Eda darted over to the door and retrieved the item in question from a console table in the hallway. “Here is a sketch I made of Monsieur Bayeux yesterday.” She placed it enthusiastically in Arabella’s hands.
It was well executed, a near-perfect likeness of the man. Eda had toiled long over some of the features—the chiseled cheekbones, the noble forehead, the wavy hair. She had also imbued his eyes with such a smoldering quality that Philippe Bayeux looked like he was ready to come off the page and into the viewer’s arms with intent to ravish.
Arabella’s eyes widened, and her mouth fell open a little before she recovered her aplomb. “Very well executed,” she said primly and made to hand it back to her fiancé’s cousin.
“Oh, I thought maybe you would want to keep it? A little something to hang in your home?”
“Why would I want it?” There was an edge of warning in Arabella’s voice.
“You should know that better than I,” said Eda carelessly.
Haro thanked his lucky stars that the architect was absent from the breakfast room—perhaps he was a late riser—for he doubted that Eda would have withheld the portrait even if its subject had been present. He had been fearing the appearance of the dressing gown and the explanation that must accompany it, but this sketch that Eda had produced was almost as disconcerting.
Arabella’s chin rose. “Very well, I shall keep it. I will need some new artwork to display once I get rid of some of these ghastly oils. That one, for example.” She pointed at a gilt frame containing a young woman seated amidst a Grecian-inspired landscape. If her hair had been black and not brown, it could have been a portrait of Eda herself. It was Helen, Eda’s late mother, in a painting commissioned by the young Lady Anglesford before the Irish captain had charmed her cousin away.
At this comment, Eda’s mocking manner vanished. She gave Arabella a look calculated to turn her into stone. Haro blinked his eyes to make sure his cousin’s coils of black hair had not turned into venomous snakes.
“The day you get rid of that painting is a day you will regret for the rest of your life—however short that may be.”
“What’s all this?” demanded William Hastings, putting down his newspaper at last and trying to make sense of the conversation. He did not like to hear anything at the breakfast table louder than jaws chewing, and all this commotion was starting to irritate him.
“I believe Haro’s dear cousin is threatening me,” said Arabella, eyebrows arched, “though I’m certain it’s all in fun.”
“Eh?” grunted her portly father. He glanced from Eda to his daughter with a furrowed brow that did not quite apprehend the situation.
Just then Bayeux made his appearance. Arabella casually turned the sketch over on the table to avoid further comment from either the artist or the subject.
“Speaking of fun,” interjected Haro, “perhaps you’d like to go out and see the pond. The footman tells me it’s completely iced over from the cold spell we had last night. I’d love to show it to you.” A brisk walk—without use of the horses—would be safe enough, and there would be no tittle-tattling servants near the ice.
“Time to sharpen up the old skates?” said Torin.
“Not quite.” Haro shook his head. “It’ll be a week or more before the ice is thick enough to bear our weight. But it is beautiful to look at, all sparkling like cut crystal.”
“What a splendid idea!” said Eda, including herself in the invitation that had been meant for Arabella. “And perhaps you’d like to make a fourth and join us on our expedition, Monsieur Bayeux?”
The architect hesitated. “I have a good deal of work to do on the plans—”
“Nothing that can’t wait. And I’m sure Miss Hastings would join with me in entreating your presence.”
Arabella laid down her napkin, and Haro rose to his feet to pull out the chair for her. “Come if you like,” she said with a shrug of indifference. She took Haro’s hand as she stood and held onto it for a second or two before sliding her fingers down to the crook of his arm.
Philippe Bayeux’s eyes narrowed. “I think I will accept your invitation, Miss Swanycke. I never cease to be amazed by the new things I see out in the country.”
“Marvelous. Perhaps you’ll have time to eat a little breakfast while the future Lady Anglesford and I put on our furs. Haro will keep you company. I’m sure you have a shared interest or two you could discuss while we womenfolk look for our muffs.”
***
After the young ladies excused themselves, an uncomfortable silence settled on the room. The current Lady Anglesford took herself upstairs to her own sitting room, too overcome with anxiety to face more conversation with the house’s inmates. Mrs. Rollo ambled off to the sitting room on the other side of the house, perhaps to fall asleep in an armchair near the window. This left the room empty of all but the four gentlemen and the remnants of breakfast laid out on the sideboard.
“How are those plans coming?” asked Mr. Hastings abruptly, just after the architect had taken a bite of scrambled eggs.
Bayeux swallowed then wiped his mouth delicately with a napkin. “They are nearing completion. You’ll be able to start knocking down walls and putting up new ones in no time. Although I would suggest waiting until late spring before you commence the renovations.”
“You seem a little confused,” Torin blurted out, “about which one of the men in this room actually owns the place. He won’t be deciding when and how to renovate. The last I knew, my brother Haro was still the Earl of Anglesford.”
“Quiet down, Torin,” said Haro, his face suffused with red.
“Now, now,” said Mr. Hastings, digging into his waistcoat pocket for a cigar. “Let the boy have his say. Tell me—are you offended that I want to improve the place, young man?”
“If improvements are what is actually meant, then no, I take no offense. But if these renovations are simply to tear down what is old to put up what is new, then that is no improvement. On the contrary, it is a desecration.”
“But, surely, you acknowledge the benefit of brighter windows, more efficient heating, and roomier chambers. There is an energy to the new that the old always lacks.”
“And there is a stateliness to the old that the new can never achieve.”
It occurred to Haro that his brother might not even be speaking about architecture any more. It also occurred to him that his brother might be right.
Mr. Hastings lit his cigar, happy to have exercised his intellect in sparring with the earl’s brother, but still convinced that the lad’s opinion was of little importance. “You are a fine speaker, young man. You’ll do well at Oxford.”
“Why does everyone think that I’m dashed well going there?” Torin rose from the table.
Mr. Hastings laughed at the boy’s outburst. “Because you are, young Torin, you are! I’ve written to my banker about the fees this morning.”
Grinding his teeth, Torin thudded out of the room in search of Uncle Harold. He had need of a conference with someone who actually wanted him at Woldwick and appreciated the old house’s charm as much as he did.
“Finished already?” asked Haro politely, seeing that Bayeux had cleaned his plate and laid his fork upon the side of it.
“But of course. It is not my habit to keep people waiting on my account.”
“A fine sentiment,” said William Hastings with a guffaw, “but unfortunately, not one my daughter shares. She could be upstairs for an hour, trying on this set of furs and that one before she settles on the one that fits her mood. I expect it will be easier for Miss Swanycke as she’ll not have so many sets to choose from.”
“Oh, undoubtedly,” said Haro, by now so used to the mill owner flaunting his wealth that he barely even bristled. Eda would have an easier time of it—Haro recalled that she had only worn her dark sables and dark dresses since his father’s death. Although, come to think of it, that was a green dress she had been wearing earlier. Had she decided to truncate the period of mourning that etique
tte demanded? She always did look fetching in green. She needed emeralds to go with that dress and to set off her black hair and her white throat….
“Well,”—Mr. Hastings folded his paper noisily—“as long as there’s no fear of my daughter incurring injury today, I suppose I can leave her in your hands, Lord Anglesford.”
Haro stopped his daydreaming about Eda. “Certainly, Mr. Hastings.” He gave a wry grin. “A walk to the pond is hardly life-threatening, but I’ll be sure to watch out for her safety nonetheless.”
The mill owner grunted, and, looking down at his pocket watch, left the room to keep some scheduled assignation with his business accounts.
Haro rang for Garth and asked him to bring down his coat. “Shall he fetch yours as well?” he inquired cordially of Philippe Bayeux.
“Yes, merci. And my cane.” The Frenchman seemed surprised that the earl thought him of enough consequence to be served by his valet.
“And then we just wait on the ladies,” Haro said, trying to keep matters jovial. “It’s a man’s lot in life—always waiting on a woman.”
“Bien sûr, Lord Anglesford,” said Bayeux, his dark eyes opening wider and shining with a sort of luminescence. “But a man cannot wait forever, can he? Especially if the woman does not wish him to.” His empty breakfast plate was still in front of him, and taking the fork in hand, he pressed it so hard against the table that the tines bent askew.
“I suppose not,” said Haro, frowning for his mother’s sake at the contorted flatware. He suspected that the architect was no longer talking about their walk. But what he was talking about, the earl had no idea.
He did not know which would be the more unpleasant ordeal—enduring a lengthy tête-à-tête with Monsieur Bayeux or escorting two ladies who would rather be at each other’s throats than inmates in the same house.
13
At long last the ladies returned. Arabella was wrapped in a ruby red pelisse trimmed with ermine on every edge, and she carried a large ermine muff to boot. Her long, slim figure stepped sinuously down the stairs of the great staircase, with an eye to the gentlemen watching her descend.
Eda followed close behind. Her own pelisse was purple, a brilliant contrast with the green of her dress, and as Haro had conjectured, her furs were sable. She looked every inch an empress, except for the barely concealed smile that lingered on her lips and betokened she was hiding some secret amusement.
The front door opened, and the four walkers stepped out into the chill of the late morning. Arabella and Haro led the way, the mill owner’s slender daughter leaning against the earl like a climbing vine on an oak tree. The other two fell in step several paces behind them. Bayeux’s face twisted into an unmistakable scowl. He kept his hands securely in the pockets of his many-caped greatcoat and, no matter how much Eda tried to draw him out, had little conversation to offer.
Arabella and Haro, on the other hand, had no lack of things to discuss. At Haro’s instigation, they walked forward quickly until they were out of earshot from the others.
“I must apologize for my cousin’s rudeness,” said Haro, inclining his head a little toward his fiancée. It was best to acknowledge the annoyance of the inappropriate sketch and get it out of the way. “She is still grieving over my father’s death, and I beg you to excuse any irregularities she displays.”
Arabella looked up at him, her eyes quite serious. “Irregularities like having your dressing gown in her room?”
Haro blanched. Hellfire! She knew. He determined to brazen his way out of this mess.
“My dressing gown? What on earth do you mean?”
“After I went to my room to collect my furs, I knocked on your cousin’s door to see if she was ready—and also to return that odious picture she foisted on me at breakfast. She bade me enter, and there, slung over the back of her zebrawood chair, was a Chinese dressing gown, much too large for her, and obviously designed for a man.
“She must have caught me looking at it, for she gave a little laugh and said, ‘Oh, that! It’s Haro’s.’ And catching it up from the chair, she tossed it upon her bed without any further explanation.” Arabella sniffed. “And is that, pray tell, one of the irregularities I am supposed to excuse?”
“Good God!” Haro cast about for some suitable explanation that did not involve his cousin coming into his rooms in the dead of night clad only in her shift. “I can only assume the maids must have mixed up the laundry, and she decided to make a joke of it at my expense. Eda has always enjoyed her jokes….”
Arabella, it appeared, did not share this enjoyment, for she had not the slightest twinkle in her eye when she responded. “If there are so many inhabitants in the house that the maids cannot sort the wash correctly, then perhaps it is time to ease their labor. And I daresay your cousin’s grief would heal more swiftly were she to remove herself from an environment that holds such painful memories.”
“You want Eda to leave Woldwick?” Haro could have foreseen this request, but it still felt like someone had planted a facer on him. He stopped in the middle of the path.
“It is three weeks to our wedding, and I cannot share a house with her.” The words came out shrill, and it seemed that Arabella knew almost immediately that she needed to soften them. Her warm hand came out of her ermine muff and found his cheek, now glowing from the exercise in the cold air. “You understand, my love?” Her thumb caressed his ear.
“Mmm, yes,” he said, glad that the lady in question had fallen so far behind them that the trees would obscure this display of affection. He laid a light kiss on Arabella’s upturned cheek. He could not deny that Eda was becoming more than a nuisance. If she continued on with her rude and reckless behavior, he would have no choice but to turn her out of doors.
But where would she go? Of her father’s relatives in Ireland, there were none that lived in anything better than a hovel. Of her mother’s relatives in England, only Lady Anglesford remained.
And yet, it was unconscionable to expect a bride to live in such proximity to her husband’s former intended. She must know that there had been an understanding between them. And she was within her rights to demand that her rival depart—more than within them if she had any inkling of last night’s midnight encounter.
There was no help for it. Eda must go. Haro resolved to ask his mother about it later that day. Perhaps Lady Anglesford would know a place where her foster daughter would be welcome. The only thing Haro knew for certain was that Woldwick was no longer that place.
***
“Come now, Monsieur,” said Eda as they picked their way along the path to the pond. “You must tell me something of interest about yourself, or I shall give you up as an altogether disobliging man.”
“Very well,” he said, bestowing on her the first small smile he had given throughout the whole of their walk. “My father died in the service of Louis XVI. My mother was the daughter of an aristocrat in the south of France, and she was forced to flee to England when I was just un enfant, leaving me behind.”
“Oh goodness! How very exciting!”
“Not very.” He stabbed his cane sharply into the earth with each step they took. “Although it ended up being the making of me. For had the Terror never happened, and had she stayed in France, I doubt not that I would have grown up idle and uneducated. But after she was gone, I grew up quickly, for I knew that I would have to earn my own bread. I applied myself to learning, and my studies acquainted me with architecture, the second great love of my life.”
Eda had no qualms conjecturing which love he held higher than his chosen vocation. “And your studies of architecture led you to meet our dear friends, the Hastings.”
“Yes.” He proceeded more cautiously. “Mr. Hastings became a client of mine several years ago. I designed his house for him in the north of England, a grand mansion with over forty rooms in the Palladian style.”
“It sounds very fine! And did Miss Hastings approve of it?”
“Yes, very much so.” His voice warmed a lit
tle, though the air was still cold enough to see his breath. “She has a passion for architecture.”
“I did not know that.” Eda resolved to try a more direct approach in gleaning information. “I only knew that she had a passion for earls.”
“No!” His voice turned bitter. “That passion belongs entirely to her father.”
Eda stayed silent, praying that he would continue.
“There was a time when a mill owner would find a man of his own station—worthy to pursue his daughter’s hand. But now, all sense of order is overturned, and capitalists aspire to be kings on the backs of their children’s marriages.” He hit his cane against a nearby log with astonishing force.
“So, this Mr. Hastings has convinced his daughter, against her will, to accept our Haro’s hand?”
“I am sure of it—or, at least, I was sure enough to come here.”
“And now that you are here, what will you do?”
“Je ne sais pas. I’ve had no chance to speak with her alone, to reason with her, to understand her heart. And now they have set a date!”
“Three weeks.” Eda pronounced the words like a verdict of doom.
“Three weeks! Mon dieu! Is there nothing I can do?”
“Nothing other than convince the lady to stand up to her father and throw Haro over. Are you that persuasive? Are you that charming?”
Bayeux shrugged. “Perhaps. But it is only possible if I can gain an audience with her. Alone.”
Eda gave the man a sympathetic smile. “That is something that I might be able to help you with.”
***
“Don’t get too near the edge,” warned Haro, as he helped Arabella down to the shores of the forest’s frosted pool. They called it a pond, but it was more of a lake, stretching out like a long finger toward the nearby village. A slow stream fed into it, bridged by a few weathered, wooden boards so that the path could continue unbroken around the water. At the end of the stream, just under the bridge, the ice began. White lines of frost zigzagged across the surface like intricate designs on a dish of white porcelain.
To Wed an Heiress Page 9