A Lady in Name (29 page)

‘What reading?’ asked Dion, finding her voice at last.

‘That Stefan cannot possibly marry a female who has no name to call her own,’ Lucy said brutally.

Mrs Ankerville entered the lists, her tone as matter of fact as if she were discussing the weather.
‘At least one of you has a sense of what is due to your position, Stefanus.’

‘But do you want to marry him, Lucy?’

Lucy looked at Dion, withholding herself from meeting Stefan’s gaze. ‘What I want has nothing to do with the case.’

‘Oh, well evaded, Lucy
.’

‘Do be quiet, Stefan
,’ said Dion crossly. Her eyes returned to Lucy. ‘I can think of nothing I should like more than to have you for my sister, but—’

‘And you shall!’

‘—but,’ reiterated Dion, turning her shoulder on her brother, ‘I can imagine just how horrid it will be. For you, Lucy, as much as anyone else.’

‘It is out of the question,’ stated Mrs Ankerville.
She added kindly, ‘Not that I do not echo Dionisia, my dear child, because I think you perfectly well suited and I like you. But tradition will not bow to one’s wishes. You must not fret about it, you know, for our ancestors had frequently to abandon their true loves for—’

‘Oh, Mama, pray don’t start quoting medieval love poems
,’ begged Dion. ‘Gracious, can you never think of anything but your abominable Middle Ages? This is real.’

‘Abominable?’
Outraged, Mrs Ankerville rose to her feet. ‘I will not stay to listen to insults!’

Before she could flounce from the room, Stefan intervened.
‘Mama, I beg you will remain for but a moment longer.’

His mother glared down the table.
‘For what, may I ask? For my daughter to pour scorn upon my life’s work? For my son to declare himself a lunatic? I thank you, Stefanus, I prefer to retire to browse among my books.’

But Stefan was up and moving to intercept her.
‘I am not done yet, Corisande. Please sit down.’

Mrs Ankerville looked so taken aback at being addressed by her given name
that she did as he asked. Stefan returned to his seat, and Lucy waited, in some trepidation, for what he might say next.

‘I am taking Lucy to the Dower House.’

‘What, to stay with Great-Aunt Dorothea?’ Dion looked at Lucy with pity. ‘She is ancient and quite dotty, you must know. And she will drive you demented.’

‘Why?’ asked Mrs Ankerville, ignoring this intervention.
‘Why is Lucy to go there?’

‘Because she wishes to remove from here, and I prefer her to be out of the house while Paulina is in it and Sarclet liable to bounce in at any moment.’

Dion considered this, her head on one side. ‘There is that.’

Lucy cut in swiftly.
‘Stefan has not told you all. It was to his great-aunt he intended to send me as a solution to my embarrassing presence here. I am to work for her and receive a wage.’ She looked at Stefan. ‘Was that not what you said?’

He smiled at her in a way which made her heart sink hopelessly into a pool inside her chest.
‘That night, yes. But all is now changed. I will not have you made uncomfortable, and I grant you there are shoals ahead, but we are going to be married, come what may.’

He rose on the words and headed for the door, turning there to glance at each of them in turn.

‘I will be closeted with Barnsley for a space. Dion, I wish you will help Lucy to pack, for I mean to leave immediately after luncheon. Now, you may scheme and plan to your heart’s content in my absence, but mark this. My mind is made up.’

With which parting shot, he left the breakfast parlour.
Lucy looked from Dion’s dumbfounded face to Mrs Ankerville’s raised brows. An idiotic desire to giggle came over her. How in the world had she come to fall hopelessly in love with an autocrat?

* * *

The Dower House was a matter of ten miles to the south of Pennington Manor. It stood in its own pleasant grounds, a yellow and decorative building after the fashion popular in the time of Queen Anne.

‘My great-grandfather built it,’ Stefan told her, ‘but both his wife and my grandmother predeceased their spouses, so it has always been occupied by maiden aunts.
I believe my Uncle Beves considered Great-Aunt Dorothea in the light of a surrogate mother. My father claimed to be terrified of her, and pretended to deplore the fact that her welfare must devolve upon me.’

Lucy felt it incumbent upon her to cultivate an interest in her prospective employer.
Especially if she meant, as she did, to withstand Stefan’s persuasions.

‘Is she very aged?’

‘She must be nearing her eightieth year. She was the eldest of her siblings and seems like to live forever.’

The curricle bowled up to the entrance portico and came to a stop.
Cobbold ran to the horses’ heads, and Lucy was soon being handed down. Stefan’s grip upon her hand was stronger than necessary, and he put an arm quickly about her shoulders to steady her as she landed, giving her a quick hug as he did so.

Lucy tried not to be glad of these telltale attentions, but could not gainsay the warmth they engendered inside her.

Aside from this, Stefan had behaved towards her as if there had been no impassioned words between them last night. Lucy could only admire his sangfroid, recalling how she had been rendered acutely temperamental with him after she had discovered her own feelings. She was not sure she liked the return to a semblance of normality, but it undoubtedly made it easier to suppress her desolation.

Lady Dorothea Ankerville was found in an upstairs parlour
, gently slumbering. Stefan prevented the footman from announcing them, preferring to let his great-aunt wake in a natural way, which gave Lucy an opportunity to examine her new surroundings.

The parlour was not nearly as large as the favoured Red Saloon at Pennington Manor, but it was so full of nick-nacks set upon a variety of whatnots and little tables all about the room
that it appeared a good deal smaller. An elderly dame occupied a massive deep chair, fully upholstered with a high back and wide arms. She looked relatively unlined in sleep for a creature of so great an age. Lucy wondered at the elaborate detail of her old-fashioned gown, and the lappets to her cap that fell about her cheeks.

‘She is not very large, is she?’
Lucy whispered to Stefan, who had seated himself a little to one side of her in the two chairs set opposite Lady Dorothea.

‘She is not tall, I agree, but you may consider her a trifle stout when she stands up.’

It was hard to tell, for the full skirts of her low-waisted gown were bunched up either side of her.

All at once, the old lady took a snorting breath which woke her up.
Her head jerked, and she blinked owlishly as she noticed the occupied chairs.

‘What?
What? Who is that?’

‘It is Stefan, Aunt Dorothea.’

She sat up, setting a hand to one ear. ‘Who? Who?’

Stefan rose and made his bow.
‘Pennington, ma’am.’

She peered short-sightedly, groping at her waist.
Bringing up a gold-rimmed eyeglass on a stick, she held it to one eye.

‘Ah, Pennington, it is you
. I thought as much. Have you come to stay, boy?’

Stefan raised his voice a notch.
‘No, Aunt. I have come to bring you a companion—temporarily.’

The eyeglass swivelled, following Stefan’s arm as he gestured towards Lucy.
Feeling compelled, she stood up and dropped a curtsy.

‘How do you do, ma’am?’

‘Eh? Who is that, Pennington?’

Stefan threw a comical glance at Lucy, throwing up his eyes.
‘It is Miss Lucy Graydene, Aunt.’

The eyeglass continued to stare, light glancing off it as the old lady turned it this way and that.
‘Is she an Ankerville?’

Stefan hesitated.
Lucy held her breath. If she was exposed, would this odd elderly female turn her out?

‘Of a sort.’

The eyeglass was directed at him again, and Lucy breathed more easily.

‘What d’ye mean, boy?
Either she’s an Ankerville or she ain’t.’

Stefan cast an apologetic look at Lucy.
‘She is an Ankerville.’

Lady Dorothea dropped the eyeglass, nodding.
‘That’s right. I won’t have strangers about me. You’ll do, girl. Only don’t fidget me. They always fidget me.’

Lucy had to smile.
‘I will do my best not to fidget you, ma’am.’

‘Good girl.
Now then, where’s that chump of a footman? Has he thought to fetch up the decanter?’ She looked from Stefan to Lucy and tapped the arm of her chair. ‘Unless you prefer tea, whatever your name is. Can’t be expected to remember names at my time of life. Forever befouling their insides with tea, these modern young girls.’

‘Lucy will be perfectly contented with ratafia, ma’am,’ Stefan said reassuringly.

‘Well, she won’t get any here. Ratafia? Can’t abide the stuff. Won’t have it in the house.’

‘I expect it is port,’ Stefan said in an aside to Lucy.

‘What’s that? Speak up, man. My ears ain’t what they used to be.’

‘I was surmising you were having port, Aunt,’ he said loudly.

‘Only decent drink,’ stated Lady Dorothea in the tone of one who would brook no argument. ‘Unless it’s a good French claret. But you can’t get anything drinkable from the Continent since those wretches took to murdering anyone with a title to his name.’

The Revolution in
France had long since been quelled, giving place to the new republic, but it was plain to Lucy that Lady Dorothea thought of it as happening yesterday.

There being no immediate sign of the footman, Stefan was chivvied into ringing the bell and did so just as the man arrived with a full tray.

‘Where in the world have you been, fellow?’ barked his mistress. ‘Could have journeyed to China and back in the time it takes you to fetch a couple of glasses and a decanter.’

It was evident from the footman’s placid response
that he was inured to this sort of thing. ‘There’s a plate of biscuits, your ladyship, along with the port.’

‘Yes, yes, very well.
Set it down and be off with you.’

The footman glanced towards Lucy as he set down the tray upon a nearby table, which looked to be the only one with a relatively clear surface.
‘And lemonade for the lady, should she prefer it.’

Lady Dorothea wafted an impatient hand.
‘Take it away, do. She’s an Ankerville. She’ll drink port with the rest of us.’

Reluctant to be drinking alcohol at this hour, Lucy was glad to notice the footman ignore this request.
In a bid to avoid the old lady noticing, Lucy stood up and moved to the table.

‘May I give you a glass, ma’am?’

‘You may, and don’t be stingy. I’ll take a biscuit too.’

In the business of supplying her wants, and handing a glass to Stefan, Lucy was able to manage lemonade for herself without drawing Lady Dorothea’s attention.

‘Well done,’ murmured Stefan, with a swift and intimate smile as she returned to her chair.

Lucy felt the warmth in her cheeks, and fervently hoped her hostess’s failing sight would permit it to go unnoticed.
As it chanced, Lady Dorothea’s attention was concentrated upon the biscuit she was nibbling.

‘Currants?
I think they have put currants in. Can you taste currants?’

Neither she nor Stefan had partaken of the biscuits, but it was plain to Lucy any answer was better than none.
‘I believe there are currants in them, ma’am.’

‘Not enough sugar,’ stated her ladyship, crunching with evident enjoyment.
‘They never put enough sugar in.’

Lucy was nearly betrayed into a giggle.
She could not forbear a glance at Stefan, whose infinitesimally raised eyebrow spoke volumes. Lucy could well imagine there must be those who found this creature terrifying. The moment the biscuit had been devoured, Lucy’s attention was reclaimed.

‘What did you say your name was?’

‘Lucy, ma’am.’

Lady Dorothea lifted her eyeglass and through it surveyed Lucy.
‘How peculiar.’

‘The name, Aunt?’ asked Stefan.
‘It is short for Lucinda.’

Her ladyship’s eye, magnified by the glass, continued to bear upon Lucy.
‘My memory is not what it was. I thought Beves had named you Paulina.’

Lucy gasped and her hand jerked, dribbling lemonade upon her gown.
She set down the glass quickly, swabbing the stain with her hand.

‘Clumsy
,’ commented her ladyship, tutting a little. ‘Hope you’re not one of these girls forever spilling things.’

To Lucy’s relief, Stefan cut in curtly.
‘She is nothing of the sort. And you have it wrong, Aunt. Paulina is at this moment ensconced at Pennington with her newborn infant.’