the party.
In the nursery, true to Helen's prediction, William was discovered sleeping in his cradle, the picture of cherubic bliss. Nearby, Finch sat mending a small shirt. The air of serenity and security was completed by the singing of a small kettle on a hob set just outside the bedchamber. The Camberwell menage circled the cot on tiptoe, conducting, in stage whispers, an extensive catalog of the infant's similarities and dissimilarities to Christopher, to Christopher's father and mother, and an exhaustive collection of recent ancestors, both male and female.
Not surprisingly, the commotion, muted though it was, aroused William. Hiccupping, he turned a wide, blue stare on the assemblage. Then, he turned a smile so beaming it might have been rehearsed on the dowager countess and held his arms up to her. As though pulled by strings. Aunt Emily scooped the child into her arms and, returning the smile in full, began an incomprehensible babble of endearments.
Edward darted a surprised glance at Helen, who returned it in full measure. She had never known William to respond so to a stranger. While acknowledging she could not have selected a surer strategy for promoting her cause, she knew an unbecoming twinge of jealousy. Artemis had by now stepped up, putting out a cautious finger to stroke William's hair. Only Mr. Welladay remained aloof, perhaps not unnatural in an elderly bachelor. He stood just inside the chamber door, an expression of deep skepticism creasing his plump features.
When, after some minutes, he harrumphed loudly. Lady Camberwell started and turned toward him. “What is it, Stanford?"
"I'm sure the child is a fine specimen of infanthood, but I don't see that the fact that he has, er, ‘woodgy, woodgy pink cheeks’ or ‘booful, bluest eyes,’ indicates any proof that he is the legal heir to the Camberwell title. In addition,” he continued austerely, “I want my luncheon."
The dowager bristled. “Well, of course, I realize that, Stanford. However, there is no denying he is the picture of dear Christopher. Oh, dearest, would it not be wonderful if—?"
"No sense in weaving air dreams, Emily,” retorted Mr. Welladay sharply. “Edward will set an investigation in motion, and then we shall see what we shall see. In the meantime, may we dine?"
Reluctantly, the dowager handed William over to a hovering Finch and gestured to Artemis. She did not so much as glance toward Helen or Edward but maintained a voluble conversation with her daughter as she strode from the room, once again leaving their guests to bring up the rear.
"Well,” murmured Mr. Beresford, as they descended the staircase, “William has made a conquest."
"Yes, indeed,” replied Helen gratefully. Try as she might, she could find no emotion displayed on the man's face other than the most benign interest. “It would seem that Lady Camberwell is convinced that, at the least, William is Christopher's son,"
"Ah.” Edward smiled. “The next skirmish in your crusade?"
Helen noted, to her surprise, that a smile completely transformed Mr. Beresford's rather harsh features, making him seem years younger. She could not help but grin in return. “Oh, no, Mr. Beresford. The next skirmish in my crusade is to convince you of my claim—or, rather, William's claim."
A little abashed at her own words, she continued hastily. “Or, at least convince you of the possibility that William is the true earl."
"Mm, yes,” replied Edward dryly. “Much better to begin with small steps, my dear.” Helen gasped at the unexpected endearment. He, too, seemed somewhat disconcerted, for he turned away abruptly to continue his journey down the staircase.
Helen followed but stopped to gaze at a painting positioned at shoulder height along the stairs.
"My goodness, is that a Grunewald?"
Edward turned again to stand next to Helen.
"A who?"
"A Grunewald—a German painter of the Renaissance.” She peered more closely at the work. “Why, yes, it is.
In the nursery, true to Helen's prediction, William was discovered sleeping in his cradle, the picture of cherubic bliss. Nearby, Finch sat mending a small shirt. The air of serenity and security was completed by the singing of a small kettle on a hob set just outside the bedchamber. The Camberwell menage circled the cot on tiptoe, conducting, in stage whispers, an extensive catalog of the infant's similarities and dissimilarities to Christopher, to Christopher's father and mother, and an exhaustive collection of recent ancestors, both male and female.
Not surprisingly, the commotion, muted though it was, aroused William. Hiccupping, he turned a wide, blue stare on the assemblage. Then, he turned a smile so beaming it might have been rehearsed on the dowager countess and held his arms up to her. As though pulled by strings. Aunt Emily scooped the child into her arms and, returning the smile in full, began an incomprehensible babble of endearments.
Edward darted a surprised glance at Helen, who returned it in full measure. She had never known William to respond so to a stranger. While acknowledging she could not have selected a surer strategy for promoting her cause, she knew an unbecoming twinge of jealousy. Artemis had by now stepped up, putting out a cautious finger to stroke William's hair. Only Mr. Welladay remained aloof, perhaps not unnatural in an elderly bachelor. He stood just inside the chamber door, an expression of deep skepticism creasing his plump features.
When, after some minutes, he harrumphed loudly. Lady Camberwell started and turned toward him. “What is it, Stanford?"
"I'm sure the child is a fine specimen of infanthood, but I don't see that the fact that he has, er, ‘woodgy, woodgy pink cheeks’ or ‘booful, bluest eyes,’ indicates any proof that he is the legal heir to the Camberwell title. In addition,” he continued austerely, “I want my luncheon."
The dowager bristled. “Well, of course, I realize that, Stanford. However, there is no denying he is the picture of dear Christopher. Oh, dearest, would it not be wonderful if—?"
"No sense in weaving air dreams, Emily,” retorted Mr. Welladay sharply. “Edward will set an investigation in motion, and then we shall see what we shall see. In the meantime, may we dine?"
Reluctantly, the dowager handed William over to a hovering Finch and gestured to Artemis. She did not so much as glance toward Helen or Edward but maintained a voluble conversation with her daughter as she strode from the room, once again leaving their guests to bring up the rear.
"Well,” murmured Mr. Beresford, as they descended the staircase, “William has made a conquest."
"Yes, indeed,” replied Helen gratefully. Try as she might, she could find no emotion displayed on the man's face other than the most benign interest. “It would seem that Lady Camberwell is convinced that, at the least, William is Christopher's son,"
"Ah.” Edward smiled. “The next skirmish in your crusade?"
Helen noted, to her surprise, that a smile completely transformed Mr. Beresford's rather harsh features, making him seem years younger. She could not help but grin in return. “Oh, no, Mr. Beresford. The next skirmish in my crusade is to convince you of my claim—or, rather, William's claim."
A little abashed at her own words, she continued hastily. “Or, at least convince you of the possibility that William is the true earl."
"Mm, yes,” replied Edward dryly. “Much better to begin with small steps, my dear.” Helen gasped at the unexpected endearment. He, too, seemed somewhat disconcerted, for he turned away abruptly to continue his journey down the staircase.
Helen followed but stopped to gaze at a painting positioned at shoulder height along the stairs.
"My goodness, is that a Grunewald?"
Edward turned again to stand next to Helen.
"A who?"
"A Grunewald—a German painter of the Renaissance.” She peered more closely at the work. “Why, yes, it is.
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