The Mysterious Heir (14 page)

“I am that ashamed of myself for bothering you, sir,” Mrs. Turner said, “but it cannot go on. I have only so much control.”

“No,” the Earl agreed, “it cannot.”

*

“It cannot go on,” Elizabeth cried in vexation. “I tell you, Anthony, I am at my wits' end. It's no good.”

“I don't see what you're making such a pother about,” Anthony said, seated at his writing desk and watching Elizabeth prowl up and down his carpet.

“Well, of course you don't,” Elizabeth said angrily, “for you're gone to heaven knows where half the day, or off with Lord Beverly the other. I don't think you've exchanged two words with the Earl. But I have. I speak with him most mornings. When the weather holds fair, I see him early out-of-doors, or if it's raining, I meet him at breakfast. And in the evenings, I play at cards with him or discuss the news of the day. And I tell you, I feel a fool every time he asks me about home. Or Mother, or Uncle, for that matter. What a tissue of lies I have been telling. And he is no fool, Anthony. Each time I spin some taradiddle about not riding because I never took to it, when in truth Uncle never had the funds for feeding a mouse, much less a horse, or simpering that I cannot play the piano well enough to make a guest endure it, when you well know we had to sell the pianoforte in order to repair the roof when I was ten, I feel like a cheat. It will not do.”

“You don't have to see him in the morning,” Anthony said reasonably. “You could sleep late, you know.”

Elizabeth knew that, and also knew that the past few mornings had been the greatest delights of her young life, but she merely shrugged her shoulders and went on, “And, Anthony, just think. Nothing is as Uncle had thought. Auden is no doddering old recluse, and we are not here only to attend his last wishes. Heaven knows how long we shall have
to stay on here, for no one has said a word about our leaving and it would not do for us just to take off without a word, before anything is decided. I could keep up such a deception for a few more days. But weeks? Never. I cannot.”

“There's no need to,” Anthony said. “I quite agree with you, Elizabeth. There are times when I'd like to make a clean breast of it with Bev, too. He's a good sort of fellow, and I know he wouldn't mind a jot. He's got no social conscience,” Anthony mused, “but he's a fair-minded fellow.”

“It's not Lord Beverly that's looking for an heir, Anthony,” Elizabeth said in exasperation.

“I think you should tell him the truth, then,” Anthony said calmly.

“And just think, I live in dread, Anthony, of the look in his eyes if he ever discovers our pretense. For I work at a rather public place, and one never knows who might have chanced by my shop. And Lady Isabel, I am sure she knows something of the truth, for she questions me so closely that…” Elizabeth broke off as Anthony's words finally registered with her. She turned to stare at him.

“It only makes sense. Use your head, Coz,” Anthony said lightly. “The thing is plain to see. Our lack of money won't make as big a difference as Uncle thought. For whom else would Morgan name as heir? That Friday-faced fellow Richard? A man would sooner leave his fortune to an undertaker. Or that little stoat Owen? The little chap would eat up half the fortune before he reached his majority. No, it's plain that I shall be the one. Why,” Anthony said to the disbelieving look on Elizabeth's face, “he even hinted that he might soon go over the accounts of the estate with me.”

This was true, so far as it went, but what had actually been said in full, in an offhand but firm manner this very day, was that Anthony should not go about asking the staff about their wages and working conditions. If he was that curious, the Earl had said in a knowing fashion, he would be glad to go over the accounts with him himself.

But this, understandably, was a subject Anthony did not wish to go into with Elizabeth. Or, for that matter, with the Earl. So Anthony smiled complacently and went on quickly,
“And as you say, Morgan is not yet at the brink of the grave, and someone's bound to find out the truth sooner or later. So it would be better if you were the one to tell him, now.”

Elizabeth could scarcely believe this reasonable creature was Anthony, and she stared at him in wonder.

“I don't know why you're eyeing me like that.” Anthony yawned. “Uncle wouldn't mind a small change in plan. And I think Morgan would be loath to let his heir live in penury whilst he lorded it here in style. It would look bad and the gentry don't care for that. So it is better if you let the cat out of the bag, Coz.”

Elizabeth stared at her cousin. It was late, she was extremely tired and should in fact have been fast asleep at this hour. But she had undressed, gotten into her night rail, and she had lain upon her bed in an agony of remorse. Until finally she had leaped up, thrown on a wrapper, and gone to hunt Anthony down.

Again, she had crept into his quarter of the house to have it out with him. She had envisioned telling the Earl of their true circumstances as a noble thing, and now Anthony had reduced it to sound mercenary practice. It was strange how in doing the right thing at last, he had made it seem as devious as the wrong thing had been.

She stood irresolute, her long gleaming hair tumbled about her shoulders, her hand at the neck of her long white wrapper.

“I think I'll leave you now, Anthony,” she said primly. “I just wanted you to know how things stood.”

“Things couldn't be better,” he said blithely, seeing her to his door. “You worry too much, Elizabeth.”

Elizabeth paused and gave Anthony a last long worried look, and then, clutching her wrapper about her, she slipped off down the hall.

*

“Well,” said the Earl in a strange tone, as Anthony's door closed behind Elizabeth's retreating form, “I did not know our country cousins were in the habit of nightly conference. I wonder, does Miss Elizabeth think our Anthony in need of being tucked in each night?”

“Devil take it, Morgan,” Lord Beverly answered in a
worried voice as he saw the expression of distaste upon his friend's face, “must you read impropriety into everything a female does? They're cousins, after all.”

But the Earl, from the vantage point of the door to Lord Beverly's room, where he had been bidding his friend a good night, only stood and watched Elizabeth, in her nightclothes, her long hair flowing behind her, disappearing into the gloom as she traced her way back to her quarters.

“Cousins, yes,” he said slowly, “but kissing cousins, my dear?”

“That's a monstrous thing to say,” Lord Beverly gasped.

“Indeed it is,” the Earl said wearily, passing his hand over his eyes. “Disregard it, old friend. I cannot help what I think. Or that I wonder at what transpires at such tender nightly devotions. But you are right, it is a monstrous thing…at least, to say.”

8

There was no doubt, Elizabeth sighed to herself, that they made a striking pair. The Earl, in a russet riding coat, atop his high black horse, and Lady Isabel, all in cream and white to match the delicate mare she rode. When they saw Elizabeth making her aimless way back toward the house after her lonely hours spent in Simon's deserted Shakespearean garden, the Earl lifted his riding crop in salute, and then bent his head toward his companion to whisper something to the white plume that trembled above her ear. Lady Isabel laughed and smiled brightly toward Elizabeth, but since they were too far for words to carry, Elizabeth had to content herself with pantomiming a greeting and trying valiantly to exhibit a convincing smile as well. It hardly mattered, she thought a moment later, for they waved again and then turned and cantered off together toward the wide woods that surrounded Lyonshall. A lovely couple, Elizabeth sighed again, and she scolded herself: there was no reason that the sight of such a pretty pair should blot the sun from the sky and ruin the morning for her.

But, she thought, walking on and fidgeting with the green satin fringe of her shawl, she had spent the better part of her morning in the Shakespearean garden, starting at every sound, half-rising at every creak the wind caused in the trees, and beginning to feel her pulses rise with every rustle of a squirrel in the grass. Still, he had not come. Nor had he the morning before, nor the morning before that. Since the night she had told Anthony she was prepared to tell their host the
whole truth of their circumstances, she had not seen the Earl alone. It was ironic that when she tried so manfully to keep up the pretense, she seemed to have met him everywhere and had spent so many hours in close converse with him in the garden. But once she was able and ready to speak in a truly free fashion, he had kept away from her.

She had seen him at mealtimes, she had seen him in the evenings, she had even played at cards with him. But the bond that seemed to have been built between them had vanished. He was polite to her, almost attentive in the way his eyes so often sought her out, he never for a moment made her feel ill-at-ease, but he had not been the easy natural companion she had grown to await with such pleasure. Even their card game had been an earnest, correct sort of pastime, and she had, sick to her soul at his proper distance, begged off early, pleading a headache. Only Lord Beverly had seemed to be disappointed at her departure.

There was an entirely new attitude about Lyonshall. A more businesslike workmanlike sort of atmosphere now prevailed as the Earl appeared to be getting down to the business at hand. He had called Richard Courtney into his study the day before, and the rest of the company had noted that the two had remained closeted for close on to three hours. While the other cousins had appeared to be reading, or chatting, or occupying themselves with careless diversions, still no one left the house for those hours. Every eye strayed toward the direction of the Earl's study with such frequency that Elizabeth was sorely tempted to suggest that they all throw off their pretense at indifference and rush to the door to put their ears to it together. Instead, she had idly perused a volume of poetry, and had watched with the rest of them as an awkwardly smiling Richard Courtney emerged looking intensely pleased and oddly relieved. He soon after returned to his rooms. Due to Cousin Richard's silent ways, no one was the wiser about the outcome of that little conference. But all secretly had feared the worst, since the Earl had summoned no one to his room since.

This morning he had gone riding with Lady Isabel, and the lady's glowing face showed that she was in high alt about it.

He should, Elizabeth thought stonily, have asked little Owen along, since it was, after all, Owen who might be the heir. But, she thought suddenly, perhaps it did make more sense for him to be interviewing Lady Isabel, for he might choose to make a package of it as Anthony had suggested and acquire a wife and an heir in one move. It would be a wise decision, but somehow the wisdom of it did nothing to alleviate the wretchedness she now experienced. To shake it off, she strode along toward the house with resolve. She would see that Anthony had a fair hearing, and then she would be gone from this place, she thought. She would have done her duty, and would only remember it all her days.

As she walked up the wide white stairs to Lyonshall, she noticed Owen standing in front of the great door, gazing out sadly into the distance in the direction that his mama and the Earl had ridden off to. The plump little figure, so oddly aged-looking, so apparently crestfallen, touched Elizabeth and freed her from her own morose thoughts.

“Good morning, Owen,” she said brightly. “I see that your mama has gone off for a canter. Why haven't you gone as well? Are you feeling poorly today?”

He startled at the sound of her voice and gazed up at her from wide round blue eyes. “No, thank you,” he said softly. “I don't feel badly at all. But I do not ride, you see, and I suppose that does make me feel badly.”

“But I don't ride either,” Elizabeth said. “Still, you are very young, and those horses seem to me to be very large. Perhaps if you asked for a pony?”

“I don't ride ponies either,” Owen replied gravely, “and I doubt they are big enough to carry me. I'm rather stout, you know.”

Since this was undeniable, Elizabeth could not think of an appropriately polite denial, and while she was pondering on how she could cheer him, he bowed and turned about to go. His grave polite manner, so different from the wild little boy Elizabeth had tended, put her off, but his apparent dejection challenged her to continue.

“Owen,” she said suddenly, “I haven't a thing to do this morning. My cousin is off with Lord Beverly again and I doubt Cousin Richard is in need of my company. And as your mama and the Earl are off for a jaunt, why don't we two put our heads together and try to come up with something to do?”

Owen turned and looked at her steadily. “What do you suggest?” he asked.

“A walk,” she said desperately. “How about a stroll through the gardens together? We can look at the flowers, and see if we can find any birds' nests. My Cousin Anthony used to be mad keen on birds' nests when he was a boy.”

They had walked on down the garden path for a long while before Elizabeth received more than a simple syllable's reply to her chattering. For, “No,” Owen had agreed, he had never seen such a profusion of blooms, and, “Yes,” he nodded, lilacs were beautiful flowers, and, “Yes,” that had been a pretty bird, but, “No,” he had no idea of what it was either. But when she asked whether he would prefer to sit down on one of the many stone benches or whether he would rather walk on toward the woods where there doubtless were dozens of birds' nests to be seen, he had sighed and said quietly, “I should rather sit a while, Cousin Elizabeth, for I do tire easily.”