When they had gone, she went to her own bedchamber, thinking of the blissful moment that lay ahead when Nance would have gone to bed and she would be alone at last after the long and trying day. But when she entered her room she found not only Nance but Davina awaiting her.
Her sister-in-law said cheerfully, “Got the children all tucked up in bed?”
“Yes, but I had to scold Charley. She is very upset that she can do nothing to prevent Melissa’s return. And she’s your daughter, Davina. You ought to do the tucking up, not me.”
Davina shrugged. “Charley does not care. I daresay she is closer to you than she is to me, and if she was impertinent, I doubt she was any more so than you were with Jervaulx, and with much the same cause. In any case, these days I should be thought an odd sort of mama if I hovered over her.”
“Perhaps, but you are wrong about her not caring. She misses you both when you are away so often.”
“So you have said before, but I did not come to talk about Charley, you know. Do you think Susan lied about Geoffrey just because she was angry with him?”
“I do not think she lied at all,” Daintry said, holding her temper now on a slender thread. “I have said that all along.”
Davina sighed. “Men are very difficult, aren’t they?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Daintry said, but the image of a tall, broad-shouldered one leapt to her mind’s eye and she knew at once that she was equivocating. Men were loathsome creatures.
Davina said, “Well, I do know. Your brother is a puzzle, Daintry, and that is plain fact.”
“Charles?” Daintry was astonished.
“You needn’t sound as if I had just said something absurd,” Davina said crossly, “for it was nothing of the kind. He seems to expect me to know what he is thinking, as if I had a crystal ball. Can you tell when he is angry, Daintry? I promise you, I cannot—not until he explodes, at all events.”
“And has he exploded?” Daintry asked, thinking she knew now where the conversation was leading.
“Twice in a fortnight,” Davina said with another sigh. “At Mount Edgcumbe because I smiled more than once at Lord Aston, and two days ago at Cothele just because I borrowed a few rouleaux from Alvanley. It was no great thing, so do not look at me that way. I won on the next turn and paid him back. At all events, I do not know how Charles thinks I can live on the pittance he gives me each month—as if a woman did not require a new gown from time to time, not to mention money for trinkets and loo.”
“But it is not just loo, is it, Davina? At Mount Edgcumbe you were plunging rather deep.”
“And what else was there to do, with Charles playing cards himself or drinking himself into a stupor? I wore a brand new dress that I thought he would particularly like, and he just demanded to know what it cost. Right in front of everyone, too. I wanted to sink through the floor. And if I so much as smile at anyone, he sulks, but he has no romance in him, Daintry, and I like to be courted and made much of. Is that so dreadful?”
“I suppose not, but would it not be better to tell him how you feel, rather than me?”
“I did tell him but it was as if I spoke a foreign language. I said I wished he would recite poetry to me, and he quoted some nonsensical thing about a flea on a lady’s bonnet on a Sunday.”
Daintry laughed. “It was a louse, not a flea. Charles has always liked Mr. Burns’s poems.” The frustrated look on Davina’s face caused her to add quickly, “I beg your pardon, but I cannot imagine him reciting any other type of poetry, you know. He is not a romantic man. He’s sensitive, but he tends to be like Papa and bluster when he’s angry, and he loathes strife. At all events,” she went on, too tired to be tactful, “you don’t really want my advice. You just want me to agree with you.”
Davina looked angry for a moment, but then she smiled ruefully and said, “I suppose you are right, but can you imagine what it is like for me, Daintry, living here where everyone is on Charles’s side and no one ever takes mine? If I had to stay here all year, I’d go mad. At least Susan, with all her problems, has a home of her own.”
“Is that what you want?” Daintry asked, thinking it would not be if Davina truly understood what Susan’s home was like.
Davina hunched a shoulder pettishly. “Oh, how does one know what one wants? What one thinks is desirable generally turns out to be nothing of the kind. I just never realized Charles would want to bury me alive in Cornwall, that’s all.”
“But he doesn’t. You just returned from Cothele, in fact, and are you not leaving tomorrow for Wilton House?”
“Yes, although Charles has been complaining that it is too far to go for only four days. If I had my way, we’d not come home till Christmas, but perhaps if you tell him you want to go to Wilton with us …” She paused hopefully,
“I already sent my regrets,” Daintry said. “Moreover, I promised Melissa that both Aunt Ophelia and I would see her home again tomorrow, and it would not do to disappoint her. And, in point of fact, Davina, you will go whether I do or not, and so will Charles. He nearly always does what you want him to.”
“I suppose he does, but he would do it more gracefully for you,” Davina said.
Daintry wondered if Deverill would be at Wilton House, but told herself it did not matter in the least, and soon managed to be rid of both her sister-in-law and Nance. Once she was in bed with the quilt pulled up to her chin, however, thoughts of Deverill’s anger that afternoon came flooding back to haunt her.
She did not know what to make of him. He intrigued her and he fascinated her. He had been kind to her; he had certainly flirted with her; and, at one point, before she had known he was not Penthorpe, he had even said he wanted to marry her. No doubt that had been but part of his play-acting, but he had certainly wanted to get to know her better, and he certainly had a knack for stirring her passions. He had shown her consideration and warmth. He had even pretended to respect some of her opinions. All in all, it was no wonder that she had finally come to trust him, though she had certainly been foolish to do so.
It had been amazingly easy to ignore the fact that he had begun their acquaintance with a deception, that he had all too clearly decided after that to see if he could steal a kiss—or worse, heaven knew—but even when she had taken his measure, it had proved nearly impossible to keep the man at arm’s length—witness the speed with which she had agreed to help him put to rest the ridiculous accusations Seacourt had made. And now, when he had betrayed her beyond all chance of forgiveness, she still could not seem to banish his image from her thoughts.
She remembered her last view of him, standing on the castle green. He had not spoken another word to her, nor she to him, although he and Sir Lionel had lingered, chatting with Lady Ophelia until both ladies were safely in the carriage. Deverill had been particularly charming to her aunt, almost as if he had meant to engage her support. And judging by Lady Ophelia’s conversation in the carriage, or lack of it, he had succeeded.
After Daintry had replayed the events of the afternoon in her mind’s eye several times more without being able to fix upon the exact cause of his anger, she finally realized that her own wrath had stirred his. He had thought her anger irrational, outrageous, even shrewish. But had his accusations been justified? And why was it, she wondered, that women who lost their tempers were shrews, while men who did—like Seacourt—were reasonably angry? If angry men were compared to members of the animal kingdom, they were generally compared to bears or dogs—dangerous animals—not to small, pestiferous rodents.
The fact was, she had somehow made herself believe Deverill was different from other men, more understanding, more sensitive to the difficulties faced by women, more willing than most men to listen and to comprehend female frustrations, and even, perhaps, willing to love a woman on her own terms. In fact, she had begun to think she had found a man whose feet were not made of clay. She had been wrong, and she began to see now that her anger had not been directed at him but at herself. She had let her guard down again,
only to be brought up short by reality.
Previously, once she had discovered flaws of character in her suitors, it had been easy to dismiss them from her thoughts. But that night, each time she told herself that enough was enough and turned over again, determined to clear her mind and go to sleep, the unbidden image of Deverill would rise up to unsettle her. It did not seem to matter if she saw him smile or frown. Either way, he filled her thoughts and murdered sleep.
One moment she wanted never again to see the man or speak to him; the next, she wanted to explain matters so he would understand and agree with her. Sometime in the middle of the night, it occurred to her that perhaps she did not know him at all, that she had attributed characteristics to him based solely upon her own needs and wishful thinking. Nonetheless there had been something about him that led her to believe it was safe to trust him, to believe in him, and remembering his touch brought an unexpected wave of desire such as she had never experienced before, that stopped her train of thought cold in its tracks.
Was it possible that she had talked herself into trusting him simply because he stirred feelings that had never stirred before, because he could make her knees weak by looking into her eyes, or send flames shooting through her body just by kissing her? Was it possible that a mere physical attraction could influence her to such a point that she would forget all that experience had taught her about men, or was it merely part and parcel of what her aunt had called the lure of forbidden fruit?
Remembering what Lady Ophelia had said reminded her of the feud, and believing that a far safer subject for contemplation than the other, she managed to fix her mind upon it. She had been distracted for a time by Susan’s predicament, but if any good might be said to have come of its resolution, it was that Jervaulx’s decision had made St. Merryn think the better of him. Outrageous as that was, there could be no better time to ask her father about the feud’s origin. And this time, she would keep her temper. One did not want to be thought a shrew, after all. Moreover, the next time she lost her temper, she would put the fear of God into someone or know the reason why.
Dozing at last, she nevertheless awoke early the following morning and, feeling restless, both at the thought of confronting her father and at what they might discover at Seacourt Head, she went for a solitary ride on the moor, leaving Clemons in the dust when he attempted to keep up with her. But even Cloud’s fast pace, and the exhilaration of the moor wind blowing through her hair did nothing to erase thoughts of Deverill from her mind. She could not seem to stop searching the horizon for a centaur.
Returning to the house, determined to take some action, if only to allow herself a pretense of accomplishment, she was glad to find St. Merryn alone in the breakfast parlor. Taking a seat opposite him, she said to the footman who came to discover her wishes, “Nothing now, Jago. I will ring when I want you.”
The footman vanished, and St. Merryn said, “What the devil are you about, girl? I wanted more herring.”
“I’ll serve you, Papa,” she said, getting up and looking under lids on the sideboard until she found the kippered herring. Putting a generous portion on a fresh plate, she handed it to him, saying, “I want to know about the feud, sir, and I hope you will not try to fob me off again, because it will be easier for me to respect your dislike of the Deverills if I can discover what caused the dissension in the first place. Do you know?”
“Upon my soul,” he exclaimed, smearing jam on his toast with lavish abandon, “what can that matter now?”
“Aunt Ophelia says no one knows the cause,” she said, hoping he would respond as he would to any sporting challenge if the matter was put to him this way.
He sneered. “No reason that dratted female should know. No business of hers. She wasn’t even a part of the family in those days, not that she probably wasn’t as damned nosy and interfering then as she is now. Probably was. I don’t know. Wasn’t born yet, was I? Only thing I know is that my father said when old Tom Deverill quoted Smollett about making the monarchy stronger, he was not speaking of the present royal house.”
“He was a Jacobite?”
“So they say. Can’t really have blotted his copybook, though. Those who did lost most of what they owned. Then, too, most folks around here held by the true line then. Not that it did them any good. We’re all stuck with the same mad king and his precious offspring now, aren’t we?”
“Was my grandfather a Jacobite?” Daintry asked.
“Upon my word, girl, how should I know? He would not have told me. All secrets and plotting, it was. I just mention it because since the feud began when your aunt was young, it must have begun when there were still a few Jacobites hanging about, and I remembered that bit about Tom Deverill.”
“But surely your father told you something about the feud.”
He shrugged. “When I married your mama, he said it put him ahead of Deverill, but what the devil he meant, I can’t tell you, for he never told me.”
“Then why do you persist with the feud?” she demanded.
“That you can ask such a fool question just proves what I’ve said all along,” he said with a snort. “Females don’t understand simple facts of life. A feud grows, girl, and it’s a matter of family loyalty. Just look at what happened in Launceston—my daughter calling down a magistrate in his own courtroom. Jervaulx probably thought you held him cheap because of the feud, so then he bent over backward to show he wasn’t cut from the same bolt of cloth. Gave him a point to the good, that did. Once before, when we battled it out over a boundary line, I won the point. It all feeds into the whole.”
“It’s ridiculous, and the pair of you ought to mend matters,” she said bluntly.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He got to his feet and threw down his napkin. “I’ve business to see to. All these mines shutting down have made difficulties for my tenants.” He paused at the door. “Mind you don’t forget to take Melissa home today. Charles and Davina ought to have done it on their way to Wilton, but Ophelia insisted she was taking her. In any case, I want to hear no more complaints from Seacourt about your interference in his family affairs. You understand that?”
“Yes, Papa.” She ate her breakfast and went up to change out of her riding habit, knowing her great-aunt and Melissa would soon be ready to depart for Seacourt Head.
They did not leave until ten, but the roads were dry, and they arrived at Seacourt Head shortly after noon. Melissa passed most of the journey staring out of the window, responding politely when she was addressed by either of her companions, but initiating no conversation of her own. Daintry chatted with Lady Ophelia about the book the older lady was reading, but soon gave up any attempt to draw the child into the conversation and began to wish they had brought Charley along, after all.
Their reception was warmer than they might have expected, for Geoffrey, apparently on the lookout for them, came to the door while his servants were still collecting Melissa’s baggage. “Come in,” he called. “Susan was hoping you would arrive in time to take a light nuncheon with us. Hello, darling. Come and give Papa a big hug.”
Melissa ran to him at once and put her arms around his neck, whereupon he lifted her, whirling her so that her skirt billowed around her slender legs. Then, setting her on her feet again, he kissed her cheek and said, “Let us go find your mama and Cousin Catherine. They have been anxiously awaiting your return.”
Surprised by his easy manner, Daintry wondered if he truly believed he was in everyone’s good graces again. He seemed to do so, and to her own amazement, she found herself automatically smiling back when he turned his flashing grin in her direction.
Lady Ophelia allowed her footman to help her down from the carriage, and they went inside to find Susan in her pleasant drawing room, looking perfectly well and happy to see her daughter again. Daintry searched her sister’s face for any sign that she had been hurt again, but although her earlier bruises could still be detected, she could see nothing newly amiss.
Lady Cathe
rine Chauncey, standing near one of the two tall windows and looking as beautiful as ever in a pale green, flowing robe of India muslin, smiled and greeted them. “We were just gazing out at the sea,” she said, gesturing toward the magnificent view. Sunlight sparkled on the foam-crested waves of the Channel, while gulls darted and drifted on capricious breezes. “Hello, Melissa, did you have a pleasant journey?”
“Yes, ma’am. Mama, may I be excused now?”
Seacourt said, “Of course you may, darling. You will want to put all your things back where they belong and tell Miss Currier all about your visit to Tuscombe Park. She has missed you, you know. She had little to do when you were not here.”
The little girl ran away without another word, and Seacourt said to Lady Ophelia, “Her governess is very fond of her, you know, though I daresay she has begun to wonder if Melissa really lives here or not; however, we shall say no more about that.”
He continued to converse cheerfully with Lady Ophelia, and Daintry moved to stand by Catherine at the window. The view was spectacular, for the house was perched out on the headland, and she could see across St. Merryn Bay, all the way to the park, but she could not see the house. Some windows of its upper stories had a partial view of the sea, but by and large, Tuscombe’s views were of its parkland. Realizing that Catherine had spoken, she said, “I’m dreadfully sorry. I was not attending.”
“That view is hypnotic, is it not? My bedchamber faces the sea, and I get up early in the morning just so I can look out and see what sort of day the sea is having. Usually,” she added with a sigh, “it is as gray as any day in Yorkshire.”
“I had forgotten you come from the north,” Daintry said.
“Well, I don’t really, but my husband did. My family is from Lincolnshire, which is much the same—fens in place of the moors, but very bleak. My parents are dead, and my brother and his wife have too many in their own family to welcome me. I simply couldn’t stomach the thought of Yorkshire at this season. Gray days notwithstanding, Cornwall is much more pleasant.”
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