by Lisa Kleypas
“Me?” Her eyes widened. “You… you propose that I remain at Eversby Priory with them?”
Devon nodded. “Obviously you’re scarcely older than Helen and the twins, but I believe you could manage them quite well. Certainly better than a stranger could.” He paused. “They deserve the same opportunities that other young ladies of their rank enjoy. I’d like to make that possible, but I can’t do it without you staying here to bring them along.” He smiled slightly. “Of course, you would be free to train Asad as well. I suspect he’ll learn table manners before Pandora does.”
Kathleen’s heart was fluttering madly. To stay here with Helen and the twins… and Asad… it was more than she could have dared to dream. “I suppose you would live here as well?” she asked warily.
“I’ll visit infrequently,” Devon said. “But most of the work in setting the estate’s financial affairs to rights will have to be done in London. In my absence, the entire household will be under your supervision. Would that be inducement enough for you to stay?”
Kathleen began to nod before he’d even finished the sentence. “Yes, my lord,” she said, almost breathless with relief. “I’ll stay. And I’ll help you any way I can.”
Chapter 7
A
month after Devon and West had left Hampshire, a parcel addressed to Kathleen was delivered to Eversby Priory.
With the Ravenel sisters gathered around her in the upstairs parlor, she opened the parcel and folded back layers of rustling paper. They all exclaimed in admiration as a cashmere shawl was revealed. Such shawls were all the rage in London, hand-loomed in Persia and finished with a border of embroidered flowers and silk fringe. The wefts of wool had been dyed in graduating colors so that it produced the exquisite effect of a sunset, glowing red melting into orange and gold.
“It’s called ombré,” Cassandra said reverently. “I’ve seen ribbons dyed that way. How fashionable!”
“It will look beautiful with your hair,” Helen commented.
“But who sent it?” Pandora asked. “And why?”
Picking up the note that had been enclosed in the parcel, Kathleen read the boldly scrawled words:
As promised.
Trenear
Devon had deliberately chosen a shawl with the most vibrant colors imaginable. A garment that a widow could never, ever wear.
“I can’t accept this,” she said with a scowl. “It’s from Lord Trenear, and it is entirely too personal. Perhaps if it were a handkerchief or a tin of sweets —”
“But he’s a relation,” Helen surprised her by pointing out. “And a shawl isn’t all that personal, is it? One doesn’t wear it next to the skin, after all.”
“Think of it as a very large handkerchief,” Cassandra suggested.
“Even if I did keep it,” Kathleen said, “I would have to dye it black.”
The girls looked as aghast as if she had suggested murdering someone. They all spoke at once.
“You mustn’t —”
“Oh, but why?”
“To ruin such lovely colors —”
“How could I wear this as it is?” Kathleen demanded. “I’d be as flamboyant as a parrot. Can you imagine the gossip?”
“You can wear it at home,” Pandora interrupted. “No one will see.”
“Do try it on,” Cassandra urged. Despite Kathleen’s refusal, the girls insisted on draping it over her shoulders, just to see how it looked.
“How beautiful,” Helen said, beaming.
It was the most luxurious fabric she had ever felt, the fleece soft and cushiony. Kathleen ran her hand across the rich hues, and sighed. “I suppose I can’t ruin it with aniline dye,” she muttered. “But I’m going to tell him that I did.”
“You’re going to lie?” Cassandra asked, her eyes wide. “That’s not setting a very good example for us.”
“He must be discouraged from sending unsuitable gifts,” Kathleen said.
“It’s not his fault if he doesn’t know any better,” Pandora pointed out.
“He knows the rules,” Kathleen said darkly. “And he enjoys breaking them.”
My Lord,
It was very kind of you to send the lovely gift, which is very useful now that the weather has turned. I am pleased to relate that the cashmere absorbed an application of black dye quite evenly, so that it is now appropriate for mourning.
Thank you for your thoughtfulness.
Lady Trenear
“You dyed it?” Devon asked aloud, setting the note on his desk with a mixture of amusement and irritation.
Reaching for a silver penholder, he inserted a fresh nib and pulled a sheet of writing paper from a nearby stack. That morning he had already written a half-dozen missives to lawyers, his banker, and contractors, and had hired an outside agent to analyze the estate’s finances. He grimaced at the sight of his ink-stained fingers. The lemon-and-salt paste his valet had given him wouldn’t entirely remove the smudges. He was tired of writing, and even more so of numbers, and Kathleen’s letter was a welcome distraction.
The challenge could not go unanswered.
Staring down at the letter with a faint smile, Devon pondered the best way to annoy her.
Dipping the pen nib into the inkwell, he wrote,
Madam,
I am delighted to learn that you find the shawl useful in these cooler days of autumn.
On that subject, I am writing to inform you of my recent decision to donate all the black curtains that currently shroud the windows at Eversby Priory to a London charitable organization. Although you will regrettably no longer have use of the cloth, it will be made into winter coats for the poor, which I am sure you will agree is a far nobler purpose. I am confident in your ability to find other ways of making the atmosphere at Eversby Priory appropriately grim and cheerless.
If I do not receive the curtains promptly, I will take it to mean that you are eager for my assistance, in which case I will be delighted to oblige you by coming to Hampshire at once.
Trenear
Kathleen’s reply was delivered a week later, along with massive crates containing the black curtains.
My Lord,
In your concern for the downtrodden masses, it appears to have escaped your mind to inform me that you had arranged for a battalion of workmen to invade Eversby Priory. Even as I write, plumbers and carpenters wander freely throughout the house, tearing apart walls and floors and claiming that it is all by your leave.
The expense of plumbing is extravagant and unnecessary. The noise and lack of decorum is unwelcome, especially in a house of mourning.
I insist that this work discontinue at once.
Lady Trenear
Madam,
Every man has his limits. Mine happen to be drawn at outdoor privies.
The plumbing will continue.
Trenear
My Lord,
With so many improvements that are desperately needed on your lands, including repairs to laborers’ cottages, farm buildings, drainage systems, and enclosures, one must ask if your personal bodily comfort really outweighs all other considerations.
Lady Trenear
Madam,
In reply to your question,
Yes.
Trenear
“Oh, how I despise him,” Kathleen cried, slamming the letter onto the library table. Helen and the twins, who were poring over books of deportment and etiquette, all looked up at her quizzically.
“Trenear,” she explained with a scowl. “I informed him of the chaos he has caused, with all these workmen tramping up and down the staircases, and hammering and sawing at all hours of the day. But he doesn’t give a fig for anyone else’s comfort save his own.”
“I don’t mind the noise, actually,” Cassandra said. “It feels as if the house has come alive again.”
“I’m looking forward to the indoor water closets,” Pandora confessed sheepishly.
“Don’t tell me your loyalty has been bought for the price of a privy?” Kathleen
demanded.
“Not just one privy,” Pandora said. “One for every floor, including the servants.”
Helen smiled at Kathleen. “It might be easier to tolerate a little inconvenience if we keep reminding ourselves of how pleasant it will be when it’s finished.”
The optimistic statement was punctuated by a series of thuds from downstairs that caused the floor to rattle.
“A little inconvenience?” Kathleen repeated with a snort. “It sounds as if the house is about to collapse.”
“They’re installing a boiler system,” Pandora said, flipping through a book. “It’s a set of two large copper cylinders filled with water pipes that are heated by gas burners. One never has to wait for the hot water – it comes at once through expansion pipes attached to the top of the boiler.”
“Pandora,” Kathleen asked suspiciously, “how do you know all that?”
“The master plumber explained it to me.”
“Dear,” Helen said gently, “it’s not seemly for you to converse with a man when you haven’t been introduced. Especially a laborer in our home.”
“But Helen, he’s old. He looks like Father Christmas.”
“Age has nothing to do with it,” Kathleen said crisply. “Pandora, you promised to abide by the rules.”
“I do,” Pandora protested, looking chagrined. “I follow all the rules that I can remember.”
“How is it that you remember the details of a plumbing system but not basic etiquette?”
“Because plumbing is more interesting.” Pandora bent her head over a book on deportment, pretending to focus on a chapter titled “A Lady’s Proper Demeanor.”
Kathleen contemplated the girl with concern. After a fortnight of tutelage, Pandora had made little headway compared to Cassandra, who had learned far more in the same length of time. Kathleen had also noticed that Cassandra was trying to conceal her own progress to avoid making Pandora look even worse. It had become clear that Pandora was by far the more undisciplined of the pair.
Just then Mrs. Church, the plump and genial housekeeper, came to inform them that tea would soon be brought to the upstairs parlor.
“Hurrah!” Pandora exclaimed, leaping from her chair. “I’m so famished, I could eat a carriage wheel.” She was gone in a flash.
Sending Kathleen an apologetic glance, Cassandra scampered after her sister.
Out of habit, Helen began to collect the books and papers, and sort them into stacks. Kathleen pushed the chairs back into place at the library table.
“Has Pandora always been so…” Kathleen began, but paused in search of a diplomatic word.
“Yes,” Helen said feelingly. “It’s why none of the governesses lasted for long.”
Kathleen returned to the library table, pushing the chairs back into place. “How am I to prepare her for the season, if I can’t manage to keep her seated for more than five minutes?”
“I’m not certain it can be done.”
“Cassandra is making excellent progress, but I’m not certain that Pandora will be ready at the same time.”
“Cassandra would never go to a ball or soiree if Pandora wasn’t with her.”
“But it’s not fair for her to make such a sacrifice.”
Helen’s slight shoulders lifted in a graceful shrug. “It’s the way they’ve always been. When they were small, they spoke to each other in their own invented language. When one of them was disciplined, the other would insist on sharing her punishment. They hate to spend time apart.”
Kathleen sighed. “They’ll have to, if progress is to be made. I’ll spend a few afternoons tutoring Pandora in private. Would you be willing to study separately with Cassandra?”
“Yes, of course.”
Helen organized the books, tucking in scraps of paper to mark the right place before closing each one. How careful she always was with books: they had been her companions, her entertainment, and her only window to the outside world. Kathleen worried that it would be difficult for her to acclimate to the cynicism and sophistication of London.
“Will you want to take part in society, when the mourning period is over?” she asked.
Helen paused, considering the question. “I would like to be married someday,” she admitted.
“What kind of husband do you wish for?” Kathleen asked with a teasing smile. “Handsome and tall? Dashing?”
“He doesn’t have to be handsome or tall, as long as he’s kind. I would be very happy if he loved books and music… and children, of course.”
“I promise, we’ll find a man like that for you,” Kathleen said, regarding her fondly. “You deserve nothing less, dear Helen.”
“Why didn’t you come to eat at the club?” West asked, striding into the parlor of Devon’s terrace apartment. Most of the rooms had been stripped of their furnishings. The stylish modern terrace had just been let to an Italian diplomat for the purpose of keeping his mistress. “They served beefsteak and turnip mash,” West continued. “I’ve never known you to miss —” He stopped abruptly. “Why are you sitting on the desk? What the devil have you done with the chairs?”
Devon, who had been sorting through a stack of mail, looked up with a scowl. “I told you I was moving to Mayfair.”
“I didn’t realize it would be so soon.”
Ravenel House was a twelve-bedroom Jacobean residence of stone and brick, looking as if the manor at Eversby Priory had spawned a smaller version of itself. Thankfully Ravenel House had been kept in better condition than Devon had expected. It was overfurnished but comfortable, the dark wood interior and deeply hued carpets imparting a distinctly masculine ambiance. Although Ravenel House was too large for one person, Devon had no choice but to take up residence there. He had invited West to live with him, but his brother had no desire to give up the comfort and privacy of his stylish terrace.
One couldn’t blame him.
“You look rather glumpish,” West commented. “I know just the thing to cheer you. Tonight the fellows and I are going to the music hall to see a trio of female contortionists who are advertised as the ‘boneless wonders.’ They perform in tights and little scraps of gold cloth —”
“Thank you, but I can’t.”
“Boneless wonders,” West repeated, as if Devon must not have heard him correctly.
Not long ago, the offer might have been moderately tempting. Now, however, with the weight of accumulated worry pressing on him, Devon had no interest in flexible showgirls. He and West and their friends had seen similar performances countless times in the past – there was no novelty left in such shenanigans.
“Go and enjoy yourself,” he said, “and tell me about them later.” His gaze returned to the letter in his hand.
“It does no good to tell you about them,” West said, disgruntled. “You have to see them, or there’s no point.” He paused. “What is so fascinating about that letter? Who is it from?”
“Kathleen.”
“Is there news from the estate?”
Devon laughed shortly. “No end of it. All bad.” He extended the letter to West, who skimmed it quickly.
My Lord,
Today I received a visit from Mr. Totthill, who appears to be in failing health. It is my private opinion that he is overwhelmed by the demands of his position as your estate agent, and is no longer capable of carrying out his responsibilities to your satisfaction, or indeed to anyone’s.
The issue he brought to my attention concerns five of your lowland tenants, who were promised drainage improvements three years ago. The clay soil on their farms is as thick and sticky as birdlime, and nearly impossible to plow. To my dismay, I have just learned that the late earl borrowed money from a private land improvement company to perform the necessary work, which was never done. As a result, we have just been issued an order from the court of quarter session. Either we must repay the loan immediately, or install proper drainage on the tenants’ farms.
Please tell me if I may help. I am acquainted with the tenant families
involved, and I would be willing to speak to them on your behalf.
Lady Trenear
“What’s birdlime?” West asked, handing back the letter.
“A glue made of holly bark. It’s smeared on tree branches to catch birds. The moment they alight, they’re permanently stuck.”
Devon understood exactly how they felt.
After a month of unrelenting work, he had barely scratched the surface of the Eversby Priory’s needs. It would take years to acquire an adequate understanding of crop cultivation, land improvement, dairying, animal husbandry, forestry, accounting, investment, property law, and local politics. For now it was essential not to become mired in detail. Devon was trying to think in broad sweeps, seeing ways that problems related to other problems, finding patterns. Although he was beginning to understand what needed to be accomplished, he didn’t know precisely how it should be done.