When You're Desired (27 page)

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Authors: Tamara Lejeune

BOOK: When You're Desired
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He laughed.
“I don't care so much what people think of
me
,” she added quickly. “But I should hate for your servants to think that
you
have gone shameless! That sort of thing will earn you a visit from the vicar. Did you ever hear of the country gentleman who kept a mistress? Reproved by the parson of the parish, and styled a whoremonger, he asked the parson whether he had a cheese in his house, and being answered yes, says to him, ‘Pray, does that make you a cheesemonger?'”
She laughed, but Dorian did not. “I wish you would not make such jokes, my dear.”
Celia sighed. “I'm sorry. I shall try to be more ladylike, for your sake, Dorian.”
“Thank you. I shan't wait for the vicar to pay me a visit. I shall go to him presently. I wonder, did he know then that he was presiding over an empty grave?”
“If it
is
empty,” said Celia, shivering.
As they rode along in silence, a herd of red deer suddenly careened across the lawn, startling the horses. The driver was obliged to stop. “Good heavens!” cried Celia, thrusting her head out the window to look. “Where did they come from?”
“I've enclosed the park and hired a first-rate gamekeeper,” he told her proudly. “The population is coming along quite nicely, I think.”
“Yes,” she agreed. “Splendid!”
“At Christmas, I hold a penny lottery, and one lucky family is awarded a month's supply of venison.”
Celia laughed. “Ah, the country life!”
“They are very glad to get it,” he said indignantly, “and the money goes to the church.”
“Admit it,” she said. “You're not a true aristocrat! In your heart, you're nothing but a country booby squire! In fact, I think you'd be perfectly happy living in the gatehouse lodge with the Ruddles. You certainly looked comfortable sitting at the kitchen table.”
“So did you,” he retorted. “Miss Sarah.”
“A deer park!” she remarked as the herd disappeared and the chaise resumed its course up the long drive. “What other improvements have you made? I must say, I rather enjoyed the privy at the lodge. Mrs. Ruddle is very proud of it, and with good reason.”
“I believe she is proud of it,” said Dorian. “I've put three in at the main house. One for the servants. One for my guests. And one for family. Other than that, the house is pretty much the same.”
As he spoke, the vehicle moved past a screen of trees and the house came into view, a baroque masterpiece in yellow stone. With the early morning sun sitting upon its gables and turrets, it gleamed like gold. Celia caught her breath.
“I've dreamed of this moment,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “I never thought it would come to pass. This is home. I've never really felt that I belonged anywhere else.”
He smiled. “That's because you do belong here, Sally.”
By now the servants had been alerted of the duke's return, and Hotchkiss himself, the dignified if rather antiquated butler, came out to greet his master. If Hotchkiss was at all surprised to see His Grace emerge from the yellow cab of a hackney chaise, he did not show it.
“Welcome home, Your Grace.”
Dorian escorted Celia into the house, the butler following. Inside, Celia broke from Dorian and danced around the black-and-white marble floor of the vast entrance hall. “It's just as I remembered!” she cried, gazing up at the white marble statues set in the niches on both sides of the room. “Except . . .”
She came to a stop, her brow furrowed with concern. “Why is Apollo wearing a fig leaf?”
“That was my mother's idea,” Dorian confessed sheepishly. “She hired a plasterer without telling me. I was at a shooting party in Scotland, and when I returned, I was presented with a fait accompli
.
”
“In my experience, fig leaves do not make for comfortable garments,” she said, laughing. “I once posed for an artist, dressed as Eve. The next day, I woke up with the most
embarrassing
rash—and so did poor Adam. You might say that we also were presented with a fait accompli.”
“Sally!” Dorian admonished her, quite scandalized.
Celia clapped her hand over her mouth. “Sorry, Your Grace,” she whispered contritely.
Hotchkiss cleared his throat gently.
“Hotchkiss, this is Miss St. Lys,” Dorian told him.
“Hello, Hotchkiss,” said Celia, presenting herself for inspection.
The butler hardly glanced at her. He was annoyed, though not with her, and certainly not with his master. Rather, he was annoyed with the boy Peter, who had brought the news from the gatehouse of the duke's return, but had made no mention of His Grace's female companion. “Welcome to Ashlands, Miss St. Lys,” he said, offering her a slight bow. “I trust you will find everything here to your satisfaction.”
“Oh dear,” said Celia, disappointed. “He talks at me as if I were a person of great importance! Do you not know me, Hotchkiss?”
He blinked at her. “I beg your pardon, miss?” he murmured.
“It is I, Hotchkiss! Sarah Hartley! I have come home! His Grace has brought me home. Are you not glad to see me?”
The old man stared, his creased face turning pale. “Miss Sarah? Is it really you?”
“Well, I am not a ghost,” she replied.
“As you can see, Hotchkiss, Miss Sarah is not dead, after all,” Dorian said sternly. “But then, you knew that already, didn't you?”
“Your G-grace,” the butler stammered. “Forgive me! I—I do not understand.”
“Nor do I,” said Dorian. “Shall we discuss it in the drawing room?”
The drawing room was cold, the fire unlit, the curtains drawn. The furniture had been covered in brown holland cloth while the family was away. Even the chandeliers were wrapped in cloth. Celia went at once to the windows and opened the curtains.
“Well, Hotchkiss?” said Dorian, standing with his hands clasped behind his back. “I believe you owe me an explanation. You've known all along that Sally—that Miss Sarah—is not dead. But you kept it to yourself all these years. You deceived me. Why?”
“Deceived you, Your Grace! Was it not what you wanted, Your Grace?” Hotchkiss asked plaintively. “Was it not Your Grace's wish that Miss Sarah leave this house and never be mentioned again?”
“What?” Dorian exclaimed. “Who told you that?”
“Her Grace the dowager.”
It was the answer Dorian had expected. Still, anger flared in his eyes. “She told you that, and you believed her. That is what you think of me? That is what you have—what you all have thought of me all this time.”
Hotchkiss hung his head. “I did wonder at it, Your Grace, but the dowager duchess said—It is not for me to doubt her word.”
“Please don't be angry with Hotchkiss, Your Grace,” Celia said quietly. She had placed herself in the window seat, and looked small with the large window behind her. “It's the same thing your mother told me, more or less. She told me you wanted me gone, and . . . like Hotchkiss, I believed her. I begged her to tell me how I had offended you, but she would not say.”
“Good God! How could you have offended anyone? You were but a child.”
“I did break one of the Chinese vases,” she reminded him.
“Oh, Sally! Nobody cared about that.”
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” said Hotchkiss. “But I believe it may have had something to do with your late father's will.”
Dorian frowned. “What are you saying, Hotchkiss? My father left Sally no legacy that I am aware of. His will was frightfully out-of-date, as a matter of fact. When it was read out, we found he had left money to people who had been dead as much as ten years.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” said Hotchkiss. “The day before His Grace, your father, died, a Mr. Crutchley from the village was summoned to the house. He was with your father for nearly an hour. Her Grace—your mother—was very angry about it, I remember. The very next day, your father passed away in his sleep.”
“What of it? Who is this Crutchley person? I never heard of him.”
“No, Your Grace. He is an attorney in the village of Ashland Heath,” Hotchkiss replied. “He lives there still.”
Dorian frowned. “Are you saying that my father changed his will before he died? Impossible. Such an event could not have been kept a secret.”
“I cannot be certain, Your Grace,” said Hotchkiss. “But I believe he did change it—or at least, he wanted to.”
“Surely,” said Celia, “the estate was entailed upon his eldest son.”
“The bulk of it was entailed, to be sure,” said Dorian. “But my father did have
some
personal property, to dispose of as he pleased. He left you a few pounds, Hotchkiss, did he not?”
“His Grace was most generous,” said Hotchkiss. “I believe he was thinking of Miss Sarah when he sent for Mr. Crutchley.”
“Of me?” said Celia, surprised.
“You think my father altered his will in Sarah's favor?”
Hotchkiss hesitated. “Perhaps it is not my place to say, Your Grace.”
“Spit it out, man,” Dorian said impatiently. “Tell me what you know. Let us have no more secrets in this house.”
“The day your father died, I happened to see Her Grace in the drawing—in this very room. She was burning something in the fireplace. It looked . . . important.”
“Important?” Dorian said sharply. “Such as a new will, perhaps? Speak up, Hotchkiss!”
“I do not accuse Her Grace of anything,” Hotchkiss said quickly. “Only, it did seem odd that she should be burning something on that day, and just a few minutes after Mr. Crutchley had left the house. A few months later, when Your Grace was at Bath, Miss Sarah was packed up and sent away. The dowager duchess told us it was your wish, and that we were to say she had died. I always wondered if the two things might be connected. We never knew what became of Miss Sarah, but she was missed. You were very much missed, Miss Sarah,” he went on, lifting his eyes to look at Celia. “You were the light of this house. We all loved you.”
“Thank you, Hotchkiss.”
“I think,” said Dorian, “that I must pay this Crutchley fellow a call. Will you be all right here, Sally? On your own, I mean?”
“Of course I shall be all right,” said Celia. “I won't be on my own. The servants will look after me.”
“We'll take very good care of her, Your Grace,” said Hotchkiss.
“Really?” the duke said coldly. “You didn't do such a good job of it before! You are very fortunate that Miss Sarah has asked me to be merciful. Otherwise, you would be dismissed from my service.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Hotchkiss murmured.
“Don't just stand there,” Dorian snapped. “Miss Sarah is tired from her journey. Find a maid to look after her.”
“Yes, certainly, Your Grace.”
Celia rose from her seat. “No need to show me the way, Hotchkiss,” she said. “I'm sure I can remember. If I get lost, I'll ring for help.”
 
 
She did not see Dorian again until late that evening, when he returned from the village. Having spent the day going over the house, room by room, she had dined from a tray in the music room and afterward had fallen asleep on the huge, comfortable sofa. Someone had covered her with a soft quilt as she lay sleeping. Dorian woke her gently.
“How have they been treating you?”
“Like a princess,” she answered, smiling as she sat up. “Cook made me my favorite tea, and Mrs. Stampley has let me have the Rose Room. My old room was very well for a girl of fourteen, but it's nothing to the Rose Room. I hope that is all right?”
“Of course,” he said. “How did you end up here? I never come in this room anymore.”
“I was just wandering about. I came across the piano, and thought I might just try playing something. How I used to practice! There was that piece, do you remember? Eight sharps in a row! I used to do it beautifully. But I've gotten so lazy in my old age. Oh, you do look exhausted!” she exclaimed, catching sight of his face. “Do sit down! Shall I ring for some tea?”
“No, thank you.” He rang the bell himself and when Hotchkiss appeared, asked for brandy.
“I suppose your day was not as pleasant as mine,” Celia said softly. “I am sorry.”
“It wasn't all bad,” he told her, forcing a smile. “I can say with absolute certainty that there is no unfortunate gypsy child in your grave. In fact, there's no one at all in your grave.”
“The coffin was empty! Oh, I'm so glad.”

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