by Stella Riley
Having a fair idea of what was coming, Paul sighed and followed Julian into the clean but still dilapidated parlour, murmuring ‘Yes, I know and I agree. She’s not at all what we expected. She claims to be twenty-five – though I don’t believe that for a minute. And that flawless curtsy coupled with the cut-glass accent bereft of any hint of Yorkshire is --’
‘What does any of that matter?’ Julian burst out. ‘I can’t – I can’t have her here. You have to take her away.’
This was a much more extreme reaction than Paul had anticipated. ‘Why?’
‘Why? You’ve seen her. Why do you think?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.’
‘She – she’s much too young and far too pretty!’ With a massive effort, he managed to stop himself blurting out, Girls like her scare the hell out of me. They tie my tongue in knots and make me feel like an idiot. ‘She’s got to go.’
Far too pretty? thought Paul, baffled. That’s interesting – because aside from unusual hair and nice eyes, she’s nothing out of the ordinary.
In the brief glance which was all he’d allowed himself, nothing Julian had seen was ordinary; not the heart-shaped face nor the halo of silvery-fair hair … and certainly not those lovely dark grey eyes. She was beautiful and thus, to him, terrifying – as a consequence of which he was desperately scraping his mind for acceptable reasons to get rid of her.
‘She’ll never manage the children. Tom will run rings around her. And God knows what people will make of her being here alone with me barring a couple of servants! They’ll say she’s my m-mistress or some such rubbish. I can’t have her here, Paul. I just can’t!’
‘Stop panicking for a moment, will you? I was half-inclined to send her home but she’s determined and not easy to dissuade, so I eventually agreed to a two month trial period. If, by the end of it, you --’
‘Two months? No. I won’t have her living in the same house, seeing her every day, having to talk to her and – and --’
‘And what?’ Paul grinned at him. ‘What’s the matter? Afraid you won’t be able to keep your hands off her?’
‘No!’ snapped Julian, appalled. ‘No, of course not. I wouldn’t – I would never --’
‘I know that. If I didn’t, I’d have put her on the York Mail. Take a deep breath and calm down, will you? It’s eight weeks, Julian – not a lifetime. And she might decide to leave before then. But in the meantime, just give her a chance. She may surprise us.’
* * *
After Mistress Featherstone left, Arabella lingered over her unpacking as long as she dared. The bedchamber and adjoining sitting-room she had been given were comfortable, if shabby, and the view from the windows over rain-soaked fields, less than inspiring. However, none of that was what was bothering her. Dr Featherstone, she decided darkly, ought to have told her about the earl … who was nothing like the middle-aged widower she’d expected. Adam was twenty-eight. Unless the earl was a good deal older than he looked, possession of a twelve-year-old son made him an exceptionally precocious youth – a concept she found she preferred not to contemplate. And why had he behaved so oddly? Arabella knew she hadn’t been looking her best but she didn’t think she looked awful enough to account for his expression of utter alarm. It was all very bewildering. And she hadn’t laid eyes on the children yet.
Having tidied her hair as best she could and changed into the least creased of Elizabeth’s gowns, the inevitable could be delayed no longer. She left her room and went downstairs. The hall was deserted and she had no idea which of the doors led where, so she strode to the nearest one, put her hand on the latch … and nearly jumped out of her skin when a young voice nearby said clearly, ‘You can’t go in there.’
Arabella wheeled round to find herself under the scrutiny of three pairs of eyes. It was uncanny. A second ago, they hadn’t been there. But now there was a scowling, dark-haired boy, his arm looped around the newel at the foot of the stairs; a younger, tow-headed boy, sitting four steps up; and a small girl with big brown eyes, staring at her from three feet away.
Ellie’s words also reached the dining-room where Julian was pacing back and forth in an attempt to convince himself that he could survive the next hour or so. While Paul had been driving to Newark, Janet had insisted that – for this evening at least – dinner should be served correctly and that Julian must sit down at the table with Mistress Marsden to make her feel welcome. He must also, she had said, make an effort with his appearance. So here he was, hair neatly tied and wearing his only decent coat, condemned to an evening of pure torture.
He had never met a pretty young woman who wasn’t terrifying. They looked at him. And it wasn’t just looking. They either wore an expression which suggested they knew something he didn’t … or, worse still, they gazed at him expectantly, as if waiting for him to say something in particular. And because he didn’t know what that particular something was, his brain had a tendency to freeze completely.
On the other side of the dining-room door, one such female was encountering the children for the first time. Julian knew he ought to help with this. Instead, despising his cowardice, he stayed where he was and listened.
In the hall, Arabella swallowed, summoned a smile and focussed on the easiest target.
‘Can’t I? I didn’t know that. Thank you for telling me.’
Ellie nodded. ‘It’s locked, anyway. Nobody’s allowed in because of the harpy cord.’
‘The harpy cord? I don’t quite --’
‘Harpsichord,’ said Tom. ‘The heap of rubbish nobody’s allowed to touch.’
‘It is not rubbish!’ Ellie swung round on him. ‘Just you wait till it’s mended.’
‘Hell will freeze first,’ came the derisive reply. Then, turning a hard stare on Arabella, ‘Just so you know … that’s Rob and that’s Ellie. I’m Tom. And I don’t need no nursemaid.’
Being very familiar with male pride, Arabella knew the correct response to this.
‘You didn’t need to tell me that, Tom. It’s perfectly obvious that you can look after yourself.’ She smiled at Rob and Ellie. ‘I hope you two aren’t going to say that you don’t need me either because that will mean I’ve come an awful long way for nothing.’
Rob grinned back. ‘We’ll let you know. Mistress Marsden … right?’
‘Quite right – but a bit of a mouthful, don’t you think? How about Miss B-Lizzie?’
‘Miss Blizzy?’ asked Rob cheekily.
‘Lizzie,’ said Arabella, furious with herself for the slip. ‘It’s short for …’
The words withered on her tongue as the earl stepped into the hall wearing an expression that defied interpretation and very obviously avoiding her eyes. She thought, He doesn’t like me. We’ve barely exchanged a word and already he doesn’t like me. Why?
Ellie, meanwhile, skipped across to take his hand, saying, ‘Can we show Miss Lizzie our rooms and take her to meet Missus Phelps and --’
‘Tomorrow,’ said Julian, managing something vaguely resembling a smile. ‘You can do that tomorrow. For now, go and see what Mistress Phelps has for your supper.’
They clattered away towards the kitchen, leaving Julian feeling exposed and awkward.
Indicating the room he’d just left, he said, ‘Ma’am?’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
The dining-parlour was cavernous, dismal and contained a large table, with places set at either end. Well, thought Arabella, that speaks volumes. And he’s left the door open. Is that to safeguard my reputation or because he’s afraid I’ll throw myself at him? With looks like that, I daresay he’s used to girls drooling over him. And there’s no denying those eyes of his are extraordinarily -- She checked the thought before it could go any further. But he won’t find me drooling. I’m accustomed to handsome men. There are three of them at home. And David was pretty, too … so I don’t judge by looks any more.
She sat, straight-backed, on an over-stuffed horsehair sofa, watched him pull the bell to let th
e servants know they could serve dinner and decided to leave conversation up to him. Just when she was coming to the conclusion that he wasn’t going to open his mouth, he said stiffly, ‘Did you have a pleasant journey?’
‘Very pleasant, thank you. I travelled as far as Newark with my cousin.’
‘Ah. That was … fortunate.’
‘Wasn’t it? She is on her way to visit relatives in London, so we were able to begin our respective journeys together.’ She waited and, when he said nothing, added, ‘Of course, thanks to the rain, the ride from Newark to here was less enjoyable. But it was very kind of Dr Featherstone to collect me.’
For the space of a heartbeat, the long-lashed green eyes flicked to her face before going back to studying the carpet. He said, ‘I don’t keep a carriage.’
That possibility hadn’t previously occurred to Arabella. What titled gentleman didn’t keep a carriage? On the other hand, she suspected that if Lord Chalfont had come to Newark himself, she might currently be on her way back to Yorkshire. Annoyance began tugging at the edges of her mind. Forcing herself to ignore it, she said pleasantly, ‘I understand you have only recently inherited your title, my lord.’
‘Six months ago,’ said Julian, managing not to add, Six months and a bloody lifetime. ‘The estate has been … neglected.’
A maid came in and set a tureen of soup on the table. Casting a brief yet oddly indulgent glance at the earl, she said, ‘Milord, ma’am … if you’d like to be seated, I’ll serve.’
Remembering just in time that he was supposed to pull out a chair for his guest, Julian did so before walking the length of the table to take his own place. The maid ladled soup into bowls and offered each of them the basket of rolls, saying cheerfully, ‘Fresh-baked this afternoon, sir.’
‘Yes. Thank you … er … Rose?’
‘Violet, sir,’ corrected the girl. And on her way from the room, sounding as if she wanted to pat him on the shoulder, ‘Now, you just have that while it’s hot. I’ll bring the beef when you’re ready.’
Silence fell again. They ate – or at least, Arabella did. The earl, so far as she could see, spent the time stirring his soup and reducing the bread to crumbs. He still didn’t look at her. Finally, laying down her spoon and letting irritation get the upper hand, she said, ‘I’m not a basilisk, you know.’
Julian’s eyes flew to hers and the spoon slipped from his grasp, sending soup splashing on to his fingers. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said I’m not a basilisk – or a Gorgon or Medusa – or any of those things in mythology one can’t look in the eye without dire consequences.’ She offered him a cool smile. ‘I just thought I’d mention it.’
Colour crept across his cheekbones and, picking up his napkin, he concentrated on wiping soup from his hand. ‘Forgive me. I didn’t mean to be rude.’
Light finally dawned. Eyes widening in fascination, Arabella thought, He’s shy. Painfully, miserably shy. Oh dear. She said quietly, ‘Of course not. It’s a bit difficult isn’t it – sitting down to dine with a complete stranger?’
‘Yes.’ Janet had told him he must get to know Mistress Marsden. He just wished she’d also told him how he was supposed to do it. ‘Yes, it is.’
‘I daresay you have a lot of questions.’ She smiled encouragingly. ‘Under the circumstances, it would be amazing if you didn’t – so ask them, by all means.’
God, he thought dismally. There are probably a dozen things I ought to ask but I’ve no idea what they are. Staring into the soup, he muttered, ‘I haven’t thought about it.’
‘Oh. Well perhaps we might try it the other way around. Since I’m here to oversee your household and your children, I shall need to understand your exact requirements.’
Not having any requirements, exact or otherwise, Julian temporised.
‘I’ll trust your judgement.’
Arabella didn’t find that helpful but could hardly say so. Fortunately, Violet replacing the soup with beef and an array of vegetables temporarily suspended the need for conversation. However, as soon as they were alone again, she persevered.
‘Perhaps you could tell me a bit about the children?’
‘Such as what?’
‘Well … how long is it since your wife died?’
‘Wife?’ For the first time she had his whole attention. ‘What wife? I’ve never been married. What on earth made you think --?’
‘The fact that you have three children,’ cut in Arabella acidly, before she saw both the alternative explanation and the pit yawning at her feet. ‘Oh. I see. They – they’re --’
‘Not mine,’ blurted Julian. ‘Illegitimate, yes … but not mine.’
For a second, she didn’t take it in. Then she managed to say weakly, ‘N-Not?’
‘No.’ Julian had assumed that Paul would have spared him this task on the drive back. Clearly, he hadn’t. ‘I inherited them from the fourth earl along with everything else.’
Arabella tried to take this in. ‘And – and their mother?’
‘Mothers. Plural.’
‘Oh. That is …’ She stopped, frowning. ‘But how is it that you are responsible for them?’
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. ‘Someone had to be.’
‘You’re saying no provision had been made for them?’
‘Not after their father died – and precious little before it. The only thing the fourth earl was generous with was his seed. Of course, if he’d --’ Glimpsing her expression, Julian stopped abruptly and said, ‘I probably should have left out that bit about the fourth earl’s --’
‘Yes,’ she said, before he could repeat it. ‘You p-probably should have done.’
He eyed her uncertainly.
‘I’m sorry. It’s just … I’m not very good at conversation.’
Arabella stared at him, torn between laughter and the suspicion that this was probably a massive understatement. Taking a second to wonder how Elizabeth would have coped with a man who said the first thing that came into his head, no matter how inappropriate, she said, ‘I think I’m more relieved than shocked.’
‘Relieved?’
The laughter she had been suppressing escaped in a series of deliciously infectious gurgles that the earl’s confused expression only made worse. Finally, still struggling to breathe, she said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m not having hysterics.’
‘That’s a relief.’ Her skin was flushed and her eyes brilliant, but it was the warm, musical ripple of her laughter that caught in his chest and held him captivated. ‘Then what is so funny?’
‘The fact that what you’ve just told me is better than what I believed earlier.’
‘Which was?’
‘That you – that you’d fathered a child around the time you first started shaving,’ replied Arabella, promptly relapsing into a fresh fit of giggles. ‘I must admit that I found that a b-bit worrying.’
‘More worrying than being employed to look after the late earl’s by-blows?’
All signs of amusement fled.
‘Yes. And if that remark was designed to test my attitudes, consider yourself answered. They are children … and the circumstances of their birth are no more their fault than they are yours. But you already know that, don’t you? Otherwise they wouldn’t be here.’
He nodded and muttered something that sounded like another apology.
‘You have nothing to apologise for, my lord – nothing at all.’ She frowned a little. ‘How on earth were they managing before you came here?’
‘God knows.’
‘I see. Then I hope the fourth earl is roasting somewhere very hot.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Julian. ‘So do I. Because if he’d married one of the boys’ mothers, I needn’t be here.’
~ * * ~ * * ~
CHAPTER FIVE
With the exception of an odd look from the coachman, Elizabeth’s journey from Newark to Stamford proved uneventful. She and Annie awoke the following morning to intermittent drizzle which, for an hour or so, they se
emed to out-distance. But by the time they reached Huntingdon it had caught up with them and was steadily becoming heavier. The coachman, hopeful of reaching St Neots before dark, sent for food to be brought to the carriage and stayed only long enough for a change of horses.
‘How much further is it?’ asked Annie, trying to relieve the cramp in her shoulders.
‘Two more overnight stops – if we’re lucky and the weather doesn’t get any worse,’ replied Elizabeth, smiling sympathetically. ‘Not much fun, is it?’
‘Not any fun,’ grumbled Annie. ‘The only bit of me that doesn’t ache is my bum – and that’s because I can’t feel it no more.’
Rather than quibble with the maid’s choice of words, Elizabeth said, ‘I wonder how Belle is getting on? And what the earl is like?’
‘So long as he’s gentleman enough to keep his hands to himself, it doesn’t much matter what he’s like. As to the rest … right now, Miss Belle’s more comfortable than you and me.’
Conversation lapsed and they stared gloomily out on the sodden countryside. By mid-afternoon, Huntingdon was behind them but progress through the wet grew increasingly slow.
Beginning to feel alarmed, Elizabeth said, ‘Perhaps we should have stopped in Huntingdon, rather than pressing on. I’m sure one of the inns could have --’
Her words were cut off as the coach rounded a sharp bend, sending both herself and Annie sliding to the other side of their seats. Then, before either of them could right themselves, the carriage continued careering sideways – fast and amidst a good deal of shouting from the box – until it lurched to a violent, tooth-rattling stop and landed half on its side to the ominous sound of splintering wood and shrill complaints from the horses.
Entangled with each other on the floor, Elizabeth and Annie tried to scramble up but froze when the coach began to slide again and the driver yelled, ‘Don’t move a muscle or we’ll be at the bottom of the bloody bank!’
Elizabeth looked up at the other window and discovered she could see nothing but sky. She didn’t dare raise herself up to peer through the one directly above her head.