by Sandra Heath
At the head of the chamber, facing the minstrel gallery, there was a raised dais where she could well imagine a medieval banquet taking place. On the wall behind this there was the largest Arras tapestry she had ever seen, its vivid colors depicting a hunting scene, with great hounds and men on white coursers pursuing wild boar through romantic groves.
It was an astonishing room, as Gothic as any devotee of Mrs. Radcliffe could wish. A liveried footman came to conduct her up to the rooms which were to be hers throughout her stay. He led her through a wide arch to a grand staircase which ascended between newel posts topped by the Calborough phoenix. More tapestries glowed richly against the paneled walls on the first half-landing, where she paused for a moment to look back at Delphine, who stood at the foot of the staircase, one little hand resting lightly on a phoenix. Delphine smiled at her and then walked away, her little steps echoing as she entered the great hall once more.
The staircase led on up through four flights and three half-landings to the floor above, and then on up to other floors, but the footman conducted her across a wide area on the first floor. She saw the door opening onto the minstrel gallery in the great hall, and other passages leading to other parts of the house, but it was to some handsome folding doors that the footman led her, thrusting them open to reveal a great gallery beyond, the sort of gallery which in days gone by would have seen guests strolling to admire paintings and sculptures if the weather prevented a leisurely walk in the grounds.
There were still paintings and statues, but the gallery no longer served its original purpose; it merely afforded access to a number of private apartments, including, as she was to discover, Delphine’s, which lay a little beyond her own. The doors into these apartments were all down one side of the gallery, while on the other there were mullioned windows overlooking the quadrangle. Stained-glass trefoils topped each of these windows, and the light they cast was jeweled, glancing prettily off the polished dark wood of the floor and paneling.
Bryony’s apartment was one of the first, and as she entered she saw Kathleen’s smiling face, the little dogcart having arrived while Bryony had been in the conservatory. The maid waited until the discreet footman had withdrawn and then grinned.
“Oh, Miss Bryony, I’m so relieved to see you, for that dogcart was the most uncomfortable, bouncing, bone-rattler that I ever came across, and then I saw your grand carriage disappearing and me left all alone! And then there’s this place! Did you ever see the like of it in your life? I can’t make up my mind if it’s supposed to be a castle or a cathedral!”
Bryony laughed, glancing around the little drawing room in which they stood. Like the rest of the house it was very much in the Gothic style, with panels, stone fireplace, tapestries, and heavy carved furniture. Through the window she could see a view down to the headland and the strange tower-like folly she had noticed earlier. There was a window seat in the embrasure, and she knew that that would become her favorite place to sit, for it looked so inviting and there was such a magnificent view to gaze at.
From this drawing room, a door led into her bedroom, which was dominated by a huge four-posted bed, its canopy of dull blue velvet looking very heavy and almost stifling on such a warm day. Beyond the bedroom there was a dressing room, and she could see her trunks waiting to be unpacked.
Kathleen watched her for a moment, a slightly uneasy look clouding her face as she brought herself to mention something which was bothering her. “Miss Bryony?”
“Yes?”
“Did ... did you see the gates of Tremont Park when you drove here?”
“Yes.” Bryony looked away.
“Then you saw ... ?”
“Sir Sebastian and the Countess of Lowndes? Yes.”
“I wouldn’t mention anything at all, but the fellow driving the dogcart was a terrible gossip, and he told me—”
“I think I know what you are going to say, Kathleen, but I already know all about it.”
“He did say that it was only whispered, Miss Bryony, that no one knew for sure that the countess was Sir Sebastian’s mistress.”
“I think there is no doubt that she is,” replied Bryony, “but I do not wish to discuss it further.”
“Yes, Miss Bryony.” Kathleen bobbed a hasty curtsy and went to unpack.
Bryony went to sit on the window seat. After a moment she spoke again. “It’s very beautiful here.”
“Oh, it is indeed,” replied the maid from the dressing room. “Mind you, I shall have to watch myself here, for they’re a terribly uppity lot.”
“Uppity?”
“Well, when I arrived that steward fellow spoke to me, wanted to know what my name was. I said that it was Kathleen and he drew himself up very prickly and aghast, saying that it was my surname he was after, that at Polwithiel servants were never addressed by their first names. He said the duke and duchess were very strict about such things and that I’d better remember that in future if I wanted to stay on the right side of everyone. Oh, by the way, I’ve taken the liberty of asking for a bath to be prepared for you. I know that you’ll be glad of one after all that traveling. A footman will be along soon to say that the bathhouse is ready.”
“The bathhouse? That sounds very grand.”
Kathleen appeared at the bedroom door, smiling. “That’s what I said, and the steward looked down his nose at me and said that at Polwithiel guests did not expect to bathe in a tub before the fire, they expected to be offered the facility of a proper chamber for the purpose of cleansing themselves.”
The maid mimicked the steward’s voice perfectly, and in spite of all her worries, Bryony curled up with laughter. “Oh, Kathleen Murphy, you’re a tonic, and no mistake!”
A little after that the footman did indeed knock at the door and both Bryony and Kathleen were conducted along the gallery, through some more folding doors and on to a dark landing where there was an ornate door decorated with glazed Dutch tiles. Apart from this rather opulent entrance into the so-called bathhouse, the landing also gave onto a narrow flight of steps which descended into darkness below. They were evidently little used, for although the walls visible from the landing were freshly decorated and hung with small, colorful paintings, when she had the temerity to descend them a short way she noticed immediately that the walls were in need of a coat of paint, and there were damp patches here and there, evidently from the rather uncertain plumbing in the bathhouse above. Guests were not expected to use this staircase, and where guests did not go, there was no need for show.
The bath was the very thing, making her feel a great deal better. She was glad to dispose of the clothes she had traveled in and put on a fresh pink-and-white-striped dress. Afterward, as she walked back along the gallery to her rooms, she looked down into the quadrangle and saw a gleaming carriage emerging from the arched gateway in the wall by the conservatory. Drawn by a team of perfectly matched chestnuts, it crossed the cobbles to the porch, and as it swayed to a standstill the steward emerged as if by magic to fling open the door and lower the rungs for the sole occupant to alight.
Bryony found herself gazing down at the Duchess of Calborough, a tall woman whose rather tight-lipped face was dominated by a long, questing nose. She was very slender, although that was not because she had looked after her figure but rather because she was so thin that she had no figure to lose. Her back was as straight as a rod and she held her head high, looking very regal and striking in a bottle-green pelisse and a black hat from which sprang a flouncy plume.
Her son and daughter bore no resemblance whatsoever to her, thought Bryony, and must therefore take after their late father, the fourth duke. She felt something akin to dismay as she watched the duchess glance coldly around the quadrangle and then proceed into the house, for there was something about that haughty expression and stiff manner which suggested that everything Delphine had said of her mother was true, and that did not bode well for the future Lady Sheringham, of whom the duchess could hardly approve, especially since the business of the let
ter from Anthony Carmichael.
Bryony did not have long to wait before being summoned to the presence. A footman led her through the house to the great drawing room, which, being at Gothic Polwithiel, was known as the solar. It was another baronial room, this time with a splendid oriel window high in the north wall, but Bryony did not have time to inspect her surroundings; she could only look at the upright, rather intimidating figure seated upon a sofa close to the immense fireplace. Bryony paused in the doorway, around which there were dark red velvet draperies, and then she slowly approached the sofa, at the last moment sinking into what she prayed was an elegant curtsy.
“Hmm,” murmured the duchess, her pale blue eyes moving critically over her charge, “I suppose one must hope that appearances are deceptive, for when I look at you I fear that my misguided nephew is about to make a most monumental error. To be sure, I think he has lost his senses anyway, for he could have had virtually his pick of the daughters of the greatest families in the land. However, I have agreed to take you on, and I intend to do my duty, which duty begins with matters concerning your appearance. Does that wretched rag of a dress pass for high fashion in County Down? Yes, I suppose it probably does. Well, it won’t do here. Long trains are the thing at the moment, missy, but yours barely brushes the floor behind you, and as to those dreadful ringlets, well, they will simply have to go. Is that clear?”
Bryony was shaken by the severity and dislike in the woman’s expression and words. “Y-yes, your grace,” she stammered, “it is quite clear.”
“Good, then I trust that when we dine tonight you will appear with your coiffure looking a little more up to the mark, either cropped short or worn up in a Grecian knot. Either will do. As to the gown ... well, if you have something with a longer train, you must wear it. No doubt you have been informed that the couturière Madame Colbert is to visit Polwithiel to discuss the details of an entirely new wardrobe, and I trust that before the summer ball you will have one of her gowns to appear in. Cornwall society will be gathered in strength to cast its critical eyes over my nephew’s intended wife, missy, and you will not let him down. Is that also clear?”
“Yes, your grace,” replied Bryony, disliking her but endeavoring not to show it by so much as a flicker of an eyelid.
“Madame Colbert will attend to your outward appearance, but it is my misfortune to deal with everything else. I am a very strict mistress, as you will soon discover, and I also expect a very high standard. I do not expect to discover that you have had further dealings with your lover.”
Bryony flushed angrily. “I have no lover!” she protested. “And Mr. Carmichael had no right to write the things he did.”
The duchess’s face was cold. “Do you deny the existence of a liaison?”
“Yes. I admit to knowing him, but I strongly deny that he is my lover.”
“I trust you are right, missy,” said the duchess softly, “for it will be the worse for you if I discover you to be lying. I have been against this foolish match from the outset, because I regard it as a hopeless misalliance for my nephew. I warn you here and now that if I suspect anything where you are concerned, then I will consider it my duty to inform Sebastian and to strongly counsel him against proceeding with the betrothal.
“The thought of you as Lady Sheringham appalls me, Miss St. Charles, and the further thought of you as a member of my family brings me to the edge of the vapors. I sincerely hope that you do not come up to scratch and that my nephew will see sense, but I will not deal dishonestly with you, of that you may be sure. If you do as you are told and learn what I have to teach, then I will swallow my considerable prejudice and will inform him that I am satisfied you have made the necessary grade. The betrothal will follow almost immediately. Have I made myself perfectly clear on all points, Miss St. Charles?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Then you may go.”
Bryony curtsied again, and then withdrew gladly from the room. In the corridor outside she paused for a moment, her eyes closed. This was far worse than anything she had dreamed of, and the duchess was more of a Gorgon than anything her daughter had hinted. Trembling a little, she endeavored to regain a little of her composure, and she presented a calm, collected face to the curious eyes of the servants she encountered as she retraced her steps to her private rooms. She had to endure it all, she simply had to! For the sake of Liskillen and her father.
Chapter Eight
It seemed to Bryony that the hour for dinner approached at alarming speed. Feeling almost sick with apprehension at the thought of Sebastian and the countess, she still had to be mindful of what the duchess had said concerning appearance. She had always been proud of her long, curling hair and the thought of cutting it à la victime or à la guillotine was a little too drastic to contemplate, even though she conceded that on Delphine such short fashions were very becoming indeed.
Kathleen was not used to modish coiffures, and she struggled a great deal to twist the light brown hair into a neat Grecian knot, but each time she tried to pin it in place it spilled from her fingers and she had to begin again. In the end, however, she managed to persuade it to remain where it was wanted, although she needed rather too many pins in order to achieve this. The pins had to be concealed with small sprays of artificial flowers, which Bryony trusted would meet with the duchess’s approval.
The matter of a gown with a long train was quite another matter. Bryony simply did not possess one, and the only item in her entire wardrobe which presented some possibilities was a blue muslin spotted with silver. Kathleen had the clever notion of removing the fine lace from Bryony’s nightgown and applying it in neat gathers down the back of the blue muslin’s skirt. The gathers continued beyond the hem, being cleverly stitched one to another, so that a train of sorts emerged where none had been before.
A little more of the lace was stitched to the puffed sleeves, and as the clock on the mantelpiece was pointing to eight o’clock, Bryony was at last able to step into her “new” gown. The clock ceased chiming just as Kathleen fixed the final hook and eye, and Bryony stared at her reflection in the cheval glass. The moment had arrived. Now she must go down and face Sebastian and his mistress.
Picking up her silver reticule, she glanced at Kathleen. “Wish me luck.”
“You will not need luck, Miss Bryony, for you look beautiful. Sir Sebastian will be dazzled by you and he will soon turn from the countess.”
Would he? Bryony doubted that very much. Taking a deep breath to steel herself for what lay ahead, she left her rooms and proceeded along the gallery, on her way to the solar, where it was the custom for everyone to gather before going in to dine in the winter parlor. She pondered that at Polwithiel every room appeared to have been given a Gothic name, the entrance hall becoming the great hall, the main drawing room the solar, and the dining room the winter parlor.
Passing through the folding doors, she came to the landing surrounding the well of the grand staircase and saw Felix coming up toward her, having evidently only just left the salle d’armes, for his hair curled damply against his forehead and his coat was tossed carelessly about his shoulders. His valet, looking totally exhausted, followed a few steps behind, hurrying on past when his master stopped to speak to Bryony.
Felix smiled at her. “I fear I am going to be exceeding late for tonight’s exciting diversion, but then, I hardly wish to be prompt when I must look at Sebastian over the epergne.”
She returned the smile. “Have you really been in the conservatory all this time?”
“The salle d’armes, dear lady,” he reproved. “l am a swordsman, not a damned gardener.”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Granted. Yes, I have been there all this time, but I have rested now and then and I have taken the refreshment necessary to keep body and soul together.”
“Your valet looks extremely fatigued.”
“As I said earlier, Frederick is out of condition. He is knocked up after five minutes.” He smiled, his glance
moving slowly over her. “So, it seems we are to be denied ringlets with the mulligatawny?”
She flushed a little. “Yes.”
“Mother’s work, no doubt.”
“Yes.”
“And are you ready to meet my damned cousin face to face at last?”
“As ready as I ever will be, I suppose.”
He raised an eyebrow. “What an enigmatic reply. Surely it cannot mean that you do not look forward to your brilliant catch?”
“No doubt I look forward to it as much as does Sir Sebastian.”
“However much that may be.” He glanced again at her hair. “A more fashionable coiffure suits you. Those ringlets were decidedly out-of-date.”
She didn’t quite know what to say, for while he had complimented her, he had at the same time been more than a little rude. “Possibly your grace thinks everything about me is decidedly out-of-date,” she said then, her tone cool.
“Oh, no, Miss St. Charles,” he replied, seeming to find her reaction a little amusing, “for your beauty is timeless, and your spirit ... well, interesting.” He inclined his head then and walked on in the direction of his private apartment.
She remained where she was for a moment. Felix, Duke of Calborough, was an extremely handsome man, and conscious of the fact. He appeared to find it entertaining to be one moment charming and the next hurtful. He was a contradiction which she did not particularly care for.
Slowly she walked on in the direction of the solar. Thoughts of Felix faded into the background as she approached the massive doors, guarded by liveried footmen. Had anyone else arrived yet? Were Sebastian and Petra even now waiting beyond those doors? Her nerve almost failed her and she hesitated, but then she drew herself up once more, determinedly walking on toward the doors, which were immediately flung open to admit her. She passed through into the silent, deserted solar; she was the first to arrive.
She did not know whether to be relieved or not as she walked slowly across the vast room to sit down gingerly on the edge of a sofa, for if she was spared the moment of meeting now, it simply meant that the ordeal was postponed for a few more minutes. She glanced nervously around, feeling very ill-at-ease and wishing with all her heart that her father had never fallen into the clutches of that crooked land agent, never listened to his grandiose farming schemes, and never consequently found himself in the predicament he had! If only all that were so, then she would at this very moment be seated in the drawing room at Liskillen contemplating nothing more disagreeable than whether the cook had again boiled the cabbage to a pulp.