Читать книгу The Disgraceful Mr Ravenhurst - Louise Allen - Страница 8

Chapter Four

‘Time to go.’

‘Mmpff?’ Elinor woke up with a start to find the shadows lengthening over the meadows and Theo on his feet, stretching hugely. ‘I’ve been asleep?’

‘For about half an hour. Me too.’

As she moved her head, the weight of her plait swung across her shoulders and curls tickled her cheeks. ‘What have you done to my hair?’ Reaching up, she found he had braided it, not from the nape, but elaborately all the way down from the crown, leaving wisps and curls around her forehead and cheeks.

‘Plaited it. Isn’t it right? I did it like I would a horse’s tail.’ Elinor eyed him, unsure whether this was the truth or whether she had just been given some other woman’s hairstyle.

‘Thank you,’ she said at last, settling for brief courtesy and wishing she had a mirror to check it in. She ran a cautious hand over her head, half-expecting to find he had woven in buttercups while he was at it.

Theo was moving about now, stooping to pick up the wine bottle and the beakers, fastening the satchel. He moved beautifully, Elinor realised, the image of his body elongated in that luxurious stretch proving hard to dislodge from her mind. Long legs, long back tapering from broad shoulders to narrow hips—all those markers of perfect classical proportion it was acceptable for a lady to admire, provided they were depicted in chaste white marble.

She seemed to have spent the past few months surrounded by men acknowledged to be the best looking in society—some of them her cousins, one Bel’s new husband—and she could honestly say she had felt not the faintest stirring of interest in anything other than their conversation. Why she was noticing now that Theo’s boots clung to his muscular calves in quite that way was a mystery. It was not as though he was good looking.

Elinor got to her feet, brushed off her skirts and catalogued all the ways in which he was not good looking. His nose, though large and masculine, was undistinguished. His jaw line was strong, but his chin had the suspicion of a dimple which somewhat diminished its authority. His eyebrows were much darker than his hair and he showed no tendency to raise one in an elegant manner. His mouth was wide and mobile and he seemed more prone to cheerful grins than smoothly sophisticated smiles. Yes, she could quite see why Cousin Theo would not fit in to London society.

He was ducking under the treacherous brambles again, holding them up for her with one hand, the other outstretched. Elinor took it, crouched lower and was safely through. Somehow her hand remained in his as they turned back along the path towards St Père and somehow it felt remarkably normal to have those warm fingers wrapped companionably around hers.

‘I will come at ten tomorrow and see if Aunt Louisa would like to call on the Count.’

‘It is her writing day tomorrow, it may not be convenient. She will probably wish to make it the day after.’ And tomorrow would be a free day for Elinor, unless she was required to redraw her basilica sketches. If Theo was not going to make his call…

‘It is, however, the day on which I am calling on him, so I am afraid your dear mama will just have to fit in with someone else’s convenience for once.’ She blinked, startled by the thread of steel in Theo’s tone. ‘I will come in with you when we get back, if you would prefer not to pass on that message.’

‘No, no, please do not trouble yourself. I will make sure she understands that any other day would not be possible.’ His chin, elusive dimple or not, suddenly looked really rather determined. Elinor shrank from the thought of finding herself in the middle of a confrontation between her mother and Theo.

‘Does she bully you?’

‘No. Not at all.’ He made no response to that. Elinor walked in silence, well aware that her mother did not bully her for the simple reason she never had any occasion to stand up to her. Given that she was on the shelf, and the alternative ways of life were so unappealing, she simply went along with whatever Mama wanted. What would happen if she ever did find herself in opposition?

‘We are nearly back; you had best put on your bonnet again.’ Theo fished another lace from his satchel and gathered her prickly roses into a bunch so she could tie on the flat straw hat again.

‘That,’ he remarked, flipping the brim, ‘suits you. We will save it from the bonfire.’

‘What bonfire?’

‘The one for your gowns and any other garment you possess that is sludge coloured.’

‘You are just as much a bully as Mama,’ Elinor remarked, climbing into the gig and waving away his offer of the reins.

‘Am I?’ Theo’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘Say no to me, then, and see what happens.’

‘Very well. I will not burn my old gowns.’

‘What will you do with them?’

‘Give them to my maid, who will probably sell them.’

‘An excellent solution. See, no opposition at all.’

‘You are all sweet reasonableness, in fact.’

‘Of course.’ The horse toiled up the hill to the square below the long steep street to the basilica while Elinor tried, and failed, to come up with a retort that was not thoroughly unladylike. Theo guided it towards the hitching post in the shade.

‘No, I can walk from here, honestly.’ He looked doubtful, then clicked his fingers at a burly man lounging against the tree trunk.

‘Hey, you. Carry this lady’s things up the hill for her.’ The man caught the coin tossed in his direction neatly, then came to lift the sketching paraphernalia from the gig, shouldering the easel and waiting for Theo to hand Elinor down.

‘Tomorrow at ten, then? Thank you for my day.’

‘And for the new gowns?’

‘I reserve judgement on those until I see what they look like.’ She laughed back at his smile and set off up the hill, her porter at her heels.

* * *

Theo caught Hythe’s eye and nodded almost imperceptibly before the man set off in Elinor’s wake. He tipped his hat over his eyes, leaving just enough room to see under the brim, and leaned back against the backboard, apparently asleep. It was a useful trick, and had served him well in the past.

That had been an unexpected day. Unexpected, different and quietly pleasant. It had left him with the desire to set a match to the entire contents of his aunt’s study, though. Poor Cousin Elinor. No—he had started out feeling sorry for her, but that, he acknowledged, was not the right emotion.

She was intelligent, amusing, artistically talented and really rather lovely, if she could ever be brought to see it. On the other hand, her very unconsciousness of her looks was part of her charm.

Or was it just him? Certainly no other gentleman had shown her overt attention in the past or she would not have been so completely relaxed in his company. It seemed she vanished at will behind a mask that disguised her as spinster bluestocking and both she, and all the men she came in contact with, accepted that.

When he thought of the liberties he could have taken with her—probably would have taken with someone of more sophistication—he shuddered. The feel of her, her waist trim between his palms as he lifted her down from that chair in the church. Her hair, glossy under his hands as she let him handle it. Her total relaxation as she slept on the riverbank beside him. And her warm, long-fingered hand trusting in his as they walked back.

Through his narrow viewpoint Hythe came into sight, striding down the hill. ‘That the same cousin, guv’nor?’ he asked when he was up on the seat and Theo was lifting the reins.

‘The same. Why?’

‘Thought her a bit of a drab piece yesterday. Different today, bit of a sparkle about her.’

‘She needed some fresh air,’ Theo said. Fresh air, a change of scene and someone to appreciate her. Perhaps Count Leon would take a fancy to her; that would distract him nicely.

Was there any danger, taking his aunt and cousin into that chateau? No, surely not. Even if it were the count who had robbed him of the ch—the object. Even to himself he did not name it. It seemed hard to believe that he was the culprit, the man who had struck Theo down and murdered the old count, his father. If he was innocent, then the danger would come when whoever did have it attempted to sell it back to the count. Theo could send the women packing as soon as that happened.

His hand went to the small of his back where the pistol was wedged into his belt and then down to check the knives slipped into his carefully made boots. Things were safe enough now. His mouth settled into a thin smile that did not reach his eyes.

‘Good afternoon, Elinor.’ Lady James hardly glanced up from her work table as Elinor came in, a rustic jug with the wild roses in her hands. She looked around for a free flat surface, then gave up and stood them in the hearth.

‘Good afternoon, Mama. Did you have a good day?’

‘Passable. Those sketches of yours are acceptable, I do not require any of them redone. What was the church at St Père like?’

‘Of as late a date as you supposed,’ Elinor said indifferently. At least she did not have to spend any more time squinting into shadows in the basilica. ‘There are the ruins of the old church next to it, but nothing of any interest remains.’

‘You were a long time.’

‘Cousin Theo and I went for a walk. I found the exercise invigorating after so much time spent drawing.’

‘Very true. A rational way to spend the day, then.’ Lady James added a word to the page, then looked up, apparently satisfied with the sentence she had just completed. ‘What have you done to your hair?’

‘Oh.’ Elinor put up a hand, startled to find the softness against her cheek. ‘My hair net caught on a twig and was torn. I had no hair pins, so braiding it seemed the best thing to do.’ In for a penny… ‘I ordered some new gowns while I was in the village. Cousin Theo’s landlady is a dressmaker.’

‘Nothing extravagant, I trust. There is plenty of wear in that gown for a start.’ Clothing, especially fashionable clothing, was not just an unnecessary expense, but a drug for young women’s minds, in Lady James’s opinion.

‘They are well within my allowance, Mama—a positive bargain, in fact—and they are practical garments.’ She had lost her mother’s attention again. Elinor half-stood, then sat down again. Normally at this point she would retreat and leave Mama in peace, but today, after the experience of spending hours with someone who actually understood the concept of a reciprocal conversation, she felt less patient.

‘Mama, Cousin Theo tells me that there is a most interesting chateau in St Martin, a village beyond St Père. He has an introduction to the count and thought you may like to accompany him tomorrow and see the building.’

‘Hmm?’ Lady James laid down her pen and frowned. ‘Yes, if that is the Chateau de Beaumartin, I have heard of it. I believe it has an unusual early chapel, a remnant of an earlier castle. Tomorrow is not convenient, however.’

‘It is the day Cousin Theo will be visiting. That and no other, he says, so I am afraid we will have to be a little flexible if we are not to miss the opportunity.’

‘Flexible? He obviously has no concept of the importance of routine and disciplined application for a scholar. Very well. I never thought to see the day when I would have to accommodate the whims of a scapegrace nephew.’

‘I believe he is calling on business, not for pleasure, Mama. And he is a most accomplished artist,’ she added, feeling the need to defend Theo in some way. He would be amused to hear her, she suspected. Somehow he seemed too relaxed and self-confident to worry about what one eccentric aunt thought of him. ‘He will be here at ten, Mama.’

‘Indeed? Well, if we are to spend tomorrow out, then we have work to do. Those proofs will not wait any longer, not if I am to entrust them to what passes for the French postal system these days. It pains me to find anything good to say about the Corsican Monster, but apparently he made the mails run on time.’

‘Yes, Mama, I will just go and wash my hands.’ It did not seem possible to say that she would rather spend the remainder of the afternoon while the light held in working up some of the rapid sketches she had made during the day. The one of Theo drawing, for example, or lying stretched out on the river bank with his hat tipped over his nose, or the tiny scribbled notes she had made to remind her of the way that blue creeping flower had hugged the ground.

Never mind, she told herself, opening the door to her little room on the second floor. They would still be there in her pocket sketchbook, and her memory for everything that had happened today was sharp. All except for those soft, vague minutes while Theo had been plaiting her hair and she had fallen asleep. That was like the half-waking moments experienced at dawn, and likely to prove just as elusive.

She splashed her face and washed her hands in the cold water from the washstand jug without glancing in the mirror. She rarely did so, except to check for ink smudges or to make sure the parting down the middle of her hair was straight. Now, as she reached for her apron, she hesitated and tipped the swinging glass to reflect her face. And stared.

Her nose was, rather unfortunately, becoming tanned. Her cheeks were pink and her hair… She looked at least two years younger. Which was probably because she was smiling—not a reaction that looking in the mirror usually provoked. Or was it that?

Elinor assumed a serious expression. She still looked—what? Almost pretty? It must be the softness of those ridiculous tendrils of hair escaping around her forehead and temples. Looking pretty was of no practical use to a bookish spinster. On the other hand, it was rather gratifying to discover that her despised red hair could have that effect. And the unladylike tan at least disguised the freckles somewhat.

What would have happened five years ago during her disastrous come-out if she had dressed her hair like this instead of trying to hide it? Nothing, probably. She was still the younger daughter, destined to remain at home as Mama’s support. And she had always been studious, which immediately put men off. It took a long time, and numerous snubs, before she realised she was supposed to pretend she was less intelligent than they were, even when their conversation was banal beyond belief. But she never could bring herself to pretend. It was no loss; she would be bored to tears as a society wife.

The apron she wore when she was working was still in her hand, the cuff-protectors folded neatly in the pocket. She looked down at the sludge-coloured gown and tossed the apron on to the bed. The gown was going, it might as well go covered in ink spots.

Elinor ran down the twisting stairs, humming. Even the waiting proofs of A comparison between early and late eleventh-century column construction in English churches did not seem so daunting after all.

‘Pink roses?’ Lady James levelled her eyeglass at the crown of Elinor’s villager hat, decorated with some of yesterday’s roses. ‘And ruby-red ribbons? Whatever are you thinking of?’

‘The ribbons match my walking dress, Mama. And I think the roses look charming with it. The dress is one of those Cousin Belinda persuaded me to buy, if you recall. I thought I should make an effort for our call.’

‘Hmm. Where has that young man got to?’ As the clocks had not yet struck ten, this seemed a little harsh.

‘He is just coming, Mama.’ Reprehensibly Elinor had her elbows on the ledge of the open casement and was leaning out to watch the street. ‘Good morning, Cousin Theo. You are very fine this morning.’

‘And you, too.’ He swept off his tall hat and made a leg, causing a passing group of young women to giggle and stare. Biscuit-coloured pantaloons, immaculate linen, a yellow silk waistcoat and a dark blue coat outshone anything to be seen on the streets of Vezelay on a workaday Wednesday morning. ‘Has the bonfire occurred?’

Jeanie, their Scottish maid who had travelled with them from London and who was proving very adaptable to life in France, came down the stairs, opened the door with a quick bob to Theo, then vanished down the street with a large bundle under her arm.

‘Unnecessary, as I told you.’ Elinor whispered, conscious of her mother behind her gathering up reticule and parasol. ‘Jeanie’s on her way to the used-clothes dealer right now.’

‘Do you intend to converse with your cousin through the window like a scullery maid, Elinor, or are we going?’

‘We are going if you are ready, Mama.’

‘I am. Good morning, Theophilus. Now, then, who exactly are these friends of yours?’

‘Good morning, Aunt. Not friends, I have never met the family. I did business with the count’s late father earlier this year, just before his death. There are…complications with the matter that I need to discuss with the son.’

Lady James unfurled her parasol, took Theo’s arm and swept off down the hill, leaving Elinor to shut the door and hurry after them. ‘Count Leon is about my age and lived almost entirely in England since just before the Terror.’

‘His father obviously had the sense to get out in time.’

‘The foresight, certainly. He moved his money to English banks and his portable valuables he placed in hiding in France. The estates and the family chateaux were seized, of course. Most of the furnishings and paintings were dispersed.’

‘And your business with the late count?’

‘Mama!’ Elinor murmured, cringing at the bluntness of the enquiry. Theo was hardly likely to answer that.

‘Why, helping him retrieve the missing items,’ he answered readily. ‘I had some success, especially with the pictures. They are easier to identify than pieces of furniture.’

‘Ah, so you have located some more items,’ Lady James said, apparently happy now she had pinned down Theo’s precise business.

He did not answer. Which means, Elinor thought, studying the back of his neck as though that singularly unresponsive and well-barbered part of his anatomy could give her some clue, Mama is not correct and his business with Count Leon is something else entirely. How intriguing.

Waiting at the bottom of the hill was a closed carriage. Theo’s own? Or had he hired it especially? Determined not to be as openly inquisitive as her mother, Elinor allowed herself to be handed in and set to studying the interior.

Dark blue, well-padded upholstery. Carpet underfoot. Neat netting strung across the roof, cunningly constructed pockets in the doors and pistol holders on either side. Theo’s own, she was certain. Her cousin was a man who enjoyed luxury and valued practicality, she deduced, her gaze on the swinging gold tassels of his Hessian boots and her memory conjuring up the contents of his sketching satchel. But what sort of life encompassed carriages of this quality and the need for rabbit snares?

She lifted her eyes to find him watching her, one dark brow raised. She had been wrong to think he would not do that, she thought. Today, far from the comfortable cousin of yesterday, he was a society gentleman and a rather impressive one at that.

‘I was admiring the appointments of your carriage,’ she said calmly, in response to the raised brow. ‘Although I cannot see the container for the game you snare.’

He gave a snort of laughter, the gentleman turning back into Cousin Theo again. ‘You guessed it was mine?’

‘I am coming to know the style,’ she said, and was rewarded by a smile and an inclination of the head. He looked rather pleased at the compliment.

‘Whatever are you talking about, Elinor?’ Lady James did not wait for a response, but swept on. ‘How far is it, Theophilus?’

‘Another five miles, Aunt. I do not suppose I can prevail upon you to call me Theo?’

‘Certainly not. I do not approve of shortening names. Most vulgar.’

Under cover of brushing his hair back he rolled his eyes at Elinor, almost provoking her to giggles. She frowned repressively and set herself the task of talking her mother into a good humour before they arrived. ‘Do tell me about this chapel, Mama. I am sure I will not appreciate it without your guidance.’ This time Theo crossed his eyes, making her cough desperately and be thankful that the interior of the carriage was dim enough for Mama not to notice.

He was back to being the perfect gentleman again by the time they rolled past the outlying farmhouse, through the gatehouse and into the courtyard of the chateau. ‘I sent ahead yesterday to apprise them of our visit; we should be expected.’

As he spoke the great double doors at the top of the steps swung open and a young man stepped out, two women dressed in mourning black just behind him. Elinor did not like to stare and with the fuss attendant on having the steps let down, retrieving her mother’s reticule from the carriage and following her up the steps, it was not until she was within arm’s length of the count that she saw his face.

It was only the tightly tied garnet ribbons under her chin that stopped her jaw dropping: the Comte Leon de Beaumartin was quite the most beautiful man she had ever seen.