Page 13 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Phaedra bit her lip. More than anyone else, Gilly should understand why she despised those black gowns. With irritation she realized that Gilly was right. It was wasteful to burn up the gowns. She had seen enough of poverty herself to know better. Before she could reply, however, she was distracted by the sound of Hester hissing like a cat. Her pale eyes spit fire at Gilly.
“You. You, here in this house! If my dear Lord Ewan were still alive, ye would never have dared.”
Gilly gave the woman a mocking grin. “What, Madame Pester? You mean to say you are just now aware of my arrival? Tch. Tch. Your prying little eyes must be wearing dim with age.”
“Don’t bandy words with her, Gilly.” Phaedra stamped her foot. “Mrs. Searle, you will treat my cousin with respect or I swear I shall send you packing.”
But Gilly called out, “Now, Fae, Madame Pester has reason to be shocked by my presence. A gentleman in your private room, an Irishman and a Catholic to boot. Fie! For shame.”
“You are guilty on the last two counts,” Phaedra retorted. “But upon my authority as a spoiled, highborn beauty, let me tell you, sir, that you are no gentleman. Now be off. I am certain you have a rather pressing errand to attend.” She glanced pointedly toward where her manuscript bulged in his waistcoat pocket. “I can pack away these gowns for the almshouse without your interference.”
A smile of approval lit Gilly’s face even.as he swept an exaggerated bow, encompassing both Phaedra and Mrs. Searle. “Oh, yes, your ladyship. Right away, your ladyship. And Madame Pester, charmed as always to be making your acquaintance again.” Still bowing and scraping, Gilly backed out of the room.
When his grinning countenance had disappeared from view, Phaedra turned her attention back to Mrs. Searle. The woman had successfully disguised any rage she felt at Gilly behind her normally morose expression. Her hands folded before her, herstrangely wrought fingers peeked out of her black lace mittens, crooked only at the first joint like the claws of a vulture.
“I regret having disturbed yer ladyship with my error,” she said. “If I am excused, I will be about my work.”
“Oh, yes. I am sure you are just dying to go see my grandfather and tell him all about my having Gilly here. “Phaedra was well aware that Sawyer Weylin despised her Irish cousin nearly as much as her late husband had.
“Nay, I shouldn’t dream of disturbing the master when he’s holding his levee,” Hester said. Although she lowered her lashes, her thin, blue-veined lids did not hood her eyes enough to disguise a glint of malicious anticipation.
“Get along, then. And when Lucy has recovered, send her up here to bundle these gowns. But if I ever catch you striking her or prowling through my room again, I swear I’ll wring your scrawny neck with my own two hands. And not even my grandfather will be able to stop me.”
Her face emotionless, Hester nudged several of the black gowns aside with her toe, uncovering a cloak. Retrieving it from the pile, she prepared to slip out of the room.
Phaedra sharply drew in her breath. “And where do you think you are going with that?”
Hester shrugged, shooting Phaedra a sly glance. “I only thought as ye be now giving these things away, I would have it for myself. Being but a poor housekeeper with no wealthy grandfather to ease my way.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. Give me that.” Phaedra wrenched the cloak from the older woman’s grasp. “You think I’ll let you walk off with this, so I can find it turning up amongst my things again one day? Don’t think for a minute I don’t know that it is you who keeps slipping this back into my wardrobe.”
“Why, ma’am, ye seemed to cherish it so,” Hester purred. “I couldn’t believe ye meant to discard it.”
“Liar!” Phaedra’s fingers tightened on the soft folds. “I will tolerate no more of your tricks, do you hear me? Now get out of here. Go make your report to my grandfather. And keep your sneaking face out of my sight.”
“Yes, my lady,” Hester sneered, her stiff skirts rustling as she glided out of the garret, the door clicking shut behind her.
Phaedra trembled with anger. Meddlesome old witch. She did not doubt for a moment that the housekeeper’s true purpose had been to snoop amongst Phaedra’s most private belongings.
Anxiously, Phaedra hastened toward a small cabinet lodged in one corner of the room. One of the few pieces of furniture she had brought with her from Ireland, the cabinet was fashioned of blackened bog oak, the sides carved with fanciful figures like those found in the Book of Kells. Within its locked drawers resided her notes, first drafts of the pieces she had written under the name of Robin Goodfellow and the copies of the Gazetteer, the newspaper that printed her essays.
Reassuring herself that the cabinet had not been tampered with, she resolved to take even greater precautions in future to keep Hester Searle out of her rooms. She’d endure no more of the woman’s prying and malicious tricks.
Phaedra’s gaze dropped to the garment she yet clutched in her hands. She wanted to fling the cloak from her, but instead she smoothed it out, the cloth exercising the same terrible fascination for her it always had. Fashioned of dove-colored cassimere, it had a folding hood that expanded to frame the wearer’s face in layers of ruffles. Phaedra hugged the cloak close to her body, the inches of fabric falling far short upon her. The garment had been designed for someone daintier than herself.
Her eyes misted over when she recalled the first time she had ever seen the cloak. It had been lying draped over that very same indigo-blue velvet wing chair, nestled so close to the fire screen. Of course, then the wing chair had been new, part of the elegantbedroom furnishings downstairs. The velvet was faded now, but not so her memory. Sinking down upon the daybed’s stiff brocade covering, Phaedra stroked the soft wool of the cloak, her mind drifting back to her wedding day.
She had returned, exhausted from the celebration of the rites in Hanover Square, to the rooms Sawyer Weylin had had prepared for her and Ewan. Exhausted, yes, but happy and full of plans for the future. She had not been pleased to begin her married life under her tyrannical grandfather’s roof, but was sure it would not be long until Ewan whisked her off to his own estate in Yorkshire. Scrambling into her linen shift, she had sent her maid away, then snuggled beneath the coverlets to await Ewan. Her handsome, charming, husband.
Phaedra’s heart had skipped a beat, her youthful body wriggling in anticipation. She was not totally ignorant of what to expect. Although she was still a maiden, Phaedra had learned much from a muscular Irish stableboy, whom she had once fancied. Learned far more than her parents would have wished. It was at that time the decision had been made to find her a husband. Phaedra had giggled as she remembered how forcefully her mother had put the case to Papa.
“By my faith,” Lady Siobhan had snorted, “the girl is overripe, George. Delay much longer, and we shall see her fruit plucked by the wrong hands.”
Strangely, Sawyer Weylin had chosen that time to heal the breach between himself and his son. Although Weylin still had refused to receive his Irish daughter-in-law, he had showed an interest in producing a suitable candidate for his granddaughter’s hand. At first Phaedra had rebelled, wanting nothing to do with the grandfather who so snubbed her beloved mother. But Lady Siobhan herself had insisted that Phaedra accept Weylin’s offer, seeing better prospects for her daughter in England than in Ireland. Phaedra’s own objections had lessenedwhen she saw the portrait of the man Sawyer Weylin had selected. Lord Ewan Grantham was decidedly a fine figure of a man.
The betrothal was delayed for another year by the untimely death of her mother. Most willingly would Phaedra have remained with her father, but George Weylin seemed to have no heart left for anything but his grief. He had bundled Phaedra off to England at the earliest opportunity. Banished to a strange country, her mother gone, her Papa far away at Abbey Lough, Phaedra had received a cold welcome from Sawyer Weylin, who from the outset regarded this half-Irish grandchild critically. But Lord Ewan had turned out to be as handsome as his portrait. Most naturally, Phaedra had transferred the full fire of her passionate affections to him, adoring her new husband.
Squirming beneath the sheets on her wedding night, Phaedra had wondered how she could contain herself much longer if Ewan did not hasten to her side. It was then that she had first noticed the dove-colored cloak. With a shriek of feminine joy, she had bounded out of bed, snatching up the garment. Then the door to the bedchamber had crashed open and Ewan had staggered inside. She had turned to him, glowing with pleasure.
