Amanda Scott (14 page)

When he had gone to his own bedchamber, leaving her wide awake and oddly frustrated to be alone in her bed, Anne lighted her candle again and fetched her portfolio.

Dear James,

I don’t yet understand the art of being married. I had expected a sort of partnership, particularly since Lord Michael clearly wanted a mother for his brother’s children and—I thought—a mistress for Upminster Priory. But none of that appears to be the case. Instead, he treats me more like another child than a partner. He does not consult me even about the children, or support my authority in the house. Indeed, today he scolded me in front of both family and servants, which even Papa never did. Perhaps things will change when Sylvia arrives. I certainly hope they do.

She wrote for some time longer, describing her adventure in the balloon and Michael’s reaction to their return, and then fell asleep at last, dreaming that she floated on clouds and could control their direction, and her own, as well.

His admirably discreet footman awaited him with three of the younger girls from which to choose his pleasure. One looked him boldly in the eye, one looked straight ahead, and the third, the smallest, stood trembling, her gaze flitting anxiously from him to the carpet and back. He wondered if little Anne might someday tremble in a like fashion. She had already tried her wings more than once apparently, but without support for her efforts, she would no doubt quickly learn her place.

He gestured toward the trembler, and the footman, smirking now, pushed her forward. No doubt the lad expected to enjoy the chit afterward. Perhaps he would, at that.

“Take off your clothes,” he murmured.

“Oh, please, sir, spare me,” she cried, falling to her knees. “I oughtn’t to be here. I’m a good girl, I am.”

“I will be the judge of how good you are,” he murmured in the gentle, purring tone he affected at such times, a tone he knew well could turn a girl’s blood to ice. Nodding at the footman, he said, “Strip her. I would know if her body is like to entertain me before we send these others away.”

L
ADY SYLVIA ST. LEDGERS
returned shortly after noon the following Wednesday in the company of her aunt, Lady Harlow, a plump matronly dame some eight years Lord Michael’s senior. Since Lady Harlow traveled with an entourage consisting of her postillions, the coachman who drove her second carriage, two footmen clinging to the back of her chaise, several outriders, and her personal dresser, their arrival caused quite a stir.

Even Andrew had run downstairs by the time Lady Harlow, entering the house with both footmen and her dresser in attendance, had finished greeting Bagshaw, Mrs. Burdekin, and several other old friends. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, and in all the bustle, Anne, emerging from the stair hall just behind Andrew, almost missed seeing the small golden-haired child walking silently in her ladyship’s wake, nearly concealed by her bulk.

Lord Michael came through the front door just then, and moved to receive his sister’s embrace. Encountering Anne’s gaze over her shoulder, he said, “Charlotte, I must present you to my wife. Anne, I do not believe you have met my sister.”

“No, indeed, I have not,” Anne said, moving gracefully forward. “How do you do, ma’am. It is a great pleasure to meet you. I do hope you can stay with us for a few days.”

“Well, it is kind of you to invite me,” Charlotte said bluffly, “but I don’t mean to do so. Harlow don’t know how to go on without me, and the children begin to fret if I am absent for long. Nor would I impose myself on a newly married couple, for I am not so rag-mannered as that, say what anyone will. I shall stay only the night and be off again in the morning. But mercy me,” she exclaimed, looking around distractedly, “where is Sylvia? Oh, there you are, child. What on earth are you doing clinging to my back-skirts where I cannot even see you? Come here at once and make your best curtsy to your new aunt.”

Obediently the little girl stepped forward and bobbed a curtsy, watching Anne through wide and solemn gray eyes.

“I am glad to meet you at last, Sylvia,” Anne said, smiling at her. “I trust your journey was a pleasant one.”

A silence fell, during which Michael exchanged a glance with Lady Harlow. She shook her head.

Abruptly Andrew said, “Such journeys are generally tedious, in my experience. How did you leave my cousins, Aunt Charlotte?”

“All perfectly stout,” she replied, her eyes twinkling. “How
very
kind of you to remember to inquire about them.”

“Now that I am head of the family, it is my duty to remember such things,” the boy replied, his dignity unabashed.

“So it is,” she said. “A most promising beginning, too. No doubt your sense of duty will soon grow to match your uncle’s.”

“I doubt that,” Andrew said with a grimace. “Uncle Michael takes his duties much too seriously.”

“Well, if he does, it must be for the first time in his life,” she retorted, turning with a teasing grin to her brother. “I daresay your new responsibilities have turned you from a scapegrace into a consummate pattern card by now, my dear Michael.”

His grimace was nearly as expressive as Andrew’s, but he said only, “I would like to talk privately with you, Charlotte.”

“To be sure,” she said, “but I shall want a few moments to tidy myself first. If someone has had the foresight to take a ewer and basin to my bedchamber, I can be with you again in a trice.”

Bagshaw said, “That has all been seen to, my lady.”

“I’m sure it has. Will you come with me, Sylvia dear?”

Without waiting for the child’s reply, Michael said, “Ask one of the maidservants to look after Lady Sylvia, Bagshaw. She may dine with us later, if she likes, but she ought to go up to her own room now to rest and make herself tidy.”

Anne said quickly, “Ask Frannie to look after her, Bagshaw. I think the two of them will get on famously.”

“Begging your pardon, my lady,” the butler said deferentially, “but Frances is still considered too young for such an important charge, and in any event her ladyship is accustomed to being served by Nurse Moffat, who has looked after her from the cradle.”

“Is Moffat here at the house then?” Michael asked.

“Yes, my lord. I took the liberty of sending for her as soon as we knew when her ladyship would return.”

“Excellent,” Michael said, turning to the little girl. “Run up to Moffat then, Sylvie. She can order you a bite to eat if you are hungry now, and you may dine with us later if you like.”

The child nodded, turned, and ran up the steps. Watching her go, Anne realized that she had not uttered one word since her arrival, and realized at the same moment that no one had seemed to expect her to do so. Seeing Lady Harlow about to go upstairs, she said quickly, “I will accompany you, ma’am, if you don’t mind.”

“Mercy me, no. Glad of your company.” Leading the way to a charming bedchamber that she said had been her own as a girl, Lady Harlow instantly dismissed her dresser and the maidservant who was assisting that haughty dame, and said bluntly, “We shan’t want either of them standing about with their ears aflap, for I know you must be bursting with questions.” Untying her bonnet strings, she pulled off the bonnet to reveal a mass of bright red curls; and when Anne stared, she chuckled, casting the bonnet onto the bed and saying, “The color is real, my dear, and you needn’t state the obvious. I am the only one ever in the history of the St. Ledgers family to have red hair. Fortunately, I inherited my mother’s face, so no one is unkind enough to declare me a complete changeling—not to my face at all events.”

“But it’s beautiful,” Anne exclaimed. “What a pity neither Sylvia nor Andrew inherited that lovely color.”

Lady Harlow laughed. “Not at all, for it would surely have created the deuce of a scandal if Andrew had got it. But then, Agnes was not at all like my mama. I doubt she ever dared to play Edmund false, not even after she’d presented him with his heir.”

“Good gracious, ma’am, you cannot mean—”

“Of course I do. I don’t blink at facts, my dear, and I never got this hair from a St. Ledgers, or from dearest Mama’s family either, bless them. I’ve a strong suspicion where I did come by it—but ’tis only suspicion, and I’ve never said, nor never will. It is my belief that Mama enjoyed a small affair after Edmund was born, to pay Papa back for his many indiscretions, and I don’t blame her in the least if she did. Papa, you see, like Edmund after him, sowed his seed wherever the soil was fertile, so to speak. But for Mama to do likewise was exceedingly courageous, because the St. Ledgers temper—as you may already have discovered for yourself—is quite formidable. Enough about me, however. I simply must use the pot in yonder closet and soon we must hurry back downstairs, for Michael is no more patient than any other St. Ledgers male. Still, I know you are dying to ask about poor Sylvia, for I could tell by the way everyone acted downstairs that no one had yet had the good sense to warn you about her.”

“She does not speak, does she?”

“Not a word. But be a dear and hang this cloak of mine somewhere and excavate my comb from my reticule whilst I attend to more pressing business. I’ll return straightaway to tell you the whole, or as much of it as I know, at all events.”

She was as good as her word, and while she washed her hands and face, and tidied her hair, she explained. “Sylvia is not backward, I promise you. In fact, she began talking earlier than most children do, and was a regular chatterbox, because Agnes doted on her and encouraged her when anyone else would have banished her to the nursery whenever she chattered too much. But both those children were badly spoilt—Andrew because dukes of Upminster traditionally have been raised to believe themselves grander than God, and Sylvie because she was such an amusing little moppet.”

“Then why does she no longer speak?”

“Haven’t a notion, but she hasn’t said a word since her mother died.” Lady Harlow paused, then added tactfully, “I don’t know how much you know about Agnes’s death.”

“I know she is believed by many to have killed herself,” Anne said. “Lady Hermione told me as much; however, she also told me that the local parson accepted the death as an accident.”

“Is Hermie here in Derbyshire? That almost makes me wish I had not promised Harlow I’d turn straight about and hurry home. I quite adore Hermie. You must present my compliments to her and tell her how sorry I am to have missed a chance to visit with her.”

“I will, and gladly,” Anne said. “Was it an accident, ma’am?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Charlotte said flatly. “Parson Dailey agreed to that only to soothe Edmund’s pride and allow him to bury her in hallowed ground. I don’t know what really happened, of course, for I was not here.” Her tone made it clear that had she been there she would quickly have got to the bottom of things.

“Lady Hermione said the duchess left no note of explanation.”

“Perfectly true. I do think Sylvia knows something, and said as much to Edmund at the time, but he disagreed, since he was the one who’d discovered Agnes’s body and told both children. But if she knows nothing more than what he saw fit to tell her, I can’t think why she has not spoken. She’s not a melodramatic child, you see, so this unnatural silence simply don’t match her character.”

“How am I to deal with her, ma’am? I’ve no experience at all with such behavior.”

“I just treated her the same as my own. She’s such a gentle little thing that mine all looked after her, and as you saw when that arrogant snip Andrew jumped into the breach a bit ago, even he feels protective toward her.”

“I suggested to Lord Michael that he hire a governess for her, but I can see now that it would not answer.”

“The right sort of woman might do very well,” Lady Harlow said. “I shall write to the headmistress of my daughters’ school if you like, and put the problem to her. She might know someone suitable. You can do the same—that is, if you went to a school.”

“I didn’t,” Anne said. “My sisters and I shared a governess—a very good woman—but she died several years ago. I’d be very grateful for your help, ma’am.”

“That’s settled then,” Lady Harlow said, getting to her feet. “Michael will be pacing the floor by now, you know, so perhaps I ought to go down, but I hope you will write to me if you want any advice, my dear. You must realize by now that there is no need to couch your wishes in honeyed words where I am concerned. I am a plain-spoken woman and I appreciate plain speaking in others.”

Anne expressed her gratitude, wishing with one portion of her mind that Lady Harlow did not live quite so far away, and being extremely grateful in another portion that she did. Leaving her ladyship to enjoy a comfortable prose with Lord Michael, she sent for Elbert to accompany her into the garden, where she passed a productive hour with Quigley, discussing the few improvements he had already set in motion.

She did not see her guest again until it was time to join the others for dinner. That meal passed uneventfully, but Anne noted that Michael, Lord Ashby, and Andrew each seemed to keep one eye on Sylvia. Even the servants seemed protective of her. The child’s behavior seemed perfectly natural and unaffected, however. It was almost, Anne thought, as if Sylvia were unaware that she was in any way unusual. She was sent upstairs when the ladies left the table, and Andrew followed soon afterward. The adults spent the evening playing whist, a favorite game of Lady Harlow’s, and retired at an early hour.

The following morning the family took breakfast together, and afterward the others escorted Lady Harlow to her coach, where her servants were already waiting. She hugged everyone in turn, pausing last to say to Anne, “I am glad to have met you, my dear. Never thought Michael would show such good sense in selecting his bride, but you are nothing like the females he was used to dangle after, for which I’m exceedingly grateful. But have a care,” she added with a teasing look at her brother. “Though he is not so demanding or so arrogant as Edmund was, take my advice and do not let him constantly take the upper hand. All St. Ledgers men have a bullying streak in them. One simply learns not to bow before it.”