by Sandra Heath
LAVENDER BLUE
Sandra Heath
Chapter One
“I cannot believe it! Papa has remarried without so much as a word to us! Oh, Aunt Letty, how could he do such a thing?”
Lady Anthea Wintour stared dumbfoundedly at the letter that had just arrived from Ireland. Her father, the Earl of Daneway, was staying in County Fermanagh with Lord Lisnerne, an old friend from Oxford days, and Anthea had opened the letter in the full expectation of finding more rambling reminiscences of their riotous youth. Instead there was the astonishing news that she had acquired a stepmother.
All sound seemed suddenly deadened outside the second-floor window of Daneway House. It was the end of October 1813, and sunny Berkeley Square was bright with the hues of autumn, with no hint yet of the bitterly cold winter that was to come.
The absent earl’s unmarried sister, Lady Letitia Wintour, was so shocked by the announcement that the heavy volume of Culpeper’s Complete Herbal slid from her lap and landed with a thud on the drawing room floor. She was in her favorite armchair, and her face was rosy from the fire. “Don’t tease so, Anthea, for you know my heart is weak!” she exclaimed.
“I’m not teasing, Aunt Letty. He writes that a month ago he married a Mrs. Pranton.”
Lady Letitia was thunderstruck. “But who is she?” she asked; then a dread possibility struck. “A lady, I trust?”
“Well...” Anthea hesitated. “To be honest, I have no idea. All the letter says is that she was governess to the children of Lord Lisnerne’s neighbors.”
“A governess?” Appalled, Lady Letitia got up from her chair. She was a short, rather dumpy woman of fifty, with kindly light blue eyes, and salt-and-pepper hair that was tucked up beneath a lacy day bonnet. A bright pink-and-cream paisley shawl rested around the shoulders of her indigo merino gown, and there was a pair of spectacles perched on the end of her snub nose. She had always been far too absorbed in the delights of botany to surrender her precious time to matters matrimonial. At least that was what she said, but Anthea strongly suspected a great love affair that had long been a deeply buried secret.
Lady Letitia went to the window to look down into the Mayfair square. Elegant carriages were drawn up beneath the plane trees opposite Gunter’s, the exclusive confectioner whose premises were only two doors away from Daneway House.
The mildness of the autumn had prolonged the fashion for ladies to sample iced creams brought out to them by attentive gentlemen. A Union Jack fluttered from Thomas’s Hotel in the northeastern corner of the square, and a military band played on nearby Berkeley Street. There was an air of excitement in the capital because the French star was now waning after years of warmongering throughout Europe. Napoleon had clearly lost his touch, for only a week ago word had reached England that he had lost the protracted battle of Leipzig. At long last there was a chance of enduring peace.
But right now, such things took second place in Lady Letitia’s thoughts. “One can only hope that the old cradle will not have to be brought down from the attic embarrassingly soon after the nuptials,” she murmured.
“Oh, surely not, Aunt Letty!” Anthea was aghast.
“Well, it has to be considered, my dear. Men will always be men, and governesses will, I fear, always be eager to sink their claws into wealth and titles.” Lady Letitia pursed her lips. “One wonders what Lisnerne thinks about it all.”
“From what Papa writes, it seems he approves.”
“Really?” Lady Letitia’s mind turned to something else. “You know, Anthea, the more I think of it, the more familiar the name Pranton seems, yet, for the life of me, I cannot think where I have heard it before.”
“It means nothing to me,” Anthea replied.
“I’m sure I will recall in due course.” Lady Letitia continued to look down into the square, where several people strolled the gravel walks in the central garden. An ugly lead equestrian statue of King George dressed as Marcus Aurelius presided in the middle. No one liked the statue, including a little white terrier that was being taken out for an airing by a footman in maroon-and-gold livery. The terrier was no respecter of royalty, for it cocked its leg against His Majesty’s plinth, leaving a clearly discernible puddle. Being guilty of such an insult was of no concern to the little dog as it trotted on, pulling impatiently at the lead.
A roll of thunder suddenly rumbled improbably overhead. How could that possibly be when the skies were blue and cloudless? Puzzled, Lady Letitia craned her neck to look up, for such a flawless heaven was not at all what one associated with thunder. How very, very odd.
Anthea heard it too. “Good heavens, was that thunder?”
“So it would seem, my dear, although how and why I really do not know. The weather is perfect.” Lady Letitia sighed. “Ah, well, no doubt stranger things have happened at sea.”
“No doubt.”
Lady Letitia’s attention returned to the central garden as something in the far corner so excited the terrier that it began to yap furiously and strain at the lead. She screwed her eyes up shortsightedly to see what was there and perceived a brown animal on the grass in front of a privet hedge. It did not seem like another dog, or indeed like a cat, but at that particular size, Lady Letitia could not think what else it could be. Suddenly it pricked up its ears ... such long ears that it looked more like a hare than anything else. Oh, that was ridiculous. Lepus capensis was a country creature through and through and was simply not found in the middle of Mayfair.
As she watched, the terrier broke free of the footman’s grasp and hurtled toward the brown creature, which leapt up in the air with an audible shriek and fled behind the hedge with the diminutive dog in hot pursuit. There was no mistaking the long-legged gait and bobbing white scut of lepus capensis. Lady Letitia thought in astonishment.
A commotion erupted beyond the close-clipped privet. Had the terrier actually managed to catch the hare? But no—suddenly a woman in pale chestnut silk clothes appeared from behind the hedge and hurried out of the garden for all she was worth, with the terrier in hot pursuit.
Where the woman had come from, Lady Letitia could not imagine, for there hadn’t been anyone there a few moments before. Now, however, the unfortunate woman had to hold on to her velvet bonnet and pick up all the speed she could in order to elude her four-legged pursuer. The footman ran after them both, and the comical chase soon disappeared beyond Thomas’s Hotel, cheered on by an impudent group of street boys idling on the corner.
Lady Letitia was quite bemused for a few moments, but then remembered the astounding news from Fermanagh. She glanced back at her niece. “Read the letter to me, there’s a good girl,” she said.
Anthea cleared her throat.
Castle Lisnerne, County Fermanagh.
September the twenty-ninth, eighteen thirteen.
My dearest daughter, I have something to tell you that makes me happier than you can imagine, and that I hope will make you happy too. It is this, pure and simple: I am married again. The lady’s name is Mrs. Pranton, and she is English but has lived here in Ireland for a long time now. Her husband was a naval officer, but sadly he passed away in 1795 within days of their marriage. She was left in dire pecuniary circumstances and was obliged to take employment as a governess. Her name is Chloe—yes, my darling child, by a strange coincidence she bears your second name, which is doubly precious to me now.
We met a few months ago when her then employers, Lisnerne’s neighbors and friends Sir Montague and Lady Fisher, visited the castle. They brought their children, who were in the care of their governess. Chloe captivated me from the outset. Believe me when I say that she is the most delightful person, with no artfulness or secret designs, and that Lisnerne is more than glad to accept her as Lady Daneway.
Darling dau
ghter, please know that this new marriage makes no difference to the regard and enduring love I will always have for your dear mother, for whom I have grieved ever since the influenza took her back in ‘04. Ten years is a long time to be on one’s own, and I knew from the moment I met my golden-haired, green-eyed governess that I would be lonely no more. She is the perfect wife for me, and I will, as I trust, be the perfect husband to her. We intend to return to London in the New Year. Be happy for us.
Your loving father.
Lady Letitia was silent. If she had hoped for misapprehension on Anthea’s part, the hope was now dashed.
Anthea folded the letter. “There is a postscript informing me that I now have an eighteen-year-old stepsister called Corinna.”
“Anthea, Chloe, Corinna? How very classical and Greek, to be sure.”
“Mm? Yes, I suppose you’re right, except these new ladies and I are very definitely English.”
“Mrs. Pranton may be English, but if she was forced to become a governess, she is unlikely to be from a good family. Good families look after their own.” Disapproval was evident in Lady Letitia’s tone.
“Well, even good families can have their bad sides, Aunt Letty, and it is possible for anyone to fall on hard times. Besides, whatever she was before, she is Lady Daneway now, not Mrs. Pranton.” And she has very definitely married into money and a family that is good in every way, Anthea was immediately ashamed of such arrogant and superior sentiments. Her father was not a fool and would not be taken in by an adventuress. At least, his only daughter did not think he would.
Lady Letitia pursed her lips. “Regarding my remark about the cradle, let us consider the possibility of a baby. If Mrs. Pranton has a daughter of eighteen, I imagine she must be in her middle to late thirties. At that age she is certainly not beyond more children. Not that I am seriously suggesting she was with child when she uttered her vows.”
“You think Papa desires a son and heir?” Anthea looked at her.
“He has never said so to me, but it has to be faced that when he dies the Daneway title dies too.”
“I’m sure that if he felt that way, he would have married before now. But there is no point in wondering anything at the moment, for all will be revealed when they return to London.”
Anthea got up to cross the elegant lemon, white, and gold drawing room to look at her father’s portrait in the alcove by the gilded harpsichord. It had been painted some twenty-five years ago, not long after her birth, and was of a dark-haired young man leaning nonchalantly against a tree with a black-and-white spaniel at his feet and a shooting gun over his arm. In the background was the fine Palladian facade and gracious park of Daneway Park, the family’s country seat in Yorkshire.
Lady Letitia watched her only niece fondly. Anthea was slender and willowy in a long-sleeved lavender merino gown that had a golden belt around the high waist. She was a true Wintour, thought her aunt, with a pale complexion, thick black curls, and wide set blue eyes that were almost the same shade of lavender as her gown. How very perplexing that such a highborn, good-looking heiress remained stubbornly unmarried. A lack of offers was not the problem; it was just that foolish Anthea had turned them all down.
It did not occur to Lady Letitia that there was a certain irony about her judgment of her niece, for a middle-aged lady who had steadfastly refused to consider marriage herself was hardly in a position to approve or disapprove of her niece’s similar decision. Yet disapprove Lady Letitia did, for in her opinion, Anthea was meant to be married. Only a year ago the ideal husband had been eagerly at hand, but unfortunately his suitability had been suddenly called into serious question.
Lady Letitia lowered her eyes sadly. Jovian Cathness, twelfth Duke of Chavanage, who happened to be Lord Lisnerne’s nephew, had not long ago been the most attractive and eligible aristocrat in Society, with charm, wit, character, and poise enough to coax the very birds from the trees. Now, he had sunk into such a haze of alcohol that he was seldom sober. Heaven alone knew what had overtaken him this past twelvemonth, for he was a shadow of his former self, and the inexplicable decline had seemed to happen overnight. As had the breaking of Anthea’s heart.
It wasn’t as if a sudden bereavement had driven him to drown unbearable sorrows, or even that he had always been a drinker and simply succumbed completely to his lurking demon. There seemed no discernible reason why he suddenly chose to be unpleasantly bosky all the time. And it was choice, Lady Letitia thought tartly, for no one forced the glass to his unwilling lips.
She felt a stab of guilt for judging him so harshly; after all she had once liked him so very much that no one could have pleased her more as Anthea’s husband. But he was a different man now. It had to be said that there had always been something otherworldly and intensely intuitive about him, so much so that he was the only person in the world she would swear possessed a sixth sense.
In the last year, some highly improbable stories had begun to circulate about him as well, such as that one night, while particularly intoxicated, he had been seen to fly to the upper windows of his town house near St. James’s Palace. On another occasion, he was credited with the power to make a wine bottle slide across the table to his waiting hand. It was all nonsense of course....
“Yes, of course it is, Letty Wintour,” she muttered, afraid of being supposed away with the fairies herself for even considering such whispers.
Anthea left her father’s portrait and went to sit at the harpsichord. She began to play the old song “Lavender Blue,” and Lady Letitia smiled. “Why, I haven’t heard that tune in a long, long time, my dear; yet, it is such a pretty little tune.” She sang some of the words.
“Lavender blue, dilly, dilly,
Lavender green.
When I am king, dilly, dilly,
You shall be queen,”
Anthea finished playing, then clasped her hands in her lap. “I suddenly had the urge to play that. Heaven knows why it came into my head.”
The fragrance of lavender seemed to drift into the room, as fresh and vital as if it were June, not October.
Chapter Two
December was very cold indeed, with a constant frost and plunging temperatures that made any excursion out of doors an ordeal. Nevertheless on Christmas Eve afternoon Anthea braved the weather for a walk around the square. Icicles hung from eaves and from the plane trees, and every twig and blade of grass in the central garden was encrusted with white, but although it looked very beautiful, the bitter chill soon seeped through her several layers of clothing. A freezing fog seemed about to close in, and the harsh grip of this atrocious winter was already so deeply entrenched that Anthea was sure it would not relent before spring.
She pulled her crimson, fur-lined cloak more tightly around her, thinking she must have been mad to take a constitutional on a day like this. How much more sensible to have remained in the drawing room with Aunt Letty and the delicious hot chocolate that was always served about now. But the need to stretch her legs and feel fresh air in her lungs had been overwhelming after being indoors for days because of the cold.
A carriage passed her and drew up before a nearby house. Two half-frozen footmen climbed down from the back of the vehicle and rubbed their numb hands before opening the carriage door for a lady and her three excited children to alight after a final shopping expedition. As mother and offspring hurried into the bright warmth of the house, the footmen, complaining under their silvery breaths, began to unload the many festive purchases.
The afternoon light was beginning to fade, and the windows of the house were brightly lit, revealing lavish Christmas greenery and other decorations inside. There was a handsome kissing bough from which Anthea had to look quickly away because of the painful memories it aroused, for the last kiss she and Jovian had shared had been beneath just such a ball of mistletoe and red ribbons. Looking away from the house meant that she looked at the central garden instead, and in particular at the vilified statute of King George in the guise of Roman emperor. Oh, it
was such an ugly object, a true eyesore in the heart of an otherwise gracious and beautiful square.
Then something blue caught her attention on the gravel at the base of the plinth. It was a ribbon tied around what looked like a bouquet of lavender. Not dried but fresh blue flowers with peppermint green stems and spiky leaves. Anthea was astonished to see such an incongruous reminder of summer on a winter day like this. And why was such a lovely bouquet simply lying there on the ground?
Intrigued, she went across to take a closer look. The lavender was the same color as her eyes, and she felt an odd affinity with the seemingly abandoned flowers. Slowly she bent to pick them up and breathed deeply of the invigorating scent. The pretty ribbon brushed her cheeks, like the loving touch of invisible fingers; like Jovian’s fingers ... As the thought occurred to her, his voice suddenly sang softly from the other side of the statue.
“Lavender blue, dilly, dilly,
Lavender green.
When I am king, dilly, dilly,
You shall be queen.”
Then she heard steps, as he came around to where she stood. He was elegantly dressed in an ankle-length indigo woolen greatcoat over a sky coat and white pantaloons, and his expressive gray eyes were penetrating in the encroaching haze of fading winter light. He was thirty years old, tall, blond, and well made, with a ruggedly handsome face that had been described as the epitome of truly masculine beauty. It was also a strong face, from the dimple in his chin and smile, to the firm set of his mouth and the arresting quality of his eyes. Everything about him was enviably attractive, and he would still have been the most perfect of men were it not for his inability to resist alcohol.
He removed his top hat and bowed, his thick fair hair falling forward in that slightly unruly way she had always liked so much. “Good afternoon, Anthea,” he said softly, his breath white in the incredible cold. Then his smile once again worked its magic on her foolish heart.