Chapter Six
At some point of her own choosing, she had always meant to tell Lord Braithwaite what she had done. However, it had been no part of her plan to be discovered handing the booty over to her father during her first afternoon at the castle.
She had no idea how much he had heard or understood of their conversation, but dismay at the first sound of his voice had overwhelmed her. She had never expected him to intervene on her behalf, to stand up to Jerry’s considerable bulk. And viciousness. She had seen him fight. But Braithwaite didn’t even look nervous. She wanted the ground to open and swallow her.
His eyes veiled, he gazed down at her.
She swallowed. “I’ll get them back for you.”
“I’d rather they were off my land.”
“I mean the candlesticks,” she said, painfully. “Not my family.”
“I’ve never seen them before. I’m unlikely to miss them. What are you up to, Dawn?”
Since she could not bear his scrutiny, she swung away from him and began to stride back along the path to the castle. She assumed he would follow and catch up with her, and then she could try and explain. But after a few moments, she realized she was alone.
Glancing back, she glimpsed his elegant figure vanishing back into the wood, and a lump rose to her throat. She hated to have disappointed him, let him down to such a degree. And yet he’d still defended her. She stopped and leaned against the nearest tree. Should she go after him and try to explain at once? Give him a while to calm down first? Or should she just leave and let him forget the ungrateful gypsy brat he’d tried to help and who had robbed him anyway?
She wanted to weep.
Abruptly, the nearing clop of horses’ hooves on the path penetrated her misery. She jerked up her head.
Lord Braithwaite was leading his horse along the path toward her. He’d merely gone to fetch the animal.
With a laugh that was half sob, she ran back to meet him. “I thought you were too angry to speak to me!”
“I’m not angry.”
“I wish you were. I could deal with that better. I’m sorry, my lord. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I want to explain.”
“You don’t need to. I think I understand.”
“No, you don’t,” she said forlornly.
Unexpectedly, he took her hand and squeezed it. A jolt like lightning shot up her arm, for she had forgotten Lady Serena’s wretched gloves. He said, “Then you didn’t take the candlesticks to fulfill some kind of promise and thus get them away from here?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “I might have.”
“And you refused to go with them, in revenge for their abandoning you to me last night.”
She dashed her hand across her eyes. “You must think me an utter—”
“No. I just see your difficulty.” He came to a halt and turned to her, still holding her hand. Around the next bend they would be in sight of the castle. It was almost dark now, disguising his expression. He caressed her hand with his thumb distractedly, as if he didn’t realize what he did. “You can go back to them now,” he said gently. “You’ve made your point, and I’d never keep you against your will, let alone because I gave your father money.”
“I know,” she whispered.
“You don’t believe in the slightest that you are Eleanor Gardyn, do you?”
She shook her head.
“Then why did you want to do this?”
She swallowed and blurted out the truth. “I wanted to be near you.”
“Why?” he asked in genuine surprise.
Laughter caught in her throat. “That is why,” she said. “Because you are like no other man I have ever met, and I hope one day you will notice me as more than the gypsy girl who read your fortune and happens to bear a resemblance to your enemy.”
He was silent for so long that from sheer embarrassment, she tried to move on, but he held her back.
“I am…touched,” he said gently. “And I would be a liar if I said I was immune to you. God knows I am not. But I will never do anything about it, not while you are under my protection. I can’t take advantage.”
“Why not? I have taken advantage of you.”
“The candlesticks?” he said with a shrug. Dropping her hand, he began to walk on. “Look on them as a christening gift for your sister’s child. They are hardly to be compared with the gift of yourself.”
“I’m surprised a nobleman would regard that as much of a gift,” she retorted. “From a gypsy at least.”
“I suspect it depends on the nobleman. In any case, I don’t believe you are a gypsy by birth. I believe you are Eleanor Gardyn.”
“But you’ve found nothing to prove that, have you?”
“No, but I heard what your father said. Your mother, Ezra’s wife, didn’t die giving birth to you. I heard you talking.”
She shrugged philosophically. “It was a lie they told me when I was little. Even though I remember her. My father told me she’d never recovered from my birth and that was why she had died.”
“People say all sorts of things in grief,” he said.
She frowned. “Why are you still being kind to me after what I’ve done? Don’t you know you can’t trust me?”
He ignored it. “So, you weren’t born to the woman you called your mother. Do you remember a life before that? Another mother, a nurse?”
She drew in her breath. “I don’t know what is real,” she said. “I see things. Other people’s lives, like dreams. That is my gypsy gift. You see, whoever my birth parents were, I have always been a gypsy. You heard my father? He took me from another Romany.”
“I heard him,” Lord Braithwaite said. He met her gaze. “Honestly, did you feel no familiarity, no memory, in Haven Hall?”
She shook her head.
“Do you remember your other Romany father?” he asked suddenly. “The one who gave you to Ezra?”
She shook her head. “No. I don’t remember him either.”
“Do you know his name?”
She thought about it. “Abe. Ezra called him Abe.”
“What else do you know about him.”
“He traded horses.”
“The horse fair at Appleby,” he remembered. “Did you meet him there again? Or anywhere else for that matter?”
“No,” she said, a little sadly. “And Ezra wouldn’t talk about him. He grew more possessive as we grew up, stopped making fun of me.”
“Why would he make fun of you?” Braithwaite asked in clear surprise.
“For my fair skin and hair. I wish he had met your sister, who says my skin is not fair enough!”
“She didn’t mean it unkindly.”
She sighed. “I know. There seems to be a lot more to this lady business than just living in a castle with lots of servants and wearing fine gowns. How on earth am I supposed to talk like you?”
“Practice,” he said with a sudden grin. “Mimicry. Have fun with it. The girls will help, if I know them.”
“They think it’s more fun that I’m a gypsy.”
“Of course, they do.”
They were emerging from the woods now, walking down toward the castle stables. Dawn hadn’t expected to return to the castle feeling quite so carefree. Even with the prospect of being scrubbed in the bath before a formal dinner.
They parted on the path to a side door, from where he gave her instructions how to reach her own bedchamber.
“Dawn?” he called after her.
She glanced back over her shoulder.
“We understand each other? If you want anything, for any reason, ask me. Don’t steal from me.”
Shame surged up from her toes. What she had done wasn’t nothing. He might not care about the candlesticks themselves. But she had disappointed him, hurt him. Unable to speak, she shook her head and fled inside the castle.
Resolved to accept her scrubbing and anointing as punishment for her crimes, Dawn found the experience unexpectedly pleasant. She even tolerated the lemon juice tightening the skin on her face. After her bath, and having been smeared with more oils, she was given a chemise of Serena’s and introduced to the instrument of torture called stays.
“You don’t need them laced at all tightly,” Serena told her reassuringly as Clarry did her worst. “You have an excellent figure. But fashionable gowns really need stays to look their best.”
“I didn’t need them for the other gown,” Dawn protested.
“What, Caroline’s grey? There is nothing in the world one could do with that dress to make it look anything other than dull. It might make you look respectable, but trust me, it suits you even less than it did Caroline. This,” she added as Clarry dropped the petticoat over her head, “will be much more the thing.”
Reminding herself again of her crimes, Dawn submitted to everything, even to having her hair combed out, brushed until her scalp ached, and then rolled and scraped into several different styles until Serena exclaimed, “That is the one!”
She came forward, to stand a little to the side and just behind Dawn until Dawn felt compelled to actually look at herself in the tall glass. Her hair had been pinned high up on her head, but in an artfully disordered way that allowed a lock or two to fall down and frame her face. Somehow, it made her look both sophisticated and mischievous. Elegance was lent by Serena’s lilac gown which flowed gracefully from beneath her breasts to her borrowed shoes.
“It’s like looking at someone else,” Dawn said, awed.
“Think that,” Serena urged. “Just at first, it will help you cope if you imagine you’re playing a part. That’s what I did when I first came out, until I found my feet, and could be myself without disgracing my family.”
This was such a novel way of looking at Lady Serena that Dawn found herself adjusting several of her ideas.
“But you needn’t worry about tonight,” Serena added hastily. “It will just be the family, and the girls will join us, too, since we have no guests to be appalled by their liveliness.”
“Will your…will Lord Braithwaite be at dinner?”
“Oh yes. And Tamar. It will be quite cozy.”
Dawn suspected that Lady Serena’s definition of cozy differed substantially from her own. She felt far more nervous walking by Serena’s side downstairs to the long gallery and the “small” drawing room, than she had sailing out of the castle with the stolen candlesticks.
“Relax,” Serena murmured. “Your shoulders are practically up at your ears.”
Deliberately, Dawn forced her shoulders down and kept them there, but she didn’t feel remotely relaxed. She had gathered that the family would meet in the drawing room before going in to dinner in the dining room. Her hope was to be already seated in the drawing room before everyone else arrived, but even that small comfort was denied her.
Her heart sank when she heard the girls’ laughter inside. Her fingers plucked at the fine fabric of her gown until Serena caught her hand.
“No one is judging you,” she whispered.
But as they walked into the room, Dawn knew that they were judging. It wouldn’t have mattered if she had been on her own territory, or even in her own clothes, for this was their world she had the temerity to infiltrate. Scrubbed and combed and squeezed into stays and a borrowed, no doubt hideously expensive gown, she no longer felt like herself. She was utterly vulnerable.
And of course, the conversation and laughter all halted as she entered. The two gentlemen stood by the fireplace in black evening dress. Lord Braithwaite’s elbow slid off the mantlepiece. The girls jumped up from the sofa, and for one agonizing moment, everyone stared at Dawn.
She didn’t want to look at Lord Braithwaite, but he was all she could see. And after the first stunned instant, he swept all expression from his face. She had never seen him do that before.
“You hate it,” she blurted. “I look like a sow in silk.”
Laughter leapt into his face. The young girls ran to her, repeating “sow in silk!” and giggling with delight while they assured her fervently that she looked beautiful.
Braithwaite strolled through the throng, his eyes catching and holding her gaze. Since she no longer seemed able to move, he took her hand and bowed over it gracefully. “Cousin,” he greeted her.
She regarded him doubtfully. “Do I call you Cousin, too? Or my lord?”
“Whichever you like. Cousin is less formal. Tamar, a glass of ratafia, perhaps, for our cousin.”
He laid her hand on his sleeve and conducted her to a sofa where she sat down, still somewhat bewildered.
“I assure you, you look delightful,” Lord Braithwaite murmured, taking the place beside her. “It was the transformation from beautiful gypsy to beautiful lady of the ton that made me stare. Which was gauche and ungentlemanly and I trust I am forgiven.”
“Will people really talk to me like that?”
Braithwaite’s lips twitched. “I hope they won’t use those precise words. For my part, I thought it a handsome apology wrapped up in perfectly genuine reassurance.”
Tamar presented her with a glass, for which she thanked him.
“You will turn heads,” Braithwaite said bluntly, “So you had better get used to it. Let me begin by presenting you to Lord Tamar.”
Dawn frowned. “I know who he is. We met last night. And this afternoon.”
“We’re pretending,” Braithwaite said gravely. “So you become used to responding to introductions.”
“Miss Conway,” Tamar said, bowing.
“Do I give you my hand?”
“Probably not on first introduction. When you meet me again, you can if you wish.”
“Is Tamar giving you lessons in social etiquette?” Serena asked, clearly amused as she joined them.
“Yes, and he’s doing surprisingly well,” Braithwaite said. “You should know, Cousin, that Tamar’s manners are somewhat…relaxed, due to no one ever teaching him, and not going out in society until a few months ago.”
“Why not?” Dawn asked.
“It’s a long story,” Serena said. “But the point is, his rank assures his acceptance. In Blackhaven, the Conway name will protect you from some censure, but it only goes so far.”
“I’m prepared to learn,” Dawn assured them.
“Then say, ‘Good evening, sir’ to Tamar,” Braithwaite instructed.
Dawn did so, with such perfect mimicry of Braithwaite’s voice and manner that he scowled in mock displeasure and his sisters went off into peals of laughter.
“More feminine?” Dawn suggested innocently.
“And perhaps fashionably languid?” Serena suggested.
Dawn drooped against the back of the sofa and offered one hand as though her arm were too heavy to lift. But she said her “Good evening” in such perfect accents that she won approval along with the grins of amusement.
It was a pattern of the evening. Once she had discovered the situation was not so deadly serious, she enjoyed making the family laugh while she learned the mysteries of cutlery and polite table manners and strove to imitate her companions’ accents without exaggeration or mockery.
The style and quantity of the meal staggered her, though the children informed her that at formal dinner parties, there were a lot more courses.
“How do you manage to eat it all?” Dawn asked.
“We don’t,” Alice said. “We’re not allowed to attend those. Yet.”
“You just take a little from each,” Serena explained. “It’s fashionable for a lady to eat like a bird rather than a lion.”
“Am I too enthusiastic?” Dawn enquired. “Truly, the food is delicious.”
“I’ll tell the cook you said so,” Serena said gravely. “And I would say you are…appreciative. Which is pleasant for your hostess. Though with time you should aim to look not quite so avid, perhaps.”
The jellies and pastries were so delicious that Dawn ate more than she was entirely comfortable with. She was quite happy to rise when Serena urged her, and to follow her from the room. Disappointingly, the gentlemen remained in the dining room with decanters of port and brandy between them.
The girls joined them in the drawing room and took turns at the pianoforte, showing off the skills they had learned, apparently from Mrs. Benedict.
“She used to be our governess,” Maria explained. “Then, after she married Colonel Benedict, we went up to Haven Hall for lessons. And then there was Mrs. Elphinstone—”
“Who was a French, spy,” Helen interjected with eagerness. “Can you believe that?”
“She wasn’t,” Serena protested. “Exactly. She was just…forced into certain things by her previous employer.”
“Well, it’s as well Anna found her out,” Alice said darkly.
“You have quite an exciting life, don’t you?” Dawn observed, impressed. “I always thought it would be dull to be a young lady, however comfortable.”
“Sometimes it’s dull,” Helen allowed. She grinned. “And then something or someone turns up and makes it exciting again. Are you really coming to lessons with us tomorrow?”
“I believe so,” Dawn said uncomfortably. They had already agreed with Mrs. Benedict that it would be the best way for her to learn etiquette and deportment and even an accomplishment or two, if time allowed.
“Do you play the pianoforte?” Alice asked. “Or the harp, perhaps?”
“The guitar a little,” Dawn said. “But not as you would.”
“All the same, we should build upon that,” Serena proclaimed, as the gentlemen strolled into the room. “Ring for tea, Maria. Do we have to send to London for a guitar, Gervaise, or can we buy one more locally?”
“Speak to old Mr. Fitch, the piano tuner,” Braithwaite advised. “At the least, he’d be able to buy a good one for us. Why? Are you taking it up?”
“No, but I thought Dawn—our cousin—could. She plays already and it would be something a little different.”
“You don’t need to buy me a guitar,” Dawn said.
“But we want to hear you play,” Alice insisted.
Especially considering how nervously she had begun the evening, Dawn found herself surprisingly comfortable in this company. No one frowned at her jokes or liveliness, and even her lessons in speech were conducted with so much hilarity on both sides that she quickly lost her self-consciousness. When she knelt on the floor to play jackstraws with Helen and Alice, Serena said she shouldn’t do so in formal company, but in the intimacy of the family, no one would complain. To prove this, Lord Braithwaite was easily induced to join in the game.
Comfortable as she was, Dawn couldn’t help her awareness of Lord Braithwaite. Several times, she caught his gaze upon her, not with criticism but with something, surely, of the appreciation she had seen the previous night. Had she truly only met him a day ago? So much seemed to have happened that months could have passed. For here she sat in perfect comfort among the castle family of titled lords and ladies. And she doubted anyone would know that her heart beat faster with excitement because the earl was near and he noticed her.