Jane Ashford (14 page)

“Certainly not.” He reached for her hand. “Do you expect me to believe that?”

But before he could go on, the door opened again, and Miss Chadbourne looked in. “All right. That is enough. If you have not settled your affairs by now, you must do so somewhere else. Mr. Elguard.” She held the door, her meaning unmistakable.

“Yes, please go,” cried Thalia, and before anyone could speak again, she ran out of the room and upstairs to her bedchamber.

The rest of the day was agony. Thalia carried out her duties mechanically and sat stony-eyed through meals, knowing that the whispering was more widespread than ever. She did not see how she could endure day after day of this, surrounded by people who did not really care about her. And an even sharper disappointment hovered at the edges of her mind, to be resolutely pushed away whenever it intruded: she would never see Mr. Elguard again. She would never enjoy the kind of talk they had had together, or feel so free and happy.

When evening finally came, Thalia retired to her bedchamber gratefully. Juvenal, seeming to sense her oppression, rubbed against her ankles and purred. She was just about to undress and get into bed, when there was a rap at the door. Thalia froze. What now? Would this day never end? Fearing another summons to Miss Chadbourne’s study, she opened the door very slowly, but the maid standing outside merely handed her an envelope, saying, “This just came for you, miss. The man had been riding all day, and he said it was important, so I brought it right up.”

“Thank you,” replied Thalia, taking the letter.

The maid nodded. “Hope it isn’t bad news, miss,” she added as the other shut the door again.

Thalia turned the envelope over in her hands. It was from Aggie, but why would she send it by special messenger? Thalia’s heart pounded as she thought of accidents, illnesses, and other disasters, and she tore the letter open with trembling fingers. But as she began to read, her expression shifted to incredulity and, finally, dazed relief. “Can it be true?” she wondered aloud at one point. And as she finished the missive, she added, “Thank God!”

Euphie’s journey was the shortest of the three, and she arrived in London late in the afternoon of the same day she set out. She had never seen the city before, and some of her low spirits dissolved as she stared out the coach window at the crowds in the streets. There were more people together here than she had seen in her whole life.

The driver threaded their way through increasingly elegant thoroughfares to the house of Lady Arabella Fanshawe, Countess of Westdeane, whose companion Euphie was to be. And the closer they came, the more nervous the girl was. She had never met a countess, but she had been told that this one was “difficult.” She wondered uneasily if she would get on with her, and she wished for the fifteenth time at least for
her sisters.

They pulled up before an imposing mansion in Berkeley Square at a little after five o’clock. The driver rapped smartly on the front door as Euphie climbed down and stood on the top step. The door opened at once, and a tall butler ushered her into the most magnificent hall she had ever seen, or imagined. A great marble staircase rose at the back, and huge gilded mirrors reflected her slender, large-eyed figure from both sides. Euphie looked around her with a mixture of awe and fright.

“Shall I take your basket, miss?” asked the butler kindly. And when she turned to gaze up at him, he smiled.

“Oh… oh, no, it’s quite all right.” From within the wicker basket came the sound of small claws scrabbling for purchase.

“Perhaps you’d like to go upstairs, then, and see your room,” he replied.

“Yes, thank you.”

The butler smiled again and walked over to ring for a maid to take her up, but as he passed a partly open doorway on the left, an imperious voice said, “Jenkins, is that the girl? Bring her to me immediately.”

The butler went to the door and stepped inside. “I thought, ma’am, that she might wish to rest after her journey,” Euphie heard him say.

“And so she may,” was the reply, “when I have had a look at her.”

There was a pause; then Jenkins returned. He smiled at Euphie reassuringly. “Lady Fanshawe wishes to welcome you,” he said.

Euphie doubted that this was exactly what her new employer wanted, but she stepped forward with all the assurance she could muster. The butler held the door for her, and she entered a very elegant library, carpeted in crimson, with tall mahogany bookshelves reaching to the high ceiling and several comfortable-looking velvet armchairs. In one of these, before the fire, sat an elderly lady looking toward the door. To Euphie’s surprise, she was small—well below her own height, and slender to the point of emaciation. Her hair was silver and dressed in fashionable curls about her head. She wore a lavender gown that was clearly, even to Euphie’s inexperienced eyes, the height of fashion, and her features still held an echo of great beauty. Her eyes were a sharp and critical blue, and at this moment they were examining Euphie with at least as much interest as she had shown in the countess.

Lady Fanshawe smiled thinly. “So. You are Miss Hartington, are you? Very pretty. That red hair is stunning, though you dress it abominably. What have you to say for yourself?”

Euphie, nonplussed, opened her mouth to reply that she had nothing to say, but before she could form words, a dreadful uproar broke out around her feet. She had not at first noticed that the countess kept a lapdog; Pug had been lingering among her ladyship’s skirts. But now he erupted in furious barking and ran at her, snapping in a way that made her want to aim a kick at his hideous little face.

“Pug!” exclaimed Lady Fanshawe in outrage. “What do you think you are doing? Stop it this instant!”

But the dog was beyond the call of reason, and he continued to jump up Euphie’s legs, groveling and snapping.

Annoyed, Euphie bent down and, awaiting her chance, seized his collar with her free hand, holding him up off the ground so that he could not reach her. Pug, nearly apoplectic, continued to try to lunge, and it now became clear that his object was not Euphie herself, but the basket she carried.

“Give him to me,” said the countess commandingly.

Pulling the dog by its collar, Euphie did so.

The older woman gathered the small animal in her arms, effectively stifling movement, and then turned back to Euphie. “What have you got in that basket?” she asked. “Beefsteak?”

Euphie blushed scarlet. “No, it’s… it’s my kitten. I had forgotten he was there… or, that is, I didn’t know…”

“Of course you didn’t. And you handled Pug very well, too. He is the most frightful nuisance. My daughter gave him to me. For company! Can you imagine? Let us see him.”

It took Euphie a moment to realize that she meant the kitten. “But won’t your dog…? That is…”

“I shall hold Pug. Take him out.”

Slowly the girl opened the basket and reached inside to draw out a pure white kitten, a little ruffled from recent events.

She held him up for the countess to see, and the two eyed one another interestedly. Pug growled fiercely.

“A pretty animal. Put him down; he must be wanting some exercise.”

Doubtfully Euphie did so. The kitten paused a moment, then began to explore the room.

“Very pretty indeed. What is his name?”

Euphie blushed again. “Ah, Nero, ma’am. My aunt named him.”

“Did she?” replied Lady Fanshawe, raising her eyebrows and smiling. “Well, by all accounts, your aunt was an odd creature. I understand you have an unusual name, too.”

“Yes, ma’am. Euphrosyne. But everyone calls me Euphie.”

“Sensible. I hope I may do so as well. And you will please stop addressing me as ‘ma’am.’ It makes me feel even older than I am.”

“Yes, Lady Fanshawe.”

The older woman smiled again. “I think you may do very well, Euphie. Run along now and see your room. We will talk at dinner.”

Euphie went to scoop up Nero and started for the door.

“And, child…” added the countess.

She turned back inquiringly.

“I bid you welcome to my house.”

Euphie smiled uncertainly for the first time. “Thank you, ma… ah, Lady Fanshawe.” She dropped a sketch of a curtsy and went out.

***

Dinner that evening was very grand, and Euphie felt younger and more countrified than ever in her old white evening dress and braided hair. She and Lady Fanshawe sat alone at a large table in an opulent dining room, her ladyship at the head of it and Euphie beside her. The countess saw her gazing dazedly about as the soup was being served and chuckled. “Oh, yes, it is quite ridiculous for two people to dine in such state. But I like it, and I have reached the age where I can do as I like. It is my one remaining pleasure.”

“It is a beautiful room,” responded Euphie. “The whole house is beautiful. And, my room is wonderful. Thank you.”

Her employer looked at her interestedly for a long moment. “You are rather out of the common way, are you not?”

“I am?”

“Oh, yes. I have had companions before, you know.” She chuckled again. “Three of ’em. My family insists on it, though I cannot imagine why. But never one like you. Usually they are either intolerable managing women who call me ‘we’ and think they can dictate my every move, or they are mousy timorous creatures who tremble at my least glance.”

At these vivid pictures, Euphie could not help laughing.

“Precisely,” continued the countess. “You are not at all like either type, and yet you are not like the young ladies of my acquaintance. I occasionally meet the daughters, or granddaughters, of my friends. I have some idea of the modern miss. You are not the least like them.”

Euphie looked down. “I have never had the opportunity of going into society, ma’am.”

“Yes, I know. I have heard something of your history, but you must tell me more. Not now.” She gestured toward the kitchen, from whence Jenkins was just coming with the main course. “Later, in the drawing room. And I shall tell you the rules of my household. Then we may both be easy.”

The girl looked at her apprehensively, but Lady Fanshawe was examining the roast with a very critical air and did not notice.

***

Coffee was brought to the drawing room, and Jenkins left them alone. When she had sipped a little, the countess began to speak again. “I shall tell you something about myself. It is not my usual habit, but in this case…” She did not explain what she meant by this, but instead, after a meditative pause, continued, “My husband has been dead for six years now. We were very happy, and I still miss him a good deal. Since I have been alone, I have gone out less and less. My family began to worry, and finally insisted that I needed company.” Lady Fanshawe smiled ruefully. “So they provided me with a succession of perfectly frightful ‘companions,’ until I revolted and declared that I should choose my own.” She paused again, looking into space with a smile.

Euphie watched her. “You have a large family?” she asked finally, feeling that she should say something.

The countess turned to look at her, rather as if she had forgotten Euphie was present. “Large? Not really, though it often seems quite large enough. I have three children, two daughters and a son. Dora and Jane are married and have families of their own.” Her mouth quirked again. “Indeed, one of my granddaughters will be making her come-out in three or four years. My son, Giles, the youngest, remains single in spite of the dogged efforts of his sisters to marry him off. He is very like his father.” This time, the countess’s smile was warm and reminiscent; then she looked at Euphie sharply. “Do not misunderstand me, young lady, I am not telling you a sad story. I am quite content with my life, except for missing my husband. I might go out continually in the season, and I am invited to friends’ houses, too, as well as my daughters’. But somehow, as I get older, I find I don’t enjoy visiting as I did.” She chuckled. “I like directing a household too much, and I’ve gotten used to having things done my way, I suppose. At any rate, my only complaint nowadays is occasional boredom. People seem less clever than they were when I was younger. The ton parties are so dull.”

Euphie stared at her, trying to imagine how anyone could find a party dull.

Lady Fanshawe caught her gaze and laughed. “You cannot imagine that, eh? Well, you have not been to so many.”

Euphie shook her head.

“So,” the older woman went on, “now you understand me a little better. Tell me about yourself.”

“Well,” began the girl uncertainly, “you know about my family and that I grew up in my aunt’s house with my sisters.”

“And a very eccentric house it was, I gather,” murmured Lady Fanshawe.

Euphie nodded. “I suppose it was. I often wished Aunt would allow us to go out more; she kept us very close. But she also let us do as we pleased in the house. We studied as we wished and didn’t have to work very hard.”

“You studied music?”

“Yes. I always loved it. And then, when Aunt died—”

“Disgraceful,” interrupted the other. “I have heard that story, and I think it is disgraceful. It ought not to be allowed.”

There was a short pause. Euphie looked as if she agreed.

“And so you and your sisters found positions, and you came to me here,” finished the countess. “How do you feel about that?”

“Ma’am?”

“How do you feel? Are you angry? I should be, I think.”

The girl frowned. “I was, at first. It seemed very heartless of Aunt to treat us this way. But now…” She considered. “Well, perhaps I am resigned.”

Lady Fanshawe laughed. “I doubt it. You don’t seem the type. But I am glad you will not be raging about the house and hating everyone because you are forced to live here.”

At this picture, Euphie laughed. “Oh, I should never do that. The one thing that I do feel is that I shall miss my sisters terribly. Indeed, I do already. I have never been away from them before.”

“Well, we shall see if we can find you some other amusements.” The countess watched the suddenly forlorn figure opposite for a moment, then said, “I should tell you about our daily routine, so that you will know what to expect. I don’t come down in the mornings, so you will have that time to yourself. We will meet at luncheon, and afterward we may take a drive or I might ask you to read to me before tea. After, I go upstairs to lie down for a while. You may wish to go out walking; I know you are used to more activity than you will find here. If you can bring yourself to take Pug along, he can always stand a run. Then, we have dinner and perhaps cards or reading in the evening. I retire early. Occasionally my son or some friend will visit, but I admit I do not encourage them. I am not interested in gossip any longer, and people seem to have little else to talk about. What do you think?”

“A-about gossip, Lady Fanshawe? I don’t—”

“No, of course not. About the schedule I have outlined.”

“Oh. It sounds as if you give me very little to do.”

The countess laughed. “I do not think you will find it so. I will send you on all manner of errands and even ask you to write letters for me on occasion. You will be busy enough.”

“I hope so. I do want to be a help to you.”

“I believe you mean that,” replied the other, smiling.

Euphie nodded.

“Well, I think we shall deal together well enough. And now, would you ring the bell, please? I am tired and ready to go up to my room.”

Euphie rose to do so.

“Oh, and one other thing,” said the countess. “I must get my maid to do something about your hair. Shall you mind having it cut? I can’t abide dowdiness.”

The girl flushed, putting one hand to her wrapped braids.

“You would look lovely with ringlets, you know, and we must buy you a dress or two. Your aunt’s taste was quite gothic.”

“I… you needn’t do so, Lady Fanshawe. I am perfectly content with the clothes I have,” answered Euphie untruthfully.

“Then you’re a ninny, my girl,” was the reply, softened with a smile. “And I don’t believe you. But even if you were,
I
am not. I insist upon something easier on the eye. After all, I am the one who must look at you, am I not?”

Euphie eyed her doubtfully; then a reluctant smile curved her lips. “Yes, ma’am,” she replied meekly.

“Good. That’s settled, then.”