скачать книгу бесплатно
If only they were not going to the country home of Lord Paris Mulholland!
“Folkingham!” the coachman bellowed as the coach began rattling over the cobblestones of a village street.
Clara woke with a start and a jerk. She had fallen asleep during the last stretch of their journey. Mercifully, this final part of the ride was brief, or Clara doubted that her internal organs would ever be set right again. The jostling also managed to awaken her aunt, whose bonnet was more than slightly askew.
“We’re at Folkingham,” Clara said, grabbing Zeus’s basket with a tighter grip.
“Folkingham?” Aunt Aurora repeated, confused. As she struggled to a more upright position, she looked like a caterpillar making its way out of a cocoon, for she was encumbered by petticoats, a heavy skirt, a cloak and three shawls, having decided there was an unseasonable chill in the air that morning after they had stopped for the night. “Heaven forbid I should have the ague!” she had declared.
She had also wrapped a large scarf round her head, which was topped with a bonnet of her own design generously covered with artificial flowers. It looked more like a centerpiece than a hat. “Folkingham?” she said again.
“Yes, Aunt. We are to meet Lord Mulholland’s carriage here, remember?”
“Oh, indeed. Byron!” Aunt Aurora gave her husband a gentle kick.
“Hail, my nymph!” he muttered sleepily, blinking. He looked not unlike a turtle whose slumber has been disturbed. “Where the devil are we?”
“Folkingham,” Clara reiterated as the coach came to a stop. They felt the conveyance sway as the driver and some of the passengers climbed down. “I daresay this is the yard of the Greyhound Inn.”
She looked out the window at the large, pale orange brick building, and saw a confirming sign of that name. “I wonder if we shall have to wait long for Lord Mulholland’s carriage.”
“It matters not!” Uncle Byron exclaimed. “Such a beautiful day in the heart of a bucolic paradise! It will be a pleasure to wait here!”
He opened the door and stepped forth like a conquering hero surveying his recently acquired domain. Such was his natural grace and bearing that nobody, either from the top of the coach or the stables nearby, made any comment, and for that, Clara was grateful. She put her hand in his outstretched one and stepped down.
Folkingham was a delightful village, small but utterly charming. The large green was surrounded by prosperous-looking houses, and the contented bleating of sheep reached them from the surrounding low hills.
Then Clara noticed several poorly dressed people being handed a small loaf of bread by a couple, neatly and plainly dressed and standing behind a table upon which other loaves were piled. The ragged wanderers gratefully accepted this apparent gift. Munching on their bread, they trudged toward the southern end of town.
Looking their way, to the south and between the houses, Clara saw a tall, all-too-familiar wall. Either it was a workhouse or a prison. She surmised the tattered and threadbare group were on their way to visit the inmates, and those two kind souls were doing their best to relieve some of their poverty.
Clara sighed. Even here, poverty and want reared its ugly head. Perhaps she had been foolish to think it would be otherwise.
“Ah, Arcadian delights abound!” Aunt Aurora cried as she grappled her way down from the carriage, quite oblivious to the straggling walkers. Unfortunately, her appearance seemed to unleash the impertinent snickers of the other passengers.
“The horses’ll eat that hat!” one wag called out.
Her aunt didn’t seem to hear the comment as she happily surveyed the street and green. “How absolutely delightful! How picturesque! How truly rustic!” she enthused.
“Indeed, my Ceres!” Then Uncle Byron realized he had stepped into something he should not have, wrinkled his nose in distaste, scraped his boot on the wheel rim and held out his arm for his wife to take, all his actions accompanied by hoots of laughter from the other passengers of the coach.
Clara flushed to the roots of her hair, straightened her shoulders and tightened her grip on Zeus’s basket as she tried to lift her fast-muddying skirts a little higher. She, wearing a very severe, plain traveling gown of dark brown, and a most demure bonnet, feared no censure from anyone regarding her clothing. She glanced over her shoulder and gave the passengers a black, chastising look. She had been practicing that look for many years now, and had it to such an art that it was far more effective than any mere words could have been. Not surprisingly, the rabble fell silent.
“Come, Clara!” her aunt said, grabbing Clara’s arm and strolling toward the inn.
With Zeus’s basket bumping against her leg, Clara allowed herself to be thus escorted, Uncle Byron following majestically behind.
The inside of the Greyhound Inn was dim, the oak wainscoting dark and the rest of the walls and ceiling smoke stained.
A middle-aged man in spotless blue livery and hat in hand approached them, his gaze fastened on Aunt Aurora’s distinctive bonnet. “Mrs. Wells?” he asked, making a small bow.
“Yes,” Aunt Aurora replied.
“I’m from Mulholland House, Mrs. Wells. I was sent to bring you in the carriage.”
“Just as Lord Mulholland promised!” Aunt Aurora cried triumphantly.
Clara did not point out that if Lord Mulholland had not sent his carriage, they would have had few alternative means of getting to his estate.
“Byron., my own!” Aunt Aurora said to her husband. “See here! This is the driver to take us to Mulholland House.”
Uncle Byron regally nodded his understanding.
“It’s not a long drive,” the driver said deferentially. “Perhaps you’d care to refresh yourself first?”
“A simple drink of spring water, a crust of bread and the delightful air of the countryside will be enough for me,” Uncle Byron announced. “Under yon towering oak on the charming village green would be the perfect spot for an alfresco repast, don’t you agree, my dear?”
Clara had an instant vision of the spectacle of her aunt and uncle lunching on the village green. “It is the middle of the afternoon,” she pointed out. “I think it would be better if we were to get to Mulholland House without further delay.”
The innkeeper’s rosy-cheeked wife appeared. “Ale, sir? Coffee, ladies?” she asked with a pleasant smile.
“Ah, salve, prophetess!” Uncle Byron declared. “Ale, indeed—something smooth and dark. And tea for the ladies.”
“I don’t believe there will be time before we must be on our way,” Clara said firmly. “Thank you all the same.”
“You’re going to Mulholland House?” the innkeeper’s wife inquired cordially. “Ah, a lovely place!”
Before Clara could steer Aunt Aurora outside, her aunt said, “Who are all those poor unfortunates on the other side of the green?” Proving that she had, perhaps, not been as oblivious to the other attributes of Folkingham as Clara had assumed.
“Visiting the House of Correction, ma’am,” the woman replied cheerfully.
Aunt Aurora was horrified. “A jail? Dear me! A jail! Aren’t you afraid to sleep in your bed at night?”
Clara gave her aunt a fierce look. Supposing the woman was — it didn’t do to remind her.
“Oh, no. It’s not that kind of jail, really. Mostly vagrants, disorderlies.” The woman lifted her chin with a touch of pride. “Takes them from all of Kesteven, they does.”
“I suppose the building keeps them warm and dry,” Clara offered doubtfully.
Uncle Byron shielded his eyes with his hand and sighed loudly. “Deprived of the open air, shut up in a dungeon! It is monstrous! It is cruel!”
“Don’t upset yourself, my own!” Aunt Aurora cried, putting her arms around him and laying her forehead on his shoulder.
The driver and innkeeper’s wife exchanged looks over Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron’s heads. “I believe I heard his lordship’s going to wait tea for you,” the driver murmured.
“There, you see!” Clara said with some desperation. “We had best be on our way.”
“Very well, my good man,” Uncle Byron said, suddenly brisk. “You will find our baggage on the coach, clearly marked.”
Clara thought of the trunks her aunt had decorated in her own inimitable way one afternoon and decided the driver would have no trouble deciding which articles of baggage were theirs. Not many traveling bags would have pictures of scenes from the Arabian Nights on them. Nevertheless, Clara thought being outside would be preferable to staying inside the inn, so she said, “I will show you which ones they are. There is also an easel and a large package of canvases.”
The driver nodded and led the way outside. The coachman was seeing to the changing of the horses, and some of the passengers milled about in the yard. Clara ignored their speculative looks as she showed the driver the appropriate baggage, then followed him to Lord Mulholland’s gleaming black landau that was at the far side of the yard. A pair of very fine horses had their noses in feed bags.
The driver glanced at her as he loaded the largest piece of baggage. “Quite a pair, those two, miss.”
“My aunt is an artist and my uncle is a poet,” Clara explained matter-of-factly. “They are both very... emotional.”
The driver chuckled companionably. “Oh, we’ve had lots of emotional people at Mulholland House,” he said. “And some were just plain crazy, if you ask me.”
Clara wondered peevishly which category the driver thought Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron would occupy. Perhaps Lord Mulholland didn’t invite people to his country home only for his own amusement; perhaps he tried to keep his servants laughing, too. She should have refused the invitation, and let Aunt Aurora complain....
“Our dear mistress, the late Lady Mulholland, that was, liked lots o’ different sorts of people,” the driver continued, chuckling. “Her son’s just the same. Why, one time, this Italian count we had a’ stayin’ here — walked about in somethin’ looked like a baby’s nappy most o’ the time. Been to India or some such.” The driver reached down for the canvases. “’Nother time, these singers came. Sounded like a bunch of cats in a bag, we all thought.” He sighed for happy days gone by. “There, all stowed. We can go now.”
At least Aunt Aurora and Uncle Byron wouldn’t be the most unusual people to stay at Mulholland House, Clara thought as she nodded absently. Nevertheless, her dread was not lessened by that notion. If anything, the closer she got to Mulholland House, the tenser she became.
She reminded herself that she would simply evade the sleek and seductive Lord Mulholland. The painting would be done soon, and then they would be gone. “I shall fetch my aunt and uncle,” she said.
As she made her way toward the inn, the coach, with its passengers restored, rattled on its way. Clara was not sorry to see it, or its noisy passengers, leave.
Uncle Byron spotted Clara in the doorway and sprang to his feet. “Come, my dear!” he called to his wife. “Our chariot awaits!”
Chapter Five
Paris sat in his study in a large, comfortable wing chair, with his dog, Jupiter, at his feet. The yellow-haired beast of dubious parentage lay as still as one of the statues in the garden as he slumbered. His master was likewise motionless as he deciphered two letters, one from Tommy Taddington and the other from Reverend Jonas Clark, both of whom had been Paris’s friends at Oxford. Tommy’s letter informed Paris that Tommy was once again experiencing familial troubles, and unless he heard otherwise from Paris, would arrive sooner than planned. Jonas, to whom Paris was gladly giving the living in one of the nearby parishes, was expected to arrive at Mulholland House shortly, there to stay until the vicarage of St. Andrew’s had been repaired and prepared for the new pastor.
Paris’s attention was drawn from the letters by Jupiter, who lumbered to his feet just as the study door opened to reveal the presence of the butler, Witherspoon. At present, the white-haired Witherspoon looked decidedly icy.
“Yes?” Paris asked.
“My lord, the Wells have arrived.” By a process that Paris had yet to figure out, even though Witherspoon had been butler at Mulholland House for twenty years, Witherspoon managed to convey the impression that it would have been better if the Wells had never been born.
“Oh, come now, Witherspoon!” Paris chided. “They’re not as bad as all that! Granted, the niece is rather severe, but the aunt is delightful and her husband most amusing.” Grinning, Paris rose and tugged down his waistcoat. “I thought we needed some livening up around here, Witherspoon. I shall die of ennui otherwise.”
“Indeed, my lord.” The butler’s eyebrow rose a fraction and Paris saw a telltale twinkle of amusement in the man’s dark eyes. “That cause of death would at least be tasteful, my lord, unlike your guest’s bonnet.”
Paris chuckled amicably as he clapped a familiar hand on the retainer’s narrow shoulder. “Mrs. Wells is an artist,” he explained patiently. “She’s going to paint my portrait.”
“If you say so, my lord.”
Paris drew back and examined Witherspoon suspiciously. “You look as if I were up to no good, Witherspoon!” he exclaimed.
Witherspoon thawed a little, as he always did.
“I assure you, I will treat them royally,” Paris continued. “Speaking of which, where have you put them?”
“Since the hour is so close to tea,” Witherspoon said, miraculously conveying the impression that the late arrival of the Wells was somehow their fault, “I told Mrs. Dibble to escort them to their rooms.” He nearly smiled. “I must say the older lady was most fulsome in her praise of Mulholland House.”
Paris grinned. “I daresay she was. I believe Mrs. Dibble, our jewel among housekeepers, may finally —”
He was going to say that Mrs. Dibble may finally have encountered someone even more vivacious than herself, when there was a loud crash from the vicinity of the kitchen, followed by the sight of a black shape streaking past the study door as a lamenting female voice wailed, “Zeus, come back!”
With a bark and a bound, Jupiter shoved his way past the butler and his master and was out the door, his progress impeded by the freshly waxed floor. His huge paws slipped on the polished surface as he tried to give chase toward the foyer. After a moment of desperate scrambling, he found his footing and bounded away.
“Call off your dog!” Miss Wells cried, appearing in the corridor with a very flushed face and attired in the most ugly brown traveling dress Paris had ever seen. “Call him off!”
“Zounds and gadzooks,” Byron Wells cried from somewhere nearby, “what’s afoot? Tallyho!”
Mr. and Mrs. Wells appeared at the top of the staircase, by their appearance having interrupted their toilette. Byron Wells wore a finely tailored tweed suit that owed more to town than country, and Mrs. Wells’ dressing gown simply defied description.
Before Paris could answer, Clara Wells darted past him at the same time the black cat reappeared, this time returning toward its mistress and the kitchen wing. Before Paris could step back inside the sanctuary of his study, Jupiter tore down the corridor and crashed into his master, sending him reeling. Paris slipped on the polished floor and collided with Miss Wells. Stumbling over her skirts, he managed to right himself, then lost his footing again and finally fell to the ground, one foot shooting out and inadvertently kicking Miss Wells.
She lost her balance and landed on top of him in a pile of skirts and righteous indignation. “Get up!” she cried, putting her slender hands on Paris’s chest and pushing. “Get up!”
Paris could easily imagine how ridiculous they looked, him flat on his back in the middle of the hall with a young lady, red of face and glaring of eye, sprawled on top of him and telling him to get up. However, he wasn’t so startled that he didn’t notice that although her eyes blazed with indignation and despite her ugly brown dress, Clara Wells was really very pretty.
“I should point out that task would be much simpler if you were to rise first,” he said, hard-pressed not to laugh out loud as he put his hands about her slim waist to lift her up.
She wore no corset, for he felt only soft flesh beneath her gown, not whalebone. She was breathing hard. A few wisps of hair had escaped her tight bun and her mouth was partly opened. He had but to raise himself a few inches and he could capture those lips with his own....
Miss Wells’ face turned even redder as she realized her position. “Take your hands off me, sir!”
“May I be of assistance, miss?” Witherspoon intoned.
“Yes, please,” Miss Wells said, scuttling backward in a crablike manner that imparted to Paris new and fascinating sensations.
With great dignity, Witherspoon inclined and took Clara Wells’ hand in his to help her stand.
“Lord Mulholland, are you hurt?” Aurora Wells asked, bustling toward him solicitously, her ringlets quivering with concern.
“Only my pride,” he replied, standing and bestowing a gracious smile on his guests, especially the youngest of them.
Then Jupiter started to bay.
“He’s trapped Zeus!” Clara Wells cried anxiously as she turned once more toward the corridor leading to the kitchen. “Poor thing!”
“Jupiter won’t hurt your cat,” Paris said, hurrying after her. “He’s very gentle.”
Miss Wells shot him a withering glance. “I was thinking of your foolish dog,” she said. “Zeus can take care of himself.”
Before Paris could formulate an answer, Jupiter gave a great long howl, and in the next instant, came careening around the corner, Zeus clinging to his back and yowling. Jupiter looked as if he had Satan himself for a rider, and this cat could have been a familiar, for it held on with demonic determination as they rushed past the startled onlookers who pressed themselves back against the wall. Jupiter, with another wild yelp, spun around in the foyer and dashed back past them.
“I believe they are returning to the kitchen, my lord,” Witherspoon remarked unnecessarily.
A shocked screech—Mrs. Macurdy, the cook’s, no doubt—and a clash of pots confirmed Witherspoon’s assumption.
Paris ran to the kitchen followed by the Wells and halted abruptly on the threshold. Mrs. Macurdy, surrounded by fragments of pastry and pieces of tea sandwiches, was leaning against the table in the middle of the large room as if she had had the fright of her life. A kitchen maid stood in the corner with a ladle clutched in her hand, Jupiter was in the corner by the coal box whimpering and a black cat not nearly as huge as it had looked on Jupiter’s back sat on the windowsill calmly licking its paw.
Mrs. Macurdy turned her shocked visage toward him. “What in the name of heaven happened, my lord?” she asked in a stunned whisper. “Is that cat possessed?”
