by Sandra Heath
She awoke when Violet came in with her customary cup of morning tea. “We’re snowed in well and truly, madam,” said the maid, placing the cup and saucer by the bedside and then going to draw back the curtains.
Elizabeth sat up slowly in the bed. “Is it very bad?”
“Mr. McPherson says he’s never known anything like it at Rainworth before, and he’s been here more than fifteen years now. Did you sleep well, madam?”
“Yes. Did you?”
“Oh, yes. What will you wear this morning, madam?”
Elizabeth thought for a moment. “Did I bring the shell-pink wool with me?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Then I will wear it, and please put out my warmest shawl.”
“Very well, madam.”
Elizabeth finished the tea, and then tossed the bedclothes aside, putting a toe tentatively to the floor. Shivering, she pulled on her wrap, and then stepped into some little slippers before going to the window seat to look out.
There was still ice on the glass, and so once again she breathed upon it and then wiped a little area so that she could see. She found herself gazing upon a white wilderness, where every tree was bowed beneath a burden of snow, and the lake she now knew to be there was detectable only as a vast level area pierced by two tiny treed islands.
Directly in front of the house there was a terrace, the top of its stone balustrade only just visible above the snow. Two Grecian urns marked the place where steps descended into a formal topiary garden where the ornately trimmed shrubs rose like icing-covered pieces on a huge chessboard. Beyond the garden the land dropped again, becoming open parkland as it swept down toward the lake, where she now noticed several boathouses with jetties jutting out from the shore. High above, the sky was a startling blue, and the sunlight was crisp and very clear indeed. The rolling countryside of Sherwood stretched away on all sides, as if into infinity.
She turned from the window, sitting on the seat for a moment with her knees drawn up and clasped in her arms. She thought of Marcus’s enigmatic words the night before. Keep your wits about you, Mrs. French, for there is skullduggery afoot, and it is at your expense. What on earth had he meant? She had not had an opportunity last night to demand an explanation, but she fully intended to make such an opportunity today.
With a sigh she rose from the window seat, and then went through into the dressing room where Violet was waiting to attend her. About half an hour later, dressed in a high-necked shell-pink woolen gown, and with her hair pinned up into a knot from which fell several bouncy ringlets, she was ready to go down to breakfast, but before she left her room she thought she heard Isobel’s laughter coming from outside.
Returning to the window, she saw that it was indeed Isobel. She was squealing with excitement as she bent to gather a snowball and hurl it at Alexander, who was with her in the topiary garden. Evidently some paths had been cleared just out of Elizabeth’s view, for Isobel turned to run, unhampered by the deep snow. She looked lovely in a scarlet cloak trimmed with white fur; the cold had stung warm color into her cheeks.
Alexander wore his greatcoat, and he was laughing as well, ducking as the snowball flew past him. He shouted something, apparently mocking Isobel’s aim, for she evinced great indignation, and bent to scoop up more snow, which she flung with all her might. This time he was not quick enough to avoid it, and it knocked his hat sideways. Pretending to be furious, he ran toward her, and she squealed again as she fled. They both passed out of Elizabeth’s sight, but she could still hear their voices.
Violet had been watching as well. “Lady Isobel is very beautiful, isn’t she, madam?”
“Yes. Very.”
“It’s so sad that she is only here because she has to see her sick father.”
“Yes.” Elizabeth still gazed out of the window at where the others had been a moment before. The thought entered her head that they had seemed extraordinarily happy together, almost as if they were lovers. Her lips parted. Like lovers?
“Shall I show you to the breakfast room, madam?” Violet inquired.
“I…I beg your pardon?” Elizabeth was still bemused by her train of thought.
“Shall I show you to the breakfast room?” Violet repeated.
Elizabeth gathered herself. “Er—no, there is no need. Just tell me where it is.”
“It is off the entrance hall, madam, the door to the right of the dais.”
“Then I am sure to find it,” murmured Elizabeth, glancing out of the window again.
“Is everything all right, madam?”
“Yes, quite all right,” Elizabeth replied more briskly, accepting her shawl and then quickly leaving the room.
Once in the passage she drew the shawl more closely around her shoulders, for it was far colder than in her room. She hurried through the house, pausing only once in the gallery to look down into the cloisters below. There was an enclosed square garden with a stone fountain in the center, and a maid had come from the kitchens to throw crumbs to the hungry birds. As they fluttered gratefully around her, almost taking the food from her fingertips, a black-and-white cat crouched by the wall nearby, his tail flicking angrily to-and-fro as he watched his prey. The maid finished scattering the crumbs, and then turned to pick up the cross cat and carry him safely back through a doorway into the cloister itself, which had long since been glazed to keep the weather out.
Elizabeth watched the birds for a moment or so more, and then walked quickly on along the gallery. As she descended the grand staircase to the entrance hall, she saw that some of the maids were busy polishing the long table in the center. They turned quickly as they saw her, and bobbed curtsies as they spoke in unison.
“Good morning, madam.”
“Good morning.”
The breakfast room faced the east, and was consequently very bright and sunny on a morning like this. It was also very warm and modern, with a large fire burning in the white marble hearth, and blue-and-white floral wallpaper above white-painted paneling. There was a polished brass fender, and a trivet upon which stood a variety of silver-domed dishes, a bowl of warm bread rolls, and some eggs coddling in a saucepan. A gleaming copper kettle sang softly on its hook directly above the flames.
There was a round table that had been laid with a fresh white cloth. It was set with silver cutlery, blue-and-white porcelain, a silver-gilt coffeepot and a jug of cream, dishes of marmalade, preserves, and honey, and there was a bowl of hothouse carnations in the center. The air was filled with the smell of food, from kedgeree and deviled kidneys, to bacon, sausages, coffee, and, of course, warm bread.
At first she thought there was no one there, but then a figure moved by the brilliantly lit window, and as he stepped out of the light she saw that it was Marcus. He wore a dove-gray coat, cream cord breeches, a maroon brocade waistcoat, and a large unstarched neckcloth that was tied in a complicated knot.
He came to draw out a chair for her. “Good morning, Mrs. French,” he murmured.
The moment she saw him again she was conscious of being affected by everything about him. She wished more and more that it were not so, but as his arm brushed fleetingly against hers, she knew that this man would always have the power to stir her. But it was a power he would never know about, she was resolved upon that, for she was pledged to Alexander, and he was to marry Miss Constance Bannerman. She blushed a little at the path her thoughts were taking, for although she was unwillingly drawn to him, she had no idea at all what he thought of her. Perhaps she was of supreme indifference to him.
He resumed his own seat, evidently having already breakfasted. “The others could not wait a moment longer before going out in the snow.”
“I know, I saw them from my window.” She remembered her thoughts then, and glanced away.
He noted the glance. “Did you? Where were they?”
“In the topiary garden.”
“Ah, yes.”
She thought she caught a hint of something in his voice, and looked quickly at him, b
ut at that moment McPherson came in to inquire what she wished to eat.
“Just a little scrambled egg,” she said, when she heard the astonishingly lengthy list. “And a warm bread roll with some coffee.”
“Madam.”
The butler went to the trivet before the fire, and a moment later her breakfast was placed before her. Then he withdrew once more.
Marcus studied her. “Did you sleep well?”
“Very well, thank you.” She wondered how she could broach the matter of his strange remark the night before. Should she just plunge in with a direct question? Or would it be better to lead around to it?
He gave a faint smile. “I fear that the snow looks set to remain like this for some time, but I am sure we will not be bored.”
“I certainly do not think the others will be,” she replied, the laughter of the snowball fight passing through her thoughts again.
“Why do you say that?”
“They seemed to be enjoying themselves throwing snowballs.”
“Ah, innocent fun,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
“Is something troubling you, Mrs. French?”
She avoided his eyes. “No, of course not,” she said, beginning to butter her bread roll.
He continued to look at her for a moment, but then stretched across the table to drop her earrings on to the cloth by her plate. “Yours, I believe,” he said softly.
She gazed gladly at them. “Oh, thank you so much for retrieving them, I’m truly grateful.”
“Then I am delighted to have been of assistance.”
She raised her eyes a little guiltily. “I still feel wretched for having fled from the lane like that.”
“It was thoughtless of me to request you to wait. If I had had any sense I would have asked for your name and address, so please do not blame yourself.” He smiled.
Her heart almost turned over, for it was a warm smile, almost caressing. No, she was letting her imagination run away with her again. It was just a smile, and to see anything else in it was to be guilty of wishful thinking on the part of her treacherous emotions. She felt telltale color stain her cheeks again, and quickly she began to eat her breakfast.
“Does Lady Isobel have a particular suitor, Mrs. French?” he asked suddenly.
She lowered her knife and fork. “Why do you wish to know?”
“Idle curiosity.”
“I do not think that is so, sir.”
“I’m of a mind to be offended by your lack of belief,” he murmured, pouring himself another cup of coffee.
“I gather that you have shown a more than passing interest in my cousin, and so I am naturally equally as interested in your reasons, for Isobel is actually in my care at the moment.”
“Oh, believe me, Mrs. French, I have not been displaying any out-of-the-ordinary interest in Lady Isobel. I apologize if that is the impression I have managed to convey.”
She was a little nonplussed, for only a moment or so before he had asked point-blank if Isobel had a particular suitor. “Well, sir, it is the impression you have managed to convey, and since you are not at liberty to consider a bride here in England when you are about to take one in America, I am sure you will understand my concern.”
The ghost of a smile played on his lips. “There are very few of us who are at liberty to do as we please, Mrs. French.”
“But some of us are apparently at liberty to utter enigmatic statements without troubling to explain what they’ve said,” she replied, suddenly deciding to confront him about what he’d said the night before. “What did you mean about there being skullduggery afoot?”
“Ah, well, perhaps I enjoyed a glass or two too much wine on that occasion.”
“You were very far from being in your cups, sir. Please do me the courtesy of explaining.”
“It was a spur-of-the-moment remark, Mrs. French, and maybe I was wrong to say anything at all, for to be sure it is none of my business.”
“You made it your business, my lord duke.”
“Yes, I know, and now I do not think it was the right thing to do.”
“I mean to get to the bottom of it, sir, and I will be irritatingly persistent until you give in.”
“I would prefer not to interfere, Mrs. French.”
“You already have, it seems,” she said. “Please, sir, tell me what is on your mind.”
He sat back in his chair, his fingers drumming on the table for a moment, and then he met her eyes. “Very well, if you insist. There is indeed skullduggery afoot, and it is being instigated by Lady Isobel. I believe that she is in love with Alexander, and from my own observations I would say that he is not making much of an effort to spurn her advances.”
She stared at him. She could hear Isobel’s laughter, and see Alexander’s face as he gave chase in the snowy garden.
Marcus watched her. “Last night I was certain that you had not guessed, but now… Have you noticed for yourself?”
“No.”
“Mrs. French—”
“No! You are wrong.”
“I wish I were, but I am not a fool. I observed Lady Isobel last night, and she gave herself away on every occasion. Each time she glanced at him, she—”
“You are wrong,” Elizabeth repeated, pushing her plate away, her appetite gone.
“I did not want to tell you, and last night I merely wished to put you on your mettle, to make you think a little. I could not believe that you hadn’t detected it all yourself, for you are a very intelligent woman, and far from a green girl. But your head appeared to be in the clouds, and you seemed unaware of everything.”
“Perhaps because there has not been anything of which I should be aware,” she replied, but in her heart of hearts she knew it was true. She wished everything could be as it had been before she had gone to Hanover Square. That was when it had all begun to go sadly wrong, and now nothing was the same anymore.
“Your assertion is not very convincing, Mrs. French, for it is clear to me that something has happened to make you begin to realize for yourself what has been going on under your nose.”
She wanted to bring the painful conversation to a close, and so she rose to her feet, tossing her napkin on to the table. “Do you always treat your guests in this way, sir?” she asked, her voice trembling even though she tried to keep it level.
He got up as well, leaning his hands on the table as he looked earnestly at her. “Not to have said anything at all would have been to do you a grave disservice, and I think far too highly of you to do that. I didn’t know what to say exactly, but I hoped that my remark about skullduggery might at least make you look around with open eyes. I wanted you to see it all for yourself, without any interference from me, but you demanded a full explanation. I would not insult you by inventing some tale to fob you off, and when I realized that nothing would do but that I told you, I replied in all honesty. I do indeed believe that Lady Isobel has fallen in love with Alexander, and that she may succeed in winning him unless you do something about it. If you want to keep him, then you will do it easily, for beautiful and charming as she may be, she cannot hold a candle to you, Elizabeth.”
She looked quickly at him. “I gave you no leave to address me by my first name.”
“Then I have presumed, forgive me.”
“I trust that not a word of this conversation will pass your lips, sir.”
“Do you really imagine that I would repeat any of this elsewhere?”
“I don’t know what to think where you are concerned, my lord duke.”
“I have not dealt dishonestly with you, I assure you.”
She didn’t reply.
“What do you intend to do?” he asked after a moment.
“That is my concern, sir.”
He nodded. “Yes, it is. Forgive me again.” He drew a long breath, and tactfully changed the subject. “I promised the others that we would follow them on their walk. Do you wish to do that?”
“Yes.”
“My man wi
ll have brought my outdoor garments to the hall by now, for I told him some time ago of my intentions, but if you wish to go to your room to change…?” He glanced at her breakfast, which was now congealing upon the plate.
“I will go now,” she said, gathering her skirts and escaping gladly from the room.
She was close to tears as she hastened back up the staircase, and she paused again in the gallery in order to compose herself before facing Violet, who would still be in her room.
Looking down into the cloister garden again, she saw that the birds had gone now, leaving countless tiny prints upon the snow. She pressed her hot forehead to the ice-cold glass, and closed her eyes for a moment.
Isobel was in love with Alexander, it was a fact that she could not deny. It had been there in her cousin’s animated face as she’d laughed with him in the garden earlier on. There were other clues too. At the Devonshire House ball Isobel had undergone a virtual metamorphosis, suddenly becoming all that was friendly and warm. Why? Because she had seen Alexander. That same night she had inveigled her way into their carriage, and had thus managed to be close to him for a little longer. Then there had been the exhibition at Ackermann’s, the fainting spell in Hyde Park, and now the journey up here to Nottinghamshire. It all fell into place, as did her endless sparkling conversation in the carriage. As for Alexander…
With a sigh, Elizabeth opened her eyes again, staring down into the snow-covered garden below. What did he feel? Had she, by her own contrary behavior recently, virtually driven him into Isobel’s arms? She remembered how angry he had been over her withdrawn moods, and then how indulgent with Isobel, even to tolerating her chatter about Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. Yes, he had a great deal of time for Isobel, a great deal of time indeed, but was he turning to her?
“Madam?”
Violet spoke behind her, and with a gasp Elizabeth whirled about.
The maid looked at her with great concern. “Are you all right, madam?”
“I…I have a slight headache, that’s all. I am on my way back to my room to change to go out, for the duke and I are to take a walk together. I am sure the fresh air will clear my head.”