Rondo Allegro (58 page)

Anna sat down next to him. “I say that I agree it is better
to speak. And you may speak freely to me, which cannot hurt those who knew this
brother I never met. How does your head?”

He sighed. “It is better than it was.” Hating himself for
complaining, he said wryly, “At least until I sit down at that desk again, and
Perkins reads me those bills. Stay. I had a thought.” Instinctively he turned
toward her, though the damn bandage was ever-present. “Will you read ’em to me?
I got in the habit of having Perkins read my mail to me, but he is slow and
mispronounces anything that might be French. If I hear your accent, perhaps I
will not be so irked at yet another creditor clamoring for his due for things
that never ought to have been ordered.”

“I should be happy to be of use,” Anna said sincerely.

And so the rest of the week passed in this manner. Henry and
Anna took up their station in the library, where she could be heard reading out
bills and letters to him. He vanished to his room to lie down in the
afternoons, when she would get her walk, if the weather permitted. She also
continued Eleanor’s lessons, and learned to play pat-a-cake and peek-a-boo with
baby Amelia, who seemingly never tired of these games.

On Sunday, Henry was first seen at church, his bandage
giving him an air of interest and even heroism, so everyone agreed afterward.
And Mrs. Bradshaw gained a great deal of pleasure when the new Lord Northcote
and his lady spent time talking of their Beverly, and his bravery in battle, to
her and her family outside the church, where they could be seen by everyone in
the parish.

When it came time to leave, Harriet waited with bated breath
to hear what Penelope would do. Indeed, the elder Miss Duncannon set about
directing them exactly as before, as if she had come to the conclusion that a
bandaged head meant wounded intellects.

But upon hearing her telling Caro and Harriet where to sit,
Henry said in a strong voice, “What is this? Seven in this confounded coach?
Pen, where is your own carriage?”

A pause, and Penelope said, “Your mother has most generously
taken pity on two poor spinsters who cannot afford to be profligate—”

“Nonsense,” Henry cut in, demonstrating that interrupting
might very well be a family trait. “Not six days ago I sat in the solicitor’s
office going over the quarterly expenses. You are very well to pass, very well
indeed. You could afford a coach and six.”

“But . . . Sunday . . . there
is nothing to be found,” Penelope began in a grating, accusatory tone. “How are
we to get home?”

Henry made a curious wry grimace. “Then John-Coachman will
be put to the trouble of having to go back for you, to carry you to Whitstead.
I trust by next week you will have arranged your affairs better.” He touched
his hat. “Good day to you.” He bowed slightly in Penelope’s direction and
climbed into the carriage, leaving her standing beside it, stiff with fury.

No one said anything until the door was shut. The dowager
gazed at her son, a little frightened, but not unpleased: she had been bullied
by Penelope since her marriage, and until now, no one had thought to say
anything at all to the deceased baron’s eldest daughter.

Harriet exclaimed, “Poor Caro! She will have to bear the
worst of Penelope’s tongue. Especially if they sit down to no dinner.”

“Why would they not have a cold dinner, like everyone else?
Has that changed while I was at sea?” Henry asked, his lips thinning as the
carriage began to roll and sway.

“They were used to come with us,” the dowager said. “If
John-Coachman carries them back to Whitstead, they will have no way to come to
church again, and I am very sure Penelope will not have ordered a cold dinner.”

“Penelope and Caro come to the Manor of a Sunday? What start
is this?” Henry asked.

“After John’s fall,” Harriet said. “Penelope
would
come, and Mama did not like to say
anything.”

Henry considered that, turned his head slightly toward Anna,
who he knew by her scent was seated at his right, and murmured in French, “I
did not think my brother would have put up with that. The only thing he and
Penelope shared besides a father was a cordial hatred for one another.” And,
“Do
you
wish for her to be invited to
the Manor?”

The only person there who did not follow the quick words was
Harriet, who had ever been impatient of lessons; why learn French when that
nation seemed destined to be at war with everyone forever?

Emily, who did comprehend, also understood that he meant it
to be a private conversation.

“I feel for Miss Caro Duncannon,” Anna finally said.

Henry turned his head. “Is that why you suffered their
presence of a Sunday, Mother?”

“It is Sunday, and Penelope was so certain it was correct,
given mourning,” the dowager said nervously.

Emily waited—and Henry said, “Emily?”

It was the first time he had spoken to her since the night
of his arrival. She said composedly, “At first I tried to remonstrate with her,
for she upset your mother so, but she informed me that she had grown up in that
house and had more right to it than I did, unless my child was a son.” She
spoke in her sweetest, most peace-making tone, and waited for his response.

But there was none. The last little distance was traversed
in silence. After the ladies climbed out, skirts held well up over the pooling
water, Henry said, “John-Coachman!”

“My lord.”

“Pray return to the church for the Miss Duncannons, and
carry them to Whitstead.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Thank you. Anna, your arm?”

He felt the press of her fingers, and pulled her arm against
him so they could match pace. He waited until he heard the others’ footsteps
diminish toward the house. Behind, the noise of the carriage going back up the
drive also diminished, and he said in a low voice, “I do feel sorry for my
half-sister, but Caro is a grown woman. She made her choice to stay single, it
seems.”

“To stay single?” she repeated, understanding some things.
“Are you certain it was not decided for her?”

Henry frowned in the direction of the house, breathing
deeply in the frosty air. “What do you mean by that?”

“Your sister told me a very little, but also there is what I
have witnessed. Every Sunday I have observed her talking to Dr. Blythe. I know
she does work for charity, but the way he looks after her when Miss Duncannon
summons her away . . .” Anna halted herself. “I think . . .
perhaps I ought not to speak of persons I know so little,” she finished
contritely.

“Speak anything you like.
I
cannot see. The devil fly away with this bandage! You have no
notion how abominable it is, this not seeing. My hands are going numb. I need
better gloves. Are you cold? Let us go inside.” They began walking again, Anna
matching his pace, Henry mindfully taking shorter steps. They fell into rhythm.
Presently he murmured, “So that did
not
pass off.”

“Pass off?”

Henry twitched as he instinctively began to look about him,
then uttered a sharp sigh. “Let us go into the book room,” he said as he fought
to curb his impatience. “Where we may speak in peace.”

Anna nearly laughed, thinking that he could speak in peace
anywhere he wished in that enormous house, but she understood. He would conduct
this conversation in privacy, and without unduly disturbing the rest of the
family.

So she thanked Thomas Akers, the second footman, who closed
the door behind them and carefully helped Henry out of his greatcoat. Thomas
departed with coat and hat, and Anna and Henry moved to the library, which had
not been lit. Anna could not see very well in the dim room, but she pulled her
shawl closer around her and sat in one of the vast wingchairs.

Henry leaned back. “Where was I? My sister Caro. I was a boy
when all this happened. If you know aught of boys, you can imagine how little
interest I took in the matter, save I was fond of Caro, who unlike Pen was kind
to us as children. And I always held Blythe in great respect.”

“He seems a good man,” Anna said.

“He is. He’s no sanctimonious piffler. I’ve met ’em. One of
my Dangeau cousins, butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he’s the worst
gambler I’ve met with, and a skirt-chaser as well. I wonder what his sermons are
like? But he wouldn’t write ’em. He undoubtedly either buys them or gets them
from our mutual great-uncle, the bishop. But I digress. Blythe came to Barford
Magna directly he took his degree. I believe his father is a knight. There is
nothing amiss with his birth, but coming from an enormous family, he has little
private means. No more than fifty pounds a year, if I recollect.”

Anna had only begun to understand English money, but she
thought that one could live very well on fifty pounds a year, if one were
careful.

Almost as if he heard her thought, Henry said, “Leastways,
you cannot raise a family on it and maintain your position. More to the point,
my father believed that he couldn’t, even with the tithe share.”

“Tithe share,” Anna repeated. “I do not understand.”

“Dr. Blythe is a rector, no mere clergyman. The tithe comes
directly to the rector. But that was not good enough for my father, and I do
recollect his towering rages over the matter, which were matched and raised by
Pen’s wrath at the disgraceful prospect of a younger daughter being married
before the elder. She would never be able to hold up her head again, Caro would
be forever put down as fast and on the scramble, the entire family would be positively
steeped in scandal. I don’t know how true it is, as I never expected to have to—”

He paused, put his head back, then his voice changed. “One
thing I can say for certain is that the only thing my father hated worse than
poverty was scandal. Blythe’s request for her hand was turned down, and that
was the end of it. I had assumed that twenty years must have changed things,
but if he’s been faithful all these years . . .”

Again his voice had changed. He struck his hands to his
knees. “Well, at all events I had planned to call on him in the next week or
so.” He was aware that his courtship had been abysmally lacking so far, and in
a softened tone he asked, “Should you care to go with me?”

“I would, thank you.”

“Good. You can drive me, which will free up—no, you said you
do not drive, did I hear right? Would you care to learn? You might enjoy
tooling about, once you have become more familiar with the place.”

“I would, oh, very much.”

“I will speak to Noll. He’s a bit slow. You have to have
patience with him. Something happened when he was small, and he was nearly
despaired of, until the Cassidys took him in. This was before John-Coachman’s
wife died. They raised Noll with their son, who is second mate on an Indiaman,
and doing very well for himself. I used to see him now and again when we and
the India fleet met in ports. At any rate, Noll’s very good with horses, and you
may trust him completely.”

“Thank you,” Anna said, both charmed and apprehensive at the
idea of taking the reins herself.

Then he said, “I mean to put in every effort to get affairs
settled before this pox-cursed bandage comes off my head, that when I can see
again, I may put to sea with the comfort of knowing my duty here was done.”

His silhouette shifted as he swung to his feet, a hand
outstretched. “It’s cold in here, is it not? And probably not lit. You must
speak up. No one wishes to sit in the dark. Would you prefer to go somewhere
warmer?”

Anna’s first reaction on hearing his intention had been
surprise, followed by a sharp sense of disappointment.

But then she scolded herself.

Of course he would return to the sea. She remembered the
sight of him on his quarterdeck, smiling up at the set of the sails. The sea
was his first love. Everything else was duty.

She was not certain of her own feelings about these tidings.
That warmth was present each time she saw him, but she had learned enough not
to trust that sensation, pleasing as it was, nor was she convinced that
he
felt it.

She was pretty certain now that she knew who his “Emily”
was. Anna refused to let her mind follow the paths of jealousy. Nothing in life
so far had led her to believe that any good at all came out of jealousy
promptings. Henry and Emily had certainly known one another when very young.
They had probably been attached; whatever he had felt that night after the long
battle, his initial wounds, and the burial of his men, must be put down to
fever and tiredness. She understood it, and could forgive it.

But she must know for certain that he wanted
Anna
to wife.

And if that happened, she must remember that in the world of
the sea, his chosen world, captains regularly left their wives behind for those
long cruises.

o0o

As the succeeding days sped by, the household began by
degrees to reflect the Christmas season. At first Anna was scarcely able to
perceive the signs. For her, the cold encroached as steadily as the darkness,
every day earlier. There was little sign of Christmas to be found, or at least
Christmas as she had remembered as a child in Naples: the bright, warm sun, the
music everywhere, and the Strada Toledo turned into a magical fair, with fruit
festooned around the king of arbor in the street. All the shops decorated with
gilt and ribbons and patterns to delight the eye.

Here, the season was sedate, but she began to observe a
brightening in individuals, even if there was little in the way of decoration.

From Pratt, the gardener, to Mrs. Diggory, the servants moved
about with an air of purpose; the days of straitened commons and making do had
passed. Henry had indeed given orders for a room to be cleared downstairs and a
fire lit for the servants until they retired at night.

In her first interview with the new lord, Mrs. Diggory had
been given
carte blanche
to hire back
those servants who were needed to restore the house to what it had been, and
she meant to live up to the trust his lordship placed in her.