Lady of Fortune Page 12

  “But of course,” her maid answered calmly. “It is not so very difficult a task. We must choose a theme, something to make it special—perhaps a Turkish fantasy, or a Roman feast, or a field of flowers. Then a list of the guests you wish to send cards to, and we confer with Monsieur Sabine about the refreshments. And you will need a very special gown. Mme. de Savary will take care of that.”

  “You make it sound so simple,” Annabelle said admiringly.

  Christa laughed. “It is simple in theory, but complicated in practice. At the last hour one always finds that the flowers are faded, or that the kitchen cat has gotten into the lobster patties, or that half the guests are not speaking to the other half. It is what makes entertaining such a delightful task: one never knows quite how things will actually transpire. Nonetheless, we shall contrive.”

  She paused a moment, her hands automatically patting the last of Annabelle’s ringlets into place as a flash of memory pulled her away from the present. We shall contrive. It made her think of the d’Estelle family motto, Vaille que vaille, which meant “Come what may” or perhaps “At all cost.” Christa had been raised with that ideal, and she hoped her ancestors would approve of how she was contriving. She might no longer be a lady, but she was doing her tasks well.

  Her attention was brought back to the present by Annabelle’s carefully nonchalant description of her meeting with Sir Edward Loaming the day before. Christa could not resist a small snort as her mistress recounted Sir Edward’s manifold perfections.

  Alex glanced at Christa quickly, then struggled with fair success to suppress a chuckle. Obviously the maid was not as impressed as the mistress. He thought Sir Edward sounded like a coxcomb, but he said obligingly, “I’ll ask around, Belle. If he is respectable, there is no reason why he can’t call next autumn.”

  He stood to leave, stretching his muscular frame like a lazy jungle cat before leaving the room. Christa watched his departure with a frustration so intense it was physical. To members of the ton, being acceptable meant having birth and fortune. Neither alone was enough, so she was forever exiled from that charmed circle. She knew the ways of the world she had grown up in—a penniless countess might be an object of pity, but without beauty, wealth, or family backing she was scarcely better than a tradesman’s daughter.

  Most of the time Christa was happy in her new lot—she was busy and productive, and she was making friends belowstairs. But whenever she was near Lord Kingsley, she felt an ache of regret for lost possibilities.

  Chapter Nine

  The Kingsley household’s removal to Suffolk was accomplished with reasonable efficiency, and they left scarcely two hours after the appointed time. Most of the staff were being left in London for the summer, but the senior servants traveled with the family. These included Christa, the Morrisons, as butler and housekeeper, Lord Kingsley’s newly acquired young valet, Fiske, and Monsieur Sabine. Many cooks would have preferred a lazy summer in town, but the Monsieur would have taken it as a mortal insult if the family had not required his skills. As with most artistes, his craft was his passion and fulfillment—leisure had no place in his life.

  Christa found the two-day trip into East Anglia to be full of interesting new sights. The only parts of England she knew were London and the rolling hills of Berkshire—Suffolk had quite a different character. It was nearly flat; no, not really flat, but gently undulating in a manner subtle rather than dramatic. Windmills broke the line of the horizon, and many of the cottages were half-timbered and thatched.

  Alex and Jonathan alternated riding outside the coach and sitting inside with Annabelle and Christa. It was Alex who told Christa the story of the town that was eaten by the sea. “Dunwich is not far north of the Orchard. It was a very ancient town, and a prosperous port until the year 1326. Then a great storm swept away over four hundred houses, and three churches as well. There is only a handful of buildings there now.”

  “Why did the town just fall away like that?” she asked.

  “The whole coast of East Anglia is unstable, continually crumbling,” Alex replied. “That’s why there are no long coast roads in Suffolk—the sea kept claiming them, so the roads run from inland points out to coastal villages. That is also why the Orchard is set back from the water and a band of heathland is left along the shore. There is a local saying that the sea is lovely to visit but dangerous to lie with.”

  Christa nodded with interest, then pressed her nose to the coach window, eager for a first glimpse of her new home. She gasped in surprise when they emerged from the tree-lined entrance road and pulled to a halt on the circle drive before the house.

  “What do you think of it?” Alex asked. “I wager that France has nothing quite like this.”

  “Why, it is perfectly wonderful!” Christa said as she followed the family out the carriage door after the coachman let down the stairs. “It is a magpie house!”

  It was the largest half-timbered building she had ever seen, and a splendid example of the Tudor passion for pattern-making. The multiple gables had a four-lobed design reminiscent of flowers, while the lower structure was herringboned, the whitewashed wattle and daub making a dazzling contrast with the age-darkened timbers. Huge lantern windows were made of leaded glass, and elaborate plaster patterns called pargeting decorated the spaces above doors and main windows.

  Christa said thoughtfully, “It is not grand, or even dignified, but it is the most playful house I have ever seen.”

  Alex chuckled at her frankness; discretion didn’t last long when the French girl wasn’t watching her tongue. “ ‘Playful’ is as good a word as any,” he agreed as he stared at the lively facade of his ancestral home. “It was originally built in the shape of an E, in honor of the great Elizabeth. There have been additions since then, but always in the same style.”

  He had not been here in a dozen years, and a curious blend of happiness and unpleasant memories stirred in him at the sight. Alex had spent most of his pre-Navy life here, and he fondly recalled riding on the sands, hunting for birds’ nests in the marshes, and learning to sail. Peter Harrington had been his constant companion in those early years, and he had spent as much time at his friend’s house as at his own. They had even shared a tutor before going off to Eton.

  But entwined with those memories were recollections of his mother’s periodic depredations as she swept in from London and harassed her servants and children with the casual cruelty of a schoolboy removing the wings of flies. Lady Serena and his father had largely ignored each other except for occasional skirmishes over her spending. However, she had an income of her own and was dependent on her husband only when her extravagance outran her resources.

  While Lady Serena was an all-too-vivid memory, Alex’s father was almost impossible to recall, a dim, juiceless figure who stayed in his library or estate office. To his credit, he had left the Kingsley estate in thriving prosperity. Lady Serena’s fortune was added to the total, making Alex a very wealthy man quite apart from the substantial prize money he had won in the last few years. Even after he had established his brother and sister, there would be an intimidatingly large amount left over, and he had the family man of business exploring potential investments. The new viscount rather fancied himself as the owner of a fleet of merchant ships.

  Alex was recalled from his musings as Annabelle and Jonathan started up the shallow steps to the carved double doors of the main entrance. He found himself looking forward to this summer in the country, although he had a few doubts as to whether there would be enough to keep him occupied. A lifetime of naval activity might not be good preparation for becoming a gentleman of leisure.

  Christa liked the low ceilings and rambling rooms of the Orchard, even though it lacked the luxury of the St. James town house. The maid’s room in Annabelle’s suite was hardly more than a closet, with plain whitewashed walls and a simple rug hooked out of scrap fabric. It was also fortunate that Suzanne had not done a major wardrobe for Annabelle; the storage space was quite inadequate. But
there was a light, clean feel to the place, and the old leaded-glass windows looked down into a knot garden that had been laid out when the house was new over two hundred years earlier. The sea lay just over the low ridge beyond the trees that sheltered the house from the wind, and Christa decided to visit it after supper. Annabelle would be sitting with her brothers and wouldn’t need her, and Christa found the idea of a fresh sea breeze irresistible.

  By the time Christa had unpacked and sorted Annabelle’s possessions and readied her mistress for an early dinner, she had worked up a proper country appetite of her own. Down in the servants’ hall, she was pleased to discover that the Orchard’s staff welcomed the newcomers with no sign of resentment. It helped that the Morrisons had both grown up on the estate, and hence were not “foreigners.”

  Christa was also amused to see how quickly Monsieur Sabine had bullied the kitchen staff into a form acceptable to him. The Monsieur had been regarded with stunned disbelief as he installed his cherished knives, the sacred never-to-be-washed omelet pans, and the ropes of garlic he had brought from London. Mrs. Ives, the modest countrywoman who cooked for the staff when the family was not in residence, had been more than willing to step down in the Frenchman’s favor—as she confided to Mrs. Morrison that night, she knew her cooking “warn’t fit for the gentry.”

  The Monsieur had proceeded to put together a divine meal, accompanied by darkly muttered French imprecations. Christa heard some of them as she seated herself at the large oval table in the servants’ hall, and could only be grateful that no one else present understood what he was saying. Even the stable lads might have been shocked by his creative profanity on the subjects of the English, the country, the available food stocks, and the local peasants. Nonetheless, the chef did not appear unhappy; she had already decided that he regarded grumbling as a superior form of amusement, second only to concocting exquisite new sauces.

  Christa and Fiske, the new valet, had been introduced to the other two dozen servants before the meal. It would be several days before she had the names straight, but Christa sensed friendliness behind the faces of these taciturn Suffolk natives. She was sorry Miranda couldn’t come here for the summer, but the laws belowstairs were immutable—only upper servants traveled with the family. As usual, Monsieur Sabine did not dine with the rest of the staff; he had already taught the junior kitchen maid to serve him in a small parlor that should have been occupied by the housekeeper.

  After the meal, Christa excused herself, saying she wanted to walk down to the shore. As she left the kitchen, Mrs. Ives poured a cup of tea and remarked to Mrs. Morrison, “Seems a nice-enough lass, for a Frenchy.”

  Mrs. Morrison nodded and sipped her own cup of tea contentedly. It was good to be back home in Suffolk, away from the bustle of town. She and Emma Ives were old friends and she had missed these comfortable cozes when they discussed their colleagues and the Quality. “Aye, she’s sweet-tempered and willing enough. But she doesn’t have a proper sense of her worth. Treats the scullery maid the same as she does you or me.”

  Emma clucked in disapproval of such improper behavior. Greatly daring, the young valet, Fiske, spoke up. “Lord Kingsley is like that—he behaves the same with everyone.”

  Both women stared at him until Fiske blushed and cast his eyes down. Speaking in measured tones, Mrs. Morrison intoned, “The Quality might forget their proper place, but the likes of us never will. And don’t you forget it, lad.”

  Completely routed, Fiske muttered an apology and moved to less-exacting company at the other end of the hall. Being valet to the master gave him status in the hierarchy, but he knew better than to tangle with those beldames again.

  The sea breeze felt exhilaratingly brisk against Christa’s face as the long June day faded into dusk, and the firm sand crunching beneath her feet was reminiscent of her lost summer home in Normandy. The haunting cries of circling seabirds echoed across the water, while high overhead wispy clouds glowed apricot from the setting sun.

  A surge of melancholy threatened to overwhelm her—usually Christa could live in the present and not dwell on what she had lost, but she felt intensely alone at this moment, knowing that never again would she share such beauty and peace with those she had loved best. At times like these, Christa could almost wish she had died with them in France. She did her best to obey her promise to Charles and to live fully and happily, without sinking into complaint and depression, but sometimes the task seemed an intolerable burden.

  Christa had always loved the sea, and some of her most treasured memories were of the tolerant Norman fishermen. She had been delighted when they allowed her to accompany them on their shorter trips, and in gratitude she learned to haul nets and sail as well as any fisherboy. Her mother did not officially know of the sailing trips; after all, what was a girl-child of the aristocracy doing on a smelly fishing boat? But Christa rather thought Marie-Claire had known and accepted that her active daughter needed an outlet for her energy—her mother had missed very little.

  The cove was a natural harbor that must have sheltered small boats in the past, and at the far end a pier stretched into the quiet water. As Christa wandered toward it, she wondered who used this quiet haven, and if it were always so peaceful.

  Alex easily identified the small figure ahead of him on the sands. He had slipped away from his brother and sister to have a private reunion with the sea, but the thought of sharing it with the French girl did not distress him. Though she had never been to this shore before, the maid had an air of belonging.

  There was no need to increase his speed, for Alex’s longer strides would soon bring him up behind her. The breaking waves drowned out the sound of his footsteps, and while Christa was still unaware of his presence, he could admire the grace of her movements as she drifted along, shifting in and out, one step away from the advancing tide, sometimes stooping to pick up a bright pebble or shell.

  When he was nearly on her the French girl stopped, her face turned to the south. Speaking softly so as not to alarm her, he said, “You are looking toward France?” The slight lift of his voice made it a question.

  Christa glanced at him, unsurprised at his presence. “Oui, my lord.” She turned back to the water and seemed undisposed to comment further. Alex admired the clear-cut line of her profile, the dark curls tumbling in the wind. She had the grave beauty of a sorrowing Madonna; this was the first time he had seen her face when it was not alive with amused thoughts and feelings.

  Two black-and-white birds broke into a squabble over some choice tidbit a few feet beyond her, their long legs and strange turned-up bills giving them a comic air.

  With an eye to lightening her mood, Alex gestured at the birds and said, “Those are avocets. This coast is their only English home.”

  She nodded. “Sometimes we would see them in Normandy, but they were rare. They are very droll, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Normandy was your home?”

  Christa did not want to lie outright so she phrased her answer to imply that she had been in service. “We lived there, and in Paris. The family I was with had homes in both places.”

  “How long have you been in England?”

  “Fifteen months. I left at the height of the Terror. Now that Robespierre is gone, perhaps things are better.”

  “Was it very bad?”

  She nodded again. “Yes. The Terror was horrible of itself, but even worse, it was the death of hope. At the beginning of the revolution, six years ago, there was such joy. We believed there would be an end to injustice, and poverty, and the privileges of the wealthy at the expense of the poor. It seemed a chance to begin the world again and make it a better place.”

  Christa gave him a quick sidelong glance. “The French are a race of philosophers and idealists, my lord. Perhaps that is why we are so quarrelsome.”

  Alex said gently, “It must be hard to be an exile from one’s homeland.”

  She shrugged a little. “Perhaps. Yet there is nothing there for me now. My family is gone
, all of them victims of the revolution in one way or another.”

  “The guillotine?”

  “If my father’s heart had not given out, he would have been sent there. He was a moderate, a believer in compassion and justice. He spoke out against the Terror, and was denounced as an ‘enemy of the revolution.’ Bah!” she spat. “It was madness!”

  “That is why you left?”

  “Yes.” Christa pulled her shawl around her shoulders in the evening chill, unmindful of how odd it would be thought that a servant should converse so freely with her master. She felt a need to talk, and she found Alex’s presence comforting. “My mother and I were secretly warned by a friend that the Committee of Public Safety was going to arrest us. They were angry that my father escaped them. It would not have been the first time that an innocent family was sent to Madame Guillotine.”

  “I thought it was mostly aristocrats that were executed,” Alex commented.

  “No. Perhaps one in ten were, but victims came from all classes—peasants, craftsmen, merchants. None were spared.” Christa paused, then continued in a voice heavy with sorrow, “The revolution turned into a mad, raving beast.”

  “Did your mother escape?”

  “No. I pray that she died quickly.”

  Moved by the sadness in her voice, Alex said gently, “But you are here and alive, in spite of the revolution.”

  Christa turned and looked directly at him, then smiled without reservation. Her rich voice was clear and vibrant, and Alex was again struck by how alluring a French accent could be.

  “Yes. I have survived. And I have a debt of living to accomplish. I am much luckier than most of my unhappy countrymen. And what of you, Lord Kingsley? What is it like to come back to your childhood home, no longer a child?”

  Accepting the change of subject, Alex considered for several moments before replying, “It is very strange. Everything is the same, and at the same time everything is different. Even though I was the heir, I never really imagined myself as the master here. In fact, I never looked beyond escaping to the sea.”