Sattler, Veronica (24 page)

Upstairs,
looking down from where she was standing at the front window of the chamber
she'd been assigned by Mrs. Busby, Ashleigh bit her lip in consternation. She'd
been dreading this moment for two days, ever since Brett had left and a brief
and highly uncomfortable meeting with Lady Margaret soon thereafter had left
her with the knowledge that Brett's fiancée would be arriving soon. Yesterday
Lady Margaret had had herself driven over to the Hastings estate, which,
Ashleigh now knew, bordered the western acreage of Ravensford Hall and was
called Cloverhill Manor. There the duke's great-aunt had spent the better part
of the afternoon, returning shortly after teatime to announce to the staff that
they might expect Lady Elizabeth in the late morning.

There
had been no direct contact between Ashleigh and Lady Margaret herself at this
time. Instead, Brett's great-aunt had seen fit to inform her through a written
message delivered by one of the footmen to Ashleigh's chamber:

His
Grace's fiancée, the Lady Elizabeth Hastings, will be arriving tomorrow shortly
before noon. Please do not consider it necessary to act the hostess on this
occasion, for I shall be seeing to this duty myself, as I have always done in
the past. You may present yourself in the blue drawing room shortly after Lady
Elizabeth arrives, however, for an introduction, as I have already told her of
your presence and she had expressed a desire to meet you. I shall send a
footman up to collect you at the appropriate time. Please be prompt.

Lady
Margaret Westmont

Ashleigh
shivered, despite the pleasant warmth of the day, as she recalled the contents
of the coldly worded message. She could just imagine Lady Margaret informing
the young woman of her "presence," and all that that had entailed!
After all, why else had the older woman taken it upon herself to visit
Cloverhill Manor personally to arrange this visit? And she had stayed for
hours! It didn't take too much imagination to reconstruct what had transpired
during the exchange between the two women—"My dear, I know you must find
it difficult to bear, but the truth had to be told.... Yes, he found her in a
house of ill fame.... She was employed there.... No, my dear, I have tried my
best to dissuade Brett from entering into this piece of folly, but to no
avail.... He insists upon having the tart installed at the Hall.... Be brave,
my dear—we all have our crosses to bear, and surely, once you are duchess and
mistress of Ravensford Hall, you will be in a position to dismiss the little
beggar at the first opportunity...."

Ashleigh
turned from the window and sighed. From what she had just seen, Elizabeth
Hastings appeared every inch a lady, the epitome of the best the English
aristocracy had to offer. Tall and willowy, she wore her pale, flaxen beauty
with an assurance that proclaimed to all who viewed it that she was a pampered
darling of her class. From the top of her fashionable blue bonnet to the tips
of her elegantly shod, satin-slippered feet, she had stood before the entrance
to Ravensford Hall as if she already owned it; the regal air of her posture,
the aristocratic manner in which she held her head, her very walk as she moved
toward the house—all bespoke an attitude of assumed acceptance of grace and
privilege that had been bred into her lineage long before she was born, and
been taken as her due from the time she had been in the cradle.

How
could she, Ashleigh Sinclair, an orphan who had worked as a menial in a
brothel, even begin to deal with the day-to-day presence of such a creature?
And especially with the lady knowing how she had come to be employed here! Oh,
it was almost too much to contemplate, let alone act on!

She
glanced down at the buttercup-yellow, sprigged muslin day gown she wore and
thought briefly of the smile of pleasure it had brought when she viewed it in
the cheval glass this morning after Megan had helped her dress. With matching
yellow primroses woven into her carefully braided coronet with a cascade of
curls tumbling out of it and down her back, she had thought herself more than
passably pretty and ever so chic. But now, with the image of the elegantly
gowned noblewoman who waited downstairs firmly entrenched in her mind, she
felt, by comparison, like a callow schoolgirl about to brave her first grown-up
tea.

Oh,
if only Megan were here! But, for some reason, Lady Margaret had arranged for
her presence elsewhere at this time, having sent word through Mrs. Busby that
Megan was to meet Mr. Busby at the stables for the purpose of assisting him in
the selection of a pair of suitable mounts for her and Ashleigh to use while
they lived here. Ashleigh had thought little of the message at the time, but
Megan, quick to sense something in the directive, had laughed, saying,
"Ah, 'tis a clever old crone she is, t' be herdin' me out o' sight when
the favored princess comes t' call. 'Twill be difficult enough havin' t'
explain
yer
presence t' the likes o' Lady Blueblood, but how d' ye think
she'd explain
me?
Aye, Her High-and-Mightiness knows what I be, darlin',
make no mistake about that," Megan had continued. "I have it on the authority
o' the household's highly efficient servants' grapevine that the Lady Margaret
sent a footman t' Hampton House the day we arrived with some questions about me
and me illustrious past.
Wirra,
but I'd love t' have seen the expression
on her face when she received all her answers!"

Ashleigh
gave a small, rueful smile at the recollection of Megan's words. Her friend's
easygoing manner and witty sense of humor had been the mainstay and saving
grace behind much that she'd had to deal with in recent years, and had taught
her a great deal about meeting life's difficulties and making the best of them.
But there was certainly nothing of this Megan, the one she knew and called her
friend, that Lady Margaret could have learned of, or guessed at, from the inquiries
she'd made. Indeed, it would have been difficult even for Ashleigh herself to
have told a stranger what the tall redhead was really like. How could anyone,
in a few short words, paint a picture of a woman whose unfortunate choice of
profession was the least of what she was?

And
even where Megan's career at Hampton House was concerned, there was so much
that
ought
to be told—and wouldn't be—of how she'd come to be there. How
did one explain to an inquiring stranger what it was like to be the terrified daughter
of an impoverished Irish widow with many young mouths to feed? How did one
express the half-told stories Megan had allowed to come to light over the
years, of what it had been like to be sixteen when your adored father died and
you found yourself the eldest of ten children, and going to bed at night to the
sounds of the younger ones crying themselves to sleep because they were hungry?
Would a stranger care that most of Megan's hard-earned coins had been sent back
to Ireland to keep alive the loved ones she had left behind? And even if
someone had taken the trouble to try to find out such things, there was no
likelihood that anyone at Hampton House could have told him, for Megan rarely
spoke to its inhabitants of her past. The little that Ashleigh knew had only
slipped out here and there during their friendship, until, by bits and pieces,
Ashleigh had at last begun to understand.

Ashleigh
shook her head, and her lips twisted into a wry shadow of a smile as she
thought of the two women downstairs and the impossibility of their ever
understanding the likes of Megan O'Brien. And with her next thought, the smile
disappeared. Indeed, what was the likelihood of their ever understanding
her?
Brett had explained to Lady Margaret how it was she had come to be in this
situation; but had it mattered or even been believed? And if Lady Margaret was
so far from being inclined to accept her presence here, wasn't the possibility
of Lady Elizabeth's doing so even more remote? "...She has expressed a
desire to meet you," the note had said. Why? Was she curious about a
creature foolish enough to allow herself to be so compromised? Would she gawk
at Ashleigh, would she—?

Suddenly
Ashleigh stopped and considered where her thoughts were leading her.
Grab
hold of yourself, Ashleigh Sinclair!
she scolded.
All this worrying will
certainly not help the matter, and perhaps it's even unnecessary. It could be
that Elizabeth Hastings is a warm, compassionate person, ready to meet and
accept you on friendly terms. After all, truly, why else would she express an
interest in meeting you? Yes, fix your thoughts on that. Her wanting to meet
you is a positive sign. All you need do is behave graciously and everything
will be just fine. You'll—

At
that moment there came a knock at the door, and Ashleigh took just a second to
paste a smile of what she hoped looked like confidence on her face before she
opened it. "Yes?"

A
liveried footman whom she recognized as the older son of the Busbys made a
small bow. "You are expected in the Blue Room, Miss Sinclair," he
said in words spoken so carefully Ashleigh suspected they'd been rehearsed.

She
smiled at the young man's earnestness, knowing he'd been promoted to this
position only a short while ago and was trying his best to look and sound like
a footman and not the stable boy he'd been. He looked so uncomfortable in his
new clothes, Ashleigh felt sorry for him, but she fought to keep this from
showing. "Thank you, Jonathan," was all she said, and then followed
him downstairs.

The
blue drawing room of Ravensford Hall was a large, magnificently furnished
chamber more than forty feet wide and half again as long. Undoubtedly receiving
its name from the blue-damask-covered walls and perhaps the predominance of
blue in the Savonnerie carpet that was an elegant feast for the eye, with its
cool colors and soft, exotically shaped patterns, the vast chamber successfully
blended the splendors of Renaissance treasures with native English elegance and
charm. Complementing its generous scale was the grandeur of its focal point: an
enormous marble and gilt rococo fireplace, complete with overmantel mirror and
elaborate frieze above, and an Italian tapestry fire screen below. Flanking
this was a pair of massive ebony and gold ormolu cabinets. Paintings by
Tintoretto, Van Dyck and Canaletto rested comfortably on the walls beside
others by Lely, Reynolds and Turner. The ceiling was a study in the classical
arabesque mode, its ivory and gilt-toned decoration echoing the colors of the
cut-velvet patterned draperies hanging at the floor-to-ceiling windows.

But
despite this impressive, formal ornamentation, the room had a warm, inviting
look to it, and Ashleigh decided it must be because of the small, random
groupings of the Adam furniture that filled much of its space. These clusters
of chairs and tables seemed to invite intimate conversation, and she began to
breathe in a more relaxed fashion when she stepped forward into the room and
beheld Lady Margaret and Lady Elizabeth in such a setting.

Jonathan
Busby had been replaced at the doorway by Jameson, the austere-looking butler
who announced, "Miss Sinclair, my lady," and then backed out of the
room, pulling the double doors shut after him.

"Thank
you for coming, Miss Sinclair," said Lady Margaret from the chair where
she remained seated. "Please come forward."

As
Ashleigh approached the two women, she had a moment to observe them. Lady
Margaret wore the black of mourning in the form of a plain cotton day gown with
narrow, tight-fitting sleeves and a high neckline. Unrelieved by ornamentation
of any kind, it served to call attention to her face and hair. Indeed, the
latter, which was snow-white and piled atop her head in thick, natural waves,
seemed an ornament of sorts in itself. Her long, narrow face retained something
of what once must have been an arresting beauty, for the features were even and
well balanced over a bone structure that was strong and better able than most
to withstand the ravaging effects of age. But it was a pale face, almost
ghostly in its lack of color, except for the piercing blue eyes that were its
focal point and were presently fixed on Ashleigh in an acute, assessing gaze.

To
Lady Margaret's right, in a matching armchair sat Elizabeth Hastings. If
Ashleigh had thought Brett's fiancée beautiful from her glimpse at the window,
now she was positively overwhelmed. Lady Elizabeth had to be the finest
specimen of female perfection she'd ever seen. Hair so pale in its flaxen
silkiness that it appeared almost silver under her ice-blue bonnet, curled
charmingly about a perfect oval face. Widely spaced, silvery-gray eyes gazed
coolly at Ashleigh from beneath delicate, silvery arched brows in a
porcelain-smooth complexion. Her small nose, slightly aquiline and finely
boned, formed a perfect counterpoint to her soft, delicately curved mouth,
which was the cupid's bow fashion loved. Like. Lady Margaret, she held her
tall, willowy frame regally erect in her seat, never allowing her back to touch
that of the chair. Her ice-blue, softly flowing Empire day gown clung to her slender
figure in graceful folds, and it was smartly accented with rows of delicate
lace at the square, low neckline and at the edges of its soft little puffed
sleeves. Finally, making the definitive statement as to her wealth and class,
there was her jewelry. A pair of large, perfectly matched, diamond-encircled
sapphires studded her earlobes, echoed by the sapphire pendant she wore about
her neck on a fine silver chain. Wealth, elegance, breeding—they were all
there, and with this fact staring her blatantly in the face, Ashleigh's impulse
was to turn and run—not only out of the room and away from these two women so
obviously far above her on the social scale, but out of Ravensford Hall and all
they represented—never to return.