Joanna Maitland – My Lady Angel (страница 2)

Aunt Charlotte was concentrating on her tale. ‘She said to me once, not long before she died, that it might have been better if your father had married his cousin after all.’

Angel managed a nod. ‘How terribly sad,’ she said quietly.

Aunt Charlotte sighed. There was a faraway look in her eyes for a moment, but it was soon replaced by a martial glint. ‘Poor Jane was barely cold in her grave when Augustus was back, trying yet again to persuade your father to wed Mary. Well! You will not be surprised to learn that your father sent him to the right about. Said Mary was too old to bear him an heir, even if he’d been able to stomach the sight of her, which he could not.’

Angel gasped.

‘No, it was not well done of him, I agree. It was not Mary’s fault, after all. But, you must understand, he had just buried his wife. And he had loved her dearly. Indeed, he was so distraught that, at one stage, I thought he…’ She paused, swallowing hard. ‘However, he did recover enough to decide that he must marry again, to ensure the succession, for it was clearly unwise to rely on Julian.’

‘Julian? But…but surely he died when he was just a boy?’

‘Is that what your papa told you?’

Angel nodded. Papa had spoken only once of his younger brother and it had seemed to give him pain. Angel had never felt able to press him for more information. And, apart from a single portrait of Julian as a child, there was no trace of him here at the Abbey.

‘I can understand why he would have told you that but I…I fear it was not true, my love. Julian died, but… Oh, dear, this is very difficult.’

Angel waited.

Aunt Charlotte sighed. ‘Julian was years younger than either of us, and so wild that we despaired of him. He did not see why he should pay any heed to your papa. They quarrelled all the time, I’m afraid. Your papa wanted Julian to marry in order to ensure the succession, but Julian refused to give up his wicked bachelor ways. Drinking and gambling, and—Julian said your papa was perfectly capable of getting an heir for himself. All he had to do was to find himself a better breeder than the one he had buried. You can imagine how your papa reacted to that! Yet another family rift, of course. Julian took himself off to France and never came back. I…I heard that he did marry there, but he and his wife, and all her family, were killed in the Terror. She was the daughter of the Comte d’Eury, you see, and—’

Lady Charlotte rose and walked to the window. Angel could tell, from the set of her shoulders, that she was trying to master a sudden surge of emotion.

‘No matter how wild he was,’ Aunt Charlotte said in a low, passionate voice, ‘he did not deserve to die like that. No one did.’

Angel sat silent, wondering, waiting for her aunt to recover her composure. She had clearly loved Julian, in spite of his faults. Perhaps Papa had loved him too? Had he banished all the reminders of Julian from Rosevale Abbey because the memory was too painful? It certainly seemed to be so for Aunt Charlotte. Angel forced herself to resist the temptation to go to the old lady and put a comforting arm around her. Aunt Charlotte would have upbraided her severely for doing such a thing. A lady should never lose control of her emotions in public. Never. And if, by some mischance, she did, it was the height of bad manners for anyone present to notice.

‘And Great-uncle Augustus?’ prompted Angel, when Aunt Charlotte had turned back to face her once more.

‘He and your father never spoke again. The breach was too deep to mend. Why, your father did not even go to the funeral when Augustus’s son died. He didn’t go to Augustus’s funeral either.’

‘Oh,’ said Angel, considering. ‘But I thought Cousin Frederick was Great-uncle Augustus’s son.’

‘No. Grandson.’

‘Oh,’ said Angel again. ‘So…he is not an old man, then?’

‘No, of course not. You knew that, surely? You said he might do as a husband for you. You were not planning—’

‘Dear Aunt, I was only teasing you, I promise. I know nothing of Cousin Frederick. I supposed that he was…oh…fifty at least, and rather stout. With a large red nose,’ she added, hoping her aunt would forget her momentary megrims.

‘You, Angel, are most definitely in need of a spell in the tower,’ said Aunt Charlotte bluntly, reverting to her normal self once more. ‘I don’t know why I— I’d do better to take myself off and leave you to your own devices.’

‘But then you’d miss all the fun.’

Lady Charlotte raised both eyebrows.

‘Since we are out of mourning at last, dear Aunt,’ continued Angel, assuming a determined expression, ‘it is time that we looked about us a little. I should so like to travel on the Continent, now that Boney is safely disposed of. In a month or two, perhaps, once the weather is better. But I fancy we should open up the London house first, do not you?’

‘I—’

‘And if we should happen to encounter the new Earl of Penrose, we will receive him with politeness, however stout his middle or florid his complexion.’

‘Angel, we cannot—’

‘As head of the family,’ Angel said, with emphasis, ‘I wish the breach to be healed. We must make the attempt. Both of us, Aunt.’

Lady Charlotte shook her head a little, but the look on Angel’s face must have made an impact, for the old lady did not try to argue any further. ‘Very well. If I must, I will receive him. Shouldn’t think he’ll be stout, though. His father and his grandfather were both as thin as rails. It suited their penny-pinching characters, I always thought.’

‘Thin and florid, then.’

Lady Charlotte looked sideways at her niece. ‘Well,’ she said airily, ‘you might be surprised on that front. Frederick is unlikely to be florid. Not yet. After all…’ she paused, narrowing her eyes ‘…he’s not that many years older than you are.’

‘But, surely—?’ Angel stopped in mid-sentence. The door had opened to admit old Willett, the family butler. His quiet entrance had been drowned by Angel’s exclamation of surprise.

‘There is a gentleman arrived, m’lady,’ Willett said in his soft voice. He was making no attempt to conceal his disapproval of their visitor. ‘He…he says he is related to your ladyship’s family, but—’

Angel laughed. ‘There, you see, Aunt. What did I tell you? It is Cousin Frederick, come to heal the breach himself.’

Willett coughed apologetically. ‘The…er…gentleman gives his name as Rosevale. Julian Rosevale.’

Angel put her hand to her throat.

And in that same moment, Lady Charlotte, who never allowed herself to show the slightest emotion in company, sank softly to the floor in a dead faint.

Hatless and head bowed, the Earl of Penrose remained on one knee by the graveside for several minutes more. He refused to acknowledge the rapidly waning winter light, or the steady rain that was soaking into his caped coat.

Ross Graham, standing awkwardly on the other side of the plain grey slab, seemed to be about to speak, but then thought better of it. He bowed his head once more, waiting.

At last, Penrose raised his head and stood up. His thick dark hair had been slicked down by the rain. He rubbed the back of his neck to wipe away the droplets that were now threatening to run down inside his shirt. Then, with a tiny shrug, he brushed the dirt from his pantaloons and resumed his beaver hat. ‘Come, Ross,’ he said, a little gruffly, ‘let’s get ourselves back to the inn. You look as if you are freezing.’

Ross smiled half-heartedly, but fell into step beside his friend. Their boots sank into the muddy grass. ‘Every time I’ve come here, the weather has been foul.’ His soft Scottish accent was unmistakable in almost every word he spoke. ‘Do you think she’s testing us?’

Penrose laughed in his throat. ‘No, not she. Aunt Mary was kindness itself. You know that just as well as I do. She’d not ask us to put ourselves to the least inconvenience on her behalf.’ He looked back at the tiny posy of snowdrops he had found to lay on Mary Rosevale’s grave. She had always loved snowdrops. The rain was making them look bedraggled already, yet they seemed to glow against the drab stone. As much of a ray of sunshine as Aunt Mary had ever had in her grey existence.

‘Penrose, I—’

‘Do you have to call me that, Ross?’ The Earl sounded more weary than angry.

‘No. But it is your name.’

Penrose shook his head. ‘Yes, I suppose… But I have plenty of others, too, as you know very well. If you must be so pompous, you could try Frederick, for example, or Maximilian, or even—heaven help me—Augustus!’

Ross laughed and clapped the Earl on his soggy shoulder. ‘I think not. The last time I called you Augustus, as I remember, you threatened to knock me down.’

‘Yes. You deserved it, too.’ Ross was his oldest friend and one of the few who ever dared to tease him when he was in a fit of the sullens. They had grown up together. Aunt Mary had been like a mother to them, and the bonds remained strong, both to each other, and to her memory. ‘You might be safer to stick with “Max”.’

Ross merely nodded and continued to stride towards the carriage where the Earl’s groom waited, hopping impatiently from one foot to the other.

‘You’re soaked to the skin, Cap’n,’ he said bluntly.