The House of Happiness (2 page)

Eugenia had crept up to the minstrel's gallery and leaned over the balustrade. The top of the tree was now on a level with her eyes. Standing on her tiptoes, she stretched out her hand, trying to reach the Christmas star.

“What are you doing, young lady?” a voice had gently asked.

Eugenia did not recognise the Marquis for a moment.

This tall gentleman in a gleaming, braided jacket and elegant white gloves took her breath away.

“I – wanted to touch the star,” she explained.  “To see if it was icy.  Because then I would know it was a
real
star.”

The Marquis looked amused. “Well, I am afraid to tell you that it is not a real star.  Real stars are very hard to come by.  You have to be lucky and find one where it falls.  No, that is a star made of silver.  And I should hate to see you fall trying to touch it.”

Eugenia detected the mild tone of reproof. “Oh, I shan't trouble to try now I know,” she assured the Marquis. 

“I am glad to hear it.”

Eugenia regarded the Marquis with her head on one side. “You look like a Prince in that costume,” she said. 

“And you, mademoiselle, look like a Princess,” laughed the Marquis.

It was true, Eugenia did look enchanting. Her hair fell to her waist like a red-gold mantle and her eyes resembled large, blue water lilies.  She was dressed in blue muslin and on her feet she wore a pair of blue satin slippers.

“Thank you. This dress looks very nice if I twirl. Shall I twirl for you?”

“Please do,” answered the Marquis.

“Eugenia, what are you doing?” Mrs. Dovedale, puffing up the gallery stairs, had stopped in astonishment at the sight of her daughter's pirouette.

“Nothing, Mama.”

“You were twirling.  That is not very lady-like. Please apologise to the Marquis.”

“But I did ask him first,” protested Eugenia.

“I can assure you, Mrs. Dovedale, she did,” confirmed the Marquis, a twinkle in his eye.

Mrs. Dovedale took Eugenia's hand and began to lead her away.  But Eugenia tugged her hand free and ran back to the Marquis.

“Mr. Marquis,” she said, “one day I will marry you and no one else in the world!”

“Eugenia!” exclaimed Mrs. Dovedale.

The Marquis, meanwhile, regarded the little girl before him with a sober air. 

“In that case,” he replied, “I shall be sure to wait for you to grow up.”

The snap of a log in the fire brought Eugenia back from her reverie.

Uncomplaining as she was, she could not but be aware of the difference between the remembered scene at warm, glowing Buckbury and this little parlour in London, with its shabby armchairs and patched curtains at the windows.

Mrs. Dovedale, as if she had been privy to her daughter's thoughts, was chiming out the very words that had just rung in Eugenia's head.

“
In that case, I shall be sure to wait for you to grow up”
. That is what the Marquis said. He didn't, of course. Wait, I mean.  What can one expect?” Mrs. Dovedale sniffed.  “That Countess was determined to have him.”

The Countess had been very beautiful. A younger friend of the Marquis's late mother, she had arrived at Buckbury a month after the Christmas Ball.

When she returned to France a fortnight later, the Marquis had followed.

He had informed his Head Steward that there were family problems to deal with in France and he would be away for some time. Mrs. Dovedale, however, was convinced that the Marquis was in hot pursuit of the Countess.

Whatever the true reasons for the Marquis's departure, Buckbury Abbey was to all intents and purposes closed. There were no more garden parties, no more balls.

“What a paradise we lost!” mourned Mrs. Dovedale. “What a world we are reduced to now!”

Listening to her mother, Eugenia could not help but marvel that her mother appeared to have forgotten her own part in the dissolution of her former life.

The truth was, with Buckbury shut and life a good deal duller, Mrs. Dovedale had begun to chafe at her lot.

As the months dragged by and there was no sign of the Marquis, she became fractious. She began to chivvy her long-suffering husband.  Had he no ambition other than Head Steward of a silent house and ghostly estate? Finally she convinced him that he was destined for greater things. All he needed was money to establish himself in some business enterprise or other.   

He resigned his Head Stewardship and sailed for the gold-panning fields of Alaska. 

His wife and daughter were sent to lodge with his widowed Aunt Cloris in London.

In less than six months, word reached them that Mr. Dovedale was dead of a fever.  Mrs. Dovedale and Eugenia never returned to Buckbury Abbey.

“Never to return home,” Mrs. Dovedale was still rambling, moved to tears now by her own reminiscing, “never to see our ‘
Paragon
' again – so aptly named, such a haven was it from the rush of the world.”

Eugenia, elbow on the arm of her chair, leaned her chin in her hand and stared into the fire.

It was ‘
Paragon
' that she missed most whenever she thought of her past.

Nestling deep in the woods at Buckbury, ‘
Paragon
' was the lovely rambling cottage where the Head Steward and his family lived. Climbing roses covered its walls, doves circled its eaves. Deer nibbled at the long grass beyond its white fence.

Eugenia had owned a cat called Sugar and a little pony called Bud.

She had been so happy at ‘
Paragon
' with her dear Papa, so happy that she tried not to think about it.

If only her mother would not so constantly remind her!

For Mrs. Dovedale, the only route out of her straightened circumstances was Eugenia. The girl was so beautiful, everybody said so. She could ensnare the Prince of Wales himself if she wished!

Mrs. Dovedale plotted and planned for Eugenia to be noticed. Not a man with half a name for himself passed within the mother's orbit, but he was extolling the virtues of her daughter.  Not one name of an eligible bachelor could drop from Lady Granton's lips but that Mrs. Dovedale was trying to effect an introduction.

Mrs. Dovedale would accompany Eugenia on errands to Fortnum's for the sole purpose of pointing out Lord this or Earl that to her daughter.  During walks in Kensington Gardens she would nudge Eugenia's elbow at every haughty Viscount or Duke who rode by.

“Throw him a glance, my dear.  Turn your profile to him. Step into his path.”

Her mother's machinations made Eugenia miserable. She began to form an instinctive resistance to any romantic suggestion that her mother made.

Leaning her forehead on the windowpane, Eugenia murmured to herself the familiar words that worked upon her resolve like a daily mantra.

“I will never, never marry anyone of whom my mother approves!”

*

Seated at breakfast, reading the newspaper through her lorgnette, Mrs. Dovedale gave a sudden squawk of excitement.

“Mama?”

Mrs. Dovedale waved her hand before her face, as if whatever she had read had brought on a sudden heat. “Oh, my goodness, oh, my goodness, we are saved!”

Eugenia stared. “How exactly are we saved, Mama?”

She threw down the paper and pointed. “There. There. Do you see? The Marquis of Buckbury has returned to England and is
at this very moment in London
!”

Eugenia, guessing the cast of her mother's mind, frowned. “He must be very
old
and
grey
by now.”

“Old? Grey? He can't be more than – let me see – he was twenty one when last I saw him – you were ten – why, he's barely more than thirty now!”

“Ancient,” sighed Eugenia.

Mrs. Dovdedale was not listening.

“I must make sure that he is invited to one of Lady Granton's soirées,” she continued.  “She would surely do it for us. He is bound to come if he hears that the widow of his old Head Steward is present. He cannot have forgotten us. He cannot have forgotten
you
!”

“Of course he has forgotten me.  And even if he hasn't, what is all this to do with us being saved?”

Mrs. Dovedale looked coy.  “Why, you were so taken with each other at that Christmas party – “

“Mama, I was
ten
!”

“But it was obvious that you were going to blossom into a real beauty.” her mother persisted. “He said he would wait –”

Eugenia raised an eyebrow.  “Mama, I think you are forgetting the Countess!”

“Oh, yes, the Countess.” Mrs. Dovedale sank into her chair for a moment before brightening. “Even so, once reacquainted, the Marquis is bound to want to do something for you.”

“Not charity!” replied Eugenia sharply.

Mrs. Dovedale threw up her hands and rose from the table. “Eugenia, I despair of you, I really do! I have no idea what it is you really want.” With that, she sailed from the room.

What did she really want? Passion! She did not want whatever beauty she might possess bartered for a string of pearls and a horse and carriage. She did not want a pompous Earl or a dreary old Marquis. She wanted to be swept off her feet by someone for whom romance was more important than position, for whom the call of the heart was stronger than the call of duty.

Her eyes closed for a moment as she imagined this wild and impetuous lover.

He was most definitely
not
someone of whom her mother would approve!

She hoped that her obvious lack of enthusiasm had discouraged her mother from plotting an encounter with the Marquis of Buckbury.

Mrs. Dovedale, however, was not a woman to be dissuaded from any course of action she had decided upon.

Two days later she entered Eugenia's room in triumph.

“We are to attend Lady Granton's on Tuesday.  The Marquis of Buckbury will be present. This will be your first evening soirée.”

Eugenia did not look up from her book. “I cannot go. I have nothing to wear.”

“Oh, you are not to worry about that,” Mrs. Dovedale shot back. “I shall take in my old ball-gown.”

Eugenia turned the page. “Then I shall look like a fool.”

“Look like a fool? Of course you won't look like a fool.”

Mrs. Dovedale, however, was proved quite wrong.  On the day of the soirée, even Great-Aunt Cloris, so approving of hand-me-downs, pursed her lips.

“What is this colour, Florence?” she asked.

“Pigeon breast blue,” she replied.

“Pigeon breast blue?” Great-Aunt Cloris looked doubtful. “Then it has greatly faded.”

“Faded? Nonsense. It resembles the underside of a flower.”

“More like the underside of a stale loaf!”

Eugenia, standing before her great-aunt's pier glass, took a grim satisfaction in this exchange.

The dress was indeed the colour of a stale loaf, grey and unflattering. Not only that, it was almost perversely out of fashion.

She suppressed a sudden giggle. What did she care? She had no wish to impress the Marquis of Buckbury or anyone else at Lady Granton's soirée.

She knew her appearance would invite ridicule and convinced herself that she would not mind. Anything rather than serve her mother's purpose.

Mrs. Dovedale, who would have thought her daughter was perfection in a workhouse shift or a cook's apron, was meanwhile unperturbed by Great-Aunt Cloris's remarks.

“All it needs is a touch of something – ” she regarded Great-Aunt Cloris slyly.  “A pretty shawl, now, would do the trick.”

Great-Aunt Cloris struggled.

“She may borrow my Chinese silk,” she said at last, grudgingly.

Eugenia shook her head. “Oh, great-aunt, I really don't –”

“Now don't be ungrateful, child,” she said quickly. “Take it, before I change my mind.”

The shawl was a master stroke by Mrs. Dovedale. Its rosy hue softened the harsh effect of the dress.  The cobalt flowers with which it was embroidered matched the dark blue iris of Eugenia's eyes. 

For her mother, Eugenia's natural charms shone undimmed.

Nevertheless, when she and Eugenia entered Lady Granton's drawing room in Cavendish Square, the sharp intake of collective breath was not immediately one of admiration.

“Come on, Eugenia,” said Mrs. Dovedale, “don't hang back.”

Eugenia advanced into the room, head high. Her grace was unmistakable. So too, in the amber light from the lamps, was the soft lustre of her skin. Her hair was a crown of gold and her eyes glimmered like sapphires. The dowdy, old-fashioned dress served only to heighten her timeless beauty. 

The gentlemen present surged forward, agog, to introduce themselves to the new arrival.

At the far end of the room, double doors led into Lord Granton's library.  Lord and Lady Granton now emerged through these doors. With them walked a tall gentlemen of unmistakably aristocratic mien. His forehead was high, his grey eyes keen and intelligent. His dark brows almost met over a fine, chiselled nose. If there was one fault about his features, it was that they suggested a certain severity of character.  Otherwise he was the epitome of a handsome, distinguished gentleman of the world.

His gaze roved over the assembled company of young ladies. Not one of them pleased his eye. The ladies, however, once aware of his presence, fluttered their lashes and fans wildly in his direction.

Eugenia was invisible amidst her own throng of admirers.

“There appears to be an incident of sorts over by the door,” remarked Lord Granton.  He chuckled. “Daresay Miss Dovedale is in the middle of that scrum.”

The tall gentleman raised an eyebrow.  “Dovedale?”

“A spirited young lass,” added Lord Granton.

The gentleman turned his head towards the door. “Dovedale?” he repeated.

Lady Granton seized on his interest. “Would you care to be introduced?”

The gentleman inclined his head. “Very much,” he replied.