Page 13 of Weave me a Rope
As they retreated down the stairs and out into the public rooms of the house, Cordelia put the marquess out of her mind and asked John about his schooling, and what activities he liked best. They arrived back on the floor where she and Spen had started, and this time turned away from the guest wing to go through a door and across what looked like a drawing room. “One of the parlors,” Spen said, dismissively, as if multiple parlors were not a circumstance worth commenting on.
The other side of the room had a long row of doors. Spen opened one near the middle. “These fold back to join the two rooms together,” he explained, as he led the way through yet another parlor.
John was explaining the relative roles of heavy and light cavalry—it was his ambition to be a cavalry officer. He stopped on the threshold. “Are you going to show Miss Milton the picture gallery, Spen?” he asked.
“I thought we’d start there,” Spenhurst said. “I wanted her to see the portrait of Mama.”
The enthusiasm drained from John’s eyes.
“Wait for us here,” Spen suggested, but John braced his shoulders and followed them through the door.
This room had two doors on the opposite wall, and Spen opened the one on the left. It led to a long gallery, with statues between narrow windows on one side, and portraits all the way along the wall on the other.
It was very like the room in Cordelia’s dream and to her eyes, the unsmiling people in the paintings looked as unhappy with her presence as she had anticipated.Do not be foolish, she scolded herself.You are an invited guest. Lady Deerhaven was welcoming, and John is a delight.
John was eyeing the portraits with less enthusiasm than Cordelia felt—even with apprehension. If Spen noticed, he showed no sign of it. He led them two-thirds of the way along the room and stopped before a little portrait squeezed between two large ones. “Mama,” he said.
The countess had a kind face, Cordelia decided. She was portrayed seated, on a stone bench, with a garden behind her, and a boy leaning against her knee. Cordelia didn’t need to ask whether he was Spen or John. Cordelia knew the shape and color of the lady’s eyes because she looked into their likeness whenever she was with Spen and dreamt of them when she and Spen were apart.
The little boy was dressed as a gentleman of the previous century, in breeches almost the color of his eyes, and a matching coat over a pale brown waistcoat. His shirt had a wide lace-trimmed collar, with a narrow, dark blue ribbon around the vee-shaped neckline under the collar and tied in a bow at the bottom.
“How old were you when this was painted?” she asked him.
“Six,” he said. “Perhaps six and a half.”
Cordelia moved closer, putting a hand on the frame as she examined the painting. “She died when you were ten,” she commented, remembering what he had said. She looked away from the painting in time to see a frown exchanged between John and Spen.
“We lost her when I was ten and John was three,” Spen confirmed.
A panel in the wall a few yards away swung open, and a woman in a maid’s gown, cap, and apron poked her head out. “Master John!” she said in a loud whisper. “His lordship is coming. Quickly!”
Spen tensed and cast a glance down the gallery towards the door at the far end. “The marquess is home?” he questioned. The maid nodded.
John was already at the panel door. He stopped to look back at Spen. “Do you want me to stay?”
“No,” Spen said. “Get back to your room before he sees you. I’ll come when I can and let you know what happened.”
John climbed through the panel, and it closed. “Do not be afraid, Cordelia,” Spen said. “He will probably shout, but I will not let him hurt you.”
Cordelia’s alarm was climbing. “Spen?” Her questions were tumbling over themselves, jamming up in her brain. Why did the maid come to fetch John? Would he be in trouble for being out of his chambers? Certainly, he had looked frightened, and then as determined as a knight errant when he offered to stay.
Why did Spen think she might be afraid? Why would the marquess shout? Would he try to hurt Cordelia, a guest in his house? Why, when he had told the marchioness to invite her? How could Spen stop his own father if the man was intent on violence?
She lifted her chin. Did Spen think she was a frail damsel who fainted at a harsh word? She wasn’t.
At that moment, the door at the far end of the gallery was flung open so violently it crashed against the wall and a bulky shape loomed in the doorway.
“Spenhurst!” It was a roar. The man who now strode down the gallery was taller than Spen and much more heavy-set, with the broad shoulders of a man who had been athletic in his youth and the large torso of a person who had indulged his love of food long after he gave up regular exercise. Spen stepped between Cordelia and the man, who must be the marquess.
Was he a giant or was it just the anger rolling off him that made him seem so large? Four footmen scurried in his wake, but Cordelia merely noted their existence while keeping her eyes on the marquess, who had come to a halt in front of Spen.
“You invited that female to my house,” he growled.
“My lord, this is Miss Milton, the lady I wish to marry,” Spen insisted. “You gave me permission to invite her.”
“I thought you were courting the Yarverton chit!” The marquess shrieked. My sister told me you were paying her particular attention!”
Yarverton? The Earl of Yarverton was Lady Daphne’s father. Was Spen courting her? No. Spen had paid her no more attention than he did anyone else.
