by Edith Layton
But, she thought, walking on and fidgeting with the green satin fringe of her shawl, she had spent the better part of her morning in the Shakespearean garden, starting at every sound, half-rising at every creak the wind caused in the trees, and beginning to feel her pulses rise with every rustle of a squirrel in the grass. Still, he had not come. Nor had he the morning before, nor the morning before that. Since the night she had told Anthony she was prepared to tell their host the whole truth of their circumstances, she had not seen the Earl alone. It was ironic that when she tried so manfully to keep up the pretense, she seemed to have met him everywhere and had spent so many hours in close converse with him in the garden. But once she was able and ready to speak in a truly free fashion, he had kept away from her.
She had seen him at mealtimes, she had seen him in the evenings, she had even played at cards with him. But the bond that seemed to have been built between them had vanished. He was polite to her, almost attentive in the way his eyes so often sought her out, he never for a moment made her feel ill-at-ease, but he had not been the easy natural companion she had grown to await with such pleasure. Even their card game had been an earnest, correct sort of pastime, and she had, sick to her soul at his proper distance, begged off early, pleading a headache. Only Lord Beverly had seemed to be disappointed at her departure.
There was an entirely new attitude about Lyonshall. A more businesslike workmanlike sort of atmosphere now prevailed as the Earl appeared to be getting down to the business at hand. He had called Richard Courtney into his study the day before, and the rest of the company had noted that the two had remained closeted for close on to three hours. While the other cousins had appeared to be reading, or chatting, or occupying themselves with careless diversions, still no one left the house for those hours. Every eye strayed toward the direction of the Earl’s study with such frequency that Elizabeth was sorely tempted to suggest that they all throw off their pretense at indifference and rush to the door to put their ears to it together. Instead, she had idly perused a volume of poetry, and had watched with the rest of them as an awkwardly smiling Richard Courtney emerged looking intensely pleased and oddly relieved. He soon after returned to his rooms. Due to Cousin Richard’s silent ways, no one was the wiser about the outcome of that little conference. But all secretly had feared the worst, since the Earl had summoned no one to his room since.
This morning he had gone riding with Lady Isabel, and the lady’s glowing face showed that she was in high alt about it.
He should, Elizabeth thought stonily, have asked little Owen along, since it was, after all, Owen who might be the heir. But, she thought suddenly, perhaps it did make more sense for him to be interviewing Lady Isabel, for he might choose to make a package of it as Anthony had suggested and acquire a wife and an heir in one move. It would be a wise decision, but somehow the wisdom of it did nothing to alleviate the wretchedness she now experienced. To shake it off, she strode along toward the house with resolve. She would see that Anthony had a fair hearing, and then she would be gone from this place, she thought. She would have done her duty, and would only remember it all her days.
As she walked up the wide white stairs to Lyonshall, she noticed Owen standing in front of the great door, gazing out sadly into the distance in the direction that his mama and the Earl had ridden off to. The plump little figure, so oddly aged-looking, so apparently crestfallen, touched Elizabeth and freed her from her own morose thoughts.
“Good morning, Owen,” she said brightly. “I see that your mama has gone off for a canter. Why haven’t you gone as well? Are you feeling poorly today?”
He startled at the sound of her voice and gazed up at her from wide round blue eyes. “No, thank you,” he said softly. “I don’t feel badly at all. But I do not ride, you see, and I suppose that does make me feel badly.”
“But I don’t ride either,” Elizabeth said. “Still, you are very young, and those horses seem to me to be very large. Perhaps if you asked for a pony?”
“I don’t ride ponies either,” Owen replied gravely, “and I doubt they are big enough to carry me. I’m rather stout, you know.”
Since this was undeniable, Elizabeth could not think of an appropriately polite denial, and while she was pondering on how she could cheer him, he bowed and turned about to go. His grave polite manner, so different from the wild little boy Elizabeth had tended, put her off, but his apparent dejection challenged her to continue.
“Owen,” she said suddenly, “I haven’t a thing to do this morning. My cousin is off with Lord Beverly again and I doubt Cousin Richard is in need of my company. And as your mama and the Earl are off for a jaunt, why don’t we two put our heads together and try to come up with something to do?”
Owen turned and looked at her steadily. “What do you suggest?” he asked.
“A walk,” she said desperately. “How about a stroll through the gardens together? We can look at the flowers, and see if we can find any birds’ nests. My Cousin Anthony used to be mad keen on birds’ nests when he was a boy.”
They had walked on down the garden path for a long while before Elizabeth received more than a simple syllable’s reply to her chattering. For, “No,” Owen had agreed, he had never seen such a profusion of blooms, and, “Yes,” he nodded, lilacs were beautiful flowers, and, “Yes,” that had been a pretty bird, but, “No,” he had no idea of what it was either. But when she asked whether he would prefer to sit down on one of the many stone benches or whether he would rather walk on toward the woods where there doubtless were dozens of birds’ nests to be seen, he had sighed and said quietly, “I should rather sit a while, Cousin Elizabeth, for I do tire easily.”
They sat in not very companionable silence, till Elizabeth said with much false vivacity, “I imagine that as you are from London, you feel rather odd among all this country greenery.”
“Not at all,” Owen said, “for I have read much about it and it is just as I supposed it would be.”
“Oh, do you read a great deal?” Elizabeth asked, pouncing on the one fact he had volunteered to her.
For the first time since she had laid eyes upon him, Owen looked just what he was, a small boy. He flushed and his usual stodgy face bore a distinct resemblance to Anthony’s when he was a young lad and had nobbled half the cookies from a freshly baked rack.
“Yes,” he said hurriedly, “but I pray you do not make much of it. It is simply a thing I do to pass the time.”
“But that is delightful,” Elizabeth said, with surprise at his hasty demurral, “for I read a great deal too, and think it is a marvelous pursuit for any boy.”
“Mama does not,” Owen said, turning a pleading face toward her, “and I hope you do not tell her I mentioned it. For, you see, Mama thinks it is unmanly. And”—here he rushed on with uncharacteristic abandon, almost as if he were a bottle she had prized open and was now spilling forth—“she feels the Earl would agree. After all, the heir to Lyonshall should not be bookish. He should be,” Owen went on, as if reciting a well-learned rhyme, “a man of action, a man of courage, and a sportsman, just as he is. Just as my father was.”
Elizabeth bit back the word “Rubbish,” which was forming on her tongue, for it would not do for her to condemn the boy’s own mother. Instead she said lightly, “But when I have spoken with the Earl, I have found him to be a man of some erudition. And did you see his library? It is filled with interesting books, and I am sure he has read many of them. I don’t think he would distain a lad who was interested in knowledge.”
“Mama does,” Owen said sadly and with finality.
“I don’t agree,” Elizabeth said, but seeing his reddened face, she added, “But I won’t say a word to her. Promise,” she added, making the sign of crossing her heart that she had learned from Anthony years ago. Her gesture, rather than her words, seemed to reassure him, and they sat quietly for a few moments, Elizabeth searching for something to say to him, Owen deep in his own unfathomable thoughts.
“Owen,” sh
e finally said, “what would you like to do, then?” Seeing his struggle for a reply and belatedly remembering that he had just owned to the vice of reading and was probably trying to think of something else to reply, she said quickly, “Or what would you like to have now? More than anything?” For she thought he would reply “A biscuit” or “A sweet,” and then she could walk him back to the house and deliver him with a clear conscience to the kitchens, which seemed to be his favorite haunt. She had exhausted every effort in trying to companion him, and was weary of the effort.
“More than anything?” he answered, giving her question much consideration. “My spectacles, I suppose.”
It was when they were back in her room, with the door securely closed behind them, that Owen finally dared put his spectacles on. Then he sighed a sigh of great relief and smiled up at her, his blue eyes finally focused and intelligent and his face now alight with enthusiasm. “For you see,” he had confided as they walked back to the house, “it is very difficult to get on with people when you can’t properly see them. I know the spectacles do not affect my hearing, but it does seem that I am rather farther away from people when I am not wearing them.”
As Owen sat happily reading at her desk, chewing upon an apple, and swinging his feet, Elizabeth thought again, with a pang, of his simple explanation for secrecy.
“I look rather odd with them on,” he said gravely, “and Mama says they ruin my looks.”
“Well, I think not,” Elizabeth said indignantly. “They make you look very intelligent, to be sure.”
But seeing his disbelieving stare, Elizabeth said, “It shall be our secret, but surely your mama cannot mind if you wear them when no one is about? You might slip them on sometime and go for a stroll in the wood, and you may always put them in your pocket and wear them when you visit me.”
Thus assured of her confidence, Owen chatted happily with Elizabeth until his nurse discovered his whereabouts and bore him away. He had seemed most interested, Elizabeth thought sadly, in her tales of Anthony’s exploits as a youth and had hung on her stories of the dozens of birds’ eggs her cousin used to collect. She guiltily envisioned the rotund Owen, bespectacled and furtive, creeping out in stealth to pursue that normal boy’s pursuit. She only assuaged her conscience at her encouragement of his deception by the thought that such exercise would be better for him than his usual forays into the kitchens.
But he had raised her spirits when he had said as he left, with a secretly roguish look, “It was a lovely morning, Cousin Elizabeth. And I hope we can do it again sometime.” Secrets, Elizabeth thought when he had left. Secrets upon secrets. Was there no guest at Lyonshall that did not harbor a secret from his host?
The day seemed sadly flat when Owen had left. Anthony was not due back for hours. So Elizabeth made her way down the stairs and quietly slipped out to the little garden where she had spent so many mornings. She did not expect to be disturbed there for she was sure no one but the Earl knew of its whereabouts, or indeed cared for its special air of quiet and peace. She knew that the Earl would not be there in the afternoon. Most probably, she thought angrily, he would be with Lady Isabel anyway. Only, she chided herself, she had no right to be angry at anyone save her own self. For who in her right mind would even consider that the Earl owed a thing to some impecunious female who was, at three-and-twenty, long in the tooth and untitled as well and, she thought fiercely, only visiting as a sort of mother substitute to one of his cousins at that? There was no way of knowing how many unkind epithets Elizabeth might have called down upon her own head had her thoughts not been so suddenly intruded upon. As it was, she was so sunk in self-recrimination that she did not note his presence until his long shadow fell over her.
“I did not,” the Earl said in a hard voice, “introduce you to my brother’s garden with the intention of having you mew yourself up here every waking hour. I know I mentioned that it was a special place, but really, my dear, it is not necessary to salute my taste by cloistering yourself here for the duration of your visit with us. Really,” he went on with a harsh laugh, “it’s as well that I didn’t tell you I was fond of a turret or a tower, or I imagine we would have you pacing there all night like the unquiet spirit of Anne Boleyn.”
The Earl, still wearing his russet riding coat, towered over her and looked down at Elizabeth with such a gaze of suppressed fury that she startled. She sprang to her feet, wondering if her presence in his brother’s garden had somehow been a presumption. Perhaps, she thought hurriedly, it is some sort of sanctuary or sacred ground for him alone, and he is enraged that I have trespassed.
“I was only just leaving,” she said. “It was only that it was so pleasant here. But now you shall have the place to yourself again. For I must have lost track of time.”
“How time does flee when we are in the midst of such merriment, eh? No, stay, please, Elizabeth, I did not mean for you to bounce up like Miss Muffet,” he said in a kinder voice, seeing how his words had caused the color to fly from her cheeks. She looked very young and very dismayed.
He had sought her out despite all his better judgment and he had come upon her. Just where he had known she would be. The sight of her, in her pale green sprigged frock, as innocent and tranquil-looking as some spring sprite, despite all that he had imagined her after that night’s clandestine visit to her cousin’s room, somehow obliquely angered him. Now he remembered Bev’s words, and seeing her confusion, tried to make amends.
“Please do sit,” he said. “I did not mean to chase you away. It is only that I am surprised to see how much time you have spent here.”
“Anthony and Lord Beverly are gone for the day, you know,” she said seriously, sinking back again, “and there is little for me to do during the day. I did spend the morning with Owen, but now his mama has returned.”
“How did you and Owen pass the time?” The Earl laughed. “In reminiscence of unforgettable desserts? Or a contemplation of the comparative merits of cookies and pies?”
“Oh, no,” Elizabeth cried, wishing to rush to Owen’s defense, but remembering at the last second that his erudition and myopic vision were a sworn secret, she continued lamely, looking away from the Earl, “He is really a very charming child.”
The Earl grimaced slightly at her averted gaze. So, she is withholding something about Owen now as well, he thought. Or is it just that she does not wish to overpraise her own Anthony’s rival?
“But I am glad though that you came,” Elizabeth said suddenly, still keeping her face from his direct gaze, “for I was about to seek you out for a private reason. There is something that I have to tell you. I must, and it is not a thing that I could say in company. If you have a few moments…?”
The Earl stiffened and bared his teeth in an icy smile. “Of course. I am at your disposal,” he said coldly.
“I have discussed it with Anthony,” Elizabeth said straightforwardly, although continuing to look straight ahead of her, “and we have agreed that we must be honest with you. You see, we are not quite what we seem to be.”
The Earl rose suddenly. He stood before Elizabeth with his hand gripped tightly upon a walking stick with an ornate gold fox chased upon its head. For one frightening, incredible moment, Elizabeth thought from the rigid set of his shoulders and the tension in his aspect that he was going to raise the stick against her.
“Certainly, then,” the Earl said through clenched teeth, “if you are not what you purported to be, it is not a subject that should be discussed here where there is the possibility that we might be interrupted. Should you like to ride from here to some more secluded spot?”
He watched her carefully, but Elizabeth only looked about in confusion, for she could see no one, not even one of the usually omnipresent gardeners.
“Unless,” he went on, “you would rather come with me to my study? But then, I fear, we should have a clutch of cousins waiting outside the door hanging on every second of silence and awaiting our return. If you are so anxious that the matter be a secr
et between us, I do think it best that you accompany me now…alone. Unless you have another suggestion?”
Elizabeth foundered for a moment; then, seeing no other alternative and fearing his tightly set face and impatient tone, she nodded. “Yes, of course,” she breathed, rising.
“Very well,” he answered, and turning, began to walk forward rapidly. He strode ahead of her, hardly seeming to use his walking stick at all. Elizabeth had to hurry to keep up with his broken but long-legged pace.
She was alarmed at the sudden change of events, but it seemed too late to question the propriety of his suggestion. Rather she temporized, and tried to bring up a change in his plan.
“But I do not ride,” she said breathlessly as she struggled to keep up with him.
“I think,” the Earl said, still moving swiftly along, “that you do, however, sit. We shall take a light phaeton. I do not promise to drive to an inch like some whipsters, but I can manage well enough.”
Within moments they had arrived at the stables and the Earl had ordered up his open carriage. He swung himself up to the seat and Elizabeth had to content herself with a groom’s hand up to the seat beside him. Seconds later they were tooling down the long front drive.
The Earl said not a word to her during the long ride, but only handled the reins and set the two horses to a furious pace. Elizabeth clung to her seat in horror, for if the Earl did not drive to an inch as he had said, he certainly drove to a quarter of one. They rushed on down the road with such velocity that Elizabeth had difficulty tracing their route. And when she dared chance a glance at his face, it was set in such hard lines she felt she was accompanying some sort of infernal furious driving mechanism.