The Admiral's Daughter (7 page)

Five

DUSK WAS ALREADY
well advanced by the time the Viscount's chaise came into view of Ramblay Castle. Maggie's first glimpse of the mansion, lit up by what seemed a thousand candles in as many windows, nearly took her breath away. The castle was a vast building, with two great wings stretching out from a central construction, which, from its darker color and crumbling walls, appeared to have been the original edifice, constructed in the time of King John. It lay at the end of a stately avenue, lined on both sides by ancient elms, their crimson leafy glory just touching over the center of the road. A huge portico at the front of the castle, with room for three carriages at once, was sustained by twelve immense columns, and the main entrance was guarded by a pair of marble lions. Through the gathering dusk, Maggie could descry great terraces and balustrades giving off the modern wings, and a variety of flower gardens and walkways leading into a deer park.

She was amazed at first to see such a profusion of light, when she supposed only the immediate family was at home. Even in her first delight at seeing so much beauty, elegance, and symmetry of design, she could not help but be taken aback by such a display of wealth. It struck her as just the kind of display an arrogant peer might like, which might, in fact, serve to assuage his own pride more than any more practical need. She herself had never allowed a taper to burn where no one was using it—to see such a profligate waste of candlewax as this only served to remind her of her prejudice against the Viscount. She was not allowed much time to contemplate this idea, however, for the chaise had very soon drawn up before the mansion, and in the ensuing commotion of postillions dismounting, footmen running out to unload her baggage
and carry it indoors, and the carriage doors being thrown open, every other concern but the immediate business of getting down and seeing that nothing was forgotten left her. She was not allowed to do much, for the servants were so numerous and so efficient that within the wink of an eye the carriage was empty and being driven toward the stables. Another moment saw the great front door swing open and the dignified figure of the butler appear. Her maid, who had been standing stock-still during all the foregoing business, evidently too amazed to budge, now grasped her arm in fright and whispered a question.

“Never mind, Marie,” Maggie murmured back, with a reassuring pat, “you shall come with me, whatever they say.”

And together the two women mounted the great marble stairway and passed the butler into the hall. Here was an even more extravagant array of luxury than the exterior of the building had promised. Gilt and crystal, silk and exotic marbles made up the whole; Maggie felt a fleeting sympathy, on finding herself in the vast and echoing hallway, for her trembling maid. Marie was still clutching her arm, a single bandbox clenched in her free hand and her eyes wide with awe. For a moment Maggie felt exactly like a pauper who has just had her first glimpse of Windsor Castle. The whole place was built on such a grand scale, and with such a regard for beauty at whatever price, that she might have been standing in the foyer of a cathedral rather than a private house. Here indeed was food for every twinge of esthetic hunger—one glance about the walls told her that every art of construction and design of painting, silversmithy, and sculpture had gone into the building of this castle.

The butler was now standing behind them, coughing. With a sudden start, Maggie realized he meant to take her cloak, and slipped it off.

“The other guests are all upstairs,” he murmured, bowing, and, Maggie thought, glancing wonderingly at her dusty traveling costume. “Shall I announce you?”

And now for the first time, Maggie was aware of the distant sounds of laughter and voices. Whatever else she had envisioned of her arrival at Ramblay, she had never supposed she might come in in the midst of a dinner or a ball!

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed in reply. “I shall wait here for my cousin.”

The butler bowed again, smirked a little, and retreated to his post beside the door. Maggie waited patiently for five minutes, until gradually the idea dawned on her that Lord Ramblay was not aware of her arrival. She was on the point of saying something of the kind to the butler when a doorway opened beside her and through it issued a plump and smiling woman in black.

The housekeeper—for her dress, and the ring of keys jangling from her waist, declared her to be such—had commenced speaking even before she was through the door.

“Oh, to be sure, to be sure!” she cried, with her tiny hands gesticulating in the air, “I had no idea you were here, miss! Pray forgive me! Indeed, here you are at last. I know you are Miss Trevor, my master's cousin, and this girl must be your maid.”

The woman beamed back and forth between them, instantly comforting both. Maggie had begun to feel more awkward than she had ever felt before in her life until this plump and motherly presence had appeared. But now she began to regain her composure, and smiled back at the woman.

“Indeed I am, and I would be very grateful if someone told my cousin I am here.”

“Tut!” cried the little woman, glaring at the butler, “has not he been told? Oh, la, miss—you must forgive us. Lord Ramblay has got a hunting party down from London for the week, and we are all in a tizzy below stairs. So many complaining ladies, you know—well, we shall soon remedy
that
, I assure you! Here, my girl,” she said to the maid, “you must come along with me, and we shall lay out your mistress's evening gown, and I shall have Lord Ramblay down in a flash!”

Bustling off, but not before she had informed Maggie that she was Mrs. Black and at her service should she require anything, she disappeared through the same door through which she had come, Marie in tow.

Now Maggie was left completely alone, standing in the middle of that vast expanse of marble. Moment followed moment and, save for the ticking of a clock at the foot of the central stairway, not a sound was heard. Seeing a row
of pictures hanging on a wall behind the sweep of stairs, she moved toward them with the idea of occupying her idle moments while she waited. The first in the series of huge portraits framed in gilt depicted a fat youth with round cheeks and wearing a ruffled collar. Beneath the portrait was the legend: “First Viscount Ramblay, 1563.” The second Viscount was less spoiled-looking than the first, but not a great deal thinner. Maggie wandered down the room, alternately amazed and amused by the diversity of expression, face, and form in her ancestry. The last portrait was a rendering of the present Lord Ramblay's father, her mother's uncle, and this she gazed at with considerably more interest than she had accorded the others.

Lord Ramblay had been an exceedingly good-looking man, but so stern in his expression, and with such a haughty lift of his eyebrow, that the beauty of his face was almost defeated. The brow was high and broad, the eyes deep-set and sharp, the nose almost hawklike. There was something in the face that reminded Maggie of some likenesses she had seen of the early Roman emperors. The lips, for all their magnificent shape, had a cruel twist, and the set of the strong chin hinted at the stubbornness that had caused the rift with her own mother.

It was just as she was gazing up at this portrait, lost in contemplation, that she heard a step upon the stair, and whirling about, saw her cousin descending toward her.

Lord Ramblay had changed from his traveling costume into an evening suit of deep green satin, with a pearl gray waistcoat. He wore breeches, as in the old-fashioned custom, and pearl gray stockings set off his shapely calves. Everything in his manner, as he came down the steps, smiling at her, was dignified and elegant. But what struck Maggie most, after she had caught her breath on seeing again how extraordinarily handsome he was, was the perfectly amiable smile upon his face. The scornful frown he had worn that afternoon had vanished, changing the whole look of his features, and making them infinitely more pleasing.

“Why, Cousin!” he exclaimed, reaching the last step. “I am afraid you have been kept waiting through some oversight. I hope you have not been impatient—I see at least you are well occupied.”

“Yes, thank you,” replied Maggie, adjusting herself to
be wary of this new manner, which was certainly a false amiability. “I have been studying these portraits.”

“A motley collection we have for our ancestry, eh?” smiled the Viscount, coming up beside her and regarding the painting of his father. But the picture held his attention only for an instant before he turned to regard her. This process was so prolonged, and so intense, that Maggie really thought she would begin to tremble under his eyes. She kept her own focused upon the picture of her cousin's father, but could not shake off the sensation of being looked through. At last she said, turning to him abruptly and staring him straight in the eye, “Why, what are you staring at, Lord Ramblay?”

The Viscount was instantly abashed, and lowered his eyes.

“I beg your pardon, Cousin,” murmured he. “It is only that I did not expect—that is——”

“Perhaps you did not expect to see me again so soon?” inquired she pointedly, smiling at his amazement.

“I beg your pardon—so soon?”

“So soon after our encounter at the posting inn at Dartmoor,” responded Maggie calmly, determined not to be made uncomfortable by those dark eyes, which seemed to look quite through her. “I suppose you did not see me, however—I was only one of a crowd, while
you
were the center of attention!”

Now Lord Ramblay had the grace to flush and glance at her uncertainly. But his composure was instantly restored.

“Why, I did not know we were there at the same time! What a pity—for I should have availed myself of the chance to know you sooner!”

“You seemed to be in quite a rush,” remarked Maggie drily, turning back to the portrait. “I do not think you would have had time to know me very well.”

“Oh, you are quite right” responded the Viscount, as if he had momentarily forgotten what business he had been on, but having remembered it, was determined still to be chivalrous. “I was in a great hurry, on a matter of business. Well!” cried he now, as if to change the subject, “you are arrived at last! I hope you are not too weary from your journey to join us for tea. I have one or two friends staying here for a week's hunting, which is nearly over, thank God! But—” now Lord Ramblay looked at
her uncertainly, for Maggie was smiling to herself—“if you are too tired—or had rather not—”

“Oh! But I should not miss it for anything!” cried the young lady, and then, turning to her cousin with an impudent look, demanded to know if by “one or two friends” he did not mean a hundred or more souls.

“Nothing like it,” she was quickly assured, but with a little puzzled glance. “I am not one of your entertaining hosts, I assure you—rather the contrary. My idea of a large party is twenty at the most, and
those
I had rather do without.”

This kind of talk might have gone on all night, if it was allowed, and to be sure Maggie would not have been less taunting. She had ample reason to dislike her cousin, and now with every word he uttered her determination to find fault with him increased. He seemed to her utterly without candor, for every word, every look, seemed weighed to please some ideal of civility. Lord Ramblay
was
perfectly civil—this she could not deny—and yet his manner was so stiff that it struck her as unnatural. The more they conversed, the more she detected that same devotion to duty above every other concern which had struck her about his letter, and which Captain Morrison's tale had only illustrated further. She felt, furthermore, a distinct uneasiness when he looked at her, as if he was endeavoring to read her thoughts. No matter that she was also trying to read
his
—in him, it seemed like arrogance. He struck her, altogether, as an arrogant, cold, and probably unfeeling man, whose charm was all reserved for the drawing room, or wherever else it might be admired by consequential friends. To be sure,
she
was not consequential, but then Lord Ramblay must have had some other reason for wishing to impress her. Had not she already witnessed the manner in which he conducted himself when he thought he was unobserved by friends?

Maggie had not been in the hall ten minutes with her cousin, but already her feelings were firmly fixed. Lord Ramblay fit exactly into the mold she had prepared for him—handsome, arrogant, rich, and cold. That he was also charming did not trouble her much. How easy was it to be charming, only in such a kind of intercourse! How much harder to prove oneself worthy over the long run—loyal, kind, generous, and selfless in times of trouble. With her
mind she decided to allow him still the chance to prove he was other than what she suspected, but in her heart she was determined to make the proving difficult. She decided now to give him another opportunity to redeem himself on the point of their mutual ancestor, and turning to the portrait of his father, remarked upon his handsomeness.

“Oh, indeed—he was always considered a very fine-looking man,” replied the Viscount, following her gaze.

“And yet there is such a coldness in the mouth—and a stubbornness in the chin.
I
cannot value mere beauty when it is marred by an evil temper.”

“If you count a strong will and a ready temper as absolutely
evil,
Cousin, then I disagree. To me, a man ought to have strength of character. A face that is flabby and soft lacks manliness, however amiable it may appear. I would rather a hundred times a face were ugly but with traces of strength and resolution, than beautiful but without any character in it.”