Amanda Scott (6 page)

Michael gave a long-suffering sigh and said, “If such a day ever dawns, the most likely outcome is that the rulers of the earth will be convinced at last of the utter folly of war.”

“Fine talk from a military man,” Lord Ashby said with a grin.

“Ex-military, sir. I did my duty for three long years, but that does not mean I enjoyed it. I prefer to believe there must be a more peaceful way for countries to settle their differences.”

“Not countries up against a devil who wants to rule the world, like Boney,” Lord Ashby pointed out.

“Perhaps not,” Michael said. When he did not continue, conversation lapsed, for, although Anne had given no order to do so—and had seen no one else sign to them—the servants had begun to clear away platters and dishes to make room for dessert and the wine. Once these items had been placed on the table, Bagshaw signed to the other servants to withdraw, and followed them. A heavier silence ensued, and Anne noticed that Andrew seemed suddenly to display an extraordinary interest in choosing between a slice of rhubarb tart and a cheesecake.

Lord Ashby, too, seemed absorbed in selecting his dessert. He was the first to break the silence, however, saying to Michael, “If you ain’t going to have more wine yourself, lad, you might pass the decanter in this direction.”

“Sorry,” Michael said, pushing the decanter toward him but watching Andrew. “How was the shooting?” he asked.

Andrew looked at him from beneath furrowed brows. “Didn’t see much to shoot, if you must know.”

“Then don’t you think you ought to have come in sooner?”

Andrew shrugged. “Didn’t want to.”

“And so you kept your loader tramping at your heels on no more than a mere whim.”

“Why not? It is his business to tramp at my heels.”

When Anne saw Lord Michael’s lips press tightly together, and a muscle twitch high in his cheek, she said wistfully, “I have never actually been tempted to shoot anything, myself, but I confess, I have often thought the sport must provide gentlemen with the perfect excuse for just walking through the woods, observing the birds and trees and flowers.”

Andrew shot her a quick, measuring look, but she was more interested to learn how Michael would react to her intervention. At the first hint of his anger, she had experienced an instinctive desire to defuse the situation. The impulse was second nature to her after years of intervening in such cases on behalf of her brothers and sisters. She abhorred dissension, even feared it, viewing subsequent explosions as failures on her own part to maintain a more peaceful state.

Michael was still watching Andrew. His tone was even, however, when he said, “Knowing that I was bringing my new wife home today, you ought to have been here to greet her, Andrew. I expect you to extend an extraordinary courtesy to her, for it is your duty, you know, to see that she quickly feels welcome here.”

“Oh, certainly.”

“And your Uncle, I hope you will keep a protective eye on her till she finds her feet.”

“Glad to oblige, dear boy. Easy on the eyes, she is—protective or otherwise—and that’s a fact.”

Anne blushed but said quickly, “I hope no one need look after me. I can look after myself quite well, you know.”

“Can you?” Michael asked, and she thought she detected some slight amusement in his eyes. “What will you find to occupy your time here, I wonder?”

“Good gracious, sir, all manner of things. There is this huge house, for one thing, and the gardens, not to mention the children, for I do hope you mean to send for Sylvia at once. She must long to be in her own home again after so many months away.”

“If you really want her, I shall send for her tomorrow, but as to the house, Bagshaw and Mrs. Burdekin have everything well in hand, so I cannot imagine what you think you need do.”

“They seem competent, certainly, but I have been trained to supervise my household closely; and the gardens are quite another story altogether, I fear.”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Goodness me, they are chockful of weeds, and nothing looks as if it’s been pruned in a year or more. Do you stock that lake for fishing? For if you do, I’ll be bound it’s empty now.”

“We fish the river,” Michael said. “The lake is purely ornamental.”

Lord Ashby said, “Could be she’s right though, Michael. Quigley’s getting on in years, by Jove, and his eyesight ain’t what it used to be. Under-gardener’s not precisely bursting with initiative either. Can’t think of the lad’s name just now, but you know the one I mean.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Michael said. “Do as you like with the gardens, madam. It will at least give you something useful to do with your time until Sylvia returns.”

Anne was sure she would find many things to occupy her, both inside the house and out. Gentlemen, in her experience, had little understanding of the effort required to keep a household running smoothly, but the servants would surely expect her to take the reins at once, and must be wondering whether she would drive them with a light or heavy hand. From what she had seen, the duke was fortunate in his household staff, but she had already seen a few details that could be altered without inconveniencing anyone. For example, if Lord Michael was concerned about money, surely they did not need a score of wax candles and a fire in every public room.

Knowing that such extravagance might well have been in honor of her homecoming, she resolved to make no suggestions until she had had a chance to see just how the household was run on a daily basis. For that same reason, she forbore to point out that, although she had been introduced to the servants as their new mistress, they had not once looked to her during dinner for their orders. They had even begun clearing the table without so much as looking to her for a sign that they should do so. Telling herself that such behavior was merely habitual in a household of gentlemen, and not done by intent, she decided to have a private word with Bagshaw, but only if the same thing happened again.

Conversation lapsed again until they had finished their dessert, and during that whole time Andrew scarcely took his eyes from his plate. When Lord Michael pushed back his chair and stood up, however, the boy stiffened visibly.

“I will see you in the library now, Andrew,” Michael said. “I have a few things to say to you.” He rang the bell, and when Bagshaw appeared, he said, “We don’t want a tea tray tonight unless Lord Ashby requires one for himself.” Then, looking at Anne, who had risen from the table when he had, he added, “You may go up now, madam. I will come to you when I have attended to Andrew.”

Anne felt a tightening in her midsection but whether it was one of those odd tremors born of anticipation, or just annoyance at being treated as much like a child as Andrew, she was not certain. She curtsied to the boy, saying, “Good night, Your Grace. I look forward to increasing our acquaintance.”

He nodded curtly and strode from the room without a word.

Grimacing, Michael followed him.

“Foolish brat,” Lord Ashby muttered with a sigh.

“It must be difficult for him to see me in his mother’s place,” Anne said as the two of them moved into the stair hall.

“Bosh, the boy scarcely ever saw her. Made a pet of young Sylvie, Agnes did, but she left Andrew to his nurses and his father when she and Edmund were here at home. Agnes preferred living in town and spent as little time as possible here. Edmund was here more, but he often came without her.”

“Oh,” Anne said. “I suppose it was much the same in our family, or it would have been if my mother enjoyed town life. She goes every year for precisely two months of the Season, but that is all. And although we had nurses and governesses, she was always nearby. My sisters are closer to her than I am, but we would all miss her dreadfully if she were to die. I suppose this family is different though—the mothers generally not close to their sons—and that is why Lord Michael … that is—” She broke off, realizing she should not be speaking of her husband in such a way.

“Showed you Marianne’s portrait, did he?”

Anne nodded.

“Casual about it, ain’t he? Don’t let him fool you.” Lord Ashby smiled in an altogether different way, a softer, gentler way. “Marianne was the merriest thing, so full of life and laughter, and she adored her children. Doted on them all in a scandalously unfashionable way, and they adored her. Think I was a bit in love with her myself. She and her special friends were quite a group. Never found anyone my own age or younger to match them. Not that they were much older, mind you. I suppose Marianne was about five years older, and she was the eldest of them all, and the merriest. The youngest, a chit called Hermione, was—is, I should say—just a year older than what I am, myself.” He sighed reminiscently, adding, “My brother was never the same after Marianne died. Oh, he had his amusements, of course. Who does not? But he never could bear to think of marrying again and became as stiff-rumped as our father was, and as distant of manner. Edmund—despite being all of twelve or thirteen at the time—carried on right royally, demanding to know how she could do such a thing to him and ordering that she be brought back to life. Threw royal tantrums, too, when he found he couldn’t get his own way with the Almighty, but Michael turned overnight from a merry child into a solemn one. Took it upon himself to tell Hetta. That’s his younger sister—Lady Armstrong she is now. She wasn’t even a year old at the time.”

“He has another sister, does he not?”

“Aye, the eldest of the lot—Charlotte, Lady Harlow. Young Sylvie’s been staying with her and her brood. Daresay it’s done her a world of good.” He glanced toward the closed library door, and tugged at a side whisker, adding, “Guess I’ll toddle along to my little parlor, my dear, for you’ll want to be going upstairs to your woman, and I’ve some sketches I want to look over.”

“I am sorry you will not get your inflammable air now, sir,” she said sympathetically.

“What’s that you say? Oh, I’ll get it, never fear. Got to. The
Royal George
is fitted up with a valve, so I can’t use plain hot air to fill it. Besides, I’ve already ordered the makings.”

“But Lord Michael said—”

“Bosh, he frets and stews too much. Not my fault if the stuff’s expensive to produce, is it? You just run along now. Don’t want to displease him your first night.” And with that, he said good-night and walked away, idly swinging his stick as if he had nothing at all to worry him.

Anne stared after him in bemusement for a long moment, but a clatter of dishes from the dining room reminded her that she had better go upstairs as Lord Michael had bidden her to do.

To her relief, she found Maisie waiting for her in her dressing room, directing the filling of a tub with hot water.

“How glad I am to see you,” Anne said. “I was afraid all this thunder would fidget the horses and make you ever so late.”

“Oh, aye, it was a dreadful journey,” Maisie replied, “but at least it did not come on to pour yet, as we was expecting it to do any minute. Let me undo your hair, Miss—that is, my lady. Did it up all nohow, I see. Those back bits look like a broom in a fit.”

Anne sat on the cushioned stool in front of the dressing table and smiled at Maisie’s reflection in the mirror. “I thought you would be exhausted and grumpy by now,” she said, adding in response to a plaintive mew, “Yes, Juliette, you may come up if you like.”

The small cat leapt to her lap as Maisie said, “I’d have been as mad as fire at the snail’s pace we set, for them horses shied at near every mutter of thunder. Coming from all directions like it’s been doing, you’d think that wicked storm would have broke over our heads by now. We did get a battering of hail for a time, but Mr. Foster directed the coachman to draw into a thick grove of trees, and the worst was soon over.”

“I don’t think we had any hail here,” Anne said, surprised, “but perhaps I just did not hear it. Surely, His Grace would have mentioned it though. He was outside apparently, shooting.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, Miss Anne, I’d have been fed up hours ago but for Mr. Foster. I did not quite like traveling alone with a man, but he turned out to be very pleasant indeed.”

“Goodness, Maisie, don’t tell me you have formed a tenderness for Lord Michael’s valet!”

“No such thing! As if I would. Now, go along with you, Miss Anne, and no more of your teasing. I only said the man was a pleasant traveling companion. Behaves quite like a gentleman, he does, and no wonder, for he’s traveled a good deal by the sound of it, with his lordship. He was with him when he was in the army, you see, and in London, too, of course. We’ll just have that dress off you now, so you can have your bath. I’ve got essence of verbena or lilac to put into the water. Which shall it be?”

“Verbena,” Anne said quickly, remembering that Michael associated the scent of lilacs with his mother.

Her bath was performed swiftly and soon, swathed in a warm blue dressing gown, she sat and let Maisie brush her hair again.

“Shall I plait it or leave it loose?”

“Loose, I think,” Anne said. She was tempted to have it plaited, tempted too, to find numerous other small tasks to keep Maisie busy and at her side. She knew she was only attempting to delay the inevitable, and decided she was being foolish. Dismissing the woman a few minutes later, she soon found that she was listening intently for sounds of Lord Michael’s approach.

The noise of the impending storm had diminished, making her wonder if it would pass them by without breaking, after all. She could still hear wind rattling the window panes, and an occasional rumble of thunder, but there had been no cracks or crashes for some time. She wandered idly around the dressing room for a short time, looked out the window at thick, impenetrable blackness, then went into her bedchamber to stir the fire there. Finally, she took her portfolio from the carpetbag and took out the page she had begun that morning, sitting down at the little writing desk against the wall opposite the windows with Juliette curled in her lap.

… It is hard to believe I am still in today, James. I am a married lady now, and the day is still not over. I am waiting for my husband to come to me. Upminster Priory is a magnificent seat, and could be truly splendid, I think, but the gardens are not what they might be, and it seems that all is not in perfect order with the family either. Not only my new husband but his brother, the late duke, appear to have enjoyed an extravagant nature, and consequently—