A cousin? Miss Neatham had not mentioned the relationship.
“The Pelmans did not live in the parish when Lord Hurley was alive, so any stories they have must have come from someone else. Rector, I prefer direct evidence, and in this case, I am suspicious about the motives of those spreading the stories.”
Dr. Whitlow looked concerned, which was a good step better than righteous.
Bear continued, “I have found Miss Neatham to be all that is ladylike. I would need evidence of any wrongdoing, Rector, and I have so far heard nothing but spite, gossip, and hearsay. As for cousins, family feuds can be terrible things. I would need to know a lot more.”
The rector considered this, and then nodded. He had begun to walk again, his hands now clasped behind him. Bear kept pace as the man began, “I have been told—mind you, I was not here—that the late Mrs. Neatham and her younger sister grew up at Threxton Grange.”
Daughters of the squire? Near relatives, in any case.
“The two girls were nieces of the squire of that time, father to the current squire’s mother. The current squire’s father was a distant relative who married his predecessor’s daughter when he inherited, as is only proper, though I have heard he was betrothed to the late Mrs. Neatham before the scandal. But I am telling the story out of order.” The rector stopped and bowed an apology.
“The old squire had no sons, you see. Just the one daughter, and the other two little girls who were the offspring of his sister. He doted on his nieces, particularly Lillibelle, the younger. The villagers tell me that the older niece, Rosemary, was pretty as a picture, but Lillibelle was a true beauty. Yes, and she knew it, by all accounts. Her niece is just her image. Indeed, many people believe… But I am leaping ahead again.”
Bear could guess what came next. The village beauty and the passing rake. It was a story old as time. He began walking, and the rector fell into step beside him.
“It was the usual story, of course,” the rector continued. “A spoilt beauty. A military man who made who-knew-what promises. A runaway marriage that proved to be not a marriage at all, and another young woman lost to the great sewer of London. The squire took an apoplexy. He did not die for a year, but he was never the same and his heir came to live with them and take over the reins.” Dr. Whitlow sighed, though whether for the lost girl or the dead squire, Bear couldn’t tell.
“So, how did the younger daughter’s disgrace affect the older sister?” Bear asked.
“Ah, that is an interesting question. There was a breach; on that, all are agreed.” The rector slipped back into storytelling mode, “If the heir had indeed been betrothed to Rosemary, someone broke the engagement, for the next thing the village knew, banns were being read for her and the librarian at Thorne Hall, Mr. Neatham, who was at least a decade older than the bride, and had not—to anyone’s knowledge—previously shown an interest, though he had been teaching French to all three girls.”
“And the squire’s heir—whose son is now squire himself—did not take the new betrothal well?”
The rector nodded thoughtfully. “You make a good point. Even the squire himself dates the breach in the family back to Rosemary’s marriage. They did not approve. Rosemary was of age, and the squire’s family could not stop the wedding, but the families have ignored one another ever since.”
The rector frowned again, clearly considering the stories he had heard. “I am told Neatham and Hurley were both solicitous of the new Mrs. Neatham, especially when she was found to be with child. They took her to Liverpool for her lying in, and many think that the baby she brought home was Lillibelle’s, and not hers, at all. Certainly, Rosabel was the only child the Neathams produced.”
They reached the stable yard as the rector talked, and Bear stood looking up at the damaged weathervane crowning the highest point of the roof.
Dr. Whitlow followed his gaze. “So that is Miss Neatham’s history, Mr. Gavenor, and it is, as you say, mostly old stories—with the support of the squire and his mother, mind you, whom I incline to believe.”
What a load of old codswallop. Miss Neatham had been made miserable as a result of such smoke and mirrors? Bear allowed an edge to enter his tone, “I have not met the squire or his mother, but I have met Miss Neatham. I have no intention of condemning her on the basis of a story that might be no more than a family falling out plus an ancient scandal.”
“She does behave in a most acceptable manner,” the rector conceded, “but what about the stories she was the mistress of Lord Hurley himself?”
Bear thought it all too likely. From what the current Lord Hurley said, the man was a satyr, a connoisseur not just of rare books but of tidbits to sate the physical appetites. A beautiful child with a neglectful father growing up in his very house? Still, he didn’t see why anyone should blame her for it, especially without proof. He’d cast doubt on the story if he could. “A man of her father’s age, I believe?”
“Perhaps a trifle older,” the rector admitted.
Bear confined himself to one lifted eyebrow, letting Dr. Whitlow do his own thinking.
“He was a wealthy man, Mr. Gavenor,” the rector pointed out. “Women think of such things when accepting a protector.”
Bear presented his best defense of Miss Neatham’s essential innocence, “Miss Neatham has been living in this village in dire poverty, Dr. Whitlow. Does that sound like a calculating woman to you?” He pressed his point, “Tell me. When did the stories about Miss Neatham and Lord Hurley first surface? During the baron’s lifetime?”
“I would not know, sir. As I said, I arrived not long after the baron died.”
“When such rumors would have been aired, I would think. Were they?” If the rumors predated the Pelmans’ arrival, they were more likely to be true.
Dr. Whitlow shook his head. “Not in my presence. It is only in the last two years that I have been told… You understand, this does not mean the rumors had not been rife for years beforehand. Often, the rector is the last to know.”
Having met the Pelmans, Bear could think of another credible explanation. “Or you didn’t hear because those who wanted to spread rumors waited for Miss Neatham’s father, her only protector, to become crippled in mind and body before they launched their attack.”
Dr. Whitlow was horrified. “What you suggest is outrageous, sir. Why, that would be malice beyond my understanding. Do you really think… I cannot believe it.”
“I can,” Bear said, “very readily.”
“But this is terrible.” Dr. Whitlow took a hasty step as if he would abandon the field and hurry back to his buggy. “You say that Miss Neatham…? And Pelman really tried to force her to be his mistress?”
“He told me so himself.”
“I am shocked. I will need to consider this, Mr. Gavenor.” The rector contemplated the ruin before him, though Bear rather thought he was seeing the gossipers of the village, instead. “If the lady is innocent, then my errand becomes more urgent.” His voice became stern. “The whole village is preparing to shun Miss Neatham. While I accept your word as a gentleman that relations between you have been chaste, she has been compromised beyond any hope of recovery, except through marriage. I trust you know your duty, Mr. Gavenor.”
Bear had won more than he’d hoped and would be satisfied. The rector was a fair-minded man and would not condemn Miss Neatham without better evidence than old family gossip. “Whatever evil minds might think, Miss Neatham has not been compromised. She has been chaperoned throughout her stay, and no one shall attempt to force her hand. Do you hear me, Rector? No one. But yes. I know my duty, and if Miss Neatham would consent to marry me, I would consider myself greatly privileged.” That should give the rector enough ammunition for some undoubtedly difficult conversations with the village’s most influential residents.
The rector looked doubtfully at Bear. “We understand one another then.”
“I think we do. You have your task, Rector, and I have mine.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mr. Gavenor joined her in the parlor as soon as he had changed for dinner. Thankfully, they were alone, for Father had a slight cough and asked to stay in bed, and Jeffreys had insisted that she allow him to tend to the invalid while she joined Mr. Gavenor.
Mr. Gavenor didn’t keep her waiting, opening the topic as soon as they had finished serving themselves. “Miss Neatham, the rector came out to Thorne Hall today. He wanted to tell me that the village has been talking.”
“I expected it.” Rosa was proud that her voice did not shake. “When do you wish us to move out? I can put weight on my ankle again.”
“I do not wish you to move out,” Mr. Gavenor replied. He put down his cutlery and met Rosa’s eyes, his own serious. “I will move into the village for a couple of weeks.”
“But your work…” Rosa didn’t understand. “A couple of weeks… What can you mean?”
Mr. Gavenor looked down at his plate, then ran his hand through his hair, a gesture of frustration. “I am doing this wrong. Look, Miss Neatham.” He reached across the corner of the table and took her hand. “Rosabel. Would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife?”
“Your wife?” Rosa frowned. He could not be proposing, surely?
“It will protect you and your father, and it would suit me very well, too,” Mr. Gavenor said, hurrying on before she could find a more coherent response. “A wife would be a great benefit to me, as these past few days have demonstrated. Someone to look after my house and make it into a home. I have never been more comfortable. I like having you around.”
“But—”
“And it isn’t just that. You would be an asset in my business. I need to entertain from time to time, and you would show to advantage among the people with whom I deal. You are a lady to the fingertips, Rosa, and the people who buy my houses would like that.”
Rosa blinked, her mind a scramble.
“Also, I need a child. A daughter would be best, because my great aunt’s property must be left to a girl, but we could try again if we had a son, and an heir would be rather nice, I think. I had thought of adopting, but a child needs a mother, and that means a wife.”
The yearning for a child hit her in the gut, and the pain allowed her to make the first of her many objections. “But…I am thirty-six.”
Mr. Gavenor dismissed her age with an airy wave. “I am forty-three. Which means we are both still capable of having a child.”
“Surely, there are younger women with better connections…”
He shook his head, a firm negative. “I don’t want them. Silly ninnies. No conversation.” His voice softened, “I like you, Rosa. I like spending time with you.”
What did one say to such a thing? Rosa had no experience with compliments. “Thank you.”
Mr. Gavenor’s brows drew together. “I don’t want… Rosa, you deserve to have choices, and you won’t have them in this village. If you won’t marry me, will you let me find you and your father a house somewhere away from here, where you can live without your aunt’s history following you?”
Rosa flinched. Her mother used to talk about her aunt, how she had been disappointed by a man and had died. Her father refused to allow the woman to be discussed, and Rosa had guessed the story was more sordid than her mother had been willing to tell a child. “You know about my aunt?”
“The rector told me,” Mr. Gavenor said.
“And you still want to marry me?”
He nodded firmly. “You are not your aunt, and very few families lack a skeleton or two in their closet.” A second hand came to join the first; he enfolded her small hand in his large ones. “Marry me, Rosa. I will try to be a good husband.”
It made no sense. Surely a man like him—wealthy and a war hero—did not need to marry an ageing spinster of no particular family from a remote corner of Cheshire. “You could find a better wife.”
“I’ve tried. One Marriage Mart was enough.” He tried for pathos, watching her from under his brows to see if she was sympathetic. “I’m never going back. If you won’t have me, I’ll dwindle into a lonely old man.”
“I cannot help but feel that I benefit most from this arrangement.” She was considering it. She was really considering marriage to Mr. Gavenor. Who would have thought?
“The benefits go both ways. You get a home and respectability. I get a home and all the things we have listed.”
“We have no guarantee I am fertile,” she warned.
He seemed to think he had won, for his grin became smug. “That would be true no matter who I married.”
“I need to think. May I give you my answer tomorrow?” Surely by tomorrow he would have changed his mind. For if he did not, the answer must be yes. For her father’s sake, if for no other reason; and there were a multitude of other reasons.
In the early dawn, when she served him coffee and a plate loaded with food to fuel his morning’s work, he did not pester her for a decision, but he returned early for lunch, driven home by a heavy shower.
“Have you had enough time to think, Miss Neatham?” he asked, as he entered the kitchen door and interrupted her bread making.
“Yes, Mr. Gavenor.”
He stripped off his rainwear and advanced on her with hands outstretched. “Yes, you have had time to think? Or yes, you will marry me?”
Rosa blushed, and allowed him to capture her hands.
“Yes, I will marry you, Mr. Gavenor.”
He bent from his great height and brushed her lips with his. “Then you had better call me Bear, as my friends do. Or Hugh, if you prefer. My great aunt used to call me Hugh.”
“Hugh, then. Thank you, Hugh. I shall try to be a good wife.”
He kissed her again, another butterfly touch of the lips, then put his hands on her waist and lifted her to sit on the dresser. Now her face was level with his.
“That is better,” he murmured against her mouth. Then his lips met hers again, not a mere brush this time, but a gentle and inexorable advance, setting her lips tingling and taking her breath. His hands slid behind her, pulling her against his chest, so he stood between her open knees, his body pressed tightly to hers.
No, just one hand hugged her, for the other came up behind her head, and tipped it slightly, holding it in place as his lips moved against hers and his tongue swept the seam of her shut mouth once, twice, and again. He hummed with satisfaction when she parted her lips a little, letting his tongue dart inside, and her whole body hummed with pleasure.
Pelman had subjected her to a kiss once; an awkward, embarrassing thing, with her twisting to escape and him boxing her into a corner and pawing her body while he slobbered on her face. The new Lord Hurley, who had also propositioned her when he first arrived at the Hall, had respected her refusal. In fact, he had rather avoided her, and had left again not long after the will was read.
Pelman laughed when she said ‘no’ and waylaid her when she was alone. It had, until now, been her only experience of the pastime, and she had not seen the appeal.
It was very different being the focus of Bear’s undivided attention, the recipient of his tender passion.
She lost herself in the new feelings, grasping his shoulders to bring herself closer to his body, trying her best to imitate the movements of his mouth and tongue.
He pulled away, and rested his forehead on hers, still holding her close. “We had best stop, Rosabel. You are to be my wife, and worthy of all respect, and I have no intention of tupping you on the kitchen dresser. At least, not until we are wed.”
Rosa reluctantly let him go, and he stepped back a little so he could lift her down to the floor. She was pleased to see he looked almost as dazed as she felt. “Would you call me Rosa?” she asked.
“If you wish, though Rosabel suits you. Beautiful rose. My beautiful Rosa.” He still held her waist, and he l
eaned forward to drop a kiss on her hair. “I will move to the village this afternoon, Rosa, and will ask the rector to post the banns tomorrow.”
Chapter Fifteen
The timing was excellent. Bear had done all he could at Thorne Hall. Now he needed to talk to the local suppliers of building materials and labor, and prepare for the skilled work crew from Liverpool who would arrive within a week. He could better do that if he were living in the village.
He would miss Rosa, and that in itself was an excellent reason to move. This marriage was a practical business arrangement, and a fortnight to get his feelings into better order would help him remember that.
She was either a very good actress or even more innocent than he thought, her kiss enthusiastic but unpracticed. The idea of tutoring her had him groaning and adjusting the fit of the moleskins he’d donned for his trip to the village.
She was waiting to see him off, looking as bereft as he felt. “I will hire a maid and a cook, Rosa, and send them out to you,” he promised, then had to argue it was his right as her betrothed to pay for the servants he would certainly insist on having once they were wed.
“The cook is as much for the business as for the household, since I usually feed the gang’s foreman several times a week during a project.”
“Making enough for one more at the table is hardly work at all,” Rosa retorted.
In fighting her corner, she had recovered her poise. Something to remember. If this wife he had determined to take was unsettled, making her cross would help drive away the shadows.
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