Chapter 4 #2
The journey to Sallow Hall took less time in the daylight than it had on the evening of the ball. The ladies arrived in good time, without suffering the inconvenience of an accident or a delay.
Once the butler had collected their pelisses and bonnets, a footman escorted them up an elaborate marble staircase to a room on the first floor.
Decorated in various shades of rose and cream, it was a bright, airy space full of natural light and beautifully furnished with pieces that were as practical as they were elegant.
Her ladyship rose to greet them and invited Elizabeth to sit beside her on an upholstered couch set before the hearth, then indicated that her friend should take the chair on her right.
“I thank you both for coming,” she said. “Especially on such a cold winter day. I had anticipated my daughter-in-law joining us this morning, but she is indisposed with a megrim. Or so I have been told.”
“How dreadful,” Mrs Cahill replied with a frown.
“Yes,” said Elizabeth, echoing her aunt’s sentiment. “Does the viscountess often suffer megrims?”
Lady Carlisle pursed her lips as she checked the strength of the tea. “Regrettably, this particular complaint of Lady Emerson’s is nothing new. It afflicts her at the most inconvenient moments, and with an ever-increasing frequency since she married my son.”
Elizabeth glanced at her aunt—who met her gaze with a raised brow—and repressed a smile.
On the subject of Lady Emerson’s megrims, they were apparently of one mind: the viscountess was not best pleased with her husband and therefore was in no humour to indulge his mother by feigning an interest in her guests.
“Enough about ailments,” said the countess, waving her hand in a dismissive fashion as she proceeded to pour tea into several porcelain cups. “Let us speak of pleasanter things. I do hope that your journey to Sallow Hall was agreeable, especially as the day is so cold.”
“Our journey was quite pleasant, your ladyship,” Mrs Cahill replied. “As for the weather, I am a country girl at heart, as is my niece. I assure you that neither of us mind the cold.”
“Indeed, we do not,” Elizabeth agreed, “especially when the sun is shining as it is today. I have enjoyed exploring my father’s grounds and woods all my life, in all kinds of weather. Now, I am so fortunate as to have the honour of exploring my aunt’s.”
“And how do you like Rosewell?” her ladyship enquired, adding a dash of cream to a steaming cup of tea. “I understand you have lived there for several years. My husband, you know, prefers London to Yorkshire, but like your aunt, I have always preferred the country.”
Elizabeth smiled. “I like it very well, your ladyship—Rosewell and the country in which it sits. My aunt’s park is especially beautiful. The valley beyond it is equally so, but I confess I have grown exceedingly fond of the moors.”
“Oh, yes,” said the countess, handing Mrs Cahill a cup and saucer.
“The moors are beautiful, wild places, but they can be dangerous as well. When my younger son was fourteen, he and his cousin were racing along a moor not half a mile from here. His cousin, who is five years his junior, happened to trip, Richard toppled over as he attempted to right him, and they both ended up falling into the bog.”
“Goodness,” said Mrs Cahill. “I hope they were not injured.”
“They were uninjured per se, but it was the dead of winter, and it was dreadfully cold. Both boys ended up confined to their beds for a week with terrible colds.”
“And did they learn their lesson?” enquired Mrs Cahill, taking a sip of her tea.
Her ladyship laughed as she handed a teacup to Elizabeth. “Of course not. But at least it was summer when they next found themselves in a similar predicament. Had I daughters, perhaps I would have known peace instead of arguments, competitions, and agitation. But my husband wanted sons…”
Elizabeth grinned. “I take it that your ladyship has no sisters, for if you had, I guarantee there would have been endless arguments over shoe roses, ribbons, and stockings. Longbourn was rarely ever quiet, not with a houseful of ladies under foot.”
In the next moment, there was a great racket in the hall, and the parlour door shuddered as something struck it once, twice, thrice with considerable force.
“I must beg you ladies to excuse me for a moment,” Lady Carlisle told her guests, rising with alacrity from the couch and hastening to the door. She ripped it open to reveal two men who appeared to be brawling, and the figure of another attempting to intervene.
“Upon my word,” her ladyship exclaimed, pulling the door closed behind her, only to have it slowly open of its own accord without her knowledge to reveal a sliver of her gown and little else.
Her voice, however, carried as she said, “You heathens behave as though you were raised in a barnyard! You are grown men! Stop your fighting this instant!”
The brawling noises ceased immediately.
“I am ashamed of you—all of you! I have guests who will likely never want to step foot in this house again after such an appalling display of ungentlemanly conduct!”
The gentlemen apologised in unison.
Elizabeth frowned as she raised her teacup to her lips and took a measured sip.
There was something oddly familiar about the sound of their voices, but as all three had spoken at the same time, it made it difficult for her to discern whether she knew the identities of one or more.
She glanced at her aunt, who appeared as perplexed by the incident in the hall as she was herself.
“Guests?” parroted a voice that she distinctly remembered hearing the other evening as Viscount Emerson sang an appallingly inappropriate song.
In the next moment, the voice’s owner shouldered his way into the room.
“Miss Beaumont,” he cried with a delighted smile.
“I thought you were to come on Thursday!”