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“It is good to have you home again at last, my son,” she murmured, and her face as she reached up a hand to touch Eddie’s face was softened with a curious mix of affection and worry.
“Is it really, Mama?” Eddie asked. A smile tried to lift his mouth but failed, and his lips twisted instead into a wry grimace. It seemed an odd thing to say when they had not seen each other for so long. A pang crossed Lucia’s features as though a sharp pain stung her, and she took a half step back. Eddie relented at that and held his arms wide, drawing her into the embrace that should have been his first action. When they drew apart at last, Lucia’s expression indicated that she had gained some comfort from the contact. In contrast, her countenance, when she raised questioning brows in my direction, was decidedly frosty.
Eddie held out a hand and drew me forward. “This is Dita, Mama. We are going to be married.” His words confirmed my fear that he had not, as he faithfully promised he would, sent a message ahead to warn his parents of my impending arrival at their home. I cast him a look of burning reproach, which he feigned not to notice. I tried to view myself through the eyes of a prospective mother-in-law. I had inherited my love of clothes from my own mother, who had an innate sense of elegance, and I always chose hues that enhanced my vivid colouring. There was, therefore, no reason to blush for my military-styled mauve velvet coat with its double row of buttons. This was worn over a full-skirted gown in a deeper shade with neat matching boots. My bonnet had a wide, shallow brim, providing a perfect frame for my face and revealing the full glory of my hair. No one could fault my appearance. But how much had the Jagos already heard of me? Had rumours of Eddie’s stunning European mistress reached this isolated corner of England? And had they, as most people usually did, substituted “prostitute” for “artist’s model” in their mental summation of me?
In the wake of such a dramatic introduction, our first meeting was understandably somewhat strained. Lucia—she would later insist I call her Lucy—was clearly shocked to learn that her eldest son, heir to his father’s noble title, now had a fiancée, a woman about whom his family knew nothing. A woman who would, moreover, if our marriage went ahead, one day replace her as Countess of Athal. Was there anything, I wondered, that I could possibly tell her about myself that would win her approval? Nothing sprang to mind.
We drank tea in an elegant parlour, which had been designed to give the most stunning view across the majestic Atlantic. An artist’s unerring hand had selected the palette for the decor, which was perfectly matched to bring the colours of the wild seascape into the room. Warm blue tints lightened the turbulent grey of the ocean, and touches of gold reflected the sun’s dying rays. It was a gloriously elegant room. I was beginning to appreciate the enormity of my duplicity. This was a family that was not only titled; it was also steeped in history. Eddie was heir to all this ancient wealth and splendour, yet I did not even know the correct form of address for his mother. I felt a weight descending on my shoulders, pinning down my usually free spirits.
While Lucy talked to Eddie of his father’s health and of various other family matters, I sat in silence. If she was attempting to convince me that I knew nothing about the family I was, to all intents and purposes, about to join, she was doing a very good job. Eventually, Lucy went away to supervise the carriage of my trunk up to the bedchamber she needed to speedily prepare for me. Eddie prowled restlessly around the parlour, examining objects on the sideboard, twitching the curtains and generally setting my nerves on edge. It was abundantly clear that—like a child with a bad school report—he was putting off going to see his father.
“Who else lives here? Besides your parents, I mean?” I asked.
He stopped wandering, and his usually expressive face was oddly neutral when he answered. “I am the oldest of three children. Cad, my brother, is nearly two years my junior and my sister, Eleanor, is the youngest.”
“Cad?” I asked, wrinkling my brow. It seemed an odd name for anyone to bequeath to their child, and particularly so for someone as precise as Lucy.
