Liz Carlyle - [Lorimer Family & Clan Cameron 02] (6 page)

But he loved her. God, yes, he loved Zoë. He loved his child with all his heart, black though it most certainly was. He had not, however, loved Maria. Indeed, Elliot had allowed himself to need no woman since Cicely, yet the abiding love he felt for his daughter was like a sure and frustrating ache in his belly. Elliot had no notion what one did with such an overwhelming emotion. He wanted to tell her, to show her, to hold her. And yet he rarely touched her and almost never conversed with her. Not in any meaningful way. Why? Elliot was not certain, but in the dark of night, when he was sober enough to think clearly, Elliot sometimes began to fear that perhaps he was far more like his father than he wanted to be. Was Zoë paying the price for that shortcoming, too?

It was a horrifying notion, and Elliot did not realize that he held a death grip on the soap until it spurted from his hands and skittered aimlessly across the floor. He looked about himself, taking in the antiquated but comfortable bedchamber Miss Stone had provided him. The room was small, warm, and richly furnished. Outside, the chilling rain continued to hammer at Chatham’s ancient, mullioned windows, cutting him off—no, sheltering him—from the vast emptiness of the world beyond this place. His bath now tepid, Elliot looked down to see that his toes, and a few other things, had begun to shrivel. With an inward sigh, he shoved away his fanciful thoughts, then heaved himself from the tub in a cascade of soapy water.

The dining parlor at Chatham Lodge was large, well proportioned, and elegantly fitted with all the appointments necessary to a genteel country house. Nonetheless, as with every nook in the Stone-Weyden household, it was warm and comforting. The tableware was sturdy Chinese export, while the delicately carved table itself was long and narrow and laid with good linen. Across the corridor, Elliot noticed what must once have been a breakfast parlor, which, being far too small to accommodate a family of this size, had been converted into a schoolroom. In the rear was a door that undoubtedly connected to Evangeline’s studio.

Elliot was greeted at dinner with all the bonhomie and felicity due an old friend, an honor that served to warm his heart while heightening his guilt. It soon became obvious that the entire family dined together, an unfashionable practice but one that Elliot found oddly charming. At the table, Evangeline and Mrs. Weyden were seated at the head and foot, and as a practical matter, the smallest children, Frederica and Michael, sat to their left sides. Much to Elliot’s satisfaction, he was placed at Evangeline’s right and somehow managed to fold his awkward length into the delicate chair without accident. As they were seated, the remaining family fell automatically into their places, filling every chair.

Elliot, piously dropping his chin as Mrs. Weyden said grace, sent up his own fleeting prayer that a thunderbolt would not descend from the heavens to send his aberrant Presbyterian soul straight to the perdition it undoubtedly deserved. But Elliot evaded the well-deserved lightning strike yet again and, following the soft chorus of
amen
, relaxed in his chair and began to survey his lively companions, mentally summarizing what he had learned. Augustus, Mrs. Weyden’s elder son, sat across from Elliot. The young man, who looked about nineteen, was possessed of all the good looks, dapper elegance, and youthful charm of a Bond Street beau in the making. On the verge of adulthood, his brother Theo was about three years younger. Nicolette, Evangeline’s sister, looked about Theo’s age and seemed serene and rather sweet. The youngest Stone, Michael, was the typical, effervescent English schoolboy, with his blond hair, blue eyes, and easy laugh.

On Mrs. Weyden’s right sat Harlan Stokely. Introduced to Elliot as the children’s tutor, Stokely was a thin, shortsighted fellow with narrow shoulders and soulful eyes that seemed permanently fixed upon Evangeline. Scanning the crowd, Elliot was left to wonder who normally took the chair at Evangeline’s right. The fact that he did not know was strangely disconcerting. From across the table, the youngest child, Frederica d’Avillez, looked up at him expectantly. “This is Wednesday,” she announced in a shy voice.

“Indeed it is,” agreed Elliot, secretly pleased that the child seemed drawn to him but quite uncertain as to the significance of her statement. His confusion must have shown.

“On Wednesday, we speak only German at dinner,” explained the little girl with a rueful sigh, “but my German is very poor. Thursday is Italian, and I am quite good at that.” Her gaze dropped back down to study her plate.

Evangeline paused, a basket of bread in one hand. “Not tonight, Frederica,” she corrected the child gently. “Since we have a guest, tonight we shall speak only in English, please. Mr. Roberts would not wish to suffer through our rather rudimentary vocabulary.”

Elliot glanced at her but saw only kindness in her blue eyes. She knew, he suspected, that he spoke not a word of either German or Italian and was giving him a gracious way out. “Thank you, Miss Stone,” he replied solemnly. “As it happens, I cannot speak it at all and must prevail upon Miss d’Avillez for future lessons.” His efforts were rewarded by a beaming smile from Frederica.

To an outsider, the interaction of the dinner party was a fascinating exercise in group dynamics. Other than Gus, each child deferred readily and equally to both Evangeline and Mrs. Weyden in matters of discipline and direction. Together, Gus and Evangeline interacted much like grown siblings, while the two ladies obviously held each other in great esteem and genuine fondness. This circumstance appeared to Elliot an aberration of nature, for in his vast experience with the opposite sex, females were invariably treacherous and territorial.

As the younger children struggled with the soup course, Evangeline initiated what Elliot learned was a routine of discussing current events over dinner. Each person in turn was asked to raise a topic of interest to the group, and then a few moments of lively discussion—and occasionally a fierce argument—ensued. The subjects ranged from Mrs. Weyden’s interest in the regent’s latest bilious attack to Nicolette’s mention of the newest member of the royal family. Although undoubtedly too ill to comprehend the significance, George III had been blessed with a healthy granddaughter. A legitimate one, for a change.

On the matter of the babe’s future, the table was loudly divided. The females agreed that the profligate royal dukes ought now to do England the favor of dying off without further issue and allow a woman to ascend to the throne. However, the men argued that the obnoxious duchess of Kent should be sent packing to her German relatives and the newest heir sent with her.

“My dear friend Lady Bland has written me from town,” interrupted Mrs. Weyden in a gossipy tone. “Rumor has it that the regent has refused his brother’s request to name the baby Georgiana, in his honor. Instead, she is to take a Saxe-Coburg name, Alexandrina Victoria!” Upon this cruel bit of news, the entire table promptly agreed to throw their collective support squarely behind the new Lady Alexandrina Victoria and urge her forward to the throne.

Given the lively enthusiasm and pithy commentary that followed, Elliot experienced a moment of concern on behalf of the royal dukes, worthless laggards though they were. But his worry was quickly forgotten when Theo seized his turn and commenced a dark and detailed narrative about the infamous exploits of a local highwayman who had been hanged just the preceding week. When, however, Theo began to expound upon the vivid specifics of the actual rope, platform, and gallows, as described to him in lurid detail by Crane the foot-man, his mother set down her wine glass with a sharp chink. “Oh, Theo! I vow, that is quite enough, if you please! Nicolette”—she gestured encouragingly down the table—“I collect ’tis your turn. Pray speak of something pleasant.”

Nicolette cut a sly glance down the table toward her sister, then returned her gaze to Mrs. Weyden. “I call for a debate!” she announced regally.

“A debate!” agreed Gus cheerfully.

“Yes, let’s do,” chimed Theo. “Choose sides and throw us a topic, Nick!”

Nicolette’s full mouth curled up into a mischievous smile. “I propose we debate upon the subject of who has been the handsomest guest to grace our table of late—is it Mr. Roberts or Squire Ellows?” Beside him, Elliot heard Evangeline gasp as if horror-stricken.

“Oh, that’s gammon, Nick!” groused Theo. “ ’Tis of no consequence to us fellows!”

“I vote for Mr. Roberts,” piped Frederica.

“Oh, indeed!” chimed Michael. “I agree with Frederica. Squire is losing his hair on top.”

“Children, children!” Mrs. Weyden’s voice was shrill now as she flapped her napkin admonishingly. “Such a want of comportment! I vow, this can hardly be described as proper entertainment for—”

“Oh, on the contrary, ma’am,” interrupted Elliot dryly, pausing with his wine glass aloft, “I find it to be highly entertaining.”

Mrs. Weyden stilled her napkin and turned to coo at him soothingly. “Poor Mr. Roberts! First we ignore you whilst we quibble amongst ourselves like barbarians. Then we scrutinize you, as if you were naught but some odd Elgin marble!”

“Thank you, ma’am!” Elliot replied cheerfully. “Though I have hardly felt ignored, and surely every man must desire comparison to—to marble, was it?”

Farther down the room, Gus and Theo snickered, having obviously chosen to misinterpret Elliot’s repartee. Across the table, Elliot spied Frederica giggling softly behind her hand. “Psst—Miss d’Avillez!” he hissed. “Whatever
is
an Elgin marble?”

Her brown-black eyes danced mirthfully. “Grecian sculptures,” she whispered back. “From the Parthenon.”

Winnie Weyden glared at them, then deftly changed the subject. “Do tell us something of yourself, Mr. Roberts, since you seem to be a subject of much interest. Have you, for example, a profession?”

“No, ma’am. None to speak of,” replied Elliot, acutely aware that he was now the center of attention. He hoped desperately that the thorough brushing of his expensive but previously filthy clothing did not completely give him away. Apparently, it did not.

“Down on your luck, eh?” chortled Gus. “Well, you’ve come to the right place, then. Evie’s a good ’un. She’ll take you in—even a profligate wastrel like me, rusticated from Cambridge ’n’ all that.” Gus hung his head in mild embarrassment. Elliot suppressed a laugh.

“Pray do not be foolish, Gussie!” snapped his mother. “And I beg you will not mention your ill-timed exploits at school. I think it obvious that Mr. Roberts is a gentleman born, and he has simply come to have his portrait painted for his fiancée—”

“Oh, indeed, I think that’s romantic!” breathed Nicolette, a fork full of parsnips suspended in midair. “Do you not think it romantic, Mr. Stokely?”

“Indeed, I do, Miss Nicolette,” agreed Mr. Stokely, still staring at Evangeline. “But what does your sister think?”

“Oh, I find it infinitely romantic,” murmured Evangeline, looking somewhat impishly up at Elliot from beneath a sweep of thick lashes. “All the more so since it takes money from Mr. Roberts’s pocket and puts it into mine.”

“Miss Stone!” Elliot said in feigned mortification. “Your callousness alarms me. I was given to understand that all great artists were possessed of a fiery, romantic nature.”

“Hah!” snorted Gus. “You thought wrong, indeed. Evie ain’t got a romantic bone in her body. Unless, of course, she’s working on—”

“Augustus!” Evangeline’s voice held a distinct warning.

“—those great battle scenes and allegoricals.”

Elliot looked at his hostess in some surprise. “Indeed, Miss Stone? I assumed your work was limited to portraits and landscapes.”

“That’s ’cause Uncle Peter carts the good stuff off so fast we never have any of it hanging around here,” muttered Gus as he chewed around a mouthful of beef.

Elliot watched as Evangeline began to twist uncomfortably in her chair. “Does he indeed?” he asked softly.

Gus continued. “Aye—she’s getting prodigious famous, too. But Evie don’t use her full name—just her first initial and her middle name.” He put down his fork with a clatter. “Do you know art, Mr. Roberts?”

Elliot paused. “Well, I know what I like, but isn’t that what everyone says?” He turned his gaze upon the woman to his left. “Pray what is your professional name, Miss Stone?”

His hostess looked thoroughly vexed now.

“Van Artevalde,” supplied Gus obligingly. “E. van Artevalde.”

As was customary after dinner, the family retired to the drawing room for music, reading, and cards. Evangeline could not help but notice that Elliot Roberts hesitated, lingering by his chair until the dining parlor was all but empty. With a discreet sideways glance, Evangeline let her artist’s eye take in his tall, rangy length as he stood, arms braced casually against his chair, watching the stragglers file out of the room. Long, elegant fingers fanned across the chair’s front, almost touching in the center. But despite his easy manner, Evangeline could sense the restlessness and doubt that radiated from him. What was it that so troubled this man? Something most assuredly did . . . but perhaps it was nothing more than boredom. And why not?

Though Evangeline made no excuses for the tranquil, secluded lifestyle her family chose to lead, she inwardly acknowledged that theirs was by no means a sophisticated company. And from the look of weary boredom that seemed eternally etched on his harsh, handsome face, Elliot Roberts had experienced a lifetime of worldly sophistication. Indeed, she wryly considered, if more of the same was what he sought, Mr. Roberts had most assuredly come to the wrong place. And yet she wanted him to stay at Chatham Lodge with a desperation that bordered on the irrational. It was the desire to paint him, she reassured herself again, her irrepressible artist’s urge to commit physical beauty to virgin canvas. Her other foolish emotions would soon abate, but her hunger to paint him would endure.