Jane Feather - [V Series] (33 page)

“Yes, my lord. Miss Lucy is partial to it, if you recall, so we always keep a few bottles in the cellar.”

“What’s ratafia?” Tamsyn asked when the butler had departed.

Julian’s expression of distaste grew more pronounced. “A disgusting sweet cordial.”

“Who’s Miss Lucy?”

“My sister.” He stood for a minute staring at her, frowning. “You’re going to have to be introduced, since that’s what they’ve come for … unless I say that you’re unwell after the journey.” He shook his head. “That won’t wash for more than a couple of days. We’d best get it over with.”

“I’m not a complete social pariah,” Tamsyn protested, rather hurt at his obvious dismay.

“My dear girl, you’re impossible. In this society you’ll stick out like a sore thumb,” he said shortly. “You can’t even sit properly.” He glanced up at the clock, his frown deepening. “I’ll go and greet them and explain who you’re supposed to be, and you may join us in about ten minutes. When you’re introduced, you must bow, just a slight bend from the waist, like this.” He demonstrated while Tamsyn nodded solemnly.

“Now show me,” he demanded, watching critically as she imitated his movement. “Not perfect, but it’ll have to do,” he said. “From my description they’ll expect you to be shy and retiring as befits the convent-reared daughter of a hidalgo grandee.”

He strode to the door, then stopped, remembering something that had somehow never come up. “You’ll have to have a surname. Miss Tamsyn is fine for the staff,
but not for the rest of the world. What
is
your last name?”

Tamsyn shrugged, still struggling with her chagrin. She hadn’t believed she was impossible. “I don’t have one. My father was only ever known as El Baron.”

“Then you’ll have to be the daughter of Señor Baron,” he said crisply. He came back to her, one hand catching her chin, his expression menacing in its gravity. “One indiscreet word or gesture in front of these people,
muchacha
, and that’s the end of it. You’ll be out of this house so fast you won’t know what hit you. Is that clear?”

“Why would I be indiscreet?” she demanded. “It’s hardly in my interests.”

“No, but just you remember that, because believe me, I have never been more serious. One slip of the tongue, however accidental, and you’re on the road. I have my own reputation to consider in the county, and I’m not jeopardizing it for
you
.“ His eyes held hers in a ferocious glare; then abruptly he released her chin and left the library.

Tamsyn dropped the books onto the desk. What did he think she was going to do, fling her arms around him and engage him in a lascivious embrace? Or was he simply afraid she would say something indiscreet, something overly familiar? Of course it was possible she might, since she didn’t know what these strangers in this strange land might consider out of order. Her lessons hadn’t reached that stage yet.

She stood on tiptoe to examine her reflection in the mirror above the mantel, combing her hair with her fingers, flicking at the wispy fringe. It really was getting too long. How would a convent-reared hidalgo maiden conduct herself? She tried a shy smile but somehow it
didn’t look convincing. Perhaps she should pretend she didn’t speak English very well. That would ensure she made no accidental errors. She would sit in meek silence, smiling and nodding, willing to be agreeable but suffering from blank incomprehension.

It would have to do, for safety’s sake. The colonel had meant every word he’d said, and she couldn’t risk an accidental slip at this stage of the game. She marched out of the library and across the Great Hall to the drawing room on the far side. Just in time she remembered to correct her stride. Shoulders back, bottom in, head up, neck straight … 
Pot Dios!
but how could one remember all these things?

She opened the drawing-room door softly and stood hesitantly on the threshold, waiting for someone to notice her. Her heart began to beat fast as she realized that this was the beginning, and for the first time, as she absorbed the group of people gathered in a circle at the far end of the room, she understood what a daunting task she’d set herself. She’d never faced such a group of people before. Indeed, she’d never stood on the threshold of a drawing room before. What would they see when they finally noticed her? One thing she knew with absolute, instinctive certainty: despite her conventional gown, they wouldn’t see a woman who looked like one of them. It was not so much her physical appearance that set her apart, as something indefinable she felt in herself … something that grew from the way she’d lived her life and what she expected from that life. It marked her like a brand.

Three of the women were matrons in their middle years, clad in dark satins with severe lace caps. The younger one wore a driving dress of soft beige cambric and a chip-straw hat. For all her youth, it was clear in
every line of her body, in the way she wore her clothes, that she would look exactly like the other women when she reached matronhood. Tamsyn knew she would never ever resemble any of the women in the room. She felt as alien as if she’d descended from the stars.

Lord Pendragon and the vicar stood in front of the empty hearth, sniffing appreciatively at the wine in their glasses. They were both corpulent gentlemen, with the self-satisfied air of those who knew their place in the world. The Reverend Thornton saw Tamsyn first.

“Ah,” he boomed genially. “Our little foreigner has come among us.”

The colonel rose from a spindle-legged chair that looked too fragile for his large frame. “Tamsyn, come and be introduced.” He came toward her, his expression grave. “I’ve been explaining to my guests your unfortunate circumstances.”

“Perdón?”
Tamsyn said, smiling anxiously.
“No comprendo, Señor St. Simon.”

Julian’s expression was so astounded, she forgot her moment of apprehension and nearly gave herself away with a peal of laughter, but resolutely she maintained her composure, peeping around him to the visitors, offering them her nervous little smile.

Julian’s hand closed over her bare elbow. “I think you will find that you do understand if you listen carefully,” he stated deliberately, his fingers hard on her flesh. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I introduce Señorita Tamsyn Baron?”

Tamsyn maintained her fatuous smile during the introductions, offering a series of creditable bows that nevertheless made her feel absurdly like a bird pecking in the dust. She was aware of the sharply assessing eyes of the elder women, who all offered noncommittal nods
as she bowed and smiled. Lord Pendragon’s scrutiny, however, was of a very different kind. She might be under the auspices of Lord St. Simon, but she was still a young woman, and he was appraising her as such. The vicar took her hand in both of his and said unctuously that although he assumed she practiced the Catholic faith, he hoped she would find his church not too strange. They were very High Church in the parish of Tregarthan, and he would be happy to hear her confession if that would comfort her.

Tamsyn took refuge in incomprehension, with lowered eyes and an inaudible murmur, before turning with relief to Miss Marshall, whose smile was warm and uncritical.

“You poor dear, it must be so strange for you, and so sad to have to leave your own country.”

“Perdón?”
Tamsyn looked up inquiringly at Julian, who through gritted teeth translated.

“Ah, muy amable,”
Tamsyn gushed, taking the offered hand and shaking it heartily. Too heartily, judging by the recipient’s startled look as her fingers were gripped with unusual firmness by this diminutive creature.

“Tamsyn has made a remarkable recovery,” Julian said. “Sit down,
niña
.” He pushed her into a chair, hearing her swift indrawn breath with silent satisfaction. “She actually speaks and understands English perfectly well, but she’s afraid to make mistakes.” He smiled at her with his mouth, but his eyes promised retribution.

Tamsyn looked suitably flustered. “The … the
señor
is … is … 
muy amable
.”

“Oh, I believe you overstate the case,” Julian said smoothly. He turned to his visitors. “If you speak slowly, she has no difficulty following you.”

Hester Marshall nodded her comprehension and articulated slowly and loudly, “Do you ride,
señorita
?”

“Ride?” Tamsyn frowned. “
A caballo?
Oh,
sí
 … I like it much … very much, but the Señor St. Simon, he say I don’t do it well.” She cast a doleful look at the colonel.

“Oh, I’m certain Lord St. Simon will be able to find you a quiet horse to practice on,” Hester said warmly. “We must ride together. I don’t care to do more than trot gently around the lanes myself, so you needn’t be afraid we’ll do anything you’re not ready for.”

Tamsyn gulped and Julian said, “That would be very nice for you,
niña
. I’m sure you’d enjoy that, now the weather has become so much pleasanter.”

“Yes, it has been so dreary,” Mrs. Marshall agreed. “The farmers are at their wits’ end about the harvest. How long is your leave from the Peninsula, Lord St. Simon?”

“I have some negotiations to conduct on Wellington’s behalf at Westminster,” Julian said. “And the duke is also anxious that Tamsyn is well settled in her new country before I return. He was also acquainted with her father. I’m hoping that when the Season begins, I can prevail upon Lucy to sponsor Tamsyn.”

This was news to Tamsyn. “
Perdón?
” she said. “Please … 
no comprendo
.”

By the time I’ve finished with you, buttercup, you’re not going to understand the time of day
, Julian swore silently. “My sister,” he reminded her, without a trace of emotion.

“Ah, sí.”
She leaned back in her chair and crossed her legs, smiling sunnily.

Lady Pendragon stared in shocked disbelief, but Julian moved swiftly, crossing in front of Tamsyn to refill
the vicar’s glass. As he did so, he kicked her ankle sharply, and Tamsyn hastily sat up straight, clasping her hands in her lap.

“Where were you educated, Señorita Baron?” Lady Pendragon asked slowly.

Tamsyn blinked and frowned, as if trying to understand. Then she nodded and beamed as if finally comprehending the question. She rattled off a stream of Spanish, nodding and smiling, gesturing eloquently while her audience stared uncomprehendingly until she’d fallen silent, when six heads turned as one to the colonel, who was now leaning against the mantelshelf, arms folded, an expression of sardonic resignation in the bright-blue eyes.

“In a mountain convent, ma’am,” he said. “A very strict order in a convent perched on a mountain peak. It could only be reached by mule, so the pupils saw very few people other than the sisters. Tamsyn’s mother died when she was ten, and she was sent there after her death. Then, when she was eighteen, her father sent for her to Madrid. She was to be presented at court.”

Tamsyn nodded, twisting her hands in her lap, her violet eyes brimming with emotion throughout this translation.

“Unfortunately, Señor Baron died very suddenly and consigned his daughter to the care of his good friends the Duke of Wellington and myself.”

“
Sí
 … 
sí
,” Tamsyn said, now smiling radiantly at Julian before rattling off another stream of Spanish.

“It was thought best she should come to England, at least until the war in Spain is over,” Julian translated without a flicker of emotion. Despite his annoyance with this playacting, he had to admit that Tamsyn was providing an immaculate background cover.

“Quite so,” Lady Pendragon said faintly. “How very unfortunate for you, Miss Baron.”

“Forgive me, my dear, but have you been ill?” Mrs. Thornton asked, leaning forward to pat Tamsyn’s knee with her mittened hand.

Tamsyn looked blank for a minute, then responded cheerfully, nodding at Julian to provide translation.

“She says she is never ill, ma’am,” he responded obediently.

“I just wondered … her hair … most unusual.”

Now, how was she going to explain that one? He threw her the question.

“Oh, that was the convent,” Tamsyn invented without missing a beat. “The sisters insisted we have our hair cut very short … to prevent the sin of vanity, you understand.”

“Very commendable,” Mrs. Thornton said with a nod at her husband as Lord St. Simon finished translating, his voice devoid of expression, his face a mask. “We have often commented at the vicarage how young girls these days think too much of their appearances. Not Hester, of course.” She smiled at Mrs. Marshall and her daughter. “Hester is a paragon … so helpful around the parish.”

“Lady Fortescue will sponsor Señorita Baron at court, Lord St. Simon?” Mrs. Marshall inquired, accepting the compliment for her daughter with a complacent nod.

“I trust so,” he said dryly, sipping his wine. “I’m anxious to return to the Peninsula, as you might imagine.”

“What’s your feeling about the way it’s going, St.
Simon?” Lord Pendragon asked, and the men drew apart, becoming involved in war talk.

Tamsyn sat demurely in her chair while the ladies chatted among themselves, nodding at her occasionally so she shouldn’t feel completely excluded from a conversation that was as incomprehensible to her as if she really didn’t speak English. They talked about recipes for calf’s-foot jelly, blonde lace for trimming a gown, and the intransigence of parlor maids, while Tamsyn strained to hear the men’s conversation, constantly biting her tongue to keep from contributing to a discussion that touched her much more nearly.

“I trust your … your ward … will accompany you to church on Sunday.” Mrs. Thornton drew on her gloves as the visitors finally rose to leave.

“Tamsyn will worship in our church for want of her own,” Julian said coolly. “Won’t you,
niña?
”

“Perdón?”
Tamsyn said sweetly, fluttering her luxuriant eyelashes as she gazed up at him in innocent inquiry. His responding glare scorched a warning, and she fell back discreetly as he escorted his visitors to their various carriages.

“Does the child have a duenna?” Mrs. Marshall asked as Julian handed her into her barouche.