the hall, where a yawning servant was quenching the candles, they discovered the party had disbanded. George and his wife and family were being accommodated in the house and Bess and Katherine had also retired. Only Harry Latimar waited courteously in his hall to bid them goodnight.
Hal embraced him. “Go to your bed, Father, you look exhausted.”
“It is the excitement of having so many family members all in my home at once,” Harry said. “Some of whom,” he added with characteristic irony, “are seldom to be coerced back.”
Hal smiled. Only his father could issue a rebuke with such grace.
“Will you show the Lady Rachel where she is quartered?” Harry said as he turned to walk slowly up the stairs.
“I will.” Hal and Rachel watched him climb the stairs, then looked at each other. Used to court hours, Hal thought he could not sleep so early. He might as well spin out the time in the company of this odd girl. “Shall we go into the parlour and take a last glass of wine?” he asked. Rachel felt she had no choice but to accept. Why, she wondered, was she plagued with this feeling of inferiority? It was…humiliating.
The lights had been doused in the main hall, but the parlour still showed a flickering yellow glow from the heaped fire and a wash of moonlight pouring in through the open window. Rachel walked towards this light, wishing she could go to bed, and despairing with herself because she did not have the confidence to say so. She seated herself on the window seat. Hal opened one of the oak cupboards and took out a flask. He extracted the wooden stopper and poured a portion of the contents into two glasses.
“My mother’s blackberry cordial,” he said, turning with the glasses in his hands. “Reputed to be the best in four counties.” He had always loved this potent brew—or perhaps he loved the memories it evoked of endless hot Maiden Court summers, with their bounty of fruitfulness at the end, and the memory of himself, a small boy accompanying his beloved mother as she gathered the sweet-smelling berries under a hazy burning English sun. They had been such happy days, he thought now, he so intent on eating that which she wished to confine in her basket. He had often defied her, he recalled, with aggressive stance and stained mouth, but had never received a word of rebuke. Instead, Bess had laughed at his infant fury and cuddled him close, calling him her little wild man.
As Hal crossed the floor of the parlour to give Rachel her glass, he found himself wanting to relive those times—to tell her of them. It was a foolish notion, he decided, for his mother had been soft and gentle and this young woman was stern-faced and hardy. She had had, he guessed, a difficult youth, and such people were incalculable. He did not sit beside her, but stood staring out at the moon-silvered gardens. “So,” he said, when the silence between them had lengthened, “your grandmother knew my father once?”
“She often spoke of him,” Rachel said softly.
“My father used to have quite a reputation with women. Were they in love, do you think?” His voice, light and dismissive, annoyed her. She lifted her eyes to the portrait on the wall facing her. In love? What an understatement! At least, on her grandmother’s part.
Hal ceased looking out at the shadowed gardens and watched her face. “Well,” he continued, with an amused smile, “if it was a grand affaire, please don’t tell my mother.”
“Why should I? Anyway…it was a long time ago. Over and forgotten.” She had noted the smile and was instantly defensive in a way which hurt her to acknowledge.
“Nothing is ever over—or forgotten—with wives, or so I have heard,” Hal replied wryly. He finished his drink and went to the cupboard to replenish his glass. “What happened with them, I wonder?”
“Oh…my lord Earl preferred your mother, I believe.”
Hal came back to her, frowning. “So. My mother knew your grandmother, too? When did all this happen? Surely not after my parents were wed?”
“I believe so.” Why had she begun this? Rachel wondered. Only because she had desired his full attention after his disparaging treatment of her in the stable and later in this hushed room. Well, she had his full attention now: his blue eyes were fixed accusingly on her face. Yet, it was truly so long ago. But, surely, strong emotions must have a life of their own and continue to exist long after those who felt them were consigned to the cold grave, or sterile old age? Madrilene de Santos’s passion for Harry Latimar, so often expressed, even when she should have been past all physical longing, had been so vital—its very substance and force was tangible even in this quiet room, in this quiet house, where she had never visited. “I loved him so!” she had so often, and so fervently, declared, “and he would have loved me, too, if that coldhearted woman had been prepared to let him go.”
Bess Latimar had been that coldhearted woman, Rachel thought. Bess, who had most warmly welcomed her rival’s granddaughter to her home, Rachel also thought guiltily: and it is her son who stands before me now, defensive for his mother. Perhaps he would always associate her with something which had happened a lifetime ago, and judge Rachel Monterey as he must judge Madrilene. He had mentioned his father’s reputation—but we are two different people, Rachel and Hal, and should meet as distinct personalities. Even so, seeing the cynical smile playing over his mouth, she thought, if he has family to defend, so have I! She said indignantly, “It was not like that!”
“Like what?” Hal was startled once again by her sudden change from resigned composure to vivid attack.
Rachel got up. She crossed the room with her graceful step and stood before the portrait. Harry Latimar’s likeness looked disinterestedly out of the faded canvas. “I know what you are thinking,” she said. “But it was not like that. My grandmother was not one of your father’s…light o’ loves. She was a lady of the first water.”
That curious dignity, thought Hal, looking at her straight back and delicate, yet strong, shoulders. It is so hard to define, but I recognise it. My mother has it, and all my family. But it is more a part of this girl than them, for it has been hard won, and hard to maintain for her…And that expression in her eyes! As if she had just now seen the biggest threat to something dear to her. He reached behind him and closed the window with a sharp thud. “Well, as you say, it was all a long time ago. Now, you must be tired. If you have finished your drink, you will wish to seek your bed. I will show you where.”
Rachel swallowed. Why was she continually making herself appear foolish before this man? It seemed a long time since anyone had been able to provoke her so. She watched him select and light a candle, trying to decide why he antagonised her.
He came to the door and stood back so she could pass through before him, giving her his negligently charming smile as he did so. At the door of her room, he opened it, placed the candlestick on a table just inside and bade her a courteous good night.
Surprisingly she fell asleep as soon as her head touched the well-stuffed pillow.
In the early morning she awoke and lay for a few moments wondering where she was. Her room at Maiden Court was small, but well appointed; lowceilinged over a very comfortable bed, richly curtained as was the glazed window. A luxuriously thick rug covered almost all the floor space. Rachel sat up, noticing the polished chests, the shallow bowls of dried herbs and flower petals thereon, the way the sunlight streaming in picked out the delicate embroidery of the wall hangings. A beautiful and tasteful room, she thought with satisfaction, arranged exactly as she herself would have done.
This chamber had one door to the passage and another to a larger apartment which had been given to Katherine. It was too early yet, Rachel judged, for Katherine to begin to call for
