Amanda Scott (23 page)

Shifting her gaze with relief to his cheerful face, she said, “Why, sir, there are two problems but, as I believe, a single solution. First, of course, there is the matter of your balloon.”

“Yes, indeed.”

“You ought to charge subscription fees to those who want to watch your ascensions. That is how it was done in London when I viewed an ascension from Hyde Park. The aeronauts cultivated patrons beforehand, who subscribed in the name of science, and then others who came to the park to watch subscribed toward the next ascension by purchasing spectator tickets.”

Lord Ashby looked thoughtful, but Michael’s expression was disapproving, so before he could utter the words she saw leaping to his tongue, she said, “And as for the other problem, I think we ought to open the house to the public again, not just a couple of days a month, as I believe you said was done in the past, but on a more regular schedule. We could charge an entrance fee and put up notices in nearby towns and villages, even in Chesterfield.”

Seeing Michael glance at Bagshaw, who had begun to direct the clearing of the table, she added, “Is there some difficulty about opening the house, sir? I know other great houses are opened to the public for a fee.”

“Certainly they are,” Sir Jacob said. “Think of Chatsworth.”

Lady Hermione and Lord Ashby remained silent, watching Michael, who said quietly, “What do you think, Bagshaw? Could we do such a thing to advantage here?”

“We are rather short-staffed for such an enterprise just now, my lord, but that difficulty could certainly be rectified in a trice. And though some might think it rather too soon after His late Grace’s demise to be opening the house to the public, that is for you to decide. As to whether it would answer the purpose, as her ladyship supposes, I can say only that in the past, the cost of arranging such events far outweighed the income. His late Grace, I should perhaps point out, opened the house from a sense of duty to do so, and our entrance fee was naught but a mere token.”

“Then we should charge more,” Anne said.

Michael was still looking at the butler. “I believe you are frowning, Bagshaw. Speak up, man, for goodness’ sake.”

“Well, sir, it does occur to me that to open the house in such a fashion seems a bit beneath the dignity of the Duke of Upminster. An occasional, even a somewhat regular event, when the cost is negligible, is merely a sharing of our treasures with the local public. To do the thing as a commercial venture would be …”

“Vulgar?” Michael finished when the butler fell silent.

“Yes, sir. In my humble opinion, sir.”

“I quite agree.” He looked at Anne. “Would you want to charge a fee to let people look round Rendlesham House?”

“Well, no, but it is not quite the same. We have never opened the house up, even on public days. We give dinners in the servants’ hall for tenants and their families at Christmas, of course, but that is the only time outsiders are actually invited in. It was only because you said the dukes of Upminster have quite commonly opened the Priory to the public that I thought…”

“I understand,” Michael said, “but I think not.”

When Anne fell silent again, he turned the subject, and while the servants cleared for the dessert course, the conversation remained desultory until Lady Hermione, casting a sympathetic glance at Anne, said, “What about a public day, Michael?”

“Could we, sir?” Anne asked, remembering Mrs. Hazlitt’s advice with regard to furbishing up the gardens. “You said public days were used to be held frequently, sir, and since the family is no longer in deep mourning, I should think folks will begin to think you are shutting them out if we do not hold one soon.”

“I’ve no objection.” His eyelids drooped, and she could see that his thoughts were shifting even as he watched her, and that he was no longer thinking about public but about very private matters.

She turned to Lord Ashby. “You know, sir, if we do organize a public day, it would be the perfect occasion for a balloon ascension, and if you were to post notices as I suggested earlier, even as far away as Chesterfield, I daresay you will gather quite a large audience, and a large subscription fund, too.”

His expression changed rapidly from dawning interest to delight to frowning hesitation before he turned to his nephew and said, “What do you think, lad?”

Lord Michael, still watching Anne with that sleepy look, said, “No objection, Uncle, if you don’t turn the affair into a circus with all the ragtag and bobtail in the county descending on us.”

“I won’t,” Lord Ashby promised. Turning with a grin to Sir Jacob, he added, “Here, Jake, you can be the first to contribute to my subscription fund. Support the march of progress, man.”

Sir Jacob chuckled. “I suppose I could help you out, Ashby. There’s a certain irony in it, but mind now, I want my name carved in one of those oars of yours, and a banner hung round the gallery, telling folks to vote for me when next I stand for election.”

“Done.” Ashby turned to Lady Hermione. “Daresay I’ll hit Wilfred up, too, Hermie. Might interest him, by Jove, and if it does, he’ll be bound to cough up a respectable sum.”

Michael said to Anne, “A public day creates a vast amount of fuss in my experience. Are you sure you want to undertake it?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I shall enjoy it.” Recalling another part of her conversation with Jane, she wondered if a public day might not provide a perfect opportunity for that young woman to learn more about her sister’s fate. Everyone in the neighborhood counted as the public, even Mrs. Flowers, and if she should attend, and if Anne could somehow contrive to meet her, and find courage enough to broach the subject, perhaps Mrs. Flowers might even cast some light on Michael’s activities.

Deferentially, Bagshaw said, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but even a public day requires preparation, and neither the house nor the gardens are in good form at the moment. Mrs. Burdekin has been turning out rooms right and left all month for her spring cleaning—as Lady Michael requested—and the gardens still require a vast amount of work before they will be presentable.”

But this time, Michael turned to Anne with a smile. “What do you think, my dear? When do you want to hold this grand event?”

“I think we ought to plan it for a fortnight from now,” she said at once. “The gardens still will not be at their best, but that cannot be helped, and they can at least be properly groomed, though we might have to hire more men to help Quigley. We’ll offer entertainment and a picnic supper; and, as to the house, Mrs. Burdekin has nearly finished her spring cleaning, so we can open the public rooms and the state apartments. I’ll make a few lists so we can have some notion of what is required. In fact, sir, since they are now putting your decanters on the table, if Lady Hermione is ready, we will bid you gentlemen good evening and run away to make those lists at once.” She began to push back her chair, aided by Elbert who stepped forward to assist her.

Anne felt an overwhelming relief just to get out of the room, and when Lady Hermione did not linger, but bade her farewell and called at once for her carriage, Anne was not sorry to see her go. The older woman was far too shrewd not to notice that something was amiss and would surely demand to know what it was. Indeed, she had already asked once that evening if Anne was suffering a headache.

Well aware that she had not escaped the necessity to deal with Michael, Anne knew also that with Sir Jacob in the house the men would not leave the table very soon. She would have at least an hour to think of a way to avoid her husband’s attentions.

In the yellow drawing room, she tried to make her lists but hoped no one would have cause to read them, for she was certain they would make little sense. Her thoughts would not remain fixed upon planning a public day, no matter how hard she tried. She could think only of what lay ahead. At last, she decided there was nothing to be done but to get on with it, to take her cue from Michael and decide what to say when she was face to face with him.

Gathering her lists, she went to her dressing room. Since it was still early, Maisie was not there, and as she set her papers on the little escritoire, she saw her journal portfolio where she had left it. Taking out the last page she had written, she began to note her feelings and to jot suggestions to herself about what she might say to Michael. Hearing a noise from the bedchamber a few minutes later, and thinking Maisie must have entered that chamber directly from the gallery, she put away her pages, blew out the candle on top of the desk, and went to speak to her.

When the room appeared to be empty, she looked about, wondering if one of the servants had come in to add wood to the basket or stir up the fire, but she could detect no sign of recent attention. Then she heard a mewling cry from the curtained bed, and it was not one she had ever heard from Juliette.

The new curtains blocked her view of the interior, so she stepped closer, wondering if the cat was sick. The gallery door opened behind her just as she saw Sylvia, curled in a tight ball in the center of the high bed with one hand on the kitten, whimpering in her sleep. Anne turned to see who had come in and, finding herself confronting her husband, put a finger to her lips.

“What is it?” he murmured. “I came to—” Breaking off when she gestured toward the bed, he moved past her to look, and when he turned back he was frowning. “Her nurse will be wondering where on earth she’s got to, you know. I’ll send someone to fetch her.”

“No, don’t do that,” Anne said quietly. “If she wants to sleep here tonight, I don’t mind in the least.”

“She takes advantage of your good nature,” Michael muttered. “She must not be allowed to call the tune here, Anne, any more than Andrew should. You spoil her. Moreover, I don’t want to share your bed with a third person.” The smile accompanying his words told her he intended the words as a joke, but she shook her head.

“I think she needs spoiling, sir. There is a reason she does not speak, you know, and since it does not appear to arise from any physical ailment, it may derive from distress of some sort. In any case, I fear I must disappoint you tonight.” When he frowned, she added hastily, “I-I have the most dreadful headache, and I think I’d prefer to fall straight into bed and sleep until I waken.”

He looked more closely at her then, and she was grateful for the dim light in the room, hoping he could not see her discomfort. She was not a good liar, for she had never practiced the art, and she was nearly as certain as she could be that he would see her deceit in her eyes. He said, “Do you get such headaches often?”

“W-when I am particularly tired or … or distressed,” she said. “I daresay this one is the result of all the adjustments I’ve made these past weeks, and perhaps a little from the intensity of some of the conversation tonight. I hope you will forgive me.”

“Good Lord, of course I will. In point of fact, I wondered at dinner if you were feeling quite the thing. But you don’t want that child here if you want to sleep well. I’ll take her to her own bedchamber.”

“You’ll waken her!”

“Nonsense, if she hasn’t wakened hearing us, she won’t stir if I carry her to her own bed. I’ll just set her down and cover her, and if you insist, I’ll even tell Moffat not to disturb her.”

“Really, sir,” Anne said quietly, “I’d like her to stay. I think she is coming to trust me, which is a great thing for a little girl who has lost her mama—and her papa too, for that matter. I’d take it kindly if you would indulge her this once, and tell Nurse Moffat that the notion has your approval.”

He gave her another of the penetrating looks that could so easily disconcert her, and though she managed to meet it squarely, she was relieved when Maisie came from the dressing room just then.

“Oh, I beg your pardon, my lady,” she said. “I heard voices, and since the door was open, I just barged right in, but I’ll—Mercy, what’s that child doing in your bed?”

“Just what I wanted to know, Maisie,” Lord Michael said wryly, “but it appears that
she
is welcome.” Giving Anne an enigmatic look, he bowed, adding, “I will leave you to your rest, my dear. And I will deliver your message to Nurse Moffat. Your mistress has one of her headaches, Maisie. Look after her.”

“To be sure I will, sir. Why did you not say so at once, Miss Anne? I’ll mix you up a cordial at once.”

“Just some hartshorn in water, please,” Anne said, struggling to conceal her relief. Not even to Maisie would she reveal that she had no headache. What she had told Michael was true. She was sometimes subject to them, particularly when her siblings had been quarreling, or just before her monthly. But her head felt fine now, and when Maisie had mixed her some hartshorn in water and tucked her up for the night, she fell at once into a deep sleep.

When she opened her eyes the next morning to find Sylvia awake and staring solemnly at her from the other pillow, with Juliette energetically making herself tidy between them, she smiled at the child and said, “Good morning, darling. Did you sleep well?”

Sylvia nodded shyly, then bit her lip and looked anxious.

Anne said, “I won’t scold you, but you ought not to leave your bedchamber without telling Nurse Moffat where you mean to go.”

Sylvia cocked her head in puzzlement.

“You could leave her a note,” Anne said, wondering why no one had thought of asking the child to communicate that way.

But Sylvia looked more anxious than ever, and shook her head.

“Can you not write?”

The child chewed her lip again but made no other reply.

“I suppose you have nothing you truly wish to say, and no one can really blame you for that,” Anne said, forcing a note of cheer into her voice. “Never mind, but do try not to worry Nurse Moffat. She loves you, you know, so it is unkind to distress her. We will have our chocolate together, and then you must run back to her.”

Sylvia settled back against her pillows with a look of contentment, and when Maisie entered the room a few moments later and flung wide the curtains to reveal an azure sky, she found the two of them waiting expectantly for their chocolate.

“A fine thing,” she said in an affectionately scolding tone. “They say Nurse Moffat didn’t sleep a wink last night.”