Lord Greywell's Dilemma (10 page)

A considerable time passed while he sipped at the port and stared disconsolately into the fire. Once he put on a new log, which was quickly consumed by the flames, the substantial piece of wood disintegrating into ashes in a matter of minutes. How easily something once so solid could disappear! One day Caroline was with him, laughing, thriving; the next day she was dead. And her child. Would he, too, vanish into the obscurity of a grave?

“Where’s Elspeth?”

Greywell turned sharply at Sir Edward’s voice.

“Didn’t she stay up to entertain you?” the baronet asked, clearly disappointed.

“We talked for some time. She retired a while ago, not feeling particularly well.”

“Didn’t she play the pianoforte for you? Really, it’s too bad of her. She’s quite good at it.”

“I’ll accept your word for that.” Greywell passed a hand along his brow, feeling rather weary himself. “We discussed the possibility of her marrying me, but the idea seemed to distress her.”

“Distress her? But the arrangement would have every advantage.”

Greywell could tell Sir Edward wasn’t really surprised, despite his protest. “You didn’t expect her to agree, did you?”

“I hoped she would.” Sir Edward’s eyes were as evasive as his words, flitting off toward the hearth.

“Miss Parkstone seemed genuinely concerned with little Andrew’s health; she listened to everything I had to say on the subject. The reasons she gave for not wishing to marry were rather inadequate, I thought, and since I was able to alleviate most of her specific worries, I was a little surprised at how adamant she remained.”

“I don’t know where she got this aversion to marriage,” Sir Edward grumbled. “Her mother and I were perfectly happy. That should have set a good example for her. I thought at first she was merely discriminating. After all, who could take Knedlington seriously? And if she’d wanted to annoy me, she could have accepted Blockley. One would have thought he was just the sort of pious gentleman she would be most likely to think herself in love with. But no! She was horrified when it came to his actually offering for her. And I don’t think it was snobbery. It didn’t seem to have occurred to her that his calling so frequently was with matrimony as his intent.” Sir Edward lifted the bottle of port in his pacing about the room, but he didn’t ring for a glass. With his eyes averted from Greywell, he muttered, “She’s hopelessly naive, you know.”

“You surprise me. Living in the same house with you . . .”

“‘Who is so deaf or so blind as is he/ That willfully will neither hear nor see,’” Sir Edward quoted, much to his visitor’s astonishment.

“Miss Parkstone is obviously aware of your . . . activities. Her sight and hearing don’t appear to be in question.”

Sir Edward frowned at him. “Her understanding is superficial. Elspeth disapproves of my ‘activities,’ as you call them. She doesn’t like having a lot of half brothers and sisters wandering about the neighborhood, but she feels it’s her duty to see to their welfare. Her annoyance with the whole situation has made her an incredible prude, Greywell. I can’t talk to her about it. I’m her father, for God’s sake. Maybe you could talk some sense to her.”

Greywell was hastily reviewing his various conversations with Elspeth for some clue that her father was wrong, but everything he remembered only served to substantiate the baronet’s statement. Her confusion was not maidenly modesty; he had realized that at the time. There was a much more painful expression of her agitation whenever any mention of physical intimacy was made. Even her departure had coincided with his remarking on her possible future children, something to which he hadn’t really given a thought. Greywell was still in mourning for his wife; he had no intention of establishing a physical bond with Elspeth—now. But marriage was forever, and especially if Andrew died, Greywell would wish to try for further children. The Foxcott family had not been prolific. If he didn’t provide an heir himself, the title would die out.

It was only at this point in his reflections that Greywell realized Sir Edward had finished his remarks with the comment about talking sense to Elspeth himself. “You can’t be serious,” he said, his voice chilly. “I’ve just met Miss Parkstone.”

Sir Edward was exasperated. “You’ve asked her to marry you. I can’t think what further recommendation you need to be the one to enlighten her.”

“She refused me.”

“Well, of course she refused you! I’m not saying you should seduce the girl. Just talk with her. Make her understand there’s nothing wrong with intimacy between a man and a woman, at least if they’re married. She isn’t likely to come around if you’re too pristine to talk about it.”

Greywell, who was deciding again that the whole situation was a farce, stared coldly at his host. “Really, Sir Edward, you haven’t the first notion of decorum, have you? Miss Parkstone would be justifiably upset if I raised the issue with her, and I doubt it would do the least good. Such an aversion isn’t rational, and can’t be explained away rationally. I’m sure with time and patience and affection something might be done to overcome it, but I haven’t the time, I doubt I have the necessary patience, and there is, as yet, no question of affection. I think we would do best to forget the whole scheme.”

The room was beginning to chill, and Greywell rose from his chair to stand regarding Sir Edward’s back. The baronet stood gazing into the dying embers, his shoulders slightly slumped but his booted feet spread apart in an almost defiant stance. He turned slowly to face Greywell.

“As you wish, of course. I can’t force you to marry her, or her to marry you. Her mother would have approved of the match, I think. It’s not much of a life for Elspeth, living here with me. She’s an exceptional woman, you know, just requiring the right man to give her enough room to be herself. Though she didn’t inherit her mother’s looks completely, she’s a handsome woman, and she’d look even better with a little guidance in her wardrobe, and with her toilette. She wouldn’t shame you.”

“There’s no question of that,” Greywell said gently. “I regret it didn’t work out, Sir Edward. Though I think you might have known it wouldn’t,” he couldn’t help adding.

“‘Hope springs eternal’ and all that.” The baronet sighed as he crossed the room to the door. “There won’t be another occasion when someone with as great attractions as yours offers for her.” At Greywell’s dismissive gesture he grinned ruefully and said, “I’m not talking about your countenance or your aristocratic station, my dear fellow. I’m talking about your plight. That’s what would appeal to her if anything did.”

* * * *

Lord Greywell’s plight
did
prey on Elspeth’s mind. She dreamed of a child wasting away while black-frocked women went about their household duties, ignoring him. The babe lay in a cradle already swathed in black, in a dark room where no one entered. There was a loud clock with a black face and black hands which ticked away the minutes mercilessly, coming ever closer to what Elspeth knew would be unbearable gongs of doom. She woke to the early-morning light in a sweat.

Was it her duty to marry Lord Greywell and try to save his son? Elspeth felt sure it couldn’t possibly be a duty, even a Christian duty, but the question continued to nag at her. It was true she would have gone if it hadn’t been necessary to actually marry Greywell. Much as she was accustomed to the neighborhood around Lyndhurst, there were numerous things in her situation which bothered her. Having so many of her father’s illegitimate children continually thrust on her notice was unnerving for one of her moral rectitude. And she knew that Sir Edward would go on quite well without her; knew, in fact, that he wished she would leave so he could pursue his pleasures without her disapproving presence.

Also, there was Mr. Blockley to consider, Elspeth felt, especially since she’d lost her temper and thrown the queen cake at him, that they could no longer be comfortable together, which made her parish work more difficult. Even at Lyndhurst her life did not hold out much promise of regaining its previous precarious balance.

Elspeth climbed out of the four-poster bed and padded across the carpet in her bare feet. Her room was exactly as she liked it, neither frilly nor overcrowded, the lovely old oak furniture so highly polished it seemed to glow in the pale light. Elspeth drew open the burgundy draperies to find that it had snowed during the night, leaving a sparkling cover over the lawn beyond her window.

No wonder everything felt so still, she thought, picking up a hairbrush to draw it absently through her loosened tresses. It was probably later than she’d imagined at first, too, with the deceptive winter light, but her maid had not yet come with her standard cup of hot chocolate, so it couldn’t yet be eight o’clock.

There was a light frosting in the bottom corners of the window, a tracery as lovely as the finest lace. Elspeth leaned her forehead against the cold pane, remembering the times she had eagerly pressed her face to the glass as a child, raptly observing the first snow, the first green bud, the first haying, the first fallen leaf. It was a great pity that daily excitement couldn’t stay with you when you grew up. Elspeth turned aside from the window as her maid entered with her morning chocolate.

“There’s not so much snow Lord Greywell won’t be able to leave, is there?” she asked.

“I shouldn’t think so, Miss Elspeth. Three inches, maybe. Only a regular dandy’d be bothered by three inches of snow. His lordship don’t look like a few inches of snow would bother him, now does he? A fine gentleman he is, miss, from what I’ve seen of him.” The girl set the tray down on a bedside stand. “Shall I help you dress now, or should I come back?”

“Now, please. I’d like to breakfast early.” With any luck, Elspeth could be finished before the viscount ever descended to the Breakfast Room. She found Sadie totally unwilling to accept the plain gray day dress she’d already decided on.

“You’ve company, Miss Elspeth,” she protested, drawing forth a blue wool with several falls of lace at the elbows. “An old-fashioned dress,” she proclaimed it, “but ever so nice on you.”

Once again Elspeth submitted to the girl’s ministrations, thinking it couldn’t be wrong when Lord Greywell had come all this way to inspect her. He shouldn’t leave with the impression she was dowdy, at least. After last night it would have been almost an insult to revert to her more mundane dress, as though she were mocking him for ever thinking he might be willing to marry someone like her. Elspeth tried to put all thoughts of the sickly child from her mind.

Unfortunately, the dressing of her hair took longer than she had anticipated, and she didn’t reach the Breakfast Room until almost her usual time. Lord Greywell was already there. Elspeth forced a smile to her lips. “Good morning. I hope you slept well.”

“Very well, thank you.” He stood until a footman had held her chair for her and then, resuming his seat, observed, “You set a remarkably fine breakfast table, Miss Parkstone. I haven’t seen this much variety since my last large house party.”

“My father and I both like a little bit of a lot of things. It’s odd of us, I suppose, but one gets into the habit of indulging oneself. We usually have only a cold collation for luncheon, though sometimes in winter we have a warming soup.” She hesitated before asking, “Will you be staying for luncheon?”

“No. I should be getting back to Ashfield. It makes me nervous leaving Andrew there alone for very long.”

Elspeth concentrated on buttering a muffin. “Of course.” The horrible dream forced its way into her mind, and she winced, but could not bring herself to say anything.

Watching her, Greywell wondered if she’d had second thoughts. Why, otherwise, had she flinched that way, as though he’d hurt her by insisting on leaving? There was no sense in broaching the matter again if she preferred not to consider it. But if she’d changed her mind? Would it be reprehensible of him to back off now? Compromising, he said, “I was hoping you’d show me the gothic ruin I passed by on my drive in, before I left.”

“In the snow?”

He’d forgotten the snow. “If you’d prefer not to . . .”

“Oh, no, I love walking in the snow,” she confessed. “If you haven’t a pair of boots to withstand this kind of weather, someone could fetch a pair of Papa’s.”

“My own will do,” he said, and for the rest of the meal he asked her questions about the surrounding countryside, Aylesbury, and Lyndhurst itself, carefully keeping each topic perfectly neutral. When she had finished eating, long after he had, she excused herself to get her outdoor wrap.

Elspeth reappeared in a navy-blue cloak lined with ermine, her hands thrust into an ermine muff. The effect of the outfit was somewhat spoiled by the heavy boots she wore, but she appeared unperturbed by the incongruity. When they met in the hall, she pulled the hood up over her head so the ermine lining framed her face. “Ready?” she asked, offering a faint smile.

Greywell nodded and took her arm. There was a flagstone path, freshly swept, that led from the east door of Lyndhurst across the lawn and through a stand of trees toward an ornamental pond. At the stand of trees one could look back over the gray stone building, somewhat forbidding in the dull light of the winter morning, or down the slight slope to the still water of the pond. The path had been swept only as far as the trees, but Elspeth never hesitated as she stepped into the fresh snow, looking back to see the pattern their footprints made in its pristine surface.

“My father’s grandfather had the ruin built,” she explained as they skirted the pond on a path made invisible by snow. “I can’t imagine how the taste for ruins developed—fake ruins, I mean—but ours is quite a good one, for all that. In the summer it’s covered with ivy and looks very realistic with the stone bridge just beyond it. In the winter it’s a little bleak, and slightly dangerous if you don’t watch your footing. The snow tends to hide some of the moldering stones.”

Rounding a small orchard of bare-branched fruit trees, they came on the gothic folly abruptly. “It’s even more of a surprise in the summer, when the leaves of the trees block out even a glimpse of it as you approach,” she said.

The stream which fed the pond had a usable stone bridge over it, but the icy incline was not inviting under the current conditions. Water lapped against the sides, sluggishly swirling on toward the invisible pond.