Authors: Angel
“Don’t say that!” she cried sharply. “He is ill at present but he is not an invalid, nor a cripple as he keeps calling himself! But if they treat him as one he will become one. He’ll do something bacon-brained to try to prove he is perfectly healthy, and it will make his injuries worse. Then he’ll retire to a dark room and sit there feeling sorry for himself and making everyone else miserable, just like his father!”
“You changed Lord Grisedale,” reminded Catherine. “Don’t give up hope yet. We have another five days here, and if nothing else your friendship with Beth will allow you to call at the Hall.”
“Ah, no, things are different now. I cannot go without an invitation."
“Well, Beth will certainly invite you, my dear, so cheer up.”
But no invitation arrived. Between her father, her sick brother, and her now openly avowed suitor, Lady Elizabeth had her hands full, as Sir Gregory reported. It seemed to Angel that he called with unconscionable frequency, and somehow Catherine always found the leisure to entertain him, to walk or ride with him. They always asked her to join them, but she did not want to go far from the house lest a message should arrive in her absence.
She spent long hours sitting on the bank of Grisedale Beck, where a shout from the vicarage would reach her. For the most part she gazed listlessly at the stream. Now and then, in a burst of energy, she would seek out flat pebbles and spin them at the water; in the rocky, rippling shallows, they never skipped.
Catherine worried about her, and spoke to her betrothed about her worry.
“It is not like her to give up like this. If you had not offered for me, I’d have gone home meekly and turned into a sour old maid, but that is not Angel’s style. She is a fighter, and I cannot understand why she is tamely submitting to this situation.”
“Have faith in her, Kate. For all we know, she is plotting deep, dark plots.”
“I wish I could think so, but I do not believe it. She’d have told me, for she is the soul of candour and has no notion of reticence. And every night she cries herself to sleep. Angel never cries!”
“If you told her about us it might give her hope, because of the family connection. She would know at least that there was always a chance, a probability even, of future meetings.”
“Perhaps I should, only I cannot bear to flaunt my happiness when she is so unhappy.”
“Are you happy, love?”
“Yes, I am, in spite of poor Angel.”
“To the devil with Angel! Tell her you are all invited to a farewell dinner on Saturday, and stop worrying.”
“Are we invited to dine on Saturday?”
“Yes, sweetheart. I keep forgetting to convey the message because when I see you all other thoughts flee my head.”
“Oh, Gregory.”
At first Angel brightened when she heard about the dinner party, which by that time was due on the morrow. Then she considered. It seemed unlikely that Lord Dominic would be well enough to dine in company. Even if he did, or joined them afterwards, such an occasion would be the worst possible setting for solving the puzzle of his behaviour.
Jolted out of her despairing misery, she realised for the first time that it was a puzzle. He had not, as she had been thinking, rejected her out of hand. She remembered the look in his eyes when he had pronounced that awful good-bye: it had been as painful for him as it had for her!
Dom, she said fiercely, though silently, if you do not want me you are going to have to tell me so!
She ran upstairs to try on her blue sarsnet morning gown. There were matching forget-me-nots down by the stream, she thought exultantly.
The gown, with its lace trim, was as pretty as ever, but now much too large about the waist. Angel was shocked to discover how much thinner she had become. Catherine was called in and the two of them, neither good needlewomen, managed to make it fit acceptably.
“Let me brush out your hair,” Catherine offered. “A few hours without pins and your ringlets will be as good as new, you lucky creature.”
“Do you think I should sleep in curl papers? I have not the least notion how to put them in.”
“Nor I. You will have to do without. There, that is better. Your face is thinner too, but still pretty as a picture. I shall walk up to the Hall with you in the morning, if you like, to keep your courage up.”
“I’d like you to come, only there is nothing wrong with my courage now that I have decided what to do. I must see him alone, though.”
“Of course, my dear. Now, where did you put your father’s letter?’’
“Here, I have it out already. Is it nearly dinnertime? I am ravenous!”
A substantial dinner, a good night’s rest, and a hearty breakfast did a great deal to restore the roses to Angel’s cheeks. A brisk walk up the track and across the park completed the transformation. On the way, they stopped to pick a posy of forget-me-nots, which Catherine pinned to the bodice of the blue gown, where they nestled in a bed of lace.
“Tell Lord Grisedale that I wish to speak to him, if you please, Venables,” requested Angel when the butler admitted them.
“Sir Gregory?” enquired Catherine softly.
“In the library, madam,” Venables informed her. “I’ll tell his lordship at once, miss.” He bowed and left.
“He makes me feel like a dowager, calling me madam,” sighed Catherine. “I’ll see you later, Angel. Good luck, my dear.”
Venables reappeared and ushered Angel to Lord Grisedale’s room. It had been transformed by cream brocade curtains and open windows, and in the fireplace glowed a huge bouquet of chrysanthemums. Bronze, white, and yellow, they filled the air with their spicy scent.
“Well, young lady, what can I do for you today?” growled his lordship. “Take a seat, take a seat.”
“Thank you, my lord. It is not precisely that I want you to do something for me. I have to tell you something.”
“A confession, hey?”
“Sort of. Will you read this letter, sir? It explains part of what I want to say.”
The earl took the paper she held out to him and studied the seal.
“Tesborough, is it? I seem to remember that dratted companion of Beth’s rattling on about your aunt being sister to Lady Tesborough.” He cocked an enquiring eye, but Angel was silent, so he unfolded the letter and read aloud. “‘To whom it may concern: I hereby declare that the young lady calling herself Miss Evelyn Brand is my daughter, Lady Evangelina Brenthaven, and that she has been living under this alias with my permission, for reasons that seem to her good and sufficient.’ Signed, ‘Frederick Brenthaven, Marquis of Tesborough.’”
There was a pregnant pause.
“You see . . .” Angel began.
“I suppose,” Lord Grisedale said drily at the same moment, “that you can twist your papa around your little finger, you naughty puss! So, Lady Evangelina, are you going to disclose your good and sufficient reasons?”
“That is not at all necessary,” Angel told him with dignity.
“Then why, may I ask, have you chosen to divulge your secret at this time, when you are about to return to the bosom of your indulgent family?”
“I thought you ought to know, sir, because I hope to make Lord Dominic propose to me.’’
“Ha! You do, do you? Well, you are candid, at all events!” The earl pondered for a minute, then said unexpectedly, “I’ll wager that is why the lad has been pining since he came home. I hope you will succeed, young lady, and you have my blessing, but let me warn you that my son is every whit as pigheaded as his sire. Run along now, child. He is in the small drawing room with his sister, I believe. You may tell Lady Elizabeth that I wish to see her immediately.”
“Thank you, my lord!” Angel curtsied, then impulsively leaned down to kiss his wrinkled cheek. “I am prodigious glad that I was bold enough to beard the lion in his den!”
“Provoking wench!” snorted Lord Grisedale, beaming.
Walking towards the small drawing room, Angel found her steps slowing, her courage faltering. The hurdle she had crossed was as nothing to the coming confrontation. It was heartening to have the earl’s blessing, but she had been fairly certain of it. No false modesty suggested that she could ever be unwelcome as a daughter-in-law, and she knew very well that open defiance and hen-hearted submission were the two things that set his back up. It was not only her own papa she could bring around her little finger with a modicum of coaxing!
Yet that minor victory would go for nothing if Dom did not want to marry her. Taking a deep breath, she knocked on the door, braced her shoulders, and went in.
Lord Dominic had his back to the entrance. Beth looked up, jumped up, ran to embrace her.
“Lyn! I am so happy to see you! I was afraid—”
“I’m glad to see you too, Beth,” interrupted Angel, “but your papa asked me to send you to him at once.”
“How odd! Never mind, we will talk later. Pray keep Dom amused for me.” She hurried out.
Lord Dominic was reclining on a sofa. His head was turned away, and Angel could see that his neck and back were rigid. With tentative steps she approached and stood at the end of the sofa, so that he could not help but see her.
“Good morning, my lord.”
“Good morning, Miss Brand.” His voice was very low, and though he turned towards her at last, he did not raise his eyes. His face had more colour than the last time she had seen him, and the scar was clearly defined, a white line from eyebrow to jaw. She felt a sudden urge to kiss it, sternly suppressed. Silence stretched between them.
“We are going home on Monday,” she said at last in desperation.
“I . . . I hope you have a pleasant journey.”
Angel’s voice stuck in her throat. She fought the obstruction, won the fight, abandoned caution.
“Is that all? Do you not care for me at all?”
“I am happy to think that we are friends, Miss Brand.”
“Friends! I love you, Dominic!”
Startled, he looked up at last, to be startled again by a totally unexpected vision of enchanting elegance. His reaction was no less unexpected.
“So,” he sneered, “you have dressed up in all your finery and are come to set your cap at the heir to Grisedale! Believe me, it did not escape my notice that you did not cast out your lures until you found out that my father is an earl!”
“How dare you, you toplofty, conceited wretch! Until I knew who you were, I thought you were in love with Beth! And your father may be an earl, but mine is a marquis, and excessively rich besides!’’
“Doing it rather too brown, Miss Brand.”
“That is not my real name.
“Why should I believe that?”
“I just proved it to your papa, so you can ask him. I am Lady Evangelina Brenthaven.”
“Lady . . . Angel? No! Why, half the officers in Spain used to dream about you! Lady Evangelina, I apologise for doubting—”
“Don’t call me that!”
“Angel?”
“No,” she said, suddenly shy, “call me Linnet. It is the nicest name I ever had.”
“Oh, Linnet, Linnet, I cannot marry you,” groaned Lord Dominic. “This only makes it worse. When you were plain Miss Brand I could sometimes persuade myself that you’d be better off as my wife than living a life of genteel poverty. But the daughter of the Marquis of Tesborough cannot be allowed to throw herself away on a cripple.”
“Don’t call yourself that!’’
“It is the truth. You have no notion what it would be like to be tied to a man who is liable to fall ill at any moment and who cannot walk farther than a quarter mile, cannot dance with you—”
“Dancing! Pfui! Besides, it is shockingly unfashionable to dance with one’s husband.”
“Be serious. I cannot let you throw your life away caring for an invalid. If you realised what it would be like, you’d not want to be my wife.”
Angel moved to stand over him, looking down in exasperation.
“Dom, do you know how many gentlemen have offered for my hand? Eighteen. And here I am wanting nothing else in the world but to marry a man who not only refuses to propose, but is doing his best to persuade me that I don’t wish to do it!”
‘‘Linnet—’’
“I know: I’ll kneel down. Then at least one of us will be in the correct position. There, is that better? Now you do not have to look up at me.”
“Linnet. . .” His lips trembled and he wet them. “Linnet, will you be my wife in, in spite of—?”
“Of course I will, Dom. And when we are married I shall take care you do not fall into any more horrid cold lakes, and in a year or two you will be as fit as ever.”
“I’ll always limp.”
“Do you know, the very first time I saw you I thought how romantic that was just like Lord Byron!”
“All the ladies find Byron romantic?” Dom’s voice still wobbled, but he was smiling.
“Not I. He is odiously vain. Oh, Dom, I do love you!”
“Linnet, I never really believed that you cared only for my title. It was less painful to be angry with you than sorry for myself. Can you forgive me?”
“I’d forgotten all about it. There is nothing to forgive.”
“Then kiss me!”
As they embraced at last, the sofa began to shake. With enormous difficulty Osa emerged from underneath it, having apparently decided that the tension in the air had dissipated. With impartial adoration, she lavished dog kisses on the faces of her master and her future mistress.
Angel and Dominic fell apart, laughing, as a knock on the door heralded the arrival of Beth, Catherine, and Sir Gregory.
“Papa sent me to find out if you two had browbeaten each other into making a match of it,” explained Beth, relieved to see their laughing faces and clasped hands.
“My Linnet did all the browbeating,” Dom assured her. “I am happy to announce that I am about to become a henpecked husband.”
“Dom, Papa said that if you are to marry, he will at least consider an offer from Gerald!”
“Beth, that is wonderful!” cried Angel, then turned remorsefully to her cousin. “And I really did mean to find a husband for you too, Catherine. I am sorry I did not succeed, but I shall keep trying.”
“Pray do not, Angel dear. I have somehow managed to find one for myself.” She looked up at Sir Gregory. “Do you think he is tall enough for me?”
“More than tall enough,” he said firmly, putting an arm around her shoulders possessively. “Come, we must end my uncle’s suspense.”