by Lisa Berne
“My mother was a great proponent of farina cataplasms,” said Miss Humphrey nostalgically. “She always said there was nothing else so soothing for veinous palpitations.”
“Yes, and she also let those quacks in Bath wrap her feet in vinegar-infused cloths for hours on end,” retorted Miss Trevelyan. “And only consider what happened then.”
“It was rather dreadful, having all her toenails fall off,” Miss Humphrey agreed. “Poor Mama! Yet she never lost her faith in medicine.”
“On a different subject,” said Great-grandmother Henrietta, “I’ve been thinking that as Jane’s education has, through no fault of her own, been sadly neglected, she would benefit from some lessons with Mr. Pressley.”
“Lessons?” echoed Jane in surprise. Well, she would certainly enjoy acquiring some more learning, because if she had been wrong about Anne of Cloves—Cleves—it stood to reason there were probably quite a few more gaps in her understanding of the world. It would be nice, though, if this Mr. Pressley wasn’t like the schoolmaster back in Nantwich, who, it was well known, drank so much that his young students often had to troop over to his favorite tavern, pour a bucket of water over his head, and together convey him back to the schoolhouse, two boys to each limb and one to keep his head from dragging on the ground.
“Yes, lessons in geography, history, science, mathematics, English grammar, and so on, my dear,” answered Great-grandmother. “I’ve sent a note round to the vicarage, and Mr. Pressley says you’re welcome to begin tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” Jane said, feeling a little dazed. Great-grandmother clearly wasn’t one to let the grass grow under her feet.
“That’s right, my dear. You’ll certainly be one of his older pupils, but I understand the range of his scholarship is impressive.”
“Oh yes, he’s an Oxford man,” said Miss Trevelyan. “If he hadn’t been a younger son and put to the yoke, you know, I do think he would have been a brilliant scholar.”
“Mr. Pressley doesn’t seem to mind being a vicar,” Livia observed. “He’s so pleasant to talk to. And I always enjoy his sermons.”
“Yes, nice and short,” Miss Trevelyan said approvingly.
“He has only the one pupil at the moment, I believe,” said Miss Humphrey. “The Duke’s son. Dear little Wakefield. He came to visit us the other day, and we had such a nice chat.”
“Speaking of the Duke,” said Livia, “he stopped by to talk to Gabriel, and I invited him to join us for tea. I expect they’ll be here shortly.”
A duke! A thrill ran through Jane from head to toe, and she turned her eyes expectantly to the doorway. Great-grandmother Kent had avidly, if disparagingly, followed any snippet of news that reached Nantwich about the Royal Family and the nobility in general, and so Jane was well positioned to know that dukes were just below the royals in rank and consequence.
Apparently her new relations, the Penhallows, were indeed—as Miss Trevelyan had said—one of England’s oldest and most distinguished families, but how exciting to meet a real live duke! And how grand he must be!
It would be unlikely that he’d sweep into the room clad in, say, an ermine-trimmed velvet cape which would trail behind him by several feet, as that would necessitate having a couple of pages to follow him about to keep it from getting tangled around chair legs, but still, there was bound to be such an air of stately magnificence about him—and grandeur—and quite possibly hauteur. Jane wondered if she should curtsy. And what should she say?
Something noble and lofty and stunningly clever?
For example, something about art? Philosophy? Literature? History?
Unfortunately she didn’t know much about any of those things.
What if the Duke asked her about them? Ideally, he might happen to mention Henry Tudor, and thanks to Miss Trevelyan, Jane now reliably knew something about his wives and the smelly ulcer on his leg.
Sounds of deep voices, out in the hallway, reached Jane’s ears. One of them belonged to Cousin Gabriel, and the other was unknown to her.
Now she could hear footsteps approaching.
They were almost here!
Jane noticed that in her excitement she had been holding her breath, and made herself quietly exhale. She glanced around and saw that nobody else was looking particularly agitated, but maybe (hard as it was to believe) when one spent a lot of time traveling in such elevated circles one got used to being around dukes. Back in Nantwich the thought had never, ever crossed her mind—that one day she would be in the same room as an actual duke.
Cousin Gabriel came into the drawing-room, and with him was a tall, wiry-looking man of about the same age who had a great deal of tawny light-brown hair. He wore a plain dark blue jacket, a carelessly tied neckcloth, dark breeches, and tall, rather scuffed black boots.
Jane stared.
Why, he was quite ordinary-looking. In fact, he rather reminded her of a fellow one might see lounging around a Nantwich stable-yard, or herding a flock of sheep to the market square.
And so, when Cousin Gabriel introduced her to His Grace the Duke of Radcliffe, Jane smiled politely up into his long thin face, but with a mild sense of disillusionment which she tried very hard to conceal. Unfortunately, she had one of those countenances which—as Great-grandmother Kent had often remarked, in a rather sour way—could be all too expressive.
Chapter 3
Anthony sat down in a comfortable armchair, crossed one leg over the other, and looked around the room. Penhallow was talking to Miss Trevelyan, his wife Livia was chatting with Miss Humphrey, old Mrs. Penhallow had a faintly sardonic expression on her face, and the other person, a slim, flaxen-haired girl—what was her name? He’d already forgotten it—was gazing at him in a manner with which he was all too familiar.
She was looking disappointed.
Old Mrs. Penhallow said, “I trust, Duke, that you and Gabriel have between you resolved the pressing issue of your pigmen’s dispute.”
Her tone did not, in Anthony’s opinion, convey serious concern over the matter, so rather than regale her with a thoughtful, nuanced reply which encompassed the subtler aspects of this complex and exceedingly delicate situation, he merely said, “Well, we hope so, ma’am.”
Mrs. Penhallow nodded, in a way that could only be described as satirical. Anthony uncrossed his left leg from over his right leg, then crossed his right leg over his left, and began to gently swing his uppermost foot back and forth. It was really only the imminent arrival of the tea-tray that was keeping him here. If he wanted sardonic glances sent his way, he could just go home and talk to Margaret.
“I believe, Duke, that your son Wakefield remains at home, instead of going off to school?”
“Yes.”
“A rather unusual arrangement.”
“Perhaps.”
“Didn’t you yourself go off to school when you were that age?”
“For a while, ma’am.”
“I see.”
Anthony braced himself for further interrogation on that point, but Mrs. Penhallow went on:
“Wakefield is a pupil of Mr. Pressley’s, is he not?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“And are you satisfied with his progress?”
“Quite.”
“I’m pleased to hear it, as Miss Kent’s going to begin lessons with Mr. Pressley tomorrow.”
“Who is?”
“My great-granddaughter.”
“Ah.”
Mrs. Penhallow gave him a slight, caustic smile. “I refer, of course, to the young lady sitting opposite you, Duke.”
Anthony looked across the low table to the sofa on which the gray-eyed girl sat, and tried to piece together what little he knew of the situation. Mrs. Penhallow had a great-granddaughter here at Surmont Hall, who, having appeared seemingly out of nowhere, was going to have lessons with Mr. Pressley. Speaking of unusual arrangements, wasn’t this one as well? He vaguely remembered Margaret having a governess, or a series of them—it was difficult to recall as th
ey all seemed to be tyrannical, severely dressed women who sported a deeply intimidating pince-nez.
“Will he mind?” said the gray-eyed girl—Miss Kent—and Anthony found himself jolted out of misty memory into the present again where, he was pleased to recollect, he knew no one who wore a pince-nez. He answered:
“Will who mind?”
“Your son Wakefield.”
“Mind what?”
“If I have lessons too.”
“Why would he?”
Miss Kent’s delicate dark brows drew together ever so slightly, as if she were puzzled. “I mean—will Wakefield object to sharing Mr. Pressley’s time with me.”
Anthony thought about it. “I can’t see why he would. But of course, you can ask him yourself if you like.”
“Duke,” said old Mrs. Penhallow, “you’re a most unusual parent.”
He gave her a wry smile. “So my sister says.”
“How is dear Lady Margaret?” In the old lady’s voice was the same satirical tone, which reminded him that between these two formidable women absolutely no love was lost. Just the other day Margaret made a waspish remark about how Henrietta Penhallow must have been completely addled to allow her only grandson to marry such an inauspicious person as Livia, and also to think herself (or her head gardener) capable of growing decent roses of Provins. To which Anthony had replied that he found Livia rather an auspicious person, a phrase which made little sense in retrospect, but a fellow couldn’t stand idly by and allow Margaret to go on snobbishly insulting a perfectly nice lady who, whatever her origins, was also a dab hand at raising Blue Andalusian chickens. An unpleasant scene had followed, which concluded with Margaret storming out of his library and slamming the door with such violence that two paintings had fallen off the wall.
Anthony now answered:
“Oh, she’s fine. Busy.”
“You’ve had houseguests, I understand?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Dear me, how inhospitable of you, Duke.”
Well, this was certainly putting him in a bad light. Nor did he particularly care to explain and so paint himself for the harassed, ruthlessly pursued single man that he was. “I say, here’s tea,” Anthony said with relief, especially as the conversation then became more general.
Miss Humphrey asked after Titania, Lucy, and baby Daniel, the three young children of Livia and Gabriel; Mrs. Penhallow mentioned receiving an interesting letter from her former companion, Mrs. Markson, who was traveling in Europe with her husband, Mr. Pressley’s predecessor, and with Miss Gwendolyn Penhallow, the younger sister of Gabriel’s cousin Hugo; and also Miss Trevelyan issued a scathing critique of Lady Caroline Lamb’s scandalous, gossipy novel Glenarvon, primarily finding fault with its sensationalist themes and its sloppy writing, which included the murder of a character who was later shown to still be alive.
Anthony listened as he made his way through several small iced butter-cakes, a plate he’d filled with delicious fish-paste sandwiches, and four sweet York biscuits. He noticed that Miss Kent wasn’t saying much either, and that she seemed to have quite an appetite. As he watched her take two more biscuits, he also noticed that she had long-fingered, capable-looking hands, with very slim wrists and a prominent, knobby bone showing in the delicate juncture between arm and hand.
Then he watched as one of those interesting and beautiful hands also took another sandwich. And saw with a little ripple of alarm that there were only two sandwiches left. So he took one, and ate it.
Then he saw Miss Kent take another butter-cake, leaving only three left. She ate it, without hurry but with great precision, and had a sip of her tea.
Surreptitiously Anthony glanced around. Everyone else—with the exception of Miss Kent, who apparently had at least one hollow limb—seemed to have finished their tea. So he took one of the three remaining butter-cakes, ate that, and took another one which he also ate.
That left one butter-cake, one sandwich, and three York biscuits.
He took a fortifying swallow of tea, then looked across the low table and into Miss Kent’s big, gray, dark-lashed eyes. And he saw that she was looking right back at him, on her face a determined expression. (Which, he thought, was preferable to a disappointed one.)
And before he could do anything about it, she took the last butter-cake.
She ate it in two bites.
There was a trace of icing on her upper lip when she was done, and Anthony watched, fascinated, as delicately she licked it away with the tip of her tongue.
She could have used a napkin, of course, yet he found himself rather glad she hadn’t.
All the icing was gone from that nicely shaped upper lip, the very color of—well, in point of fact, the glorious pink color of a Provins rose in full bloom.
Rather dreamily Anthony wondered if she would lick her lip again, just to be sure.
And Miss Kent, striking like an adder, made her next move, which was to take two of the three remaining York biscuits.
Anthony snapped to attention. Even in his indignation, however, he had to grudgingly admire her rapacious boldness. But he wasn’t going to let himself be blinded by admiration.
He reached out to take the last biscuit.
This he ate with marked efficiency, but here again, Miss Kent beat him all to flinders. Never had he seen someone eat biscuits so rapidly while at the same time managing to look so cool and prim. It was an art form, one which Miss Kent had clearly taken to its highest level.
Appreciation notwithstanding, Anthony was aware of a certain tension humming within him.
For there was one sandwich left.
He looked at it, and then at Miss Kent. She was looking at him, and then, as if casually, dropped her gaze to the table between them.
“I say,” he said, cunningly, “fine weather we’ve been having.”
“It does seem to have warmed up over the past few days,” she agreed.
Ha ha, he thought. Got her to look at me, not the sandwich. He went on, “It snowed last week, you know.”
“Oh, did it?”
“Yes, just a little.”
“I wasn’t here then.”
“Where were you?”
“Traveling here from Nantwich.”
Damn. “Nantwich” sounded too much like “sandwich.” Anthony willed himself to keep his eyes on Miss Kent’s face. “That’s in the north, isn’t it?”
“Yes, not far from Liverpool.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“I didn’t know the Penhallows had a northern branch of the family.”
“There are two, Great-grandmother says—one up in Cumbria, and another further north, in the Scottish Highlands. But not in Nantwich.”
Damn again. Don’t look down, old chap, don’t look down, Anthony sternly told himself. “So you’re from a twig of the family, then?”
Miss Kent smiled a little. “That’s a good way to put it. Titus Penhallow was my grandfather.”
“Titus? I’ve never heard of him.”
“He was a son of Great-grandmother’s.”
“Oh, I see.”
“There’s a portrait of him over on the mantel.”
Miss Kent gestured with one of those beautiful hands of hers, and Anthony looked over to the wide beveled mantelpiece, which held several smallish paintings, a white marble bust of Shakespeare, a mahogany-inlaid clock, and a tall crystal vase filled with exquisite pink flowers. This last item Anthony surveyed with no small degree of pleasure, as it put paid to Margaret’s vindictive assertion that the Penhallow hothouse was unable to properly grow those fabled roses of Provins. Then he remembered he was supposed to be looking for a portrait of Titus Penhallow. Well, it had to be the young man with the wavy straw-colored hair, gray eyes, and dark eyelashes and brows.
“I say, Miss Kent, you’re as alike as—”
The time-honored phrase two peas in a pod remained unspoken. Actually, it would not have been too muc
h to say that it stuck in his throat, as Anthony now saw that while he had been perusing the mantel, Miss Kent had taken the last sandwich, and was now busily engaged in chewing.
Piqued, Anthony glanced pointedly at the empty sandwich platter. It would be ungallant in him to openly accuse her of guile, subterfuge, or outright thievery. Still, he had Miss Kent’s measure now, and the next time they had tea together he would know what to do.
He watched as Miss Kent popped the last bit of sandwich in her mouth, chewed, swallowed, and dabbed at those Provins-pink lips of hers with a napkin.
Yes indeed, he was looking forward to besting her.
Their guests had left, and Jane, comfortably full, felt a little guilty about taking the last sandwich. On the other hand, the Duke had taken the last biscuit, so maybe that made it fair. Or was it possible there was some sort of unwritten rule about dukes getting more food than other people? Well, too bad, she thought defiantly. And felt rather sorry she hadn’t eaten more butter-cakes.
Great-grandmother Henrietta, sitting bolt upright as she always seemed to do, said with a sniff:
“What a ramshackle person Anthony Farr is.”
“Granny, why do you say that?” asked Livia. “I like him.”
“I can’t imagine why. He’s simply raffish—hardly my idea of a proper duke. Did you observe the scuff on his boots? And his neckcloth! I daresay that you, Gabriel, would never leave your room, let alone the house, with yours tied in that shabby way.”
“I do prefer a bit more precision for myself,” said Cousin Gabriel, “but it doesn’t mean I judge him based upon his sartorial preferences. Also, I believe he’s an excellent landlord to his tenant farmers, and there’s nobody I’d rather talk to about timber than Farr. Just last month he gave me some very useful suggestions for those yew groves that are getting overcrowded.”