Colin, restored to vigor by a good night’s sleep, strode the length of the sitting room on the first floor and moved a chair slightly, stood back, stared at it, and moved it another fraction of an inch. Andromeda, reading a newspaper by the window where the light was better—vanity would not allow her to wear glasses unless she absolutely had to—looked up and frowned.
“Why are you so agitated?” she said.
Belinda looked up from her book, a text on horses that her uncle had obtained for her before he left on his wedding visit.
Colin paced away and glanced around the room. “I am not agitated, Andy.”
“Yes, you are. And do not call me Andy! You promised, Colin! It’s vulgar and boyish.”
“All right!” He went to the window and glanced out, then paced away and cracked his knuckles.
Andromeda winced and grimaced. She hated that sound and had warned Colin repeatedly, but he never remembered when agitated. Ergo, he was agitated. Why? she wondered. “Are you expecting company?” she asked, rattling the paper as she folded it and laid it on the table. She exchanged a look with Belinda, who was listening to the conversation, her book closed over one finger to mark her place.
“Yes, as a matter of fact I am.” It was said with a hint of defiance.
She pursed her lips and watched him, but he would not meet her eyes. “Is this what you meant last night by saying you would tell more on the morrow?”
“Yes. I am expecting . . .”
“Sir Parnell Waterford, sir,” the butler said, bowing.
The gentleman himself followed, handing his hat to the servant as if he intended to be a while. Andromeda frowned. Colin strode forward to greet him, pumping his hand vigorously.
Andromeda stared, avidly wanting to examine this phenomenon who could so enrapture her normally sensible and staid sibling. She saw a tall man, his skin bronzed and weathered, his pale eyes blazing like aquamarines in his dark face. He was immaculately dressed, from topcoat down to Hessians, and his spare smattering of graying hair was carefully combed under the beaver he had just doffed. He was not a picture of dandyism, in other words, but was carefully presented. Appearance would proclaim him a gentleman, but Andromeda eyed him with suspicion. She assumed he was involved in Colin’s dreadful enthusiasm, and she was convinced no true gentleman would be so deeply enmeshed in the world of pugilism.
“Sir Parnell, may I make you known to my sister, Miss Andromeda Varens, and our charge, Miss Belinda de Launcey? Andy . . . uh, sister, Miss Belinda, this is Sir Parnell Waterford.” It was said with reverence.
The man advanced, greeted the child first with a pleasantry, and then lingered over Andromeda’s hand, his cheeks suffusing with a dull, brick red under the coppery skin. “Miss Varens, so very pleased to make your acquaintance. Last evening Sir Colin had much to say about his beloved sister.”
His voice was gentle, deep, cultured, wholly unexpected. It had a hint of foreignness, as if he had spent much time away from his homeland. Their eyes met for a moment, and Andromeda read something there, an earnestness or gravity to his character that was pleasing in some way she couldn’t quite explain. She glanced at her brother and felt the color come into her own cheeks.
Colin eyed the two with a hopeful, eager expression. “I invited Sir Parnell here this morning because I thought, Andy, that if you knew more about the sport of boxing, you would not be so offended by it.”
“I am not exactly offended by it,” Andromeda said, giving him a look for the use of her despised nickname again. “I just do not think it a fit occupation for a gentleman!”
“Ah, that is where you are mistaken, Miss Varens,” the knight said, taking a seat and looking like he wished he had something to do with his hands. “Many gentlemen box, even including those in Lord Byron’s circle.”
“I, unlike many in society, would not count Lord Byron and his cohorts among ‘gentlemen.’ Just look at the scandalous way he treated his wife, and then had to flee the country!”
He raised his gray-flecked eyebrows. “Then you are a rare young lady indeed,” he said. “Most of the fair sex thought he was the epitome of style and demeanor, I have been led to believe by my feminine relations. I honor you for your intelligent discrimination.”
Brightening at his use of the word young in describing her, Andromeda nevertheless was not one to be taken in so easily. She cast a sidelong glance at Belinda, wondering whether the topic of boxing was quite fit for one so young, though she had to remember, the girl was an unusual child and had had adventures others her age had not. She had even seen a boxing match, whereas Andromeda had not. The child had cast aside her book and was leaning forward, listening intently, glancing from face to face.
“Some may think so,” Andromeda said, continuing on the topic of Byron. “But I find the fellow’s writing ostentatious and his purported manner insidiously immoral. He hasn’t determination, restraint and resolve, and his behavior does not mark him with the stamp of ‘gentleman,’ though I am well aware the title carries with it no guarantee of good behavior. Rather the opposite, I would think, judging from some of the stories I have heard since coming to London.”
“Getting back to boxing,” Colin said impatiently, pacing still. “Sir Parnell taught me much last night, Andy . . . romeda.” He goggled slightly on the name, tripping over his usual shortening of it, only remembering at the last minute his sister’s preference.
Andromeda bit her lip. It was rather funny, and she smiled, joining Belinda, who was giggling behind her hand.
Sir Parnell blinked and looked from person to person. A smile tugged at the corner of his well-shaped mouth, though he could not have known the joke. “Yes, well, your brother, Miss Varens, had a bad experience in his first attempt at a bout here in London. In Yorkshire, no doubt, one can fight the locals in a barroom, but in London, as in everything else there is a pugilistic protocol. The bout he engaged in was one not sanctioned by those in the know. Here we fight by Broughton’s Rules of Conduct.”
“Broughton?” Andromeda had to ask.
“Yes. Did you know, Miss Varens, that it is believed that there is a pugilist buried in Westminster Abbey?”
“Really?” Belinda asked, eyes shining.
“Really,” Sir Parnell said, warming to the child and her eagerness. He went on to tell them all about Jack Broughton, a pugilist of some renown who had died in 1789, but whom Sir Parnell, as a very young child, had had the opportunity to meet once before that man’s timely end at the age of eighty-five or eighty-six. A Thames waterman in his youth, Broughton became famous for his boxing prowess and formulated the code that bore his name. He also introduced gloves to the practice ring, making it, he felt, a sport fit even for a gentleman.
Andromeda was not impressed. “Are you saying, sir, that no one is ever hurt boxing?”
He fastened his grave gaze on her. “No, Miss Varens, I cannot say that.” He straightened in his hard chair and crossed his legs. “But I can say that there are many fewer deaths in the boxing ring, proportionately, when the rules of conduct are followed, than deaths on the hunting field during the hunting season. And everyone hunts.”
“But at least hunting they are not squaring off and shooting at each other!”
He chuckled. “No. But they also do not have a gun in the boxing ring. And in a proper bout, not one man is drunk, something that cannot be said on the hunting field, I am afraid.”
Andromeda folded her hands together. It was inappropriate, she felt, to speak of drunkenness with a child present, but she let it go. “I am still not convinced that this is a safe sport, nor one that should be encouraged. Let the brutish masses fight, but Colin is not a brute.”
“No, but he is a damn . . . excuse me. My apologies . . . not quite used to a lady present and all that, and the child, too, of course.” Sir Parnell’s dark hue intensified. “He is a fine fighter, miss, if I may say so, judging by the rounds he went with my fellow last night.”
“I don’t care,” Andromeda said, rising. “I do not approve, and I will not condone it with any appearance of approval. Come, Belinda, we have calls to make today.”
• • •
Rachel sat in the Haven House drawing room listening to her mother and grandmother verbally spar, a sound so familiar to her that she could have taken either lady’s part and prolonged the argument with ease.
“I say we have a perfect right to redo this frightful room, regardless of anything Jane may wish. We are Haven ladies too.” That was Rachel’s mother.
“But she is the current viscountess,” her mother-in-law, Rachel’s grandmother, said. “The London house should reflect her taste, not ours.”
They sat opposite each other in hard, straight-backed chairs at a small table by the window. Spread in front of them were fabric samples and pattern books, all used in the debate whether they should consider going further with the necessary renovations to the dreary, glum Haven House.
“Pshaw,” the other woman said. “Jane does not have a care in the world one way or the other. She hates London and likely won’t set foot in Haven House again, if she has her way. You know she doesn’t care, you unpleasant old woman. You are just taking the other side to be contrary.”
That was a shot close to the truth, thought Rachel, as she watched her grandmother. The old lady’s watery blue eyes, so like Lord Haven’s, Rachel’s brother’s, glittered with enthusiasm. The two women had been verbally jousting for decades, the give and take of their sometimes bitter quarrels ringing through the Yorkshire mansion on every subject. There was nothing upon which they agreed, except that the Haven children were the most brilliant and beautiful of any children anywhere.
Rachel, seated on a brocade settee, picked up her needlework and sewed, listening to the fight. Who would win this time? It could be either. Not that she really cared one way or the other. She would be married and then the Haven London house would not matter to her. She would rarely see it.
She dropped her sewing and looked around the room, suddenly panicked, intent on memorizing every stain on the wallpaper, every wear spot in the carpet. It became dear to her as she knew she was going to lose it, trading it for the elegant Yarnell house. She felt sick with anticipation . . . or fear. Marriage was supposed to mean a measure of freedom for a lady, but she felt like she would be going from one cell to another, more secure and guaranteed to last a lifetime. Yarnell and his mother together made an indomitable force.
Her conversation with Miss Danvers the day before had been repeating over and over in her mind. What had the woman meant? What more was there to Yarnell? He never seemed to be more than a pleasant, well-dressed, perfectly mannered gentleman. The way the other lady spoke of him you would think him a veritable beau, spouting poetry, reading literature, having romantic adventures. And it was up to her to bring that out of him? Ludicrous.
The butler bowed his way into the room and handed a tray to Lady Haven.
That woman frowned down at the card presented. “Miss Millicent Danvers? And she is here in person, not just leaving her card? Rachel, do you know . . . ?”
“I know her, Mother. I met her yesterday at the music recital; she is an acquaintance of Yarnell and his family. Do have her shown in,” she said, rising and turning to the butler. Their guest was shown in and introductions were performed. Rachel’s mother and grandmother, their interesting dispute interrupted by company, joined in the conversation for a while, but soon the elder Lady Haven, exhausted by the day, retreated and the younger Lady Haven, pleading an appointment and apologizing for any appearance of rudeness, disappeared.
“I must apologize if this visit is unexpected,” Miss Danvers said, now that they were finally alone. “But my acquaintance in London is not large, and I thought since we are soon to be neighbors—”
“Please, don’t give it another thought,” Rachel said, waving away her misgivings. She was not sure whether she was happy to see Miss Danvers or not, after the odd emotional outburst of the day before. Miss Danvers had, after her outlandish statements about Yarnell, preceded Rachel into the house. After that all conversation by necessity became general, and so there had been no further explanation. But still, she would be a neighbor and friend in future. It behooved Rachel to keep their relationship cordial. And in truth she was not ill-disposed toward the young lady. “Do not feel the need to explain. We are ‘at home’ and happy to have company.”
“Are you . . . are you expecting any others?” Miss Danvers said, glancing toward the door.
“No,” Rachel replied, not sure how to interpret the lady’s hopeful, fearful glance to the door. “I believe you and I shall be quite uninterrupted.” She paused for a moment, but then took a deep breath. She might as well use the time to her advantage. “Tell me about Barcombe, Miss Danvers. I do not think I will see it until after the wedding, you know, and I am so very curious.”
“It is, unfortunately, too far for a day trip,” Miss Danvers admitted. She sat on the worn brocade settee beside Rachel and played with the strings of her reticule. “Barcombe is home,” she said simply, shrugging. “I suppose there is the same proportion of good people and bad, pleasant and unpleasant, but I confess I like no place better.”
She talked for a while, creating word pictures of a tiny village with a pond and green in the center, a row of snug shops, a tidy church and vicarage, and a few fine homes, set in the placid countryside. There were lovely country walks and another larger town within a couple of hours’ distance, and there were monthly assemblies through the winter at the community hall that drew all the better families for miles around. It sounded delightful.
But unbidden, wild Yorkshire and the high fells came to Rachel. All her life the dark majesty of craggy cliffs, heather-covered hillsides and sparkling, trickling gills had been the background of her days. It had been years since she had roamed them in the free way Pammy still had until recently but they were still always there, beyond Haven Court, rising above Lesleydale. She had a sudden powerful urge to see those hills again and to walk them, climbing to the highest prominence and taking in the valley where Lesleydale lay, snug and pretty. She adored London and the excitement of the Season, enjoyed the balls and parties, but there was something to be said for Yorkshire, too.
Miss Danvers’s gaze slid to the door again, and Rachel glanced in that direction, wondering what the fascination was. They spoke for a while longer, but finally Miss Danvers rose. “I have overstayed my fifteen minutes, I fear.” She put out her gloved hand. “Thank you for this,” she said, sighing deeply. “Thank you for . . . for this feeling that there will be someone in the Yarnell household who will be a friend to me.”
Rachel stood too, and they shook hands. “Don’t thank me. I enjoyed the visit likely more than you. And I, too, am glad I shall have a friend in Barcombe. It is so good to hear about the place that will be my home in so short a while.”
“Yes. Your home.”
Just then the door swung open.
“Miss Neville, I have made myself at home by asking the butler not to announce me. I suppose that is untoward, but I have a surprise.”
It was Lord Yarnell struggling through the door with a large wrapped package, and he stopped what he was saying in mid-speech and stared at the young woman, Rachel’s visitor. “Millicent,” he gasped.
“Francis,” she replied, her voice trembling.
Rachel looked from one to the other. Her fiancé’s face was bleached a dead white and a fine sheen of perspiration had broken out on his forehead.
“Millicent, I . . . who . . . why are you—”
“Yarnell,” Miss Danvers said, straightening her backbone and standing tall. Rachel noticed she had quickly reverted to a more proper form of address for her childhood friend. “I was introduced to Miss Neville yesterday by your mother and aunt at the musical afternoon we all attended. And she was kind enough . . . I wanted to talk to her about Barcombe.”
Rachel, feeling a tension and not sure of the source, said, “Miss Danvers was kind enough to visit and tell me all about my new home. I know so little.”
“I never thought . . . you should have said something, Miss Neville,” Yarnell said stiffly. “I wrote a monograph on the topic of Barcombe; you might like to read it. Fascinating, really, the water drainage, and about the vole population balanced by the viper, and the presence of the Common Polyporus and Sulphur Tuft fungi.”
“She is going to live there, Francis, not study the flora and fauna.” Millicent Danvers’s tone was acerbic and she slipped back into her familiar mode of address. “She will be your wife, not a botanist!”
Rachel gazed at her in surprise. Lord Yarnell was one of those naturally intimidating gentlemen who carry with them an aura of stiffness and rectitude. She would never think of addressing him thus, and again, the lady had used his first name! But then, Miss Danvers had known him since they were children.
Since they were children.
Suspicions born the day before took root. She glanced from one to the other of them. Yarnell put down his burden, leaning it against a chair and seeming to forget about it as he stared at Miss Danvers, his face going from white to quite pink, all the way to the tips of his ears. Her lovely complexion colored, too, roses blooming in her cheeks as she cast her eyes down to the floor, the picture of maidenly confusion.
Oh, dear, Rachel thought. What to make of this? The confusion of her conversation the day before with Miss Danvers was suddenly becoming much clearer. She and Yarnell had once been in love. Or . . . were they still?