He tossed several pieces of paper at her feet, then looked back at the portfolio. “Or would you like a religion from India? Arabia? I have several African religions. Their certificates are rather interesting. One of them is written on bark and two are on animal skin. I don’t think you’d like me to tell you what they used for ink.”
He tossed the rest of the papers on the floor at her feet and looked at her. “Are those enough religions for you? Do I seem qualified to perform a marriage ceremony now?”
She looked down at the papers, not stooping to touch them, then back at his eyes. “But you don’t believe any of them,” she said softly.
Trevelyan’s eyes blazed. “I believe all of them.”
She could only glare at him. “You made Harry look like a fool,” she spat at him. “You knew Harry wouldn’t want to go against his mother.”
“Is that what’s bothering you? It doesn’t take much to make Harry look like a fool.”
She raised her hand to slap him at that, but he caught her wrist and for a moment he held it as his eyes locked with hers. Her heart was pounding in her throat.
He tossed her arm from him as though he were throwing something away. “Get out of here. I don’t know why I thought you were different. You’re the same as all of them. You like to read my books, you like to hear of other lands and their strange, quaint customs, but when it comes down to it you’re as corseted as all the other ladies.” He made the last word sound filthy.
“That’s not true,” she whispered. “I believe in what Captain Baker has seen and done. I think he—”
“Not him. Me. I am Captain Baker. He’s not a hero. He’s a flesh-and-blood man who loves and hates and…and likes boots and pretty girls no matter what age they are and—” He cut himself off and looked away from her. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. “Go on, get out of here. I need to do some work. Tell Leatrice to find herself a…” He swallowed. “A man with a real, true, sanctioned-by-God religion to marry her, tell her that a marriage performed by an unbeliever isn’t any good.” When he looked back at her, his eyes were blazing. They were so hot that Claire took a step backward. “Don’t come here again. I don’t want to see you again.”
Claire could only nod. Without a word, she put out her hand to Sarah Ann, who was standing behind her. Sarah took her sister’s hand and walked out with her, through Trevelyan’s writing room, then down the stairs to the outside.
“He’s not like anybody else in the world, is he?” Brat said when they were outside.
“No,” Claire whispered, “he’s not.”
“I think you’d better marry Harry. Harry will be much easier to manage.”
Claire gritted her teeth. “Harry has his mother.”
Brat looked up toward the windows of Trevelyan’s rooms. “Harry and his mother combined aren’t like he is.”
Claire didn’t have anything else to say, and they walked together to the main part of the house.
Chapter Seventeen
Claire behaved herself for two whole weeks. She told herself she’d been making a fool of herself with Captain Baker and that she had to start taking her life as the future duchess more seriously. For two weeks she attended every meal. She dressed for breakfast in a lovely, conservative dress and at the table she spoke to no one, just as she was supposed to do. At ten she dressed in her riding habit and went out for a sedate ride, accompanied by a silent groom. She returned from her ride, changed into a dress for luncheon, sat through the long meal and listened to the men and women talk of dogs and horses. After luncheon she read a book that had been personally approved by the duchess, or she tried her best to take up needlepoint, but she couldn’t seem to concentrate on the canvas. At four she put on a tea gown and went down to tea with Harry’s ancient relatives. She attempted to have a conversation with them but they mostly just looked at her. After tea the ladies went to their rooms to rest. Claire stopped herself from crying, “Rest from what? For what?” Obediently, she lay on the bed in her room, closed her eyes, and tried to be still. After the rest, she began the long process of dressing for dinner. She didn’t wear any of her low-cut, shocking, fashionable dresses, but only the most conservative, unshocking dresses. After a three-and-a-half-hour dinner, she went back to her room to retire for the evening.
By the end of the second week she was sure she was going to go mad. She had visions of herself running about the house screaming and pulling her hair out. She began to understand why the other inhabitants of the house were so eccentric. It was one evening when she was watching the two old ladies slip silverware up their sleeves that Claire wondered what it would feel like to be a thief. She picked up her salad fork and put the handle to her sleeve.
Just as the utensil was disappearing up her sleeve, she felt eyes on her and looked up to see the butler staring at her. Claire gave a start and put the fork back on the table.
The next morning she confronted Harry. “I have to have something to do.”
“You may do whatever you like,” he said, as he pulled on his riding gloves.
“May I go with you?” For the last several days she had seen Harry only at meals, but she hadn’t spoken to him. Every day he had been out hunting with her father and some other young men who had come from London for a visit.
Harry gave a quick frown, then tried to smile. He didn’t believe in women on hunts. They tended to be restless. “Of course you may. But you’ll have to abide by the rules of the hunt.”
Claire agreed. She would have agreed to anything in order to get away from the dull routine of that house. She promised herself and Harry that she’d be quiet and not cause him any distraction while he was hunting.
But the minute she was on the horse and riding beside Harry, it seemed that weeks’ worth of words flooded from her. She was so eager to talk to someone. “Harry,” she said under her breath so the others wouldn’t hear, “I’ve been dying to know how your mother took the news of Leatrice’s marriage. I haven’t heard so much as a whisper about it.” She looked away so he wouldn’t see the way her mouth tightened. She’d heard whispers enough in the last few days, but when she’d approached, the whispers had ceased. Twice she had been tempted to do what Brat did and hide behind doors and eavesdrop.
Harry looked surprised. “Mother wished her daughter all the happiness in the world. She said had she known Lee wanted to be married she would have arranged an elaborate ceremony for her. As it is, with the way Lee disgraced herself, Mother doesn’t feel she should reward Lee’s misconduct with a settlement.”
Again, Claire had to turn away. The duchess had certainly gotten herself out of that one. Claire wondered if Leatrice and her new husband had enough to live on.
“You don’t know who the man was who performed the ceremony, do you?” Harry asked.
“Why do you want to know?” Claire tried to keep her voice light.
“Mother asked. I think she’s had someone doing some searching.” Harry smiled. “I don’t think Mother is too happy with the man. I think Mother believes she could have dissuaded Lee if that man hadn’t come along and performed the service.”
Claire gave Harry a weak smile and turned away. She knew that everything she had felt about the duchess that first day was correct. The horrid old woman wanted Leatrice for her servant and she didn’t mean to release her.
Claire’s next thought was concern for Trevelyan. What would the duchess do if she found out that Trevelyan had performed the ceremony? Claire had had only that one meeting with the woman, but she didn’t think the duchess was the type to forgive easily. What would she do if she found out one of her husband’s relatives was hiding in the west tower and had helped to take away what the duchess considered to be hers?
In the next moment, Claire’s head came up. What would the duchess do if she found out Claire had been involved in taking Leatrice away?
“Claire?” Harry said. “Are you all right? You look pale. Perhaps you should return to the house.”
“No, I’m f
ine, really,” she murmured and smiled at Harry. Above all, she didn’t want to return to that house and its boredom.
Eight hours later, she was thinking of the quiet peacefulness of the house with longing. Harry had led her to something called a butt, a little three-sided, roofed shelter, and told her to sit still and not talk. There was nowhere to sit and nothing to sit on, so she’d had to sit on the damp ground. Harry and a man who did nothing but load his shotguns had stood at the other end of the butt and had shot at birds all day long.
Ten minutes after they had arrived it had begun to rain, not a deluge but a steady drizzle that seeped through the roof and sides of the butt and soon had Claire soaked.
Harry asked her if she wanted to return to the house. Claire told him no, that she was having a lovely time and what did a little rain matter? She knew that if she were a coward this first time and gave up, Harry would never again allow her to go with him.
At one they had a cold lunch and Harry kept on shooting. He was wearing tweeds and she could see that he too was soaked, but he didn’t seem to mind or even notice. Claire remembered what the duchess had told her about Harry’s delicate constitution, but he didn’t look delicate now.
Claire sat in the corner, the ground under and around her growing wetter by the minute, and pulled her knees up to hug them. All around her shotguns were going off. She wondered if one day spent in a leaky shelter could leave her permanently deaf.
She sneezed, and Harry turned a furious face toward her. “Claire, if you can’t keep quiet you’ll have to return. Your noise frightens the birds.”
“How can a sneeze frighten them if a thousand shotgun blasts don’t?” she said before she thought.
She saw Harry and his loader exchange looks that told what they thought of taking women on a hunt.
It was nearly dusk when Harry finally said they were going to return to the house. Claire would have cried with relief if the thought of adding more water, even tears, to her soaking body hadn’t horrified her. She was so cold she had difficulty in standing and her wool dress, soaked as it was, must have weighed fifty pounds. Also, it smelled like a wet dog.
“I didn’t think you’d enjoy this,” Harry said. “Ladies never—”
“I’ve had a marvelous time,” Claire said, trying not to wiggle her nose as she suppressed a sneeze. “It has truly been an enlightening experience.”
Harry put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her companionably. “Some English girls like to hunt, but I’ve never met an American girl who did. I liked having you here today. You’re good company. Tomorrow we’re going north after partridge and in a few weeks we’ll stalk deer. But you have to be quiet when we go after the deer, not like today.” He hugged her shoulders again. “Claire, I think you and I are going to make a perfect couple. I’ve always wanted a woman who would hunt with me. I’ve been a little concerned that you were too bookish, but after today I can see I was wrong. After we’re married we can spend many days together. Days just like this one.”
Claire gave a sneeze and he patted her shoulder. “Let’s get you home and into some dry clothes. Tomorrow we go for partridge.”
Harry’s face suddenly brightened and he put his hands on her shoulders, turning her to face him. “I have a marvelous idea! For a wedding present I’ll buy you a pair of shotguns. Your very own. Engraved silver. I’ll write to London today and have someone come up and fit you. The stocks will be perfectly sized for you.” He smiled happily. “I’m looking forward to marriage more and more.”
Claire tried her best to smile back at him but her teeth were chattering too hard.
“Come on,” Harry said. “We’ll fix you up with a nice, hot pot of tea.”
Claire thought with longing of MacTarvit’s cozy, warm cottage and his even more warming whisky. “Yes,” she said. “Tea would be lovely.”
Thirty minutes later Claire was back in her room and Miss Rogers was complaining nonstop about how wet Claire’s clothes were.
“I hope you don’t expect me to salvage that,” the little gray woman sniffed as she looked at Claire’s riding habit. “Fine quality it was, even if it was a Frenchified design, but it’s ruined now. Of course we English and even these Scots aren’t used to having the money to waste that you Americans have. For all I know you Americans can afford to throw away good clothing after one wearing. I can’t say. I have my duty and that’s all. It’s not for me to judge my betters, so to speak. Although it’s hard to think of someone from a country that was mostly savages so few years ago as being better than an Englishwoman, but who am I to say? I just—”
“Miss Rogers!” Claire said as firmly as her chattering teeth would allow. “Would you call the footmen and have a bath brought up here?”
“At this time of day?”
“Yes, at this time of day.”
Miss Rogers sniffed. “I’m sure that to the likes of someone in your station in life it means nothing for the extra work to the servants. We’re nothing to the likes of you. We—”
“Go!” Claire ordered, as her frozen fingers began to try to unbutton the front of her habit.
There was a knock on the door and the butler appeared, carrying a silver tray. On it was a tea cozy. Something warm to drink, Claire thought, but she didn’t feel too enthusiastic because she knew that the kitchens were so far from the main rooms of the house that by the time the food reached the people it was usually cold. But tepid tea was better than nothing at all.
“Rogers,” the butler said sternly, “you are wanted downstairs.”
Claire was very happy to see that the odious little woman didn’t argue with the butler, but left the room without any argument. When she was alone with the butler, Claire stretched out a frozen, trembling hand to lift the cozy.
On the silver tray was not a pot of tea but a short, wide glass full of what she knew was whisky. She looked up at the butler in astonishment and he gave her the barest hint of a smile. “MacTarvit?” she asked.
“His finest. Twenty-five years old.”
Claire’s hand was shaking as she picked up the glass. As she raised it to her lips she looked up at the butler. “I love you,” she whispered.
“Many young ladies have,” he said and gave her a small smile.
Claire tried to sip the whisky, but as the welcome warmth hit her stomach she was greedy for more. She put the glass to her lips and drained it. Then she had to step backward and catch the post of the bed to steady herself. She looked up at the butler and he was staring at her in astonishment.
“I had heard you were a Scot,” he said, and there was admiration in his voice. “You are indeed.”
At that moment, the door opened and an angry Miss Rogers walked in. “No one wanted me downstairs,” she said.
Calmly, the butler covered the empty glass on his tray with the cozy and turned to the woman. “Then perhaps I was in error. Ring for a bath for your mistress.” There was command in the last order and Miss Rogers went obediently to the bellpull and gave a tug.
Claire, still standing by the bedpost, smiled at the butler when he reached the door. She wasn’t sure, but she thought he gave her a wink before he left.
An hour and a half later she was bathed and dressed for dinner in a warm wool dress. Harry was waiting for her outside her room and he offered her his arm as they went down the stairs to dinner. She knew she had pleased him today, pleased him as she never had before. For the first time since she’d met him, he talked to her. Usually he didn’t have much to say, but tonight he had a great deal to say—and every word of it was about hunting.
He talked to her of killing birds and ducks and deer. He spoke of going to India to hunt tigers and to Africa to kill elephants. “And you, darling, shall be right there with me.”
At dinner, he gave her Leatrice’s seat on his right-hand side, and all through the long meal, he talked to her of their future life together. He told her he’d teach her to shoot. He told her he’d teach her to ride to the hounds, chasing after a pack of
excited dogs who were trying to kill a fox. He spoke of blooding her, which Claire came to understand was having the blood of a poor dead fox smeared on her forehead. “It all sounds marvelously exciting,” she murmured and didn’t finish her fish course.
After dinner, after the men and women had separated, women to the drawing room for coffee and men to the library for port and cigars, Harry walked Claire to her room.
He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “I like you better than I thought I would,” he whispered. “You were good company today.”
“But I didn’t say a word all day. I just sat there in the rain and sneezed.”
“You’ll get used to it. Once you have your own shotguns you’ll enjoy yourself even more than you did today. There’s nothing like bringing down an animal. It’s the thrill of it, you against them.” He kissed her again. “As for not talking, I like a quiet woman. Women who are too clever can be a bore. Thank heaven you’re not like that.”
“True,” she said softly. “I don’t think I’m clever at all.”
Harry heard no sarcasm in her voice. “Good,” he said, then kissed her forehead. “Now I want you to get your rest. Remember that tomorrow it’s partridge.”
Claire nodded at him, then went inside her room. As Miss Rogers helped her dress for bed, Claire didn’t listen to the woman’s complaints. Instead, Claire’s mind seemed to be numb. Shotguns, she thought. Dead birds. Dead tigers. Dead elephants. Captain Baker had written about elephants in his two books about his travels in India. They had seemed like rather nice animals and quite useful.
When Miss Rogers was gone, Claire sat at the dressing table and began to cream her face. Her skin was chapped from the wind and the cold. Slowly, she rubbed cream into her face and looked at herself in the mirror.