by Sandra Heath
Evangeline looked at him. "Greville, if only you would understand and accept that with your father gone, the last five years of your mother's life were far happier."
"I beg to differ on that point."
"But you were only eleven and away at Eton when she died. She was happier, believe me. Anyway, I wish you to let bygones be bygones while you are in this house." Evangeline decided to give him a moment or two to consider this, so she introduced Rupert to Megan first. "Miss Mortimer, this is my nephew and heir, Lord Rupert Radcliffe."
Rupert had been observing Megan, and was now of the firm opinion that she could not possibly be the scheming witch Ralph Strickland claimed, so he stepped gallantly forward to raise her hand to his lips. "I'm delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Mortimer."
"Lord Rupert," she replied with a grateful smile. At least he was a gentleman!
Evangeline braced herself as she turned to Greville again. "And this disagreeable fellow is Sir Greville Seton. I forget what his relationship to me is exactly, but suffice it that he is definitely family."
Greville had no intention of emulating Rupert, but if Aunt E required politeness, politeness she would have. "Miss Mortimer," he murmured, and showed the limit of his chivalry by merely inclining his head.
"Sir."
Evangeline wasn't about to let him off lightly. "Sir, I think you should apologize to Miss Mortimer for your disgraceful physical attack upon her."
Greville was provoked. "Aunt E, this was my room when I departed for Mahomed's Baths, so it was reasonable enough to presume that it was still my room when I returned. When I found someone in a hooded cloak apparently examining my luggage, of course I thought it was a thief!"
"So you acted first, and asked questions afterward. I'm deeply disappointed in you, Greville, for I thought such lamentable conduct was the preserve of half-witted hotheads like Sigismund Garsington."
Megan felt dreadful, and wished the whole business could be dropped.
"Aunt E," Greville answered in a labored tone, "if I were Sigismund Garsington, I'd have fired a pistol at Miss Mortimer, not simply apprehended her. However, you are right to castigate me for my actions, and so I will indeed apologize." He turned to Megan. "I trust you are able to forgive me, Miss Mortimer, for you may be sure that if I had realized, I would not have dreamed of acting as I did."
"Of course I forgive you, sir." She didn't really, but there was little else she could say.
Evangeline was satisfied. "I have removed you to the mauve chamber, Greville, because I wish Miss Mortimer to be close to me. Fosdyke has aired it and had a fire kindled there, so it will be sufficiently warm by the time you retire tonight."
"As you wish, Aunt E, but it would have been pleasant if I had been informed of this when Rupert and I came back from the baths. Such consideration would have prevented me from making such an error."
"Fosdyke was instructed to do so, but he clearly did not realize you had returned. Besides, who are you to carp about being kept informed? I do not recall being informed that you were going to take liberties with my home in my absence."
He knew he was beaten, and gave her a wry smile. "I concede defeat, Aunt E. The laurels are yours."
"Yes, I rather think they are," she declared archly.
"Do you really mind us being here?" he asked, knowing she didn't.
"Of course not, you silly boy." Evangeline fingered the gold locket at her throat. Mind? On the contrary, for their timely arrival on the scene speeded up her plans considerably. "Now, then, gentlemen, I believe you have both forgotten something." She presented her cheek for a kiss.
Rupert obliged warmly, but as Greville kissed her as well, she tapped his sleeve with her fan. "Why, your shampoo has left you smelling of rosemary. It is quite appetizing. I almost wish Mrs. Fosdyke were preparing some mutton, or better still, some sweet Welsh lamb."
"It was not my intention to smell like a roast dinner," he replied.
"Nor, I'll warrant, was it your intention to spend Christmas with me," she observed shrewdly.
"That isn't so. I'm more than pleased that you have returned," he protested untruthfully, then added. "Er, why have you returned?"
"Oh, this and that," she murmured, studying his face. "Acting will never be your strong suit, will it? Be honest, sir, you are absolutely horrified to see me, and already you begin to suffer the onset of stage fright! How is your Malvolio coming along?"
"He isn't," Greville replied frankly. "Aunt E, I may as well be honest; I have no intention of being Malvolio or anyone else."
"Nonsense." Her eyes were wickedly knowing. "Greville, I can just see you in cross-gartered yellow stockings, and although I concede that it will be out of period, I think it might be amusing to fit you with the Henry VIII codpiece as well."
Rupert made a strangulated noise, and Greville was aghast. "Aunt E, I positively, absolutely refuse to even consider that-that thing!” The codpiece in question had been hidden away at the very back of the theater wardrobe for two years now, because of its shocking size. It had been intended for a production of Shakespeare's Henry VIII, but Evangeline had been so certain that its appearance onstage would result in charges of indecency, that it had languished among the wardrobe cobwebs ever since.
She pursed her lips. "Well, on reflection perhaps it would be a little too much, but the stockings stay, for they are essential to the play."
"Essential or not, I will still not be wearing them," Greville replied doggedly.
She shrugged. "Well, no one is forcing you, so if you wish to scuttle back to London, I will quite understand. I am sure that Mr. March will leap at the opportunity to play alongside Chloe, who is to be Olivia. I did write to one of you about Mr. March, did I not?"
Rupert scowled. "I don't want that scoundrel leaping into anything, unless it be a pit of vipers."
"Well, at least we are agreed on something, for he is indeed a scoundrel, but Chloe seems quite taken with him," Evangeline replied. "Still, Greville's craven desertion means a replacement is needed, and I happen to know that Mr. March is very fond of amateur theatricals, so he will have to do."
Greville saw the anguish on Rupert's face, and felt obliged to reverse his decision, even though it meant Malvolio, stockings and all. "I'm not cravenly deserting anyone, Aunt E, I'm staying right here."
"Then, you are going to be Malvolio, and that, sir, is that."
"I know," he answered heavily, and Rupert looked away to hide his unutterable relief. Megan cordially hoped Malvolio would cause Sir Greville Seton endless embarrassment.
Evangeline was triumphant again. "It is settled, then. You are to be Malvolio, Rupert is Duke Orsino, Chloe is to be my Olivia, and Sir Jocelyn will be my Sir Toby Belch. Your cousin Ada is to be Viola, her husband will be Sebastian, and her sister insists upon being the maid, Maria, although with her squeaky little voice I fear it may be a disaster. Your other cousin Archibald, who as you know is very shy and retiring, has very bravely undertaken to be Sir Andrew Aguecheek. He promises faithfully not to hide behind the scenery as he did last year. After that I quite forget who is to be who, but they are all rather minor considerations."
"And who, pray, are you going to play, Aunt E?" Greville asked curiously, noticing the singular omission.
"Feste."
He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't he the clown?"
Evangeline twiddled the locket. "Er, yes, he is."
Greville folded his arms. "And doesn't he wear bells and brightly colored hose?"
"Yes." Evangeline wouldn't look at him.
"And doesn't he sing?”
"Yes."
Rupert groaned. "Oh, no…"
Evangeline was cross. "I may not have a voice like Catalini, but-"
"No, you have a voice like Caterwauli!" Greville interrupted crushingly. She was tone deaf in his opinion, and the prospect of her off-key trilling was almost worse than that of Sybil Garsington.
Evangeline drew herself up indignantly. "I'll have you know that I have bee
n taking lessons, Greville, and I think you will be agreeably surprised by my Feste."
"I await your performance with bated breath."
"So do I, sirrah, for I have some information that will surely pay you back for your sharp tongue. I happened upon Lady Garsington at the circulating library recently, and she informed me that Sigismund and Sybil are returning to Brighton for Christmas. So if you imagine that by scuttling here you have eluded her, I'm afraid you are very much mistaken." For Megan's sake, Evangeline omitted to add that Lady Garsington had also said that her other daughter, Sophia might be coming as well, together with her husband, Ralph Strickland.
Greville closed his eyes for a moment. "Please assure me this is a tease," he begged faintly.
"It is the plain, unadulterated truth. She will soon be upon us, harp and all." Evangeline glanced pointedly at her little jeweled fob watch. "It is almost time for dinner, gentlemen, so I suggest you go to your rooms to change," she declared, thus bringing the conversation to an end.
Chapter 8
When Greville and Rupert had withdrawn, Evangeline turned to Megan. "I am sorry about Greville, my dear, but I am sure he will come around. Now, then, I realize you do not have the sort of wardrobe necessary for taking your place among us, but from tomorrow I trust that particular situation will be rectified."
"Rectified? I-I don't understand." Megan was alarmed. Her small income would not stretch to the purchase of a modish wardrobe!
"I have sent a footman to Mrs. Fiske, the dressmaker and milliner in St. James's Street. She has long had premises in Mayfair but has now opened a repository in Brighton as well, specializing in Parisian dresses, trimmings, pelisses, oh, everything that a lady could require. To my certain knowledge, she almost always has uncollected items of which she is anxious to dispose."
Megan's misgivings increased. Clothes of style and fashion for a companion! It wasn't right, it wasn't right at all…
"I have informed her that I estimate you to be the same height and size as Miss Holcroft," Evangeline continued, "so if she has anything suitable, she will have it waiting."
"Miss Holcroft?"
"Chloe Holcroft. She is the dear, sweet, kind daughter of my good friend, Admiral Sir Jocelyn Holcroft, and if Rupert had any sense at all, he would be betrothed to her by now. Instead she seems set to slip into the unpleasant grasp of Mr. Oliver March."
Megan was transfixed with shock on hearing Mr. March's first name. "Have-have you met Mr. March, Lady Evangeline?"
"Why, yes, not that I took to him at all."
"Does he have chestnut hair and a rather pointed nose?"
"Chestnut? I would not dignify it with such a name, for it is more carrot, but his nose definitely seems well suited to poking in where it has no business to be. Why do you ask?"
"Oh, it's nothing really. I just think I may have met him once." Yes, Megan certainly had met him, for Mr. Oliver March was the cousin who had inherited her family's estates and thrown her penniless into the world!
Evangeline looked curiously at her. "What is it, my dear? You have gone quite pale."
"I-I think I am just tired after the journey."
"I fancy we will both sleep like tops tonight," Evangeline replied, still studying her. "May I ask where did you and Mr. March meet?"
"I really don't recall, for it was a long time ago now." Megan wanted to tell her the truth, but did not feel in a position to do so. After all, Oliver seemed on the point of becoming the son-in-law of one of Evangeline's dearest friends, so even though Evangeline herself clearly disliked him, it wouldn't do at all for her companion to presume to reveal distasteful facts about him.
Evangeline smiled. "Well, I will leave you now, or you will not have time to change before dinner."
"Lady Evangeline, I-I really appreciate your kindness in providing me with new clothes, but…" Megan didn't quite know how to express her worries without giving offense.
Evangeline smiled. "Do not feel awkward, my dear. I wish you to look your best when you are with me, which you cannot do if you are drably clad."
"Then, of course I gratefully accept your generosity, Lady Evangeline, but for meals surely my proper place is with the other servants?"
"I will not hear of it, Miss Mortimer. What use is a companion who isn't with me? I like conversation at the table to be properly balanced, which it will hardly be with only Rupert and Greville. Another lady is required, and that means you, my dear."
"But, Sir Greville-"
"Sir Greville has no say in the matter! He is my guest here, and as such will mind his p's and q's. I am afraid it is time he learned that he cannot allow his personal feelings to intrude upon everyone else. I spoke the truth when I said that he and his mother were better off without his philandering father, so if anything, the companion was to be thanked not vilified."
"I do not think Sir Greville will ever see it that way."
The folded fan touched Megan's cheek kindly. "Don't let him upset you, my dear, for he is just being a stubborn bear. The trouble is that the most vivid memory he retains of that time is of his mother weeping one day when she took him to St. Nicholas's here in Brighton, not long after the scandal had broken. St. Nicholas's was the church where she and Greville's father were married, where she was laid to rest, and where Greville himself was baptized. You will be able to see it from your window in the morning, for it stands on a hill at the western edge of the town."
"Have Sir Greville's family been in this part of Sussex for long?" Megan asked.
"Oh, yes, there were Setons here in Brighton before Prinny made it a la mode. Their seat was east of the town, but when Greville inherited a fine estate in Oxfordshire, he decided to sell up here. He still spends a great deal of time in Brighton, however, for he visits me a great deal." Evangeline smiled fondly. "Anyway, where was I? Oh, yes, his feckless father. It all happened just before Christmas, which did not help at all, and as it is Christmas again now, I suppose it still doesn't help. At the time it was understandable enough that his mother wept so, for what woman does not feel sad for happiness lost? But Greville does not understand that this particular happiness was lost a long time before the companion entered the scene. So let that be the end of your anxiety, my dear, for the problem is his not yours. Now, then, I recall that at the Crown in Winchester you wore a green gown with a little chenille trimming at the throat and cuffs. It will do well enough here tonight."
"Yes, Lady Evangeline."
As the door closed, Megan sighed unhappily. Sir Greville Seton, fine clothes, and dining with the family were bad enough, but the presence of cousin Oliver in Brighton was even worse. He was an unscrupulous, heartless knave who would not wish to be faced with the relation he so cruelly abandoned, especially now he was dancing attendance upon Chloe Holcroft. Chloe sounded far too nice a person for him, maybe even nice enough to send him packing if she found out what he had done.
Megan knew it would be wise to keep out of his way if possible, although it would be too much to hope that she could avoid him entirely. With a heavy sigh, she took off her cloak, and began to look through her luggage for the green gown.
Meanwhile in the mauve chamber at the other end of the house, Greville and Rupert were discussing Megan. Rupert spread his hands. "Look, Greville, I can't believe Strickland. Miss Mortimer just isn't the sort to do what he claims."
"Because she looks as if butter wouldn't melt in her mouth?"
"No, because Ralph Strickland wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit him on the backside!"
Greville gave a cynical laugh. "It is clear you are taken in by Miss Mortimer's air of angelic innocence."
"And it is equally clear that you are guided by your preconceptions about companions. Aunt E isn't a fool, Greville. Do you imagine she would have engaged Miss Mortimer without first making inquiries of Lady Jane? No, of course not; so I dismiss Strickland's lies out of hand."
"I believe that on this occasion he was speaking the truth," Greville replied a little annoyed
ly.
"Well, with all due respect, that's because it suits you to believe him. You know him for a slippery toad who cannot be relied upon for the correct time of day, yet when he utters the dreaded word 'companion,' suddenly you credit him with absolute veracity!"
Greville didn't reply.
Rupert pressed his point home. "I prefer to place my faith in my own judgment, and in Aunt E's, for she would not employ anyone about whom there was a single doubt. So let's ask her, mm? That should settle the matter."
"It is clear to me that Aunt E knows nothing about this business. Besides, she clearly dotes upon the creature, so I will need more than Ralph Strickland's say-so anyway."
Rupert looked at him in puzzlement. "What do you mean?"
"I intend to make further inquiries. I know someone who happens to reside only a door or two from Lady Jane, so I will send him a note posthaste. His servants will be thick with her servants, and what isn't known to them won't be worth knowing."
"And if you discover Miss Mortimer to be innocent?"
Greville smiled coolly. "She isn't."
Chapter 9
That night, after a truly awful dinner during which Greville had hardly said a word to her, and Rupert did his level best to make up for it by drawing her into the conversation, Megan retired to her bed in the certain knowledge she would never enjoy mulligatawny or roast pork again!
She lay with her arms folded behind her head, and gazed up at the canopy as she thought about Greville. The blue velvet hangings were burnished to rosy lilac by the soft glow from the fire, and the scent of roses filled the warm air from the open potpourri jar in the hearth. At the window the shutters and curtains were firmly closed to keep out the raw chill of the December night, and she wished she could similarly exclude Sir Greville Seton from her mind. Why, oh, why, had his wretched father had to choose a companion to run away with? Why couldn't it have been a governess, or even his son's nurse?
Sleep came gradually, but an hour or so later she awoke with a start to find moonlight flooding into the room. Someone had just flung open the shutters and curtains! There was a vague silvery shape outlined against the window, a tall middle-aged man in the clothes of Charles II’s time; at least, she thought that was what she saw, for he was ethereal, almost like gossamer, and the moon and stars shone through him. A faint floral scent other than roses seemed to hang in the still air, and for a moment she could not think what it was, but then she realized it was orange blossom.