Learning to Waltz (37 page)

She nattered on as they climbed the stairs. Somehow it was soothing. “And Miss Halley has taken Julian up to the school room. He’ll be well-occupied, you may be sure, meeting his new cousins and learning his way about.”

Deborah wondered, a little wildly, if she would ever see her son again. At Northridge, it was certain, children did not sit down to table with the adults. They did not do their lessons in the parlor, and they did not sleep in cold little closets next to their mothers’ bedchambers. Julian could vanish into the upper reaches of the house and reappear for show like a prize heifer in fancy clothes his mother had never seen.

The thought was ridiculous, of course. She was sure Elizabeth raised her children as part of the family. And they would not be at Northridge long enough for any such appalling habits to become entrenched. Or so she hoped.

Her bedchamber—
Elizabeth’s
bedchamber—was far and away the finest she had ever been privileged to inhabit. It smelled of beeswax and lavender. Carpet stretched nearly from wall to wall, thick and soft underfoot. The walls themselves were papered in a tracery of leaves, the green repeated in the bed linens shimmering of silk on a four-poster bed that looked like mahogany. Two big windows looked out over the front lawns and the plantings that stretched down toward the road, enveloped in mist; a cheerful fire banished all possibility of gloom. An exclamation of pleasure escaped involuntarily.

“This is too much. Why are you giving up your room to me?”

“Now, don’t you worry about me. Philip and I need more space and a dressing room.”

More space?
“Are you sure there’s no garret you can put me in? I would feel more at home, I assure you.”

Elizabeth regarded this as a joke and let loose a peal of laughter. “You
are
a goose, Deborah. If you think for half a minute that Evan would countenance such a thing—”

“Such a thing as what?” Evan ambled through the doorway behind them, looking around at the renovations with approbation. “It looks like a new room. Mama did a fine job of obliterating all the damage you did, Lizzy.”

“Oh, stuff,” Elizabeth replied, snapping her fingers. “No more than any child, I daresay, and rather less than a certain brother of mine, who shall be nameless. But yes, it’s a beautiful room now. Eminently suitable for its new occupant.”

Evan’s smile made Deborah blush clear down to her toes. “No,” he said. “We would need the Taj Mahal for that.” She felt as though he had kissed her in public.

“You just wait until her new wardrobe arrives,” Elizabeth said. “I wager you’ll hardly recognize her. Deborah, I’ll send Francine to do your hair, and I’ll be here at five. We’ll go downstairs together.” And Elizabeth nipped out of the room, leaving the door just slightly ajar.

“She leaves me nothing to do,” complained Evan. “
I
was going to escort you down for dinner.”

“Oh! Well—the hairdresser is part of the deal, you know. Does Grady do hair?”

Evan laughed. “I’d like to see his face when I ask him. And that’s two more gowns, by the way. Are you trying to ruin me?” He took a long, lingering kiss in lieu of any reply.

Deborah took refuge in his arms for some minutes. Then she drew back to look up into his face. “Will you tell me how to get to the schoolroom?”

“No. But I’ll take you there.”

Whenever she could escape her obligations, Deborah made her way back to the schoolroom. It was her refuge, where no one expected anything of her and she could remove her mask. She missed Julian—heaven knew she saw little enough of him at any other time. And despite his playmates and Miss Halley and all their activities, Julian seemed lonely for her as well, clinging rather too long when she had to leave.

In good weather Miss Halley took the older children outdoors, and Deborah would find only Betsy, the nursemaid, and Elizabeth’s youngest, recently turned two. Even then she would stay for ten minutes, or thirty, and play with little Lucy or just sit in one of the little chairs and look out the window or read one of the books that filled the shelves.

How envious she was of the children who had grown up here with all those books. She would pick up the copy of
Treasure Island
that Julian was looking at yesterday and find Evan’s name inside, run her thumb over that inexpert signature, and contemplate the difference between his childhood and hers.

He had brought that pathetic basket of things from her room in Lydford—had he really thought she might want them?
She
would have tossed the lot into the fire, but Julian insisted not one item should be thrown away. So the basket resided at the back of Deborah’s wardrobe behind the expanding rows of gowns and shoes and bonnets, reminding her of loneliness and desolation. Reminding her to be wary.

Often Deborah found her mother in the nursery when she arrived. With fewer dress fittings and less obligation to meet the neighboring gentry, and no role at all in searching out a suitable house, she had more time at her disposal. And once she had struggled up the stairs, she was loathe to come down again.

Elizabeth was a frequent guest as well, and Philip occasionally poked his head in, though he and Evan were more likely to accompany the children on their outings, riding or playing a rudimentary game of cricket or just kicking a ball around the orchard. Pelleas, barred from the house like all the dogs on the estate, participated in these activities too. Sometimes the women would sit outside and watch them all at their sports, the men casual in their shirtsleeves, dirty and disheveled just like the little ones, and enjoying themselves just as much. To Deborah’s eyes, they looked more handsome than ever in disarray, though Mrs. Haverfield, when she deigned to join them, sat stiff and disapproving.

And if Evan did not find Deborah downstairs, he knew where she would be. She loved it when he came. Whether she was happy or troubled or wistful, he always had that smile for her. It made her feel beautiful and desirable.

Deborah found the place very quiet one afternoon a week before the wedding. The smell of cheese and ham still lingered from the children’s nuncheon, but Miss Halley had taken the three older ones outside. Betsy moved about the rooms while Lucy napped, putting away the toys and brushing out the children’s clothes, checking to see what needed laundering or mending. When she sat down with her needle, Deborah offered her help, but the girl refused it. “Och no, mum, it’s just a little tear, see?”

Evan and Deborah had spent the morning exploring another rental property. It would not do. But she had reveled in his company. He was teaching her to drive and had let her take the reins for part of the ride home. Handling his beautiful grays bore little resemblance to the single beast that had once plodded in front of her gig.

She had not wanted to come back at all, but the dressmaker was coming at three o’clock, and Evan had promised to ride out with his father to visit one of the tenants. And later in the afternoon, Evan’s sister, the countess, would arrive with her family.

Deborah sat down by the open window, lulled by the cool breeze and birdsong and the smell of freshly scythed grass. She thought, reluctantly, that she should seek out her mother, or Evan’s, when Mrs. Haverfield appeared in the doorway. Deborah and Betsy both jumped to their feet, and Deborah hardly prevented herself from curtsying as Betsy did.

“Oh!” exclaimed the older woman upon seeing Deborah. “Mrs.…”

“Please, ma’am, do call me Deborah.” Several times she had asked Mrs. Haverfield to use her given name, but she never did so. Deborah supposed it was meant as a set-down; certainly she called her other daughter-in-law
Clarice
. And in a week, Deborah would no longer be
Mrs. Moore
, and for the woman to call her son’s wife
Mrs. Haverfield
would be ridiculous.

But then, Deborah could not imagine calling Evan’s mother
Mama
. Nor had she been asked to do so.
Ma’am
would have to do.

Mrs. Haverfield looked around the room rather vaguely. “I was hoping to find the new boy…  What is his name?”

“Julian,” Deborah said. She wanted to be offended. Mrs. Haverfield knew his name perfectly well. But her manner seemed so peculiar. Perhaps she had been sleeping. “Won’t you sit down?”

She did, choosing the old sofa pushed up against one wall. She ran her hand over the brocade in some surprise. “I thought this was in the morning room.”

Deborah could not enlighten her. The condition of the piece made her think it had been relegated to the nursery long ago. “Why did you want Julian?”

“Julian? Oh! I merely thought I should see how he’s settling in. He’s quite a nice-looking boy, isn’t he? And very well-mannered. If he’s going to live here…”

He wasn’t, of course, not for a few years yet. Mrs. Haverfield knew that, too, but Deborah did not press the issue.

“I want him to be happy here,” she continued. “But I wish Evan would not…  We don’t
want
some strange boy to be master at Northridge.”

“There is no question of that, ma’am.”

“But there is! Evan insists it’s the only way. My husband was just livid. But Evan said if the boy can’t inherit, then he’ll cut himself off, go to America or some other godforsaken place.”

Deborah stared at her. “Did he really say that?” Surely not.

“Indeed he did. You would think he despised us,” she said, running her fingers up and down a seam in her skirt. “He’s always been such a good boy. Oh, a bit of a rover, but never any of that devilry so many lads get up to.” Her face puckered with anxiety. “He loves Northridge, I know he does. I don’t
want
him to go to America!” She sounded like an old woman, shrill and querulous.

“Of course you don’t, ma’am,” Deborah soothed.

“He’ll regret this mismatch, I know he will. I did so want him to marry our Melanie. Such friends as they’ve been since they were—oh, just little things. Playing games, and riding, and learning to swim in the lake. It just breaks my heart. And that woman he’s chosen to take her place. So aloof and awkward. And her circumstances: so peculiar!”

Dear God. Did she have no idea who she was talking to?
It seemed impossible. She could not blame Mrs. Haverfield for feeling the way she did, but to hear it spoken so plainly…

“Mrs. Haverfield, let me get—”

“She was not raised properly, that’s clear for anyone to see. No conversation, so glum and uninteresting. My husband calls her ‘mechanical’. Why Evan cannot
see
…  But he’ll listen to nothing his father or I say about her.”

Deborah sat very still.
Glum?
She’d had a smile plastered on her face since she arrived at Northridge.
No conversation?
She had plied all the tricks Elizabeth had taught her, the compliments and questions and all the rest. She’d listened for the leads Evan and Elizabeth gave her and followed them up, sometimes at the risk of inanity. She’d been spouting drivel for three weeks. And she had tried particularly hard with Evan’s father, deeming him slightly more approachable than his wife. Evidently, though, she had not performed her part as well as she thought.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, and Mrs. Haverfield’s abigail appeared in the doorway. A pent-up breath escaped Deborah’s lungs.

“So here you are, ma’am. I’ve been looking for you all over the house.”

“I’m sorry, I—” Mrs. Haverfield stood up. “I’ve been having such a comfortable coze with—” She gazed myopically at Deborah. “What did you say your name was?”

Betsy gaped from across the room. As well she might!

Richards replied cheerfully, “Why, that’s Mrs. Moore, ma’am, who’s to—”

“That’s all right, Richards,” Deborah rushed to intercede. She could see no good reason to embarrass the poor woman by making her aware of her own rudeness. “I think perhaps your mistress needs to rest?”

“I’m sure that’s it, ma’am. And Miss Elizabeth says I should remind you about the dressmaker, ma’am.”

“Yes, Richards. Thank you.”
God, the dressmaker!
When all she could think of was locking herself up in her bedroom. Her hands went to her hot cheeks, and she looked at Betsy. The girl should not have seen or heard any of that. Had it actually happened?

“Oh, mum. I never seen such a thing before. She’s been comin’ up here a lot, but she’s—”

“Has she? I’ve not seen her.”

Betsy looked uncomfortable, but she plowed ahead. “I think she’s been avoidin’ you, mum. Your mama’s been here with ’er, though, a couple o’ times.”

“Does she play with the children?”

“Play? No…  But she’ll read a story, or brush Maddy’s hair, or tell about when my mistress was growing up here, or when she was a girl herself. An’ t’other day she was talkin’ to Master Julian about—well, about you, mum, and about your mama.”

Deborah frowned. “About what sorts of things, Betsy?”

The girl shrugged. “About where you lived before you came here—your house, I mean—and what sort of carriage you kept, and how many servants. Things like that.”

Deborah wagered she hadn’t gotten much pleasure out of
that
exercise.

“But she’s always been all right—right in her mind, I mean. Oh, she might call one o’ the children by the wrong name, but that’s nothing. Me own mum is right bad about that. O’ course, there’s nine of us…”

Deborah
hoped
she had not been in her right mind. Otherwise, Evan’s mother must have devised this deceit to warn her off.

She thought she might vomit.

Elizabeth knocked for the third time. “Deborah!”

She still didn’t answer. She made no attempt at silence, but she did not want to talk. She wasn’t sure she could.

“Deborah? Mme. Georges is waiting for you.”

“Send her away, if you please.” Her voice worked after all.

“Your wedding gown is stunning. Come out; I want to see it on you.”

“I don’t need a wedding gown.” She laid a pile of shifts and nightdresses in the trunk. Without her new things, it was a very small pile indeed. “I don’t need
any
of those gowns.”