Page 21 of Echo in the Wind

As she had some minutes to wait, Joanna shifted her gaze to the tall side windows filling the chamber with cold sunlight. Behind the nave were more magnificent windows of clear glass. Tilting her head back, she looked up to the arched ceiling decorated with gilded scrolled relief. It looked like an ivory sky with scattered lacy clouds.

Tillie nudged her in the ribs. “They are about to begin.”

Joanna turned her attention to where the family had gathered in front of the nave before Vicar Hamilton who, according to the invitation, would be conducting the ceremony. Garbed in a white wig, black robe and white bands, he fit well the description of a somber Anglican clergyman.

“Look, Jo, there on the right,” Tillie whispered, her eyes darting to where the ebony-haired Claire Powell stood beside her father, the French comte. “It’s Monsieur Donet.”

Joanna thought she heard her sister sigh, a sure sign Tillie had not lost the tendre she had for the French nobleman. It was one thing for her younger sister to admire the well-dressed French comte and quite another if she were to be vulnerable to his seduction. Joanna would have to make sure her sister did not fall prey to the handsome pirate.

To Joanna, Donet appeared like a black panther that had crept in amongst the sheep. Only grudgingly did she admit to herself that for all his fearsome appearance, he had a noble bearing that announced itself in his erect posture, the proud way he held his head and the French brocade waistcoat of the deepest claret color that spoke of an elegance of a past era.

The pirate—if he ever had been a pirate—had dressed up for what was surely to him a momentous occasion.

To try and turn Tillie from her young girl’s affectation, Joanna whispered, “You make too much of what is customary for those participating in a christening. See Lord and Lady Danvers standing next to him? They wear their finery, too. Lord Danvers’ silver waistcoat shines beneath his light blue coat. He even sports a wig for the occasion. And while Cornelia wears her customary peach, this gown is adorned with many bows.”

Tillie’s mouth formed a small pout at being reminded Donet was merely one of the other mortals. “I suppose you have the right of it. Still…”

As they watched, the baby’s nurse carried the child down the aisle and placed him in the arms of his mother. Little Jean Nicholas made baby cooing noises as he looked up at Claire. The delightful sounds echoed in the vast stone chamber.

Dressed in a white lace cap and gown extending below his pretty blanket, the babe was well attired for this day. The stone sanctuary, despite being filled with warm bodies, was as cold as when they arrived. Joanna kept her cloak tightly drawn around her and thought well of the baby’s nurse for seeing the child was swathed in a blanket.

Mr. Powell moved to the left to allow room for Cornelia to stand between him and his wife. The two godfathers remained on Claire’s right.

A hush fell over the sanctuary as all waited for the vicar to begin.

“Who is the sponsor for this child?” he asked in a voice that boomed the church’s authority.

The three godparents silently bowed their heads, acknowledging themselves to be the sponsors.

“And the child’s intended name?”

“Jean Nicholas Powell,” announced Monsieur Donet in his richly accented voice, tinged, Joanna thought, with pride.

The vicar took the child into his arms and, with a small protest from the babe, baptized him with water from the bowl on a wooden stand while intoning the words that welcomed him into the family of the church.

When the ceremony was over, the vicar returned the babe to his mother’s arms, congratulating the parents on their splendid son.

Joanna watched the family file out of the church, irritated with herself for being unable to tear her eyes from the French comte.

Donet’s dark gaze fell upon her before he grinned at Tillie and walked on.

Narrowing her eyes at his back, Joanna thought perhaps she was right in thinking he toyed with her sister. He was old enough to be Tillie’s father, yet his smoldering gaze seemed to convey some message. Was he a rake, trying to lure Tillie to her downfall? Joanna gritted her teeth, vowing not to allow that to happen.

Outside the church, Joanna spotted the carriage with the Torrington crest, one of several lined up and waiting. Not all of those who attended the christening would be going to the breakfast at the Danvers’ mansion in Mayfair. She felt honored to be included.

A short ride later, Joanna and Tillie arrived in front of the familiar gray stone mansion rising three stories into the air. Eight Doric pillars graced the front of the third story. But for the lack of a steeple, it could have been a church.

At the entry to the Danvers’ home, a footman took their cloaks. Higgins, the butler Joanna knew from her prior visits, greeted her and her sister.

“Welcome, Lady Joanna, Lady Matilda.” His diminutive size and thinning hair made Higgins look older than his thirty some years. Always prim, he wore a gray morning coat, waistcoat and breeches, white shirt and impeccably tied cravat. Not a thread or a hair out of place.

He had never met Tillie, of that Joanna was certain, but Higgins had a reputation for a quick mind beneath his drab appearance. He would know the names of all the invited guests.

She smiled. “Your memory is exceeded only by your efficiency, Higgins. ’Tis good to be in the home of my friend, Lady Danvers.” She had often wondered what a butler of strict manners thought of his American mistress who insisted her friends call her Cornelia. And then there was Cornelia’s guest, Monsieur Donet. What did the prim butler think of him?

They entered the parlor where two dozen guests had gathered. Standing beside her, Tillie stared wide-eyed at the elegantly appointed room. The Harrows was not so formal. But the cream-colored walls, decorated in raised relief where they joined the ceiling, were a reflection of Cornelia’s style. All the colors went well with peach.

A sand-colored carpet with floral designs in colors of deep pink and dark blue covered most of the floor. Blue silk curtains embroidered in gold thread framed the tall windows casting light onto the white brocade sofas and armchairs.