Leslie LaFoy (13 page)

Elsbeth gave another of her indignant huffs and attempted to rebuff him with silence. His mother frowned at him. And Wyndom shook his head, saying, “I can't help but observe that you're in a particularly foul mood this evening, Devon. Any special reason?”

Devon bit his tongue as an honest answer pounded through his brain.
I've been hungry for a goddamn month. My mother only plays at being the mistress of the household. Her sister is a bottomless pit of expectation and ingratitude. My brother is an idiot. And—lest you've forgotten—this afternoon I was forced to marry a stranger. And—amazingly—aside from myself, the wife I didn't want and don't need appears to be the only other person in this house who possesses an ounce of good sense and is willing to work to earn her keep. What do you think, Wyndom? Are any of those reasons special?

“It's been a very long day,” Devon said tersely, placing his napkin beside his plate. He rose to his feet and turned to Claire. “I'm sure it's been a tiring one for you as well. If you're done with your meal, perhaps you'd like to retire to your room?”

“Yes, I really would,” she admitted, putting aside
her napkin as well. “If no one would think it ill-mannered of me to cry exhaustion so early in the evening.”

“Of course not, dear,” his mother assured her. She looked at him and added, “I'll see to it, Devon. Settling a guest falls within the duties of being the mistress of Rosewind. It's a pleasure too seldom afforded me in recent years.”

Which was, of course, his fault. God, he was tired of battling his way through every conversation. “Very well, Mother,” he said with an abbreviated bow. “If you will excuse me, please. I have accounts to do.”

He walked away, vowing that someday he was going to be a hermit and throw rocks at anyone who came near him.

LAIRE WATCHED HIM LEAVE
, with his wineglass in hand, and felt a strange twinge of regret. There was no denying that he'd been contentious throughout dinner, but then his hand hadn't been tended and the pain had to have made him less tolerant of Elsbeth's constant prodding. In a way, she felt sorry for him. Elsbeth would try the patience of a saint. His mother was sweet, but for some reason seemed compelled to make excuses for her sister's nastiness. And Wyndom… Poor Wyndom was everything that his brother wasn't. She felt a little sorry for him, too. Devon never missed an opportunity to criticize or insult him. On the other hand, though, Wyndom constantly said and did things that openly invited his brother's barbed comments.

“Wyndom,” Madam Rivard said softly, “Lady Claire, your aunt Elsbeth, and I would like to leave the table.”

“Oh!” He vaulted to his feet and then fidgeted in place, his gaze darting between the three of them as he
obviously struggled with the decision as to which lady he should assist first.

Claire rose on her own, deliberately removing herself from his mental factoring. Her movement seemed to clarify his thinking. With a huge grin, he darted around the end of the table to attend his mother. Elsbeth waited, her nose in the air and her lips pursed. Yes, Claire could understand why Devon would want to send this woman far, far away.

Madam Rivard, once on her feet, turned to her sister and smiled. “I'll meet you in the salon after I see Lady Claire to her room. Perhaps Wyndom could ask Mary Margaret to prepare us a pot of tea.”

Elsbeth nodded and so did Wyndom. Wyndom's nod, however, was noticeably more enthusiastic than that of his aunt. Was Wyndom enamored of the cook? Claire wondered. He'd said she was young and comely. Just how young was Mary Margaret Malone? Claire glanced down at the uneaten food on the plates. Any female older than fifteen would know how to cook. It was basic knowledge that all women were expected to possess and ably practice. Was Mary Margaret a child?

“Shall we go, Lady Claire?”

Claire nodded absently and fell into step beside Madam Rivard, reconsidering a question that had briefly occurred to her earlier. If Mary Margaret had been here a month, why hadn't Madam Rivard or Elsbeth undertaken her instruction? The quick conclusion she'd reached at the table remained the same. There were still only two likely answers: Either they considered the task beneath them or neither of them knew how to cook any better than Mary Margaret did.

If it was the latter, then perhaps the art of cooking wasn't the universal female skill she'd always assumed it to be. And if that was the case, then Mary Margaret's miserable fare might not be a consequence of age at all. It might well be that she was from a social class that
hadn't expected her to know how to actually prepare food. Which, of course, begged the question of how she'd come to be an indentured servant.

“Where are your trunks, my dear?”

Pulled from her musing, Claire blinked and looked around her. They had reached the foyer and Madam Rivard had stopped in the center of it, a concerned frown on her face.

Claire, too, stopped. Glancing about, she saw her valise sitting at the base of the stairs leading to the second story. “I have only the one bag,” she said, crossing to it.

“That's all? One small valise?”

“Yes, madam,” Claire replied, picking it up and waiting for the other woman to join her. “Its contents are quite sufficient for my needs.”

Madam Rivard gathered her skirts in hand and started up the stairs, saying, “Your needs must be very small. No wonder Devon's so cross.”

Claire considered the two ideas, but couldn't see how one necessarily connected to the other. “I beg your pardon?”

“Devon is a stick, my dear,” his mother answered, reaching the top of the stairs and taking a softly glowing candle lamp from a hall table before leading Claire down the carpeted hallway. “He likes his world orderly and patterned and his people predictable. The fact that you have only the one traveling case—and that you see it as entirely adequate—makes you a most unusual woman. It's no wonder that he's spent the evening glowering and snapping.”

It made sense in a rather convoluted way. But, while she admittedly didn't know Devon very well at all, she just couldn't imagine that his thinking worked along the rather inconsequential lines his mother claimed. “I'll do what I can to become more predictable,” Claire offered in an effort to be diplomatic.

“We would all appreciate it if you would, dear. Devon is really quite difficult to live with even when he's reasonably content with life.” She stopped and opened a door on their right, the second one from the end of the hall.

“This, I think,” Madam Rivard said, motioning Claire to step across the threshold ahead of her, “shall be your room, Lady Claire. It adjoins Devon's through the other door. It befits a husband and wife and is conducive to whatever agreements they may choose to make for passing through it.”

The agreement they had was that the door would remain shut, Claire silently supplied, glancing about the room. Although the candlelight was soft, she could tell that the room was larger than any she'd ever had to call her own. There was a four-poster bed against the far wall, several chests and cabinets, and an armoire large enough to house a family of four. Some items—what looked by general shape to be chairs—were covered with white sheets, and the fireplace was filled with kindling for a fire that hadn't been lit. The walls were painted in what looked like a buttery yellow, and Claire was certain that once a fire burned and the dustcovers were stripped away, it would be a warm and comfortable place to curl up with a good book.

“It's lovely,” she said, turning to smile at her hostess.

“If we'd known you were to be staying with us, we would have had the room properly prepared. But as it's turned out…” She offered the barest shrug and set the candle down on a chest. “One never knows how matters will turn out, does one? Oftentimes, it's surprisingly well. One should just accept situations as they are and hope for the best, don't you think?”

She didn't give Claire a chance to respond, but went on breezily, “We'll have Mary Margaret come up tomorrow and remove the dustcovers. She can also arrange the
furniture to your liking. Would that be all right with you, Lady Claire?”

“Of course. Thank you for everything, Madam Rivard.”

“Oh, please, do call me Henrietta.”

Claire hesitated. It wasn't proper to address elders by their Christian name, and the idea of doing so made her uncomfortable. Her parents had been adamant about that particular social lesson. “I'll try,” she offered noncommittally.

The older woman smiled. “That's all that I ask. And now I'll wish you a good night and pleasant dreams.” Then the woman leaned closer, presenting her cheek for a kiss.

It was such a sweetly maternal thing to do, and it stirred bittersweet memories Claire had long ago put away. “Good night, Mother Rivard,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to the woman's powdered cheek.

“Oh, I do like that!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright and her smile broad. “Mother Rivard. Stately and yet approachable. Yes, I like that very much.” She stepped out into the hall and, pulling the door closed behind her, added, “Good night again, my dear. Have the sweetest of dreams.”

Claire smiled. One had to sleep in order to have dreams. If she didn't get a fire lit and the room warmed, she was going to spend the night wide awake, listening to her teeth chatter. She dropped her valise on the end of the bed and crossed to the fireplace. The tinderbox was on the mantel and she checked it, delighted and relieved to find that it was prepared. She struck the flint and gently blew on the spark. It caught and as the flame grew she bent down and tilted the contents into the waiting kindling. It, too, caught easily, and in seconds the fire was crackling and popping, growing and brightening.

Claire straightened, put the tinderbox back in place, and then looked around the room again. There was a
small warmth already coming from the fireplace, but it hadn't yet chased away the chill, and so she set to work, taking a sprig from the fire to light additional candles and then carefully folding up the dustcovers and stacking them neatly on the floor beside the door.

A
N HOUR LATER
Claire sat in one of the chairs she'd arranged in front of the fire, warming her feet and feeling a deep sense of accomplishment. It had been a lovely room to begin with and, by moving a few cabinets here and a few chairs there, she'd made it even more so. She'd pulled the coverlet and sheets down on the bed so that they'd be warm when and if she ever felt ready to crawl under them.

For some inexplicable reason, though, she wasn't the least bit tired. Lord knew she ought to be. She hadn't slept much last night. And today had been one of the longest of her life. Married against her will to a man who didn't want a wife and considered women brainless ninnies, she'd then been hauled through a snowstorm to be plopped down in the midst of a household that could only be described as … well, peculiar.

The cook couldn't cook. The only servant she'd seen had been the one to open the front door for them, and then he'd disappeared. Henrietta Rivard was a nice woman, but didn't seem to have any real concerns beyond the maintenance of good manners. Elsbeth Whittington was a thoroughly unpleasant—and probably unhappy—person. Wyndom Rivard was an affable buffoon whose poor judgment was the reason she and Devon Rivard were shackled to one another. Pouring brandy on a fire… Devon might have been a little less blunt about declaring his brother an idiot, but it was largely the truth.