Chapter Six

M ost of Alice's time was spent practicing for her recitals at the Whalen theatre and the castle garden party. In fact, the latter provided her cover for the former, and if she occasionally felt guilty about scolding Cornelius Vale for his dishonesty when her own was rife, she kept it to herself.

Helen was also busy, sorting her paintings and sketches and deciding which to show. She had completed three particularly beautiful pictures of the nearby ruined abbey, two of which were new—one under glowering skies with a mysterious figure poised in front of it, the other by moonlight. Deliberately, Alice did not ask about the painted figure or when she had seen the abbey by moonlight. It hurt that Helen was keeping such secrets from her, but then, she did not want to reveal her own secrets either. For Helen's safety, though, Alice must keep a closer eye on her…

Only after their sister Maria had arrived, and her husband Michael escorted them to Miss Talbot's "at home" at the Blackhaven Hotel, did Alice begin to guess Helen's secret. It had something to do with Cornelius's older brother, the dashing Major Vale. Helen followed him with her eyes, and whenever her attention was distracted, the major gazed at her. Could Helen be having secret moonlight assignations with him?

Or was Alice merely obsessed with the Vales herself? Her heart had lurched with excitement when Sir Julius entered the room, closely followed by the major and the ridiculously handsome Aubrey, who looked like a slightly sulky, very naughty fallen angel. But Cornelius was not with them.

Alice had wanted to apologize to him. Again. She still thought he should have honored his commitment to Eleanor, and that he should be honest with his family. But she had been unnecessarily strident. He always brought out the worst in her for some reason. She also felt guilty because at Black Hill House, Delilah had told her, "Cornelius is not a great man for Society. He is too shy."

Shyness was not something Alice suffered from. But she could see the difference between writing poetry that bared the soul and reading it aloud to a crowd. For a man as private as Cornelius, that would be excruciating. Only… Why had he agreed in the first place?

Her older sisters, Frances and Serena, arrived before the garden party, complete with husbands and small children, and as always when they were all together, excitement levels in the castle soared. Mama even forgot her displeasure with Alice for rejecting the Duke of Atherstone.

"So the Vales are back at Black Hill?" Frances said in the drawing room on the first evening of her return.

"Captain Sir Julius Vale has inherited, and brought all his siblings with him," Gervaise said.

"All?" Serena said, amused. "How many are there?"

"Nine," said Helen.

Mama pursed her lips. "They are not all legitimate. But they are all foisted on Society as though they were equals."

"Well, it is hardly their fault," Frances said.

"Is Cornelius illegitimate?" Alice blurted, and everyone turned to gaze at her in surprise or, in Mama's case, disapproval. Heat crept into her face. "I only ask because he seems to be the steward at Black Hill."

"He is," Gervaise said. "It was the profession he trained for—very knowledgeable fellow, too. Which is fortunate, because he has his work cut out for him at Black Hill. The man Sir George left in charge seemed to do nothing. But no, his birth is perfectly respectable. I believe it is the eldest daughter and the youngest two who were born, as they say, on the wrong side of the blanket."

"Miss Delilah Vale," Alice remarked. "I like her."

"Mrs. Maitland is a good woman," Mama pronounced.

"They are a charming family," Eleanor said. "I spoke to the twins at church, and they are most amusing. They will all be at the garden party." She scowled. "Although Simon Sacheverill will not."

However, the following morning, a small parcel was delivered to the castle, addressed to the Countess of Braithwaite. She opened it at breakfast to discover a leather-bound volume of Sacheverill's poetry. The poet had respectfully inscribed it to her on the flyleaf, and a note fluttered out onto the table.

Alice had to stop herself reaching for it, but then Eleanor read it aloud to them and Alice felt a lump rise into her throat. This was a much more personal letter than the original refusal—written in the first person, to begin with—and expressed his deep regrets for the miscommunication between himself and his publisher. Accepting the blame, he apologized for letting her ladyship down and wished her a happy and successful party, which he was most saddened to miss.

"Well, that is a little more gracious," Helen allowed.

It was, and for Eleanor it made a huge difference that she was not despised. Alice, touched and gratified that her words had influenced Cornelius, wanted to rush over to Black Hill and thank him, but she knew instinctively he did not want that. She must put him from her mind, for he was unlikely to come to the garden party with the rest of his family, and concentrate on her recitals and all the arrangements for the secret concert and exhibition at Whalen.

She was also looking forward to hearing again the Scottish pianist, Frederick Baird, who, already famous in Edinburgh, had so impressed Alice in London. Travelling north to Blackhaven, she had been delighted to discover him staying at the same inn one night, and had induced Gervaise and Eleanor to invite him to play at the garden party.

Although she felt rather like a juggler with too many balls in the air to catch, she remembered to be more observant of Helen, even lying awake too long at night to listen for any sound of her creeping out on secret assignations. Who would hurt gentle Helen? The very thought made her shudder. Alice was only comforted by the knowledge that her kind and outwardly biddable sister possessed an inner steel as well as a sound brain.

Guests also began to arrive at the castle to stay, mostly old friends of the family like the Daxtons, although with a scattering of new. Alice, reminded of the London Season, hid her unease, although she did once ask Maria, "Do you know if the Duke of Atherstone is coming?"

She dared not ask Eleanor or Mama in case they assumed she wanted him there.

"I believe he is coming to the ball," Maria said, searching her face. "I don't know if he will stay at the castle, though, since his plans are always uncertain. You don't like him, do you?"

"No," Alice said flatly.

What with guests at the castle and local morning callers, the day before the garden party, it was almost impossible to find time to practice or arrange the things they had to before the Whalen theatre adventure, which was to be the day after.

Fortunately, Mama was not present when Mr. Daubin and his son called.

Mr. Daubin, the "new" owner of Cloverfield, had made his fortune in cotton mills, so he was not a gentleman by birth. Mama might condescend to invite him to parties she considered public, but she certainly would not have welcomed him to her drawing room. Eleanor, kinder and less haughty, would not send him away.

He was announced along with his son, Mr. Darcy Daubin. The latter turned out to be quite stunning. With his tall, willowy frame, blond good looks, and graceful speech and manners, he appeared to be of an entirely different family—nay, a different species!—to his father.

"Oh my," sighed Willa, Lady Daxton, with such drole faintness that, beside her, Alice giggled.

Whether it was Willa's sigh or Alice's laughter, they immediately drew the beautiful creature's attention. His smile was amiable, his eyes unexpectedly predatory for a man so apparently effete. His bow to the room in general was a model of elegance compared with his stocky father's perfunctory jerk.

Welcoming them, Eleanor gave her hand to each gentleman. Mr. Daubin looked gratified. Darcy bowed so low over her fingers that Alice thought he would kiss them.

"Who…?" Willa murmured to Alice. Sharing a sense of humor and an appreciation of the ridiculous, they had become friends during the Season when the Daxtons had made a brief visit to London.

"Neighbor," Alice replied, low. "He's in trade—cotton mills, I think. I've never met the son before." His looks alone would have the entire town buzzing around him like bees to a honey pot.

Eleanor, aware of the elder Mr. Daubin's lack of grace, sat beside them and poured them tea. But five minutes later, Alice was surprised to be called over to join them.

"Do you know Mr. Daubin, Alice? And this is his son, Mr. Darcy Daubin. Gentlemen, my sister-in-law, Lady Alice Conway, who is also a poetry lover. Mr. Darcy Daubin is a poet."

He looked like one, Alice thought, with his too-long flyaway hair and his pale coat and lace cuffs. There was even lace trimming on his carelessly knotted necktie. A little too studiedly careless, in Alice's cynical opinion, though she made impressed noises.

"I heard the great Sacheverill has let you down," Darcy said. "And I wondered if I might help as a poor substitute for the famous man."

" In famous man, if he can't keep his promises," Mr. Daubin interjected.

"One does not know the circumstances," Darcy said with more generosity.

"He wrote a very kind letter with a gift," Alice said. "We have decided that my sister, Helen, will read some of his poems instead. And we should be very glad to have you read some of your own work afterward, if that is agreeable to you?"

"I am honored," Darcy said humbly. "May I hope that you will hear them?"

"Yes, and I shall hope so also," Alice said. The man unnerved her slightly, so good-looking and playing his role so well, almost like a child, except for those strange, avid eyes. He could only have been two or three and twenty.

Fortunately, he knew the rules of morning calls and ushered his father away after only a few more minutes.

"What an extraordinarily beautiful young man," Willa remarked.

"Do you think so?" Eleanor sounded surprised. "But then, you have not met Aubrey Vale yet!"

Alice could not see that either. On looks alone, she preferred Cornelius to either of them.

*

"Well, that went very well," James Daubin said smugly to his son as their carriage set off in the direction of Cloverfield. "I don't mind telling you, I expected the old witch to deny us."

"You did tell me," Darcy pointed out. "Several times. Fortunately, the old witch was not in evidence. And the young countess is quite ravishing, is she not?"

His father looked alarmed, which amused Darcy. "You'll not touch that particular potato—you'd ruin us all."

Darcy smirked. "I could have her eating out of my hand if I chose. And her favor will assuredly be useful, but I have quite another potato in mind."

"What potato?" his father demanded. "I thought we went to get you invited to the damned party."

"And I have been. Which provides access to my—er…tuber of choice."

"Don't get above yourself," his father growled. "You'll end up with egg on your face. And mine."

"Don't be an old woman," Darcy said. "Didn't you see the way they looked at me?"

"I don't deny you're a pretty picture, but so's the earl, and if you imagine—"

"I want only approval from the countess. It's Lady Alice I shall have."

His father whitened. "Dear God, you cannot deflower a noble girl!"

Darcy laughed. "Oh, straighten your breeches, Papa, I mean to marry the girl." Eventually .

*

How does a woman retain — or recover — the love of her straying husband ?

Cecily Morgan's problems did not trouble Cornelius's mind as often as they should, considering he had promised to do his best to help her. Finally, guiltily, he forced himself to consider the matter and realized he needed help.

At the last moment, he stopped himself from asking Felicia, whose own husband, apparently, had been far from faithful. Cornelius, busy with his own life far from London and any of his other siblings, had been unaware of this fact until after Maitland died, when the scoundrel could no longer be beaten, coerced, or even reviled.

The day before the garden party at the castle, it struck Cornelius that Cecily might well be present. Only a few months ago, this would have loomed so large in his life that he would have been able to think of little else. Now, he realized only that, despite his assurances to her, he had no solution to offer and would inevitably let down her hopes.

Of course, he was the last person who should be advising Cecily on the subject of marriage—he had not even been able to hold her love—and he had no idea how to keep his rash promise.

After dinner that night, as his family wandered out of the dining room, he finally broached the subject in a roundabout way with Delilah, his eldest sister, who was both observant and wise. But Delilah merely said, "Sounds as if she shouldn't have married him in the first place."

Which was so much Cornelius's own view that he failed to press further. Instead, approaching from a different angle, he spoke to Julius later in the evening.

In fact, he was worried about Julius, who, after the ball, had begun to liven into the old Julius that Cornelius remembered from childhood. However, he now seemed positively aloof with tension. So Cornelius spoke vaguely of Cecily's problem without naming her.

"Would you be a faithful husband, Jules?" he asked.

"No point in being married otherwise," Julius retorted so sharply that Cornelius backed away again.

Matters did not proceed well for Julius, he guessed, with Antonia Macy, the lady from his past who had come to dinner one night and sheltered from a sudden, raging storm. He was happy to listen if Julius wanted to talk, but he would have died rather than pry. He wished quite intensely for Julius's happiness, and he rather liked Antonia. Importantly, she had also been approved by Lucy, who had the uncanny knack of accurately reading everyone's character. On the other hand, Delilah seemed to dis like her, and she was aware of more about the couple's past.

Cornelius knew better than to get involved. In truth, he had no desire to touch Cecily's marriage either. More than two years ago, Cecily had rejected him for his employer, and, unable to live so close to that, he had moved to a different position.

But he had not parted from Sir John Morgan on bad terms. On the contrary, Morgan had given him glowing testimonials to take to his new employer. Cornelius's best bet was to wait for him to arrive in Blackhaven and speak to him, man to man, explaining how he was hurting Cecily by his behavior. That way, Cornelius would have discharged his duty to Cecily and, once they left, never have to speak to either of them again.

Which conveniently left Cornelius free for now to brood over his own obsession with Alice. Lady Alice, whom he would definitely see tomorrow, if only from a distance. In response to what she had told him about the young countess, he'd sent the gift of his book and a much kinder letter, which he hoped would make up for Sacheverill's absence. If only the poor lady knew how much less awkward it would be than his presence!

On his way upstairs to bed, he encountered the twins sitting on their favorite step. "I thought you went to bed half an hour ago."

"We're going," Lawrence assured him. "Are you truly going to the garden party at the castle tomorrow?"

"If nothing prevents me."

"I can't wait to see the castle," Leona enthused. "And I'm so glad you will be there."

Cornelius regarded her with suspicion. "Why?"

"Because you don't normally have any fun."

"I do. Sadly, I just don't enjoy parties."

"Then why are you going to this one?" Lawrence asked.

Cornelius closed his mouth, blinked, and then laughed. "Damned if I know," he said, and climbed over the twins to the landing.