The Baron's Honourable Daughter Page 2

  As Valeria ascended the spiral staircase back to the ground floor, she hoped fervently that she would find her mother alone. Besides Lady Jex-Blake, two other ladies had been invited by Lord Maledon, a Mrs. Purefoy and her sister, Miss Shadwell. Though they were not as coarse as Lady Jex-Blake, Valeria found them wearisome company, for they were shameless social climbers who simpered and fawned. If they were with her mother, Valeria decided she would ask if they could speak alone. She didn’t want to go through this pitiful pantomime with strangers present. It was going to be hard enough to lie to her mother.

  To her relief, Lady Maledon was alone in the drawing room.

  In contrast to the grounds and park and woods, Valeria found Bellegarde Hall to be a formidable, cold house. The drawing room—always dim, with walnut paneling and coffered ceiling panels of carved oak that had darkened with age—was her least favorite room aside from the Great Hall. Dreary portraits of former earls and countesses lined three walls. One wall was completely covered by an enormous Tudor tapestry, now so faded that the design could hardly be distinguished. The furniture was upholstered with dull damask of blue and brown, with heavy gold trim. The room had four floor-to-ceiling sash windows, but the midnight-blue velvet draperies and swag valances seemed to absorb the light. The massive fireplace, dark and brooding even with the enormous bouquet of fresh flowers adorning it, seemed to overpower the room. The only warmth came from the full-length portrait of her mother, done by the distinguished portrait artist Sir Thomas Lawrence, hanging over the mantel. She was depicted in a blue satin dress, and her ethereal blonde curls and deep sapphire-blue eyes seemed to glow.

  The subject of the portrait now sat in an armchair by the window, staring out at the courtyard with its enormous statue of Perseus rescuing Andromeda, and the verdant park beyond. The summer sun glowed through the mullioned glass, lighting up the golden ringlets underneath her cap, and her perfect profile. Her needlework was in her lap, and she gently fanned herself with an exquisite mother-of-pearl fan, inset with garnets, with a tassel made of gold thread flecked with real gold. Valeria’s throat constricted a little as she saw the fan; Lord Maledon had imported six fans from India for her mother, all of them studded with jewels, all of them likely very costly, when Regina had given birth to Lord Maledon’s son, St. John. He hadn’t always been the cruel, venal man he was now. In years past he had been gentle and courtly to her mother, seeming to delight in pleasing her. To Valeria he had always been distant, but he had never treated her unkindly. In fact he had given her some gifts that were extremely generous. When she had turned sixteen, he had given her one of the magnificent Maledon horses, a spirited stallion that she had named Tarquin. Indeed, Valeria’s equestrian skill was the only thing that Lord Maledon seemed to admire about her, and the only warmly cordial conversations they had ever had were about the horses.

  And he had once given every appearance of adoring his wife, who was sixteen years younger than he, and an acknowledged beauty.

  She still is, Valeria thought. She’s thirty-five now, with no sign of gray hair or lines on her face. I wonder…will that change now…if Maledon keeps up with this awful behavior he’s shown more and more the last two years?

  “Hello, Mamma. Where are our guests?” Valeria asked.

  Regina turned to her with some surprise; she had been in a deep reverie, and apparently hadn’t heard her daughter come in. “Oh, there you are, darling. The ladies decided to rest after luncheon. It seems the journey yesterday was quite tiring for them. The gentlemen are out touring the park with the gamekeeper. I believe they’re assessing the shooting for the upcoming season.”

  One lady is certainly not resting, Valeria thought dourly. She studied her mother’s countenance carefully. Regina’s blue eyes held no hint of upset or worry, but Valeria thought she detected in her air a hint of distraction. Her mother was very difficult to read. “Please don’t tell me they’re going to stay that long,” Valeria intoned, throwing herself into the armchair next to her mother and snatching off her hat.

  With gentle disapproval Regina said, “Dearest, don’t be rude. They are our guests, and I hope you’ll do everything to make them feel comfortable.”

  “But they’re not our guests. They’re Lord Maledon’s guests. Surely, Mamma, you see that they’re nothing like our friends? Our real friends?”

  “This is Lord Maledon’s home, and his guests are our guests. Let us say no more about it,” Regina said with a shortness uncharacteristic of her. “Where have you been? You seem flushed with exertion. You haven’t been running again, have you?”

  Valeria smiled a little. “No, I haven’t been running. I’ve been out in the kitchen garden, I decided to paint it today. But I had a slight problem, and there’s something I need to explain to you.”

  Regina gave a long-suffering sigh. “Go on.”

  Uncomfortably Valeria shifted in her chair. In her entire life, she had only lied to her mother one time, when she was six years old. She had said that Craigie had broken a nursery teapot, when actually she herself had broken it. Of course Regina had known the truth, and Valeria had never forgotten the shame that burned her when her mother kindly and lovingly explained to her about the sin of lying. From that time she had never considered even a slight dissimulation to her mother.

  “I was painting the kitchen garden, you see, and one of the scullery maids was picking currants,” Valeria said, speaking rapidly. “Actually I hoped to include her in my picture, but she grew so nervous as I was sketching her that she began to fidget, and it distracted me. So I took her down to the kitchen and explained to Mrs. Banyard that I wished to be alone in the garden to paint, and I asked that the girl do her berry-picking some other time.”

  Regina’s sweet expression grew grave as Valeria spoke. “And what did Mrs. Banyard say?”

  “She said that you and she had decided on currant ices for dessert this evening, but I said that cherry ices would do very well, and that I would explain the change in menu to you. That is all right, isn’t it, Mamma? After all, cherry ices are just as delicious as currant ices.”

  “So they are, but that is hardly the point, Valeria,” Regina said quietly. Slowly and gracefully fanning, she stared out the window again and spoke as if to herself. “It’s really my fault, I suppose. You’re eighteen now, and I should have been more strict in teaching you the particulars of running a household.” Turning back to her daughter she asked, “Who was the maid in the garden?”

  “Mary Louise.”

  Regina nodded. “Yes, the youngest scullery maid. Naturally she would feel unnerved at your presence, and especially by you staring at her and drawing her. But what you must understand, Valeria, is that for the maids to be able to go into the kitchen garden is truly a welcome diversion for them. In most houses the underservants never have an opportunity to even go out of doors, much less to go into a nice garden. Mrs. Banyard and Mrs. Lees have a detailed schedule of which maids may spend time in the garden at which times, and they are not necessarily assigned to perform garden chores, it is simply a leisure time for them. I’m assuming that Mary Louise was picking the currants because she enjoys such things. And now she has lost her scheduled garden time.”

  “I wasn’t aware of all that,” Valeria said lamely.

  “As I admitted, it’s my fault that you didn’t know. Still, dearest, it was rather thoughtless of you to interfere with the servants as they go about their duties. They can hardly argue with you, even when you are wrong.”

  Even this gentle remonstrance was bitter to Valeria. She was sorry for Mary Louise, and sorry for herself. The injustice of it stung her, and at that moment she thought that she almost hated her stepfather. Sighing deeply, she said, “I am truly sorry, Mamma. From now on I will try to be more considerate of the servants.”

  Regina reached over and patted Valeria’s hand. “I know you only did it through carelessness, not from selfishness. After our guests leave, I think I will start teaching you more thoroughly about managing the hou
sehold.”

  “Yes, after our guests leave,” Valeria said intently. “You do think they’re staying for shooting?” Grouse season started on August twelfth; today was the seventh.

  “Maledon hasn’t told me so,” Regina said cautiously, averting her eyes.

  “Oh, how I hope not,” Valeria breathed, and this time her mother didn’t reprove her.

  Picking up her needlework again, Regina did a stitch, then said lightly, “So, darling, after upsetting the entire household for the sake of your art, aren’t you going to go paint the kitchen garden now?”

  “Oh, yes, of course,” Valeria said, rising and putting on her hat again. “If you’ll excuse me, Mamma.”

  At the door she paused and looked back at her mother. Regina had again laid down her needlework, and was staring unseeing out the window at the bright visions outside.

  Chapter Two

  NATURALLY VALERIA HAD NO INTENTION of returning to the kitchen garden; angrily she thought of her watercolor cakes baking out in the August sun. After she left the drawing room she went upstairs to find Craigie. When they had guests, Craigie normally worked down in the servants’ workroom, ironing, sewing, attending to Lady Maledon’s wardrobe. But Valeria had noted that she wasn’t there when she took Mary Louise down, so it was likely that Craigie was in her mother’s sitting room and dressing room, which adjoined Lady Maledon’s bedchamber.

  Valeria was relieved to find her there. One of her mother’s evening gowns, a satin of a deep emerald green, was hung on the dress form, and Craigie sat on the floor, sewing. The dress had a short train, and one of the bottom flounces of white lace had loosened. Craigie was a sturdily built, lively woman, a year older than Valeria’s mother, though she didn’t look it. She had bright red hair, sparkling blue eyes, and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She was pretty in an impish sort of way.

  Valeria sat down on the floor beside her, ripped off her hat, and sighed dramatically. “Oh, Craigie, I must talk to you.”

  “Why? What’s happened? And look at you, flinging yourself about like a dairymaid. If you must sit on the floor, at least sit up straight and tuck your legs in proper,” she said sternly.

  “I can’t think that it matters, no one will see me,” Valeria mumbled, but she did straighten her back and primly pull her ankles to the side.

  Regina Maledon had a long history with Elspeth Craigie Platt. Craigie was, in fact, much more of a friend and confidante to Regina than she was a servant. Craigie and Regina had faced some hard times together.

  When Regina Carew, at sixteen years of age, married Baron Segrave of Ryals, Elspeth Craigie had been a housemaid at Ryalsmere, the family seat. A week after their marriage, Regina took Elspeth on as her lady’s maid, and, as was proper, started calling her “Craigie.” The two young girls grew very close. The next year, when Valeria was born, Craigie was as overjoyed as Regina and Lord Segrave. Craigie loved children, and had confided to Regina that she hoped to marry and have at least six of her own. It was only natural, and was Craigie’s wish, that she serve both as Regina’s lady’s maid and as Valeria’s nurse.

  Two years later Craigie fell in love with the baron’s head groom, Ewan Platt, a big, strapping, handsome man with tow-colored hair, blue eyes, and a ready smile. In most great houses, servants weren’t allowed to marry. But Lord Segrave was a kind and understanding man, and he made special allowances for his servants, and allowed Craigie and Ewan to marry, even providing them with a cottage on the estate. Though Craigie’s wish to start having children immediately didn’t come true, she and Ewan were very happy. Ewan and Lord Segrave were on friendly terms, as Segrave was an avid horseman and Ewan Platt was a wizard with horses. Craigie had Regina, and she had Valeria.

  Life at Ryalsmere was very good until 1798. On November first of that year, All Saints’ Day, Guy, Lord Segrave, died at thirty-three years old. He and Ewan were out on the wild Northumberland moors, making visits to tenant farmers. It had snowed about two inches the night before, but the day was sunny and much warmer.

  Later that night, his face streaming with tears, Ewan told Regina and Craigie, “He was looking back at me, talking of fixing up old Mr. Culver’s cottage. Then, as fast as lightning strikin’, Agrippa rears, screams, crashes down…by the time I got there I saw the adder a-slithering off, the devil! His lordship, he kept his seat, and…he…his head…” Then he had broken off into harsh sobs. As the horse had fallen onto his side, Guy’s head had smashed against the same stone that the adder had been sunning on. He had died instantly.

  At twenty-two years of age Regina, Lady Segrave, was a widow; and Valeria, at five years old, was fatherless.

  As the years passed, through her own intuition, and from many things that Craigie had told her, Valeria had come to clearly see how important Craigie—and, for that matter, her husband Ewan—were to her mother. If it hadn’t been for them, Regina might have slipped into a precarious decline after Valeria’s father died. Her mother enjoyed fine physical health, but she was emotionally fragile. And, with customary sorrow, Valeria thought of how she had realized that Regina Segrave had loved her first husband utterly, to the very core of her soul.

  And now? How had her mother come to marry such a man as Lord Maledon? Why?

  “And so, are you going to tell me what’s got you all in a to-do?” Craigie asked, interrupting Valeria’s thoughts. “Or are you going to just sit there all sour and pruney-faced? Keep it up, it might get stuck that way, missie.”

  Her voice hard and angry, Valeria told Craigie all about the scene in the kitchen garden. As she spoke, Craigie stopped sewing and fixed her eyes on Valeria’s face. Slowly her cheerful countenance grew cold, and her eyes narrowed.

  “…and Mamma made me feel awful about Mary Louise. But it wasn’t my fault!” Valeria finished bitterly.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Craigie said tightly. Then, her voice softening, she said, “I know the unfairness of it galls you. But you did the right thing, the Christian thing, in protecting that poor little girl. And your mother.”

  “But for how long? If they keep on with this brazen behavior, my mother is sure to find out!” Valeria burst out with anguish.

  “Aye, that’s likely,” Craigie said sadly. “But there’s naught you nor I nor anyone can do about that.”

  Valeria wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. Normally Craigie fussed when she did this, but now she seemed not to notice. Valeria said in a subdued voice, “That woman, Lady Jex-Blake. She looked wanton, like a cheap prostitute.”

  “And how would you be knowing what a cheap prostitute looks like?” Craigie snapped. “For all I have to agree with you. Wearing that low-cut gown during the day, with not a sign of a fichu or chemisette, she’s no better than she ought to be.”

  “They’re all of them just awful. Who are these people?” Valeria demanded.

  Three days ago a message had been sent from London, from Lord Maledon, saying that he was bringing a party of five to Bellegarde Hall. They would arrive the next afternoon. It had been unforgivably rude for him to arrange such a large party without consulting with his wife; normally it took two or three weeks to make arrangements for five guests. Mrs. Banyard, the kitchen maids, and both footmen had been dispatched to scour the countryside for supplies. Then, to add insult to injury, the party had arrived at nine-thirty at night, when dinner had been ready since eight o’clock; and they were all, to one degree or another, drunk. Valeria had understood, when her stepfather made his careless introductions, that her mother had not been previously acquainted with any of the guests.

  Valeria glanced at Craigie, who was mutinously silent. She knew that Craigie often struggled with how much to expose her to the seamier side of the world. “You can’t protect me, Craigie. I have to deal with them, just as my mother does. It’s ridiculous, really, that the servants should know more about our guests than I do.”

  “’S’true, we all know of them, mostly from that Thrale,” she finally said with disd
ain. Robert Thrale was Lord Maledon’s valet, a tall, dark man of twenty-five with a supercilious demeanor. Only the servants knew how insolent he had increasingly become in the last two years.

  “Thrale,” Valeria repeated, grimacing. “I’m glad I hardly ever see him.”

  “As am I, he’s a bad ’un, no doubt about it,” Craigie asserted, “and he’ll tell anything and everything he hears about anybody, including his lordship. I’m of the mind that if Lord Maledon knew about his viper’s tongue he’d send him packing.”

  “What? What does he say about my stepfather?” Valeria demanded.

  Craigie frowned. “Personal private things that ought never to be said, and I’m not going to repeat them. That would make me just as bad as him. Why, I think the Lord might strike me down dead if I told private things about your mother!”

  “Yes, yes, I see, Craigie,” Valeria said thoughtfully. “You’re right. But you can tell me about our guests, can’t you? Surely you owe no such loyalty to them. It’s just that I’ve never met people such as them; I don’t know how to treat them.”

  “You’ll treat them the way all fine ladies treat such people, as your mother does, with courtesy, for that’s the only way you’ll keep your dignity,” Craigie said smartly. “Taking notice of their bad behavior is beneath you.”

  Valeria couldn’t help but smile. “It was a little hard not to notice the behavior in the kitchen garden, Craigie.”

  Craigie wasn’t amused. “Just so,” she sniffed. “And that’s why I don’t feel the least guilty for telling you about these people.

  “Lady Jex-Blake, as she is now, but when she were a housemaid for old doddering Sir Henry Jex-Blake she was plain Mavis Horner. Fool that he was, he married her when he were seventy-seven and she but twenty-five, and he obliged her by keeling over dead last year. No crape nor black bombazine for that one! Word is she were in London a month later, for the Season.”

  “And so my stepfather met her there, and I’m assuming the rest of them too. How nice for him to make such fine new acquaintances during the Season,” Valeria said acidly. “If this is the crowd he’s running with now, I’m glad that my mother and I weren’t there!”