Lady Elinor's Wicked Adventures (26 page)

The warning had not really been needed. Elinor had been startled by his play-acting at first, but was now ready to throw herself into the role of brainless ninny. She clutched a black-bordered handkerchief in her hand and pressed it to her breast with a sob. “This is really too much. But whatever you say, Doncaster. I am sure you know best.”

She hung weakly on his arm as he ushered her through the crowd of people to the office at the rear of the building. Pietro and Martha followed behind, along with the young agent. Pietro attempted to look servile, but Martha marched forward militantly.

The commander of the post proved to be a weary fellow, perhaps fifty years old. His moustache drooped, his shoulders drooped, and his unbuttoned tunic revealed that his stomach drooped as well. Lifting his eyes from the paper he had been studying, he regarded them mournfully and then heaved himself to his feet. “Milord.” He dipped his head in greeting.

“Ah, yes, Commander, is it?”

That produced a weary nod. “Commander will do,” he said in heavily accented but perfectly clear English.

“Excellent.” Doncaster beamed approval at him. “You speak English. Then we can get this nonsense over with quickly.”

Elinor lifted her handkerchief to her mouth and made a sound that might have been a stifled sob. Or giggle. Doncaster patted her hand.

“Yes, of course. Quickly.” The commander looked down at the paper before him. “You must understand my problem. I have been warned that a dangerous revolutionary, one of Garibaldi's trusted lieutenants, has been in Rome and is trying to escape.”

Doncaster laughed lightly. “I assure you that I am not a dangerous revolutionary, nor do I associate with such creatures.”

“Yes, of course, but I have this problem. Your manservant appears to fit the description I have been given. A young man, of average height, slim, with dark hair and eyes.” The commander shrugged his shoulders.

Doncaster looked at Pietro. “Yes, he does fit that description, doesn't he?” He turned and looked at the young customs agent. “But so does your assistant here and, I dare say, half the young men in Rome.”

The commander nodded acknowledgment of the point. “However, my assistant has been my assistant for over a year now, and what is more, his parents have been known to me for many, many years. May I assume you have known your manservant for no more than a few months?”

Doncaster tilted his head in apparent thought. “Yes, yes, a few months more or less.”

“Then, you see, he could be my revolutionary, having wormed his way into your service as a way of escaping from Rome.”

By way of reply, Doncaster burst out laughing. “Leporello?” He laughed some more. “Leporello a revolutionary? Oh my dear commander, the fellow is afraid of
spiders
!”

Pietro turned beet red as everyone turned to look at him.

The commander said, “Yes, but…”

“This is too, too dreadful,” declaimed Elinor. “I cannot bear it, my love. In our time of sorrow, when we have so recently received word of your father's death, along comes this dreadful man”—she waved her handkerchief at the commander, who stepped back as if struck—“and his idiotic suggestion that Leporello—Leporello, of all people—is a revolutionary. When we must hurry to return to England…these dreadful delays… Oh…” With her hand to her forehead, she collapsed gracefully into Doncaster's arms.

“Now see what you've done,” Martha scolded the commander. “You've gone and upset my lady when it took me half the trip here to get her calmed down.” She fished around in her handbag. “I'll need her smelling salts. Leporello, you go and make sure the baggage is all in my lady's cabin, and my lord and I will get her on board so she can lie down.”

Pietro hunched his shoulders as if expecting a blow. “Right away, miss, right away.” He scurried off.

“And you!” Martha turned back to the commander. “You should be ashamed of yourself. Upsetting my poor lady with your nonsense. As if we'd have anything to do with any of your nasty revolutionaries.”

“I think that is quite enough, Commander. I trust you have no objection to my taking my wife on board now?” Turning his back to the flustered officer, Harry put an arm around Elinor's shoulders as she revived enough to stand. “Come, my dear, I will help you to our cabin and then you can lie down. There will be no more interference from these gentlemen.” He glared at them and they nodded quickly.

Elinor sobbed noisily into her handkerchief as he led her out of the office. She continued to sob, more quietly, as he led her up the gangplank and onto the steamer. By the time they had reached their cabin, the sobs had degenerated into giggles.

There Pietro awaited them. “Spiders?” he said in outrage. “I am afraid of
spiders
?”

As he stormed out of the cabin, they collapsed on the bed in laughter.

* * *

A few days later, in the cells of the Castel Sant'Angelo, a guard was coming off duty. “Know anything about that Italian fellow who keeps complaining?” he asked his relief.

The newcomer shook his head. “All I know is, Lieutenant Girard said to keep him here until he said to let him go.”

“Girard? Didn't he just get sent to Algeria?”

That produced a laugh. “Then I guess that complaining Italian will be here for a while.”

They laughed in Marseilles when they read Pietro's note saying that he had gone to Nice to join Garibaldi.

They laughed in Lyon when they went to visit the little priest who showed visitors the clock. He remembered them and laughed with them.

They laughed in Paris when Mr. Worth tried to maintain a solemn mien while Elinor ordered a dozen stylish gowns in mourning colors. They laughed even more at the look on Mr. Worth's face when Doncaster ordered a scarlet corset. And a scarlet petticoat. And scarlet garters.

The journey took much longer than might be expected. They stopped at each town on their route early in the afternoon and departed late the next day, looking blissfully contented. It was, after all, their wedding trip.

Their laughter slowed as they neared London. Messages had gone back and forth across the Channel, so that when they landed in Dover, the Doncaster carriage was there to meet them. Harry conferred with the coachman while Norrie settled herself into the well-padded plush interior and admired the little cut-glass vases by the windows, each one holding a small posy of rosebuds. It was the sort of detail her mother would have considered ostentatious, but she found it rather charming. But foolish. It was to be hoped that the carriage was well sprung. Too severe a bump would spill the water from the vase onto her dress. It might not harm the black poplin, but it would spot the velvet trim.

She took a deep breath. Harry was taking a long time with the coachman, and she was running out of trivialities to keep the worry at bay. Would they have to confront his mother today? Even in Paris they had heard whispers about her. It was not that Elinor doubted her ability to handle her new mother-in-law. She had seen Lady Penworth manage—or rout—everyone from the queen down to a recalcitrant servant, and what her mother did, she could do. It was tempting to get the confrontation over and done with, but it would be best to have a bit more information first. Her biggest worry was that Lady Doncaster, the
Dowager
Lady Doncaster, would make life difficult for Harry.

She was not going to allow that. His parents had done enough—too much—to torment Harry. His father was gone, so he could do no more harm. If his mother tried to do anything that would make Harry unhappy, she would discover that she now had Elinor to contend with. And no one was going to make Harry unhappy if Elinor had anything to say about it. No one.

The door opened, he climbed in, and the carriage slid smoothly into motion. Harry did not look too upset. At least there was no increase in the tension that had been growing in him since they left Paris. She took his hand, and he smiled and squeezed it back.

“We can safely go to Belgrave Square,” he said. “My mother is at the Abbey. So I will be able to deal with the lawyers and all that sort of thing before I have to face her.”

That was a relief, since it was obviously a relief to Harry. She did not doubt his ability to quickly grasp the essentials about the management of the estate, and that would ease his mind. There remained one question. “Are your sisters with her?” she asked.

“No, they are with Aunt Georgina in Richmond.” He shook his head in disbelief.

Norrie frowned. “Is she unkind?”

He gave a short laugh. “She isn't even present. She is one of the family's ancient relics. The last time I saw her, she was waiting impatiently for this nonsense in France to be over so she could once more visit her friend Marie Antoinette. She thought I was some chevalier or other. Lord knows who she thinks the girls are.”

“In that case, it sounds as if there will be no difficulty when we go to fetch your sisters tomorrow.”

* * *

There were difficulties, of course. The first occurred at Doncaster House. Harry knew where it was, but he couldn't remember if he had ever actually been inside it before. He certainly didn't know any of the servants. He didn't even know where the bedrooms were. He covered his uncertainty by maintaining a frosty visage.

Elinor had no difficulty in matching his expression. She did not care for the fawning look of the butler and housekeeper, and she certainly did not care for the decoration of the house. She sincerely hoped that the estate was in healthy enough condition to bear the cost of new furnishings.

Advance warning of their arrival ensured that the rooms of the earl and countess were prepared, but nothing had been done about rooms for Harry's sisters. “Rooms for the young ladies?” a startled housekeeper said. “They've never been here these ten years or more, and then they were in the nursery. Always in the country they were.”

Elinor ordered the two best guest rooms prepared for them. They were not rooms she particularly admired, but the girls might enjoy having a hand in the decoration. A smaller room would do for the governess, whoever she might be. And if she turned out to be a timid mouse or a gloomy drudge, she could be replaced.

The next difficulty came when Harry and Elinor arrived at Aunt Georgina's house, a Georgian villa in which nothing had been changed in more than fifty years. That was interesting, but it was not the problem. Or rather the problems.

Harry's sisters seemed reasonably pleased to see him. Or more than reasonably. Olivia had flown at him like a cannonball when she saw him. Julia was reasonably pleased to be told they were removing to London.

However, they did not seem pleased to discover that Harry had a wife. When she was presented to them, they stood there in dresses of dusty black—obviously dyed by someone who had done a poor job of it—and stared at her with flat, unfriendly eyes.

“You never told us you were married,” Julia said. The words were for Harry, but the glare was all for Elinor.

“Well, I haven't been married very long,” Harry said, trying to sound reasonable. Elinor could have told him that reason wasn't going to work.

“Still, you could have written.” The younger girl, Olivia, stuck out her lower lip. “I suppose this means we will have to live with Mother.”

“It means nothing of the sort,” said Elinor briskly. “Your brother would not hear of such a thing, and neither would I. You will be living with us.” She was not accustomed to being disliked, certainly not at a first meeting, and was not sure how to proceed. However, acting confident was probably a good idea.

“Off in the nursery wing, I suppose, so you can ignore us while still doing your duty,” Julia said bitterly.

“We thought you would come back and this time you would make things better.” Olivia looked at Harry reproachfully.

Julia sniffed. “We should have known better. Nothing will change.”

“Stop this nonsense.” Harry seemed to grow taller as she looked at him, and his sisters seemed shocked into silence. “Of course things will change. Didn't I promise that when I came back I would take care of you?” His voice softened. “Well, I have come back, and now I can take care of you. I am the earl now, remember?”

His sisters looked at him uncertainly. “What does that mean?” asked Olivia.

“It means,” said Elinor, smiling proudly, “that your brother is the one who decides things like where you will live and what you may do.”

“Not our mother?” Julia looked doubtful.

“Definitely not our mother,” Harry said firmly. “Now, do you have a governess with you? Any maids of your own?” They shook their heads. Their governess had been dismissed when she protested that old gowns dyed black made inadequate mourning attire for an earl's daughters.

Not even a governess. Elinor shook her head. Olivia was only twelve. What had her mother been thinking? Stupid question. Had she ever heard anything of Harry's parents that would lead her to think they were capable of rational thought? That would lead her to think they gave their children any thought at all?

Harry turned to his wife. “It was sensible of you to bring Martha. She can supervise the girls' packing.”

She didn't remind him that he had been annoyed to find the maid in the carriage on the journey down. She simply nodded and said to the girls, “Bring only the things you want to keep. We will do some shopping in London. You obviously need new clothes.”

They looked at their brother, who nodded in turn. As they left the room, Elinor could have sworn she heard a small giggle. The thought of new clothes, even mourning clothes, can do that.

* * *

The new Lady Doncaster decided to place household concerns far down on her list of priorities. She contented herself with a quick tour of Doncaster House with the housekeeper. This was followed by a short—one might say terse—chat, during which she pointed out that she had no intention of retaining servants who were not up to the job. She expected a far higher standard of cleanliness and service than she had seen so far and gave a brief rehearsal of what she expected to see. An appointment was made for two weeks hence, at which time the situation would be evaluated. A shaken housekeeper tottered off to the kitchen to confer with her colleagues.

Then Elinor turned her attention to important matters—family matters.

Julia and Olivia were at the top of her list. Well, second on it. Harry led everything else, but at the moment he did not seem to require a great deal of her attention except, of course, at night. Just thinking about what happened at night made her stop whatever she was doing and sigh blissfully. Being married was so delicious that she could not imagine why anyone remained single. Other people weren't married to Harry, so that probably made a difference.

During the day, she began making rapid progress with the girls after she went through their wardrobes and threw out practically all their garments.

“Mother said that since we are in mourning and no one will see us, it would be more sensible to simply dye our old dresses black,” Julia said.

“What utter nonsense. We don't dress to impress other people.” Elinor paused to consider. “Well, sometimes we do. But for the most part the way we dress reflects the way we think of ourselves. A woman who goes around in worthless rags will begin to think she is worthless even if she didn't think that way in the first place. And you, my pets, are not worthless.”

As she noted the girls' surprised confusion, her mouth tightened. Their mother had apparently considered her daughters worthless and had not even tried to hide her opinion from them. Elinor picked up a chemise with at least a dozen patches, made a sound of disgust, and ripped it across.

The new Earl of Doncaster was spending his days in conference with lawyers and men of business. To his enormous relief, the estate was actually in healthy condition. The late earl had preferred brandy to business, but was not entirely a fool. He had left his affairs in the hands of a highly capable man of business. Nor had the earl's wife been able to run up disastrous bills. She received her allowance promptly each quarter, and jewelers, milliners, and all others had soon discovered that neither the earl nor his man of business could be induced to pay a penny more to cover her bills.

No one was inclined to mention the rumors about how those bills were paid.

There was more relief when he learned that the Dowager Lady Doncaster was entitled to a perfectly respectable widow's portion, including either a country house in Wiltshire or a house in London, as she chose. It was all settled, and he did not have to make any decisions about it.

In the will, Harry was named guardian of his sisters, with no role for their mother, and quite respectable dowries had been set aside for them. That rather bothered him, he told Norrie in the early hours of the morning when confidences are exchanged. “I suppose he didn't know me well enough to realize that I would take care of them.”

“Nonsense,” Norrie said. “It was only sensible to make provision for them in his will. You might have died on your travels, and they would have been left to the tender mercies of whoever inherited the title. Who is next in line, by the way?”

He frowned. “I don't know. There must be a cousin or two someplace.”

“You see? They would have been left to the care of a total stranger who might have felt no obligation to them at all. That provision is an indication of your father's good heart, not his distrust.”

A resigned smile slowly spread across his face. “You'll make a saint of my father yet.”

Eventually Harry had dealt with all the problems that could be dealt with in London. It was time to travel to Bradenham Abbey and deal with his mother.

“I think I should go down to the Abbey by myself first,” he said, standing in front of the mirror trying to tie a neat bow in his cravat. He still had not hired a valet. Norrie seemed to enjoy helping him out of his clothes.

She did not, however, seem to enjoy his remark.

“You think you should do
what
?”

“Go down first by myself. You know, make sure everything is put to rights before you see it for the first time. After all, it's going to be our home. I don't want you to have a poor first impression of the place.” He was still facing the mirror, but she was perfectly visible in it, and she was not looking happy. Angry was more like it. Furious might be an even better description.

“What absolute twaddle. As if you would have the least notion of how to put a house to rights. What is this all about?”

He gave up his struggle with the cravat and turned to face her. “My mother is there.”

“We knew that, didn't we?”

“I don't want her anywhere near you.”

“Oh, Harry, I know that's what you want, but it's not going to be completely possible. Sooner or later we will have to deal with her, and it might as well be sooner.”

“It's not that.” He stood there frowning. “We don't have to deal with her. I have to deal with her.”

“Well, I'm not going to let you face her by yourself, and that is final.”

The frown eased, and he shook his head at her in fond despair. “It's just that…I can't think of any good way to say this. She isn't alone.”