Unforgiving Temper (25 page)

* * * *

Looking in the mirror with a critical eye,
Elizabeth made one final adjustment to the rose-colored lace
trimming the sleeves of her gown and tucked an errant curl back
into the weave of the matching ribbon. Deciding she had done all
she could to look presentable, she made her way downstairs. The
dinner bell would ring shortly, but there was time enough for the
brief detour she had in mind. Since Lord Grissholm's
revelation at the pond several days ago, she could not stop
thinking about the watercolors and the woman who painted them.

Her pale pink slippers made no sound on the
carpet as she crossed the sitting room and stared at the brilliant
washes of color hanging in precise formation. There were six
paintings in all, each capturing a still-life of Everton's beauty
as seen through the eyes of a hauntingly enigmatic woman.
Lord Grissholm's reluctant explanation of the paintings'
origin had only served to increase Elizabeth's curiosity. A closer
examination of her favorite piece, the wild violets, revealed the
initials “CM” woven into the curl of leaves and stems.

Elizabeth stood for some minutes lost in
speculation as to what kind of woman “CM” had been when footsteps
in the hallway alerted her to the approach of someone. The steady,
measured steps told her it was Lord Grissholm. Quickly
Elizabeth crossed the room and was nearly to the door when it
opened abruptly. Once again, she caught a fleeting glimpse of his
deep sadness before the mask of indifference descended.

“Lord Grissholm, I was just leaving,”
she murmured.

“Miss Bennet! Please stay. I should like
to speak to you.”

Taken aback by the surprisingly gentle tone
of his request – for it was definitely a request rather than an
order – she followed him back into the room. When he motioned for
her to sit in the chair she had already surmised to be his
favorite, her wonder grew. He paced in front of the paintings
seemingly unaware of the effect his behavior was having on her.
Every minute that passed in silence heightened her curiosity until
she thought she would burst. It was obvious he was deciding what he
wanted to say and took several turns before he finally came to a
stop in front of her.

“The woman who painted these pictures was
Catherine Monroe. Rebecca is her sister.”

Elizabeth was stunned. “I do not understand.
Rebecca's name is Ballard.”

“When she became my ward, she was given her
mother's maiden name.”

“May I ask how she came to be your ward?”

“There was a fire when Rebecca was seven.
Three houses were destroyed, including that of her family. She was
the only survivor.”

“But why change her name?”

“That I will not go into,” he replied grimly.
“Suffice it to say that it was necessary. I had a particular
interest in Rebecca's elder sister who was ten years her senior.
Miss Monroe visited Everton one summer and that is when the
paintings were made.”

“I see. And the fire?”

“It occurred later that same year. Miss
Monroe was away from home at the time. Her parents died in the
inferno but the neighbors managed to save Rebecca. There were no
relations to take her in; so I offered, thinking that I would
reunite her with her sister, only to find several months later that
Miss Monroe had fallen ill and died as well. By that time, it was
too late to do anything with Rebecca but keep her.”

“Miss Ballard is very fortunate to have
you.”

“It was a foolish thing to do. A single man
has no business raising a female. It has been difficult, I assure
you; especially since she has grown to look so much like her
sister. She is a painful reminder of what I have lost.”

“She does not deserve to be shunned for
bearing her sister's likeness. She cannot help what she is.”

“You have been very adept at pointing that
out, Miss Bennet. I am endeavoring to correct my past
mistakes. I hope that you will continue to be a friend to her as I
come to terms with the circumstance and move to make amends.”

“I shall do my best, your lordship.”

“Good. Shall we go to dinner now?”

Elizabeth took the offered arm and
accompanied him to the dining room where Rebecca was already
waiting. The surprised look on the girl's face did nothing to
alleviate the swirl of emotions Elizabeth felt. Taking her seat,
she struggled to understand Lord Grissholm's candid revelation
and surprising amiability. It did not seem possible that this was
the same arrogant, pretentious man she had encountered when first
coming to Everton Manor two months ago.

Placing the
ribbon to mark her place in Hegel's
Aesthetics: Lectures on the
Fine Arts
, Elizabeth stretched her shoulders and neck, trying
to ease the stiffness from an hour's worth of attentive reading. A
casual glance through the open door to Everton's main hallway gave
way to a more interested gaze as she watched Newcomb,
Lord Grissholm's butler, examine the stack of letters waiting
to be posted. Seeming to find one of particular interest, he
removed it and returned the remaining letters to the silver tray.
With amazement, she realized the one he had retained was the very
letter she had deposited in the tray earlier that morning.

Elizabeth's astonishment grew as she watched
the butler turn and walk away, taking the letter with him. She was
incredulous. What was he doing? Jumping to her feet, she muttered a
hasty excuse in Rebecca's direction and hurried out the door,
intent on discovering what Newcomb was about.

Is THIS why I have had no letters from
home? And to think I blamed Father's lamentable procrastination for
the scarcity when all the while it has been MY letters that have
not been received! He must be worried sick by now.
Her
astonishment warmed to indignation.
Why has Mr. Newcomb been
helping himself to my letters? What could he possibly want with
them?

She saw her quarry disappearing down a
corridor and quickly followed, rehearsing the scathing speech she
meant to deliver once she caught up to him. Rounding the corner,
she was stopped in her tracks by the astounding sight of Newcomb
entering Lord Grissholm's study. She was still trying to
comprehend the meaning of it all when the butler re-emerged moments
later, empty-handed, and departed in the opposite direction.

Indignation exploded into passionate anger
and a devastating sense of betrayal as she stared at the door
shielding the viscount from her fury. So this was the reason for
his cordiality and improved manners! Elizabeth felt the heat rise
in her cheeks. His attempt to distract her from the fact that he
was confiscating her letters had failed miserably and she would
tell him so! With deliberate steps, she crossed the hallway and
heralded her presence with a forceful knock.

“Come,” Grissholm's commanding voice sounded
from inside the room.

Elizabeth entered the room and stood
trembling with outrage. “I should like to speak with your Lordship,
if I may.”

More than a little surprised,
Lord Grissholm rose from his seat behind the desk and waved
his hand in the direction of the mahogany armchair that sat facing
him.

“Of course, Miss Bennet, please have a
seat.”

“I thank you, no. This will not take long,”
she said icily. “I only came to say that I find your behavior
highly offensive and very ungentlemanly. That you would presume to
– ”

“Sit down, madam,” he asserted in a tone
quite easily more commanding than her own.

Elizabeth dropped into the plush cushion of
the armchair, silenced by his stern expression. Silenced, but not
intimidated. She met his steady gaze with fierce indignation as he
slowly resumed his own seat.

“Before you vilify my character completely,
please be so good as to explain the reason for this outburst.”

“Your lordship knows the reason very well! It
sits right there before you.” Elizabeth pointed to her letter
accusingly. “And to think I believed you to be an honorable
man!”

“Your letter? How could
your
letter be
the measure of
my
honor?”

“A gentleman of honor would respect a lady's
privilege to correspondence and not intercept her letters. Instead
of being posted, I see that my letters find their way to your
desk!”

Grissholm lips curled mockingly. “Yes,
Miss Bennet. It is my
ungentlemanly
custom to frank a
letter before it is posted. Perhaps you feel it is a privilege for
the recipient to be graced with your letter and therefore require
them
to pay the postage?”

“Of course not, but that is beside the point.
I – ” her words caught in her throat as he offered up her letter
for examination. “I beg your pardon.”

“Indeed.”

“It is just that I have sent letters home
nearly every week since my arrival. I have been at Everton above
two months now and have not received a single reply. When I saw Mr.
Newcomb bring my letter in here – well, I naturally assumed...”

“Do not lay the blame at my door. Every
letter you have written has been posted, madam. Your family's
dilatory response is not my concern. But if I had to offer an
opinion, I would say that it is quite possible your parents are
happy they have one less daughter to worry about and are too
occupied with so many still at home to send a reply.”

The coldness of his words hit Elizabeth with
as much force as if he had reached across the desk and struck her.
She looked away, desperately trying to prevent the sudden fullness
in her eyes from spilling over. Embarrassed by the insolence of her
accusation and the tears threatening to betray her, she quickly
rose, continuing to avoid the piercing gaze that would have
unraveled her completely.

“I am so very sorry, Lord Grissholm. I
had thought…I just…I beg your pardon,” she stuttered awkwardly.
“Please excuse me; I have something I must do.” Without waiting to
hear his response, she turned and fled the room.

Mortified at the thought of encountering
anyone in her current state, she instinctively ran to the closest
place that would afford any privacy. Struggling to contain the
devastation that threatened to burst her lungs, she reached the
small sitting room and quickly slipped inside, collapsing against
the door as it closed.

The weeks of worry at not receiving any
letters from her family, the frustration of not knowing the reason
for the silence, and the humiliation of her deplorable outburst in
Lord Grissholm's study all came crashing down on her. A great
sob escaped as she sank to the floor.

She wept waves of tears that went from misery
to mortification to desolation; and when there were no more tears,
she huddled in mute misery heaving great sighs that racked her
entire body. At length the sighs subsided as well, leaving her
utterly exhausted and alone. Yet even in her shattered state,
tortured thoughts of failure continued to assault her.

“What have I done?” she whispered in agony.
“Oh, why can I not hold my temper? Wretched, wretched creature! He
shall send me packing, and everything will be ruined. I have
destroyed Lydia's reputation, and Jane's hopes along with it!”

* * * *

Lord Grissholm sat staring at the door
Elizabeth had just exited in a frantic rush of green and yellow
muslin. Forcing himself to remain seated, he realized with a
growing consternation that he wanted to follow her. He wanted to
ease the tears he had seen pooling in her deep brown eyes; tears
that by now had surely found their way down cheeks flushed a soft
crimson by his harsh words. He knew he should not have spoken so
callously. She was obviously at her wits' end with worry about her
family and her situation; but her maddening way of challenging him
had once again provoked his anger.

For one brief moment, he thought of sending
his own dispatch to Hertfordshire demanding an explanation for her
family's neglect. Something that would bring relief to Elizabeth's
restless worry. But it could not be done yet. It was too soon. He
needed more time with her. A letter from her family could very well
end his own plans, and he would not allow that. He had the
opportunity to exact his revenge on Fitzwilliam Darcy, and he was
going to take it, no matter what the cost.
Elizabeth Bennet is a
means of repaying Darcy and that is all
, he thought bitterly.
She is no different from any other woman. In the end, they are
all the same!

He closed his eyes and a vision of Catherine
Monroe came unbidden to his mind. He should have pushed it away,
but it was not possible. His carefully-crafted, impenetrable
barrier that had protected him for so long was now gone. Slowly,
with great care, he examined the feelings that had been buried deep
in his heart for nearly ten years; feelings that Elizabeth had
unconsciously exhumed.

He had loved Catherine. She had been charming
and witty and spirited – everything that Rebecca was not. Much like
Elizabeth Bennet, she had challenged him, teased him, forced him to
see himself as others did. She had encouraged him to be accountable
to his position in life, even though he had yet to assume his role
as master of Everton. In short, she had made him want to be a
better man. And then Darcy had come along and destroyed it all!

Grissholm shot from his chair and paced the
room madly, seeking to escape the painful memories; but he could
not. Instead, he was inexorably drawn to the small,
elegantly-carved chest that lay hidden behind a stack of books.

He placed it on the desk and retrieved a
small key from its silver case in the depths of a side drawer. A
faint click broke the silence of the room as he unlocked the chest.
It was some minutes before he took a deep, fortifying breath, then
slowly raised the lid. Knowing what the box contained was not
sufficient preparation for the rush of melancholy that wrenched an
involuntary sigh from him.