Euphemia and the Unexpected Enchantment: The Fentons Book 3

by Alicia Cameron

  She came down the steps and heard the booming tones of the Bear. ‘Well, Miss Fleet. I am all agog to know how Florian rescued Ellena.’

  She entered a smaller salon, where everything had been set for a breakfast as cosy as any in Viscount Durant’s London house, but of a volume befitting a Bear. She regarded the great figure carefully, even as she said, ‘Good morning, Baron. I trust you are well?’ He was close-shaved and his shirt was starched and smart. His great frame was also housed in a light coloured waistcoat to the neck and a blue superfine coat over very clean buckskins and boots. He bowed from the waist, and she saw that the dress had had an effect, but his skin was no longer grey and his lungs seemed to be the great bellows that she had first heard them as. She was relieved.

  ‘Very well, but I shall have a relapse if you do not continue,’ he boomed at her playfully.

  She laughed shyly, and began, over coffee, rolls, fruit and some slivers of beef, to tell him of the awful machinations of the heinous cleric, Schedoni. As with her friend Felicity, she was apt to get carried away in the telling, and so it proved. The most ghastly parts of the tale she told in relished detail, gesturing with her hands to her throat in a dramatic way, making the fainting motion of Ellena, and the terrifying eyes of Schedoni. The baron laughed, and he laughed heartily.

  At one point she saw the butler, Tinder, and Evans all in the hall looking at them through the open door with interest. She recollected herself, and returned to her quiet, unobtrusive self.

  ‘Would you care to see the garden, Miss Fleet?’ When he saw her hesitate, he added, ‘There is no hurry. My coachman will take you to Sebastian’s house, it is but three hours from here.’

  ‘I could not—’ she began.

  ‘And I could not let you go on the stage after the kindness you have shown me. And Sebastian would not forgive me.’ She was still hesitant. ‘I cannot imagine he expected that you would use the stagecoach as your mode of transport when he asked you to join them, now did he?’

  She sighed. ‘No he did not. Thank you sir, I will accept your kind offer.’

  He held out his great arm in a courtly manner, ‘The gardens then?’

  She rose and took his arm, and though she was piqued by the thought that he was really offering his arm to another, she still enjoyed the unwarranted attention. She knew he only did so that he might walk beside a slight figure that reminded him of a beloved wife, and therefore she would repress her feelings of hurt. What price a sting to her spirit if she could offer that little time on memory’s pathways to a grieving man? It was only a morning walk, after all.

  The gardens were past their best, she could see, but there was more than enough in the carefully tended walkways for Miss Fleet to really enjoy. Tall hedges screened sheltered walks and opened into secret little havens where benches had been placed to allow yet another sylvan scene to be viewed. One of these little clearings, which was almost totally enclosed, allowed the warm sun in and kept the wind out, and Miss Fleet nodded happily as the baron raised an eyebrow to a bench placed there. ‘It is so peaceful. Almost like my father’s empty church, where I sat as a girl.’

  ‘I think it my favourite place,’ the big man sighed.

  Miss Fleet said quietly, ‘Do you want to speak of her, sir?’

  ‘Not really. She was everything to me and I lost her.’ The voice was low and deep, and Miss Fleet’s arm, still somehow entwined with his, dared to squeeze a little, before pulling away a little guiltily.

  ‘I am so sorry for your loss. But you only have to look at God’s new day to know there is a great deal left here for you.’

  ‘I assure you, I am not often morbid. I had not been in the blue room for two years you know, but I had such a fancy to see you there that I braved it. It was a little too much all at once, and at these times my blasted lungs seize up.’

  ‘It must be very frightening.’

  ‘No. Just dashed annoying. And it sets Tinder off into cursed nursemaid’s behaviour and I will not have it!’ His brows were drawn down, but the memory of his attack was between them and as their eyes met somehow they smiled.

  ‘Tinder is very devoted.’

  ‘Yes, damn him. I’m minded to get myself a valet who does the job and doesn’t give a—’ he stopped the oath, but she had jumped in.

  ‘Indeed. But you will not.’

  ‘Of course not. I’m stuck with him.’ He sighed ‘Enough about my schoolboy complaint. How long do you spend at Sebastian’s?’

  ‘Indefinitely. I am to make my home there with my friend, the viscountess.’ She stood up, and they began to walk on, and she looked at him carefully. ‘I suppose you think me selfish, to invade the home of such newlyweds? But they were so insistent.’

  ‘No, indeed,’ he said, looking ahead, but taking her hand to rest on his arm again. ‘You have earned your pardon after ten years with Lady Ellingham.’ He pulled her around gently back towards the house saying, ‘Look! This is the best prospect of the house, I believe. What do you think of it, my dear lady?’

  It was a fine prospect indeed, in three-quarter view of the front and one side, with the light stone glinting almost white in the sun today. A nearby stream was visible, as well as some of the prettiest of the garden walks. It was not intimidating, but charming. She wondered if the gardens, which mixed the formal and the informal: creeping roses on a side wall and wisteria clamouring over fences, (glorious in summer, she supposed) offsetting the geometric flower beds at the front, was the product of the late Lady Balfour’s taste. It was rather like the house with its Palladian geometry mixing with the informality of extra pillows and footstools in the salon. ‘It is quite perfect.’

  He gave a bear growl that seemed, in feeling, to be more of a purr, and said with pride, ‘So do I. Many houses are grander, but I would not swap a one for Balfour Court.’

  They moved ahead a minute, and Balfour asked her to relate her knowledge of Viscount Durant and the young wife whom he had not yet met. Skirting the unfounded rumours around Felicity’s reputation, she described her meeting with the young girl in Lady Ellingham’s house and their shared love of novels, and how Felicity had been saved from the old mad woman’s quirks by moving into Lady Aurora’s house with her and Mr Wilbert Fenton. ‘She became the rage of town, I believe, for she is so beautiful. But still we met each week in the circulating library, and she told me all her news. It was as though I went to all the balls and splendid occasions myself.’ Her eyes shone up at him, and he patted her arm companionably. Even these slight attentions made her blush and tremor, but she continued talking of her dear Felicity to calm herself. ‘And she had a way of making me less afraid of Lady Ellingham, too, for she had such merry eyes when Her Ladyship said something stern. Meeting my dear Felicity changed my life, even before the viscount and she insisted that I leave Lady Ellingham’s. I did so, expressing to Her Ladyship how very grateful I was for her bounty in the intervening years, but she was very angry with me, and though I have gone to her house since, she will not admit me.’

  ‘If that grey poplin dress is an example of her bounty, I do not think a deal of it.’

  ‘Oh well, I did not go out in town, you know, so she felt I had no need of new clothes, and she was quite right. And dear Felicity has asked more than once to refurbish my wardrobe, but I will not allow it. It is too much.’

  He stopped then and undid the strings of her cloak, standing very close to her as he did so. She held her breath. He was too close, too large not to feel intimidated. She could not resume breathing until he finished, and he swung her cloak over his arm. ‘Now, that dress becomes you so much better,’ he said. She looked down at the gaily coloured flowers to hide her blushes. ‘Lady Balfour,’ she agreed firmly, as though to depress her own and his flights of fancy, ‘had very good taste. It is very lovely, but it is too young for me. A spring gown for a spring maiden.’

  ‘It is lovely, and you look lovely in it.’ He looked down at her and she trembled at the kind pity in his eyes, ‘As though your
own spring had come once more.’

  ‘Please do not say such things, Lord Balfour. You mean to be kind, but I assure you, you are not. I am plain and nearly forty, and I know it well.’

  He hesitated. ‘I will not talk on this subject and spoil our walk, though I could take issue with you. Tell me more about your beloved Felicity. I will be happy to know that my friend has such a prize, even if she is only half so beautiful and good as you say.’

  ‘Oh, I am not given to exaggeration,’ said Miss Fleet.

  ‘You? Who sent shivers down my back at your retelling of Mrs Radcliffe’s novel?’

  ‘But I assure you, it is just that terrifying!’ said Miss Fleet, seriously. But she saw that he laughed at her and they moved on, and she continued to talk of her friend, the new viscountess. ‘Before she left for Europe she said to me “Euphemia” (for that is my given name) “you have always said nothing ever happens to you. Well after your move to Durant, see what adventures we will have together.” She smiled up at him, her head almost bent to her back. ‘Look what an adventure I shall have to tell her about before I even arrive there.’

  ‘And what title should you give the tale?’

  ‘Euphemia and the Wounded Bear!’ she said at once.

  ‘Euphemia meets a bear with a thorn in his paw and pulls it right out. And then he becomes a handsome prince, I heard such a folk tale once. You are to be disappointed in the transformation to a prince, I suppose, but you do weave a magical spell.’

  ‘Do not be absurd!’ she smiled a little, for since Felicity had left, she had missed being teased.

  ‘Euphemia,’ he mused. ‘I have never known a Euphemia. I like the name very well. It means well-spoken, in the Greek, I think. And you speak only fair words.’

  They had reached a little fence, designed to keep a few sheep in a paddock to make pets of them, she thought. There was stile before it, which she found herself lifted onto in a minute, by dint of his hands once more around her waist. ‘Sir!’ she protested. ‘You must not.’

  He had vaulted the fence nimbly and was reaching over to take her waist once more, but she pushed his arms wide. ‘This may be what you wished to do with your wife, but it is not at all appropriate to do so with—’

  ‘Oh no,’ Lord Balfour said as he bore down on her, ‘with my wife I wished to do like so!’ In a fraction of a second he had tipped her slight form over his shoulder and he was running like a youth across the field, with her screaming some reprimand that was indecipherable. His big bear arm grasped the back of her knees, her bonnet became dislodged from her head and she saw her blue cape fly over a hedge. It was insane, absurd, scandalous behaviour, but the headiest feeling of her whole life. Her hair was falling from its pins, she must look ridiculous, and suddenly a crack appeared in her personality. She laughed and laughed. As soon as he heard it he slowed his bounding run, let her gently to the ground, only to pick her up by the waist again and turn her round and round like a child. He let her go. They were both laughing, and she was trying to get her breath again.

  ‘Lord Balfour! I have lost my bonnet!’

  ‘Your hair is down. You look so…’ Suddenly, he took a step towards her and scooped her up to him, kissing her hair and lips in sudden abandon. Her lips moved beneath his, when he moved to kiss her eyes and face she tilted toward him and made sounds she had never made before. Even as he moved down her slim neck, she leant back to accommodate his insistent mouth, until he kissed the soft ruff at the throat of the dress, and suddenly she grew stiff.

  ‘Sir!’ she said, this time in a tone of general outrage. He let her go immediately, the great dark eyes the wounded beast once more. It has only been a few seconds, but it had seemed… She moved briskly to the house, shaken, stirred and humiliated by his behaviour and her own. Never had she been touched in this way, never had she been so wanton, never had she shown herself so without character. She was angry, so angry, too, that he should so use her. She tried to find enough pins in her head to make the simple coil once more, her strands of hair the wreck of her respectability reforming. She entered the house by the side door they had used to exit, and in the hall she met Evans coming from the blue salon.

  ‘Evans, is the dress finished?’ She barely had control of her voice.

  ‘No, ma’am. In half an hour or so, miss. I just came to ask if you fancied anything after your walk, miss.’ The maid looked a trifle worried at Miss Fleet’s change in manner.

  ‘Never mind. Lord Balfour will not mind if I borrow this one. Could you send a footman to look for my cloak and bonnet? I’m afraid I carelessly dropped them and they blew away. Near the sheep’s paddock. And have the coachman bring round the horses. I am to set off immediately for Durant. Bring down my bag, please.’ Euphemia was used to delivering many orders, some of them awful, to servants for Lady Ellingham. But this was the first time she had ever issued such a string of orders for herself.

  ‘Yes miss,’ said Evans stiffly. ‘At once!’ She took an appraising look at the state of Miss Fleet’s hair. Surely it was tidy, but not in the manner she had started the day with. She closed her mouth grimly and mounted the staircase to a footman.

  This errand was not necessary, for the slightly dishevelled figure of Lord Balfour had entered, clutching a bent straw bonnet and her cape. The butler relieved him of them and Evans turned at her name, which her master used in a subdued voice. ‘Evans, find Miss Fleet another bonnet will you? I appear to have stepped in this one while I searched for it.’ Evans curtsied and ran up the stairs.

  An interested footman and butler were appearing disinterested at the stiff tableau of Miss Fleet, stock still in the hall, with his Lordship looking supplicating at her.

  ‘Miss Fleet, I—’ He stopped. His voice seemed to induce a spasm in her body that she could not disguise. ‘Might I … I … beg you have a word in the salon?’

  Her bosom heaved. It needed only this. ‘The blue salon?’

  ‘I— no—.’ He stopped again, realising his mistake and walked to the larger salon, the butler discretely opening the door.

  Euphemia moved forward to follow him and stopped on the threshold, confronted by the portrait of the beauteous Lady Balfour in the full bloom of her youth. She grasped her hands before her and nearly juddered back when His Lordship came towards her again, but he only moved past to shut the door so that they might not be overheard. She moved to the fireplace, to stand beneath the painting, determined that he might look full in the face the differences he was trying to ignore. She felt tears threaten her, but she was too outraged to let them fall. She lifted her chin and looked at him. He was so penitent looking, but she was not fooled. He had played on her love for wounded animals quite enough.

  ‘I am so sorry, Miss Fleet. I had no intention, none at all, of behaving in such a way.’

  ‘Which way? Lifting me from my feet and running away with me?’

  ‘We were laughing at that.’

  ‘I suppose I was therefore responsible for what happened next?’

  ‘My dear Miss Fleet, I never meant to … not until I had spoken to you, had asked you to be my wife.’

  Miss Fleet, who had thought herself well beyond the age where any hope or faint dream of such a thing as marriage should be offered to her, could never have believed that when it was — and by a handsome baron — her primary emotion would be anger. As it was, anger had featured very little in Miss Fleet’s life. But so many feelings were tumbling passionately inside her, and they were erupting as never before. ‘You do not want a wife sir, you want a mannequin to animate your dead wife’s clothes and sit in her chair and — and — no doubt many other things you miss. You want a clockwork woman.’ He grunted and tried to find his voice, but she continued. ‘No doubt you think your high standing and good looks should make me grovel at the thought of having such an offer made to me—’

  ‘No, you are wrong—, please, Euphemia! I have frightened you, you who have been so sheltered all your life—’

  ‘I should be honoured t
o receive any respectable offer of a home and companionship from a decent man. A quiet, contented life. But you offer me so much more. How could I live knowing that when we kissed you were really kissing a dead woman?’

  She left the room then, and he let her go, great head bent in sadness, perhaps. Her words must have wounded him, she could hardly believe she had uttered them. But she was too angry to care. She escaped to the blue room to compose herself, caressing the white gilded harpsichord with her fingers. She wiped the hot tears when she heard the horses and found Evans awaiting her in the vestibule, bonnet and cape in hand. She put them on dumbly. He did not come to see her off. She could not have faced him, so she was glad. She sat in an old fashioned but luxurious coach, with an unnecessary hot brick for her feet and a fur rug cast over her knees by Tinder himself. He looked full into her eyes when he finished and it seemed as though he would have said something, but did not. He stepped back and Evans handed her night bag, and said, ‘Your dress is within, miss. It lacks some stitches yet.’