Elizabeth Mansfield (7 page)

He forced her to face him. “Think of
whom?”
he insisted angrily. “If I agree that it’s really a silly thought, I’ll drop the subject forever. I won’t tease you, I promise.”

She lowered her eyes. “A gentleman has bought Wycklands,” she murmured. “His name is Canfield. Peter Granard, Viscount Canfield.”

“Ah!” Tris grinned a wide, eager grin. “Canfield, eh? And you
like
him, do you?”

“How can I say? I’ve scarcely met him.”

“Then why did you think of him in this connection?”

“Because he’s a new face in the neighborhood. And because he asked me to dance. And because he’s... he’s ...”

“What?” Tris prodded. “Because he’s what?”

“Because,” she burst out, “he’s absolutely the most glorious man I’ve ever laid eyes on, that’s what!”

“Well, well!” Tris chortled. “Will wonders never cease! A glorious man, eh? And he danced with you?”

Julie lowered her head. “He only asked. Mama didn’t let him.”

“Of course she didn’t,” Tris muttered. “I should have known.”

“So you see, it’s all quite hopeless,” Julie said.

He lifted her chin and smiled down at her. “No, it isn’t. I’m home now. I shall make it my task to meet this fellow and arrange some social events. Then I’ll fix you over, dress you properly and teach you to flirt. And then, my shy Miss Branscombe, we shall see what we shall see.”

“Oh, Tris, don’t be such a fool. You can’t mean ... I couldn’t possibly—”

“Yes, you can.” He beamed down at her, his eyes shining in eagerness to meet the challenge he’d set himself. “What do you wager I’ll make you Lady Canfield? I tell you, Julie, we’ll have you wed to him before the month is out.”

9

With a head full of plans, Tris left Larchwood and went home to Enders Hall to inform his mother that he was back. Though he intended to return to London sooner or later, he told her, he would remain at home for an indefinite—in fact an extended—stay. Then, despite the fact that it was seven in the morning, he kissed her cheek and went off to bed.

Lady Phyllis was beside herself with delight. She scurried across the fields to Larchwood as soon as she’d breakfasted. “Perhaps we won’t have to subject Julie to a London come-out after all,” she chortled to Madge Branscombe.

Lady Branscombe was skeptical. “Perhaps. But let’s see how the two of them get on this time before we become too hopeful. What I’d like to know is why the boy has returned from London so soon. And why he’s here for an ‘extended’ stay.”

“Yes,” Lady Phyllis agreed, her joyous mood somewhat dampened, “now that you mention it, so would I.”

Tris spent the next six hours catching up on his sleep. But when he woke later that afternoon, the first thing he thought of was Julie’s revelation. Never before had he heard her speak about a man in just that way, as if she were truly enamored of the fellow. If Tris could accomplish what he’d promised—actually get her wedded to this paragon who’d caught her eye!—all his troubles would be over. But perhaps he shouldn’t have
sworn
he could do it. After all, he didn’t know the man. Perhaps he would have been wiser to wait and see just what sort of person he’d be up against. He’d made a too hasty promise.

There was, therefore, only one thing to do: he had to get a glimpse of the fellow—and at once!

He dressed quickly, mounted his favorite horse, cantered through Amberford and over the two hills that separated the town from Wycklands and, in less than an hour from the moment he’d made the decision, was presenting himself at the viscount’s door. “I’m Tris Enders of Enders Hall,” he said to the butler, “here to welcome Lord Canfield to the neighborhood.”

The butler kept him cooling his heels in the entry hall for what seemed a long while. When he returned, he led the visitor down a long corridor, past a portrait gallery and a series of impressively dignified rooms, until they reached what was obviously a library. But the condition of the room differed markedly from the other rooms Tris had glimpsed along the way. Those others had all been models of shining, well-kept elegance, but this room was a shambles. The long table and chairs which normally would have been placed at the center of the room had been pushed back against the window wall, and the rugs had been rolled up and also shoved aside, all to make room for a great number of wooden boxes which were scattered round the room. Some of them were open, their contents—a great multitude of books—spilling out and piled round them on the floor. And in addition to the disarray of the furnishings and the boxes, there was a general atmosphere of must and dust. A cloud of dust motes danced in the golden rays of the sun that shone in from the huge windows. The entire scene seemed to Tris to be incongruous in this well-appointed mansion.

The glare of the light from those tall, uncurtained windows blinded Tris for a moment. Not until his eyes accustomed themselves to the light did he see, standing among the wooden boxes, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow in his shirtsleeves. His hands were filthy, and his face streaked with dust. He’d evidently been caught in the act of shelving books. “Oh! I’m dreadfully sorry,” Tris said awkwardly, trying to back out of the room. But the butler had already withdrawn and shut the door. “I seem to be intruding,” he mumbled in embarrassment.

“Not all all,” said the viscount, smiling and coming toward him, “not if you don’t mind meeting me in all my dirt.” He put out his hand. “I’m Canfield,” he said.

Tris, noting that beneath the dirt the fellow was as imposing and handsome as Julie had led him to expect, grasped the extended hand. “I’ve never been afraid of a little dirt,” he grinned. “Or a lot of it, for that matter.”

Lord Canfield grinned back, his white teeth gleaming in his streaked face. “There’s a lot of it here, I admit. It’s these blasted books. They do seem to bring an amazing amount of dust with them. I’m trying to organize them, you see, but it’s taking long hours of labor.”

“I’m surprised you aren’t leaving this labor to your servants,” Tris remarked frankly.

Some might have found the remark rude, but the viscount did not take offense. “If I did, I’d only have to rearrange them later,” he explained. “But let me not keep you standing. Come over here, where the dust is not so thick. I think that chair near the hearth is fairly clean. Shall I send for some tea? Or would you prefer a glass of port?”

Tris sat down. “Nothing, thanks. My mother expects me back for tea in a little while.”

Canfield perched on the hearth before him, stretched out his long legs comfortably and peered closely at Tris’s face. “So you’re Enders,” he remarked. “It’s very good of you to put yourself out just to come and bid me welcome.”

“Not at all. To
be frank, I wanted to get a glimpse of you, having heard a great deal about you.”

“From your mother? I met her, I believe. Last week at the assembly.”

“Yes, I did hear about you from her. And from... others.”

“Did you indeed?” Canfield’s eyes glinted in amusement. “Am I the subject of gossip already?”

“You must realize, your lordship, that you are famous here. Everyone in Amberford is talking about our new inhabitant, the viscount who bought Wycklands.”

“I’m not surprised,” Canfield said pleasantly. “That’s to be expected in a town as small as this. No one’s business is completely his own. I’d already heard about you too. But I was led to believe you were in London.”

“Yes, but I’ve come back for a bit.” He turned and looked about the room. Even with the confusion of boxes and the motes of dust revealed by the rays of sunlight, he could see it was a room of impressive grandeur. The ceiling was at least twenty feet high; wood panels, beautifully carved, covered three of the four walls and held dozens of shelves; the windows occupied all of the fourth wall in both breadth and height; and—the most magnificent touch of all—a shallow gallery, reached by carved circular stairways, circled the three unwindowed sides of the room. They contained more bookshelves, but these were already filled with leather-bound, gold-imprinted volumes. “My word, your lordship, you certainly have a great many books!” Tris murmured in awe.

“I’ve been collecting books all my life,” Canfield said.

“And reading them all?”

“As many as possible.”

Tris shook his head in disbelief. “How can you be a sportsman and a libertine and still find time—?” Realizing what he’d said, his face paled, then reddened in chagrin. “I’m sorry ... I didn’t mean...”

Canfield laughed. “Of course you did. You needn’t look so stricken. I’ve heard myself described that way many times. And there’s some truth to it, I suppose. I’ve spent more years than I care to remember in racing my horses and betting on boxing matches. And I’ve had more than my share of affairs of the heart. The town gossips blame me for at least three broken troths, for two of which I’m at least partially at fault. I’m not proud of those facts. That’s why I moved here to Derbyshire.”

“To escape from the gossip?”

“No, I don’t think there’s any escape from that. To change the way I live my life, I suppose. Since I left school, I’ve spent too much time in dissipation, without truly enjoying it. I’m past thirty now, you see, and have become very bored with town life. I want to live quietly, here with my books.”

Tris studied the man with some alarm. This did not sound like a fellow who would easily let himself be tempted into wedlock. “Are you saying you’ve become scholarly? That you’re intending to become a ... a recluse?” he asked, horrified.

“No, no, not at all. I’m not a scholar. Merely a country gentleman, with an estate to manage, a stable of horses to breed, a library to organize, books to read ... a sort of life that I think will be more agreeable to me than the one I lived in town.”

“Then you’re not giving up social life entirely?” Tris asked, hope springing up in him again. “Or sporting activities either?”

“Of course I’m not. I have no intention of burying myself away. You seem to be a lively, healthy young fellow, so I assume you ride. If you do, why don’t we go riding together one day soon, so that I can prove to you I don’t intend to spend all my time dusting off books?”

“I’d be delighted, your lordship,” Tris quickly agreed. “Shall we say tomorrow?”

“Yes indeed, if you’re willing to ride early. And on the condition that you skip the your-lordships and call me Peter.”

They made arrangements for the time and place, and Tris rose to leave. Canfield walked him to the door. “I was almost forgetting why I came,” Tris said before departing. “My mother is giving a small dinner party on Saturday. Very informal, with no more than a dozen guests... her friend Lady Branscombe and her daughter Juliet, Sir William Kenting and his lady, and a few others from town. We thought it might be a good way for you to meet some of your neighbors in a rather more intimate setting than at one of those deuced assemblies.” He looked at his host with an expression that combined hope and doubt. “After what you’ve told me, I suppose a small country dinner party like that—completely informal, as I said—will seem to you as dull as ditchwater, but if you think you could bear it for one evening, we’d very much like you to come.”

“Of course I’ll come,” Canfield said, his bright smile reappearing. “I’m sure it won’t be dull at all. And you have my promise that, even though it’s informal, I
will
wash this dirt away before making my appearance.”

10

Lady Phyllis did not have any difficulty in persuading her son to escort her to the Branscombes for dinner that evening. To her astonishment, he seemed almost eager to join her. Was it possible, she wondered, that the situation between her son and Julie was about to change? Did the dream that she and Madge had shared so fruitlessly for so long suddenly have a hope of coming true?

However, she tried not to let herself climb too high into alt. The shreds of evidence that a
tendre
was developing between her son and Julie were too thin to count on. There were only two: Tris’s unexpected return from London, and his willingness to endure an evening meal at the Branscombes’. Hardly enough reason to rejoice. Nevertheless, she could barely restrain her smiles as they set out in their carriage for Larchwood.

Tris could see that his mother was in high spirits. He decided, therefore, that this was a good time to inform her that he’d invited Lord Canfield to a dinner party for the coming Saturday night. When she heard his request, she stared at him blankly. “A dinner party? In less than a week?”

He shrugged. “I hope you won’t find it too difficult to arrange the affair at such short notice.”

“But you’ve never done such a thing before ... invited someone for a party that hasn’t even been arranged!”

“Don’t look so flabbergasted,” Tris laughed, patting her hand soothingly. “You arrange dinner parties so well that I knew you’d not be overwhelmed by this last-minute request.”

Lady Phyllis was indeed flabbergasted, for Tris had never before invited anyone to the house without giving her appropriate warning. But since she did not wish to spoil the good spirits of the evening by giving him a scold, she muttered an assent. Besides, arranging a dinner party in four days was
not
an overwhelming task for her. She had a large staff, after all, and would not have to do more than give them orders. “I’ll send out invitations tomorrow,” she said, merely throwing her son a look of mild annoyance.