Amanda McCabe (9 page)

“It was.”

“Then I should go and see how the cleaning of the drawing room is progressing.”

“Yes, of course. I shall see you at supper, then.”

Marcus waited until she was out of the room, with the door safely shut behind her, before bursting into laughter again.

***

He was going to buy that insufferable Lady Angela a riding habit? A gift of clothing, suitable only for one’s intended?

Julia marched across the foyer, her arms crossed in indignation. Well, if
that
was the way the matrimonial wind was blowing, then Julia wished him happy of his chosen bride. Any man fool enough to choose a woman like Lady Angela Fleming deserved what he got.

She had just thought, or hoped, that Marcus was different.

But she had no time for foolish hopes now. She had other business to attend to.

She threw open the drawing room door.

They were all there. Daphne and Mary were sponging at the satin upholstery of the settee where Lady Angela had been sitting. John and Ned had rolled back the rug and were scrubbing at the parquet floor. Abelard was clearing the mashed remains of the refreshments—not that there was much left of them, after Lord Belvoir’s onslaught. Even the young apprentice was put to work, scraping dried cream off of the rose-colored silk wallpaper.

“There you are, lass!” Abelard boomed. “Wasn’t our performance this afternoon a triumph?”

Julia shut the door and leaned against it, folding her arms again. “Do you mean to say, Uncle Abby, that you did all of this on purpose?”

Abelard paused and stroked thoughtfully at his whiskers. “Well, no, lass, not on purpose. I mean, we
did
plan to set the syllabub alight. It was something Mary saw some Frenchy chef do once. But we never planned to spill it all on that harridan and her piggy father. That was the hand of fate.”

“The hand of fate, ha! It was the hand of Abelard Douglas, and well you know it.” Julia sat down on the one unscathed settee.

“What is wrong, Julia?” asked Daphne, leaving off her scrubbing to come and sit beside her. “Did his lordship give us the sack, then? Do we have to leave?”

“No, nothing that dire. But he did ask if my mother gave out-of-work actors staff positions out of charity.”

“Out of work?”
Abelard thundered. The very silk-covered walls shook. “Not one of Abelard’s Ambling Players has been out of work for one day of their lives! We are the finest Shakespearean actors in all of England—”

“And of Scotland and Wales,” Ned interjected.

Abelard slapped his hand against the marble mantel. “Damn right. Ireland, too! We are hailed throughout the kingdom.”

“Uncle Abby, please!” Julia hissed. “What if Lord Ellston hears you?”

“I don’t care if the bloody little Sassenach does hear me!
Let
him hear me. Let him come in here and challenge me himself. . . .”

“If he hears you, he will throw you all out for certain,” Julia reminded him.

“Ah. Well.” Abelard sank slowly down to sit on the nearest chair. “Perhaps the lad is not so very bad for an Englishman, after all.”

Mary giggled. “You said he was a bloody little Sas—”

“That was before I really knew him,” Abelard interrupted, giving her a stern look. “Remember what we talked about the other night? When the moon was full?”

“Oh, yes.” Mary nodded, her blonde curls bouncing. “I do remember now. Yes. Lord Ellston is not bad at all.”

She dug her elbow into John’s ribs, and he said, “No. Not bad at all. In fact, he’s rather nice. Don’t you think so, Julia?”

“You wouldn’t have thought he was so nice if he
had
given you the sack,” Julia murmured, completely mystified by their odd behavior. What had happened on the night of the full moon? “But as he has not, I think we should have more caution in the future. We should move the rehearsals to the dower house.”

“Of course, lass,” answered Abelard, his voice rather hoarse from his earlier tirade. “Whatever you think best. After all, this is
your
house.”

Chapter Eleven

He plays o’ the viol-de-gamboys,

and speaks three or four languages

word for word without book,

and hath all the good gifts of nature.

—
Twelfth Night

“Oooh, Julia, look at this!” Daphne cried.

Julia looked up from the menus for the next week she was reviewing at the library desk. Marcus had gone out riding for the morning, so she had decided to use the library for her work while Daphne dusted the bookshelves.

Only Daphne was not doing very much dusting. Instead, she was perched atop her stepladder, her feather duster tucked beneath her arm, reading the books.

Julia happily put aside the menus; Mrs. Gilbert’s crabbed handwriting was giving her a headache. “What is it, Daphne?”

“This book is
very
interesting. Someone has naughty taste indeed!” Daphne climbed down from the ladder and came to put the book on the desk.

Julia leaned forward, curious, to see a pen-and-ink drawing of a rather large woman with pendulous breasts falling out of her gown, sitting astride an equally corpulent man.

She choked on a gasp of laughter and looked quickly away. Then she peeked back at it. “Oh, my. They seem rather, er, athletic for such large people.”

“Don’t they, though?” Daphne said gleefully, rifling through the pages. “And there’s more, too. See? I especially like this one with the monkey . . .”

“Daphne!” Julia reached out her hand and slammed the book shut. “Wherever did you find this?”

“It was shoved behind some volumes of Plato up there on the top shelf. I wonder whom it belonged to?” Daphne peeked at the flyleaf. “No name written here.”

“That’s hardly surprising. Who would admit to it? I’m sure it wasn’t Gerald’s.”

“Maybe it belonged to his first wife?”

“Marcus’s mother? I don’t think so. Everyone says she was so perfectly proper.”

“Those are the ones you have to watch out for.” Then Daphne snapped her fingers. “I know! I bet it was Thompson’s.”

“The butler?” Julia giggled at an image of the rabbity little butler eagerly devouring naughty literature.

“Well, why not? He was just the sort to do it, if you ask me. With that dried-up wife of his . . .”

“Daphne!”

“Sorry, Julia. But it’s true.” Daphne picked up the book. “What should we do with this lovely little volume, then?”

“Put it back where we found it, I suppose. I’m not taking it to
my
room.”

“You are probably right; best just to forget all about it. It would have been funny to show it to Mary, though.”

Daphne went to put the book back behind the Plato, and Julia went back to her menus.

She had barely gotten past the first course of supper when Mary came flying through the door. Her curls were escaping from her starched cap every which way, and her cheeks glowed pink with excitement.

“Oh, Julia! The grandest coach is just coming up the drive,” she gasped. “Come and see!”

“I hope it is not the Flemings again,” Julia muttered, putting away the menus for good. “I don’t think I could stomach them so near to luncheon.”

“If it is them, we’ll just make some more syllabub!” said Mary.

The three of them hurried over to the windows to watch as the large carriage, a dazzling red-and-yellow barouche drawn by a beautifully matched team of bays, came gliding up the drive. There was a crest on the door, but Julia could not make it out at that distance.

“It can’t be those Flemings,” said Daphne. “That carriage is far too elegant for their tastes. Did you see all that gold on Lady Angela’s habit yesterday?”

“It’s too small for Lord Belvoir’s backside, too!” snickered Mary.

Daphne leaned closer to Julia and whispered, “He probably posed for the drawing in that book.”

Julia covered her giggles with her hand and turned her attention back to the new arrival.

As they watched, Ned, dressed today in a bright blue doublet and emerald green hose, hurried out to the carriage to open the door and lower the steps.

A tall, older woman in a pink pelisse and an elaborate pink-and-red feathered hat stepped out. She paused to gaze up at the house fondly, adjusting the ermine muff on her arm.

“Lady Edgemere!” Julia exclaimed. “Whatever can she be doing here? She only calls every other Tuesday. And she must have bought a new carriage; the old one was a plain black.”

After her came a gentleman, nearly as tall as she was. He wore a somber black coat and plain neck cloth, but this attire could not disguise his angelic blond handsomeness.

“Who is
that
?” breathed Mary.

“I think it’s Apollo,” said Daphne.

“It’s only Mr. Elliott, the curate,” answered Julia, snapping her fingers to bring them out of their dazed regard. “I have no idea why he and Lady Edgemere have come to call, but I must hurry and change my dress before they see me! Will you both come and help me?”

“We’d rather serve tea to your guest.
Guests
, that is,” sighed Mary.

“You can do that later,” Julia said impatiently. “For now, though, come upstairs and help me choose a dress.”

***

“My dear Miss Barclay, please do forgive us for calling on you with no notice. I know it is not my Tuesday,” Lady Edgemere said, floating across the drawing room on the cloud of her pink pelisse to kiss Julia’s cheek. “We just happened to be nearby, you see, making a parish call, and I wanted to stop here. I have something very particular I would like to speak with you about. You remember Mr. Elliott, do you not?”

“Of course,” Julia answered, rather dazed by the whirlwind of energy that was Lady Edgemere. Even at the age of sixty-something (she would never admit exactly what the something was) she put everyone else to shame. Julia always felt in need of a nap after her calls. “It is very good to see you again, Mr. Elliott.”

The curate took her outstretched hand and bowed over it, lingering just an instant longer than was strictly proper. “It is very good to see
you
again, Miss Barclay. I believe we have not met since St. Anne’s choir concert a fortnight ago.”

“No, indeed. Won’t you both please be seated? Shall I ring for some tea? Or perhaps you would care to stay for luncheon?”

“Tea would be lovely, my dear, but then we must fly.” Lady Edgemere sat down on the settee while Julia watched, praying that the satin was dry from its sponging the day before. “I mean to attend the card party at Belvoir Abbey tonight, and I must make myself presentable! I understand you are going to be there, as well? Your first outing since your dear mother’s passing.”

The Flemings’ party! Julia had been trying to forget all about it, and had quite succeeded until now. “Yes, of course,” she murmured.

“Which brings me to what I wanted to ask you. I saw Lady Angela in Little Dipping this morning.”

Julia clutched at the gilded arms of her chair, trying to brace for what was surely coming. “Did you, Lady Edgemere?”

“Yes. As you know, I have hosted the Harvest Fete at Edgemere Park for several years, but this year I am simply too tired for all the fuss. As the previous host, I have the honor of choosing my successor, and Lady Angela tells me she would like to have it at Belvoir Abbey.”

Julia was puzzled. Whatever did the Fete have to do with the flaming syllabub? “Oh?”

“Yes. She is quite eager to host it, in fact. It is quite an honor in the neighborhood, and she, of course, knows this.”

Mr. Elliott nodded in earnest agreement.

“I thought Lady Angela was already quite a renowned local hostess,” Julia said tentatively, not sure where this conversation was leading.

Lady Edgemere shook her head. “Lady Angela does have an influence among the more . . . impressionable of our younger set, perhaps. She is pretty, and young people, young men in particular, are rather susceptible to a pretty face. Excepting our dear Mr. Elliott, of course.”

Mr. Elliott, who had wandered over to examine one of the paintings on the wall, bowed in acknowledgment.

“But you see, Miss Barclay,” Lady Edgemere continued, “I simply feel that the Abbey does not have the . . . proper facilities to give the Fete its full honor. If you know what I mean.”

Julia nodded slowly. She
thought
she knew what Lady Edgemere was saying—that Lady Angela did not deserve the honor of hosting the Fete.

“Therefore, Miss Barclay, I would like to ask you to host the Fete here at Rosemount. With Marcus’s permission, of course.”

Julia stared at Lady Edgemere, wondering if her hearing was failing her. She, to host the Harvest Fete? Why, she had never so much as hosted her own supper party before; she had only helped her mother. “Lady Edgemere, it is so kind of you to think of me. But I fear . . .”

Lady Edgemere held up her hand in an imperious, silencing gesture. “I know that it is a very large task, my dear, and I am prepared to help you in every way. As is Mr. Elliott. Are you not, Mr. Elliott?”

“In every way I can, Miss Barclay,” Mr. Elliott answered earnestly.

Julia looked at Lady Edgemere in suspicion. “I thought, Lady Edgemere, that you said you were too tired for the Fete this year.”

Lady Edgemere’s faded blue eyes sparkled. “Too tired to have it at Edgemere Park, my dear. Never too tired to help a friend.”

Julia considered this. Organizing the Fete would be a large task. Everyone in the neighborhood, gentry and farmers alike, attended. And then there was the grand ball in the evening. A large task, yes, but Julia could not resist the thought of the look on Lady Angela’s face when she heard that she, Julia Barclay, was to host the Fete.

She smiled. “I would be happy to do it, Lady Edgemere.”

Lady Edgemere laughed and clapped her hands in glee. “Excellent! It will be the finest Fete ever. It was always meant to be here at Rosemount; I don’t know why your mother never wanted to host it. Mr. Elliott, you must play us a celebration song on the pianoforte.”

Julia looked over to see that Mr. Elliott was examining her mother’s inlaid Venetian pianoforte. It had not been played since her mother died, though Julia always made sure it was still tuned. “Do you play, Mr. Elliott?”

“A bit,” he answered modestly. “You certainly have a beautiful instrument here, Miss Barclay.”

“A bit, he says!” snorted Lady Edgemere. “Don’t believe such self-effacement, Miss Barclay. He plays like the veriest angel.”

“Then do play for us, please, Mr. Elliott,” Julia beseeched. “I do not play at all, and I fear the instrument has been rather lonely of late.”

“Do you sing, Miss Barclay?” Mr. Elliott asked, sitting down on the matching bench and striking a tentative note at the keys.

“Very little.”

“Well, then, I shall only play if you agree to sing.”

Julia glanced at Lady Edgemere, who said, “Oh, yes, my dear, do. I should so love to hear you young people make music for me. And here is the tea, as well! Perfection.”

Abelard came into the room then, carrying the tray of tea and cakes. Julia gave him a sharp look, and he nodded at her solemnly. There would be no flaming syllabub today.

Lady Edgemere also gave him a long, penetrating look, but Julia did not see, as she had risen to walk over to the pianoforte.

“What would you like to sing?” Mr. Elliott asked.

“I fear my repertoire is limited. Do you know ‘It Was a Lover and His Lass’?”

“Of course.” Mr. Elliott nodded eagerly. “Everyone should know all the works of the Bard of Avon.”

Julia smiled, liking the curate more and more. He struck up the lively tune, and she sang out: “It was a lover and his lass, with a hey and a ho and hey no ni no . . .”

***

Marcus heard the music as soon as he came in the front door. It was sweet and lilting, filling the house with light.

The only music he ever remembered at Rosemount was the sad German
lieder
his mother had been so fond of playing, and that was nothing like this music. This music seemed to clear the very farthest corners of the house of shadows.

The two footmen, in their blue satin doublets, were dicing on the floor of the foyer. They leaped up when they spotted him and came to take his hat and riding crop. The bells on their codpieces tinkled a light counterpoint to the music.

“Do we have guests?” Marcus asked them.

“Yes, my lord,” answered the shorter of the two, the one with the plumed cap. “Lady Edgemere and Mr. Elliott, the curate.”

That handsome curate he and Julia had glimpsed on the night of the full moon? Here, with Julia? He frowned. “How long have they been here?”

“About half an hour, my lord,” said the taller footman. “Ab—Douglas has just taken in the tea.”

Marcus strode across the foyer to the drawing room. He knew that he really should go upstairs and change his clothes before greeting their guests; he was rather dusty. But he thought he would just peek in first to see what was happening with Julia and the curate.

First he saw Lady Edgemere, with her elaborate pink-and-red feathered hat. She sat on the settee, smiling and nodding to the music.

Then he saw Julia. She was standing next to Mr. Elliott, who was playing at the pianoforte. And she was wearing her stylish sapphire-blue silk dress again. Her hands fluttered as she sang, almost bringing them to rest on Mr. Elliott’s shoulder. A beam of sunlight from the window alighted on them, bathing them in a celestial glow.

Julia sang out, “For love is crowned with the prime, in the spring time, the only pretty ring time, when birds do sing, hey ding a ding, ding, sweet lovers love the spring.”

Mr. Elliott finished off the song with a light trill across the ivory keys. Then he and Julia smiled at each other in complete satisfaction.

A strange, sharp, unexpected anger at the sweet scene made Marcus break into slow applause, causing all three of them to turn their heads and look at him in surprise.

Mr. Elliott jumped up from the pianoforte and bowed politely, while Julia nervously smoothed her hair back into its neat coil.

Lady Edgemere smiled as if she had some great secret she refused to tell.

“Marcus, my dear!” she said, holding out her hand to him. “I am so glad you have arrived. I feared I would not see you on this visit. And you were just in time to hear the last of Miss Barclay and Mr. Elliott’s song. Do they not sound delightful together?”