Nicola Cornick, Margaret McPhee, et al (29 page)

‘Yes, my lady,’ Abigail said. ‘That is, I am entirely well, and
the room—the room is perfect.’

‘Good.’ Her ladyship sat, motioning for Abigail to sit, too. At
once a servant set a plate of shirred eggs, sweet rolls, cheese and grilled
white sausages before Lady Hamilton, who began to eat with robust appetite. ‘I
know you’re here to work with Sir William, but I hope you’ll spare a little
time for pleasure, too. Might I offer my condolences on your sorrow an’ loss?’

‘Thank you, my lady,’ Abigail said. ‘I mourn my father, whose
work I hope to continue here. He died a year ago last August.’

‘So long ago?’ Lady Hamilton asked, her mouth full of eggs. ‘It’s
not my place, I know, but it’s past time for you to set aside that mourning,
miss, an’ dress yourself gay. The house will be full o’ handsome young
officers, ready to ogle a pretty young lady like you!’

Abigail flushed, instantly recalling the officer from last night.

‘I fear my responsibilities will allow little time for—for
idleness, my lady.’

‘Oh, pish,’ Lady Hamilton said. ‘Sir William don’t expect
anything o’ the sort from you, an’ you know your father wouldn’t, neither.’

Without thinking Abigail touched the gold locket around her
throat. Her ladyship’s guess was right; Father had always worried that she’d
devoted too much time to his scholarship and to tending him through his last
illness, and not enough to finding a husband, as other girls her age did.

‘There now, I’d no wish to make you sorrowful.’ Her ladyship
reached over the table to pat Abigail’s arm gently. ‘And I know what it’s like
not to have the blunt to pay for gowns an’ ribbons an’ such. I’ll send up a few
things to your room, an’ you can see if anything suits. Besides, you’ll be more
at ease if you dress for Naples an’ not London, an’—Oh, here is England’s own
darling hero!’

She jumped from her chair and rushed towards the doorway. And if
Lady Hamilton didn’t fit Abigail’s ideal of a lady, then neither did Admiral
Nelson resemble her notion of a war hero. He was slight, almost frail, with
wispy white hair poking out from beneath a thick bandage wrapped around his
forehead. His right arm was gone, lost to a long-ago battle, his empty sleeve
pinned to the chest of his uniform coat, yet his one good eye seemed to fair
glow with joy as Lady Hamilton dropped to her knees to kiss his hand, rubbing
her cheek against it in a shamelessly, scandalously dramatic display.

‘Enough of that, my lady,’ he said, bending slightly to help
raise her back to her feet. ‘No need for such demonstrations, eh?’

But as the admiral leaned forward Abigail saw the officer
standing behind him: her golden-haired lieutenant from the night before. As her
gaze met his, he bowed slightly in recognition, his expression solemn.
Abigail’s cheeks flamed, and hastily she stared down at the half-eaten toast on
her plate.

She’d done nothing wrong, she told herself fiercely. She’d no
reason to blush simply because a gentleman had nodded her way. But how could he
possibly be more handsome by the morning light than he’d been last night? And
what twist of fate had made him appear again here, now, to take her so
thoroughly by surprise?

‘Might I present Miss Abigail Layton?’ Lady Hamilton was saying.
‘She is here to tally up Sir William’s collection o’ rarities. Admiral Nelson,
Miss Layton.’

Hurriedly Abigail rose to make her curtsey while the admiral
smiled indulgently.

‘Lieutenant Lord James Richardson, Miss Layton,’ Lady Hamilton
continued. ‘His father’s the Earl o’ Carrington, you know, but here he’s
honoured to serve our glorious hero.’

‘Miss Layton,’ the lieutenant said. ‘Your servant.’

‘Your servant, my lord,’ Abigail murmured, her cheeks hot yet
again. He wasn’t just a sailor, nor even just an officer, but an attendant to
the admiral and the son of an earl, and he was smiling at her now with the
oddest expression of bewildered curiosity. And his name was James: a name she’d
always liked.
James.

‘Ah, Miss Layton, here you are!’ Sir William came striding into
the room, holding a long fragment of marble in his arms. ‘I have read the
papers you sent to me this morning, and I’m impressed. Most impressed! But I
thought I’d give you one more test, if you will.’

He set the heavy fragment on the dining table beside her plate
and stepped back, folding his arms over his chest. ‘There, now, Miss Layton.
Tell me what you can about this fellow.’

‘Oh, Sir William, really!’ Lady Hamilton protested. ‘Let the poor
girl eat her breakfast!’

‘If you please, my lady, it’s no trouble,’ Abigail said, already
studying the fragment—a long panel showing a prancing satyr. As such tests
went, this one wasn’t hard at all. ‘The stone is marble, of course, most likely
all that remains of a stele. From the carving, I should guess it’s Ionic, from
the fifth century BC—certainly no later.’

Sir William leaned closer, his expression shrewd. ‘But for what
purpose, eh?’

‘Purpose, Sir William?’ Abigail asked, not wanting to blunder by
misinterpreting his question.

‘Yes, the purpose,’ he repeated. ‘Where would it have been
originally situated?’

‘Forgive me, Sir William, but I cannot see how that should
possibly matter,’ interrupted the lieutenant gallantly. ‘The lady has already
answered your question.’

Abigail stared at him, horrified that he was trying to defend her
when clearly no defence was wanted, or even needed. Didn’t he realise how he
could spoil everything by making her seem ignorant?

‘On the contrary, my lord,’ she said swiftly, ‘I haven’t answered
the question at all.’

The lieutenant’s smile was dazzling in its kindness, but still
wrong-minded. ‘No one expects you to, Miss Layton. Not really.’

‘
I
do,’ she said. ‘Because I
can
.’

She turned back to the ambassador, determined not to let herself
be distracted by the lieutenant. ‘While most steles of this period were used
for funerary displays, I should venture that, because the subject is a satyr
holding a wine cup, this example was more likely part of a temple to Dionysus,
or perhaps commissioned for the pleasure garden of a private patron.’

Abigail knew she was right, that not even her father could have
given a better answer, yet Sir William didn’t reply. His expression was
unchanging, and it felt as if everyone in the room was holding their breath
with her.

‘Is there anything else I might answer, Sir William?’ she asked
at last, unable to bear it any longer. ‘Another question?’

‘Another, Miss Layton?’ Sir William laughed. ‘Only how soon you
might begin!’

Abigail smiled as relief swept over her. ‘At once, Sir William,
at once!’

She nodded eagerly, reaching for the heavy marble stele to take
it back to the rest of the collection. But as she strained to pick it up, the
lieutenant reached down and intercepted it.

‘Pray, permit me, Miss Layton,’ he said. ‘That’s more than a lady
should have to hoist.’

Abigail opened her mouth to protest that she was perfectly
capable, but Lady Hamilton answered first.

‘What an excellent idea, Lieutenant!’ she said cheerfully. ‘Miss
Layton, you can show him the way back to the galleries.’

‘It
is
an excellent idea, my lady,’ the admiral agreed.
‘In addition to Lord Richardson’s exemplary bravery, he also has a knack for
arranging things. He could certainly offer a sailor’s perspective on stowing your
collection so it arrives safely in London, Sir William.’

‘That is most generous of you, Admiral,’ Sir William said,
beaming with pleasure. ‘But I couldn’t presume to claim your lieutenant’s time
for my humble—’

‘Oh, not at all, not at all,’ the admiral said. ‘Consider his
expertise a return for your hospitality, Sir William.’

‘Then the lieutenant must stay here on land with you, Admiral, as
our guest,’ Lady Hamilton cried happily. ‘Though I must warn you both, this
house will be a merry place in the Christmas season.’

‘Forgive me, my lady,’ Richardson said quickly, ‘but I’ve
responsibilities to my men that must make me refuse—’

‘Not at all, Richardson, not at all,’ the admiral said, with just
enough edge to his voice to make it an order. ‘There’s plenty of others to look
after the
Vanguard
. And surely you cannot object to working beside this
fair young lady, can you?’

‘No, sir,’ the lieutenant said, and he took the stele into his
arms. ‘Miss Layton?’

Knowing that it was the only answer he could give was not
flattering, but then she couldn’t exactly protest, either. Instead she nodded
curtly, bowed to the others, and led the way from the room and into the hall.

‘Why do you wear mourning if you’re not a widow?’ he demanded, as
soon as they were out of hearing from the others.

‘I wear mourning for my
father
.’ Abruptly Abigail stopped
to face him. ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were a—a
lord
?’

‘Because it’s not the most important thing to know about me!’ he
exclaimed indignantly. ‘I care to be judged upon my own merit, rather than for
my family’s name.’

‘Well, then, my mourning my father isn’t the most important thing
to know about me, either.’ She turned away and began walking—no,
marching—towards the ambassador’s gallery.

‘Hold now, Miss Layton, one moment.’ With three long steps he was
in front of her, blocking her path. ‘It’s not my choice that we work together.’

‘Nor mine, my lord,’ she said quickly. ‘Especially not after you
tried to make me seem like a perfect ninny before Sir William.’

‘The hell I—That is, I most certainly did not!’ he exclaimed.
‘Miss Layton, all I intended to do was to deflect Sir William’s criticism.’

She gasped. ‘
Deflect
Sir William?’

‘Aye, deflect him,’ he repeated. ‘Because I thought he was
challenging you in a way no gentleman should challenge a lady. I thought I was
defending you, Miss Layton, but I see my concern was unwelcome.’

‘Of course it was unwelcome!’ Abigail cried. ‘Would I have
journeyed all this way if I couldn’t answer such simple questions? Would I have
suffered the expense and discomfort of that voyage if I couldn’t offer Sir
William the benefit of my knowledge and learning?’

He frowned, clearly still unconvinced, and looked down at the
marble stele in his arms. ‘I’ve never known a learned lady. My sisters—all they
care for is how many admirers they can dangle at a time.’

‘Then surely from your own position as the son of a peer—’

‘A
younger
son,’ he said quickly. ‘I was made a midshipman
the week of my thirteenth birthday, and sent off to sea. I’d never a head for
schooling, anyway. Never saw the point to it.’

‘The point to knowledge of the ancients?’ she repeated, shocked.
‘The point to classical studies?’

He shrugged carelessly, a lock of his golden hair slipping across
his forehead. ‘Aye, that’s it. Nothing useful, by my lights. I’d far rather be
able to bring a ship safe into port with a westerly wind, or know how to bear
the long guns to rake the masts of a French frigate, than study a pack of dusty
old philosophers. Not that I mean to slander you, Miss Layton. Not at all.’

It occurred to her that he’d just done exactly that. Yet she’d
have to admit that there had been no malice to his words, only ignorance, and
if she were truly being honest she’d have to admit she was just as mystified by
his westerly winds and long guns.

‘Then please, my lord,’ she began solemnly, ‘if you find so
little use in my studies, might I ask why you bothered to defend me before Sir
William?’

‘Why?’ He grinned, his smile as wide as that of the carved satyr
in his arms. ‘That’s easy enough to answer, miss. I had to do it, Miss Layton,
because you are the finest lady I’ve met in ages. Truth to tell, maybe ever.’

‘Oh,’ she said—all she could think to reply under the
circumstances. No gentleman had ever said such a thing to her. Not one.
‘Oh.’

‘Aye.’ He cleared his throat self-consciously, and shifted the
satyr from one arm to another. ‘I wouldn’t have said it, Miss Layton, if it
weren’t true.’

‘I suppose not, my lord.’ She swallowed, as if her throat needed
clearing, too, determined to put aside this foolish confusion she was feeling
and return to her usual practical self. ‘If we are to finish this task before
Christmas, as Sir William wishes, then we should begin at once.’

‘Aye, Miss Layton, Christmas,’ he said softly. ‘Then we haven’t a
moment to waste.’

‘Y
OU
can say whatever you please, Miss
Layton, but I’m here to tell you that
that
won’t work.’

Abigail shoved her hair back from her face and stared crossly at
Lieutenant Lord Richardson. Her black wool gown was sticking to her back and
arms in the warm afternoon, her head ached from concentrating so hard on making
proper identifications, and her fingers were sore from writing so many notes.
While she and the lieutenant had begun the morning granting one another a
certain polite deference, born more of shyness than anything else, as the day
had progressed that politeness had begun to disintegrate as each had realised
the limits of the other’s knowledge—or, more correctly, Abigail had decided,
how wretchedly ignorant
he
was of how Sir William’s priceless artefacts
should be preserved.

‘Each century’s pieces must be packed together, my lord,’ she
explained, for what seemed the hundredth time. ‘Else they’ll be far too
difficult to sort again in London. There must be hundreds—thousands!—of pieces
in the collection. The fourth-century Roman bronzes must be near the
fourth-century vases, and so on.’

He began shaking his head even before she’d finished. ‘If you put
bronze
anything
next to that crockery, all you’ll have in London is a
pile of smashed rubbish.’