Jo Beverly

by Winter Fire

  Dishes of gilded nuts and fruit, both fresh and dried, stood on all surfaces, as if guests must be offered instant hospitality. Logs crackled and roared in the huge marble fireplace, fighting the chill in the enormous space, but not quite succeeding. Even with a Malloren, apparently, not everything was possible.

  However, a powerful sense of welcome helped Genova relax. This was certainly no rigid court. A glance showed that it was terrifying Sheena, however, so Genova stayed close, wondering what to do. Where in this house did such a child belong?

  She looked for a suitable servant but saw only statuelike, liveried footmen. Then her eyes settled on the woman who was warmly greeting Thalia.

  She must be the marchioness, but she, too, was in simple clothes—a blue gown with modest ruffles, and a large shawl. The lovely design and the way it draped told Genova it probably cost more than her own entire wardrobe. Even so, Lady Rothgar seemed as ordinary as her gown, being brown-haired and of average build.

  As Genova observed her, however, she recognized a presence, an air of command. She remembered Thalia saying that Lord Rothgar had married that rarest of creatures, a countess in her own right. Perhaps Genova wouldn’t approach her, either. Should she ask Thalia to raise the subject?

  With a thump, Lady Calliope’s chair was put down next to Genova, and Lord Rothgar came over to kiss the old lady’s cheek. “You’re a most redoubtable woman, Great-aunt Calliope.”

  The old lady looked shrunken, but she was gruff as usual. “Always have been. Stupid, though, to have let matters come to this pass.”

  “Folly all around.” Lord Rothgar’s eyes moved with a question to Genova and her charges, but then on. From his expression, she knew Ashart had come to her side.

  Rothgar bowed. “Cousin, you are most welcome.”

  That was clear enough.

  Ashart swept a bow of his own. “How could I resist, especially when I bring mysteries and complexities?”

  Lord Rothgar smiled. “We thrive on mysteries and dine on complexities.”

  Despite the smile, a tingling tension clamped the back of Genova’s neck. She last remembered feeling like this when their limping ship had caught sight of those Barbary corsairs.

  Chapter Thirteen

  L ord Rothgar turned then to look at Sheena and Charlie. “Speaking of mysteries, a baby, Great-aunt Calliope? At your age?”

  A rumble of laughter rolled through Lady Calliope. “Foolish boy! We’ll amuse you with the story later, but make known to you our companion and friend, Miss Smith.”

  Genova curtsied, warmed by the “friend,” which raised her status a good deal.

  “Welcome to Rothgar Abbey, Miss Smith.” Lord Rothgar extended his hand, which gave her no choice but to surrender hers for a kiss brushed just above her glove. “How courageous of you to venture among Mallorens and Trayces.”

  “You make your families sound like Scylla and Charybdis, my lord.”

  Another brief smile touched his lips. “An apt construct—if you were a sailor.”

  Scylla and Charybdis were two of the challenges Ulysses had faced when sailing home to Ithaca.

  “How clever you are!” Thalia declared. “Genova is a naval officer’s daughter and has spent a vast amount of time at sea. She fought Barbary pirates!”

  “Not quite,” Genova tried to protest, but the marquess smiled fully.

  “Then you are admirably qualified for this voyage. As long, of course, as you can decide which side is Scylla, the monster who desires to eat you, and which is Charybdis, the whirlpool that seeks to suck you into the depths.”

  Without thinking, Genova glanced at Lord Ashart and caught him looking at her. Muscles deep within her contracted, and her breath shortened. In public, when separated by, perhaps, four feet!

  Someone chuckled.

  She looked quickly, her color rising, but the marchioness was chuckling at something Thalia had said. Everyone seemed in merry Christmas spirit, but Genova wanted to hint that Lady Calliope needed a warm bed.

  She hesitated to abandon Sheena, but went over to curtsy to Lady Rothgar. “Excuse me, my lady, but Lady Calliope is tired from the journey. I think she would welcome her bed.”

  Shrewd eyes took in the old lady. “Of course. We are caught up in excitement.”

  In moments a senior servant was taking Lady Calliope and her servants up the grand staircase, its banisters twined with red and green cords, while Lord Rothgar guided Thalia and Ashart toward a room off the hall.

  Scylla and Charybdis. Should she be there with Thalia or here with Sheena? She couldn’t abandon the girl now.

  “So this is Lady Booth Carew’s baby,” Lady Rothgar said. “I gather some strange story attaches.”

  Genova knew she was blushing. “My lady, I’m very sorry—”

  Lady Rothgar waved a hand. “I’m sure you could do nothing but bring the child here. Is he healthy?”

  “Yes, mylady. And the nurse, too.”

  “Then come along. We have extensive nurseries and they are already in use.”

  She turned and walked briskly toward the staircase, her heels rapping on the wooden floor like the rat-a-tat-tat of a battle drum. Genova pushed that thought away and urged Sheena after, carrying the maid’s bundle herself. At least one problem had evaporated. Sheena and Charlie were not to be thrown out. In fact they would have a place in the family’s nursery, which was very generous.

  As they climbed the stairs Genova found the bells. They hung from the cords wrapped around the banisters, and tinkled as she passed. Charming, but she could imagine the noise fraying the nerves.

  They ascended a short flight to a half landing where the steps split to left and right. As they turned to the left, Lady Rothgar said, “Why don’t you tell me some of this strange story as we go, Miss Smith? This is a large and somewhat mazelike house. It’s been added to by every generation, and the last marquess inserted corridors all over the place. I don’t think we’ve lost a guest, though a few have wandered for a while.”

  Genova quickly decided to keep Ashart’s part to a minimum. Scylla and Charybdis didn’t need any more problems. She began with the encounter with Lady Booth Carew. Then, as they walked down a long, carpeted corridor hung with works of art and set with tables and chests holding treasures, she framed Ashart’s later arrival as coincidence.

  “How very intriguing.” The marchioness turned right into another corridor. “Odd, however, to abandon the baby with strangers.”

  “Indeed, my lady.”

  Her hostess stopped at another junction. “Is Ashart the father, do you think?”

  Genova abandoned pretense. “He insists not.”

  “He was Lady Booth’s lover about a year ago, which would make it possible.” Lady Rothgar glanced at her. “Perhaps I shouldn’t speak so frankly of such matters to an unmarried lady.”

  “I’ve spent most of my life in seafaring circles, Lady Rothgar. I’m not easily shocked.”

  The marchioness smiled. “As my husband said, you should fit in here excellently. But I must tell you that I choose to go by my own title of Arradale in all but the most formal situations. No, don’t be embarrassed. You were quite correct. It is I who is out of order.”

  “You’re very kind, Lady Arradale.”

  Genova meant it. Despite daunting grandeur and all the other problems, she was ready to like the Dark Marquess’s wife.

  “To be kind we must get our innocents to a simpler and warmer setting. Come along.”

  Genova noticed then that Sheena was standing in the center of the corridor, as far from anything as she could get. She must be terrified of breaking something.

  The countess led them around another corner into a short corridor that appeared to go nowhere. She opened a door and revealed a plain, narrow staircase, whose sides brushed her wide skirts as she went up.

  “Do you have a plan for dealing with the baby, Miss Smith?”

  Genova wished she could see Lady Arradale’s face, the better to judge the tone of the q
uestion. Was she to be held solely responsible?

  “Lady Booth must be found,” she said, choosing her words. “Lord Ashart will help, since he knows the lady so well.”

  The “will” was her statement of intent, and that was probably obvious. At the top of the stairs, Lady Arradale flashed her a smile. “We will make sure he does.”

  They had reached a plain but carpeted corridor, and Lady Arradale seemed to hesitate, tapping her lips with one finger. She wore rings worth a fortune, and what’s more, she wore one on every finger.

  “I wasn’t in London last winter, but Lady Booth’s scandal ran well into summer. She claimed all along that she was with child by Ashart. When he wouldn’t marry her, she fled to Ireland, and eventually announced the birth of a son.”

  Disappointment stabbed Genova. “So it is his. And now the poor woman is driven to extremes to force him to accept his responsibilities.”

  “A singularly foolish way to go about it, wouldn’t you say? And…inconvenient. You burn for justice, which I completely understand, but we’d prefer to attempt peace rather than war over the next few days. We didn’t expect Ashart to attend, you see, but now he’s here, we wish to make best use of it.”

  “I understand, my lady.”

  And Genova did. Aristocratic peacemaking would come before justice for a baby. It was the way of the world, but it meant that Genova would be the only one to truly care about Sheena and Charlie.

  Lady Arradale nodded, then continued along the corridor. Genova heard childish sounds nearby. The countess opened a door, and laughter danced out. Genova urged Sheena into a warm room of comfortable dimensions and closed the door after them. This, at least, was right.

  The room could be the parlor of a modest house, and the fire, shielded by an ornate metal guard, banished all trace of cold. In her cloak, Genova was already too warm.

  The walls were painted a pale green, the woodwork was white, and a Turkish carpet cushioned the floor. A spinet sat in one corner, a drum and some recorders on top of it. There were comfortable chairs, some child-sized, and an assortment of books and toys on shelves.

  Two blond girls, in matching blue gowns open over white quilted petticoats, sat on the carpet to one side of the fire playing with dolls. A maid in a chair was keeping an eye on them while doing some plain sewing.

  In the center of the room, two other mobcapped maids sat on the floor with a copper-haired toddler. The sturdy, dark-haired one of the pair sat back observing, while the slender one helped the child build with brightly colored blocks.

  Both maids looked up.

  Lady Arradale said, “Look what we have, Portia. A baby.”

  The slender maid was not a maid. Her copperish curls bubbled out from beneath a pretty, lace-trimmed cap rather than a servant’s mobcap, and her gown was clearly of the finest quality. She scrambled to her feet, proving to be petite but close to Genova’s age.

  “How lovely. Whose?”

  “Lady Booth Carew’s.”

  “It’s Ashart’s, then?”

  It was like a nail in his coffin.

  Chapter Fourteen

  “H e’s here, by the way,” the countess said. “Ashart. Came with the Tunbridge Wells great-aunts.”

  “Oh, my! And yet I hear no distant sound of war.”

  “Children are kept up here so they won’t be heard, but it works in reverse. They could be murdering each other and we wouldn’t know. But Bey has matters in hand, I think, though it was quite a shock, as you can imagine.”

  Lady Arradale drew Genova forward. “Let me make known Miss Smith, Portia, companion to Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope. Miss Smith, this is my sister-in-law, Portia, Lady Arcenbryght Malloren, more commonly Lady Bryght. The late Marquess of Rothgar had an obsessive attachment to all things Anglo-Saxon, which is the cause of the names. You are spared Hilda, Brand, and Cynric, who are Christmasing elsewhere. Elfled—Lady Walgrave—is here, but not much in evidence since she expects a baby any day. We tease my husband that he’s arranged a Christmas reenactment.”

  Genova dropped a curtsy, trying to take all this in.

  “And this,” the countess said, smiling at the child who had toddled over to hide in his mother’s skirts, “is Master Francis Malloren.”

  Lady Bryght ruffled his hair. “Make your bow, Francis.”

  The child emerged enough to make a quite reasonable bow but then slid back into safety.

  “He’ll be all right soon,” Lady Bryght said, picking him up and kissing his round cheek. “He takes his time with strangers, don’t you, poppet? And very wise, too. See, Francis, a baby. What’s his name?” she asked Genova.

  “Charlie, my lady, and the maid’s name is Sheena. Sheena O’Leary, but that’s about as far as we’ve progressed. She speaks virtually no English.” She turned to Lady Arradale. “Is there anyone here who speaks Gaelic?”

  “My goodness. I’m not aware of any Irish servants, but there must be some in the neighborhood. That will wait and you must all be so tired. Let’s make arrangements for little Charlie and then you can refresh yourself.”

  She sent the maid to find a Mrs. Harbinger, and soon an older woman appeared. She was heavy-boned and could have looked glowering, but her eyes lit at the sight of the baby.

  “Ah, the precious!” She came forward with the clear intention of taking Charlie. Sheena stepped back.

  “She’s afraid,” Genova said quickly. “She doesn’t speak English, and I don’t think she understands what’s happening to her, poor girl.”

  “This is Mrs. Harbinger, the nursery governess,” the countess explained. “She’s in charge of this part of the house.” She gave the nursery governess a vague explanation of Charlie’s arrival. It implied an accident on the road without actually telling lies.

  The woman was all sympathy. “It’s only a matter of airing the baby nursery, my lady, and bringing another maid up here, with your permission. You can leave it all to me.”

  “I know I can. I’ll see if there’s anyone in the area who speaks Gaelic, but in the meantime, I know you’ll be understanding with poor Miss O’Leary, who must feel very ill at ease.”

  “Of course, my lady.” The woman wrapped an arm around Sheena’s shoulders and drew her to a chair near the fire, murmuring comfort all the while. The Irish girl looked desperately at Genova for a moment, but then relaxed and even smiled at her new protector.

  Genova felt a burden rise from her shoulders. That, at least, was all right.

  Lady Arradale moved toward the door, and Lady Bryght kissed her son and gave him to the maid. She swept up a large shawl and wrapped it around herself. “I must come and see what’s happening. Ashart here. My stars!”

  Soon the three of them were heading back down the stairs and through the maze of corridors. Genova was sure that by herself she’d be one of the wandering guests. After a number of turns, the countess opened a door to a fine bedchamber.

  Genova saw some of her possessions, including the presepe box. This was her room? The splendor shocked her. She would have much preferred something simpler.

  “We’d normally give you a room for yourself,” Lady Arradale said, “but over Christmas, every space will be required.”

  Genova noticed then that various items belonged to Thalia. That explained the grandeur, but she’d hoped for a place of her own, no matter how plain. She’d not realized until the past three days how much she relished her privacy.

  However, she said, “I’m accustomed to sharing a room with Lady Thalia.”

  “She is delightful, isn’t she? Such a shame that Rothgar’s been cut off from his great-aunts all these years. Now the ice is broken, things will be different.”

  Genova recalled a scene she’d witnessed once—ice breaking and people falling through it to their deaths. It was a strange saying, all in all.

  The brisk countess opened an adjoining door. “There’s a closet attached, with a bed for the maid.”

  It was a narrow dressing room, just large enough for a huge a
rmoire, a chest of drawers, and a small bed. Even so, Genova envied Regeanne, who was putting things away. The maid looked around, startled, then dipped a curtsy.

  Lady Arradale waved for her to continue her work and closed the door again. “I gather Ashart visits the great-aunts in Tunbridge Wells?”

  “A few times a year, I understand, my lady, but not while I’ve known them.”

  The countess cocked her head and Genova was aware of being studied. “A handsome rascal, is he not?”

  “We’ve only just met, my lady.”

  “A moment tells us if a man is handsome or not, Miss Smith.”

  Genova knew she was blushing and shed her fur-lined cloak as excuse. “He’s certainly handsome in that way, my lady. But handsome is that handsome does, and his behavior toward his poor child isn’t handsome at all.”

  “Molly Carew’s behavior would drive a saint to distraction,” Lady Bryght said. “Such folly to think a man like Ashart would marry her under pressure, and I do believe she started the affair with just that in mind.”

  That fired Genova’s sense of justice. “It was certainly wrong of her to become his mistress, but wasn’t it equally wrong of him to take one?”

  Both ladies gave her an identical look.

  “We’re speaking of folly rather than virtue,” the countess said, not unkindly. “Virtue, they say, is its own reward, and as such, it provides a thin cloak in winter. Seek also to be wise, Miss Smith.”

  “There’s nothing between myself and Lord Ashart.”

  Lady Bryght chuckled. “Very unwise. Keep your clothes between you at all times.”

  “Portia!” laughed the countess, but she added, “It’s good advice, Miss Smith. He’s an infamous rascal.”

  Genova remembered the ridiculous betrothal. What would these ladies think of her words when they heard? What could she possibly say to make things better now?

  Oh, I forgot I do know he’s a rascal. That’s why I’m engaged to marry him….

  “I heard Molly Carew left Lady Knatchbull’s masquerade with Ashart without a hint of shame,” Lady Bryght said. “She was dressed as Salome.”