Chapter 16

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

T heir removal to the country was expeditious; within days they were once more entrenched at Chiltern Court, the drawbridge well and truly drawn up. That was to say, Lady Tipton had decreed no visitors would be permitted until Adelaide was fully settled.

What she had meant was fully transformed. To ensure there was no repeat of the debacle in London, all Adelaide's unsophisticated habits were to be eradicated and all reminiscences about her past forbidden, even amongst the family. Masters were hired to advance her learning and teach her the pianoforte; Oakley was encouraged to fulfil his promise of returning her to full confidence in the saddle; Lady Tipton introduced her to the management of the household. Days rolled into weeks amidst an endless stream of instruction, but the more of her old life that was brushed under the carpet, the less Adelaide felt like herself—and the longer she was prevented from putting her manifold lessons into practice, the harder it was to know who she was supposed to become.

November came and went with not a single caller to liven things up. Adelaide could have sworn she saw Lord Kemerton once, striding towards the house from the stables. He was not announced into the saloon, however, and his name not mentioned by anyone at dinner; thus she glumly accepted it must have been one of Lord Tipton's friends. He received visitors still, but they always remained sequestered in his study.

If her aunt rued the want of society, she concealed it remarkably well. Oakley conducted all his engagements elsewhere. Adelaide was sure he thought himself discreet, and Lord and Lady Tipton might be fooled, but she had seen enough people bedevilled by drink to know when someone was nursing an aching head.

"Will you take me with you next time?" she asked him one day, when he was riding beside her with his eyes all but closed against the low winter sun.

"What is your meaning? I have brought you with me this time. And all the times before."

"I do not mean riding. I mean when you next go into Barford."

He prised one eye open to squint at her. "I ought to have known better than to think you were fooled."

"Will you take me, then? Please? I shall go distracted without something to do soon. An assembly is hardly comparable to a London ball. No one will care how badly either of us dance."

He chuckled. "I have not been attending assemblies, Adelaide. There are other places available for a gentleman' s diversion. No, not those sorts of places!" he added hastily when she gasped. "I meant clubs, card dens, cock fights, that sort of thing."

"Then can you take me with you to one of those?"

"Upon my word, I cannot, and I will not! You do not belong in any establishment of the kind—not in this life or your previous one."

Adelaide nodded. "No gentlemen's pursuits. I understand."

After that, Adelaide directed her petitions towards her aunt. Her pleas to be introduced to more of the local families fell on deaf ears, but a few days before Christmas, Lady Tipton relented and invited her to help deliver seasonal baskets to the tenants.

The row of cottages they visited was less than a mile from the house, but they nevertheless rode in the carriage. Evidently her ladyship considered a certain level of pomp compulsory, for she had worn a hat that almost filled the first kitchen they entered. She also did not drink the tea that the woman who lived there poured for them, which Adelaide thought unpardonably rude until she sipped it herself. She could not help but grimace at the bitterness of leaves that tasted as though they had been steeped a hundred times. When Lady Tipton went with the woman's eldest daughter to admire the gurgling infant in the crib in the corner, Adelaide whispered an apology to the woman.

"I beg your pardon for pulling a face at the tea. I hope I did not offend you."

"No, ma'am," she replied tightly, her cool expression indicating quite the opposite .

"Truly, I understand better than you would think that not everyone can afford the luxury of brand-new leaves. I have not always lived as I do now."

"I know. I've heard."

Adelaide baulked. "What have you heard?"

"Enough to know that you've no right turning your nose up at anything I serve you." With a nasty snarl, the woman got up from the table and went to coo over her baby with the others.

Adelaide said as little as possible in all the remaining cottages, aware thereafter of how everyone seemed grateful for Lady Tipton's condescension but indifferent to hers.

"You were excessively quiet all morning," her aunt remarked on the short ride home. "I thought you were desperate for society."

"I do not think any of those women liked me being there," she replied glumly.

"Do not take it to heart, my dear. Women of noble birth do not belong in their world any more than they belong in ours. It is always an intrusion, but provided such visits are kept brief, it is bearable for everyone."

Adelaide nodded. "Keep one's stay brief. I shall bear that in mind." She turned disconsolately to stare out of the window and wondered where, exactly, she did belong, for it did not appear to be in any of the places she had been so far in her life.

As they approached Chiltern Court, she saw, with a start, that a familiar figure was exiting the house. His face was obscured, for he was reaching up to put his hat on, but Adelaide thought she recognised him all the same. "Is that Lord Kemerton?"

"I do not believe so," her aunt replied, yet as she spoke, the man lowered his arm, looked directly at Adelaide, and smiled. There was no mistaking him then. A happy laugh bubbled up to her lips, and she raised her hand to wave, but her pleasure was short-lived. His eyes moved from her to Lady Tipton, his smile vanished, and with a quick nod, he continued to the stables.

"Is he leaving?"

"I expect it was only one of your uncle's acquaintances. Come along now, out you get. It is too cold to be dallying out here."

Adelaide walked into the house, her thoughts awhirl. Perhaps her aunt was right, and it had not been Lord Kemerton at all. Yet, why, if she was to imagine she had seen anyone, should it be him? Would that she had mistaken one of the miserable women that morning for Patty, but they had all stubbornly remained their own unwelcoming selves.

The puzzle was solved a few weeks later, for he came back again. Christmas had passed with little ceremony in the meantime, and Adelaide was sitting at her bedroom window, staring at the grey sky, when a carriage rolled up the drive. Her heart gave a little leap when Lord Kemerton stepped out. It continued to race as she left her room and, from the landing, saw a footman escort him into the house. When nobody sent for her, she tramped indignantly down the stairs and threw open the saloon doors herself, ready to complain at being left out. The room was empty .

A little sneaking around revealed him—and Oakley, from the sound of it—to be in Lord Tipton's study. Adelaide returned to the saloon and waited while they concluded their business. When she grew tired of waiting, she left again, resolved to knock on her uncle's door and ask to join them there.

She did not make it that far; as she passed through the morning room, she happened to glance out of the window. There, walking back towards the stables, was Lord Kemerton. She was out of the house before reason could prevent her.

"I thought you said you were my friend!"

He whipped around to face her. "Miss Richmond!"

Why did he look pleased to see her when he had gone out of his way to avoid an encounter? And why was she always surprised by how handsome he was—it was not a new discovery and certainly not a timely observation. "Well?" she demanded.

"I am your friend."

"Then why have you ignored me every time you have visited? And do not deny you have been before today, for I saw you with my own eyes both other times."

He winced. "Then your anger is perfectly justified. I am sorry. I would happily have spoken to you on both occasions—indeed, I came with the express intention of seeing that you were well—but her ladyship is adamant that you should be allowed time to recover from your ordeal."

She let out an exasperated sigh. "I wish she would cease calling it that! An ordeal is being orphaned, or tormented, or destitute. Being the object of a few unflattering rumours is barely an inconvenience. But she cannot mean for me to stay away from you. My uncle said you were as good as family."

"I am afraid she particularly means me. She holds me responsible for the damage done by your encounter with Lady Sophia."

"That is ridiculous. Granted, you probably ought not to have humiliated her by dancing the first set with me, but you did not put any of those words in her mouth."

"I would not have forgone that dance with you for the world. But I do regret that it caused Lady Sophia pain, and I am deeply grieved that it provoked her to speak to you as she did."

Adelaide gave a lopsided shrug. "I have had worse things said to me. I shall not deny it was hurtful at the time, but it was months ago. My aunt is only making it worse by not allowing me to forget it."

He regarded her in silence for a moment, his expression inscrutable. "You are quite remarkably resilient, Miss Richmond," he said at length.

"That is well, for I should be out of my head with ennui by now otherwise. 'Tis like being in prison, stuck here with no one to talk to and nothing to do."

"I think most people feel like prisoners at this time of year in the country." He paused, and in a cautious tone, added, "Though, I imagine it must feel vastly different to the pace of life you were accustomed to at High Brook, even over winter."

His expression was utterly devoid of derision, persuading Adelaide to bite back the defensive retort that had flown instinctively to her lips .

"It does," she admitted instead. "I was too busy to take notice of the weather most of the time, but in winter, I always knew when it was snowing, for nothing makes carpets wetter or muddier than traipsed-in snow."

"That is an enlightening perspective. I shall take a good deal more care to stamp the snow off my boots in future. Or use it as an excuse not to go out in it."

She smiled brightly. "That was often my only chance to get out of the house. It did not snow often, for we were too close to the sea, but whenever it did, I always offered to deliver the post, for no one else liked to brave it. I would offer to do the same here if only the weather would comply—and if I thought Lady Tipton would allow it."

"What do you mean?"

"I am not permitted to go into Barford. I am not permitted to go anywhere . Other than my family, the only company I have had since we left London is that of my masters—and with the greatest of respect, they are not good company."

Lord Kemerton frowned. "I had no idea your aunt was restricting you quite that much."

"You think it restrictive, too? I did not know what was considered commonplace, but if you agree it is unusual, then…" She was uncertain which came first, the knot of anxiety in her stomach or the tremble in her voice, but each amplified the other disagreeably. "I think I must have made a worse misstep than I realised, for I am not sure she ever means to let me out. I expect she thinks I will do something else to disgrace them the moment I step foot in public. "

"I think it is more a case of her ladyship being ashamed to have expected too much from you too soon. After everything you have suffered, to expose you to more unpleasantness was extremely regrettable. But I am sure, come the Season, she will be proud to take you back to London."

"The Season ? That is months away!" The tremble in Adelaide's voice progressed to a catch in her throat, and the back of her nose began to burn with the threat of tears. "And even that is probably not long enough. I could have forever and still not know how to be the person they want me to be."

The concern on Lord Kemerton's countenance almost lost Adelaide the battle not to cry.

"I shall speak to Oakley," he said gently.

"Oh, no—please do not! I should hate for him to think I am ungrateful." She forced herself to affect a more cheerful tone. "You are right—the Season is not so very long a wait. Please, promise me you will not say anything."

Though he looked supremely unhappy about it, Lord Kemerton nevertheless gave his word. "Will you be well? You seem quite shaken. Shall I take you to your aunt?"

His offer brought all the inelegance of Adelaide's outburst to the fore. She attempted to stand a little taller in the hope she might at least feign the appearance of refinement. "Thank you, but I can see myself inside. I know you only ever seem to see me when I am in the midst of some catastrophe that has made me snivel or carp, but believe it or not, I am not usually so frail."

His lips quirked slightly. "I have never met a woman less suited to the term ‘frail'. If you are quite sure you are well, I shall take my leave. I hope I shall see you again soon, but until I do, good day." He tipped his hat and walked away.

"Good day, my lord."

Without turning around, he replied, "My friends all call me Kem."

It ought to have made Adelaide happy to know she had at least one friend beyond the walls of Chiltern Court. It had the opposite effect. Kem was the epitome of the world she was attempting to inhabit—noble, erudite, sophisticated. All the things she was not and, she was increasingly convinced, never would be. Thus, all it did was add to the sense of disaffection that she was finding harder and harder to ignore.

One evening towards the end of February, when her aunt was abed with a cold and her brother was late home, Adelaide found herself dining alone with her uncle. Lord Tipton complained heatedly about Oakley's tardiness for a minute or two, then fell into a sullen silence that looked set to last for the remainder of the meal.

His reticence stirred up all Adelaide's misgivings. "I am sorry my company is so disagreeable to you," she said into the stillness.

"I never said that it was," the earl replied testily.

"I assumed it was, since you do not speak to me very often."

He pursed his lips and shook his head. "Would that women comprehended—conversation and esteem are entirely unrelated. "

"Are they? I am your niece. We live in the same house. Are you not interested in talking to me?"

"To what end?"

"To become better acquainted."

"What more is there to know, girl?" He said the word ‘girl' as though, by itself, it fully explained his indifference.

"I may be a girl, but I am still your brother's child. Are you not even a little curious to know me?"

She jumped when Lord Tipton banged his knife and fork down on the table.

"You are sitting opposite me. I can see you, and Lord knows I can hear you. Why should I be curious to know any more?"

Adelaide knew she ought to desist, but something inside her—be it reckless defiance or a desperate need for answers—goaded her to persevere. "It was another assumption, founded on my own curiosity to know more about my father."

"I could never see any advantage in talking about people who are no longer with us."

"I would know who I am, my lord."

He looked at her with a mix of bafflement and contempt. "You are a Richmond! I am at a loss to know how you can still be unsure of it, for I am reminded at every moment of the day. You are all your aunt and your brother talk about. You are all anybody talks about. I must get a dozen letters a week from families trying to wheedle out of me how much I intend to settle on you."

"Settle on me? I do not understand."

Her uncle sighed. "That ought not to surprise me. Your father made absolutely no provision for you. It is little wonder you should be ignorant of the usual arrangements." He picked up his knife and fork and returned to cutting up his meat as he spoke. "An earl does not acquire an orphaned niece without also inheriting the obligation of providing her with a fortune."

Heat flooded Adelaide's face at the humiliation of both the cost to her uncle and her ignorance of it. "I never wanted to be a burden. But then, I never wanted to be orphaned either."

"Young lady, we all have hardships and regrets. If you think I enjoyed having my brother taken away from me, you are a fool, but you will not persuade me to sit about wallowing in the injustice of it."

"It was not my intention to wallow, my lord. I only wondered what he was like. I have no idea where I came from or where I belong."

"Where you belong!" he cried contemptuously. "Where do girls these days get such fanciful notions? I shall tell you where you do not belong, and that is at my table, giving me indigestion with your infernal inquisition!"

Adelaide took in a deep, shaky breath and nodded. "I understand." And she did. At that moment, she knew precisely what she must do.