Elisabeth Kidd (8 page)

She glanced up, hoping for an understanding smile, but the look he gave her, while not unsympathetic, unsettled rather than reassured her.

“I can believe it of one Fairfax,” he said. “Especially the charm.”

Unexpectedly shaken by this offhand tribute, she turned her head away
from the warm glow in his dark eyes. It had not, until just that moment, occurred to her that he was flirting with her, and the notion that he was
merely beguiling the tedium of a winter visit to the country by teasing
her into indiscreet conversation unaccountably sank her spirits. But then it also occurred to her that she might enjoy such a harmless flirtation as
much as he; indeed, what else had they been engaged in since the
moment they met? The thought of Charles need not deter her from such a pleasant, but meaningless, pastime.

As if sensing her momentary discomfort, he said, more easily, “What I
am attempting to ascertain, in my clumsy way, is whether I may look
forward to the day your responsibilities here are at an end and you may visit London more frequently.”

“Are you looking for a third sponsor for your coming-out, my lord? Are two aunts not sufficient? Isabel has but one, poor child.”

“Isabel has many other advantages which I have not. But I meant, fair
aunt, that you deserve another opportunity to dazzle London.”

“I do not think, even if I would, that I could do so,” she said. “I was on
the town quite long enough to make an undesirable reputation for myself
amongst the very persons you have been so careful to cultivate. Indeed, I
once had the effrontery to cut the Duke of Cumberland! It is quite a
distinction.”

“Well for you that it was not Prinny himself. Whatever possessed you to do such a thing?”

“He looked at me in a way that was not precisely ... that was not what
might have led me to believe him a gentleman, much less a royal one.”

“Do you always act on your scruples?”

She smiled. “Say, on my impulse, rather. But as I had no position to
maintain, I was free to do so. He could scarcely have blighted my career.”

Kedrington regarded her quizzically, and she realised that he had not
been informed of the means by which she had ended her own career. Not
wishing to become the cause of his enlightenment, she did not enlarge on her remark.

“Remind me not to be seen in your company,” he said lightly. “I have no wish to have
my
career blighted.”

She smiled in spite of herself and thanked him sincerely for his
courtesy to Isabel at dinner. “You put her quite at her ease, you know, by
comparing—however implausibly!—your situation to her own.”

“I see nothing implausible about it. I assure you, I am as much a
commodity as any damsel on the marriage mart, and must be every bit as
careful to maintain my eligibility.”

“Have you ‘an intent to turn husband,’ sir?”

Recognizing her source, he responded, “ ‘Will you have me, lady?’ “

“Why, no, my lord, unless I might have another for working days.
Your Grace is too costly to wear every day.’ “

“Touché! I had forgotten the rest of that passage.”

“Then you should not have set out on the beginning of it.”

“Why have you never married, my Beatrice?”

She disregarded his use of the possessive. “Because unlike yourself, my
lord, I do not care to be treated as a
...
a commodity.”

“So I observe. Yet you have no scruples about subjecting Isabel to such
treatment?”

“Isabel does not believe—that is, I do not expect Isabel to adhere to my
views in everything,” she replied in a tone that rang unconvincingly in
her ears. “Isabel has a generous and loving nature, but she is not, as you may guess, much given to frivolous pursuits. She will gain more confidence in herself by making new friends of relative strangers, in London.”

“She does not look to me to stand in awe of strangers.”

Antonia did not doubt that the viscount referred to Mr Gary, who was standing beside Isabel by the bookcase, where they searched the shelves for a particular volume. Isabel kept her eyes resolutely on the search, and
when she saw what she wanted on the top shelf, Octavian reached up
easily to extract it. He opened the book and handed it to her, at the same
time moving closer to whisper something in her ear. Isabel laughed,
colouring prettily at the same time. Antonia could not help wondering if
her blush was natural or if her niece was becoming a more skillful flirt than she had ever suspected her capable of being.

“And she blushes most artfully,” his lordship remarked.

This uncomfortably acute observation succeeded in bringing Antonia’s
attention back to her companion, but she contrived to say only, “I fear it
is too much to expect of you that you not remark such a thing, my lord!”

“Do you never blush, Antonia?”

“I am no longer seventeen, my lord,” she replied.

“But still very green in some ways, I think.”

She took no offence at this. “Perhaps. If I am, it is because I have seen
what it means to be what is called world-wise and choose not to impose such wisdom on myself.”

He was subdued. “That is the first explanation of your disgust of what
you are pleased to call ‘London manners’ that makes sense to me. I fear I
have been attributing it to an unrequited love affair or some such thing.
Accept my apologies.”

Antonia felt the blushes to which she had proclaimed herself immune rise to her cheeks, but at that moment the tea tray was brought in and she was saved from having to accept an apology for an entirely justified
assumption on the viscount’s part. But then Mr Kenyon was soliciting
Isabel to play for them at the pianoforte, and Isabel was protesting that Mrs Curtiz was much the finer artist. Finally, Mrs Curtiz agreed to play only if Isabel then performed on the balalaika.

This prospect aroused genuine interest. Mrs Curtiz explained that she
had brought the instrument back from Russia years ago and lately
presented it to Isabel as the only one of the Fairfaxes capable of appreciat
ing it. This was no less than justice. Isabel played with total concentra
tion and a lack of self-consciousness which told Antonia she must have been mistaken in seeing any artifice in her niece’s earlier behaviour. The
applause that followed several melodies was each time more genuine than
the last, and Lord Kedrington informed Miss Fairfax that she need have no fear that Isabel would not be a success, “for anything so exotic is all
the crack now, and you may be sure that no other young lady will have even a notion of what a balalaika is.”

The evening ended at a late hour, by which all the company had
arrived at such a lack of formality with one another that Lord Kedrington’s taking Miss Fairfax’s hands in his own upon parting went quite unnoticed.

“Promise me something,” he said, disregarding her attempts to with
draw her hands. She looked up into his eyes and saw again the intent look
that occasionally crept into them.

“What is it?”

“That if there is any service I may perform for you in London, you will
not hesitate to call on me for it.”

She smiled. “Thank you, my lord. You are very kind.”

“I shall hold you to it, you know—and with perfectly selfish motives!”

Her smile turned into a gurgling laugh, and he went out into the night
with the sound of it in his ears.

The dinner at Wyckham was soon followed by an invitation to partake
of a light nuncheon—this being all, Mr Kenyon regretted, that was
available under present circumstances—at Windeshiem. And, now he
came to think of it, why did Antonia and Isabel not stay the afternoon,
just as they were used to do as children? Antonia knew the house as well as her own and would not refuse to serve as hostess to his guests—and a much more charming companion than a helpless old man could aspire to
be.

Antonia informed Mrs Curtiz in confidence, if not in moderation, of
what she thought of her Uncle Philip’s sly manners.

“But we shall have to go, for Isabel is determined to do so. I could wish
that her determination did not so resemble that of a martyr on the way to the stake, but I have hopes that Mr Gary’s charms will succeed in putting her more at ease—and that his scruples will prevent her being swept off
her feet by them.”

The two ladies were waiting in the hallway at Wyckham for the third
to join them. Imogen pointed her walking stick at Antonia and said, “I
wonder that you are willing to risk the limits of Mr Gary’s charm.”

Antonia sighed. “I do not see that I have any choice. I admit to a
partiality on my own part to the young man, and I did say that I wish
Isabel will not marry only for money; but at the same time I cannot help
wishing that he were not quite so ineligible with regard to fortune. I fear
that makes me sound a hypocrite—or worse, an opportunist, for taking
advantage of Mr Gary to show Isabel how to go on, without allowing him
the advantage of being the first to enjoy the fruits of her increased sophistication.”

Imogen let her mull over these disquieting considerations before saying,
“If you imagine that she may succumb to Lord Kedrington’s charms
instead, I should disillusion you on that head immediately.”

“I never imagined any such thing!” Antonia replied in a lofty tone that kindled a spark in Imogen’s eye. “Kedrington is far too old for Isabel. But
I do not see why he cannot make himself useful. He offered to do so.”

“Did he, indeed!” exclaimed her friend. “That does put another light
on
...
ah, matters.”

Antonia glanced at Imogen as she pulled on her gloves and buttoned
them, but the older woman merely remarked that Antonia had a small
hole in the right-hand glove which ought to be mended before it became
any larger, and by the time Antonia had gone for another pair, and Isabel
had joined them—rather breathlessly for the unaccustomed effort of having to consider her choice of clothing—she had forgotten the
conversation.

The ride to Windeshiem was a short one, and since the ladies were
well wrapped in furs and muffs, it was accomplished in an open carriage. They had scarcely passed the edge of the park bordering Wyckham when
the stone walls of Windeshiem Hall rose to view behind their screen of
cedars. The road crossed the stream that separated the two estates, then
turned into the long drive leading up to the hall, where a warm welcome awaited the visitors.

The party spent the morning in a tour of the house, Isabel and
Octavian Gary in the lead and Mrs Curtiz and Mr Kenyon following
sedately behind Antonia and Lord Kedrington. Antonia kept a sharp eye
on Isabel, who responded to Mr Gary’s cheerful conversation with a coquetry that appeared so natural as to give her concerned aunt pause.

At the same time, Antonia was not unaware of her own escort. His
lordship looked very much at home in nankeen breeches and a hunting
jacket, with a Barcelona handkerchief knotted carelessly around his throat.

They picked their way around furniture shrouded in holland covers,
and Antonia was several times obliged to brush dust from her sleeve. She
thought it a pity that the house looked so sadly neglected, but as they
walked along the narrow passageway called the Long Gallery, she remarked,
“I have always liked this passage. As children, we were used to race one
another madly down the length of it, but when I grew up
...”

She paused and looked up at the high, narrow windows along one wall,
through whose leaded panes a faint, rosy light penetrated. “Later, I
sometimes sat here for hours on end, reading or only looking up through those windows at the sky. I felt like an ancient alchemist or a mediaeval
scholar, or a nun in her cell. There is such a wonderful peace here.”

They paused and heard only the click of Octavian’s footsteps on the tiled floor far ahead of them.

Kedrington’s expression was inscrutable, and he said only, “Miss
Fairfax, I suspect you are a romantic at heart after all.”

She made a helpless gesture at her own fancies. “Oh, no—merely too
indolent to seek greater excitement. Come! We must go ahead or they
will be wondering what has become of us.”

During their nuncheon, the conversation stayed strictly within the
bounds of the prosaic, but Antonia felt herself no less at ease for it. She
talked more than she normally would have done about Windeshiem, and
thus also about Wyckham and her experiences as its mistress, about her
land and her tenants, and her bailiff and the price of hens. Kedrington listened to her much as Ned would have done, respecting her knowledge and her opinions, and asking questions which were intelligent, but which
revealed an ignorance, resulting from his long absence, of conditions in England in recent years.