A Perfect Likeness (7 page)

At last they called a halt, saluting each other and removing their masks, and Bryony saw immediately that Felix was very handsome indeed, with dark brown eyes and sensuous lips. His skin was pale and his profile romantically perfect, with maybe just a hint of something mysterious in his half-smile. He was, she thought, just the sort of master one would wish for a splendid Gothic house like Polwithiel Abbey, but for all that there was something cold about him, something which made her feel instinctively uneasy.

He did not seem to have noticed the two women yet, for he went to pick up the glass of port, glancing at the perspiring valet. “You’re not fit enough, Frederick. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“But, your grace, I was doing my very best!” protested the valet.

“Then you are a poor specimen of humanity.” Felix seemed suddenly to become aware of the two women, for he turned quickly, his eyes momentarily sharp before an easy smile touched his lips. He thrust the mask and glass into the valet’s hands and approached them, bowing first over his sister’s hand. “So, my wayward sister returns to the fold without making an ill-advised bid for freedom.”

“Still as disagreeable as ever?” she murmured, drawing her hand away.

“Still as determined as ever to see that you do the right thing,” he replied lightly, turning his attention then to Bryony. His glance moved lazily over her and she was painfully aware of the contrast between her clothes and those worn by his fashionable sister. “Welcome to Polwithiel Abbey, Miss St. Charles. I trust you will enjoy your stay with us.”

“I am sure that I will.”

“Are you?” He seemed to find this amusing. “Then you cannot yet be aware of what dear Mama has in store for you. She intended all along to be strict with you, but the arrival of a certain letter from a certain gentleman in Ireland has made a positive tyrant of her.”

‘‘Felix!” gasped Delphine. “How
could
you!”

Bryony lowered her eyes quickly, her cheeks flaming with embarrassment.

He laughed a little, not at all abashed. “Come now, ladies, I’ve hardly said anything which no one knew anything about! It is quite obvious that you, Miss St. Charles, know all about the letter from Mr. Carmichael, which either means that you knew he would write it or that you’ve been informed of it by my sister. At a guess, I would say that the latter is the case. Am I right?”

Still flushing, she nodded. “Yes, sir, you are.”

Delphine looked angrily at him. “Yes, I told her, and I’m glad that I did, for it seems that the whole story is trumped up and Mr. Carmichael has greatly maligned her. She is quite innocent, Felix.”

“How glad I am to hear it,” he murmured.

Bryony felt suddenly provoked. “And how glad I am to hear you say so, your grace.”

A light passed through his eyes at this unexpectedly spirited response. “So, my cousin is to espouse a tiger and not a kitten. How surprised he will be, to be sure.”

Delphine continued to be angry. “How very gracious you are today, Felix, but then, it is evidently because you had so much difficulty overcoming poor Frederick, whose swordplay has improved no end since last I saw.”

“Difficulty?” he replied sharply. “I had no difficulty.”

“Oh, come now,” she murmured. “Admit that you were struggling and that that is why you are being so disagreeable and ungallant to poor Bryony.”

“You are mistaken,” he said coldly.

She knew her barbs were taking effect. “What a thing, to be sure, for it seems that the valet will soon be the master and he will be the one to return to Town for tuition from Mr. Angelos.”

Whether it was his sister’s taunts or whether he simply did not have a sense of humor where his swordsmanship was concerned, Bryony could not tell, but there was no mistaking the icy fury which settled over his handsome face.

“You know nothing of the matter, dear sister, and so I suggest you hold your rattle until such time as you do. And that time will never come, when you apparently have so much else of dizzying importance on your scheming mind at the moment. Confine yourself to learning wisdom before you bleat in future, Delphine, for it is certain that wisdom is a commodity in which you are sadly lacking if you are able to see redeeming features in the likes of Toby Lampeter.”

Delphine’s cheeks were flaming and her eyes very bright. Her lips moved as if she would deal him a blistering retort, but then she changed her mind, turning on her heel to hurry away along the brick path toward the doors.

Bryony felt uncomfortable at being witness to such a bitter exchange between brother and sister, and she hesitated, not knowing whether to run after Delphine or remain to take her polite leave of Felix.

He turned to her. “Forgive us, Miss St. Charles, I am afraid that there is a little ill feeling between us at the moment.”

“There is nothing to forgive, your grace.”

He smiled a little then, his dark eyes thoughtful as he studied her. “But there is, Miss St. Charles, for we were very impolite, and I was guilty of even more impoliteness a little earlier. I trust that you can find it in your heart to disregard my previous behavior and consider our acquaintance to have begun from this moment.” He took her hand suddenly, drawing it to his lips. “Welcome to Polwithiel Abbey, Miss St. Charles.”

She felt the urge to draw her hand away. “Thank you, your grace.”

He smiled a little, turning to go back to the patiently waiting valet. She watched for a moment as he put on the mask and then the two men took up their positions on the floor. The blades clashed together and she hurried away along the brick path and out into the sunny quadrangle where Delphine was waiting.

Delphine took her in through the porch, and she found herself immediately in Polwithiel Abbey’s magnificent baronial hall. It was an immense chamber which stretched up through the entire house, its lower walls wainscoted in dark wood, its upper walls white and painted with hundreds of little golden stars.

Far above there was a hammerbeam roof like that at Westminster Hall in London, but instead of each beam being adorned with a carved angel, the Calborough phoenix gazed proudly down at the pattern of glazed tiles on the floor below. Such an enormous room required no fewer than four large stone fireplaces to warm it, and huge logs lay waiting beside each one.

On either side of these fireplaces there were heavy carved chests, fastened with polished metal clasps, and these clasps gleamed in the spangled light slanting in through the line of tall, arched stained-glass windows on the wall opposite. A long dark oak table, like that from some ancient monastery, ranged down the center of the room, and on it were placed low bowls of June roses, so many flowers in each one that even from the entrance Bryony could smell their delicate perfume.

At the head of the chamber, facing the minstrel gallery, there was a raised dais where she could well imagine a medieval banquet taking place. On the wall behind this there was the largest Arras tapestry she had ever seen, its vivid colors depicting a hunting scene, with great hounds and men on white coursers pursuing wild boar through romantic groves.

It was an astonishing room, as Gothic as any devotee of Mrs. Radcliffe could wish. A liveried footman came to conduct her up to the rooms
which were to be hers throughout her stay. He led her through a wide arch to a grand staircase which ascended between newel posts topped by the Calborough phoenix. More tapestries glowed richly against the paneled walls on the first half-landing, where she paused for a moment to look back at Delphine, who stood at the foot of the staircase, one little hand resting lightly on a phoenix. Delphine smiled at her and then walked away, her little steps echoing as she entered the great hall once more.

The staircase led on up through four flights and three half-landings to the floor above, and then on up to other floors, but the footman conducted her across a wide area on the first floor. She saw the door opening onto the minstrel gallery in the great hall, and other passages leading to other parts of the house, but it was to some handsome folding doors that the footman led her, thrusting them open to reveal a great gallery beyond, the sort of gallery which in days gone by would have seen guests strolling to admire paintings and sculptures if the weather prevented a leisurely walk in the grounds.

There were still paintings and statues, but the gallery no longer served its original purpose; it merely afforded access to a number of private apartments, including, as she was to discover, Delphine’s, which lay a little beyond her own. The doors into these apartments were all down one side of the gallery, while on the other there were mullioned windows overlooking the quadrangle. Stained-glass trefoils topped each of these windows, and the light they cast was jeweled, glancing prettily off the polished dark wood of the floor and paneling.

Bryony’s apartment was one of the first, and as she entered she saw Kathleen’s smiling face, the little dogcart having arrived while Bryony had been in the conservatory. The maid waited until the discreet footman had withdrawn and then grinned.

“Oh, Miss Bryony, I’m so relieved to see you, for that dogcart was the most uncomfortable, bouncing, bone-rattler that I ever came across, and then I saw your grand carriage disappearing and me left all alone! And then there’s this place! Did you ever see the like of it in your life? I can’t make up my mind if it’s supposed to be a castle or a cathedral!”

Bryony laughed, glancing around the little drawing room in which they stood. Like the rest of the house it was very much in the Gothic style, with panels, stone fireplace, tapestries, and heavy carved furniture. Through the window she could see a view down to the headland and the strange tower-like folly she had noticed earlier. There was a window seat in the embrasure, and she knew that that would become her favorite place to sit, for it looked so inviting and there was such a magnificent view to gaze at.

From this drawing room, a door led into her bedroom, which was dominated by a huge four-posted bed, its canopy of dull blue velvet looking very heavy and almost stifling on such a warm day. Beyond the bedroom there was a dressing room, and she could see her trunks waiting to be unpacked.

Kathleen watched her for a moment, a slightly uneasy look clouding her face as she brought herself to mention something which was bothering her. “Miss Bryony?”

“Yes?”

“Did ... did you see the gates of Tremont Park when you drove here?”

“Yes.” Bryony looked away.

“Then you saw ... ?”

“Sir Sebastian and the Countess of Lowndes? Yes.”

“I wouldn’t mention anything at all, but the fellow driving the dogcart was a terrible gossip, and he told me—”

“I think I know what you are going to say, Kathleen, but I already know all about it.”

“He did say that it was only whispered, Miss Bryony, that no one knew for sure that the countess was Sir Sebastian’s mistress.”

“I think there is no doubt that she is,” replied Bryony, “but I do not wish to discuss it further.”

“Yes, Miss Bryony.” Kathleen bobbed a hasty curtsy and went to unpack.

Bryony went to sit on the window seat. After a moment she spoke again. “It’s very beautiful here.”

“Oh, it is indeed,” replied the maid from the dressing room. “Mind you, I shall have to watch myself here, for they’re a terribly uppity lot.”

“Uppity?”

“Well, when I arrived that steward fellow spoke to me, wanted to know what my name was. I said that it was Kathleen and he drew himself up very prickly and aghast, saying that it was my
surname
he
was after, that at Polwithiel servants were
never
addressed by their first names. He said the duke and duchess were very strict about such things and that I’d better remember that in future if I wanted to stay on the right side of everyone. Oh, by the way, I’ve taken the liberty of asking for a bath to be prepared for you. I know that you’ll be glad of one after all that traveling. A footman will be along soon to say that the bathhouse is ready.”

“The bathhouse? That sounds very grand.”

Kathleen appeared at the bedroom door, smiling. “That’s what I said, and the steward looked down his nose at me and said that at Polwithiel guests did not expect to bathe in a tub before the fire, they expected to be offered the facility of a proper chamber for the purpose of cleansing themselves.”

The maid mimicked the steward’s voice perfectly, and in spite of all her worries, Bryony curled up with laughter. “Oh, Kathleen Murphy, you’re a tonic, and no mistake!”

A little after that the footman did indeed knock at the door and both Bryony and Kathleen were conducted along the gallery, through some more folding doors and on to a dark landing where there was an ornate door decorated with glazed Dutch tiles. Apart from this rather opulent entrance into the so-called bathhouse, the landing also gave onto a narrow flight of steps which descended into darkness below. They were evidently little used, for although the walls visible from the landing were freshly decorated and hung with small, colorful paintings, when she had the temerity to descend them a short way she noticed immediately that the walls were in need of a coat of paint, and there were damp patches here and there, evidently from the rather uncertain plumbing in the bathhouse above. Guests were not expected to use this staircase, and where guests did not go, there was no need for show.

The bath was the very thing, making her feel a great deal better. She was glad to dispose of the clothes she had traveled in and put on a fresh pink-and-white-striped dress. Afterward, as she walked back along the gallery to her rooms, she looked down into the quadrangle and saw a gleaming carriage emerging from the arched gateway in the wall by the conservatory. Drawn by a team of perfectly matched chestnuts, it crossed the cobbles to the porch, and as it swayed to a standstill the steward emerged as if by magic to fling open the door and lower the rungs for the sole occupant to alight.

Bryony found herself gazing down at the Duchess of Calborough, a tall woman whose rather tight-lipped face was dominated by a long, questing nose. She was very slender, although that was not because she had looked after her figure but rather because she was so thin that she had no figure to lose. Her back was as straight as a rod and she held her head high, looking very regal and striking in a bottle-green pelisse and a black hat from which sprang a flouncy plume.