Barbara Metzger (21 page)

She held up the basket and pulled out a roll. “I . . . I wanted it for the pig.”

Elsbeth giggled until a glare from St. Cloud had her scurrying away. He jerked his head to be rid of Niles, too. But Uncle Harmon stayed, spluttering about harum-scarum chits and animals who should be in the stable or—with a dark look at Pansy—on the table. The look he gave Juneclaire was no better. “Milk-maids,” he huffed, pulling his nightcap back down around his ears and stomping off to the other wing.

St. Cloud clenched his jaw and said he had to check on his grandmother. He would see Miss Beaumont in the morning. He tightened the sash on his paisley robe and bowed.

Juneclaire didn’t doubt he was wishing the sash was around her neck. She fled to her own room and threw herself on the bed. Uncle George was gone, naturally. No one would believe her anyway, and now she had lost Merry’s esteem.

His family hated her. They thought her a gapeseed, an unmannered bumpkin born in a cabbage patch. And they were right. She
had
been a milkmaid, just that one time for Little Yerby, true, but she was no fine lady like Sydelle and Elsbeth. She couldn’t play or sing or flirt or fill a gown so well. Her friends were farmers and servants and barnyard animals, not lords and ladies and London luminaries.

And Merry was disappointed. She could see it in his angry face. He did not need another hysterical female in his household, or one who caused more ruckus and row than all the others combined—and on her first night there! Juneclaire sobbed into her pillow; the cat and the pig were already damp with her tears. She did not belong here, she thought, and she would have to leave before she disgraced Merry further. There was no way he could learn to love a milkmaid, and there was no way she could make a proper countess. You couldn’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.

T
he food was gone in the morning. Juneclairehad put it on the desk, out of Pansy’s reach, and the maids had not been in yet to light the fire, so Uncle George must have come back. Juneclaire wished he’d woken her up for a chat, for if he thought being dead was hard, he should try being Miss Beaumont. She was not
really
Merry’s fiancée, she no longer had duties as the dowager’s companion, and everyone, snooty relatives and well-trained servants, was treating her with polite condescension. They hated her. There was a hideous sculpture of some martyr being devoured by a lion in the niche where Galileo used to be. Lady Fanny most likely directed the maids to find the ugliest piece in the house, in hopes Juneclaire would relieve them of it next.

Breakfast was a disaster. Juneclaire and Aunt Florrie were the only women there. That court card Niles made oinking noises at her, while eating rasher after rasher of bacon. Lord Harmon barely concealed his disgust behind the newspapers, and Mr. Hilloughby kept his eyes firmly on his kippers. Merry pretended nothing had happened.

With his black curls damp from combing and his cravat loosely tied, Merry looked so handsome, Juneclaire had a hard time swallowing her toast past the lump in her throat. His brows seemed permanently puckered and his lips never turned up, but he was courteous, caring—and cold. He was too busy to show her around this morning, he apologized, what with the New Year’s Eve ball just tomorrow night, and no, thank you, he said, there was nothing she could do to help; she was a guest. The weather was too inclement, at any rate, for her to accompany him on his rounds. He had arranged for Mr. Hilloughby to show her the chapel this morning and for Aunt Florrie to take Juneclaire to the attics to pick a costume in the afternoon. This was from the man who wanted her to spend time getting to know him, to see if they would suit. He had obviously decided.

Juneclaire was set to ask the dowager for a carriage ride back to Stanton Hall as soon as Lady St. Cloud awoke. That way Merry could have no worries about her safety, no embarrassing responsibilities toward her. Before she left, though, she was curious about one thing: “My lord, what happened to Uncle George?”

Niles dropped his coffee cup, and Mr. Hilloughby took a coughing fit. The footmen’s eyes were all on the carved ceiling. Juneclaire barely registered all this. She was pinned in St. Cloud’s stare like a mounted butterfly. She’d never seen him so angry, not even last night, when he walked barefoot over Galileo’s remains, not even when Charlie Parrett had him in a death grip. Still, she would not look away. Let him think she was an unschooled hobbledehoyden. Let him think there was a breeze in her cockloft. He would
not
think she was a coward, unless he heard her knees knocking together.

He finally broke the silence by pronouncing, “We do not speak of George Jordan in this house,” in the same tones he might have used to intone the eleventh commandment.

Then Aunt Florrie chirped, “We don’t mention making water either.”

 

Juneclaire would not stoop to questioning the servants, who were so in dread of the master’s temper that they’d take the turnspit dog’s place sooner than go against his wishes. She could not chance upsetting the dowager or Lady Fanny with her queries, and she was not about to ask Mr. Hilloughby, not after St. Cloud’s edict.

She did, however, manage to check the family Bible in the old chapel, after dutifully admiring the age and architecture of the place. The stained-glass windows did not glow, not on such a dreary day outside, and the stone floors kept the sanctuary bitterly cold. Worse, Mr. Hilloughby was a historical scholar. While he described the life and last days of the original St. Jerome of the Clouds in excruciating detail, Juneclaire read through generations of Jordans. Uncle George was crossed out.

 

The dowager refused to hear of Juneclaire’s leaving.

“That’s a shabby return for my taking you on, girl, leaving me alone with the hyenas. No, I won’t hear of it.” She stabbed her cane halfway through the Turkish runner in her sitting room. “You will be happy here, and that’s final.”

The earl had inherited more than a title and wealth, it seemed.

 

Juneclaire was surprised at how well Florrie knew her way around the vast attics. She understood the earl’s aunt was frequently lost in the Priory’s warren of corridors, chambers, and alcoves. Aunt Florrie knew just what she wanted for Juneclaire, too, and knew right where it was, give or take a trunk or three or four. The St. Clouds must never have thrown anything out.

“Here, this will be perfect for you, dearie,” Aunt Florrie said, holding up a wide-skirted shepherdess dress, complete with apron, crooked staff, and stuffed, fleece-covered lamb. “It’s the best of all the costumes.”

Juneclaire’s heart was not in preparing for a masquerade. It was downstairs, brooding. She didn’t care what she wore. She didn’t care if she attended, even if she’d never been to a real ball in her life, much less a masked one. Aunt Marta would convert to Hindi before she let such wickedness occur under her roof. Nonetheless, the outfit seemed to mean a great deal to the older woman, so Juneclaire said, “Perhaps you should be the shepherdess, Aunt Florrie, and I could be something else.” She looked around. “Queen Elizabeth, maybe, or Anne Boleyn.” She felt like Anne Boleyn, after all.

“Oh, no, you have to be the shepherdess. It will be wonderful. You’ll see.” She was cutting apart the stuffed lamb with embroidery scissors from her pocket. “Besides, I am going to be Yellow. Last year I was Rain, but Harmon became angry when the floors got wet.”

 

The dowager decided to have dinner on a tray in her room. Juneclaire suspected the old lady was feigning weariness for her sake, so she did not have to face the company again, but she leaped at the excuse.

“It’s no such thing, missy. I saw them Christmas and last night, and I’ll have to do the pretty for the ball tomorrow. That’s three times in one week, and with that bunch of counter jumpers, three times a year is enough. Of course, you’re free to go down if you want.”

“Oh, no, I promised to teach you to knit cables, and you promised to teach me vingt-et-un. And Lord St. Cloud sent up Miss Austen’s new novel and Scott’s ballads. I need to try on my costume for tomorrow and—”

“Cut line, girl. I’m glad for the company.”

The dowager approved the theme of Juneclaire’s costume. “Innocent and sweet, in case there’s any talk. But pretty and feminine, too, if I remember correctly. Just the ticket. My costume? I’m going as a crotchety old lady, what else? No one’ll recognize me, and that’s only fair, for I sure as Harry won’t recognize them!”

 

Juneclaire kept back all the uneaten food from dinner and asked for more to be sent up, for the pig. She let Parker help her into her night rail and brush out her long hair, and then she dismissed the maid for the night. She got into bed with a Gothic tale from the Minerva Press and waited for Uncle George.

The heroine was locked in a deserted tower. The steps were crumbly, the candle was low, small things chittered nearby. Everywhere she turned, spiderwebs stuck in her hair. Drafts blew through the cracked windows, and the door . . . slowly . . . creaked . . . open.

And there was Uncle George, stepping out of Juneclaire’s wardrobe. Tonight he wore doublet and hose.

While he was eating, she told him her troubles. “They all think I’m a clodpoll, except for Merry. He thinks I’m a nightmare. The dowager won’t let me go, and the rest of them will make fun of me if I stay. Tomorrow night at the ball they’ll have all their friends to laugh and sneer at poor St. Cloud’s goat girl. Elsbeth and Lady Pomeroy will be gorgeous, and I’ll forget the dance steps. I’ve only practiced with my cousins, you know.”

George waved a chicken leg. “Your problem, puss, is lack of confidence. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it.”

“You? How can you take care of it when you don’t even exist?”

He sighed, feeding Pansy the cooked carrots. “Never could abide cooked carrots. Do you think a ghost cares what it eats? As a matter of fact, why would a ghost eat at all? I thought we’d settled that last night.”

“Yes, but they won’t talk about you, and they’ve struck your name out of the records. If you’re not dead, why don’t you just come back?”

“I promised I’d explain, but it’s hard. You see, if I’m not dead, then I’m a murderer.”

“A murderer?” she shrieked, louder than she intended, and suddenly there was a pounding at her door.

“Juneclaire, are you all right? Open the door.”

St. Cloud would kick it open if he had to, she knew. She looked helplessly toward Uncle George, who shrugged and picked up another chicken leg. She unlocked the door and opened it a crack. “I am fine, my lord.”

He was glaring at her again. “I thought I heard voices.” He thought he’d heard a man’s voice. He tried to look past her into the room.

She did not think this was a good time to mention Uncle George again. “I was, ah, reading.”

“Out loud?”

“I was practicing, you know, for when I read to the dowager.”

“And you are all right? Not frightened by those silly stories of the Priory ghosts?”

“Oh, no. Not at all. Are you?”

He snorted. “Hardly. I’ll just be going, then. Good night, Miss Beaumont.”

“Good night, Lord St. Cloud.”

 

Juneclaire was almost as unhappy as the night before, until she started to hear screams and screeches from the far corridor, where the Wilmotts were installed. She tied on her robe and found her slippers and ran with St. Cloud and some of the servants to the east wing. Niles and Harmon Wilmott were already in the hall, trying to comfort Elsbeth, who was sobbing, and Lady Sydelle, who was raving hysterically about goblins, ghosts, and going home. Elsbeth had her hair tied in papers, and Lady Pomeroy had some yellow concoction spread all over her face. Juneclaire smiled. Uncle George was taking care of things for her.

 

The Earl of St. Cloud sat in his library, his head in his hands. Half a bottle of cognac hadn’t helped. He was still in a deuce of a coil. He was fond of his Aunt Florrie, but he did not want his children to be like her. Juneclaire was touched, dicked in the nob, attics to let. Or else she was playing some deep game he did not know about. How could she look like such an angel and be so jingle-brained, if not downright evil? Nothing she said rang true anymore. He did not know what to think, except that she was turning his life and his household upside down.

And yet he was so attracted to her that just the memory of the chit in her virginal white nightgown, with her brown hair tumbling around her shoulders, set his juices flowing. Then he remembered how he was ready to commit mayhem at the thought of someone in the room with her. He was jealous of the blasted ghost! Botheration, he was jealous of the damn pig that got to spend the night with her. Life with Juneclaire would be hell.

But how could he cry off the engagement? A gentleman did not. And he was the one who had insisted, who had announced their betrothal to his family. He was obliged to marry her now, aside from the night in the barn. Blast her and the dashed pig. They had him by the shoat hairs.

J
uneclaire was walking the pig before breakfast when she heard the commotion. She followed the noise around the ballroom wing to find St. Cloud and a group of servants with axes, ladders, and hammers. They were searching for ways an intruder could have entered the house, Sally Munch explained to her, from her place at the fringes of the workers. Lord St. Cloud was directing the removal of climbing vines and overhanging branches. He walked ahead of the group, checking the loose ground under the windows for signs of recent disturbance. He paused to study an area under a balcony where a great many footsteps showed in the dirt. The workers gathered round, wondering if the master was going to order them to chop down the balcony.

Sally Munch was hanging back, so Juneclaire had a fairly good idea to whom at least half the prints belonged. Pansy snuffled around, then went straight to the new footman, the one with the shoulders of a prize fighter. Sally blushed, but the earl merely requested that Miss Beaumont kindly remove the pig from the field of investigation.