Page 17 of The Rebellious Lady and the Phantom Lord
Five
Prudence dictated that Phaedra not intrude upon her grandfather but wait for the old tyrant to summon her. He was undoubtedly in the midst of his levee, that morning ritual where toadeaters and place-seekers gathered to dance attendance upon a great man while he dressed, to admire his taste, to discuss business, to beg for favors. Sawyer Weylin would not be pleased if she burst in upon him while he entertained his sycophants, especially if she came demanding explanations regarding the Marquis de Varnais.
But prudence had never governed Phaedra’s relationship with Sawyer Weylin. She had been at loggerheads with her grandfather ever since she had set foot off the packet from Ireland. She sensed that Varnais’s presence in the house would do little to change that. Very likely the marquis would make matters worse.
Consequently, she resolved to see her grandfather at once. She had Lucy help her into a pink silk gown, then she seated herself before her dressing table, while her maid drew part of Phaedra’s thick hair into an old-fashioned topknot.
The surface of Phaedra’s dressing table was cluttered with all the feminine accoutrements any woman could desire. SawyerWeylin had grudged no expense to make his granddaughter appear quite the grand lady. But to her, the silver-handled brushes, the perfumed pastilles, and the gilt-edged mirror were all impersonal ostentation. Phaedra’s own touches were mixed in-a cup of wilting violets, a copy of The Rights of Man open to the last page she had read and a porcelain statue.
As Lucy applied the crimping iron, coaxing Phaedra’s hair into loose-flowing curls, Phaedra picked up the figurine-a diminutive shepherdess with rose-flushed cheeks and wistful blue eyes. She had found the statue long ago, buried behind the ancient bookcase in the garret. Obviously of no value to anyone else, the shepherdess had enchanted Phaedra. Somehow the sculptor had managed to make the porcelain come alive. Phaedra almost expected the dainty bare feet to step forward, the small white hand curving round the shepherd’s crook to move, the waist-length cascade of golden hair to stir with the wind.
Lost in contemplation of this small treasure, it took Phaedra several seconds to realize Lucy had finished with her hair. Sighing, Phaedra restored the figurine to its place on the table. Taking one last glance at herself in the mirror, she set off to do battle with her grandfather.
Her petticoats rustling in time to her militant step, Phaedra stalked toward the second-story landing. Twin staircases of polished marble curved down to the floor below. Running her hand along the delicately wrought gilt railing, Phaedra descended into what she termed her grandfather’s chamber of horrors.
The towering walls of the entrance hall were of a deliberate bleakness, rough stone fancifully designed to imitate the interior of an ancient castle. Shields splashed with heraldic devices hung willy-nilly amidst a collection of medieval weaponry. Broadswords, poleaxes,cinquedeadaggers, and halberds withwicked sharp-curving hooks now cheerfully jumbled together, bore mute testimony to centuries of mayhem.
If nothing else, however, the gloom-ridden hall provided an excellent setting for Hester Searle. Phaedra saw that the housekeeper had cornered the cook’s two small children by one of the suits of armor. Phaedra paused at the foot of the stairs, clenching her jaw. Blast the woman. She was at it again, indulging in another of her favorite malicious pastimes, terrorizing poor Matthew and Jeannie. The little ones cowered in the shadow of what must have seemed like a great metal giant in their eyes. But surely no more terrifying than Madam Hester herself, who crooked one finger gleefully toward the morning-star mace suspended in the armored figure’s iron-gauntleted fist.
“And that was the very weapon, my dears, that old Lethe used to dash out the brains of Lord Ewan’s father.”
Jeannie squeaked, clutching her brother and burying her face against his chubby arm. Although Matthew tried to pretend he was not afraid, his eyes were as round as those of his small sister.
Phaedra stormed down the length of the hall to put a stop to the gruesome tale, but Hester had already reached her climax. Raising up both arms so that she resembled some black-winged bird of prey, she said, “But they caught that wicked murderer and hung him until his face turned blue with choking. So take care, young’uns. They still say old Lethe rises from his grave at midnight to carry off all bad children.”
“Hold your tongue, you wretched woman!” Phaedra cried, but her intervention came too late. With a frightened squeal, Matthew and Jeannie plunged past her skirts, sobbing as they ran to seek their mamma. They would have nightmares for a week, thought Phaedra as she fought down a strong urge to slap the housekeeper.
“Curse you! I told you I will not tolerate your frightening the children with your horrid tales.”
Hester folded her hands demurely in front of her. “But milady, the murder is part of the history of this house. The little ‘uns find it fascinating-as ye would yerself if ye would ever permit me tell you all about it.” Hester smiled, lowering her voice to a soft purr. “The foul deed took place the year before ye came here to be Lord Grantham’s bride. Arranging the details of your marriage contract, they was, Mr. Weylin, and Master Ewan’s papa, Lord Carleton?—”
“I am not interested.”
“The servants had been given a holiday. All alone in the house were Mr. Sawyer and Lord Carleton or so they fancied.”
“Be quiet!” Phaedra snapped. She could barely restrain a shudder as she glanced at the heavy mace’s pointed spikes. She had no need of Hester’s embellishments to imagine what such a weapon might do to a man’s skull. “Keep your ghoulish tale for those as have a taste for such things. I’d best not ever see you frightening Matthew and Jeannie.”
“Oh, aye, yer ladyship,” Hester smirked, dipping into a stiff-kneed curtsy. “You shan’t catch me at it again.”
Phaedra spun on her heel and walked away before she was tempted to use the mace to perform its second murder. When she reached the doors leading to the anteroom, Hester called out, “Go right in, yer ladyship. I’ll wager Master Weylin be powerful eager to see you.”
Phaedra ground her teeth but pretended that she had not heard the woman’s taunting words. Not waiting for one of the footmen to bow her inside, Phaedra flung open one of the doors and stepped inside the lofty chamber, all gold and cream, the rococo plasterwork of scrolls and twisting leaves as elegant as a king’s stateroom. The anteroom was sparsely furnished, witha few uninviting splat-back chairs. Sawyer Weylin did not like anyone to be too comfortable while awaiting his pleasure.
Most of the men crowded into the anteroom preferred to stand. Since her grandfather had managed to obtain a seat in parliament, his levees seemed more popular than ever. Phaedra pressed forward a few steps and was obliged to flatten herself against the wall as two footmen brushed past her, dragging a man from the room. The haggard-looking individual bore not much chance in his struggle against her grandfather’s burly servants, the young man’s limbs like thin sticks protruding from his shabby second-hand garb.
“Stop your carryings on,” one of the footmen growled. “The master does not receive slum rats like you here.”
“I have to see him,” the man sobbed. “I have to have my wages. My wife and child are ill—” The rest of his protest was lost as Weylin’s servants dragged him out of the room.
“John,” Phaedra attempted to call after the footman, to see what the trouble was, but the minute she spoke, she found herself surrounded. She could not see past the tops of white-powdered wigs bending over her. Masculine voices importuned her on all sides.
“Lady Grantham, a moment of your time. I hear your grandfather is seeking an architect after the style of Adam. I know of just such a fellow.”
“Your ladyship, your grandfather promised to get my son a post in the customs office.”
“Please, Mr. Weylin’s not receiving anyone this morning. If you could put in a word?—”
“Gentlemen, please.” Phaedra raised one hand, attempting to ward them all off, refraining from telling the last poor fool who spoke that a word from her would surely condemn his cause.
