Brave New Earl

by Jane Ashford

  The silence had stretched into awkwardness. “I came out for a walk,” she said, very aware that she’d just thrown on a cloak. She hadn’t even bothered with a bonnet.

  “What?”

  She’d spoken too softly. “I was out for a walk,” she repeated. “And I heard voices.”

  He moved toward her. “I did the same. Geoffrey was talking to his pony.”

  “Yes.” Jean glanced at Fergus and Molly, who gazed out from their stalls with ears swiveled toward them. “And he seemed to listen.”

  Lord Furness turned to follow her eyes. “I hadn’t noticed. They appear attentive, don’t they?”

  “Well, horses must know how to listen. Or else no one could train them.”

  “They merely react to gestures and a firm tone of voice.”

  He stopped beside her. She kept forgetting how large he was, Jean thought. Until he stood right next to her and practically…oozed attraction. “You don’t think they care for their riders?”

  “Care?” he replied in a distracted tone.

  “Horses. Even love them and want to please them?”

  “Ascribing such feelings to an animal is sheer sentimentality.”

  “But you told Geoffrey to make friends with Fergus,” Jean pointed out. “You said the pony would do whatever he asked once he trusted him.”

  “Have you never heard, Miss Saunders, that it is annoying to quote a man’s words back to him?”

  “Not from people who stand by what they say.”

  A corner of his mouth twitched, from amusement, or perhaps irritation. “I was teaching Geoffrey caution. I said what was necessary.”

  “So you don’t believe that true bonds are based in trust?”

  Lord Furness looked down at her. “The damp causes your hair to curl even more, doesn’t it? What must it look like, free of all those pins?”

  “A mare’s nest,” replied Jean, well aware that this was a distraction. Which was working.

  “Harsh,” he said. Gazing at her head, he walked around her.

  Jean could feel his eyes on her back. She resisted an impulse to tuck back wayward tendrils of hair. Her hair did expand in wet weather, making it even harder to control. There weren’t enough hairpins in the world.

  “You had it in a braid last night. Partly. It does keep coming loose, doesn’t it?” He came around her other side and faced her again. His blue-gray eyes were definitely amused now. In another moment he would reach out and flick a wayward curl.

  He was trying to make her self-conscious. And succeeding. Jean started walking back toward the house.

  Lord Furness fell into step beside her. “I’m glad your kitten was found. Where was he?”

  She’d scurried like a thief to slip a note under his door this morning, Jean remembered. “He was in my room when I got back. Apparently, he was there all the time. Though I looked everywhere.”

  “There are those who say cats can walk through walls.”

  She glanced at him. He smiled. Purposefully. Meltingly. With a clear intent to charm. Jean had no doubt he wanted to fluster her, to render her speechless. Because he didn’t want to answer her question about trust? Or couldn’t? There was an interesting thought. She also noted that he and Geoffrey had this trait in common. Their smiles transformed their faces, and they knew it. “I’ll keep an eye on Tab,” she said. “And learn how he does it.”

  Jean was gratified to see that her tone seemed to startle him considerably.

  Gazing out the window of the breakfast room, Arthur watched his nephew and Miss Saunders approach the house—side by side, together and yet clearly not. What had taken them out so early? They were coming from the direction of the stables, but there was no sign they’d gone riding.

  Friction makes heat, he thought. Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing depended on circumstances. It seemed to him that these two might do very well together, but that wasn’t for him to say. As both of these young people had pointed out.

  Miss Saunders said something that made his nephew laugh, and Arthur smiled in sympathy. And with just a trace of envy, remembering the joys of companionship. He’d filled the decade since his wife died with familial responsibilities, needed and appreciated by nieces and nephews and cousins of all sorts. But the generation below him was grown up now. He was welcome in their homes; affectionate bonds remained. Their main attention had turned elsewhere, however. Arthur was no longer required. Except perhaps by Benjamin and others like him. He thought of the other young men who’d attended his London dinner. They deserved to laugh again as well.

  He turned from the window and addressed his meal. Arthur was a student, almost a connoisseur, of grief. He’d grappled long and hard with loss—the sudden absence of a beloved partner. He’d faced down the void that opened when the person who’d shared a dozen daily anecdotes, and listened to his similar stories, was gone. He’d felt existence constrict around him like a narrowing tunnel, and he’d come out the other side intact. Contented even. He wanted the same for Benjamin. Even more perhaps, as his nephew was young, with most of life before him. So although Arthur had a lively circle of friends and an active social round, which he missed, he was glad he’d come to Furness Hall.

  He sipped his cooling coffee. There was also Geoffrey. Arthur was ashamed that his great-nephew hadn’t figured in his plans until he met him and discovered a bright, troubled spirit. He ought to have considered what grief had done to the boy; Jean Saunders had shown him that. He wanted to see Geoffrey carefree and laughing, too.

  “I cannot agree,” said Miss Saunders as she entered the breakfast room. She stopped in the doorway. “Oh, good morning, Lord Macklin.”

  “Miss Saunders,” Arthur replied. “You’re out early this morning.” She’d taken off her cloak. Her cheeks glowed from the outdoors, and her hair had reacted to the floating mist. It wasn’t appropriate to compare the result to Medusa. For many reasons. Yet the dark strands did seem to have a life of their own.

  “I felt like a walk,” she replied. She moved forward, and Benjamin came in behind her.

  An atmosphere entered with them. It was interesting, Arthur thought, how an almost visible connection could vibrate between two people even when their conversation was perfectly ordinary. And others—married couples too—gave no such impression even when they embraced.

  A hairpin fell from Miss Saunders’s rebellious locks to the floor. The ping as it landed seemed disproportionately loud. Benjamin bent, picked it up, and offered it to her like a bouquet. Miss Saunders flushed, took the pin, and shoved it back into her hair.

  “Do you often lose pins?” Benjamin asked with a clear intent to provoke. “You must have a great many.”

  Miss Saunders gave him a flashing look. She proceeded with dignity to get her breakfast. “I was thinking,” she said when seated. “We should ask Tom about Geoffrey. He’s been watching over him for a while and must have a good notion what he’s like. His character, I mean. How we might best approach him. Beyond the pony, which Geoffrey obviously adores.”

  “That’s a good idea,” said Arthur. He’d been impressed by Tom’s common sense.

  “I don’t know,” said Benjamin. “Tom’s little more than a boy himself.”

  Arthur wondered if his nephew liked to argue, or just couldn’t resist teasing Miss Saunders. Catching the glint in Benjamin’s eyes, he suspected the latter.

  “A youth,” said Miss Saunders, refusing the bait, “whose life has made him older than his years.”

  “Let’s talk to him,” said Arthur. He was interested in what Tom might have to say, regardless of its practical uses.

  Tom was sent for and offered a chair in the library, to which the group had adjourned. He appeared in the same clothes as before, with the same cheerful air. They ought to see about finding him another coat, Arthur thought. And a shirt or two. The lad was rapidly outgrowing the on
es he had. His own clothes would be too large, as would Benjamin’s, but surely the household could come up with something suitable.

  “We wanted to talk to you about Geoffrey,” Miss Saunders said.

  Tom nodded. His round face and prominent front teeth gave him the look of a friendly squirrel. His expression was sharply intelligent, however. And he didn’t look the least bit anxious. That was remarkable in itself, Arthur thought, for a youngster in his position.

  “What would you say about his character?” Miss Saunders asked.

  “He’s hardly old enough to have one,” objected Benjamin.

  “I’da said he was older than he is,” Tom replied. “If it weren’t for his size and all. He’s that quick. If he hears a word once, he knows it. Better than me, half the time.” He grinned, unconcerned by the comparison.

  “Very intelligent,” said Arthur. He’d marked it himself.

  “He’s got a cartload of opinions too,” added Tom. “More than you’d credit. Mrs. McGinnis said he’s like one of them—what was it?—barristers. The ones who stand up in court. Geoffrey don’t easily change his mind.”

  “That is to say, stubborn,” said Benjamin. “I’ve noticed.”

  Tom nodded. “Though he will listen, if a thing is laid out for him in a way he can understand.”

  “I would have said he was too young to be swayed by reason,” Benjamin replied.

  “He can see a fact when it’s in his face. Little as he may like it.”

  There was a short silence as the adults contemplated the facts that had governed Geoffrey’s life so far. At least, Arthur did. And he thought the others did as well.

  “He’s curious as a cat, but he don’t always stick with things,” Tom went on. “See now, he’s finished with the red Indians since that he got the pony. I’d think the two would go together. Don’t those Indians ride about marauding?”

  “Do not suggest it to him,” Benjamin said.

  Tom grinned again. “No, my lord. Anyhow, the cook thinks Geoffrey’s a sneak, ’cause he nicks the odd muffin, but she’s wrong.”

  “You sound quite certain of that,” said Arthur. Tom was an interesting character.

  “I am, my lord. Geoffrey’s always on the lookout for ways to get what he wants. Well, who of us ain’t? He don’t lie or cheat for ’em though. He does tell stories—and a pure wonder some of ’em are. But he knows the difference between a tale and an untruth.”

  “Which is?” asked Miss Saunders curiously.

  Tom blinked, considered the question. “A story’s fun, yeh? You might learn summat or have a laugh, but no more than that. A lie gets you something that mebbe you have no right to, or covers up your sins, like.”

  “Where did you learn such wisdom?” Arthur wondered.

  “Wisdom?” Tom looked abashed. “I don’t claim nothing like that. I’ve been watching people all my life, that’s all. On the streets, you have to figure who’s all right and who’s dangerous.”

  “My son has not been a homeless wanderer,” said Benjamin, his voice harsh with reproach. Was it directed at Tom or himself, Arthur wondered?

  Miss Saunders looked distressed. “He didn’t mean—”

  “’Course he hasn’t,” said Tom. “Beg pardon if I offended, my lord.”

  “No, no. I understand you didn’t mean that.” Benjamin’s expression remained stiff.

  Tom nodded. “Anyhow, Geoffrey’s merry as a grig now you’ve gotten him the pony. You should hear him tell Lily and the others all about Fergus. Seems that animal was on a whole raft of adventures before he came here.” Tom laughed. He had the secret of joy, Arthur thought. Somehow, despite his rough life, he’d discovered or retained it.

  “That could be useful,” Benjamin said. “We might ration access to the pony to make sure Geoffrey does as he’s told.”

  A look of horror crossed Miss Saunders’s face. There was no other word for it, Arthur thought. She jumped up. “You cannot threaten to take his pony!”

  “I didn’t say ‘take,’” Benjamin began.

  “That would cruel, inhuman. Do you want to make him bitter?”

  “I did not say—” Benjamin tried again.

  Miss Saunders wouldn’t let him speak. “He already loves Fergus. Anyone can see that. And he expects that the things he loves will be taken away from him. You can’t have missed seeing that.”

  “If you will allow me to—”

  “Punishment is never the answer! A child learns nothing being shut away and ignored. Nothing but fear. And despair.”

  Benjamin rose, holding out a hand. “Miss Saunders, please. You’re twisting my words all out of recognition.”

  She stood for a moment as if frozen, then burst into tears and ran from the room. The three males remained behind, variously bewildered, uncomfortable, and appalled.

  Eight

  The attic of Furness Hall was a huge peaked space, topping the entire length of the building. Sunlight streamed through round windows at the gable ends, but the illumination barely reached the middle. Jean carried an oil lamp to guard against her engrained hatred of dark spaces.

  Her stated purpose was to search for old games and toys that Geoffrey might like. In fact, she was hiding. Since her humiliating outburst about Geoffrey’s pony, her lordly housemates looked at her sidelong, with wariness or sympathy. She didn’t try to figure out which. It was too annoying.

  In the last five years, Jean had become herself—a sociable, reliable person whom hostesses were glad to see and companions were happy to include in any outing. She did not cause discomfort or awkwardness, much less enact scenes from Cheltenham tragedies. As far as anyone knew, would ever know, she had no reason to do so. That carefully nurtured persona would not break down now. She simply wouldn’t let it. A little time, some stern self-control, and all would be as before. And so, though she didn’t care for solitude in poorly lit spaces, she’d withdrawn to this large, silent attic to regroup.

  Under the slanting rafters, dust motes drifted on dim brown air. Rough floorboards stretched away, littered with discarded bits of furniture, boxes, and trunks. Jean walked among them, holding up her lamp.

  As she passed, she bent to open any container that looked interesting. She found tattered books, frayed linens, periodicals from the last century. Boring. Not enough to make her forget her lapse, until she raised the lid of a wooden case and confronted a garishly painted face screwed up into a wild grimace. Jean dropped the lid and jumped back, only just managing not to shriek.

  The lamp wavered dangerously in her hand, making the shadows dance. Jean put it down on a small, battered table, making certain the top didn’t wobble before letting go. Then she waited for her heart to stop pounding. “Idiot,” she said. She opened the case again and looked more closely. The menacing face was a carved mask. Red, yellow, and black paint outlined a ferocious frown. A tuft of tattered feathers stood in for hair at the top. Lord Furness’s father had been interested in North American tribes, she remembered. No doubt this was an artifact he’d collected.

  When she’d proved to herself that she wasn’t afraid of the thing, she retrieved the lamp and moved on.

  Toward the far end of the attic, Jean came upon a row of leather trunks bound in brass. Resettling her lamp securely, she opened the first. The scent of camphor wafted out at her. Pushing aside a layer of tissue paper, she unearthed a swath of satin brocade in an exquisite shade of peach.

  Jean pulled the cloth out. It proved to be a sumptuous gown with a square bodice, elbow-length sleeves trimmed with ribbons and rows of lace, and a skirt as broad as a tent. Exquisite embroidery adorned the neckline, glinting with tiny jewels. Although the fashion of another era, it was one of the loveliest gowns she’d ever seen.

  Under more layers of tissue, she found other, similar garments. A second trunk contained still more. A third held gentlemen’s clothing from the sam
e epoch—long full coats in bright hues and laced with gold—and a fourth had a variety of other clothes. Jean examined them all with admiration. Wealthy people had strutted about like peacocks fifty years ago.

  She was drawn back to the first dress, running her fingers over the gorgeous brocade. It was so lovely. There was no one around, and she was so tired of the few outfits she had with her. She couldn’t resist. She slipped off her much plainer gown, placing it out of the dust on a sheet of tissue, and slithered her way into the peach creation.

  The dress was a bit large on her. Fortunately, it laced up the side so she could reach to pull it tighter, but the shoulders still threatened to slip off. Her shift and stays showed above the low neckline, and without the elaborate underpinnings such a garment required, the skirt sagged around her in heavy folds. Even so, she felt very grand.

  There was a broken cheval glass farther down the huge room. Jean held up the dragging skirts and went over to stand before it. Though her image was fragmented by two long cracks in the mirror, she wielded an imaginary fan as she thought a lady at the court of Louis XV might have done.

  “Very elegant,” said an appreciative male voice.

  Jean whirled and nearly lost the dress. She frowned at Lord Furness, who stood near the head of the attic stair, as she pushed the shoulders back into place. “What are you doing here?”

  “This is my house.”

  “Yes, but you went riding.”

  “And I returned.” Benjamin strolled toward his disheveled houseguest. In his ancestress’s gown, Miss Saunders was an unsettling combination of little girl playing dress-up and lush courtesan, with her clothes falling off and her curling hair making a determined break for freedom.

  She gathered the heavy skirts and retreated to a rank of trunks a little distance away. “I was just… I’ll put on my own gown.”