Laura Matthews (4 page)

Alvescot waved her back to her chair. “All right, let’s leave that issue for the time being. Let’s discuss the exorbitant expenses that have brought me here. I understand the boy has a pony of his own.”

“You don’t think he should?” Vanessa regarded him incredulously. “His father received his first pony when he was three. Frederick could hardly wait until John was old enough. Unfortunately, he didn’t live to see the day.”

Alarmed at the possibility of her bursting into tears, or some such womanly display of distress, Alvescot hastened to reassure her. “No, I’m sure the boy should have a pony of his own. But you may be overindulging the children to compensate for their father’s loss. It’s a common occurrence with widows, I believe.”

Her glance was scornful. “I do indulge them—with my time, with anything their position requires, with presents when I feel like it. And I doubt I’m wrecking the estate with a few trifles.”

“Then how in God’s name are you racking up such incredible bills?” he demanded, impatient. “They aren’t imaginary, Mrs. Damery.”

“Nor would they be unaccounted for, save that you gave me to understand from the start that you weren’t interested in hearing the details.”

“I beg your pardon? I’m sure you’re mistaken.” It was clear Alvescot did not believe her. His brows had risen to new heights in haughtiness and his mouth became a grim line. He settled back in his chair, his fingers intertwined and resting at his waist, the very picture of a skeptical employer interviewing a suspect employee. “Tell me about it, Mrs. Damery.”

Vanessa had a brief but fervent desire to slap him. The violence of her emotions surprised and alarmed her, making her rise very carefully from her chair and walk calmly to the desk. The records she kept of estate transactions were thorough and well organized, not only the books but the correspondence. Laborious task that it was, nonetheless she took the time to make a copy of each letter she sent, carefully attaching the reply when it came. There was no problem finding the items she sought.

“Perhaps,” she suggested, turning to him, “you would care to sit at the desk to study the record of our early transactions, Lord Alvescot.” When he joined her, she spread out letter after letter for his perusal. “This is your note of condolence, and this is my reply. Here is my first attempt to advise you of my plans for the estate, with your response. You may follow our interchanges straight through to your note advising me of your arrival. If the copies of my letters aren’t legible, you have only to ask me to translate them for you. Since they’re for my own information, I have a tendency to abbreviate and write quickly. I trust you will be able to decipher your own communications, though I have occasionally had trouble myself.”

Vanessa left him to his task, strolling to the bay windows to look out over the gravel drive and the lime avenue beyond it. She didn’t turn at his muffled curse but continued to wait patiently until he addressed himself to her. When he cleared his throat some twenty minutes later, she knew he had read every one of the letters.

“I apologize, Mrs. Damery. I can’t imagine what possessed me to write such an uncivil reply to your first letter. For a full six months after Waterloo I was not quite myself. Not only was I ill, but I had lost some of my best friends there, including Frederick. But that is only to excuse myself.”

He rose and joined her at the windows, standing a few feet from her unexpressive face. “Apparently you tried several times during that period to interest me in your plans, and I was too self-absorbed to show the least concern. Of all people, I should have come to your assistance. Frederick relied on me to do so, else he wouldn’t have named me co-trustee.”

“Well, after a few months I took hold of things myself. Your advice would have been welcome, but everything worked out for the best.” Vanessa offered him a small smile, acknowledging the sincerity of his apology. “Fredrick was a soldier, Lord Alvescot. He had no interest in farming, and little knowledge of it. During those years he spent on the Peninsula, things deteriorated at Cutsdean, and I was too busy with the babies to pay much heed. When I realized that little John was going to end up with a sadly depleted estate if something wasn’t done, I set about finding a manager to take things in hand. I made two mistakes before finding our current man, and I pay him what you might consider a disproportionate wage, but he is honest, hard-working, and knowledgeable and he relieves me of all worries about running the estate.”

The expression on Alvescot’s face went through a number of subtle changes, as though he was undecided how to broach his underlying doubt. “I find myself in an awkward position,” he confessed at last. “Due to my neglect, you’ve been forced to make decisions you might have been spared, but they are still decisions which are vital to the management of Frederick’s estate, and therefore my responsibility to oversee as co-trustee. The fact of the matter is, Mrs. Damery, that your trust in this fellow may be misplaced. There are the unusually high expenses . . .”

Vanessa rubbed her eyes wearily. It had been a long day and she didn’t have the energy to try to convince Lord Alvescot of her confidence in Paul Burford. What she really wanted was a chance to bathe and rest before dinner. Looking at matters from his point of view, his suggestion was not unreasonable, but Vanessa was tired of trying to see everything from someone else’s point of view. She was tired of having her every decision questioned by one or another member of her entourage. If it wasn’t her mother-in-law insisting that she coddled the children, or Edward telling her she really needed his assistance (which would best be accomplished by her marrying him), or Mabel pushing forth her incessant menus, then it was the captain deprecating the unmilitary regulation of her household. Vanessa walked to the desk, pulled out several ledgers, and turned to the earl.

“You may take these to your room to study them. I’ll arrange for you to spend the day tomorrow with Paul Burford. If, after that, you think it necessary to discuss any change in my arrangements here, I will be willing to sit down and talk with you. I don’t want you to interpret that as my saying I will be willing to make arbitrary changes. I’m satisfied with things as they are. But I will listen to your opinions, since you are co-trustee.”

“And not because I may know more about the management of an estate than you do?” he asked, hackles raised by her indifference to his position and masculine prerogative in matters of such a nature.

“You can convince me of your expertise,” she said lightly, “if the need arises. Now, if you will excuse me, Lord Alvescot, I have a few duties to attend to. Please make yourself at home. Has your valet arrived?”

“Yes.”

“Excellent. We dine at six, though generally we gather in the Saloon about five-thirty. I’m sure you know the various diversions to be had at Cutsdean and hope you’ll feel free to avail yourself of them.”

“Thank you,” he said stiffly, watching her lock the drawers of the mammoth pedestal desk.

“Not at all.” Vanessa walked to the door and turned the brass door handle before she remembered something she had meant to mention. “I’m sorry about your room. Ordinarily I would have given you the Chinese Chippendale bedroom, but Mr. Oldcastle was already established there and I didn’t feel I could ask him to move. The only two large bedrooms unoccupied suffered from some water damage in the spring and are undergoing repairs. If you would prefer something larger, I would have to move you to the nursery floor, which is not the quietest setting.” She cocked her head inquiringly.

“I’ll stay where I am.”

“As you wish.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement. “If you could induce Louisa and Mr. Oldcastle to quarrel (which is not a difficult matter to accomplish), I’d be happy to have you move into the Chinese Chippendale bedroom when he leaves.” And before he could reply, if indeed he had any intention of doing so, she slipped out the door.

Chapter Three

Vanessa’s hopes of avoiding everyone on the way to her room were not answered. Mabel Curtiss waylaid her in the Entrance Hall before she had a chance to escape up the stairs.

“Now you really must pay some heed to what you give the earl to eat,” she insisted, waving a menu frantically before Vanessa’s face. “How often do we have so exalted a guest in our midst? I have the very thing, you know; I’ve been working on it all afternoon. The first course would be soup
à
la jardinière,
crimped salmon and parsley-and-butter, plus trout
aux
fines herbes,
in cases. Could anything be more perfect? He would rave about it, and I’m sure even your cook is capable of handling that. For the entrees,
tendrons de veau
and peas, and lamb cutlets and cucumbers.”

As she made her way through a list of loins of veal, braised ham, roast duck, lobster salad, and raspberry-and-currant tarts, among a multitude of other dishes, Vanessa stood patiently listening. When she got to the nesselrode pudding and the ices, Vanessa said, “Yes, it sounds delicious, Mabel, but a trifle extravagant for us.”

“It’s not just for us!” Mabel proclaimed. “Do you want the earl returning to London, or wherever he lives, and telling them we don’t live in style? Nothing is more indicative of one’s position, I promise you, than one’s board. I heard my mother say it a thousand times when I was growing up. No less than three courses with two entrees for a party of twelve, and I myself believe it should be three entrees, plus the desserts and ices, of course.”

Vanessa held out her hand for the sheet of paper. “Let me consider it, if you please. I suppose we might be a little more elaborate while his lordship is with us.”

“A little! My dear child, you can’t think to serve him the remains of the stewed veal
rechauffé,
or the John Dory with lobster sauce. It won’t do!” Mabel’s cheeks grew red with indignation. “Last night we had vegetable marrow and white sauce instead of a pudding!”

“Yes, well, Mrs. Howden is only trying to use what we have to hand, you know. Actually, I found it quite palatable.”

Mabel shuddered with distaste. “Just this once you should listen to me. You’re quite out of the habit of entertaining, and that Howden woman never knew how in the first place. She listens to no one but the cook on these matters, and Cook is trying to make life easy for himself. You mark my words, Lord Alvescot would despise the table you ordinarily set. Too plain by half!”

“You may be right,” Vanessa muttered, edging her way toward the Staircase Hall. “Thank you for going to so much effort, Mabel.”

“See that it’s not wasted,” the older woman called after her.

Vanessa managed to gain her room without encountering anyone further. Her room was the same one she had been given when she first came to Cutsdean as a bride—a spacious bedroom with a smaller sitting room attached. It had been Hortense’s room before her, and Hortense had never forgiven her for completely redecorating it. But Hortense was given to a heavy taste in furniture and draperies which Vanessa didn’t share and the young bride had suggested Hortense might like to transport her belongings with her to the house in Basingstoke which served as a dower house. Vanessa clearly recalled the old woman’s scorn at such a proposal, and the hours it had taken Frederick to talk her around. Wasted hours, demanded by a petty mind intent on disrupting the newlyweds’ lives and tempers.

A gown was hung on the front of the wardrobe for Vanessa to wear to dinner, but she ignored the lemon gauze folds and disposed herself wearily on the bed. Her head had begun to ache during the interview with Lord Alvescot and she wished to give it a chance to clear before she descended to meet the whole crowd at Cutsdean preceding the evening meal. The assemblage was always enough to aggravate any slight indisposition from which she might be suffering. And now to have the earl on top of all the others! With him intent, she felt sure, on exerting his authority as co-trustee and potentially interfering with all the plans she had worked out for the estate with Paul Burford. Vanessa’s store of patience, never excessive, seemed in danger of being totally annihilated.

Of course, she was aware of the imposition of Frederick’s relations! How could she not be aware of it? But Hortense had taken advantage of her grief immediately after Frederick’s death, rapidly installing herself and her brother, with her sister following a year later with her two children. By that time, Vanessa had been in control of her life again, but the Curtisses had arrived without her foreknowledge, “to stay for a short while recovering from the shock of losing Mr. Curtiss,” as Hortense explained. The biggest shock, actually, was that Mr. Curtiss had gambled away their family estate before putting a period to his own life, and they were literally destitute.

From what Vanessa could glean of the situation, there was a suicide note, crammed, according to Mabel Curtiss, with fond endearments to his family and soul-searching recriminations for his own weak behavior. There was everything, apparently, but a body. Since this episode had taken place in London, there were any number of possibilities for a body’s disappearance—washed away by the Thames, found unidentified in some rookery and buried without a name, even scavenged by grave robbers. Because Vanessa couldn’t blame Mr. Curtiss for wishing to depart this life filled with his acid-tongued wife, his fluffy-witted daughter, and his reprobate son, she was perfectly willing to accept this rendition of the story.

But she was likewise unable to toss the family out of Cutsdean. Unless Hortense would move back to Basingstoke and take them with her, Vanessa could see no possibility of ridding herself of them. Her parents insisted it was her duty to house and finance them in their difficult straits. She who had so much when they had nothing, was how Mrs. Fulbrook was like to describe the situation. And it wouldn’t have been so very disturbing, if it had been an unexceptionable family.

What didn’t settle well with Vanessa were Mrs. Curtiss’s constant references to their joint bereavement, to the obligations placed on one by blood ties, and to the possibilities of a match between her son and Vanessa. Apparently, Mrs. Curtiss believed that, in this case, the responsibility of the blood tie was for Vanessa to marry her husband’s cousin (on his mother’s side) so the money could all be kept in the family. Mrs. Curtiss’s entire life was spent making menus and trying to marry her daughter off to Mr. Oldcastle and her son to Vanessa.