Chapter Seven #2
“It’s not yet cold enough for it, of course,” she had told Irene. “But you might get a bit of cold weather by the end of your stay. And nothing makes a woman look so elegant and fragile as carrying a fur muff for her hands. You do have quite passable hands. You should play up that feature.”
“Thank you,” Irene had stammered in surprise. “I shall take very good care of it.”
“See that you do,” Maura had retorted, her brows drawing together, and Irene had hastily tucked the fur away in her trunk before her sister-in-law could change her mind.
There had been so much to do that Irene had managed to keep her excitement tamped down, but finally the day before, as she watched all their trunks being loaded onto the wagon in which Lady Haughston’s maid and coachman would follow them, Irene had at last allowed the suppressed excitement to blossom within her.
She was leaving London and the stifling constraints of the ton for the freedom of the country.
She and her mother would be free for weeks from the carping and antagonism of Lady Maura.
There would be no talk of Maura’s “delicate condition” or the months of sacrifice that lay before her, or the faintness, nausea and a dozen other ills that afflicted a woman during this time.
And her mother would blossom once outside of Maura’s clutches.
That fact alone was enough to make Irene very glad that she had agreed to accompany Francesca to Radbourne Park.
Irene thought of Lord Radbourne; he would probably be there to greet them when they arrived.
She wondered if he would be frosty in tone toward her and stubbornly sure that he would be able to change her mind.
He would not woo her, of course; Irene doubted that the man was capable of something as socially skilled as wooing.
But she suspected that he would in some way or another attempt to convince her that she should marry him.
After all, he still needed a wife, and she did not think he was a man who gave up easily.
Of course there would be other young ladies there, and there was always the possibility that he would turn to one of them.
Irene unconsciously narrowed her lips at the thought.
It would be a reasonable thing to do, of course—no doubt one of the other young women would be far more likely to accept his suit, willing to give up her freedom for the opportunity of being a countess—and, Irene reminded herself, she certainly hoped that the earl would set his sights on someone else.
But she was honest enough to admit that it would be somewhat lowering to have it proved to her so clearly that she was not special in Lord Radbourne’s eyes, and that any other woman would serve his purpose just as well.
She told herself that it was absurd to experience even a twinge of discomfort over the matter.
Certainly she did not want the earl to continue his pursuit of her, and her visit would be far more pleasant if he did not.
And she was not the sort to be dog-in-the-mangerish about things.
Her pride might feel a twinge of hurt, but that would be quickly over.
It would be a vast relief, really, to have him cease importuning her.
Along with her heavy old-fashioned carriage, Lady Odelia had sent her conservative old coachman, as well, so their trip was slow.
However, Irene did not mind. Francesca was a lively companion, and her mother, once away from her critical daughter-in-law, had talked and laughed happily until she fell asleep, so the time had passed pleasantly.
And when they fell silent, Irene always had her thoughts to occupy her.
She enjoyed looking at the countryside, for she had never traveled this way.
Nor was she accustomed to staying in inns, as most of her journeys, such as from their rural home to London, had taken no more than one day.
It was a wonderful new experience, she thought, and she intended to squeeze every last drop of enjoyment from it.
Now, as they grew close to their destination, anticipation rose in her.
She pushed aside the window curtain from time to time, hoping to catch a glimpse of Radbourne Park, but she saw nothing except a tall hedge beside the narrow lane along which they rode.
The carriage turned from the road onto another lane, smaller and less well traveled, and Irene pushed the curtain back again and peered out, thinking that they must have turned onto the drive to the house.
They passed a small cottage, but after that they entered into a stretch of woods and were surrounded on both sides by tall trees, whose branches arched over the carriage. They rattled along, crossing a stone bridge over a stream, and then, a moment later, the carriage emerged from the trees.
Irene unashamedly stuck her head out of the window to get her first look at the house.
Before them was a vast expanse of green lawn, sloping gently upward, intersected by the drive that curved in front of the house.
The house lay at the highest point, alone in its splendor, with no trees or shrubbery in front or to the sides to soften its lines.
Irene sucked in her breath. “Oh, my.”
It was not the largest house she had ever seen, but it was, in its way, perhaps the most imposing.
The central square of the mansion, built as a magnificent gatehouse, was a full four stories tall, anchored on the ends by twin circular towers that rose another two stories into the air.
The rest of the house spread out on either side of the towers in dormered wings of a more normal three-story height.
The entire thing was built of red brick, its shading varying slightly from section to section, with a few darker bricks mixed in.
The ornamentation atop the towers was of terra-cotta, a molded brickwork resembling stone, as were the window frames.
The pale autumnal sun, low in the afternoon sky, glittered off the mullioned windows and cast shadows beside the towers, adding to the majestic appearance of the house.
Both Irene’s mother, who had awoken on her own, and Francesca leaned over to join her at the carriage windows, and Lady Claire uttered a soft echo of Irene’s words.
“Well,” Francesca commented drily. “Obviously the Bankes family thinks well of themselves.”
“It’s…Well, I’m not sure what the word for it is,” Irene said, still gazing at the house. “It is not what I would call beautiful, but it is certainly grand. It has an appeal.”
“It looks to me the sort of place that probably has a skeleton or two moldering in the cellars. Or mayhap a mad uncle locked up in the attic,” Francesca told her.
Irene chuckled. “No, it looks to me more like—oh, something that one of those Elizabethan corsairs might have built for himself. Doesn’t it have the look of an adventurer? Brash and bold?”
“Mmm, I suppose.” Francesca cast a teasing glance at her. “Irene, you have deceived me. I believe that there is something of a romantic in you.”
Irene blushed a little as she sat back in her seat. “Nonsense. Simply because one can see the appeal in something does not mean that one necessarily succumbs to it.”
Francesca said nothing for a moment, merely smiled a little to herself, then changed the subject. “I feel sure that Lady Odelia will be there to greet us. Do you know Lady Pencully, Lady Wyngate?” she asked, looking toward Irene’s mother.
“I have met her. I would not say I knew her, really,” Claire replied carefully.
“I think to meet Lady Odelia is to know her,” Francesca replied with a quick grin. “She is not a woman of subtlety.”
Claire smiled back and admitted, “No. I believe that Lady Pencully is quite…true to herself. Which is an excellent quality.”
“No doubt,” Francesca agreed wryly.
“I have never met Lady Pencully,” Irene said, and looked toward her mother. “Have I? She sounds the sort whom one would remember.”
“Oh, yes,” Lady Claire agreed. “I do not think that you have met her. She does not get about much anymore. At least, she rarely comes to London.”
“A fact for which we should all be grateful,” Francesca told Irene.
“I feel sure that she will not frighten you, Irene, but I was always terrified of her. Whenever she would come to Dancy Park to visit, I did my best to get out of calling on her. She never misses anything—whether it’s a torn ruffle, a curl out of place or an unflattering style. ”
“You sound as if you know Lady Pencully well,” Irene commented. “Is she a relation?”
Francesca’s eyes widened, and she exclaimed, “Goodness, no! My family’s home is near Dancy Park, one of the Duke of Rochford’s estates. It is a pleasant place, and Lady Pencully, who is the duke’s great-aunt, often came to visit him when he was in residence there.”
“Do you know the others at Radbourne Park?” Lady Claire asked.
“No. Indeed, I have never been here before,” Francesca explained.
“I have never met Lady Pencully’s sister.
She is the present earl’s grandmother, as I understand it.
I am rather curious to meet her. I cannot help but wonder if she is like Lady Odelia.
It is difficult to imagine two such in one family. ”
“Who else is in residence at the Park?” Irene asked.
“I would think that the late earl’s second wife must live there, as well.
He remarried late in life, I understand, but I have never met the countess.
They did not visit London, I suppose because of the earl’s advancing years and ill health.
I do not even recall her name. They had a son, as well, only a boy still.
I remember there was much talk about his losing his inheritance when Radbourne was restored to his family.
I know little about them, though. And I am not sure if there are any other family members present.
Lady Odelia has a way of skipping over ‘minor details.’”
“Well, we will find out soon enough,” Irene commented, looking out the window again.