Anita Mills (18 page)

Pulling the shawl closer, she drew up her knees into the chair and laid her head on the arm. Whether she wanted to or not, she was going to engage in a good bout of tears.

In the dining room, Bertie heard the door slam also, and he sighed. “Looks to me like we got a lot to eat between us,” he told Meg. “Went about it all wrong, you know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Man ought to determine what she’s going to answer before he asks. Saves a lot of trouble for both of ’em, you know.”

Easing Charlotte Deveraux’s dependence on her, Anne set up a schedule for the rest of them to follow, with each taking turns doing things with the woman. She spared no one: Meg was to assist her in relearning to knit; Betty was to assist her at her food and her bath; Bertie, who’d begged off reading in horror, was impressed to play cards; and Dominick was to bring her downstairs twice each day. But Anne still sat with her, practiced her speech with her, and read to her each night before she retired. And the results were promising: Charlotte Deveraux was slowly regaining much of what she’d lost. Anne could see the time coming when she would be more of a hindrance than a necessity.

Yet when she mentioned to Bertie about leaving the Haven, he put her off. First they could not go because it rained, then ‘twas the fog, and finally ’twas simply that it was winter. He would not even entertain the notion of taking her into Nottingham to catch the mail. There was no hurry, he told her, particularly since his father had failed to discover him there. In fact, he admitted, the bucolic life was beginning to suit him. He finally had two players in Meg and Mrs. Deveraux he could defeat at cards.

As for Dominick Deveraux, he was polite and pleasant, but never quite the devilish fellow she’d known before his disastrous proposal, or rather the lack of it. He came and went, seeing her when he visited his mother and at meals, but in general his manner was impersonal. Within the week of his second homecoming, Anne was longing for a return of the rogue she’d met at the Blue Bull. Finally, scarce able to stand the stranger he’d become, she took to avoiding him.

A new winter storm blew in, bringing another bout of sleet and snow, isolating the Haven from the outside world, making her suddenly restless. The days and weeks of pushing and coaxing Mrs. Deveraux were taking their toll—she was tired, she was beginning to think herself superfluous, and she was ready to leave. When she saw Dominick she was uncomfortable, and yet when she did not, she could not help wondering where he was, what he was doing. She was, she told herself severely, beginning to feel like a moonling calf.

On this evening, as the snow piled up in the corners of the windowpanes and the fire popped in the hearth, she was particularly low, a condition not improved when Mrs. Deveraux, who was sitting across from her, asked, “Tell me, Miss Morland, do you think there is any hope for Meg?”

Though the woman’s voice was still a little slurred, it cut into Anne’s own rather morose reverie, startling her. She’d thought his mother dozed before the fire. “I beg your pardon?”

“Do you think he has finally noted her?”

“Who?”

“Dominick.” The old woman frowned. “Sometimes, Miss Morland, I think you are not here at all,” she chided peevishly.

“I cannot think they would suit,” Anne muttered.

Mrs. Deveraux’s bird-bright eyes narrowed. “And why not, pray tell me? She is a most biddable, agreeable girl.”

“Because he has too much levity. ‘Volatility’ is perhaps a better word for it.” Exasperated, Anne tried to turn the subject away from him. “How long do you think it means to snow?”

“I am sure I do not know, dear. But do you not think perhaps Meg’s quietness could civilize him?”

“I don’t think a saint could civilize him,” Anne managed through gritted teeth. She rose and moved to peer out the window. “By the looks of it, we are snowbound forever.”

“I shouldn’t think so. Storms seldom last here,” Mrs. Deveraux observed. “Indeed, aside from the awful winter of 1814, there is but a week or so when ‘tis safe to skate. Now, that year ‘twas frozen for a month.”

“I was in London then. We had a wonderful frost fair on the Thames, for it was quite turned to ice.” Anne sighed regretfully. “I was with Mrs. Cokeham then, and her maid and I went to it. I can still remember the brandy balls and the gingerbread from the stalls.”

“What … what happened to Mrs. Cokeham?”

“She died. But not from the stroke, of course. ’Twas said that her heart gave out.”

“Oh.”

“But she was much older than you are,” Anne hastened to add.

“I am not young, my dear.” It was the woman’s turn to sigh. “I have not aged well, you know.” Then, “How old do I appear to you?”

“I am not a hand at guessing such things, ma’am.”

“About sixty?” Charlotte Deveraux persisted.

“Well, as your son is but seven-and-twenty, I should not think so. And as your older boy would be but in his thirties …” Her voice trailed off.

“I am sixty-one, Miss Morland. I was thirty-four when Dominick was born. ’Twas an ill stroke of fate, ‘twas what it was.”

“ ’Tis never quite fair to blame the sins of the father on the son,” Anne murmured, forgetting herself.

The woman’s head came up, and she stared hard at Anne. “He told you of it, did he?”

“He has no love for his father.”

“And none for me.” Abruptly the sharpness left her voice. “I gave him no reason to care.”

“Perhaps ‘tis not too late,” Anne said softly.

“No. When one has hated a lifetime, one cannot love.”

Despite everything Anne knew of her, she could not help pitying the woman. “If one cannot love, one can understand.”

“Do you think I do not understand him, Miss Morland? He is as Nicholas was—he has vexed me at every turn!”

The vision of a black-haired little boy, unloved by either parent, came to mind, routing her pity for the woman. “A child is what one chooses to make of him, Mrs. Deveraux, and if he has not pleased you, perhaps you did not let him,” she said acidly. “He was but a child!”

“He was Nicky’s son.”

“And yours. Tell me, Mrs. Deveraux, did you ever cradle him, did you ever soothe his pain? Did you ever offer him any reason to love?” Anne’s voice rose with her indignation. “What did he ever do? Did he bring his lightskirts home? Did he gamble away his substance?”

“He killed three men, Miss Morland,” the old woman retorted.

“He did not murder them.” Recalling Bertie’s defense of him, Anne added, “Perhaps the quarrels were forced on him. Because you hate the father, you must not hate the son.”

Charlotte Deveraux’s gaze dropped to the fire. “You mistake the matter, Miss Morland,” she said low. “I loved Nicky. ’Tis that Dominick has the look of him.”

“He is flesh of your flesh!”

“Do you think it serves to shout, Miss Morland?”

Both women gave a start at the sound of his voice, and an awkward silence ensued. As the blood crept to Anne’s cheeks, his mother asked calmly, “Did you enjoy the sleigh ride with dear Meg?”

“It did not last long, Mother. Miss Mitford complained of the wind ruining her hair, and Bascombe complained of his boots.”

“Oh, you took Bertie, did you?”

“Bertie, despite what you think him, can be counted on to prattle, which rather fills in Miss Mitford’s silence in my presence.”

“Perhaps you ought to have taken Miss Morland also.”

“Miss Morland does not seem to favor my company.”

“Are you come to sit with me?”

“I am come to put you to bed.”

“ ’Tis just as well, I suppose. Miss Morland seems a bit cross today.”

“So I have heard.”

“Yes, well, now that you are here, sir, I think I shall go,” Anne decided. “I have a bit of sewing I should like to do. Meg has given me a gown’s length of calico, and I will have need of the dress when I leave.”

She rose quickly and started for the door. He moved just as quickly to open it for her, forcing her to duck beneath his arm. “If you were a solicitor, my dear,” he murmured as she passed him, “I should take you to London to plead my case.”

As she looked up, she caught a trace of his once-familiar smile. “I expect I shall be gone ere that,” she murmured, fleeing.

Instead of carrying his mother to bed, he dropped into Anne’s chair, and for a time there were no words between them. The gulf was so wide he could feel it, an abyss of pain he no longer wished to cross. Despite everything, or perhaps because of it, he was too mind-weary to fight.

“The girl’s got a tongue to her,” his mother said finally.

“Huh?”

“You are not deaf.”

“No.”

“Do you know anything about her family?”

“Miss Morland’s?”

“She’s the only one with a tongue in this house,” she retorted.

“I own I had not noted that,” he muttered dryly.

“Well?”

He had no wish to discuss Anne with her, and yet he knew if he did not answer, she would pester the story of Bertie, and God only knew what poor Bascombe would tell her. Stroke or no, she still could think rings around that rattle. He stretched his long legs toward the fire, crossing his boots at the ankle.

“Well,” he began slowly, “she’s Old Morey’s granddaughter.”

“Old Morey? General Morland?”

“It surprises you.”

“Well, yes—of course it does.” She regarded him suspiciously. “What sort of faradiddle are you telling me?”

“None at all.”

“If she is General Morland’s granddaughter, what is she doing passing herself off as a nurse?”

“Not a nurse—a companion.”

“You have always made me pull every word out of you,” she told him sourly.

“ ’Tis a lifetime of habit, I suppose.”

“Not a becoming one, I am afraid.”

“Anne Morland is General Morland’s granddaughter, Mother—the product of a legal but unblessed
mesalliance
between Morland’s son and Eliana Antonini.”

“The opera singer?”

“You’ve heard of her, I collect.”

“Heard of her? I have heard
her
! Your father … Well, it doesn’t signify.”

“If you mean to tell me she was one of his paramours, Mother, I’ll not believe it.”

“No, of course not. As far as I know, there was never a scandalous word about her. But he took me to hear her once, when … in better times,” she finished lamely. “I have never heard a better voice in my life, Dominick—never. But she must have made a fortune.”

“Nicholas Deveraux was not the only bad husband, apparently. I understand Miss Morland’s father gambled the money even more quickly than the Antonini earned it.”

“Does the girl sing?”

“She says not.”

“A pity. I should have liked to hear her also.”

Once again silence lay like a blanket over the room as both stared into the licking flames. Finally he heaved himself from the chair to tower over her.

“I’d best get you to bed, Mother.”

“I suppose.”

He bent to lift her, sliding his arms beneath her frail body. “You could help, you know.”

“My limbs are not what they used to be.” Nonetheless, she reached an arm around his neck and held on As he carried her across the room, she murmured, “I cannot think General Morland would wish her to earn her bread.”

“I don’t know that he knows it.” He laid her down and pulled the covers up to her chin. “But I have written to him, apprising him of her situation.”

She looked up at him. “I don’t suppose ‘twould do any good to say that I shall hate to see her go?”

“Why? You cannot bullock her.”

“I am grateful to her.”

“I cannot make her stay.” He started to leave, then stopped. “You will be pleased to know she refused my suit.”

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen. “Why would that please me? If you cannot like Meg—”

“There was never any question of Miss Mitford, Mother.”

He crossed the room, and his hand was on the door when he heard her say, “You never did have any address, did you?”

“Being a Deveraux, I never needed any,” he reminded her.

As he passed Anne’s door, he could hear her voice rising from inside. “If you do not know what happened to it, and Meg does not know what happened to it, then who does?”

“Lor, miss, but I dunno!”

He knocked. “Is aught amiss, Miss Morland?” he called out.

She opened the door, and he could see she was nigh to crying. “My dress—’tis missing!”

“The cloth? Did you ask Meg?” he inquired innocently.

“Oh, Mr. Deveraux, her’s accusing me o’ stealing it, she is!” one of the maids wailed.

“I didn’t accuse you,” Anne insisted. “I merely asked if you’d seen my green gown.”

“The one you had of Meg?”

“No—mine.” She retreated into the room and sank onto her bed. “ ’Tis the first time I have had to work on it in two weeks, and ‘tis gone—gone! I cannot think … Who? Meg said she would take an oath that she didn’t have it, but …”

“I told her mebbe the scrapman …” the maid said.

“Ten to one, you have but misplaced it,” he murmured soothingly. “You still have the calico for your needle, don’t you?”

“Misplaced it? Where? Look about you, sir—there are not many places to mislay anything! ’Tis gone!”

“For all you have done here, I’ll buy you another,” he offered.

“It was mine! There is no other like it!”

“Fetch Betty and get some brandy, will you? Miss Morland is having a bout of hysterics.”

“Yessir.”

“I am
not
having hysterics! ’Twas all I have that was mine, and ’tis stolen! Stolen!”

He sat down on the bed beside her and patted her shoulder. “ ’Tis not a tragedy if it is, Annie. There are a dozen gowns where that one came from.”

She sniffed. “I made it. I was repairing it, and at least I would have been able to wear it at home.”

“You sent for me, sir?”

“Betty, have you seen Miss Morland’s green gown—the one she wore here?”

“No, sir—and so I have told her.”

“Here’s the brandy, sir.” The other girl held out the decanter and a glass.

“I don’t need any brandy! I want my dress—is there none here to care that it has been stolen?”

“ ’Twas a rag, if you was to ask me,” Betty said under her breath.

“Not to me,” Anne reminded her. Tears welled in her eyes, and one rolled down her cheek. Brushing angrily at it, she muttered, “Go on—I shall no doubt get over it.”

“Take this,” Dominick murmured, sliding an arm about her shoulder and holding the glass to her lips. “ ’Twill make you feel more the thing.”

“I don’t want to feel more the thing,” she retorted. “Can you not go away and leave me to a bout of tears?”

“No. Come on—just a sip,” he coaxed.