Chapter Fourteen
“H e’s here, by the way,” the countess said. “Ashart. Came with the Tunbridge Wells great-aunts.”
“Oh, my! And yet I hear no distant sound of war.”
“Children are kept up here so they won’t be heard, but it works in reverse. They could be murdering each other and we wouldn’t know. But Bey has matters in hand, I think, though it was quite a shock, as you can imagine.”
Lady Arradale drew Genova forward. “Let me make known Miss Smith, Portia, companion to Lady Thalia and Lady Calliope. Miss Smith, this is my sister-in-law, Portia, Lady Arcenbryght Malloren, more commonly Lady Bryght. The late Marquess of Rothgar had an obsessive attachment to all things Anglo-Saxon, which is the cause of the names. You are spared Hilda, Brand, and Cynric, who are Christmasing elsewhere. Elfled—Lady Walgrave—is here, but not much in evidence since she expects a baby any day. We tease my husband that he’s arranged a Christmas reenactment. ”
Genova dropped a curtsy, trying to take all this in.
“And this,” the countess said, smiling at the child who had toddled over to hide in his mother’s skirts, “is Master Francis Malloren.”
Lady Bryght ruffled his hair. “Make your bow, Francis.”
The child emerged enough to make a quite reasonable bow but then slid back into safety.
“He’ll be all right soon,” Lady Bryght said, picking him up and kissing his round cheek. “He takes his time with strangers, don’t you, poppet? And very wise, too. See, Francis, a baby. What’s his name?” she asked Genova.
“Charlie, my lady, and the maid’s name is Sheena. Sheena O’Leary, but that’s about as far as we’ve progressed. She speaks virtually no English.” She turned to Lady Arradale. “Is there anyone here who speaks Gaelic?”
“My goodness. I’m not aware of any Irish servants, but there must be some in the neighborhood. That will wait and you must all be so tired. Let’s make arrangements for little Charlie and then you can refresh yourself.”
She sent the maid to find a Mrs. Harbinger, and soon an older woman appeared. She was heavy-boned and could have looked glowering, but her eyes lit at the sight of the baby.
“Ah, the precious!” She came forward with the clear intention of taking Charlie. Sheena stepped back.
“She’s afraid,” Genova said quickly. “She doesn’t speak English, and I don’t think she understands what’s happening to her, poor girl.”
“This is Mrs. Harbinger, the nursery governess,” the countess explained. “She’s in charge of this part of the house.” She gave the nursery governess a vague explanation of Charlie’s arrival. It implied an accident on the road without actually telling lies.
The woman was all sympathy. “It’s only a matter of airing the baby nursery, my lady, and bringing another maid up here, with your permission. You can leave it all to me.”
“I know I can. I’ll see if there’s anyone in the area who speaks Gaelic, but in the meantime, I know you’ll be understanding with poor Miss O’Leary, who must feel very ill at ease.”
“Of course, my lady.” The woman wrapped an arm around Sheena’s shoulders and drew her to a chair near the fire, murmuring comfort all the while. The Irish girl looked desperately at Genova for a moment, but then relaxed and even smiled at her new protector.
Genova felt a burden rise from her shoulders. That, at least, was all right.
Lady Arradale moved toward the door, and Lady Bryght kissed her son and gave him to the maid. She swept up a large shawl and wrapped it around herself. “I must come and see what’s happening. Ashart here. My stars!”
Soon the three of them were heading back down the stairs and through the maze of corridors. Genova was sure that by herself she’d be one of the wandering guests. After a number of turns, the countess opened a door to a fine bedchamber.
Genova saw some of her possessions, including the presepe box. This was her room? The splendor shocked her. She would have much preferred something simpler.
“We’d normally give you a room for yourself,” Lady Arradale said, “but over Christmas, every space will be required.”
Genova noticed then that various items belonged to Thalia. That explained the grandeur, but she’d hoped for a place of her own, no matter how plain. She’d not realized until the past three days how much she relished her privacy.
However, she said, “I’m accustomed to sharing a room with Lady Thalia.”
“She is delightful, isn’t she? Such a shame that Rothgar’s been cut off from his great-aunts all these years. Now the ice is broken, things will be different.”
Genova recalled a scene she’d witnessed once—ice breaking and people falling through it to their deaths. It was a strange saying, all in all.
The brisk countess opened an adjoining door. “There’s a closet attached, with a bed for the maid.”
It was a narrow dressing room, just large enough for a huge armoire, a chest of drawers, and a small bed. Even so, Genova envied Regeanne, who was putting things away. The maid looked around, startled, then dipped a curtsy.
Lady Arradale waved for her to continue her work and closed the door again. “I gather Ashart visits the great-aunts in Tunbridge Wells?”
“A few times a year, I understand, my lady, but not while I’ve known them.”
The countess cocked her head and Genova was aware of being studied. “A handsome rascal, is he not?”
“We’ve only just met, my lady.”
“A moment tells us if a man is handsome or not, Miss Smith.”
Genova knew she was blushing and shed her fur-lined cloak as excuse. “He’s certainly handsome in that way, my lady. But handsome is that handsome does, and his behavior toward his poor child isn’t handsome at all.”
“Molly Carew’s behavior would drive a saint to distraction,” Lady Bryght said. “Such folly to think a man like Ashart would marry her under pressure, and I do believe she started the affair with just that in mind.”
That fired Genova’s sense of justice. “It was certainly wrong of her to become his mistress, but wasn’t it equally wrong of him to take one?”
Both ladies gave her an identical look.
“We’re speaking of folly rather than virtue,” the countess said, not unkindly. “Virtue, they say, is its own reward, and as such, it provides a thin cloak in winter. Seek also to be wise, Miss Smith.”
“There’s nothing between myself and Lord Ashart.”
Lady Bryght chuckled. “Very unwise. Keep your clothes between you at all times.”
“Portia!” laughed the countess, but she added, “It’s good advice, Miss Smith. He’s an infamous rascal.”
Genova remembered the ridiculous betrothal. What would these ladies think of her words when they heard? What could she possibly say to make things better now?
Oh, I forgot I do know he’s a rascal. That’s why I’m engaged to marry him….
“I heard Molly Carew left Lady Knatchbull’s masquerade with Ashart without a hint of shame,” Lady Bryght said. “She was dressed as Salome.”
“What?” asked the countess. “In the seven veils?”
“And not a stitch on underneath.”
“The result is a lesson to all wise women.” Lady Arradale went to the washstand. “There should be hot water.” She raised the linen covering a jug, and steam rose. “Good.”
She indicated a bellpull by the fireplace.
“That rings in the servants’ quarters and will bring somebody at any time.
Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Smith, and join us in the Tapestry Room when you’re ready.
We have a few guests already with us, but most will arrive tomorrow.
I’ll send a footman to wait by your door to guide you.
Please treat Rothgar Abbey as your home. ”
The two ladies left and Genova put a hand to her head as if that could stop its whirling. This had seemed such a simple voyage once. It had presented escape from her stepmother’s house, along with an opportunity to mingle with the great and observe their follies.
She had not planned to be a folly, stuck like a fly in the center of a gilded web.
But no, she was not so helpless as that. She would think of herself as a ship navigating between Scylla and Charybdis. Scylla, the many-headed monster, was an excellent image for the Malloren family, and Ashart enswirled her like a whirlpool.
She felt the effect even now, when she knew he was exactly the heartless rake she’d thought. Even if Lady Booth Carew had set out to seduce him, he’d let himself be seduced and was now denying responsibility for the innocent result.
Thank heavens there was no danger of her falling into the same trap.
She caught sight of the presepe box and went to it. She needed to preserve the traditions and the memories it carried. The Nativity scene should have been up ten days ago.
She unlocked and opened the box, but then realized she must wait.
For all the pleasantries about treating this house as her home, she would be expected below in short order.
Despite the mock betrothal, despite hospitable kindness, she was merely the Trayce ladies’ attendant, and should be attending.
She quickly washed her hands and face and tidied her hair, commanding herself to keep to her place and out of noble matters as much as possible. Then she found her warmest shawl, sucked in a deep breath, and sailed out to navigate between monster and whirlpool.