Tearfully, the Marquis asked, "What are you doing… mon petit chou?"
"Do not little cabbage me—sauvage!" she cried fiercely. "How may you stand there and laugh at this so tragique thing? Have you no heart?"
He sobered a little and, standing away from the wall, said, "Millie, you'd best go and change. You, too, Thompson. We'll get started here."
Sophia realized suddenly that she was staring, bewitched by the rather shattering effect of his mirth. "Oh, heavens! My souffle?" She grabbed two pot holders, rushed to the oven, slipped on the riced floor, and would have fallen had not Damon caught her and, urging her to strive to be less boisterous, swung open the oven door.
The souffle was a masterpiece. High and golden brown and crusty. Sophia gazed at it, awed by her own skill.
"Oh, my…!" sighed Feather, scraping rice from the clock
"Aha!" breathed Damon admiringly.
"Get a spoon!" Genevieve snarled. "And help with my rice!"
"Help?" he echoed. "It's past help! What you need, m'dear, is a shovel! How in the name of— How did you get it all in? And keep it there?"
"I spoon it," she said defiantly. "Your foolish Ariel hide the chestnuts I am supposed to use in their tummies, so I have to use the rice. And he also hide his pans. I can find only this one to fit with properly, but however we may tuck in les poulet, they are still too much for the pan, and I fear they will pop out, so I take the rope, and Sophia have help me to tying the lid on."
"We tied it very securely, my lord," Sophia confirmed, her own eyes abrim with laughter.
"Gad." He chuckled. "I still cannot see how…" A glimmer of comprehension touched his eyes. "You did—cook the rice?"
"Cook it? Why should you ask so stupid of a thing? Can you not see it have cook? Really, Camille! The rice cook inside the bird, inside the pan!"
"Yes," wheezed the Marquis. "It most assuredly… did. And when the rope caught fire—made good its escape!"
"Here," hissed Genevieve, thrusting a spoon into his hand. "Begin! Vite!"
"Look, my pretty, why don't we just scoop up the beastly stuff, and—"
"Beastly… stuff" she cried furiously. "Do you imagine for one of the moments, my Most Honourable the Marquis of Damon, that all of the work most hard I have do all days is onto the rubbish pile going?"
He stared speechlessly as she pounced on a chicken breast hiding modestly behind a Toby mug on the shelf. "You're… never going to offer—my guests…?" and he waved feebly at the scattered remains.
"It will rightly serve you," she snapped, "if your guests expire! Here!" She thrust a piece of meat between his jaws. "Try it!"
He obeyed and gave as his opinion that it really was not half bad. "A little hairy, but—"
Genevieve brandished a wing threateningly. Damon stepped back. "Now be serious! You cannot—"
Feather interpolated, "She is perfectly right. What the eye don't see, the heart don't grieve for. By the time we get it cleaned up a little…" She peeled a rose petal from a piece of breast and shook her head. "By the time we get it cleaned up a little, they'll never know the difference."
Chapter 11
It was, as they all agreed later, a most remarkable meal. The conversation proceeded at a brisk pace, eventually turning to the Regent's famed Brighton Pavilion, which the Duke referred to dryly as George's House of Horrors. Bodwin, the group's authority on art and architecture, immediately embraced this delightful characterization and exploded into peals of laughter.
Sophia, outwardly joining in the amusement, was inwardly taut with anxiety as the dishes were carried in. She was inexpressibly relieved to note that her souffle was holding up very well. Deluged with compliments on its majestic appearance, she blushed with pleasure. Genevieve and Feather had worked wonders with the salvaged chicken. It looked quite inviting when served on a bed of rice and well sprinkled with chopped parsley. Vaille declared the dish incomparable, and Sophia, nobly emulating his example, managed not to wince as she bit down on a piece of candle wax.
Damon, who had turned his attention first to the souffle, kept his head downbent for a minute, then slanted a brief and decidedly hilarious look at Sophia and complimented her on her culinary art.
Apprehension seized her. She tasted a morsel of her creation. It was light, fluffy, and extreme weird! It was, in fact, positively sweet! Numbed with horror, she realized what must have happened and, casting a frantic glance to Genevieve, found that lady frozen into immobility, her big eyes having an expression of such total guilt that she knew her fears confirmed. Genevieve had volunteered to complete Feather's trifle by adding the cooled custard to the top. She had mistaken the bowls. The souffle contained not white sauce but Feather's custard!
Feather, looking up with a puzzled expression, said, "Sophia, your souffle has the most—"
"The most delightful flavour," interposed the Duke smoothly, turning twinkling eyes upon the devastated chef.
"It has, indeed," agreed Lord Bodwin. "I confess it is quite new to me—Italian, I suspect, eh? Whatever does it contain, my dear lady?"
"Oh," said Sophia faintly, well aware of Damon's smothered chuckle, "it is an old family secret, my lord."
"Good God!" gasped Ridgley, removing a rose petal from his rice. "You French will stop at nothing to achieve an exotic flavour!"
"Nothing!" Damon put in.
Feather burst into a paroxysm of coughing. Damon blinked rapidly into his water goblet. The Duke murmured a polite appreciation of the "inspired efforts of our magnificent ladies." Genevieve grinned irrepressibly at all and sundry.
Sophia thought "Oh, heavens! What about the trifle?"
"No cards for me," the Earl decreed, shaking his curly head. "Afraid that delightful meal has made me sleepy. If we're to toddle over to Phinny's in time for luncheon tomorrow, I'd best not start into a long game at this hour."
The ladies exchanged surreptitious and amused glances. Despite its initially unusual flavor, the trifle had been the success of the meal. Lord Ridgley had partaken of three servings and been so well pleased he had begun to sing softly to himself as the gentlemen were left to their port. Bodwin had declared it by far the jolliest evening he had enjoyed in years and once again implored Sophia to join the group that would journey to Bodwin Hall next day. She was eager to see the famous mansion and had declined with reluctance, but Damon had said the bridge would be completed by the morrow. Whitthurst would certainly come, and she intended to be here to care for him as soon as he arrived. The Earl had accepted his invitation, however, and it was apparent that only his loyalty to his cousin kept Clay from going along.
Damon turned to the Duke. "Do you care to play, sir?"
"Thank you—no," said Vaille. "However, if you would be so kind."
Amazed, the Marquis asked, "Play? The harpsichord… ?"
"I hoped," explained the Duke, "we might persuade Lady Sophia to sing."
Gratified by the astonishment on Damon's face, Sophia assented. Damon escorted her to the harpsichord and, seating himself, glanced up, hands poised, one brow questioningly raised.
She leaned to him and murmured, "Do you know… 'Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms'?"
He grinned, breathed a soft "Touché!" and started into the introduction.
Feather, who had suffered through many an ear-splitting musicale, resigned herself and settled back with a small sigh. Sophia began to sing. With the first notes, Damon tensed, and his eyes reflected awed incredulity. She had an exquisite voice; a rich mezzo soprano, magnificently trained, and she sang the poignant words with such warmth and feeling that Feather was in tears before the first verse ended… Sophia looked down at Damon and could not look away…
For it is not while beauty and youth are thine own
And thy cheeks unprofaned by a tear
That the fervour and faith of a soul can be known
To which time will but make thee more dear.
No, the heart that has truly loved never forgets
But as truly loves on to the close;
As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets
The same look which she turned when he rose.
The last notes died tenderly away. There was no movement, no rush of applause, the guests by their rapt silence bestowing the highest tribute any performer can receive Having woven this magic, Damon and Sophia were each trapped by it. Time ceased to exist, and they gazed upon one another through a breathless suspension of all else.
Lord Bodwin, applauding frenziedly, leapt to his feet, crying an enthused "Bravo! Bravo!"
And the spell was broken. Damon started and looked away. Sophia gasped and straightened, feeling not a little frightened as the guests crowded around her, overwhelmed by admiration.
Vaille caught her hand, pressed a kiss upon it, and exclaimed, "My dear child! That was—truly—perfection!"
Blushing, Sophia said, "Thank you, your grace, but without Lord Damon I—"
"The entire evening has been pure delight," Bodwin avowed. "Lady Sophia, may we beg another song? Will you so honour us?"
"Oh, please do," gulped Feather, wiping fiercely at her eyes.
"I would be delighted"—smiled Sophia—"if my accompanist will…" She stopped, her smile fading. The bench was empty. My Lord Damon had gone.
The courtyard was chill now, as a cool night wind swayed the weeds that sprang between the mouldering old bricks and whispered in shrill whines among the chimneys. The Marquis, seated on the rim of the time-ravaged fountain, drew on his old pipe, which was shaped like a lion's head, and stared down the hill with eyes that saw neither the cloud-wracked sky, the tossing trees, nor the pipe's glow. Nor the dark shape that crept upon him.
The man sprang forward. In a lightning movement, Damon was on his feet, crouched a little, his eyes narrowed and deadly. Ridgley said severely, "Much too slow, Cam!"
"If you've made me break my pipe, damn you, you'll be slowed!"
Ridgley picked up the treasured article and handed it over. "All of a piece, I think. And how dare you talk to an aged relation with such flagrant lack of respect?"
Damon answered in French and so explicitly that Ridgley gasped a shocked "Have a care! The women might hear you!"
They started to wander together along the terrace and down the steps.
"Your retreat," said the Earl dryly as they followed the curve of the drive, "has not endeared you to your sire. They were all clamouring for The Drayton to sing again." Receiving no answer, he murmured cynically, "Didn't mean you to fall into flat despair, dear boy…"
Still, Damon said nothing. Watching him covertly, Ridgley was favoured by the wind, which, tearing apart the tenuous clasp of shifting clouds, allowed the moon to illumine the stern face beside him. He frowned worriedly and observed, "You're tired, Cam."
Damon drew back his shoulders at once but then abandoned the subterfuge and muttered, "If they don't all leave soon, I—I think I'll run mad!"
His unease mounting, Ridgley placed a hand on the younger man's arm. "You say so damned little. How do you feel these days?"
The Marquis pulled away. "Exasperated beyond belief!"
The Earl vouchsafed only a grunt at this, and when he next spoke, the very quietness of his words conveyed the depth of his resentment. "You could at least have warned me Vaille had arrived."
"I'd sink lower than that to reconcile you. Nineteen years is too long to carry hatred. Especially between first cousins who were once closer than brothers."
"Or—father and son…"
The pipe glowed very brightly, and Damon stopped walking. "That's not true."
"It's an odd kind of love that keeps you apart."
"You should be well informed. You're such an odd kind of lover!"
They glared upon one another. Then Damon, remorseful, said, "I'm sorry Ted. That was a stinking thing to say. Forgive me."
The Earl cuffed him lightly on the arm and, as they resumed their stroll, sighed, "I'm a fool to say it, the man disgusts me. But—in spite of everything, he loves you, Cam."
"Ah," said Damon softly, "but you see he does not know— everything. Yet. Still, he's cutting me off. Financially, at least. Without even the proverbial shilling." He gave a faint and bitter laugh.
"Good God!" Ridgley halted once more. "You never mean it? Does he realise the position that will place you in?"
"God forbid! It would send him into whoops!"
"But—what shall you do? Shall you be able to complete your spa? Perhaps that'll save your neck."
"More like to break it! I'm already in debt to the tune of twenty-five thousand and will need three times that to finish."
"Well, of all the cork-brained cod's heads!" cried the exasperated Ridgley. "Why did you not come to me? I could have gone to my bankers and—"
"And done what? Arranged another loan? You've already sunk ten thousand into the Spa, and had I known how short of blunt you are, I'd never have allowed you to invest at all!" Cutting off his kinsman's attempt to speak, Damon raised a peremptory hand and said, "No, Ted! As soon as I can get a groom across the bridge, I'll send word to Town and have Gillam call a meeting of the investors. They shall have to dig a little deeper—or let some new money in."
They had come to a wrought-iron bench beyond the looming bulk of the north wing's catacombs and sat down, each man busied with his own thoughts, smelling the stable smells, hearing the occasional shifting of an animal in a stall, all mingled with the myriad voices of the night and the stirrings of the wind.
"Damme!" Ridgley exploded in sudden irritation. "What a cold-blooded devil he is! Did he offer you no alternative?"
"Of a certainty," Damon acknowledged wearily. "I'm to marry within three months, give up Cancrizans, and remove to Town."
"Ah… And would you consider his demands?"
Damon favoured him with a glance of withering scorn.
"But—if you've swallowed a spider?" Ridgley blinked.
"Not quite. I still have Mother's jewels."
"What? You wouldn't, by God!"
"May have no alternative, old chap. The jewels would buy me a respectable life—were I to live quietly. I'd have to give up Cancrizans, of course. And the Spa. But—I suppose I could live in Town. My house on Green Street is not encumbered."
"You'd be doocid welcome to move into either of my places. You know that, I hope."
"I do, and thank you." Damon gave a wry grin. "You may host me sooner than you expect."
After a minute, Ridgley growled, "He has learned this much. Did it ever occur to you what he'll do when he learns the whole?"
Damon flinched a little. "It has occurred to me."
"Christ! Better by far to have been with the Guards in that blasted chateau at Hougoument! I don't know which of us he'll slaughter first! If you'd a spark of decency, Cam, you'd tell the man before he hears it from someone else."
Damon slanted a cynical look at him. "Is that what you would do?" he sneered. "How noble!"
"Noble, hell! Of course, I'd tell him! Whatever else, he's my own flesh and blood! D'ye think I am a hunk of ice—like you?"
"No, sir," said Damon politely. "I think you're a goddamned liar!"
The Earl smiled at the moon and responded without rancour. "Foul-mouthed young whelp."
Bodwin Hall lay to the northwest of the Priory, and the sound of Lord Phineas's carriage rumbling down the rear driveway awakened Sophia from her reverie. She was startled to find that it was after two o'clock, and she stood, resolution chasing the dreams from her eyes. She had sat here for over an hour, and there was nothing to be gained by mooning over a man who was the antithesis of everything she honoured! She must find Amory instead and discover whether he had completed the assignment with which she had charged him. During this entire day, she'd not had one instant alone with him. It was doubtful that he had yet retired, and hoping to intercept him on the stairs, she took up a candle and crept into the hall. There was no one in sight, but light still gleamed from downstairs. She hurried to the balcony. The very
man she sought was hastening across the Great Hall towards the north wing. She called to him, but fearing to wake the other ladies, her cry was soft and went unheard. She hurried downstairs, crossed the hall, and turned into the north wing, following the rapidly disappearing glow ahead.
There was no sign of Amory when she came to the first winding steps leading downward, and her nervousness mounted as she recalled the tragic story Damon had told her. It was all nonsense, of course, a figment of his wicked imagination. There was no reason to fear darkness. Beginning to tremble, she crept down those clammy steps. Whatever was Hartwell about down here? His close friendship with the Marquis would imply he was no stranger to the Priory— perhaps he had come down to get something…
At the foot of the stairs, the corridor loomed ahead, her light piercing only a short way into the gloom. The heavy, rounded doors began to appear, one after another, like so many eyes, lurking in their recesses to watch her as she passed. Very mindful of Damon's monk, however she strove to dismiss him, she called a quavering "Amory?" that lay flat against the blackness.
She came at last to a wider place in the narrow passage and a half-open door and, holding her candle high, peered inside. No sign of Hartwell, but many things were stored here: a broken wicker chair from the garden, a pile of rusting iron gates, abandoned tools; and, in one corner, sedately alone, a portrait was propped. The lady must have been extraordinarily beautiful. She had glistening dark hair, pale skin, and exquisite, darkly lashed eyes, wide set and of a rich and familiar turquoise colour. The rest of her features were indeterminate. The portrait had been slashed so many times that the canvas sagged; only the hair and eyes remained intact. Her identity, however, was beyond doubting, and Sophia's fear of this gloomy place was eclipsed by a new terror. She stood unmoving, her candle held aloft, her eyes riveted to that savage destruction. Almost she could hear the Duke asking, "Where is the portrait of your Mother?" And Damon's cool "It is being cleaned, sir…" Why would he lie? And, even more horrifying, why would he bring that painting of his so beauteous Mother down into this dank dungeon and slash it to shreds?
She heard footsteps and saw the glow of an approaching candle in the hall. Amory! At last! She ran through the doorway. The welcoming cry on her lips died to a sobbing gasp. The slim figure was too tall; instead of the rich gleam of Hartwell's auburn curls, the hair was black and thick and slightly waving, with the rumpled look that she knew came from his running his hand through it while he puzzled at his music.
Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 04] - Love's Duet Page 12