Lady of Fortune Page 24

  Their gazes caught and held, and the closeness that had grown between them over the summer flared into life once more. Her hand unconsciously tightened on his, and she was no longer aware of the roomful of merrymakers.

  Jonathan’s arrival shattered the moment. “It’s my turn to dance with the teacher, big brother.” He whirled her away as the next dance started. She cast one look over her shoulder and saw Alex watching her still. How can he look like that when he is engaged to another woman? But every woman knew that men could desire even when their hearts were given elsewhere. Resolutely she turned to Jonathan.

  “And will you be a credit to my teaching, Master Jonathan?” she teased.

  “Try me,” he replied with a mischievous grin. She shook her head admiringly as he swept her into a country dance—the young devil was well on his way to being devastating. All three Kingsleys were so lovable—she would miss them dreadfully. But that loss was for the future. Tonight, Christa danced.

  By tradition, after church on Christmas Day the Kingsleys held open house for all of their tenants and neighbors. Streams of people poured through, and the servants were kept bustling. Monsieur Sabine produced some French food, including a much-admired bûche de Noël, a huge rolled cake shaped like a Yule log and decorated with chocolate bark, meringue mushrooms, and spun-sugar moss. It was thought too pretty to eat; Alex himself had to cut it and start distributing pieces. Most of the food, however, was firmly and traditionally English, dishes such as roast goose, meat pies, and mince tarts, and a splendid wassail bowl. Monsieur Sabine handled the insult to French food with surprising equanimity—everyone agreed that Mrs. Ives, his assistant cook and companion, had had a mellowing effect on his choleric disposition. An announcement was expected from that quarter.

  The convivial spirit of the holiday vanished three days after Christmas when Sybil Debenham and her mother arrived for a visit. It was not unexpected, but no one could have predicted the pall Sybil’s presence would cast over the household. When Alex met her, she greeted him effusively. “Darling! So wonderful to see you again! It seems so long.” Looking around the hall, she added, “The house is darling, but surely … a little informal for the seat of a viscount?”

  Alex blinked. “Perhaps. I never really thought about it. The Orchard has been home to Kingsleys for over four hundred years, and we tend to accept its deficiencies.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean it was deficient,” she cooed, stripping off her cloak and gloves and studying her surroundings. “A little small, perhaps.” Sybil was being quite circumspect; actually she thought the Orchard was horrendously poky and unfashionable, not at all the sort of thing one would expect of a wealthy nobleman. But she knew Lord Kingsley owned another estate near London, more convenient and away from the beastly sea winds. Surely something more suitable could be built there—perhaps something on the lines of Blenheim Palace. With a brave smile on her face, she went upstairs to face the rigors of her bedchamber.

  Within twenty-four hours the whole household was on edge. It didn’t help when the weather changed and cold, drenching rain confined people indoors. Jonathan, who had never met his future sister-in-law, reacted like a cat that had been thrown into a tub of water, walking around with hackles visibly raised. Only his fondness for his brother kept a civil tongue in his head. Three days after Sybil’s advent, Jonathan remembered that a school friend had invited him for a stay in Essex, and made his escape.

  Thrown into constant contact with Sybil, Annabelle progressed from vaguely dreaming of a cottage to seriously evaluating locations and deciding what genteel, impoverished cousin would be the best choice for a chaperon. Since her brother had given her an independent income, there was no way she was going to share a roof with her sister-in-law.

  Alex himself behaved with impeccable politeness, but was little in evidence, as the tenants and the home farm seemed to require unusual amounts of attention. In the servants’ hall, there were caustic comments about how the future viscountess was evaluating the silver and deciding what to change.

  It was universally agreed that Christa had the worst time of it. Sybil’s French maid, Merrier, had promptly come down with a streaming head cold and her mistress refused to have her near for fear of infection. Since Claudia Debenham’s haughty dresser flatly refused to work for a second lady, Christa inherited the job of turning Sybil out properly. After three days, she was ready for a change of career.

  As she flopped by the hearth in the servants’ hall after dinner, she received the commiserations of the rest of the staff.

  Mrs. Morrison offered her a cup of tea and said, “Here, dear, you look like you could use a bit of reviving.” As Christa received it gratefully, the housekeeper continued, “I don’t see why you don’t act like Mrs. Debenham’s hoity-toity dresser and refuse to work for anyone but your own lady.”

  Christa wrinkled her nose. “Don’t tempt me! I only do it because if she is not properly served, she will make Miss Annabelle’s life miserable with complaints. Typical of the men to run off and leave their sister to cope with the Peacock.”

  The latter was the belowstairs nickname Miss Debenham had acquired. Christa sipped her tea and sighed. “In a way, there is something admirable about her refusal to let standards slide. She has not forgone a single jewel, hair ornament, or cosmetic the whole of her visit. If your King George stopped in for a visit, only she would be properly attired to greet him.”

  “You may think it admirable, but I think it is absurd!” Mrs. Morrison snorted. “We’re plain people here in Suffolk. We don’t need the likes of an overdressed wench like her.”

  Christa smiled sadly. “But you have no choice.”

  The observation cast a pall over the group until Monsieur Sabine, who had taken to sitting with the others of an evening, said, “There is always a choice! If the guillotine was good enough for Queen Marie-Antoinette, it is good enough for the nouveau riche!” His comment produced startled looks, then a quick change of conversation. The other servants were never quite sure whether he was joking or serious. At least no one had been threatened with his cleaver lately.

  A week after Sybil’s arrival, Alex was called away to a family property in Norfolk. The agent had quit while the estate was in the middle of a serious boundary dispute, and Lord Kingsley’s personal attention was solicited. He made his apologies to his sister and the Debenhams, and felt guilty at the way his spirits rose as he headed north with his groom and valet. The weather was cold, wet, and blustering, the ground sodden and travel conditions poor, and he knew that within an hour his side would be giving him fits from too much riding. Nonetheless, it felt wonderful to be away from the house. He almost succumbed to a touch of nostalgia for winter patrol duty in the Channel before common sense overtook him.

  The day after Alex left, Annabelle came down with a touch of influenza and Christa was relieved of her work with Sybil to concentrate on nursing her mistress. Miss Debenham released her from service less from consideration of Annabelle’s needs than from her own fears of infection.

  The doctor assured them that Annabelle’s life was in no way threatened, but for three days she tossed and turned feverishly, aching and restless. Christa sent to Ipswich for a bag of expensive lemons, and served the resulting lemonade both hot and cold, depending on how Annabelle felt. She also gave her willow-bark tea to reduce the aching.

  By the evening of the third day, Annabelle’s fever had broken and she was fit for conversation, though still very weak. “Poor Christa!” she said with a faint smile. “You have had to go from decorating the Peacock to taking care of me.”

  Christa chuckled. “Where did you hear that nickname?”

  “Oh, I have my sources,” her mistress said mysteriously, before succumbing to a faint giggle. She looked very pale against her pillow. “Jonathan told me that is what the servants call Miss Debenham. I think he heard it from a groom.” Her smile disappeared, and she said wistfully, “Do you think Alex will really be happy with her?”

  Christa s
hook her head. “I really couldn’t say. She seems very … self-absorbed, but there is no harm in her. Perhaps he finds her amusing. And of course she is very beautiful.”

  “Then why is Alex running off to sea again? I’d swear he had no thought of it until he became engaged.” Annabelle plucked at her coverlet nervously. “I wish there was something I could do to make him see what she is like.”

  “You would be better served in discouraging her—Alex is unlikely to end the betrothal.” Christa shook her head. “It is absurd that a man will be condemned for such an action, while a woman can do it without incurring censure, but that is how society is. I expect it is because women are considered such weak-minded creatures.”

  “If I could think of a way to drive her away, I would,” Annabelle confided. “Do you think she is in love with Alex?”

  Christa found the conversation uncomfortable. “As much as she loves anyone, I imagine—she is certainly in love with the idea of being Lady Kingsley. Would you like more willow tea?”

  Annabelle accepted the change of subject with docility. “No, the aching is gone, though if I tried to cross the room without your help I think I would fall over. I thank my stars for your patience. You have done nursing before, haven’t you?”

  Christa leaned back in her Windsor chair, pulling her knees up under her. “Of course—almost all women are nurses sooner or later. Besides helping my grandmother tend the peasants, I helped care for my grandparents and my father before they died, and my mother when she was very ill.”

  Annabelle sighed again. “You make me feel very young and useless. You do so many things well—I do not know how I would get along without you.”

  Christa thought for a minute, then said, “Perhaps this is not the best time to tell you, but I will be leaving you soon, to take a job in a shop. It is time I did something new.”

  In the flickering light of the lone candle, Annabelle’s face was sad. “Everything changes.”

  “Yes,” Christa admitted as she stood up. “But not all changes are for the worse. Many are improvements, once we get over the shock. Will you need anything else tonight?”

  Annabelle shook her head. “No, you go and get a good night’s sleep. You can’t have had much rest this last week—it would be a pity if you became ill also.”

  Christa chuckled as she turned to her small room. “Don’t worry, miss. I am as tough as an old boot. Be sure to call if you need anything.”

  In spite of her words to Annabelle, it was a pleasure to tumble into bed for a solid night’s sleep. Christa was so tired that for once she was undisturbed by dreams of laughing amber eyes and a warm, hard body.

  It took Alex three days to settle his affairs in Norfolk. He was guiltily aware that he should return home quickly to share the burden of hosting with Annabelle, but a stop at Stornaway would not delay him more than a few hours, and he wanted to see the place. It was the most unusual Kingsley property, several hours travel up the Suffolk coast from the Orchard.

  At midafternoon he and his two attendants halted their horses on a sea cliff. The rain had stopped, but heavy skies and a cold north wind threatened a change of weather for the worse. The three men dismounted. The cliff was one of the highest points around, and waves smashed fifty feet below them. Alex pointed out their destination to his valet, Fiske, who had never come here before. “There is Stornaway.”

  “I thought Stornaway was a town on one of the Hebridean islands,” Fiske said in puzzlement as he stared at the rocky point of land with a low stone building clinging to its shoulder.

  “The original Stornaway is. This is named for it, because it is equally barren and windy,” Alex replied.

  “Is it an island, my lord?” Fiske asked.

  “More or less—it used to be part of the mainland, but the coast has crumbled away around it,” Alex answered. “It stands on harder rock that won’t erode. A causeway connects it to the mainland, but it’s covered with water for half of the tide cycle. During bad winter storms, the house is isolated for several days at a time because the causeway is impassable and the waters around the island are rocky and dangerous for small boats. Stornaway is large enough for a good-size farm, and in medieval times there was a small keep, for defense against the Northmen.”

  He gestured and went on, “The house you see now was built about two hundred years ago. It used to be lived in all year round, but the storms and isolation make it uncomfortable in winter. Now a shepherd and his family spend the summer there with a flock. The house is in good repair, the grass is excellent, and it’s a pleasant place in warm weather.”

  Fiske was fascinated. The young man had a secret romantic streak, and had read Mrs. Radcliffe’s Mysteries of Udolpho when it came out the previous year. The island in front of him, stark against the lowering gray sky, looked like a perfect setting for one of the more horrid gothic romances.

  The dour groom, Willson, said unexpectedly, “One of the horses is going lame, yer lordship.”

  Alex went to confer with him, and Fiske wandered along the cliff to get a better view of Stornaway. Glancing up, Alex noticed where the valet was walking and called out, “Don’t get too close to the brink. With all the rain, it may be dangerous.” A stranger to Suffolk and its particular hazards, Fiske stayed where he was for another few moments.

  It was a moment too long. The soaked earth of the cliff crumbled away under the valet’s weight, and with a shout of terror, Fiske tumbled into the surf fifty feet below amid a shower of earth and stones.

  While Willson stared in horror, Alex stripped off his coat and boots and raced to the edge of the cliff. Fiske’s head was bobbing around in the roiling waters, but the young man seemed dazed or unconscious, possibly stunned by the fall. A quick glance told Alex that the water was deep, and with a little luck in avoiding submerged rocks, he should be able to dive safely. A couple of hundred yards to the right was a small shingle beach with a path leading down to it. If he could pull Fiske over there, they could get away to shelter before they froze in the icy wind.

  Willson yelled, “No, my lord!” but Alex ignored him. He was a strong swimmer, and had dived off cliffs during his duty tours in the Caribbean. Carefully choosing a spot as close to the valet as possible, he plunged headfirst into the water. Fiske’s clothes would pull him under rapidly, and he doubted the young man could swim even if he weren’t stunned.

  It seemed a very long way down. The icy shock of the water blasted the breath from his body, vicious currents tearing at him as he surfaced and looked around for Fiske. The boy had vanished, so he dived under at the spot where he had last seen the valet. It took three endless, lung-bursting dives before he grasped a piece of fabric and dragged the limp body to the surface. Fiske had a red line across his forehead with droplets of blood forming, but he was still breathing.

  Alex struck out for the thin crescent of beach to the right. The turbulence threatened to pull both of them under the surface, and it took all his strength to move forward and keep Fiske’s head above water. In a quick glance to the shore, he saw Willson racing down the path to water level. The distance to the beach seemed much longer than it had from above, and he could feel his strength ebbing rapidly in the near-freezing water. It became harder and harder to avoid the jagged rocks as he stroked his way toward the beach.

  A bare fifty feet from safety, a giant wave grabbed and twisted, smashing Alex’s left side into a submerged rock. It was the same place where he had received his worst wounds the year before, and there was a shattering explosion of pain that almost caused him to lose his grip on Fiske. He was immobilized in the water for precarious moments before he could continue paddling toward the shore. Every stroke was agony, but the waves were now helping, pushing them toward the shingle.

  Willson was waiting on the beach, and he plunged waist-deep into the water, grabbing Fiske and pulling the young man ashore. The groom had grown up on the coast and knew the tricks of lifesaving. Rolling the valet onto his stomach, Willson pressed on his back, forcing th
e water out. After a few moments he was rewarded by a vigorous fit of coughing. Reassured that the valet was in no danger of drowning, Willson turned to see how his master was faring.

  Alex had used his last particle of strength pulling himself ashore, and slumped into unconsciousness when he was barely above the waterline. Willson knelt at his side and gently turned him face up, hoping that the viscount was just exhausted by his efforts. With a shock of fear, the groom found Lord Kingsley’s left side drenched with blood.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Annabelle had progressed to more or less solid food, and Christa induced her to eat toast, porridge, and tea for breakfast. As she gathered the tray, the maid remarked, “It is a good day to be snug inside, Miss Annabelle. Snow flurries are beginning, and the head gardener said at breakfast we are going to get one of your famous North Sea storms.”

  Annabelle glanced at the window. “You don’t think Alex will try to travel in this, do you?”

  “I’m sure he is still safe in Norfolk. He thought it might take up to a week to straighten out his business.”

  “I hope so,” Annabelle said with a frown. “He might have tried to hurry back to help me with our guests.”

  “Your brother has sailed in this weather, and worse,” Christa laughed. “I’m sure he can take care of himself.”

  Annabelle leaned back and smiled. “I’m acting like a nanny, aren’t I? I scarcely worried about Alex at all for those years in the Navy when I didn’t know what he was doing. Today I just feel concerned for some reason.”

  Christa knit her brows—she had also been feeling a nagging, undefined anxiety. “I expect it is because of the coming storm. The air feels different and makes people nervy.”

  Annabelle accepted her explanation, and soon drifted into a doze while Christa sat by the bed and worked her way through a pile of mending. The morning was well-advanced when a sharp knock on the door brought her to her feet. In a flash of intuition Christa knew that she was about to discover the source of her worries.