Lois Menzel (7 page)

Celia felt as if she had been slapped in the face and was grateful that Wexford could not see the blush she could feel burning on her cheeks. She rose to her feet, folded the papers, and laid them on the chair where she had been sitting. Then, without a word, she left the room.

Satisfied that the Priory’s birds were present in sufficient quantity to supply his guests with good sport, Anthony turned back toward the main house in the early afternoon. The mist of the morning had indeed burned off, and the day was fine. At the crossroads where the lane into Little Graydon intersected the road to High Wycombe, he encountered Ursula Browne on her way to the Priory to visit with his mother. They rode together through the crisp November sunshine.

“When did you get back?” she asked.

“Yesterday. Have you heard the news?”

She smiled. “Yes. Your mother told Father when she came to church last night. It was all over the village in no time. You were right all along, Tony. You said he was alive. I wanted to come last night, but I knew you all needed some time alone.”

“Do you know about his eyes?”

“Yes. But Lady Walsh said there is hope, so we must pray. Do you think he will see me . . . I mean . . . will he let me see him?”

“I honestly don’t know. He is insisting that we go ahead with the house party, but has asked to be excluded.”

“Who is coming this year?”

“My aunt Mary. She arrives this evening. My cousin John Hardy, Todd and Emily Crowther, Lord and Lady Matlock, Trevor Farr, Miss Demming, and of course, you.”

“Miss Demming? The young lady you were driving with in the hills last month?”

“Yes. Miss Demming and I are engaged to be married.”

“Engaged?” she said, her voice full of disbelief. “But I thought you met her only a few weeks ago?”

“We met in September. I asked her to marry me that day we saw you on the road, but we did not announce the engagement until last week.”

Ursula pulled her horse to a standstill, and Anthony was forced to do likewise.

“But, Tony, how can you marry someone you barely know?”

“I know her well enough to know that she is the perfect woman for me.”

Ursula shook her head, a puzzled frown on her face. “I don’t understand.”

“You will . . . someday.”

She did not answer him but nudged her horse into a trot. They covered the remaining distance to the Priory in silence.

When Wexford had dismissed Celia (for how else could she view his words save as a dismissal), she returned to the drawing room. There she sat gazing into the fire and marveling at her own stupidity.

It was true that during dinner the previous evening, she’d had a strong impression that Wexford’s behavior, his very conversation, was stilted and unnatural. But whatever made her think she could say as much to his face? She did not even know him. They were strangers. She had made the mistake of thinking that he was as forthright as Anthony. Clearly he did not appreciate it when people spoke honestly, from the heart.

She wanted above all things to be well-accepted by Anthony’s family, for she suspected how uncomfortable life would be for one who was treated as an outsider. Now she had offended Lord Wexford, leading him to believe she was an impudent meddler.

Then she sighed as she realized she
was
an impudent meddler. She just could not understand when she had become one.

Celia had never cultivated the science of introspection. She had always taken one day at a time, doing without question everything that her father and mother, her governess, and even her sisters asked of her. She had discovered early on that life was easiest when one was obedient. No one ever shouted or became cross, or if they did, the tempest passed quickly for the error or transgression was accidental, not willful.

She seldom concerned herself with what motivated the people around her. She filled her days with doing what she was told, and if on a rare occasion someone did ask for her opinion, she generally deferred to others.

Now she suddenly discovered that in her new role, affianced to a man of means, she had powers she had never before exercised. It was time for her to stand on her own, function as an independent person; but she was not at all convinced that she had the necessary qualities to fill this rather large and unaccustomed role.

Celia rose to her feet with determination. She would go immediately to Wexford and beg his pardon, even if it meant receiving another snub from him. Then, in future, if she should happen to be in his company, she would remember her mother’s advice and keep her opinions to herself.

She exited the drawing room and knocked firmly on the study door. There was no answer. When she saw Leech crossing the great hall, she asked if he knew where Lord Wexford was at present.

“He has gone upstairs, miss, with the doctor, who arrived a few moments ago.”

Before he had finished talking, the front door opened and Anthony and Ursula entered. Anthony smiled and greeted Celia, then said, “You remember Ursula Browne, do you not?”

“Yes, of course,” Celia replied. “How do you do, Miss Browne.”

“Is that Dr. Barrel’s gig in the stable yard, Leech?” Anthony asked.

“Indeed, it is, sir.”

“If you ladies will excuse me,” Anthony said, “I should like to go upstairs to hear what the doctor has to say.”

When Anthony turned toward the stairs, Celia smiled at Ursula. “Should you like to wait with me in the salon, Miss Browne, until Anthony returns?”

As they walked across the hall, Ursula said, “Anthony told me of your engagement, Miss Demming. Allow me to congratulate you. You are a very fortunate woman.”

“Thank you, Miss Browne. And I agree; I am fortunate, indeed.”

Remembering her conversational blunder with Wexford earlier in the day, Celia spoke with the greatest care. Ursula was eager for details of Wexford’s disappearance, and Celia shared these with her in the most general fashion. She related how the viscount had been wounded, how he had suffered temporary memory loss and been befriended by a Belgian soldier and his wife.

“The battle at Waterloo has been devastating for the estate,” Ursula said. “Besides the injury to Lord Wexford, young Ned Forbes has lost a leg, and Mrs. Drew has been widowed.”

“What will they do?”

“Mrs. Drew has a young son, and I don’t see how she will be able to keep up the farm without her husband. I thought perhaps she could move to a cottage in the village, and we could find a place for her boy in the quarry. I intend to speak with Wexford about it, when he is better.”

“What about the poor man who lost his leg?”

“He comes from a large family, and they are managing to get by. His mother sews well, and I have been bringing her some piecework.” She looked at Celia expectantly. “Perhaps you might have something for her, Miss Demming. I assure you her work is excellent.”

Celia smiled. She was warmed by the way Miss Browne’s manner seemed to automatically include her in the concerns of the estate. She thought ruefully of how she had sought needlework for herself that very morning, but she said, “I will see what I can find for her. And I will speak to Lady Walsh, too . . . unless you have already done so.”

“No. I try not to trouble her ladyship with other worries. She has enough to deal with in looking after Lord Walsh.”

“Perhaps I could help in some way,” Celia heard herself offering. “I have little experience, but I learn quickly.”

“I go to the children’s home each Monday and Friday,” Ursula offered. “You could come with me tomorrow if you like.”

“What do you do there? I have always heard that such places are cold, strict, and inhospitable.”

“Some are. The government takes no responsibility for foundlings or orphans, so each community must deal in its own way. I believe in the cities most orphans end up in workhouses. My father established the home shortly after he came to Little Graydon nearly twelve years ago. We solicit contributions from the property owners in the district, and the older children help—in the garden and with chores.

“And as for what I do there—I do whatever comes to hand. Sometimes the children need tutoring. Father insists they all be taught their letters, even though it is an unpopular policy in the village. Some of the older girls are learning to sew. Often a group of us will go for long walks. We watch the birds, or sail homemade boats on the pond. Occasionally we walk to the village for sweets. There are times when the young ones like to have a story read to them. Other times they only need someone to show compassion for a scraped knee.”

It was nearly twenty minutes before Anthony joined them. They were by that time deep into a discussion of the children’s home. When he entered the room, they both looked up expectantly.

“What did the doctor say?” Celia asked.

“Much as I suspected. There is still healing to be done, but he believes that aside from some nasty scarring, the leg will someday be good as new. He would offer no opinion on the eyes, saying it was beyond his skills to predict.”

“The expert in London offers hope,” Ursula said, “and that is the prognosis we will believe.” She rose from her chair. “I must be going now. Let me say again, Miss Demming, and to you, too, Anthony, that I wish you both happy.”

After arranging to collect Celia the following day at two o’clock, Ursula declined Anthony’s escort to the stables and left the house alone.

“What a remarkable young woman,” Celia said after Ursula had gone.

“In what way remarkable?” Anthony asked.

“Many of the young women I know, including my own sisters, are supremely self-absorbed, spending all their time, all their energies on themselves. Miss Browne seems to think only of the well-being of others: the orphaned children, the tenants, your mother and father, even your brother. She is a truly good person.”

“I suppose you are right. She is always the first one to lend a hand when someone needs help. Are you quite sure you wish to get involved in her projects?”

“Yes, I am sure. That is, if you have no objection?”

“I don’t mind in the least.”

“I’m pleased, because as lovely as it is to be here, I did find myself with time on my hands this morning.”

“That will soon change. When our guests begin to arrive, you will have much to occupy you. As far as this afternoon is concerned, I have it all planned.” He took her hand and drew her from her chair. “Come along. We are going to fetch a pelisse for you. I have ordered the curricle to be at the door in fifteen minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“I want to show you the house where we will live, after we are married.” These words were uttered quietly but with great intensity. The intimate nature of his words, combined with the passionate warmth in his eyes, made Celia blush.

Before she could think of anything to say, he drew her into his arms, holding her slight frame close against his tall one. “I know I should resist the temptation to tease you, but I find your blushes delightful, my dear Celia.”

He bent his head and placed a gentle kiss upon her willing lips. “Once you have toured the house,” he continued, “it will be easier for you to imagine us there together. Then, perhaps, you will be put to the blush less often.”

He pulled her arm through his and guided her into the great hall. “We must hurry; we should not keep the horses standing overlong.”

Seated comfortably in Anthony’s curricle, racing along behind a well-behaved pair of glossy chestnuts, they traveled in a westerly direction for nearly an hour. Eventually they turned off the post road onto a beautifully curving drive through a heavy beech wood. They emerged from the woods into a clearing of carefully scythed lawn. Across this expanse of green, backed against a wood aflame with autumn color, stood Merton Hall, a three-story structure of mellow red brick.

A large house by most standards, the Hall was small in comparison to the vastness of Walsh Priory. This fact alone made Celia’s first view of her future home appealing. Nevertheless, the knowledge that she would soon be mistress of this great establishment was intimidating, for though her mother had taught her well, she knew that there was an immense gulf between instruction in housekeeping and the actual job itself.

As they pulled to a stop before the house, she said earnestly, “I want more than anything to make a proper home for you, Anthony, but I am not . . . I have never—” She broke off, not certain how to continue without sounding foolish.

As a groom jogged up to take the horses’ heads, Anthony took her hand in his. “I know you have never done it before. I have never been a husband before. Why can we not learn as we go? It will be an adventure.”

His smile was so infectious, Celia found herself smiling, too. And as she smiled, her heart lightened, for she knew he meant every word. She suspected that he had a sweetness of nature uncommon in men, and she felt prodigiously lucky to have linked her future to his.

When Celia and Anthony arrived back at the Priory, they discovered that Lady Walsh’s sister had arrived. They found her supervising the disposition of her copious baggage in the front hall.

“That trunk goes to my room, but this square parcel—be gentle with it, young man! It contains delicate porcelain: a gift for Lady Walsh. If you jostle it so, it will be nothing but a heap of shards fit only for the dustbin.”

At that moment she noticed Anthony and his companion. She turned her back on the half-dozen or so footmen awaiting her instructions and hurried to her nephew with both hands outstretched. “My dearest Tony. How good it is to see you and how wonderful you look! And can this be Miss Demming, of whom your mother has written so much?”

“Indeed, Aunt, allow me to introduce Miss Celia Demming. Celia, this is my aunt Mary, Lady Aylesbury.”

As Celia rose from her curtsy, Lady Aylesbury took her hand and patted it enthusiastically. “You are lovely, my dear, simply lovely. I so look forward to becoming acquainted. But tell me, both of you. Is it true—this news that Leech has shared with me? Has Wexford indeed come home?”

While Anthony took his aunt into the salon to relay to her the details of his brother’s return, Celia went upstairs to change for dinner. It was early, and after her long, cold drive she was hoping to take time for a bath.