Angel in Scarlet (61 page)

“You're the one who suggested the salmon and said we could probably match it with the marble from Siena. I can't tell you how pleased I am with the way it's turning out.”

“Fine,” he said. “Be careful with that sheet of marble!” he bellowed. “Ease it up gently, men. Gently, I say! I'm glad you're pleased, Lady Meredith. If you'll excuse me, I'll get back to my men. This is a very crucial step. One slip and an irreplaceable sheet of marble would be rubble.”

I nodded, ignoring his rudeness. The dour Scot had insulted the majority of his aristocratic clientele, causing counts to grind their teeth and leaving haughty duchesses apoplectic, but so great was his vogue, so elegant his work, they would have endured twice the insults. Feeling like an intruder in my own home, I made my way out of the ballroom, almost colliding with one of the ladders and causing an Italian artisan with palette of gold leaf to emit a highly volatile curse.

Wending my way through the corridors, I entered the drawing room in front of the house, off the main foyer. It was done in shades of white, light gray and sky blue, with sapphire blue velvet covering the graceful Chippendale sofa and chairs. Over the lovely white and blue-gray marble Adam fireplace hung
An Angel in Scarlet
, the focal point of the room. I gazed at the painting, marveling anew at the rich, glowing colors and the sad expression in the eyes of that beautiful young woman who seemed a stranger to me now. So much had happened since I had posed in Gainsborough's cluttered studio over five years ago. This painting had changed the entire course of my life, and the woman standing now in the drawing room of Greystone Hall scarcely recognized the pensive girl in deep scarlet velvet. I was no longer the same person who had posed for the famous portrait.

Sighing, I turned just as Mrs. Rigby came into the room, her black taffeta skirts rustling crisply, the keys at her waist making a merry jangle. Mrs. Rigby was the housekeeper, a plump, efficient woman with clear blue eyes and a number of silver streaks in her severely bunned black hair. A pleasant, tactful woman who had done all she could to make things easy for me, she was a tyrant with the staff of maids, seeing that all work was done promptly, correctly and as unobtrusively as possible. While others might have been martyred by the invasion of workmen, Mrs. Rigby took it in her stride without a complaint. She and I met here in the drawing room every day at nine so that she could receive “instructions” for the day. They generally consisted of her suggestions that today might be a good day to clean the chandeliers or polish the silver or air the linens in the upstairs cupboards and my agreeing that yes, that would be a dandy idea. Mrs. Rigby was eager to acknowledge my authority and pleased that I had no intentions of usurping her own.

Greystone Hall employed some twenty-seven servants, including footmen and grooms, and Mrs. Rigby and Putnam, the butler, ran things so smoothly that one was rarely aware of their presence except when they were serving. Putnam had been with the family for thirty years, rising from footman to his present exalted rank, while Mrs. Rigby had only been here for twelve. I considered myself fortunate indeed to have so splendid a staff, but I often thought longingly of Tabby, whose bossy ways had kept me in line at Leicester Fields. That cheeky young lady was now working for the Gainsboroughs and making life hell for Jenkins, whom she had married shortly after Clinton and I were wed. Mrs. Gainsborough's letters were full of humorous descriptions of the newlyweds' antics, and I invariably smiled when I thought of them together.

Having listened to Mrs. Rigby's tactful suggestions for the day, I agreed to them all and dismissed her. It was nine-fifteen, and I had three hours to fill before Clinton came back for lunch, another four after that before he was through for the day. While I was pleased that Clinton took his duties so seriously, I had to admit that time frequently hung heavy on my hands. Adam didn't want me underfoot, the house was run beautifully without my lifting a hand and there was precious little for me to do. It had been several weeks since I had been to see Eppie, and I decided to pay her another call this morning, although the other visits had been curiously strained and uncomfortable.

Fetching my heavy cloak, I left the house and went around to the stables. Ian, the brawny young groom, greeted me with a wide grin and told me 'e'd 'ave Cynara all saddled up an' ready quick as a flash. With his sun-streaked brown hair, lively blue eyes and sunny disposition, Ian was a particular favorite of mine, always polite and prompt but never obsequious. He was a merry lad, not quite eighteen but already a rogue with the ladies, causing quite a stir among the pretty housemaids. It was Ian who had picked out the right saddle for me when I had decided to ride astride, abandoning the fine leather sidesaddle. I found riding astride much more natural and comfortable, although Clinton wryly informed me that I was scandalizing the countryside. Ladies, it seemed, didn't ride astride like red Indians. It wasn't done.

Standing there in the sunny cobbled yard in front of the stables, I could smell damp hay and horseflesh, old leather and manure, an earthy, not unpleasant odor that invariably reminded me of Hugh. I tried not to think about him, but it was difficult not to do so. His ghost seemed to haunt the stables, the grounds. I carefully avoided that section of the garden with rose trellis and marble bench where, from my perch in the tree, I had first seen him and he had called off the dogs. Over a year had passed since he had left me there at the cottage I had taken for the summer, and although I told myself that I was completely over him, the memories were still painful.

Poor Hugh, traveling around Italy at this very moment no doubt, driven by his obsession, spending his ill-gotten gains searching for evidence that had never existed. Happiness could have been his, could have been ours, if only he had been willing to give up that futile quest. How supremely ironic it was that I was now living at Greystone Hall and had the title, the wealth, all the luxuries he had claimed I couldn't be happy without. And I
was
happy, I assured myself, not because of the material things but because, for the first time in my life, I was loved by a man who put me first. I didn't love Clinton with that consuming passion I had felt for Hugh, nor did he make me feel the wild exhilaration and joyous abandon Jamie had stirred within me, but love him I did, in my way. It was a quieter love, much more genteel, and, ultimately, much more satisfying, without the emotional highs and lows that took so heavy a toll. I was very lucky to have him, and I was determined to make him happy.

“'Ere she is, Milady!” Ian announced, bringing Cynara around. “An' full of spirit this mornin'!

Cynara whinnied with delight when she saw me, prancing quite outrageously on the cobbles. Her chestnut coat gleamed with glossy highlights in the morning sun. I patted her cheek, told her to behave herself and, with Ian's help, swung up into the saddle, arranging my skirts demurely around me. Ian handed me the reins, and I was soon on my way, leaving house and grounds behind, riding at a brisk gallop down the road, amidst countryside I knew so well. There were the woods where I had climbed trees and searched for mushrooms as a child and there the fields where I had picked wildflowers, there the old gray wooden stile I had used to get over the low stone wall. Up ahead, branching off the road, was the familiar lane with its masses of rhododendrons, and as I rounded a curve I could glimpse the rooftops of the village in the distance.

I rarely went to the village except for an occasional trip to Blackwood's to pick up the newest books. As a child I had known everyone, been readily accepted as the schoolmaster's daughter, but there had been a complete change in the villagers' attitude toward me. I had left the village, and I had gone to wicked London. I had become an actress, which most of them equated with becoming a prostitute, and now I had returned as Lady Meredith and all those people who had welcomed young Angie with a smile weren't about to be friendly with me now. Oh, they were polite enough. They called me “Milady” and “Lady Angela,” but there was a distinct reserve and, I suspected, a bit of resentment as well. I was no longer one of them. I was an outsider, and I was treated as such. I was rejected by my own class, and Clinton's had never accepted me in the first place.

Our marriage had, of course, caused a furor of talk among those affluent, beribboned, beplumed and powdered dames and dandies who thought themselves the select few of this world. Though there wasn't a closet not crammed with skeletons, as Solonge had pointed out, and though their behavior set new standards in rudeness and frequently in depravity as well, a common actress would never, never be welcome in their drawing rooms and salons. One
slept
with an actress and bought her bright baubles and kept her in a plush apartment, but one never
married
her. Lord Clinton Meredith had done the unthinkable, and his friends and fellow aristocrats were deliciously scandalized. Not a single one of them had come to visit since we had returned to Greystone Hall, nor had we been invited to any of their hunts or balls. It mattered not a jot to me, but I was rather concerned for Clinton's sake.

Clinton told me not to worry. We would win them over, he assured me. As soon as they met me they were sure to respond to my beauty, my charm, my natural breeding. They hadn't come to call, true, but as soon as the renovations were finished we would give an elaborate ball and invite them all. They would all come, he promised, out of curiosity if for no other reason, and they would find the new Lady Meredith enchanting and welcome her into the ranks with open arms. I had my doubts about that, but I wasn't going to argue. How free and easy, friendly and caring Covent Garden seemed now that I had left it. There were no class distinctions in the theater, and wit, talent and personal accomplishment were the only criteria by which one was judged. Would that the rest of the world could be as tolerant.

It was a bright, crisp morning as Cynara and I sped along, my hair bouncing about my shoulders, the cloak billowing out behind me. Gently tugging the reins, I directed Cynara onto a side road and we passed more fields and a bank of trees, and then I saw the McCarry place in the distance. The farmhouse was seriously in need of a new coat of paint. The roof could stand repair. Three small boys were playing in the front yard, and a little girl sat on the porch, gently cradling a beautiful doll. The boys stopped playing and stared when I rode up and stopped, slipping out of the saddle. The little girl clutched her doll as though she feared I might take it away from her. No more than three, she had large blue eyes, a dirty face and fluffy pale blonde hair.

“Hello, Millicent,” I said. “My, what a beautiful doll.”

Millicent lowered her eyes shyly, holding the doll even closer. The oldest little boy came over and, taking the reins, informed me that he would take care of Cynara. I thanked him and turned as the front door opened. Eppie was wearing a yellow cotton dress sprigged with tiny brown flowers, a garment that had seen better days. Her hair, a listless blonde now, was stacked on top of her head, stray locks spilling down, and the enormous brown eyes had lost that lively sparkle. Her face was sadly lined. Eppie was exactly one year older than I, and she looked forty. Smiling a shy smile, she led me inside.

“So nice of you to call, Lady Angela,” she said.

“It's Angie, Eppie,” I told her. “I thought I made that clear last time I was here. We're old friends.”

She nodded, still shy and ill at ease. What had become of that vivacious silly goose of a girl who resembled a giraffe with her long neck and lean, angular body? She had married her handsome Jamie McCarry and moved to this farm and given birth to four children. The vitality and zest for life had vanished long ago. It seemed a tragedy to me. Eppie had gotten exactly what she wanted from life and was quite content with her lot. Perhaps that was the greatest tragedy of all. She led me into the “parlor” of which she was so proud, a small, spotlessly clean room with cheap, shiny furniture. A vase of wildflowers, the colored shawl spread over the sofa and the seven blue and gold plates hanging on the wall made a rather pathetic attempt at elegance.

“I'll just run make some tea, Lady An-Angie. Won't take a minute.”

“It's really not necessary, Eppie. I just finished breakfast. I thought we might just—visit for a while.”

Eppie smiled again and asked me to sit down, indicating the sofa. When I was comfortably settled, she sat down herself in one of the armchairs. Eppie and I had grown up together and she had been my closest friend for years. Now she was uncomfortable around me, clearly in awe.

“I—I want to thank you for the things you sent the children,” she said shyly. “The boys loved their presents, and Millicent hasn't let that doll out of her sight. I must thank you for—for the things you sent me, too. I never had such a lovely dress. I'm keeping it to wear on special occasions. You didn't have to send all those things, Angie.”

“I wanted you and the children to have them.”

“Lord Meredith takes wonderful care of his tenant farmers, has ever since he came back from London and settled down at Greystone Hall, but people didn't expect you to take an interest in 'em, too. Expected you to be flashy and affected, they did, all paint and put-on. Angie ain't like that, I told 'em. I wudn't at all surprised when I heard about all the nice things you've done for people. Folks in the village might be standoffish, but the wives of the farmers think you're a regular Lady Bountiful.”

“I haven't done that much,” I said.

“You took medicine to Claire Weatherford when she was down with the fever and nursed her yourself. You bought shoes for all the Miller kids and a brand new stove for Anna Henderson. You've taken an interest in all the families of the tenant farmers, ain't too good to go visit 'em, stay for a cup of tea. No other Lady of Greystone Hall ever did that.”