The Countess (5 page)

The spiteful old bitch. But unlike Peter, no one had seemed to see anything amiss with my marrying Lawrence. Except that we had married too soon. But I simply couldn't bear London any longer. I couldn't. And it wasn't as if I planned to go to Almack's, or dance away the soles of my slippers at balls and wear low-necked gowns.

No, we were going to the country, and there we would remain. My dear Miss Crislock had developed a nasty cough in London that still hadn't gone away. It was doubtless from all the burning coal smoke. The country was the best place for both of us. And my husband, too, of course.

Lawrence sat again by the fire, still reading the
Gazette.
Pratt was busy crowding our table with roasted beef, potatoes, stewed turnips, and peas. Goodness, there was even a brace of partridge tottering toward the edge of the table, and more side dishes than I cared to count.

My stomach growled, loudly.

Lawrence looked up and gave me a pleasant smile.

“I'm glad you only took the time to wash your hands, Andrea, no, it's Andy. Elsewise you might have collapsed in your bath from hunger.”

That good-natured speech didn't sound like he was overly concerned about my consequence. Everything would be all right. I'd married well. My decision was sound.

Every dish was delicious. I couldn't remember when I'd eaten so much. I didn't talk, just ate and ate. I tucked away some of the delicious roasted beef into a napkin for George. I had a mouthful of some sort of partridge when I glanced up at Lawrence. He was looking in some astonishment at my refilled plate. I stopped, my spoon in midair. “Oh, goodness, I am eating more than you ever imagined a young lady eating, aren't I? Do you believe me to be a glutton? I really don't blame you for thinking that. It's just that everything tastes so wonderful, and riding all day, with nothing at all to do, hollows out my stomach—”

Lawrence raised an elegant hand to shut me down, which I did, instantly. “I don't mean to embarrass you by staring, Andrea—no, it's Andy. I'd just forgotten the extraordinary appetites of the young. As one grows older, one either seems to expand or retract.”

“I'm very relieved that you chose to retract,” I
stopped dead, disbelieving what I had said. I clamped my hands over my still-open mouth, dropped my fork, and stared at my husband, so horrified and embarrassed I wanted to take George's roasted beef pieces and slink away. To add more sticks to the fire, I very nearly said that I was feeling matronly now that I'd married him, and hoped I wouldn't expand, but at the last minute I realized how precariously close to insulting that was, and so managed to keep my mouth shut.

He stiffened up. I saw that clearly enough. I hadn't meant an insult, I hadn't. I had not meant to slight his age. I began shaking my head wondering how I could get out of the hole I'd just dug beneath my feet.

He rescued me. The splendid man actually lifted me out of the hole and cut me free. “My dear Andrea, no, Andy, don't apologize. No harm done. You speak what is on your mind, and for the most part, that is a charming thing. Not always, to be sure, but sometimes. Perhaps moderation is not a bad thing to consider, occasionally. Now, would you care for one of Pratt's delicious pear tarts?”

Naturally I was too full now for the pear tart, and so shook my head.

When Pratt showed himself again with the bosomy Betty to remove the dinner remains, he bowed low again, then poured Lawrence a glass of rich red port. Lawrence raised the glass to his lips, rolled the wine around in the crystal glass as I'd seen Grandfather do, then nodded his approval. Unthinking, without a pause, I held up my own glass.

P
ratt looked like he had just been pinned down by a hunter with a very big gun. He didn't move a muscle. I doubted he even breathed. He stared at my glass, still held toward him, and that bottle of port, like it was a serpent to bite him. He sent an agonized look toward my husband.

I realized in that instant that I had done something a lady would never do, not even on her dying day. I waited, for there was nothing else I could do. Lawrence looked at me and saw that I was perfectly serious. He started to open his mouth, to blast me, I figured.

But then he surprised me. He merely nodded that Pratt fill my glass. He didn't think I was a trollop or whatever you would call a lady who enjoyed drinking port and brandy. I smiled to myself as Pratt, not meeting my eyes, gave me approximately three skinny dollops.

I remembered my distaste when Grandfather had first poured me a bit of his port. He'd looked down his long nose at me when I had dared to make a
disgusted noise. “What is this? You turn up your nose at my excellent port, Missy? My excellent port that has journeyed all the way from the Douro region of northern Portugal?”

“Perhaps it spoiled on the long trip?”

“Enough. It is the most excellent port in the world. Port, since you are so ignorant, is named for the town of Oporto. Listen to me, Miss Prude with no taste buds worth speaking of, this is part of your education, a very important part. You will develop a sophisticated palate. I will never watch you drink that nauseating ratafia that some idiot deemed proper for ladies to drink the good Lord knows how long ago. Drink up and don't you dare frown or make noises again.”

I'd drunk up. I now quite liked a bit of port after my dinner, but it had taken a good three months to train my poor sensitive palate.

For nearly eight years I had been admitted to that male tradition of good drinking and men's talk after dinner. Would it continue?

I waited.

When Pratt and Betty had left the parlor, loaded down with platters and silverware and dishes, my husband sat back, his glass of port gracefully held between slender fingers, and regarded me from beneath those thick dark brows. I wanted to tell him that Grandfather approved and he'd been even older than Lawrence, perhaps another whole generation away. No, better to keep my mouth shut if that was all I could think of to say to justify my drinking. I knew he wouldn't let this go. I waited. The reproach wasn't long in coming. However, it wasn't a screaming condemnation, as I was used to. No, when he
spoke, his voice was cold and precise. “I presume the duke is responsible for your unusual taste in drink?”

“It certainly wasn't my idea at the beginning,” I said, hoping perhaps to disarm him with candor. “I found it revolting when I was thirteen. At fourteen, Grandfather informed me he was pleased that he had educated my palate. Now it is merely a habit of long-standing. I trust it doesn't offend you.”

It wasn't a bad defense, I thought. What made it better was that I hadn't lied. I was beginning to wonder if perhaps a lie would have served me better when my husband said in a very calm voice that didn't fool me for an instant, “It is entirely inappropriate for a lady to drink port. It smacks of commonness, of trollops in alehouses. I have always detested commonness.”

“I believe that excellent port is far too expensive for the mouths of trollops, my lord. Oh, goodness, don't blast me. My mouth is amazingly fast, isn't it? My brain is somewhere off in the corner, just watching. Do forgive me.” I decided not to mention my love of brandy, from Armagnac, in the Gers region of France, as every educated person knew.

He stared at me as if I was an amazing sort of creature he had never seen before.

“My grandfather,” I said, slowly, ready to do battle, because I wasn't all that different from any other young lady. I stopped, cleared my throat, and began again. “My grandfather wasn't ever common, not even for an instant in his entire life. If he approved of something, then anyone who dared to question it would be regarded as the common one, not him.”

I thought he would stand up and dump the table over on me, but he didn't. He drew a deep breath.
“I should know by now that one must accustom oneself to the habits of one's spouse. I have the experience. You do not. You are very young. I don't wish to break your spirit, Andrea, no, Andy, but I cannot allow you to continue this habit when we will be in company. No, don't argue with me. I offer you a compromise. Your port drinking will be between the two of us. Isn't that fair?”

“I never drank port in company,” I said. “It was always just between Grandfather and me.”

“Then we have no argument.” He raised his glass and clinked it lightly against mine. “To my beautiful new wife. May she not ever believe that she has married a stodgy old man.”

“Hear, hear,” I said, and grinned at him like a sinner who'd escaped punishment. I sipped the port. It wasn't nearly as good as the port from Grandfather's cellar. If I'd been drinking it with Grandfather, I would have made a rude noise and dumped it. I kept sipping. He was certainly fair, but life sometimes wasn't. I believe some people would say that I'd been hoisted on my own petard.

“You are perhaps strong-willed?”

“Not at all,” I said, blinking a couple of times. I looked down at my napkin. I'd spread it, then folded and refolded it. “If I do anything to displease you, you must tell me. As you said, when married, one must learn compromise. One must bend. Perhaps one must even be in the wrong upon occasion.”

“Do I understand that you've just given me permission to correct you if I happen to feel strongly about something?”

I hadn't said that at all, but he was being quite indulgent, something I'd heard older husbands many
times were toward young wives. I was struck again how kind he was, and so I said easily, “That's right. You are a gentleman, Lawrence, just as Grandfather was a gentleman.” The moment the words were out of my mouth, I stalled. I just stared at him. To my absolute horror, I started crying.

I swear I don't know where those blasted tears came from, but they just seeped out of my eyes and trickled down my cheeks to drip off my chin. “Oh, goodness, I'm sorry.”

When he helped me to my feet and pulled me against his chest, I didn't hesitate. No one had held me after Grandfather's death, no one until Peter had come. I relaxed against him. He was tall. He was comfortable. I cried and cried.

His breath was soft and warm against my hair. “It's all right. It has been a difficult time for you. That's all right, Andrea, no, Andy. Just cry, my dear. That's right.”

I would have given up my port had he asked it of me, willingly. But he had chosen to indulge me. He was offering me companionship and friendship. He was giving me comfort. I was very lucky that he had come to see me, and had found me acceptable.

I sobbed and hiccuped, then raised my face. “If you really don't like it, I will stop drinking.”

He laughed a bit and hugged me again. “No, a countess and her port shouldn't be separated.”

I would have killed for him at that moment. I smiled up at him through a veil of tears. “If you have any skeletons at all in your family closet, I swear upon my honor to keep quiet about them.”

He paused for just the smallest moment, then said easily, “I would expect no less of you. Your
grandfather raised you well. I hope you won't be disappointed, but my ancestors have been a fairly staid lot, one succeeding the other without much fanfare, much scandal, much treachery. Well, perhaps a bit, but not all that much. But I appreciate your vow.

“Now, my dear Andy, you have held up very well. I hope your new home, the new people you will meet, will help lessen your grief. But you know, my dear, grief is important. Eventually your memories of your grandfather will settle about you like a comfortable old cloak. They will comfort you, make you smile, perhaps even laugh, at the oddest moments.

“My shoulder will always be near should you desire to use it again.”

“God made you a very good man, sir,” I said, sniffed, and blew my nose on the handkerchief he handed me. “There are skeletons in my family, some quite scandalous ones actually, but none of them are old enough to be romantic.”

“Between us, we will contrive to come up with one excellent horrifying tale of the past to entertain us on cold winter evenings.”

“We must hurry, since winter is nearly upon us.”

“I will check my history again to see what offensive lout I can dig up.”

He walked me to my bedchamber, smiled down at me silently for a moment, and gave me a gentle pat on the cheek. “Pleasant dreams, my dearest Andy.”

I watched him walk down the dimly lit corridor. He gave me a small wave before opening the door to his bedchamber. I wondered where his valet Flynt was sleeping. I personally wouldn't want Flynt sleeping anywhere near me.

I went inside to hear the delicate sleeping sighs of
Miss Crislock, and George's loud snores. I remembered the steak bits I'd put aside for George. I'd left them wrapped in my napkin on the table. The thought of George's delight in the morning when I presented him a bite of steak made me finally pick up a candle and make my way back downstairs. Perhaps the bosomy Betty hadn't yet cleared everything away.

“She is very young.”

I stopped instantly, my hand outstretched to turn the knob on the parlor door. It was a man's voice, and I didn't recognize it. It was coming from inside the parlor where Lawrence and I had shared our dinner, where I had cried for Grandfather and he had held me.

Who was the man speaking to?

“No woman is ever young,” said Lawrence, and that stalled me. Of course I was young. There was a good deal of scorn in his voice that set me frowning. He had certainly gotten back downstairs very quickly.

“We will see,” my husband continued. “Go on ahead. We will arrive at Devbridge Manor by dinnertime the day after tomorrow, barring any nasty weather. All goes well. Don't worry.”

I ran back up the stairs, George's steak forgotten. Who was he talking to? Why?

Perhaps his man of business. I didn't plan to forget his voice. I was sure to meet him soon.

Because I was young and healthy, my stomach full, I fell asleep quickly. I slept throughout the night, deeply, even George's snores close to my ear, never breaking through my dreams.

Betty's knock on our bedchamber door came at promptly seven o'clock the next morning.

Miss Crislock shook my shoulder. “Andy, my dear, you must wake up now. If I don't take George for a walk this very minute, I fear there will be a mess that neither of us wish to face.”

“Poor George,” I said, stretching. “He never got his steak.”

“He doesn't need any steak. Now, I will take George for a walk. You have your bath, Andy. I'll be back in a little while.”

“Thank you, Milly. I am in your debt as is my fine beautiful George.” At that moment I would have killed for Miss Crislock, as well as for my husband. I prayed that neither Miss Crislock nor Lawrence had any particular enemies, else I'd be hung for sure.

After a light breakfast, we came out of the inn to find a gray damp day. George growled. I kissed his head. “Now, George, at least the sky is gray because of the weather and not because of the ghastly pollution in the city. Don't whine.”

Lawrence allowed George to ride with us part of the day. George, not a stupid animal, licked his hand. “You have no shame,” I told him. My husband smiled.

It was a pleasant day, passed comfortably. We spent the night at the Hangman's Inn in Collingford.

“Just one more day,” Lawrence said when he left me at my bedchamber door that evening. “We'll arrive home in time for dinner.”

That was what he had said to the unknown man the previous night.

“Tomorrow,” he said after I'd yawned, “I'll tell you about Hugo, my only ancestor of somewhat
interesting gruesome parts. He even wrote a diary so all succeeding generations would know of his obsession with the cursed heretics. Sleep well, Andy.”

And so I found out the next day that Hugo Lyndhurst, then Viscount Lyndhurst, was raised in 1584 to the earldom of Devbridge by Good Queen Bess.