Letters to a Lover, page 21
Her mother frowned at her. “Grizelda, you are up to something. Have you dragged your sister into your nonsense?”
“No,” Grizelda objected, stung. “She dragged me into hers. Look, it should only be until tomorrow, so there is no need to worry. Azalea is fine, and she will call on you tomorrow if you do as she asks today.”
*
Halfway through the morning, Morris admitted the children and Miss Farrow, the new governess. Azalea was amazed to see Michael perform a neat little bow and Lizzie a wobbly curtsey before their wide smiles broke into laughter, and they launched themselves at her as usual.
“Well!” Azalea exclaimed, hugging them with one arm. “That was well done! I am impressed!”
“I feel it is never too early to practice the basic courtesies,” Miss Farrow declared. “And they are naturally polite children.”
“I hope so! You must tell us if they are ever anything else.” Azalea held out her hand to the governess. “Welcome, Miss Farrow. We’re all delighted you could join us.”
“I am sorry to hear you are unwell,” Miss Farrow said, taking the chair Azalea indicated.
“No, she’s not,” Michael scoffed. “She just has a sore arm.”
“Actually, that is true,” Azalea admitted. “Children, go and find Elsie for a few minutes while Miss Farrow and I discuss her duties and yours. You can come and play later on.”
They went a little reluctantly, leaving Azalea to gaze thoughtfully at their new governess. She needed the woman’s cooperation for today, even if it scared her off, and she left in high dudgeon tomorrow.
“There are reasons,” Azalea said carefully, “why I wish to be thought unwell. Very unwell even. Obviously, I don’t want the children worried, so the truth has to serve for them. I cannot imagine you discussing my health with the servants, so you will not be asked to lie.”
“I am glad,” Miss Farrow said calmly. “It is difficult to teach children the value of truth when one does not follow the same principle.”
Azalea winced. “I shall not quarrel with you there. In the future, you will be able to take the children out with you at your own discretion, but for today, I would like them to stay at home.”
Miss Farrow’s expression gave little away. “Very well.”
“And this evening,” Azalea pursued. “I ask you to stay with them when they go to bed. My husband will be holding a small party, and I don’t want them getting up and wandering about. It is important they stay in their rooms. With either you or Elsie in attendance until I tell you otherwise.”
Azalea could almost see Miss Farrow wondering what sort of party this would be, but again the governess said only, “Very well.” And then, as if she couldn’t help it, “Will people not find it strange that your husband holds a party while you are so indisposed?”
“It is a distraction from his grief and anxiety,” Azalea said sardonically. “Look, I know this must all seem very odd, and I assure we are not always quite so…bizarre in our behavior, but I ask your cooperation for today and this evening. After that, all should be well.”
As she spoke, she could not help remembering that she had thought much the same thing about the evening she had been shot. This plan was not bound to work either.
*
Having set in motion the necessary arrangements, Trench decided there was time to deal with his other major problem, so that he would have nothing to worry about tomorrow except the journey to Trenchard.
Accordingly, he took a hackney into the city and strolled into Fenner’s office. A clerk greeted him obsequiously and informed him Mr. Fenner was with another gentleman and that if his lordship cared to wait…
“Oh, no, that’s fine,” Trench said amiably. “I’ll just step in and say hello.”
The threat to open discussions in front of other people would, hopefully, catch Fenner’s attention. And, in fact, Trench was more than happy to make the business public. So he brushed aside the alarmed and twittering clerks and opened the door to Fenner’s inner sanctum with only the briefest of knocks.
“Good morning, Fenner,” he said amiably and nodded to the man already seated on the visitor’s side of the desk, who looked vaguely familiar. “Have you a moment to spare?”
“Certainly, my lord,” Fenner said calmly, rising to his feet. “I’m surprised my people didn’t say…but perhaps you are acquainted with Sir Nicholas Swan?”
“Actually, yes,” Trench said. “I believe we were at school together.”
Swan, a dark, saturnine fellow who looked even more forbidding as an adult than he had as a youth, rose to shake hands.
“Sir Nicholas is interested in investing in our next project.”
“I shall be glad of association with Sir Nicholas,” Trench said politely. “But I’m afraid the current project will take longer than anticipated. In fact, perhaps Sir Nicholas could take over your share of that? Considering you will need your current capital to make right the…errors in both buildings.”
The twitch of his lips, a flicker of the eyes, were the only signs of unease Fenner betrayed. “I’m not sure I follow your lordship. Perhaps we could discuss this later when—”
“I am busy later,” Trench interrupted. “But happy to spell out the details if you have forgotten. There are discrepancies between the designs we agreed to and what is being built. In St. Giles, instead of our designs, a slum is being built without running water or proper sewers. In Belgravia,” he continued, raising one hand when Fenner would have interrupted him, “the foundations are far too shallow. Now I can resign publicly—very publicly—from this venture. Or you can make it right. Either way, the cost will be yours.”
“Mine?” Fenner exclaimed. “If the builder has cut corners—”
“He has,” Trench said calmly. “At your instructions. While you and he split the money, you have thus saved.”
“Lord Trench, I cannot allow you to make such baseless allegations! You have no proof with which to—”
“Yes, I have,” Trench said, perching on one corner of the desk. “I have a trail of accounts.” Dragan Tizsa was brilliant that way. “They prove my accusations beyond all doubt. Now, here is what will happen. Using the builder I choose, you will pay to take everything down and rebuild according to the original design. After that, our association is at an end. If you do exactly as I say, we won’t have you prosecuted. Good day, Mr. Fenner.”
Eric eased off the desk and strolled out of the office. At the front door, he was slightly surprised to find Sir Nicholas Swan beside him.
“That was close,” Swan observed. “You seem to be more the sort of man I want to do business with.”
Trench smiled. “I’ll write to you.”
Swan handed over his card. “Thanks,” he said and strode away.
Amused by the abruptness, Trench turned his feet toward home.
*
For Azalea, the day largely consisted of more endless hours of waiting. She could not even gaze out of the window much, in case she was seen and word got around that she looked perfectly healthy. Nor could she concentrate on a novel or more improving literature. She spent most of the day looking forward to her children’s visit after lessons in the afternoon. And trying to remember exactly what she had done the night of the Roystons’ ball, between Franny leaving her in the library and returning to the ballroom.
She concentrated on her blurry memories of the library, of laying down the pen and picking up her fan and walking across the room. What had she been thinking? Who did she see in her journey to the ballroom? She tried to remember the letter itself. But it was all like a fevered dream, disconnected and maddeningly elusive.
And as a reward, she allowed herself to dwell on last night in Eric’s arms, his words of love and his delicious caresses. And the comfort of his reassurance, which God knew she was in need of, as she finally came close to the letter that had caused all the bother. Had she been trying to trick someone with words of love? Or had she fallen suddenly and violently in love at the ball and then forgotten all about such shameful emotion along with the dreadful events in the garden? Perhaps that explained why she had abandoned the letter. Only, why had she not destroyed it?
Her mental struggles were suddenly interrupted by a rush of footsteps and rustling clothes in the passage outside the sitting room door, which flew open with barely a knock to reveal Morris.
“Sorry, my lady, we couldn’t stop her,” the maid hissed as she all but fell into the room. “Lady Trench is here.”
“Oh, bother,” Azalea exclaimed before she could help herself, which meant she might well have been overheard by her mother-in-law, who sailed into the room almost on the maid’s heels.
As always, the Dowager Lady Trench was dressed in black and grey, looking so splendid and haughty that Azalea was not entirely surprised her staff had backed down before her ladyship’s entitled insistence.
Azalea rose to her feet. “Your ladyship. Thank you, Morris. You may go.”
As Morris effaced herself, unusually subdued, Lady Trench looked Azalea up and down with undisguised contempt. “You look perfectly well to me.”
“Thank you,” Azalea said in the absence of anything else coming to mind. “So do you.”
“But I do not spread it around that I am at death’s door!”
“I don’t believe I told anyone that. I merely said I was not receiving.”
That appeared to fly straight over her ladyship’s head. She never thought the normal rules of civility applied to her, at least not where her daughter-in-law was concerned. Her lip curled. “What is it all about this time? Extracting yet more attention from my son?”
“Actually,” Azalea replied unwisely, “the reasons have nothing to do with him.”
The dowager’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really need such lessons in duty? Your task is to supply my son with heirs! Not mope around waiting to entertain lovers!”
Azalea couldn’t help it. At that moment, the idea of hiding a lover behind the curtain or under the bed while her mother-in-law visited unexpectedly was so exquisitely funny that she laughed.
Which was hardly guaranteed to placate Lady Trench. Two spots of color appeared on her pale cheeks, and her cold eyes spat. “I’m glad you find it amusing that you fail in your duty, your only duty! One son in eight years is nothing to be proud of!”
That wiped the smile from Azalea’s face. “On the contrary, I am extremely proud of my son. And my daughter.”
“Then make my son proud of you, too,” she snapped, a low blow that Azalea could not but feel. “How dare you cavort about the town making a spectacle of yourself, a by-word for scandal, when you could and should be at home, making yourself agreeable to your husband and giving him the heirs he married you for!”
Azalea’s hands clenched in her skirts. “With respect, my lady, the making of heirs is not a matter for Eric’s mother.”
Lady Trent blinked rapidly, as if she could not quite believe that Azalea had had the temerity to answer her back. “I should not have to—” she began, but at that moment, the door opened once more, and Augusta walked in.
Oh, for the love of…! Torn between laughter and tears, she could not quite believe that the two people she had most wanted to avoid were the ones who had breached the household defenses.
“Azalea, what in the world is going on? Are you well?” Augusta demanded before she even caught sight of the other visitor. “Oh, Lady Trench, how do you do?”
“Lady Monkton,” the dowager said graciously. “You, too, have been made anxious by this nonsense about my daughter-in-law’s health.”
“Well, it is unusual to find her not receiving for two days in a row,” Augusta said, and Azalea knew that once Augusta had heard Lady Trench was inside, she would have insisted, too.
Beyond her two callers, Azalea saw Morris hovering just inside the door. “Remind them downstairs that I am not receiving,” she instructed. “And that my boudoir is not a drawing room.”
“Very good, my lady.” Morris curtseyed woodenly and departed, her face aflame with both shame for allowing her mistress to be inconvenienced against her orders and fury with those weaker willed who had allowed the callers to penetrate so far into the private household.
Her visitors, meanwhile, seemed not to hear her orders, let alone feel the sting of them personally. How was she to be rid of them before the children were released from their lessons?
“My daughter Theresa was delivered of a third son last month,” Lady Trench was telling Augusta.
“How wonderful. I trust they are both doing well?” Augusta said politely.
“I’m glad to say that they are.”
“You must send Theresa my regards.”
“Thank you, I shall. And how is your nursery, Lady Monkton?”
“We have two sons and two daughters,” Augusta replied proudly. “And though I have not yet announced it to the world, we expect a new arrival before Christmas.”
This was news to Azalea, and she was momentarily softened enough to congratulate Augusta on the imminent event. But before she could utter a word, Lady Trench had turned on her.
“You see? You have a fine example in both your sisters-in-law,” she said regally. “Who not only present their lords regularly with sons but also behave publicly with perfect decorum. If you will not be guided by me, Azalea, you could do worse than follow the example of dear Lady Monkton.”
As she had always done over the years, Azalea took a deep breath to prevent resorting to temper and prepared a civil response they would all know she didn’t mean. But it was Augusta who filled the silence first.
“On the other hand, dear Lady Trench, it should probably be noted that Azalea, as the daughter of a duke, needs guidance from no one.”
Azalea blinked. Had Augusta just defended her? Lady Trench seemed to think so, for her mouth dropped open. And it was, in fact, the perfect set-down, for the dowager was the daughter of a minor landowner in Yorkshire. There were ways, Azalea realized, to put the old tyrant in her place without rudeness.
Perhaps fortunately, Miss Farrow chose that moment to bring the children in. Remembering their manners, they performed their new party-pieces of bowing and curtseying to the company, although they then ran to their mother before turning to grin at the visitors.
“Good afternoon, Grandmama,” Michael said cheerfully. “Good afternoon, Aunt Augusta!”
“Good afternoon, young man,” Lady Trench said graciously. “And when do you go to school?”
“Not for ages,” Azalea replied firmly. “He is barely seven years old.”
The dowager sniffed. “You may give me a kiss,” she informed him, and Michael duly went and kissed the proffered cheek. Lizzie was not invited and showed no inclination to follow suit.
“Allow me to introduce our new governess, Miss Farrow,” Azalea said. “Miss Farrow, my mother-in-law, the Dowager Viscountess Trench, and my sister-in-law, Lady Monkton.”
Miss Farrow curtseyed and received brief nods in return.
“I must take my leave,” Lady Trench announced, pulling on her gloves. “Since you are well, I may go about my business without anxiety.”
“I’m sorry you were anxious,” Azalea said civilly. “And I thank you for your concern. Morris should be waiting to show you downstairs.”
The dowager grunted and sailed across the room with Azalea at her heels to be sure she went. Miss Farrow still stood respectfully to one side of the door, drawing no attention to herself. Lady Trench paused and, perhaps feeling the need to reassert her authority over her son’s household, fixed the governess with her steely gaze.
“And what are your qualifications to care for my grandchildren?” she asked haughtily.
As though Azalea had merely swept her off the street on impulse. Miss Farrow cast her a startled, almost hunted glance.
“Knowledge, experience, and character,” Azalea said pleasantly, opening the door to find Morris waiting patiently in the passage. “And the approval of Eric and me. Goodbye, my lady. Be assured we shall call on you before we leave for Trenchard.”
Lady Trench neither glared nor drooped, but for the first time, Azalea felt she had actually got the better of an encounter with her, that her mother-in-law could indeed be managed with firmness, without sacrificing civility and respect. A respect, it must be said, that Lady Trench had never shown Azalea outside of Eric’s company.
As Morris conducted her ladyship to the staircase, Azalea closed the door thoughtfully and turned to her other uninvited guest, who had taken a chair and was listening amiably to the children’s chatter. She even smiled once or twice.
And Azalea always paid her debts. She sat next to Augusta. “Thank you,” she murmured, “for what you said to her.”
To her surprise, Augusta colored slightly. “It felt good,” she admitted. “The old termagant was downright nasty to me during my first London Season. She despised me as a jumped-up clergyman’s daughter. She wanted Theresa to marry Monkton, you know.”
“No,” Azalea said slowly, “I didn’t know.” Because she had never troubled to find out about Augusta’s life or what had made her the way she was.
Azalea had been content to tease her and, to her sudden shame, to laugh at her or dismiss her among her siblings. Augusta, by her marriage to the duke’s heir, took precedence over all of them and yet had always felt the sting of inferiority, which she dealt with in her own way.
“Apart from Monkton,” Azalea said, “we are a parcel of over-privileged, badly-behaved, overgrown children. You, too, are a gentleman’s daughter. Monkton chose you for who you are. No one has the right or the reason to imagine you are not good enough.”
Augusta’s gaze flew to hers in some surprise. “And yet you do.”
“No, Augusta,” Azalea said. “I just don’t like being scolded.”
Augusta blinked rapidly until the faintest smile curved her lips in response to Azalea’s.
Azalea nudged her, as if they were children. “I’m afraid you were accepted as one of us long since. Shall we have tea up here? And then, Augusta, I must ask you not to tell anyone I am perfectly well. At least, not before tomorrow, but I’ll let you know.”
