Chapter Nine #2
Then she brought herself down from the clouds and counseled herself very sternly on the matter.
It was perfectly fine to find Lord Tramondeley handsome, and he really was.
It was perfectly fine to consider him very genial, and he really was.
It was even perfectly fine to feel drawn to him, which she must admit that she was.
However, from a practical standpoint it could go no further.
She simply did not have the temperament to be able to sleep while keeping one ear out for French soldiers storming the house.
Even when she was not asleep she would be jumping out of her shoes at every sound.
She must remember that she was far more suited to a quiet life with a staid gentleman who collected something.
It would not do to pretend she was other than she was.
She was not some brave heroine who would risk every danger.
She was a lady far more prone to hide under her blankets.
That brought to mind the count, as he was exceedingly handsome too, in a different sort of way.
He seemed interested in her, he wished for a calm and quiet life, and he collected art.
His estate was in Hertfordshire, with not a coastline or French ship in sight.
She had never conceived that she might find herself consorting with a Sardinian gentleman, but he really did have everything to recommend him.
He had only the slightest accent, which lent a certain charm to his perfect English.
His clothes had small differences, but they were so elegant they could be thought to be improvements.
He was considerate too. That clever idea of his that a groom should gallop Tulip before she mounted showed he understood her.
He’d not counseled that she get used to trotting and cantering or made fun over her only walking Tulip.
If she wished to walk her horse, that was perfectly fine.
There was something comforting about being accepted as she was and not expected to be anything different.
If she could only stop thinking of Lord Tramondeley. Or, if a miracle would occur, if Lord Tramondeley would stop thinking about chasing French boats in the dark. She felt that hope was probably futile but somehow she could not entirely give it up.
As she had expected, her father would never have allowed her into the count’s carriage, even if Mrs. Right was with her and the count was on horseback.
She and Mrs. Right would take one of the duke’s carriages driven by the duke’s most trusted coachman.
Winkman had been in the duke’s service long and could be trusted that nothing went amiss.
If the count or any other gentleman thought he might hand over a guinea and get inside the coach himself, that gentleman would find himself on the ground, looking up and wondering what had happened.
Felicity often said that while their father seemed so devil-may-care, he put careful fences round his daughters.
The count had arrived to the house on a very fine black stallion.
He sat a horse very well, and Valor could only admire it.
Though, as soon as she got in the carriage, she slid over to the opposite side and peered out the window toward Lord Tramondeley’s house.
Lady Letitia’s carriage was already there.
Lord Ledderbey led the two ladies out of the house.
She could not hear what was said, but Lady Letitia threw her head back and laughed and seemed very jolly.
The ladies got in the carriage but Lord Ledderbey did not.
He waved them off. Then there was Lord Tramondeley seated on a fine chestnut.
Valor’s own carriage jerked forward and they set off, leaving the view behind.
She was determined to put away what she’d just viewed and enjoy the day.
The count led the way through the London streets to Montagu House on Great Russell Street.
He helped Valor and Mrs. Right down from the carriage and led them to the entrance.
They showed their tickets and were met by Mr. Reed, a curator of the museum.
“Count di Compressio,” Mr. Reed said. “Welcome to the British Museum.”
“Mr. Reed,” the count said. “I escort Lady Valor Nicolet, daughter of the Duke of Pelham, and her esteemed friend, Mrs. Right.”
Mr. Reed greeted them. Valor was really appreciative of how the count introduced Mrs. Right. There might be some who dismissed her as only the housekeeper or might say she was only a companion, but the count appeared to hold her in high regard and see her for what she was.
“I understand, Count,” Mr. Reed said, “you have a particular interest in the Townley Collection.”
The count nodded. “If Lady Valor is agreeable. Charles Townley spent much time on the Continent and brought back some magnificent sculptures.”
Valor nodded. Of course she was agreeable.
She had not the first idea what this impressive building held, but sculptures sounded as good as anything else.
She gazed round the high ceiling painted with an angelic fresco and the murals on the walls reaching twenty feet high and depicting ancient pastoral scenes, and the wide, sweeping marble staircase.
The building was so grand it made her feel small.
Even though their house in the Dales was likely larger, it was somehow more cozy and built for people.
Theirs was all comfortable nooks and overstuffed furniture, and this was all cold gleaming marble and iron rails edging the stairs.
They were led up those stairs and there Lady Valor Nicolet had her eyes opened to the wider world.
She’d had no idea there was so much beauty in it!
It seemed astonishing that an artist could take a block of marble and transform it into a figure that looked almost alive.
She was particularly taken with the Townley Caryatid, an eight-foot-tall sculpture of a women in flowing robes.
The robes were carved in such a way that they appeared as if they might move in a breeze.
The count explained the Caryatid was made of Pentelic marble, the same that had been used in the Acropolis.
Mr. Reed estimated that it had been produced somewhere between 140 and 160 AD. It was astonishing.
It seemed to Valor that the world was bigger and more expansive than she’d thought it. She seemed to know so little of it, while the count knew so much. He was so worldly and perhaps there was a safety in that. A knowing protection of some sort, as if nothing could take him by surprise.
And then, he collected art, she could not imagine what he had in his house in Hertfordshire. He must be surrounded by such beauty.
What a day. First an invitation from Lord Tramondeley to a Cornwall party and then viewing wondrous sculptures she’d never known had even existed.
*
Mrs. Right had been out all afternoon, acting as duenna for Valor while she toured the British Museum with the Sardinian count.
It had been an impressive place, she supposed.
She had found it rather stark. She was not an admirer of an overabundance of marble and the place had been full of it.
She found the look of it too hard and cold to be comfortable.
In any case, she did not care for people carved in stone who stood eight feet tall. It was alarming.
What was more concerning were the attentions of the count.
What was he intending? He was a charming individual who sought to please, but if he was out to wed her poppet, she could only see disaster ahead.
He claimed he wished to settle in Hertfordshire.
That might be acceptable, though still a bit too far from the Dales for her own taste.
But that would not be the end of it. These people who lived in perpetual sunshine always tired of English weather.
Suddenly, they became depressed and their bones hurt from the damp and they complained bitterly about the rain and fog.
They never could appreciate the charm of rain pounding on the rooftops while sitting in front of a cozy fire.
Eventually, they longed to return to their sunny locale.
The duke had made the mistake many years ago of hiring a gardener from Rome.
That fellow never stopped complaining about the cold and how he thought it was making his bones brittle.
Mrs. Right had been tempted to trip him and find out if it were true.
He’d finally given up his post and returned home.
They’d all been glad to see the back of him.
That was just what would happen with the count.
Valor, who would have no business gallivanting off to foreign shores, would find herself in Sardinia.
She would be friendless! She could not even speak the language.
She could barely speak French. She would be far away from the support of her family.
She would be on the Continent, which was a place where anything could happen.
Napoleon had recently been making that point. She was so unsuited to any of it.
Mrs. Right was beginning to think she ought to come up with some plan to drive off this foreign count.
It was true she’d made some errors in that regard in the past. Mrs. Right was not one to turn away from her mistakes and there had been some unfortunate mistakes made.
Perhaps she had attempted to ruin the life of a gentleman who would go on to become the husband of one of her girls.
As she was rather steely eyed at staring at the facts, she could even go so far as to admit that she’d erroneously attempted to ruin the lives of all her girls’ current husbands.
But this situation must be considered a different matter.
She did not act on speculation. The Sardinian count was admittedly and definitely from Sardinia.
Everybody returned to their homeland eventually, that was a well-known fact.
Valor Nicolet was not the type of lady who would be happy settling in a foreign place where she did not understand the language or the customs. Another well-known fact.
This time, there was no possibility of a mistake.
Mrs. Right was afraid that Valor was attracted to the count’s unwavering courtesy and gentle manner.
She was afraid Valor believed this nonsense about settling in Hertfordshire forevermore to enjoy the peace of the countryside.
She was convinced her little poppet turned in the count’s direction out of fear.
She must do something. And then, if Valor’s eyes were to turn to Lord Tramondeley?
This habit of his to go out in the night and chase French boats might be given up.
It was not ideal that he was the sort of man who would do such a ludicrous thing, but he would have no chance at sinking his boat if they could get him to the Dales.
He could sail round the lake, and if he sank he could just swim to the banks.
Of course, deciding she must do something about the count was all well and good. What that something might be was a different matter. How did one drive off a foreign count?
As she was mulling that over, she heard a loud crash from the direction of the dining room. Then Thomas said, “Oh Mr. Huberville!”
Mr. Huberville, apparently expecting that denunciation, cried, “I know! Things just fly out of my hand!”
Mrs. Right began to wonder if there was a way to rid them of both a count and a hapless butler. Mr. Huberville might like Sardinia and did not all foreigners wish for an English butler? She had no information that they did, but it seemed like they must.
After all, the English did things so superiorly to the rest of the world.