by Stella Riley
‘Such as what?’ He looked at the potatoes as if mystified by their presence and then transferred a couple of them to his plate.
‘Such as having a bedchamber and sitting-room made ready for her, perhaps?’
‘Oh. Yes. I hadn’t thought of that.’
‘Why are we not surprised?’ murmured Paul, with sardonic amusement. ‘You did realise that the lady would be living in the house?’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘There is no ‘of course’ with you, Julian,’ remarked Janet calmly. ‘If your mind is on something else – as it all too frequently is – you don’t remember what was said to you ten minutes ago. However, let us concentrate on making Mistress Marsden welcome, shall we?’
He nodded and smiled, the picture of tractability. ‘How?’
Janet eyed him resignedly. Not for the first time, she wondered how he managed to be completely beguiling and, at the same time, so utterly exasperating that she wanted to shake him. He was ridiculously good-looking, of course. Slightly curling, glossy mahogany hair which, even untidy and over-long as it was, probably had girls wanting to run their fingers through it; eyes of dark, forest green set below straight brows and above well-defined cheek-bones; and most dangerous of all, that shy, sweet smile, guaranteed to pierce even the stoniest of hearts. Even his physique – though still a trifle thin – had begun, during these recent months of manual labour, to gather a little extra muscle. Janet could quite imagine foolish girls sighing over him. Julian, of course, would either fail to notice them or run a mile.
Now, she said patiently, ‘A bedchamber and sitting-room? I will help, if you wish.’
‘Thank you.’ Julian laid down his knife again, half the food on his plate still untouched. ‘I’d be very grateful. But I know you are busy and wouldn’t want --’
‘Have you any idea where to begin?’
‘No.’ Another hint of a smile. ‘None at all, actually.’
‘That’s what I thought. So finish your dinner and pay attention.’ She waited until he began eating, then said, ‘You have Mr and Mistress Phelps living in – he for the heavy work and outside jobs, she as your cook. In addition, their niece comes in for a few hours a week to clean – though, from what I’ve seen, Ginny Brent’s idea of cleaning doesn’t encompass anything above or below eye-level. So before Mistress Marsden arrives and takes one look, then gets back on the next Mail Coach, her task needs to be made less daunting – which means hiring more maids.’
‘The village girls won’t come,’ said Julian, not raising his eyes from his food.
‘That was before they knew anything about you. It’s different now. Mistress Hobbs near the bakery is struggling to make ends meet since she was widowed and she has two daughters, both seeking positions. If you can pay them, they’ll come – and what’s more, they’ll live in. But until we get that settled, I’ll bring my own girls and we’ll make a start. Your floors haven’t been scrubbed or waxed in living memory and the main rooms need a thorough scouring --’
Julian’s knife clattered on the plate. ‘Not the library. My harpsichord --’
‘Fine.’ Janet’s patience was further strained by the fact that her husband was clearly struggling with a desire to laugh. ‘Not the library. But the parlour, the dining-room, the great hall … and a bedchamber for Mistress Marsden – all of which I’ll oversee myself. Are we agreed?’
‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Julian meekly. ‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t be too grateful,’ offered Paul, re-filling all three wine glasses. ‘She’s been itching to get her hands on your mausoleum for weeks.’
‘I never called it a mausoleum,’ objected Janet, colouring a little.
‘It’s what you meant,’ he grinned. ‘So, Julian … you’re still working on the harpsichord? Even though you go to the Misses Caldercotts’ for an hour or so every other day?’
‘It’s not enough,’ came the blunt reply. ‘But I don’t want to wear out my welcome.’
‘There’s no danger of that, I suspect.’
‘Indeed not,’ agreed his wife. ‘Both ladies take great pleasure in what they call their ‘private recitals’. And Miss Beatrice is awestruck by your ability to tune their instrument purely by ear.’
‘Yes.’ Paul lounged back in his chair. ‘I was wondering about that myself.’
Julian’s shrug suggested that the matter was of minor importance. He said, ‘It’s a facility I have; an ability to identify any note without a point of reference and hear the true centre of it. Some people call it perfect pitch.’ He paused and then, smiling crookedly, added, ‘It’s not as rare as you might think. Mozart has it as well. And truthfully, it’s more of a curse than a blessing most of the time.’
‘Why?’
‘Violins,’ came the dark reply, accompanied by a faint shudder. ‘And singers.’
* * *
‘We can’t go on like this,’ announced Arabella flatly. ‘We’ve been going back and forth over the same ground for four days. It’s time to make a decision. If we don’t, the entire question will be redundant because there won’t be sufficient time to plan the thing. So … what is it to be?’
Elizabeth shut her eyes and tried to think. Her good sense and upbringing were saying one thing, while everything inside her shouted another. Finally, drawing a long unsteady breath, she said, ‘All right. I’ll do it.’
Arabella gave a wide, delighted grin.
‘At last! You won’t regret it, Lizzie – I promise you won’t.’
‘Since I already doubt my sanity, I hope you’re right. So … where do we start?’
‘With the main problems we’ll have to overcome.’ Arabella reached into her pocket and flourished a folded sheet of paper. ‘Fortunately, I have a list.’
‘A list. Yes. Of course you do. I might have guessed.’
‘There’s nothing wrong with being prepared.’ Arabella sat down, giving her striped polonaise a cursory twitch. ‘The first three points are the most difficult and, though finding a solution may take time, I thought we should at least be aware of them. First off, there’s Annie. As you said, we’ll need to get her full cooperation. Secondly, there is the possibility that Mama will want one of my brothers to escort us south. And thirdly, there’s the matter of writing and receiving letters – and I really think there’s only one way around that.’ She looked up, dark grey Brandon eyes bright and determined. ‘You write to my family and I’ll write to yours.’
‘What? That won’t work for a minute.’
‘It will. I can’t remember the last time Mama or any of my brothers saw my handwriting. When was the last time Aunt Maria saw yours?’
‘I …. don’t recall.’
‘That’s because there’s no occasion for it. Neither of us has ever been from home, have we? And our handwriting isn’t that dissimilar.’
‘It isn’t only the handwriting,’ protested Elizabeth. ‘You’d still sound like you.’
‘Well, how else is it to be managed? How can either of us write letters pretending to be the other one without knowing what to write about? And we’ll be receiving letters as well, remember – in addition to which, you’ll be staying in a ducal household, so Mama will expect letters from London to bear Rockliffe’s seal. Don’t you see? Writing letters on each other’s behalf is the only way we can make this work.’
Elizabeth massaged her temples. ‘I’m beginning to wish I’d never agreed to it.’
‘You’ll get over it,’ grinned Arabella. ‘Now … I’ll deal with Annie. And if Mama raises the subject, I’ll set about persuading her that Max is too busy to undertake a return-trip to London, Adam will soon be off to visit his friend’s wretched fencing academy in Paris and Leo … well. Let’s be honest. Leo attracts trouble like a magnet. We’ll be much safer travelling under the protection of a couple of outriders. That should do it, don’t you think?’
‘Probably,’ agreed Elizabeth, reaching to take a macaroon from the tray. ‘But there are greater problems than the ones you
’ve listed. What about the girls we know who are likely to be in London at the same time? The ones you were so eager to avoid … and who will know at a glance that I’m not you.’
Arabella’s smile was seraphic. ‘There were only three. Angela Kingsley, Dorothea Henderson and Sarah Fanshawe. But as it turns out, none of them will be making their curtsy this season.’ A gurgle of decidedly wicked laughter weaving through her voice, she said, ‘Measles.’
‘Measles?’
‘Yes. Dorothea’s brother told Max that it’s gone through Miss Atherton’s Academy like a plague. They’ve all come out in spots … and none of their mothers are letting them near London until the marks fade. Fate, Lizzie, is on our side.’
‘So it would seem – though you might show a glimmer of sympathy.’
‘For Sarah Fanshawe?’ demanded Arabella, by no means deaf to the quiver in her cousin’s voice. ‘I’m not such a hypocrite – and I didn’t think you were, either. But the most important thing is that you needn’t worry about being recognised. One problem less.’
‘And when the masquerade is over? What do we do then? We can’t exactly just switch back to being ourselves, can we? Somehow, we’re going to have to manage things so that we return home together – and that isn’t going to be easy.’
Arabella took the last apricot tart and bit into it.
‘The timing of that part will mostly depend on the length of your visit. The duchess hasn’t said how long it will be, so we can’t plan for it. But when you know, you can write to me. I’ll resign the housekeeper post and we’ll meet at the same coaching inn where we parted company.’
‘And if the duke sends me home in one of his own carriages – as he’s almost certain to do? What then?’
‘When you’re safely away from London, you’ll tell the coachman you wish to collect a friend en route. We can resume our own identities somewhere between there and here and no one will be any the wiser.’
This all sounded rather too easy. ‘You don’t think the coachman might start to wonder when he sees that we’ve exchanged clothes?’
‘I doubt coachmen and grooms ever notice what one is wearing,’ returned Arabella with what her cousin privately considered was naïve optimism. ‘However … speaking of clothes, now would be a good time to make sure my gowns fit well enough. Come on.’
Elizabeth rose, saying, ‘What are you going to tell Annie?’
‘The truth. She’s sure to have a great deal to say but if we throw ourselves on her mercy and make her believe she’s part of the secret, she may come round more quickly.’
On being told what was in the wind, Annie did indeed have a great deal to say – most of it concerned with the fact that Miss Belle ought to be past the age of indulging in wild pranks and a final, doom-laden prophecy that it was all going to end in tears. But when none of this had any noticeable effect and she had laced Elizabeth into a pink flowered polonaise, very similar to the one Arabella was wearing, professionalism took over and she said, ‘That looks very well on you, Miss Lizzie and nobody’d know it wasn’t made for you. Just needs a bit of adjustment with pinning the over-dress to allow for you being a bit fuller in the bosom than Miss Belle.’
‘You just had to point that out, didn’t you?’ muttered Arabella whilst slanting a laughing glance in Elizabeth’s direction. And then, ‘Well. We make quite a pair, don’t we?’
The cousins stood side by side before the mirror, one in green-striped satin and the other in rose pink tiffany. They were the same height, of very similar build and both fair … but there the likenesses ended. Where Arabella’s eyes were dark grey, Elizabeth’s were the blue of forget-me-nots; and while Arabella had inherited the silver-gilt hair which recurred in the family every generation or so, Elizabeth’s curls were the same true gold possessed by their mothers.
Annie sniffed. ‘It’s a shame you can’t both go to London. I’ll give you that much. But I’m not happy about letting you go off on your own, Miss Belle – and not just ’cos her ladyship and Mr Max will have my head if anything happens to you, neither. So you’d better sew it all up tight if you want me to keep quiet about what the pair of you are up to.’
‘We will – I promise.’ Arabella dropped a kiss on her maid’s cheek. ‘We’ll plan every detail. And what can possibly happen to me? Lord Chalfont is an earl!’
‘I don’t see as that makes it any better,’ replied Annie darkly. ‘From what I can make out, when it comes to gentlemen, the higher the title the worse they behave.’
* * *
Having cornered the children in the nursery-suite between supper-time and bed, Julian closed the door behind him and leaned against it in what he hoped was a casual pose but which would also shore up Tom’s escape route. He said, ‘There’s something we need to discuss … so perhaps you could all sit down?’
Rob and Ellie settled on the battered sofa; Rob looking a little wary and Ellie expectant.
Tom remained standing, his expression a mixture of anxiety and belligerence. He said, ‘If’n you’re going to put us out, just bleeding say it. No need to discuss it, is there?’
‘If I was going to do that, I should think there would be every need,’ replied Julian evenly. ‘But since I’m not, I suggest you sit down and listen.’
Ellie reached up and tugged at her brother’s hand.
‘Sit down, Tom. It’s all right. Sir Julian don’t lie to us.’
Julian found himself repressing a grin. Sir Julian, indeed. Where had that come from? But he continued to watch Tom until the boy hurled himself ungraciously into the nearest chair and then said, ‘I won’t turn you out, Tom. You have my word.’
‘And that’s supposed to mean summat is it?’
‘Stop it, Tom!’ hissed Rob. ‘Just stop!’
‘Yes.’ Tiring of twelve-year-old bravado, Julian detached himself from the door and stepped aside. ‘But if my word isn’t good enough for you, you’re free to leave at any time.’
There was a long, unpleasant silence during which colour ebbed from Tom’s face, Ellie looked ready to burst into tears and Julian held his breath. Then Rob said rapidly, ‘Just shut up, Tom. Ellie’s right. Sir’s never lied to us. So button it and listen, will you?’
Tom shrugged and picked at his cuff, saying nothing. Taking this for temporary capitulation, Julian said, ‘Thank you. I came up to tell you that, since I don’t know anything about looking after children, we’ll be getting help.’
‘What sort of help?’ asked Ellie.
‘A lady. Her name is …’ He stopped, scouring his brain. What was her name? Marshall? No. Marsden. That was it. ‘Her name is Mistress Marsden and, as well as being a sort of housekeeper, she will know how to care for the three of you better than I do.’
‘I don’t need no sodding female looking after me,’ growled Tom.
And, ‘You look after us well enough,’ offered Rob.
‘Better than anybody,’ said Ellie stoutly.
‘Kind – but untrue. Tom … the lady is coming whether you need her or not. And since you will have to moderate your language once she arrives, you may as well begin now.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It means,’ said Julian firmly, ‘that you will stop swearing.’
‘Or what? You’ll hit me?’
‘Oh, something much worse than that. I’ll tell Mr Phelps that you’ll clear away that heap of muck behind the stables. He’ll be happy to be spared the task himself … and since your mouth is a midden, the rest of you might as well smell like one.’
Hours later, crouched over the harpsichord as he attempted to re-fit the jackrail, Julian was still wondering where the words had come from and whether to congratulate himself for handling Tom tolerably well or worry that the boy might decamp in the night. It was a relief, therefore to find Tom at breakfast with the other children on the following morning … silent and mulish but still physically present.
It was a long, gruelling day. The sky was heavy with the promise of a stor
m and every pair of hands was needed to get the last of the harvest, such as it was, into the barns before the heavens opened. By the time it was done, thunder was rumbling in the distance and Julian felt as if his back was breaking. But there at the end of the lane, little Ellie sat patiently waiting for him.
Although she took his hand just as she always did, she neither skipped along at his side nor chattered about her day. Instead, she walked in silence for a time before finally saying, ‘Is this lady who’s coming nice?’
It ought to be the easiest thing in the world to simply say yes … but he couldn’t do it. Not only because he actually was incurably truthful; but because, for some reason, Ellie believed that he was. So he said, ‘I haven’t met her so I don’t know for certain. I hope so. Dr Featherstone found her for us and she sounds quite nice in her letters.’
Ellie digested this for a moment or two. Then, with a tiny tremor in her voice, she said, ‘What if she isn’t? Mistress Clack who we used to l-live with wasn’t very nice. And Mistress Hassall read us a story about a wicked stepmother. What if this lady is like them?’
Something unpleasant coiled in Julian’s gut. He stopped walking, sat down on the stone wall and lifted the child up beside him.
‘The wicked stepmother was just a story, Ellie. It wasn’t true. And Mistress Marsden isn’t going to be your stepmother anyway. She’ll be a sort of a cross between Mistress Hassall and Mistress Phelps. But I’ll make you a secret promise.’
Ellie’s eyes grew round. ‘Just between you and me?’
He nodded. ‘If the lady isn’t nice … if she hurts or frightens you … you will tell me and I’ll send her away. How’s that?’
‘You promise?’
‘I promise.’
Just for an instant, she beamed at him as if he’d given her the earth. Then, snuggling against his side so that, without him knowing how, his arm ended up around her, she said, ‘I’m glad you came, Sir Julian. Everything is better now. You won’t go away, will you?’
Julian stared sightlessly at the hedge on the other side of the lane and resolutely pushed back the familiar desolation. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I won’t go away.’