The House of Happiness Page 6

  She snorted. “What work could a young girl like you possibly do?”

  Eugenia reddened, conscious of the presence of the Marquis.

  “I could be a seamstress. Or governess.”

  Great-Aunt Cloris threw up her hands. “A seamstress! A governess! There has never been such employ in the history of the Dewitt family!”

  Eugenia’s lip trembled. “Begging your pardon, great-aunt, but I am not a Dewitt. I am a Dovedale.”

  The Marquis noted this display of spirit with interest.

  “A Dovedale, ay, more’s the pity!” asserted Great-Aunt Cloris sourly. “My niece Florence could have married a Dewitt cousin. She would not have found herself in such penury if she had. The Dewitts knew about money. Earn it, save it. That was their motto and it served them well.”

  The Marquis gave a cough. “If your niece had married her cousin, madam,” he smiled, “the union might not have resulted in such a such a beautiful and devoted young lady as Miss Dovedale.”

  Great-Aunt Cloris shrugged. Then, though she struggled against it, the glare in her eye softened.

  “I daresay. Yes. Eugenia is a good girl and a pretty girl. A ray of sunshine in my old age.”

  The following moment of delicate silence was punctured only by the arrival of Bridget. She plunged breathlessly through the door without a tray of tea.

  “The doctor – is on his way, ma’am,” she stuttered.

  The doctor was still rolling his sleeves down as he entered the room.

  Great-Aunt Cloris stood and steadied herself on the arm of her chair.

  “Well?” she asked.

  Doctor Parfitt tightened the button on his left cuff.

  “She is conscious, madam.”

  “Thank God! And is she – compos mentis? She fell headfirst into the roadway, you know! I had feared a broken skull.”

  “There is no sign of serious head injury. However, she is in shock and some degree of pain. She has sustained a broken leg and a fractured wrist.”

  Eugenia’s hands flew to her mouth. “Oh! Poor Mama! Can I see her?”

  The doctor considered and then gave a nod. “I am sure it will hearten her to see you. But I must insist on accompanying you. She is still very weak.”

  “I must come too!” insisted Great-Aunt Cloris.

  The doctor turned to stay her – unwilling as he was to see his patient crowded, but Great-Aunt Cloris brushed him imperiously aside.

  “Marquis! You should come too,” she called over her shoulder.

  The Marquis drew back. “I hardly think – ” he began, but Great-Aunt Cloris cut him short.

  “Mrs. Dovedale will be delighted to know that you have taken an interest in her recovery. She will wish to thank you herself.”

  Thus it was that the Marquis followed Great-Aunt Cloris, the doctor and Eugenia up the stairs to see Mrs. Dovedale.

  Mrs. Dovedale lay propped up on pillows. Eugenia almost wept to see how pale and weak she looked.

  Her eyelids fluttered open. “Is that you, daughter?”

  “Yes, Mama. Great-Aunt Cloris is here too. And – and the Marquis.”

  “The Marquis!” Mrs. Dovedale’s other hand flew to her face. “But my hair is loose and – the powder is gone from my cheeks.”

  Great-Aunt Cloris peered round the curtains. “I am glad to see that you are in one piece, Florence. You will be up and about in no time.”

  Mrs. Dovedale’s eyelids fluttered in distress. “Up and about!” she moaned. “I can barely move. I haven’t an ounce of strength in my bones.”

  “Dear, dear,” said Great-Aunt Cloris, looking most perturbed. “How long do you expect to remain – prone?”

  The doctor stepped forward. “Mrs. Dovedale is going to need some time to recuperate.”

  “Time?” echoed Great-Aunt Cloris weakly.

  “One cannot be exact,” the doctor began, but she cut him short.

  “Who is to nurse her?” she wailed. “I cannot pay for a nurse, you know.”

  “Why, I shall nurse my mother,” offered Eugenia quickly.

  “Bless you, dear,” murmured Mrs. Dovedale.

  “But who then will look after me?” cried Great-Aunt Cloris, her face growing very red and strained. “Who will act as housekeeper? I cannot afford to hire a temporary house-keeper and provide for the upkeep of an invalid. This was not – in the scheme of things. What am I to do?”

  Doctor Parfitt was regarding her closely and frowned.

  “Mrs. Dewitt, you must calm yourself. Remember your blood pressure.”

  “My blood pressure – yes – there is a kind of mist before my eyes. I need to sit down. If you would be so kind as to escort me downstairs, doctor. I seem to remember Bridget brought in some tea. May I take your arm?”

  “By all means.”

  The door had barely closed behind them when Eugenia, still kneeling at the bedside, burst into tears.

  “Oh, Mama! How could Great-Aunt Cloris be so – so mean spirited!”

  Mrs. Dovedale raised a shaking hand to stroke Eugenia’s head. “There, there,” she coaxed in a feeble voice. “Don’t mind your great-aunt. It’s her age.”

  Eugenia buried her head in her arms.

  “Miss Dovedale.”

  The voice of the Marquis rang from the shadows. Eugenia raised her tear-streaked face, having almost forgotten that the Marquis was present. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand as the Marquis stepped into the lamplight. He reached down and helped Eugenia to her feet.

  “Your mother is quite right,” he said gently. “Mrs. Dewitt is elderly and elderly people can be easily frightened by any rupture in routine. She is afraid of the spectacle of injury, because it reminds her of her own increasing fragility.”

  “She is afraid of the expense, too!” lamented Mrs. Dovedale, clutching the sheet to her chin. “She thinks I will empty her coffers for her. Oh, if only my dear daughter and myself were not so impoverished!”

  “Mama!” murmured Eugenia, mortified, but nothing would silence her once she had started on this particular topic.

  “Lord knows why she is so penny-pinching,” she moaned. “She has plenty of money in the bank, and hundreds of pounds tucked away in old stockings and pillowcases and frayed slippers.” She eyed the Marquis craftily over the top of the sheet. “While we – myself and my poor daughter – live on little more than bread and dripping and a ration of sugar half the time.”

  “Mama!” Eugenia groaned, hiding her face in her hands.

  The Marquis’s lips twitched with amusement. He cleared his throat before speaking.

  “Mrs. Dovedale,” he said, “I have a proposal to make. I should like to put Buckbury Abbey at the disposal of you and your daughter. It is an ideal spot for you to recuperate. My own doctor will attend you. I shall not be there myself – at least not for a while – but my servants will look after you. You shall want for nothing – including bread and dripping should you so choose.”

  Mrs. Dovedale’s eyes lit up. “Buckbury Abbey? Oh, there is nothing I could desire more. This is most kind of you, my Lord. Is it not, Eugenia?”

  Eugenia could only give a faint nod of assent, so seized was she with a tempest of emotions.

  Who knew how long it would take her mother to recover? Weeks, months? Months more likely! Months during which she, Eugenia, would not be able to so much as glimpse Gregor.

  That was obviously to be her penance. It was her passion for Gregor that had caused her to change her mind and accept the invitation to the ball and that had led to the accident! But oh, how the idea of being so far away from the object of her deepest desire pained her. Yet – yet she would not be just anywhere. She would be at Buckbury Abbey.

  But, she reminded herself in her next breath, that is the home of the Marquis, the man whose attentions she was trying to avoid.

  She dreaded to ponder what interpretation her mother must already be making of his latest offer.

  Beneath and beyond all these conflicting and disturbing thou
ghts, a faint excitement stirred.

  This was related not to Buckbury, but to the little house that stood on its vast estate. The place she had loved as a child and that even now she thought of as her real home.

  ‘Paragon’, the Eden she had, eight years ago, so cruelly lost!

  *

  Great-Aunt Cloris was shocked and somewhat ashamed of herself when she learned that the Marquis had offered sanctuary to her niece and great-niece.

  Bridget meanwhile seemed almost cheerful that Mrs. Dovedale and her daughter were going away.

  “You might not be home before Christmas, miss,” she said with a certain glee the following morning, as Eugenia arrived in the kitchen with a basket of darning.

  Eugenia stared.

  Bridget had always been comely but was considered careless of her appearance, her hair pinned up anyhow and the hems of her dresses often down. Recently however she had started to take greater care. She tucked pretty combs or the odd flower in her tangled mass of black curls.

  “Do you have a – a young man these days, Bridget?” Eugenia asked.

  “Not me, miss. Whenever would I find the time?” Bridget giggled, but the faint flush on her neck was unmistakable.

  Eugenia had no time to puzzle over Bridget, however. There was too much to do before she and her mother departed. Dresses and lingerie to be laundered, shoes to be soled and toiletries to be purchased.

  Meanwhile Eugenia resolved to keep out of Gregor’s way. She shut her ears to the sound of his voice and the sound of his tread on the stairs.

  On the very morning of her departure, however, when she heard Gregor whistling on the stairs outside her room, her resolve crumbled. She flung open the door to appear before him.

  He paused, gazing at her bemused.

  “Ah! Treasure! You have been hiding from Gregor. And today you go!” He gestured down at the trunks piled in the hallway below.

  Eugenia nodded numbly. “Yes. Will you – miss me?”

  Gregor shrugged. “When I think of you, I will miss you.”

  Eugenia was downcast. “Oh.”

  With a sudden and inexplicable laugh, Gregor seized her hand and kissed it. “But I will dream of you, my flower. Why not?”

  Then he continued on up the stairs, whistling again.

  Eugenia stared after him resignedly. She had no right to expect more from this artistic and exotic man.

  She returned to her room to finish the preparations for departure.

  *

  The journey to Rutland was difficult and somewhat painful for Mrs. Dovedale, but once ensconced at Buckbury, she was beside herself with delight. She soon decided that the accident had been worth it, since it had resulted in being once again back on the estate where she had spent her happiest years.

  “And this time I am in the big house,” she declared with satisfaction.

  The big house! Never had there been such beds – sheets of fine linen, drapes of velvet, quilts of goose and duck feather. Never had she inhabited such rooms with mahogany wardrobes and deep plush sofas and marble fireplaces.

  “We are in clover here,” Mrs. Dovedale sighed. “Clover!”

  Servants tiptoed about, bringing soups and sweetmeats and tea on silver trays. It was obvious that the Marquis had ordered his household to treat Mrs. Dovedale and Eugenia like Royalty. They wanted for nothing and Mrs. Dovedale’s every whim was granted. Everything she demanded appeared in her room as if by magic.

  Eugenia, in contrast, asked for nothing.

  She could not deny that, after the Spartan conditions at Craven Hill, the luxuries of Buckbury were most seductive. She could not help basking in the comfort and warmth.

  If she was honest, the largesse sometimes made her uneasy. Why was the Marquis proving so kind a friend? Was it simply out of sentimental regard for his late High Steward, Eugenia’s father?

  Most of the time, however, she was not thinking about the Marquis at all. Once her mother came to regard the accident that had befallen her as almost fortuitous, Eugenia felt less guilty about the role her secret passion for Gregor had played in that event. She felt free to dream of her secret love again.

  As the days at Buckbury passed Eugenia was much occupied in tending to her mother. She read to her, wrote letters for her, brushed her hair and ate with her.

  All in all, Eugenia had very little time to herself. This would not have grieved her were it not that for the fact that these duties prevented her doing the one thing that she longed to do. They prevented her from seeking out ‘Paragon’.

  The formal gardens of Buckbury Abbey had been created in the first half of the eighteenth century. There were fountains and pools, avenues of trees and pavilions erected in hidden glades.

  A great, central lawn extended from the South face of the house for over a mile, terminating in a long, serpentine stretch at the end of which stood a pavilion with a domed roof. Beyond this construction – known as the Apollo Pavilion – another lawn ran down to a river. On the other side of the river, the Buckbury estate woods began.

  Eugenia often gazed longingly from her window at these woods.

  Somewhere amidst those oaks and beeches stood ‘Paragon’, but Eugenia never had time to explore. She was only ever able to snatch an hour or so to walk in the afternoon, when her mother took a nap. That was simply not enough time to make the return journey of the mile and a half that constituted the gardens, let alone reach the trees on the far side of the domed pavilion.

  She wondered who was living at ‘Paragon’ now. She wondered what had happened to her pets, Sugar the cat and Bud the pony.

  Mrs. Dovedale and Eugenia had been at Buckbury for nearly a month when one afternoon there was a sudden sense of greater activity than usual about the place.

  Strolling through the South gallery, she became aware that the large double doors leading to the private chambers of the Marquis were, for once, thrown wide open. In the room beyond, servants scurried about whisking white sheets from the furniture, while two maids were busy waxing the floor.

  “What is happening?” Eugenia asked.

  One of the two maids rose and gave a bob, cloth in hand.

  “If you please, miss, the Marquis has sent word that he is at Kettering and will be here shortly.”

  “I had no idea,” said Eugenia, startled.

  “We’re ever so pleased, miss.”

  “You are?”

  “Oh, yes, miss. There never was a better Master. It’s time he came home for good.”

  Eugenia made her way back to her room, musing on what she had learned from the maid. The Marquis was a popular Master, it seemed.

  He arrived at ten o’clock. He did not care to disturb his guests but dined alone and retired by midnight.

  The following morning he sent to request that he might call on Mrs. Dovedale and Eugenia. Mrs. Dovedale demanded Eugenia bring her pots of rouge and face powder to the bed. She urged her daughter to make herself more presentable, but Eugenia replied coldly that she did not consider herself to be on display.

  After the Marquis had made solicitous enquiries of Mrs. Dovedale’s health, he enquired of Eugenia whether she had been able to take advantage of the extensive gardens. Eugenia admitted she had barely begun to explore. She could not go far on foot, she added, as she did not like to leave her mother for too long.

  The Marquis expressed surprise that she had not availed herself of one of the fine horses in the stables and suggested that she ride out with him that very afternoon. Eugenia hesitated, unwilling to commit herself to time alone with the Marquis, but Mrs. Dovedale rushed in to accept on her daughter’s behalf. She had been rather worried that Eugenia was not getting enough fresh air.

  Thus it was that, shortly after noon, Eugenia found herself seated upon a beautiful roan mare and ready to ride out with the Marquis.

  She could not help noticing that everyone – the stable boy who brought the horses round, the footman who accompanied the Marquis and handed him his whip and the maid who was hurrying in
from the herb garden with a bunch of sage – greeted their Master with undisguised affection, while the Marquis greeted all and sundry with great courtesy and respect.

  Eugenia was surprised at how quickly she became re-accustomed to being in the saddle. It was as easy as breathing.

  The Marquis led the way. They rode down the central avenue of gravel that dissected the grass parterres. On the last stretch of lawn before the lake, the horses were set to gallop. She had not felt so happy for weeks.

  The Marquis reined in at the water and Eugenia followed suit. The horses steamed as they lowered their heads to drink.

  The Marquis turned to speak to Eugenia but suddenly halted in his intention.

  She looked bewitching, her eyes aglow, her cheeks flushed, her lips parted as she regained her breath. Her hair tumbled wildly about her shoulders.

  The Marquis forced his gaze away.

  “Is there any place in the vicinity you would care to visit?” he asked.

  Eugenia took a deep breath and then pointed towards the woods.

  “There,” she said. “I should like to find the cottage where I used to live.”

  The Marquis smiled. “I would be rather curious to see it too. Let us go.”

  They set off again. They decided to ford the river, which was luckily still low, rather than use the old wooden bridge further upstream. On the other side of the water the horses scrambled up the bank and entered the woods. Eugenia’s heart began to pound with excitement when they came upon the path that led to the cottage. Eagerly, she urged her horse into the lead.

  A dim, green light prevailed beneath the trees. Boughs grew low, leaves brushed her forehead. She did not remember the path being so overhung or so overgrown.

  She glimpsed white posts, some leaning, some fallen, some rotting. This should have prepared her for what was to come, but it did not. As the trees cleared she plunged joyously ahead and only at the last minute did she rein in her horse with a cry of utter dismay.

  There before her stood ‘Paragon’ or what remained of it.

  The thatch had vanished, exposing the mouldering beams of the roof. Windows gaped, all glass gone. Shutters hung by a nail. The walls were peeled and cracked and in some places barely standing at all.