Chapter 9
They finally reached the outskirts of Bath at half past six that evening after a most trying day.
There had been six stops in total and the luncheon they had taken at The King’s Head had not been good.
The soup had been served so hot that they had barely the time to wait for it to cool before they were due back on the conveyance and as for the bread it was served with, well, that had been sadly stale.
All in all, Caroline was glad to reach The Red Lion inn.
The courtyard was lit up with lanterns, and the place had a smart and well-maintained appearance.
The Hawtrees took a frosty leave-taking of them, though Miss Chloe threw a look of admiration over her shoulder which Caroline felt quite embarrassed to receive.
“Thanks for blackening my name as effectively as my mother ever did,” she murmured as Chloe’s stiff-backed mother stalked away, dragging her daughter in her wake.
Lord Atherton looked startled by her words. “I had not thought of it in those terms,” he admitted. “But you have to admit, you had your revenge by wafting those vinegar rags about in a most aggravating fashion.”
“You made me dispose of them at the second stop!” she grumbled. “And Mrs. Dawkins was so kind in preparing them for me.”
“I have an extremely sensitive nose. Besides, when it comes to my stratagem for dealing with the Hawtrees, you have to admit it was better than the alternative.”
“The alternative?” Caroline queried.
“Traveling seventy-seven miles conversing with them,” he shot back.
“Oh, perish the thought!” she answered dramatically. “Imagine having to converse pleasantly with two perfect strangers. The horror!”
He smirked. “I am glad you appreciate my feelings on the subject.”
“Oh, always, cousin.”
They were approaching the inn now. “If I can procure us two separate rooms tonight then you can take the twins with you to keep you company,” he offered generously.
“You are too kind. And what will I do when I get scolded by the maid in the morning for bringing unsanctioned cats into the bedchamber?”
Her words seemed incomprehensible to him. “She won’t scold you. Just tell her who your cousin is,” he recommended.
The man was clearly used to getting his way in all things, Caroline reflected. It was simply unfathomable to him to imagine a world that did not cater to him. This time, to her relief, he was successful in securing Caroline a room of her own.
“Before you get too excited, I must warn you, apparently it is a poky affair up in the eaves and more suited for a servant or a child. In any event it was the only spare room they have.”
“But I don’t mind that at all,” she assured him gratefully. “I am sure it is most suitable for your cousin who is being dragged back to London in disgrace, though it would not do for your lady wife.”
“Well, if, you’re sure. Cousin it is,” he answered lightly.
If she was sure? Caroline eyed him askance. Was he suggesting that she might prefer to share a bed with him again? She felt faintly scandalized though it was probably nothing more than his peculiar sense of humor on display.
“I have a parlor reserved for our private use, so if you would like to meet me there in half an hour, we can take our dinner together.”
Caroline nodded and followed the porter who lumbered up the staircase with her carpet bag in hand.
One last look over the balcony showed Gervaise deep in conversation with the landlord.
Gervaise. When had she started to think of him as that?
He was not really her cousin, she reminded herself, and she needed to remember as much.
He had been quite right about the room. It was dark and cramped with a narrow bed and a rather hard mattress. Still, at least she would have her privacy in here. There was a lot to be said for that.
A maid knocked upon the door and appeared bearing a pitcher of water for Caroline to wash. After divesting herself of her bonnet, cloak, and gloves, she took a quick wash, tidied her hair, and made her way back downstairs.
Enquiry as to which was Lord Atherton’s parlor led to another porter showing her the way. “It’s through here, miss. Right this way.”
He was not down yet, so Caroline stood awhile warming her hands before the cozy fire. It had been bitter cold again and her toes and the tips of her ears still tingled. She wondered if her nose was red, for there had been no mirror on the small washstand in her room.
A footfall behind her had her turning around to see Lord Atherton enter the room. He flashed her a smile and she felt a glad flutter in her chest at the sight of him. Oh dear. She really was losing sight of things.
He had changed his coat for a maroon velvet jacket and the kittens’ heads poked out from his pockets. “I was planning on keeping the twins concealed until our dinner has been served,” he said ruefully, “but these pockets are not so deep as the ones in my woolen coat.”
She laughed. “It’s a good thing you’re entirely shameless, then, for they seem disinclined for concealment. Why not let them come and sit here before the fire?”
Scooping them out of his pockets, he approached the hearth and set them down on the rug before it. Caroline stepped back to make room for him. The kittens gamboled around, glad for the space to play, for they had slept away most of the day.
The door creaked, and they both turned to see a servant entering with a tray piled high with food. Caroline’s stomach rumbled. She felt famished. “I told you, you should have eaten a more substantial breakfast,” Gervaise commented, approaching the table and pulling out a chair for her.
Caroline hurried to the table. “Well, but if lunch had not been so dissatisfactory I would not be so hungry now,” she pointed out.
“Lunch was execrable,” he agreed at once. “I could scarcely taste the soup with my burned mouth but my overall impression was of scalding dishwater.”
“Your lordship will receive better service here,” the servant promised, unburdening himself of dishes and setting them on the table. “A right good spread we serve, all hot and fresh from the kitchen. Nothing stale nor congealing here!”
“I am very glad to hear it,” Gervaise responded gravely.
“I’ll just go back and fetch the cruet set and gravy boat,” the man promised, bobbing his head and backing out of the room.
“Obliging fellow,” Gervaise commented. “Let us hope our meal makes good on his boasts.”
They soon found he spoke nothing but the truth. An excellent oxtail soup was followed by roast beef and Yorkshire pudding served with a selection of root vegetables including carrots, celeriac, parsnips, and leeks.
The cats grew restless, weaving between their chairs until they received choice bits of beef which they consumed with every evidence of enjoyment.
After eating they grew increasingly playful, skittering around the room, and whipping around to confront one another before rolling together in a tangle of fur.
“I hope they are not fighting,” Caroline said in alarm as Remus pounced first on her foot, and then Romulus’s tail.
“They would be hissing and cursing at one another if they were,” Gervaise replied, looking supremely unconcerned.
For dessert they were served a creamy rice pudding flavored with cinnamon and nutmeg. Caroline was secretly surprised to see him tucking in so heartily to such a humble pudding. Seeing her watching him, he cocked a quizzical eyebrow at her.
“You are fond of puddings,” she observed.
“I am. This surprises you? I have a sweet tooth.”
“It is not so much the sweetness as the stodginess that surprises me. I suppose I imagined you eating much more sophisticated fare, perhaps iced oranges or a vanilla blancmange.”
He smirked. “I would not turn my nose up at either of those options, but as a matter of fact when it comes to puddings, I believe the stodgier, the better. You should have seen the treacle pudding I ate last night, both your share and mine.”
She leaned an elbow against the table, propping up her chin.
“I suppose it is your height that keeps you so slim,” she mused.
“Poor Squire Pebmarsh is not permitted by his physician to eat desserts anymore. His daughters insist he carries a tin of Bath Olivers with him whenever he goes out to dine.”
“Bath Olivers?” he echoed, sitting back in his seat. “I believe my aunt Deborah used to eat them as a digestive aid. A thin, crispy biscuit, if memory serves.”
“Yes, those are the ones. I expect you like stodgy puddings as a leftover of your school days.”
“Did they not serve pudding at your girls’ school?” he asked.
“At Hamberleigh Hall? Only on special occasions, I’m afraid. Otherwise, we had to make do with bread and jam.” She grimaced. “It was not a very good school.”
“I expect Edgar’s was far better.”
His words instantly sobered her. “Well… Possibly,” she admitted.
“I do not know why you turn so stiff and awkward over it. It is not your fault that your mother favored your brother to a ridiculous degree.”
“I don’t know either,” Caroline admitted in a rush. “I suppose I feel disloyal talking about it so openly. Some mothers do favor their sons. I do not think it is all that out of the ordinary.”
“Perhaps not. It is the degree to which your mother takes her partiality that makes your own case unusual.”
“I think it is because my father was cruel to her, whereas Edgar’s was kind.”
“Oh? What do you actually know of your father?” he asked, drawing out his cigarette case.
“Very little.” She shrugged. “Mother does not care to talk of him. She always says that period was the darkest time of her life.”
“I see. And you have never had cause to doubt her account of him?” He struck a match and Caroline stared at him.
“I—well…no,” she admitted. “It seemed to make a sort of sense why she might…dislike me so much. If I remind her of him, I mean.”
“I see,” he responded, placing a cigarette between his lips.
“Besides, she never speaks poorly of Mr. Needham, her second husband,” Caroline said, and even she could hear the defensiveness in her tone.
“Father of the saintly Edgar? Ah yes. He has been dead how long?”
“Oh, a long time now. I scarcely even remember him.”
“And how old were you when he died?”
“I was three.”
“Hmmm.”
“What of your parents, my lord?” she ventured to ask. “Is your mother still living?”
“She lives in Italy with her third husband,” he answered promptly.
“And have you no half sisters or brothers?”
“I have not, much to my mother’s relief. She has no interest in children, though she likes me well enough now, whenever our paths should happen to cross.”
“When did they last do so?”
He waved his cigarette around. “Oh…it must have been some four years ago now. Or was it perhaps five?” He screwed up his eyes with the effort of remembering.
Caroline deduced they were not close. “If it is not impertinent, how old were you when your father died?”
“I was six,” he responded easily enough.
“You became Lord Atherton at six years of age.”
“I did.”
“What is your actual rank?” it occurred to her to ask. “I don’t think you have ever told me.”
“I am an earl,” he responded dryly. “Earl of Atherton.”
“And is that a place?”
“Not anymore,” he answered with a puff of smoke.
“There are no lands and no properties attached to the title, alas. The entailment on the estate had wound up by the time it reached my grandfather. He consequently sold the family pile in Norfolk and then willed everything he could away from my father, leaving it all to his younger son, my uncle George. He got all the money, the townhouse, the jewelry, the family portraits, etc. etc.”
Caroline sat up. “That seems rather unfair on your father.”
“Doesn’t it? But you see, when Grandfather died, my father had no issue.
The old man had been very keen on acquiring a grandson.
My mother had been selected for her bloodlines, in the expectation that she would produce said heir.
However, from the start their marriage was somewhat contentious.
They spent a good deal of their time apart.
After six years of marriage, my grandfather decided it was most dissatisfactory all round and decided to disinherit my father.
Then Grandfather died only three months later, and by the time I materialized, Uncle George had inherited the lot. ”
“And then your uncle George had no children,” she said slowly, looking to him for confirmation.
“He never even married,” he clarified. “I think he felt a little guilty when I appeared. He agreed to name me his heir and paid a generous allowance for my schooling and expenses.”
“Well, that was good of him, at least.”
“Mmmm, yes. On my father’s death he became my guardian and was most accommodating in that role until recently, when he gave me a very nasty shock.”
Caroline leaned forward on her elbows. “What happened?” Gervaise poured himself a brandy and lifted his eyebrows at her. “No, thank you,” she said quickly.
“Suit yourself. Well, to put in a nutshell, he started showing an interest in my matrimonial prospects. Namely, selecting a candidate in a most odiously pushing manner.”
“A candidate for your bride, you mean?”
“I do,” he confirmed. “The daughter of a business acquaintance of his. A bottled fruit manufacturer.”
Caroline eyed him steadily. “She has plenty of money, I suspect.”
“Oh, she does. Pots of the stuff.”
“And you have none.”
“True,” he said, exhaling another plume of smoke. “I also have little inclination to marry Miss Beryl Blessing, who is a vivacious young woman of twenty-one, determined to cut a swathe through fashionable society and have all of London worshipping at her dainty feet.”
“She’s beautiful, then?”
“If you appreciate diminutive blondes with very large blue eyes and tinkling laughs.”
“She sounds quite delightful,” Caroline said truthfully. “And all that is desirable in a bride. Your only objection must lie in her connection to trade.” She felt unaccountably disappointed in him.
“Perhaps, but in my defense, I also dislike having my hand forced.”
Gazing at him through the haze of smoke surrounding him, Caroline found she did not doubt it.