Enchanting Pleasures (28 page)

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Kitty faltered.

Quill leaned down and patted his mother’s hand. “I think you should go, Mother. I believe that a change of scenery will be good for you.”

“I suppose it doesn’t matter where I am,” Kitty replied, slipping back into the dazed state she had maintained before the funeral.

“There you are,” Lady Sylvia said, nodding at Quill. “I’ve got to get her on the move, that’s what. Otherwise she’s like to simply fade away. Not the sort of thing I would do, mind. But Kitty’s a delicate sort. Always has been, even when we were mere girls.”

“May I accompany you, Mother?” Peter sat down next to his mother and stroked her hand.

Tears were falling silently onto her black gloves. Her eldest son drew another handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Kitty struggled to speak.

“I think it would be best if Peter traveled with you,” Quill observed.

That seemed to settle the matter.

“We shall sail on the
White Star,”
Lady Sylvia announced. “The vessel is going to Naples, and Lady Fane told me Naples was thronged with Englishmen last year.

“Supposed to be a pretty city too,” she added as something of an afterthought. “I asked Jennings to look into it.”

Mr. Jennings cleared his throat. “I took the liberty of booking passage for Lady Breaknettle, Lady Dewland, and their attendants, of course.” He bowed toward Peter. “I shall obtain a berth for yourself and your valet directly, Mr. Dewland. The
White Star
sails from Southampton in three days.”

“Three days,” Kitty moaned. “Oh, I can’t do it! I can’t do it.” Gabby was fascinated to see that she instinctively turned toward her elder son.

“Nothing for you to do,” Lady Sylvia commented. “I told Stimple to start packing up your things this morning. She’s probably well near finished with your trunks by now. It’s not as if there’s much to bring. We can always buy blacks over there, you know. No one does clothing better than the French.”

Kitty didn’t answer, but just leaned against her youngest son’s shoulder and burst into hopeless tears. Quill silently handed her yet another handkerchief.

P
ROMPTLY AFTER LUNCHEON
the family moved to the library. Mr. Jennings cleared his throat importantly and began to read.

The will began with a pious declaration:
“In the name of God, amen. I, Thurlow Dewland, in perfect health and memory, God be praised …”
Gabby’s mind wandered as Mr. Jennings droned on and on with a list of lesser bequests to the household servants in London and to those who resided on the Kent estate. The viscount left money for the poor in the Dewland parish, and fifty pounds toward the new roof needed by St. Margaret’s, their parish church.

Kitty sniffed and said that Thurlow always thought of those less fortunate than himself.

Mr. Jennings recommenced with a long list of debts to be discharged from the estate. Then he looked up, briefly, and noted that the following codicil had been added the previous January: Viscount Dewland strictly instructed that no debt should be settled if presented by a Mr. Firwald, as he had sworn never to pay for the worthless merchandise provided by the said Firwald.

Quill frowned. “Pay it.”

Jennings nodded briskly and made a note to himself.

“Why are you going against Father’s directive?” Peter asked, sitting up in his chair.

Quill didn’t stir but just looked at his brother with heavy-lidded eyes. “Firwald sold Father the crystal vase that he bought for Mother last Christmas.”

“Oh.” Peter leaned back into his chair. “I see.”

“Thurlow’s wishes should be respected,” Kitty interjected.

“Mother, the vase was broken when Father was in a state of choler,” Peter said delicately.

“He always said there was a crack in it,” Kitty replied feebly.

“Father had a constitutional dislike for paying his debts,” Quill remarked.

That seemed to close the subject, and after clearing his throat, Mr. Jennings continued with a list of bequests. A second cousin living in Buckfordshire received a carved ivory tusk, as well as a French bedstead with canopy, on account of the cousin’s admiration for the said piece and the viscountess’s disdain for the same.

“To my wife’s cousin, Lady Sylvia, I leave the silver-gilt bowl made in Italy, now found in the Yellow Drawing Room. She can either use it for herself or share it with those animals she erroneously calls the Graces.”

“Fustian!” Lady Sylvia said, looking pleased all the same.

“To my beloved wife, Katherine, I hereby double the income she would have received from her original marriage settlement, in consideration of the fact that I should wish her to live as one that were and had been my wife.”

Kitty broke into sobs again, and Mr. Jennings paused before detailing the dowager house with appurtenances situated near the main Dewland manor in Kent.

“To my youngest son, Peter John Dewland, I hereby leave a tenement with the appurtenances situated in the Blackfriars, London; a messuage in Henley Street in the borough of Kingston, with barns, stables, orchards, gardens attached; and a one-fourth life interest in the income of my estate in Kent, as well as residence in the family domicile.”

“Very generous,” Lady Sylvia interjected at this point. “Very generous indeed.”

“To my eldest son and heir, Erskine Matthew Claudius Dewland, I leave all my remaining worldly goods, to include the great house in London, Dewland Manor in Kent, and all the rest of my goods, chattels, leases, plate, jewels, and household stuff whatsoever.”

Mr. Jennings paused. “I believe that the deceased would have eliminated the following codicil, given recent events,” he noted, in a particularly colorless voice.

“Under those circumstances well-known amongst my family, it is unlikely that my first son shall have a lawful male heir. Therefore, I earnestly enjoin my youngest son, Peter John, to marry with all expediency, reminding him that the lineage of the Dewlands is a long and noble one. I also request that his brother, Erskine Matthew Claudius, single out his brother for his affectionate respect, in light of the fact that Peter John will be viscount after him. As my children are aware, I have long held the fixed belief that a gentleman should not work for his living, although I have compromised my principles in the case of Erskine Matthew Claudius. In the event that his brother’s income is not sufficient to support Peter John in the manner of a viscount’s heir, I enjoin upon Erskine Matthew Claudius to share the profits of the said business endeavors with his brother and heir.”

A moment of silence followed the reading of the will. Mr. Jennings busied himself with arranging sheaves of parchment into a neat stack.

“Father was always remarkably good at spending other people’s money,” Peter finally said, a note of wry apology in his voice. “He had no right to give me the Henley Street residence. Didn’t you pay for that, Quill?”

Quill shrugged. “I have no need of it.”

“I daresay Jennings is right and Thurlow would have crossed out that codicil had he lived,” Lady Sylvia commented. “I don’t like the fact that he put in that comment about you working for a living, Erskine. Smacks of hypocrisy. Everyone knows that money flowed through Thurlow’s hands
and
that he was liable to find himself on queer street until you became so flush.”

“He did not consult me,” Kitty said, “or I would have told him that darling Erskine has always shared what he has with his brother. Even when they were little boys.” She sniffed disconsolately.

“I apologize for him,” Peter said with some dignity. “Father should not have slighted your endeavors, Quill. And he need not have instructed you to aid me.”

At that, Quill smiled wryly. “I’m not taking it to heart. Besides, Father was right in his own way. I have a vulgar habit of making money, and I refused to reform when he asked me to. That is what really bothered him. Why shouldn’t I give it to you? I don’t need it.”

“Thurlow gave Peter a very generous settlement,” Lady Sylvia snapped. “He can live nicely on the rents of the Henley Street properties alone, regardless of his life interest in the Kent estate. You’ll be handing that money to your own children, Erskine.”

Quill visibly started and flashed a look at his wife. Gabby smiled at him. She hadn’t said a word during the entire proceeding, so it was no wonder he forgot her existence. Let alone that of their unborn children.

“Well, we got through that pretty well,” Lady Sylvia was saying, gathering up her flimsy reticule and a fluttering black handkerchief, clearly designed for show rather than for use. “Thank goodness Thurlow didn’t indulge himself in too much advice. Why, I heard that the Marquess of Granby went so far as to write in his will that his nephew’s escapades with his mistress were ludicrous and that’s why Granby was leaving the nephew only three thousand pounds per annum. And this was read aloud in front of the nephew’s wife, mind you.”

Quill didn’t move from where he stood. Gabby had risen and was helping his mother to do the same.

He stared at the burnished gleam of his wife’s hair. His mind was chaotic with images of Gabby holding a small child. He, Quill, had been alarmingly stupid. He had paid no mind to the future. After his accident, he had mentally excised the possibility of a wife and children. What woman would marry him, given his injuries? And yet…he had enticed one to do so.

Because she had no idea of your injuries
, said a small, sharp voice in his mind.

Yet Gabby showed no particular concern once she knew. She didn’t blink an eye. She didn’t appear offended, and she didn’t threaten to annul the marriage.

Moreover, she was still peeking at him. Quill had taken to cataloging every time Gabby looked at him secretly from under her eyelashes. He reckoned those glances indicated that she was smoothly transferring her affections from Peter to him. He didn’t inquire why the transference was so important to him.

As he stood frozen in the library, his mind kept offering him an image of Gabby, holding a small scrap of baby in her arms and smiling at the babe the way she smiled at him—as if nothing he could do would ever shake her faith in him. The very idea gave him a strange sensation in his chest, an exultant flush of feeling, an unfamiliar, prideful joy.

Jennings cast one look at the new viscount and decided to approach him at a later date about a few of the more complex issues to do with settling his father’s estate. The man looked perturbed. Likely he took that little codicil of his father’s the wrong way. Not, Jennings thought to himself, that there was a right way to take it. Practically stated outright that the viscount was incapable.

The party separated at the stairs and retired to their various rooms until dinner. Gabby walked slowly toward the magnificent bedchamber designated for the viscountess. Kitty had gracefully relinquished it when they arrived at the manor, and when Gabby had protested, she pointed out that she had no reason to wish for a connecting door with her son. Gabby had blushed and ignored the door as best she could.

Now Gabby walked into the chamber, an airy room hung in sea-green silk, and stared at that same connecting entryway. It was just a door. But on the other side was Quill’s bedchamber. How did he feel, sleeping in his father’s bed? How did he feel, knowing that she was just on the other side of the wall? The door was a solid, imposing one made of mahogany. Gabby chewed her lip.

The funeral was over. The viscount was buried. But if they made love tonight and Quill succumbed to a three-day headache, how would he see his mother off to Southampton? And she had the strong sense that he wished to return to London immediately. Presumably he couldn’t travel while in the grip of illness.

For the first time Gabby began to grasp the parameters of Quill’s medical problems. Exactly when would Quill decide that he could afford to relinquish three days in a row? From what she had seen in London before their marriage, he worked every day. And he liked working. Would he ever be willing to give up three days?

She looked up when the solid mahogany door opened and Quill strolled in.