The Baron's Honourable Daughter

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  In Memoriam

  For my mom, because I know in your heart

  you always remembered.

  PART I

  Chapter One

  CARRYING HER WATERCOLOR BOX, Valeria hurried down the arbored path. As was usual in summer, two gardeners were pruning the box trees that were trained to shelter the graveled walkway that wound around the west wing of the house. As she neared them, they glanced up and continued with their trimming. But when she reached them, they both looked startled, then snatched off their caps and bowed. Valeria was amused; she didn’t wonder that they had mistaken her for a servant, as she was wearing one of her oldest drab muslins and a bib apron, with her hair tucked up into an unadorned wide-brimmed straw hat that shadowed her face.

  Valeria was mistaken about this, for a more alert observer could never think she was a servant. At eighteen she was tall, with a gracefully erect posture and confident stride, although it was perhaps too decided for a fashionable young lady. She thought that her face was modeled too strongly, for she resembled her father rather than her mother. Her cheekbones were high and prominent, her jawline was pronounced, her mouth was wide and well shaped but not very full. What Valeria didn’t realize, however, was that these distinctive facial characteristics inherited from Guy Segrave gave her an alluring and mysterious foreign look.

  At least she did have a few marvelous features. Her hair was thick and luxuriant, a glossy chestnut brown, and had so much body it curled easily. Her wide-set dark eyes were framed by perfectly arched brows. In contrast, her skin was very white and creamy with no blemish.

  “Good afternoon, Skelley, Tollar,” she said pleasantly as she passed the gardeners.

  “G’day, Miss Segrave,” they replied.

  As she drew away she heard Skelley, an older man, muttering darkly to young Tollar, “Keep yer eyes out sharp, boy, I’m not seein’ wot I useter. Miss Segrave, she’s apt to pop up here, there, and about anytimes…”

  And so she was. On this diamond-bright August afternoon, she was going to the walled kitchen garden, normally the realm of only the gardeners and house staff. Since Valeria had first come to Bellegarde Hall as a child of eleven, she had loved the garden, and had played in it at every opportunity. As she grew older she had wandered farther afield, for the grounds and the park held many attractions for her: the Queen’s parterre with its triple-tiered fountain, the intricate hedge maze with the gazebo at its center, the orchards, the Wilderness, even Maledon Wood, which was four miles away from the house. She often rode in the Wood, savoring the wild beauty and the solitude.

  As she passed through the old arched gate, she frowned. She would much rather be painting the magnificent ruins of Roding Priory in the woods than the pastoral kitchen garden, which she had done many times. But watercolors weren’t suited to the drama of such landscapes, and Valeria’s stepfather, Lord Maledon, had flatly refused to let her try oil paints. “It’s not a ladylike pursuit, oil painting,” he had said. “Stick to your watercolors.”

  Valeria forgot her frustration as she came into the garden. The air was perfectly still, the only sounds the occasional distant mournful calls of the peacocks. In the height of summer the scents were heady: the rich loamy smell of warm earth, the tang of rosemary and sage and mint, the occasional whiff of lavender, in full bloom at the far end of the rows.

  Slowly she walked along the graveled path by the orangery. Built of the same gray stone as the garden walls, it was glass-roofed and glass-fronted, and she could see the thick foliage of the orange, lemon, and citron trees, the brightly colored fruit pressing against the glass as if eager for the sunlight.

  The beauty of the immaculately manicured kitchen garden far surpassed, she thought, that of the frigidly formal parterre and even the rose garden. Every possible shade of green glowed in the vegetable garden, the herb garden, the fruit shrubs, the espaliered apple and pear trees on the south wall. In particular the bushes bursting with white, red, purple, and black berries claimed her eye. A maid was bent over, picking the berries, unaware of Valeria’s presence.

  Crossing to the gardeners’ worktable, she sat down on the rough oak bench. She had planned to try to paint the formal espaliered trees, with their glossy-leaved branches and young fruits arranged in intricate designs against the gray stone wall; above was the shaded secretive arbored path, and above that the west towers of Bellegarde Hall rose frowning against the peaceable blue sky. Valeria had thought it would be a picture of great contrast, and so it would have been, but it was a complex composition and would be extremely difficult to paint with watercolors. She was sure she could do it in oils, but it was foolish to contemplate that, so she studied the interior of the garden, and the girl, again.

  Her spotless white apron and cap gleamed in the cheery summer sun, and the light yellow-green foliage of the currant and elderberry bushes showed up nicely against her dark-blue dress. As Valeria laid out her sketching pencils, paper, paints, and brushes, she realized that this girl must not be a housemaid, as she had first assumed, for their day uniforms were beige muslin with a small brown print. Could this girl be a kitchen maid? Valeria didn’t know the kitchen staff very well. Every day the entire house staff attended morning prayers, and Valeria must have seen this girl, but she had no recollection of her. No matter, she would make an intriguing central figure, with the colorful berry shrubs in the foreground and the tall lavender plants and rainbows of foxglove behind her.

  Valeria began her sketch. The girl looked up, saw her, and immediately dropped her basket. Alarmed, she glanced around as if deciding where to run, then made an awkward curtsy to Valeria. Standing there, head down, she began to nervously finger her apron. Valeria had thought this might happen, for lower servants were supposed to remain out of sight of the family. Hastily she rose and went to the girl, who stood dumbly waiting.

  “Good afternoon,” Valeria said. “Please don’t mind me. I’m just doing a watercolor study of the garden.”

  “Yes, miss,” she whispered without looking up.

  She was a slight girl, short and tiny. The long sleeves of her dress were shoved up above her elbows, and Valeria saw that her thin hands and forearms were a chafed red. Scullery maid, Valeria thought, and wondered if she had even ever heard the names of the scullery maids. “What is your name?” she asked.

  The girl lifted her head and Valeria then saw that she couldn’t have been more than thirteen years old, if that. “M-Mary Louise, ma’am. T’other scullery maid’s name is Mary too, and so I’m called Mary Louise and she’s called Mary Jane.”

  “I see. Well, Mary Louise, I wouldn’t want to keep you from gathering the berries, I assume Mrs. Banyard is planning some delicious dessert for us tonight. Just go ahead as if I’m not here.”

  “Yes, miss,” she said, dipping her head and curtsying again.

  Valeria returned to her worktable and began again on her sketch. But it was proving to be difficult, for Mary Louise was so unnerved by her presence that she made a very poor study. After retrieving the dropped basket, she stooped and picked a few berries, then glanced uneasily over at Valeria. When she realized that Valeria was sketching her
, she dropped her basket again and hastily knelt to pick up the scattered crimson berries. Again she assumed her gathering, covertly looked up at Valeria, and snatched up a handful of leaves instead of fruit, which upset her. She stood up, staring down at the bunch of green in her hand as if unsure what to do with it. She saw Valeria watching her, threw down the leaves, dropped the basket, and curtsied again. Valeria sighed. This was not going well at all.

  From the arbor, Valeria heard quick footsteps and voices and laughter. She looked up alertly. She recognized her stepfather’s voice as he called, “Mavis, you vixen! Come back here, girl!”

  A loud high-pitched giggle sounded. “Last night you were boasting that you could keep up with me, Maledon! Now we shall see!”

  Lady Jex-Blake burst through the gate. Her long dark hair was falling down, swirling about her. She was holding both her skirt and her petticoat bunched up high, so that her shapely stockinged legs, up to her thighs, could be seen. One shoulder of her dress had fallen down, almost exposing her breasts. Still laughing, she looked behind, and Lord Maledon came hurrying in, grinning. With a mock shriek Lady Jex-Blake ran into the orangery. “Oh, I’ve got you now,” he said hoarsely and followed her in. Their voices and laughter sounded a few more moments, and then there was silence.

  Without realizing it Valeria jumped to her feet, standing bolt upright with her fists clenched at her sides. Glancing at Mary Louise, she saw that the girl stood transfixed, her dropped basket forgotten, her apron pressed up to her mouth, her eyes wide as she stared at the orangery. Valeria walked quickly to her and said grimly, “Come with me, hurry.”

  Valeria brushed by her but the girl seemed unable to move. Turning back to her, Valeria saw that her blue eyes were filled with shock. Lady Jex-Blake’s cackle sounded from the orangery, and Mary Louise jumped as if she’d been scalded. Valeria moved close to her and took her hand. The girl looked up at her, and Valeria realized that she wasn’t just horrified, she was actually terrified. Valeria whispered, “Mary Louise, please come with me. This way.”

  She led her to the small door at the bottom of the garden, rarely used. It opened out onto a swath of grass with steps leading up to the parterre. Still holding Mary Louise’s hand, Valeria walked quickly up the steps and across the parterre, that coldly sterile garden of low-cut shrubbery with no flowers, and followed the knot-curved paths so as not to tread on the close-cut greenery. About halfway across she realized that she was taking long hard strides, unceremoniously hauling the girl by the hand, and the maid was out of breath. Valeria stopped and made herself calm down. “Everything will be all right, Mary Louise. I’ll think of some explanation,” she said evenly.

  Mary Louise must indeed have been half out of her wits with fear, for instead of submissively answering, “Yes, ma’am,” as she should have done, she asked in a frightened whisper, “But—however will you explain, miss? What shall I say?”

  Valeria pressed her long fingers to her temples and closed her eyes. “I must think…” she murmured between clenched teeth.

  How could her stepfather be so stupid? To behave in such a way, in his own house—in her mother’s home? Lord Maledon had always been a rather severe man, but he had seemed to love his wife, and treated her with the utmost respect. Until about two years ago, Valeria reflected, when he had begun to change. Still, Valeria would never have imagined that he would brazenly carry on an affair with a woman here, at Bellegarde Hall, where his family lived.

  And the disregard for the servants was appalling. Almost all of them were lifelong servants of the earls of Maledon; they were like a secondary family. Certainly they would gossip. Valeria wondered about the gardeners in the arbor. What had her stepfather done, just shoved them aside as he chased Lady Jex-Blake in their lascivious little game? Who else had seen them?

  And how on earth was Valeria going to protect her mother? How could she possibly shield her from this?

  Then Valeria realized that the only servant who would dare tell Lady Maledon was Craigie, her lady’s maid. Craigie was in truth Regina Maledon’s best friend, and for that matter was probably Valeria’s best friend too, for she had been her nurse. Craigie would never tell her mother such a horrible thing. In fact, she would probably face down Lord Maledon himself if she had to, to protect her mistress.

  Glancing at Mary Louise’s wretchedly unhappy face, Valeria thought, But what about all the other servants? They’ll surely find out. Should I tell her to keep quiet about it?

  No. I will do everything in my power to protect my mother, but I won’t try to protect him.

  Drawing a deep breath, she said, “I know what I shall say, and it will satisfy, I’m sure. As for you, Mary Louise, I won’t tell you what you can and cannot say. You must do what you think is right. Come along now, and don’t be frightened.” Valeria threaded her way out of the parterre and walked along the pathway around to the front of the house, with the maid flitting nervously behind her.

  Again Mary Louise faltered, and she said with dread, “Oh, miss! I can’t go through the Great Hall, I couldn’t!”

  “What?” Valeria said blankly, then realized that for a scullery maid to be upstairs—much less coming in through the front door—was a disciplinary matter and could even be grounds for dismissal. Again Valeria took the girl’s small rough hand and pressed it reassuringly. “We must, you see. We don’t want to go back around to the servant’s loggia.” That would mean circling back around by the kitchen garden. Still Mary Louise looked alarmed, so Valeria added, “You have nothing to worry about, Mary Louise. You’ve done nothing wrong, and I shall make that clear.”

  Gently and patiently Valeria led her around the west wing to the front entrance, two enormous oak doors that were, thankfully, unlocked during the day. Barely opening one of them, wincing when it groaned, the two girls slipped in and hurried through the echoing Great Hall to the dark passageway that led to the servants’ staircase, unseen by anyone. Around and down they descended the spiral staircase with the iron railings, ornate for a servants’ stairwell. Valeria could hear Mary Louise’s audible sigh of relief when they reached the basement level. A long corridor led past the butler’s rooms to the servants’ workroom and the kitchen. No one was in sight, but they heard voices clearly coming from the servants’ workroom.

  “…Lidy Jex-Blake, she’s a lidy if my little pinky is!” the cross nasal voice sounded. “Throwed a pillow at my head when I took in her tea and hot water this morning, and told me to get out! Then layin’ abed past noon and then complaining that she had missed a hot breakfast!”

  “The likes of her don’t know that luncheon’s properly a cold collation,” another sarcastic female voice broke in, which Valeria recognized as belonging to Mrs. Banyard, the cook. “I’m fair amazed she don’t call luncheon dinner and dinner supper. Then again, she’s got right good at apin’ her betters.”

  Valeria came in, with Mary Louise a small forlorn shape half-hiding behind her. The four housemaids, the two footmen, and the cook were seated at the servants’ worktable, busy at various tasks. They looked up in surprise, then alarm, and then all of them jumped to their feet. The women curtsied and the footmen made deep bows.

  “Hello,” Valeria said calmly. “Please, sit down.” All of them fidgeted and exchanged hesitant glances, and she realized that it was impossible for them to be seated in her presence. She went on, addressing the senior servant. “Excuse me for intruding, but I knew I must come down to explain, Mrs. Banyard, why Mary Louise won’t be picking the currants and berries this afternoon.”

  The cook, a round red-faced woman with shrewd dark eyes and a sharp tongue, gave Mary Louise a baleful look. Hurriedly Valeria continued, “No, it is not at all her fault, it’s entirely my own whim. I’m painting in the kitchen garden this afternoon, you see, and I wish to be alone. So I told Mary Louise that she may leave off her fruit-gathering, for today at least.”

  Mrs. Banyard’s eyes narrowed. “Begging your pardon, Miss Segrave, but as you’ll know I discussed the menu
with her ladyship this morning, and she particular wanted currant ices for the dessert course.”

  “What about cherry ices?” Valeria brightly suggested. “I was in the orchard just yesterday, and the trees are simply glorious with ripe cherries!”

  “Cherry ices,” Mrs. Banyard said with ill humor. “Her ladyship finds currant ices more attractive, with the black currants and the red currants and the white currants making such a colorful display. She particular wanted currant ices for the dessert course, miss,” she repeated, more slowly and with heavy emphasis.

  “My mother loves cherry ices, I’m sure she will be fine with the change,” Valeria answered. “I’ll tell her myself, and explain to her.”

  “Very well, miss,” the cook finally said begrudgingly.

  She was still casting foreboding glances at Mary Louise, so Valeria said lightly, “I assured Mary Louise that she would suffer no consequences, Mrs. Banyard. You understand that this is all due to my wish to be left alone to paint.”

  “Oh, I understand that, Miss Segrave,” the cook said with a sniff. “And I understand that the little goose has gone off and left the basket out there, and if it’s not recovered it’ll be stopped from her pay.”

  “No, it won’t,” Valeria said as pleasantly as she could manage. “I wanted to include the basket in my painting. If I think of it, I’ll have it returned when I’m finished. In any event, Mary Louise certainly shouldn’t have to pay for it. Good day.”

  Valeria turned on her heel and left in what even she recognized was a huff. The cook would never have presumed to speak so to her mother. But after all, Valeria was only the stepdaughter of the earl, and as such held a very tenuous position in the household. Mrs. Banyard had been with the Earl of Maledon for thirty-four years, coming to Bellegarde Hall as a scullery maid when she was ten years old. Valeria supposed that she had some excuse for feeling particularly proprietary about her position.