Amanda Scott (43 page)

The decision made, she fixed her attention on her companion; and, finding him more willing than ever before to cast aside his arrogance and talk like a sensible person, she was able to direct his thoughts and conversation in such a way that the pair of them reached the Priory in perfect charity with each other. This signal success made her feel confident to tackle Michael at once, but when Andrew turned the bays over to one of his grooms, the man informed them that Lord Michael had not yet returned.

“That is to say, ma’am, he did return from Castleton nearly two hours ago, but then he rode off again in a hurry and didn’t say whither he were bound,” the man said. “Said not to fret if he were late. Said he didn’t rightly know when he’d be home, but likely with yonder storm a-brewin’ as it has been most of the afternoon, he’ll get hisself back here a bit sooner nor what he thought. Like as not, m’lady,” he added in a comforting tone, “he’ll be home afore ye finished yer dinner, ma’am.”

“Thank you,” Anne said, exchanging a look with Andrew as they turned away and began to walk across the stable yard toward the house. Though she was glad that Michael was not waiting in high dudgeon for their return, having girded herself for battle, so to speak, she found it unnerving that her opponent had not yet stepped into the arena. She could only hope now that he would return before her courage failed her altogether.

“Do you think he rode after us?” Andrew asked.

“No, because surely we would have met him on the road if he had. He must have had other business to attend to.”

Andrew was silent until they entered the house, but then he said casually, “I’ll just go up to Sylvia, ma’am, to tell her we’ve got back safely, and I daresay I’ll dine in the schoolroom with her, too, to keep her company.”

“Oh, no you don’t, you rascal. I know what is in your mind, but I tell you, it won’t answer. You may go up to reassure her, certainly, and to make your greetings to her new governess, but then you come straight back here to bear me company.”

He drew himself up and said stiffly, “I am not crying off, I promise you, for I mean to make a clean breast of it just as I said I would, and at the earliest opportunity. I just thought you would prefer to be private with him if he gets home in time to join you in the dining room.”

“Well, I don’t want to be private with him the minute he walks in, or to be left alone with my thoughts in the meantime, and so you may put that notion straight out of your head. In point of fact, if you are indeed going up to inform Sylvia of our return, I wish you will ask her and Miss Johnson to join us for dinner. I don’t know if Sylvia fears thunderstorms or not, but if she does, the more company she has around her, the better, for although this one has been kind enough to hold off longer than I daresay anyone expected it to, it is bound to begin any time. I’ve heard thunder grumbling behind us all the way from Hathersage.”

“I, too,” Andrew said. “Once I even thought I was hearing the rattle of coach wheels, and glanced back to see if it was Uncle Michael bearing down on us from behind.”

Anne chuckled and admitted that she had done the same thing, more than once. “But do go and ask Sylvia if she would like to join us for dinner.”

“Well, I would,” he said, “but you know, I believe she and her governess will already have eaten, for it is nearly seven o’clock, and Sylvia generally has her supper at five.”

“Good gracious,” Anne said, looking at the clock in the hall and seeing that it supported Andrew’s statement, “I had no idea it was so late. I hope Bagshaw and Mrs. Burdekin did not assume we were dining elsewhere and put all the food away already.”

“Oh, no, for before you married Uncle Michael, he was often out and about late on estate business, and Great-Uncle Ashby would get involved with his aeronautics or inventing some gadget or other, so they would both be late to dinner. More than once, I had finished eating before they ever entered the dining room, but that never disconcerted the servants in the least.”

“You know, Andrew, the more I think about it, the more I believe you ought to be at school. You would never dine alone there, I believe.”

“Well, I’d like to go, and that’s a fact, but dukes of Upminster are always educated at home. It’s traditional.”

“Well, traditions can be broken. Do go up and speak to Sylvia, and I will tell Mrs. Burdekin we want to dine at once.”

As Andrew turned toward the stair hall, Bagshaw appeared in the doorway, and for a split second, Anne’s pulse leapt, for she thought he was Michael. But the instant was over in a flash. The butler, as stately as ever, looked down his nose at them in what Anne thought must be disapproval. Andrew said, “I hope you told them to put dinner back, Bagshaw. There will just be the two of us, unless Uncle Michael joins us, because Great-Uncle Ashby’s been detained and will likely not return until tomorrow. Have them serve enough for an army though, will you? My stomach is dashed well knocking against my backbone.”

“Certainly, Your Grace. The kitchen was warned to expect a belated arrival. When would it suit you to dine, sir?”

Andrew looked at Anne, who said, “We’ll not wait for Lord Michael, Bagshaw, but tell them to keep some food warm for him, if you please. His Grace and I will dine in twenty minutes.”

“Very good, your ladyship.”

Since there was no need for her to speak with Mrs. Burdekin now, Anne went upstairs with Andrew, who murmured mischievously, “I have just now realized why you desired Sylvia to dine with us, ma’am, and I must tell you, I think the notion a brilliant one. We must think how to contrive it, even if she has already eaten. My uncle will shout at neither one of us when she is present.”

Anne grinned at him. “Don’t be so cocksure of that, young man. I own, I had some such notion in mind, but by now your sister will be in bed or at least preparing to retire, and in any case, we’d only be postponing an inevitable confrontation. We both have some uncomfortable moments ahead of us, I believe.”

“I know.” But for once he did not seem concerned, and a moment later he turned again and said with boyish cheerfulness, “Do you know, I like it when you call me
young man
and
my dear
like you do. I don’t believe anyone else ever has done so. Uncle Michael calls me
sir
when he is particularly vexed, you know. Quite puts a fellow off the word altogether.”

Anne chuckled and impulsively reached out to give his arm an affectionate squeeze. “We’ll brush through this, my dear, just you see if we don’t.”

When he had gone to find Sylvia, she found herself wishing she really had as much courage as she had pretended to have. That Michael would disapprove of her careering about the country with Lord Ashby was as certain as that he would be determined to punish Andrew. And how she might deflect his anger with either of them long enough to say anything of consequence, she did not know. Somehow though, she had to confront him about the
Folly
and show him the duchess’s letter. All in all, she thought as Maisie helped her tidy herself for dinner, the sooner the whole business was over, the better it would be for all of them.

In the dining room, she and Andrew talked of commonplace matters while Bagshaw and Elbert waited on them in near silence. Michael still had not returned by the time they finished their dinner and retired to the library together, and after the third time Andrew asked Anne when she thought he would be home, she sent him upstairs, deciding that she could deal better with her own apprehensions if he were not constantly reminding her of his.

“Will you promise to send for me when he gets here?” the boy demanded. “I want this over and done, ma’am.”

“I know you do, my dear. So do I, but I will make you no promise that I cannot be sure to keep. Since I don’t know when he will arrive or what mood he will be in, I cannot promise to send for you. You would probably do better now, in any event, to speak with him tomorrow, after you both have had some rest.”

“Very well, but I do wish he would come.”

It was still light outside, but the sky was darkening, and not long after she had settled herself in one of the big wing chairs with a book in hand, and two branches of candles on a side table to light its pages, Bagshaw entered in his usual dignified way, drew the curtains, and said quietly, “Would your ladyship care for a glass of wine or some other refreshment?”

“Not wine,” she said, “but some lemonade would be pleasant, thank you. The roads were extremely dusty.”

“At once, your ladyship.”

His return was as silent as usual, and since she wanted to give at least the appearance of one engrossed in her book, she barely looked up to thank him. She thought it odd that he served her himself instead of sending Elbert or another servant, but the lemonade was welcome, albeit a little sweeter than she liked. She sipped it as she read, but refreshing as the drink was, she realized before long that the day had been extremely tiring.

Finding it hard to concentrate, even to keep her eyes open, she closed the book, snuffed the candles she had lit, and went wearily upstairs. The exercise, plus the necessity to converse with Maisie without revealing her tension, revived her a little. When she was ready for bed, and Maisie had gone, Anne took out her journal and began a fresh page. In her weariness and the hope of occupying her mind so as not to think too much of the interview to come, she did not even notice that she did not begin her writing in the manner she had employed for so many years.

Saturday, June 14

Dear Michael,

What a day this has been! I cannot begin to put it all into words, for to do so would take much too long, and I can scarcely think. There are so many things I want to write that I don’t know where to begin, and at the moment, nothing makes much sense.

I suppose I am sorry for what I’ve done if it makes you angry, for I don’t like you to be angry. I can sympathize with poor Andrew, even when you have cause to be incensed with him, because my knees are quaking right now when I think of what I want to say to you, and how you will react if I do. Indeed, sir, my good sense tells me to run far away as fast as ever I—

The pen slipped from her fingers, and, Unable to keep her eyes open a moment longer, she slumped over the escritoire, lowered her head to her arms, and slept, undisturbed even by the loud crashes of thunder that accompanied the breaking storm.

They entered a short time later. “Keep watch for her woman,” he said in an undertone to the man who stayed near the door. To the footman he said, “Take care; we don’t want to waken her. Time enough for that when I’m ready to teach her who is master.” Watching him lift Anne into his arms, he said grimly, “She is damnably interfering and sure of herself, but that state of affairs can soon be rectified, I believe. Do you recall what you are to say if you encounter anyone?”

“Aye, sir, that she’s a maid what were overcome by illness, and we’re taking her to her family to look after. And we’re to say it in such a high-handed manner that none’ll dare question us more, so if you’d just be so good as to fetch me a blanket from yonder bedchamber,
your lordship
—Won’t do to let anyone see that fine flaxen hair of hers, will it? Recognize it in a flash, they would, and then your plan would surely come to grief.”

“That won’t happen, so you just watch your cheek, my lad.” But his tone was idle, not threatening, for he was gazing down at what Anne had written. A long moment later, when he turned toward the bedchamber to get the requested blanket, he murmured in a satisfied, purring tone, “It is quite plain now to the meanest intelligence that I am meant to win this battle.”

A
T FIRST ANNE’S DREAM
delighted her. She rode with Michael through a shady woodland, one she did not remember ever riding through before, where sunlight filtered through the trees, and a stream babbled, tumbling over polished stones. The water was so clear they could count the stones beneath its surface everywhere except where swift currents churned up a lacy white froth. They chatted, laughed, planned, and then Michael vanished.

Raindrops touched her cheeks, her eyelids. A chilly breeze wrapped icy tentacles around her. Thunder crashed, and lightning outlined the trees with a flashing, fiery glare. Her body bumped along, awkwardly now, and except for the vivid flashes of lightning, inky blackness swallowed her. Her eyelids stuck shut. She could not open them no matter how hard she tried.

In the manner of dreams, the atmosphere changed abruptly. She heard voices, laughter, men and women, the tinkling music of a pianoforte, and the higher-pitched, plucked strings of a harp. Outbursts of laughter punctuated the gay and lively music. All these sounds floated to her ears from a distance at first, then grew nearer and became mixed with smells of food, heavy perfume, and more fundamental human odors. The sounds and smells diminished again, though they were still nearer than when she had first heard them. Sounds of the storm faded, too, and the chill. She felt substantially warmer.

Someone carried her. In her dream Michael had returned and was carrying her upstairs to her bedchamber. He was not angry in the least, and the room felt cozy and warm. A fire crackled on the hearth. She could still hear distant strains of piano and harp, as if Michael had hidden musicians downstairs in the library, or outside in the garden. He laid her on the bed, but it felt oddly hard and the counterpane was scratchy against her cheek. Silence fell again, and darkness.

Someone shook her. She stirred, and the dream vanished. The music and laughter still echoed oddly, however, lingering even when she blinked. Her eyelids felt heavy, too heavy, and sticky as well. She blinked again. She was not in her bed. She was not even in her own bedchamber. She was lying on a hard, stiff-backed sofa.

Two branches of candles and a crackling fire lighted the room in which she found herself, revealing that whoever had decorated the room favored the color red above all others. Not only did a dark red Turkey carpet with gold, dark blue, and green in its elaborate pattern cover the floor but deep wine-red velvet curtains, tied back with golden tassels, adorned the one window she could see from where she lay. Even the sofa upon which she reclined, two nearby chairs, and the footstool in front of the nearer one were all upholstered in a red Turkish tapestry nearly as garish to behold as the carpet.