Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"Who were all those people I was introduced to at luncheon?" St. Didier asked as Lucien wandered beside the bookcases lining the library's longest inside wall.

St. Didier had met about half the current crop, by Lucien's reckoning. "Friends and relatives. Mind your valuables around Aunt Purdy. Despite her harmless appearance, she is an adept and compulsive thief, though the goods are always returned. The marchioness did not sell off my books. I am inordinately gratified to see that her threats were hollow."

The philosophers still had pride of place in the first bookcase, Greek, then Roman, then Church, followed by the poets in historical order. Biographies gathered dust beside histories, and unbound plays going yellow about the edges shared shelves with translations.

Charles Jarvis's attempt to render The Ingenious Gentleman Don Quixote of La Mancha in English had prompted Lucien to learn Spanish.

"More friends than relatives," St. Didier remarked, taking down a volume at random. "I had occasion to familiarize myself with your ancestry. Why do so many of your forebearers have the surname Richard?"

"Because ap Rhisiart , or ap Richard becomes Pritchard when you're a Welshman trying to curry favor with your English cousins, or Richard, Richardson, Ricard, even Picard if you find yourself in France. Those relatives you met at luncheon are here because they had nowhere else to go. Somebody moved my translation of Don Quixote ."

St. Didier sniffed the open pages of his selection. "Don Quixote was like that, always moving about. Do you support all these friends and relatives?"

"The estate does. You'll meet a few more at dinner." Most of them were not much changed. Aunt Purdy was still small, dithery, and given to wearing a yellow bandeau in her white hair. Uncle Malcolm hadn't spoken a word when he'd laid eyes on Lucien, albeit nobody had heard him speak for decades. Malcolm's white hair was longer, and his eyebrows were as fierce as ever.

He had bowed and shaken hands at length, conveying as much welcome with his silence as Aunt Purdy had with all her fluttering. Cousin Tommie hadn't been in evidence, but then, he wasn't much in evidence even when present, as best Lucien recalled.

"More at dinner?" St. Didier snapped the book closed. "Do you collect eccentric relations? Lady Penelope is sensible in the extreme, but she seems to be the exception."

Penelope was exceptional in many regards, or she had been. The woman Lucien had met that morning in the orchard resembled the Penelope of his youth in only general particulars. Russet hair, now confined in a chignon rather than flying about in all directions. A sturdy physique had grown slender through the waist and been all primmed up in a military-style riding habit. Even her voice had lost the melodious quality of the native Welsh speaker and clipped itself like English privet into precise angles and controlled volumes.

The young Pen had been sensible when it suited her, outlandish when that suited her better. She'd worn men's hats and been a better shot than the gamekeeper, though she'd never aimed a weapon at a living creature.

To a younger Lucien, she'd been fascinating, wonderful, and terrifying by turns, but that girl was no longer biding at Lynnfield, which should have been a relief.

"At supper," Lucien said, "you will meet Aunts Phoebe and Wren, and Cousin Lark, who styles herself their companion. Do not stand up with any of them at the spring assembly, because they will dance and drink you under the table. They dwell in the dower house by choice—the aviary in family parlance—but won't miss supper at the manor tonight. Uncle Theodore will escort them over. He bides with Malcolm and Purdy in the family wing and has a legendarily hard head."

St. Didier reshelved his book— Lord Chesterfield's Letters to His Son —among the philosophers. "None of these people show up on the official genealogy by which you inherited the title."

That St. Didier had gone a-snooping to such a degree was to be expected. Polite society paid him handsomely to snoop and sniff about, provided he was at all times discreet. That he could recall a family tree he'd likely seen once, months ago, was unnerving.

"The people biding at Lynnfield showed up on the doorstep," Lucien retorted, "in search of shelter and sustenance. What is family for, if not to take us in when we've nowhere else to go? They might be step-relations, in-laws, or informally associated with the titled branch, but they are family."

St. Didier frowned at the translations. "I am not in a position to comment on the various species of family, much less their purpose, having so little of my own. You have a large and interesting collection of books to go with your collection of relatives. When will I get to meet the marchioness?"

"Before supper. Auntie is keeping her powder dry. Letting me develop a false sense of calm. We gather for conversation in the music room prior to the evening meal, and she holds court for half an hour. Tonight, we will dress, though by the time I left, dressing for dinner even on Sunday was becoming a rule more honored in the breach than the observance."

" Hamlet ," St. Didier said, perusing the plays. "When will you sign the documents that rescind your betrothal to Lady Penelope?"

The single word never popped into Lucien's mind. He nudged it away as he would a half-grown canine who had yet to acquire manners. Down, boy.

"As it happens, the lady and I encountered each other this morning. The subject did not come up. When I am satisfied that Lady Penelope is making a sensible choice, I will accommodate her request."

St. Didier selected a book on famous chess strategies. "She's of age, my lord, and knows her own mind. You have no authority over her, and she can take the matter to the courts if you prove obstinate."

"She's also unhappy," Lucien said, though prior to this conversation, he had not applied that label to her ladyship. Serious, mature, reserved… no true pejoratives, unless compared to the younger Penelope.

Who had been vital, intense, passionate, by turns hilarious and profound.

"You fear she'll leap into marriage simply to win free of Lynnfield?" St. Didier asked, sniffing the chess monograph.

"A woman could make a greater mistake." So could a man. "I'd like to discuss the situation with her. Our first encounter did not lend itself to the topic. I'm not refusing her request, but neither will I execute the documents without establishing the lady's motives for presenting them to me now."

St. Didier took a visual inventory of the library, probably a habit with him to study and memorize surroundings.

"I hope you aren't given to dueling, my lord. I can serve as a creditable second, but the practice is foolish and has landed more than one family in misery and penury."

The comment, while casual, suggested at least one of St. Didier's titled ancestors had counted among the fools .

"I have been home less than a day, St. Didier. I exchanged barely a hundred words with my former intended, and those were the merest platitudes. I have yet to make my bow before my aunt, and I am tired. Let the matter rest, please."

Lucien infused his request with a touch of lord-of-the-manor and a touch of sincerity. He was tired—exhausted—and not only because they'd taken rooms at the village posting inn well after midnight.

"Lady Penelope is tired too," St. Didier said. "One sees it in her eyes, hears it in her silences. She's been running the place in your absence, would be my guess, while letting the marchioness pretend to hold the reins. You had best offer the lady your thanks for that bit of heroism before you pull any dog-in-the-manger behaviors with the betrothal."

"I'll thank you not to imply that I've been negligent, St. Didier. I kept my own hand on the reins."

St. Didier tucked his book under his arm. "You kept in touch with the solicitors and bankers. You did not sort out menus or plan entertainments. You did not settle squabbles among the vast horde of elders. You did not hire and sack staff or listen to the gardeners maunder on about smut and beetles. You were kicking your heels in Italy, growing rich trading in art while transforming your employer into a gentleman. You owe Lady Penelope her freedom, and while I am not keen on serving as a second, I am handy with both a pistol and a sword. Until supper, my lord."

St. Didier left without bowing, suggesting that he, the perpetually detached observer of a Society that no longer welcomed him, had meant every word.

"I meant every word too," Lucien muttered to the empty room. "Pen's unhappy, and she was unhappy before she caught sight of me today." So very unhappy that she'd been on the point of tears in the orchard, and that, too, was a change.

The younger Penelope had disdained tears. Who had given the lady reason to cry, and why had she sought the orchard—their favorite retreat once upon a time—to hide her tears?

"Good of you to pass along the news in person," Sir Dashiel Ingraham said, clapping Tommie on the back. "We aren't all as gifted with your delicate sense of consideration, old chap. I hope the roast met with your approval?"

Tommie had found the roast a bit tough, by Lynnfield standards, but the company at luncheon had been excellent: the baronet; his pretty youngest sister, Tabitha; the vicar; and his twin daughters. Sir Dashiel had insisted that Tommie stay for the meal to balance the numbers and add some refinement to the usual bucolic blather .

The marquess wasn't expected at Lynnfield until later in the day. Otherwise, Tommie would have demurred. Would not do to snub the great man upon his return home after years abroad. Besides, one wanted to form one's own impression on such an occasion, Uncle Theodore being an unreliable reporter, at best.

Tommie accepted his riding gloves and spurs from his host. "You deserved to know that the shire's ranking title is deigning to put in an appearance at the family seat. Can't have his lordship ambushing you in the churchyard."

Sir Dashiel patted Tommie's back yet again. "As a fellow who's acquired some experience of the world, you grasp these subtleties. In the military, unless we were in parade dress, our sense of decorum endured regular beatings, and the lordlings were often the most in want of dignity. But then, Lynnfield never served, so I must not attribute to him an officer's sense of mischief."

No, his lordship had not bought his colors. Tommie had often wondered what exactly the marquess had been about, traveling around the Continent in a time of war when the man had no heir. Lynnfield wasn't the sort to volunteer explanations, and he was a bit off in the attic. Too much education was the problem. That, and the natural Welsh tendency toward peculiarity.

"The marquess was overdue for an appearance," Tommie said, bracing himself on the sideboard to buckle on a spur. "Been least in sight for years. The old girl was nearly out of patience with him." Tommie had the gratifying sense that Penny was none too happy with his lordship either, though her reasons might differ from the marchioness's.

"Between us," Sir Dashiel said, "the man has much to answer for. That assemblage of oddities at the manor doesn't exactly raise the tone of the neighborhood, does it?"

Tommie apparently did not number among those oddities, at least in the baronet's estimation. Let it be said, Sir Dashiel was a man of discernment.

"They're a harmless lot," Tommie replied, though such a weak defense of the elders felt disloyal. "I rather enjoy them, for the most part." Uncle Malcolm's company was restful, and Uncle Theodore had a key to the wine cellars that came in handy when the mollygrubs threatened.

"You are too kind," Sir Dashiel said as Tommie affixed his second spur to a boot. "I do believe the vicar's younger daughter was making sheep's eyes at you over luncheon, my friend. The ladies know the genuine article from the yokel edition."

"Miss Hannah is barely out of the schoolroom." She had, though, smiled shyly at Tommie any number of times—as had Miss Tabitha when her fingers had brushed Tommie's while passing the peas. Such a different sort of meal from the usual melee at the Hall. One could engage the whole table in polite chat, enjoy the food such as it was, and take one's time.

Quiet, pleasant, free of the sort of jokes in bad taste that Uncle Theo let loose to amuse and annoy the ladies. The food was better at the Hall, though, as was the wine.

"You had best give a good account of yourself at the assembly," Sir Dashiel said, winking. "The ladies of the shire will go into a collective decline if you sit out so much as one dance. They know I'm spoken for, so you have become the object of all their maidenly aspirations. A thankless post, I know, but you must bear up manfully."

Sir Dashiel had the looks to go with bonhomie. He was enviably brawny, both tall and muscular, and his wheat-blond hair had a natural wave. In later life, he might develop a prosperous paunch, but for the nonce, he maintained a soldier's physique and took a keen interest in his acres.

Next to Sir Dashiel, Tommie felt short, dull, and invisible, despite standing five foot nine in his booted feet and dressing in the first stare of rural fashion. One would envy the baronet bitterly, except that the baronet was such a cordial gent, one should like him.

"If it weren't for the assemblies," Tommie said, "we'd have no entertainment hereabouts at all. One hopes the waltz will finally be permitted."

"The marquess must have a word with the organizing committee. The youth of the shire will worship at his feet if he can give them but four waltzes a year. Suggest that to him, why don't you? I would delight in the occasional waltz with my intended, though she'll likely be my wife before the summer assembly rolls around. That's in confidence, mind you, Thomas. A few formalities remain to be addressed."

Another wink. Tommie's personal opinion of winking was that it gave one a criminal air, but Sir Dashiel's winks were by way of just-between-us confidences.

"I leave Penny's personal affairs to Penny," Tommie said. "She would not appreciate meddling, and how the marchioness will manage without her defies my imagination." How would any of them manage without her? Who would return the trinkets Purdy stole? Who would interpret Malcolm's silences? Who would keep the marchioness flattered and happy?

Sir Dashiel laid a hand on Tommie's shoulder. "That's an opportunity for you, isn't it, old boy? The marchioness will soon be bereft of her familiar, and don't think I will allow my wife to spend her days running back and forth to the Hall. Lord Lynnfield can manage his own household, and Penelope will be kept busy managing mine."

Odd, that Penny never mentioned any sort of understanding with Sir Dashiel, never alluded to being spoken for. Then too, a man in love should have referred to managing our household , but Sir Dashiel had hereditary honors to pass along. He clearly viewed himself as having more in common with the aristos and their dynastic unions than he did the squires and their homespun courtships. Then too, he was the owner of several thousand productive acres, a war hero, and nobody's fool.

Some fellows had all the luck.

"You don't think Lynnfield's return will upset Penelope, do you?" Sir Dashiel asked, passing Tommie his hat. "Their acquaintance goes back years, though I was always a bit foggy on the details. She doesn't mention him."

Sir Dashiel, catch of the shire, hail fellow well met, and all-around paragon-at-large, was fishing. Tommie was torn between the respect he might garner for bearing relevant truths and the liking he could earn by currying a bit of harmless favor.

Truth lost, not for the first time. "If Penny is at all bothered by the marquess's return, it's because she'd rather he'd stayed in Italy. Lynnfield is an odd duck, to retreat into euphemism. He picks up languages like most fellows try on hats, and he can play chess for days on end. I mean day and night, six games going at once, doesn't eat or sleep until he drops from exhaustion after thirty successive victories. His memory is prodigious, and he tends to laugh at jokes nobody else gets. Not easy company, though time might have improved him."

Sir Dashiel grimaced. "Or made him worse. I'd better get my happiest-man-in-the-world speech rehearsed, hadn't I? Penelope doesn't suffer fools, much less madmen. I don't suppose you know her ladyship's ring size?"

"Ask Aunt Purdy. She's good with those details."

"Purdy is the little one with flowers on her bonnets?"

"That's Aunt Phoebe. Calpurnia is the shortest, and her bonnets tend to riot with ribbons. She's particularly partial to the yellow hue of the daffodil."

Sir Dashiel looked as if he was about to wink again. "How very Welsh , but then, we English must have our roses, mustn't we, and the Scots love their thistle and heather? You're sure Penelope doesn't harbor some sort of misguided youthful tendresse for the marquess?"

Tommie had been at university in the years before the marquess's departure and had taken little notice of matters much beyond the next exam or the barmaid's ankles.

"I cannot speak for Penny," Tommie said, "but I can tell you that in nearly ten years of absence, the marquess never wrote to her, she never wrote to him, and she has never spoken admiringly about him to me. To her, his arrival means more work for the maids, footmen, and kitchen staff and thus more work for Penelope. Nothing more."

"Dear me. You posit the situation of a maiden in need of rescuing, and I am just the fellow to oblige her. You really should come calling more often, Thomas. I mean that."

Absurd flattery, but carrying a hint of sincerity too. "I must be off. The Hall will be all aflutter in anticipation of the marquess's arrival, and one wants to lend a calming influence where possible. Thank you for an excellent meal, and my regards to your dear sister."

Sir Dashiel shook hands—firm, manly grip, sincere blue eyes—and remained on the steps of his manor house, looking genial and hearty. One could hate him without too much effort, except that Sir Dashiel was genial and hearty, and the denizens of the Hall were an odd lot.

Tommie had told only the one lie, after all. Penny and Lucien had been quite thick all those years ago. If Sir Dashiel was foggy on that detail, to allow him to remain in ignorance was simply the kindness one friend extended to another.