Laura Matthews (5 page)

Though Vanessa was perfectly happy to see the first goal achieved, she had no intention of falling in with the second. Edward Curtiss, at twenty-eight, was undoubtedly the most conceited, self-involved, and encroaching man she had ever met. Despite the fact that he had not one pence worth of income, he made no attempt to find himself gainful employment, preferring to live on Vanessa’s largesse.

This, of course, he did not receive in person. No, that would have been too delicate a matter to contemplate. Instead, Vanessa was forced to make his mother an allowance which covered both children, and which she felt confident was spent entirely by the spendthrift Edward. When applied to for additional funds by Mrs. Curtiss (which happened regularly), Vanessa was always tempted not to comply, but she had so little confidence in Edward’s character that she feared he would do something unprincipled to obtain the necessary cash.

All of which thoughts did nothing to soothe her aching head, but she eventually drifted into a short nap, dreaming of a day when she and the children would be the only ones residing at Cutsdean.

* * * *

Strange woman, Alvescot decided when Vanessa left him alone in the Library. On the one hand, she seemed perfectly aware of the imposition on her by her mother-in-law’s relations; on the other, she obviously intended to do nothing about it. Quite possibly the same thing was happening with her estate manager, Alvescot thought. Probably a clever fellow who gave the impression of competence, and was robbing the estate blind. Women had such a difficult time learning to turn off the spout of money, which they seemed to think flowed of its own accord. Well, he determined with resolution, he would just have to see that the estate manager was turned off from his position, and a trustworthy man found to replace him.

As he was about to leave the Library with the ledgers under his arms, he overheard the conversation in the Entrance Hall between Vanessa Damery and Mabel Curtiss. That is, he had no difficulty discerning the booming tones of the latter, while the former’s more modulated accents didn’t quite reach him. Alvescot was not in the least flattered that Mrs. Curtiss, at least, had some regard for his aristocratic position. She made him sound like some superficial, arrogant nitwit to be cajoled with a fine saddle of lamb. Disgruntled, he left the Library by way of the Drawing Room and Garden Room, wandering out through the open doors into the sunny afternoon.

Before him stood a well-tended expanse of lawn with flowering garden beds beyond and a fine stand of timber still further on. There was some activity amongst the trees which he could at first not discern, but by watching for a few minutes he realized that two children were cavorting there with a young woman who was probably their nursemaid. Alvescot decided to join them, despite the cumbersome ledgers. His approach was shortly noted by a sturdy lad of four who came galloping through the flower bed, trampling plants without the least regard to the young woman’s admonitions.

“I’m John,” he announced in a piping voice. “Who are you?”

“Alvescot,” said the earl. “I’m your father’s cousin, and your godfather. Do you think it’s right to smash down the plants that way?”

John glanced behind him at the crumbled greenery and shrugged. “I was in a hurry.”

“Your nursemaid told you to go around.”

“It’s too far to go around. You have to go all the way to the end.”

“Your nursemaid told you to do it. Don’t you listen to her?”

There was something in his tone that made John hesitate. “Usually I do,” he compromised.

“Has it occurred to you,” Alvescot asked, “that someday when you don’t listen to her, you will suffer for your disobedience?”

“How?”

“One of her main endeavors is to protect you from harm. Say someday you are playing with a sharp stone and she tells you to put it aside. If you don’t listen to her, you’ll cut yourself. Even worse things could happen.”

John considered this for a moment. “Yes, but I couldn’t hurt myself in the flower beds.”

“You’ve trampled flowers that your mother might have used to decorate the dinner table, and that the gardeners worked a long time to cultivate.”

“But there are plenty of other flowers,” John insisted.

Alvescot brought the full force of his disapproving gaze down on the little boy, who drew back a few steps. “You haven’t the right to decide to destroy someone else’s property. Not now, not ever, young man. And until you are possessed of enough maturity to make decisions for yourself, you are to obey those who are put in charge of you.”

While the earl awaited some reply from him, John shuffled his feet nervously, glanced from Alvescot to the nursemaid who was coming toward them with a girl in her arms, looked toward the house and then across at the Orangery and finally back at the earl. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

“Good. Now, if you would be so kind, I’d like you to show me your pony. You will want, of course, to ask this young woman’s permission,” Alvescot told him, indicating the nursemaid.

Since John made rather an awkward business of it, Alvescot assumed he was not in the habit of asking permission, but he let the matter rest. Even his mild rebuke had made the boy nervously unhappy, as though he didn’t know exactly what was expected of him. But Alvescot could be charming when he chose, and he chose now to put the boy at ease, talking of his own first pony and drawing John out on life at Cutsdean. Obviously the boy’s spirits were irrepressible, for he was soon chattering excitedly, his face animated and his hands moving almost as fast as his mouth.

“Did you know my father?” John asked abruptly.

“Oh, yes, very well. He was my best friend. When we were children, I came to visit him here, and he came to my home in Sussex. We went to school together, too.”

“Was he . . . very brave?”

Alvescot studied the boy’s wide eyes and trembling lips. “Yes, John, he was a very brave soldier, and a good man. I wept when I heard he’d been killed.”

“Did you?” The large brown eyes, so like Frederick’s, blinked at him. “He never saw my pony.”

“No, but he had planned with your mother just when you were to have one.”

“That’s what Mama said. She said Rollo was a gift from him, too.”

A memory stirred in Alvescot’s mind, of two little boys riding across the fields of the home farm, and Frederick’s youthful voice boasting, “Rollo can do almost anything Papa’s horse can do.” Alvescot wondered whether Frederick’s wife had remembered the name, or if one of the older stable hands had supplied it. Somehow the continuity was impressive rather than sentimental. He doubted if Frederick’s mother would have been able to recall Rollo’s name.

John rushed over to the loose box where the pony was munching hay. Climbing up on the door, John spoke to him in a very different voice than he had previously used. It was a gentle sing-song, soothing and hypnotic, to which the animal responded promptly, trotting over to thrust his muzzle in the boy’s hand.

“Isn’t he beautiful?” John asked. “And he’s fast as the wind.”

Alvescot expressed a suitable admiration, shrugging aside the memories that threatened to disturb him. The threads of the past seemed to interweave: the visits to Cutsdean, the days at school, his first riotous visit to London on his own, the years on the Peninsula, his final farewell to Maria. It was the sultry heat of the late afternoon, he decided, trying to pay attention to the boy, the time of day, the time of year. He had noticed it yesterday at the inn, when the anticipation of visiting Cutsdean again had made him melancholy. There was no recovering the past, and to dwell on it made the present unreal, the future unreachable.

The little boy had asked him something, he realized, but he couldn’t recall what it was. “I beg your pardon, John. My mind has wandered back to the days when I was your age. What was it you asked?”

“Shall I show you how I ride? Mama says I get better every day.”

Withdrawing his watch, Alvescot shook his head. “I’m sorry. There isn’t time before I should be getting ready for dinner. Some time tomorrow, perhaps?”

Disappointed, the boy nodded. “How long are you going to be here?”

“I don’t know,” Alvescot replied truthfully. “A few days, I suppose.”

“I could show you the canal. Mama and I go sometimes to watch the barges. There’s a tunnel at Greywell you can see them go in to.”

There was an urgency to the invitation that surprised the earl. Was the boy so eager for a man’s attention? John was, after all, his godchild, and he had done nothing whatsoever for the poor fellow since his father’s death. “That would be famous,” he agreed, more heartily than he felt. “Tomorrow I am to go about the estate with Mr. Burford, but the day after should be fine.”

“Lucy can have Cook send a basket with us. I’m always hungry if I ride that far,” he admitted as the two of them walked back toward the house.

“How far is it?” Alvescot asked, surprised.

“Four or five miles. Rollo doesn’t even get tired.”

Alvescot watched the boy disappear through the door, waving a small hand as he went. All of five miles, he thought with amusement. With the pony, of course, that could take a good hour. He shifted the ledger books in his arms, stood for a moment gazing out over the park, and then entered through the Garden Room to make his way to his minuscule chamber.

* * * *

A quick count of heads in the Saloon told Alvescot there were seven other people in the room, including the young jackanapes who had run him down. Yes, now he saw Edward close up, he could see more clearly the resemblance to the boy he had known so many years ago. Edward ignored his entrance into the room, but Vanessa came forward with a welcoming smile, offering to introduce him to anyone as yet unknown to him.

“Edward you have met, more or less. And this is his sister, Louisa.”

Thirty, thirty-two, Alvescot thought, and not too bright, judging from her vague looks. He didn’t remember encountering her as a child. Louisa smiled and shyly ducked her head, as though she were an eighteen-year-old at her first adult gathering. Her blond hair was worn youthfully floating around her heart-shaped face, but the lines of passing years were beginning to form there, and the style looked inappropriate on her. She whispered her pleasure in meeting him, casting frequent glances over her shoulder at a solid gentleman who stood vacuously observing the earl. Vanessa gestured to him, and he came forward with alacrity.

Mr. Oldcastle was short and stocky, with a head of hair already receding rather desperately at the age of thirty-five. He was monstrously pleased to meet the earl, he said, and knew they would become fast friends, felt sure they shared an interest in the same sporting activities, and believed the aristocracy was what made England such a great country.

After the tepid welcome Alvescot had received from most of the Cutsdean residents, the earl was more than a little taken aback by this rush of friendliness, but he appreciated it no more. It was a maxim with him that he could recognize a toadeater from twenty yards, and it annoyed him that he hadn’t recognized the vacuous expression for what it was, and not merely the vacant look of a man whose intellect might be questionable. But he politely disguised his feelings, merely glancing at Vanessa from time to time to see if he could surprise any evidence of emotion on her placid features. There was none, until Edward approached her, smiling winningly, to say, “Sorry about the accident, cuz.”

Since Edward had not appeared for luncheon, it was the first time he had spoken with her about it, and she regarded him with a frown. “I’ve warned you about your style of driving, Edward. Anyone might have been standing in the drive. The children might have been playing there. If you haven’t a care for yourself, you should consider the others who might be harmed.”

An angry flush rose in his cheeks. “You’re just annoyed about the damage to the curricle,” he accused. “I shall see to its repair.”

Considering Edward’s financial situation, Alvescot could understand the contemptuous gleam that appeared in Vanessa’s eyes. The young woman said, “No, Edward, the curricle will not be repaired,” in a flat, rebuking tone that made Edward glare at her. In all likelihood he would have made some pungent reply, but the butler, with exquisite timing, arrived to announce dinner at precisely that moment.

Edward stomped away from his hostess so violently that the ceramic figurines on the mantelpiece trembled in his wake. The others, without waiting for Vanessa or the guest of honor, filed through the doors into the dining room. Alvescot glared after the retreating company, offered his arm to Vanessa, and followed the others with a dignity he might have accorded an audience with the Prince Regent. As he seated Vanessa at one end of the table he reflected that he had never seen such a ragtag bunch before.

Their democratic approach to precedence offended his sense of propriety, to say nothing of his inherent good manners. When he saw his Aunt Damery attempt to seat herself at the other end of the table, only to be diverted by Tompkins, he was no longer surprised by her fierce frown in her daughter-in-law’s direction. Vanessa ignored her, as she ignored Mabel’s exclamations of disgust at the first course, but she smiled rather mischievously at him down the length of the table.

She looked entirely different when she smiled. The lines of worry were instantly wiped away, and the dark eyes held a secret amusement which she seemed to share with him, though he doubted that she meant to. And how could she find her situation so amusing, anyway?

Probably it was the wavering light of the candles dancing in her eyes, Alvescot decided, which gave the mistaken impression. Far more likely she was laughing at him. He could feel the muscles in his face tense at the idea and he quickly turned his attention to Louisa, seated to his right. But Louisa required very little in the way of concentration, and Alvescot found his mind returning to the younger Mrs. Damery. He could see that, for all she’d allowed her husband’s relations to thrust themselves on her, she took her position and responsibilities seriously, and he was not above admiring her for that trait, especially when it was leavened with her own particular type of whimsicality.