Feather Castles (14 page)

She took up her hairbrush and stared at it. How brutally she had hurt him, and with what utter thoughtlessness. She had been happy and so she had prolonged that happiness, selfishly refusing to acknowledge that Tristram might be forming a lasting attachment, even as Sister Maria Evangeline had warned. How stricken he had looked, and how very dear their final embrace. Her eyes filled with tears yet again. She thought yearningly, “Oh, Tristram, Tristram. If only we had met earlier!” But it would have been quite useless. Her first duty was to ensure that her frail sister was as well provided for as was possible. Actually, the vow she'd made at Papa's bedside was no more binding than her own sense of responsibility. A responsibility that would, she knew, have bound Charity just as firmly had their situations been reversed. Dear Charity, how she would grieve if she knew the true state of affairs. And, of course, she must
never
know.

Armed with that resolve, Rachel sighed, lifted the hairbrush and was startled by the wan, pale face reflected in the mirror. This would never do! She was completing a careful application of cosmetics when she heard hoofbeats and the rumble of wheels. Claude's groom had brought word this morning that the carriage would reach Strand Hall in time for dinner; they were early. Well, thank heaven she had been able to restore some semblance of normalcy to her features!

Agatha came swiftly into the room. She scanned her mistress narrowly and, responding to a slight lift of Rachel's delicately arched brows, conveyed an expressionless, “I thought you was resting, miss.”

“Is Miss Charity dressed?”

“All ready. And so pretty as a picture. Did you hear? Monseigneur's come. Sooner than we thought.”

“How lovely,” smiled Rachel.

Agatha folded her arms. “And his aunt,” she appended.

The half-amused, half-scornful inflection in that pleasant country voice sent a pang of unease through Rachel. Agatha had been in her service since she'd left the schoolroom, and was utterly devoted. But, although only six years older than her mistress, she treated her with the proprietary air of a long-time retainer. Both voice and manner now implied more problems, and apprehensive, Rachel hurried downstairs.

Fisher stood at the open front door, the late afternoon sunlight waking a sheen on his silver hair. He was as dignified, his stance as regal, as ever, but he did not hear her approach and, turning, revealed his lined countenance wreathed in a rare and large grin. He started as he saw her, and regained his gravity in a flash. “Monsieur Claude Sanguinet,” he announced, only slightly unevenly.

“So I understand,” nodded Rachel, and walked onto the steps.

She checked, barely stifling a gasp. A luxurious beige carriage picked out in gold and drawn by a magnificent team of matched white horses stood before the house. The coachman was still on the box, staring ahead, his face wooden. An equally wooden-faced groom was handing luggage down to two footmen, while three covertly grinning outriders waited behind the carriage. They all were attired in white and gold livery, unlike any Rachel had previously seen Claude's servants wear. Her betrothed stood on the carriage steps, attempting to extricate an extremely large lady from an embarrassment with the narrow door.

“I cannot readily understand,” wailed the lady in French, “how this foolish doorway can have shrunk since we entered the carriage!”

“No more can I, Fleur,” murmured Claude Sanguinet smoothly. “Since there is but one other explanation, however, we should, I feel sure, attempt to believe it has achieved such a feat.”

So this, thought Rachel, was her chaperon; an even larger lady than Sister Maria Evangeline. At that instant the plumed bonnet tilted upward and two small dark eyes flew to her. A tiny mouth drooped pathetically and a little wail escaped it. With a flood of sympathy, Rachel hastened to greet her guests. “Welcome! Welcome! Oh, is it not the outside of enough how narrow they build carriage doors these days? I vow if one dons an extra pelisse it is as much as one can do to escape! May I be of assistance, Madame?”

Sanguinet had spun around at the sound of her voice. He jumped down, sweeping off his high-crowned beaver to reveal a pleasant face distinguished only by large, light brown eyes. His curling hair was near black and just now rather untidy, but in all else he was quietly elegant, despite the long journey. His build was slender, nor was he above average height, and yet about him there clung an indefinable air; the self-possessed confidence, bordering on the arrogant, that so often marks those blessed—or cursed—by great wealth.

He took both the hands that Rachel extended, and bent to kiss them, looking up from under his brows with laughter in his eyes, to murmur in much better English than that of his younger brother, “If you chance to have the shoe horn about you, my love.”

“For shame, sir!” she chided softly. And turning to the carriage, added in French, “Will you not sit down a moment and allow me to join you, Madame? Fisher—please take Monsieur Sanguinet into the red salon and provide him with some cognac. I am assured he must be ready for a glass after such a ride.”

“I am
enchanté,
” murmured Claude, bowing to her. “As ever.” And he followed the imperturbable butler into the house.

Rachel started up the carriage steps. A lean hand took her elbow and assisted her. Surprised, she glanced down. She had never before seen this man. Unlike the servants, he wore a black jacket and pantaloons, and he wore them well, his lean frame such as would gratify a tailor, although his shoulders lacked breadth and the cut of the pantaloons was not so snug as to reveal whether or not he possessed a well-shaped leg. His shirt was as snow, his cravat a model of excellence. Thick brown hair was brushed straight back from a high forehead, and his features were regular. But in the hard black eyes and the smile that curved the thin mouth, Rachel read unmistakable admiration and a chill shivered warningly down her spine.

“Oh, do go away, Gerard!” cried Madame Beauchard irritably. He bowed and took himself off, and she went on in a lowered tone, “That man gives me always the feeling that I am a mouse and he a snake! He is Claude's steward in Dinan. No one knows his real name. He is just—” she shrugged and threw out her hands in a Gallic gesture that set all her chins to wobbling, “just—Gerard! And I am Claude's aunt! And you—you are
la très belle jeune fille!
How very kind of you, my dear, to help me!” The little mouth spread into a smile, the small eyes almost disappeared in the folds about them, and two large arms enveloped Rachel in a brief and somewhat smothering hug, through which the monologue swept on. “First impressions, says Claude, are all important. And he did so wish that I impress you!” Her hands went up to cradle her cheeks. “He will be angry! Oh, but he will be angry!”

“No, no,” smiled Rachel. “How can one be really angry with one's own family?”

“Then—you will tell him you are not offended?” begged Madame.

Rachel eyed her curiously. How odd that the woman should be so anxious to please her own nephew. Perhaps she was dependent upon Claude's largesse. “Whatever is there to offend me?” She patted the plump hand that plucked at her sleeve. “Now, as to the problem at hand—did you by any chance loosen your stays, ma'am?”

Madame Fleur hove a vast sigh of relief. “You have it, little one. Claude dozed off for a space, and I—oh, it is a torture chamber, is it not, to wear tightly laced stays in a rocking carriage for hour upon hour? I knew I should not be so reckless—not without my maid to truss me up again! But—” she giggled conspiratorially, and edged herself sideways on the narrow seat. “You can manage, my niece-to-be?”

Rachel took the precaution of lowering the shades, then essayed the task. It was quite a tussle, and when she was done, two of her fingernails had paid the supreme penalty, but thanks to her efforts, Madame Fleur was enabled to leave the carriage and enter Strand Hall.

*   *   *

The notes of the music box faded into silence. Hovering above it, her face alight with pleasure, her head tilted so as to hear every tone, Charity clapped her hands, closed the beautifully inlaid lid gently and turned glowing eyes on Sanguinet. “Oh—monsieur! It is exquisite! How may I ever thank you?”

He smiled and said with a careless wave of the hand, “By some of the time speaking my name—not ‘monsieur.' Soon I will be your brother, you know.”

“Yes, I— Of course. Claude.” She blushed. “Oh, but it seems so impertinent!”

“Why?” he laughed. “Do you fancy me a decrepit creature of many years?”

Aghast, she protested, “No, oh no! Indeed I do not. I have never—”

“I am glad of this,” he interrupted. A faint boredom crept into his eyes as he took up the glass of cognac from the table beside his chair. “You will wish the small tune to hear again, no?”

Quick to take the hint, Charity asked if she might be excused so as to show her gift to Mrs. Hayward and Agatha. Claude rose at once and went to open the door. “I shall carry the box for you,” he offered, as she pulled at the wheels of her chair.

“Thank you, but I can balance it on my knees—so.”

“Bravo! You go quite nicely, my dear.” And looking enquiringly at Rachel, he asked, “Can she manage herself?”

“Very well,” said Rachel, with a touch of asperity.

Claude shut the door, returned to her side and pulled his chair closer to hers. He had changed for dinner, and he really did wear his clothes well. But she sometimes thought he seemed older than forty. Seized by guilt at so uncharitable a thought, she said hurriedly, “Charity is overjoyed with her gift. That was most kind in you.”

He leaned forward and took up her hand. “It is my thought that while we are away she will perhaps the amusement derive from it.”

Rachel tensed and drew back. “I should not leave her, Claude.”

“But of course you should, my love. She is much improved, but another journey so soon would be a strain for her. You yourself have said it.”

“Yes, but—”

“Let me hear no more of these ‘buts.'” He caught her hand again and pressed a kiss upon it. “I wish my future wife to be with for a little time.”

“I understand,” she said, her cheeks growing hot. “But—”

“Again!” He clicked his tongue reprovingly. “Charity will be perfectly safe. I swear this. Do you desire it, we find a suitable nurse for the poor child. Or two, perhaps.”

“She does not need a nurse!” Rachel flashed. Her eyes met his stormily. “She is frail, and—”

“So here you are! Oh—do I perhaps intrude?”

Madame Fleur, awesome in a blue and green striped gown amply provided with knots of darker blue ribbon at flounce and sleeves, surged into the room, paused, and looked coyly from one to the other.

Claude put up his glass and scrutinized her with faint incredulity. “Dear lady, you never fail to—er—astound me.” Fleur watched him uncertainly. He lowered the glass and, with the slightest twitch of the lips, went on, “By arriving at precisely the right moment, I mean. I fear I was vexing my affianced. Perhaps with my atrocious English. It is better that we speak French together.”

Rachel, who was again put to the blush, was relieved by the garrulous lady's arrival. She had the oddest sense that her relationship with Claude had changed. Perhaps, since their engagement had been published, he now felt more at ease with her, and less constrained to be as gently tactful as in the past. Or was she merely inventing excuses for her own change of heart?

Dinner was a lengthy meal, and the Frenchwoman chattered incessantly throughout, despite the fact that she partook of every dish in both removes. Charity had taken a great liking to her and between them they kept a lively conversation going so that Rachel was required to say little. She responded suitably from time to time, and strove to keep a cheerful countenance, though all too often her thoughts wandered achingly to Tristram. Claude was quiet, but Rachel knew he watched her and perhaps by reason of guilty conscience it seemed to her that his eyes were unusually penetrating. She tried to appear engrossed in Madame Fleur's description of the glorious gown her eldest daughter had worn on her wedding day; a gown provided by her ever-generous nephew.

Fisher deftly appropriated Rachel's plate and was about to place it on the tray the maid carried when Claude raised one hand in a detaining gesture. Fisher paused, glancing at him enquiringly. The remark following, however, was directed to Fleur. “Enough, I beg you, dear ma'am,” he murmured gently. “Rachel, my love—you have changed, I think.”

Fisher continued with his task, managing to look as though he did not comprehend, although he spoke French fluently.

Rachel was shocked as much by the remark as by her own earlier anxieties. “No, have I?” she answered with commendable
sang-froid.
“Perhaps you carried too kind a memory of me, sir.”

He laughed. “Never that. Does my aunt annoy you?”

Charity gave an audible gasp. Fisher's hand jerked a little as he raised the gravy boat. Astounded, Rachel shot a glance at Fleur and saw such fear in the pudgy, pallid face that her own dismay was increased. “Good gracious!” she exclaimed. “I am only too delighted by madame's presence in our home! How can you ask such a thing?”

“Because,” he smiled, “if she does, I shall send her home at once.”

*   *   *

“But you
must
not be provoked with him,” urged Madame Fleur, holding up her wineglass as Rachel refilled it for her. “It is all my fault. I am a dreadful chatterbox and the poor man was cooped up with me all the way from Scotland. You will not, I hope, think less of him for scolding me.”

“I think it unpardonable,” Rachel said, replacing the decanter on the silver tray. How she had finished that meal she could not imagine, for she had been fairly seething with anger. Poor Madame Fleur had been utterly crushed, Charity horrified, and the servants provided with a very juicy tidbit for Hall gossip—to all of which Claude had appeared totally indifferent. He had launched blithely into an account of how he had designed the new livery for his servants, in honour of the approaching nuptials, and she had managed to respond politely, if coolly. His eyes had twinkled at her when she led the ladies from the dining room, and a rueful grin had conveyed his awareness that he was in disgrace. Now, returning to her chair, she observed that there was absolutely no need for Madame to take the blame on her own shoulders. Claude, she decreed, deserved to be spanked for such a flagrant breach of manners.