rather deep waters.
‘The morning room,’ she said to Henry. ‘Leave your hair just as it is, Caterina. It looks most becoming like that, and they must take us as they find us, mustn’t they?’ Nevertheless, the advice was amended in her own favour as she passed the long cheval mirror brought downstairs for the fitting, and the darkly tumbling curls bound with lilac ribbons were tweaked into place. As a married woman she would have worn something over them, but any inclination towards convention had grown less attractive after Josiah’s death. Yet at the back of her mind was a nugget of satisfaction that there was someone in this town who, in full possession of the facts, had not been so easily put off. Indeed, a timely show of her very comfortable life without Richmond’s friendship might be no bad thing. Even now they would be looking around with some interest at the fine white and gilded entrance hall and the Axminster carpet, while in the morning room were two views of Venice by Canaletto that would impress them more.
The visitors were shown into the room only moments after Amelie had seated herself at the rosewood pianoforte with Caterina standing by her side, a sheet of music in her hand. Despite herself, it was an impression she wished to convey, though she could not have explained why.
‘Lady Chester. Miss Chester.’ The men bowed as the door closed behind them, their reflections disappearing into the shining oak floor.
Caterina smiled, but Amelie chose not to while resisting the temptation to continue her former irony. ‘You are welcome, my lords. May I enquire how you knew our address?’ She stood to meet them, inclining her head gracefully.
‘From the man who delivered the heroic silver tea urn from Rundell’s this morning,’ said Lord Elyot. ‘I made a point of asking him so we could offer you our thanks in person.’
‘Ah…I see.’ Amelie sat on a chair newly upholstered with her own embroidery and saw how Lord Rayne sat near enough to Caterina to admire the glossy red curls he had not seen before. Against the simple gown of white muslin, the sight seemed to hold his attention most satisfactorily.
Lord Elyot went to sit in a corner of the sofa, his arm thrown across the scrolled end, his long legs crossed as if the creasing of his tight buckskins was of no consequence, and it was this relaxed manner and his study of her face that made Amelie suspect that her choice of gift for his sister had been recognised for what it was, for now he must have caught a flavour, at least, of her excellent taste in all things domestic. Other than the tea urn, that is.
There was something more to be seen in his steady regard, however, that kept Amelie’s eyes upon his face longer than at any time since that first meeting. She noted how the dark hair down the side of each cheek reached the level of his earlobes and how the starched points of his white shirt touched each dark column. Now she was able to see the colour of his eyes away from the shadows, grey and darkrimmed like the clouds, and very intent upon her. She gulped as the sly thud against her lungs forced her to take an extra breath, then the silent exchange ended as she looked away, conscious that this was not at all what she had expected to feel. She did not like or approve of these men’s carelessness of others’ misfortunes, but they were noblemen who could open doors for Caterina and, for that reason alone, she would have to stifle her reservations and show them some civility.
‘I hope you approve of our choice, Lord Elyot,’ she said. ‘Miss Chester and I thought that, if your sister enjoys taking tea as much as we do, then an urn would be just the thing. Especially as she has a family.’
‘My sister’s family is still very young,’ he said, ‘but taking tea is one of her delights. I’m sure she’ll be…er…’
‘Dismayed?’
‘Oh, no, indeed. She’ll be gratified that we even remembered. We’re not very good at that kind of thing, you see.’
‘I would never have guessed it, sir. Does she live nearby?’
‘At Mortlake, just across the park. May I congratulate you on such a beautiful room, my lady?’
The long sash windows looked eastwards out over the kitchen garden where the light was bright and new, bouncing off pale yellow walls and white ceiling, pinpointing the delicate gilded moulding, the silver pieces, the rosewood and satin surfaces, the sumptuous sofa striped with white, gold and apple-green, matching the chair seats. Inside the pierced brass fender stood a large white jug holding late blooms and berries, and before the white marble chimney-piece lay a pale rug.
Lord Elyot’s scrutiny paused at the views of Venice then lingered over a beautiful still life with yellow-and-white flowers. ‘I recognise Canaletto,’ he said, ‘but not this one. This is very fine. Are you a collector?’ He stood up to examine it in silence and then, leaning a little closer, read out the signature. ‘A. Carr? That’s a painter I’m not familiar with.’
‘My maiden name,’ said Amelie.
He turned to look at her, and because he was too well-bred to show his astonishment, he came back to sit on the sofa at the end nearest to her. ‘You were on your way to paint blooms,’ he said, quietly.
‘You doubted it?’
‘Not exactly, though I did think it an odd excuse. I hope you’ll forgive me. You are obviously no amateur. And a collector, too. Have you attended any of the exhibitions in London yet?’
‘One or two. I bought a set of Thomas Bewick engravings while we were there, but Caterina doesn’t share my interest, and there have been others things to attend to since our arrival.’
‘From the north,’ he smiled, reminding her of the dire warnings. ‘I am not put off in the slightest, by the way.’
‘If that includes Lord Rayne, sir, my niece will be happy to hear it.’ They glanced at the two, talking animatedly like old friends.
‘And you, my lady?’
‘I hoped I had made that clear, my lord. My concern is for her, not for myself. She left her friends behind, sadly.’
‘You are brutally honest. But the name Carr carries some considerable weight in the north, I know. Are you by any chance a descendant of the Manchester Carrs?’
‘My father was Robert Carr, the Manchester industrialist, one of the cotton-printing Carr dynasty, sir.’
‘Is that so? And the name Chester?’
‘Was my late husband’s, Sir Josiah. A merchant banker. Miss Chester is his brother’s eldest daughter.’
His firm lips had begun to form an ‘oh’ before being readjusted into an expression of admiration and approval, which Amelie misinterpreted as the usual interest at the sound of substantial assets. She was not disappointed—it would be an exceptional man indeed who failed to respond to the scent of wealth.
‘So you lived in Manchester, my lady?’
‘In both Manchester and Buxton, in Derbyshire. Among other places. I didn’t want to stay there.’ She realised that this had an unfortunate ring to it. ‘Buxton has always been my real home, Lord Elyot. It’s a lovely place. People go there to take the healing waters, you know. But it’s a small town, smaller than Richmond even, and there is gossip and snobbery, which I cannot abide, and so many restrictions for people like myself. It was time for a change. I chose Richmond for its nearness to…oh, well, never mind that. I don’t wish to be tedious.’
‘You are far from becoming tedious, Lady Chester, I assure you. But you were saying at our last meeting how your neighbours have not so far taken the trouble to leave their cards. I find that sad, but not particularly surprising, given that they’re far too cautious for their own good round here. But there are exceptions.’
‘Oh? Who?’
‘Myself. And my brother. The Marchioness of Sheen is the leading society hostess here, but she’s in London and I dare say everyone is waiting for her approval before they know whether they’re allowed to like you or not. But that doesn’t apply to us.’
‘I really do not care for her