Bewitched (11 page)

At this she burst out laughing, as he had probably intended.

In a gesture that was by now dearly familiar, he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “Shall we proceed? How do you fancy going to Gray’s on Sackville Street? There we might find a more delightful snuffbox than the papermaché one from the tobacconist.”

At Thomas Gray’s they not only found a snuffbox for the Earl of Rawdon—Amy persuaded Sebastian to buy a box whose lid was lavishly decorated with a scene from Shakespeare’s
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
—but also pearl earrings for the earl’s wife, Mirabella. “Belle,” Sebastian told Amy, while he bought the matching necklace for the earrings, “comes from an Irish family-and she looks it! All black hair, pale Celtic skin, and green eyes.”

“But I thought… Aren’t all Irish red-haired? Like you?” Amy batted her lashes at him. Yet just as she looked up, a shadow seemed to pass across his face. Surprised, she turned fully toward him. “Sebastian?”

His expression cleared so fast that she wondered whether the darkness she had spotted had existed only in her imagination in the first place. He wrinkled his nose at her. “Bah, Miss Bourne, how shocking. I daresay, you have never been to Ireland in your life.”

“Indeed I have not.”

He took their purchases and opened the door for her. “A toy shop now?” he suggested. “So my brother’s offspring will love us forever and ever. And a book for Sybilla, I think.”

“Your mother?”

“The dowager countess,” he confirmed.

She had raised her sons to appreciate the finer things in life: books and music.

“Though Richard must have driven her to bouts of madness,” Sebastian told Amy. “He took after the old earl in loving to frolic and rollick across the outdoors—much to the old man’s delight. Can you imagine? Even in the depths of winter, when the air was so chilling it gnawed to the marrow of your bones, the two would sojourn across the estate.” For a moment he stared into the distance, as if he could glimpse ghosts of the past.

Amy saw his eyes darken and wondered what it might mean. “And you?”

He started a little. “I…” He threw her a glance, then shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting in a lopsided smile. “Why, I had sense enough to stay inside. Have you ever visited the Fens?” When she shook her head, he went on, “There is nowhere such an expanse of sky as in the Fens. A giant dome of blue or gray, it crushes a mere human.” He gave a little shudder. “Truly, you feel as small as a fly. Rather disconcerting, if you must know.”

“So you stayed inside,” she said.

“And so I stayed inside while Richard, much to mother’s dismay, always managed to get mud on his books.” Grinning, he winked at her. “Same as his boots.”

Amy raised her brows. “You, of course, were always a model of good behavior, I assume?”

“Oh, absolutely!” His eyes twinkled merrily. “Though I freely admit to not sharing my mother’s admiration for the current crop of poets.”

“Foh, Mr. Stapleton!” Amy exclaimed in mock dismay. “How can one
not
like the verses of Keats, or Shelley, or Wordsworth? ‘I wandered lonely as a cloud,’” she began in dramatic tones. Yet as the magic of the poem and her yearning for the fields and meadows of Warwickshire quickly caught up with her, her voice softened:

“‘That floats on high o’er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.’”

Amy sighed. A light touch on her hand made her look up. Sebastian searched her face, and once more he trailed a gentle finger down her cheek.

“Ah, Miss Bourne, I must admit the words of the current crop of poets sound much sweeter coming from your lovely lips.” His own lips quirked.

Homesickness forgotten, Amy chuckled and thumped his arm. “That was a truly terrible attempt at flattery!”

“My rusty skills only need a little exercise,” he replied drolly.

“Exercise, what fudge! Now it’s time to exercise your feet, Mr. Stapleton, so we can walk to that toy shop you’ve mentioned.” She took his arm. “And while we proceed you may tell me more about your family,” she said grandly.

Sebastian laughed. “My dear, you are a true nonesuch.” And readily he complied with her request by telling her more about his mother.

Widowed these past seven years, the dowager countess still lived at Rawdon Park, the house to which she had come as a young bride of seventeen. As part of her eldest son’s household, she enjoyed being surrounded by her grandchildren. “Dickie—Lord Bradenell—is Richard’s heir. We all hope he will reach maturity without breaking his neck first. He likes to climb things.”

“Don’t all little boys?” Amy cut in.

Sebastian grimaced. “I can’t remember that I ever liked climbing anything higher than a footstool.”

“You suffer from vertigo then?”

“I most assuredly do not!” He sounded indignant. “Really, Miss Bourne, your head is filled with the most extraordinary notions!” Ignoring her giggles, he added in a mock-serious tone, “I am just not a climber. Whereas Dickie certainly is.”

Amy patted his arm. “I wouldn’t worry too much about young Dickie’s neck, though. All of my cousins were vastly fond of tree climbing. Some of them still are, to be more precise, and so far, their necks have not suffered from it in the least.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” He threw her a suspicious sideways look. “How many of them are there again, exactly?”

Amy pressed his arm and laughed. “Seven at the last count. Two are older than myself, the rest are younger.”

“Dear God!”

“Mmhm.” She gave him a cheeky smile. “And if you don’t treat me well, they will hound you to the ends of the earth,” she warned cheerfully, though she almost pitied him: The poor man looked dumbstruck. To distract him from the unpleasant image of seven angry, strapping young men coming after him—although most of the strapping young men weren’t out of the schoolroom yet—she coaxed, “Tell me more about your nephews.”

“And niece,” he muttered, then glanced at her. “You are enjoying seeing me squirm. I swear, I
will
fall flat on my face at your feet in no time at all, bleeding from all those wounds to my heart.”

“Then pray make sure not to bleed on the hem of my dress.” Amy bit her lip so she wouldn’t grin, and gave him a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Bloodstains are
so
difficult to remove.”

“Minx.” He tweaked her nose, obviously not caring that they were standing in one of the busiest streets of London. “I am incredibly glad to hear you care so much for me.”

“Always. So… your nephews and niece?”

They walked on to the toy shop, and Sebastian told her more about Dick, the climber, and Pip—Philip—who loved doing finicky things, and about the princess of the family, little Annalea. Amy couldn’t wait to meet them all, to get to know the family of the man she loved—oh, and how she loved him!

Finally the day came that saw her in the Earl of Rawdon’s chaise-and-four, sent for by Sebastian. The middle seat had been drawn out to seat three—one of the Benthams’ maids was to accompany the girls—while Sebastian himself rode alongside the coach, and a smaller carriage followed with his valet and the bulk of their luggage. Amy sat huddled between Isabella’s writing desk and several small and large parcels that somehow had found their way into the chaise at the very last minute. Unperturbed by the tight squeeze, Amy pressed her nose against the glass to admire the landscape outside, while Isabella sat, looking sour.

They stopped for the night at an inn in Cambridge. Not even the fact that Amy had to share a bed with Isabella, who was probably pining after Lord Munthorpe and his sheep, could dim her excitement about the following day. For after they had left the inn the next morning, they turned onto the turnpike to King’s Lynn, thus entering the marshes and moors of the Fens. Mist hovered over the flat land, clung to the clusters of trees and bushes, and enshrouded the windmills, which pumped the drainage from the land into larger canals.

“Dear heavens, what sort of place is this?” Isabella muttered. “I swear it all looks the same. Haven’t we passed this spot before? I daresay, we wouldn’t even know when we were lost!”

“Nonsense,” Amy, who was enjoying the wide open spaces after the cramped nature of the city, said briskly. “Mr. Stapleton and Lord Rawdon’s driver must know the way perfectly. I am sure we will reach Rawdon Park in no time at all.” And really, how could one get lost on a turnpike anyway, even on a gray and foggy day?

So shortly after midday, they passed through a gate, rattled down a driveway, and behind a gently curving hill, redbricked Rawdon Park rose out of the mist. Dozens of chimneys emitted puffs of smoke, and several windows glowed with a mellow light and offered a warm welcome.

Amy clapped her hands together. “How extraordinarily lovely!” As soon as the chaise halted in the forecourt, she scrambled out, almost knocking over the footman who held out his hand to assist her onto the ground. In front of them stood the main building, a clock tower rising over the middle wing like a confectioner’s sugary creation. To the right and left of the forecourt stretched two lower wings—the serving quarters, perhaps.

“Do you like it?” Sebastian’s breath tickled Amy’s ear.

With a smile, she turned. “I adore—” Yet before she had the chance to finish her sentence, the front door opened and:

“UNNNCLE STAAAPLETON!”

Two blurred, brown shapes hurled themselves at Sebastian and clung to his waist and his arms. Two small boys beamed up at him adoringly, their faces aglow with both joy and cold.

“We have been waiting for you!”

“The whole day!”

“We missed you!”

“Terribly!”

A burly, broad-shouldered man appeared in the doorway, holding the hand of a black-haired little girl. When she caught sight of the boys clinging to Sebastian, her small face darkened dramatically and her lips pursed into a pout. “Unco Shtapton.” And, more insistently, “Unco Shtapton!” She stomped her little foot. “My unco.” Then she let go of the man’s hand and ran toward Sebastian as fast as her short legs allowed. “
Unco Shtapton
!”

Sebastian smiled down at her and managed to free one of his arms to ruffle her curls. “Hello, Annie.”

With a happy sigh, she expertly shouldered the smaller of the boys aside to grab hold of Sebastian’s leg. “
My
unco.”

His eyes dancing, Sebastian turned to look at Amy. “Miss Bourne, may I introduce my hopeful young nephews and niece?”

The little girl glanced over her shoulder and glowered at Amy. “My unco,” she repeated.

One of the boy’s pinched her side. “
Our
uncle.”

“
My
,” the girl insisted. “My, my, my!” She emphasized her point by stomping her foot once more. “My!”

The little one’s grouchy behavior might be irregular, but it was still adorable. The girl reminded Amy of a furious kitten, hissing and spitting to no great effect. “How do you do?” she said, suppressing a smile. “You must be Annalea—and Richard and Philip."

The girl eyed her suspiciously, while the boys stared with frank curiosity. “How do you do,” they finally muttered.

“I hope you will excuse the appalling manners of my brood, Miss Bourne,” a deep male voice said from behind her.

Amy glanced around and up into the smiling face of the man who had come with the little girl, his brown hair tousled, his boots—she took a quick peek—muddied. She fully turned in order to drop him a curtsy. “How do you do, my lord?”

“How do you do.” The earl’s voice was warm and welcoming, and Amy liked him instantly. He bowed his head. “I hope you will enjoy your stay at Rawdon Park, Miss Bourne.”

“I’m sure I will.” She answered his smile with one of her own.

“Shall I do the introductions?” Sebastian cut in, his voice laced with irony.

With a laugh, his brother clapped his shoulder. “And thus the prodigal son returns. You wish to stand on ceremony? With three monkeys clinging to you?” With his free hand, he removed one of his sons from Sebastian’s arm. “Off you go, Pip. You must let your uncle move if you don’t want him to freeze on the doorstep.” Sighing and muttering, the boys complied. “You, too, brat.” With firm insistence, he caught hold of the little girl and set her down a few feet away. “And now,” he said to Sebastian, “you can do the introductions proper.”

Afterwards, they were whisked into the entrance hall, decorated in warm, buttery colors, where the two young women were given into the care of the housekeeper, Mrs. Dibbler. She showed them up a wooden staircase, past golden-framed portraits of men in wigs and down a gallery filled with more portraits and bookcases. Persian carpets swallowed the sound of their steps, while to their left and right, upholstered chairs invited them to sit down with a book. Next to bowls with budding cherry tree twigs, more books were piled high on sturdy tables. “This is the Long Gallery,” the housekeeper told Amy and Isabella. “The grandfather of the present earl converted it into a library. And here’s
his
son, the father of the present earl, standing beside the big oak tree down in the gardens.”

The portrait had been painted when the late earl had been in the prime of his life. It showed a stocky, broad-shouldered man in the casual clothes of a country gentleman, his hair pulled back and laid in the then-fashionable curls above his ears. Yet it was not powdered, and its dark tones were reflected in the colors of the bark of the tree next to him, as if in this way the artist had wanted to show the earl’s love for his lands. At his feet sat a monstrously big black dog, its eyes raised adoringly to gaze at its master, who in turn gazed across the gardens and the hint of a large lake at the house in the distance.

“Oh,” said Isabella in the most curious voice. “There’s the lake.”

“Indeed, miss.” Mrs. Dibbler beamed at her. “Right behind the house. Some say that the lake of Rawdon Park is the largest and nicest in all the gardens of England. Of course, there’s not much to see now in late autumn. But you’ll have a right lovely view of it from the South Drawing Room. Will you come this way, now?”

She led them up another flight of stairs and down a corridor, and showed them to their rooms where they could refresh themselves. This time, Amy was glad to find out, she would not have to share a room with Isabella. Instead, Mrs. Dibbler first opened the door to the room that had been set aside for Mr. Bentham’s daughter. “I hope it will be to your liking, miss.” Then she walked a little farther down the hallway and opened another door. “And this, Miss Bourne, will be your room.” She smiled at Amy. “The countess specifically ordered to have this prepared for you. The Rose Bedroom is the prettiest guest room in Rawdon Park.”