Authors: The Finer Things

Brenda Joyce (7 page)

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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Jon’s brows arched. “I do not think that I am a player here.”

“What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“It means that Lady Goodwin is fascinating, even from my boringly conventional point of view. She is not like any woman either of us have ever known. In her own way, she is as extraordinary as Gabriella.”

Blake stiffened. He failed to speak.

Jon eyed him. “The mere mention of her name still distresses you?”

“Absolutely not.” Blake was angry. He clenched his snifter.

“She married Cantwell eight years ago. Why would her name upset me now?”

Jon’s eyes softened. “Because she is an amazing woman, still, beautiful, kind, intelligent, and you were head over heels in love with her in spite of your age differences, and she refused to marry you, even though she loved you as deeply.”

Blake could not believe what he was hearing. Did Jon purposefully wish to open up old wounds? Make him bleed? “She made the decision she thought correct,” Blake said with a calm he did not feel. “I did the honorable thing. I retreated. She is, I believe, happy. I have certainly moved on.”

“Have you?” Jon asked.

Blake set his glass down on the terrace wall. “That is the most ridiculous question I have ever heard. But if you are asking me if I am carrying a torch for Gabriella, the answer is ‘no.’”

“Then you are a rare man, being that half of the men I know do yearn for her, in one fashion or another.” Jon sipped his own cognac. “And they were not passionately involved with her for three years.”

“I was eighteen,” Blake ground out.

“You wanted to marry her.”

Blake stared, furious.

“You have refused to even look at a decent woman since then,” Jon said. He was angry now, too. “Is that why you are pursuing Lady Goodwin? Because she is unavailable—and therefore inherently safe?”

“I have had enough,” Blake ground out. “But let me get the last word in. I am not
pursuing
Lady Goodwin. Just as I do not
yearn
for Lady Cantwell. Good night.” Blake whirled.

“Whom are you trying to convince? Me, or yourself?” Jon called.

Blake halted. “What are you trying to accomplish?”

“I am tired of seeing you play so hard at being a randy bachelor,” Jon said very seriously.

“You are hardly one to call the kettle black.”

Jon only smiled at that. “I also like Lady Goodwin. Yes, she needs a little polish, but any fool can see beneath the garish dress and horrid accent. Sir Thomas will not live forever, Blake.”

Blake gaped, stunned with what Jon was implying. “Have you lost your mind?” he finally asked.

Jon laughed. “No, I have not.” He sobered. “But even I could see something between the two of you—a tension, I
guess one would call it. And I saw it between you and Gabriella, too, Blake. Everyone did.”

Blake had heard enough. “You are a romantic fool. And to think that we grew up together and I did not ever guess.” He turned, striding across the terrace.

“Blake, one last thing,” Jon called after him.

Blake slowed but did not pause.

“Lady Feldstone is Lady Goodwin’s stepdaughter.” Jon hesitated as Blake halted. “Actually, I was not the only one to see her stumble into the drawing room ten minutes ago. Joanna Feldstone obviously despises Lady Goodwin. To use a very common expression, I believe she has an ax to grind.”

“What is your point, big brother?” Blake asked seriously.

“Lady Feldstone wants to cause trouble—and you may have given her the ammunition she needs, Blake. If I were you, I would be careful in the future where Lady Goodwin is concerned.”

Blake stared, realizing that Jon was probably right.

“So when are yew goin’ t’ tell me about ’im?” Ralph asked as the hitched gray jogged away from Harding Hall. The victoria’s springs were not in the best condition, and the victoria’s two occupants bounced and jarred along the winding dirt road.

Violette sat with her arms folded across her chest, refusing to cry. Her jaw was grinding down so hard that it hurt her face. She did not answer Ralph.

“I’m sorry,” Ralph said suddenly, intensely. “Violette, I’m just tryin’ to protect yew.”

Violette wanted to weep. Her lovely evening—the most wondrous of her entire life—had been ruined. Everything had clicked into place since she had left the terrace and Blake. His passion had overwhelmed him, but only because she was not a real lady, would never be one. He would have never been overwhelmed by passion if in the company of a true lady like Catherine Dearfield. He had treated her as if she was some kind of light-skirt tramp. “Mebbe I’m sick an’ tired of yer protectin’ me! Mebbe I can take care of meself!” Violette snapped.

Ralph’s mouth tightened. He stole a glance at her as Goodwin Manor appeared ahead of them. Except for the light which was on in the kitchen, testimony to the fact that Cook was waiting for them to return, the house was cast in complete
darkness. “Fine. Yew take care o’ yourself. See if I care.”

Violette turned blindly away, sniffing once, twice, then swallowing her remaining tears. Her shoulders hurt from being held so stiff and so square for so long.

The victoria rolled into the short graveled drive in front of the manor. Violette hadn’t realized before how small her home was. She lifted her satin skirts and leapt to the ground. Not waiting for Ralph, who had the horse to put away and who lived behind the two-horse stable anyway, she stormed into the stone house. The front hall was pitch-dark, but Violette knew where the matches were. She lit a kerosene lamp, then shrugged off her mantle, starting up the stairs.

There was no sound coming. from Sir Thomas’s bedroom, but of course he was sound asleep, dosed with laudanum. Violette entered her own small bedroom. She had her very own bed, one with a carved wooden headboard and a mohair throw. Even on the coldest winter night, she was toasty warm when abed. She also had an oak wardrobe, an intricately carved dresser, a plump upholstered chair, and a full-standing mirror. Violette couldn’t help noticing, though, that the fabric on the chair was old and faded, as was her striped and flowered wallpaper, and that her furnishings, once so remarkable, looked somewhat dowdy now. She turned and faced herself in the looking glass as she set the lamp down, which was tin, not even silver or porcelain. She reminded herself that she was lucky to have her own bedroom, much less a home like Goodwin Manor. She paused, regarding her reflection. Was she beautiful?

Had Blake meant it?

She looked at the ivory-skinned woman facing her. Looking at herself this past year was always a surprise. She didn’t look like Violet Cooper, the daughter of a man who had once been a welder. It was an illusion, but she looked like a lady, even in the plain blue satin dress. But what did it matter? She might be addressed as Lady Goodwin now, but the truth would never change—and Blake and all of his world knew the truth.

Violette did not have a ladies’ maid—she had insisted to Sir Thomas that she did not need one—so it took her some time to struggle out of her dress and cage and petticoat. But when she was clad in her plain flannel nightgown and robe, she picked up the lamp and went to check on Sir Thomas. It was
awfully
quiet. Usually he emitted the occasional snore.

Sir Thomas was sleeping soundly. Violette crossed the room
and looked down at him, worried now because he was so unnaturally pale. But he was wearing the slightest of smiles. She hoped he was having happy dreams. Impulsively Violette bent over and kissed his forehead.

He was terribly cool. Violette froze, suddenly noticing that his chest was hardly moving. And usually his breathing was shallow and fast. Fear pierced her, but she shoved it aside. Of course he was breathing! Dr. Crumb had been there that day.

But she stared and stared at his chest until her vision blurred and she did not see it rise or fall even the slightest bit … not even once.

Violette realized that he was dead and she screamed.

Five

THE
Harding coach was drawn by a four-horse team of blacks. It was black lacquer and shiny brass, the silver crest of the earldom embossed on the two carriage doors. As the coach rolled away from Harding Hall, its five occupants were unusually silent.

The countess sat beside the earl on the red velvet seat facing forward, clutching his arm. Across from her were Blake and Jon, Catherine in their midst. It was Catherine who had galloped over that morning from her father’s hunting box to tell them the horrific news. Dearfield Way was but a mile south of Goodwin Manor, and one of the grooms was married to Sir Thomas’s cook. She had learned of Sir Thomas’s death before she had even had breakfast.

“I do hope Lady Goodwin is all right.” Catherine broke the silence, twisting her hands, gloved now in black.

“This is terrible,” the countess said, her blue eyes soft with sympathy. “But he did not look well when he called the day before yesterday with Lady Goodwin.”

The earl regarded them all. “He looked positively ill, but I did not wish to say so. He looked as if he did not have long to live.”

“In any case,” Jon said, “Lady Goodwin must be very distraught.”

Blake remained silent, staring out of the window. He did not see the passing countryside. He kept remembering how upset Lady Goodwin had been last night, in spite of his sincere
apology. It was hard to believe. She had left Harding Hall, only to go home to find her husband dead in his bed.

Of course, Sir Thomas had been very old. Everyone had to die sometime, and he had lived a long, full life. Long enough and full enough to have taken a young, beautiful bride to wife.

The coach turned off of the main road. Ahead was the small stone village church, built in Norman times. Behind it lay the windswept cemetery. Blake could see that the entire village had turned out for the funeral. A sea of black suits, black dresses, and black hats crammed the treeless area.

The coach stopped amidst the many horses and vehicles parked around the square church. The earl alighted first in order to help the ladies down. As Blake leapt out behind his brother, he espied the coffin, a wreath of white flowers atop it, on the ground besides the pit where it would be laid. His gaze roamed the crowd. He saw Joanna Feldstone, her husband, Baron Feldstone, beside her. She was weeping copiously, supported by the small, short baron. But where was Lady Goodwin? Surely she was present. Or was she abed, dosed with laudanum?

“Oh dear,” Catherine said suddenly.

Blake had seen her at the same time and his stride faltered. The villagers had gathered around Joanna Feldstone, the baron, and the coffin. On the other side of the still-empty grave Lady Goodwin stood with her manservant, spectacularly alone.

Blake was briefly frozen, but his family was not. The countess and the earl were hurrying toward Lady Goodwin, Catherine and Jon behind them. Blake recovered, following. Why in hell was she alone? Why was no one there to comfort her except for a single servant? He was furious.

As his mother hugged her and his father bowed over her hand, Blake regarded her, unable to look away. She was not crying. She stood as still as a statue, stiffly erect, staring out into space. She did not really seem to be cognizant of his family, the crowd, or what was taking place. There were terrible dark rings beneath her eyes, and clearly she had not slept at all last night, nor did he blame her. He saw no sign of tears. Her composure, he decided, was admirable. But had she been a weeping wreck he might have found it odd, for she hadn’t married Sir Thomas for love.

Blake awaited his turn. When Jon and Catherine had finished extending their condolences, he bowed. “Lady Goodwin.”

She focused on him. Her eyes were, he saw, the exact same shade as the brilliant sky. Impulsively he touched her arm,
vaguely aware of the manservant eyeing him. “I am so very sorry.”

She stared, nodding very slightly, a small jerk of her head.

Blake looked up into the watchful gaze of her manservant. The two men stared at one another for a moment that seemed to stretch on and on. Blake realized that he did not like this man. This man felt like a rival, although that was too ridiculous to dwell upon.

The rector, George Stayne, had stepped forward. “My lord, my lady,” he greeted the earl and the countess. He was somber. “My lord, would you care to say a few words?”

The earl nodded. “I would very much like to,” he said, stepping forward and clearing his throat. “Ladies and gentleman, I have known Sir Thomas my entire life,” he began.

As his father started speaking, Blake made his decision. He moved closer to Violette, standing hip to hip with her, taking her arm and tucking it in his. “Feel free to lean on me,” he whispered, “if you are in fear of fainting.”

She blinked at him and he thought he finally saw a tear sparkling on the tip of one spiked, ink-black eyelash. “I niver fainted in me life,” she said.

It had been clear to Blake that none of the mourners were adjourning to Goodwin Manor to comfort the widow in her grief. A quick discussion with his family had hardly been necessary, for one and all agreed that a visit to the manor was the order of the day. Still, Blake was appalled when the Harding coach turned into the graveled drive in front of the stone and stucco house. The only other vehicle in sight was Goodwin’s tired victoria.

“This is unacceptable,” Jon said grimly, voicing Blake’s very thoughts. Clearly Lady Goodwin had never been accepted by the villagers.

The brothers exchanged glances. Blake pushed open the carriage door, almost forgetting himself. He waited impatiently for his father, his mother, and Catherine to alight.

“After you,” Jon said, understanding him exactly.

Blake stepped out of the coach and strode to the house. The front door had just been opened by the manservant, who seemed surprised to see the Hardings. But he ushered them inside. It was clear that he was not pleased to have visitors, which Blake found as unacceptable as the events of the entire day.

Lady Goodwin was standing at the window in the parlor, apparently having seen them driving up to the house. She turned as they entered the room. The countess took one look around and said, “I shall speak with the cook and see what can be done about refreshments.” She exited the room.

Jon walked over to the liquor cabinet. “Lady Goodwin, if you don’t mind, might I have the key?”

Violette remained standing, staring. Her gaze had immediately found Blake. Nor had he been able to look away from her since entering the room.

“Lady Goodwin?” Jon prompted.

Blake went forward and took her hands in his. She was not wearing gloves. He managed to smile at her. It was not an easy task, because her hands were very small, and very cold, in his. “Lady Goodwin, I think my brother needs a drink. And I would like to join him. I imagine that we all would. The key?”

“I …” Her voice was husky. She glanced at Jon, the earl, and Catherine, bewildered. “I ain’t sure where it is. I don’t drink.”

Blake had to smile. “That is a given. Ladies do not drink. Except for a glass of sherry, perhaps, and wine at suppertime.”

She lifted her gaze. Confusion was mirrored in her eyes. “Wot’s goin’ on? Why are yew ’ere?”

He put his arm around her and guided her to the settee. Something was wrenching at him. “Come. Sit. It is the custom, you know, for friends to gather around the bereaved.”

“Why are yew bein’ kind again?” she whispered as he sat down, taking her with him.

For a moment he could only gaze into her eyes. He finally smiled, said as lightly as possible, “It is a fatal flaw of mine.”

Her small nostrils flared. The tip of her nose was turning red.

As Jon and the earl began searching for the key to the liquor cabinet, Blake produced a handkerchief. His initials, T.E.B., were embroidered in maroon on the ivory square. He handed it to her.

“This is too fine to use.”

“Nonsense,” he returned.

She lifted it to her nose and blew very noisily. Blake’s heart seemed to be trying to pound its way right out of his chest. He could not understand himself or his feelings. He had never felt quite so protective of anyone before.

Catherine had joined in the search. Blake ignored the rummaging
going on in and around the sideboard containing the liquor cabinet. His hand moved over her back, which was small and hard. Her gaze lifted, doelike, and held his. “Thank yew,” she whispered.

His hand paused. Their gazes remained locked.

“Hallelujah,” Jon cried, holding up a key.

“In the nick of time,” the earl agreed, watching as the cabinet was opened and a bottle of scotch whisky was produced. “Dewar’s, I am happy to say,” the earl announced.

“Bring two when you come,” Blake instructed. He removed his hand from Violette’s back. He was feeling protective, but not brotherly. And she was grieving. Even a fool could see that.

“Blake, you are not giving her a scotch whisky,” Catherine admonished.

“I most certainly am,” Blake said mildly. Jon handed him two hefty glasses. Thanking him, Blake put one down and turned to Violette. “Lady Goodwin,” he said softly, “this will help.”

She shook her head. “Yew said ladies don’t drink eggscept for a sherry or a wine.”

“Except,” he murmured. “E-x-c.”

She nodded. “Except.” She managed a small smile.

He smiled back. “There are exceptions to every rule. Mourning is always an exception—and that is a rule.”

Violette’s brows furrowed together. Blake became alarmed. She appeared about to cry. “Do drink. Please,” he said.

Violette stood abruptly. She did not speak, walking over to the window, her back to the ensemble. Blake found himself standing as well, unsure of what to do. He exchanged a helpless glance with his brother. Jon said, “You may as well drink up. I think you need a drink more than she does, brother.”

Blake watched Catherine move to Violette. “My dear,” Catherine said, “it is very acceptable to cry. Perhaps not publicly, but privately. Should I send for your maid? Do you wish to go upstairs?”

Violette said huskily, “I don’t cry.”

Silence greeted her words.

Blake gripped the whisky glass and drank half of it. It definitely made him feel better.

The countess returned, smiling. “We shall have sandwiches and tea in a flash.”

“Oh, no,” Violette whispered.

“Lady Goodwin, you do not wish to serve refreshments?” the countess asked, perplexed.

Violette shook her head. Blake looked past her and saw Joanna Feldstone and her husband climbing down from the Feldstone carriage.

“I don’t want ’er ’ere,” Violette suddenly cried.

“Lady Goodwin,” Catherine said calmly, “Lady Feldstone is Sir Thomas’s daughter. It is only proper that she come to share this time of mourning with you.”

Violette turned toward Blake. Her eyes were wide, wild. “She ’ates me. She’s come to make trouble.”

Blake couldn’t agree more, but quickly recovered. “You have nothing to fear,” he soothed.

“I have everythin’ to fear,” she cried.

Joanna entered the room, a smile pasted on her tear-ravaged face, Baron Feldstone behind her. “My lord, my lady, how wonderful of you to come,” she said, rushing over to the earl and countess.

They had already spoken at the funeral, condolences having been exchanged. The countess said now, “Of course we came. It was a lovely service.”

“Yes, it was. No help from her, though.” Joanna glared at Violette.

Violette did not move. She did not even appear to breathe. She resembled a fragile yet stunning porcelain doll.

“You did nothing to help with the preparations,” Joanna accused.

“Joanna,” her husband said, low. He was sweating.

“But she did NOTHING.” Joanna shrugged her arm free of his grip.

“Lady Feldstone, have a drink,” the earl commanded sternly.

Her eyes widened. The earl poured and handed her a huge scotch whisky. “This will ease your pain.” He stared.

Blake silently applauded. No one could refuse his father when he spoke in such a tone. Joanna accepted the glass, appearing positively shocked, and took a hesitant sip of whisky. Immediately she began to choke. The baron pounded her on the back. Blake couldn’t help hoping she would choke for a very long time, if that would keep her silent. He glanced at Jon, who smiled at him, clearly thinking the very same thing.

But she did not continue to choke. She set the glass down
and faced Violette. “Well,” she said, “one thing is clear. My father is dead—God rest his soul. And this last half-year he was insane.”

Violette’s bosom heaved. “Sir Thomas wasn’t mad.”

“Don’t you dare interrupt me!” Joanna cried. “I have had enough of this … this … PRETENDER!”

Violette stiffened. “I ain’t no—”

BOOK: Brenda Joyce

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