by Julia London
“Oh,” Greer said absently, and pointed to the young girl in the current dress next to the painting of the white house. “Who is this girl?”
Mrs. Bowen’s reaction was so flustered that it startled Greer. She pressed her lips together, cast a furtive look down the hall, almost as if she expected someone to come around. “I don’t know,” she said shortly.
“The portrait seems to have been done quite recently.”
Mrs. Bowen’s cheeks were turning red. “Perhaps it was. Beg your pardon, but I really must be about my work.”
The normally affable housekeeper’s agitation mystified Greer. “Of course,” she said, and glanced hastily at the house the prince had called Kendrick, fearful that Mrs. Bowen would escape before she could ask about it. “But just one more, Mrs. Bowen, please. Do you know this place?” she asked, pointing to the painting of the white house.
Mrs. Bowen reluctantly looked at the painting, and the hardness in her expression softened. “That is Kendrick, miss. Not six miles from here. But it is closed.”
“Do you know if anyone by the name of Vaughan ever resided there?”
“Vaughan?” Mrs. Bowen thought for a moment, then shook her head. “No, miss. Bronwyn was their name.”
Greer’s world seemed to shift a little. She had not expected Mrs. Bowen to say her mother’s maiden name. “Bronwyn?” she repeated in a near whisper.
“Many years ago, but aye, the Bronwyns. I was a chambermaid to the family before Mr. Bronwyn died. His cousin took it for a time after that, but when he passed, I believe it sat empty.”
Bronwyn! This couldn’t be right—Greer was almost certain that her mother was from Bredwardine! “Are you quite certain, Mrs. Bowen?” she asked. “I thought the Bronwyns hailed from Bredwardine.”
“Bredwardine!” Mrs. Bowen frowned thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. And look miss, there they are, the Bronwyns,” she said, pointing to the canvas and the people attending the picnic. “Mr. and Mrs. Bronwyn,” she said, pointing to a couple lounging on a blanket. “And that is Alis, their oldest daughter, and her sister, Fiona. Poor Fiona died of the same fever that took Mr. Bronwyn.”
Greer gasped softly and peered at the girl Mrs. Bowen had pointed to, the girl who stared out at the painter while her sister whispered in her ear. It seemed impossible, but that child was her mother. Her mother! Now she could see the resemblance to the small hand portrait of her mother that she possessed. And as Greer peered at the girl, she noticed something else—her mother was wearing the charm that Greer now wore around her neck. She gasped again, put her hand to her neck. “Oh Lord!”
“What’s wrong, miss?” Mrs. Bowen asked, alarmed.
“That is my mother!” Greer said excitedly. “It’s her!”
“Your mother?” Mrs. Bowen asked skeptically, peering at the portrait, too.
“It is her,” Greer said excitedly. “Her maiden name was Bronwyn, Alis Bronwyn, and after she married, Alis Vaughan. Look, Mrs. Bowen, she and I wear the same necklace!”
Mrs. Bowen peered closely. “Aye, so it is! But that is a common symbol in Wales. Many girls and women wear it.”
“It is her,” Greer said, touching the painting where her mother stood. “Did…did you know her?” she asked, her heart racing.
“Oh no, only the sight of her really. She was in the nursery. And then her father and sister died with that wretched fever.” Mrs. Bowen shook her head. “A dozen servants were brought to Jesus by that fever, too.”
“What happened then?”
“Mrs. Bronwyn married some English fellow and moved away. Mr. Bronwyn’s cousin took it, as I said, for another ten years or so, I believe. But then Kendrick was closed shortly thereafter and sat for years until Mr. Percy…” Her face darkened again; she looked very uncomfortable and cleared her throat.
“But I have been there, I am certain of it,” Greer said excitedly. “I remember the door and the way it looks inside—”
“Perhaps when you were very young?” Mrs. Bowen suggested. “It could only have been, for after Mr. Bronwyn’s cousin died, it remained closed, except for the very short time Mr. Percy was there, several years later. But it has been closed since…” Her voice trailed off.
Greer had the distinct impression she meant to say more. “Since what?” she pressed.
Mrs. Bowen looked at her watch again.
“Kendrick has been closed for several years since…what?” she pressed.
Mrs. Bowen stepped back. “Since it was abandoned again, that’s all.” But she still looked as if she meant something else and was afraid to say it aloud. “I’m sorry, Miss Fairchild, but I am certain the Bronwyns have all died off.”
“Is it possible to reach Kendrick?” Greer asked quickly as the housekeeper began to move away.
“What?” Mrs. Bowen cried, her eyes going wide. “Oh no, miss! You’d not want to go there, mark me. It’s naught but an empty shell now.”
“Is there a path, is it possible to walk there?”
“No!” Mrs. Bowen exclaimed. “Put such thoughts out of your mind, miss! The roads are overgrown and the place is nearly deserted! His lordship has forbidden anyone to go there. It is closed.”
Mrs. Bowen seemed truly alarmed and it occurred to Greer that the housekeeper might mention her questions about the house to the prince. She thought better of pressing the woman, for the prince had forbidden her from Kendrick, and she preferred he not know she intended to go. And she had every intention of going—if it ever stopped raining.
She glanced at her mother’s young face again, her smiling face and eyes, Greer’s eyes. “Oh heavens, Mrs. Bowen, I do not intend to walk there.” She laughed. “I was only curious.”
“Well,” Mrs. Bowen said as she brushed her skirts. “It’s not a suitable place for a young woman.”
“Indeed?” Greer asked lightly. “What makes it unsuitable? Did something happen there?”
Mrs. Bowen’s silence was her answer, but Greer peered at the housekeeper nonetheless. Mrs. Bowen frowned, pressed her lips tightly together, then shook her head. “Some things are better left unspoken, Miss Fairchild. But heed me.” She paused to lean forward and whispered, “The spirits walk among us every day. Some are good and some are bad. And you do not want to provoke the bad.” She straightened again. “Please do excuse me now…I really must be about my work.”
Surprised by the warning, Greer nodded. “I beg your pardon. I did not mean to keep you as long as this.”
“Thank you,” Mrs. Bowen said, and with a nod, she bustled off.
Greer stood a moment longer looking at her mother, her mind whirling in shock and confusion at the things she was learning. Aunt Cassandra had never mentioned Kendrick—but then again, there had been ten years separating Greer’s mother from her younger half sister, Cassandra, who was the first child of Alis Bronwyn’s mother and new stepfather, if Greer’s memory served. She supposed it was possible that Aunt Cassandra had not even known of Kendrick. But why did Mrs. Bowen say it had been closed since something and mention spirits? Greer put no stock in spirits, but she was certain something had happened there.
Pondering those questions, she walked onto the conservatory. To her surprise, the room had been completely done up. It was an astonishing change—it was warm and inviting. A pair of overstuffed chairs and a settee covered in yellow-and-green-striped chintz were now clustered around a blazing hearth.
Behind the settee stood a beautiful writing desk. Greer sighed with pleasure as she ran her fingers along the highly polished finish. A high-backed chair at the desk allowed the writer to look out over the gardens. The rain had stopped, and while the day was still very gray, she could see the lush greenery just beyond the conservatory. She would walk in the garden today, as she was desperate to be outside after so many days of dreary, wet weather.
But first…On the desk was a stack of high-quality vellum, two inches thick, as well as three porcelain and silver inkwells and a set of pens. A blotter and a square of wax for sealing
were beside the pens. A smile lit up her face and she twirled around, noting for the first time the small brass cart with a variety of decanters. “It’s marvelous,” she said aloud. “Perfectly divine!”
As she sat at the writing desk, a thought occurred to her: Had he done this? Had he instructed the staff to make the room so inviting?
No, surely it had been Mrs. Bowen. After last night, she would be quite surprised if the prince even spoke to her, much less had appointed this room so pleasingly. She would have to thank Mrs. Bowen for her efforts, but at the moment, she was anxious to write her cousins. She’d been at Llanmair more than a week now; it would be at least another week before her first letter reached London, and she suspected that was an optimistic assessment.
And then there was her other fear—what if something happened to the post and it never reached London at all?
She vowed then and there to write her cousins every day until someone came for her. She took paper and pen, dipped the pen in ink, and began to write.
Sixteen
S everal days passed before the rain let up enough to allow the roads to dry, and at the first opportunity, Rhodrick rode to Rhayader.
As he returned home later that afternoon, he pushed his horse hard as he tried in vain to outride the absurdly tender thoughts about Greer Fairchild that had attached themselves to him like a bunch of leeches. He’d begun to dream of her rather prolifically of late. Of himself, too—only in his dreams he had no scar and Miss Fairchild desired him.
Neither of them had spoken of the intimate and scalding encounter they had shared after their chess game, but she’d avoided him for a few days afterward. Eventually, she came around again—when he decreed she would dine with him or go hungry—and he’d had the privilege of watching her at his dinner table, listening to her ebullient accounts of her walks about the grounds before being chased in by rain, or her chance meetings with some of the more colorful characters that worked on his estate.
He listened to her reminisce about the Season in London, and learned that when one debutante had as many as four silk ball gowns, that was quite remarkable. He heard all about the Ladies’ Beneficent Society, and how Miss Fairchild, in the course of her work with that charitable endeavor, found it more rewarding than she’d anticipated.
When she tired of talking about London, she amused herself by accusing him of any number of transgressions. He did not feed Cain and Abel enough, they were too thin. There were parts of the garden that were in desperate need of repair. She thought Lulu, a housemaid, needed more time away to visit her family.
Rhodrick rarely spoke—there was no need. Miss Fairchild seemed intent on filling each supper hour with her bright chatter while he admired her lovely face and her elegant, expressive hands, while idle thoughts of the many ways he would like to make love to her flitted through his mind.
But as soon as the supper hour was done, Miss Fairchild would disappear, leaving him alone once again.
Rhodrick spurred his horse faster still, reining him sharply right and recklessly leading him to jump a rotted stone fence, determined to take the fields instead of the road. It was harder riding, but with every jarring step, every jolt, he hoped to dislodge the feeling of useless desire implanted in him—or at the very least, batter it into bloody submission.
But if he could not defeat the monster in him alone, then he would seek safety in numbers. Therefore, he had invited the Awbreys, and their guests, Lord and Lady Pool, visiting from Aberystwyth, to dine at Llanmair this evening.
In the courtyard at Llanmair, a groomsman ran out to greet him, and was startled by the winded horse. When Rhodrick climbed down, the lad turned a wide-eyed look at his mud-caked back and boots.
“Double his oats after you’ve rubbed him down,” Rhodrick said in Welsh, and strode into the foyer, passing the gilded mirror he had come to despise.
By the time Ifan reached Rhodrick, he’d tossed his cloak aside and handed his hat to the butler. “There will be six for supper. Please inform Miss Fairchild that we shall have guests this evening,” he said, and whistling for his dogs, he walked on, his knee aching.
The pain in his leg subsided with the help of a hot bath, and by the dinner hour, Rhodrick had recovered somewhat. When Ifan told him his guests had arrived, he was feeling rather jovial, looking forward to an entertaining evening.
“Splendid,” he said as he straightened the cuffs of his shirt. “You’ve asked our houseguest to join us, have you not?”
“I have, my lord, but regrettably, she has declined,” Ifan said as he picked up the neckcloth Rhodrick was to wear and held it out to him.
“Declined?” Rhodrick echoed irritably as he took the neckcloth and draped it around his collar. He was surprisingly disappointed by her refusal. After all her expressed discontent about the lack of society at Llanmair, and her overwhelming curiosity, he would have thought she’d be delirious with joy at the prospect of other people. “Did she say why?”
“She did not, my lord.”
Rhodrick turned and looked at Ifan. “Did she say anything?”
Ifan looked rather uncomfortable.
“Well?” Rhodrick pressed.
“She said she would not, under any circumstance, join you.” He glanced up at Rhodrick. “She said it rather adamantly, my lord.”
“Did she,” he muttered as he quickly wrapped the ends of the neckcloth around before tying them off in an artful knot. “I don’t suppose it occurred to Miss Fairchild that she is really not at liberty to decline?” he snapped as he straightened his collar and stood back to view the effect.
“I do not believe it did, my lord,” Ifan said carefully, and bowed low.
“Thank you,” Rhodrick muttered, and walked out of the room, his stride long and determined, his irritation growing with each step.
Wasn’t it enough that he had to suffer her presence in his house? Wasn’t it enough that he had arranged this supper expressly so that he could be near her and not touch her? She could, therefore, do him the courtesy of attending!
He marched on, past chambermaids who disappeared into the walls as he strode forward, past footmen who bowed low as he approached, up the stairs, and down another corridor until he arrived at a threshold he had not crossed since a warm summer’s night some thirteen years ago, when his wife, and then his child, had died.
He rapped hard on the door of the master suite before pushing it open and startling Miss Fairchild, who happened to be just inside. With a shriek of surprise, she jumped up from her chair before the hearth. In one hand she held a book. The other hand she pressed against her heart as she gaped at him.
She was, he quickly noted, dressed for the evening. Her thick black hair was swept up and fastened with pearls; her gown—he could not detect the color—was perfectly cut, hugging every curve and framing her bosom, and seemed to shimmer in the firelight. All he could think of was the scarcely contained intimacy they’d shared that night in the red salon, and of all the places on her body he would like to kiss her now. Her neck. Behind her knee. The smooth plane of her belly. Her—
“I beg your pardon, sir!” Miss Fairchild exclaimed breathlessly.
Walking deeper into the room, he demanded, “Is there a reason you have declined to join me for supper tonight?”
“Must I have a reason?”
“Miss Fairchild, if you are not on your deathbed or otherwise impaired, you will meet my guests and dine with the rest of the household.”
She snapped shut the book she was holding. “I am not on my deathbed or otherwise impaired, but I did not realize that an appearance at supper was a requirement.”
“What objection could you possibly have to meeting my guests?”
“What reason could I possibly have to meet them? For all I know, this is your idea of a Welsh inquisition.”
“You seem to keep forgetting that you are supposedly Welsh. Is your disguise beginning to wear a little thin, do you suppose?”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, and angrily tosse
d the book onto the chair behind her. “At least as thin as the disguise of a kindly, law-abiding country earl, for I am certain no man could ever be more vexing to a body than you, my lord.”
“Coming from you, I believe that is a compliment. Now do come along, Miss Fairchild. The guests are waiting.”
She folded her arms across her middle, glaring at him. “I am not going. I refuse to be ridiculed and humiliated by your friends!”
He suddenly realized the root of her anger. Of course! He should have understood. Her reputation—what was left of it—was at stake. It was one thing to go about the servants at Llanmair with her reputation in tatters, but quite another to go about in society.
“You have nothing to fear,” he said, his voice softer. “My guests have not heard your name before tonight. There are no expectations or impressions of you other than what you may create.” He extended his hand, palm up. “Come.”
She considered his hand warily. “Very well,” she said after a moment with a sniff. “I will meet your guests. Perhaps they will see that you have quite lost your mind and will come to my rescue,” she added before turning and marching to the dressing room.
Rhodrick clasped his hands behind his back, bowed his head, and waited impatiently. One minute passed, then another. He could not imagine what she could possibly be doing in there. “Perhaps I was unclear,” he called out to her. “I meant that the supper would be served this evening.”
“Ha! You are never unclear, my lord!” she shot back, and reappeared a moment later, her mouth and cheeks rouged. She paused in front of a mirror and played with a curl at her neck before sailing past him with a glare, the small train of her gown wafting behind her.
Rhodrick reached the door ahead of her and opened it, then gestured for her to precede him. She did just that. As they moved into the corridor, Rhodrick caught her elbow and forced her to slow down. “It is unseemly for young ladies from London to run.”
“What really concerns you, sir?” she asked airily. “Do you fear that I will reach your friends first and that they will believe what I have to say before you’ve had the chance to tarnish their opinion of me?”