The Silver Squire. Mary Brendan
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keen for your children to have a mother’s care and as I had not heard from you for so long…’
‘I’m sorry not to have replied to your letter. I seem to find so little free time. A pathetic excuse, I know,’ he admitted on a shake of the head. ‘And there has never been anyone else that I’ve met who would suit the children so well as you. You’re so kind and dependable. You’re a genteel lady and educated to such a degree you could tutor them yourself,’ he enthused.
‘And what of you? Do I suit you so very well?’ Emma asked softly, sadly.
‘But of course! That goes without saying, Emma.’
‘This is a respectable house and we keep reg’lar hours. No gentlemen allowed in the parlour after nine o’ the clock. No gentlemen allowed in the upper chambers at any time. Breakfast afore eight or none. Dinner in the parlour if you wants at a shillin’ for a plate o’ hot ordinary.’
‘Yes, I understand,’ Emma told Mrs Keene wearily as she glanced about the spartan room. But at least it looked clean and the bedlinen fresh.
‘So wot’s a nice young lady like yourself doin’ alone in Bath?’ the woman asked with friendly inquisitiveness, now she had laid down the rules of the house. ‘Kin in the area, have you, wot won’t board you?’ The plump woman shelved her crossed arms on her ample bosom. A knowing nod preceded, ‘I gets plenty o’ such spinsters. Poor relations an’ all they’ll get off them wot’s better sitchwated is mutton ‘n porter once or twice a week an’ a faded gown or two. Not that it’s none of my concern, ‘o course, or I’m complainin’, like…for it suits me…’ She wagged an emphasising finger.
‘I’m seeking employment. I have no local family. Just a friend.’ What had she said? Seeking employment? Why had she said that? Why not? echoed back. The logical answer to every pressing problem had helpfully presented itself. She had very little cash; she needed some time to think while she mulled over Matthew’s proposal and meanwhile she needed somewhere to stay. There was little doubt in her mind that Mrs Keene would show her the cobbles as soon as she showed Mrs Keene an I O U.
Her landlady sucked at her few yellowing teeth. ‘Seekin’ employment, are you, miss? Well, not that it’s none of my concern, o’ course, but I’ll keep me eyes and ears open for you. I’m known to run a respectable lodgin’s for genteel ladies wot’s on ‘ard times, and it’s not unknown for those as wants to take on to come to me first for their quality staff. No agency fees, you see. ‘Course I accepts a small consideration—’
‘Thank you…I should be grateful for help…’ Emma cut the woman off. Undoing the ribbons of her bonnet, she dropped the dusty tan-coloured article onto the bed. She shook free her thick fawn hair, raking it back from her creamy brow, aware of the woman’s gimlet eyes on her. Opening her carpet bag, she studiedly hinted, ‘I’m a little tired…’
‘O’ course you are, miss. Will you be wantin’ any supper?’
‘No, thank you. I’ve already dined.’
‘Tomorrow will you be wantin’ any supper?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Seven o’ the clock in the downstairs parlour. Tomorrow’s bacon ‘n carrots. That’ll be a shillin’ an’ you pay afore you eat.’ With a gap-toothed smile at Emma, Mrs Keene was closing the door.
‘You’re late!’
‘I’m here, aren’t I?’
‘Richard, you are becoming quite a trial to your mother,’ Miriam Du Quesne stiffly informed her eldest son.
He seemed unmoved by her complaint and gave her an impenitent smile as he made for the stairs and took them two at a time.
‘Come back! We have guests!’ was hissed in a furious undertone at his broad, dark-jacketed back.
‘And you’re a wonderful hostess, my dear,’ trailed back, bored, over his shoulder as he neared the top of the graceful sweep of mahogany bannisters.
‘If you’re not down these stairs and in the drawing room in ten…fifteen minutes,’ she generously amended, in an enraged choke, ‘well, I shall…I shall just…’
Sir Richard Du Quesne sauntered back to the top of the curving stairwell and looked past the priceless Austrian crystal chandelier, suspended low, at the top of his mother’s elegant coiffure. ‘You shall what?’ he jibed fondly. ‘Beat me? Shut me in my room? Make me go without my supper?’
‘Richard! This is no joke!’ his mother screeched, small fists scrunching her elegant lavender skirts in her rage. Aware that she was creasing the satin, she flung it away and tried desperately to smooth it. She resorted to stamping a small foot instead, while almost jigging on the creamy marble in exasperation. Abruptly changing tack, she stilled, gave him a bright smile and wheedled, ‘Please, dear, don’t keep us all waiting longer. Dinner has been on the warm since eight o’clock. It is now nine-thirty and we are all quite ravenous.’ A tinkly laugh preceded, ‘I’m quite wore out with finding conversation to amuse us all. Besides,’ gritted out through pearly teeth, ‘nothing much is audible over the growling of empty stomachs.’
Her son gave her a conciliatory smile. ‘I’ll be but a few minutes. I’ll just freshen up…’
‘Oh, you look well enough,’ she said irritably, gesturing him down the stairs. He did too, she realised as her blue eyes lingered on her tall, handsome son’s appearance. His sun-streaked blond hair was too long, but suited him that way, she grudgingly allowed. His charcoal-grey clothes were expensive and well-styled; nothing she said or slipped to his valet seemed to make him dress in brighter colours. The bronzed skin tone he had acquired abroad had at first horrified her but, she had to admit, gave him a wickedly foreign air, and those cool grey eyes…A delicious shiver raced through her for they so reminded her of her darling John.
Miriam focussed her far-away gaze back on the top of the stairs to note that, while daydreaming of her late husband, their son had disappeared. She pouted, flounced about and stalked back towards the drawing room with the welcome tidings for their graces the Duke and Duchess of Winstanley and their daughter, Lady Penelope, that dinner was now, indeed, very nearly served.
‘I know where you’ve been, you lucky, randy dog.’
Richard dried his face with the towel, lobbed it carelessly towards the grand four-poster on a raised dais and glanced at Stephen. ‘Where have I been?’ he asked as he fastened his diamond shirt studs and walked to the mirror to inspect his appearance.
‘Come on, this is your dribbling sibling you’re talking to. She must have a jolie amie for your best brother. Preferably blonde but I ain’t fussy.’
‘You’re married.’
‘I’m bored.’
Richard’s icy grey eyes swerved to the reflection of his younger brother’s shrewd, smiling face. ‘You’re married. You’ve got a lovely wife and two beautiful children. What more do you want, for God’s sake?’
Stephen Du Quesne shrugged himself irritably to the window and gazed into the dusk. The fluttering silver-leaved whitebeams that lined the mile-long drive to Silverdale swayed like sinuous, ghostly dancers in the light evening breeze. ‘A little excitement…that’s what I want. A little of what you’ve got…that’s what I want. You get risqué women and I get responsibility. It ain’t fair, I tell you. You’re seven years older than me.’
‘No one forced you to propose to Amelia when you were twenty-one. As I recall you wanted her and nothing was going to stand in your way. Not even her constant rebuffs. You finally won her over and the proof that you were lucky to get it so right is just along the corridor, asleep in the nursery. Grow up.’
‘That’s rich coming from you,’ Stephen moaned as he stalked his elder brother to the head of the stairs. ‘You’re thirty-three and still gadding around as though you’ve dropped a decade somewhere. Even that reprobate of