Ivory and Steel (3 page)

Almost eight o’clock. Louisa would be livid—

Ice lanced through her then seemed to melt, leaving an aching void in its wake. She sank back against the pillows, tugging her coverlet to her, seeking a warmth she could not find. Louisa was dead. Like Tom, taken from her forever.

Only not like Tom. Her brother had died of fever following wounds received in battle. Louisa—no, Louisa could not have died!

No tears came. She felt drained, empty, as if she existed in a nightmare from which she couldn’t awake. Only it was real and the oblivion of sleep had slipped from her grasp.

She couldn’t lie here. Experience had taught her that only two years before, when all her ministrations had been unable to save her brother. She had to find something to do—anything that would fill her mind, tire her to the point of exhaustion, ease her through the shock that left her numb.

She wouldn’t have far to look. There would be a great deal to see to this day. Without her sister issuing her imperious orders all was like to come to a standstill.

Unless the dowager took over, of course. In that case, there would be complete chaos.

She rose, stumbled to her wardrobe and donned a simple round gown of dove-gray muslin. Louisa had thought the color suitable for her penniless relation. Well it would do very well for mourning now. She fastened the last button, vaguely pleased she had managed without Jane, the maid she shared with Constance Yarborough. If Constance were still ill, that would explain the maid’s absence.

Deciding to check on her before going down, Phyllida crossed the hall and peeked into Miss Yarborough’s room in time to hear the young lady moan.

She lay in the narrow bed, her complexion unnaturally pale, her thin hands limp and listless on the counterpane. The maid, Jane, stood beside her and a mug of steaming chocolate rested on the bedside table.

“Do you still feel terribly ill?” Phyllida crossed to her side. “It is the most awful headache, is it not?”

Miss Yarborough’s pansy-brown eyes fluttered open. “Oh Phyllida, this is so dreadful. Poor, poor dear Louisa. I—” She broke off and dabbed at her brimming eyes with her handkerchief.

“It is no wonder you are not quite the thing yet. You drank more lemonade than I. I’ll leave Jane looking after you and go down to see if I can help the dowager. Don’t try to get up this morning.’’

Miss Yarborough cried out in dismay. “But I must. I cannot just lie here and be a burden to anyone! You know I cannot. I have never been a
guest
in this household.” Her large eyes widened even more. “Oh Phyllida,” she gasped. “What am I to
do?”

“You are not to worry about anything.” Phyllida helped the girl to a sitting position and arranged the pillows more comfortably behind her back. “Here, drink your chocolate now and you will feel better presently. I shall come back to see how you go on as soon as I can. I’m sure we will both earn our keep over the next few days, until the household recovers from the shock.”

What about after that though? Constance Yarborough was not the only one living under this roof on sufferance. Phyllida squelched that unwelcome and unproductive line of thought. She could only face one disaster at a time unless she wished to succumb to a fit of the vapors.

Her advice to Constance had been sound, she decided. No one should be expected to face the tribulations of the day without a strong cup of tea and a good hot meal inside her. Then perhaps she would regain a measure of fortitude. She descended the two flights of stairs to the floor where the breakfast parlor stood.

The tribulations, she soon discovered, were to be many. She had taken no more than a bite of egg, her tea still too hot to sip, when a maid popped into the room.

“If you please, miss, her ladyship wishes a word with you.”

A pang of anguish shot through Phyllida but she fought it back. The girl meant the dowager, of course. With deliberate care she laid down her fork and rose, then resignedly answered the dowager’s summons.

Lady Allbury occupied an elegant suite of rooms on the next floor up, overlooking Berkeley Square. Phyllida averted her gaze from Louisa’s chamber on the other side of the corridor and entered.

Passing through the spacious sitting room, she experienced a measure of awe. Sunlight filled the apartment, reflecting off the gilt-trimmed mirrors, setting the silver candelabra gleaming and casting intricate lacy patterns on the Aubusson carpets. Only once before had the dowager permitted her admittance to this private sanctuary.

She opened the connecting door and came to an abrupt halt at the contrast. Darkness and melancholy hung heavily in the curtained bedchamber and it sent an uneasy shiver along her flesh. Such would be the deathbed of a queen, the thought flashed through her mind. She fought back the fanciful notion and stepped inside.

The dowager lay in the great four-poster, propped up with numerous pillows. The gold velvet hangings had been pulled back but Phyllida could barely discern the pale face and the steely gray wisps of hair protruding from beneath the lace nightcap.
Darkness and death…

“There you are, child,” the dowager declared in failing accents. “Such tragedy, such a loss. I vow I am prostrated by shock and grief.” She gave vent to a weak sigh but her gaze remained piercing as it rested on Phyllida, as if she calculated the effect of her theatrics.

Phyllida watched her with an odd sense of detachment.
You hated her,
she thought, but didn’t bother to voice the words. In silence she awaited her orders.

A slight frown creased the dowager’s brow, as if she had hoped to draw a reaction from her audience. She plucked at the bedclothes with restless fingers. “I am too distraught, Miss Dearne. You must see all callers for me and express my regrets for not being well enough to come down to them in person. You may answer any cards that are sent as well.” As if it were the dowager, and not Louisa’s sister, who should suffer grief. The blessed numbness remained and Phyllida merely nodded.

“Is there anything else?”

“Send Mrs. Battersea to me. Such a strain, with this tragedy so new, but I must give her my orders. One cannot expect the servants to carry on at such a time without guidance. Nothing in the house ever seems to get done without someone on top of it every moment.” This time her sigh gained in strength. “Dear Louisa was always so involved in her charity works. So neglectful of her true duties to her house and husband,” she added with just a touch of smugness.

Phyllida managed a weak smile. Louisa had never involved herself in the charity works. She served as a figurehead, nothing more, though she liked to boast to the
ton
of her unceasing labors. On the other matter the dowager was right on the mark though—Louisa had taken little interest in the running of the household. She had merely liked to issue orders. With another sharp pang, Phyllida realized there would be little real grief, no true sorrow for her sister’s passing, among the staff. Only confusion.

Mrs. Battersea, a gaunt woman of indeterminate years, entered the chamber as Phyllida left. They exchanged only the briefest of glances, as between fellow martyrs to the dowager’s whims. Then the housekeeper cleared her face of expression and offered herself up on the altar of that lady’s demands. As Phyllida started down the stairs the dowager’s carrying voice reached her, issuing conflicting but enthusiastic instructions.

No doubt about it, Rosalinde, Dowager Marchioness of Allbury, was glad to be back in control.

Deep within Phyllida a cry of pain stirred and she desperately sought something to fill her mind. The charity, that always demanded her time and energy. She must concentrate on the cause that would keep other disabled soldiers from dying as had Tom, unable to afford the care of a competent doctor.

Unbidden and unwelcome, visions of her brother sprang to her mind, memories of sitting at his bedside after his eyes had closed for the last time, unable to believe he was truly gone. Stinging tears welled behind her lids and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. Louisa was with Tom now. Neither would be alone.

She groped for her handkerchief and resolutely blew her nose. She
had
to keep busy. She had received several new orders for fans at the opera last night.
Fans.
Nausea welled in her throat, threatening to overcome her. Would she ever be able to see one again without envisioning the Runner before her, that broken blade gleaming with blood in his hands? How could she work on the project if the mere thought of it made her ill?

Dizziness replaced the nausea and for a moment she clung to the banister, forcing her world to steady. She needed to eat something, to settle her stomach. She returned to the breakfast parlor, found her meal cold but choked it down anyway.

She had best make lists or she would never, in her present state, remember half the things she needed to do. Constance Yarborough had mentioned running low on watercolors and she had to speak to their supplier about the inferior quality of the…the fans. She forced herself to acknowledge the word.

She took a sip of cold tea and felt a measure of her usual determination creeping back. Fans. Yes, she could go on with what she must. The project still had upward of fourscore of the things—fans—with another score already spoken for and started with preliminary sketches.

Mrs. Battersea bustled in, interrupting Phyllida’s thoughts, then stopped before her, thin hands clenched together, narrow mouth working in indignation. Phyllida set the cup on its saucer with care and waited.

“It’s her ladyship, Miss Dearne. She wishes me to cancel all the meals the young mistress ordered for the rest of the week, and me with three pheasants and as nice a leg of spring lamb as you’re like to see in the kitchens. Lobsters, she wants, and a turtle for soup.”

Phyllida closed her eyes. “You mustn’t let the pheasants go to waste. Tell her Cook wasn’t able to obtain any lobsters and just prepare the pheasants differently. Is there an old recipe, perhaps?”

Mrs. Battersea’s eyes gleamed. “That there is, miss, and thank you kindly for reminding me of it. One her ladyship enjoyed very much, as I recall. It weren’t to the young mistress’s liking though.”

“Have it prepared the old way then.”

The woman actually smiled, thanked her again and hurried from the room. Relieved, Phyllida turned back to her breakfast.

She poured another cup of tea, only to be interrupted by the footman bearing a note on a silver tray. The first of the condolences. Her stomach clenched and the hand she held out for the missive was not entirely steady.

She broke it open and scanned the inscribed card. Word, it seemed, had gotten around already. That meant she’d have to start answering the notes. It was just as well, she supposed. That should leave her no time to indulge in grief, and by the time she acknowledged her sister’s death so many times perhaps she would accept it.

Carrying her cup and saucer with her, Phyllida made her way to the Ladies’ Sitting Room where ample notepaper and cards were to be found in the writing desk. Somewhere, she knew, there would be black-edged ones. There. She stared at the Allbury crest, embossed in gold, and felt oddly detached from it all.

The butler entered, bearing a salver on which three more cards rested. With a shaky sigh she settled at the desk and drew out a freshly sharpened quill.

Barely a quarter-hour later the marquis wandered into the room with an expression on his thin, angular face so reminiscent of a lost puppy that it tore at her heart. He stopped before her and anguish stared out from his drawn hazel eyes.

“You look so much like her,” he said at last. “I never realized it before. You—” He broke off.

“I’m a shadow of her, I know.” She laid aside her pen. “How are you, Allbury?”

He looked away, shaking his head. “She’s gone, Phyllida. It doesn’t seem possible. Now Mamma will have the running of the household again.”

Phyllida blinked. Almost, that thought seemed to distress him more than the violent death of his wife. Fingers of ice stabbed through her and in her mind’s eye she again saw the irritation with Louisa that last night had flashed in his eyes.

The next moment she banished the budding suspicion as nonsense, unworthy of her. And of Allbury.

“Have you thought to go to the Castle?” she asked abruptly. “To get out of London for a while?”

He stared at his hands. “I’ll have to, of course. She’ll be buried there, you know.”

“No, I-I never thought about it. Of course she will.”

His lips twitched into a mirthless smile. “You may go with me, if you choose. I don’t really recommend it though. It won’t be pleasant.”

Phyllida thought of the huge stone castle with its drafty halls, the endless cold and the darkness of the musty crypt. She shivered. No, it would not be pleasant.

The marquis paced to the unlit hearth then to the window where he stood staring out over the Square. “Here come more cards,” he said. “I’ll leave you to them.” He crossed to the desk, just touched her shoulder in a gesture of shared commiseration and left the room.

Phyllida returned her attention to the note she wrote. She had barely finished it when the butler entered, bringing several more.

Soon thereafter that stately individual disturbed her yet again, but not, as she expected, with more cards or news of a visitor. He fixed her with his disconcerting stare then cleared his throat. “It’s her ladyship, miss. She’s given three different orders about the black crepe and all.”