They had not advanced more than a couple of yards before Helen spotted the arrogant footman. One of the groups of gentlemen was breaking up, and he was moving from them towards the dining room doors, which the butler had just flung open. She supposed his duties would include circulating with drinks, and serving at the table.
Suddenly she became aware that the boat-shaped neckline of her gown was particularly flattering to her figure. And felt her cheeks heating at the realisation that he would have an exceptionally good view of her feminine attributes should he reach over her to pour wine.
What on earth had come over her? It had never occurred to her that a footman might look at her during the course of performing his duties. She did not think she was a complete snob, but never before had she thought of any servant as…well…as a man! What was more, she had never been the sort of girl who craved male attention. Her aunt was not of the opinion that it was every young lady’s duty to marry as soon as possible, so had not encouraged her to mix with the so-called eligible young men of their district. And what she had observed of masculine behaviour, from a decorous distance, had given her no reason to kick against her aunt’s prejudice against the entire sex.
Yet every time she saw this footman her thoughts began to wander into most improper territory!
Full of chagrin, she plucked up her shawl and settled it over her shoulders, making sure that it covered her bosom.
‘Cold, love?’ her aunt asked.
‘Um…a little,’ she said. Then, because she hated being untruthful, ‘Though I think it is mainly nerves that are making me shiver.’
‘I know what you mean,’ her aunt murmured.
She glanced once more at the footman, warily. He was standing in the doorway, tugging his wristbands into place as, wooden-faced, he watched the assembled ladies rise to their feet and begin to gravitate towards the dining room.
‘So, Bella, you have decided to show your face in society again, have you?’
The booming voice of the ruddy-faced man who stood glaring down at her aunt jerked Helen’s attention away from the fascinating footman. General Forrest was, naturally, older than Helen remembered him, though not a whit less intimidating.
He had not stopped shouting, so far as she could recall, from the moment she had arrived on his doorstep until the moment she’d left. ‘The girl’s mother has plenty of other sisters!’ was the first thing she could remember him bellowing at his wife, who had shivered like an aspen leaf under the force of his fury. ‘Pack her off to one of them!’
He had then slammed back into his study, where he’d carried on shouting at whoever was inside. When Isabella had eventually emerged, head high, lips pressed tightly together and a suspicious sheen in her eyes, the ten-year-old Helen had immediately felt a strong sense of kinship with her.
She had knelt down in the hall, looked the tearful Helen in the eye, and said, ‘Would you like to come home with me? I should love to have a little girl to call my own. Without—’ and she had glared darkly up at her glowering brother ‘—having to go through the horrid experience of having to marry some repulsive man to get one.’
Since the General had already made it perfectly clear he did not want to be saddled with a half-French brat, she had slipped her hand into that of the older woman.
‘If you insist on taking on my wife’s niece, on top of all the other outrageous things you have done, then you will have only yourself to blame if I cut you out of my life!’ he had bellowed.
They had not looked back. And, just before slamming the door shut on them, the last words he had uttered were, ‘That’s it! I wash my hands of you, Bella!’
As a child, General Forrest had seemed enormous to her. And, though Helen no longer had to crane her neck to look up at him, the years had added to his bulk, so that he still seemed like a very big man.
But he did not intimidate her aunt, who lifted her chin and glared straight back.
‘Needs must when the devil drives.’
‘Harrumph!’ he replied, holding out his arm for her to take.
He completely ignored Helen. She battened down her sense of affront. Not only was she going to have to inure herself to a lifetime of snubs once she became a governess, but General Forrest had never thought much of her in the first place.
Helen looked beyond the General’s bulk and saw, hovering in his shadow, the thin, anxious woman Helen dimly remembered as her real aunt.
A bored-looking man materialised at Helen’s side, led her into the dining room, and showed her to a seat about halfway along the table. She assumed he must be Sir Mortimer Hawkshaw, though he did not deign to introduce himself or attempt to make conversation. It was galling to think that even he looked down his nose at her, she reflected bitterly. Though they both occupied the lowest social position, so he could only be another of the Earl’s poor relations.
They all stood in silence behind their chairs, heads bowed, while an absurdly young clergyman said grace.
Helen could not help glancing down to the foot of the table, where an extremely haughty-looking woman who was dripping in diamonds and sapphires was taking her seat, and then turning to take her first look at her host, the head of her aunt’s extended family. The man who held her aunt’s entire future in his hands.
And felt her jaw drop.
Because, just being eased into the chair at the head of the table by the stately elderly butler who had earlier thrown open the doors to the dining room and declared dinner was served, was…
The man she had assumed from the first moment she had clapped eyes on him to be nothing more than a footman!
Chapter Three
How could he be so young?
When her aunt had spoken of her nephew, the head of her family, she had made him sound like a curmudgeonly old misanthrope of at least fifty years. Lord Bridgemere could not be a day over thirty.
And why did he not dress like an earl?
He was one of the wealthiest men in the country! She would have thought he’d be the most finely dressed man in the place. Whereas he was the most plainly, soberly attired of all the men at table. He did not so much as sport a signet ring.
Well, now she knew exactly what foreign visitors to England meant when they complained that it was hard to tell the difference between upper servants and their masters, because of the similarity of dress. Not that she was a foreigner. Just a stranger to the ways of grand houses like this.
And he did not act like an earl, either! What had he been about, carting her aunt upstairs, when there was a perfectly genuine footman on hand to perform that office? And as for loitering about on the backstairs…well, she simply could not account for it!
The Earl turned his head and looked directly at her. And she realised she was the only person still standing. And, what was more, staring at the Earl of Bridgemere with her mouth hanging open.
She sat down swiftly, her cheeks flushing hot. Oh, heavens, what must everyone think?
And what did he think? Did he find it amusing to masquerade as a servant and humiliate his guests? What an odious, unkind… If he was laughing at her, she did not care what anyone else thought of her, she would…she would…
She darted him an inimical glare. Only to find that he was talking to the lady on his left-hand side, a completely bland expression on his face, as though nothing untoward had occurred.
She felt deflated. And foolish.
But at least he had not exposed her to ridicule by any look, or word, or…
No, she groaned inwardly. She had managed to make herself look ridiculous all on her own!
Though it had been partly his fault. Why had he not introduced himself properly? Why had he let her rip up at him like that?
She tore her eyes from his and made an effort to calm herself while the real footmen bustled about with plates and tureens and chafing dishes.
Lord Bridgemere struggled to pretend that he was not painfully aware of Miss Forrest’s discomfiture. What the devil had come over him this mornin
g that he had bowed and grinned and left her thinking he was merely one of his own servants? She had been so shocked just now, upon realising her error, that she had made a complete spectacle of herself. And no gentleman would willingly expose any lady to such public humiliation.
Though how could he have guessed she would just stand there, gaping at him like that? Or that she would then glare at him, making it obvious to all that he had somehow, at some point, offered her some form of insult? None of the other ladies of his acquaintance would ever be so transparent.
No, they all hid behind their painstakingly constructed masks. The only expression they ever showed in public was mild boredom.
He fixed his gaze on his dinner companion, his sister Lady Craddock, although his mind was very far from her interminable complaining. Instead he was remembering the way thoughts of Miss Forrest imperiously ordering him about had kept on bringing a frisson of amusement to his mind, briefly dispelling the tedium of his day. When he had discovered he had made an error of a similar nature to hers, it had struck him as so funny that he had wanted to prolong the joke. He had even pencilled her name into his diary to remind himself, as if he needed any reminder, to make his way down to his study at precisely the same time he had run into her that morning in the hopes of encountering her again.
Extraordinary.
Most people would say he had no sense of humour whatever.
But they might, with some justification, accuse him of wishing to revel in the novel experience of having a woman react to him as just a man, and not as the Earl of Bridgemere. The wealthy, eligible Earl of Bridgemere. And it had been a novel experience. Miss Forrest had not simpered and flattered. No, she had roundly berated him, her dark eyes flashing fire.
He had thought then what an expressive face she had. He had been able to see exactly what she was thinking. Not that he’d needed to guess. She had already been telling him!
Somewhere inside he felt the ghost of a smile trying to break free. Naturally he stifled it, swiftly. It would not do to smile whilst engaged in conversation with either of his sisters. The slightest outward sign that he might be interested in anything either of them had to say would rouse the other to a pitch of jealousy that would make the entire company so uncomfortable they would all be running for cover.
Even now, though, he could tell exactly what emotions Miss Forrest was grappling with. Chief amongst them was chagrin, now that her initial spurt of anger with him had simmered down.
She was quite unlike any of the other guests, all of whom wore the fashionable demeanour of boredom to cloak their dissatisfaction. And they were all of them dissatisfied with their lot, in one way or another. Which irked him beyond measure! They all had so much in comparison with the vast majority of the citizens of this country. Yet they still demanded more.
And Miss Forrest and her older namesake could not be so very different—not deep down, where it mattered. Or they would not be here. It would pay him to remember that.
Only once she felt more in control of herself did Helen raise her head and look about the table. There were at least forty people ranged along its length. For a while conversation was desultory, as the guests helped themselves to generous portions of the vast selection of delicacies on offer. Her aunt looked as uncomfortable as she felt, seated between her brother the General, who was applying himself to his plate with complete concentration, and a man who was conducting a very animated flirtation with the young lady seated on his other side.
It was during the second remove that the General remarked, ‘I am surprised at you for bringing that person here, Bella,’ motioning at Helen across the table with his fork.
Aunt Bella bristled, while Helen just froze. She had felt uncomfortable enough knowing that she had made such an error of judgement about the station of the man who had turned out to be her host. And in then betraying her consternation by standing there gaping at him like a nodcock. Now, since the General had one of those voices that carried, several other conversations at the table abruptly ceased, and she felt as though once again everyone was staring at her.
‘Are you?’ replied her aunt repressively. ‘I cannot imagine why.’
‘I suppose nothing you do ought to shock me any more, Bella,’ said the General witheringly. ‘You still enjoy courting scandal, do you not?’
‘Even if that were true,’ Aunt Bella replied with a tight smile, ‘which it most emphatically is not, no true gentleman would even touch upon such a topic in company.’
Helen had the satisfaction of seeing the General flush darkly and shift uncomfortably in his seat.
But it was outweighed by the fact that she could also see her aunt’s hands were trembling.
There was a moment of tense silence, punctuated only by the genteel clink of sterling silver cutlery on porcelain. Then the lady at the foot of the table drawled, ‘The mutton is exceptionally well presented this evening, Bridgemere. You must compliment your cook.’
‘I shall certainly do so, Lady Thrapston,’ said the Earl dryly, ‘since you request it.’
For some reason this comment, or perhaps the way it was delivered, made the haughty woman look quite put out.
Lady Thrapston, Helen noted with resentment as she recalled the way Aunt Bella had been neglected upon her arrival, could in no way be described as elderly. She was so stylish that if people did not look too closely, they might take her for a fairly young woman.
There was another uncomfortable pause in the conversation before a few of the younger men, led by a gaudily dressed youth who sat at Lady Thrapston’s right hand, began to discuss the day’s shooting.
Though the atmosphere had lightened to some extent, Helen was mightily relieved when the meal drew to an end and Lady Thrapston signalled to the other ladies that it was time to withdraw by the simple expedient of getting to her feet.
Helen hurried to the doorway, and waited for her aunt to catch up with her there.
‘I am in no condition to go to the drawing room and face any more of that,’ said her aunt in an undertone. ‘Not after the shock of discovering my odious brother is here!’
Thank heavens for that, thought Helen. But only said, ‘I shall help you up to bed, then.’
They left the room arm in arm, and were ascending the first set of stairs when Helen said, ‘Would you mind very much if I were to leave you for a little while?’
Aunt Bella’s brows rose. ‘You surely do not want to face that drawing room without me?’
‘No!’ She barely repressed a shudder. ‘I most certainly do not!’
She chewed on her lower lip, wondering how much to confess to her aunt. She did not want to add to her worries by admitting she had mistaken Lord Bridgemere for one of his footmen and called him an impudent fellow. She cringed as the scene flooded back to her in all its inglorious detail.
‘I have decided it would be a good idea if I had a word with that secretary fellow, that is all…’ she began. She wanted to see if she could arrange an interview of her own, through his secretary, and get in an apology to Lord Bridgemere before he spoke to Aunt Bella. She would hate to think that her behaviour might prejudice him against her aunt in any way.
‘Oh, Helen, what a good idea! I would be so relieved to learn exactly when I shall be able to speak with Lord Bridgemere. I do not think I shall rest easy until I have laid my case before him. And you are such a pretty girl. I am sure you could persuade the young man to arrange for me to see His Lordship before my brother has a chance to turn him against me. I could not believe he would be so unmannerly as to attack me like that over dinner! It shook me, I can tell you.’
Helen had never felt more uncomfortable than to hear the erroneous assumption her aunt had made.
Yet she did nothing to correct it. It would mean making too many explanations, which she was not sure would be helpful to anyone.
Fortunately it took quite some time to run Mr Cadwallader to ground, by which time Helen had managed to regain her composure.
Though he
had dined with the guests, he had retreated almost immediately afterwards to a small book-lined room in the servants’ hall.
‘I am so sorry to bother you,’ she said, knocking upon the door and putting her head round without waiting for him to reply, ‘but I was wondering if it would be possible for me to have a private interview with His Lordship. As soon as possible. At least…before whatever time you have arranged for him to speak with my aunt.’
Mr Cadwallader looked up from the pile of papers he was working on and frowned.
‘Miss Forrest, is it not?’ He flipped open a leather-bound ledger and ran his finger down the page at which it opened. His brows shot up. ‘Miss Helen Forrest?’
‘Yes.’ She nodded.
‘It appears His Lordship has already anticipated your request. He has your name here for seven o clock tomorrow morning.’
‘He has?’ She swallowed nervously. What did that mean? And was it a coincidence that he had her name down for seven? The approximate time at which she had run into him on the backstairs that very morning?
Forcing a smile, she said, ‘Good. Wh…where shall I…?’
‘Oh, you had better come in here, if he wishes to speak with you that early,’ said the young man, snapping the book shut. ‘His Lordship always comes down first thing to see to business before—’ He pulled himself up, as though he had been on the point of committing an indiscretion, rose to his feet, and ushered her to the door.
Helen racked her brains as she returned to her room, but could not come up with any reason why he should have decided to arrange a meeting with her that boded anything but ill for her and her aunt. But at least she could see what he might have been doing on the backstairs. Those stairs were probably the most direct route from his secretary’s office to his own room. He had probably been on his way down to that office, to see to whatever business he needed to get out of the way before…whatever else it was he did all day when he had a houseful of guests. None of whom, to judge by the set of his face at table, were any more welcome to him than she was. Her aunt had hit the nail on the head when she had described him as a man of solitary disposition. It was not only the plainness of his clothing that set him apart from the rest of the persons gathered about that table. An air of complete insularity cloaked him like a mantle.
A Countess by Christmas Page 4