Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

T o their credit, Lord Oakley and Lady Tipton were very kind, very patient, but life at Chiltern Court was so different to the goings-on belowstairs at High Brook, it was impossible for Adelaide to feel anything but out of place. She was given her own room, which itself made her feel ill at ease. She had not slept alone for many years, and though she was a frightfully light sleeper, used to waking at the merest tinkle of a bell, she had grown accustomed to falling asleep to the sound of creaking rafters and Patty's soft snores. The absolute silence of her new bedroom, with all its plush furnishings, felt suffocating.

On her first full day, she woke at five, as she was in the habit of doing, and dressed herself. It was later explained to her that a maid had been sent to attend her at eight, but by that time, she had already made her own bed, explored the principal floor of the house, sat on the stairs for a good twenty minutes, staring at the portrait of Lord Tipton's mother, who did, indeed, look unnervingly like her, and walked around the charming little lake that she had seen from her bedroom window.

She had even introduced herself to some of the gardeners and stable hands. They had not seemed pleased to make her acquaintance, adding to the feeling of ostracism that worsened the longer she was at Chiltern Court. The maids were not friendly, the footmen did not join in her banter, the housekeeper never stood still long enough to hold a conversation. When she attempted to go into the kitchen to introduce herself there, she was prevented by the butler. She was a guest, he reminded her, adding shrewdly that, "Even members of the family do not generally interfere in the servants' work."

Denied the consolation of company from that quarter, Adelaide relished the time spent with Lord Oakley, infrequent though it was. Like his mother and father, he seemed convinced that the best way of assisting with the adjustment to her new life was to leave her to live it alone. Dinners were the worst. Lord Tipton was not unkind, but neither had he much to say. It might have been his usual temperament, but without any way of knowing, Adelaide was inclined to think it was her presence that made him reserved. Lady Tipton danced around the subject of Adelaide's parentage with impressive determination, but since that placed an embargo on all topics pertaining to the family, she was left with very little of interest to talk about. Lord Oakley had but one care—that Adelaide be content at Chiltern Court—but his enquiries as to her comfort and happiness were repeated so often, and with such evident anticipation of recurrent positive replies, as to make every mealtime excruciating.

It was a far cry from the fairy tale he had painted when they made their impulsive exit from High Brook. For all the indications that the Richmonds were her true family, Adelaide was a stranger among them, and she was lonely. On the morning of her third day, when she once again found herself alone, and her misgivings were on the cusp of crystallising into a resolve to leave, she asked a footman to take her to somewhere she might write a letter.

"Certainly, Miss Booker, if you would follow me." He set out through the house.

"I thought I would write to my friend, Patty," Adelaide explained.

The footman gave no response.

"I do not know why, really, for she cannot read. Is that silly? It is, is it not?"

The footman said nothing.

"Come now, admit it. You think me daft. I should think you daft if you did not."

The footman stopped walking and indicated a writing desk. With an impassive expression, he said, "You may write your letter here, Miss Booker. Or not, as you please." Then he walked away.

Adelaide's eyes filled with tears as she watched him go. She let her shoulders slump and turned disconsolately to return to her room.

"You do not wish to write your letter?"

She whirled round and, seeing Lord Oakley approaching from the opposite doorway, hastily wiped away the tear that had spilled down her cheek.

He was not fooled. "Good heavens, what is the matter? Was John rude to you?"

She shook her head. "No, he was very polite. Everybody is. All the time. Too polite to laugh at my silly waffle. I ought not to have rattled on at him, but I so desperately wanted to laugh about something." So saying, she burst into tears.

The viscount could not have looked more awkward, but he did not flinch from her distress, and neither did he laugh at it, for which Adelaide was extremely grateful. He led her to a sofa and sat next to her, offering his handkerchief like a real brother would.

"They all hate me," she mumbled.

"No, they do not."

"They do. They will not talk to me unless they must, they do not smile at my jokes. Your mother's maid barely spoke three words to me yesterday, though we were together for over an hour while she pinned and prodded me. It was not as though I asked for the gowns. Your mother insisted that I borrow them."

"Blanchett does not speak a great deal to anyone. Her English is not good. My mother talks to her in French."

"Oh, I see." Adelaide wished she had known that. She might have been able to befriend at least one of the servants. "I do not suppose the rest of them are French as well, are they?"

He laughed softly and shook his head. "No. But come now, you have worked in a house like this. You know very well why they are treating you this way. You are a Richmond now."

"I do not feel like a Richmond. I feel like an interloper. I do not belong in this world."

"But you do! The fault is ours—we have been attempting not to overwhelm you and have evidently succeeded only in neglecting you. Please believe that we are thrilled to have you here. None more so than my mother."

"I do not know how you can think that after I horrified her at dinner yesterday with my tales of working at High Brook."

"On the contrary, you delighted her with your anecdotes about Lady Grisham."

"But she corrects everything I do."

"She only wishes to help you make a successful transition into your new life. Believe me, she is as convinced as I am that you are my sister. Everyone knew it the moment they set eyes on you."

"Everyone but the earl."

" Especially him. He would not be so troubled if he were not so certain. But as I have said before, he is a practical man. Once Bentley returns with proof, he will cease fighting it."

Ceasing to oppose something was not the same as happily, or even graciously, accepting it, and Adelaide held considerably less hope than Oakley appeared to for a warm welcome into the family. Undesirous of distressing him, she smiled but could think of nothing to say. The silence made her conscious of having shed tears in front of him, and she stiffened in embarrassment. Lord Oakley seemed equally at a loss, and they lapsed into silence, until he abruptly clapped his hands together.

"I know! Should you like a sword fight?"

"Pardon?"

"With sticks, I mean. I suppose we could use blades, but I had a fancy to try it with sticks. Seems more apt."

Adelaide stared at him, diverted but wary. "Apt for what?"

"I used to long for a brother with whom I could have sword fights. Perhaps you and I might make up for lost time."

"I hardly think that will help convince your father I can be a proper lady."

"No, I suppose not."

He looked genuinely disappointed, prompting Adelaide to add, "I would beat you more assuredly than a brother would, in any case."

"Well, you had no qualms stabbing me, so that is very probably true."

After a brief pause, they both laughed—tentatively at first, but with rapidly rising mirth—and Adelaide felt better for it than she had in days. Indeed, longer than days: better than she had for longer than she could remember. And that, she supposed, was what a good brother would do.