Never Call It Love (18 page)

She
looked up into a face that resembled Patrick's but
was
softer-looking, with the planes of cheekbone and jaw less well-defined. For a
moment she saw a startled look in his dark eyes. Then he bent above the hand
she offered and kissed it. "Welcome, Lady Stanford."

"Thank
you."

"I
shall see you at supper. But if you will excuse me now, I have some work I must
finish. Besides, I know you must be wanting to rest." He turned and limped
away down the hall.

Menservants
were carrying trunks and portmanteaus up the stairs now, with Mrs. Corcoran
toiling behind them. As Elizabeth and Patrick turned to follow, she asked,
"How much younger is your brother?"

"He
is three years older."

"Older!
Then how is it that you, rather than he, are the fourth baronet?"

"You
might as well know now. Colin is a half-brother, and illegitimate. After two
years of marriage to my mother, my father began to fear he would have no legitimate
children, and so he brought Colin here. The next year, I was born."

"I
see. Who was Colin's mother?"

"A
former governess, employed by Dublin friends of the Stanfords."

"She
did not come here with her son, I suppose."

"Of
course not. She stayed on in lodgings my father had provided for her in
Dublin."

What
had Colin's mother felt, deprived of her two-year-old son? And what had the
last Lady Stanford felt, finding her husband's byblow added to her household?
Probably no one except the two women involved had thought the questions
important enough for consideration.

They
had reached the balcony now, which, with its oaken balustrade, ran around three
sides of the big entrance hall. As they moved past dim old portraits hung on
the paneled wall, Patrick frowned down at the dark red
carpet. It was
almost threadbare in spots, and here was an actual hole. He had never noticed
it before. How long had it been there?

Where
the balcony turned, an open doorway afforded a glimpse of a flight of stairs.
They must lead down, Elizabeth realized, to the kitchen and the servants'
quarters. As they moved past the doorway, Patrick said, "If you want to
have any of the household's furnishings repaired or replaced, please do so. In
fact, I think you should."

She
inclined her head in acknowledgment. So that was to be the destiny of part of
those twenty thousand pounds.

The
menservants had disappeared by then, but Mrs. Corcoran waited, smiling, beside
an open door up ahead. When Patrick and Elizabeth had moved through the doorway,
he turned back to the housekeeper. "Would you mind leaving us alone for a
moment, Mrs. Corcoran?"

Her
smile broadened. "Of course not, sir." Her brogue made the final word
sound like "sor." She backed into the hall and closed the door.

Standing
beside the trunk the menservants had left, Elizabeth asked, "Is this my
room?"

"Yes.
Do you find it satisfactory?"

Elizabeth
looked around her. A worn but still beautiful Aubusson carpet. Massive oaken
chests and bureaus of Tudor design. A small Queen Anne desk of rosewood. A wide
four-poster bed, with an unusual and beautiful headboard. Its six slender
columns, carved in a grape-leaf design, echoed the four much larger corner
posts. The bed hangings, like those at the mullioned windows open to the sunset
light, were of green and gold brocade. And everywhere—on the bureaus and
chests, and beside the five-branched candelabrum on the bedside table—stood
vases of apple blossoms.

But
the brass candelabrum was tarnished, the hem of a window drapery sagged from
its broken threads, and
across the room, beneath a chest of drawers, Elizabeth could see a roll of
furry gray dust at least six inches long. "It is a very handsome
room."

"It
was my mother's. After she fell ill, she occupied it until her death, about
fifteen years ago."

"I
see." She hesitated. "And your room?"

"Beyond
that door." As her gaze flew to it, he added, "No, there is no lock.
But that does not signify. If I chose to come in, no lock would keep me
out."

Elizabeth's
only answer was cool silence.

"About
your wardrobe," he went on. "You have worn the same traveling costume
throughout the journey from England."

She
thought of the journey, a wretched one redeemed only by the fact that there had
been no question of her sharing sleeping quarters with her husband. In Bristol,
their embarkation point, there had been no accommodations for her except in a
room already occupied by a woman and her almost grown daughter, and none for
him except a room shared with three other male travelers. On the small ship in
which they had made the rough channel crossing, there had been one large cabin
for the men passengers, and another for the women.

"Naturally
I did not change my traveling costume, since it is the only one I have,"
she said coldly. "I hope you will not find my wardrobe too deficient.
Circumstances scarcely gave me time to assemble a larger one."

His
tone was equally cold. "That can be remedied. We can have gowns made for
you in Dublin."

"Dublin!"

He
flushed. "Yes, milady, Dublin. Many of you English are woefully ignorant
about that city. Some Dublin neighborhoods are as fine as any in London. And
there is a dressmaker there, a Frenchwoman, who is as skilled as any in Paris.
Moira Ashley's gowns are made by Madame Leclerc."

So
that was it. He had felt this afternoon that she cut a poor figure beside the
resplendent Lady Moira. His pride would not allow that, and so—also out of that
twenty thousand pounds, no doubt—she would be clothed in velvets and brocades
and Brussels lace. Well, at least some of her money was to be spent upon her
own person. Many a wife, she knew, had stood helplessly by while her husband
threw away her fortune at the gaming tables.

She
said, "Just as you wish."

"I
am going to Dublin within a few days. I will call on Madame Leclerc and make
sure that she has an ample supply of materials." He added, "Supper is
at eight. I will send Mrs. Corcoran in now."

He
went out. She heard him say something to the housekeeper. Then the little woman
stepped through the doorway. "Do you find everything to your liking,
milady?"

Mrs.
Corcoran had been surprised by Sir Patrick's letter ordering her to prepare
this long-unused room for Lady Stanford. Strange that a husband and wife,
particularly newlyweds, should occupy separate rooms. But then, perhaps that
was the custom among the English gentry.

"It
is a beautiful room, and I do thank you for the apple blossoms. But, Mrs.
Corcoran, would you not agree that the staff, with only Sir Patrick and his
brother to please, have become a bit slipshod about their work?"

Seeing
the hurt astonishment in the woman's face, Elizabeth instantly regretted her
words. It was apparent now that Mrs. Corcoran and the other servants, spurred
by the prospect of Elizabeth's arrival, had achieved what were for them new
heights of diligence and efficiency.

Elizabeth
said lamely, "It is just that I noticed a dust roll under that
chest."

Mrs.
Corcoran crouched down and stared at the furry gray cylinder as if
contemplating something absolutely new to her experience, such as an infant
alligator.

"Why,
so there is!" Grunting slightly, she stood up. "You need have no
fear, milady! I will give those lazy girls a scolding they will never
forget."

Elizabeth
smiled. "Don't be too hard on them. In time, you and I together will set
everything to rights."

Elizabeth
did not know it, but with those four words, "you and I together," she
had won Mrs. Corcoran's heart for life. "That we will, milady," the
housekeeper said. "And now I will go fetch Rose, and she and I will unpack
your trunk."

Later
that evening, in the large dining hall, Patrick sat at one end of the long
oaken table and Elizabeth at the other, with Colin seated between them.
Elizabeth soon found that if the housekeeping at Stanford Hall was inadequate,
the cooking was not. Hungry after the long day of traveling, she helped herself
generously to the roast lamb, green peas, and boiled potatoes proffered by two
red-haired footmen. Patrick, silent and seemingly abstracted, left most of the
conversation to Colin and Elizabeth.

She
said, smiling at her brother-in-law, "How is it that I have never seen you
in London during the season?"

He
returned her smile. "Since I do not dance, London balls don't interest me.
And I have never cared for gaming. Besides, I have much to occupy me here at
the hall and at Edgewood."

"Edgewood?"

"The
small estate Patrick's father and mine left to me at his death ten years ago.
It is less than two hours' ride from here." He hesitated, and then said,
with a glance at Patrick, "I suppose that you know we are
half-brothers."

It
was Patrick who answered the question, his voice curt. "I have told her
the circumstances."

For
several moments no one spoke. Then Elizabeth turned to Colin. "Is your
mother still in Dublin?"

"No.
As soon as I inherited Edgewood, I brought her there to live."

"How
wonderful for her!" Elizabeth cried. "She must have been so lonely
for you all during those years she spent in Dublin."

Patrick
said, as if scenting a criticism of the third baronet, "I would assume she
was glad that his father and mine acknowledged Colin and brought him here to
raise as his son."

Colin's
large dark eyes looked steadily at his brother.

"Of
course she was glad. But nevertheless, Lady Stanford is right. My mother was
lonely in Dublin."

"Please!"
Elizabeth said. "Must you call me Lady Stanford? After all, I am your
sister-in-law."

He
smiled at her. "Very well, Elizabeth."

Abruptly
Patrick got to his feet. "If you will excuse me, I will not wait for the
last course. I want to go over the ledgers."

After
a moment Colin said, "Then I had best go over them with you." He
stood up. "Please excuse us both, Elizabeth."

The
fact that she ate her plum tart in solitude did not lessen Elizabeth's
enjoyment of it one whit. Afterward she went to her room. Mrs. Corcoran and
Rose—a stocky girl whose pink-and-white face under a bedraggled cap did indeed
somewhat resemble a wild rose—were hanging the last of the trunk's contents in
the wardrobe. To judge by the time the task had taken them, they must have
examined and discussed each garment. And to judge by the rueful look with which
the girl hung up an untrimmed dark cloak, she and Mrs. Corcoran, like Sir
Patrick, had found Elizabeth's garments lacking in splendor.

But
the smile with which the girl turned to her was both eager and respectful.
"Will you be wanting me to help you undress now, milady?"

"Thank
you. Thank you both. But I am very tired and would rather do for myself
tonight."

A
few minutes later she slipped between the linen
sheets on the vast bed and blew
out the five candles in their branched candelabrum. She had dreaded this first
night in a strange house in an alien land, and not only because she feared that
Patrick Stanford, after all, might demand his conjugal rights. She had also
anticipated that she would lie awake for hours, tormented by the memory of
Donald's white, suffering face.

But
she was exhausted by almost fifty miles of travel and a host of new
impressions. Within minutes she fell asleep.

***

When
Patrick Stanford finally went to bed on the other side of that heavy oak door,
he was not so fortunate. He lay awake in the darkness, brooding gaze fixed on
the barely visible bulk of a bureau across the room. What a damnable situation,
married to a woman who probably right now was weeping into her pillow over that
parson fellow.

And
the way she had behaved at table that night, talking so easily to Colin, and
smiling at him. She had never smiled at
him
so warmly, no, not even that
night when they had first met, at the Armitages' ball. Perhaps she had no taste
for anyone except bookish men who would sit around discussing Milton with her.

Or
perhaps she had been friendly with Colin in the hope that he, Patrick, would
react with irritation. In that case, it would be best in the future not to
appear irritated. And as a matter of fact, why should he care how often she
smiled at Colin, as long as it went no further than smiling? As he had warned
her today, he had no intention of allowing her to make him a cuckold. And that
was not just because of considerations of honor. To have standing with other
men, a man needed their respect, and he could not command it if he wore horns.

Damn
the woman! True, he had wronged her dreadfully, but his provocation had been
great. And after he
had received her letter, he had tried to behave as well as he could. He had not
only married her, but had tacitly agreed to stay out of her bed. He had thought
that would not be difficult. After all, the world was full of women, many of
them both attractive and willing. He had not expected to lie awake like this,
thinking of her on the other side of that door....