The American Heiress (12 page)

As the footmen cleared the rest of the dishes from the table and brought in the port, Father Oliver stood up and bowed to the other two men.

‘If Your Grace will excuse me, I would like to get back to the Fourth Duke. Such a devout man, quite an inspiration. Goodnight, gentlemen.’

The Duke rolled his eyes as the well-fed figure of the priest left the room. ‘He has the zeal of the convert. Takes it all very seriously. Guy and he were very thick.’ He paused and Reggie moved up to sit next to him. Silently, the Duke passed him the decanter. The room was empty now apart from the two men. The only noises were the crackle of the fire in the stone fireplace and the tapping of the Duke’s fingers as he inflicted an invisible rhythm on the polished surface of the table. Finally he spoke.

‘Thank you for coming down at such short notice. I promise the sport will be tolerable, if nothing else.’

‘It’s been too long, Ivo. I haven’t seen you since…’ Reggie stopped. The last time he had been at Lulworth was for Guy’s funeral.

Ivo looked at him, reading his thoughts. ‘It was a year ago this week. Feels longer.’

‘Is that why the Duchess is coming?’

‘She would like me to think so, but she only sent the telegram yesterday.’ The Duke did an imitation of his mother’s breathy tones. ‘I felt such an urge to be with you.’

Reggie nodded towards the door. ‘The Americans?’

‘Of course.’

‘But how did she know?’

‘At first I suspected Father Oliver of writing to her, but actually it was Charlotte. She was at Sutton Veney when the accident happened and felt that Mother ought to know.’

‘And how is Charlotte? I have hardly seen her since she married Beauchamp. Never cared for him much at school. Used to keep a diary full of his ghastly “observations”. Still can’t understand why Charlotte accepted him.’

‘Isn’t it obvious?’

‘But Beauchamp, of all people. I mean, he collects
china
.’

‘He loves beautiful things and Charlotte has always liked to be admired.’

‘But we all admired her, Ivo.’

‘But none of us had the means to display her properly.’ The Duke’s fingers, which had not stopped moving to their invisible rhythm, suddenly hit a fortissimo chord and the glasses rattled.

There was another silence. Both men drained and refilled their glasses.

‘Quite a thing, finding Miss Cash like that,’ Reggie said, looking at his friend speculatively. ‘Something of a windfall, you might say.’

Another rattle from the glasses. Finally Ivo said, ‘Well, I couldn’t very well leave her there. I had no idea that she came with all this…this stuff.’ Ivo picked up a silver coaster and sent it flying down the table. Both men watched it as it circled and slowly grew still.

‘Do you think she knew who the wood belonged to?’

‘I did wonder, especially after I met the mother, but I don’t think the daughter is a schemer. No, I think Miss Cash’s arrival at Lulworth was entirely accidental.’

‘And?’ Reggie let the monosyllable hang between them.

‘Oh, don’t be absurd. You’re as bad as my mother. Miss Cash is American…’ Ivo’s voice trailed away in disdain.

‘And spectacularly rich.’

‘As Mrs Cash never stops reminding me.’ Ivo filled his glass again and turned on his friend. ‘Have you taken a fancy to Miss Cash then, Reggie? I saw you whispering to her at dinner. Poor Sybil will be heartbroken.’

Reggie laughed. ‘I’m afraid that Miss Cash has no interest in me. But I like her, Ivo. As windfalls go, you could do a lot worse.’

But Ivo was looking up at the portrait of his mother that had been painted at the time of her first marriage. Blonde and creamy, she gazed serenely down at her son. He raised his glass to the portrait and said with sardonic clarity, ‘To the Double Duchess.’

Reggie realised that his friend was drunk. He wasn’t sure that he wanted to hear Ivo talk about the Duchess. Ivo had always been his mother’s favourite and their relationship had been relaxed and mutually admiring. Mother and son were never more aware of their own beauty and charm than when in each other’s company. But that was before his mother’s remarriage. She had been barely out of mourning when the marriage took place. There were those who would have enjoyed a spell of disapproval, but that would have been a luxury when the Duchess was so charming, so hospitable and so close to Marlborough House. But if society was prepared to overlook the Duchess’s haste, her son, it seemed, was not.

Reggie repeated his friend’s toast but without the ironical inflection.

Ivo caught the reproof and got to his feet. ‘Time to join the ladies, I think, before Mrs Cash starts rehanging the pictures.’

In the servants’ hall, Bertha accepted a glass of madeira from Mrs Softley the housekeeper. She was grateful for the warm length of it spreading through her chest. Lulworth was a good deal colder than Sutton Veney. There she had had the occasional sight of Jim to keep her warm. Here there was nothing to heat the chilly corridors.

The green baize door swung open with a clatter as the footmen came in carrying trays loaded with plates and cutlery.

As soon he got through the door, Thomas the footman burst out, ‘Did you hear what the American girl said to me when I was serving her? Said did I like having my hair powdered, like I was some kind of performing monkey. It’s not correct.’

Thomas’s handsome face was red with emotion. The other footman laughed.

‘You should be careful what you say, Thomas, she might be your new Duchess. His Grace is taking her round the house tomorrow. Do you think he’s going to show her the holes in the roof?’

The housekeeper frowned and got to her feet. ‘Thomas, Walter, that’s quite enough from you. Are the ladies still in the drawing room?’

‘Finishing up, Mrs Softley’.

She turned to Bertha. ‘In that case, Miss Cash, you will be wanting to go upstairs to your mistress.’ She paused and gave the keys on her belt a little shake. ‘Thomas and Walter are foolish boys. They mean no disrespect.’

Bertha thanked the housekeeper and began the long climb to Cora’s room. The stone flags were cold and unforgiving under her feet.

She wondered what kind of mood Cora would be in. She wouldn’t tell her what the footmen had said. Miss Cora would be quite put out to think that in the servants’ hall her destiny had already been decided. She liked to make up her own mind. But as Bertha climbed the carpetless back staircase, feeling the chill draughts from the uncurtained windows, she wondered if this was to be her new home.

The next morning a thick sea fog drifted in over Lulworth, muffling its towers and crenellations and concealing the shining view that gave even the dingiest rooms a splendid point. Cora felt the damp chill as she opened her window. She had hoped to take Lincoln out, to ride away some of the uncertainties that hung around her like cobwebs. But this was not weather to be riding in unknown country. She told Bertha to put away her habit and put on a morning dress of dove-grey wool with black frogging. It was as modest an outfit as she possessed. She remembered Reggie’s eyes flicking over her mother’s jewelled magnificence the night before.

There was no one about apart from the odd housemaid. At Sutton Veney the ladies of the house had gone to the morning room after breakfast to write letters and gossip but in this house there were no ladies to join. Cora knew she should look for her mother but she did not feel ready for the conversation that she guessed would follow.

Retracing her steps from the night before, she found herself again in the long gallery where the Duke had seen her and not seen her the night before. The stone walls reflected the light from the sea, bathing the room in a pearly haze. There was no fire lit and Cora could smell the chalky sweat of the limestone. She sat down in one of the mullioned embrasures and looked out at the grey sky. The fog had suppressed everything, even the sound of the sea was muffled.

Cora was looking up at the carved vault of the arch, trying to make out the carved motif at the apex, when she heard music. Someone was playing the piano. She walked to the end of the gallery in the direction of the sound. Cora stood for a moment and listened. It was dark choppy music, full of false starts and minor chords, lacy pianissimo passages and startling crescendos. Cora could play the piano well enough, she had the young lady’s repertory of Strauss waltzes and Chopin nocturnes, but she knew that whoever was playing was in a different class. It was not just the technical difficulty of the piece, she had the feeling that the player was completely submerged in the music.

A set of chords faded away into silence. Cora pushed open the door a fraction. The room was another stone chamber – like the gallery it seemed older and more austere than the rest of the house. In the centre of the room under a narrow arched window was a grand piano and at the keyboard sat the Duke. He was frowning down at the keyboard as if he was trying to remember something. Then he started to play. Cora recognised the piece, it was a Beethoven sonata – but she had never heard it played like this. The opening was allegro con brio, but in the Duke’s hands it was not just fast, it was dangerous. The Duke had taken off his jacket and had rolled up his shirtsleeves. From where she was standing, Cora could see his bare forearms, the tendons stretching and tensing as he reached up and down the keyboard. She stood motionless, not sure whether she wanted him to look up and discover her. Was she listening or intruding? This was private music and yet she could not bear to look away. She was fascinated by the way he swayed towards the keyboard as if he was embracing the instrument, and his complete absorption. He was, she felt sure, in another place entirely. The long glissando passage at the end of the first movement finished and he looked up for a moment. At first he looked straight through her and then she saw him register her presence with a wary smile.

She said nothing, she did not know whether she should apologise or praise his playing.

In the end he spoke first. ‘Do you know the piece?’

‘It’s Beethoven, isn’t it? My music master used to play it for me, but never like that.’ Cora was being quite truthful. She was amazed that the same piece of music could sound so different.

‘The “Waldstein”. Beethoven was in love with Countess Waldstein, but there was no question of her marrying a musician. He wrote this for her but dedicated it publicly to her brother. He was almost completely deaf when he composed it.’ He looked down at the keyboard and played a passage where the music seemed to grope for a resolution. ‘Can you hear how he seems to be looking for something? Some satisfaction?’

Cora was about to say how sad it was that Beethoven never heard his own piece but in the end stayed silent. She realised that this was the obvious thing to say and she did not want to appear obvious. She knew that she was here on sufferance. What she had taken at first for the music room was clearly the Duke’s personal sanctum. There were piles of books on the window ledges and a desk at the far end covered with papers. There were no chairs or sofas apart from an uncomfortable-looking metal campaign bed.

‘You play very well,’ she said.

He shrugged. ‘You’re too kind. I play adequately, that’s all. But I play very well for a man, certainly.’

Cora smiled. He was right, she had been surprised at the Duke’s playing at all. In her experience, the drawing-room piano as opposed to the concert hall instrument was an exclusively female instrument.

‘My mother taught me to play when I was very young. She had no daughter and she needed someone to play duets with. She would summon me after dinner and we would perform for her guests. The house was always full then, I got a lot of practice.’ He started playing a Brahms lullaby with exaggerated sweetness. ‘This was my finale. I played my own lullaby and then I was despatched upstairs to bed.’

‘Do you still play duets?’

‘No. As I grew up, we could never keep the same time. My mother always wants everything to be charming. She is all about effect, while I simply like to play.’ He pulled his finger down the keyboard in a soft glissando. He looked up at her. ‘And you, Miss Cash, do you like to play?’ The question ended in a minor arpeggio.

‘Yes,’ she said firmly, ‘I do.’ If there was challenge in his question, Cora would meet it.