Lois Menzel (3 page)

“I was not injured, as you can see. And you were not to blame, please do not think it. It was an accident, nothing more.”

Still in an intimate, caressing tone he said, “I have missed seeing you these past several days. Will you come driving with me today—this afternoon?”

As Celia hesitated, her mother sailed back to the couple, and Anthony dropped the young lady’s hand. “And have you two been having a cozy chat?”

“We have, ma’am,” Anthony replied, “I have asked Miss Celia if she would care to be taken up in my phaeton this afternoon for a turn through Hyde Park.”

“Oh, how lovely! But of course she would be delighted, would you not, Celia?”

At this prompting, Celia replied with only a hint of reluctance, “Thank you, sir. I should like it of all things.”

When they had set a time and Anthony had departed, Lavinia said, “There now, what could be better? To be seen driving with Mr. Graydon will be a fine feather in your cap, Celia. You will be the envy of half the young women in London.”

Celia remained unconvinced but later returned from her excursion to the park in high spirits. As Lavinia had guessed, the whispering that Celia feared from society had been outweighed by Mr. Graydon’s charm.

Two days later Celia attended a rout at Lady Bessinger’s. When she and her mother entered the room, there was no question that heads turned and conversation waned, but when Mr. Anthony Graydon offered Miss Demming his arm into the reception room, the partygoers resumed their earlier conversation.

On the second day of October, Anthony drove from London to his family home near High Wycombe in the Chiltern Hills. Traveling by curricle, he accomplished the journey in under three hours. He was delayed for some minutes in the village of Little Graydon by a herd of cattle that completely blocked the street. When they had cleared, he drove on past the Norman church with its high, square belfry.

A mile farther on he turned in at the lodge gates of Walsh Priory. Having been added onto several times since its humble priory beginnings in the thirteenth century, it had grown into a massive rectangular structure of mellow, weathered limestone with tall square towers adorning each corner.

Anthony arrived as his mother was enjoying a light luncheon. The Countess of Walsh had turned fifty but looked younger. She retained the tall, slender figure of her youth, and the graying locks at her temples blended subtly into her fair hair. She rose expectantly when he entered the room, for as always when he arrived without notice, she hoped he might have news of her elder son.

He shook his head as he advanced to take her hand. “No, Mother, I’m sorry. There has been no word.”

She smiled and gestured to the table. “Will you share my luncheon? I love it when you come to visit whether you have news of Wexford or not.”

“Allow me a moment to wash off the dust of the road, and I will be happy to join you.”

When he returned to the room some minutes later, he sat beside his mother at one end of the long dining table. “How is Father doing?”

“There has been little change. He eats when he is told to and is generally docile and biddable. But he still seems not to know me, and he stares continually into space when he is awake. He sleeps a great deal, of course.”

“I will go up and sit with him for a while after we finish eating.”

“I think he will enjoy that, Tony. In fact, I am certain he will.”

“I don’t like you being here alone,” Anthony said. “I wish you would have someone to stay with you.”

“I am not alone. Ursula rides over from the rectory every day, dear child, and sometimes her mother comes, too. Our neighbors are very attentive, Tony. I have many visitors. But tell me. Had you some purpose in coming today?”

Anthony laid down the knife with which he had cut a slice of beef, and then put down the fork as well. “Actually, yes. There was something I wished to discuss with you. Something of import.”

“Yes?” she prompted.

“I have met a young woman.”

Lady Walsh raised her brows with interest but said nothing.

“Her name is Celia Demming. Her family hails from Yorkshire. Do you know the name?”

“I don’t believe so.”

“I don’t know much myself. Only what Roth has told me. It appears Miss Demming’s father is a younger son of some obscure North Country baronet. He inherited a piece of land from an aunt and applied himself to raising sheep. His venture prospered; he acquired more land and apparently made his fortune. He has five daughters; Celia is the youngest.”

“How young is that?”

“Twenty. Mrs. Demming has some distant connection to Pembroke through her sister, but otherwise the family is merely respectable.”

“Since you are discussing this young woman’s background, I assume your interest is serious?”

“Yes, it is.”

“What else do you know of her?”

“The rumor mill has it that she is an heiress, but I don’t need a wealthy wife.”

“True. But what exactly is it that you seek from me, Anthony? My blessing?”

“I should like that, of course. But I should like first for you to meet both Miss Demming and her mother. Since you cannot come to Town, I thought perhaps you could invite them here for a few days.”

“I could easily do that. But tell me: have you already offered for this girl?”

“No.”

“You do realize that inviting her here with only her mother and without a larger party of people will have nearly the same effect as a public declaration.”

“Yes, I realize that.”

“Very well. If this is indeed what you wish, Anthony, I will write the invitation today, and you may carry it back to Town with you.”

Nothing could have exceeded Mrs. Demming’s glee when Anthony delivered Lady Walsh’s invitation upon his return to London. Alone with Celia, she could barely contain her excitement.

“I cannot tell you, dear child, how happy you have made me. In a few short weeks, to have attached a gentleman of Graydon’s rank—even I, who recognize your excellent qualities, would not have believed it possible. An invitation to Walsh Priory, no less! Dear Celia, how pleased your papa will be!”

“I must admit, I am nervous about meeting the countess,” Celia said. “What if she does not like me?”

“If you behave as you have been taught, mind your manners and your tongue, she will have no fault to find with you. And you must remember, Celia, it is not so important that she like you, as that she take no dislike to you.”

“Do you think we will be asked to meet the earl?”

“I cannot say, Celia. I don’t know if he sees visitors. But if Mr. Graydon should ask you to visit with his father, of course, you must do so.”

A frown clouded Celia’s face. “But you know how much I dislike sickrooms, Mama. I feel uncomfortable around people who are ill.”

“Then you must subdue those feelings, Celia. It is only proper for those who enjoy health and youth to have compassion for others less fortunate. And you must do what is proper—always. There is no other acceptable behavior.”

Mrs. Demming packed for the visit with great care, choosing modest gowns that would appeal to the countess and at the same time selecting colors that would show Celia to her best advantage.

They departed London in mid-October, making the journey by post chaise and arriving at Little Graydon without incident. Since the Demming ladies had no male relative available to accompany them, Anthony had insisted upon riding alongside their carriage as escort.

When they arrived at Walsh Priory, Lady Walsh received them with every outward appearance of pleasure. Anxious for acceptance, Celia studied the countess carefully, trying to determine if the smile of greeting was sincere or merely a facade. It seemed genuine—warm and welcoming—and Celia relaxed. After brief introductions were made, the Demming ladies were shown to their rooms—luxurious, airy apartments where every comfort had been considered.

In Celia’s room the bed was hung in dark green silk, while the coverlet was white with green embroidered edges. The curtains were open to their fullest extent, allowing maximum penetration from a cloud-shrouded sun. A large fire in the grate dispelled the chill. Within a few moments a young chambermaid appeared with hot water and warmed towels.

Lavinia, who never budged from her home without Wylie, her personal maid, sent this skilled domestic to Celia’s room as soon as she herself had finished dressing for dinner. Wylie arranged Celia’s hair, then assisted her to step into the gown Lavinia had chosen. Modestly cut from pale blue crepe, it had two simple flounces and long sleeves with buttoned cuffs—a perfect gown for forming first impressions. Celia was ready and waiting by the time the dinner gong sounded. She met her mother in the hall outside her room, and they descended the stairs together.

As the dinner progressed, Lady Walsh began to release some of the tension that had been building within her throughout the days preceding Celia Demming’s visit.

It had been a difficult year for her. Her husband’s collapse, followed by Wexford’s departure with the army and his subsequent disappearance, had shaken her well-patterned life to its center. Anthony was the only constant that remained to her, and the thought that her relationship with him might be threatened filled her with anxiety.

She did not object to Anthony considering marriage; she believed that marriage would suit him. But she knew that his choice of a wife was a decision that must be made with infinite care. The wrong woman could make him unhappy for the rest of his days.

It seemed to her that his attraction for Miss Demming had sprung from nowhere, almost overnight. An infatuation for a woman he barely knew was not, in Lady Walsh’s estimation, a good basis for a declaration of marriage. Yet Anthony had already admitted that it was marriage he had in mind.

So the countess had waited for the visit of Miss Demming with carefully concealed apprehension. Now as the meal progressed, she allowed herself to breathe easier, for although she found the mother to be somewhat common, the young lady was unexceptionable. She was certainly lovely, poised, not at all shy, but not haughty, either. She seemed intelligent, and some of her comments suggested a lively curiosity.

The conversation had turned to horses, and Lady Walsh offered, “Anthony took a nasty fall last winter. Broke his arm when the horse rolled on him. Do you ride, Miss Demming?”

“I do, Lady Walsh, but it is not a favorite occupation of mine. I am a mediocre rider at best.”

Lady Walsh regarded her son carefully to see what kind of reaction this confession would bring from a man who loved riding, driving and hunting as he loved life. He was smiling. She could see disbelief and perhaps some disappointment there, but no disillusionment.

When Anthony said nothing, Lavinia added, “In truth, Celia rides quite well, and she can drive a four-in-hand.”

Lady Walsh’s eyebrows rose with interest as Anthony said, “Indeed. And who taught you that trick?”

“My father. He is an excellent whip. For as long as I can remember, I have always preferred driving to riding.”

“Then you must take me up one day, Miss Demming,” the countess said. “I do not get out of the house nearly enough, and I do so enjoy an open carriage.”

After only two days had passed, the countess felt as if she had known Miss Demming for weeks. There was no pretense about the girl. She was charming.

On the morning of the third day, Lady Walsh encountered Celia in the upstairs hallway, greeted her, and then followed her greeting with a question. “I am going now to sit with my husband, Miss Demming. Should you like to accompany me?”

Celia had dreaded this moment, but she had also prepared herself for it. She smiled and answered without hesitation. “I should very much like to meet the earl.”

The countess smiled sadly in reply. “You understand that it will not be a conventional meeting in any sense. My husband does not speak, nor does he seem to see anything, though his eyes are open. I believe, however, that he can hear us, and that he is simply unable to respond.”

As she followed Lady Walsh into the earl’s bedchamber, Celia fought the growing feeling of unease in the pit of her stomach. She had never been at ease in a sick room, and she was uncomfortable among old people. She never knew what to say to them, or how to respond when they spoke to her, especially when their speech was irrational or difficult to understand. She could not bear to look at the mutilated soldiers who had returned from the war with missing arms or legs, severed hands, or horrible scarring.

She stood beside the bed and smiled into Lord Walsh’s vacant face as she was introduced. He appeared to be much older than Lady Walsh.

As if she had read Celia’s mind, the countess said, “My husband is nearly twenty years older than I, Miss Demming, but was active and healthy up until the very day he became ill. Only the day before, we had danced at a ball until three in the morning. He is a wonderful dancer.” Then, seeming to recollect herself, she said, “Thank you for coming with me, my dear, but I think you must be on your way. Anthony will be waiting to take you driving.”

When Celia reached the door, she paused to look back. Lady Walsh had taken a chair near the head of the bed and was speaking earnestly to her husband while his unresponsive hand rested in her own.

Anthony allowed his horses to walk along the narrow track that wound its way into a fold of the hills. A small stream tripped by in the opposite direction as they slowly climbed toward the summit. Hedges at the roadside hung heavy with elderberries and yew berries, hips and haws. Large clusters of birds eagerly partook of this final feast of the season.

Throughout their drive, Celia and Anthony shared a lively conversation. He asked about her sisters; she asked about his brother. They talked of the weather, the harvest. When they arrived at a gorse-covered knoll at the head of the valley, Anthony stopped the carriage and helped Celia to alight. After tying the horses, he offered his arm and they walked on, following a footpath that threaded its way along the lip of the knoll and allowed a sweeping vista of hills and vales below. Some of the trees had begun to change color, spattering the hillsides with dots of orange and yellow.