Silver Splendor (15 page)

“Only if it involves you.” His murmured words made her insides flutter; the sensation intensified as his gaze descended to her bosom. “You wear that signet ring on a chain around your neck. It came from your grandfather, did it not?”

Drawing forth the ring, Elizabeth curled her fingers around it like a talisman. “Yes, my mother gave it to me on my thirteenth birthday.”

“Did she tell you anything about him? His name, perhaps? What sort of person he was?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “She said he was dead, that I have no other relations left here.” Her eyes narrowed. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because I’m curious about you,” he said, his voice as low and liquid as the murmuring fountain. He leaned closer, eyes fixed on her. “I want to know everything about you, Elizabeth. Everything that shaped you into the woman you are.”

A fierce flare of yearning heated Elizabeth. Her heart wanted to believe him; her mind told her to mistrust him. The signet bit into her palm as suspicion won out. She had never felt more than a passing interest in the owner of the swan crest; her grandfather was a shadow figure to her, an insubstantial person in a world full of clear, vibrant images. So why was Nicholas so keen on ferreting out her grandfather’s identity?

“You can’t possibly care about me,” she said slowly. “You only care about my lineage. You want to find blue blood in me, to keep you from being ashamed to have me in your house.”

“That isn’t true.”

His words were fervent, but when Nicholas averted his eyes for an instant, Elizabeth knew he was lying.

Disappointment stabbed her spirit; an absurd emptiness touched her heart. Letting the ring drop to her chest, she rose stiffly, hands clenched at her sides.

“Is that why you insisted on speaking to my father? I suppose you tried to pry information out of him, too.”

Oddly enough, Nicholas’s eyes seemed full of concern. “You’re wrong about that, Elizabeth.”

“Am I?” Lifting her chin with dignity, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, your lordship, I must retire so I can get up early tomorrow. We
common
folk have to work for a living.”

Turning her back, she marched out of the conservatory.

As she sat at her worktable the next morning, Elizabeth was still meditating on the encounter. Her pencil swept over the drawing pad, shaping the homespun features of Miss Eversham, while her mind wrestled with the memory of Nicholas’s inscrutable expression. The feeling that she’d missed a vital clue last night pestered her like a subtly inaccurate line on a sculpture. She couldn’t question her father; he had already gone out for the day.

“You’re frowning, Miss Hastings. Is my portrait giving you difficulty?”

Blinking, Elizabeth focused on Miss Eversham, who sat stiff as a statue in a chair beside the burbling fountain. Sunshine warmed the brown hair scraped into a bun and softened the austere angles of her face.

“Oh, no,” Elizabeth said hastily. “I was only concentrating. I’m so pleased you agreed to sit for me — you’re a compelling subject.”

Doubt drew the governess’s lips into a lean line. “I don’t see why you think so. I’m hardly Helen of Troy.”

“You have character. That makes you far more fascinating than some empty headed society beauty. Just wait and see.”

“Hmph,” Miss Eversham snorted. Yet pleasure sparkled her plain brown eyes and she sat even straighter.

Smiling to herself, Elizabeth deftly wielded the pencil to shape the woman’s hawk nose. The governess truly was an engaging study, so starched and servile, so civilized and straitlaced, so… so
British.
And so unlike the laundresses and laborers Elizabeth had sketched in America.

Over the fountain’s melody, footsteps tapped and silk rustled. She looked up to see Lady Beatrice sailing down the stone pathway like a privateer in pursuit of quarry. Her sapphire morning gown trimmed with flounces and fringe made her an elegant ship, indeed, Elizabeth decided with irreverent humor.

Lady Beatrice aimed a glare at the governess. “Miss Eversham! What are
you
doing here? And where is my niece?”

Miss Eversham sprang guiltily to her feet and dipped a curtsy. “Good morning, your ladyship,” she said, fingers smoothing her skirt of sober black bombazine.

“Forgive me, but Lady Cicely is still abed and I had a few moments free —”

“And thought you would sit for a chat? I’m shocked, Miss Eversham. Surely you have mending to do, lessons to prepare. I’ve never before known you to desert the duties the earl pays you to perform.”

The governess meekly inclined her head. “Yes, your ladyship. It shan’t happen again.”

Elizabeth slapped her sketchpad and pencil onto the cluttered table. “We weren’t chatting, Lady Beatrice. I persuaded Miss Eversham to sit for me. I assure you, she was most reluctant to do so and agreed only out of the goodness of her heart.”

Her ladyship’s mouth thinned. “Indeed. How fitting, then, that I am here to discuss your behavior. Miss Eversham, you are excused.”

Flustered beneath her ladyship’s pointed look, the governess curtsied again and scurried out of the conservatory.

“One does not fraternize with servants, Miss Hastings. You would do well to remember that.”

Amused by the imperious words, Elizabeth picked up her pad and turned to a clean page. “I wasn’t fraternizing; I was drawing. And why should you be concerned with my behavior? After all, you consider
me
to be on the level of a servant.”

Lady Beatrice lifted her chin. “Duty compels me to be here today. My nephew has assigned me the task of instructing you in deportment. The next time you enter polite company, you must be properly prepared.”

Elizabeth’s fingers tensed around the pencil. So this was the earl’s doing, was it? With typical arrogance he clung to the notion of transforming her into an English lady. Hurt stung her insides. Why couldn’t he accept her as she was?

“I’m as prepared as I’ll ever be,” she said, distracting herself with a quick sketch of Lady Beatrice. “I told the earl I had no intention of assuming a false identity simply to please him.”

Lady Beatrice looked startled. “You said that to Nicholas?” Recovering herself, she said severely, “Nevertheless, as long as you reside in this household your behavior reflects upon the Ware family. Cicely must not be exposed to a poor example.”

“I thought I managed quite admirably with Lord and Lady Melton.”

Her ladyship set her chin at a determined angle. ‘I’ll grant you, you fared better than I had anticipated. Still, you must learn a number of critical details. For one, you should have stood up and curtsyed when I came in. A lady must always do so when a person of higher rank enters the room.”

“Then I would be rising whenever anyone walked in. How tiresome!” Elizabeth smothered a smile. “I suppose
you
consider me so lowborn I should show such deference even to the servants.”

“Really, Miss Hastings! Flippancy does not become a lady.”

“I’m not here to learn a new role. I’m an American and equal to any human being. We have a constitution that says so.”

“And I’m not here to discuss foreign policy. You must learn to guard your tongue.” Like a schoolmarm, her ladyship shook a manicured finger, a gesture Elizabeth hurried to catch on paper. “Civilized conversation is an art. One must work at it, learn what one can and cannot say in wellbred company.”

When she started to lower her arm, Elizabeth said quickly, “Don’t move.”

Lady Beatrice froze, her eyes round and gray. “What’s wrong?” she squeaked. “I haven’t an insect on me, have I?”

Laughing, Elizabeth swiftly finished the sketch. “No, I’m just drawing you. There, you can relax now.”

Lady Beatrice let her arm fall. “Drawing
me?”
she said, curiosity softening her cultured tone.

“Come and see.”

Her ladyship paused as if unsure; then she glided around the worktable to peer at the sketch pad. Silence reigned for a moment. “Oh, dear,” she said in a small voice. “Do I really look so… so shrewish?”

Elizabeth bit back a grin. “Only when you scold.”

“Well. At least drawing is quite a genteel skill for a lady.”

“I’m not a lady,” Elizabeth said. “I’m an artist.”

Lady Beatrice assumed a regal pose. “I see no reason why you can’t be both. You seem to have a quick mind, Miss Hastings. Stand up, please; we’ve work to do.”

Humoring her and expecting to be entertained, Elizabeth complied.

A look of comic horror swept her ladyship’s patrician face. “Dear St. George, you’re wearing trousers! You’re in more need of my expertise than I’d dreamed.”

“This is my working attire. I won’t consider changing it.”

As if Elizabeth hadn’t spoken, the older woman tapped her lower lip with a finger. “I shall arrange for my dressmaker to take your measurements. We shall see what
he
can do with you.”

“I can’t afford new clothes, especially at
your
prices.”

Her ladyship waved a dismissing hand. “Oh, but Nicholas will see to the cost.”

Anger pricked Elizabeth’s sense of humor. “I won’t allow the earl to drape me in fancy clothes like a kept woman.”

A flush tinted Lady Beatrice’s porcelain cheeks. “A lady does not speak of such females. And I will not allow you to be an embarrassment to my nephew. Now, we will begin with deportment. I must nave your undivided attention, if you please.”

“That’s impossible,” Elizabeth said flatly, sitting back down. “I refuse to stop working just to listen to a long list of pointless rules.”

Lady Beatrice pursed her lips. “Then I shall conduct our lessons as you work. That way, you can take notes. We will now discuss the proper terms of address, beginning with a duke and his family.”

Pacing with dignified steps, her sapphire skirts swishing, she commenced a complicated inventory of instructions. Half amused and half annoyed, Elizabeth gave in. Singlemindedness was, without a doubt, a family trait.

Resigned, she began a sketch of Nicholas as she listened with half an ear. At the close of an hour her head spun with trying to distinguish the social precedence of dowagers and widows of younger sons and married daughters of peers.

She couldn’t resist commenting, “Wouldn’t it be simpler to treat everyone equally?”

Lady Beatrice stopped. “We are all born to a specified station, Miss Hastings. To consider everyone alike is absurd. How, for example, could I be like Miss Eversham? We must remember that the common masses look to the aristocracy for leadership.”

“Equality works well in America.”

“America,” her ladyship sniffed. “Now there is a country without culture, without refinement. Imagine, not even a monarch to serve as an example of personal dignity and national pride.”

“‘Pride goeth before destruction and a haughty spirit before a fall,’” said Owen.

Elizabeth turned to see her father standing in the doorway, framed by trailing ivy plants. Though his words were admonishing, the smile creasing his whiskered face brought a rush of gladness to her. His plain brown suit was meticulously clean, his thinning gray hair neatly combed. This morning he looked vigorous and happy, much like the father she knew when her mother was alive, the father she had missed so much these past months.

“I beg your pardon,” Lady Beatrice enunciated in her most snobbish tone. “Your daughter and I are engaged in a private dialogue. If you wish to speak with ner, I should be obliged if you would do so at another time.”

Owen stepped jauntily closer to give Elizabeth a peck on the cheek. “I should like to speak to my daughter now. Begging your ladyship’s pardon, of course.” He swept into an elaborate bow.

“Well!” Lady Beatrice looked miffed, though she could hardly refuse. “We shall continue our lessons later, then. We have a great deal of ground yet to cover, Miss Hastings.” Head held high, she sailed out on a rustle of sapphire silk.

“Lessons?” Owen asked.

“Oh, she has some silly notion of teaching me the difference between a duke and an earl. Tell me now, what has you smiling so this morning?”

His hazel eyes twinkled in the sunlight. “I’ve been offered a position.”

Elizabeth hugged him. “Oh, Papa, That’s wonderful news! Where? When will you start? How long have you known about this?”

Chuckling, he held a hand up. “One question at a time, please, Libby. I went for the interview this morning, but they offered me the post on the spot. I’ll be tutoring a boy who’s bedridden with a fractured leg. He missed the last month of school, and his brother doesn’t want him to fall behind come autumn.”

“You’ve met the boy, then?”

“Oh, yes. We got on quite satisfactorily. For all his high rank, he’s a plucky lad, reminds me a bit of Kipp.”

“What’s his name?”

“Lord Francis Garforth. His elder brother is the Marquess of Sedgemoor.”

Surprise rippled through Elizabeth. “Garforth? Cicely mentioned a Garforth family, Lord Charles and his sister, the Lady Phoebe.”

“Francis is their younger brother.”

“I see.” Warm with curiosity, she plucked a lump of clay from a box, dipped it into water, then began kneading it. “How did you find out about this position?”