The Dowager's Daughter (5 page)

Even though fearful of the outcome, Althea gave her mother full rein when it came to picking out styles from the pattern books Madame Zizette had brought with her. Once she saw how the clothes transformed her appearance, Althea did not regret her decision.

She stood before a pier glass and ran her hands down an evening dress of white silk with a contrasting heart-shaped bodice in a color her mother identified as willow green. Althea dared to hope it was as becoming as she thought.

“It is a new shade, darling. Mark my words, by next summer
everyone will
be wearing it in one form or another, while
you,
on the other hand, will be setting the style in yet another direction. You shall be the despair of all the would-be fashionables, I promise you.”

“Oh, dear,” Althea mumbled. “I hope not. It sounds most uncomfortable.”

Madame Zizette had the temerity to add, “But of course, your maid Colette will attend to her ladyship’s coiffure,
non?”

Althea was relieved when her mother responded to Madame Zizette’s forwardness with a constrained smile rather than a rebuke. She was too grateful for the woman’s handiwork to see her set down.

In the meantime, the particularly heavy showers of April gave way to a May of meadows and hedgerows alive with the miracle of new life. Althea thought the wildflowers seemed to grow more profusely than in previous years, and the music of songbirds resonated with a greater joy, giving her a feeling that the whole of nature was attending a celebration to which she had not been invited.

Her duties as mistress of Camberly Hall became onerous, and when entertaining members of the gentry, rather than joining in their conversation she gave herself over to woolgathering. Sometimes, when responding to a question that had been posed to her, she would notice that her answer would be met with a raising of brows followed by an exchange of puzzled glances.

On one such evening, after the last of her guests, Squire Collins, the local magistrate, had finally taken his leave, she turned to bid her mother good night in time to see that her obligatory smiles of farewell had been replaced by a perplexed frown.

“Perhaps you will tell me what is going on,” the dowager ventured.

Althea raised a brow. “Please be more explicit, Mama. To what are you referring?”

“Pah!” she replied. “I am surpised you find occasion to ask. I am talking about your strange conduct of late.”

“My conduct? I have done nothing untoward.”

“No? Mary Swann expressed her pleasure in the fact that after fourteen years or so in the building, the Lyceum Theater was finally completed.”

“I fail to see—”

“Let me finish. When asked if you shared her delight in the operas staged there, you replied, ‘If something is not done about the unrest taking place at the docks, we are liable to have a full-scale insurrection on our hands.’ Would you like me to continue?”

Althea covered her brow and slumped into a vacant footman’s chair.’ ‘No. You paint a most mortifying picture.”

She gave her mother a beseeching look. “Mama, what do you suppose is the matter with me? Am I going mad?”

Celeste bestowed a kiss on her cheek.
“La, non, ma petite.
Not in the way you imply.”

Althea grasped at a locket pinned to her dress. “Please do not speak in riddles, Mama.”

“Answer me this, child. Do you have trouble going to sleep at night”

Althea nodded.

“And find yourself daydreaming at the most inappropriate of times? For example, when you should be paying close attention to the conversations taking place at your own soirees?”

“You know I do,” Althea replied, feeling perfectly wretched.

“Then, no doubt you also have this dreadful yearning for goodness-knows-what.”

“I do? Yes. Of course I do. Mama, are you sure this does not bespeak of the first stages of madness?”

Celeste pulled her up from the chair and hugged her.
“Mais non,
my little cabbage. If you were a little more French and a lot less English, you would have realized right away that you are suffering from a madness of the heart, not of the mind.”

Althea felt baffled, not comprehending the meaning of her words.

Celeste pinched her cheek. “You are not deranged, my little innocent, you are in love.” She put a finger to her chin and furrowed her brow. “Now, who could it be? Surely not George?”

Althea replied in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner. “There is no one. I am afraid in this you are hopelessly mistaken. I am probably in need of a spring tonic. What was it that nanny used to give me? Ah, yes. Brimstone and treacle. I hated it”

Without further ado, Althea bid her mother good night and climbed the stairs with all possible speed before the lady could put forth any argument to the contrary.

Once she had dismissed Lizzie, Althea resigned herself to another night comprising very little sleep and a good deal of pacing back and forth on the large Aubusson carpet covering the bedroom floor.

Althea climbed into the high four-poster and drew the green velvet curtains in an effort to shut out the rest of the world, and, perhaps, the strange discontent that seemed to plague her so.

Her sleep was shallow and fitful and an hour later, she was fully awakened by the barking of a distant dog. With a groan, she got out of bed to close a window she had left open the merest crack, hoping this would shut out the noise.

After fastening the latch of the window, she stopped to admire how the moonlight silvered the blossoms on a nearby tree. She was about to return to the inviting warmth of her bed when in the direction of the river she saw a small light waving back and forth among the trees.

A smuggler’s ruse, she thought Before her father, the late earl, had made it unhealthy for them, smugglers plied their trade in the estuary as if it were a marketplace on a Saturday afternoon. She pressed her lips together in a grim line.

In their arrogance they presumed that now that a woman held the reins, they were free to come and go as they pleased. Althea was determined to make this assumption their undoing. She resolved to flush them out even if she had to hire a small army to do so.

Even as these ideas formulated in her mind, the light ceased to swing back and forth and then was abruptly extinguished. Althea shrugged and returned to her bed, determined to confer with her steward over the matter first thing in the morning.

Suddenly the creak of a floorboard sounded from the hallway and she got out of her bed once more, all thoughts of sleep quickly forgotten.

She opened her door in time to see her mother about to descend the staircase. Althea put on a pair of shoes and, donning a dark blue wool pelisse, followed her headstrong parent as quietly as she could. She reasoned that speed was not of the essence since she had a good idea where the lady was bound.

As Althea neared the riverbank she heard the sound of low-pitched voices. One definitely masculine, in spite of being barely above a whisper, the other the unmistakable lilt of her mother’s beautiful voice.

Althea observed the couple from behind a screen of bushes. Their faces were obscured by the shadows of the tree under which they were standing. However, it was plain to see that her mother’s companion was only an inch or two over average height; therefore, he could not possibly be Viscount Ridley, for he towered over most gendtlemen of Althea’s acquaintance.

This particular intelligence added considerably to Althea’s peace of mind, as did the fact that the pair maintained a respectable distance between them.
Whatever else he is to Mama,
she reasoned,
he most certainly is not her lover.

Reassured that Celeste was in no danger, she moved farther away, despising herself for having spied upon her. “Even so,” she whispered, “I would do far worse to protect Mama from harm.”

Althea made sure her mother had reentered the safety of the house before returning to her own room. Even if she had fallen asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, too much of the night had passed for Althea to get a full night’s sleep. Unfortunately, sleep eluded her once more, giving her plenty of time to ponder the reason for her mother’s odd behavior.

As John partook of a breakfast of eggs and gammon at The Boar’s Head late the following morning, he found that with each savory mouthful, his spirits rose one more notch. It was not his habit to eat breakfast there for he did not wish to bump into departing morning travelers, so before walking over from the cottage he had taken care not to arrive too early.

As a rule, he broke his fast at the cottage, usually a meal of bread and cold meat he brought with him from the boat. This morning he had awakened to discover that the ham he had hoped to have for breakfast was flyblown. Thoroughly disgusted, John stormed out of the cottage and paced back and forth along the seashore for a couple of hours.

Up to that point, John had convinced himself that he did not mind spending the occasional night in the miserable hovel. He had taken the trouble to furnish the wooden cot with a comfortable pallet, and had made an uneasy truce with the rodents he heard scuffling and squeaking in the walls at night.

It was opening the sturdy oak chest he used to keep his food safe from the rats, to find his breakfast being devoured by equally disgusting interlopers, that triggered within him a gut-wrenching despair and discontent for every level of his life.

In comparison, the inn seemed to be a haven of warmth and comfort. He gave the leather pouch he had strapped under his clothes a reassuring pat. It contained both gold and jewels the older Lady Camberly had entrusted into his care the previous night, items donated at considerable sacrifice by her ladyship and other French emigres.

It was his job to see that the contents reached Talleyrand, the one-time Bishop of Atun and ex-minister of foreign affairs for the French. Talleyrand was secretly plotting the overthrow of Napoleon Buonaparte with a view to restoring the Bourbons to the French throne.

Personally, John despised Talleyrand and his self-serving ways and hated to see Celeste Markham and her friends squander their money on what he deemed to be a lost cause.

He clenched his hands at the thought. He thought the Earl of Camberly’s widow was the bravest woman he had ever encountered. Last year, in the middle of all the political turmoil taking place in France, Marcus had prevailed upon him to smuggle her into France to consult with Talleyrand in the matter of conspiring toward the deposing of Buonaparte.

Behind her facade of feminine charm lurked a core of fierce mother-love. Convinced that Napoleon intended to conquer the British Isles, Celeste vowed to sacrifice her life, if needs be, to prevent her daughter Althea from having to flee for her life as she had during the French Revolution.

In return for the help she received, it was at her insistence that when necessary, she would be a liaison between Marcus and the man she knew as John Soames. In exchange, John brought her messages from Talleyrand. It was in response to the luxury-loving Frenchman’s demands that John was about to deliver for the hard-put-to exiles yet another offering of gold and jewels.

John’s reverie was broken by the obsequious tenor of the innkeeper’s voice.

“Good morning, sir. I trust our humble accommodations afforded you a comfortable night’s sleep?”

This query from the landlord was met with silence. John presumed that either the person thus addressed had answered with a nod, or had spent a night that defied description. John’s amusement at the thought quickly disappeared when the door to the saloon creaked open.

Cursing himself for having tarried so long, John slumped into his chair, thankful that the lower half of his face was obscured by several days’ growth of beard. The sound of heavy boots on the wooden floor came to a sudden halt directly behind John’s chair; resigning himself to the inevitable, he rose to face the newcomer.

It was his brother Marcus, who seemed to be viewing him with amused disbelief. “Mr. Soames, is it not? My good man, I hardly recognized you behind all that stubble.” His words were those of a high-in-the-instep lord addressing an inferior. His expression even more so.

He reminded John of a sleek, well-groomed cat, one who had not had the occasion to lose his breakfast to the breeding endeavors of a fecund fly. And if the clear blue of his eyes was anything to go by, most certainly he had not been subjected to a fitful sleep due to the nocturnal activities of rats.

“My lord,” he replied, “I am overcome by your gracious condescension.” He embellished the sarcasm with an elaborate bow.

“I should hope so,” Marcus replied, making a great display of examining his fingernails. “I surprise myself from time to time.”

Before John could add to this, Marcus became all business and with voice lowered, queried, “Tell me, brother, what brings you here so early? I did not expect you to land until later this afternoon.”

“One might ask the same of you.” John sat down and gestured for Marcus to do likewise.

Marcus complied, pushed John’s plate to one side, and replied, “I arrived here late last night. Thought that first I would visit Aunt Gertrude, then pay my respects to the ladies of Camberly Hall this morning prior to meeting you. Afterwards, I intend to push on to Brighton. Promised Prinny I would put in an appearance.”

“Did you, now? The sacrifices you make do much to commend you. If I had known you were going to pay a visit to the Hall this morning, the older Lady Camberly and I could have remained snug in our respective beds last night.”

“Really? I wish she would not persist in that little fantasy with that opportunist. I doubt Talleyrand makes too many sacrifices for the cause. I understand he lives very well under that so-called egalitarian regime.”

“I quite agree,” John rejoined. “In my opinion, the journey she subjected herself to last year was completely unnecessary. Sleeping in barns and under hedgerows and not one complaint passing her lips—not so much as a peep. Her sanity might be put to question, but I challenge anyone to deny her fortitude.”

“Quite so. But I am afraid you will have to disappoint your heroine this time.”

John raised a brow. “Oh?”

“Fraid so. You are bound for Portugal.”

John raised both brows. “Portugal? Wellington’s busy digging ditches north of Lisbon, is he not?”

“Not for much longer.” Marcus handed a sealed document to John. “Bum this if you find yourself treed—otherwise, see that you put this in Wellington’s hands, no one else’s.”

“I say, roaming around France is one thing. I know the language and can emulate most dialects, but I would be in over my head in Portugal.”

“It will not be necessary for you to pose as a native. Just go to Wellington’s camp at Torres Vedras or thereabouts and give him the damned letter.”

“I understand. There is no need to be so bloody testy. I thought you had people who did this job blindfolded and wondered why you chose to involve me, that’s all.”

Marcus sighed. “It is precisely because you are unknown that you were chosen for the task. Now stop trying my patience, brother, and get on with it The
Corinth
will be leaving the Port of London in five days on the early tide. Please don’t miss it”

John nodded and rose to leave.

Marcus caught his sleeve. “Wait You forgot to give me the lady’s package. I shall be delighted to return it to her for you.”

“Was there any doubt?” A picture of Marcus being regaled with refreshments by a beautiful lady and her probably equally lovely daughter tinged his response with sarcasm. He retrieved the package from his canvas pouch and handed it over to Marcus, replacing it with the letter intended for the Duke of Wellington.

“Anything else before I leave?”

Marcus smiled. “As a matter of fact, there is one small detail I forgot to mention.”

“And what might that be? “John asked, dreading to hear the answer.

“You will be traveling as befits an English gentleman, so naturally, your man Jenkins will be able to accompany you.”

John spent a moment or two savoring the thought of the niceties that went with rank and privilege. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. Too many of our friends are serving with Wellington to do otherwise and they will not read too much into your showing up. You have the reputation of being somewhat of a rover, you know.”

“No, I did not know.”

“Oh, yes. Since leaving Jamaica you have been toddling all over India. It explains that Gypsy complexion you have acquired.”

“Does it? Tell me, Marcus, did I enjoy my little jaunt?”

“Absolutely, old chap. As a matter of fact, you cannot wait to get back.”

John panicked. “I know nothing about India and people are bound to ask questions.”

Marcus responded with an expansive gesture. “I shouldn’t worry. I had some pamphlets prepared for you on the subject of ancient Hindu temples. And, oh yes, there is the matter of a tiger hunt you attended under the auspices of some raja or other. You’ll find his name written down somewhere. You may study it all at your leisure while you are on the
Corinth.
Help you pass the time.”

Marcus rose from the table and, presuming the interview to be over, John did likewise, not at all happy with the turn his life had taken.

That’s it,
he thought.
As soon as I get back, I am going to tell Marcus and his cronies in government to go to the devil. I fail to see how I have helped the cause in any way. Perhaps the money put in the right hands helped hasten the downfall of that damned policeman, Fouche, but I have my doubts—that rascal is his own worst enemy.

Marcus shook his hand, then grimaced. “I suggest that the first thing you do on reaching the house in London is to soak in a nice, hot bath—two would be better.” He scrutinized John’s face. “And for goodness’ sake, have Jenkins shave off that ghastly fuzz. I cannot for the life of me understand how you could lower your standards in such a fashion. You look like the very dregs of society.”

“That is the point, brother dear. One can hardly blend in with the aforementioned dregs dressed like one of Brummell’s cronies, now can one? At least, and not live to be taking messages to Wellington.”

Marcus raised a brow. “My—and you called
me
testy. Get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning, did we?”

John remembered his spoiled breakfast. “One could say so.”

“Never mind. A good night’s sleep at the London house will sort you out Jenkins has everything in hand. Your clothes ready to go and the necessary money to pay for the trip. Reliable chap you have there.”

Without more ado, Marcus took his leave, stopping at the door to bestow upon John a breezy wave of farewell. As the door slammed, John gritted his teeth, taking umbrage at the way Marcus chose not to see the wretched life he had thrust upon his only brother while on the other hand, his own had not changed one iota.

One thing he was sure of. He would not get a shave until he was good and ready.

Determined to put the problem of her mother’s nocturnal escapades to the back of her mind for the time being, Althea spent the morning conferring with the housekeeper, Mrs. Denchforth. She had made a spot-check of some of the rarely used guest chambers in the east wing, and having detected a decided scent of mustiness in several, ordered a general airing and cleaning of a dozen or so of the rooms.

On being dismissed, the housekeeper, apparently smarting from the imagined disparagement of her domestic skills, pulled eight of the chambermaids from their usual duties. She delivered a blistering tirade, pointing out their shortcomings in the field of domestic service, then sent them scurrying to the east wing of the Hall to rectify the matter of the neglected guest chambers. She followed at a statelier pace, her ample bosom thrust forward in what Althea presumed to be outraged dignity.

Althea sighed, and returned to her own apartments. She had not meant to lay criticism at Mrs. Denchforth’s door. Given the dampness of the English climate, it took no time at all for an empty chamber to take on a whiff of mildew. Try as she might, Althea thought she would never be able to achieve that all-important rapport with servants that contributed toward harmony both above- and below-stairs.

On entering her chambers, Lizzie, who was closely scrutinizing the lace on one of Althea’s morning dresses, looked up and smiled. “Had a set-to with the old she-dragon have you, my lady? That woman has one girl or another reduced to tears nearly every waking hour.”

Althea forbore to remind her abigail that she should not be so forward, and at no time should be referring to the housekeeper in such a disparaging manner.

Lizzie enjoyed such liberties on the strength of a friendship between them that harked back to when they were both in leading strings. As the gatekeeper’s daughter, she had grown up in the house, which was an integral part of the massive granite portals to the estate, and sometimes had been the only child on hand of Althea’s age for her to play with.

Althea had never formed as close a friendship with children of her own class as she had with Lizzie. When she outgrew her need for a nanny, rather than seeing her friend toiling in a menial position below-stairs, Althea had insisted on having Lizzie for her personal maid. On becoming mistress of Camberly Hall, she had offered her friend the more exalted position of lady’s companion.

“What would my duties be?” Lizzie had asked.

“Duties? None, as such. It would be as it sounds. You would be my friend and companion and accompany me on my charitable rounds in the village, and also travel with me. When this terrible war with the French is over, we could visit the Continent. We should have a jolly time.”

Lizzie looked pensive. “I see. I would have nothing to do but trail after you, pretending I was gentry? Sup at your table, too, I suppose?”

Althea nodded.

Lizzie shook her head. “You mean well, madam, but I cannot take kindly to the idea.”

“I fail to see why.”

“Begging your pardon, it is just as well that I cannot.”

“Oh?”

“Let me explain. First of all, I am not suited for such a position. If I had to eat with my betters I would choke to death on the first bite.” Lizzie stressed this point with a grimace. “I don’t relish the idea at all. Take, for instance, this sitting on my bottom all day while some other female tends to your needs—fair gives me the shudders, it does.’’