I obediently closed my eyes and heard the rustle of skirts, the soft clandestine whispers of long-dead lovers, and the strains of a lute signalling reckless dance and wild romance. Uther’s low sound—somewhere between a growl and a purr—roused me from my trance. My eyelids fluttered.
“Your face—” his voice was a whispered caress, warm breath stroking my ear “—has the look a woman usually wears only once. When she first succumbs to orgasm.”
I stepped back in shock, the ready tinge of roses staining my face. He turned and walked away as if the searing words had never been spoken. I wondered if they had. Or had this new, brazen creature—the one I had just discovered within me—merely wished them spoken?
Chapter Three
Demelza’s dresser carried armful upon armful of gowns into my room. Sumptuous silks cascaded in a rainbow waterfall onto the bed. Demelza tripped along behind her. “Now, my dearest Lucy, I know you will not be offended—oh, do say you won’t!—if I give you these dresses, which, Clatterthorpe here will tell you, are much too girlish for an old crone like me.” She did not give me a chance to speak. “Do but look at how pretty they are, dearest. Just the thing for someone of your pale colouring, and all the very finest materials, I do assure you.”
“Aunt Demelza…” I started to protest and her face fell into a hurt expression.
“Oh, pray do not look so stern, child. There cannot be the least objection, surely? Your own dresses are very pretty, but—I know you will not mind me saying this—just a trifle outmoded.”
The sour-faced Miss Clatterthorpe nodded lugubriously in agreement, casting an expert eye over the serviceable dimity dress I was wearing. “If I might say as shouldn’t, miss,” she began. I had not heard her speak before, and her voice was surprisingly high-pitched and childlike. “Her Ladyship is quite right. Fashions is changing since the young queen took the crown, but I can easily make these over into the current style and adjust them to fit your figure. The newer styles emphasise the waist, which’ll not be a problem for you, miss, yours being so tiny anyways. But how to make the most of your hips and bosom, well, that’s going to require some thought.” The look she gave me suggested that my slight build did not find favour in her practised eyes. “My lady,” she continued in a worshipful undertone, “should never wear these subdued pastel hues, which are more suited to the likes of you, miss. Her beauty, although it needs no enhancements, shines in warmer, brighter tones.”
“Do try this rose pink silk on, my dear, and let Clatterthorpe pin it around you.” Demelza’s voice was softly coaxing. “I must tell you that my brother has an eye for feminine garb and likes to see the ladies of his household elegantly attired.”
There did not seem to be much else I could say. “Aunt Demelza, I can never sufficiently repay you for your kindness….” My voice faded awkwardly away. I had resided for so long in the aloof circle of my own grief that I struggled sometimes to express my emotions. But I was grateful to Demelza for rescuing me from a life of drudgery. And, if this was not the family for which my hurt heart longed, it was far more than I anticipated when I first returned to England’s fair shores.
“My dear.” She patted my cheek in her caressing way. “You can repay—what a dreadful word!—me, if you choose, by entertaining Tynan once he is well enough to leave the confines of his room. The poor boy has very little company other than his uncle and me, and I am sure he will be delighted to have a new friend, and one so close to him in age.”
During the ensuing days I had further reasons to feel grateful. Yet I was also strangely overwhelmed. Demelza showered me with gifts and kindness. These ranged from items unearthed from her trinket box, to hats or new silk stockings. “Clatterthorpe informs me that your own are sadly darned, my sweet.” How could I refuse, when a bracelet of painted beads was clasped round my wrist and my aunt told me that it was too youthful for her? Or, indeed, when she commissioned her own dressmaker to design a new riding habit for me so that I could join Uther on his daily ride. It seemed churlish to spurn her generosity. The sensation of walls closing in on me was heightened. The fact that my prison cell was lined with silk did little to alleviate my unease.
* * *
I was surprised that there were so few servants at Tenebris. My mother had described a veritable army, but perhaps her girlish memory exaggerated.
The redoubtable Mrs Lethbridge ensured that the household ran like clockwork. Huddy—who I learned was actually Mrs Huddlestone, a little lady, as wide as she was tall—cooked as if for a small army. When we were introduced, she bobbed a curtsy, then looked me up and down in consternation. She had a cosy, cushiony face with a tiny rosebud of a mouth. Without a word, she cut a slab of sponge cake the size of a small house and, plonking it down on the table with a tall glass of milk, gestured for me to be seated.
“She will be most offended if you do not eat every crumb,” Demelza whispered. It took a Herculean effort on my part, but I was rewarded, when I finished this repast, with a grunt of approval from Mrs Huddlestone.
“A groat’s worth of grain’d choke her!” she sniffed to Demelza, as if I was not present. “Fear not, my lady, we’ll soon put a bit o’flesh on them twigs she calls bones!”
Pascoe was the embodiment of dignified servitude. Quiet, unobtrusive and, unlike his female compatriots, seemingly nonjudgmental. Two footmen served under him and, hawklike, he supervised their endeavours. There were three parlour maids, a kitchen maid and Betty, who, when she was not attending to me, took any role assigned her by Mrs Lethbridge. Demelza had her devoted Miss Clatterthorpe. Uther, it seemed, scorned the services of a valet. I had also heard mention of Desmond, who, I surmised, was His Lordship’s man. All in all, it seemed a small workforce to care for such a large, sprawling place. From what Uther said, when discussing his horses, it would appear that the stables had a greater number of staff than the house.
Another fact that struck me as odd was the age of the majority of the servants. Apart from the senior staff, in a grand house such as this one might expect to see a young workforce, drawn from the local population. Yet, aside from Betty, the others were all well past thirty and had been in the employ of the Jago family for many years.
I asked Betty about it as I dressed for dinner. “It’s a funny thing, miss,” she agreed, helping to fasten a string of coral beads—another gift from Demelza—about my neck. “But it’s not a popular place to work, despite being a castle and the family so wealthy and all. You hear such stories,” she explained apologetically.
“Stories?” I twitched the folds of my gown into place and studied my reflection thoughtfully. I might be a lone, pale pearl amongst the glitter of Jago diamonds, but I looked well enough. In fact, if I listened to Betty’s admittedly partisan compliments, I might well have my head turned.
“Ghosts and the like,” she explained vaguely, gathering up my discarded day dress. “And then there was the awful thing that happened to His Lordship’s mother—”
“That will do, girl!” Neither of us had heard Demelza enter the room, and Betty jumped guiltily at the bullet-like admonishment. Dropping a frightened curtsy, the little maid cast me a meaningful glance before scurrying through the door.
“But you look quite delightful this evening, Lucy dearest. Our rarefied Cornish air undoubtedly suits your constitution.” The caressing note was back. Demelza gave no sign that she had heard Betty’s comments. On the contrary, as we made our way down to dinner, she maintained a light-hearted, inconsequential monologue about the latest fashion for lace gloves.
* * *
At the decline of the day, I scooped up my cloak and stole outside to enjoy the sweet freedom of evening. Wrapped in my own company, I trod the cloistered west-facing walks. Dusk’s cloying melancholy invaded my mood. Sinking below the distant hills, the sun spread its dying glow across the horizon. Thin vapour crept off the heaving ocean and tiptoed round the curved arches, while the battlements were still subjected to the sun’s heartfelt kisses. The dewy freshness of t
his fairy hour shimmered in the still air. As day continued its descent, night came silently down and the scene assumed a mantle of solemn grandeur.
As I walked, my mind became a great winged bird soaring high across stormy oceans and sweltering golden deserts, eventually whirling to a standstill amidst brilliant tropical greenery. The English twilight, with waning moon tumbling into cold, dark seas, was far behind me. I could feel my father’s arm warm about my shoulders, his whiskers tickling my cheek as we stood together in the foothills, gazing out across wide, shimmering plains. We laughed at some long-forgotten joke, and the smell of his pipe tobacco soothed me. My heart thrummed briefly with remembered affection and new loss. We had spoken no farewells. All I had of him were memories; my enforced pilgrimage back to England had seen to that. I was wise enough to know that, in undertaking such an arduous journey, I had not allowed myself to grieve. It was only now that I had the luxury of time in which to dwell on my loss. The anguish of my hurt soul was a hard stone nugget embedded deep in my heart.
“Oh!” I gasped and took a step back as I rounded the end of the walk and saw that I was not alone. A young man stood marble still, hands plunged into the pockets of his coat and head bowed in thought. He looked up as my exclamation pierced his brooding reverie, and I knew at once that I was face-to-face with the Earl of Athal.
The family resemblance, although remarkable still, was softened in him. His features were less precise, not quite so masterfully defined, but his eyes were unmistakably Jago-gold and radiantly haunted. Hair the colour of a raven’s wing lay long on his collar with one poetic lock drooping to caress his furrowed brow. Tynan Jago was not quite as tall as his uncle, and he was slender, lacking Uther’s width of shoulder and rippling muscle.
We stared at each other for long, bruised moments. I, the impostor in this dusky landscape belonging to him, stepped forward to break the spell. In the same instant, he swung on his heel and walked away.
* * *
I met Tynan again at dinner. I wore one of the gowns my aunt had bestowed upon me. It was a pretty pomona green silk, its full skirts shimmering in the candlelight as I moved. Miss Clatterthorpe’s skilled fingers had transformed it so that it fitted perfectly, and might in truth have been made for me. The bodice was decorated with a deep frill of lace and was cut rather lower than I liked. Eyeing the neckline dubiously in the mirror, I added the Norwich silk shawl and pinned it in place with my mother’s pearl brooch. Was I being modest, or were my actions because I knew that my small breasts and lack of cleavage could never compare favourably with Demelza’s magnificent décolletage?
As I made my way down to the great hall it crossed my mind that Betty, who usually chattered to me nonstop while I dressed, had been uncharacteristically silent and withdrawn.
The other members of the household were already assembled before the roaring fire. Uther and Demelza made desultory conversation, while Tynan lounged in a wingback chair and gazed moodily into the flames. As I approached, he pushed back the errant lock of hair that flopped onto his ivory brow. The only indication that he had noticed my presence was a brief nod in my vague direction. My earlier impression of a jaded angel fled. In this setting, he resembled nothing so much as a sulky schoolboy.
“Tynan, I know you will be glad of this opportunity to at last welcome your guest, our cousin Lucy,” Demelza said.
Light intensified in his eyes and he rose, bowing formally and murmuring a few incoherent words of greeting. His fingers closed on my hand with surprising strength. Demelza withdrew slightly and commenced a conversation with Uther about household matters. I was acutely aware, however, that as they talked, they kept us under continual scrutiny.
“I have been wanting to thank you for permitting me to stay here as your guest,” I said, looking up into eyes that were infinitely sad.
He hunched a dismissive shoulder. “That choice was not mine,” he replied. My shame was clear from the instant heat which flushed my cheeks. Casting a furtive look in his uncle’s direction, he relented, adding in a milder tone, “You are most welcome, however. My aunt describes us as cousins…?” He raised an enquiring brow.
“I think the link is considerably more tenuous.” I began to explain the intricacies of our family tree while he listened with an interest that was patently feigned. I sensed the tension leave Demelza’s frame as she observed us. And well she might stiffen in apprehension, I thought crossly. He may be an earl, and one who was soon to be master of all this wealth and grandeur, but Tynan Jago lacked any social graces. Indeed, he was quite insufferably rude.
Dinner consisted of boiled trout heads and a loin of veal. Side dishes were set on the table, including roast pigeons, petits pâtés, a fricassee of eel and stuffed chicken. I partook sparingly of the veal, in the foreknowledge—gleaned in my short time here—that I would be expected to do justice to an equally sumptuous second course. This duly arrived and comprised a green goose, two rabbits, a dressed crab, buttered broccoli, creamed spinach and an apple pie. This was served with custard that came in a jug that was nearly as big as me.
Conversation over dinner was laboured. I made heroic efforts with Tynan, but was rewarded for the most part by monosyllables or silence. His eyes were sombre, his mouth had a tragic droop and he pushed the food around his plate without actually consuming any of it.
He did evince a slight interest about my life in India and my home there. Glad to find that he had emerged a little from his sullen mood, I was eager to encourage him. I favoured him with amusing accounts of life in Madras and the conditions we had endured there. I explained that our home very much resembled an English country house and our lifestyle was surprisingly similar to what it had been at home. The Indian servants had been taught how to make tea the way my father liked it, to shine his boots to perfection and to fill his pipe.
There were not many British women in Madras, and, as I grew up, my governess and I were often the only females at my father’s dinner parties. The British community, supported by the clockwork organisation of the East India Company, managed to remain surprisingly insular and aloof. There were racetracks, balls and card parties to be attended. Our greatest dilemma—and one which occupied a considerable amount of thought and energy—was how to keep cool, and we attempted some innovative solutions. In describing these, I once or twice succeeded in making Tynan’s beautiful lips curve upward into a smile. I felt a quite disproportionate sense of triumph as a result. I did my best to answer all of his questions, even though some of these were probing and intensely personal.
“Your father died in tragic circumstances, I believe?” he asked. His voice and face were neutral, devoid of the expected sympathy usually afforded the recently bereaved. It was curiously refreshing.
“Yes.” My mind went back to the letter one of our Indian servants had presented to me on that never-to-be-forgotten night.
I have the honour to acquaint you that the ship named the Doria Dowlut, belonging to the Nawab of Madras and sailing under English colours, was wrecked by pirates seven days since. Fourteen lives were lost in effecting a landing in Aden. The cargo was immediately plundered and the survivors taken hostage and treated in the most cruel manner by the Bedouins. Among the passengers were several respectable females making a pilgrimage to Mecca. I regret to inform you that your esteemed father, Sir Reginald Alleyne Esq, was murdered whilst attempting to defend the honour of these unfortunate ladies.
That letter had arrived on my twenty-first birthday.
Uther leaned in to join our conversation, and I felt, rather than saw, Tynan withdraw slightly. He was clearly uncomfortable in his uncle’s company. It surprised me that Uther should demonstrate such a lack of tact, just as we were beginning to get along rather better.
“I confess I struggle to understand the geography of the region,” Uther commented, and my eyes were drawn once again to the exquisite perfection of his mouth. I was heartily glad he had not followed Demelza’s lead and asked me to call him “uncle.” “But your father, I
believe, was killed in Aden, not India?”
I nodded and briefly outlined the circumstances. My father’s role in the East India Company required him to travel great distances protecting the Company’s interests.
“Yet you travelled to Aden from your home and brought his ashes back to England to be placed in the family vault? That must have been a most demanding journey. And doubly so for a young woman all alone.” He poured wine from the decanter at his elbow into my glass and sat back, studying my face as I talked.
I described my six-month journey. The awkward trip by wagon across India, the turbulent journey across the Arabian Sea with the ever-present threat of pirate attacks, along the Nile in the tiny paddle steamer, and then by barge to Alexandria. What I didn’t describe—because I did not have the words—was the grinding loneliness caused by the loss of my dear father. My determination, against all advice, to bring his ashes home to England brought me up against some strong opposition from the bureaucrats in the East India Company. How much easier it would be, they advised me in soothing tones, to avoid the lengthy detour via Aden and allow his ashes to be scattered where he fell. I knew that my stubbornness had caused many a scratched head and muttered curse. Yet, I had persisted. The journey ate up almost every penny of the small legacy I had inherited. I had been fortunate, if such a word could be applied to the circumstances, to find a position with Mrs Grimshaw so quickly.
Uther’s eyes were warm as he listened to me and interjected an occasional question. There was an invitation in his gaze, should I have chosen to acknowledge it, that left me feeling slightly giddy. Demelza calmly continued with her meal, exclaiming occasionally at my bravery and tenacity. Tynan, at the head of the table, watched me in silence from under drooping lids, his expression unfathomable. The intense melancholy of his expression was striking.
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