The House of Happiness Page 2

  For Mrs. Dovedale, the only route out of her straightened circumstances was Eugenia. The girl was so beautiful, everybody said so. She could ensnare the Prince of Wales himself if she wished!

  Mrs. Dovedale plotted and planned for Eugenia to be noticed. Not a man with half a name for himself passed within the mother’s orbit, but he was extolling the virtues of her daughter. Not one name of an eligible bachelor could drop from Lady Granton’s lips but that Mrs. Dovedale was trying to effect an introduction.

  Mrs. Dovedale would accompany Eugenia on errands to Fortnum’s for the sole purpose of pointing out Lord this or Earl that to her daughter. During walks in Kensington Gardens she would nudge Eugenia’s elbow at every haughty Viscount or Duke who rode by.

  “Throw him a glance, my dear. Turn your profile to him. Step into his path.”

  Her mother’s machinations made Eugenia miserable. She began to form an instinctive resistance to any romantic suggestion that her mother made.

  Leaning her forehead on the windowpane, Eugenia murmured to herself the familiar words that worked upon her resolve like a daily mantra.

  “I will never, never marry anyone of whom my mother approves!”

  *

  Seated at breakfast, reading the newspaper through her lorgnette, Mrs. Dovedale gave a sudden squawk of excitement.

  “Mama?”

  Mrs. Dovedale waved her hand before her face, as if whatever she had read had brought on a sudden heat. “Oh, my goodness, oh, my goodness, we are saved!”

  Eugenia stared. “How exactly are we saved, Mama?”

  She threw down the paper and pointed. “There. There. Do you see? The Marquis of Buckbury has returned to England and is at this very moment in London!”

  Eugenia, guessing the cast of her mother’s mind, frowned. “He must be very old and grey by now.”

  “Old? Grey? He can’t be more than – let me see – he was twenty one when last I saw him – you were ten – why, he’s barely more than thirty now!”

  “Ancient,” sighed Eugenia.

  Mrs. Dovdedale was not listening.

  “I must make sure that he is invited to one of Lady Granton’s soirées,” she continued. “She would surely do it for us. He is bound to come if he hears that the widow of his old Head Steward is present. He cannot have forgotten us. He cannot have forgotten you!”

  “Of course he has forgotten me. And even if he hasn’t, what is all this to do with us being saved?”

  Mrs. Dovedale looked coy. “Why, you were so taken with each other at that Christmas party – “

  “Mama, I was ten!”

  “But it was obvious that you were going to blossom into a real beauty.” her mother persisted. “He said he would wait –”

  Eugenia raised an eyebrow. “Mama, I think you are forgetting the Countess!”

  “Oh, yes, the Countess.” Mrs. Dovedale sank into her chair for a moment before brightening. “Even so, once reacquainted, the Marquis is bound to want to do something for you.”

  “Not charity!” replied Eugenia sharply.

  Mrs. Dovedale threw up her hands and rose from the table. “Eugenia, I despair of you, I really do! I have no idea what it is you really want.” With that, she sailed from the room.

  What did she really want? Passion! She did not want whatever beauty she might possess bartered for a string of pearls and a horse and carriage. She did not want a pompous Earl or a dreary old Marquis. She wanted to be swept off her feet by someone for whom romance was more important than position, for whom the call of the heart was stronger than the call of duty.

  Her eyes closed for a moment as she imagined this wild and impetuous lover.

  He was most definitely not someone of whom her mother would approve!

  She hoped that her obvious lack of enthusiasm had discouraged her mother from plotting an encounter with the Marquis of Buckbury.

  Mrs. Dovedale, however, was not a woman to be dissuaded from any course of action she had decided upon.

  Two days later she entered Eugenia’s room in triumph.

  “We are to attend Lady Granton’s on Tuesday. The Marquis of Buckbury will be present. This will be your first evening soirée.”

  Eugenia did not look up from her book. “I cannot go. I have nothing to wear.”

  “Oh, you are not to worry about that,” Mrs. Dovedale shot back. “I shall take in my old ball-gown.”

  Eugenia turned the page. “Then I shall look like a fool.”

  “Look like a fool? Of course you won’t look like a fool.”

  Mrs. Dovedale, however, was proved quite wrong. On the day of the soirée, even Great-Aunt Cloris, so approving of hand-me-downs, pursed her lips.

  “What is this colour, Florence?” she asked.

  “Pigeon breast blue,” she replied.

  “Pigeon breast blue?” Great-Aunt Cloris looked doubtful. “Then it has greatly faded.”

  “Faded? Nonsense. It resembles the underside of a flower.”

  “More like the underside of a stale loaf!”

  Eugenia, standing before her great-aunt’s pier glass, took a grim satisfaction in this exchange.

  The dress was indeed the colour of a stale loaf, grey and unflattering. Not only that, it was almost perversely out of fashion.

  She suppressed a sudden giggle. What did she care? She had no wish to impress the Marquis of Buckbury or anyone else at Lady Granton’s soirée.

  She knew her appearance would invite ridicule and convinced herself that she would not mind. Anything rather than serve her mother’s purpose.

  Mrs. Dovedale, who would have thought her daughter was perfection in a workhouse shift or a cook’s apron, was meanwhile unperturbed by Great-Aunt Cloris’s remarks.

  “All it needs is a touch of something – ” she regarded Great-Aunt Cloris slyly. “A pretty shawl, now, would do the trick.”

  Great-Aunt Cloris struggled.

  “She may borrow my Chinese silk,” she said at last, grudgingly.

  Eugenia shook her head. “Oh, great-aunt, I really don’t –”

  “Now don’t be ungrateful, child,” she said quickly. “Take it, before I change my mind.”

  The shawl was a master stroke by Mrs. Dovedale. Its rosy hue softened the harsh effect of the dress. The cobalt flowers with which it was embroidered matched the dark blue iris of Eugenia’s eyes.

  For her mother, Eugenia’s natural charms shone undimmed.

  Nevertheless, when she and Eugenia entered Lady Granton’s drawing room in Cavendish Square, the sharp intake of collective breath was not immediately one of admiration.

  “Come on, Eugenia,” said Mrs. Dovedale, “don’t hang back.”

  Eugenia advanced into the room, head high. Her grace was unmistakable. So too, in the amber light from the lamps, was the soft lustre of her skin. Her hair was a crown of gold and her eyes glimmered like sapphires. The dowdy, old-fashioned dress served only to heighten her timeless beauty.

  The gentlemen present surged forward, agog, to introduce themselves to the new arrival.

  At the far end of the room, double doors led into Lord Granton’s library. Lord and Lady Granton now emerged through these doors. With them walked a tall gentlemen of unmistakably aristocratic mien. His forehead was high, his grey eyes keen and intelligent. His dark brows almost met over a fine, chiselled nose. If there was one fault about his features, it was that they suggested a certain severity of character. Otherwise he was the epitome of a handsome, distinguished gentleman of the world.

  His gaze roved over the assembled company of young ladies. Not one of them pleased his eye. The ladies, however, once aware of his presence, fluttered their lashes and fans wildly in his direction.

  Eugenia was invisible amidst her own throng of admirers.

  “There appears to be an incident of sorts over by the door,” remarked Lord Granton. He chuckled. “Daresay Miss Dovedale is in the middle of that scrum.”

  The tall gentleman raised an eyebrow. “Dovedale?”

 
“A spirited young lass,” added Lord Granton.

  The gentleman turned his head towards the door. “Dovedale?” he repeated.

  Lady Granton seized on his interest. “Would you care to be introduced?”

  The gentleman inclined his head. “Very much,” he replied.

  The young men around Eugenia fell away as Lady Granton and the Marquis approached.

  “Lady Granton – how d’you do – most kind – excellent sherry, Lady Granton – ” they chorused.

  Hearing Lady Granton’s name, Mrs. Dovedale turned from rearranging the shawl about Eugenia’s shoulders. When she saw the distinguished gentleman who accompanied her friend, she gave a screech.

  “The Marquis! It is the Marquis.”

  Eugenia, half hidden behind her mother, froze.

  “The Marquis!” cried Mrs. Dovedale again. “Oh, what a very great pleasure it is to see you again.”

  The Marquis of Buckbury – for this was indeed the identity of the gentleman – bent his head graciously.

  “Mrs. Dovedale, I suspected it might be you.”

  “Oh, it is I, indeed it is I,” preened Mrs. Dovedale as she dropped a belated curtsy. “And much changed you will find me, I am sure. I have been blown all about by the storms of fortune and pinioned most unhappily on the rocks of circumstance.”

  “Indeed,” intoned the Marquis gravely.

  “There remains one treasure, however, that the cruel hand of fate has not snatched from me,” continued her mother. “One treasure that brightens my day and gives me hope for the future. My daughter here. Eugenia.”

  She stepped aside and motioned towards Eugenia. The Marquis looked politely on. Eugenia’s head was bent so low that all he could see of her was a coil of golden hair.

  Mrs. Dovedale gave a little laugh. “The dear creature is so shy! Eugenia!”

  Without looking up, Eugenia sank in an obedient but exaggerated curtsy to the floor. There she remained, her skirts rising about her like a grey flood.

  “Miss Dovedale,” said the Marquis, extending his hand.

  Eugenia placed her hand reluctantly in that of the Marquis. As he drew her to her feet she was forced at last to meet his gaze.

  The Marquis started as if struck.

  “A treasure indeed,” he murmured.

  Lady Granton and Mrs. Dovedale nodded in satisfaction.

  Still the Marquis stared. Eugenia felt her cheeks begin to burn under his intense scrutiny.

  “She is my pride and joy,” gushed Mrs. Dovedale. “No one could have a better daughter. So considerate, so loving, so devoted.”

  “And spirited, I hear,” said the Marquis softly, his eyes still on Eugenia.

  Mrs. Dovedale looked instantly alarmed. “Spirited? Nonsense! Where did you hear that? She is as tame as a canary. She wouldn’t say boo to a goose.”

  Eugenia’s eyes flashed for a second. “Mama! Please!”

  “What, daughter? What have I said? Only the truth! The Marquis knows how to take me. I always spoke the truth.” Mrs. Dovedale looked craftily at the Marquis. “I daresay your own wife is a woman of no spirit, too, and the Lord be thanked for it.”

  The Marquis frowned. “My own wife – ?”

  “You married, did you not? I seem to remember a Countess?”

  A shadow crossed the Marquis’s brow. “No,” he said shortly. “I married no one.”

  Mrs. Dovedale trembled with the effort of concealing her excitement. “A bachelor. Well, well, well.”

  Lady Granton, aware at last of Eugenia’s growing discomfort, felt it necessary to intervene.

  “I am sure, my Lord, you are ready for some refreshment,” she said. “There is a buffet laid out in the dining room.”

  “Eugenia should partake as well,” cried Mrs. Dovedale. “She eats like a bird.”

  The Marquis held out his arm to Eugenia.

  “Permit me,” he offered.

  Eugenia hesitated but, at a discreet prod from her mother, took the Marquis’s arm.

  Eugenia was determined to maintain an air of disinterest but, on entering the dining room, her eyes widened at the sight of the groaning table. There were small tartlets of chicken and mushroom and anchovy. Whole hams and suckling pigs with apples in their mouths. Pyramids of glacé fruits and silver bowls of syllabub.

  She had never seen such a delightful display.

  Mrs. Dovedale, moving up behind them, exclaimed in delight.

  The Marquis, meanwhile, observed Eugenia with interest. “You often attend these soirées given by Lady Granton?”

  “No. I – we – just come to tea. We sit around the silver urn and eat muffins.”

  Eugenia began to fill her plate. Eager to taste all the delicacies that were usually denied her, her hand flew hither and thither over the table.

  The Marquis watched with amusement.

  Mrs. Dovedale grew uneasy. “Ah – something has stirred her appetite tonight. Most curious.”

  Soon the titbits on Eugenia’s plate threatened to topple.

  “Eugenia, dear, I do think that is enough,” urged her mother anxiously. “I am sure you do not wish the Marquis to think you are – that you have suddenly developed – inordinate tastes – “

  “But Mama – there are so many delicious things here!”

  Eugenia took a hearty bite of anchovy tart.

  Horrified, Mrs. Dovedale plucked at the Marquis’s arm, anxious to distract him from what she considered to be a most indecorous sight.

  “I am sure we are – ahem – all happy to welcome the Marquis back to England,” she said.

  The Marquis bowed. “I am happy to return, now that my duties in Europe are at an end.”

  “Duties?” repeated Mrs. Dovedale blankly.

  “My cousin and his wife in France were killed and I was made guardian of their children. I intended to bring them back to live at Buckbury, but it was soon apparent that to wrench them from the home they knew and loved would be cruel. So I remained in France to oversee their education. Now they are young adults and – it is time for me to come home.”

  “By that you mean Buckbury?” Mrs. Dovedale probed.

  “I do. Of course, I have the London house, in Lansdowne Square. But it is Buckbury that is my real home.”

  Mrs. Dovedale clasped her hands together. “Ah, and what an Eden Buckbury Abbey was for us. You have no idea.”

  The Marquis frowned. “I knew that Mr. Dovedale enjoyed the life there. That is why I was so surprised that he chose to leave.”

  Mrs. Dovedale coughed. “It was different – after you departed. And my husband felt he needed – to rise in the world.”

  “I see.” The Marquis’s eyes strayed back to Eugenia.

  Mrs. Dovedale nearly fainted as she saw Eugenia about to place a very large glacé fruit in her mouth.

  “You are neglecting the Marquis, who was so kind as to escort you in to supper,” chided Mrs. Dovedale.

  “I am sorry, Mama.”

  Mrs. Dovedale turned back to the Marquis.

  “As I was saying, Marquis, Buckbury Abbey was like a paradise to us. I remember all the wonderful parties that you gave. We so enjoyed watching the fine ladies and gentlemen arrive in their carriages. And oh, how the house was lit up at Christmas! You remember that, don’t you, Eugenia?”

  “Yes, Mama.”

  “The last Christmas that you were in residence, Marquis, was the first party that Eugenia attended.”

  “I remember,” said the Marquis. The look that he now cast on Eugenia was unmistakably tender. “I came upon her in the minstrel’s gallery. She was attempting to touch the star at the top of the Christmas tree.”

  Mrs. Dovedale clapped her hands, delighted at the turn in the conversation. “That would be Eugenia. Such a droll creature she was!”

  Eugenia felt her cheeks begin to flush again.

  “And do you remember, Marquis, what she said to you?”

  Eugenia’s flush deepened. ‘Please, Mama, no!’ she prayed silently but her prayers we
nt unheeded.

  “Mr. Marquis, I will marry you and no one else in the whole world!” cried Mrs Dovedale. “That is what she said. And you replied ‘in that case, I shall be sure to wait until you are grown-up’.”

  “I remember,” rejoined the Marquis gravely.

  Eugenia’s lips trembled as she spoke,

  “But all that, sir, was when I was much, much younger. As,” she added in a lower voice, “were you.”

  There was a shocked silence before the Marquis gave a curt bow.

  “Madam – Miss Dovedale,” was all he said, before turning and making his way out of the dining room.

  For a moment, Eugenia felt a fleeting sense of shame.

  This was quickly dispelled as Mrs. Dovedale gave a low moan and staggered to a chair.

  “What have you done, Eugenia? It was all going so well. You have destroyed all my hopes. A bachelor! So wealthy! And he was interested in you. Oh, what have you done? Why do you always sabotage me?”

  As her mother swayed and clutched her bosom in despair, Eugenia’s shame fled. All she felt, staring at her mother, was a sense of grim triumph.

  Once again she had managed to thwart yet another of her odious plans!

  CHAPTER TWO

  For days after the soirée, Mrs. Dovedale kept to her bed. She rang her bell frequently for attention but Eugenia knew better than to answer. Instead she would open the parlour door and watch Bridget toil up the stairs with warming pans, broth, toast and hot water with lemon. Bridget would shoot accusatory looks at Eugenia. All this extra work, just because Miss could not bring herself to be civil to a Marquis. A Marquis, mind you!

  Her father had always said, “whatever you do in life, follow your heart and you cannot go wrong.” Her mother wanted her to behave as if she had no heart!

  She had taken Great-Aunt Cloris her tea at three o’clock. There remained nothing more for her to do until supper, when her great-aunt would deign to descend to join Eugenia for mutton stew or cold ham.

  Eugenia had been surprised at Great-Aunt Cloris’s reaction to the story of herself and the Marquis, as related by her mother.

  “The child has sense, Florence. Her father was a High Steward and her mother’s family were in trade. Marquises are quite out of her league.”