“Meg never likes the smell of horse in the house,” he explained. “She fusses if she smells even a speck of manure on me.”
He did apply himself to a whole pile of information in the office for a few hours before luncheon, and he showed an admirable eagerness to learn and asked a number of intelligent questions. After luncheon, though, he announced that Con was to take him to meet the vicar and the Graingers and one or two other of the more prominent families of the neighborhood.
“It is decent of him to be willing,” the boy commented. “He might have resented me, I suppose. Instead, he is making every effort to make himself agreeable. He is going to take my sisters boating on the lake tomorrow if the fine weather holds. I daresay I will go too so that we can take out two boats. Come and join us if you will.”
Elliott declined the offer.
Each evening after dinner Con conversed with a charm that was all too familiar to Elliott. He had always been able to wind people of all ages and both genders about his little finger whenever he chose. They had used to laugh over it. He had always been more skilled at it than Elliott had.
Con, of course, did not care the snap of his fingers for his newfound cousins. Or if he did, it was certainly not affection he felt. Good Lord, they had come, perfect strangers, to oust him from his own home or at the very least to make him feel like a guest in it. He probably hated them with a passion.
He had stayed only to irk Elliott.
The trouble was that they knew each other too well. Con knew just what would annoy his former best friend. And Elliott knew just what was going on in Con’s mind.
Elliott, standing at the window of his guest bed-chamber early on the morning of the proposed boat rides, watched Con step out of the main doors below and stride purposefully across the terrace and down the steps to the flower garden.
Elliott was already dressed. He had been contemplating an early morning ride, in fact. But it was time he and Con had a talk far away from the other occupants of the house. Merton was young and impressionable. His sisters were innocent and naive. Con had used poor Jon quite successfully to make Elliott’s task as guardian more difficult than it might otherwise have been. He was not going to be given the chance to use the present Merton for the same purpose.
He went after Con. He had turned left out of the flower garden—Elliott had seen that before leaving his room. He had not been heading toward the lake, then, or the stables. But it soon became clear where he had gone.
Elliott followed him to the private family chapel and the churchyard surrounding it. And sure enough, there he was standing at the foot of Jonathan’s grave.
For a moment Elliott regretted coming. If this was a private moment, he did not want to intrude upon it. But almost immediately he felt angry. For even if Con had loved Jonathan, he had also taken advantage of him in a most dishonorable manner, robbing him and making of his home a house of ill repute. It did not really matter that Jonathan had not known and would not have understood even if the facts had been explained to him. That was not the point at all.
And then the moment for turning back unseen—if he had wanted that moment—was gone. Con turned his head and looked steadily at him. He was not smiling now. There was no audience he might wish to charm.
“Is it not enough, Elliott,” he asked, “that you must come prying into my father’s and brother’s home—and my cousin’s—and throwing your weight around there as if it were your own? Must you now invade even the graveyard where they are all buried?”
“I have no quarrel with them,” Elliott said. “And fortunately for you, they have no quarrel with you. They are all dead. But it amazes me that you choose to stand on such hallowed ground. They would have a quarrel with you if they were alive and knew what I know.”
“What you think you know.” Con laughed harshly. “You have become a sanctimonious bore, Elliott. There was a time when you were not.”
“There was a time when I sowed some damnably wild oats,” Elliott admitted. “But I was never a scoundrel, Con. I never relinquished my honor.”
“Go back to the house,” Con said harshly, “while you still have your health intact. Better yet, go home to Finchley. The cub will prosper well enough without your interference.”
“But with yours he would doubtless be stripped of what remains of his inheritance,” Elliott said. “I am not here to bandy words with you, Con. Leave here today. If you have a scrap of decency remaining, go away and leave these people alone. They are innocents. They know nothing.”
Con sneered at him.
“Fancy one of them, do you, Elliott?” he asked. “The eldest is an eyeful, is she not? The youngest is mouthwatering too. Even the widow is not without appeal. She has fine, laughing eyes. Which one do you fancy? I suppose you are planning to be a good boy and marry soon and set up your nursery. It would be convenient to marry a Huxtable of Warren Hall.”
Elliott took a couple of menacing steps toward him.
“Just make sure that you do not take a fancy to one of them,” he said. “I would not stand for it, you know.
They are not for the likes of you.”
Con sneered again.
“I ran into Cecily last week,” he said. “She was out riding with the Campbells. She is making her come-out this year, she was telling me. She told me to be sure to be at her come-out ball. She is going to reserve a set for me. Sweet little Cece—she has grown into quite a beauty.”
Elliott’s hands balled into fists at his sides and he strode another few steps forward.
“You are not about to swing one of those are you, Elliott?” Con asked, cocking one eyebrow and laughing. “It is an age since we last came to fisticuffs. It was when you broke my nose, I believe—though I also seem to recall that I drew a pint or so of blood from yours and blackened one of your eyes. Come on, then. If it is a fight you are spoiling for, I am your man. Indeed, I will not even wait for you to make the first move. You always were slow to get started.”
And he closed the short distance between them and planted Elliott a facer—or would have if Elliott had not blocked the blow with the side of one arm before taking a swing of his own. The blow glanced off Con’s ear and his next blow caught Elliott on the shoulder instead of on the chin as intended.
They backed up, their fists at the ready, and circled and weaved, looking for an opening. Ready for the real fight—without pausing to divest themselves of their coats.
And this, Elliott thought, half exhilarated despite himself, was indeed what he had been spoiling for for a long time. It was time someone gave Con a good drubbing. And he had always been better with his fists than Con, who had indeed once blackened his eye and drawn blood from his nose, though not nearly a pint, by Jove.
He saw his opening and—
“Oh, please do not,” a voice said from behind him. “Violence never accomplishes anything. Can you not talk about your differences instead?”
A woman’s voice.
Uttering absurdly asinine words.
Mrs. Dew’s voice.
Of course.
Con dropped his fists and grinned.
Elliott turned his head over one shoulder and glared.
“Talk?” he said. “Talk? I would ask you to turn about and return to the house, ma’am, and stay away from what does not concern you.”
“So that you can continue to hurt each other?” she said, drawing nearer. “Men are so foolish. They think themselves the superior sex, but whenever there is a difference between two of them or two groups of them or two nations of them, the only solution they can see is to fight. A fistfight, a war—there is really no difference between them.”
Good Lord!
She had thrown her clothes on hastily, at a guess. She was not wearing either gloves or a bonnet, and her hair had been gathered into a rather untidy knot at the back of her head. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright.
She was the most abominable female it had ever been his displeasure to know.
“You are quite right, Vanessa,” Con said, his voice shaking with laughter. “And I have always believed that in fact it is the female sex that is the superior of the two. But you see, we men enjoy a good bout of fisticuffs.”
“You are not going to persuade me that this was to be a friendly sparring match,” she said. “It was not. For some reason the two of you hate each other—or think you do. If you would just talk to each other, perhaps you could patch up your quarrel far more easily than you think and could be friends again. I suppose you were once friends. You grew up five miles apart and are cousins close to each other in age.”
“If Elliott will agree to it,” Con said, “we will kiss and make up.”
“Mrs. Dew,” Elliott said, “your impertinence knows no bounds. But I am sorry to have disturbed your walk. Allow me to escort you back to the house.”
He glared fiercely at her to show her that he was very aware of the fact that she had not been out innocently walking. Like him, she must have been looking out of her bedchamber window and had seen first Con and then him disappear in this direction. She had drawn her own conclusions and come after them, the interfering baggage.
“Not,” she said, standing her ground, “until I have had your assurance—and Constantine’s—that you will not fight later today or tomorrow or some other time when I am not present to stop you.”
“I will return to the house,” Con said. “You must not upset yourself over this, Vanessa. As you have guessed, Elliott and I have been friends and enemies—mostly friends—all our lives. And whenever we have fought—even the time when he broke my nose and I blackened his eye when I was fourteen—we have always laughed immediately afterward and agreed that it was all great fun.”
She clucked her tongue, but Con kept on talking.
“I must be leaving within the next few days,” he said. “I have business to attend to elsewhere. I promise not to initiate any fight with Elliott in the meantime.”
He laughed, made her a bow, threw Elliott a mocking glance, and turned to stride away in the direction of the house.
“Which would put the blame squarely on your shoulders,” Mrs. Dew said, turning to Elliott with a smile, “if there is a fight. It was cleverly done. Has he always been able to cast you in the light of the villain?”
“I am severely annoyed with you, ma’am,” he said.
“I know.” Her smile became more rueful. “But I am annoyed with you too. This is a happy week for my brother. And for my sisters too. I do not want that happiness marred by the quarrel that is between you and Constantine. How would they feel if the two of you were to appear at the house with blackened eyes or bloody noses or raw knuckles? They are already fond of Constantine, and they respect you. They do not deserve to be upset by some petty private quarrel.”
“It is certainly not petty, ma’am,” he said stiffly. “But your point is taken. Has your happiness been marred?”
“Not really.” She smiled again, the bright, sunny expression he remembered from the Valentine’s assembly. “Is this where my ancestors are buried? Constantine did not bring us here when he showed us the park.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “he thought it too gloomy a spot.”
“Or perhaps,” she said, “his grief for his brother is too new and too private a thing to be shared with cousins who did not know him. I wish I had. Was he as sweet as Constantine described him?”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “He may have been handicapped in many ways and he may have looked different from other people, but we could all learn from persons like Jonathan. He was unfailingly affectionate, even toward those who were impatient with him.”
“Were you?” she asked him. “Impatient, I mean?”
“Never with him,” he said. “He used to hide from me when I came here—after my father died and I became his guardian, that was. Sometimes, if he could keep from giggling, I would have to waste precious time finding him. But he was always so delighted when I did that it would have been churlish to be annoyed with him. It was Con who put him up to it, after all.”
“To amuse him?” she asked. “Or to annoy you?”
“Always the latter,” he said.
“Did he resent the fact that you were Jonathan’s guardian,” she asked him, “even though you were not much older than he, if you are older at all, that is?”
“He did,” he said curtly.
“But surely,” she said, “he must have understood that it was not really you who had been appointed guardian, but your father, who was older and wiser and more experienced than either of you.”
“I suppose he did,” he said.
“Could you not,” she asked, “have shown some sensitivity and turned over the guardianship to Constantine, even if only unofficially?”
“I could not,” he said.
“Oh, dear.” She looked steadily at him, her head tipped to one side. “You really are a most inflexible, uncommunicative man. It is just that it seems to me that the enmity that has grown between the two of you is unnecessary. And now you are demanding that Constantine leave here though it has always been his home. Can you feel no compassion for him?”
“Mrs. Dew.” He clasped his hands behind his back and leaned a little toward her. “Life is not such a simple thing as you seem to believe it to be. Perhaps it would be as well for you not to try to advise me on matters about which you know virtually nothing.”
“Life is often simpler than we give it credit for,” she said. “But if you wish me to mind my own business, I will. Where is my great-grandfather buried?”
“There.” He turned and pointed and they both moved toward the grave.
She gazed at the headstone and its flowery praise of the earl who was buried there.
“I wonder,” she said, “what he would say now if he could see us here—the descendants of the son he cast off and the woman his son married.”
“Life is never predictable,” he said.
“And it was so unnecessary,” she said, “all the conflict, all the suffering and loneliness there must have been on both sides. Here we are anyway, but with so many precious years missing.”
Her eyes looked wistful. Con had been right about one thing, Elliott thought. She did have fine eyes—even when they were not laughing.
“Where is Jonathan buried?” she asked.
He took her to the newest grave. Its headstone was immaculately clean, the grass around it short and free of weeds. Someone had planted spring flowers there, and snowdrops were blooming and crocus leaves were pushing up through the soil.
Someone cared. Con, he supposed.
A guilt offering?
“I wish I had known him,” she said. “I do wish it. I believe I would have loved him.”
“One could not help being fond of him,” he said.
“But not of his brother?” she said, turning her head to look at him. “Perhaps if you had laughed at his attempts to needle you every time he had Jonathan hide from you, you could all have laughed together and been friends. Perhaps what you need as much as anything is a sense of humor.”
He felt his nostrils flare.
“A sense of humor?” he half barked at her. “In the handling of serious duties? In dealing with a rogue? In looking after the interests of a slow-witted innocent? And in dealing with impertinence too, I suppose?”
“The impertinence being mine?” she said to him. “I could not simply let you fight, you know, without at least trying to stop you. And now I was merely attempting to point out a way in which you might make your own life happier as well as easier. Constantine at least smiles much of the time even if there is sometimes an edge of mockery in the expression. You never smile. And if you continue to frown all the time, as you are doing now, you will have permanent lines between your brows before you grow old.”
“Smiles,” he said. “Ah, now at last I understand the great secret of life. If one smiles, one will have an easy, happy time of it, no matter how much of a rogue one is. I must learn to smile, ma’am. Thank
you for the advice.”
And he smiled at her.
She looked steadily at him, her head cocked to one side again.
“That is not a smile,” she said. “It is an angry grimace that makes you look a little like a wolf—though I have read that in many ways wolves are the gentlest, most admirable of beasts. You have twice referred to Constantine as a rogue. Just because he resented your guardianship and encouraged Jonathan to play tricks on you? And because he ignored your ultimatum and remained here until we came? Rogue is rather a harsh word to describe such a man, is it not? If there is no more to his perfidy than what you have told me, you cannot expect me to accept your opinion without question.”
First Came Marriage Page 11