Four

“May I come in, or is it the custom for English ladies to keep their gentlemen callers coolin’ their heels in the corridors?” the American asked after a long moment, during which Anne found herself being surveyed with an appraising stare as direct, curious and rude as hers had been.

“Of course you may come in,” she said coloring, and stepped aside to let him pass. “Please sit down.” As he looked around the room and lowered his long frame into a chair, she added tartly, “What a strange expression. And not very apt. You can scarcely consider yourself a ‘gentleman caller.’ One can’t be a caller at one’s own home. This is your own house, you know.”

“Is it?” Mr. Hughes asked innocently. “I didn’t know that. The letter said only that I was to report here on my arrival.”

“Nevertheless, it is yours. Are you going to put us out into the storm?”

Mr. Hughes tilted his head up to flick a cool glance at her as she stood over him. “You don’t mean to call that little drizzle out there a storm, do you? If I’m to take some real enjoyment from puttin’ you out, I’d best wait for a gale, or a nice, freezin’ snowstorm.”

Realizing she’d been bested, Anne merely tossed her head and took a seat opposite him. “Have you just arrived from America?” she asked loftily.

“Yes’m. Landed at Southhampton two days ago and made straight for London. I intended to stay at Fenton’s—a fellow on board ship told me it’s a right proper hotel—but your stepmother insists I’m to stay here. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I have no right to mind. As I told you, this is your house.”

Mr. Hughes frowned at her. “I know I look like a giant, ma’am, but I’m no monster who tromped down a beanstalk. I don’t drive widows from their homes nor eat little children for breakfast. I can quite easily take residence at the hotel if my presence here causes you the slightest discomfort.”

“I … I’m sorry,” Anne said contritely. “I’ve been quite rude. You see, I … I had no warn—I mean, I had not been informed that you were coming. If Mama has invited you to stay here, of course you are welcome to do so.”

“Thank you,” the American said briefly. “But—?”

“But?”

“I thought I heard a ‘but’ at the end of that very polite declaration,” Mr. Hughes said, a mischievous twinkle gleaming in his surprisingly light eyes.

Anne shrugged. Americans were obviously quite frank and direct in their conversations. She decided to answer him in the same spirit. “I was only going to say that I shall certainly do my part to make you feel welcome among us, but—”

“Aha! But …?”

“But I hope you don’t take Mama seriously when she says I’m to … er … take you in hand.”

“Take me in hand? Do you mean ‘make a gentleman of me’?” Mr. Hughes laughed loudly. “No, ma’am, I know better. That’s no job for a slip of a girl like you.”

Anne, considerably taller than the average young lady, had never heard herself described as a ‘slip of a girl’ and relented enough to smile back at him. “Then we understand each other,” she said.

“Better than you think,” Mr. Hughes said, rising. “If you please, ma’am, will you call the butler to show me to my room? I can see that I’m keepin’ you from some important readin’.”

Anne was nonplussed. “Important reading?” she echoed.

“A letter. I must have interrupted you.”

“B-But … how did you know …?”

“Well, you see, ma’am, it’s stickin’ out of your dress a mite. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get out of your way and leave you to it.”

The color in Anne’s cheeks took several minutes to recede after Mr. Hughes had followed Coyne out of the room. The fellow was the rudest creature she’d ever met! How dared he refer to a letter that was obviously not meant for him to notice? What right had he to look at her bosom, anyway? The more she thought about it, the more furious she became. Her stepmother had no right to send him to her without warning! She would tell Lady Harriet what she thought of such behavior—and right now!

In the meantime, Lady Harriet, absently working on her embroidery in the drawing room below, had every expectation of a confrontation with her stepdaughter. She had adjusted her embroidery frame so that she could face the door as she worked. In a very few minutes, she knew, Anne would burst indignantly into the room. She realized full well that Anne was bound to react strongly to her sudden confrontation with the new Viscount. But Harriet was unperturbed. She smiled placidly as her plump fingers worked with unhurried precision, adding tiny silk stitches to the intricate floral pattern stretched on the frame before her. She was quite calm. The arrival of the Viscount had not upset her at all. In fact, she’d found the young man delightful. She’d needed only ten minutes in his company to realize that he was the perfect man to fulfill her plans.

Mr. Jason Hughes of America was not exactly handsome, but there was something magnetic about his face. Harriet realized instantly that he was exciting enough to attract the most exacting of females. But she also recognized that his blunt manners, his drawling, informal speech and his years-out-of-fashion mode of dress all cried out for remedial attention. The American was in need of a good coat of town-bronze. And who was more capable of supplying the needed polish than Anne herself?

In addition, the situation gave Lady Harriet a perfectly acceptable excuse for keeping the American hidden away from society for a time. He had to be made presentable. The task would take some weeks, she surmised, during which it would be necessary to keep him in seclusion. And since Anne was to be the principle instructor in his transformation, she would, of necessity, be much in his company. How perfectly natural, therefore, for Anne to win a secure place in Jason Hughes’ affection! By the time the young man was ready to meet all the eager young females who would be vying for his attentions, Anne would have already been established in first place.

Harriet smiled in satisfaction. Her plans seemed to be most fortuitously taking shape. Her nephew was a very likeable fellow. Her first brief meeting with him had been fascinating. Lady Harriet had kept him sitting beside her in the drawing room, plying him with questions. In response to her accusations that his father had callously forgotten his sister and brother in England, he’d assured her that his father had spoken of them often. He’d explained that Henry Hughes had married the daughter of a Virginia planter at the end of the war and had removed his bride to the city of Norfolk, where he’d made a mark in the shipping trade and where Jason had been born. About eight years ago, Jason’s father had succumbed to a liver ailment and died. Two years later, Jason’s mother had remarried, and Jason, having attained his majority, had struck out on his own.

Although Lady Harriet was most curious about the details of Jason’s life, she’d noticed that he was somewhat reticent about revealing anything but the most basic facts of his background. Unwilling to pry, and eager to arrange a meeting between the young man and her stepdaughter, she’d refrained from questioning him further. She’d sent him upstairs with instructions to introduce himself to Anne. And now she waited, keeping an interested eye on the door, for Anne to come in and reveal her reaction.

Lady Harriet had not long to wait. Jason had not been gone above a quarter of an hour when the drawing room door was flung open and Anne strode in. Her high color indicated that the girl was furious and bemused, but she faced her stepmother with her temper in check and eyebrows raised in challenging hauteur. “Just what are you up to, Mama?” she demanded unceremoniously.

“Up to? Whatever do you mean?” Lady Harriet countered calmly, fixing her eyes on her needlework.

“You sent that man up to me without a word of warning! How could you, Mama? I almost jumped out of my skin when I found him standing in the doorway—the fellow’s a veritable giant!”

“I’m sure you can’t blame me for that,” Harriet pointed out reasonably.

“You know I don’t mean that,” Anne said impatiently. “I don’t see why you sent him up at all. Why didn’t you tell Coyne to warn me that he’d arrived? And what do you mean by telling him that you expect me to make a gentleman of him? How could anyone make a gentleman of that insufferable creature? What are you about, Mama? Have you some scheme up your sleeve?”

Harriet looked up innocently. “I have no idea why you should think me scheming merely because I would like my nephew—who has just arrived from a colonial backwater where he has obviously experienced nothing of civilized life—to learn to measure up to the demands of his titles. You must have noticed, dearest, that his clothes and manner of speech are not quite what one would expect from an English peer.”

“Of course I’ve noticed. I couldn’t help noticing. But why should you care? A few months ago, you would have been happy to learn that he’d disappeared from the face of the earth!”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Harriet declared calmly. “Now that I’ve seen him, I find I’m quite attached to him.”

“Attached to him? Are you serious? You’ve barely met him!”

“Nevertheless, I have met him and find him charming—in a rough, untutored way. I’ve discovered that I have strong maternal feelings for the lad and would like nothing better than to have him become part of our family.”

Anne stiffened and looked at her stepmother furiously. “Part of the family? And how do you plan to accomplish that, pray? And what has it to do with me?”

“It has only this to do with you—that I wish you to offer Mr. Hughes a bit of advice and assistance on matters of clothing and social activities and so on. After all, the young man has never set foot in London. He’s never had any dealings with proper society. I merely wish you to teach him how to get on.”

“And why have I been given the honor of instructing him?” Anne asked icily.

“My dear, you have always been admired for your sense of style. Everyone always says that Anne Hartley is bang up to the mark. Who else in the family is more qualified?”

The suspicious glare did not leave Anne’s eyes as she dropped into the nearest armchair. “Mama, I have no desire to involve myself in this. It is no matter to me how the fellow gets on in society! And I don’t see why it should matter to you.”

“But it does matter to me,” Harriet declared, keeping her voice placid. “He’s my own brother’s son, after all. My own blood, you know. And he’s come across the ocean to take his place as head of this family—”

“Yes, but you’ve been praying that he would remain on the other side of the ocean—”

“Never mind. Now that he’s here, I find that I like him very well. I’m glad he’s come to head the family—it’s a position that I don’t feel at all qualified to hold. He seems a generous and capable man—just what this family needs.”

“Ha!” snorted Anne bitterly, “you’ve much to learn about his character. But if you think he’s so perfect, why do you want to change him?”

“I don’t want to change him—only to give him some town-bronze. You can’t wish for the head of our family to make a poor impression on the ton of London.”

“I don’t care what sort of impression he makes!”

Lady Harriet frowned. Then, carefully inserting her needle into the fabric for safekeeping and taking a deep, calming breath, she rose with as much dignity as her plump figure permitted and confronted her stepdaughter purposefully. “You must care, my dear, for all our futures depend on Mr. Hughes. We must, therefore, assist him in every way possible to adapt to his new station in life. He must be made content and comfortable in his new surroundings, but this will not come to pass unless he is accepted without restrictions by all of London society.”

“But I don’t see why I need be involved in—”

“You must be involved because there is no one else so well-qualified to instruct him.”

“Nonsense! You, my dear Mama, are every bit as qualified as I!”

Harriet was momentarily at a loss. “Perhaps I am,” she admitted reluctantly, “but it is better for him to be instructed by … er … someone closer to his own age.”

“Then what about Peter?” Anne persisted. “At least Peter is a male—”

“Peter!” exclaimed Harriet with a snort. “What a notion! I suppose he can help, of course, but you know very well that the boy is completely at a loss when it comes to matters of style and social intercourse. For a boy who is universally considered to be brilliant, he has many areas of complete ignorance.”

While his mother was ruthlessly maligning him behind his back, Peter, in the upstairs hallway, was making himself known to the new head of the family. The American was following the butler down the hall when Peter stepped out of his study for a brief respite from his books. He took one look at the enormous stranger, blinked behind his spectacles and gaped at the man open-mouthed.

The butler took the opportunity to introduce them. “May I present Master Peter Hartley, your lordship?” he asked with appropriate formality. Then, his formal duty done, he dropped his usual imperturbability to murmur into Peter’s ear, “It’s the new Viscount, Master Peter. Can you credit it? He’s just arrived from America!”

Peter, embarrassingly aware the new Lord Mainwaring could scarcely have missed noticing Coyne’s solecism, glanced quickly at the Viscount’s face to catch his response to the butler’s lapse. Coyne had known Peter from birth and stood on comfortably intimate terms with the boy. Although Peter was aware that the butler should have kept a closer guard on his tongue in front of the new head of the household, he hoped that the American would understand Coyne’s justifiable excitement.

But there was no sign on the American’s face that he’d taken any notice of Coyne’s dereliction of duty. He merely put out his hand. “You’re Lady Harriet’s son, aren’t you? I’m Jason Hughes.”

Peter found his hand being shaken with enthusiasm. He peered up through his spectacles at the tanned face of his American cousin with undisguised curiosity. “This is an unexpected surprise, my lord,” he ventured. “I had supposed that passage from America would be impossible to obtain in these times.”

“Difficult, but not impossible, as you can see,” the American answered in his pleasant, drawling colonial accent. “And please, don’t call me ‘my lord.’ We don’t cotton to titles in the States.”

Peter couldn’t help smiling at the unfamiliar usages; “cotton to” and “the States” had such an American sound. “Then what am I to call you?” he asked shyly.

“Won’t just plain ‘Jason’ do?”

Peter considered. “It seems an unwarranted liberty to use your given name on such short acquaintance—”

“But we Americans enjoy taking liberties, you know,” Jason assured him with a warm smile.

“So I’ve heard,” Peter smiled back, “but you’re not in America now, you know. I don’t think Mama would approve of my calling you Jason so brazenly.”

“Well, let’s not stand about in the hall debatin’ the point,” Jason suggested. “Why don’t you keep me company while I unpack my gear, and we’ll discuss the matter?”

“Unpack your gear?” Peter asked in surprise, eagerly falling into step alongside his enormous cousin. “Why don’t you let Coyne—?”

The butler, leading the way to the large bedroom in the northwest corner of the house (the room which Lady Harriet had hastily chosen as the most appropriate one available on such short notice, despite its drafty windows and smoky fireplace), looked back over his shoulder with a grimace of disapproval. “His lordship insists on doing his own unpacking,” he said, with an ill-concealed air of offense.

“No need to get miffed,” Jason said placatingly. “There ain’t much to unpack, you see.”

The butler didn’t answer, having arrived at his destination. He opened the bedroom door cautiously and looked inside. Relieved to discover that the maid (whom he’d hastily dispatched to remove the dust covers and tidy up the room) had accomplished her task, he stepped aside and permitted his lordship to enter. Jason looked around with interest at the square, moderately sized but ornately paneled room. His shabby portmanteau had already been placed on the upholstered bench which stood at the foot of a large, canopied bed. A fire had been started in the grate, the furniture had been dusted, and the curtains had been drawn back to permit the gray afternoon light to filter in.

The butler, well aware that the bed hangings were threadbare, the chair upholstery shabby and the room enveloped in gloom and chill, nevertheless hoped that the new Viscount would not be overly disturbed by these defects. He need not have worried. The Viscount surveyed his new quarters with an approving smile. “Now, ain’t this grand!” he exclaimed, impressed.

Peter, whose bedroom was larger, warmer and more comfortably furnished than this one, glanced quickly at Jason’s face, but there was not a sign of insincerity written upon it. Mr. Jason Hughes of Virginia must have had a humble background, Peter surmised, if he found this room grand.

When Coyne had bowed himself out, Peter perched on the bed and watched in fascination while his cousin unpacked his meager belongings. Three or four changes of linen, a riding coat, a few outmoded day and evening coats and three pairs of breeches were all that Jason had brought, except for a strange-looking furry garment which Peter took to be a greatcoat. Peter wondered what sort of life his cousin had led in America. From all appearances, it was not the comfortable, elegant, easy life which he would have led if he’d been brought up in England.

Jason, meanwhile, looked about him for a place to store his things. The only piece of furniture which seemed suitable was an odd-looking chest with more than a dozen small drawers in it. “What is this thing?” he asked Peter. “May I put my things in it?”

“It’s a gentleman’s dressing table,” Peter explained, getting up from the bed to demonstrate the chest’s many intricacies. “You see, although it appears to be merely a chest of seventeen drawers—”

“Seventeen? Amazing!” Jason marveled.

“Not all of these are drawers, however. This is really a mirror which pops up when you open it. This one here unfolds and becomes a writing desk, see? And this one, on the left, is compartmented to hold your cuff links, watch fobs, and such trinkets. And this one—”

“Stop, or I shall be hopelessly confused!” Jason laughed. “It’s truly a wonder, but are any of those just plain drawers?”

“Of course. All the lower ones. And you needn’t worry about becoming confused. Your valet is the only one who has to bother with it.”

“But you see, I have no valet,” Jason explained with a shrug.

Peter resumed his perch on the bed and adjusted his spectacles thoughtfully. “Don’t they have valets in America? Or were you too poor to have one?” he asked with frank interest.

“Money was never a worry to me,” Jason answered with equal directness. “Don’t know if there are any valets in America or not—no one I ever knew had one. Can’t you English fellows dress yourselves?”

Peter laughed. “Not the dandies. Why, some of them take three hours to tie their neckcloths!”

“You don’t mean it!” Jason said, looking up from his portmanteau in disbelief.

“It’s true,” Peter assured him. “I’ve heard that some of them spend half the day dressing for dinner.”

Jason merely shook his head and stooped over to store his shirts in one of the lower drawers. Peter noticed the grace and agility of his movements as he bent down. “You must be well over six feet tall!” he exclaimed admiringly. “Do all American men grow so tall?”

Jason straightened up. “I’m six feet three or so,” he grinned, “and as big a gawk back home as I’ll no doubt be here.”

“And weigh fourteen stone, I’d wager,” Peter estimated, looking over his cousin speculatively. “What a fighter you’d make in the ring!”

“I don’t get much chance to box—a man my size has trouble findin’ a challenger,” Jason grinned. Then, looking at his bespectacled cousin in surprise, he added, “Don’t tell me that you’ve a liking for boxing! Your mother gave me to understand that you’re the scholarly sort.”

“That’s about all I’m good for,” Peter admitted with a sigh. “I ride a bit, of course, but I’m not fit for much else. Certainly not boxing.”

“Size doesn’t have much to do with prowess in the ring, you know,” Jason said, feeling a flicker of sympathy for his slim young cousin. “So long as you’re matched with an opponent of equal weight, it’s speed and footwork that make the difference.”

“I’ve always thought so,” Peter said, brightening, “but there’s never been anyone around who could show me how—”

Jason understood immediately what Peter could not quite explain. The young, bookish son in a household of women—it was not the atmosphere in which a boy would learn to develop the manly arts. “I’ll be glad to teach you a few of the skills and tricks of boxing—not that I’m a great expert, mind.”

“Would you really be willing to teach me?” Peter asked with a shy eagerness.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t mean it,” Jason said bluntly.

Peter’s face colored with pleasure. “I never thought I’d be saying this, Cousin Jason,” the boy said with obvious sincerity, “but I’m very glad you’ve come.”

Downstairs, Lady Harriet was finding it beyond her capabilities to convince her obstinate stepdaughter to undertake the education of the American. The girl’s resistance was unshakable. “I tell you, Mama,” she insisted, “it would be a waste of time! The fellow is ill-mannered and rude, and he subjected me to vulgar scrutiny and near-insults. Don’t look at me so! I’m not being obstinate, I assure you. I am merely trying to explain to you that I cannot accept what I am certain is a hopeless task. I haven’t the time nor the ability to undertake the excessive effort which would be required to make a respectable peer of him. Even Mr. Hughes admitted to me—How did he put it? Oh, yes!—that it would be a job and a half!”

“Nonsense,” Lady Harriet murmured placidly, resuming her seat at the embroidery frame and picking up her needle, “the fellow cannot be so bad—”

“Not so bad? Why, he’s positively primitive! He can’t even speak proper English!” Anne rose from her chair and walked purposefully to the door. But before she stalked from the room, she turned to her stepmother and added dramatically, “Turning that man into a Pink-of-the-Ton would be like turning a frog into a prince! And for that trick, Mama dear, you’d need more than a daughter with a sense of style. You’d need a fairy godmother with a magic wand!”