Household (2 page)

Moving toward it, he stared or rather glared at his brother’s countenance. The man who had done the painting had little in common with Van Dyke, one of the few artists with whom Richard was familiar, but he had captured Fulke’s scowling expression and arrogant posture. His brush had also duplicated the red-gold of his brother’s hair. Fulke, in common with himself, had scorned the practice of wearing a wig. It was odd, Richard thought, that the two of them were so dissimilar in type. His hair was as black as his brother’s matched that of Lady Janet, while Fulke’s eyes were a yellowish green under tufted eyebrows. His own brows were sleek and one was higher than the other, giving him a quizzical expression, even when he was not being quizzical. When he was in a questioning mood, the eyebrow went even higher.

“Devilish” had been the comment of more than one parishoner of his kirk when seeing the eyebrow in action. Devilish, too, was the smile that often played about his lips, they had said. Richard smiled again, thinking that the church elders were as glad to see him go as he had been to leave. They had accepted him only because of his lineage. A poor parish at the edge of the Scottish border was unwilling to turn away the son of a belted earl. He frowned and dismissed parish, church and congregation from his mind. He continued to stare at his brother’s portrait, not really seeing it now but seeing instead the living Fulke, captured in his mind’s eye, strolling about and casting aspersions on such females as graced the walls.

He had begun with the incumbent Lady Veringer, painted as was the custom shortly after her wedding to his Lordship, the fourth Earl and, as usual, looking as if she had just swallowed a sour pickle. Her gown, white satin trimmed with blue and pink flowers and lavishly embroidered, would have been very becoming to some pink and white miss. On his mother, gaunt even in her youth, it was most unflattering, especially at the bust, quite flat where it should have swelled. The artist had added a quirk to her lip, obviously in an effort to convey the notion of a smile, but he had not succeeded in erasing the frown with which she must have regarded him.

“Probably estimating the cost of the colors” had been Fulke’s comment. “Lord, what a horror our Mama was. ’Twasn’t for the fortune she brought, the old man’d not have had her in his bed, I’ll be bound. Damme me, if I’d ever wed such a prune-faced wench.” He had cocked a derisive eye at Richard. “It’s Christina Dysart I’ll be having when the time’s right.”

That statement had infuriated Richard. The three of them had known each other since they were children—Christina being the only daughter of Sir Gerald Dysart, who lived several miles down the road from the Hold. Christina, however, had seemed to favor Richard above Fulke who was always intimidating her with the rough games he liked to play. Richard had adored Christina, too. However, when she had come of age—18 to his 17—and had been given the ball that took place just before he was sent off to study for the ministry, she had saved most of her dances for Fulke.

She had told the wounded swain he had been at the time, “I hear you’re off to be a minister, Dickie. ’Tis a noble calling to be sure, but I’m not cut out for that sort of cloth myself.” She had flung back her golden head and laughed. He had hated her.

He smiled. To his certain knowledge, Christina was not wed yet. She would be 23 and perhaps would be expecting him to come and pay his respects to his late brother’s fiancée.

He doubted that she’d have been receiving much in the way of respect from Fulke. They had been betrothed for something less than a year. Perhaps, just for curiosity’s sake, he’d pay his old love a brief visit before going off to London.

He glanced at his brother’s portrait and seemed to see a corroborating gleam in those tigerish eyes—though that, he hoped, was only the glow from the tallest of the three candles. Without looking at the rest of his ancestors, Richard strode out of the gallery and went downstairs. In a few more minutes, he was waiting for his horse to be saddled and a few minutes after that he was galloping in the direction of Dysart Manor.

Years ago the Manor had pleased him considerably more than the Hold. It had been erected at the end of this century, and though like the castle it had been constructed of stone, it was all of a piece—not sprawling all over its land like the Hold, which had suffered both Tudor and Cromwellian additions as well as the wear and tear it had sustained in the 500 years of its existence. A pleasant stretch of grounds led up to the Manor, and Richard could remember when he and Christina had raced their horses up its winding length, the last race taking place when she was 17 and he 16. He had won and lifted her down from her horse, claiming the prize of a kiss. She gave it to him readily enough, flinging her arms around his neck and whispering, “Well run, Sir Knight.”

She had loved the Hold, he also remembered, loved it as a child because its high slit windows figured in their game of “Damsel in Distress.” He had always been her knight in those days with Fulke scorning to join in their silly “child’s play.” He preferred jousting and tumbling with the rough lads of the village. Richard frowned. Banishing these encroaching memories, he spurred his horse up the curving road, thinking that even given the fact that it was close on November the place had a desolate look he never recalled having seen before, almost as if the grounds themselves had gone into mourning over Fulke’s death.

The servant who obsequiously ushered him into the hall was gone a long time before returning with the information that Sir Gerald and his lady would be delighted to receive him in the small drawing room. Joining them, it seemed to him that her ladyship looked very peaked in the black she wore for the late bridgegroom, and also she seemed to be both discomfited and pleased to see him. She was at pains to tell him that Christina, currently resting in her room, would be down very soon. She added that though the girl was naturally grieved over the death of Fulke, she had recovered her spirits to some extent although as was only natural she had her good and bad days. She stopped talking midsentence and went off to fetch her daughter, something she might have delegated to a servant but which she obviously preferred to do.

Sir Gerald, who had mumbled a greeting of sorts, glowered at Richard and then made a palpable effort to produce a smile. He had been, Richard noted, looking extremely gloomy and downcast, a condition which could have been attributed to his gouty leg. Now, with an effortful smile, he cleared his throat twice before saying, “Remember how close you and m’daughter used to be. That’s true, ain’t it?”

“We were, sir,” Richard agreed. “Before I commenced studying for the ministry.”

“’Twasn’t long ago, though. Not more than three years,” growled Sir Gerald.

“Four, sir.”

“Four! You’ll never tell me that!” the baronet exclaimed accusingly.

“I was eighteen, sir, and am turned twenty-two.”

“Twenty-two... twenty-
two
,” his host muttered. “My gal’s twenty. Time does fly, don’t it?”

Richard nodded, reflecting that for Sir Gerald, time must fly backwards since Christina was nearing her twenty-fourth birthday.

“Been a bit cast down my girl has... sewing the trousseau, you see.”

“A sad loss.” Richard decided that he really wasn’t lying in making this admission. Certainly Fulke’s death must have been a sad loss to his fiancée.

“Indeed, yes. Cut off in his prime, damned rascal...”

Sir Gerald fastened his eyes on Richard. “I’m talking about old Hodges that did for him. Hanged, sir, I’ll see him hanged as high as the Jack o’ Diamonds. Though that’ll be your prerogative, I’m thinking.”

“If he can be brought to justice, Sir Gerald.”

“Has been,” the baronet rasped. “Down with the rats in Oldfield’s Keep, didn’t you hear?”

Richard hadn’t heard, and now he made a mental note to secure the man’s release before setting off for London. He was about to say something soothing and noncommittal to Sir Gerald when Christina made her entrance, moving very slowly, her mother fluttering behind her like a nervous moth.

Christina was not wearing black. Her gown was a pale blue brocade, almost the color of her eyes. Her golden curls were elaborately dressed, or at least that was his first impression. A second hinted at a hasty gathering and pinning with some three or four locks straying to one shoulder when only two should have been there. She was wearing quite a bit of rouge over the leaden-white paint, much favored by ladies determined to ape the London styles.

Richard, who had been inwardly amused at his reception, felt a quick pity for the girl he once had believed he loved. In those years, Christina had been beautiful and slim. Despite her makeup and despite the fact that the gown, its wide skirts fanning out to the imminent danger of any small table or chair in her immediate path, was designed to emphasize a slender waist, Christina was neither beautiful nor slender. Her face was puffy, and it would have been better had she worn mourning, for the black would have minimized the thickness of her middle. His suspicions were not without foundation. He wondered how soon she would be dropping the brat concealed by her skirts and mentally damned his brother.

Remembering his manners, he bowed low. “Christina,” he murmured, kissing the back of her plump and trembling hand. “How well you look.” Unfortunately, his eyebrow had quirked up and he hoped that Christina, who had once known him so well, would have forgotten that telltale mannerism.

Fortunately, Christina, sinking into a deep curtsy, did not appear to have noticed, but it soon became obvious, through a series of grimaces, that she needed help in rising. Her mother hastily provided it, murmuring, “Poor Christina is quite weak with grief.”

“You have my deepest sympathies, Christina,” Richard said.

She raised her eyes and Richard, seeing that they were blazing, realized that the eyebrow had not gone unnoticed. “I thank you, Richard. You were... most kind to come and see me.”

“We have thought of you so much. I know Christina has missed you sorely,” Lady Dysart gushed. “You were all so close when you were young... and Christina hard put to choose between you, were you not, my love? And poor dear Fulke... such a tragedy.”

“Indeed,” Richard agreed solemnly.

“Have you come home to stay?” Christina asked.

Had he heard the barest hint of hope in her tone? He was not sure. To his surprise, it gave him considerably less pleasure than he had anticipated to reply, “No, as it happens, I’ll be leaving for London on the morrow.”

“Really, so soon!” Lady Dysart exclaimed, distress written on her face.

“I must go.” Richard felt it incumbent upon him to add, “There are matters concerning the estate that need my immediate attention.”

“Have you no man of business?” Sir Gerald asked. Richard, regarding him, found fury in his stare. “I am thinking of changing solicitors,” he replied.

“And how long do you intend to remain in London?” Christina spoke a trifle breathlessly. She was smiling now, her eyes masked by her lengthy and artfully-darkened lashes. “I hope it will not be a lengthy visit, now that we have you home at last.” She attempted but did not quite achieve a coquettish smile.

Pity warred with ire at the deception Christina was willing to practice upon him for her effort to legitimize his brother’s bastard. “I do not know,” he said. “I’d think I would be there upwards of six months to a year.”

“Six months to a year!” Sir Gerald roared. “Now what in hell would ye be doing in London for so great a time?”

“My dear...” his wife protested.

“Mama...” Christina suddenly moaned, her hands pressing down against her wide skirts.

“My love.” Lady Dysart was at her side, her eyes wide with concern. “What is it?”

“I... I told you... it was better, I mean... I... ohhh...” Christina groaned loudly. “The physician,” she gasped. “The physician... you’ll need to f-fetch him... I was... not wrong. The pains—”

“Oh, gracious, sit down, love. Something she ate,” Lady Dysart moaned in Richard’s direction.

“My horse is just outside,” Richard said. “He’s a swift goer. I’ll ride for the physician.”

“No, please.” Lady Dysart flung out a protesting hand. “Gerald?”

“Oh, let him go,” commanded the baronet, an eye on his gouty leg. “Do you imagine the young scapegrace hasn’t cottoned to the situation ere now? He’s another like his thrice-damned brother, may he be burning in hell!”

“That I’m not,” Richard countered as he turned toward the hall. “And I_promise you, that whether he’s my nephew or she’s my niece, the babe’ll be provided for.”

“A pox on ye,” Sir Gerald yelled. “D’you think I’d not maintain my daughter’s bastard? I curse ye and the lot of ye.”

“Curses,” Richard said, moving swiftly into the hall. “Curses, as I told my mother earlier this evening, are extremely medieval. This is 1758, my dear Sir Gerald!” Since he did not have a handy suit of armor to fell, Sir Gerald had evidently concentrated on the nearest china ornament. Richard heard the crash but could not tell what it might have been, because by the time it landed he was just closing the door behind him.

❖

Having seen the physician ride off on his mission of mercy, Richard was put in mind of the other or, rather, the most recent brat his brother had sired. He rode at once in the direction of Oldfield’s Keep, intending to do as he had promised himself he would and demand the release of old Hodges.

The Keep had once been a castle, but time and the warlike natures of several generations of Oldfields had damaged it to the point that Squire Oldfield had built a new manor house. The round stone Keep, all that was left of the original building, had been let out as a prison. It was a damp, unhealthy bastion with several floors, all occupied by malefactors of various stamp. Some were political prisoners, some were poachers, some vagrants and some, like old Hodges, were there because they had taken what was euphemistically termed the “law” into their own hands, righting wrongs no one else was willing to face.

Richard was positive that even his prudish mother believed Emmy Hodges had suffered but little at the hands and the other less visible extremity of Fulke. She would maintain that Mr. Hodges had acted with an overweening pride. That the Emmys of this world were put there to serve the young master was a fact with which no one of his class would argue. Unlike Christina, these females were treated like rutting animals and sent to workhouses or prisons when they were in trouble. Their parents usually had a brood of them and one wouldn’t be missed.