A Daring Courtship

by Valerie King

  Madeline’s heart sank. None of Cressida’s revelations gave her much hope at all. “These are not glad tidings,” she said.

  “No, indeed,” she glanced past Madeline’s shoulder, her gaze becoming fixed at some object on the drive. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “And I can see there is worse to come. Do but look, Miss Piper.”

  Madeline whirled about and gave a small, startled cry for there, just descending an elegant coach, was Sir Roger wearing a kilt.

  “Oh, my,” Cressida murmured in a very odd tone.

  Madeline watched him in stunned silence, taking in the sight of the leather shoes, the thickly knit stockings worn to the knees, the plaid kilt, an unusual belt which she believed was called a sporran, the dark blue coat worn without tails, a matching plaid sash, a white neckcloth and shirt, and on his head a small blue cap with ribbons dangling behind.

  He did not immediately approach the house, but rather moved in the direction of the horses and spoke with his coachman for a long moment. Behind him, Lord Anthony finally descended the coach, looking very dashing in a black evening tailcoat, pantaloons strapped beneath his shoes, and a finely tied neckcloth.

  Beside her, Cressida sighed. “He is even more handsome than when I saw him in church and I must say, Madeline, Sir Roger looks quite magnificent. Do you not think so? I visited Scotland once. The land is ever so pretty but quite rugged. Does he not appear as though he has just emerged from the highland mists?”

  Madeline stared very hard at Sir Roger, and for the oddest moment thought she heard the cry of distant bagpipes. She did not know how it was, but even though the Scottish kilt was as far from breeches as a man could wear, there was something quite warrior-like, even formidable about Pelworthy’s current resident knight in this moment. There was certainly nothing squeamish or nervous in his demeanor. He stood tall and proud as his coach ambled in the direction of the stables and he began his march to the front door, the first of Chilchester’s many bastions he meant to breach in the coming weeks.

  She felt dizzy, just as she had in the dungeons, as though the mere sight of him had some inexplicable charm over her. The sound of ancient battles, English and Scottish, resonated in her ears. What had her father said only that afternoon—that the English had banned the kilt in 1745, an act later repealed, with the intent to suppress the Scottish spirit. This spirit, she thought as Sir Roger disappeared beneath the portico, could never be suppressed.

  A moment later, a shrill cry was heard coming from the entrance hall.

  “That sounded like Mama,” Cressida said.

  Mary Crawley burst into the chamber and shouted, “Sir Roger is wearing a kilt, and Mama fainted.” The look of excitement on her face made it perfectly plain to the entire assemblage that she was not in the least in fear for her mother’s health. The chamber erupted noisily as some of the guests moved swiftly in the direction of the entrance hall, while the rest expressed their wonder both at the fainting of Mrs. Crawley as well as the decision by Sir Roger to have challenged Chilchester society so boldly by having worn his kilt in public.

  Only a handful attempted to enter the hall, the rest remaining discreetly in the drawing room to await events. During these few minutes, the previous sight of Sir Roger began to dull in Madeline’s mind and instead of seeing images of his strong figure sporting a kilt, she began to see the unnerved body of Mrs. Crawley lying prone on the planked floor of that good lady’s entrance hall.

  All her former ire toward the Scotsman rushed over her again. She had specifically requested that if he owned a kilt to refrain from sporting it this evening. She knew his intelligence to be far too great to have either forgotten or dismissed the request. Therefore, only one meaning could be attributed to his betrayal of her simple petition. He had worn his kilt for no other purpose than to set up her back, thinking it would be both amusing for him and infuriating to her to ignore her instructions.

  She moved away from the drawing room window, easing toward the deeper recesses where she would not be so easily seen when he entered the chamber. Harris Rockingham drew up beside her just as Sir Roger and Lord Anthony appeared upon the threshold.

  “Unforgivable,” Harris said beneath his breath.

  Madeline glanced at him and saw that he was scowling, his gaze riddled with sword points as he glared at Sir Roger. “I could not agree with you more,” she responded.

  “M’mother will fall into a decline at the mere sight of him,” he said, shaking his head. “I only wish you had allowed me to guide you. Now do you see how mistaken you were in inviting him here?”

  Madeline withheld the biting remark poised on the tip of her tongue. Harris Rockingham, a full four years her junior, was ridiculous in most settings, particularly when he played the part of a suitor with claims upon her. In this moment, however, she felt ready to scratch his eyes out for even attempting to puff his chest at the expense of her pride.

  Returning her gaze to Sir Roger, she watched as Squire Crawley, dignified in his powdered wig, introduced Sir Roger and Lord Anthony to the assemblage one by one. Sir Roger bowed, smiled, and was all politeness. How hypocritical of him to be civil now when he had all but ruined the entire party by wearing his kilt.

  She found she was grinding her teeth and gave herself a shake. It would not do to be quite so furious upon greeting him, for he would likely sense her temper and exploit his advantage over her. Instead, she schooled her features and when at last the trio arrived before her, she was able to smile primly upon him.

  “How do you do, Lord Anthony, Sir Roger. A pleasant evening, is it not?”

  “Quite,” Lord Anthony responded with a broad smile. “Only I hope Mrs. Crawley is feeling better. The entrance hall was rather hot. This room is much more comfortable.”

  To this innocent speech, she nodded in response, but turned and lifted a brow to Sir Roger.

  The squire was quick to interject, “My wife often faints when she becomes overheated, but she is with her maid now and I have little doubt she will return to us shortly.”

  “Is there anything I might do?” Madeline inquired, feigning innocence.

  At that, the squire smiled. “I believe you have done enough”—he lowered his voice—“but I do not mean to complain, for I have not had so much fun in years.”

  To his credit, Sir Roger pretended not to comprehend the squire, and for that she felt he was at least attempting to behave as he ought. How much worse had the gentlemen triumphed together over Mrs. Crawley sufferings, however absurd they might be.

  He then introduced his youngest daughter. Cressida, quite full of her youth and innocence, addressed Lord Anthony. “I saw you in church Sunday last. You were wearing a brown coat.”

  He turned to her and nodded. “I was? Can’t remember, precisely.”

  “You were. I remember because there were deep notches cut in the lapels.”

  “Yes,” he returned brightly. “Now I recall quite to perfection. Mathieson called me a dandy because of them.”

  “Oh, no, not a dandy,” Cressida said in an adorably sincere fashion. “Not in the least, for you did not wear clocks on your stockings or sport a dozen fobs. Papa says this is how one can tell if a man is a Pink of the Ton.”

  Lord Anthony, still addressing Cressida, began telling her of the Green Man and how this gentleman had taken to wearing only the color green in every aspect of his attire. This discussion prompted the squire to bow politely to their group and move away that he might attend to his other guests. After a few minutes, when Cressida offered to show Lord Anthony her mother’s recent purchase of a Broadwood Grand pianoforte, Madeline found herself alone with Sir Roger. Indeed, she was grateful for the opportunity, since she had two or three words she desired to offer him, just a strong hint or two on the subject of decorum and honor.

  “In the future,” she whispered harshly, “I shall expect to be warned when you mean to wear your kilt or anything else of a Scottish nature.”

  He appeared to ponder these words. “Odd. I cannot
think of anything else, or was there something specific you had in mind? Bagpipes and my woolen nightshirt, perchance?”

  Madeline lifted her chin to him. “I suppose I ought not to have expected any great degree of propriety or even consideration from you.”

  “Because I am Scottish?” he offered helpfully.

  “No, because you are the most odious, provoking gentleman I have ever known.”

  “Why, this is progress,” he said, appearing quite elated. “Did you indeed just call me a gentleman? Somehow I had the strong impression that the terms ‘Scotsman’ and ‘gentleman’ were entirely incongruous in your thinking.”

  “I might not have thought so before making your acquaintance, but I am presently convinced of it.”

  He pressed a hand to his heart. “You wound me, Miss Piper. Indeed, you cannot know how dreadfully.”

  “Oh, do stubble it. Here is one of my sisters, who happens to think it high time you entered our society. Prudence, have you met Sir Roger?”

  “No, I have not, but I am happy to do so now.”

  The introductions were more formally applied, after which Madeline drew away from them both and sought out a large bowl of punch, where she received a cup from Mrs. Crawley’s maidservant.

  She sipped the tea and lemon concoction and wondered if it was possible Mr. Crawley had added rum to it, for it did not in the least taste innocent. It was, however, quite good, and she remained near the punch bowl for some time, until she became aware that the maid was sighing over and over. When she glanced at her, she saw that she was staring at Sir Roger.

  “Are you of Scottish heritage?” she could not help but inquire, albeit secretively.

  “No, miss,” she responded softly. “But I do so love a man in a kilt. I do not know what it is, but he is that handsome anyway, Sir Roger is, and I must say. . . oh, but I should not.” Madeline turned into her slightly to keep the conversation from being overheard. “Go on. I am all curiosity.”

  The maidservant hesitated, but only a moment “He has a nicely turned leg, as me grandmama was used to say.”

  At that, Madeline choked on her punch and moved away. How strange to think that a single man should evoke so varied a response from everyone he met. Glancing anew at Sir Roger, in particular at the hem of his kilt, she had to agree with the maid. He had a nicely turned leg, indeed.

  Mrs. Crawley eventually returned to her soiree, if not nearly so steady on her feet as was usual for her. Madeline noted that her arrival was somewhat unpropitious, for at that moment Sir Roger was surrounded by some of the gentlemen and relating an anecdote which caused the crowd to burst into a brief shout of laughter. Mrs. Crawley could not have been content to learn that her abhorred guest was actually being quite properly received and enjoyed.

  For herself, Madeline was relieved on this score. Having not been much in company with Sir Roger, she had no true knowledge of his manners. It would seem that whatever his flaws of birth and, to some degree, breeding, he could at least keep the gentlemen nicely entertained.

  Later, after she had just told Harris Rockingham to please not renew his addresses in public, she was a little surprised to find that Sir Roger was this time surrounded by some of the ladies. He spoke in subdued tones, smiling every now and then and with whatever subject was at hand, evoking question upon question from his enchanted audience. Passing by, she heard Mary Crawley ask, “And did you actually capture the tiger?”

  “Yes, but not without the aid of a hundred servants, two nights without sleep, and several exotic traps.”

  The ladies expressed their awe in a joint sigh. Madeline walked on, feeling strange again whenever she was presented with some facet of Sir Roger’s disposition or abilities. She could not credit that this had been her doing, that he was for the first time venturing upon the fringes of tonnish society in Chilchester, and all because she needed his fortune.

  Later, while she was discussing the progress of Harriet Wisborough’s confinement with Mary Crawley, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. As one, the two ladies turned toward the fireplace, where Sir Roger had just bowed to Mrs. Crawley, who in turn began wafting a fan swiftly over her face. Her cheeks bore two bright red spots, and her eyes were darkly hostile.

  “Madame,” he began politely, “I know that there have been some rumors about a ball at Christmas at Pelworthy, and I wish at this time to announce that these rumors are, indeed, true. Without a mistress yet established in my home, and in particular with the impending arrival of Lord Selsfield at Christmas, I was hoping that I might prevail upon you to offer me your wisdom and guidance as to the general management of the event. Would you do me the honor of rendering me such aid?”

  A feather could have been heard to settle upon the planked floors of Wistfield Hall in that moment. All eyes were settled upon Mrs. Crawley, whose color had now receded and who had stopped fanning herself entirely. “You . . . you seek my advice?” she asked, clearly startled.

  “Indeed, very much so, unless it would be too inconvenient. The principal rooms will be completed and furnished by that time, but there is so much more to giving a ball than a proper sofa or two.”

  “I should say there is,” she said, as one with a great deal of experience.

  Madeline watched a war rage over the features of her hostess as well as within every limb. Mrs. Crawley squirmed, wiggled, and shifted in her seat. She sighed, she lifted her eyebrows, she murmured several, “Oh, dears.”

  Madeline believed she understood her thoughts. Such an honor was not without considerable distinction. At the same time, she would surely offend every high stickler in the valley if she agreed to the request. Yet how could any lady resist the opportunity of meddling so forthrightly in the general affairs of another house, let alone a renovated castle?

  Mrs. Crawley’s bosom swelled, and it appeared her decision was made. She gestured with her fan to the chair nearest her. “Do get up, Mrs. Spight, and let Sir Roger sit down. We have much to discuss.” The obsequious widow, always anxious to please her hostess, fairly bolted from the chair. Mrs. Crawley continued, “So it is true, then, that the Earl of Selsfield, who is known to dine frequently at the Pavilion when in Brighton and at Carlton House when in London, is to grace our valley and your castle? It is quite, quite remarkable . . .”

  A general hubbub rose to obliterate the remainder of her thoughts on the subject, but Madeline continued to stare in their direction. She confessed she was utterly stunned that Sir Roger had made so magnanimous a gesture to his hostess, not only restoring peace at Wistfield but solidifying their future relations as well, perhaps even to the end of time. Was there a hostess alive who would not wish to be the guiding force for a ball given in honor of a peer of the realm?

  She began to smile, and some of her uneasiness departed. Her shoulders relaxed, and for the first time since her father had told her that she would need to wed a fortune in order to save the Piper family from financial and social disaster, she actually felt hopeful. Perhaps Sir Roger was not so bad a fellow as she had thought.

  She could only smile, however, for Mrs. Crawley would probably not draw breath for half an hour. A just punishment for Sir Roger and his reckless kilt.

  ~ ~ ~

  While Mrs. Crawley continued assaulting Sir Roger’s ears with dozens of suggestions for a proper ball, he happened to glance at Madeline and received from her an approving nod. His hearing grew dull and his vision became centered entirely on the prim young woman now smiling at him from across the room. In that moment, he felt his heart constrict almost painfully in his chest. She was never more beautiful than when she smiled and it seemed to him a rare thing for her to do so. He grew determined that before the night was through he would ask her why she didn’t smile more.

  An hour lapsed before an opportunity presented itself. He had been observing a game of speculation in which she was one of several participants. Her face had gradually grown quite pink in the heated drawing room, and by the time the game drew to a close, she was fanning hers
elf vigorously.

  “1 must have some air,” she announced, rising to her feet.

  Evan Hambledon took up her place immediately, seating himself beside Cressida Crawley.

  Sir Roger approached Madeline and offered his arm. “I should be happy to escort you to the terrace. There is, I believe, a cooling breeze from the south just now.”

  “Thank you,” she murmured politely, taking his arm. He thought she seemed embarrassed.

  Once outside, he guided her slowly the length of the red brick without uttering a word. The hour was late, the sun had but recently set, and there was a pretty reddish glow on the western horizon.

  “Where does that path lead, I wonder?”

  “Beyond the gate is an herb garden. The kitchens are not far.”

  “Take me there,” he commanded softly.

  She drew their progress to halt. “No,” she stated simply

  He felt her try to withdraw her arm. “But we are betrothed,” he murmured against her cheek, refusing to let her escape him.

  “No one knows that but you and me and my father, and even then only conditionally.”

  “Then if we are found out, I shall permit an announcement to be made so that your reputation is not in any manner sullied. For the present, however, I cannot see how dastardly it would be to take a tour of Mrs. Crawley’s herbs.”

  At that, a smile glimmered at the edges of her mouth.

  “Come,” he said, knowing by her expression that he had already won the day. “I promise I shall conduct myself properly and you may identify each plant for me, since I am woefully ignorant of the names of the various herbs.”

  She chuckled, and when he tugged on her arm, she did not resist but allowed him to guide her down the shallow steps, along the path, and beyond the creaking gate.

  “It smells of heaven,” he murmured.

  “Yes, I must say it does. A summer’s labor, I believe.”

  “What is that plant?” he gestured near her skirts.

  “Sweet marjoram, and the one beyond is thyme. That weedy creature is parsley, but the delicate, honeyed fragrance so prevalent throughout is woodruff.”