CHAPTER EIGHT
Being back at Pennington Manor was like entering another world.
Lucy’s previous stay had been so short, and fraught with such distress, she’d had no leisure to make much comparison beyond the obvious in size and splendour.
Now, with the vicarage left in her past at Upledon and the discovery of the secrets of the Oade farmstead, she could not but notice the contrast in her current situation.
Although both Stefan and Dion treated her as a member of the family, to the servants she was a guest. She had but to tug on the bell-pull to command any conceivable comfort.
She had no duties to perform and she was not expected to partake of her share in the work of the house as she had done in Upledon. In a word, she was allowed to be idle.
The thought of what her life might have been had Mr Oade not thrust his sister Alice from her home was enough to give Lucy nightmares.
Nor could she contemplate with equanimity the picture of domestic life alongside Mr Waley.
Yet she had given it serious consideration.
At the back of her mind, Lucy felt obliged to hold the notion in reserve.
She’d had no further speech with Mr Waley, but she’d sent a note from the Half Moon saying she would write to tell him what she had discovered about her mother’s family.
Three days into her sojourn at Pennington the letter remained unwritten.
All her instincts urged her to send, along with her news, a final end to his hopes.
Lucy knew it must do the curate a disservice to consent to marry him when her heart was given to another.
Yet caution kept her from closing the door upon one of the less arduous avenues open to her.
And one of these she must choose, and quickly.
To remain at Pennington, subject to the distress of concealment, was unthinkable.
The moments closeted in the coach alone with Stefan had shown her how ill equipped she was to remain in his vicinity without giving herself away.
She yearned for his touch. But the instant his hand was upon her, she was subject to such intensity of heat in her veins that she could not endure it.
She was so conscious in Stefan’s very presence that her command of her thoughts and her voice became wildly unpredictable.
She knew she was prickly with him, ready to take offence at the least little thing.
Yet whenever he was not by, she caught herself listening for his step or his voice, and checking the doorway to find if he might enter.
Five days of this and Lucy knew she could not live in such a fashion. With Dion too, she had been less than patient. Exhorted to report upon Stefan’s discussion with her in the coach, Lucy had flown at her.
“He was hateful and I refuse to talk about it!”
“Don’t say you quarrelled again.”
“If you must call it so. In any event, he made me lose my temper.”
“Yes, I can see that. You have been sulky as a bear since we got back.”
At which point, Lucy had felt obliged to apologise for her moodiness. “Pray don’t pay attention to me, Dion.”
Which had served to turn Dion back into the sunny-tempered creature of her usual habit. As the days passed, Lucy felt compelled to invent a plausible reason for the continuing unevenness of her temper.
“I wish I might decide what I should do.”
They were seated in the favoured Red Saloon, the morning sun filtering into the window embrasure and casting brightness across the sofas, in one of which Dion was curled up in her usual fashion while Lucy sat opposite.
“What do you mean?”
“I must settle upon a suitable future.”
Dion made a face of disgust. “You are not starting on that again? I thought we had it fixed you are to remain here for the present.”
“Yes, but I always intended to move on as soon as I might. And with all we have discovered, I am the more determined to fend for myself.”
Dion twinkled. “If I were you, Lucy, I would not engage in such a profitless exercise.”
“It is not profitless.”
“When you know perfectly well Stefan will veto anything you suggest?”
A little pulse skipped in Lucy’s breast. “Why should he? He knows I never meant to stay here.”
“He may know it, but that does not mean he will allow you to leave.”
Lucy began to be irritated. “He has nothing to say in the matter.”
“Oh, I doubt that.” Dion giggled. “I imagine he will have plenty to say.”
With which Lucy could not argue. She hoped Stefan was not concocting a scheme which must keep her in his vicinity. If so, his motivation was duty, and Lucy would be expected to be grateful.
“Don’t you want to stay here, Lucy?”
She looked up. Dion sounded a little hurt, and remorse gnawed at Lucy. “I would, if I were not here under false pretences.”
“False pretences? You are an Ankerville.”
“I am half an Ankerville.”
“Even Corisande accepts you without question.” Mrs Ankerville had welcomed Lucy back into the household without a blink, entirely failing to enquire into her mission, instead embarking upon a dissertation on the probable whereabouts of the writings of a medieval troubadour that happened to be of current interest.
“She has been very kind. But she does not know about Mr Oade.”
“Your mad uncle?” Dion laughed. “I am persuaded Corisande would not turn a hair. She would probably unearth an anecdote about some insane Ankerville to cap our story and render it second rate.”
But at dinner that evening, Lucy discovered Dion was less cognisant of her mother’s character than she supposed.
“Has it occurred to any of you,” she said over the entrée of asparagus dipped in a cheese sauce, “to think how you are to present Lucinda to Paulina? She was here during your absence, you know, Stefanus, and I was obliged to tell her something of your purpose.”
“Oh, Mama, why?” came fretfully from Dion.
Mrs Ankerville was not in the least put out. “Because she expressed surprise at your having gone along, Dionisia.”
“What did you tell her?”
“That you were chaperoning Miss Graydene.”
Stefan glanced at Lucy, inwardly cursing his cousin’s inconvenient curiosity.
It was another of the matters niggling at him, and he should have brought it up before this.
Except that Lucy had been both aloof and snappy since the return, and he was loath to invite another outburst. It was like dealing with a cat of uncertain temperament.
One never knew when she might lash out and scratch.
She was avoiding his eye as usual. Stefan could not believe her attention was wholly taken up by the contents of her plate as it appeared to be, particularly in view of her obvious lack of appetite.
She was industriously digging with her fork, but the implement made few journeys to her mouth.
Regretfully rejecting the notion of taking up the fork and feeding her himself, Stefan turned to his mother.
“We do need to address it, Mama, you are perfectly right.”
He caught a flashing look from Lucy before she lowered her gaze to her plate again, but Dion was all eyes and question. “Gracious, I had thought you would have had it all sewn up already, Stefan!”
He could not forbear a grin, though he cast a wary glance at Lucy. She did not look up. “I have, as it happens.”
Not much to his surprise, Lucy flung up her head, throwing him an ireful look which boded ill for the barrowful of schemes he had in his head.
“For my part,” said his sister, before Lucy could edge in a word, “I think we should stick to Mama’s notion and tell her Lucy is an indigent relative. Did you not tell Paulina so when she asked after us, Mama?”
“Do you take me for a fool?” demanded Corisande. “Of course not, when it is perfectly obvious —”
Hawkesbury coughed, and Stefan looked towards him. A discreet jerk of the butler’s head drew his attention to the footman, just re-entering the room bearing a heavy tray.
“Ah, here is James with the next course,” Stefan said loudly, giving his mother a warning look.
There was no need to remind Dion of the necessity for discretion.
Hawkesbury could be relied upon to keep his tongue, but he did not need rumour of Lucy’s true identity to become rife in the servants’ hall.
“I am surprised Paulina is able to make the journey,” Dion uttered by way of changing the trend of the conversation. “She must be nearly at her time.”
“She has a week or two yet.” Corisande laid down her utensils. “I do trust she will content herself with this one. I cannot think what she wants with so many babies.”
“It is only her third, Mama,” Stefan pointed out. “Admittedly, they have come in quick succession.”
Lucy was looking at Corisande. “I saw her the first day. She appeared to be very well, despite being so close to her confinement.”
“Yes, I forgot you had met her,” said Stefan, and was satisfied to have drawn Lucy’s eyes in his direction.
“It was hardly a meeting. She took me for a servant. She thought I had come to be interviewed for an appointment.”
Stefan found it typical, but Dion was up in arms. “How rude. Not but what it is just what one would expect.”
“I can scarcely blame her,” Lucy said. “My dress is plain, if respectable, and my mourning may make me appear less than I am.”
“Yes, like the housekeeper or something of the sort,” agreed Corisande. “But we can remedy that.”
Stefan found his mother’s eyes upon him, expectation in them. She wished him to substantiate it? And risk Lucy’s wrath? So be it. But Lucy forestalled him.
“I don’t think so. It seems to me admirable to our purposes if Lady Sarclet does think me a servant. Indeed, it fits well with Mrs Ankerville’s earlier suggestion, that I am an indigent relative come to help with her work.”
Conscious of listening ears, Stefan looked round for the footman, but Hawkesbury gave him a nod of reassurance. Having removed the used dishes, James had left the dining parlour.
“Paulina would never believe Mama had engaged a helper,” he said, giving Lucy an apologetic look, “though it is an excellent notion.”