A Reason to Rebel (9 page)

As they slowly traversed the lawn he wondered how she would react if he gave way to the capricious whim that was bubbling away inside him. Whatever would she say if he swept her into his arms and carried her back to the house?

Chapter Six

Estelle went down to dinner that evening, in spite of Lady Crawley’s conviction that the exertion would set back her recovery. She wore a cream muslin gown, an old favourite. Her clothing was a little too grand for her supposed situation as a displaced governess but there was no help for that. All her gowns were of the finest quality since they dated back to the days before her union with Mr. Travis. Her father was parsimonious when it came to his domestic arrangements but dressed his daughters in the finest garments his money could procure. He exploited their physical attributes in an effort to establish himself as a man to be reckoned with, looked up to and respected.

Estelle regretted that she had not paid much heed to Susanna’s management of her packing. She should have anticipated that Susanna, with her flair for the flamboyant, would not focus on the practicalities of her situation. Upon arrival at Crawley Hall she discovered that only the very finest, brightest coloured of her gowns had been placed in her portmanteau. They were no longer fashionable since no money had been spared for additions to her wardrobe once she had been married, but they were also far from unremarkable.

Fortuitously their inappropriateness did not appear to register with Lady Crawley, who greeted her arrival in the small sitting room with warmth. She exclaimed over and over how delighted she was to see her looking so much better.

“The benefits of fresh country air to the recuperating invalid cannot be over-emphasized,” she said, as though she had encouraged her to venture out of doors instead of being seized by dread at the very prospect.

“Indeed, ma’am, I feel a vast deal better.”

Lord Crawley stood as she entered the room and examined her lazily from beneath heavily lidded eyes. His scrutiny commenced at the hem of her gown and drifted slowly upwards, lingering here and there, until his gaze came to rest upon her face. From his exacting perusal she suspected the discrepancy in her attire did not escape his notice and that he wished her to be aware of the fact. But he did not put his thoughts into words.

“I rejoice to see you looking recovered, Miss Tilling.” He spoke in a laconic drawl as his eyes continued to appraise her person.

She suddenly felt very warm but bore his examination with every appearance of equanimity. Not so much as a flicker of an eyelid betrayed her appreciation for his robust masculinity and the peculiar effect it was having upon her. He was dressed all in black, his broad shoulders emphasising the superb cut of his coat. He escorted her to a chair by the fire. She seated herself and took longer than necessary arranging her skirts, using the time to regain her composure. Only then did she deem it safe to thank him. But she had miscalculated. He was still looming over her like a predatory animal, smoothly formidable, smiling as though he perfectly understood her difficulty. Her eyes collided directly with muscular thighs showcased to perfection by his tight-fitting inexpressibles. She licked at her lips, which seemed inexplicably dry, and averted her gaze.

“Be sure that you do not overtax your strength this evening, Miss Tilling.”

“Thank you, sir. I shall endeavour not to do so.”

During a very fine dinner Lady Crawley chattered in her usual disjointed manner about people and places unknown to Estelle. Lord Crawley was adept at keeping his mother’s rambling discourse on track without making it apparent that he was doing so. At times Estelle was conscious of such closeness between them she felt she was intruding.

But Lady Crawley demonstrated remarkable sensitivity and drew her into their conversation by frequently requesting her opinion. If ever a lady deserved to have a whole brood of children to fuss over, it was she. She was a natural, so at variance with Estelle’s own cold, selfishly inept mother that she had not, until that moment, realized that such warmth and intuitiveness could exist between two generations of the same family. She felt a sadness for all she and her siblings had missed during their austere childhood in that show house in Hampshire that had never been a real home.

Upon learning that Estelle played the harp, Lady Crawley’s face turned pink with pleasure at the prospect of hearing her.

“How I wish my hands still permitted me to play.” She glanced down at her fingers, swollen and disjointed from the pain of arthritis.

“I should warn you that I have not played for some months, ma’am. I would not wish to excite your expectations only to disappoint.”

“Nonsense, child, something tells me you will excel. You are in possession of a great sensibility, and I wager that you intuitively feel the music inside you as your fingers bring it to life. I was once the same. Is that not so, Alex?”

“Most assuredly.”

“It is the mark of a true musician, Miss Tilling. To be able to express the passion which the music engenders in one, I mean.”

“You are obviously knowledgeable critics. I feel a little fearful about performing in front of you.”

“Surely your profession has given you ample opportunity to overcome any such feelings of self-effacement, Miss Tilling?” said Lord Crawley, his tone mildly hectoring. “You must be accustomed to displaying in front of your charges, I should have thought.”

“Indeed, but one cannot alter the way one feels inside, my lord.”

“That is where you are quite wrong.”

“Come, come, my dear, do not allow Alex to bandy words with you, not when I am most anxious to hear you play.”

Lord Crawley did not stay at the table when the ladies quit it and offered an arm to each of them as they made their way towards the drawing room. It was Estelle’s first foray into the vast chamber and she felt a little intimidated by its splendour. When she espied the magnificent harp situated in the corner she could not prevent an exclamation of pleasure from escaping her lips.

“Another gift from my husband,” said Lady Crawley, following the direction of Estelle’s gaze.

“It is quite the most extraordinary instrument it has ever been my good fortune to encounter.” Estelle ran her hand reverently over the beautifully carved and gilded harp, her nerves driven away by the urgent desire to test it out.

“Please, Miss Tilling.” Lord Crawley nodded to the stool at the side of the instrument, as though sensing her impatience.

“Very well, my lord, but pray to not expect anything out of the ordinary.”

Estelle seated herself and ran her fingers tentatively over the strings. She trusted that the hours of practice she had put in over the years would compensate for her recent neglect. There was no harp in Mr. Travis’s house. Her father had recognized her fledgling talent when she was quite young and spared no expense on instructors. He had made her practice for hours to perfect her performance in order that she might play for his artistic circle of friends and show him up in a good light. No one else played the magnificent harp in the salon in her father’s house but he would not hear of her taking it to Hertfordshire. There had been no one useful to him to hear her play it there.

Estelle settled her skirts comfortably about her and tuned the instrument to her satisfaction. Forgetting about her aristocratic audience, she moistened her lips and anticipated the pleasure she would derive from indulging her passion. She launched into one of Mr. Parry’s popular pieces, playing from memory. A smile spread across her face as the haunting melody washed through her. The therapeutic benefits of making such lovely music transported her to a place beyond the cruel realities of her world, a place where no one could reach her with their unreasonable demands.

At the end of the piece she looked up to see tears in Lady Crawley’s eyes and an expression of deep appreciation on the face of her son. He applauded her efforts, praising her skill. Having regained control of herself, the viscountess also voiced her appreciation.

“You must forgive a foolish old woman, Miss Tilling.” She dabbed at her eyes. “But that particular piece… I was accustomed to play it all the time at my husband’s request. How singular that you should have chosen it.”

“I am sorry, ma’am, it was not my intention to overset you.”

“You did no such thing. My only regret is that I never could execute it as well as you.”

“You are too kind.” Estelle shook herself. “Now, what else would you like to hear?”

She noticed Lord Crawley’s eyes frequently upon her as the evening progressed. Even when she quit her position at the instrument to sit beside his mother and drink her tea, he continued to scrutinize her. Had she done something to incur his displeasure? She hoped that was not the case and met his gaze, an expression of polite enquiry in her eye. But his responding smile lent few clues as to the thoughts occupying his mind.

The next afternoon she sat at the instrument again. Lady Crawley was making calls and Estelle was at leisure to amuse herself. She launched into an ambitious piece she had been trying to master just before her marriage, not having had an opportunity to return to it since. Lost in her own world, it took her a moment to realize that a visitor had called. She heard Phelps show the caller into the adjoining parlour and inform him he would enquire whether Lord Crawley was at home.

Lord Crawley soon joined the mysterious stranger there, asking what business brought him to Crawley Hall. As the visitor responded, his voice full of impatience and displaying scant deference for Lord Crawley’s elevated social position, Estelle let out a gasp of sheer despair. Her fingers hit several false notes, froze with indecision and died on the strings. She would recognize that voice anywhere.

The man with Lord Crawley was her father.

–—

Alex strode towards the morning room. He was annoyed to be disturbed by someone he did not know demanding rather than requesting an audience with the master of Crawley Hall. He would not, as a rule, entertain such a request from a Joseph Winthrop of Hampshire, according to the card he had given to Phelps, since the man was not prepared to state his business. But he had been so insistent, his strident tones reaching Alex’s ears even in the depths of his study. Alex would not wish for such a persistent person to call when his mother was here alone, oversetting her with his bullish ways. Better to see what the man wanted and send him on his way.

As Alex entered the room, his visitor was staring at the closed doors to the drawing room. The man was dressed expensively in the very latest fashion, but his well-cut coat did little to disguise his portliness. He had an unremarkable, fleshy and heavily whiskered face. His forehead was creased with a frown and his fingers drummed with impatience against a side table.

“I am Crawley,” said Alex. “What is the nature of your business?”

“Joseph Winthrop. I apologize for the intrusion and will not detain you long. I have come to collect my daughter.” He extended his hand but Alex ignored it.

Alex was aware of the abrupt cessation of the harp music and was sorry for it. Its lilting melody had been filling the house this past hour. He regretted that this man, whom he instinctively mistrusted, had interrupted Miss Tilling’s performance.

“Your daughter.” Alex did not need to feign surprise. “I do not understand you. To the best of my knowledge, no daughter of yours resides beneath this roof.”

Winthrop’s face flushed with anger. “Let us not waste one another’s time by bandying words, sir. I believe in plain speaking. Estelle is here, I know it, sent by that interfering minx who calls herself a friend for I know not what purpose—”

“What the devil are you talking about, man?”

“About Estelle. I cannot begin to imagine what she and that interfering Mrs. Cleethorpe hope to achieve by it, other than to vex me. But then that is an occupation Mrs. Cleethorpe excels at. No, I can only assume that Estelle’s mind has been affected by her grief, leaving her susceptible to the persuasion of others.”

Winthrop’s pugnacious attitude only emphasized his shocking want of manners, and the two factors combined to persuade Alex that he was not the gentleman he purported to be.

“I still fail to understand what you are talking about.” It usually took a lot to rile Alex. But this man had no trouble invoking his temper. He was not prepared to be addressed with such discourtesy in his own house—or anywhere else for that matter—and strove to take control of the situation. He walked towards the man, conscious that he was a good head taller and at least twenty years younger than his unwelcome visitor. “Why are you disturbing me with such riddles? Since you believe in speaking plainly, kindly do so. Explain yourself before I have you thrown out.”