Chapter Seven #4
Clearly the widowed countess did not share Irene’s opinion, however.
Indeed, Irene was coming to realize that Lady Teresa held a rather healthy dislike of the new earl.
It was somewhat understandable, of course, for if Gideon had not been found, Teresa’s own young son would have inherited the title.
Irene supposed that any mother would dislike the loss for her son—though she also suspected that, given this woman’s proud manner, Lady Teresa equally disliked the loss of her own importance as mother of an earl still in his minority.
And since Lord Radbourne intended to marry quickly, the woman’s place would soon be completely usurped.
Although Irene could understand the lady’s dislike of the new earl, she could not like her for it.
Irene suspected that she would not be spending much time with Lady Teresa during her visit here and was glad of it.
And, given the cold look in Lady Teresa’s eyes when she spoke to her, Irene guessed that Lady Teresa had equally little interest in becoming friends.
It came as no surprise that Lady Odelia had her way, and the new arrivals sat down to tea with the other women.
They discussed their journey with Lady Odelia in rather tedious detail, but finally the tea was consumed and the little cakes eaten, and Lady Odelia allowed the new arrivals to be shown to their rooms, even though Lord Radbourne had not yet made an appearance.
Irene’s room was commodious and well situated, with a set of windows on either side of the bed looking out over the side gardens.
She peered out of one window, her eyes going beyond the garden, largely denuded now that the weather was growing colder, to the stand of tall trees beyond.
She could see, as well, a slice of the rear gardens, and past them a meadow.
Far in the distance, a stream they had crossed earlier that afternoon curled like a bright ribbon through the rolling land.
The place would provide a number of pleasant afternoon walks, she thought, something she sorely missed in London.
The wagon with the bulk of their luggage had not yet arrived, so her choice of garments was limited to those she had carried in the smaller bags that had been placed on top of the carriage. She thought that the deep blue evening gown that lay in one of those bags would do quite well.
One of the upstairs maids popped into the room, offering to return later to help Irene with unpacking and getting ready for supper.
But Irene was not tired from the journey.
Rather, she was still filled with a sense of anticipation.
So, forgoing a nap to recover from the trip, she was soon bathed and dressed.
Sending the maid on her way, she brushed out her own hair and began to pull it into a circumspect knot at the crown of her head.
However, she had barely begun when Maisie, Francesca’s maid, came bustling in. “No, my lady, no!”
Maisie looked horrified as she hurried to take the brush from Irene’s hands. “You must let me do your hair. You promised you would let me try a style I had in mind.”
“But you must help Lady Haughston,” Irene protested.
“Oh, no, not yet. Her ladyship never starts dressing for supper this early,” Maisie told her, expertly pulling and twisting and pinning Irene’s hair as she talked. “I will do your hair first, and then there will be plenty of time for Lady Haughston’s toilette.”
“Yes, but—”
“Oh, never say you aren’t going to let me. I would so like to work with your curls. Her ladyship’s hair is beautiful, of course, but entirely different from yours. You have so much of it—and those curls!”
“Those curls are a nuisance,” Irene told her, but the girl just smiled and shook her head, promising Irene that she “would see.”
And Irene did see a few minutes later when Maisie had finished and stepped back, highlighting the finished product with a flourish of her hand.
“Oh, my,” Irene said, gazing at her image in the mirror.
The hairstyle Maisie had created was a far cry from the simple tight knot in which she usually wore her hair.
Her hair was full and soft around her face, drawn up and back, then falling in a profusion of curls.
Though tightly anchored with hairpins, it seemed loose and soft, as though it might fall free at any moment.
It looked, Irene thought, beautiful, and she smiled at Maisie in the mirror, nodding.
The maid left to tend to Francesca, and Irene sat for a moment longer, looking at herself in the mirror.
She supposed she should not indulge in such vanity, but she could not help but smile at her image.
She looked prettier than usual, softer and more approachable.
She tried to recapture the stern expression she usually wore, but somehow her face would not pull into the severe lines.
She stood up and strolled over to the window, but it had grown dark outside, and there was nothing to see. She turned back to the room, feeling restless and wondering how she would occupy herself for the next hour until it was time for everyone to convene for supper.
It occurred to her that she could slip downstairs and look for the library, and find a book to read, but the thought of something as sedentary as reading did not appeal to her at the moment.
She wanted to walk, but of course she could not go out for a walk at this hour and in this dress.
Finally she remembered that she had glimpsed a long gallery leading off from the entry hall this afternoon when they had arrived, and she thought that strolling along it, looking at the artwork, might be just the thing to occupy her time.
Irene picked up her black shawl to drape around her arms, bared by the short puffed sleeves of her gown, and left her room.
She walked quietly, not really wishing any company, and went softly and quickly down the stairs.
She had just started across the wide entryway to the gallery beyond when she heard a man’s voice.
“Lady Irene. Not running away already, are you?”
Her stomach tightened, and she turned, knowing that voice even before she saw him. “Lord Radbourne.”