrs. Gable-Gore spoke up. “I’m afraid that is superstition, Miss Brockhurst.”
“Tradition,” Pen corrected cheerfully. “Where would we be without the old ways?”
“I doubt anyone will enlarge the fireplace,” Ross said. “It would need structural changes to the house.”
“Alas,” Pen said, “but Cherryholt is so perfect it would be a sin to change anything. Anything at all. Don’t you agree?” she
asked the two Gable-Gores.
“Nothing can remain unchanged forever,” Mrs. Gable-Gore said. “Only think of bells. In my girlhood most houses had only handbells and it was necessary to bellow for a servant. The pulls that ring a bell in the servants’ hall are a great improvement.”
Pen had to grant her the right of that, and switched back to traditions. “Do your mummers here do Saint George and the Dragon?” she asked Ross.
“No, the local tradition is Robin Hood and the Turkish Knight.”
“Wonderful.”
“Especially when well fueled by punch and mince pies, both mummers and audience. What mumming traditions hold in your part of the country, Miss Gable-Gore?”
Cassandra sat dumbstruck.
“There are no such practices at Shearing Manor,” her mother said, “and I’m not surprised that Cassandra is distressed. I have to say, Mr. Skerries, that many of the practices here seem pagan.”
“Pagan?” he asked, surprised.
“The mummers don’t go back so far,” Pen put in, “but mistletoe is connected to the Druids, Ross. I think that’s what’s meant. And holly and ivy, too, I believe. Of course Yule is the ancient festival of light in midwinter, with practices to ensure spring and summer will come again.”
“And a good thing, too,” Ross said. “Wouldn’t care for never-ending winter, now, would we? In any case, Christmas was popped on top of the Roman Saturnalia, which was a very racy affair. At least we don’t re-create that.”
The Gable-Gores excused themselves and departed.
“I don’t think they’re too comfortable with your traditions,” Pen pointed out.
Ross cut into the remains of his steak. “Once they’ve enjoyed it, they’ll be charmed. What’s Christmas without a bit of fun?”
“Pagan fun in particular,” Pen said, well satisfied with her work. “More coffee?”
She filled his cup, imagining future mornings like this, if she married Ross. A brisk ride, a hearty breakfast, and the two of them, talking about everyday matters.
As for her rival, surely Cassandra Gable-Gore must be realizing that Cherryholt would not suit her at all.
Chapter 6
When Pen returned to her bedchamber, her mother was sitting in bed, enjoying her breakfast from a tray. “Riding, dear? I know how much you enjoy it, but I wish you wouldn’t go out alone.”
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