Barbara Metzger (3 page)

Think of castles in the sky; Cristabel built a full-blown fantasy palace! The town house in Grosvenor Square, a sedate older lady to act as chaperone and make introductions to the ladies of the
ton
who might remember her mother. Pretty dresses—a whole closet full—and a cheerful little maid to take care of them. Music—all she wanted, operas, concerts, musicales at…at Carlton House with the Prince! Why not, for Miss Cristabel Swann, heiress of Harwood House? Even if Uncle Charles had only left her a jointure, and she had to give music lessons to supplement her income… Even if Uncle Charlie had just
remembered
her, if someone cared.

She couldn’t simply write a letter. She couldn’t let the dream die, not when it might be her only chance, ever.

Miss Swann straightened her already firm spine. She raised her pointed chin and this time marched back across the hallway to Miss Meadow’s office.

“What now, Miss Swann?”

“Miss Meadow, I
wish
to go to London.”

“What is that to the purpose? I wish to waltz with the king!”

Cristabel almost lost track of her thoughts, picturing this tiny harridan dancing with the mad king, in his nightshirt, if rumors were true. She shook her head. “Miss Meadow, I wish to go now.”

“And I wish this conversation at an end. One more word and you shan’t go to London at all, not now, not this summer. Not ever. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Miss Meadow, but—”

“I am finding your behavior impertinent and unbecoming in the extreme. I shall have to reconsider renewing your contract for next year.”

“Yes, Miss Meadow, but this year or rather next week…”

“If you say ‘but’ to me one more time, young lady, one more word about this matter, I shall consider terminating your employment altogether.”

There it was then, Cristabel’s choice, and she didn’t even hesitate. If Cristabel had paused, had thought about the gamble she was taking, she knew she wouldn’t do it, couldn’t do it. She did it.

“I am going to London, to see my uncle’s man of business as soon as arrangements can be made.”

While Miss Swann stood calmly, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, the headmistress grew proportionately more disturbed. Miss Meadow pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, making her resemble a petulant peahen more than ever. She flapped her pudgy hands in the air before holding them up and enumerating her points on the fleshy fingers. “Number one,” she squawked, “if you leave, do not expect to return. Two, do not expect a reference. Three, do not expect this quarter’s wages, since you have not finished the term. And four, do not expect that I shall regret your departure.”

“I thought you were satisfied with my work. I am sorry.”

“Sorry? We’ll see who’s sorry! Or did you think I couldn’t find someone else to replace you as music instructor? There’s many a gentlewoman who could fill your position admirably, young lady, and thank me for the chance.”

That this was patently untrue—that there were many, or any other wellborn ladies who would perform Miss Swann’s duties so well, so cheaply, and so uncomplainingly—did not bother the angry old besom, as long as Miss Swann believed it. Cristabel did believe that the pupils would hardly notice if an orangutan were instructing them at the pianoforte. The younger girls pounded out their endless scales, unmercifully. The older ones got through their requisite Handel pieces so they might appear accomplished at house parties. Perhaps an ape would have better luck teaching them to appreciate the music, or even read the score, when they could barely get through
La Belle Assemblee
without referring to the pictures.

A replacement harpist might be a rarer commodity, and Miss Meadow did like the image of her pupils, dressed all in white, performing for Patron Days. Still, Cristabel was sure the threat was true: she would be replaced before she reached London, and some other poor unfortunate would be helping those spoiled darlings look like angels—on her harp! The instrument had been Cristabel’s mother’s and had been one reason for her finding employment at such an early age. It had also been used and abused, scuffed, and strummed to shrieking by seven years of careless girls, for free.

Cristabel smiled. She actually grinned, erasing the frown lines and momentarily changing the drawn, tired woman into a charming girl. The impertinence of it made Miss Meadow so furious she gobbled down an apricot tart. Cristabel’s words made her choke on it: “I shall remove as soon as I can pack my belongings and arrange transport to London for myself…and the harp.”

“The harp?” Crumbs spewed all over. The beaky mouth twisted into a grimace. “Miss Swann, sometimes I forget the impetuosity of youth. I shall permit you twenty-four hours to reconsider this rash decision. I shall also expect an apology on my desk tomorrow evening, then we may consider the matter finished. I suggest you retire now and deliberate on your future.”

Cristabel curtsied. She closed the door behind her and leaned against it. Twenty-four hours. One day.

“Godfrey,” she called out to the half-deaf night porter stationed by the front door, “I need a hackney carriage to take me to the nearest posting house. Tell the driver to be here in an hour.” Just in case Godfrey hadn’t heard, or any of those touseled heads now leaning over the upstairs railing, or Miss Meadow herself, cramming tea cakes down her throat, Cristabel repeated, only louder and slower: “I need a carriage. Going to London. In one hour.”

“Are you really leaving, Miss Swann?” one of the dormitory girls wanted to know.

“Yes, I am traveling to London within the hour, so you must not pester me with your questions. I have to pack.”

“Janine said the maid said that she heard your uncle died and left you a fortune. Is that true?”

“Janine should not gossip with the maids or listen to keyhole rumors.”

“But is it true?” another girl asked. All eight of them were clustered around Cristabel.

“It’s something like that. No, it’s nothing like that, just family matters. Now let me pass. Everyone back in bed, quickly, before Miss Meadow comes to see what the commotion is.”

“You mean to supervise your packing like she did with that maid who left last month,” giggled little Lady Jessica, scrambling for her bed in a flurry of bare feet and billowy white nightgown. “To make sure you don’t leave with any of the school’s forks or spoons.”

“Maybe she’ll check to see you’re not stuffing one of
us
into your trunk to hold for ransom.”

“Whatever would I want with one of you?” Cristabel teased as she walked past the eight beds in a row, neatening a cover or tucking a curl into a lacy nightcap. “I thought I was going to London to get away from you plaguey children. Besides, you have been reading far too many Minerva Press novels, all of you. I’m sure Miss Meadow will blame me for that, too.”

They all laughed. Indeed, it was Cristabel who brought the gothic romances back from the lending library for the girls, tucked between volumes of sermons and improving works. She felt the girls were better off reading something, anything at all, rather than nothing. “Hush now,” she said, kissing the last girl on the forehead. “I must get ready.”

“She will, you know,” a small, serious voice called from across the room. “She’ll blame everything on you. She’ll blacken your character and use you as a bad example.”

“She’ll say she had to dismiss you because your conduct was unbecoming to the school’s image.”

“She’ll say…she’ll say you aren’t a lady.”

There was a moment’s silence as they all, Cristabel included, contemplated this death knell of Miss Swann’s reputation. Then came a firm assertion: “Well, I won’t believe it,” followed by a whole chorus of, “me neither’s.” Then Miss Swann quietly answered, “Thank you, girls. I won’t believe it either.”

* * *

There was very little to pack. The nights were still cold so she would wear her warmest dress, the gray merino, and her shawl so the spots wouldn’t show, her wool cloak and boots, and the only bonnet she owned. Her other dresses, slippers, nightclothes, and underthings all fit in the portmanteau she used as a laundry basket, with room to spare for a few of her favorite books saved from her father’s library. She’d like to give the rest to the other teachers, especially Miss Macklin, the voice instructor, who was closest to Cristabel in age. She knew the staff would be cowering in their rooms, however, lest Miss Meadow’s disfavor rub off on them. No, singling out Miss Macklin would not be a kindness.

That left only her comb and brush, inlaid in ivory with her mother’s initials, and the miniature portraits of her parents. As she carefully wrapped the double silver frame in her spare nightgown, she couldn’t help worrying if her parents would have approved. Would her proper mama have deplored her lack of mourning for the dead or noticed, in fact, that Cristabel was nearly ecstatic at her uncle’s demise, already considering how to spend his money? No, Mrs. Swann was no hypocrite and had never approved of her brother-in-law or his way of life, especially after the vicar’s death, when Lord Harwood did not even extend the common courtesy of a condolence letter to the widow, much less an offer of assistance to her and her daughter. But would they think she was being a fool to leave the security of her position at the school or, worse, becoming a gambler like Uncle Charles? Gentle Papa had always said it was in the Harwood blood, and they mustn’t blame Uncle Charles for his failings but should pray for him instead.

Cristabel closed the fastenings on the suitcase. Her decision felt so right, but she couldn’t help whispering, “Papa, pray for me.”

Chapter Three

The decision still felt right. Miss Swann felt awful. Odysseus may have had a worse journey, but she doubted it. To start with, she found at the posting inn that she could ride on the mail coach, but her harp could not. That is, it could be wrapped in oilskin and tied to the back or tossed on the top of the carriage to face the rain, fog, and cold of foul, early spring weather, the road dirt, and the ill-handling of reluctant postboys. Instead, she was compelled to hire a post chaise and driver, and postillions at the stages. The cost of this was so high that Cristabel was forced to economize in her food, lodgings, and tips, which only earned her worse food, lodgings, and treatment. Innkeepers and their employees did not look kindly on single women traveling alone, especially long Megs who were too thin, wore faded, funereal clothes, and had a heavy instrument that needed carting in and out of carriages to boot, lest it be affected by the dampness of the night despite its covering. Miss Swann was too proper to make sport of and too poor to respect, so she was given neglect and insolence. There were tiny rooms with clammy, unaired sheets and no fires, barely warm meals of whatever was left over, broken-down, mismatched horses so the ride was longer yet and bumpy—and sullen unfriendliness. She even found herself missing the girls at Miss Meadow’s school!

The first night Cristabel was still buoyed by the sheer glory of her great adventure. She, Cristabel Swann, had had the courage to defy Miss Meadow and was actually on her way to a better future. She didn’t even mind having to sleep as best she could in a hard chair in the inn’s common room, all of the bedrooms being taken. She was too excited to sleep anyway and, too, it was cheaper. There was a great deal to see, with carriages and travelers coming and going, so it wasn’t until much later that she remembered the knotted handkerchief one of the girls in her room had pressed into her hand as she was leaving. Inside, Cristabel found three half-melted bonbons, two copper pennies, a pink silk rose with frayed petals, a stub of a pencil, and a much-folded watercolor of the academy, possibly. Warmed by the children’s thoughtfulness despite the dying fire in the drafty room, Cristabel poked the rose through the limp brim of her ugly black straw bonnet and used the pencil to calculate her finances on the back of the painting.

On the second night, the bonbons tasted like manna, and Miss Swann wished there were three more at least, or just one of Miss Meadow’s almond tarts. The results on the back of the painting were as depressing as those on the front, and Cristabel was beginning to feel headachy and stuffy-nosed. It was also the first night in nearly eight years that she had had a room all to herself, except for the wildlife she was sure inhabited the inn’s beds. She was independent and free—and all alone in the world.

After that things got worse: the weather, and so the roads, her cold—thank heavens for the gift handkerchief—and her finances.

By the time Miss Swann finally reached London, so many days later she lost count, she was as damp and bedraggled as the rose drooping onto her forehead. Her nose was all red and her eyes were streaming. Her throat was so scratchy it hurt just to breathe the London air. Besides, one wasn’t supposed to be able to see the air, was one? She was in no condition to face the solicitor that afternoon, if he hadn’t already left his offices, and she doubted she had enough money left for a respectable London hotel, if she could find one that would accept her. She knew better than to put up at a coaching house, for what was barely respectable for a single lady on the road was actually dangerous for an unprotected woman in the city, so she did the only thing possible. She asked the driver to take her to Harwood House, Grosvenor Square.

She recognized a few landmarks from her guidebooks, but recalled nothing from the two childhood visits she had made with her parents many years ago, until they reached the house itself. Set back from the road across from the park, it was neither as large nor as well kept as its neighbors. Of brown stone, it was a fairly unprepossessing, drab building, with only one thing to recommend it—it was home!

Cristabel staggered down from the carriage and dragged her portmanteau out with her while the driver struggled with the harp, grunting and cursing the whole way up the front walk and the seven marble steps. The new heiress lifted the heavy knocker, then looked up at the Harwood arms over the door, all swans, trees, and swords, while she waited. And waited.

A young footman finally answered the door, hastily pulling the napkin from his livery’s collar and wiping his mouth, which then hung open at the sight of a draggletailed female standing on his master’s doorstep. ’Cor, ’n it being the butler’s day off asides.

“I am Miss Swann,” Cristabel announced, and received no more recognition—or less bemusement—than if she’d just identified herself as St. George. “Lord Harwood’s niece?” Cristabel’s inflection meant, “There, now will you give me proper welcome?” The young servant, though, took her question to mean she didn’t rightly know who she was. Dotty female, come knocking on strangers’ doors. Whisht, what’s to do? The coachman was no help, a-bumping through the entryway past both Cristabel and the footman.

“Where do you want this here thing, then, lady? I ain’t paid for standin’ here jawing.”

Cristabel looked to the befuddled footman, got no response. Really, this was too much. She could understand a caretaker staff not being up to the standards of a gentleman’s residence, but leaving simple-minded hirelings in charge of an empty house was unconscionable. What if she’d been a thief? She’d have to have a talk with her uncle’s solicitor very shortly. Meanwhile she, and the footman, had followed the burdened coachman across the black-and-white marble squares into the wide hall. There were many doors leading off the hallway on either side of a central stairway, all shut, and Cristabel could not remember the order of the rooms, much less know their conditions.

“Put it down by the stairs for now,” she directed, “and I’ll decide later which room is most suitable.” She placed her portmanteau near the harp with a frown for the footman, who had neglected to relieve her of the baggage. Poor want-wit, he was scratching his head as if he’d never seen a harp before.

Poor Floyd, for that was the footman’s name, had indeed never seen the like, some old crow looking like she’d been dragged backward through a briar hedge, a-moving into ’is lordship’s vestibule like she owned the place. Butler’d have his head, he would. And as for ’is lordship…Well, Floyd figured as how he’d better get some help. But how could he leave this attics-to-let female alone? He edged toward the stairs, which was a sure sign of his distress, that he’d so much as think of using the front stairway, instead of the rear. He had to reach his master’s man Sparling upstairs while the corkbrained woman was busy paying off the driver.

There went almost the last of Cristabel’s money, and good riddance to the coachman, even more surly seeing the size of his tip. But heavens, the feebleminded manservant was sidling across the hall, eyeing her slantwise. Cristabel didn’t think she wanted to spend the night in the house alone with just this simple fellow.

“You there,” she called, speaking very slowly and carefully, “do you think you could find your way to the solicitor’s office? It’s on Fleet Street. F-l-e-e-t Street. Do you think you can remember?”

Floyd nodded, desperately.

“Good, good. You’re to ask for Mr. Worbigger and ask him to attend Miss Swann here as soon as possible, all right?”

Floyd decided to humor the madwoman, nip out the front, scoot around to the kitchen door, and up the back way to find Sparling. “Yes’m,” he said, trying to scuttle toward the entryway without turning his back on her.

“You’re sure now, you understand the message?”

“Mr. Worbigger, Fleet Street. Miss Swann, here.”

“Fine. I’ll wait in there,” Cristabel said, turning to what she assumed was the front parlor, the first door on the right.

Floyd gasped. “In there?”

“Don’t worry, I shan’t consider the room’s condition,” she said, her hand on the doorknob.

“But, but his lordship’s in—”

“In here?” Cristabel dropped the handle like a hot coal. Her dead uncle was still laid out at home! She shuddered. “You mean they were waiting for me?”

Floyd took another look at the frumpy clothes, the stringy hair, the red nose and eyes. “I doubt it, ma’am.”

“Then why in heaven’s name haven’t they buried him yet?”

“Because he ain’t dead yet, though it were a near thing.”

Not dead! Her Uncle Charles was still alive, and he’d had Mr. Worbigger send for her! “I better go right in to him then.”

Floyd swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the uniform’s collar. “Oh ma’am, I wouldn’t do that. Oh no. His lordship’d have my head. That is, he, um, mightn’t be fit for company. Right, he ain’t ready to receive you now. Perhaps his valet will know…er, will see if the master…Why don’t I just go fetch him, miss?”

Cristabel sank down on a chair outside the room, dazed. She just couldn’t believe it. After all those years, Uncle Charlie had remembered her. Old and ailing, near to death, he wanted family near him. Well, Cristabel would shower him with her care. She would read him the newspapers, fetch his medicines, brighten his remaining days with music and flowers and—

And there were noises coming from behind the closed door, moans they were, she was sure. He needed her!

“I’m coming, Uncle,” she cried, tearing open the door and racing into the room.

There he was, fallen on the floor by the sofa, too near the fireplace. His head was all bandaged, and he was struggling with the blanket entangling him.

“Here I am, Uncle Ch—Ch—Oh, my Lord!” For there were two people under the blanket. The one not wearing bandages, and a paisley robe, was a stunning redhead not wearing much except rouge. She looked up at Cristabel, smiled and waved. Miss Swann should have fled; she knew that. She should have fainted at least. No such luck. Her feet were stuck to the carpet with the glue of impending hysteria. All she could do was shut her eyes. “Uncle,” she whispered, swaying.

“What in bloody hell!”

“Uncle!” Cristabel’s eyes popped wide at the language, screwed shut again at the sight of the gentleman groping for the sash of his robe.

“I am nobody’s blasted uncle!”

Wrapped in the blanket, the redhead helped him, then gathered a pile of clothing and what remained of the dignity of the situation. She left with a cheery “ Ta,” which both of the others ignored.

The man couldn’t possibly be Uncle Charles, Cristabel saw now. The broad shoulders, erect bearing, all bespoke a much younger man, and the dark curls showing at the vee of his robe, well, it wasn’t Uncle Charles, that was for sure.

“If you are not my uncle, then what are you doing here?”

“Ma’am, unless you are as blindfolded as I, it must be obvious what I am—or was—doing here!” he thundered. “But what in God’s name are you doing here?”

Cristabel blushed—thank heavens the insufferable brute couldn’t see that—and drew herself up to her considerable height, which was still inches shorter than this blackguard. “I am Miss Cristabel Swann,” she announced, “and I demand to know what you are doing in my house.”

“Your house? Your house?” Captain Chase rubbed at his forehead. Damn these bandages anyway, he couldn’t even tell if the deranged female had a weapon. What a blasted situation; he’d have that fool footman’s liver and lights and—“Did you say Miss Swann?”

“Miss Cristabel Swann, Lord Charles Harwood’s niece.”

The baron’s preachy old maid? Oh, Lord, was that who saw him and what’s-her-name? What a coil.

“Miss Swann, I am afraid there is a misunderstanding here. Your late uncle—You do know Lord Harwood is deceased, don’t you?”

“I had assumed as much before—”

He held up a hand. “Please, let me continue. Before his death Lord Harwood took part in a card game, a lot of card games, and he wagered this house, among other things. He lost, and I now own Harwood House.”

“No, that’s a lie, he couldn’t have.” This, this libertine could not be telling the truth.

The muscles in the man’s jaw clenched, visible even under the dark, concealing stubble there. “Ma’am, are you accusing me of being a liar?”

Cristabel fumbled in her reticule with numb fingers. “I have a letter here from his solicitor about the estate. See, Mr. Worbigger writes that—”

“Miss Swann,” he ground out, “I cannot
see
anything. Your uncle lost this house to me in a gentlemen’s card game, and that is that!”

Cristabel was extremely tired of being shouted at by this large person whose behavior to this point had not given her any reason for considering him a gentleman.

Besides, she had no knowledge of how to navigate the tricky shoals of male honor. In fact, she knew very little of men at all and knew only Miss Meadow’s lectures on the evils of the city. “That’s impossible,” she shouted back, unwisely as it turned out. “The game must have been crooked.”

“Now I’m a cheat as well as a liar? No man would dare—”

“And a libertine and a housebreaker to boot! And I dare!”

“If you weren’t hiding behind your petticoats, you blasted woman, I’d…I’d…” He didn’t know what he’d do, but it wouldn’t be pretty. His hands were itching to wrap around something and shake it or squeeze it or—

“And a bully, too!” Cristabel raged. “This whole thing is a hum, and I demand you leave instantly before I call the watch. I may be a green country girl, and Uncle may have been a…a loose screw, but even I know there’s no way he could have lost an honest card game to you.”

“What, are you calling me a moonling now? I wonder what’s next on your charming list? Perhaps murderer. If ever I was tempted, Miss Swann, this is it! Once and for all, your uncle lost fairly.”

“Forgive me for being blunt, Mr. Whoever-you-are, but I refuse to believe that a man who cannot see his cards is a match for anyone but another blind man!”

That brought him up short. She was right, of course, and his incivility was inexcusable despite the provocation.

“My apologies, miss. I am Captain Chase, and I was not so, ah, incapacitated at the time. I realize this has been difficult for you and, with your permission, I shall send for Lord Harwood’s solicitor and my own man of business to settle this. Will you excuse me, ma’am?”