“Is that you?” he whispered. “Trevelyan?”
Trevelyan removed the black cloth that covered his body and grinned at his younger brother. “None other.”
Harry sat up then and leaned back against the padded head of the bed. “Pour me some whisky, will you? There, on that table.”
Trevelyan went to the table and poured out two glasses nearly full of single malt Scotch, handed one to his brother, then sat on a big carved oak chair near the bed. “Is that all I get? An ‘Is that you?’ No fatted calf? No welcome home parade?”
Harry took a deep drink of the whisky. “Does Mother know you’re here?”
Trevelyan drained the glass and poured himself more. “No.” He narrowed his eyes at Harry. Several people had written about the intensity of Trevelyan’s eyes. Whenever people met him, it was what they remembered the most and remarked upon. His eyes were black and intense and angry.
Harry finished his whisky. He hated scenes, hated controversy, and with the return of his brother from the dead, he knew there was going to be one hell of a fight. “She ought to know,” he said as he held out his glass for a refill.
Trevelyan didn’t answer, but looked at his half empty glass. “I don’t plan to stay long, only long enough to recover my strength, write a bit, then I’m off.”
Harry was beginning to fully understand what it meant that his older brother was not dead after all. He looked at Trevelyan in the pale red glow of the lamplight and he may as well have been looking at a stranger. He’d been two years old when Trevelyan was sent from home and he’d seen his brother only a few times in those intervening years. To say that Trevelyan was the family black sheep was an understatement.
“You know, of course,” Harry said slowly, “that this makes you the duke.”
Trevelyan snorted, telling what he thought of having a title. “You think I plan to settle down now and manage this monster of a place, as well as the others? How many of these places do you own now?”
“Four,” Harry said quickly, studying his glass rather than looking at his brother. Trevelyan always had a way of reading a person’s innermost thoughts. And if he couldn’t read them, he could usually ask so many questions that a person was worn down by him.
“Come on, what’s on that English mind of yours?” Trevelyan said amiably.
“You’re as English as I am, and, besides, I’m half Scots.”
“Is that why you’ve been running about in that damned kilt? Is your ass freezing?”
“As a matter of fact, it is,” Harry said, smiling, then made the mistake of glancing up at his brother.
“It’s the girl, isn’t it?” Trevelyan said.
“What do you know of her?”
“A bit,” Trevelyan said mysteriously.
At that Harry began to laugh. “It was you. You were the old man she met. You were the one who caused her horse to throw her. You were the sick old man who fainted on her.” Harry sat up straighter in bed. It seemed that all his life his brother had been an adult. One of their uncles had said that Trevelyan had been born full grown, that he hadn’t wanted to bother with childhood and so had skipped it. It rather pleased Harry to hear his older brother called an “old man.”
“You should have heard her,” Harry continued. “She was disgusted, couldn’t stop talking about the old man.”
Trevelyan got up from his chair and walked to the far side of the room. But she didn’t tell you my name, he thought. “Do you know that she wants to write a biography of me?”
Harry was feeling more self-confidence in the presence of his brother than he ever had in his life. “She wants to write about everything. Read about everything. You’re about the seventh or eighth man and the third woman I’ve heard who she wants to write about.” Harry paused. “Did you tell her who you were?”
“No. I told her I was related to the family and she told me about the dead brother who may or may not have been—” He paused. “An overzealous letter writer.”
“She does give her opinions, doesn’t she?”
Trevelyan turned back to his brother, and his eyes were as intense as a snake’s. A man had once told Harry that he’d met Captain Baker and he could swear that the man could go for hours without blinking. “You seem to like her well enough.”
Harry shrugged. “She’s all right, but then she is an American.”
“And quite lovely,” Trevelyan said under his breath.
At that Harry started to come out of the bed. “Now see here, Vellie, you can’t mean to try to take her. She’s my heiress and no one else’s.”
Trevelyan sat back down on the chair and gave his brother a smile. “An heiress, is she? Is that why you want to marry her?”
“One does have to keep a roof on the house. And Mother—”
“Ah, yes, our dear mother.” Trevelyan held his glass up to the light. “How is our mother?”
“As well as she can be.”
“Still running everyone from her room, I gather. Has your little heiress met her yet?”
Harry swallowed more of his whisky. “Not yet. Claire just arrived yesterday.”
“Do you think she will like your heiress?”
“Does it matter? Claire is suitable.”
“For an American.”
“At least she’s not one of those loud, brash, pushy Americans. Always talking about ways to make money. Always wanting to change things, then calling it progress.”
“You can certainly tell that this family is against change. Grandfather’s clothes are still hanging in the wardrobe in his room, just as they were when I left here when I was nine. Tell me, is Mother still charging for the newspapers?”
“Economies have to be made. Mother’s not bad, not really.”
“To you she’s not,” Trevelyan said softly, and the way he said it made Harry look away.
After a moment of silence, Harry spoke again. “What do we do now? Tell the world the second brother has come back from the grave and is to be the duke? Or perhaps, from the look of you, you’re ready to stop all your wanderings and tell the world who you are. Or have been. However you want to say it.”
“I told you my plans. I want to rest and write, that’s all. You can be the bloody duke for all I care.” He fixed Harry with those eyes of his. “I want my expeditions financed. And, by the way, how the hell does the Prince of Wales know that Captain Frank Baker might have once been the earl of Trevelyan?”
“Father told the queen. He thought she should know and should give you a few medals.”
Trevelyan laughed at that. “What would I do with them?”
“Hock them and pay for another of your trips?” Harry said, and made his brother laugh. Harry drained his glass and looked at his brother. “Honestly, Vellie, what do we do now?”
“Vellie,” Trevelyan whispered. “No one’s called me that in a long time.” He smiled at his brother. “We don’t do anything. You keep building that big monument on the hill to your dead brother and I continue being Captain Baker. You marry your heiress and raise a few brats and put a new roof on this building.” He paused. “And you send me money for expeditions.”
“It’ll never work. Too many people in the family know who you are. Mother knows what you do.” Harry frowned. “And look at you. You look more dead than alive. No wonder Claire thought you were an old man. You can’t continue to go on five-year expeditions into nowhere. You won’t live another three years.”
“All the better for the family then,” Trevelyan said with some bitterness, then he leaned forward to look hard into Harry’s eyes. “You know as well as I do I’ve never been a part of this family. All I need now is a place to hide until I’m steadier on my feet, then I’ll be off again. If Captain Baker turns out to be alive after all, then it will dispel all rumors that he was part of your family. The earl of Trevelyan died months ago. Leave it at that.”
“But when Mother hears you’re alive she’ll—”
“Tell her someone else has assumed the identity of Cap
tain Baker. Tell her anything. I couldn’t care less what the old harridan thinks—if she does think.”
Harry leaned back in the bed. He might not know his brother well, but he knew him well enough to know there was no use trying to reason with him. “Where are you staying?”
“Charlie’s room.” Trevelyan grinned. “I doubt that anyone will find me there. I can walk early and late so no one sees me, especially since this house is run on Mother’s clock.”
Harry ignored the dig. “Do you have everything you need? Food?”
“I have a man to take care of me and he brings me food. I’m not fool enough to ask how he obtains it.” He paused. “Who’s the child?”
Harry smiled at that. “You mean the little beauty?”
“I’ve only seen her from the window, but she looks to have potential.”
“She’s Claire’s little sister and she’s exquisite. She’s only fourteen now and I can’t imagine what she’ll look like when she’s eighteen or so. She’s an enchanting child but for some reason her father and Claire call her Brat. I cannot imagine anyone less deserving of such a name.”
“Yes, but then you always were an excellent judge of character, weren’t you?”
Harry ignored the remark. Trevelyan’s anger was his own problem.
“I’ll leave you to your sleep now,” Trevelyan said, starting for the door.
“Stay away from her,” Harry said.
Trevelyan paused with his hand on the door. “I don’t want your little heiress. There’s marriage and eternal fidelity in that young woman’s eyes.”
“Marriage to me,” Harry said.
At that Trevelyan turned to look at his brother and there was a combination of both pity and laughter in his eyes. “Marriage to you and your debts and your mother,” Trevelyan said with glittering eyes. “Now go to sleep, little brother.” With that, Trevelyan left the room.
By the time Claire climbed into bed at the end of her second day at Bramley, she was shaking with exhaustion. But it wasn’t exhaustion from having done anything all day; it was exhaustion from having been wrong all day long. For one whole day of her life, everything she had done had been absolutely, completely, and totally wrong.
Yesterday, at Harry’s insistence, because of her injured arm, she had spent the day in bed. She had been cosseted and cared for by the servants. Food had been brought to her on silver trays. Nothing in the world had been too much or too good for her. All in all it had been a lovely day, a day such as she had imagined being a duchess would be like.
But then last night Harry had told her that this morning her real life would start, that it would be good for her to start learning how his family really lived. Claire had asked a few questions and found out that this decree had come from his mother. Claire had asked when she was going to get to meet his mother, but Harry had been vague, saying that it would be soon, but his mother was ill a great deal and stayed in her rooms.
So, this morning Claire had awakened feeling happy and jubilant. She was at last going to be part of Harry’s family. She was going to take her rightful place at his side.
But it had started to go wrong from the first. Harry’s mother had personally chosen a maid for Claire, someone to help her until Claire could find her own maid. At eight A.M. precisely, Claire had been awakened by a thin little woman who could best be described as gray. Her hair was gray, her skin was gray, and the way she held her mouth was gray. She looked as though she had been born with a scowl on her face. She introduced herself as Miss Rogers and asked Claire what she planned to wear today. Claire said she would wear her red wool dress. Miss Rogers sniffed and returned to the bedroom carrying Claire’s dark green wool dress.
At first Claire thought the woman had misheard, but, no, she had heard all right, but Miss Rogers thought the green was better suited for the morning. Claire gave in to the woman, thinking that perhaps she knew better.
Claire went down to breakfast at exactly three minutes to nine and there were at least twenty people waiting to go into the dining room. Claire was quite startled at this as she’d not known there were guests other than her own family at Bramley. She made her way through the people to Harry and asked him to introduce her, but Harry was deep in a discussion about some horse that he planned to buy that day and said he didn’t know who half of them were. “Relatives, I guess,” was all she could get out of him.
Before Claire could introduce herself, the dining room doors opened and all the people went rushing into the room to take their seats. Claire was left standing just inside the door, but a man dressed in livery held out a chair for her. Harry was sitting at the head of the table and Claire’s chair was a long, long way from his.
There must be some mistake, she thought, so she got up and went to Harry. “They have placed me far away from you,” she said.
She was aware of the profound silence in the room as every one of the strangers as well as the servants turned to look at her. Her mother never rose before noon so she wasn’t at the table, but her father was happily seated halfway down the opposite side.
Harry looked up at Claire in puzzlement, as though he didn’t understand what her complaint was. “Everyone is seated by rank, and you are an American.”
Claire could only look at him.
Harry, not seeming to know what she didn’t understand, attempted to explain. “After we’re married and you’re the duchess, you may sit at the foot of the table.”
“Oh,” was all Claire could say. She tried to keep her chin up as she made her way to near the end of the table—the end where untitled Americans were seated. Even after they were married, she would still not be allowed to dine next to her husband.
Once she was seated and the first course of fried sausages was served, she decided to make the best of it all. She turned to the man next to her. “Lovely day outside, isn’t it?” she said.
All motion at the table stopped. There were no more sounds of eating and everyone paused to stare at her. She leaned forward to look at Harry. He made a little gesture of shaking his head to let her know she wasn’t supposed to talk.
She looked down at her food and began to eat in silence. By the second course of more fried food, a liveried footman came by and handed the men newspapers and they began to read. Claire thought that if she weren’t allowed to talk, then she too would read. She took a newspaper from the tray when it was offered to the man on her left.
Once again there was that silence. Now what have I done wrong? she thought. She looked around her and saw that none of the women were reading newspapers, just the men. While trying to hide her disgust at the absurdity of this, but not really succeeding, she tossed the unread paper back onto the footman’s tray.
She looked about at the silent people, all of them concentrating on their food or their papers. But down the long length of the table was one woman who was looking at her. She was a plain-faced woman, but Claire couldn’t help thinking that with a more fashionable dress and just a touch of cosmetics, she could be made to look a great deal better than she did. The woman smiled at Claire and Claire smiled back. The woman was sitting near Harry so she must have a very high “rank,” Claire thought.
After the long meal Claire practically ran to reach Harry before he disappeared into the bowels of the house. “Could I speak to you?”
He frowned a bit but recovered himself and led the way into a small drawing room. He turned to her, trying to conceal his impatience. By now his horse was saddled and waiting for him.
“Could you explain to me about breakfast?”
“What about it?” he asked, glancing at the clock on the mantel.
“Why does no one talk?”
“Mother believes that the most important meal of the day is breakfast and that people can’t digest their food properly if they’re talking.”
She frowned, for he sounded as though he were chanting something he’d memorized. “Then why not have silence when your mother is present at the table and let people converse when s
he isn’t? It would make for a much more pleasant meal if people could talk.”
He smiled indulgently at her. “But Mother is the duchess.”
Claire did not say, but you are the duke. “I see. And she rules the house even when she isn’t there.”
“Of course. Now I really must go. Your father and I are going to look at some horses today.”
“But what about the newspapers?”
For a moment, Harry looked puzzled. “Oh, I see. Mother doesn’t think women ought to read newspapers.”
“What does Her Grace think women ought to read?” Claire’s voice was heavy with sarcasm, but Harry didn’t seem to notice.
“Actually, she doesn’t think women should read very much at all. She says it makes them discontent. Now, darling, I must go.” He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and started for the door.
“Harry! May I go with you?”
Harry, his back to her, rolled his eyes skyward. When he turned back to her, he was smiling. “Darling, I would love to take you with me, but you’d be bored to death. Besides, we’re going on horseback, and the doctor said you’re not to use your arm for anything heavy, and that includes pulling on a horse’s reins. You just stay here and enjoy yourself.”
Claire tried to hide her disappointment. “May I explore the house?”
“Of course you may,” he said in a put-upon-male voice. “You’re free to do whatever you want. But the east wing of the house is full of people’s rooms so perhaps you shouldn’t disturb them, and the west wing is falling apart. Rotten timbers and all that, so you’d better stay out of there. I really must go now. See you at dinner.” With that he left the room before she could ask any more questions or request anything else of him.
“I may do anything I want except talk, read, ride, or look at the house that will be mine someday,” she said to herself, but then made herself stop being pessimistic.
At least she was free to explore the core of the house, if not the wings, and she knew the first place she wanted to see: the library. She asked a footman to direct her to the library, and as soon as she approached it, she smiled. She could hear laughter inside and was glad of the sound.
The Duchess Page 5