‘Do not worry Evans. I can finish it. And thank you for all your work.’
‘It was a pleasure, miss.’ She disposed a basket of provisions from cook. ‘The master asked that you have these things to lighten the journey miss.’
Miss Fleet, overcome, merely nodded.
‘Oh miss,’ said Evans, suddenly pleading, ‘can you not stay? You do him so much good, my master.’
Miss Fleet could barely speak. ‘Thank you Evans. But I cannot!’
Evans shut the door and the coach moved away. Was it really only thirty hours since she had entered this house? The butler raised a sad hand to her. Tinder stood, looking wounded, and Evans beside him, tall as Euphemia had first seen her, but evidently moved. Somehow, she too felt the pain of parting from them. It was hardly credible that she should feel so after this short time, but they had gone through the shadow of death together, and had silently acknowledged, by looks and gestures, their shared fear and relief.
The carriage passed the small sheep paddock.
She could not look.
Chapter 3
Arriving at the great estate of Viscount Durant, Euphemia found herself bone weary. She was vaguely aware of a very large and handsome house in some light coloured stone surrounded by beautifully landscaped gardens. Her eyes had shed enough reluctant tears on that journey for a sea, but when she had espied the house, she had ruthlessly obliterated them with the aid of an ill-used handkerchief. She fell out of the carriage and into Felicity's outstretched arms with a plucky smile on her face.
‘My dearest Euphemia! How I have missed you.’ Felicity was a tall dark beauty, still very young, with the gift for dispensing happiness suggested by her name — even in her darkest days, when Miss Fleet had first met her. She was dressed even more elegantly than when they had last met, as befitted a new viscountess, in a silk day dress of the finest Parisian cut. It was a deeper colour, too, than her maidenhood had allowed, a cherry red that suited her dark beauty particularly well. Some silk rosebuds had been artfully arranged in her coiffure, and she looked so grown up that Euphemia smiled through her tears.
‘Felicity, you look so elegant.’
‘My continental polish, Sebastian calls it, and he laughs at me very much. But you too look so very lovely, my dear Euphemia. I am so glad you bought yourself a new bonnet! And such an elegant one.’ Miss Fleet had forgotten the bonnet, which she had not even regarded. They were walking through the huge oak door, three times their height, arm-in-arm together, and Euphemia was beginning to calm herself.
‘It is mere borrowed finery, my dear. My own bonnet had an accident this morning.’
‘Well, come and see Sebastian. He wanted to come out to greet you, but I said I must have you for myself at first.’
The relaxed, elegant figure of Viscount Durant came forward to greet her as she entered the salon, and he took both her hands. ‘My dear Miss Fleet, Euphemia! Welcome to your new home!’ He stood back a little. She still wore her bonnet, but her cape was open and he spied the dress with the yellow primroses. ‘I declare you I have never seen you look lovelier!’
Euphemia, who had been shyly smiling at him, suddenly wrenched her hands free. ‘Oh, do not say so,’ and ran from the room, with Felicity following her, with a confused backward glance at her beloved.
Alone in her lovely room, Miss Fleet looked at herself in the bonnet she had never seen. It was a blue silk poke bonnet, probably chosen by Evans to match her old cloak. The yellow flowers at one side referred to the borrowed dress, too, and she had to admit it suited her. She looked anew. With all the compliments flying, could it really be that she was passably handsome? Is this what clothes did for one, even when one had been crying, or trying to stop crying, for three hours? She did not want to be told she was looking lovely, as he had. She could not bear it. It was all kindness, of course, but she would rather be overlooked than wear things that obliged people to remark. She did not wish to hear any of The Bear’s words again. Did he really propose? Was she mad to refuse him? She imagined telling her staid sister that a giant baron had offered for her, and that she had refused him.
If Theodora could even be brought to believe such a thing, she would have her sister sent to a lunatic asylum for the refusal. No one could understand. She caught sight of herself again. Was the spirit of Lady Balfour somehow softening the lines of her face (or was that the bounty of the viscount’s London home?) and giving her a new elegance? She would put the dress and the bonnet away, after today, and with them all memories of the baron and her own wanton behaviour.
Then perhaps, everything would be the same again. This feeling of being awake after a long sleep watching other people’s lives was not comfortable. As she looked out of the window, she saw all things with a new clarity, and an aching sense of connection. It was as though when she had seen such a sylvan scene before, there had been some grey medium between it and her. The cocoon she had spun about herself to stop feeling so much, perhaps. A light had been switched on within her, but with it came the pain. She felt everything too much, she relived each moment with him, not as she remembered Papa and Mama, but in a visceral way. The memory of his loud voice and teasing smile shook her physically. And the waves of heat that took over her whole self when she remembered his kisses was not just humiliation, but something else … something much stronger. She could not allow herself to think of him, yet the thoughts arose in her and overpowered her. His great mane of hair, those deep dark eyes, his booming laugh. But she would stop it. She would.
At the same time she was worried for his health. She replayed the scene in the salon where they parted and could not remember any rasping in his breathing, not even after her cruel words. She wished she could take them back, but she could not. But he was well, she had to believe it. Perhaps she might write to Tinder or Evans for news. But she was being ridiculous, and she knew it. Baron Balfour was none of her affair, and she would put him away tomorrow with the sprigged muslin gown.
‘Well, I cannot account for it, Sebastian,’ said Felicity when she had come downstairs after seeing her friend disposed in her bedchamber. Quite naturally, she found herself sitting on his knee, answering his open arms as he lounged in the elegant scroll-ended sofa nearest the fire.
He kissed her soundly before saying, ‘I have never known Miss Fleet to display such emotion. Try as I might, I could never get her to be more than a little mouse in my presence.’
‘Now she is afraid that you will wish her gone, but I put her mind at rest on that score at least.’ As she heard the door opening, she slid from his knee with practised ease and sat beside him. Rutland disposed of the tea tray on a small table which he put near his mistress and she began, in a very wifely way, she thought, to make the tea.
Sebastian grinned, watching her, ‘Well, if she becomes a watering pot over dinner…’
‘Bastain!’ she said, but saw that he was still grinning.
‘I must admit, that when you broached the subject of Miss Fleet’s coming to stay with us, I had some doubts. But in the weeks she spent with us in London before the wedding trip she was a delight. She had a trick of disappearing suddenly when I wished to kiss my wife…’
‘She read your wicked eyes. I know I do.’
‘But what on earth did I do to upset her?’
‘I do not know, she will not tell me. But I think she was overwrought before she came here. The friend of yours whom she visited, he could not have upset her in any way? I think she will tell me all when she is a little rested. She assures me she shall be down for dinner - I adjured her not to change, for I believe she needs the rest.’
‘I hardly think that Balfour would have upset her. He is great fellow, who has become something of a recluse after the death of his wife. He is a loud and booming giant of a man and I suppose he might have scared our little mouse somewhat.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Felicity, ‘she does jump at loud voices, like Lady Ellingham’s in one of her worse moods. Never mind, we shall make her comfortable a
gain. But I wonder how she knows Lord Balfour?’
At dinner that night, Lord Durant asked this question. Miss Fleet, still dressed in her muslin with primroses, looked as neat as ever, but somehow the face that Bastian had thought a little closed and tight was somewhat softer. She answered quietly, though, and he thought perhaps she had prepared her answer.
‘I had a little accident and a chance meeting with Lord Balfour meant that he took me to his home nearby. Then, I am afraid he had an attack—’
‘His old trouble, I see…’ said the viscount.
‘And I felt I had to stay until he felt restored.’
‘So like you, dear Euphemia. And Lord Balfour is now well?’ asked Felicity.
‘He was ill for some hours, but the next morning he was quite himself.’
‘A loud and booming sort of man, my husband says.’
‘Oh yes, the first time I heard his voice I jumped.’
‘So would I have, I’m sure. I did when Aunt Ellingham shouted at me.’
‘Oh, you were so much braver than I, Felicity.’
‘You were both splendidly brave as I remember it, but I will not have that lady’s name turn our stomachs at this, your first meal at Durant, Miss Fleet.’
They laughed then, Euphemia shyly behind her napkin, and Felicity was glad to see her look more relaxed. Bastian had a temper, but he had never displayed it since their marriage, and he had always been kinder than his reputation. She had known he would make her friend comfortable.
Felicity genuinely believed that her friend would confide her upset at the outset of her visit. But Euphemia did not. She seemed almost her quiet self, but Felicity noticed a certain unevenness of spirits — despite her friend having herself well in hand. She had, initially, tried to act rather as a poor relation might, running to bring Felicity her shawl, or stooping to pick up her work threads before she had time to retrieve them herself, and Felicity had had to be firm.
‘You are not here to be a servant, Euphemia, but part of the family. You must do as you please at all times, and not run after me.’
For the next week, Euphemia dressed again in the brown cambric or the grey poplin that Felicity had seen so often before, the grey with a new paler insert in the bodice that had been necessitated, said Euphemia, by a spill of chocolate. Felicity had seen her working on the bodice, and said. ‘Oh that pearl grey damask is very pretty, where had you it from, Euphemia?’
Her friend’s face had shut once more and she said merely, ‘Oh, I had it given to me.’
‘We shall have some dresses made for you now you are here, Burton tells me that there is an excellent woman in the village, a Madame Blanc.’
‘Oh, there is no need, my dear,’ said Euphemia.
‘But Burton says she is a French émigré with six children to feed, so I think it only right that we help her by ordering you some gowns. I, too, will have some made from the fabrics I bought on my wedding trip. But Lady Aurora writes that I must wait until next month when she and Mr Fenton come, so that she can see what I have. Then she will design some dresses for me.’
‘Yes, I am so glad that Lady Aurora will finally see you in your home.’
‘But in the meantime, my dear Euphemia, Madame’s children must eat.’
Euphemia laughed, and Felicity was glad to see it.
‘We shall go tomorrow.’
But by tomorrow, there was no need to go to Madame’s, for when Felicity and Euphemia returned from their morning walk (while Bastian met with his agent in the library) a large coach was pulled up outside the white columns, and a number of bags and boxes were being unloaded under the eye of a rather terrifying looking servant.
‘Evans!’ exclaimed Euphemia. Felicity looked down at her friend, but she was already moving off after her shock.
‘Isn’t that the coach you arrived in, Euphemia? Lord Balfour’s?’
‘Yes! I—’ she answered, but she was near enough to the maid now to talk to her over the welter of servants carrying the packages. Felicity noticed a number of hat boxes among them and wondered. ‘Evans,’ said Euphemia, a little sharply, ‘what is the meaning of this? Lord Balfour is not here?’
Evans bobbed a curtsy. ‘No miss. His Lordship sent me. He hopes that I may stay a few days to alter the gowns, miss. He sent these.’ Evans made her steady way forward and held out two notes, one addressed to the viscount.
‘What’s this?’ said the viscount, coming languidly out of the house to meet them, ‘Are the Fentons arrived early? This is a lot of baggage, even for Lady Aurora, unless she’s moving in.’
Felicity was watching her friend, who was standing stock still, clutching the letters to her heaving bosom, her cheeks a high colour, obviously trying to repress some powerful emotion. Felicity, in sheer amazement, thought it might be anger. ‘Is not one of those letters for Bastian, my dear?’ she prodded, gently.
Euphemia held it out, dumbly. Obviously still under some pressure of feeling.
The viscount opened it, and read the brief contents. ‘Richard wants us to house a maid, so that she can work on these,’ he vaguely gestured to the boxes which, mercifully, had reached their end, ‘to fit them to Miss Fleet.’ He raised his eyebrows at Miss Fleet, still standing stock still, the other letter crumpled in a fist at her side, obviously still trying to control herself, Felicity noted concernedly. ‘Yes, you are of Lady Balfour’s small stature, come to think of it, Miss Fleet. I daresay they will become you well.’
‘Oh,’ said Felicity, when her friend seemed unable to answer. ‘I expect the lovely white and yellow muslin was one you borrowed when you spilt the chocolate on your grey poplin, and he realised—’
‘Excuse me,’ said Euphemia, evidently barely managing to get out the words, ‘I must go—’
‘Euphem–!’ said Felicity, and would have followed if the viscount had not held her back.
‘Let her calm herself a little. Something about this gesture of Balfour’s has upset her. He’s not known for his subtlety and she may be embarrassed by it.’
‘It is very kind of him, but I expect she feels of it as charity, for she does not want even I to buy her clothes. Was Lady Balfour so like Euphemia?’
‘Not at all, except in figure. They were an odd looking pair, a gruff giant and a fairy princess, strangely mated. But they were very happy together. And Lady Balfour had exquisite taste in clothes. Having met Miss Fleet, I expect that Balfour thought that this would be a practical solution as to what to do with his wife’s affairs. It seems eminently sensible. Perhaps she feels they are two years out of fashion?’
They had re-entered the house during this conversation, and Felicity sat down on a sofa facing his and laughed. ‘She, who has been wearing ten-year-old gowns? I hardly think so.’ She stood up again. ‘I know you advised me to be patient, but I cannot wait. I’m going to her now to ease her feelings.’
Euphemia was in her chamber when Felicity found her, holding up an exquisite blue muslin gown, with a satin under-dress of the same hue. Felicity held back in the doorway, for the strange, stern maid who had given her friend the letters was talking to her. Felicity knew she was eavesdropping, but it was her house after all, and she felt she needed to do so to understand her friend’s evident pain.
‘It is quite finished, miss,’ the maid was saying. ‘I was able to do so because we had not removed the pins. The rest of them will only take a few days to finish, miss, if you will let me measure. And His Lordship also ordered me to make what changes you might like, miss, to adjust them to your taste. Especially the bonnets miss, he asked me to adjust the colour and trims to suit your colouring, miss.’
‘They are her clothes!’ said Euphemia passionately.
‘But so very beautiful, miss. And almost made for you. They could be of use to few women else. And my mistress would have been happy to know they were worn — for though generous, waste she could not bear.’ She took the blue dress from Euphemia’s hands, and said in a gentling tone that is used to sooth infants, ‘You di
d look so lovely in it, miss. And what can it matter to you that they are my lady’s attire? You never met her.’
‘No,’ said Euphemia. ‘But I cannot accept them.’
‘Then the moth will have them, and that does seem a pity.’ Euphemia said nothing, and the maid continued. ‘He is so set on this miss, that if I return with the boxes, I believe he might have another attack.’ She seemed to be looking at Euphemia closely, ‘And I know you wouldn’t want that.’
‘No—’ said Euphemia, weakening. Felicity thought it time to intervene.
‘I came to see what riches Lord Balfour sent.’ She looked at an array of gowns laid across the bed, the chairs, and every other available surface. ‘Oh, how fabulous these are. Lady Balfour must have been a London hostess of the first stare,’ she said, holding up a cream silk evening gown with one enormous silk rose in the same fabric, under the bodice.
‘My lady never visited town,’ said Evans quietly.
‘Never? Then how came her gowns to be so fashionable?’
‘She had the fashion magazines, miss, and she loved to copy and adapt the latest designs. Beautiful things made her happy.’
‘Her whole house shows that,’ said Euphemia in a removed voice.
‘Well, you will look lovely in this dress.’ Felicity turned to the maid, ‘Evans is it? Could you have it ready for tomorrow night? We will have some guests for dinner.’
‘It is too fine for me,’ said Euphemia flatly.
‘Nonsense! You will look quite the thing,’ she grasped her friend’s hand and sat her on a pile of dresses on the bed, joining her. ‘Euphemia, I know that this is an overwhelming gift for such a slight acquaintance, but believe me it makes sense. Why, these gowns might have been made for you, and it would be such a shame to throw them away.’
Euphemia’s large eyes looked into Felicity’s equally large, and very kind eyes. ‘I suppose it would. But bonnets, too!’ she said so tragically it almost made Felicity laugh. ‘He sent me bonnets!’
Euphemia and the Unexpected Enchantment: The Fentons Book 3 Page 4