by Liz Carlyle
But Quin was still staring at his sister. Something about the way the light caught her hair was oddly familiar. But he hadn’t seen Alice’s hair down in years. He shook off the strange notion and looked up to see that his mother had entered the room. He jerked at once to his feet.
“Mamma. Please, have my chair.”
“Thank you, Quinten.” His mother pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, and sank into it dramatically. “I declare, I am quite faintish from exhaustion!” she complained. “Whatever can my brother be thinking to serve dinner at eight? It is unheard of in the country.”
Alice had returned to her mirror. “Uncle Ches keeps Continental hours, Mamma,” she said. “But at least he has invited us to come at six for sherry. I think that very hospitable of him. Have some cheese.”
Quin had drawn up a chair from the hearth and sat down again.
“It has nothing to do with the Continent,” said Lady Wynwood, cutting a suspicious glance in his direction. “It is because of that woman and her foreign airs.”
“Well, she is foreign,” said Alice, dotting some sort of cream onto her cheekbones. “So that would explain the airs, I daresay.”
Their mother pursed her lips. “Pray do not be impudent, Alice. It ill becomes you.”
“Besides, the contessa’s children dine at half past five,” Alice went on, as if their mother had not spoken. “She never misses it.”
“Actually,” said Quin, “I was just remarking on how fine Allie looks. I believe the country air has put a blush on her cheeks and given her a decent appetite.”
Alice grinned. “That blush just came out of a paint pot, Quin, in case you are blinded by my beauty.”
“Well, I had an interesting letter today,” said their mother, changing the subject, as usual, at her whim.
“Do tell, Mamma,” said Alice good-humoredly. “Some gossip from town, may we hope?”
“A lack of it, more like.” Lady Wynwood cut another quick glance at Quin. “It was from the Duchess of Gravenel,” she went on. “She tells me there has been no betrothal announced between Sir Alasdair MacLachlan and Miss Hamilton.”
“Well, I should hope not, Mamma,” said Alice. “It is early days yet. Besides, they do not mean to marry until spring.”
“They may not mean to marry at all,” snapped Lady Wynwood. “Really, Alice! Perhaps Miss Hamilton is having second thoughts about her impetuosity. Perhaps Quinten can yet effect a reconciliation.”
“Mamma, I thought your wish was to avoid any more scandal,” he replied from behind a copy of Ladies’ Fashion Quarterly which Lily had just uncovered on Alice’s bed. “At this point, a reconciliation would but fan the flames. Good Lord, Alice! Are these wide, fluffy frocks coming back into fashion? Looks as though they’ve got parasols stuffed under their skirts.”
Alice leaned over and wrinkled her nose. “Hideous, are they not?”
Lady Wynwood was frowning. “What are you saying, Quinten?”
“That these ball gowns do not become a lady’s figure,” he said dryly. “And that Miss Hamilton and I are through. She never loved me, and I never loved—
“Love!” interjected his mother. “What does love have to do with it?”
“Mamma!” Alice shot her a dark look. “Love has everything to do with it.”
Lady Wynwood’s lips thinned. “You did not love John, and look how well it turned out.”
“Yes, look indeed!” said Alice a little bitterly. “I am a widow at two-and-thirty, with three fatherless children and few fond memories to look back on.”
“Alice!”
“It’s true, Mamma,” she said, dropping her voice so that it would not carry into the dressing room. “I never wished to marry John. You know that.”
“But he was a splendid catch!” said her mother. “You were intended for one another from the cradle. Your papa arranged it all.”
“I know that, too,” answered Alice. “And I did my duty as I was told I must. So do not now deny me the right to grieve over the loss of my romantic ideals.”
“But you can marry again, Allie,” said Quin. “You will marry again, and this time, you will marry for love.”
“Quinten, don’t be a fool,” said his mother. “Who, besides a gazetted fortune hunter, would want a widow with three small children?”
The mood inside the room suddenly shifted. Quin flicked a quick glance at his sister. He could practically feel her unease ratcheting upward. “Someone will,” he said quietly.
“You are speaking, I daresay, of that upstart Henry Herndon,” said their mother impatiently. “He has always been far too familiar with Alice.”
Quin felt his temper slip. “I do not think either of us is in a position to advise Alice with regard to whom she might marry.”
His mother opened her mouth, but Quin cut her off. “Neither of us, Mamma.” He laid the magazine aside, and stood. “Alice is of age, and possessed of a fortune which she earned in the hardest of ways—by sacrificing her heart on the altar of family duty,” he went on. “She has earned the right to do as she pleases now.”
His mother’s lips had been pursed into a thin, tremulous line. And unless he missed his guess, Alice was blinking back tears. “I cannot countenance such a notion!” said his mother. “We are Hewitts, Quinten. We may not go about behaving as we wish.”
Quin went to the door and laid his hand on the doorknob. “I suggest you grow accustomed to my views in this regard, Mamma,” he advised, his back to the room. “As you are ever fond of reminding me, I am the head of this family now. It is my place to decide such things, and this is what I have decid—”
“But you don’t even know whom she will choose!” interjected his mother. “What if he is unsuita—”
“I know Alice,” Quin interjected, returning from the door. “I know she is not a fool. I trust her to do what’s best for herself, and for her children. So that is the end of it, Mamma.”
“You married for love, Mamma,” Alice quietly reminded her. “It was a brilliant match, ’tis true. But a love match, nonetheless.”
Lady Wynwood rose to her feet. “It was my duty to love my husband,” she said. “And so I did.”
Alice shook her head. “It was not like that, Mamma,” she countered. “Uncle Ches remembers. You used to slip away to meet Papa.”
Their mother flushed with color. “Perhaps I did do, once or twice,” she admitted. “Now if you will pardon me, I think I shall exchange this shawl for something more substantial. Quin, you may send round for the carriage.”
And then, like the countess she was, Lady Wynwood swept past him and out of the room, her head held high. Quin looked at his sister and gave her a weak smile. They had won the battle, he thought. But the smoke had not yet cleared.
As soon as Alice’s hair was up, she and Quin went downstairs to the great hall. “Where are the children?” he asked. “Are they not to go?”
“Miss Bright took them over in the dogcart at four,” said Alice. “They were to have an early dinner in the schoolroom. They will return home long before we shall.”
That made sense, Quin supposed. He had been a little surprised when Alice told him the children were to go. But playmates in the country were rare, and the children had begged. They would be kept in the nursery, Alice had explained, to play games and romp whilst the adult guests enjoyed themselves in more sedate pursuits.
Lady Wynwood was on her best behavior during the short carriage ride to Hill Court. Quin wondered if he had made his point, or if his mother was simply lying in wait for her next opportunity.
At the well-lit front entrance, they were greeted by Lord Chesley, who made a great fuss over his elder sister, relieving some of the tension. In the parlor adjacent, Quin could see Signor Alessandri and Lord Digleby Beresford relaxing at the piano with glasses of wine. Viviana was nowhere to be seen.
“The other guests will arrive at seven,” Lord Chesley was explaining. “I am glad the family could gather beforehand.”
&nb
sp; Signor Alessandri was bowing low over Lady Wynwood’s glove when a small herd of ponies—or something very like it—came tramping down the stairs.
“Uncle Quin! Uncle Quin!” said Christopher, bursting into the room. “Can you come upstairs with us?”
Quin cocked one brow in Alice’s direction. “I daresay I can,” he answered.
Diana was hopping up and down on both feet, her plump hands clasped before her. “There is a pig!” she said. “A pig! Felise is riding it. Come see.”
“Felise must be very brave,” said Quin, ruffling her hair. “Uncle Ches? Alice? Shall I shall go have a look?”
Chesley was already caught up in conversation with Quin’s mother and Signor Alessandri. Alice waved him away. “An old shooting trophy,” she explained. “The children like to play on the hideous thing.”
Cerelia Bergonzi fell in beside him as the children rushed back up the stairs. “The pig is dead now,” she said in a small voice. “But it still has tusks and looks very fierce.”
Quin grinned down at the girl. “I’ll bet Christopher likes that.”
Cerelia smiled as if glad to share his joke. “He says he is going to Africa and shoot one for himself,” she confided. “But for now, all he has is his slingshot.”
“I hope he is not using that inside the house?”
Cerelia pressed her lips together, then a giggle escaped. “He did do, once,” she admitted, as they turned onto the landing. “But Miss Bright smacked his hands.”
Unfortunately, as the gaggle of youngsters reached the schoolroom door, a frightful wail sounded from within. They burst into the room to see Miss Bright brushing the dust from a little girl’s skirts—the bold Felise, unmistakably. Tears welled in the child’s eyes.
Miss Bright flushed when she saw Quin. “Lady Felise fell from the boar’s back, my lord,” she said, motioning toward the hideous beast. “I turned away but an instant, and she decided to stand up on it.”
“I w-w-wanted to ride like an acrobat,” the child wailed.
Just then, another young woman burst into the room carrying a tray filled with mugs and a large silver chocolate pot, still steaming. “Oh, heavens!” she said. “Whatever has happened?”
“Just a little fall, Miss Hevner,” said Miss Bright. “This is Lord Wynwood, the children’s uncle.”
The second woman flushed with color, and curtsied, tray and all. “My lord,” she said. “I am Miss Hevner, the Contessa’s governess.”
Quin smiled warmly. “You have brought hot chocolate,” he remarked. “That will set all to rights, I expect.”
Miss Hevner introduced the slender, teary-eyed girl as Felise, and the small, dark toddler as Nicolo—now the Conte Bergonzi di Vicenza, he supposed. Quin withdrew to one end of the schoolroom as the children—all save Cerelia—began to clamor round the long schoolroom table. Miss Hevner began to pass out the mugs as Miss Bright scooted Diana and Nicolo up in a pair of high chairs.
Nicolo did not spare the chocolate pot a glance and began to stack a set of wooden blocks which had been left upon the table. Cerelia went instead to an old pianoforte against the wall where Quin stood and sat down backward on its bench, her feet barely touching the floor.
Quin sat down in an old wooden rocking chair, and studied the girl, who seemed far older than her years. “Do you play the pianoforte, Cerelia?” he asked.
She shook her head shyly. “The harp a little,” she said. “But not very well.”
He laughed. “In your family, ‘not very well’ is probably the equivalent of ‘a near virtuoso’ in mine.”
Cerelia smiled, then dropped her gaze. “Miss Hevner says Felise has a gift for music,” she remarked. “And she says that I play very prettily, too.”
“Hmm,” Quin responded. “What does your Mamma say?”
The girl’s smile did not fade. “Oh, she says I could not carry a tune in—in un secchio.”
“In a bucket?” Quin suggested.
“Si, yes, in a bucket.”
Quin nodded solemnly. “You have my sympathies,” he said. “I find that I cannot dance. My right foot gets tangled in my left, and next I know, I cannot tell them apart. I actually tripped over the dais once in Uncle Ches’s ballroom.”
It was not much of a fib, though he’d been half-sprung at the time. Worse, he was almost totally tone-deaf, too. Cerelia seemed to find it all funny. She was giggling behind her hands.
“Did your Mamma really say that of you, Cerelia?”
“Yes, but she said God has given me a gift for words and language.” If her mother’s honesty troubled her, Cerelia gave no indication. “Mamma told Felise that everyone has different gifts and all are precious, not just music.”
“Words and language are very important,” Quin agreed.
Cerelia’s eyes lit. “I can speak four languages now—Venetian, regular Italian, French, and English,” she said excitedly. “Next I’m to learn German. I learnt my English very fast, the fastest ever, Miss Hevner says. But Felise, she struggles.”
Quin considered all that Cerelia had said. It would be very like Viviana, he thought, not to mince words with her children. And very like her, too, to help them find a balance in their lives. Felise looked to be a clever, handsome girl, but Cerelia’s face held the promise of real beauty. And yet, Viviana had always seemed unaware, or unappreciative, of her own beauty, whereas she valued music above all things. He hoped it was not a disappointment to her that one of her daughters was musical whilst the other was not.
“You do speak English extraordinarily well,” Quin told the child. “Better, even, than your mother.”
“Miss Hevner does not let us speak anything but French and English,” Cerelia remarked. “Do you know my Mamma?”
Quin hesitated. “Well, yes, I do know her.”
“For a long time?”
He smiled down at her. What was the harm in it? “Yes, Cerelia, for a very long time.”
“Did you know her when she lived in London?” asked the girl. “Were you especially good friends?”
What on earth was the child getting at? “Well, yes, I daresay we were,” he answered.
Just then, Miss Hevner turned from the table. “Cerelia, do you not wish to have chocolate?”
“No, thank you,” said the girl.
“Well, join us at the table, my dear, whilst the others finish,” she chided. “You must not detain his lordship.”
Quin followed Cerelia to the table. “Cerelia is not detaining me,” he said, as she sat down opposite Lottie. “She is charming me.”
Miss Hevner smiled approvingly. “Cerelia charms everyone.”
Later, Quin could never be quite certain what happened next. Nicolo, he thought, pushed over a teetering pile of blocks, upsetting Lottie’s mug. The girl jumped, threw out an arm to catch the mug, and instead struck the chocolate pot, sending it over in a cascade of hot milk.
Shrieks and chaos ensued. Cerelia, standing at the table’s edge, took the worst of it. Miss Hevner snatched a tea towel which she had carried in on the tray. Miss Bright grabbed two more from a cupboard. Quin seized one, and began to wipe furiously at Cerelia’s frock.
“Ow, ow!” said the girl. “It burns!”
Quin pulled her toward the light. “Are you scalded?”
Cerelia had screwed up her face as if she might cry. “Nooo,” she wailed. “I don’t—I don’t know.”
Carefully, Quin plucked the ruined fabric away from her skin. Her throat was indeed quite red. “Miss Hevner!” he said. “Leave that. Cerelia is burnt.”
The governess flung the tea towel aside. “Quickly, into the nursery,” she said, as Quin swept up the child in his arms. Leaving Miss Bright to console the others, he carried her in and set her on the sturdy oak table Miss Hevner indicated.
“There’s a good girl,” she said to Cerelia, swiftly loosening her smock. “Let’s have this off, and then the buttons.”
In short order, Cerelia’s smock was tossed aside, and her dress loosened from the
back. The girl was choking back sobs. Around the neck of her ruined chemise, her skin was mildly pink. “I think it is not bad,” said Miss Hevner.
Quin looked about for the bellpull. “All the same, I will ring for some cool water.”
“Oh, child,” he heard Miss Hevner say behind him. “This silly trinket of yours! Hot metal against the skin will burn.”
“It wasn’t hot until the chocolate spilt on it!” the girl complained. But she sounded as if she was already recovering.
When he turned from the bellpull, Miss Hevner was removing a gold chain from about the child’s neck. Some sort of watch fob or large bauble dangled from it, glistening bloodred as it caught the lamplight. Cerelia’s gaze followed it, her eyes a little sheepish. Miss Hevner frowned and laid it on the table behind her.
“She is not badly burned,” the governess confirmed. “The skin beneath her chemise is pink, but not truly scalded.”
Just then, a maid entered. Swiftly, Miss Hevner ordered that water and more towels be brought up. Quin laid his hand lightly on Cerelia’s shoulder. “I should go now,” he murmured, glancing back at the strange trinket the governess had removed. “Miss Hevner will wish you to change out of those clothes.”
“All right,” she whimpered.
Quin tried to look her in the eyes. “Do you wish me to send your Mamma to you?”
Cerelia stared down at her hands and shook her head.
Quin gave her shoulder a little squeeze. “All the same, I think I shall.”
Another maid had come in carrying brass cans filled with water. In the schoolroom, he could hear the clank of a bucket being set down. Miss Hevner opened a wardrobe and began to pull out clean garments. With one last pat on the child’s back, Quin left them.
In the parlor, the dinner crowd was growing. The dull curate and his equally dull sister had arrived, as had Henry Herndon. Basham was in the entryway, taking Dr. Gould’s coat and hat. Quin slid past them all and went straight to Viviana, who stood by the windows alone, her long, elegant fingers wrapped round a glass of sherry.
He slid his hand beneath her elbow, startling her. Her head jerked round, making her long ruby earrings dance. The lamplight caught them, putting him in mind of Cerelia’s bauble. He shook it off. “Perhaps you should go up to the schoolroom,” he whispered. “Cerelia is fine, but—”