Sharon Sobel

by The Eyes of Lady Claire (v5. 0) (epub)

  “As are mine. They have been waiting for you for at least these past thirty years.”

  ***

  Claire and Camille were as thick as thieves all week, meeting with the dressmaker in Middlebury, fingering bolts of fabric that mysteriously appeared in the parlour, and examining long lists of names. Occasionally they consulted him on what they believed to be important decisions. But he thought one dress looked as good as another on his slim sister, he did not concern himself with the cost of the cloth, and he scarcely knew any of the names on their lists. When the dressmaker showed up at Brookside Cottage with a retinue of young women who curiously decorated the breasts of their dresses with straight pins, he knew enough to escape to the stable or take a walk along the river.

  On one afternoon, while doing so, he nearly ran into Mr. Cosgrove.

  “My lord,” the solicitor nodded in greeting.

  Max greeted him with some pleasure, for he desired some companionship. “If you intend to see my sister this afternoon, you will be sorely disappointed, Mr. Cosgrove. She only wishes to see other women, and particularly those carrying needles and thread. Perchance, if you have a few extra buttons on your person, you might be admitted.”

  Cosgrove looked over Max’s shoulder, towards the Cottage. “I did not think it so bad as all that. How many gowns does a lady require?”

  Max never considered this before. “I daresay as many as her brother can afford. After the London trip, she may have to recalculate those numbers depending on the man she chooses to marry.”

  Cosgrove was uncomfortable, which was the desired effect. After all, his sister had limitations as a wife, but was capable and clever and rather beautiful, if a brother could be allowed to pass judgment on such things. She might attract many men in London, well titled and wealthy. And yet, in a little flash of understanding, Max realized there were things that mattered more. He liked Cosgrove, and, even more important, Camille liked him. She loved him.

  Max saw it in the way she greeted the man, and allowed him to lead her throughout the garden and house. She gazed upon him as if she truly saw his features, and he supposed the man had let her examine his face as closely as she examined Max’s own. They walked and danced together, already in harmony. And he brought her flowers, which very much advanced his suit.

  “Perhaps, my lord,” Cosgrove continued, “after she chooses to marry a gentleman, she might not need so many costumes. After all, I believe the whole purpose of these preparations is to call attention to her beauty. Once the business is settled, she can return to her comfortable blue worsted dresses in the winter and sprigged muslins in the summer.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it,” Max said, as they started to walk down the path. They passed that damned tree trunk over the brook, where all his present troubles started only a few weeks ago.

  “I have known your sister for years, in every season,” Cosgrove said simply.

  “How will you feel when she chooses a fine duke to marry while we are in town?”

  Cosgrove stopped and put his hands on his hip. “With respect, my lord, I believe you know precisely how I will feel. It should not surprise you to learn that I love Lady Camille as I have loved her for years. I know what she can do, and what she cannot. I know what she likes and what she dislikes. I know what it will take to make her happy for all her life.”

  Max realized all this was true. A title was nothing next to a promise of lifetime happiness. And, indeed, he suddenly realized that Cosgrove must know more about it than he did, for he had no idea what to do to keep his sister forever contented.

  “In that case,” Max said slowly, “why the hell are we bothering to go to London?”

  Cosgrove nodded, not bothering to contain his pleasure. “Because the ladies desire new gowns, I suppose. It all comes down to silk and lace.”

  “And flowers,” Max reminded him, thinking he ought to find a few himself.

  ***

  A few hours later, after he had a lonely lunch listening to the sounds of rustling fabric and feminine cries in the next room, Claire found him in the kitchen garden.

  “Has Mrs. Clark enlisted your assistance in flavoring the shepherd’s pie for tonight’s dinner?” she asked, snipping off a cluster of leaves between her fingernails. As she came closer, he was reminded of a hot afternoon in Spain, and a walk to the ruins of an ancient Roman aqueduct in Catalonia.

  “Inasmuch as I have no idea what our cook plans for dinner, she will only need to enlist my assistance in eating it,” he said, glancing towards the cottage windows. Whatever else he risked, in service to his country and in service to this beautiful woman, he would not give in and have her here, in the garden. “What have you picked? It is somewhat familiar.”

  Claire twirled the sprig of leaves between her fingers and held it to her nose. “It is tarragon, I believe. I am no more an herbalist than you are, Max. But I know what I like.”

  “Roses, perhaps?” he asked, ready to risk everything, and damned be the consequences. “I think all ladies like roses.”

  She looked at him speculatively and tossed the tarragon over her shoulder. “I ought not to pretend to speak for all ladies, and yet I believe we do.” She opened her palms and shrugged. “But you are not likely to find them here, in a kitchen garden. While there are some ladies who would be wooed with sage and parsley, I am not among them.”

  “You wish to be wooed, then.” Max rather thought several nights in the heavenly sanctuary of her bedchamber had already settled that business, but decided he ought to take a lesson from Cosgrove and vow to do anything to make this woman happy. She did not answer, but then, she did not have to. He was coming to know her rather well.

  “I know where there are roses,” he said, thinking out loud. “At one time they were considered the most splendid roses in the county, though I suspect that honor now goes to Mrs. Lester. My mother loved her roses as well, and filled Brook Hall with them. I have not thought of that in years.”

  “Then perhaps it is time to visit them,” Claire said gently. “They will have grown wild through all these years of neglect, but they are a hardy bunch. You may know the story of the Sleeping Beauty, who fell asleep for a hundred years.”

  “And awoke to dance with a young man who had a swan’s wing where his arm should be?” Max frowned. He remembered reading something of the sort to Camille when she was very little. And he also remembered feeling very grateful when they were able to enjoy Adam Smith’s writings instead.

  “Oh, dear,” Claire said. “You have it all in a muddle. I believe you have very little appreciation of romance.”

  Max opened his mouth to protest, but realized she was quite right. He was making it up as they went along, taking his cues through this unchartered wilderness from the very lady he wished to impress.

  He cleared his throat. “I have every appreciation of romance, my lady Claire. Do you not think a man so deformed as to have a bird’s wing deserves the love of a lady as well as any other man?”

  “But a man who can chop his way through a hundred years’ growth of thorny roses is likely to wound himself as well as demonstrate his heroism. It is an excellent story, you must admit.”

  “More excellent in the retelling than in the event itself, I daresay. But if you insist, I will stop by the stable and pick up an axe,” Max said.

  “But the lady you desire is not sleeping in a tower beyond the thorns, Max. She is at your side. I suspect a sharp scissor is all that is required.”

  By the look in her clear blue eyes, he would have conscripted an army just to get her a single bloom. But instead he only had to say, “Then let me ask Mrs. Clark if I might borrow one, and hope the blades are stronger than the overgrown stems.”

  He left her standing among the tarragon and parsley and whatever else his servants considered to be the essentials of a tasty dish. He never pa
id the least bit of attention to such things until Claire’s arrival and hoped his cook was aware of his newfound tastes. But when she opened the door the moment he stepped onto the stone landing, he realized Mrs. Clark must be fully aware of his new tastes. She reached into the pocket of her apron and wordlessly handed him a pair of scissors, and he knew his belief in privacy was all an illusion.

  “For the roses,” she said.

  “Thank you. I will return the scissors before dinner, Mrs. Clark,” he said.

  “They are your scissors, my lord. They are your roses. And she is your lady.”

  Indeed she was; he guessed it was now general knowledge in his small household. “Thank you,” he said again, because it seemed the thing to say. But why? Perhaps it was because this kind and thoughtful woman was letting him know his affair did not have to be kept under wraps.

  “My lord,” Mrs. Clark began. “Don’t . . .” She stopped abruptly and only nodded.

  He nodded as he turned away, wondering what this woman who had known him all his life wished to say. As he and Claire walked in silence towards the brook and along the path to the rose garden of Brook Hall, he considered the possibilities. Certainly, it had nothing to do with the roses. He doubted Mrs. Clark intended to warn him about imposing himself on Lady Claire, because she probably knew he already imposed and Claire imposed him back. As the blue lake suddenly came into view, he decided Mrs. Clark only urged him not to ruin this, as he had ruined nearly everything else in his life.

  ***

  Claire wondered what Mrs. Clark said to Max to make him so quiet and contemplative as they went along their way. Did she warn him about London ladies, who were more aggressive than their country cousins? Did she remind him about fortune-hunting widows who would take every advantage of a quiet man and take what they could get? Or did she simply tell him to have a care for thorns of the botanical type, and remember to return her scissors?

  “Mrs. Clark is very fond of you,” Max said at last.

  Claire stumbled on a root, and Max pulled her close. “And you are so amazed to hear this, it has deprived you of all speech?” she demanded.

  “Yes, it is that. I suppose you have that effect on people.”

  “If this is your way of telling me that I talk too much, I assure you there are kinder ways of letting me know,” Claire said tersely.

  “Your speech is honest and open, and brings out the same in others. I have not understood so much of my sister’s interests and affections in my whole life as I have in these weeks since I returned from Portugal.”

  “Ah, yes. I wondered when we would get to that. She loves Jamie Cosgrove, you know,” Claire said.

  “I know.” Max did not sound half as angry as she expected. “He loves her as well.”

  “Are you certain of this?” Claire herself only guessed as much.

  “Oh, yes. He told me so not three hours ago.”

  “I see,” Claire sighed. “Does this change everything? Ought we still go to London?”

  “Are you and I not longing for our townhouses and the privacy they afford?” he asked, and smiled.

  She truly longed only for him, and where they were could no longer matter. She knew he understood as much as he pulled her into the shade of one of the quince trees, and put his arms around her.

  “I should like to introduce you to my friends,” she said as she wrapped her arms around his neck.

  But suddenly he looked up and squinted into the sun. “There is someone there,” he said. “Look, on the side of the house where the kitchen used to be.”

  “The kitchen is still there,” Claire said impatiently. “It only requires someone to chase the squirrels out of the stove.”

  “I have employed no one to chase out the squirrels, nor anything else, for that matter. There is no reason for anyone to be trespassing my property.”

  Claire dropped her arms and followed his direction. Indeed there was someone there, slowly passing behind a stone window frame, its glass long gone. It was a man, but she guessed this simply because of the hat on his head, and the breadth of his shoulders. However, by those scant clues, the trespasser could be Mrs. Clark, or one of the other rather sturdy women who were employed at Brookside Cottage.

  “We must confront him, and discover his reason for being here,” Claire said. “He might be up to some mischief.”

  When Max didn’t answer, she turned to him, and realized he was unhappier about this business than was reasonable for a property owner who only wished to know why someone was on his property. Claire realized the cause of his reticence, for he had not yet managed to get past the threshold of the home that still held such great unhappiness for him, and perhaps was not yet ready to do so. But when he spoke, he deftly avoided the issue altogether.

  “As we do not know who he is, we cannot trust his intentions. He might be dangerous,” Max cautioned. “I am not concerned for myself, but I will not risk your safety.”

  Even if she doubted the complete truth of it, Claire had to admit his statement was rather noble. She decided she would do well to change the subject, if only slightly.

  “It is a pity that even with our eyes that see so much around us, we are not as adept at identifying people as is Camille,” Claire said. “At the Assembly, she thought she recalled someone on nothing more than his scent.”

  Max frowned, and she decided there was something on his mind other than a mysterious stranger.

  “My sister likes to astound everyone by making us believe her senses are more acute than is truly possible. At first, I thought she did this to soften my own sense of guilt. But now she claims it as a remarkable talent.” Max shook his head. “I doubt she could recognize anyone on nothing more than a vague scent and a childhood memory,” he said dismissively.

  “And yet I have never known your sister to be wrong,” Claire pointed out. “Who is the man she mentioned? Her thoughts returned to Brook Hall as it once was, and spoke his name.”

  Max shrugged. “You refer to John Mandeville, long gone these twenty years, perished in the fire. The man was a Brooks cousin who grew up on the estate and his father was steward before him. He knew the land and the holdings as well as anyone else, and perhaps even better. I used to follow him around like a devoted puppy and in turn he taught me everything about masonry and water drainage and dry rot.”

  “How utterly fascinating.”

  Max ignored her. “He also knew about the paintings and Greek amphora in the house, making him a favorite of my mother.”

  It was not what Max said but the way he said it that gave Claire pause.

  “And of your father as well, I suppose?”

  “I suppose, for they were cousins, after all. There was always some good-natured rivalry between them, in horse racing and fencing and other things.”

  “But your father always won, of course.”

  “Of course not. Mr. Mandeville was a strong sportsman.”

  “Max, do not insult me by pretending you do not know how this world works. Your father was a marquis, and his cousin his steward. Your father owned this grand property and was well settled with an excellent wife and heir. It does not matter if Mr. Mandeville beat him to the stone wall in a horse race; your father was always the winner.” Claire wondered why the steward would have still been in the great house late into the evening on the night of the great fire, when the guests already retired, but she said nothing.

  “But, as it turned out, neither won in the end. It all came to me, years before my time, and under the worst possible circumstances.”

  “But it did, and this is yours, Max. Should you not claim it? You might argue that you do not deserve it, but surely Brook Hall deserves your care?”

  Claire knew he was wrestling with himself and remained quietly at his side. She, who offered opinions on everything and everyone, knew when to
be silent.

  “You may be right, my dear. Perhaps it is time to put all ghosts to rest.” He sucked in his breath as he held out his hand to her. “Will you accompany me into Brook Hall?”

  Claire felt chilled and crossed her arms over her breast. “Are you quite certain, Max? After an eternity of twenty years, living not a mile from this great house, you choose to enter now, at this time? And what about the risks of confronting a dangerous man?”

  Max came behind her and wrapped her in his arms, his chin resting on her head. Together, they gazed up at the ivy-laced walls and towers.

  “I have taken your words to heart, for you have made many things perfectly clear. I have a future to protect, and this house is necessarily a part of it. I will banish its ghosts, and anyone else who has overstayed his time.” Max cleared his throat. “Besides, if you can embrace this ruin of a body, I ought to come to terms with this ruin of a home.”

  Claire shook her head. “This has nothing to do with me.”

  “This has everything to do with you, my love. You have allowed me to see what I could not, and hope for what I dared not imagine. I have begun to see things through your eyes, and the vision is full of promise.”

  Claire felt tears well up in her eyes, clouding everything before her. She told herself that it was because his words were so eloquent, but the truth was that she was awed by the responsibility now hers. Indeed, she might, in some small measure, have brought this man and his sister into the light, but what a challenge it would be to remain there.

  Chapter 7

  On their last night before leaving for London, Max came to her in the dark with a basket of red roses. Claire was already waiting for him for some time; indeed, she was beginning to think he would not come at all.

  “This is most unexpected,” she murmured as she lifted the soft down quilt to welcome him close.

  “Is it?” he asked, pulling off his dressing gown. “I thought I gave you enough hints over dinner that you might expect me this night. If I were any more explicit, my poor sister would have fled the room, thinking I would take you on the dinner table, between the roasted duck and the whipped potatoes.”