The House of Happiness (10 page)

He acknowledged Eugenia with courtesy but was most attentive to the two older ladies, who afterwards pronounced themselves even more enchanted with him. This was lost on Eugenia, who was absorbed in her own thoughts.

The remark was not lost on Bridget, however, who was always attendant on Mrs. Dewitt and was therefore privy to the visits of the Marquis.

“I don't see how you can
not
fall in love with him, miss,” she declared to Eugenia.

“Would
you
fall in love with him, Bridget?”

Bridget shrugged. “It's not for
me
to aim so high, is it, miss? I just wonder that you don't.”

Eugenia stared.

Bridget was a puzzle. One minute the maid seemed deliberately to stoke Eugenia's interest in Gregor, the next she seemed unwilling to speak of the painter at all. Now here she was attempting to encourage Eugenia's interest in the Marquis.

*

The night of the supper arrived. The candles on the long mahogany table shed a golden glow.  There were eleven guests in number, including Eugenia, Great-Aunt Cloris and Mrs. Dovedale.

Mrs. Dovedale was beside herself with excitement at being seated with such illustrious folk as the Duke of Fillerton and Sir Humphrey and Lady Petts.

Great-Aunt Cloris was not in the least overawed by the company, but her Spartan temperament was cruelly taunted by the opulence of the table, groaning as it was with silver and porcelain and dishes fit for a King. She was grieved to note that Mrs. Dovedale, positively revelled in the splendour.

Eugenia, she noted with satisfaction, appeared rather unimpressed by it all.

What Great-Aunt Cloris could not guess was that Eugenia was not so much unimpressed as uninvolved. Her thoughts were giddily elsewhere – with the piece of paper that had not left her person since she had received it three days ago and which even now was tucked securely into her bodice.

The words that were written on it seemed to burn her skin.

“Hello little flower.  I am dreaming of you often.  That pleases you, yes? When I see you I will take your hand, white as the moon, and I will kiss your palm. That also would please you, I think. My heart breaks that you are gone. Return soon to your devoted Gregor.”

Eugenia imagined she could hear Gregor whispering those words into her ear.  She grew quite flushed at the idea and kept her head bent over her dish, trembling lest someone should read her expression.

Although she sat on the right hand of the Marquis, she barely acknowledged his presence.

Mrs. Dovedale observed this disinterest on the part of her daughter with a frown. She was uncomfortably aware that to the left of the Marquis sat a handsome and wealthy widow by the name of Lady Walling.  Lady Walling was not in the first flush of youth, but she was confident and rich and was proving
most
attentive to the Marquis.

After the ladies left the gentlemen to their cigars and port and repaired to the drawing room, Mrs. Dovedale took the occasion to once again scold Eugenia for her behaviour.

“I really cannot understand you. Do you imagine that you are the only creature in the world who is single and in search of a husband?”

“I have never supposed that, Mama.”

“Then why did you allow Lady Walling to monopolise our charming host?”

Eugenia sighed. “Why will you not accept that I do not wish to be courted by the Marquis, Mama? Why?”

“How could any mother accept that her daughter is rash enough to throw away the chance of a lifetime?”

“But Mama – I do not love the Marquis.”

“That is of no consequence, my dear.  Unless you love someone else.”

Her mother's expression was suddenly so searching that Eugenia's hand flew in consternation to her breast, as if she feared the letter secreted there had somehow become visible.

“Well?” demanded her mother. 

Eugenia had no wish to deceive her outright, but neither did she wish to expose herself and Gregor to disapproval.

“How would I possibly know what love is, Mama?”

Mrs. Dovedale seemed satisfied with this and Eugenia was able to make her escape.

The supper party was pronounced a great success, but the Marquis seemed in no hurry to repeat it. Over the next few weeks he appeared increasingly preoccupied with business of his own, leaving his guests at Buckbury very much to their own devices. This in no way impaired their enjoyment of life in the great house.

Even Great-Aunt Cloris began to succumb to the hundred and one luxuries that such a life afforded.

As the days passed she began to praise the virtues of largesse and before long she was adding her voice to Mrs. Dovedale's in urging Eugenia to be more responsive to the suit of the Marquis. The main strategy of the two older women was to remind her of how indebted she was to the Marquis.

“Why, who do you think paid for the gown you wore on the night of Lady Bescombe's ball?” Great-Aunt Cloris demanded one afternoon. “The ball you did not, after all, attend,” she added.

Eugenia blinked fearfully.  “Why –
you
did, Great-Aunt Cloris!”

“I most certainly did not!”

Eugenia turned quickly to Mrs. Dovedale. “Mama?”

Her mother shook her head. “It was not me, either, dear.  I
did
sell my jewellery in Hatton Garden, but when you were so adamant that you would never forgive me for such an act, I knew I had to get it all back. So I – wrote to the Marquis for help.”

“You wrote to the Marquis?” repeated Eugenia faintly.

“Yes, dear.  He redeemed the jewellery for me and then insisted on paying for the gowns.”

Eugenia remembered the incident at Craven Hill when she had witnessed the Marquis handing her mother a package in the hallway.

Everything – Madame Lefain, the fans, the gloves, the material – everything had been thanks to the intervention of the Marquis!

The revelation made Eugenia miserable. She felt the tentacles of wealth and privilege closing around her. 

It was Great-Aunt Cloris who now kept her mother company.  Mrs. Dovedale had so far recovered as to be able to get about with a stick and on fine days she and her aunt would sit chatting on the terrace. Eugenia was certain they used these occasions to continue to plot an alliance between herself and the Marquis.

For want of a confidante, Eugenia found herself drawn more and more into the company of Bridget. She knew she was permitting an uncommon degree of intimacy between herself and the maid, but considered this was the price she must pay in order to find any opportunity whatsoever to talk about Gregor. 

Bridget continued to puzzle Eugenia. She still seemed sometimes almost driven to stoke Eugenia's interest in Gregor.  At other times she would turn sullen and refuse to discuss him at all.

“What could you want with that mad Russian, miss?” she would say.  “The Marquis is the catch.”

Eugenia would clutch her head in her hands. “Bridget, please! You are sounding just like my mother and my great-aunt.”

Bridget, scowling, picked at her cuff. “Well, maybe they're right.
I
wouldn't mind being Mistress of a big place like this.”

On these occasions, Eugenia felt that the letter tucked in her bodice was an emblem of the only friend she had in the world. It seemed to throb against her bosom, reminding her of the existence of romantic passion as opposed to calculating common sense.

Though Eugenia cherished the letter from Gregor, she did not dare reply to it. The painter had declared his affections but not his intentions.  It was all too incumbent upon Eugenia, as a young unmarried girl, to simply hope and wait for his next move.

No sign had come from Gregor, however, when the next twist in Eugenia's fortunes took place.

Great-Aunt Cloris, after a dish of mussels at lunch, began to feel somewhat queasy and this put her into a bad humour. 

“This is what comes of grand living,” she grumbled. “It destroys your innards.”

“You did consume an unusually large amount,” Mrs. Dovedale ventured timidly. 

“That is my point!” snapped Great-Aunt Cloris. “Excess is positively encouraged here. I am going to have to go home or I shall surely expire. Oh, I feel quite ill. Bridget, help me from my chair.  I must go to my room and lie down.”

At about four o'clock, the Marquis appeared to enquire after the health of Great-Aunt Cloris. He had been informed by his butler that the old lady had been taken ill.

Mrs. Dovedale was tremulous in her delight at the Marquis's unexpected visit. 

“Oh, oh, how kind of you to ask. She is resting and I am sure will be better by nightfall. You must stay and take some tea with us. You have become quite a stranger, you know.”

The Marquis declined. “I understand that Mrs. Dewitt is considering going home,” he commented.

Mrs. Dovedale became suddenly flustered. She took the Marquis's remark as a tacit indication that it was time
all
his guests considered going home.

“I am sure she did not mean it. She is very happy here.
I
am very happy here. Indeed –
indeed
– “

Here Mrs. Dovedale took out a large handkerchief and held it to her eyes. “Indeed, I will never in my life be so content as I am at Buckbury.  The thought of returning to that cold house in Craven Hill fills me with horror – yes, horror.”

“Mama, please do not talk so,” Eugenia urged in a low voice.

“I must give vent to my emotions,” wailed Mrs. Dovedale. “How is it that fortune is so regularly my foe?”

The Marquis regarded her gravely. 

“Believe me, Mrs. Dovedale,” he said, “fortune might turn out to be less of a foe than you imagine. Now, please excuse me for such a brief visit. I must attend to other matters.”

The first part of the Marquis's words were so cryptic that, as the door closed behind him, Mrs. Dovedale and Eugenia were left quite bewildered.

The following morning, as Eugenia took breakfast in her room, a command came from the Marquis. She was to join him for a ride at ten o'clock.

She resented the peremptory tone of the command. At the same time, she was intrigued, for it was a tone the Marquis had never used with her before. However she felt, it would undoubtedly contravene good manners to refuse.

So at ten o'clock she presented herself to the Marquis. Two horses were brought to the front of the Abbey.  A footman helped her mount and then they were off. 

The Marquis seemed grimly bent on making progress rather than simply taking a ride. He led the way down the two miles of gardens towards the river and the woods.

As he guided his horse towards the wooden bridge, Eugenia suddenly felt her heart skip a beat. Surely he was not going to make her revisit the ruins of ‘
Paragon
'? What cruel trick was this?

“M-my lord,” she called but her words were tossed to the air like seedlings, so strong was the breeze.

Deep in the woods, however, the breeze lost its force. Only the treetops swayed and pitched. Down below all was quiet.

“My Lord, I should like to turn back,” she pleaded but the Marquis forged on.

At last the trees ended. The Marquis halted and, behind him, Eugenia.

What she saw before her made her gasp. In one instant she understood all.

There stood ‘
Paragon
' but it was no longer a ruin. The thatch was mended, the walls rebuilt. Glass gleamed in the window embrasures, the shutters and front door were painted a cornflower blue. The cottage had been reborn and it was surely all down to the hand of the Marquis.

Overcome with conflicting emotions, Eugenia burst into tears.

The Marquis did not dismount. He made no move at all to console Eugenia but waited in respectful silence for her sobs to cease.

All around the clearing, treetops rustled and swayed. A deer started out from the undergrowth, then froze – with eyes as black as mere water, it stood for a moment staring at the two riders before bolting fearfully back into the woods.

Still Eugenia wept. Added to the shock of seeing ‘
Paragon
' restored to its former modest glory was a sense of deep foreboding. The future was being spun so cunningly about her that she could barely parry its threads.

The Marquis's horse shifted, stepped a few paces back before lowering its head to crop at the grass. The Marquis let the reins trail.

“It seems the restoration of ‘
Paragon
' does not please Miss Dovedale,” he asserted quietly.

Eugenia pressed the back of her hands to her wet cheeks.

“Pardon me, my Lord. It – it does please me. Only I – ”

She could not continue. The Marquis regarded her quizically.

“Only I cannot help but ask myself
why
?” she finished.

The Marquis hesitated before his reply.  “I had hoped that was a question you would not ask, Miss Dovedale. I – rather fear the effect of my answer upon your present sensibilities.”

“Then by all means, let the subject alone,” said Eugenia quickly.  She did indeed fear an answer that might amount to a declaration of intent with regard to herself.

Then, realising that her response had been somewhat churlish, she stumbled on. “I would
like
to think that you perhaps undertook the task as a – as a tribute to my father.”

The Marquis pondered this. “If it pleases you, Miss Dovedale, you may indeed consider it as a kind of tribute,” he said at last.

“It does please me,” Eugenia replied simply.

The Marquis nodded gravely, then made a gesture in the direction of the cottage garden. “Now – I wonder if you have noticed the creature grazing by the fence?”

Eugenia turned her head and gave a cry. 

“Can it be – is that my pony – Bud?”

“Somewhat stiff of gait, but, yes, it is he.”

Eugenia could not believe her eyes. “B-but how did you find him?”

“It was not difficult. When your mother left, she offered him to my housekeeper's nephew.  So Bud remained near the estate.”