“I’m to be the duchess and no one wants anything to do with me,” she said under her breath.
She wandered about the center section of the house aimlessly for an hour or so, then thought that if all the people were in the drawing rooms, the east wing had to be more or less vacant, so she decided to go look at it.
For the most part, it was a long hallway of closed doors. There were many portraits on the walls of men and women who must have been Harry’s ancestors, although none of them seemed to have his blond good looks. For the most part they had dark hair and eyes.
At the end of the corridor of the east wing she came to a half-open door. Tentatively, she pushed it open, and saw a delightful room done in blue silk, with a rug of peach and blue on the floor. The light streamed through the windows and fell across—wonder of wonders—books! As though a magnet were pulling her, she went to the shelves and began to read the titles. She pulled down Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley. When she turned, the book in her hand, she gasped, for sitting silently in a chair, looking at her, was the woman she saw at meals, the one who sometimes smiled at her.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know anyone was in here. I’ll leave if I’m disturbing you.”
“No,” the woman said softly, and Claire guessed that she was quite shy. “Please stay.”
Claire took a seat. “This is a lovely room.”
“Yes.”
“Do you come here often?”
“Most of the time.”
Claire realized she wasn’t going to get much conversation out of the woman so she opened her book, but a few times she caught the woman staring at her. Claire guessed the woman to be in her thirties, yet she was dressed as though she were a schoolgirl, in a pink dress all of ruffles. The dress made her look older than she really was, and her hair was hanging down her back, just as Brat’s was, except that Brat was fourteen years old. Mentally, Claire began to re-dress the woman, to pull her hair back, give her pearl earrings and a plain dress of sleek lines that would show off what looked to be an excellent figure.
Claire moved uncomfortably when the woman caught her staring. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m Claire Willoughby and I’m engaged to the duke.”
“Yes, I know. We all know who you are.”
She said it quite kindly, but the words exasperated Claire. “Everyone seems to know all there is to know about me, but I know nothing about anyone else.” She could feel her frustration building. “I’ve tried to introduce myself but the men won’t speak to me and neither will most of the women. My sister knows more about the house than I do and yet the house is to be mine someday. I can’t figure out who anyone is and Harry doesn’t seem to know either. It’s all quite frustrating.”
The woman smiled at that and Claire thought she could be quite pretty with a little work. “I’m Harry’s sister, Leatrice.”
Claire’s shock showed. “His sister? I had no idea he had a sister. Oh, forgive me for not introducing myself. I—”
“It’s all right. It’s easy to overlook someone in this house. I—”
She broke off because at that moment a bell over the door jangled. Immediately, Leatrice’s face lost all its pleasure and warmth. “Excuse me, I must go. Mother wants me.”
Before Claire could even open her mouth, Leatrice was gone from the room. Claire wasn’t sure she should stay in the room she now realized was Leatrice’s private sitting room, but the attraction of the books was too strong to resist. She settled in a comfortable chair, her feet tucked under her, and began to reread Waverley.
At five a gong sounded downstairs and she went down to tea, the men in one room and the women in another. She managed to get a seat next to Leatrice and tried to engage her in conversation.
“Is your mother very ill?” Claire asked.
At Claire’s remark, all conversation stopped and all eyes turned toward Leatrice, whose face turned red. A moment later she picked up her teacup; it clattered against the saucer and, in embarrassment, Leatrice put cup and saucer on the table and fled the room.
Arva looked at her daughter in reproach and Claire wondered what she had done that was so wrong.
After tea Claire went to her bedroom to sit and stare out the window. Brat had said the household was odd, but odd did not begin to describe the place. With longing she thought of her home in New York, where she could walk to the park, where she could visit people and places. She thought of her friends who used to come to her house and how they’d talk together throughout the afternoon. And she thought of her family’s servants, servants who were there to do whatever she asked. Up until she came to Bramley she’d not thought much about food. If she were reading and she wanted something to eat, she merely rang a bell and food would be brought to her.
Now she was in this enormous house, surrounded by people, and for the first time in her life she was lonely.
Miss Rogers chose the dress Claire was to wear to dinner and Claire didn’t protest. Miss Rogers was still sniffing because Claire had worn the off-the-shoulder dress the night before.
Dinner was long and boring and Claire didn’t try to participate in the conversation. She missed Harry and she missed…No, she didn’t miss anyone else. She didn’t miss Trevelyan, who was bad-tempered and contrary and difficult to be around. She thought of Harry and hoped he’d return soon. He’d have the mare he was buying her and her arm would be well by then and they could go riding together. When Harry returned, everything would be all right. And after they were married and she could change the rules of the house, things would improve.
After dinner, instead of going straight to bed, knowing that Miss Rogers would be waiting for her with her usual frowns and complaints, Claire went outside to the gardens. It was cold but she was wearing a wool dress, so she thought that if she walked quickly, she’d keep warm.
It was in the topiary garden, with its hedges trimmed in the shape of animals, that Trevelyan stepped out from behind a bush. She put her hand to her throat for a moment. “Good evening, sir,” she said, then stepped around him and started back toward the house.
“Not speaking to me, are you?”