Encounter with Venus (12 page)

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine. I’m only sorry that after all you’ve done for me I haven’t been available to welcome you properly. I hope you’ve been made comfortable.”

“Yes, Mr. McTavish has taken good care of me. How does your uncle go on?”

Her smile faded. “He suffered a very minor stroke, but
he
does well enough.”

“Hmmph,” came from the butler.

George turned to him, eyebrows raised curiously. “What did you say?”

McTavish threw a glance at Livy, who was frowning at him, but he chose to ignore the warning in her eyes. “The doctor says there be naught wrong with ‘im,” he told George flatly.

“You may go, McTavish,” Livy ordered coldly. “Mrs. Nicol will serve us.”

The butler shrugged. “What’s true is true,” he muttered as he shuffled out Of the room. “Yer uncle’s never as sick as he pretends.”

The door closed behind him. “I’m so sorry,” Livy said, motioning George to a seat at the table. “McTavish has too free a tongue, but chastising him has no effect. He’s been with the family too long.”

“But is what he said true? Is your uncle a malingerer?” George asked bluntly.

She sat down opposite him. “He’s an old man,” she said, lowering her eyes, “and has suffered some sort of attack. The doctor finds nothing wrong, but I notice that his mouth is a bit twisted and he can’t get out of bed.”

“Do you bear the burden of his care all alone?”

“No, of course not,” she said hastily. “We have servants ...”

“Nursemaids, perhaps?” he prodded.

She flicked a quick look at him. “There’s Mrs. Nicol. And his man, Peters.”

“No one else? If he can’t get out of bed, he must need constant care.”

“He doesn’t like strangers about him.” She reached for a wine bottle in the center of the table. “This is a fine old Madeira. May I pour you a glass?”

Her hand trembled as she poured. The poor creature had probably been caring for her uncle every moment since their arrival. But judging from her annoyance at her butler’s behavior, she obviously didn’t wish to talk about her uncle. He took the wineglass from her and raised it. “To better days,” he said, smiling across at her.

“To better days,” she echoed, smiling back.

Mrs. Nicol entered with a soup tureen. She was a stout woman with neatly bound white hair and kind eyes, but her expression was sour. “ ‘Tis only cabbage soup,” she announced without preamble. “I wasn’t prepared for company.”

“I suppose cabbage soup will have to do,” Livy said, but it was plain that she was not pleased.

“Cabbage soup is quite a favorite of mine,” George assured them both.

Mrs. Nicol glanced at George, her expression softening. Livy’s did not. “I hope, Mrs. Nicol, that you’ve not changed the menu for the main course,” she said pointedly. “We are having the salmon, I trust.”

“Yes, miss. Just because I didn’t have enough beef for the barley soup you wanted doesn’t mean I won’t have what you want for the rest of the dinner. I’ll be serving the salmon in butter sauce, just as you wished.”

The housekeeper’s stiff-necked petulance made Livy wince. Mrs. Nicol, pretending to be oblivious to her mistress’s embarrassment, calmly spooned out the soup and departed.

George met Livy’s eye and grinned at her. “She’s been with the family a long time, too, I assume.”

Livy blushed. “All of the staff are too familiar,” she admitted. “I’m sure that after all those days at your sister’s well-run household, you must be finding this a disreputable place indeed.”

“Not at all. I find it generously forgiving to an unexpected intruder who was forced upon it at a time when understaffmg and illness were making things difficult enough to handle.”

“What a considerate response!” she exclaimed, peering across the table at him in surprise. “Can it possibly be, your lordship, that I’ve been somewhat misjudging you?”

“Can it, indeed?” He looked across at her in amused expectancy. “Misjudging my being autocratic and presumptuous?”

She did not laugh or respond with the expected “yes.”

“Not exactly,” she answered with a bewildered honesty. “I was so sure I had accurately gauged your character. I still think you autocratic and presumptuous. But several times today you’ve behaved in a way that seemed inconsistent with what I believe is your true character.” “Inconsistent?”

“Yes.” She took a sip of her wine, and asked, in an abrupt change of subject, “How do you like the Madeira?”

But he did not want to change the subject. “How was I inconsistent?” he prodded.

She put down her glass. “You needn’t make too much of this, George. I only meant that you acted in a manner other than what I expected.”

“Other? In what way?”

With a sigh, she surrendered to his prodding. “Much more... more...” She seemed to be searching for an appropriate word.

“Charming?” he offered. “Winning? Adorable?”

She ignored his assistance. “Kind,” she said.

“Kind?” He reared back in his seat in mock offense. “After building my hopes up to expect something flattering, you offer
kind?
”

She shrugged. “That’s the best I can do. Now let’s stop this nonsense. Eat your soup.”

He did as she asked, but he had no wish to stop probing into her analysis of his character. If nothing else, it was pleasing banter. “I don’t see how being kind is inconsistent with your assessment of my character, ma’am. Even if you find me riddled with bad qualities, can’t I have a few good ones without being inconsistent?”

“No. Being kind doesn’t fit with being...” She searched again for a word.

He offered help again. “Obnoxious? Bullying? Irksome?”

“Yes. And let’s not forget authoritative and presumptuous.”

“Good God! All of that?” he asked in pretended dismay, but inside the dismay was real. He wasn’t as amused as he pretended. How much of this teasing description, he wondered, did she really believe?

There was a long moment of silence. Then he said quietly, “If all that is true, I can understand why kindness doesn’t fit the picture.”

“It certainly doesn’t,” she agreed, her tone still bantering, “therefore, the most logical explanation must be that either your acts of kindness are insincere, or my assessment of you is askew.”

Those words gave him a feeling of relief. “Since I’m not at all
aware
of any acts of kindness,” he said with a smile, “they can’t possibly be insincere. So you’d better begin revising your assessment.”

She returned his smile. “Perhaps I should.”

They finished their soups in an atmosphere of contented companionship. But when he put down his spoon, he studied her with a sudden puzzled frown. “I think, Livy, that your character, too, is inconsistent.”

She looked up across at him with eyebrows raised. “How so?”

“It’s your changeable moods. At times like this, you are so easy to—”

This interesting beginning was interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Mrs. Nicol bearing the salmon. “Here it is, nice and hot,” she announced, showing the steaming platter to her mistress. “And McTavish is right behind me with those little carrots you like and a bowl of mushrooms Provençal.”

On cue, McTavish appeared in the doorway. But just as he was about to step over the threshold, there was a shout from somewhere nearby. It was so loud it seemed to shake the window glass.
“Livy! Where the blazes are ye?”

Livy looked stricken.

Mrs. Nicol rolled her eyes heavenward and muttered, “Oh, no!”

“There! Y’ see?” sighed the butler as he set down the bowls and hurried out.

“I’m sorry, George,” Livy said hurriedly. She jumped to her feet and headed toward the door, adding to the housekeeper, “Finish serving his lordship,” over her shoulder as she ran out.

“But what about you?” the housekeeper cried after her. “You haven’t had a proper morsel all day!”

But Livy was gone. Mrs. Nicol sighed, shrugged, and turned to serve George his dinner. “That man won’t let her live,” she muttered as she shoveled a helping of salmon onto his plate.

George, stricken by the sudden change in atmosphere, sat gaping at the open doorway. “Is there anything I can do?” he asked the housekeeper.

“I wish there were,” Mrs. Nicol said sadly, spooning a large helping of savory mushrooms on his plate. “But please, your lordship, eat your dinner. Miss Olivia’s been worrying about you all day. She’d be mighty unhappy if you went hungry.”

George looked down at his plate that was laden with delicious food. A few moments ago he would have devoured it all, every morsel, with greedy enthusiasm. But now, suddenly, he was no longer hungry. His appetite had completely deserted him.

EIGHTEEN

Sitting there alone at the dining table, George was discomfitted by everything that was spread before his eyes: Livy’s empty plate, the platter in the center of the table on which Livy’s rapidly cooling portion of salmon lay, and her wineglass, still half full. A bowl of cabbage soup and half a glass of wine had been all she’d had to eat. That could scarcely be considered adequate nourishment. It was deucedly unfair that she’d not been given time to finish her dinner.

A wave of righteous indignation swept over him. He could not permit such injustice to be ignored. If he had any manhood left, he would find Sir Andrew, Livy’s curmudgeonly uncle, and give him a piece of his mind.
What sort of fellow would I be if I did nothing?
he asked himself. In answer, he jumped to his feet, placed Livy’s empty plate over the salmon to keep it as warm as possible, and stalked out of the room.

It did not take long to find Sir Andrew’s room. The sounds of raised voices led him to a closed door at the top of the wide main staircase. As he paused for a moment to gird his loins, he heard a hoarse voice shout, “Do ye ca’ this watery concoction gruel? It reeks o’ leeks! Didna I tell ye plainly, no leeks?”

Then a female voice said, “But there aren’t any—”

“Stick yer maw, woman!” the hoarse-voiced man shouted. “Do ye think me so far gone I dinna ken leeks when I smell ‘em?”

“Please, Uncle,” came Livy’s voice, “you know that Mrs. Nicol would never—”

“Blast ye, must I endure a callieshangle at every turn?” came the loudest shout of all, followed by the crackling sound of crockery being thrown against something hard.

George squared his shoulders, knocked firmly, and not waiting for a reply, threw the door open.

One quick glance took it all in. It was like the setting of a play, with all the actors frozen in place. Against the rear wall was a large, canopied bed, its drapes tied back so that the central player in the drama—the white-lipped, white-haired, large-nosed Sir Andrew—was clearly seen. At his left a lanky, ruddy-cheeked fellow (probably Peters, the valet) was bending over him in the act of dabbing at his mouth with a towel. Livy, the heroine of the drama, was standing at her uncle’s right, trying to urge him back against the pile of pillows. On the floor near the right wall, Mrs. Nicol was kneeling down, picking up pieces of broken crockery. And, standing just behind her, McTavish was wiping drippings of pasty gruel from the wall. At this moment, however, all the action had stopped as the players gaped at the intruder poised in the doorway.

Sir Andrew was the first to speak. “Who the devil may
ye
be?” he snarled.

“George Frobisher, sir,” George said with a bow.

“It’s Lord Chadleigh, Uncle,” Livy said hastily. “He’s the gentleman who took me home from Yorkshire.”

“So that’s the wanwyt, is it?” Sir Andrew growled, throwing off her restraining arm and glowering at the newcomer. “Ye’re the one who connived t’ seduce my niece into spending last night at an inn with ye!”

“Uncle!”
Livy cried, horrified.

George was startled into a laugh. “If you think, sir, that I can ‘connive’ up a snowstorm in order to facilitate a seduction, you greatly overestimate my powers.”

McTavish snickered, earning him a furious glare from his employer.

But Sir Andrew was not easily distracted from the main object of his venom. He turned his glare back to George. “And what, may I ask,” he barked, “are ye doin’ here?”

“I’ve invited him to stay while the storm lasts,” Livy explained.

“Aye, aye, that I ken,” her uncle snapped. “I didna wish fer ye t’ put him out in the snow. What I’m askin’ is what he’s doing
here
... in this room!”

“I came to remind Miss Henshaw that her salmon is getting cold,” George said with bland nonchalance.

“Her
what
?”

Livy threw George a glance of reproof. “It’s nothing, Uncle,” she said. “Nothing at all.”

“Her salmon,” George repeated, ignoring her. “It’s getting cold.”

“Is that so?” Sir Andrew asked, his white eyebrows knitting together.

“Yes, sir, quite so. And that’s too bad, you know, since I’m told that this dinner is the only opportunity she’s had to eat all day.”

Sir Andrew turned his glare to his niece. “Ye should’ve
told
me ye didna finish yer dinner,” he shouted. “Take yerself off at once and finish it!”