The Shadow and the Star (26 page)

"Eliot!" Lady Cove said, sitting up with her hands fluttering in excitement. "Oh, yes, I remember it as if it were yesterday! That great trial!"

"The last trial of a peer before the Lords," Miss Lovatt intoned, keeping her voice conformed to the solemnity of the topic. "At Her Majesty's request. So there! You see what it must be."

Leda and Mrs. Wrotham only blinked in bewilderment at the triumphant conclusion to this confused-sounding tale. "I'm sure I don't see what burning up little children in the House of Lords has to do with Leda, any more than does Latin," Mrs. Wrotham said in an injured voice.

"Of course it has nothing to do with Latin," Miss Lovatt stated with certainty. "Leda's position will be with the same man. Lord Ashland. The marquess."

"No, no," Leda said. "He's not the marquess at all. His name is Mr. Gerard."

Miss Lovatt gave her a pitying look. "You're a very good girl, Leda, but not very clever. I'm sure I don't know what sort of an amanuensis you will make to anyone if you are so easily perplexed. I'm not speaking of Mr. Gerard, dear. I'm speaking of his connections. Lord and Lady Ashland. It will be the same man, do you not see? The lost marquess himself."

"Oh," Leda said humbly.

"And whom did he marry?" Miss Lovatt asked herself. "There was some further scandal attached to it… I cannot put my finger—Morrow, do you say?"

Leda was dispatched to retrieve Mrs. Wrotham's Peerage from the boudoir. When she returned, the ladies pounced upon the book as if it had been the tablets brought down from the mountain, disputing delicately over who should make the investigation. Lady Cove was quickly dismissed for her inability to spell, and Mrs. Wrotham, though sole proprietor of the copy, could not turn the pages quite promptly enough for Miss Lovatt, who finally took the volume into her own hands and made the identification.

"Meridon," she announced, poring over the page with her lorgnette. "Gryphon, Arthur. G-R-Y-P-H-O-N. What a heathenish spelling of Griffon! Lord Ashland, sixth Marquess, tenth Earl of Orford and fourteenth Viscount Lyndley; born 1838; son Lord Arthur Meridon of Ashland Court and Calcutta and Lady Mary Caroline Ardline; married Lady Terese Elizabeth Collier, daughter Lord Morrow; one son, one daughter of the union; traveled extensively in scientific and botanical expeditions; naval advisor to H.M. King Ka—Kala—I don't believe I am able to pronounce that—His Majesty of the Hawaiian Islands; Chairman, Arcturus Limited; a director of—some other outlandish name—K-A-I-E-A—"

"Oh, yes," Leda said eagerly. "That is Mr. Gerard's own company."

"Pray do not interrupt your elders, Leda," Miss Lovatt said. "Lord Ashland is a director of this company, president of a number of what appear to be charitable organizations having to do with sailors, a member of several clubs, and prefers yachting as his recreation. His seat is Ashland Court, Hampshire. Other addresses, Westpark, Sussex, and Ho-no-lu-lu, Hawaii."

"They came with the Hawaiian party for the Jubilee," Leda offered, "but Mr. Gerard said that no definite date has been set to conclude the visit. He believes they may remove to Lady Ashland's home at Westpark and stay into autumn."

"Ashland," Mrs. Wrotham murmured, fretting her fingers. "Dear me, I believe I saw that name—do bring me the Court circular, Leda my love. I'm certain it is on my dressing table."

Leda, knowing Mrs. Wrotham, took her certainty with some mistrust, and finally located the requested paper on the sideboard in the breakfast room. After another deep perusal, the names of Lord and Lady Ashland were duly noted as having attended several exclusive functions of the Jubilee, just as Leda had said, and it was verified that their daughter Lady Catherine Meridon had already had the honor of being presented to the Queen. When Mr. Gerard's name was located, quite by accident, in tiny print on the long list of those invited to attend the Queen's garden party, Leda's situation was assured. If the office of the Lord Chamberlain considered Mr. Samuel Gerard of Honolulu suitable to appear at court festivities—informal ones, at any rate—then the ladies of South Street must naturally do the same.

Ancient and dimly recalled scandals were forgotten. From being somewhat suspicious of Leda's new employment, the ladies began to be rather in awe of her and her noble connections, and Mrs. Wrotham felt that she should have put on her Parisian cap instead of the second-best lace, and begged Leda's pardon for overlooking this mark of respect. Leda beseeched her not to give it a moment's thought, but the old lady really was distressed, and wished several times that Leda might not think her exceedingly dowdy, and hoped Leda would call again next week so that everything could be done just in the proper manner, and Mrs. Wrotham would have time to bid Cook to make her special lemon cakes in honor of the occasion.

Leda departed in a warm cloud of congratulations that-burst into a regular blaze of glory when it was realized that the victoria waiting in the street outside had been provided by Mr. Gerard. For just a moment, Miss Lovatt frowned a little and wasn't quite certain that it was perfectly proper for Leda to be seen in an unmarried gentleman's carriage, but a little further thought convinced her that as it was an open victoria, very modestly trimmed with only one thin and discreet band of gold paint around the wheels, and a footman up beside the driver, both in their burnished top hats and white gloves, really, no one could find anything lax about the arrangement. A very pretty mark of regard it was, she believed, to put a proper vehicle at his secretary's convenience. She was sure that Mr. Gerard was an excellent gentleman.

Even though Leda, being an intimate in South Street, had stretched her call a little longer than the correct quarter hour, she still arrived back at Morrow House very early in the afternoon. Sheppard informed her that Mr. Gerard was still occupied with business in his own chamber. Over the past few days, Leda had found that her employer spent a deal of time at business in his own chamber, the nature of which seemed to be obscure, although she was evidently the only one who found that circumstance intriguing. But then, she found altogether too much about Mr. Gerard intriguing, she reminded herself sternly.

He had left a request with Sheppard that he wished for her to await him in the library. Leda obediently repaired there, after accepting Sheppard's suggestion for tea. She knew from experience that the tray would arrive piled high with macaroons, sandwiches, scones, and cream in a most ungenteel manner, but having spent the luncheon hour amid elegant scarcity in South Street, Leda was willing to be vulgar.

She thought that with her first compensation, due on Monday she believed, she might send a crassly heavy basket of excellent comestibles from Harrods grocery shop to South Street—perhaps even give a small dinner in a private parlor at Claridges, if the ladies could be persuaded to enter a hotel.

Before the tea arrived, Leda considered the situation of meeting with Mr. Gerard in the library, and opened all three doors in the room. He would not like it; no doubt he would insist on closing them, but Leda was determined at least to make an effort. She stood for a moment looking through into the empty ballroom, admiring the exquisite plasterwork and huge chandeliers. It was famous as the most gorgeously decorated such room in Mayfair. To add to the superlative embellishments of gilt and crystal, between each window stood tall stands full of living orchids, their blooms all in shades of yellow and gold against the crimson damask walls. Leda imagined a waltz, the gowns drifting out in whirls of color as the ladies held up their trains over gloved arms; the gentlemen dark and splendid. She did not happen to know how to waltz, but she had seen one once, and imagined it must be the most delightful sensation to spin about the floor to the lilting music.

Inevitably, she thought of dancing with Mr. Gerard, and turned away vexed with herself. Her tea came, carried by one of the footmen, and Leda took herself back to sit down in a straight-backed chair of
faux
bamboo. She had brought home a copy of the
Illustrated News
. If she'd had the leisure, and the nerve, she would have called at the offices of the
Times
and asked to see the preserved newspapers from forty years ago, but her audacity was not quite up to her inquisitiveness. And after all, it was an agreeably irreproachable pleasure to sip her tea and chew thoughtfully at a macaroon as she read the latest intelligence of the Jubilee. The eventful week was half over—there were several reviews scheduled for tomorrow, and Her Majesty's garden party remained for Friday. Leda read the anticipated details with particular interest, knowing now that Mr. Gerard had been invited, even if he could not attend.

Her heart gave a heavy pump when she saw the second-page headline. Japanese sword found. Beneath it, a subheading informed her Thief Still At Large. As she read in frowning concentration, it became clear that no progress at identifying the criminal had been made—or at least, no information about progress had been given to reporters. The sword itself had been located by an estate agent during a routine audit of an unfurnished house to let in Richmond—miles away from Bermondsey. Now that all of the stolen property had been recovered, a private source at Scotland Yard had been overheard to admit, the investigation might temporarily slacken, as the police were heavily employed with other duties during the Jubilee. The sum of the bizarre case appeared to be nothing more than the closing of a number of houses whose sordid business would not bear any such notoriety as that of being identified in the newspapers. Diplomats were busy soothing ruffled feathers, and it appeared that the series of strange thefts was on its way to being forgotten by the press.

She was so intent on this topic that she only became consciously aware of the voices in the ballroom when Lady Ashland's drifted clearly through the door, raised in consternation.

"He has what?" Her Ladyship exclaimed, as if she could not have heard her informer correctly.

Some trick of the big, echoing ballroom brought the sound of Lord Ashland's footsteps and his lower voice into the library as plainly as his wife's. "He's asked permission to court Kai. That's actually how he put it. Charmingly old-fashioned, I thought. You know Samuel."

Leda froze with the cup of tea lifted halfway to her lips. She thought wildly that she should reveal herself, or sneak away, or simply stand up and shut the door—but she did none of that. She sat still and quiet, listening… in the interest of benign curiosity.

"Oh, God—I've known this would happen," Lady Ashland said. "I've seen it coming for years."

"You don't like it?" Her husband's voice was softer, a little surprised.

"What did you tell him?" she demanded.

"I told him he was welcome to do as he wished, of course, what else—" He broke off at Lady Ashland's smothered exclamation. "I had no idea you'd object."

Leda turned her head. Through the open fretwork edge of a japonaiserie screen, she could see a reflection of Lady Ashland in the big mirror above the mantel. She held her fingers over her mouth, as if holding back a torrent of objection. When her husband reached out and laid his hand on her shoulder, she shook her head and went into his arms. Leda realized with a shock that Her Ladyship was weeping.

Leda knew she should leave. This was not meant for her ears.

But she stayed silent.

"I didn't know you'd feel this way," Lord Ashland murmured, stroking his wife's hair, putting his fingers into the dark mass, not seeming to care when it came tumbling down in his hands. "Tess—is it what he came from?"

Lady Ashland broke away, still shaking her head. "No!" She shook her head more vehemently. "
No
! Do you think I would ever,
ever
hold that against him? It's not Kai I'm worried for. She'll hurt him. She won't mean to do it, but she'll destroy him. She'll tear him into pieces. She's too young; she'd never understand what she was doing—she never
can
understand what it's like!"

There was an edge of panic in her voice, but her husband did not argue with these wild accusations against their own daughter. He held her again, rocking her against him, murmuring, "Tess, Tess… my beautiful Tess. I love you more than life."

"I wanted him to be happy," she said brokenly, resting her head against his shoulder, holding tight.

"I know." He brushed his hand up and down her back. "I know."

"If you could have seen him." Her face crumpled, and she began to cry again. "Oh, if you could have seen him…"

"My brave Tess—how often do you think of that?"

"Sometimes," she said in a small voice.

"Listen to me." He held her a little away, and skimmed the hair back off her temple. "Whenever you think of it, come to me. Wherever I am. Whatever I'm doing—it's not important. Come and hold on to me."

She made a deep sniff and nodded.

"Promise?"

She looked up at him. She put both hands on either side of his face and stared up at him as if he were something unutterably precious. "I always come to you."

"Aye-aye, sir," he said sternly.

She smiled through her tears. "Aye-aye, Captain."

He took her hands and lowered them, holding them in his own. "We can't force Samuel to be happy, love. We've done our best for him. It's his life."

She bent her head. "I wish you hadn't given him your permission."

"Tess… how could I not? Even if I'd known how you'd feel—there's no way I could have told him I wouldn't allow him to think of marrying Kai. It wouldn't matter how I said it, or what reasons I gave—you know what he'd be bound to believe."

"That we don't think he's good enough," she said, her voice so muffled that Leda barely understood it.

"Worse than that. God, far worse than that. We're the only ones who know. We're the ones who can wound him with a word wrong—especially you. Most especially you, Tess."

She nodded, with a little gulping sob.

"You tell him not to think of your daughter, and you'll decimate him in a way Kai never could."

"Yes… that's why I never…" She made a small, helpless sound. "I've seen this for the longest time; I've known it; but I never had the courage to do anything. I just wished it away. I wished for something to happen; someone else to love him—he deserves someone who can understand, and still love him, and Kai…" She gripped her hands together. "I would not change a hair of her head, but she is so young and careless; she treats him as if—she doesn't even see the way he looks at her."