Disclaimer: My butt your lips. Kiss it. (Stupid I know.)
The Lighting Of The Fires (Chapter 4b)
In the next half hour Relena, repeating names and greeting each member of the household, promised herself to procure a list of each name and position, something her mother had suggested she do. It had been an ordeal she had feared, but it had passed quickly enough, and the group disbanded with only Mr. And Mrs. Wilson remaining. She had read approval in the housekeeper's eyes, and she was much relieved, for she had feared she would be compared most unfavorably to the beautiful Dorothy.
"I have a small repast prepared, my lord," the housekeeper said. "If you would care to partake of it now, it is ready."
"That would be delightful, Mrs. Wilson," Quatre replied, "but I think it were best if we rested for an hour or two. It has been a long and tiring journey." He turned to Relena. "Unless you would care for something now, my dear?"
"Oh, no," she assured him hastily. "I feel much in need of a rest, myself." She glanced at Catherine, standing near the door, and added regretfully, "Oh, dear, I fear I have been remiss. Catherine!" she called. As the girl came to her side she added, "This is Catherine Barton, my Abigail, Mrs. Wilson."
"Good afternoon, my dear," the housekeeper said cordially as Catherine bobbed a curtsy. "Should you like to come with me, then?"
"Oh, no, ma'am," Catherine said shyly. "I'd best do for her ladyship."
"Very well." Mrs. Wilson gave her an approving smile. "If you wish to find me later, one of the footmen will direct you."
"I do thank you, ma'am," Catherine curtsied.
"Come, then, my dear." Quatre took Relena's arm, and followed by his valet and by Catherine, they walked up the wide stairs to the first floor. On reaching the top, he dismissed his valet, telling him to show Lucy to her ladyship's chamber. "I thought," he said as he turned back to Relena, "you might want to see some part of the house – your house, my dear."
She was very tired, but instinctively she felt that he was proud of his home and eager to note her reaction.
"I most certainly do want to see it," she assured him.
Some forty minutes later Relena stood alone in a large bedchamber, beyond which lay a sitting room, and beyond that, her husband's suite of rooms. She had not seen these, but he had shown her a great deal of the first floor, taking her through the drawing room, which, in coming with that of her own house, opened into a small antechamber and thence into the dining room. She was pleased by the arrangement mainly because she was used to it. The chambers in the newer houses did not lead one into the next but were set off from each other with doors opening on long halls. On the same line with the dining room was the conservatory, which Quatre had showed her with some little reluctance.
"This was one of my wife's favorite chambers." He had indicated the numerous plants standing in pots on long tables, or hung in the windows, or rising from the floor. Little cards attached to each busy or flower indicated their Latin designation, their common name, an the family to which they belonged. These, written in a flowing hand, were, Quatre explained, the work of the late Lady Marne. He had added, "She bought many of these, and the others were from her conservatory at home. She called this her winter garden, and she took wonderful care of her plants. They are still healthy and flourishing." His suggestion that he wished his wife might have remained in a similar condition had made Relena extremely uncomfortable. Indeed, she had longed to cut short the tour until he was better rested, but she was wary about putting herself forward. He might resent such suggestions from her. In fact, as she left the conservatory, she had a most uncomfortable suspicion that Quatre, in his own mind, still regarded himself as the husband of the late Dorothy. She did come to the conclusion that she would not tend the plants in the conservatory. She would leave that to the servants, mainly because she was sure he would not want her to undertake that particular task.
He had managed to subdue his woe when he showed her the library, which lay just beyond the portrait gallery. He had taken her through the gallery with a swiftness she regretted, but she had momentarily forgotten her wish to see the portrait of his late wife, as she found herself among masses of books – books she had itched to examine, but again the progress through the library had been similarly swift. She had seen the large desk, with drawers that must contain writing paper. There had been a silver inkstand on top of the desk, and she had glimpsed several feathered pens. Her mother would be expecting a letter from her, and so would her grandmother, and though she had refuted the idea of being a bluestocking, she would not mind trying to write.
She sighed. She wished she had not thought of bluestockings, for that brought Sylvia to mind. Sylvia, who had been angry on her wedding day, who had refused to catch her bouquet, and who had looked as if she hated her, but, Relena reminded herself, she would be hating her at a distance – since Cornwall lay at least as far from Somerset as London. Yet on thinking of it, she realized that Sylvia was no more than two days away. If she should take it into her mind…but of course she would not want to visit her, and it was ridiculous to borrow trouble. She had trouble enough already with a husband who did not love her, could never love her, since there appeared to be room in his heart only for his Dorothy.
Furthermore, she must not resent Dorothy even if her hold on him was the stronger because of her early and tragic death. As she must needs remind herself, with the exception of a very few in her circles, love meant very little. Men married for the dowry and the heritage, and she had both. She also had a husband who was her friend. Given her appearance, she could ask for nothing more. Hard on that thought, she remembered Mrs. Wilson's mention of a repast. She had not been hungry then, but she was finding herself quite hungry now.
Had she better ask Quatre if he wished to have something to eat, or would it be better…a tap on the door, a door which led to the sitting room, scattered her thoughts. She opened it hastily and found Quatre there. He was looking regretful. "My dear," he said. "the most unfortunately set of circumstances has arisen."
A pulse in her throat began to pound. "What has happened?" she asked in some alarm.
"Ah, you must not worry," he said hastily. "A matter of great importance has come up, and I must leave first thing in the morning, which means that I will have to retire early. The exigencies of travel make it imperative that I have all the rest I can get. I fear I will have to remain by myself this night." He cleared his throat nervously. "I…I hope you will not mind."
Relena, looking up at him, found his glance evasive. She said, "I quite understand. I, myself, am very tired. I do hope you sleep well. Will you be gone long?"
"No, I should be back by tomorrow evening at the latest." He moved to her and bore her hand to his lips. "I do thank you for your understanding, my dear – and now, would you like to come downstairs for a little supper?"'
"Oh, yes, very much," Relena assured him brightly.
Later, upon retiring, Relena evaded Catherine's surprised gaze and talked brightly of all she had seen in the house, adding that she hoped to visit the gardens and the woods on the following day. "And when I am a little more rested, I think I will go riding."
"It looks to be a fine place for riding, milady," Catherine commented.
Relena nodded. "Oh, yes, indeed it does." She had caught a strain of sympathy in the abigail's tone that she wished were not present. She did not feel sorry for herself. The fact that she had not experienced a wedding night in every sense of the word was hardly a tragedy. It was obvious that Quatre was too disturbed by all the reminders of his lost wife to make love to her replacement – if one could call her that. One had to be in love to make love, and while she was sure Quatre liked her, she was equally sure that he did not love her. But they were friends, and that was something.
In many marriages contracted by those of her class, the participants were actually enemies. Quatre was certainly not her enemy. He only missed his first wife, whom he so rarely mentioned by whose presence had been with them throughout every minute of their journey from London and was even stronger here. Dorothy.
Relena had never believed in ghosts – despite the fact that many of her friends and acquaintances mentioned "drafts" in windowless rooms and mysterious "cold spots" which they believed signified the lingering presence of some family skeleton turned spirit.
Her house in the country had remained singularly free of such entities, but she did believe in pervasive memories, which could, on occasion, be more powerful than ghosts. Her mother was afflicted by memories of her late husband, and though she never mentioned these to her daughters, Relena had always been able to tell when Lady Peacecraft had dreamed of him – by her mood on the following day.
Dorothy was just such a memory, she was sure; and sure, too, that the objects she had touched, the corridors through which she had walked and the conservatory where she had tended her plants, each so painstakingly identified, was replete with her presence. Tears of sympathy stood in her eyes, and she blinked them away hastily for fear Catherine might believe she was weeping for herself.
On rising at eight the following morning, Relena learned that Quatre had left the house at six. She found herself in an odd mood – caught somewhere between disappointment and relief. His sorrow for his wife had filled her with sympathy, but at the same time, it was difficult to offer consolation for a loss that had provided her with a husband she loved, even though he would never feel the same about her. Still, he had rescued her from a fate she had anticipated from her fifteenth year onward. She had believed herself doomed to follow in the wake of other plain girls whose purpose in life was to be a "prop" to Mama.
Lady Nell Colgrave, one of her good friends, occupied such an unenviable position. Her mother, a confirmed invalid who lay all day on a cough of pain, had need of such a prop. Lady Peacecraft, on the other hand, did not. Her busy, bustling parent had heaved many a sigh when she believed Relena not attending. It had been obvious that she had had little belief in her daughter's ability to get a husband, and Jane's prediction had angered her – because of what she had imagined to be the futility of introducing her plain daughter to the London scene for the whole of an unfruitful season. Now she was preening herself like a peacock because, of her three daughters, Relena had made the most brilliant match!
"Married for an heir, married for an heir, married for an heir." The words beat against Relena's consciousness, but though tears threatened, she would not let them fall! She had very little to weep about. She was in a lovely house, which she had not seen in its entirety, and which she would explore in her leisure, of which she had plenty. She would start now—or as soon as she was dressed— and she would begin with the portrait gallery. Above everything in this household, she wanted most to view the portrait of the late Lady Marne. She rang for Catherine.
Fortunately the portraits were grouped by centuries, and though a quick glance promised future rewards, Relena passed hastily along the polished floor of the long chamber until she found the painting she sought. It proved very easy to locate—mainly because the late Dorothy had chosen to be painted as a nymph, posed amid trees and holding a book in her hand, which she was not perusing. Yet she gave the impression of having been interrupted while reading just for the second (minutes, hours, days) it took for the artist to capture her on canvas. Her hair, long and silvery-blond, was caught by a vagrant breeze, and one silver lock strayed across her forehead. Her great eyes were vividly blue, and a small, mysterious smile played about her lips. She seemed caught in some happy dream, and she did remind Relena of a nymph—more specifically, she reminded her of Sylvia! And was that why when her sister had appeared at the wedding reception, Quatre had become so thoughtful and distracted, a condition that yet remained? Tears filled her eyes. She had been right to fear Sylvia!
Yet on second thought, Sylvia was married, and she could not leave her house at a moment's notice to visit her sister, or how would she explain it to Heero? She gazed up at the portrait, and those great eyes, Sylvia's eyes, seemed to be telling her that she had always done exactly as she pleased and in that way she, Dorothy, was no different from Sylvia – facial features-wise.
She left the gallery, moving swiftly, almost on a run, and went into the library. However, for once in her life the wealth of reading matter, which, in other circumstances, must have absorbed her completely, did not interest her. She left the library and was met by a harried-looking young footman, who appeared very pleased to see her,
"If you please, your ladyship, there'll be a visitor. Lady Orville come to see you."
"To see me?" Relena demanded in some surprise. It was no more than half past the hour often, and certainly she had not anticipated visitors on this, her first day in her husband's home! Yet she must needs get to know her neighbors. Perhaps Lady Orville had been Dorothy's good friend and might inadvertently let fall some information about her.
"I will see her . . . George, is it?"
"Aye, your ladyship." He looked gratified by her accurate recollection of his name. "George it be, right enough. I'll show her into the drawing room, shall I?"
"Please, and tell her that I will be there directly."
Returning to her chamber, Relena scanned herself in the glass and pushed back a fallen lock of hair with a sigh. She feared that Lady Orville would find her a poor replacement for the beauty. Sighing a second time, she went down to meet her first guest.
As Relena started into the drawing room she thought as she had yesterday afternoon that it badly needed refurbishing. It was decorated in gold and white—not Dorothy's taste, Quatre had told her. She had not cared to change the furnishings, though. She had been content to let his late mother's taste prevail. Relena thought some of the chairs needed recovering, and a repainting would certainly enhance the dingy woodwork. Yet she wondered if her husband wanted such repairs. She had a feeling that he might prefer everything to remain as it had during Dorothy's lifetime, and once more she wondered nervously what Lady Orville would think about her. Probably she had been a dear friend of the late Lady Maine and was here as a scout to spread the news about the present wife. Looking around, she did not see her visitor.
Then, suddenly, and with the swiftness of a nesting quail disturbed by a hunter's gun, a petite woman who had been sitting in a wing chair rose and said in a deep voice, "You are Lady Marne?"
Relena, tensing and barely swallowing an incipient cry of surprise as she looked up at a tall, attractive young woman who she guessed to be no more than twenty-four or five, said, "Yes, I am Lady Marne."
"Well!" Lady Orville said, "I am extremely pleased to see you. It is time that the mournful Marne doffed his weeds and loosed his turtledoves. Did I startle you? I am sorry, it was not intentional. On occasion it is intentional. From my early youth there has been nothing more exhilarating to me than to create an unforgettable impression. I should have been an actress, but birth and breeding prevented my being a 'poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more…a tale told by an idiot' and so forth. I fear you will imagine that I am that idiot. Have I?"
"I ... I am not sure." Relena found herself swallowing a threatening giggle. "I am not sure what you mean."
"Then I have not created an unforgettable impression?"
"Oh, you have." Relena's giggle escaped.
"Ah, very good! Do you know that I once tried this same entrance—I am known for my entrances—on the late Lady Marne, and to my utter chagrin, I do not believe she noticed. But enough, I am extremely pleased to meet you. I know that I have already said as much, but this time I mean it in all sincerity."
"I am also pleased to meet you." Relena was surprised, amused, and, she decided, extremely drawn to her ladyship, despite her eccentric manner.
"I would think you were less pleased than surprised," Lady Orville said frankly. "You have not been here more than a day. You arrived yesterday, and lest you be astonished that news travels so fast, let it be said that one of your footmen is walking out with my abigail, Betsy. That is the way news travels here. Betsy is a fund of useful information. You would be surprised to know what I know, and I would, no doubt, be surprised to know what is known about me. If you are minded to engage in a flirtation, be assured that I will hear about it directly the moment the first assignation is arranged—or almost. I and every other household from here to Glastonbury."
"I would not be so minded," Relena said.
"Not now, of course, when you are but recently married, but occasionally husbands can wear on one. I am not speaking of my own husband, Duo, but in general. You look as if you might possess a sense of humor. Do you?"
"I expect I do." Relena smiled. "Will you not sit down, Lady Orville?"
"Yes, I will." She sank back in the wing chair again. "You will find that I have taken the most comfortable chair in this chamber—however, that sofa is well enough and we can face each other. I hope that you mean to make some changes here. Dorothy was occupied with higher things—comfort was not one of them. I am pleased, too, that you are reasonably tall. The late Dorothy was a little thing, you know."
"She did not look little in her portrait," Relena said with some surprise.
"Oh, blast John Kildare. In common with Romney, whose disciple he is, he is inclined to flatter his subjects. No one will ever tell me that Lady Hamilton was ever as exquisite as he depicted her. She was really quite common, and looked it. That is not to say that I approve the shocking way in which she died in Calais last year. The government ought to have honored Nelson's last wishes—even if she were a whore, which she might have been in one sense but not in another—and the nation has honored whores before. I speak of Charles II, who was always enobling his mistresses and their bastards. However, I expect it does take a king to do that, and George III, poor man, is mad, and the prince is bad…not bad, really. I expect that Nelson's wishes were not in his power to grant. However, to comment upon your observation, Dorothy was quite small, and I do wish that Kildare had not painted her in green. She wore it incessantly afterward. I do hope that green is not one of your favorite shades."
"Actually, it is not," Relena said, striving to swallow her laughter.
"No, you would look far better in pink."
Fearing that the topic of Dorothy might soon be exhausted due to Lady Orville's habit of leaping from one subject to the next, Relena said hastily, "I expect you must have known Dorothy rather well."
"No one knew Dorothy rather well," Lady Orville said. "In common with the poet Wordsworth, she was enchanted with nature and kept to herself a great deal, communing with the woods. I saw her only when I gave a dinner party… She, I might mention, rarely entertained. She preferred to go to bed early so that she might be up at dawn; wandering through the 'dew-touched grasses'—her description, never mine. The only time I see the 'dew-touched grasses' is when I am off on a foxhunt. Oh, dear, you should not have asked me about Dorothy. I am inclined to become entirely too verbose on the subject." She paused and directed a piercing look at Relena. "I like you a great deal better."
"You do not know me!" Relena exclaimed.
"To see you is to like you," Lady Orville responded frankly. "I am extremely intuitive. And I am quite sure that marrying you is the most sensible thing that young Quatre ever did—where is he, by the way?"
"He had to leave early this morning," Relena explained, "I… I think he must still miss her, you know." She flushed, wondering why she had favored Lady Orville with such a confidence. Had her mother heard her, she must have been shocked to the bone. "I mean—"
"My dear child," Lady Orville interrupted, "I am quite sure you meant exactly what you said, and unfortunately you are probably quite right. He took her death very hard, and of course it was tragic about the child—a son, I have heard. Still—and I am going to be quite unnaturally frank with you—he eventually would have suffered even more if she had lived. Men in love don blinders from time to time, but the day comes when those blinders fall off… Dorothy's early death precluded that. Consequently he never learned that rather marrying a swan, he had wed a goose. Gracious me!" Lady Orville stood up. "We must be friends, else husband, who is extremely fond of Quatre, will never forgive me. You will not tell him what I have said out of my very real friendship for you…I do like you. You seem to grow more appealing by the minute—even though I have done all the talking. You must say that you will be my friend."
"But I am…I am already your friend," Relena cried. "I liked you the minute I saw you—and I like you even more now."
"I am delighted to hear it," Lady Orville returned with a lovely smile. "We live close to each other, close as it is read in the fewest miles distant. You can see the towers of our castle from the edge of your park. Of course, there is a great stretch of fields, pastures, et cetera, between. I am going to give one of my dinner parties and you will come and see the pile in which we reside. Unfortunately it was not destroyed in the days of Cromwell… though the Roundheads did practice shooting in the main hail. You will find bullet marks in the ancient suits of armor.
where naught but spears had grazed before. Does that not sound as if I were talking about cows instead of spears? No matter, my dear Lady Marne, but you will not be Lady Marne to me, nor I Lady Orville to you. I am Hilde, hardly suitable for me, and you are…"
"Relena." The owner of that name laughed.
"Relena." Lady Orville cocked her head and studied Relena's face. "Yes," she said finally. "I do believe Relena does suit you. Hilde, on the other hand, should belong to someone small and fly away, another Dorothy, perhaps, but we do not choose our names, do we? I must leave." She bent and kissed Relena on the cheek. "My dear child, take heart. He…cannot fail to appreciate you once he realizes his good fortune. And remember, I am Hilde to you, Relena."
"I…I will remember, Hilde," Relena said gratefully.
She felt much happier after Lady Orville left. She had made a friend, and one who had given her hope that upon due reflection, her husband might begin to feel more comfortable with her, even if he never learned to love her.
Author's Note: Also expect chapter 5 to be split. I think it might be longer than this one…thanks for reviewing everyone.