The Crafters Book Two (15 page)

Anthea managed to come by the occasional newspaper, and brought it home to read to him, asking him to explain the bewildering variety of events—for example, who was this Napoleon, and why was everyone so concerned about him? Questions of this sort drew answers of surprising energy from her father, and slowly, little by little, he began to take an interest in the world around him again.

It was too late, though, for the damp and chill of the old house had settled into his bones, and he died when Anthea was only seventeen. Once again, Sir Roderick consoled her through her grief, and brought her out to life and light again—only to have her confronted with a heap of bills that she could not possibly pay. Papa’s wife, it seemed, had beaten him to the grave, but not by much, and had left her own stack of debts, which were added to his—so Anthea was sole heiress to a dearth of assets, and a mountain of debts.

In desperation, she turned to Sir Roderick, her only source of support, and he took a midnight flit about the neighborhood to discover an honest and capable solicitor. In the hands of that good man, Anthea discovered that, as a minor, she could not agree to anything legally binding, and therefore could not be held liable, as long as there was a relative to whom such decisions could be referred. It was then that she remembered Aunt Trudy.

Aunt Trudy was Papa’s sister, somewhat estranged by irritation with Mama, whom, she felt, should have taken far better care of Papa than she had. When Papa had moved to the country and lapsed into melancholy, he had broken contact with her completely—he had not even learned of her husband’s demise, or her sons’ and daughters’ marriages. Now, though, apprised of circumstances by the solicitor, Aunt Trudy, really Lady Broch, descended on Windhaven to weep buckets of tears at her brother’s grave, every one of them sincere, then to press Anthea to her matronly bosom, which was amazingly soft and warm—and something inside Anthea that had been knotted tight, loosened, and she found herself weeping like a watering pot in a real, flesh-and-blood embrace for the first time since she was ten, while Aunt Trudy made consoling noises and soothed her, then put her to bed.

Then Aunt Trudy and the solicitor, between them, tackled the pile of bills and the horror of Papa’s books, or lack of them, and called the steward to account. The long and the short of it was that he was let go and sued for monies owing. In his stead a reliable under-steward was appointed from Aunt Trudy’s estates, inherited from her husband, Lord Brock. Suddenly, the old manse was under repair, the fields were put in order, and Aunt Trudy was sweeping Anthea away with her to London, just in time for the Season.

London was a mad, exciting whirl as it appeared from the window of Aunt Trudy’s carriage. Brief as their acquaintance was, Anthea felt no hesitation at letting her aunt see just how delighted she was with the metropolis. “Oh, Auntie! The Tower itself! Oh, it seems an age since I saw it!”

“An age it has been,” her aunt returned. “You were only a child when you left, and you are a young woman now.”

‘A young woman’—no one had called her that before. The term was sobering—but not for long. Everything looked so much smaller than she remembered it.

“But of course,” Aunt Trudy said, “you were somewhat smaller then, yourself.”

The enthusiasm and gaiety of the return buoyed Anthea through her introduction to the staff, and particularly Hester, her very own lady’s maid—newly promoted for the occasion, and under the constant and unrelenting scrutiny of Aunt Trudy’s Abigail.

“Don’t fret,” Anthea assured her, glad to have someone as nervous as she herself. “If you do make any mistakes, I shan’t tell.”

Neophyte or not, Hester knew the proprieties, and Anthea had a hot bath to wash off the dust of travel, and a decent dress, not too far from her own size, appropriate for dinner. She felt awkward and gauche under the severe eyes of the butler, the footman, and the maid—but Aunt Trudy put her at ease in minutes, by making quite obvious her delight in having someone to share her meals with again. Anthea hoped she was sincere. It was terrible to think, but she hoped it wasn’t mere politeness.

Then, finally, she was in her nightdress and alone in her darkened room, her chocolate cup empty beside her bed, the room shadowed by the flickering light of her candle—and the strangeness began to make itself felt. Surprising as it was, Anthea realized she was longing for Windhaven. “Oh, Sir Roderick,” she whispered, “if only I could speak with you now!”

“Why, then, do, Miss Anthea,” said the familiar old hollow voice.

Anthea started, nearly leaping out of her skin. “What ... ? Sir Roderick!”

The suit of armor gleamed in the shadows by her wardrobe.

“Why, poor child! I’ve frightened you. Forgive me—I thought that surely you would remember that I could travel to haunt the family wherever they went.”

“Of ... of course.” Anthea sat up a little straighter in bed. “Yes, how foolish of me! I should have remembered! Oh, Sir Roderick, it is so very good to see you!”

“And you, dear child. Surely you did not think I would lose your company if I could prevent it.”

“Oh, you are so good! But ... Sir Roderick, I am no longer a child.”

“Of course not, my dear.” The suit of armor came over to sit on her bed. “That is why I addressed you so. When you were a child, I called you ‘little mademoiselle’—so now, when you are grown, I feel free to call you ‘my child.’ After all, we are related.”

“And I was so grateful for the courtesy then,” Anthea laughed. “Shall I be grateful to be called ‘child’ soon?”

“Yes, and that day is not far off, I believe. Still, I’ll call you ‘Miss Anthea’ till then. May I advise, though, that you only
think
the words when you address me, rather than speaking aloud? I assure you, I’ll hear you just as easily, and the servants might wonder at hearing you speak with a man in your own chamber.”

“Oh yes, of course!” Anthea immediately shifted her conversation to thought only.
I think I can sleep well now, knowing that you are near.

“Why, thank you, Miss Anthea. Are you sleepy, then?”

Well .
..
not very.

“Yes, I know—discovering my presence was a bit of a shock. Might I suggest a game of chess, then?”

The very thing!
Anthea scrambled out of bed, careful to keep her nightdress down, and ran to take out the chess set she had brought with her. She scrambled back into bed and opened the board, laying out the pieces.

The candle burned down before she had him checkmated, but the glow from his armor was quite enough.

* * *

There followed a positive whirlwind of shopping, and Anthea came home in quite a giddy mood for the first three days. Aunt Trudy seemed to be enjoying herself just as much as Anthea was; she confided, over dinner, that the shops and modistes had all become new to her again, just by watching Anthea’s delight in them.

The next day, Aunt Trudy embarked on a round of visits, calling on friends with Anthea and seeing her properly introduced. She met a dozen girls of her own age or nearly, and if some of them were calculating in their assessment and attempted to patronize her, the others more than made up for it with their quick and ready warmth. Half a dozen of them came to Aunt Trudy’s to help celebrate Anthea’s birthday on the twentieth of April, just before the beginning of the Season—and the next day, the invitations began arriving. It seemed that Aunt Trudy’s friends included several of the patronesses of Almack’s, and Anthea had passed their inspection. She was about to be launched.

Her first ball was to be at Lady Fortrain’s. She spent hours with Hester, dressing and powdering and primping, and was too nervous to eat more than a few mouthfuls at dinner. Aunt Trudy was quite impossible, urging dish after dish upon her with a roguish twinkle in her eye. However, she more than made up for it by whisking her away wrapped in an ermine-trimmed cloak, into the carriage and off to the ball. Anthea felt quite like Cinderella, and had half a mind to accuse Aunt Trudy of being a fairy godmother. If she didn’t, it was half because she feared her aunt might confess to the truth of it. However, she did remember herself enough to say, “Oh, Aunt, how can I ever repay you for this!”

“You may reimburse me when your lands have begun to yield a profit again. For the present, you may gladden my heart with your own joy.”

Anthea looked stricken. “But, Aunt—to repay Papa’s debts, and undo the damage of neglect, will take eons!”

“Only decades, my dear, and I look forward to a weekend at your house, when it has been suitably restored.”

“Oh, of course, whenever you wish! But, Aunt ...”

“It is only a loan,” Aunt Trudy said firmly, “and you are not to trouble your head about it. Affairs of this sort are the privilege of ... maturity. Yours are flirting and laughing and filling a house with music. I pray you, do it well.”

Anthea gave up and flung her arms about her aunt, knowing her generosity for the charity it was, and loving her all the more for not admitting it. “But I will never, ever, be able to repay your kindness!”

“Then you will have to repay it to some other young thing who needs it.” Aunt Trudy whisked out a handkerchief and dabbed at Anthea’s cheeks. “There now, child.” And she gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

* * *

Lady Fortrain’s mansion was lit up like Guy Fawkes’ Night.

The stream of carriages passing in front of the door was in almost constant motion, each pausing for a few minutes to discharge its passengers, then moving away to find a place to wait. Coming into that line was another matter, of course—drivers cracked whips and cursed at one another as they jockeyed for position. But inside the carriage, Aunt Trudy sat serenely and calmly, while Anthea fluttered back and forth from window to aunt, exclaiming, “Oh, how lovely! So many lights! So many beautiful dresses!”

“You don’t remark or seem to remark upon the people, Anthea,” she was corrected.

“Oh, how can I, Aunt? They’re too small to see!”

“Don’t fret yourself, you’ll soon be close enough to view their faces quite well, I assure you.”

She was indeed, close enough to face the redoubtable wall of respectability represented by Lord and Lady Fortrain, who greeted her formally and Aunt Trudy warmly. It was strange how their formidable aspects dropped when they began to chat with Trudy.

Freed from the constraint of her aunt’s presence, Anthea joined a gaggle of her new friends, to giggle and glance at the gentlemen.

“Oh, do look at young Lord Melchoir, Anthea! They say he has twenty thousand a year, and squanders it all in
utter
dissipation!”

Anthea stared. “One would never think it, to look at him. He looks quite the picture of health and virtue!”

Ermingarde gave a peal of laughter. “Virtue! The only virtue he may have is whatever he steals! Yet they say that Lord Delbert, who makes every attempt to appear the absolute rake, is actually quite honorable in private!”

“Oh?” Anthea smiled. “And how would they know of his private affairs?”

“My dear, affairs can never be truly private! Except, perhaps, for those of Mr. Crafter, there.”

“Oh, but he is not truly a gentleman!” Jane objected. “Truly, he may be quite wealthy—but not a cent of it was he born with—it is all come from trade!”

“Nevertheless,” Sophie said, “he comes of good family. His cousin is a baronet, after all.”

“But such a
distant
cousin, my dear! And this Crafter is actually from the Colonies! America, of all places! Really, one cannot but think he would be more at home in moccasins and a hat made of some small animal than in cutaway and breeches!”

Anthea eyed the young man in question, seeing blond hair with a surprisingly dark skin, standing by himself, quite self-contained, but with an air of interest that seemed somehow forced.

“American? Is he a spy, then? They favor Napoleon?”

“No, by some irony, he served in Her Majesty’s Navy, they say—but one never knows, does one? After all, it has been only years since we began the war with the French! If you can call the current situation a war,” Ermingarde said as an afterthought.

There was something vaguely sinister about the young man, Anthea thought. “Is he the only eligible bachelor who is not leading a secret life of dissipation?”

Her friends giggled, and the conversation turned to speculation as to who would dance with whom. It was short-lived, however, as one by one, the young men came over to bow and praise, and ask for the compliment of a dance. Before long, Anthea’s friends were whirling away to the music, each with several dances already bespoken. Anthea watched and smiled, and tried not to feel too envious.

“Miss Gosling.”

Anthea looked up, startled. “Lady Fortrain!”

The imposing dowager forced a slight smile. “May I present Mr. Roman Crafter, late of the exotic lands of the East.”

The young man bowed, and Anthea suppressed a slight shiver. So close, she found that he fairly exuded an air of worldliness which she found more repulsive than attractive.

“Your aunt has told me of your interest in geography,” Lady Fortrain went on, “so I thought you might wish to learn of Mr. Crafter’s experiences in India.”

“India! Oh yes, Lady Fortrain, thank you! Really, Mr. Crafter, how did you come to India?”

The grave young man gazed directly into her eyes with such a deep and probing look that Anthea had to suppress a shiver. “It was in the course of private curiosity, Miss Gosling, though it came to be on the King’s business.”

Lady Fortrain smiled benevolently and moved on. Anthea rather wished she hadn’t; there was something decidedly unsettling about Mr. Crafter. Perhaps the steady gaze of those large, surprisingly light gray eyes, so fitting beneath the mane of ash-blond hair—or perhaps it was his excessive leanness, or the bronze hue of his skin. All in all, he gave the impression of someone left out in the sun too long, which he may well have been. Most probably, though, it was the aura of almost fanatical intensity that seemed to surround him like a cloak.

But he was immaculately dressed, his neckcloth pristine and precisely folded, and she certainly had his undivided attention. “I confess to puzzlement, Mr. Crafter. How could private curiosity turn to royal affairs?”