by Tuft, Karen
“I certainly do recall. Lady Walmsley—the aunt of that person who married Lord Halford. Lady Walmsley has invited you to stay with her?”
“Yes, Mama. I believe she gets lonely living in London by herself, and so—”
“And so she has invited you to keep her company.” Mama’s face had gone from the sickly pale it had become at the news of Papa’s death to a flaming red. “She has invited you to be her companion? As in, her paid companion?”
“Well, I don’t really think—” Elizabeth had begun, trying to explain.
“It isn’t enough that you would disobey your parents and refuse to marry Halford,” Mama had said shrilly. “Naturally you couldn’t agree to such a simple request. And now you would degrade your father’s memory and the Marwood title even further by agreeing to work in London around all of your father’s peers as an old woman’s companion? You listen to me, Elizabeth: I forbid it!”
“Mama—”
“Say nothing to me. It is done. Stokes! Where is that writing box?”
A grim-looking Stokes had immediately entered the room, holding the box in question, and had set it on a nearby table. He’d shot a discreet, sympathetic glance at Elizabeth on his way out, not that he could have done much more than that without incurring Mama’s ire.
“It is apparent that you cannot be trusted on your own to see to the reputation of the family,” Mama had said as she’d stormed over to the table and opened the writing box with a jerk, “No, you will go with me to Yorkshire until ample time has passed and the gossips have moved on to newer and juicier scandals. Work, indeed.”
“I believe I can be relied upon to maintain the dignity you and Papa taught me,” Elizabeth had ventured to say.
Mama had shot an icy glare at Elizabeth. “I rather think not. And that will be an end to it.”
And so Elizabeth had not sent the letter to Lady Walmsley accepting her kind offer as she had planned to do. Now was not the time to try to have a rational discussion with Mama. In fact, Elizabeth should have known better than to raise the subject with Mama at all, considering they’d both only just learned of Papa’s death in that moment. She’d been impulsive. She should have known better—should know better.
Mama had written her letter to Uncle John, and now she was in her suite of rooms supervising the packing of her personal belongings, even though it would take days for the letter to arrive in Yorkshire and then receive a reply back.
Even so, Elizabeth supposed she ought to be doing the same, but she hadn’t the heart to face it today. Life with Mama in the Yorkshire manor house of Uncle John and Aunt Lottie—Charlotte, Elizabeth silently corrected herself—would be unbearable. She had no doubt she would be daily subjected to the same accusations she’d heard from Mama over the past year, only now spoken by her aunt and uncle.
“Ouch!” Elizabeth recoiled from the sharp pain her finger received from her errant needle. A tiny drop of blood appeared; she put her finger in her mouth and sucked the blood away, glad Mama wasn’t there to see her do such an unladylike thing.
She stared at her needlework. She’d barely begun this particular piece; no one looking at it right now would even know what it was supposed to be. She set the handkerchief aside. There were better things to do with her time than philosophize about her needlework, for heaven’s sake.
For one thing, they would soon be leaving Marwood Manor, the place that had always been home. Elizabeth would most likely never walk the grounds in the rain again. She would never see the trees swathed in mist or stroll through the formal gardens. She would never see the oaks cloaked in the red and gold of autumn.
She would stroll through the gardens and grounds, then, and fill her memory with images of Marwood Manor. She would recall happier times from her childhood—the hour each day when she had been allowed to go outside onto the grounds with her governess. Perhaps she would find a bud she could press in a book as a memento. Perhaps she could find an acorn or two.
She went to fetch her cloak.
***
The first thing Kit noticed as the carriage turned onto the private lane leading to Marwood Manor was the lone figure of a woman, too far away to be seen clearly amidst the misty rain and gusts of wind. The gray cloak she wore made her feel like an integral part of her surroundings—almost as though she were a wraith or an otherworldly creature conjured up by elves or fairies.
“Look at the state of this place,” Lady Walmsley said as she peered out the carriage window next to her. She was seated across from Kit, facing forward, which had given Kit the dubious pleasure of riding backward the entire trip. He’d intended to ride his horse, dash it all, but the inclemency of the weather had forced him to do otherwise. Not the most comfortable of journeys.
“The lawns are overgrown,” Lady Walmsley continued. “The hedges aren’t trimmed, nor has there been any weeding to speak of, as far as I can tell. Things must be more dire than I expected.”
Kit had been so focused on the image of the woman, he’d not even noticed the condition of the grounds.
“Good gracious, not even the fountain is working,” Lady Walmsley said, pointing out her window. “Here, sit next to me,” she directed, scooting over on her seat.
He obliged and peered out the window, looking toward the grand entrance of the stately home of Marwood Manor instead of where they’d just been. The private lane ended in a large circular courtyard directly in front of steps leading to the immense front doors, the fountain located in the center of the courtyard.
It would be a breathtaking view, Kit thought, were it not for the state of deterioration now apparent to him. Weeds sprouted amongst the rain-drenched cobblestones; the lawns, soggy and swaying in the wind, were in need of a good scything; and the fountain’s dreary emptiness looked even bleaker with the rain dashing at its tiers and large circular basin.
The carriage rolled to a stop next to the stairs, but no footman came out to greet them. “Wait here,” Kit said. He exited the carriage, not waiting for the coachman to assist, and took the stairs two at a time until he reached the landing, then he rapped loudly on the door with the knocker.
He waited.
He looked back at Lady Walmsley; her face was filled with what he presumed was eagerness and more than a touch of curiosity.
He knocked again.
The rain was pelting him, and he was quickly becoming drenched. Why didn’t the butler answer the door? He crossed his arms over his chest, trying to keep his body warmth in. It was summer, but it was an unseasonably chilly day in Surrey and felt even more so after the warmth of the enclosed carriage.
“What is going on?” Lady Walmsley called from the carriage window. “Where is everybody?”
Kit raised his hand to lift the knocker for a third time when the door was opened by an austere-looking older man dressed in Marwood livery. “Yes?” was all he said.
“The Earl of Cantwell and the Countess of Walmsley here to call upon the recently widowed Duchess of Marwood and Lady Elizabeth Spaulding,” Kit said in an authoritative voice. He reached into his breast pocket and presented a calling card to the man, who took it without looking at it.
“I shall see if Her Grace is at home for visitors,” the butler said. He began to shut the door, so Kit stuck his foot in the way. It was a gauche move, perhaps, but the man’s behavior was preposterous.
The butler looked at Kit’s foot with disdain.
“The countess would appreciate a few minutes by a warm fire,” Kit said with a touch of warning in his voice.
The butler glanced in the carriage’s direction and back at Kit. “Very well,” he said.
“Have you an umbrella at hand? The weather was not so violent when we left London earlier today, so we are without.” Kit would sack his butler on the spot if he were to show this kind of indifference to his callers.
The butler stepped away and returned with an
umbrella.
“Thank you,” Kit said wryly.
He turned on his heel and hurried down the steps, opening the umbrella when he reached the coach. “Careful,” he cautioned Lady Walmsley, as the rain had made the steps slippery. Holding the umbrella in one hand, he assisted her down the steps of the coach.
She gripped his hand firmly, not letting go of him until they had reached the landing at the top of the stairs, the butler watching their every step and only—and reluctantly—opening the door wide enough for them to enter when they did.
“This way,” he said in a monotone, taking the umbrella from Kit and gesturing toward a closed door. “I will see that a fire is built.” And then he disappeared.
Kit brushed as much rain from his coat as he could with his hands, then removed his gloves and opened the door the butler had indicated, allowing Lady Walmsley to precede him inside. He took a moment to take in his environs. It was an elegant parlor, with damask sofas and velvet curtains and, from all appearances, had not been unduly affected by the duke’s misfortunes.
“Well!” Lady Walmsley said with a huff as she perched on a chair near the fireplace. “He didn’t even see us into the room properly. Such a grim person he was. I am extremely glad we are here.”
“You are speaking in paradoxes, you know,” Kit said. “You are put out by their treatment of us, yet you say you are glad to be here.”
“Well, of course,” she replied. She lowered her voice. “It means that things are worse than I even imagined, and we must get that poor girl out of here, no matter what. You must follow my lead, Cantwell, for we may be in for a skirmish.”
A skirmish? “Wait, I thought that you and Lady Elizabeth—”
A young maid entered the room at that moment before Kit could finish asking Lady Walmsley about her rather alarming warning. The maid was carrying a bundle of firewood much too large and heavy for her. On impulse, Kit jumped up and crossed the room, taking the bundle from her and setting it on the hearth.
The maid shot a nervous glance toward the open parlor door. “Thank ye, milord, but ye needn’t ’ave,” she said softly with a curtsy. “’T’will only take a minute or two, and then ye’ll be nice and warm, milady.”
“Ahem.”
The maid, obviously startled by the noise, turned to look toward the door. Kit saw the butler shake his head disapprovingly at her. Her shoulders drooped, and she hurriedly crossed the room and knelt on the hearth, stacking the wood and kindling and tinder inside the fireplace.
“The Duchess of Marwood will join you shortly,” the butler said from just inside the door and then stepped back out of the room.
Kit watched the maid work—really there was nothing much else to do. He itched to kneel down and help her but feared any assistance on his part would only get her into further trouble.
Soon enough, the fire was blazing, and the maid curtsied and scurried off.
“Poor girl,” Lady Walmsley said, echoing Kit’s own thoughts.
“Lady Walmsley, Lord Cantwell, what an unexpected surprise,” the duchess said as she entered the room. “Stokes,” she continued in a louder voice, “tea for my guests, please.”
The widowed Duchess of Marwood, dressed in unrelenting black, was much as Kit remembered her from last summer, presenting herself as haughty and aloof, despite her words of greeting to them. Her chin was high, and despite being several inches taller than she, Kit had the distinct impression she was looking down her nose at him.
Kit rose to his feet to greet the dowager duchess and bow over her hand. “How do you do, Your Grace? I hope we find you well.”
“I am not at all well, as I’m sure you are aware.”
She nodded coolly to Lady Walmsley in greeting. “And what brings you to my door on such a dreary afternoon?” she asked, seating herself on the other side of the fireplace, across from Lady Walmsley. “Never mind. I already know the reason for your arrival here today, and the answer is no.”
Chapter 6
For a few precious minutes, Elizabeth felt something akin to peace. Wrapped in an old cloak and enshrouded by the curtain of rain, she wandered the familiar grounds, feeling safe in her aloneness. No bitter recriminations to listen to, no eyes full of judgment watching her every move.
She trudged through the formal gardens, with their overgrown hedges and neglected perennials, their stems drooping under the deluge, and then across the lawns to the grove of oaks beyond. An acorn was a wonderful gift from God, she thought. Small and seemingly insignificant, with time and patience, it grew to be one of the mightiest and strongest of trees.
She stopped under the largest tree, its branches a canopy that provided respite from the rain. At her feet were several acorns; they would have dropped from the trees last autumn. She stooped and picked up three, holding them out in front of her in her gloved palm. They were smooth-looking, little brown ovals, their caps still intact. Everything about them looked normal to the casual observer.
But they had not sprouted. They had not fulfilled their potential. Elizabeth appreciated them even more for that very reason. She understood them. She slipped them into her pocket. She would put them safely in her jewel box as mementos of Marwood Manor and a reminder of what they stood for.
She was chilled to the bone, but she welcomed the chill and the numbness it provided. Stepping out from under the canopy of the oak, she threw back her hood and raised her face to the sky. The rain had not slowed, and streams of water ran down her face and head and neck, loosening strands of hair from their pins and making her coiffure a sodden mess. The hems of her skirts were already drenched to the knee, her half boots completely soaked through. She didn’t care.
She didn’t know what her future held. She felt small and insignificant. But the rain cleansed, and the acorns spoke of faith. She had little faith at the moment, but maybe, just maybe, there was the tiniest acorn of faith that hadn’t been entirely extinguished . . .
Or maybe not.
She continued on her walk, lost in her own melancholy until the sound of horses’ hooves pulled her from her thoughts. She raised her hand to shield her eyes from the rain and looked, finally spotting a large traveling coach rumbling by, barely visible behind the trees that bordered the road. A similar coach had gone by earlier in the afternoon when she’d just begun her walk, but she’d chosen to ignore it. She’d been utterly intent on being alone. The travelers couldn’t have been on their way here to Marwood Manor; they never had visitors.
But in retrospect, she recognized that two coaches traveling in the vicinity of the manor on a single day after nearly a year of banishment and isolation could mean only one thing—that word of her father’s death had traveled beyond immediate family. It also meant it was time to return to the house and face the present and the future and whatever they held in store.
Her hand slipped into her cloak pocket and touched the little acorns resting there before she set off at a reluctant pace, the rain still beating down on her bare head, the damage to her coiffure already done.
***
Kit had been all for a diversion when Lady Walmsley had suggested this trip. He was a man who enjoyed adventure—he’d been on plenty of escapades over the years with his brother, Phillip, and his friend Anthony, and Anthony’s older brother, Alex, may he rest in peace. As young boys and even as young men, they had challenged each other to all sorts of derring-dos.
What Kit had not planned on was finding himself in the midst of an awkward family drama, although he should have expected it.
Once the tea arrived and Her Grace poured it, Kit kept the cup near his lips, although he barely drank any of it—anything to avoid speaking and being pulled into the conversation between the duchess and Lady Walmsley.
Lady Walmsley managed the situation by telling the duchess every detail—and Kit was fairly certain it was every detail of every social event that had occurred in London over
the past year: who’d been in attendance, what they’d worn, to whom they’d spoken, who had danced with whom, who had gotten betrothed, and who was still eligible.
Eventually, he wandered over to the window, where he could remain happily in the background while the two ladies conversed.
“And my dear friend, Lady Bledsoe, mentioned just the other day that Aylesham has utterly rejected every young lady making her come-out this Season again,” Lady Walmsley said, which, Kit noted, gained the duchess’s full attention for the first time.
Ahh, he thought. What a sly old bird Lady Walmsley was.
When they’d begun this trip, Kit had presumed that because they were traveling to Surrey to retrieve Lady Elizabeth, the agreement had already been made, and that because Lady Elizabeth had agreed to join Lady Walmsley in London, Lady Walmsley was in a hurry to see that it happen expeditiously and under her own supervision.
The warning about a skirmish and the duchess’s resounding “no” to them meant that Lady Walmsley had not, in fact, gotten an affirmative response from either Lady Elizabeth or her mama prior to their journey to Surrey and that the tedious conversation about absolutely nothing meant that Lady Walmsley was in the process of wearing the duchess down. The countess’s apparent hope was that the duchess would simply cave from all the friendly conversation and colorful on-dits and give her consent without realizing she’d been drawn into it by an expert.
Kit had previously thought that Lady Walmsley would have made a good general, so accomplished she was at stratagems and laying siege to her quarry. Now he was sure of it.
He wondered why it was even necessary to wear down the duchess since Lady Elizabeth had reached her majority and could do as she pleased, but Lady Walmsley, in some wise female way, understood that winning the mother over was the best tactic at hand.
For Kit, however, talk of satin and lace and kisses and waltzes was not much different from listening to his peers drone on about taxes and the Prince Regent’s living allowance and the like.