Chapter 4 #2
The tallest blonde kept hold of Carstairs’s arm while dragooning him through the parlor door. The brunette stepped aside and wiped hastily at her cheek. The shorter blonde brought up the rear with an air of good cheer fortified by patience.
Coddle brushed past us, doubtless on a vain mission to bring order to chaos within the parlor.
“Lord Julian Caldicott,” I said to the brunette, “at your service, if you’ll forgive the presumption of introducing myself.” I produced a clean handkerchief, which the lady accepted.
“Miss Amelia Quiggan, my lord. If we cannot be friendly at the holidays, then there’s no hope for us, is there?”
She dabbed at her cheeks with my linen and smiled, revealing the same sort of attractiveness Hyperia camouflaged so diligently.
Miss Quiggan’s features were not plain so much as they were composed with perfect symmetry and calm.
Her hair was more of a lustrous mahogany than plain brown and bunned up primly enough to avoid notice.
The velvet of her dress qualified as warm, while the taller blondes, in their lighter hues, had nearly shimmered.
“Shall we join the others?” I asked as the greetings from the baroness’s parlor rose to include squealing and laughter.
“We shall.” She tucked my handkerchief into a pocket.
“Philomel Delaplane will not turn loose of Bryson until Algernon physically shoos her out the door. Wren will likely take up where Philomel leaves off. You might serve as a welcome distraction, though the Delaplane sisters are, of course, wonderful ladies and have run tame here at the Keep for ages.”
Said without a scintilla of envy.
I wanted to observe this homecoming, to monitor the behavior of Algernon and his papa in particular.
Miss Quiggan preceded me into a parlor notable for both its warmth and size.
At the far end of the room, before a hearth large enough to accommodate four upright men standing across, Philomel Delaplane continued to hold Bryson captive, while a fellow who might have been his slightly better-fed twin patted his back and beamed.
The beaming fellow had to be Algernon the Heir, whom Bryson had described as an all-around hail-fellow-well-met.
In keeping with the season, Algernon wore a coat of Father Christmas green, with a sprig of holly on his lapel.
He continued the Yuletide theme by sporting two cravats, the standard starched white linen wrapped high about his neck and a strip of red and green silk adorning the linen and weaving into an elaborate, frothy knot at his throat.
An older man, whom I presumed to be the baron, watched the high spirits from the sideboard. Lord Dunsford was tall like his sons though white-haired. He wore riding attire, right down to a pair of polished field boots.
Rather than join the affray, he poured himself a brandy.
Before he drank, his gaze passed over me, paused, then moved to Miss Quiggan at my side.
For as much welcome as I saw in his eyes, he might have been a lighthouse swinging its lantern over a watery darkness with no more feeling for the illuminated seascape than the moon exhibited when its silvery beams touched the frozen surface of a rural pond.
Algernon Carstairs’s mission in life was apparently to counterpoint his sire’s dour nature.
The baron poured for the company without a hint of congeniality, while Algernon handed the drinks around with great good cheer.
Even the young ladies accepted tiny servings of brandy in honor of the occasion, or the chilly weather, or seasonal hospitality, or something.
The sisters Delaplane—Philomel the elder and taller, Wren the younger and less statuesque—were robust specimens. They dispatched their portions handily, for which I accorded them respect.
The brandy, however, was mundane compared to what Arthur would have offered his holiday guests. The welcome for Bryson was nonetheless effusive, particularly from Miss Quiggan and Miss Philomel. He was clearly loved here and had been sorely missed.
I sidled around the room until I was standing beside Algernon by the windows. The light was fading outside, and a fiery sunset illuminated the sky to the west.
Five days left me no time for small talk. “Carstairs, why didn’t you ask Bryson how long he could stay?”
Algernon’s exuberant bonhomie slipped. “He’ll bide for a few days. Never more than that. You’re his traveling companion, my lord. You tell me how long you plan to grace us with your presence. The housekeeper might ask Bry, but I dare not.”
“Five days, give or take would be my guess. My mother is visiting Lady Clotilda Quiggan, and by tagging along with Bryson, I can do the pretty before Her Grace without imposing on Lady Clotilda. I sent a small nephew and his nanny to bide with Her Grace and Lady Clotilda while I remain at the Keep. The holidays at the Caldicott family seat can be taxing, and strategic retreat appealed.”
“Taxing.” Algernon held his glass up to the dying rays of the sun. “Here, we simply keep the punchbowl full, flit from house to house, and linger beneath strategic kissing boughs—or avoid certain ladies doing same. You served with Bry?”
“On the same side in the same war, as the saying goes. Our paths did cross.” We had established this much on the coach journey over from Surrey.
The Rifles were involved in most major altercations, and thus Carstairs and I had even been present at many of the same battles—along with thousands of other soldiers.
“Bry doesn’t talk about the war, but he refuses to leave his employ with that Scottish captain. MacTavish, MacNultey…”
“MacNamara. James MacNamara, a fine officer and a good steward of his acres. Recently married and planning extended travel to Scotland with his new bride in the spring.”
“That will be Bry’s excuse for rusticating in Surrey. He’s already written me. Says with the landowner gone, somebody will have to man the garrison through plowing and planting, and Bryson is the ranking recruit. What Bry doesn’t know about managing land isn’t worth knowing.”
Across the room, Philomel and Miss Quiggan, still flanking Bryson, laughed and chattered antiphonally. When one fell silent, the other spoke up, and conversely. Bryson appeared comfortable with their mode of conversation.
If one could call it that. “I thought your late brother, Michael, was the agrarian genius?” My brandy had not improved on further acquaintance. I set my mostly full glass on the windowsill.
“Michael was the pick of our litter when it came to brains, of a certainty,” Algernon said.
“I have the charm, Cousin Peter has the clerical vocation, and Bry is our hard worker. I wish him the joy of that thankless virtue. Michael’s mind was more mechanically inclined—how to perfect a double plow, how to design a gate that swung shut and latched with the force of gravity so that one needn’t always be coaxing a fractious horse to step sideways and so forth. ”
He gestured with his nearly empty glass as if to offer me a refill. I shook my head.
“Which brother are you?” he asked. “One hears the present duke is on extended travel. A grand tour now that peace has been reestablished. He’ll likely run into more matchmakers and younger sons abroad than he would in Mayfair.
I envy him the freedom, though. Hampshire is lovely, for about two days in spring and autumn. ”
Was Algernon tipsy, or was this his version of charm? To grumble somewhat humorously while watching the local beauties fawn over his brother.
The baron had yet to greet me, though the occasion did not merit strict protocol. Miss Quiggan ceased fluttering around Bryson long enough to engage Dunsford in conversation, and while I could not call his lordship’s expression warm, he was at least attempting civility.
“I am the brother honored to tend the Hall,” I said, “while His Grace enjoys well-deserved liberty.” True words.
“And yet, here you are, at a time of year when we’re supposed to gather ’round the home fires and reminisce about days gone by.
Your mother has spent her holidays with Lady Clo—who makes syrup of ipecac seem sweet by comparison—and rather than subject yourself to that company, you tag along with Bry. We’re a funny species, are we not?”
His tone was amused, even commiserating, but the eye he kept on the brandy decanters suggested the holidays were a challenge to even his good cheer.
“Spring must follow on,” I said. “And then we’ll long for the peace and tranquility of midwinter. Might you introduce me to your father?”
“Oh, certainly. Forgive the oversight. I trust you’ve met our Amelia?
Quiggy dearest, turn loose of his lordship long enough that I might introduce his other lordship.
I’m suffering a spot of decorum, but fear not, these afflictions soon pass.
Lord Julian, you must ignore the baron’s thunderous looks.
He’s no more shocked at my informality than he was when I spilled porridge all over his boots more than twenty years ago. ”
Lord Dunsford looked permanently offended rather than shocked. His firstborn son and heir displeased him, the same state of affairs that routinely characterized Georgian kings and their royal princes.
“My lord.” I bowed first, having only the courtesy title.
Dunsford nodded. “Welcome to the Keep, Lord Julian. Algernon is in charge of bothering the maids. Bryson flirts with the local beauties when he’s underfoot.
I’m not sure what that leaves for you to do—inebriation suggests itself, given your age—but I understand your mother is visiting Lady Clotilda.
I would take it as a personal favor if you’d inflict yourself on Lady Clo while you’re in the neighborhood.
Any penance that comes her way is well deserved, and I trust you can qualify as same. ”
“My lord, shame on you.” Miss Quiggan spoke quietly. “That is no way to welcome a guest, and you are being shocking because Algernon has provoked you, as usual. Lord Julian, I am surrounded by scamps, of whom I ought to be ashamed, except they are scamps and cannot help themselves.”
Dunsford unbent enough at this rebuke to return my bow.
“Lord Julian, welcome to the Keep. We are all a little off-balance as a result of the interminable holidays and bottomless punchbowls, also from spending too much time in each other’s pockets.
My regards to your mother, whom I know to be an estimable lady.
There, you see, Amelia? I am a cordial host after all. ”
She patted his sleeve. “Better. Algernon, you must rescue your brother. Plead travel fatigue on his behalf. Take Philomel by the arm and walk her to the door. Wren will follow out of habit, I will bring up the rear, and then you can have Bryson to yourselves.”
She wrapped a hand around Algernon’s elbow and steered him across the room.
“Puts me in mind of my late baroness,” Dunsford muttered. “You are not to get ideas about our Amelia.”
Did Dunsford harbor ideas regarding Miss Quiggan? “My affections are committed elsewhere, my lord.”
“Found somebody who will have you? Best snatch her up before your brother marries and you lose what little cachet you can claim as his heir.”
That was an indirect insult to my intended. Time to return fire. “Are you obnoxious out of habit,” I asked, “or does the sight of your second son bring out this bitterness?”
Dunsford swung his gaze on me, and I suppose I ought to have been chilled by his icy glower. Alas, I was no longer eight years old and prowling the library past my bedtime. Dunsford had been a churlish host thus far, and I had no intention of enduring his unchecked bile for the next five days.
“Bryson has much to answer for,” he said. “Willing to risk his neck so a lot of London merchants could resume peddling their shoddy wares on the Continent, but can’t come home for more than a few days here or there. Not much of a son, but one becomes resigned to life’s disappointments.”
He set his glass on the sideboard. “Excuse me while I escort the ladies to their coach. Enjoy your stay, my lord.”
Dunsford quit the field, once again impersonating a competent host, and within five minutes, the ladies had decamped. A housekeeper showed me to my rooms, which were commodious enough, and informed me that supper would be at six.
I had time, in other words, for a short nap. Instead, I went in search of fresh air and a few answers.