The Heiress Companion (9 page)

“What fustian! Renna Cherwood, in the months I’ve known you
I have never heard you speak such nonsense.”

“Nonsense it may be, ma’am, but Mr. Bradwell made it quite
clear more than once that he considers me a Dragon, and a Managing Female, and
that he feels I have the tendency to overstep my authority.”

“
Lyndon
said those
things to you?” Lady Bradwell inwardly cursed the stupidity of her favorite
son.

“Yes,” Rowena replied simply.

“Then he is an idiot, which
is
a shame, as I had always assumed that Jack was idiotish enough to account for
the entire family.”

Miss Cherwood chuckled softly, and Lady Bradwell allowed the
topic of her younger son to die for the moment. She had every intention,
however, of reading her son a fine lecture at the earliest possible moment. When
she finally found him she addressed him not only on the subject of Renna
Cherwood, but of Margaret Cherwood as well. His replies, all in all, were
satisfactory.

“I’m afraid Miss Meg isn’t interested in me, except as that
amusing fellow who tells the Banbury tales of life abroad, Mother. The same as
Jane Ambercot is, and if she and Jack don’t patch things up between them by
next week, I shall be extremely surprised.”

“So Rowena said.”

Mr. Bradwell flashed his mother a quick glance. “Well, then,
I suspect that the Ambercots will be in for a double wedding, for Ulysses seems
to have made a mighty impression on Miss Margaret.”

“So Rowena said.”

Lyn flushed. “Miss Cherwood has a great deal to say, doesn’t
she, ma’am?”

“When it’s to the point, my dear. After all, I am still
partly a prisoner in this room, and I rely on Rowena to keep me abreast of what
is going on — under my own roof, at least. Which reminds me, Lyn: Did you say
something to Renna about her — her place here?”

“O, that.” A faint smile and a rueful twist to his eyebrow
suggested that Mr. Bradwell had already repented of that conversation. “When I
arrived here, Mamma, I met Miss Cherwood in the gardens, and I’m afraid that I
was a trifle brusque and she gave me rather a setdown, and when I found out who
she was I made a few stupid remarks.... Did she tell you of them?”

“Indirectly, the other day. Not specifically.”

“In other words, you don’t intend to answer me yes or no.”
Her son lounged back and regarded his mother with amusement.

“I mean precisely what I say, Lyn,” Lady Bradwell said with
asperity. “Do you imagine that she came to me with some tale of ill treatment?
I suggested that she address something to you — a question or comment on one
subject or another; I forget what,” Lady Bradwell lied gracefully. “And she
said that she was afraid you might feel she was presuming.”

“ Good God, of all the mutton-headed nonsense,” he muttered.

Lady Bradwell said nothing.

“Very well, Mamma, I admit that I had no business taking a
stranger down on my first night home without seeing first how the land lay with
you and her. But I have apologized to her for that remark at least twice, and
—”

“It’s not the sort of remark an apology will erase, Lyn. I
fear that Rowena thinks you dislike her.” This was spoken with consummate
disinterest, but Lady Bradwell watched her son closely.

“Dislike her? On the contrary, I rather admire her. Not that
that’s anything to the point, since she’s nearly bit my head off half-a-dozen
times since we met.”

“Probably because you bit hers off first,” Lady Bradwell
suggested loftily. “I never thought my own flesh and blood could be so stupid.
Well, I will leave you to speak with Rowena or not, as your conscience
dictates.”

“My conscience? Good Lord, Mamma!”

Lady Bradwell remained unimpressed with her son’s
protestations. “I am going to dress for dinner,” she informed him, and sailed
easily from the room, leaving him to wonder just what his mother had been
driving at, and whether Miss Cherwood had truly formed a bad impression of him.

o0o

Eliza Ambercot, watching romances springing up between her
brother and Margaret Cherwood, and her sister and Lord Bradwell, was highly
displeased by the current events at Broak. She had joined Lord Bradwell and
Ulysses in urging that Jane not be taken home to Wilesby House in hopes that
her own frequent visits to the invalids would attract Mr. Lyndon Bradwell’s
attention and favor. At first she had planned to focus her attempts on Lord
Bradwell, who after all had the title and the main of the wealth in the family.
His growing reattachment to Jane was clear even to Eliza’s self-absorbed eyes,
and she dismissed him at last, telling herself that even with the title he was
stupid and could only talk of dreadful old horses. Jane was welcome to Lord
Bradwell, if she really wanted him. It was, on the other hand, unfair — more
than unfair, intolerable — that
Mr
.
Bradwell seemed as infatuated by Margaret Cherwood as Ulysses was. Eliza, had
she given the matter much thought, could have argued her own superiority to
Margaret in looks, charm, and certainly in importance. After all, Margaret was
the cousin of Lady Bradwell’s companion (be she never so wealthy). Eliza was
the youngest daughter of a tolerably rich country gentleman; her mother was the
third cousin to a Duke. In Eliza’s mind there was no comparison.

But proximity did not seem to bring to Mr. Bradwell’s
attention the manifest charms of the younger Miss Ambercot, and the younger
Miss Ambercot was losing patience rapidly.

Drawing on the advice of acquaintances she had made in
Bath, with whom she had spent many hours earnestly considering the tactics of
the Marriage Mart, Eliza considered her alternatives. She could give up her
plans for Mr. Bradwell’s future happiness and her own; that was ridiculous,
plainly. She could wait, quietly, until Mr. Bradwell realized that Margaret and
Lully were in hopeless case over each other and that Margaret was unlikely to
spare him even a smile. That was a pretty tactic, but a little too uncertain
and slow for Miss Ambercot’s taste. She could, on some pretext, bring Margaret’s
tendre
for Ulysses to Mr. Bradwell’s
attention and hope that on reflection he would come to understand Eliza’s
greater suitability. Or she could do something more direct.

Eliza had always been a partisan for the most direct
approach.

Lyndon Bradwell was seated in the library writing letters
when Eliza found him. She affected unconcern. He, after rising and bidding her
good afternoon, returned to his work.

“What are you doing, Mr. Bradwell?” Eliza asked breathlessly.

“Composing a letter to my uncle, Miss Eliza.”

“Oh.” She thought about this for a moment. “And what shall
you do afterward?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “I shall be writing to some
friends of my uncle’s, also in London.”

“Oh. What are you writing to them?” she persisted.

“Business matters, I am afraid. Nothing that would amuse
you.”

Eliza took this setback in stride. After some idle drifting
around in the room, she picked up a book (it proved to be a travel journal
written by a very prosy old woman fifty years before). She regarded it avidly,
and read not a word of it. When she was morally certain that she had been
absolutely quiet for at least half an hour — that is, some ten minutes later — she
stood, stretched, and wandered over to Mr. Bradwell’s side.

“Still writing letters, sir?” she asked archly.

“Yes, Miss Eliza. Still writing letters. As I probably shall
be for the next half an hour or more.” His words were not unkind, but neither
were they particularly encouraging. Eliza would not allow herself to be daunted
by his tone, however, and inquired in a tone of awe what sort of business Mr.
Bradwell was concerned with. He briefly answered that he was writing someone at
the Foreign Office.

“I do not mean to be rude, Miss Eliza, but I really cannot
talk at the moment. It is important that I post these letters today.”

“Oh.” Eliza compressed a world of bruised but nobly hidden
feeling in the word. Lyn Bradwell was not made of stone, and such a sound of
mournful respect, issuing from a pretty young girl, made him feel he was every
sort of monster of unkindliness.

“Wouldn’t you be more happily engaged in talking with your
sister or Miss Margaret?” he inquired with avuncular gentleness.

“They are taken up with other things,” Eliza replied with
dignity. Lyn had no trouble in guessing from this that Jack was talking stables
with Jane, and Ulysses probably amusing Margaret with some sort of foolishness.
Of course Eliza must have felt
de trop
.

“You know, Miss Eliza, that they mean nothing by it.”

“O, it’s nothing to
me
,
Mr. Bradwell,” she assured him. “I had by far rather sit here and be quiet with
you.” There was a slight emphasis on the terminal word that made Lyn suddenly
rather uncomfortable.

“Indeed? Well, I thank you.” He returned hastily to his
letters.

Five minutes passed.

“Mr. Bradwell?” He looked up to find Eliza practically in
his lap, holding out a broken pen to him. “Do you think you could mend my pen
for me?”

Fighting down a surge of irritation, Lyn took the pen and
pointed it.

“Thank you so much!” She was effusive. “How clever men are!”

“Mending pens is hardly the exclusive province of my sex,
Miss Eliza, nor an exercise requiring much cleverness. I dare say you could
achieve the same result as easily as I.” He returned the pen to her.

“O, no sir, not I,” she breathed. “Perhaps some females
might. Miss Cherwood, for instance; I fancy she could do almost anything. She’s
such a competent sort of person.” In Eliza’s mouth, competence sounded like a
regrettable liability. After all, in her limited experience, only governesses,
companions, lower servants and, of course, one’s mother were competent at
anything beyond watercolor and ’broidery — probably because these females were
ancient, unattractive, and beyond the hope of attracting a gentleman’s notice.
Mr. Bradwell, however, did not share her view of the matter.

“Miss Cherwood is a surprising combination of ability, good
sense, amiability, and —” He broke off, realizing that of all people he had no
wish to be discussing his mother’s companion with Eliza Ambercot. “She’s
certainly an admirable lady,” he finished.

“And her cousin is so amiable too,” Eliza agreed
unenthusiastically.

“She certainly is.” Bradwell turned to his writing table
again.

“Mr. Bradwell?” She ignored the edge of finality in his
voice.

“Miss Eliza?” A shade of exasperation crept into the polite
words.

“Do you think it will rain today?” Desperately.

“No, Miss Eliza, I do not.” Lyn stood and folded away his
writing in the little desk. “If you will excuse me, miss? I’ve just recalled
that I have an appointment in — in the stables.” Making a perfunctory bow,
Bradwell left the room before Eliza could claim his attention again.

She could not run after him, either to tease him for his
company or to scold him for his abruptness. That would not be good tactics.
Immediately Eliza dropped her travel book behind some cushions and left the
library to seek out company — any company, even the unexciting company of her
sister and Lord Bradwell. As she climbed the stairs, she found herself
wondering if Lyndon Bradwell was not as stupid as his stupid brother Jack. She
was rapidly growing out of patience with the whole race of Bradwells, even if
Lyndon
was
dreadfully handsome and Jack
bore the title. In fact, she had very little patience with the Bradwells, with
her own family, and very nearly none at all with the Misses Cherwood.

Jane and Margaret, seated in a small parlor off Margaret’s
sickroom, were entertaining Lord Bradwell and Mr. Ambercot, and the room was
alive with conversation and gentle with laughter when Eliza entered. Both Lord
Bradwell and Ulysses rose when she entered; she was settled into a chair, asked
a few distracted questions about the weather and what she had found to occupy
herself with, and then was completely forgotten. Margaret had been settled
half-lying on the sofa, tucked round with blankets and pillows that made her
dark, delicate prettiness more distinctive. Eliza saw with positive dislike
that Lully had somehow possessed of her hand and was talking — almost murmuring
to her, Eliza thought disgruntledly.

Lyndon Bradwell might admire ladies’ companions, but he
saved his smiles for Miss Margaret. Lord Jack hadn’t two brains to rub together
— so everyone said! — and preferred solid, prosaic Jane with her square figure
and plain talk, to her sister. And Ulysses was taken in by that dreadful,
insipid, scheming Margaret Cherwood. It was the stupidest thing Eliza had ever
heard of, and the more she considered it, sitting forgotten in the room, the
more Margaret’s perfidy, her nasty, missish, deceitful, hateful behavior grated
on her. Asked what crimes Meg had committed, Eliza could probably, at that
moment, have come up with half a dozen, not the least of which being the
possession of a peignoir with more lace than any Eliza owned (borrowed, had she
only known it, from Lady Bradwell’s maid Taylor).

It was not to be borne.

“Lully,” Miss Eliza said ominously.

Mr. Ambercot, recalled to the larger world for a minute,
looked at his younger sister with surprise.

“Lully, I should like to go home now.”

“Certainly, puss. By and by,” Mr. Ambercot assured her, and
returned his attention to Margaret Cherwood.

“
Lully
,” Eliza insisted.
Had he paid attention, Ulysses would have recognized her tone: He had heard it
several times before in his life, most notably at the time when Eliza threw a
bottle of medicine at his head. She missed her aim, and the bottle smashed
harmlessly against the wall, but the room had smelled revoltingly of horehound
for weeks.