Page 17 of Ondine
The “beasts” that heralded Warwick’s carriage were cast in massive stone, one on each side of the marble staircase leading up to the doors.
Ondine stared at them while Warwick gave Jake instructions regarding the baggage.
Jake replied cheerfully, tipped his cap to Ondine, and disappeared around the carriage.
At the top of the dignified staircase double oak doors opened silently.
A woman stood there, tall and slim and very erect.
She was dressed in shimmering gray, a simple gown with no adornment that was high-necked and as stiff as her posture.
Ondine tremored slightly, aware that a “masquerade” was about to begin.
And it was to begin with this severe and dour-looking woman.
“My lord Chatham!” The woman stepped upon the marble landing and smiled warmly, somewhat easing Ondine’s apprehension.
She was severe, yes, in dress and appearance, but when she smiled, she came to life.
She must have been near sixty. Her hair was dark as pitch except for one attractive streak of silver that might have been painted in from her temple to her neck.
Her features were nearly gaunt, yet her eyes were a bright and luminous green, and when she offered that welcoming smile, she gave an illusion of youth and a hint of the beauty that must have once been hers.
“Mathilda.” Warwick returned the greeting. His footsteps were quick, causing Ondine to pant as he hurried her up the steps. Ondine felt the squeeze of his fingers, a reminder that he had warned her of the importance of those she would meet.
The housekeeper’s eyes fell to Ondine with an expectant curiosity. She seemed familiar with Warwick, but not beyond the bounds of propriety, for she made a small curtsy as he reached her. “I did not expect you, milord. Nor did I know of guests—”
“Not a guest, Mathilda, my wife, the lady Ondine.”
Surely Mathilda could not have been more surprised had the stone beasts before the steps come to life and rushed the manor. Her jaw fell, her lips pursed, and she stared at Ondine speechlessly before managing to gasp, “Your wife?”
“Wife, yes,” Warwick replied, bemused. “And we’ve been in the carriage for quite some time now.”
“Oh!” Mathilda recovered herself quickly and inclined her head in a low bow to Ondine. “Countess, please, this way . . .”
She led the way into a grand foyer in the French manor, one with marble flooring of a lighter shade than the steps.
There appeared to be entrances to the foyer also from the east and the west, but Ondine was not to see them then, for Mathilda was leading the way up a wide and curving stairway to the apartments above.
Warwick no longer held her arm; he followed behind her.
Mathilda spoke over her shoulder to Ondine, a little too quickly, perhaps, as if she struggled to regain complete composure.
“There’s a dining hall beyond the staircase, my lady, and the old counting house.
The living apartments are here, as you shall see, and the family takes its meals in the west wing.
Justin’s apartments are also in this wing.
The Earl’s are in the east, and the servants are quartered upon the third floor.
Of course, any changes you might care to make—”
“Mathilda, it appears that the manor is most graciously run,” Ondine said pleasantly.
A small and welcome thrill of excitement gripped her; it was all marvelous.
After a year of running and filth, fate had cast her into a most comfortable situation.
Her clothing was beautiful, her surroundings were more so, and Warwick Chatham was anxiously expecting her to play a role.
She determined suddenly to do so with complete élan.
She paused on the landing, a long carpeted hallway that appeared to be the family portrait gallery. “It’s lovely!” she applauded sweetly, startling Warwick when she gripped his elbow and stretched upon her toes to plant a kiss upon his cheek. “My love, you did not tell me quite how grand . . .”
She lowered her lashes quickly to hide her amusement at his quickly suppressed amazement, then spun elegantly from him to approve the portrait of the handsome middle-aged man, amazingly like Warwick, yet more elegant in style, with a head of white hair to match the king’s in curls and abundance.
“Your father, my love? Surely it is by Van Dyck?”
“Aye,” Warwick said smoothly, striding to her and managing to conceal his surprise at her knowledge of the painter.
“As I told you, my lady,” he continued with equal ease, “my father stood by Charles the First until the end. Then he hastened into exile and fought by his son. Charles himself commissioned the portrait.”
Ondine moved down the hallway lightly. Ladies and lords of the centuries past stared upon her with different expressions, some merry, some melancholy, and many bearing Warwick’s golden gaze and arresting features.
She paused before the most recent portrait, finding again a resemblance to her husband, yet certain that it was not he.
Warwick totally eschewed the fashionable mode of rich curls for men; hair seemed to him a distraction, and he knotted it at his nape.
The man in the portrait had a rich array of golden locks, and his eyes were a valley green.
He appeared younger, as handsome as Warwick, but more .
. . carefree. Lines of character were not yet etched into the face.
Warwick’s hands came to her shoulders. “Justin, my love,” he reminded her.
“Aye, of course!” She spun to him, laughing, and tapped her fingers gently against his chest. “When shall I meet this young rake of a brother-in-law?”
“I’m sure that Mathilda will see that he is summoned immediately,” Warwick replied, his eyes upon her quite wary at the very sweet and tender nature of her act, since he was painfully aware of its mockery.
Mathilda cleared her throat. Warwick gazed at her. “Justin is about, I presume?” he asked with an undertone of annoyance.
“Aye, milord, and he’s been the model of endeavor in your absence, I will say, if I may.”
“I doubt that!” Warwick responded, taking Ondine’s arm firmly to lead her back along the hall. “If there’s a fire going in the family hall, we’ll await him there. And, Mathilda, see if Irene can hurry dinner, please.”
Warwick pulled her past Mathilda, throwing open a set of doors.
Ondine found herself prodded through them; she stared down a long length of polished wood floor to a massive fireplace.
Brocade chairs and settees surrounded the fireplace, and not far from it loomed a gleaming table, large enough to seat six, surrounded by straight-backed claw-footed chairs, all carved with the insignia of the beast. Rich panneling flanked the walls to the many windows, which spanned both sides of the wing, all with coves and shining wood seats before them.
Plain dual candelabra in muted silver were set between each window.
The great room was both elegant and comfortable, and Ondine found herself a bit amazed; she had not imagined wealth such as this.
Warwick drew the doors closed upon them. Ondine moved swiftly to the fire, feeling his eyes upon her.
“I had not imagined,” he murmured, “that I came across an actress of such caliber.”
Ondine sat daintily upon a fine brocade chair. “I told you, my lord. I’ve traveled to many a court, manor, and castle.”
He strode by her, leaning an elbow upon the mantel to survey her. “You amaze even me, my love,” he mocked slightly.
She opened her eyes wide, glad of his apparent unease, since he had so chosen to taunt her before the seamstress. “Have I misjudged something, Lord Chatham? I thought that I was to appear the lady sweet and gracious, well bred and . . . adoring?”
“Warn me next time you intend to be ‘adoring,’” he murmured acidly, and she chose to focus her attention upon the windows, as his gaze was searing at least, dry and probing at best.
She stood again, hurrying to one of the west windows. “What lies beyond?” she asked him lightly.
“The stables,” he replied curtly, and she was further unnerved that he followed her closely as he pointed over her shoulder to the outbuildings.
“Far beyond, over the hill, lie the cottages of the tenants and farmers. On Sundays, after services, there’s quite a lively market.
We’ve our own chapel—ground floor of the east wing—but the Chathams now attend public mass in the village.
Not to worry, my love, I’m sure you’ll play the femme royale quite as competently. . . anywhere.”
She longed to reply to the taunting lash of his words, but the doors opened again and a husky, pleasant laughter filled the room.
“Married! Warwick, you scoundrel! Not to mention a word, but to stun us all. Where is this rare beauty who could so capture your heart?”
Ondine swung around to see the young man in the flesh whom she had surveyed earlier in the portrait.
He was perhaps five or six years younger than his brother, yet with Warwick, it was difficult to judge age.
Justin was young, and charmingly so. His eyes danced with amusement; upon seeing her face, he pulled off his plumed hat and gave her a sweeping and elegant bow.
Standing once again, he breathed out his introduction almost reverently. “My lady!”
“Ondine, I give you my brother, Justin Chatham,” Warwick said most dryly, yet he accepted his brother’s embrace of greeting with warmth before bringing her farther forward. “Justin, Ondine.”
“Ever so surely a name of magical connotation, a creature of magical beauty!” Justin proclaimed.
Ondine bobbed an elegant curtsy, enjoying Justin’s good humor and outrageous compliments. She had yet to be looked upon by his brother as anything other than a commodity.
“I thank you, Justin Chatham.” She offered him her hand, and he kissed it slowly, his eyes sparkling as he raised his head.