A Shadow's Bliss (22 page)

“I was only thinking that you are acquainted, I believe, with Hibbard Green…”

“Who will be here again this week-end!” Caroline giggled. “How outrageous in you to make such a remark! A dreadfully vulgar creature, is he not? But he is, after all, above criticism.”

“Good gracious! Why?”

“Because he is one of
us,
you ninny! And is besides, excessive wealthy. And you are staring at me again. Are you fancying me to be an avaricious female? I promise you I do not covet the fortune of
that
one!”

Troubled, Jennifer said, “You used not to think that rank and wealth were the only qualities to be valued in a gentleman.”

“No more I do. My poor Edmund has all the valued qualities, but there comes a time to discard childish dreams. I have grown up, do you see?” With sudden gravity, Caroline leaned to press her friend's hand and say, “You must do so also, dearest. My parents are concerned lest you forget your place and permit too much familiarity from commoners.”

Jennifer asked in a rather faint voice, “In what … connection?”

“Why, your school, of course. 'Tis very well in you to visit the sick among your people, and set them an example. But to be instructing their children can only be lowering for you. Besides, to be able to read and write is of no use to simple folk, and Papa fears may inspire them to revolutionary tendencies. I told him that you, being of so kind and generous a nature, had likely not considered such things. Admit I am right, dear.”

Reprieved by the mellow resonance of a gong, Jennifer exclaimed, “Oh! There is the luncheon call. And we have chattered so much I've not yet changed my gown! I
must
do so before I meet your papa! I shall have to fly!”

Fly she did. With her garrulous friend chattering along behind her.

*   *   *

The head groom at Breton Ridge was a plump and supercilious man of late middle age. Impressed with his own consequence, and irked to be required to find space for the team from Castle Triad when his stables were already crowded with the hacks of guests, he did little more than tell Jonathan where to put the coach and horses, and stamp off grumbling about the stupidity of sending a four-in-hand on so short a journey.

Jonathan had feared that he would face another ordeal of recognition and mockery. Relieved because he was spared that humiliation, he made no attempt to ask for the help that should have been offered, but set about the business of unharnessing the team, rubbing them down, and turning them out into the large paddock. He was in the midst of this endeavour and lost in dreams of his beloved, when an indignant protest was raised. He glanced around. The barn was a busy place, and none of the grooms and stableboys appeared to have heard that small voice. He went to where the coach stood, poles up, in a corner, and removed the cover from Duster's cage. The occupant tilted its head and gobbled at him throatily.

“Yes, I know, and I apologize,” he murmured. “But I wish you will not start speaking now. We must not to attract attention to ourselves, Duster.”

“Wotcher got there, my cove?” A large, squarely built man, resplendent in the garb of a superior personal servant, but with features more likely to be associated with a pugilist, stood watching him.

“'Tis just a small bird, sir,” answered Jonathan uneasily. “It will cause no trouble, I promise you.”

The bushy brows went up, and the shrewd brown eyes narrowed. “And 'oo might you be?” he demanded, stepping closer. “Your gab ain't like no coachman's gab wot I ever met. Wot's yer monicker?”

Jonathan hesitated. “They call me Jack, Mr.…”

“They call me Tummet, on account of me name's Tummet. Enoch Tummet. Wot they call you when you ain't being a coachman, eh?”

“I have no other name, Mr. Tummet.” Jonathan went back to his horses, wondering why a valet, since that was what Tummet appeared to be, loitered about the stables. For the next half hour he worked very hard, and contrived to avoid Tummet's eyes, but he knew they were on him. When the last animal had been turned out into the paddock, he found that Mr. Tummet was standing beside the coach, ostensibly talking to Duster. Taking up the bundle of his personal effects, Jonathan thought that it had been disturbed. He glanced at the big man sharply.

Tummet picked up the cage and said, “I'll extend a whelping ramble.”

Jonathan stared at him.

Tummet translated, “A 'helping famble.” This bringing about no lessening of Jonathan's mystified expression, he exclaimed aggrievedly, “Cor! Don't none of you talk the King's English?” He waved one muscular fist in the air.

“Oh,” said Jonathan, smiling as the light dawned. “A helping hand. Thank you, but I'll leave him here for a while. Rhyming slang, is it?”

“'Sright, sir,” said Tummet, and waited, but his new acquaintance betrayed no surprise at a form of address that would have astonished most coachmen. His eyes very round, he volunteered, “Quarters fer outside servants is this way.”

The two men walked out together, each wondering why the other was pretending to be something he so obviously was not.

*   *   *

Lord Kenneth had the fair complexion and reddish hair that appeared very frequently among those born into the house of Morris. Not above average height, he was fastidious to the point of being dandified in the matter of dress, which combined with his somewhat condescending manner to conceal two obsessions. One of these had to do with his health. Although he had never suffered a major illness, ate sparingly, and was as slim at sixty as he had been at thirty, he had a deep-rooted fear of disease. He was a source of great satisfaction to the physician who enjoyed his patronage, of whom it was said that he was summoned to Breton Ridge for everything from a hangnail to a hiccup. Despite this idiosyncrasy, Lord Kenneth was devoted to his family and kind to his servants, and was generally well liked though there were those who judged that he held himself “too much up.” Sir Vinson Britewell shared this opinion, and Jennifer could not dispute her father's view that his lordship considered the Britewells to be somewhat inferior to the Morrises.

There was no height in his manner, however, when he welcomed her in the charming red and white saloon where the guests had gathered preparatory to going in to luncheon. He bowed over her hand, teased her with apparent fondness because she was late, and was pleased to hear that Sir Vinson and Howland would arrive shortly. She knew most of those present, but he proceeded to introduce her to those guests with whom she was not acquainted.

Lieutenant James Morris, the guest of honour, had just sold out of the military, and wore civilian dress. He was about her own age, with a shy but engaging grin and a cherubic freckled countenance. His relationship to his host was clear to see, for he had the same fair complexion, and a hint of light red showed here and there in his rather carelessly powdered hair. He put her in mind of a friendly puppy, and she liked him at once.

Lord Kenneth's tone changed subtly as he presented the lieutenant's friend, Mr. August Falcon. Jennifer turned to meet a tall man, perhaps a year or two older than James Morris. Blessed with a splendid physique, he carried himself with proud, almost defiant, arrogance. His jet black hair was worn unpowdered and tied back. His flaring brows were heavy, and his complexion had a sallow cast, but his features were so fine that she could appreciate Caroline's admiration—until she saw the bored cynicism in the eyes that were of a deep midnight blue. Those beautiful eyes had a suggestion of the Orient in their shape. Tilly's malicious words seemed to thunder in her ears: ‘Been seen with creatures of darkness he has, Miss. A evil man with a great black beard and funny shaped eyes what glow like black coals in his head.'

Jennifer's smile did not waver, but she was barely able to conceal her excitement. Mr. Falcon wore no beard, but his hair was very black. His eyes could certainly be described as having an unusual shape, and the blue was so dark that it would be easy to mistake them for black. Surely 'twas unlikely that there could be two men in the neighbourhood with such eyes and such colouring? But why on earth would a wealthy gentleman like Falcon have gone about bearded and in rags?

When she learned that he was to be her partner at luncheon, it seemed a heaven-sent opportunity to learn more of him. To that end, she went out of her way to be pleasant and attentive; agreed with his remarks, which were often outrageous; looked suitably awed by his withering appraisal of the House of Lords; and generally pandered to his vanity. In return, he was cold and faintly contemptuous. Irritated, she took up her goblet too quickly and the water splashed. She glanced at Falcon. His eyes were fixed upon her with an expression of knowing amusement. She thought, ‘The wretch! He thinks I am enamoured of him! What
preposterous
conceit!' Overcoming her indignation she persisted with her efforts, and whatever his faults Mr. Falcon was not entirely lacking in the social graces, and made an effort to answer her artless questions.

She learned that his father was “a rascally fellow” whom he was constantly obliged to extricate from this or that tricky situation. His sly wink apprised her of the nature of the “tricky situations.” Shocked that a gentleman would speak so of his parent, she asked hurriedly if he had no brothers or sisters.

He said, “Oh, I have a sister, ma'am.” His eyes flickered to Lieutenant Morris, seated opposite, and he added deliberately, “Whom I have to guard 'gainst the attentions of every gazetted fortune hunter in Town.”

The lieutenant leaned forward to say with a smile, “He numbers me among 'em, ma'am. Miss Katrina Falcon is a diamond of the first water, and 'tis my dearest ambition to make her my wife.”

“What a pity it is, that the dearest ambitions of so many men are never realized.” Falcon spoke in what appeared to be his customary bored drawl, but Jennifer saw a steely flash in his eyes, and Lieutenant Morris' smile was rather fixed. Theirs, she decided, was an exceedingly odd friendship.

She was bound by good manners to share her attention with the stout gentleman on her left. An extremely wealthy Irish peer, he was a lifelong bosom bow of Lord Kenneth, and the type who judged the opinions of females to be valueless. His remarks were delivered as statements of fact, rather than as topics for discussion. He offered her a chance to comment at last, by saying in his harsh accents that he was familiar with the legend surrounding the Britewells and asking with a smirk if she really believed herself descended from Queen Guinevere. Clearly, he did not, and she replied lightly that the legends were so lost in antiquity that it was difficult to say where fact ended and fable began.

Falcon had been chatting with Mrs. Dunbar, a flirtatious matron with a splendid bosom, but he evidently possessed excellent hearing. Turning to Jennifer, he said, “Now what is this, pray? Am I in the company of royalty?” He inspected her through his quizzing glass, and drawled with a slight curl of the lip, “Faith, but you must be a
rara avis,
Miss Britewell. Most ladies having the very faintest claim to a royal ancestor fairly trumpet their lineage.”

She found herself wishing she had a trumpet so that she might bend it over his supercilious head, but she said with a smile, “Had I any proof, sir, I likely would be as gauche. Alas, the truth is that you are probably far more acquaint with royals than am I. You spend most of your time in the Metropolis, mingling with the mighty, no?”

He fixed her with a cold stare. “Alas for your expectations. I have better things to do with my time than spend it in so foolish a way. I am as often in the country as in Town.”

“Ah, but you do not spend much of your time in Sussex, dear Mr. Falcon,” trilled Mrs. Dunbar, giving his wrist a playful rap with her fan. “We
all
know you do not care for the country, even though Ashleigh is such a
beautiful
estate.”

He said baldly, “You surprise me, ma'am. I'd not thought you had deigned to visit us there.”

The matron's face became crimson, and she retreated in simpering disorder.

Turning back to Jennifer, he asked, “Do
you
often visit Town, Miss Britewell?”

She thought he must be the rudest man she had ever met, and said a rather terse, “No, seldom.”

“And do not care for it, I see. Why?”

“I suppose because it is so very big and crowded, and I feel all at sea there.”

“You would,” he nodded.

She was rendered speechless. Lieutenant Morris again leaned toward her and said an amused but apologetic, “You will not believe me, Miss Britewell, but August is on his best behaviour today.”

‘Heaven forfend,' she thought, ‘that I should see him at his worst!'

Falcon's grin was unrepentant, unexpected, and dazzling. He bent to her ear and murmured, “Morris thinks I am being rude.”

“Why?” she asked, sufficiently irked to take up the gauntlet. “Because you quite obviously think me a country bumpkin? I have no doubt but that, by your lights, I am.”

“Oh, yes,” he acknowledged outrageously, and allowed himself to be drawn into conversation with the coy Mrs. Dunbar once more.

He scarcely spoke to Jennifer again, but when the meal ended, he drew out her chair, and offering his arm, threw her completely offstride by murmuring, “But you see, I like country bumpkins.”

*   *   *

Jonathan had known that inevitably someone would recognize him. His unmasking occurred during the ample luncheon provided in the servants hall, and the revelation provoked first a disbelieving silence, then roars of mirth. He bore their taunts in silence for the most part, but when he did speak his accent caused another outburst of abuse. Enjoying this diversion, they demanded to see the “creature” he was said to have brought with him, and the head groom agreed that the bird should be displayed.