"To boiled capon, yes, but I'm very fond of roast capon. You needn't trouble yourself over what to feed me, Elspeth. And Mrs. Green knows my preferences as well as I do."
"I suppose she does,” Elspeth admitted, trying not to find the remark unnecessarily condescending. She hadn't, after all, spent enough time with Greywell to have the least idea what his food preferences were. Relying on Mrs. Green's knowledge wasn't the same; Elspeth wanted to feel fully knowledgeable herself.
Greywell stood for a moment just inside the door of the room. His arm was in a sling, so one sleeve of his jacket merely hung from his shoulder, but he looked dashing rather than sloppy.
Elspeth had forgotten how striking his eyes were, how broad his shoulders, and how very tall he was. Francis was a great deal shorter, and his face so smooth as to appear boyish. There was nothing boyish about Greywell. Everything about him was excessively manly, she thought, from the thick, unruly hair so like his son's to the care lines on his sun-browned face. And the way he stood, so decidedly sure of himself, so determinedly in the here and now. Quite the opposite of Francis’ dreamy face and willowy body.
"You should sit down,” she said, concerned for his wound.
"I'll sit down when I need to."
Though his tone was neutral, she knew he was irritated with her remark. “I was only thinking of your health."
"I feel quite well,” he said stiffly, and then relented, always remembering Andrew. “I stopped by to speak to Mrs. Green. She said you've taken everything well in hand."
To Elspeth it sounded as though he'd been checking up on her. Of course, she would expect him to do that, but he didn't have to put it so bluntly. “I think I've managed not to destroy her household routine too badly."
He looked startled for a moment, then sighed and took a chair opposite her. “I think we're talking at cross purposes, Elspeth. I went to see her because I always go to see her when I get home after an absence. She thinks of herself as another mother to me, and would be vastly put out if I neglected her. What she said about you was of her own volition, not at my inquiry. I admit I had expected her by this time to have a grudging admiration for your efficiency; I didn't expect her generous praise and obvious affection."
"We've gotten along very well."
"So it sounds,” he agreed, rueful. “Apparently you didn't tell them I had decided to join Wellington's staff."
She had been looking at the paper in her hands but now lifted her eyes to his. “I couldn't see what purpose it would serve. They would only have worried about you."
"I'm glad you didn't. If I'd thought of suggesting it to you, I would have. Your last letter did make me have second thoughts, Elspeth, but it was too late. I'm sorry for the additional worry I caused you."
She gave only a toss of her head. “You did what you thought you should. I wouldn't have felt right if I hadn't remonstrated with you on Andrew's behalf."
Greywell decided to let the matter drop. His annoyance at the time he'd received the letter was long past, and she had had the right to say what she had—on behalf of Andrew. “So, my dear, what else has been going forward here? What have you been up to, other than running the household and taking care of Andrew?"
The question meant nothing out of the ordinary. He really was curious to hear what she thought of the area and the household, and wondered how she'd spent her time. He wasn't at all prepared for the dusky flush that invaded her cheeks, or the way her eyes refused to meet his. What the devil had she been up to?
"Nothing much,” she managed to say. Had Mrs. Green made some mention of her frequent visits from Francis Treyford? Was that what he wanted to know? Because she couldn't bring herself to look at him, she hurried on, “I've seen a bit of Emily Marden and Abigail Waltham. And I've done a bit of renovating in my room and in the Queen's Closet, which I've taken over for my sitting room. I hope you won't mind."
"Not at all. It sounds a good choice to me."
"I had everything I didn't need put in the attics, as you ordered."
It was Greywell's turn to flush, though in him the color was not really discernible under his tan. “I was a bit overbearing when I brought you here. Forgive me."
"There's nothing to forgive. You were quite right in wanting to keep the furnishings. I really wouldn't have thrown them away, you know."
"Of course not. The furnishings at Ashfield are a little ornate. Perhaps in time we could tone them down a bit. I really have no particular love for that heavy style. It was in fashion when the house was originally put together."
"They don't bother me so much any more. I suppose I've grown accustomed to them. But a few of the rooms could use a little lightening.” Elspeth felt she had successfully distracted him from his original question.
Not so. “And was that enough to keep you occupied? In a neighborhood where you knew so few people I worried that you'd be lonely."
Elspeth couldn't really believe he'd worried any such thing. What she thought was that he was fishing for some reference to Francis, and she decided it would be prudent to be the one to offer up his name. “Well, Francis Treyford came to visit me regularly. He read me his poetry."
"Awful stuff, isn't it?” Greywell asked, with an amused light in his eyes. “Francis has been at it for years, and I don't think anyone on earth even understands it."
If she felt she should come to Francis’ defense, she thought better of it almost immediately. Instead she said, “Some of the short pieces he read me were intelligible,” with a flippancy that grated on her nerves. Really, it was too bad of her to be maligning Francis to cover her guilt. “But tell me about your travels, about the Congress and the battle. You've had a lot more happening in your life than I have in mine.” Which was doubtless true, wasn't it?
"The Congress was frustrating and the battle was hell,” he offered succinctly. “Someday I'll tell you about both of them, but not yet, I'm afraid. They're both a little too close for me to make a good tale of them."
Elspeth was disappointed. What were they going to talk about if not what he'd been doing the last six months? And it occurred to her that he would, if he had any consideration for her at all, attempt at least some sort of recounting of his activities. If he was to bar her from reflections on the important matters in his life, there would be little else than household episodes to discuss between them. Francis had been a good deal more open in his conversation. “As you wish, of course, but I had hoped for your thoughts on your experience, not a rousing adventure tale, Greywell."
"If you'll agree to call me David, I'll tell you a little about the months in Vienna,” he offered.
There was a quizzical light in his eyes, and Elspeth lifted one shoulder in an embarrassed shrug. “Of course ... David."
He spoke of Castlereagh and Metternich, of the settlement of the Polish-Saxon question, of the insistence on re-erecting old barriers in Italy, and the overlooking of Napoleon himself. Even when Napoleon had escaped and begun to regroup his army, Greywell insisted, the sovereigns of Europe refused to accept the new situation.
"There always has to be some compromise between self-interest and the interests of the civilized world as a whole,” he said, “and it was difficult to get each of the groups to agree on where the compromise was best made. In the end I felt completely ineffectual in changing the course of events. I have no desire to join whatever negotiations will now take place.” He indicated the sling with a rueful glance. “Fortunately, I won't have to explain my absence."
"You intend to stay here, then, and manage the estate?"
"Except for jaunts to London, yes. You and Andrew can accompany me or not as you wish, but I would like you to see a little of London, Elspeth."
"Why?"
"Because I think you would enjoy it.” He smiled at her, once again noting the new gown and the hairstyle. “There's a great deal to do there—the theater, the shops, the entertainments. I don't think you'd be corrupted, my dear."
Again a rosy color invaded her cheeks but
she said only, “I'll think about it. Shall I take you up to Andrew now? He'll have woken from his nap.
Puzzled by her discomfort, Greywell agreed.
Chapter Twelve
No one at Ashfield said anything to Greywell about Francis Treyford. This was not in an effort, necessarily, to shield him from the knowledge of Elspeth's activities. They didn't, after all, know precisely how matters had worked themselves out between the two, and no one was going to gossip about the new mistress without sufficient foundation. The staff at Ashfield actually had, as Greywell learned from Mrs. Green, developed a great deal of affection for his new wife.
Not that they had expected to. At first they had been exceedingly reluctant to welcome her into their rather close-knit society. They had been fond of Caroline, proud of her beauty and spirit, and accepting of her negligence toward the staff. One did not expect a young girl to understand all the obligations of privilege. And Caroline hadn't understood them, but they had assumed that given a few years and some children of her own, she would settle down and take her proper place as mistress of the manor, so to speak.
The second Lady Greywell, on the other hand, had a perfect understanding of her responsibilities—with regard to the management of the household. It was true that she'd put a few noses out of joint at the very beginning, but the improvements she made were so reasonable and fair that her servants quickly came to trust her judgment. And her concern for their well-being was as obvious as her devotion to the child, who wasn't even her own. So their acceptance of her had grown almost imperceptibly from one of forbearance to one of active appreciation to an ever-strengthening affection.
For all they knew, her relationship with Francis Treyford was perfectly harmless. Certainly they hoped so, and even among themselves they did not discuss the subject, for fear someone would bring up something the others didn't want to hear.
So Greywell had no hint of anything amiss, except those surprising blushes of his wife's. And one other thing. She carried herself differently. He was at a loss, at first, to put a finger on the change. It was not the clothes, and it was not the hairstyle, though both things added immeasurably to her appearance. When he was in the same room with her, he would study her, the way she sat in a chair, or walked across the room, the way she stooped to pick up the child or concentrated on some handwork.
Probably, he decided, it was having the child. Though she hadn't borne Andrew herself, she had adopted motherhood with a real enthusiasm. Her concern for the boy could not have been greater if she'd been his mother, despite her insistence that he must always know Caroline had carried and given birth to him.
Or maybe, he thought again, it was simply having a household of her own over which to reign. She did it magnificently, he had to admit. There was very little going on at Ashfield of which she was not aware, or in which she had no say. When he came, she willingly relinquished the parts of the estate management which were his prerogative, though she continued to show an interest in them, plying him for details of anything new which arose, anything he found it necessary to change, any little matter in which she might have erred, wanting to know, she said, for the future.
What did she expect in the future? That he would go away for an extended period of time again? It was certainly not his intention. He was content to think of spending the majority of his time on the estate, enjoying his son after missing all those months while he grew. Then too, his preoccupation with Caroline for those first years of their marriage had sometimes kept him from taking the time to investigate what could be done at Ashfield to make it a more profitable venture, to improve the lot of the laborers and cottagers. Elspeth might, inadvertently, have fostered this attitude in him; Greywell was not inclined to give her so much credit. He had always intended to do something, and now he would have the leisure to carry out his schemes.
There was certainly more than enough time. Much as he adored his son, and spent a goodly number of hours with him, he could scarcely consider that a major occupation. Sometimes he wondered how he and Caroline had managed to fritter away so many days in idleness. Thoughts of Caroline came less frequently now. His obsession had passed, his grief had abated. And yet there was one thing about her memory, now neatly tucked away in the recesses of his mind, that continued to gnaw at him. For the first week after his return he could not put his finger on it, but it always arose when he was watching Elspeth.
An amorphous physical desire had eventually returned to him. He hadn't acted on it—as yet. But he thought perhaps it was this that was bothering him, and that Elspeth was beginning to inspire something like lust. Perhaps this made him feel disloyal to Caroline's memory, he thought one day as he watched Elspeth from the study window. She was gathering flowers in a basket, her leghorn bonnet knocked to a slightly disreputable angle when she tucked a curl up under it. The desire to spend more time in her company was constantly growing in him.
On a whim, he set down the ledger he had taken from a shelf and left the study. By going out a side door he was able to catch up with her before she noticed him, and he stood for a minute listening to her hum as she worked. Was she happy, then? It wasn't a question that had occurred to him previously.
"You look charming, my dear,” he said, softly so as not to startle her.
Elspeth swung around with a peculiar look on her face. Greywell was at a loss to identify it. Annoyance? Alarm? It was gone before he could quite say. “Oh ... David. Thank you.” She smiled, but absently, tucking the flowers she'd just cut in with the others. “I wish I were better at arranging flowers. And I don't actually like cutting them down this way. Everyone should just come down to the garden to see them, so they could die a natural death."
He had the impression she was aimlessly chattering, something he didn't remember about her from their original meetings at Lyndhurst. Saying something for the sole purpose of covering her confusion. But what was there to be confused about? he wondered. “I thought we might take a ride together when you're finished."
"Is your arm well enough for that?"
"I think so.” The sling was gone now. “I didn't have anything too ambitious in mind, just a ride over to the village."
"Yes, well, that would be lovely. I'll have to change. Say, in about half an hour?"
The enthusiasm seemed forced to him, but he nodded and left her, returning briefly to the study before going to his own room to don riding apparel. Caroline would have tossed her arms around his neck and kissed him, because she never thought he did enough with her. Most of their expeditions had been at her instigation, when he would laugh and touch her nose and say, “Very well, my little love. I can finish the books later."
It was when he saw Elspeth standing beside her mare that something finally clicked in his head. Yes, the way she held herself was decidedly different—different the way Caroline had held herself after their wedding night. Before, she had been flirtatious and aware of her body in only a superficial way, knowing she was pretty, that her figure was admired by men. After, she had held herself with a special kind of feminine consciousness. She had radiated a confidence in her womanhood that had been lacking when she was an uninitiated girl. He remembered feeling astonishingly touched by the change.
A similar change in Elspeth did not make him feel touched at all, but slightly ill. Had she somehow been initiated when he was away? It seemed unlikely, given her frame of mind on the subject of physical intimacy, and the promise he had made to allow her to remain chaste should Andrew regain his health. Greywell assured himself he was imagining things. For all he knew, there might be any number of things which would make a woman aware of her own body in that striking way. Perhaps even having a child to care for, feeling like a mother.
Getting into the saddle was a little awkward, but once he was astride there was no problem. The arm didn't ache much any more unless he was forced to exert it. Elspeth watched him with a proper amount of wifely concern, smiling when he indicated there was nothing to worry about.
"Your Clemson
has done wonders,” she said as they directed their horses toward the village. “I had thought you'd want to call in Dr. Wellow, but there seems to be no need."
"None at all. The surgeon in Brussels told Clemson how to handle it, and I think Clemson would have been extremely put out with me if I'd called in other advice."
"No doubt. He's very protective of you."
Greywell turned to stare at her. “Why do you say that?"
"Oh, not for any particular reason, I suppose. It's just that the day after you returned, I remembered about the snuffboxes I'd put in your drawer, and I thought perhaps I should move them. Not because of Clemson! It just seemed rather silly of me to have put them there in the first place, you know."
She shrugged. “So I was going to put them back where I'd gotten them. And I tapped on your bedchamber door, just as a courtesy, since I knew you were down with your estate manager. But Clemson was there, seeing to your clothes, and he was very suspicious of my wanting to come in. He acted as though I might be spying on you, peering in your drawers and such. He said he'd get me whatever it was I wanted."
"And did he?"
"Well, you must know the snuffboxes weren't there any more, so he couldn't very well find them, could he?” Elspeth sounded miffed.
"No, I suppose not. He'd found them there the first night and asked what I wanted him to do with them. I told him to put them in the study. They aren't so likely to bother you there."
"I made a great fuss about nothing. You should, of course, put them wherever you wish, Gr—David. Some of them are quite handsome. Mrs. Waltham told me a little of the history behind a few of them. She's knowledgeable on the most astonishing subjects, isn't she?"
"Yes. She not only knows their history, but a great deal about their craftsmanship. God only knows where she picked up that information. Their history she knows from me, of course. Did she ask what had become of the ones you'd put away?"
Lord Greywell's Dilemma Page 18