by Valerie King
“What I don’t understand, old fellow,” Lord Anthony said, a deep frown on his brow, “is why you did not tell her to take herself off and be done with it.”
Sir Roger leaned back in his chair, a sense of satisfaction overtaking him like a cool breeze on a hot day. “Because that would not have been half so amusing as the prospect of being able to watch her grovel before every one of her acquaintances.”
Lord Anthony shook his head and stared at the half-eaten apple. “I must have a clear answer, because you are not making the smallest bit of sense to me—do you intend to wed the chit?”
“Good God, no. I had rather cut off my nose first.”
Enlightenment dawned on the young lord’s lethargic brain. “You intend to make a great deal of sport of her. Oh, I see.” He then scowled anew.
“What is it now?” Sir Roger inquired, amused.
“Not at all the thing, Roger. Miss Piper is a lady.”
Sir Roger dismissed his friend’s chivalrous scruples. “She was also the lady who threw a clock at my head because I deigned to offer for her hand in marriage.”
Once again Lord Anthony frowned. “She shouldn’t have done that. Quite beyond the pale. Ah, well, what is Cook preparing for dinner?”
~ ~ ~
Madeline took up a seat at her writing desk and began to ponder the impossible once more. She knew she had to begin with Elizabeth Crawley, who was hosting a soiree two days hence on the first of August. She, her father, and her sisters were already invited and, of course, planning to attend. However, it seemed to her if she was to have even the smallest chance of succeeding with Sir Roger, he would also need to be invited and the very difficult task of bringing him into fashion launched that very night. Only how to achieve it? she wondered.
She drew forward pen and ink and began making lists of those who would be likely to attend, how many would be shocked by his presence, how many would be indifferent, and the handful who would actually be welcoming. One of these, in opposition to his wife, was George Crawley, Mrs. Crawley’s husband. She felt the key, therefore, to be Squire Crawley and his generally known good opinion of Sir Roger’s worth. Of course, it was one thing for a man to extol the virtues of another of his fellow creatures and quite another to invite him to hunt on his lands.
Once more the sensation of how hopeless the task really was rose up to threaten what little confidence she possessed. She left her chair and began to pace her bedchamber, back and forth, back and forth. How was Mr. Crawley to be so moved that he would actually insist that his wife extend an invitation to Sir Roger. How?
The Crawleys were the most prominent family of the town of Chilchester, living just at the edge of that thriving community. There was nothing in the old market town which Squire Crawley did not know nor have some hand in, whether directing the course of the weekly markets or guiding parish business. Every socially adept lady of Chilchester sought Mrs. Crawley’s opinion and every man of sense laid his concerns before the squire. How, then, to persuade them both to draw Sir Roger into their circle, and that within two days?
Finally, Madeline drew the only conclusion she could. She must speak with the squire, the sooner the better.
After nuncheon, she drove her father’s gig the five miles to Wistfield Hall, the squire’s ancient family seat, and was ushered without the slightest delay into Mr. Crawley’s study. She took up a seat. He offered her a sherry, which she accepted gratefully and tried to still the nervous thumping of her heart. She found the sherry was of some use, but only a very little.
“The lanes appear dry today,” he offered, glancing out his window. His study was situated overlooking the lane so that he had an uncommon view of an orchard and a hill, as well as the main road to Chilchester, down which a steady procession of vehicles could be seen lumbering.
“Nicely so,” Madeline responded, holding her sherry carefully in her gloved hands. “I drove my father’s gig, and it was quite pleasant.”
“Good, good,” he murmured. He had remained standing and now looked down at her, a frown puckering his brow. He was a large man and still held to the old-fashioned use of a powdered wig. “You know, Miss Piper, in all these years, you have not once called on me in this manner. I must say, I am quite intrigued. All is well, I trust, at Fairlight?”
“Yes,” she offered in just such a way that caused his frown to deepen. She added hastily, “However, there is a matter of some concern which . . . which I felt I ought to lay before you.”
“I see,” he said, taking up his chair behind his desk. A formality now seemed established, as well as a sense that whatever was spoken in this moment would be kept confidential. He clasped his hands before him and stared hard at her.
Madeline drew in a deep breath. How was she to begin? She glanced away from his piercing stare for a moment and sipped her sherry. She felt her hand tremble and lowered both glass and hand to her lap.
“You may tell me anything, Madeline,” he said softly. “You must know that. I have known you since you were small enough to bounce on my knee.”
At that, she could not help but smile. “So you have. It is just . . . Mr. Crawley—Squire—I cannot tell you all. I can only beg something of you that I fear will not be received well by this house.”
He chuckled. “My dear, you could not have raised my curiosity higher in this moment. Pray, put me out of my suspense and make your request. I promise you, short of telling me to pluck every hair from my eyebrows, if it is in my power, I shall grant it. You are, you have always been, a favorite of mine, even if . . . well, that hardly matters.”
“Even if?” she inquired, a little surprised.
“Do you mind a digression for a moment?” he asked.
She shook her head. Now she was intrigued.
He huffed a sigh. “You ought to have been to London by now, seen something of the world. Our neighborhood is not all that it should be.”
“Whatever do you mean?” She had always loved Chilchester society, at least until Sir Roger’s unsettling appearance in the valley.
He sighed heavily again. “That you have not the faintest notion what I mean is the very trouble, I fear. Well, well, I suppose that is neither here nor there, though I tend to lay the blame at Horace’s door. I dare say Lucretia would have done better by you, and you know how much I take issue with your grandmother’s opinions on just about every subject.”
Madeline was indeed stunned by all these rather surprising revelations. She had not known of Squire Crawley’s strong resentments concerning her father and her grandmother. She did however agree with him on one score. Her mother, Lucretia, would have made certain she had had more than one Season by now, probably several. However, she had never really felt the lack of them and so could not truly appreciate the significance of the squire’s wish that she had had a London experience or two.
“At any rate, my dear, let me encourage you that should you have even the smallest opportunity to visit the metropolis, then do so, for you will be in for a shock and a delight.” These words were spoken with a smile, and she knew he meant them to be an encouragement to her. Given her current troubles, however, in particular her father’s perfidy in Brighton, she thought this advice somewhat frivolous. He, of course, could know nothing of that, so once more she wondered just how to broach so delicate a subject.
Finally, she began. “You have been so good as to speak plainly with me, and so I shall return the courtesy. I have a request. Would you please extend an invitation to your soiree on Saturday night to Sir Roger Mathieson? I have a particular reason for making this request, only I cannot elaborate at this time.”
She found that her hands were trembling again and for that reason hastily drank the remaining sherry.
“Sir Roger,” he said. “But you detest the man.”
She had the good grace to blush. “That is all in the past, but more I cannot say.”
He grunted and scowled and stared at her. “Sir Roger? Good God. I fear my wife would have a fit of the vapo
rs were I to make such a suggestion.”
“Yes, I know, which is why I do not make this request lightly and also why I came to you first.”
He pursed and puckered his lips, sucked in his breath, and let it out with a swooshing sound. He drummed his fingers, crossed and uncrossed his legs, and tugged at his powdered wig. He scratched his chin and twisted his face into a variety of grimaces.
Finally, he rose to his feet. “I’ll do it,” he responded, thumping his desk hard. “But you had best leave now, for I do not mean to hesitate upon telling Mrs. Crawley what is expected of her. And if you do not wish to hear the beams shattering from the shrillness of her protests, then you should hurry away.”
“Thank you, Squire,” she said. She was so happy, so unutterably grateful that it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms about his shoulders. She could not believe it was true. Sir Roger would be attending the Crawley soiree.
She left as she was bid, and at the very moment she turned the gig in the direction of the avenue, a peculiar wailing sound could be heard coming from beyond the front door. With a prickle of conscience, she slapped the reins firmly against the haunches of her fine driving horse and at once began moving at a brisk trot down the lane.
~ ~ ~
At dinner that evening, Madeline had just lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips when her youngest sister, Hope, blurted, “Maddy, is it true that you begged Squire Crawley to force his wife to invite Sir Roger to her soiree Saturday night?”
Madeline did not sip the soup on her spoon. She was certain she would have choked if she had. She could not credit that a scant three hours had passed since she had spoken with the squire, and already word of her purposes there had reached Fairlight. She glanced at her father, who frowned slightly and nodded to her.
“Yes,” she responded to Hope’s question. Hope was just eighteen and full of opinions about everything.
“I think it famous,” she said. “I have always thought that not including Sir Roger was ridiculous, and now we are to enjoy his company.”
“I think it dreadful,” Charity returned, staring at Hope as though she had sprouted horns atop her guinea curls. “Once he is permitted to roam society at will, what will follow? The French woman who lives in a cottage at Elsbourne village?”
“She is of aristocratic descent,” Mr. Piper offered, ladling deeply into his bowl of soup.
“I have never met her,” Prudence said in her soft voice, “but Geoffrey Gilbert says she is the kindest creature imaginable. I believe she was disappointed in love once.”
“Who gives a fig for the Frenchwoman,” Hope said. “Only tell me, Maddy, is Sir Roger to attend? I mean, will he attend? And why did you make the request to the squire?”
Madeline felt flustered. The entire business was so new to her that she had not yet arranged all her thoughts or planned just how she was to explain her extraordinary conduct. Since their father’s pecuniary difficulties were to be kept from her younger sisters, at least for the present, she knew quite well she could hardly tell them the truth. Clearing her throat, she finally said, “Over the past several weeks, I have come to be of the opinion that the man who is sparing no expense in restoring Pelworthy Castle ought to be given a place in our extended neighborhood. It does not seem right otherwise. And besides, his mother was English, which must count for something.”
Prudence shook her head as though bewildered. “But you have always said you detested the repairs he was making, that the castle was perfect as it was.”
Madeline withheld a sigh and dipped her own spoon. She felt no explanation could suffice, so she said, with a slight shrug of her shoulders, “I have changed my mind.”
All three sisters stared at her for a moment, then turned to exchange glances with one another. In the feminine spirit and sympathy, they each expressed their view of the matter.
Charity, the next eldest said, “It is a woman’s prerogative to change her mind.”
Prudence chuckled softly. “I changed my gown three times before dinner.”
Hope looked off into space. “I am forever changing my mind about which of my suitors to encourage.”
Madeline could not believe how easily she had passed this first of what undoubtedly would be many tests of her sudden shift in attitude toward Sir Roger. Her father, next to whom she was seated, caught her eye once more and lifted his glass of claret to her. She had informed him earlier of her conversation with Sir Roger, of the knight’s demands and of Squire Crawley’s unquestioning support of her request that he be invited to Wistfield Hall on Saturday night. Her father had been delighted, as well he might since Sir Roger’s fortunes would repair his own.
~ ~ ~
“I do not understand.”
Madeline glanced at one of her most persistent suitors and wondered just how she ought to go about hinting him away. John Calvert was a stalwart gentleman of slightly portly dimensions and owner of Gumbers Lodge near the village of Balfriston. He had ridden over to call on her after dinner specifically to discuss the rumors he had been hearing all afternoon. His sister had accompanied him.
“Indeed,” his sister said, “neither John nor I could credit you had done anything so foolish. We felt obligated to come to you directly and hope we have not inconvenienced you.” Pamela Calvert Spight, a widow of thirty-three, lived at Gumbers Lodge with her three children. She was very thin and exceedingly proper. Her These soft words husband had perished at Waterloo, a fine captain of a dragoon regiment, a death which had been made sport of in recent months by unnamed gentlemen who said he hadn’t been shot as reported but was in hiding from his wife. Mrs. Spight had a snake’s tongue and bite.
Madeline might have offered a more appropriate rejoinder, but she recollected quite quickly that she would need to be exceedingly diplomatic with everyone during the coming weeks if she hoped to gain invitations to Lady Cottingford’s harvest ball.
She therefore drew in a deep breath and began a speech she had written and rehearsed shortly after dinner. “I comprehend your feelings completely,” she said. “Indeed, you both must know me well enough to comprehend that I have until today shared your sentiments completely. However, it has come to my attention that Sir Roger has no intention of leaving our vale, and far from quitting Pelworthy, has continued the repairs on the castle to such an extent that I believe he may have a majority of the work accomplished by Michaelmas—at which time” —and here she prevaricated— “it is my understanding that he intends to give a Christmas ball which the Earl of Selsfield himself means to attend.”
Her guests stared at her in wide-eyed disbelief.
“But I thought Lord Anthony had been rejected by his family,” Mr. Calvert said.
“It is no such thing,” she said. Although it might have been true, she simply did not know. This was one more matter she must discuss with Sir Roger, and she thought it would be best if she requested he call on her tomorrow to discuss the truly tangled web she had begun to weave.
“How do you know these things?” Mrs. Spight queried, shaking her head. “I was speaking with Lady Hambledon only this morning about Sir Roger and Lord Anthony. She said nothing of the matter, and I have always known her to be abreast of the latest on-dits where her peers are concerned.”
Madeline felt her fingers begin strangling one another. Few things irritated her more than Pamela Spight speaking as though she knew everything. She was, in her opinion, a platter-faced mushroom with more hair than wit who pretended a keen confidance with the baroness that simply did not exist.
Despite her dislike of Mrs. Spight and her pretensions, she answered politely. “I chanced upon Sir Roger this morning on one of my rambles, and we had a very long discussion. He was ever so kind as to have given me a proper hint concerning these critical matters.”
“And you believed him?” Mr. Calvert asked, incredulous.
At that, Madeline stared at her faithful suitor. “I had no reason not to,” she countered. “I have made no secret of my dislike of Sir
Roger’s lineage or even of his presumption in purchasing Pelworthy Castle and beginning his modernization of what was for me a favorite childhood haunt. But he has never given me cause to disbelieve anything he has ever said to me.”
Mr. Calvert scowled and shook his head. “This is most unsettling. I wish you had consulted me, Miss Piper. Indeed, I wish you had. I am certain I could have quashed any such hopes on his part or Lord Anthony’s without offending the Earl of Selsfield.”
Madeline was astonished. “Since you are not acquainted with his lordship, I do not see how.”
Mr. Calvert appeared flustered, throwing up a hand. “I feel you should have at least given me a chance to unravel this difficulty before you acted so hastily. Good God, to think of Sir Roger Mathieson at Wistfield on Saturday night. It is not to be borne.”
“It is to be borne,” Madeline responded firmly, thinking she was speaking as much to herself as to her guests. “And it will be borne. The Earl of Selsfield is too powerfully connected to be given even the smallest offense. You can imagine, I am sure, the repercussions were he to arrive in Sussex and be ignored by every important family in the valley.”
These words caused the blood to drain from her guests’ faces, and for that reason she thought it prudent to call the private conversation to a close. “But come, my sisters and father will want to see you and will, of course, want to hear your opinions on the matter. Cook has prepared a gingerbread cake.”
She had hoped this offering would soothe Mr. Calvert and his sister, but Mrs. Spight shook her head. “Have you forgotten, Miss Piper? Ginger always makes dear brother bilious.”
***
