by Karen Abbott
Her gentle smile took away any sense of self-pity for the lost years of youth, but the memories of her own dancing lessons brought a blush to Lucy’s cheeks and she hoped the countess didn’t know of the reason for her temporary exile from home, nor her parents’ order to her sister that she was not to be allowed to dance during her visit. ‘Yes, my lady, I do like to dance but I will not pine away if I am compelled not to have the opportunity to do so for a while. I have brought some embroidery with me. I am fashioning some motifs on a layette for my new niece or nephew.’ She paused and then asked hopefully, ‘I also like riding. May I ride sometimes?’
‘Yes, of course. I, too, enjoy riding, so we may ride out together sometimes. And we can go on carriage drives, too. I am going to enjoy your visit, Lucy. I love my sons and wouldn’t change them for the world but, for a few weeks, you must indulge me and be the daughter I was never fortunate enough to have.’
At that very moment, the Earl of Montcliffe, known as Lord Rockhaven, or simply Rockhaven by his associates, and Theo by his family and friends, was stepping from his carriage and ascending the steps of the Montcliffe town house in Park Lane, Mayfair. He had been discharged from hospital earlier that day and had spent a couple of pleasant hours at his gentlemen’s club before summoning his carriage. He winced as he attempted to bound up the steps, ruefully acknowledging that the wound in his side was not yet fully healed.
Never mind – he was alive! Maybe the curse upon his family had ended at last? Death had reached out to him, but he had evaded its clutches … for now, at least!
The door opened as he reached the top step and Lord Rockhaven strode through, tossing his hat with his gloves tucked inside to Dalton, the butler.
‘Welcome home, m’lord,’ Dalton murmured, catching the hat with a practised hand. ‘Your lady mother will be happy to know you are out of hospital at last.’
Rockhaven’s steps paused. ‘Er, yes. She will, of course … though I am not returning to Montcliffe Hall just yet. A couple of weeks in Town, perhaps to … er, build up my strength a bit; a few rounds at Jackson’s, a bit of sword practice.’
Theo wondered why he felt compelled to explain himself to his butler. Guilty conscience, perhaps? He knew his mother would be disappointed when she learned of his delay in Town, but what was a chap to do? Life in a military hospital was not much different from the disciplined life on the field.
But it was he who had insisted on joining the army. As the elder son, he could have evaded the duty with no loss of valour, but that wasn’t Theo’s way. If he were going to die young, it may as well be on a battlefield as anywhere else. For King and country, he and Con had decided, with the arrogant confidence of youth.
But the war had robbed him and many other young men of their carefree years and he was young enough to want to seize the opportunity for some Town living whilst he could … some gaming, drinking, trips to the theatre and, perhaps, who knew, some light-hearted feminine company? Nothing serious, of course. A soldier’s life was too uncertain for that.
‘I might even still be here when the House resumes its autumn sitting,’ he added, attempting to give some sobriety to his desire to remain in London.
‘Of course,’ Dalton agreed. ‘It’s good to have you back, m’lord.’
Theo resumed his way upstairs, whistling tunelessly, his mind already contemplating the possible delights of the evening’s entertainments.
Three
IT WAS AFTER luncheon the following day when Lucy made her first visit to the dowager countess’s rooms. She changed out of her morning dress, which had been suitable for a turn around the garden, into a more elaborate gown of pale-blue twilled French silk that had a pretty heart-shaped neckline and small puffed sleeves.
The dowager countess’s suite of rooms was light and airy, with exquisite furniture and furnishings in shades of dusky pink, cream and gold. Lucy sank into a low curtsy, only rising when the dowager’s frail voice bade her, ‘Come here, child. Let me see you more clearly.’
The dowager was reclining on a day bed, her back supported by an array of cushions. She gestured a hand towards a low chair that was placed conveniently close and scrutinized Lucy’s face through her lorgnette.
‘Ha! And what misdemeanour were you guilty of committing, eh, miss?’ the elderly lady finally barked.
‘I … er … I fell in love with my dance master,’ Lucy stammered, unnerved by the directness of the question, swiftly deciding that the old lady would instantly detect any prevaricating.
‘Ha! Thought as much.’ The dowager’s eyes glimmered with satisfaction. ‘Though what’s the surprise in that, I’d like to know? Society restricts young women to the company of single men of their own class and then flings totally unsuitable ones at their feet. I’ll tell you a secret, shall I? At your age, I fell in love at least twice a week. My dancing master, music master, French tutor, riding master … I fell in love with the lot!’
Lucy was speechless and her wide-eyed stare betrayed the fact.
The dowager again eyed Lucy through her lorgnette. ‘That surprises you, doesn’t it? Though why it should, I don’t know. D’you think falling in love is the prerogative of the present young generation? Hey? Cat got your tongue, has it?’
‘N … no, my lady. I’m just surprised by your openness. My mother was apoplectic when she discovered my … my preference.’
‘And so she should be! That’s what mothers are for. What did you expect, eh? A bouquet of roses?’
‘No, I just thought she might understand … after all, she loves my father.’
‘Ha! Totally different. The thing is, miss, it’s all right falling in love with these men, but never tell ’em so. It doesn’t do. Totally unsuitable, after all! It would never be allowed. No, your mistake, I think, was telling the man and then letting your parents think you were serious.’
‘Oh!’ Lucy felt deflated. ‘The thing is, I was serious. I thought he loved me, too. How could he lie so?’
‘Hmm! Cutting a sham, was he? Dishing out the flummery?’ The dowager eyed Lucy with a glint of mischief, as if daring her young companion to be shocked at her knowledge of some of the language of the lower classes.
Lucy didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, she sighed wryly. ‘And I was green enough to believe him.’
‘No shame in that, girl. A show of innocence in a young girl is no bad thing as long as you learn from the experience. Think you have, eh?’
Lucy nodded sadly. ‘Yes. I won’t be quite so trusting again. But how will I ever know if someone really loves me, or simply wants to get his hands on my fortune … for I shall never marry without true love?’
‘Experience, my dear, experience. A commodity in short supply in young people. But, it will come. Give yourself time and don’t take the young men you will meet during your Season too seriously. Keep them guessing. A pretty girl like you will have lots of young men paying you court. If I’m not mistaken, you’ll have the whole lot of ’em falling at your feet!’
‘Yes, I probably will, won’t I?’ Lucy laughed, accepting the truth of the statement with no thought of conceit. ‘But I can’t imagine falling in love again. It … hurts too much when they let you down.’
‘Ah, there’s no heartache like that of your first lost love, but I suspect this one will fade with time. And, when it’s the real one for you, you’ll know.’ Her eyes became dreamy as she added, ‘I still remember the moment I first saw my Richard. I knew at once he was the one I would marry. Ha! He didn’t stand a chance! Though I kept him dangling for a while before I relented and allowed him to approach my father.’
Lucy smiled at the old lady’s gleeful reminiscences, finding it difficult to imagine someone so elderly as a young woman of similar age to herself. She nodded in agreement. ‘Then that is what I shall do – I shall keep them guessing and then probably marry none of them!’
‘That’s the spirit, Miss Templeton.’ The dowager laughed, nodding in approval. ‘You’ll do, Miss Templeton, you’ll do!�
� She looked at Lucy thoughtfully. ‘How long did you say you were staying here?’
‘Just a few weeks, until my nephew and niece recover from chickenpox … then I will return to Glenbury Lodge.’
‘Mmm! Well, come and visit me again, girl, won’t you? I like your spirit.’
Lucy’s days at Montcliffe Hall passed swiftly and pleasantly. In the mornings, if the weather was fine, she invariably went riding in the surrounding countryside, sometimes accompanied by Lady Montcliffe and at other times by a groom. On some afternoons the two ladies went for a carriage drive and, on one lovely day, visited nearby Ely Cathedral. Other afternoons, she sat with either of the two countesses, sometimes playing the pianoforte or reading aloud to them, or quietly stitching and enjoying light conversation. And, in the evenings, she often went to the library to choose a book to read either in the sitting-room or upstairs in her bedroom.
Susie kept her up-to-date with any servants’ gossip and excitedly passed on to her mistress mention of the ‘Rockhaven curse’ that had bedevilled former generations of the family. Lucy was intrigued. She cast back her mind, remembering that Marissa had once made a comment about the family’s tragic history, though any tentative enquiries had been met with shaken heads and pursed lips.
Her chance to discover more came one afternoon when she was sitting with the dowager countess. She had read a few pages of A Comedy Of Errors from Charles and Mary Lamb’s Tales From Shakespeare, but had ceased when the old lady’s head began to drop to her chest. Just when Lucy was about to creep away, the dowager revived and resumed her favourite topic of asking Lucy about her interests and about her social life now that she was out of the schoolroom, comparing it with her own life at a similar age. Her many questions emboldened Lucy to try a bit of direct questioning herself.
‘My lady, may I ask you a question … a personal one?’
The dowager took her time in answering, but then nodded. ‘You may ask, but I might not give you an answer.’
‘It’s about your family, my lady. Why do people say your family is under a curse?’
‘Ha! You don’t pull your punches, do you, miss?’
Lucy was instantly apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, my lady, it was impertinent of me. Please forgive me.’
‘No, no! I asked you questions just as impertinent. If you can’t take it, don’t give it, I always say. So, the Rockhaven curse, eh? Hmmph, I’m glad you asked me, rather than gossiping with the servants. Well, the curse, my dear, is that the firstborn son of the past three generations of the Rockhaven family has died young – though each was considerate enough to evade his demise until he had sired an heir. My father-in-law died of alcoholic poisoning; my husband died in a duel; and my son died in a driving accident. He was forever out to cut a dash. Hunting the squirrel, is what they call it: the practice of following behind a carriage and then passing it so tightly that they brush the wheels. My son brushed the wheel too closely and his carriage overturned.’
Lucy looked puzzled. She hesitated, trying to find the right words to best express her thoughts. ‘I’m sorry to hear your family have suffered that heartache three times in three generations, but surely it is only superstition to think it of it as a curse. After all, a hard drinker will inevitably die of alcoholic poisoning and a reckless driver of an accident.’
‘Exactly! There is no common connection among the three early deaths, so, there is no logical reason to suppose that Theodore will suffer an early demise in some spectacular way, is there?’
‘No reason at all, my lady,’ Lucy replied lightly. ‘Does he expect such an early demise?’
‘It wouldn’t surprise me, child. Every childhood spill or minor injury he suffered caused the gossips to repeat the nonsense. Say a thing often enough and people begin to believe it! I always hoped Theo would be too level-headed to let it blight his life, but the wildness of his past behaviour, aided and abetted by his wretched cousin, and his current occupation on the Peninsular doesn’t exactly compel me to hope too much.’
Lucy’s interest was roused. ‘His cousin? I haven’t heard mention of a cousin.’
‘Aye, Piers Potterill. A cousin twice removed, but next in line for the title after Conrad. Never liked him! I always suspected him of goading the boys on, and neither would ever refuse a challenge. Too much like their father and grandfather for their own good!’
The old lady suddenly leaned forward, her eyes bright.
‘Tell me, Miss Templeton, would you consider becoming the wife of my grandson Theodore, the present Earl of Montcliffe?’
Lucy stared at the dowager countess in some consternation, not wanting to upset the old lady by an outright refusal.
‘Why … no. No! I do not even know him. I told you, I will not marry without love.’
The elderly lady laughed drily, though her eyes glinted with mischief. ‘So you did, my dear. So you did!’ She nodded her head several times, as if in agreement with Lucy’s words. Then her animation faded and her expression saddened. ‘But I asked the question hypothetically really, Miss Templeton. By “you”, I really mean “anybody” … any attractive young woman with a degree of intelligent caution in her, that is. You supplied the answer. And that, to my mind, is the Rockhaven curse.’
‘You fear that he will never marry and your family line will die out? But surely some women would agree to marry him simply for the title.’
‘Possibly but most families hope to see their line continued. It would take an insensitive parent to inflict such a heartache on their daughter. Ah well! Maybe you will meet Theo one day and change your mind.’
Lucy shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, my lady. Once I have made up my mind about something, I invariably try to keep to it. Mama says I have a stubborn streak.’
‘Does she indeed! Well, so have I. However, I am tired now, so run along, Miss Templeton. I’m sure there are many other things you would rather do with your time than listen to an old lady like me rambling on.’
Lucy made her curtsy and withdrew, reflectively pondering the bad hand of fate that had been dealt to the Rockhaven line.
However, much as she was enjoying her stay at Montcliffe Hall, after four weeks Lucy began to hope that her visit might be curtailed very soon. Her natural lively disposition had little outlet and the summer days were beginning to seem wearisome.
Her departure became imminent a few days later, when a letter was delivered telling Lady Montcliffe that Dr Walmsley had declared the Glenbury Lodge nursery at last clear of the chickenpox and that her young guest was able to be restored to the bosom of her family. To mark Lucy’s last evening with them, the dowager countess was carried downstairs to join Lady Montcliffe and Lucy in the dining room.
Susie insisted on putting out Lucy’s finest evening gown – a delightful creation of patterned pale-lemon crepe trimmed with festoons of silk, tied at the high waist with a contrasting satin bow, the ends of which fell down her back. It had a modest neckline, trimmed with lace-edged scallops of the same material and its tiny puffed sleeves finished with the same lace edging. Susie then fashioned Lucy’s hair into a knot on the crown of her head, decorated with tiny flowers fresh from the garden.
After the three ladies had partaken of their meal, the two older ladies made their apologies and retired to their apartments upstairs, leaving Lucy to her own devices. A glimpse of the rose garden, still bathed in the evening sunshine, attracted her attention.
‘I know you have a lot of packing to do,’ she told Susie, when she went upstairs to collect a light shawl. ‘So, I think I will take a short turn about the garden.’
‘Eeh, not on your own, Miss Lucy!’ Susie objected. ‘I can do the packing later.’
‘Nonsense, Susie! What possible harm can befall me in Lady Montcliffe’s garden? No, you continue with the packing up here and I promise to return before the sun has sunk below the line of trees.’
It was a balmy evening. The scent of the flowers floated in the air and Lucy breathed them in deeply. She had enjoyed her
stay at Montcliffe Hall but, although sorry to be leaving the two countesses, she was now looking forward to returning to Glenbury Lodge to spend some time with her nephew and niece and helping them through their convalescence. With a burst of carefree abandon, no doubt caused by her deep inhalation of the heady scents of the flowers, she flung wide her arms and danced and twirled among the flowerbeds, by some chance humming the music of the waltz that had led to her deportation from her home. How often had she imagined dancing it with Mario Vitali in the early days of her exile?
She was now surprised to find that the memory no longer distressed her. In fact, she was able to dismiss any thought of the wretched man as easily as she might have swatted away an irritating midge on a summer evening. She had come to realize that her love for Signor Vitali had been nothing more than the illusion of a young girl’s infatuation – blatantly fostered by a heartless fortune hunter – and the agony of betrayal was fading, leaving her wiser than she had been before. It had left her determined not to be swept into a relationship against her will. She would be the mistress of her destiny … no one else, not even her parents.
Pushing such serious thoughts away from her, she twirled and swayed, letting her feet take her where they wished, her mind lost in the steady rhythmic beat of the waltz. Her steps took her to the flagged area outside the music room, the way she had left the hall. There she twirled and stepped some more, her head thrown back into the falling rays of the sun as it began its descent towards the distant trees that bordered the grounds.
The sound of slow clapping forced its way into her consciousness and her steps faltered to a halt as her eyes searched for the source of the sound. She felt a little alarmed to see the figure of a young man leaning against the open glass doors. He was well dressed but seemed to be more than slightly dishevelled. Her alarm grew as the man lurched forward, murmuring, ‘Well, well, well, and who have we here?’