Amanda Scott (31 page)

A glance at her open countenance told Carolyn the question was an innocent one. “Not foolish so much as stupid,” she said. “She refuses to learn from her mistakes. Why, I am only halfway through the second of three volumes, and Count Rodolfo has just abducted the brainless wench for the fourth time! This time she went into the forest beyond Sir Bartholomew’s manor house after he warned her to stay in his walled garden, and only because she wished to gather wild blackberries. And of course, Count Rodolfo was just waiting for her. Moreover,” she added on a note of disgust, “the season is supposed to be early spring!”

Miss Pucklington clicked her tongue. “I fear ’tis the way of most romantic heroines to be intrepid rather than wise, but Miss Laura can scarcely be blamed for her creator’s not realizing that wild blackberries cannot be had so early in the year.”

“Well, if I were Sir Bartholomew I’d wring her silly neck or beat her till she screamed for mercy,” Carolyn said flatly, “and the fact that heroes never do such things only goes to prove how unrealistic tales like this one really are, because any gentleman who accepted responsibility for her surely would lose his temper when she continues to behave as she does.”

“True romantic heroes,” Miss Pucklington said wistfully, “see no faults in their fair beloveds, or else they love them to distraction in spite of their faults.”

“Goodness, ma’am, do you read such stuff as this?”

Miss Pucklington’s guilt was written all over her face as she said, “Not often, I confess. ’Tis difficult to indulge in such common tastes in Cousin Olympia’s presence.”

“I should think so,” Carolyn said, her imagination boggling at the thought of Miss Pucklington with her long thin nose buried in any Gothic romance, let alone in the presence of the august Olympia, dowager Lady Skipton. But Carolyn’s duty was clear nonetheless. “Look here, ma’am,” she said, getting swiftly to her feet, “the first volume of this tale is on the shelf behind Sydney’s desk—just here.” She reached for the book and took it down. “I daresay he must subscribe for nearly everything that’s printed, because I’m forever finding new ones, and he has said I may choose whatever I like. He would say the same to you, I know. Here, take it. ’Tis a most diverting tale, for all my criticism.” She held out the book, and Miss Pucklington, pink with guilty pleasure, accepted it at once.

“I am sure I should not,” she said, caressing the cover. “Oh, what will Cousin Olympia say?”

“Nothing at all if you do not show it to her,” Carolyn said, her eyes dancing with mischief, “and you know perfectly well that Sydney will not care a whit.”

“No, for he is most generous, is he not? And whatever Cousin Olympia may say about his childhood temper,” she added on a more spirited note, “Cousin Sydney would never wring a young woman’s neck. Nor would it ever enter his head to beat her, no matter what foolish thing she might have done.”

“No,” Carolyn agreed, laughing as she tried and failed to conjure up a vision of the elegant Sydney Saint-Denis ever exerting himself to such violent action. “He would fear to muss his clothes, would he not? Moreover, I doubt he has any temper, for I have certainly never seen the least hint of one.”

“No,” Miss Pucklington said gently, “and I am persuaded that in past years some of your pranks must have sorely tried the patience of a lesser gentleman. But no doubt, now that you are so near to coming of age—only a month, after all—you have outgrown your love for practical jokes.”

“There was not much scope for such nonsense either at Swainswick when last we were there, or since we came to Bathwick Hill House,” Carolyn told her with a grin, “but it does not do to allow oneself to become too sedentary, and ’tis rather a sore point with me that I have never managed really to stir Sydney up. One day I should like very much to astonish him with such a joke as he would find impossible to ignore.”

“Oh dear,” Miss Pucklington said nervously, “I ought never to have mentioned the subject, but it is not wise to provoke him, my dear, for we are all dependent upon his hospitality. Cousin Olympia assures me that we would not like to live in the Dower House, and I cannot think she would willingly return to Lord and Lady Skipton at Swainswick.”

“Nor would they willingly receive her,” Carolyn said with a laugh. “Not after she left in such high dudgeon after that awful argument with Matilda just a month after we returned from London. Matilda has invited us to spend Christmas at Swainswick, however, so perhaps they are on speaking terms again. In any event, I have no fear that Sydney will throw us out into the cold.”

“Our circumstances are scarcely similar, however,” Miss Pucklington said. “I am merely the poor relation, while you are the beloved godchild.”

“Not Sydney’s godchild,” Carolyn pointed out.

“No, but his mother’s. And you have your fortune, as well, do you not? My father left me nothing when he died.”

“These days,” Carolyn said dryly, “five thousand invested in the funds is an independence, ma’am, but scarcely a fortune, certainly not to the
beau monde
. That fact I discovered the instant I made my come-out. I did have several eligible offers—indeed, I have been twice betrothed, have I not—but I am still unwed for the simple reason that I could not imagine myself married to any of them, and since Godmama has said she will hire herself out as a cook’s maid before she will ever again stay at Skipton London House with Matilda, my second Season was doubtless my last. Godmama promised I would meet any number of eligible young men in Bath, but of course, the town being no longer the fashionable place it once was, I seem to meet only unsuitable ones, so although I did think it would be amusing to live in Sydney’s house, he keeps flitting off hither and yon to auctions and whatnot, and it has not been amusing at all.”

“Nevertheless,” Miss Pucklington said, “you will never be entirely dependent upon relations for your bread and board, as I am, nor so apprehensive of being left alone in the world.”

“Well, I don’t know about that,” Carolyn said without thinking. “The funds could be wiped out, I suppose, and most women are dependent upon someone, are they not? Of course, if you mean that I shan’t ever have to toady to some rich relative out of fear of being disowned if—Oh, forgive me,” she exclaimed, stricken by the bitter look on Miss Pucklington’s face. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, Puck! I spoke heedlessly. Oh, you must forgive me!”

“You said nothing that is not true, so there is nothing to forgive,” Miss Pucklington said, setting aside the book and picking up her knitting. “I shall just finish my shawl before I begin to read. You must pardon me if I do not speak any more just now. If I do so, I shall lose count of my stitches.”

Carolyn knew that Miss Pucklington could knit blindfolded. She knew, too, that she had killed, for the moment at least, any desire in the older woman to read a romantic tale. Consequently, and not for the first time, she found herself wishing she had bitten her tongue before speaking her thoughts aloud.

She picked up her book, but it was some time before she was able to concentrate again on Miss Laura’s adventures, because the steady clicking of knitting needles sounded a constant rebuke in her ears. At last, however, the fire’s crackling warmth and the rhythmic soughing of the wind through the trees outside the window relaxed her and she was drawn again into the tale.

When the library door flew back on its hinges and the dowager Lady Skipton, her stout figure swathed in dark blue silk edged with yards of ecru lace, sailed into the room with a fat liver-and-white spaniel huffing and puffing in her wake, Carolyn and Miss Pucklington both jumped. “So here you are, the pair of you,” the dowager announced, raising her gold-rimmed lorgnette to her pale gray eyes and glaring at them through it.

With rare presence of mind, Miss Pucklington slipped the blue volume from her lap into the knitting bag and dropped her knitting atop it as she scrambled to her feet. “Cousin Olympia, I thought you were resting. Why did you not send for me?”

Plumping her bulk down in the second wing chair with such force that Carolyn feared for its slender, delicately arched legs, Lady Skipton straightened her lace cap and said, “I should not have to send for you, Judith. Pray, hand me that red-velvet cushion. Heaven knows,” she added as Miss Pucklington hurried to place the cushion at her back, “I do not expect much in return for my generosity, but I do think you might have the goodness to remember when it is time for dear Hercules to have his little walk.”

“Oh, dear,” Miss Pucklington said, “how very remiss of me, to be sure. I had no idea the hour was so far advanced. I’ll take him at once, shall I?”

“You’ll have to fetch his lead, for I forgot to bring it down with me, and see he don’t muddy his little paws as he did yesterday. Mama likes her little man to have tidy paws,” she added in an entirely different tone as she reached to pat the spaniel, fawning at her ankles.

Carolyn, glancing at Miss Pucklington, said, “It is very cold out today, Godmama. Perhaps, just this once, one of the footmen could take Hercules out.”

“Hercules does not like footmen,” Lady Skipton said. “He bites them. And if Judith had not been stifling herself here in this hot room, she would take no notice of a slight chill. I thought,” she added, turning a basilisk glare upon Miss Pucklington, “that I gave strict orders there were to be no fires lit before supper. ’Tis an unconscionable waste of Sydney’s money, and though it was wrong in my brother Henry to have left it all to him as he did, I will not tolerate waste.”

Before Miss Pucklington could gather her wits to reply, Carolyn said, “I ordered the fire, ma’am, for I chanced to remember that Sydney would dislike it if the damp air were to harm his books or prints.”

“I am aware of that,” the dowager retorted, looking down her nose and adding with the air of one determined to have the last word, “but the fire needn’t have been such a large one.”

Miss Pucklington said in a hearty tone, “Come along, Hercules, lad,” whereupon the spaniel trotted obediently after her, leaving a distinct odor behind to inform Carolyn as plainly as words would have done that the dowager had been indulging her pet in too many of her own favorite bonbons again.

Lady Skipton, sniffing, looked accusingly at Carolyn, who flushed to the roots of her hair. But although she opened her mouth to deny responsibility, she shut it again when she could think of nothing even remotely acceptable to say.

“Stop gaping,” commanded the dowager. “You look like a hooked fish, which is not at all becoming to any young woman. If you’ve got something to say, say it!”

Pressed, Carolyn blurted, “Shall I send for one of the footmen to bank the fire, ma’am?”

“That will not be necessary,” the dowager said, stretching her feet nearer to its warmth. “I shall sit here with you until they announce that supper has been served. ’Tis likely Sydney will honor us with his presence tonight, and I make no doubt that if he does, he will applaud the little economies I have instigated in his absence.”

Since that topic was no more promising than the previous one, Carolyn said, “He has been away a sennight this time, ma’am. Why do you believe he will return tonight?” As she spoke, she tried to slip her book behind her without drawing notice to it.

The dowager seemed not to notice as she said, “I am told that the Black Dog Trust held a meeting this afternoon at Westbury, and you know my son takes his duties as a turnpike trustee most seriously. I have told Mrs. Shields to set supper back an hour to accommodate him.”

Carolyn sat up straighter. “But if you set supper back, ma’am, we shall be late leaving for the Gardens!”

“And what, pray, makes you think we are going out? I am certain I had no such intention.”

“But you did! That is, you said we might attend the next assembly there, which is tonight. What is more, it is nearly the last one until spring. Oh, you must remember, surely!”

“I remember no such thing. And why are you wriggling so? Proper young ladies sit up straight with their feet placed firmly upon the floor and their hands resting neatly in their laps. Do so at once, and—Good gracious, what is that?” she demanded as the book, freed by Carolyn’s automatic obedience to the familiar command, fell between the sofa’s back and seat and crashed to the floor. “Bring that to me at once. I cannot imagine what sort of book it must be that you attempt to conceal from me.”

Feeling suddenly more like a child of ten than a young woman rapidly approaching the twenty-first anniversary of her birth, Carolyn fumbled beneath the sofa for the book, then got up and reluctantly approached her godmother. It was at times like this, infrequent though they were, that she valued Lady Skipton’s general lack of concern with her conduct. As she put the volume in the dowager’s outstretched hand, Carolyn mentally braced herself for reprimand.

“This is not the book I gave you to read this morning.”

“No, ma’am.”

“You would have had no need to conceal that book, I think.”

“No, ma’am.”

“I cannot imagine,” the dowager went on, “where you can have come by such a book as this.”

“She got it from me, I’m afraid.” The words, spoken in a gently apologetic, masculine voice, came from behind them, and both ladies turned their heads in surprise toward the tall, slender, fair-haired, elegantly attired gentleman who had entered the library so silently that neither had heard him do so. The owner of Bathwick Hill House had come home, thus gratifying his mother by fulfilling her prophecy and delighting Miss Hardy by his exquisite timing as much as by the simple fact of his return.

M
R. SAINT-DENIS, INSTANTLY NOTING
Carolyn’s delight and unmistakable relief at his arrival, wasted no time in self-congratulation on his timely arrival, for he knew he could not long depend upon his mother to remain silent. However, no sooner had he opened his mouth to continue his bland speech when Carolyn interrupted him without ceremony to demand to know where on earth he had come by his “hideous” waistcoat.

Amused, he opened his dark-blue coat to give them a better view of the pink-and-gold-silk confection beneath and drawled, “’Tisn’t hideous, my dear, but quite admirable in fact. Trust meetings are such sober occasions, you know, and one is expected to dress appropriately, but I do like a touch of color to brighten a dreary day. I had thought to wear it evenings with knee breeches and pink and gilt clocked stockings, but Weston prevailed upon me to order an emerald one for evening and to don pantaloons and Hessians with this. You must not fail to give me your opinion of the other rig when I wear it.”