Love & Folly (29 page)

Elizabeth rose. Eventually she and Maggie, who had begun to weep in sympathy, led the sobbing
girl from the book room. Elizabeth wanted to console Jean, then strangle her and throw her body to the
ducks, but that was an impractical course of action.

* * * *

If Clanross had not been in the room Johnny would have milled Owen Davies down. Fury
cramped his muscles and hazed everything in red. He sat in his chair and seethed.

For a while no one moved. At last Owen rose and made his way to the window, which was open.
"I know what you're thinking, my lord," he said in a muffled voice.

"I doubt it."

"You accused me of seeking the notoriety of a trial. I did not. I writ the poem. What I writ
needed writing. It's a good poem, whatever her ladyship may say."

"What does her ladyship say?"

"She accused me of plagiarisms!"

Clanross said in less frigid tones, "That was intemperate of her. I daresay she spoke in the heat of
the moment."

Owen clutched at his forehead. "What does it matter? I'm done for. If you had not forbid it, I
would have gone down to London myself. When Lady Jean suggested that she convey the poem, I was at
my wit's end. Perhaps it was weak in me to agree. Certainly I didn't foresee that she would give the poem
over to anyone but my friend."

"Why did you not foresee it? You must know young ladies are not allowed to roam freely through
the stews of Soho in search of young men."

"Is it a low neighbourhood?" Owen asked with such palpable surprise that Johnny's red haze
began to fade. Surely the man could not be that naive.

Clanross explained how very low the neighbourhood had sunk, adding, "I daresay you don't know
London well."

Owen groaned. "Since I came down from Oxford I've spent a year in Wales writing and a year as
secretary to a gentleman resident in Bath. I've never lived in London."

"Then perhaps your mistake was an honest one. Since my expressed opinions led you to imagine I
would not object to your poem, I can understand your trying to see it into print without consulting
me."

"You said you favoured a free press."

"I do." Clanross sighed. "I know my sister-in-law's impetuous nature, and I can believe you were
caught up in her enthusiasm, though the fact that you're five years older than she makes that hard to credit.
What sickens me, Davies, is that you used your presence in my household as an opportunity to trifle with
Lady Jean's feelings."

"I do not trifle!" Owen held out an imploring hand. "Upon my honour, sir, we could not help
ourselves!"

"And the thought of Jean's blood and wealth didn't enter your head?"

"No!" Owen cried passionately. "It did not! She was so kind, so beautiful. When I perceived that
she was not entirely indifferent I could not forebear to speak. My feelings burst forth. I shall worship Lady
Jean forever."

Johnny heard this speech with considerable confusion. It was just possible Owen was
sincere.

"I honour her," Owen was saying in a low, trembling voice. "I would cut off my hand sooner than
hurt her."

"An impressive declaration," Clanross said dryly. "Then you can have no objection to leaving for
Upper Canada."

Owen sank onto the nearest chair. "What?"

"You claim you don't want to hurt Jean. Surely you must see that being called as a material
witness in a criminal case would harm her."

"And what of Mag...Lady Margaret?" Johnny's voice sounded hoarse in his own ears. "She would
be called, too, subjected to the insinuations of counsel in a publick court. The two of them went,
unescorted, to seek out a man in his private quarters. Are you so high-minded you don't know what would
be said? For Godsake, they'd be ruined. Both of them."

"You must go, Davies," Clanross said heavily. "It's a bad business and I'm sorry for it, but there it
is."

Owen looked from one to the another. "Must I?"

"You needn't imagine you'll be exiled for ever. In a year or so the prosecutions will ease and you
may return without penalty." Clanross touched his shoulder. "I'm aware of my own responsibility in this.
I'll send for you as soon as may be."

"Very well, I'll go." Owen buried his face in his hands.

A fortnight passed in wretched inaction. The weather was hot and mutinous, like Jean's mood.
Maggie felt her twin's anguish deeply, and, worse, her twin's withdrawal of confidence.

The most dramatic development was Owen's removal from Brecon to the rectory. Clanross had
called on the rector and his wife to explain that Owen must leave the country. Once Clanross made it clear
that the alternative was a trial, Mr. Davies resigned himself to his son's exile. His wife proved less
persuadable. Owen was her favourite and she let her feelings be felt. Prudence had so far prevented her
from spreading her outrage abroad among her friends and neighbours, but she blamed Clanross for leading
her son astray. She insisted that Owen live at home until he was compelled to leave for the wilds of Upper
Canada. She was said to be knitting warm things.

Maggie grieved for the mother deprived of her child, but she mourned the effects of Owen's
removal on Jean more. Although Owen continued to ride up to Brecon every morning, he worked in the
library only a few hours each day and that was all Jean saw of him. Everyone else felt the advantage of
Owen's absence--the level of tension at dinner lowered noticeably--but Maggie's twin withdrew into
brooding silence.

When Jean requested a separate bedchamber, Maggie was stricken. She had done nothing to cause
Jean's grief, yet Jean was treating her like a stranger. Maggie's resolve not to abet a private meeting between
Owen and her sister wavered.

Clanross and Johnny went down to London again, something to do with records of the charity
Owen would be carrying to Clanross's agent. They returned within three days, however, and both men
took to joining the girls and Owen in the book room as they worked on the nearly completed catalogue.
Maggie could not help thinking Owen's despair was less black than Jean's.

"Have you read this yet, Davies?" Clanross handed the poet a slim volume.

In the previous days Owen had read all of the American voyages in the Brecon first edition of
Hakluyt's
Principle Navigations
. He exclaimed over Frobisher, Cabot, and Hudson, and sketched
out a verse-drama of discovery. He also went about quoting such references to North America as he had
unearthed in the works of other poets. "Oh, my America, my New-found Land," was a line Maggie
remembered because it seemed to refer not to the continent but to the poet's lover, an unsettling
thought.

Owen took the volume from Clanross and leafed through it. "Cartier's account of the Iroquois!
I've been looking for it. By Jove, they're fierce devils. I'd like to see an Iroquois warrior." He went to the
window and soon lost himself in the book.

Jean watched him from somber grey eyes. Maggie watched Jean.

* * * *

"Jaysus!"

Emily started. "What is it?" She had been dozing off and on since they left Chacton.

Peggy's head blocked Emily's view from the window of Sir Henry's carriage. "Jaysus, it's the
Prado," the nurse muttered.

"Do move over, Peggy. Are we in sight of Brecon?" Emily eased the sleeping Harry onto the seat,
half rose, and peered around Peggy's shoulder. Persuaded by a jab in the ribs, Peggy made room.

Ahead of the two carriages--far off and well above them--floated an enormous ice palace. Emily
blinked. It did not vanish. Tom's travelling carriage, which contained Richard, Matt, Amy, and Tommy,
momentarily blocked her view. Again the vision appeared. The arrogant Palladian facade was broken by a
double flight of steps, curving out to embrace the carriageway that swept up to it. The afternoon sun
glinted from an acre of tall windows, two tiers of them. A balustraded parapet in the doric mode masked
any hint of chimneys.

Emily could make out a tiny figure at the head of the stairs, but that was the only sign of humanity
in the entire neoclassical expanse. Then the carriages entered a gracefully placed wood and the house was
lost to view. Emily sank back on her seat, her stomach in a cold knot. She had been told that Brecon was not
as vast as Blenheim. In all conscience it was vast enough.

Peggy and Phillida burst into excited questioning. They woke Sally, who wailed to be fed. Harry
also woke and Peggy and Phillida were distracted into answering his questions. It was clear that the Earl of
Clanross's principal seat lay still some miles off, so Emily attended to her daughter's appetite and tried not
to give way to panick.

The journey from Mayne Hall had been accomplished in great comfort, and at great expense.
Travelling was a costly enterprise, especially for a large party. Tom had sent his carriage and Emily's father
had also insisted that they employ
his
, so Richard had engaged to keep the three oldest children
out of mischief in one, whilst Emily and the two servants dealt with the babies in the other. McGrath had
gone off to Cork the week before and Emily determined to revel in Peggy's services. Phillida was an
afterthought, probably a mistake, though she could be trusted to hold Sally occasionally without dropping
her.

They had stopped one night at the Conway town house in London. By dint of imagining herself in
Grillon's Hotel, Emily survived the shock. It was not like the house in Winchester.

Richard took her to a play at Drury Lane. She enjoyed the novelty of an evening in her husband's
sole company--they occupied the Conway box and were ogled--but she couldn't help noticing she was
dressed like a provincial dowdy. Her gown was new. Mme. Hebert in Winchester had assured her it was
à la mode
. Mme. Hebert had lied.

Emily hoped she was not vain or unduly concerned about appearances but now, brooding over the
looming ice palace, she couldn't help wishing she had accepted Richard's offer of a week's shopping in
London before the journey.

Sally lapsed into contented sleep. Peggy and Phillida held Harry to the window. The carriage
lumbered on.
If I were a great lady,
Emily reflected, tidying her blue travelling dress,
I would be
preparing witty
bons mots
for the amusement of my hostess and her fashionable, if mettlesome, sisters.
Unfortunately, nothing came to mind.

There was a lake. The carriage slowed for the long pull up the slope upon which the palace sat and
Emily had leisure to consider which child would drown him or herself in the ornamental water. Harry
espied ducks and commented at length. Peggy and Phillida exclaimed.

When the carriage drew to a halt at last, Emily was full of dread and foreboding. A footman in
livery opened the door and pulled down the steps, assisting Emily to alight. Perhaps the figure she had
spotted on the stairway had been a sentinel. Since she had first. glimpsed Brecon, a large party had
assembled at the front entrance. Among them she recognised only Johnny Dyott and Tom.

Tom came down to her, hand extended. She took it and held her face up to be kissed. "Snug
cottage you have here, my lord."

He laughed and led her up the stairs to a tall woman with chestnut hair and brown eyes, who held
out her hand, too.

"I'm glad you've come in spite of everything," Lady Clanross said warmly but obscurely. "I've
been wanting to welcome you and your children to Brecon for a long time now."

Emily murmured something she hoped was appropriate and was introduced to two red-haired
damsels in spotted muslin. It was fortunate Lady Margaret wore her hair short. Otherwise, Emily would
have been unable to tell the two young ladies apart. They had freckles and Tom's grey eyes, and Emily
remembered they were his remote cousins. Lady Clanross resembled neither her sisters nor her
cousin-husband, but she was a handsome woman and, of course, handsomely gowned. Emily's blue travelling dress
was crumpled, grimy, and five years out of date. Mme. Hebert had a great deal to answer for.

In the bustle of greeting everyone, Johnny and a phalanx of footmen had handed down the older
children, Richard, Peggy, Phillida, and the babies.

Emily was relieved to see that the magnificence about them had subdued Matt and Amy. Tommy
clung to Richard's leg.

It was clear that Lady Clanross had given considerable thought to their reception. Emily, escorted
by the obliging Lady Margaret, saw the babies safely to the nursery--and Amy and the boys to the reopened
schoolroom in which three still younger Conway sisters and a competent-looking governess awaited them.
Then she was guided to the room she and Richard were to share.

Guided was the operative verb. She would never have found the door. The long hallway was full
of doors, all exactly alike. Nor was "room" the right word. She and Richard had been given a suite with a
vast dressing room and, in the bedchamber, a huge four-poster swagged in new satin. The dressing room
was pink, the bedroom ivory with framed watercolors the chambermaid said had been executed by the
twins' mother. A vase of damask roses reposed on the dressing table.

The maid had unpacked Emily's trunk. She laid out a fresh muslin gown, announcing that her
name was Polly and she would be at Emily's service during her sojourn at Brecon. The girl had also brought
hot water for washing, and fresh towels. She curtseyed when Emily thanked her and sent her off. Although
the maid seemed obliging and not at all haughty, permitting a stranger to undress her at that juncture would
have been beyond Emily's powers.

Before Emily could climb into the enormous armoire and hide with her thumb in her mouth,
Richard appeared, looking cheerful.

"Lord, Richard, why did I agree to come? I'm terrified!"

He removed her bonnet, laid it on the dressing table, and kissed her soundly. "Nonsense, you've
taken the citadel by storm. Is Tommy frightened?"

"I think not. I told Amy to stay with him. The governess seemed kind and very interested in
him."