The Lodestone (22 page)

“Nothing is unthinkable,” Drake put in quietly, “when one has inherited eighteen thousand a year, and that just the interest.”

“And you must get to know my scamp of a niece a little better,” Oliver put in. “She will be a good companion for you when you come down to London.”

“I cannot go to London,” Cleome protested. “My mother is an invalid, Mr. Landshire. I cannot leave her side. And I need time to . . . to sort all this out.”

“Nothing to sort out, except your wardrobe, of course,” Landshire countered. “And then deciding when you’ll go. We’ll see that your mother has a nurse round the clock, for we’ve much to do. I must explain all your holdings and you must take up your residence at Houghton Hall, which is out near Cambridge. You have a vast estate to manage, my dear, for your mother and yourself. There’s no one else to do it—at least not until you’ve a husband to look after your interests.”

“I am sure she will soon see
all
the possibilities now before her,” Drake said coldly, ending the interview. “Mr. Landshire, we cannot sufficiently express our thanks for this happy news. Of course, you gentlemen will stay to lunch with the right honorable Miss Parker before braving this storm again.” Even though she was still trying to take in the implications of the barrister’s astonishing news, Cleome noticed how easily Drake referred to her with the title appropriate to her new station. He bowed slightly to her. “And then, milady, we shall decide the best course of action for you,” he said.

**

Her grandfather had once told her that life was full of surprises, and that each new dawn could be the beginning of an entirely different existence. But as Cleome’s existence had to that point gone on the same from day to day, she could not accept his philosophy as fact. Now, within a few short hours, her world had turned completely topsy-turvy, and she was not at all sure it would be to her liking.

Garnett departed as soon as he’d finished his tea and Drake chatted pleasantly with Cleome and Oliver Landshire, waiting a little impatiently, she thought, until the lawyer took his leave. Then he escorted her back into the little parlor and shut the door.

“I must congratulate you on your good fortune, mademoiselle.”

“Good fortune would have been a kindly relative willing to lend a helping hand. Now I must be a lady, and curtsied to and fawned over. I don’t believe I shall like that.”

“You will like what use the money can be. What will you do now?”

“I
would
like to go to London, but only to see the opening of Stoneham House. Until then, continue to work here—”

“That is out of the question,” he said. “Absolutely.”

“But why?”

“Because, little baroness, you must consider your new position. I’d be honored if you continue to take your meals with me, but no more work. You must prepare for your journey, and your new life.”

“But I like my life the way it is,” she proclaimed.

“You confound me!” He was puzzled. “Do you not wish to spend at least one season in London, and enjoy a life of luxury in Houghton Hall?”

“Mamma is not well enough to go to London. I cannot possibly leave her.”

“She is quite well enough to do without you for a few weeks, Cleome.” His tone was sober. “And you must face your new responsibilities. I’ll wager Lady Easton will want to introduce you into society, as you certainly must be.”

“
Why
must I be?” she asked, anxious. “It’s not something I’ve ever wished for.”

“Nevertheless, it is important,” he told her. “And you have a great deal to learn from Oliver Landshire. You must know how to properly manage your estate, at least until you marry.”

“I want you in London,” he told her warmly and again she felt drawn to him, pulled as if by a powerful, invisible magnet. “Properly chaperoned by Lady Easton, you will be able to enjoy the opening of Stoneham House with no fear of gossip or infamy, as you would likely suffer in my employ. Take Jacqueline—she’ll make an efficient lady’s maid. Mr. Landshire will hire a staff to reopen Houghton Hall and your mother will be fine with Mary and the others to look after her.” He took her hands and looked into her eyes. “Will you go? I’d like to have you there.”
“Yes,” she said at last. “I will go, at least for the opening; and then Mamma and I will decide together what to do and where to live. In the meantime,
I would rather the servants not be told anything.”

“And why is that?”

“They will start to think of me differently and I cannot bear to be placed apart from them. They are my friends . . . my family, in a sense.”

There was a light knock on the door and Fanny came in to curtsy before Drake. With an aggrieved attitude, she said, “Excuse me, sir, but footman’s here from over to Easton Place, with a note for Miss Cleome. He’d like to take back her answer, if you please, sir.”

“Well, show him in, then.”

“And there’s a messenger come for you, sir. Just arrived on the noon coach. From the looks of ’im, he’s had a long, hard journey.”

“Take him into the kitchen and give him something to eat. Tell him I’ll be with him shortly,” Drake ordered.

Fanny curtsied again and ambled slowly out of the room. Moments later, a liveried footman entered with an envelope addressed to Cleome.

“Elizabeth Easton has invited me to take tea with her tomorrow,” she told Drake on reading the contents. To the footman, she said, “Please thank her ladyship, but I must decline.”

“Wait outside,” Drake ordered the manservant. When he had stepped from the room, Drake went on, “You shouldn’t be so hasty in your refusal. And don’t be shy—it doesn’t become you. The world is waiting, Cleome. Why do you hesitate?”

She wanted to cry out to him,
because it’s not the world I want—it’s you!
Instead, she said, “Lady Easton has never invited me to tea before. Why should I go now and be bored and uncomfortable?”

“You’ll need people like the Landshires and the Eastons,” he reasoned. “They’ll smooth your way into society so that you can enjoy the advantages of wealth and position, and so that your children can have a better life than you did.”

He took her small hand in his large one and held it securely. “Have no fear, milady. I shall not desert you. We’ll take London by storm.” He made no mention of the kiss or the feelings he said they would explore; and the next day, when she came down to have breakfast in the kitchen with the servants, he was gone.

She asked if the master had been down to breakfast yet, and Fanny informed her that after he’d spoken with the messenger, he had gone immediately out to the stables and told Young Sam to prepare his horse for a long journey.

“So suddenly,” Cleome said. “I hope nothing is amiss.”

“Oh,” Fanny said slyly, winking at Della. “But
’tis
a miss. At least, that’s what messenger said. Something about a lady what’s in trouble or sick or some such. Said the master must come straightaway . . . and ‘e did. First to Newcastle and then perhaps all the way to Rome.” Leveling a spiteful look at Cleome, she finished gleefully, “So
it is
a miss, and one what’s important to ’im, I reckon.”

**

Tea with Lady Easton, without the presence of the charming Edwina, would have been torture for Cleome, in spite of Mr. Landshire’s approving smile and Garnett’s solicitude. She had never thought to sit in the Easton’s lavish parlor in her least mended dress and try to make polite conversation while at the same time wondering about the mysterious woman who had called Drake away from the Eagle’s Head. But Edwina, who was educated and gregarious, drew her out. They discovered that they liked the same books and music, although Cleome’s experience with the latter was limited.

“What a delight to find someone else who has read Mary Shelley’s monster book!” crowed Edwina. “Have you read her mother’s work?”

“Not as yet,” Cleome replied a little stiffly. “Books are somewhat limited here.”

“My mamma thinks Mrs. Godwin was a terrible bluestocking—and I one as well, for agreeing with her philosophy,” Edwina quipped, heedless of Lady Easton’s disapproval. “When you come to London, I shall loan you my very own copy of her essays, which of course I keep at Uncle Oliver’s house.”

It was decided, during that fateful tea, that Cleome should be ready to leave for London within a month. Mr. Landshire would go on ahead to arrange for suitable rooms in his residence where she and Jacqueline would live until Houghton Hall was ready for occupancy; and Edwina would stay at Easton Place and travel with Cleome and her maid from Oakham down to the city. Cleome’s wardrobe could be brought up to date once she reached London, where she could also enjoy museums, fine restaurants and the theatre while learning her new role and beginning to claim her proper place in society.

“And you, Miss Landshire?” Elizabeth politely included Edwina though her disapproval of the bold young lady was thinly disguised. Edwina seemed not to notice.

“Oh, a little,” she replied modestly and Oliver Landshire laughed out loud.

“A little, indeed!” he exclaimed. “Without much coaxing, Lady Easton, we can persuade the lass to give us an exhibition of her modest talent.’”

“I shall be glad to turn the pages for you, little one,” volunteered Garnett.

“I have no music with me sir,” Edwina responded. “But no matter. I’ll play one of my own composition.” With growing excitement, she went to the piano, taking a moment to caress the black and ivory keys as she looked at them with pure, unadulterated love. Then she sat down before the instrument; and as if offering a sacrament to heaven, she began to play. Magnificent sounds filled the parlor, trilling upstairs to fill the house and drifting out through the window, making even the field hands pause in their harvesting to listen. Her passion was evident as she swayed with the music, carried away on wings of splendor, hardly aware of where she was. When she was finished, there was a stunned silence in the room.

Oliver began to applaud and the others joined in. Edwina rose from the piano stool, glowing with happy exertion, her hair falling in damp curls around her face. Embarrassed, she refused to look at Garnett but she accepted her uncle’s hearty embrace. As Lady Easton stiffly ordered the maid to bring in more tea, Cleome heard Edwina whisper to Oliver and was touched by the fear in her tone.

“Do not give me away, uncle,” she entreated, sounding worried. “If you go boasting again and mamma learns I have made yet another spectacle of myself, I’ll be locked away forever.”

**

Mignon stirred, resisting the consciousness that prompted her eyes to open, even against her will. She held them tightly shut, trying to hold back the terrible nightmares, which she now knew were not nightmares at all. They were memories and what she was remembering had happened to her, and had driven her to the brink of madness. She had not uttered a sound in all the time she had been with the kindly women, the women who covered themselves with white robes and smiled like the sweetest of angels.

At the time Joseph delivered her into their care, Mignon had remembered nothing of her past, except her terror. And she had been unable to speak, for there was nothing she wanted to say. Her greatest fear now was that speaking would recall the memories from the place where she had hidden them, a place in her mind where they were buried so deeply they could do her no harm.

She had known that by keeping silent, she would be able to stay at the big, stone house with the kindly women, who would surely cast her out if ever she revealed to them, and to herself, the memories of things too cruel to mention, to cruel to think about, too horrible to recall. And then the gentle Mr. Collins had come to see her and he told her that she had a brother who wanted to care for her. When her brother came to meet her, she was polite but remained distant and still could not speak. He was a man, after all; and she was afraid of men. Only Joseph had ever shown her any compassion, and then Mr. Collins, and finally the man who called himself her brother. Perhaps the knowledge that she had a protector in him had given her mind the strength to call forth those terrible memories, whatever they were. For days, something had been bobbing on the surface of her consciousness, as a piece of cork on the end of a fishing line bobs on the smooth, glassy surface of a lake.

And then, quite unexpectedly, she had started to remember. At first it was merely a series of faces . . . faces that were blank and without any features at all, except for large, round eyes that stared and stared, looking for what she knew not. Other memories followed and they were cruel and wicked and she could hardly bear to look upon them. Her mind was cracking like an egg out of which a monster would hatch, and it would not allow her to hide from the memories any longer.

And finally, she remembered. She remembered hands groping her, touching her, probing her most secret places . . . more than one pair of hands, sometimes all at once and sometimes by turn. And then the featureless faces with the staring eyes became more distinct, framed in white, pink or yellow hair which she now realized were powdered wigs. Their lips were rouged and their cheeks accented with painted or pasted-on moles. Eyes peered through masks designed, she knew at last, to hide their identity.

She remembered a party, some kind of celebration, and she was lying naked on a table. While music played and the revelers laughed, someone smeared her body with cream and honey and the host encouraged the assemblage to lick the sweet flavorings from her shivering body. Most of them were men, although a few women were present, and in their silk and satin clothes, wigs and masks, they all looked alike. She could hardly detect any difference in them at all—with the exception of one, and he was the host.