John raised his hands, splaying his fingers. “Acquit me, Amelia. Consider it unsaid. I apologize if you mistook my words.”
“There was nothing at all to be mistook,” I said. “If I had a roll I would be tempted to throw it at you, except that if I had one, I probably would eat it.”
Thomas laughed, a delightful tolling of human bells, utterly charming to the ear. Did nothing the man do grate on one’s nerves?
John said, “You must admit, Amelia, that occasionally women are fickle. Maybe more than occasionally.”
I looked down to see that a roll had appeared on the edge of my plate. I looked to see Brantley removing himself once again to the dining room door. I picked up the roll and waved it at him, grinning. He had no expression whatsoever on his face. What was he thinking about all of us? Had he given me a roll so that I could throw it at John? Was he amused?
“I have never met a fickle woman in my life,” Amelia said. “And your apology, John, rang as false as a sinner’s third promise to reform. No, I believe it is you men who are the fickle ones.”
“The reason Lord Pontly lived so long,” Lawrence said easily before Amelia could throw another roll at John, “is because he was such a dreadful man the devil didn’t want him. Finally, though, so many years had passed that even the devil had no choice but to fetch him home to bask at the devil’s own hearth.”
“That was quite clever,” I said, and lifted my wineglass to toast my husband. He just shook his head at me, as if to say, Young men, what is one to do with them?
I knew the answer to that. One shot them.
Thomas said, “Amelia, my dearest, you were fickle. Think back, and you will have to admit it.” He turned to say to me, “She was charmingly fickle, however. I saw it as a challenge and worked to overcome her adorable capriciousness, although it did take me the better part of six months. I wrote poems to her, my very best titled ‘Without You I Am Done For.’ I believe it was that poem that made her place her hand in mine.”
Amelia patted her husband’s arm. “No, Thomas, it wasn’t that poem, although it evoked startling images in my mind, it was the song you sang beneath my bedchamber window that quite won me over.” She looked over at me. “Perhaps, if his lungs are properly pumped up and healthy, Thomas will consent to sing his song at your window, Andrea.”
“It’s Andy,” I said. “I would like that, Thomas. Perhaps you can tell me the theme of your song?”
He frowned a moment over a spoonful of peas. “It was one of my better efforts,” he said finally, a slight flush on his lean cheeks. Then he opened his beautiful mouth and sang in a lovely tenor voice:
Wring my withers
You saucy wench.
Whisper you love me
But not in French.
Tell me you’ll wed me and make it soon
Else I’ll grow feathers and fly to the stars.
I was laughing so hard I couldn’t breathe. My eyes teared. My husband rose, quickly walked to my end of the table, and slapped his palm between my shoulder blades.
“I will have to have Brantley take the leaves out of this table,” he said. “I cannot be expected to rise every few minutes to thump your back.”
“That is an excellent idea,” I said when I caught my breath. “Then we can thump each other’s backs.”
I saw that John had utterly lost control as well. He was gulping down water and choking. To my astonishment, I looked over to see Brantley with his fist stuffed in his mouth.
“It did wring her withers,” Thomas said gravely seemingly oblivious of the collapse he had caused. He leaned over and lightly kissed his wife’s cheek.
“I was won over picturing him glued over with white feathers,” Amelia said. “He drew me in with those feathers, even though I was forced to critique his effort, just a bit, you understand. I tried to tell him that stars didn’t rhyme with soon, that one expected to hear Else I’ll grow feathers and fly to the moon, but he just gave me that archangel’s smile of his and told me, no, he never wanted to do the expected. that was boring. No perfect rhymes for him. He never wanted to bore me. And, of course, he hasn’t.”
Lawrence was just shaking his head. As for Brantley, he stood stiff as a fireplace poker now, all contained again. I looked at the two footmen, who were not, obviously, as well trained as Moses. Both their heads were averted. I could only see their profiles.
“Sir,” Amelia said to Lawrence, “I hate to bring this delightful dinner to a close, but I have to be honest here. I believe your poor wife is nearly ready to fall asleep in her gooseberry foole.”
I was tired, but how could she tell? I had laughed as hard as everyone else. But it was true. I was flying at only half-mast.
“You’re right, Amelia,” Lawrence said to me, that deep kind voice of his all filled with warm concern. “My dear, the gentlemen will be along shortly. I, myself, am ready for some relaxation. We will come into the drawing room with you and Amelia for a little while, then it’s off to bed with you.”
“Oh, all right,” I said, and then had to catch myself on a yawn. “If you wish. It has been a long day. Besides, I’ll need to walk George, and I never know how long he will wish to sniff around.” I leaned over toward Thomas. “Would you really come to my bedchamber window and sing me a marvelous song like the one you wrote for Amelia?”
“I shall have to think of something like ‘Ode to a Laughing Girl.’ Hmmm. I shall work on this, Andy.”
Amelia motioned to one of the footmen. He reached her side in but a moment to assist her out of her chair. She stopped, still halfway standing. “Oh, goodness, it isn’t up to me now, Andy, you’re the new mistress. When you wish us to leave the table, you must give the signal and do the rising.”
I put my fingers in my mouth and let out a light whistle. “There, the signal is given,” I said, and pushed back my own chair. Brantley was beside me in an instant. “My lady,” he said, and that level, very formal tone of voice chastened me immediately.
My husband wasn’t pleased, either, but I refused to leave the dining table like a ponderous matron wearing a purple turban on her head.
“I see that you and Brantley will have to perfect a signal,” Lawrence said. “Whistling will do to call a horse but not to call the other ladies to attention.”
The three gentlemen rose, waiting until we were out of the dining room before they resumed their seats and enjoyed their port. I could almost taste the port, but it wasn’t to be.
As I walked beside Amelia back to the drawing room, I said, “The house is really quite lovely. Lawrence told me about old Hugo’s diary, filled with rantings about heretics and such.”
“Yes, it’s in a small room just yon, beneath those rusted old suits of armor that the maids don’t like to dust. They think the knights are still inside, at least their bones and their ghosts are, just waiting to pinch them if they’re not wary. I heard one maid tell another that she wasn’t to get too close to any of them because one of the knights just might grab her and pull her into the armor and she would be imprisoned forever.” Amelia laughed then. “This house sometimes makes me wonder if there aren’t more ghosts than Thomas ever admitted to before we were married. It’s the feel of it, you see, nothing overt or blatantly menacing, like sliding chains and creaking floor planks.”
“You asked for a ghost reckoning before you were willing to wed Thomas?”
“Well, you see, my father is a renowned scholar on the delineation of otherworldly manifestations. He believes that there are probably many spirits and other spectral phenomena that reside here at Devbridge Manor, although no one likes to admit to them. He believes that most of them probably date from the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries when very violent things happened here, and, of course, everywhere else as well. He was the one who wanted every ghost produced and discussed until he was satisfied that none would harm me. Truth be told, I think my father is more interested in actually bringing to light the most infamous of the ghosts that is said to reside in the Blac
k Chamber, so he could lord it over his colleagues.
“Unfortunately, Thomas couldn’t even produce one ghost, and he promised me he had walked each of the long corridors at least twice at midnight, but none of them deigned to confront him. As I said, there is simply this feeling here. Soon perhaps I will ask my father to come and conduct some of his scientific spectral experiments. Perhaps he will feel something malignant in the Black Chamber. I never have felt anything in there.”
“I should like to meet your father and observe him,” I said, and then thought I must be a fool. Who wanted to come face-to-face with an unhappy spirit? Who wanted a ghost hanging around, clanking chains or moaning up and down the octaves in one’s ear? What had happened in the Black Chamber?
“Goodness, I never considered ghosts when I agreed to Lawrence’s marriage proposal.”
I heard Lawrence’s voice as he came out of the dining room and said quickly to Amelia, “I want to hear more about any resident specters, Amelia. I want to visit this Black Chamber tomorrow morning.”
I knew, just knew, that my new husband would hear the word ghost out of my mouth and regard me from that moment on as a complete fool. Better to keep some things to myself.
“Of course.” She paused, studied her thumbnail for a moment, and added, “There are other rooms as well that are supposedly visited, but I have never seen or heard anything, and I confess, I have visited them often. But there are stories, particularly about one of them. You are wise to keep this between the two of us. Uncle Lawrence has no patience at all with ghosts.”
What room?
“Amelia, my dear,” Lawrence said, coming into the drawing room. “Andy will be in The Blue Room. Do you mind seeing her there?”
Amelia stared at him. She was silent as one of those suits of armor with the knights’ ghosts inside.
I turned and stared at him as well.
Thomas cleared his throat. “The thing is, sir, perhaps you’ve forgotten that The Blue Room is perhaps better suited to an elderly relative who is rather hard of hearing and perhaps has dimmed vision?”
“Yes, Uncle,” John said, “a relative with very dulled sensibilities.”
What was going on here? Was this the particular room Amelia had just mentioned?
Chapter Eight
Lawrence laughed. “The lot of you are incredibly gullible. Don’t listen to them, Andy. The Blue Room is a lovely bed chamber with a comfortable adjoining sitting room that you will find charming. It is filled with light, and from the wide windows you have a beautiful prospect toward the east lawn and the home wood. This talk of ghosts is just that—talk. It whiles away the hours on a cold winter’s night. Now, my dear Andy, go with Amelia. Miss Crislock is just down the hall from you, in The Dimwimple Room.”
“Ah, yes,” John said from where he was standing next to the fireplace. “She was an heiress of the last century who saved the Devbridge fortunes during a scoundrel’s tenure as earl. I don’t believe she’s still hanging about, is she, Uncle?”
“Alice Dimwimple was a very happy old bird, I was told by my father, who knew her when he was a very young boy. She choked to death at a very advanced age on an excellent glass of brandy, and doubtless ascended to heaven to claim her just rewards.”
“Unlike many of the males of the family,” Thomas said, “who left so many bastards that pregnant females were always presenting themselves here at Devbridge Manor.”
John said, “I understand that my great-uncle—the last of the major scoundrels—had his steward handle the poor females. The steward was a very religious man. The records show that he adopted three of the pregnant women and raised his lordship’s bastards as his own.”
“Grandfather never told me any stories like that,” I said, and my husband patted my hand to ease my obvious disappointment. “That is quite amazing. I should like to hear more.”
“Not tonight.” Lawrence walked to me, lightly kissed my cheek, and said next to my ear, “The Blue Room will suit you very well. I will see you in the morning, my dear. Now, I must speak more closely with John. I believe it necessary to clarify some issues with him.”
Issues that included John remaining my husband’s heir, since there wouldn’t be any children born of our union?
Excellent, I thought, get it out of the way now. I wanted no unpleasantness about that sort of thing with my step-nephew, ever again.
“Goodness,” I said, looking over at that dark face, “you are my step-nephew.”
“Indeed, dear Auntie,” he said, and gave me a deep, mocking bow. There was that look in his dark eyes again, that flash of violence, then it was gone.
I turned back to my husband. “Is there an equally charming history for The Blue Room? An heiress who came into the family whose name was perhaps Miss Blue?”
He laughed, a full, deep, rich laugh. I loved that laugh of his. It was comforting and warm. I certainly preferred it to any show of disapproval.
“Go along with you, my dear. I shall try to come up with something to amuse you on the morrow.”
“Good night, sir, Thomas, John.”
I walked with Amelia back into the central entrance hall. It was a huge area, the floor was stone, so old that it was uneven from all the thousands of feet that had tread upon it.
Amelia paused a moment, waving a graceful hand. “This is the Old Hall, surviving from the first structure built by Old Hugo in the 1580s.”
It was magnificent, the tall wooden-beamed, smoke-blackened ceiling barely visible in the dim light cast by the wall flambeaux. The suits of armor, at least a dozen of them, none of them missing any armor parts, appeared to span the centuries, looked vaguely menacing in that dull shadowy light.
The staircase, all shining oak, wide enough to accommodate at least six people side by side, curved down into the center of the Old Hall. It could not have been older than two centuries, perhaps two and a half centuries at the most.
One wall was dominated by a gigantic fireplace that resembled a great blackened cavern in the half-light. The old stone floor was bare and echoed as Amelia’s shoes click-clacked on her way to the staircase. There was no carpeting on the stairs, just the stretch of highly polished oak.
More wall flambeaux lit our way up the winding stairs. It was nice not to have to carry a candle and carefully guard its frail light. When we reached the landing, I turned to gaze down at the Old Hall. It was a relic of another age, filled with rich dark shadows, mysteries embedded in its walls, and perhaps even other sorts of things mixed in as well. Were I a very old spectral phenomenon, I would enjoy living here a great deal. This place had atmosphere.
“Our uncle’s marriage to you—it has come as a great shock to all of us.”
“I see that it has. I wonder why Lawrence kept it from you?”
Amelia seemed suddenly to make up her mind about something. She cleared her throat, obviously girding her loins, and said with appalling candor, “I do hope that it doesn’t have to do with your antecedents?”
Not a very nice thing to say to your step-auntie, I thought, but given Lawrence hadn’t said a word about me, I suppose it was understandable. Had he feared they would mount arguments because I was so much younger? And Amelia was worried. Still, it wasn’t exactly smoothly and subtly done, and so I said, my voice a bit on the officious side, “I really don’t know. I shall ask my husband.”
Amelia persevered. “Your nickname—Andy—it was bestowed on you by perhaps a gentleman?” Her voice was both wary and defiant. Did she really believe me some sort of opera girl, a traveling mistress? Who could tell these days, what with old Lord Pontly bringing them home in droves?
I very nearly ruined my effect by laughing as I said, “How clever of you, Amelia. As a matter of fact, it was a gentleman. An older gentleman. I quite like it. Yes, I am thoroughly an Andy. Andrea sounds to me like a hateful biddy who should keep her bad manners to herself. What do you think?”
There, I thought, maybe she would remember that I was innocent until proven otherwise.
She started to smile, then drew it back. I didn’t want to deal with any more of this. I was tired, and a headache was beginning just over my left ear. I hated headaches.
“This corridor is endless. Thank God there are so many flambeaux on the walls.”
“Yes,” she said, her tone normal again, thank the heavens. “Devbridge Manor is a sprawling old house, so many small rooms that have no use as far as I can see, and there are even two sets of stairs that lead into blank walls. Perhaps it is very different from what you’re used to?”
She was fishing again and not doing it with an ounce of finesse. I said, goading her, “I’ll admit that there certainly weren’t any cul de sac stairs in the house in London.”
“Come, Andy, how did Uncle Lawrence meet you? At a ball? Some soirée? Or at the opera? At Drury Lane? I wish you would stop dancing around things and just answer me honestly.”
Now this could be interesting, I thought, and gave her a sunny smile. There was doubt in her voice, and she was prodding me but good. She wanted honesty, did she?
“Ask your uncle,” I said.
“No, I am asking you.”
I pursed my lips and cocked my head to the side, as if trying to remember. Finally, I said, “You know, perhaps it was at Drury Lane. It is difficult to remember. I have been to so many plays over the years.”
“You don’t have that many damned years.”
Since she looked ready to burst her seams, I sighed and said, “Actually, he came to my home to present his condolences. And that, Amelia, is all I have to say about it tonight. Trust that I am not some sort of adventuress here to steal all your jewelry.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, but she didn’t sound sorry at all. She sounded relieved. “Thomas and I just didn’t know, and Uncle Lawrence didn’t clarify a single thing tonight.”
“No. However, I cannot imagine Lawrence standing before the three of you this evening and reciting my family names, my yearly income, and whether or not I am addicted to gambling.”
The Countess Page 7