Authors: Jo Goodman
Elizabeth concentrated on smoothing the pale pink fabric of her muslin gown across her lap. Her head snapped up when North spoke in impatient tones.
"Pray, have done with your fidgeting. Sit on your hands if you must. You have pressed your gown four times over since we left the inn. There is not a wrinkle in want of your attention."
Fingers frozen, Elizabeth turned quickly to the window. The countryside passed in a blur, though it was not entirely the speed of the carriage that caused it to be so. She willed herself not to allow a single tear to fall.
At length Northam sighed. "It is only that you spoke so cruelly, Elizabeth. Not only of the colonel but of yourself." Out of the corner of his eye he saw her nod. "I love him, you know. I loved my father, but I came to know the colonel better. I admire and respect him, and when you—"
"I understand," she said on a thread of sound. "I... I love him, too."
North said nothing for several minutes, hoping she would say more. When she didn't, he took a linen handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it into her hand. She accepted it without acknowledgment, making a ball of it with her fingers while she continued to stare out the window. She held it so long that North thought he was mistaken about her need for it. "Will you say nothing at all, Elizabeth?"
She shook her head. The small movement was enough to break the dam of tears. They dripped over the rim of her lashes and fell down her cheeks. She raised the balled handkerchief and impatiently wiped them away.
Oh, my poor Elizabeth,
he thought sadly.
How am I ever to understand?
Northam lifted his feet and placed his boot heels on the opposite bench, careless that the blacking would leave marks on the fine leather. Tipping his hat over his brow, he slouched comfortably forward, resting his head against the squabs and crossing his arms and ankles. In just this position he passed the remainder of the journey, sometimes in contemplation, sometimes in sleep.
Rosemont was a grand structure, though not of the proportions of Battenburn. The Penrose forebears appreciated elegance and design but not strictly for its own sake. There was simplicity to the manor that other country homes would have done well to emulate. Northam was struck by how much it reminded him of Hampton Cross.
Five towers rose above the main stone structure, three at the front and one each at the end of the east and west wings. The house was perfectly situated for a southern exposure and a large pond at the front required that a bridge be used to make the approach.
North was sitting up now, looking out with interest. "Hampton Cross has such a pond," he said. "But no bridge, I'm afraid. It has never been practical, since the pond sits more to one side and it is easy enough to go around."
"It is probably just as well," Elizabeth said, outwardly calm. "The bridge requires much in the way of attention." The fact that her palms were damp had nothing to do with the state of the bridge, but with the state of her nerves. She was loath to press her palms against her dress for fear Northam would accuse her of ironing it again. "I hope you will not regret coming here," she said suddenly.
There was no time for Northam to reply. The carriage was stopping in front of the main entrance and Elizabeth was alighting without assistance from anyone. He watched her lift her gown and hurry up the stairs, only her limp preventing her from taking them two at time. Someone who knew her less well might have mistaken her haste for eagerness. Northam suspected that it was only her desire to forewarn that gave her such speed.
He followed at a slower pace while servants began to spill from other parts of the house to deal with the horses, carriage, and tower of trunks. It was not Elizabeth who greeted him when the immense white doors were thrown open.
Here was a woman singularly poised and of exceptional beauty. Isabel Penrose, Countess of Rosemont, stood just under five feet. Even on the lip of the entrance it was impossible to mistake her as any taller. Everything about her was dainty. Her delft blue eyes and smooth, almost translucent complexion only added to the impression that she had more in common with a china figurine than a flesh-and-blood woman. Her blond hair was covered by a lace cap, and the curls artfully arranged across her forehead might have been sculpted, so constant were they in the face of the breeze that flattened her gown against her petite figure.
"Lady Rosemont," Northam said, making his bow. It should have been Elizabeth making these introductions and he vowed he would not spare her his grandfather's lecture this time. "I am not mistaken, am I?"
"La! There is no mistake." Isabel Penrose threw out both of her small hands. Her charmingly bowed mouth widened to what passed as a broad smile for her. "And you are Lord Northam. Elizabeth described you so perfectly in her letter I would know you in any circumstances." Her curtsy was precisely executed, as fine and graceful in form as she was. "Please, forgive me, will you not come inside? It was not my intention to leave you standing." She raised her perfectly heart-shaped face to the sky. "It looks to begin raining again."
Northam was ushered inside. His hat was immediately taken by the butler, who was waiting patiently in the hall for the moment he could be of some use.
"Elizabeth is already with Rosemont," Isabel said. "She is not usually so ill-mannered, but I suspect you know that."
"She has been in great anticipation of seeing her father, I believe."
Isabel merely smiled. "Come, I will take you to them. Everything has been made ready for your visit, though I confess I had not expected you so soon."
"And I was concerned that we were come too late. We were delayed in our departure from Battenburn and have recovered only a fraction of that time." Northam watched Lady Rosemont's brow furrow. Even this was done with delicacy. Her natural reticence kept her from questioning him or revealing what had come to her mind.
"Here we are," she said when they reached the darkly polished pocket doors at the end of the great hall. "My husband's study. You may want to admire his collection of old weaponry. He holds it in high regard." She grasped the handles and parted the doors wide. They slid soundlessly from their runners. "Elizabeth, dear, you cannot leave your husband just anywhere. It is not done."
Northam felt the tension in the room before he had fully entered. Judging by Lady Rosemont's unaffected air, North surmised she was either unaware of it, which seemed unlikely, or used to it.
Lord Rosemont was standing beside the green-veined marble mantel. He was a tall man, not so commanding in his height as North, but considerably taller than his wife. He was also powerfully built, with broad shoulders and a robust chest, so that Isabel was made even more diminutive in his presence. His hands were as large as paddles. One of them rested on the edge of the mantel, the other held an iron poker.
Isabel walked straight to her husband's side, lightly touched his forearm, and took the poker from him with her other hand. She stabbed at the flames once and then set it with the other tools."My lord," she said, addressing her husband, "may I present Elizabeth's husband, his lordship, the Earl of Northam."
"I know who he is," Rosemont said with some impatience. His voice had a deep bass timbre, rising as it did from that barrel chest.
"Of course you do," Isabel said, unperturbed."You have met before, have you not? At White's, I think you said. And in the conduct of your government work. I will not carry on, then. I shall ring for tea instead." Excusing herself, she deliberately crossed between them and went to the bellpull.
"Northam," Rosemont said tersely.
"My lord," Northam returned. Out of respect for Elizabeth he made a slight bow.
William Penrose looked his son-in-law up and down in the manner he used to inspect horseflesh. His brown eyes, so dark they might have been black, added to the inscrutability of his expression. "So you have married her."
"I have."
Rosemont grunted. "Have you bedded her, then?"
"Father!" Elizabeth was out of her chair as though shot from a cannon.
Isabel was even moved to use her husband's Christian name to admonish him. "William!"
Only North remained silent, his eyes fixed on Rosemont's. They stared in such a fashion while the women held their breath. Finally it was Elizabeth's father who broke the contact by looking to his wife.
"It is just that he seems to prefer the company of other men," he explained. "They even have some fool name for themselves. The four of them together don't comprise gray matter enough to make a half-wit." His glance swiveled back at Northam. "Well, sir? Are you a sodomite?"
"William! That is quite enough."
"Please, Father."
Northam, when he clearly understood what had prompted his father-in-law's first question, burst out laughing.
Rosemont grunted a second time. He gestured toward Northam as though no further confirmation of his judgment was needed. "A bedlamite, then."
This comment actually brought tears to North's eyes as he laughed harder. He held out his hand to Elizabeth, who promptly found the handkerchief he had lent her earlier and placed it in his open palm. He used it to quickly dab at his eyes. Finding the wherewithal to sober took considerably longer. "My friends will enjoy your wit as much as I have," he said at length. "I look forward to telling them how fortunate I am in learning of my father-in-law's good humor."
"Humph."
"And in his articulation of the finer points of his opinion."
"Now you go too far."
Isabel threw up her hands. "Enough. Rosemont, you will sit over there." She pointed to the large wing chair that was comfortably worn in the exact impression of her strapping husband. "Elizabeth. My lord. You will please sit on the sofa."
Northam found it interesting that none of them argued. They were all taking their orders from the one who looked least likely to give them.
Lady Rosemont nodded, satisfied with the arrangement. The scratching at the door distracted her. "Ah, here is tea. We shall all be made composed by it." She turned her back on them and said sotto voce, "Or I shall lace the next pot with tincture of opium."
If it fell short of composing them, the tea did lend civility to the proceedings. There were no more pointed exchanges, and Isabel guided the conversation skillfully, pressing Elizabeth to describe her wedding dress and the flowers in the church. She went on to talk about the ceremony, omitting any mention of the colonel's presence and the dowager countess's wager with North's friends. Northam was still puzzled about the former but grateful for the latter. He could accept anything Rosemont said outright about him. Comments about his mother would of necessity require that he choose something from Rosemont's wall armory of lances, maces, and battle-axes and strike him with it.
Unaware of North's lingering interest in a Celtic broadsword, Isabel drew him into the discussion, encouraging him to recount details from the Battenburn rout. While she appeared entertained by the discourse, Northam doubted the same was true of her husband. He contributed when asked a direct question—always by Isabel or Northam—and otherwise sat in judgment.
When the pot of tea was empty and the plate of cakes still remained largely untouched, Isabel made excuses for herself and Elizabeth to retire to another room and discuss things that were the prerogative of women.
The doors had barely closed when Rosemont stood. "I know I want a drink. Will you have one with me?"
North reflected it was less of an invitation than a command. "Very well. Scotch."
Rosemont nodded. He went to the ornately carved liquor cabinet and removed a decanter of whiskey. He poured two fingers in twin cut-glass tumblers and handed one to Northam, who remained seated on the sofa. Hovering for a few moments longer, continuing his assessment through remote eyes, Rosemont sipped his drink.
Northam lifted one brow and regarded his father-in-law coolly. "Is there some other name you wish to call me?"
"Fool."
"I see I rise in your estimation after only a single hour. I am no longer a buggerer or even a lunatic."
Rosemont returned to his seat. "You will have observed that I allow my wife a good deal of latitude in her dealings with me. Do not mistake that I will allow you the same."
Northam made a slight nod, acknowledging what was said. "You will likewise never seek again to embarrass me in front of my wife."
The earl gave no indication of his intention one way or the other. "Why have you married my daughter? And, pray, do not tell me it is because you have compromised her. I know Elizabeth well enough to know that she cannot be compromised. Her correspondence intimated that she acted to protect you from a false accusation. Is that true?"
"Yes."
Rosemont closed his eyes briefly and rubbed his index finger along his hooked nose. He felt infinitely older than his forty-eight years. "God's truth, but she is a willful child." He lowered his hand and looked at North again. "You will have to take her in hand. I left her too much on her own before and after her mother died. Catherine spoiled her, I fear, and I paid it little mind. When I saw what she had become it was too late. I remarried, but Belle was too young to properly discipline Elizabeth. I came belatedly to that realization also. They were fast friends before I understood it."