Chapter 13
Madeline’s birthday fell two days later. She awoke to sunshine, and stretched luxuriously in the comfort of her bed, a smile curving her lips as she wondered what the day would hold.
Her brothers had been so busy over the last two days, she’d had to be careful not to stumble into any of their whispered conferences—with each other, with Muriel, and even with Milsom and other members of the staff. They had something planned, that much was obvious, but as to what…they’d succeeded in hiding that from her, no mean feat.
Rising to wash and dress, she was conscious of welling anticipation.
Family tradition decreed that gifts were presented at the breakfast table; she reached the parlor to discover two packages, one on either side of her plate.
“Happy birthday!” her brothers chorused.
Muriel’s gentler “Happy birthday, dear” followed.
Smiling and thanking them, Madeline sat in the chair Milsom held for her. He bowed. “The very best wishes of the staff on your birthday, miss.”
“Thank you, Milsom.” Settling, Madeline looked from one package to the other. The larger and flatter showed evidence of multiple attempts to get the tissue paper to lie straight; its bow was lopsided. The smaller but thicker one was much neater—Muriel’s. She picked that one up first, and stripped away the wrappings.
“New riding gloves.” In butter-soft black leather, beautifully stitched, the gloves hadn’t come from the festival. She smiled at Muriel. “Thank you. My current pair is driving me crazy—the buttons keep catching.”
“I’ve noticed.” Muriel nodded to her gift. “Those ones are cut to be more fitting about the wrist—they don’t have buttons.”
“Excellent.” Trying them on, Madeline confirmed they fitted perfectly. She held out both hands, admiring the new gloves—pretending not to notice her brothers’ fidgeting, the impatient glances they threw each other.
Not bothering to hide her fond smile, she looked down at the other package. “Now what, I wonder, could this be?”
A scarf was her first thought as she felt its softness, but as she lifted the package to rest it across her plate, she felt the weight of some heavier object in its center. “Hmm…a mystery gift.” She stripped off the gloves and laid them aside, then untied the bow and ceremoniously unwrapped the gift, playing to the boys’ anticipation.
She lifted the last leaf of tissue free…. Peering at what she’d uncovered, she blinked. Twice. “Good heavens.” She heard the awe in her voice, was distantly aware of the swift, satisfied glances the boys shared.
Slowly, a trifle stunned, she lifted the large oval brooch—a cloak brooch from the days when cloaks were the norm. Holding it up, she let her senses drink it in—from its weight and color, it had to be gold, by the way the light fractured and blazed in the stones, the smaller surrounding ones had to be diamonds, while the large rectangular stone in the center, a little paler than forest green, had to be an emerald.
The piece was formed to represent a knot of oak leaves surrounding and supporting the central stone, with tiny acorns formed from the diamonds and a smattering of beautiful pale gold pearls.
Where did you get this? were the words that leapt to her tongue. But she glanced at her brothers, at their eager, expectant faces, and substituted, “It’s beautiful.” Her reverent tone underscored her sincerity.
They relaxed and grinned widely.
Then she could draw in a breath and inquire, “Where did you get it?”
“We found it,” Ben said. “At the festival.”
“On one of the antiquities stalls,” Edmond offered. “The old peddler who sells bits of metal he’s dug up from all around—nails, stirrups, all sorts of bits and pieces.”
“It didn’t look like that when we bought it,” Harry said. “We’ve spent the past two days cleaning and polishing it. It had hard-packed earth stuck all over and was grimy and dirty. You can see where the surface of the pearls got pitted—we rubbed and rubbed to bring back the sheen.”
Madeline peered more closely. “Yes, I see.” She glanced down the table at Harry, at the other end, then at Edmond and Ben—at their happy, pleased, open faces. “Well—what an amazing find!”
“Of course we had to give it to you,” Ben said.
She smiled. “Thank you—all three of you.”
Laying the brooch aside, she finally turned to what else their package contained. Using both hands, she lifted out a delicate gossamer and lace fichu. Again it was no effort to smile delightedly; she’d seen it on one of the festival stalls. “This is perfect, too—I’ll wear it tonight with my new gown.” She glanced at the brooch. “And as my new gown is green, I can anchor the fichu with the brooch.”
The boys looked doubly pleased, exchanging yet more of their triumphant glances. Madeline wondered what else they’d organized; she expected to spend her day much as usual, capped by a quiet celebratory dinner with the family and their closest neighbors and friends. Assuming the boys were anticipating their neighbors admiring their gifts shown off against her new gown, she gave her attention to her breakfast, recommending they do the same if they wanted to ride out with her to check on their furthest-flung fields.
Her day progressed more or less as she’d planned. All three boys remained with her, as they usually did on her birthday, sharing her day. This year, however, their interaction had altered, with Harry asking many more questions, and being much more involved with the duties that heretofore had been solely hers. That required an adjustment on her part, but she found it easier than she’d thought; Harry was sincerely interested now, not simply asking because he felt he ought.
They returned to the house rather later than she’d planned. After luncheon, they spent the afternoon in the office, she and Harry going over accounts and orders, then discussing projections and plans for the harvest.
She was surprised to hear the clocks strike five. “Already?” She glanced at the sunshine outside, then shrugged. Pushing back from the desk, she rose. “Come along. I have to bathe and dress, and so do you.”
Herding the boys upstairs, she sent them down the corridor to their rooms. “The guests will be arriving at half past six—I’ll expect to see you clean and neat in the drawing room by then.”
They mock-grumbled, but she saw the excited glances they darted at each other. Confident they’d be ready in time, she left them to their ablutions, and went to tend to hers.
A nice soak in a relaxing bath left her feeling pampered. Tying her silk wrapper over her chemise, she sat before her dressing table and applied herself to brushing out, then restraining her flyaway mane, twisting it into a tight knot she anchored on top of her head.
Adding extra inches to her already exceptional height, but it washer birthday, and the only gentleman whose opinion she might court would still be taller than she.
Rising from the stool, she took extra care donning her new silk gown, then arranging the delicate fichu about her throat and tucking the ends in the deep valley between her breasts. She’d been right; the fichu set off the plain neckline of the deep green gown to perfection. Standing before her cheval glass, she contemplated the irony that by screening her ample breasts, the translucent fichu drew attention to them, rather than deflecting it.
Picking up the brooch, she turned it over in her hands, admiring the play of light on the gems, then releasing the pin, she fiddled until she had it positioned perfectly just below her décolletage, fixing the ends of the fichu beneath the fabric of her gown. Clipping it in place, she studied the effect. She rarely wore much jewelry, primarily because very few pieces were designed for a woman of her stature. But the cloak brooch was the perfect size—indeed, the perfect piece—to complement her charms, large enough not to look lost yet not so large as to overpower.
Unusually pleased with her appearance—unusually aware of it, if truth be told—she picked up her Norwich silk shawl, draped it loosely over her elbows, then headed for the door and the stairs.
It wante
d but a few minutes to half past six o’clock, yet somewhat to her surprise she reached the front hall without seeing anyone—neither staff nor Muriel, who usually came down early. Walking into the drawing room, she discovered her brothers, too, had yet to make an appearance.
Gervase, however, was waiting for her.
Standing before the hearth, he looked devastatingly handsome in a dark evening coat and trousers. Yet…. She glanced around. “Where is everyone?”
“They’ll be here shortly.” Strolling to meet her, he took her hand, kissed her fingers, smiled into her eyes. “I came early.”
“But it’s nearly—” She glanced at the mantelpiece clock and broke off. Frowned. “I could have sworn it was nearly time.” The clock, which she’d never known to be wrong, said it was not yet six o’clock.
Gervase glanced at it. “That seems right.”
Frowns weren’t good for the complexion; she willed hers away. “Well…” She glanced around, intending to invite him to sit.
“It’s a lovely evening. Let’s stroll in the garden.” He’d retained his hold on her hand; twining her arm with his, he turned to the French doors left open to the terrace. “Perhaps we can find a suitable place in which I can give you my gift.”
She laughed and allowed him to sweep her out into the fresh air. As it was early, there was nothing she needed to do, not until more guests arrived.
They strolled across the lawns, taking unvoiced pleasure in each other’s company, in each other’s nearness. Then he asked, “How’s Harry’s interest in the estate developing?”
“Astonishingly well.” They spent some minutes chatting about her brothers. “They gave me this brooch.”
They’d reached the arbor under which, weeks before, she’d boldly kissed him. The roses rambling over the structure were now in full and heavy bloom, scenting the evening air with their heady perfume. Remembering her reasons for kissing him then, thinking of all that had passed between them since, she smiled; swinging her skirts about, she sat on one of the benches lining the two closed sides of the arbor, and tapped her finger to the brooch.
Gervase sat beside her, tilting his head the better to study it. He frowned. “That appears to be a very fine piece.”
She grimaced. “At first I thought the stones must be paste, but paste doesn’t catch the light like that.”
“Nor does it have inclusions”—he, too, tapped the central stone—“but real emeralds almost always do. Just like that.”
“The pearls look real, too.” She sighed. “They told me they’d found it on one of the peddlers’ stalls at the festival. There’s one old man who comes every year—he’s known as Old Joe, but no one knows much about him. But he does have old, dirt-encrusted oddities, things he’s dug up at some of the old Iron Age or Roman sites, so it’s possible they did find it among the lumps on his stall, or one of the similar stalls. There were three.”
He waited until she looked up, caught her eyes, searched them. “Are you worried that they finally stumbled on some wreckers’ treasure?”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s possible, I suppose, but rational thought suggests that if they didn’t find it at the festival—and other than an instinct that they weren’t precisely telling me the truth, there’s no reason to suppose they didn’t—then they might have found it buried among our grandmother’s things. There are boxes and boxes in the attics, with all sorts of bits and pieces, and they often go fossicking up there. While I would hope there was nothing of this value still up there, it’s entirely possible our grandmother misplaced this piece. She had a huge wardrobe and a jewel collection to match.”
He smiled. “Unlike you.”
She shrugged. “I’m not really one for jewelry. So little seems to suit.”
Reaching into his coat pocket, he returned, “That’s because you’re unique, and so it needs to be made specially for you.” He laid a tissue-wrapped package in her lap. “Like these.”
Madeline frowned at the package. “However did you get time to have anything made?”
“I have my ways, my contacts.”
“Hmm.” She unraveled the ribbon and unwrapped the contents—spilling an ivory fan with rose-gold filigree sticks, beautifully wrought, and what she took to be a rather strange wide bangle in two pieces into her lap.
She picked up the fan, flicked it open, marveled. “I’ve never owned anything half so beautiful.” She met his eyes. “Thank you.”
He smiled and she looked down, set aside the fan and picked up the odd bangle, trying to figure out how….
“Here—let me.”
She surrendered the two pieces, linked by some sort of mechanism. He fiddled for a moment, then turned to her, and lifted his arms above her head…. Her eyes widened. “They’re hair ornaments!”
“Indeed. Specially designed to aid in controlling your wayward locks.” Gervase slipped the two halves over and around her still-reasonably-neat knot, then wound the little screws to tighten the vise. “There.”
He sat back, studied the effect, and smiled, well pleased. He’d had the piece made in the same rose-gold filigree as the fan; the warm sheen of the gold only emphasized the rich luster of her hair, the vibrant brown shot through with copper and red. He met her eyes. “Perfect.”
She studied his eyes, then lifting one hand, framed his jaw and leaned in to press a gentle, slow kiss on his lips. “Thank you,” she murmured when she eventually drew back. She looked again at the fan, then flicked it open; they rose and started back to the house. “Everyone has given me such useful, thoughtful gifts.”
“What did Muriel give you?”
“Riding gloves without buttons.”
He laughed.
She was defending her ability to manage buttoned gloves when they strolled back onto the terrace and into the drawing room—
“Oh! Here she is!”
“Happy birthday, Madeline, dear!”
Halting, Madeline blinked as the chorus rang in her ears.
“And many more to come, heh?”
She stared in surprise at an entire roomful of guests. She’d had a moment’s warning as they’d approached the French doors and the level of conversation—surely too great for the few guests they’d invited—had registered. But Gervase had had a firm hold on her elbow; he’d swept her over the threshold—into this.
She was instantly surrounded, immediately immersed in the business of accepting everyone’s good wishes and thanking them. Eventually she came upon Muriel, smiling smugly, in the crowd. She spread her hands in amazement. “How did this come about?”
Muriel grinned. “Your brothers decided it was high time you had a proper party for your birthday. It was their idea. The rest of us”—Muriel’s gaze rested on Gervase, still beside Madeline but currently distracted by Mr. Caterham—“just helped them make it happen.”
Madeline glanced at Gervase, remembered…“How did they manage to get me down early…?” She glanced across the room at Harry, chatting with Belinda and Annabel. “The clocks?”
“Indeed. Quite ingenious of them. They had Milsom and the maids set every clock in the house forward half an hour while you were out riding, then they changed them all back again—all except the one in your bedchamber—while you were bathing.”
Madeline shook her head, but she was smiling.
What her brothers had decided constituted a “proper party” began with a banquet for sixty. Madeline couldn’t recall the last time the long dining table had had every leaf added, and every chair in use.
Harry, seated opposite her at the head of the table, proposed a toast to which everyone responded with a cheer. And then the food arrived, served on the huge silver platters that so rarely saw service, with crystal glasses and gleaming cutlery. The noise of conversations enveloped the table. Bemused and deeply touched, she smiled and chatted, then simply relaxed and enjoyed herself.
But there was more enjoyment to come. Somewhat to her surprise, the question of the gentlemen passing the decanters never
even arose; at her signal, intended for the ladies, the company rose as one, and followed her and Gervase—not back to the drawing room but into the ballroom.
Which had been opened up for the event.
Looking around, twirling to take it all in, she let her amazement show. “How on earth did they manage all this without my noticing?”
Gervase grinned. “It seems they planned well.”
She thought—remembered how all three of her brothers had remained in the office, how all had asked questions, kept her occupied through the afternoon. “The office is on the other side of the house, in the other wing. They kept me there all afternoon.”
“They held you prisoner?”
She smiled affectionately. “After a fashion.”
Their plans had included musicians and dancing. The next hours winged by in untrammeled pleasure; she waltzed with Gervase twice, then later gave in, to herself as well as him, and danced the last waltz with him as well.
The French doors to the terrace stood open throughout the evening, letting the balmy night air wash over the gathering. The room was more than large enough to accommodate their number without crowding, allowing everyone to move freely, talking with this one, then that. The musicians seemed inspired by the gay atmosphere and happily kept playing into the night.
Everyone had an excellent time, as they assured Madeline when, hours later, one by one, they took their leave. Gervase had remained by her side throughout the evening; that everyone in the neighborhood was expecting to hear an announcement of their engagement any day he no longer had the slightest doubt. But, of course, with him standing by her side, no one had been so gauche as to mention it, or even hint at it, for which he was grateful.
He’d accompanied her into the front hall. He stood a little behind and to her side as with Muriel she farewelled the guests; when he wished he could fade into the background, at least to some degree.
But then he saw Harry hanging back by the wall nearby, his eyes locked on him. Harry caught his eye, then tipped his head down the hall to where the shadows hung more heavily.