Anne Barbour (28 page)

“What?”

“I plan to return to America as soon as I have apprised myself of my situation here.”

Lady Sandborne’s jaw dropped, and she gaped at him in astonishment.

“But—this is your home, now. You can’t—”

“My lady, this is not my home. You must see that I do not belong here, and I do not wish to stay any longer than it will take to assure myself that the estate is being cared for competently. I shall return for visits from time to time, but I shall reside in Philadelphia.”

The dowager’s lined features crumpled in distress. “But, you are the earl, the head of the family.”

“I am sorry to overset you, my lady, but I will not be staying.”

Josh uttered the words with such finality that the countess, who had brought a handkerchief to her eyes, straightened. She gazed at him for a long moment, and then said simply. “Then I suppose there is nothing more to be said, except that I—we—shall do everything in our power to change your mind.”

Josh smiled thinly, but said nothing more,

“It is unfortunate,” continued Lady Sandborne, as though the previous conversation had not taken place, “that Arthur and Mary are not here to greet you, but they will be home shortly.”

“Arthur and—oh, yes, Mister Willis explained about them, too. Arthur is the son of my father’s younger brother.” Josh spoke the words hesitantly. “I understand he thought himself to be the new holder of the title.”

Aunt Helen raised her hand dismissively. “Yes, but that’s of no account. However, they live here, you know. Mary is expecting their first child.”

“I see,” replied Josh, feeling suddenly rather overwhelmed.

Lady Sandborne rose smoothly. “You have many other cousins and aunts and uncles, of course. You will meet Mary and Arthur at dinner and you will make the acquaintance of the rest at the Christmas ball. It is held here every year. My goodness, it’s almost dinnertime now. I’m sure you will want to freshen up.” She stopped, her voice uncertain. “You do have something—?”

“Yes,” Josh said again, rather stiffly this time. “I do have an ensemble that I hope very much you will consider acceptable for dinner, my lady.”

“Oh!” She flushed. “I did not mean—that is—do call me Aunt Helen,” she finished in a rush.

“Thank you, my—Aunt Helen, I shall be pleased to do so, if you will call me Josh.”

“Oh. No, I don’t think— I may address you as Sandborne, of course, but—’

“I would much prefer Josh. I don’t think I am ready for Sandborne yet. Where I come from, it is customary to call family members—and friends—by their first names, and I am used to Josh.”

Lady Sandborne smiled suddenly, and Josh realized she was not as old as he had first thought. She rose and moved to tug on the bellpull. “Very well, Josh. I shall deliver you into the hands of Mrs. Gresham, our housekeeper, who will show you to your chambers. The master’s suite has been prepared for you.”

“The—oh. Yes, of course. Thank you. It will take me a day or two just to acquaint myself with all this.” He waved a hand about him. “That is,” he amended hastily, “my house.”

“To be sure, dear boy. Although—

At this moment, a scratching at the door heralded the entrance of a stout, matronly woman. Even to Josh’s untutored eye, her conservative garb, starched apron, and the ring of keys that hung from her waist proclaimed her to be the housekeeper of this premier establishment.

“My lord,” said Lady Sandborne, and the words rang strangely in his ears, “allow me to present Mrs. Gresham, our housekeeper. She will show you to the master’s suite.”

Mrs. Gresham’s prominent blue eyes were wide with curiosity, but she said only, “Good afternoon, my lord. Welcome to Sandborne Court. It will be my pleasure to serve you.” She bobbed a respectful curtsy, and stood expectantly at the door.

With a nod to Lady Sandborne and a promise to present himself in a chamber known as the Blue Saloon at dinnertime, he moved to join Mrs. Gresham. After a slight contretemps during which Josh stood aside to allow the housekeeper to precede him through the door, while Mrs. Gresham determinedly held her ground, waiting for Josh to precede her, the two departed sedately from the room and back through the seemingly endless miles of corridor to the great stairway.

As they walked in silence, Josh stared about him. Despite his confident words earlier about “his house,’ he felt thoroughly intimidated by its grandeur. It was impossible to believe that all this magnificence indeed belonged to him. He could chop up the Louis Quatorze furnishings for firewood, if he so chose. He could, should the mood strike him, order that all the walls be painted bright green. He could replace the silk and velvet hangings with burlap, if he wished. What he could not do, he realized with a pang, was think of this great overstuffed barn as home.

He walked on with Mrs. Gresham, oppressed by the genteel silence that surrounded them. The housekeeper guided Josh up one more flight of stairs and they traversed several more corridors. At last, she paused and, opening one of the doors that lined the corridor, ushered Josh into a spacious chamber.

“I think you will find everything in order, my lord,” she said, scouring the room with her gaze. She gestured toward the adjoining chamber where his portmanteau had been set on a small bench at the foot of an enormous canopy bed. “I understand,” she said expressionlessly, “that your man did not accompany you.”

Josh cleared his throat. “Actually, I do not have a, er, man. I—I have not had time to acquire one.”

“Very well, sir,” the housekeeper replied austerely. “I shall send one of the footmen up to see to your things and to assist you in dressing for dinner.”

Feeling a ridiculous need to assert himself at this point, Josh raised his hand.

“That won’t be necessary, Mrs. Gresham. I have lived without a personal servant all my life and I am used to doing for myself. I would prefer to stow my own gear. That is, I shall put my own things away, and prepare for dinner myself. Tomorrow morning you may send someone to me, but for this evening, I believe I shall muddle through on my own.”

Mrs. Gresham stiffened alarmingly and opened her mouth as though to remonstrate with this barbarian who had somehow breeched the sanctity of Sandborne Court, but as Josh continued to gaze at her amiably but with unmistakable authority, she instead produced a respectful smile. She curtsied again.

“Of course, my lord. The dressing gong will sound in about an hour. If you will ring when you are ready to go downstairs, one of the housemaids will show you to the Blue Saloon, where the family customarily gathers before dinner.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Gresham.”

As the door closed behind the housekeeper, Josh sank into one of the comfortable chairs placed near the window. He glanced about his sitting room. It was handsomely furnished with pieces that might have been in place since the house was built. A secretary desk stood in one corner and an ornate dresser in another. In the bedchamber, a massive wardrobe spread across one wall, and a commode and washstand were set against another. The bed was hung with forest-green velvet, lavishly embroidered and matched by the window draperies. Amid such casual grandeur, Josh’s shabby portmanteau took on a very humble aspect, indeed.

Josh turned to the window, where he found himself facing an expansive prospect. The clouds had dissipated, and a wintry sun slanted across a sweep of lawn. Incredible that it could still be so green at this time of year. In the distance, a small herd of deer browsed on the shores of an ornamental lake, and farther away yet, the rolling hills of the Kentish weald were a purple shadow against the horizon.

He wondered how far toward those hills his estate stretched. He would have to make it one of his first priorities to ride over his acreage with the estate agent and—what was the name Willis had given him? Brickley. His land steward.

He repeated the words, rolling them over his tongue. His land steward. Steward of his land. The phrase still seemed meaningless to him. How could he possibly hope to consider this—this fiefdom—his home?

He remained for some minutes lost in contemplation of his startling change in status. At last, he shrugged and rose to unpack his portmanteau, a task that took a distressingly short time. Placing hairbrush and comb on the handsome washstand that stood near his bed, he glanced around again, somehow hopeful that the appearance of these commonplace items might create a certain homeyness in this alien environment.

They did not. He sighed and paced the floor for a few moments before straightening his shoulders. Turning, he moved to the imposing wardrobe.

IV

In another part of the house, Melody, returned home a few minutes earlier, entered her bedchamber, located not far from that of Lady Sandborne. She moved to her dressing table, her thoughts still filled with the man she had met at the church. Forbes had told her of his arrival at the Court. What was he doing now? she wondered.

Melody gazed unseeing into the mirror. Almost every day for three years she had stood thus, preparing herself for another evening in attendance on the countess. She should consider herself fortunate, for her ladyship was a considerate employer, and a certain distant friendship had grown between them.

Lord knew, reflected Melody, that she was fit for little else beyond acting as a lady’s companion. Aside from her musical talent, she had no skills. And, with her physical flaws, she was not likely to attract a husband—as her mother had often reminded her.

Not that she had any such aspirations. Not many eligible young men had come her way over the course of her nine and twenty years, and those she had met inevitably drifted toward more likely prospects. Fortunately, if her hand had never been solicited, neither had her heart ever been touched. She had her music and her books, and a few friends. Surely, that was enough to make one content with one’s lot.

Why, then, did her thoughts keep returning to the stranger in the churchyard? The answer, she supposed, was simple enough. If he really was the Earl of Sandborne, which she had no reason to doubt, his presence at the Court might well have a profound effect on those who lived here.

Sighing, she brought her attention to her reflection in the mirror and began to brush her thick, dark hair.

V

Taking advantage of the pitcher of water that had been placed on the washstand, Josh made himself as presentable as possible and donned his evening attire. Again, he was conscious that his raiment left much to be desired, for, although the dark coat and light breeches, with accompanying silk waistcoat, might certainly suffice for an evening in even the most aristocratic homes in Philadelphia, it lacked the fashionable styling he had observed sported by the young bucks in London.

Affixing an emerald stickpin, a bequest from his father, to his cravat, he pronounced himself ready to face the world—or at least, that small portion of it who awaited him in the Blue Saloon. He moved to the door and stepped out into the corridor. Making his way back to the main staircase, he wondered if he should not be carving arrows into the furniture as he passed. It wouldn’t do to lose one’s way in this warren. It might take weeks for his starved, lifeless body to be found, cast up against a forgotten credenza.

He hailed a passing footman, who provided directions to the Blue Saloon. Making his way through more corridors, he stopped occasionally to peep into the various chambers that lay in his path. One of these was, apparently, a music room, for it contained a harp, an enormous grand piano, and one or two cabinets overflowing with sheet music. Hesitantly, he crossed toward the piano. He did not seat himself, but his fingers, as though of their own volition, stretched over the keys.

The next moment, his hands formed into fists and, turning, he all but hurtled from the chamber.

In the corridor, he leaned against the wall, breathing as heavily as though he had just run the house. Which was perfectly absurd, of course. Following the footman’s instructions, he continued on his way until at last he reached his destination. The Blue Saloon contained only one occupant.

The young woman from the church sat at a tambour frame set near a long window to catch the last rays of the sun. She looked up when Josh entered, and a slight flush spread over her pale cheeks. He advanced into the room with hand outstretched, and as he approached, she blinked nervously. It could now be seen that her dark hair, free of the bonnet, was pulled back into an uncompromising knot, upon which rested a modest lace cap. Her gown, even less fashionable than his own ensemble, was made of some dark-bluish stuff, with a high neckline, and it was unadorned by so much as a cameo pin. The figure beneath this creation appeared trim enough, but the gown was so ill-fitting, it was difficult to ascertain its parameters.

“Good evening, ma’am,” he said in some surprise. “We meet again. Perhaps now we may make our names known to each other. I am Josh Weston.”

She seemed disturbed out of all proportion at this informal greeting, and gasped slightly as she rose to put out a hesitant hand, rather as though she had been asked to place it in a bear trap.

“Ah! Sandborne, you are down betimes.”

Josh whirled about, to behold Lady Sandborne. She entered the room with a swish of silken skirts, her gray curls fluttering as she moved.

“I see you have met Melody.”

The young woman blushed even more furiously as she shook her head spasmodically.

“No, my lady. I—that is—he—we—”

She subsided into a strangled gurgle.

“I was just introducing myself, Aunt Helen.” Josh’s smile included the younger woman.

“Ah,” said Lady Sandborne again. “Allow me to do the honors, then. Lord Sandborne, may I present Miss Melody Fairfax, my companion? Melody is the daughter of a dear friend of mine, and she has been with me for four years, now.”

Once more, Josh put out his hand. “How do you do, Miss Fairfax? I am indeed pleased to make your acquaintance—again.”

Lady Sandborne’s brows rose questioningly and Josh, with a smile at Miss Fairfax, told of their brief meeting earlier in the day.