A Lady in Disguise (3 page)

Lillian opened her mouth to make her comment but never spoke. They had come around a bend in the road, and ahead of her was a house. She was surprised. Here were no imposing turrets, crenellated for defense, no stone walls six feet thick, nor even any moat. “That is the castle?” she asked, her voice going high.

‘That is the castle,” he said. “Or rather, what is now called the castle. The original building is behind that hill.” He pointed with his whip as they advanced on the house.

Lillian could see nothing beyond the tree-decked hill. “Why do you not live there?”

“Miss Cole, have you ever lived in a castle? You may take my word for it that they are cold, damp, and given over to bats and mice. Besides, Cromwell’s army slighted it beyond repair. At least, so runs the story. My family was only too pleased at the excuse to build a home with a few modem conveniences.”

The curricle stopped before the white-painted door. He gazed down at her and said, “I believe you are disappointed, Miss Cole.”

Lillian said, “I think I am, a trifle. I confess a lurking nonsensical fantasy to sleep among keeps and turrets. Though I had not thought of the bats and the mice.”

“Well, in your private ear, Miss Cole, I must say that I too have often thought it a pity we Everards did not rebuild our castle. I suppose it is just the romantic in me coming through. But I promise to show you over the ruins myself. Come, let me help you.” He leapt down lightly and held up his arms.

Lillian vanquished the temptation to tighten her hands on his shoulders as he swung her down. “Thank you,” she said a mite breathlessly.

“Don’t turn your head,” Thorpe said, as he lifted out her valise, ignoring the footman who ran up to relieve him of it, “but my grandmother and daughter watch you from the window to your right.”

With commendable self-control, Lillian did not look, though she became aware of a tingling heat down that side of her body. It felt as though their gaze must be burning holes in her dress, and she resisted the urge to sniff for the odor of singeing cloth. “I take it their expressions are not admiring.”

“No, but mine is, by God. I begin to wonder whether you are a treasure, Miss Cole. I will know after you have met my grandmother. And my daughter.”

Lillian had not felt this nervous since the first time she’d entered the sacred precincts of Almack’s. And yet what was the censure of an old woman and young girl in comparison with the stern gazes of the Patronesses? Assuming a confident smile, Lillian nodded to the butler, as Thorpe introduced her. “Miss Cole, this is Becksnaff. If you require anything, he will arrange it for you.”

“Thank you, Becksnaff.” It was proper etiquette to thank the butler as though the offer had come from him and not from the master. Lillian then exclaimed with pleasure at the sight of the long, mahogany banister coming down into the front hall, decorated at the twisted newel posts with highly polished busts of Grecian goddesses.

“It looks just like heavy silk,” she said. “How ever do you contrive to keep the wood glowing so?” This gambit never failed to elicit the secret recipe to whatever beeswax embrocation the butler himself had developed.

Becksnaff sniffed. “Her ladyship and Miss Everard await you in the library, sir.” He walked away as though mortally offended, his elbows sticking out on either side.

Lillian followed Thorpe, very confused. Opposition to a governess must be more deeply rooted at the castle than even he believed. She was distracted from this reflection, however, by the discovery that she thought of him as “Thorpe.” It would behoove her to stamp out this tendency before she accidentally called him that aloud.

The interior of the castle was in accord with the exterior, warm and homelike. Yet, Lillian’s tutored eye saw that every stick of furniture, every lick of paint, and every stitch of cloth was of the very best quality. It was very close in style to the country house in Berkshire that her father had permitted her to furnish without interference. It had pleased her to create there an atmosphere of peace and quiet elegance that was as comfortable to the body as it was soothing to the mind. Lillian was sick of grandeur that strove to overwhelm the viewer. That style was all too easily found in London.

Thorpe stopped before a closed door. All the entrances to the rooms were at least twelve  feet tall, yet he did not appear insignificant beside the wooden rectangle. “You’re ready?”

“Certainly,” Lillian said, straightening. “I have nothing to be afraid of.”

“Would you prefer that I go first, to prepare the way?”

“I don’t believe that will be necessary.” Whoever awaited her, she would show them that she was in perfect control of the situation. Lillian refused to consider why it was so important that she impress Thorpe Everard. Fixing her eyes on the door, a calm and resolute bend to her lips, she waited for him to enter.

The woman and girl stood very close together, the woman’s black-mittened hands on the child’s shoulders. If Thorpe had said nothing about their attitude toward one another, Lillian would have known at once that his grandmother and daughter were in deepest collusion. Their features were naturally similar, allowing for the difference between the ages of six and what must be almost seventy. Yet there was more than a family resemblance. Their very expressions were the same— guarded, stern, and perhaps the merest trifle afraid.

They neither of them spoke. Obviously, it was up to Lillian to open the game. “How do you do,” she said, dipping into a curtsy, exactly the depth for politeness and nothing more. “I am Miss Lillian Cole. I have come to be governess here.”

Was there or was there not the slightest relaxation of tension in the air? Lillian had never been one of those people who claim to have an intimate knowledge of the emotional states of strangers. Yet, it seemed to her that the twin set of features before her had changed, becoming marginally less fearful. What or who had they expected with such anxiety?

The pale pink lips of the older woman opened as though she would speak, but she paused, considering what to say. “Thorpe,” she said at last, but her eyes did not leave Lillian. “Thorpe, you did not tell me you were fetching a governess for Addy.”

“No, Grandmother. I thought it would be a surprise.”

“It is. But a pleasant one.” The eyes, faded blue, rested on Lillian. “You are welcome at the castle, Miss Cole.

“I have been responsible for Addy’s education, but I am an old woman and not
au courant
with every scrap of thought about the world. Obviously, my grandson has decided it is time I gave way to another. Perhaps he is right. Addy has some talent for painting, which I never could master. Are you qualified to teach her that?”

“I know the basics of color and form, Mrs. Everard. I—”

“Pray forgive me, but I am Lady Genevieve Everard.” For the first time, the lady smiled, but the expression did not warm Lillian.

“I beg your pardon. Lady Genevieve. As I was saying, I understand the elements of painting, but if Addy shows true aptitude, it may be wisest to find a teacher who is more thoroughly grounded in art.”

As yet, Lillian had not looked directly at the child. She felt somehow that it would be resented by both of them if she did not address her remarks to the older woman first. Now, however, she did glance down and found herself looking into a pair of eyes. What the rest of the child was like she could not at the moment tell. By their shape, those eyes, with lashes so long and luxuriant they appeared artificial, could have only appeared in the face of the child of Thorpe Everard. Without thinking, Lillian lifted her eyes to him.

He stood, one elbow on a highly carved mantelpiece, smiling at the scene before him. Seeing that she looked at him, he nodded encouragingly.

“Would you like to learn to paint?” she asked, returning her attention to the child.

“I already know how. Great taught me.” Her voice was not loud, but her pronunciation was clear and her tone very determined. “I don’t need a governess, you know.”

“So your father told me. But I have come a long way to be with you. May I not stay a few days to recover myself before I go on? And as long as I am here, I may as well occupy the time by teaching you all I know about painting. I doubt it will take very long.”

“Well, if you want,” Addy said, hardly graciously. Nevertheless, Lillian thanked her with great seriousness.

“Does that meet with your approval, Lady Genevieve?”

“I think you are a very clever girl, Miss Cole. Addy and I will show you to your room. Come, child.” She released her grasp on the child’s thin shoulders to take hold of her hand. Lillian caught the merest flash of a look between them, and knew she had not fooled the child any more than she had the old lady. But she was being permitted to remain, if on sufferance.

It was only as she followed the two up the stairs that she wondered why staying was so important to her. Being thrust out would have meant a speedy return to Lady Pritchard with a tale not even Paulina could fault. Her spying days would have been over before begun.

Her room was on the third floor, with two small windows peering out from beneath the eaves. It was hot and rather stuffy from the sun’s rays beating through the sharply-pitched roof. Her valise lay closed on the narrow iron bed.

“When you are done with your unpacking,” Lady Genevieve said, “come down to my chamber and we’ll discuss what is to be done with Addy.”

“Very well.” She was left alone to put her few things onto the warped wardrobe shelf. It had been a long time since she’d been called upon to unpack her own clothing instead of having a maid to do it for her.

Before anything else, however, she removed her sad bonnet. The black single feather with which it was decorated fell limply over a crepe-lined brim. Lillian cringed at the mental image of herself in this weary headdress. She, who had half a dozen modistes begging for her business. She, who had cut such a dashing figure in the Row. She, whose personal maid carried herself always with such hauteur as to make determining who was maid and who mistress nearly impossible. She could not help but laugh as she tossed her bonnet on the bed, in defiance of superstition. A moment later, her reticule flew across the room to join it.

A glittering string bounced out of the bag to lie on the rough blanket, as though wondering how it came to be there. Guiltily, Lillian snatched up the bright sapphire necklace. Each stone held the clear radiance of true Burmese blue, often likened to the color of fast-falling twilight. A single glance around told her that hiding places were scarce in the tiny room.

Lillian slipped it beneath her chemise and bounced on her toes to see if it would shake through. The stones were cool against her skin. There would have been no explanation possible if one of the maids had found the expensive bauble among the clothing of a governess. She would find a better hiding place for it later.

Wearing only stays and petticoat, Lillian poured tepid water into the basin. Dressing could wait but she must instantly wash her face, as it felt as if it were encased in a sticky mask. Once her face was clean and dried, she released her dark brunette hair from its tight knot and shook the waves free. As she began to brush it out, someone knocked at the door.

“Who is it?” she called.

“I, Mr. Everard. May I come in?” The handle turned and he was there, filling the door frame. His glance flashed down over her white-swathed figure. His eyes hesitated an instant on the lustrous curl lying against the fullness of her bosom before they snapped shut. “I beg your pardon,” he said, but did not back up to leave.

The small towel was entirely inadequate for shielding any part of her person other than her face. “What do you want?” she asked, holding it instead to the area he seemed to have found most intriguing.

“When Becksnaff told me you were up here, I couldn’t countenance it. You’ll come with me, at once. That is, as soon as you are dressed.” His eyes were still closed, and Lillian knew, with a pang of something akin to disappointment, that he would not peek.

‘This is the room Lady Genevieve said—”

“I understand. Actually, this is a trunk room. Not even the servants live up here. The room you’ll sleep... you are to be nearer the nursery, one flight down. I apologize for the confusion.”

They both knew it was no confusion but a deliberate slight. “I shall move my valise in a moment, Mr. Everard. First, I must resume my attire.”

“Of course.” He still did not move, nor open his eyes. The silence lengthened as she waited for him to go. “I beg your pardon,” he said as though he’d only just remembered to. Spinning sharply about, he struck his head on the sloped roof with a crack audible even to Lillian. As he raised his hand to the spot, he turned back to her, grimacing.

“Are you all right?”

His eyes flew open and dropped without thought to the top of her stays, inadequately covered by her hands and the towel. The effort required to lift them again to her face was almost palpable. “I... yes, quite all right.”

Lillian had worn far more revealing clothing at any London rout. Yet, she was embarrassed. Because of him. He filled the tiny room with his presence, with his scent of open air and clean perspiration. She felt a flush of heat rise up, coloring her face and chest, as she realized that the small iron bed would accommodate two people if they co-operated.

“I’ll speak to my grandmother about this.” He looked about the dingy room. Anywhere but at her. A darker tinge had come into his already tanned cheeks.

“Please, let us just treat it as a simple error. I do not wish her to think you are against her. Give her another chance. You did surprise them.”

“I’ll have a servant bring your valise down.” He left, without allowing his eyes to fall upon her again.

Lillian put her shaking hands over her face. She groped after her psalm in her mind, but all she could think of was Thorpe’s eyes searching her body. She could not understand the direction in which her thoughts had flown. Obviously the psalm which helped keep her from losing her temper was not going to work when she’d lost her mind.

Almost hoping she was ill, Lillian leapt up and soaked the towel in the water and applied it to the nape of her neck. Never before had she put “bed” and “man” together in the same thought. Even when a wedding had seemed an inevitable part of her future, she had striven against the temptation to think ahead to a wedding night. There was safety in innocence, although no one who had visited India could be entirely ignorant of the congress between a man and a woman. There had been the most remarkable friezes on some of the temples....