by Valerie King
At that, she met his gaze fully. She seemed surprised. “Is that why you think I have come?” she countered, eyeing him carefully.
“You would have had every right to do so.”
She shrugged faintly and turned away. She walked slowly to the apex of the stone bridge and looked down into the creek. “There are some trout here, if you have a fancy for a little angling.”
He followed after her, not taking his gaze from her face. “You have not answered my question. I shall therefore ask another. Why are you so blue deviled?”
Again, a faint shrug. “I quarreled with my father,” she said. “I had wanted to end my arrangement with you and had intended upon approaching Captain Bladen, but it would seem my father was not as forthcoming about his debts as he ought to have been at the outset, and Captain Bladen does not possess your wealth, unfortunately.”
“1 see. So you were unable to be rid of me.”
She groaned faintly. “What a wretched business this is.”
He turned to stand beside her and let his gaze flow along the stream’s length. In scattered places, a rock topped the water’s surface and created a ripple in the otherwise smooth flow. When she remained silent, he said, “I was on my way to Fairlight just now. I meant to offer my apologies for my conduct last night. I am, I fear, particularly sensitive about having my mother’s memory insulted in any manner. But I placed you in an intolerable situation. That, Madeline, I regret infinitely. Will you forgive me?”
He glanced at her and met her troubled gaze. “I suppose I must,” she responded softly.
He could not help but smile crookedly. “Ah, yes, in seeking my fortune, I daresay you believe you would be required to do so.”
Finally, a glimmer of a smile appeared. “No,” she said with a sigh. “Because you are contrite and because. . .”
When she did not speak he watched her closely. He saw her lips twitch. “Now you must tell me your thoughts for I can see that they must be quite wicked in nature.”
“You must promise to say nothing,” she said.
“Upon my honor,” he responded, intrigued.
Her eyes began to twinkle, a circumstance which served to catch his heart in a light clasp. “I have never seen Mrs. Rockingham so astonished in my entire life,” she confessed. “There was a rather devilish part of me that could not be sorry for your sharp words. I fear she has deserved them forever.”
At that he grinned. “Then I am not sorry I spoke.” The bridge was shaded by more ancient elms and dappled light played over her face as a breeze shook the uppermost leaves. “So I am forgiven?”
“Of course you are,” she said, moving along the narrow bridge, heading to the opposite side. “I only wonder what you must think of me. I never thought to be forced into such a relationship with any man, and in truth I do not know precisely how to go on.”
He drew up on the outside. “You had hoped for love.”
“Of course.”
“As had I.”
At that, she glanced at him sharply. “Then why have you accepted my terms? You are not so old that you could not afford to delay marriage. I daresay you would likely tumble in love if you were sufficiently patient. Perhaps not here in Chilchester Valley, but you could increase the likelihood by spending more time in London or some of the watering holes—Brighton or Bath, for example.”
“The London ladies did not please me.”
“Now you astonish me. How could they not, when they represent the fairest of our island?”
He slung his arms behind his back. “Because London truly is a Marriage Mart, and I had no heart for the business.”
“Yet you offered for me.”
He chuckled. “But that is different. I liked your smile, when you chanced to offer it on those rare occasions.”
She sighed in frustration. “You have described me, Sir Roger, as though I am always in the mopes, and I promise you I am not.”
When she reached the end of the bridge, she turned down the path which led beside the stream. He followed along happily. He knew the banks well, that there was much beauty to be found nearby.
“Not in the mopes,” he said. “You just seem so serious much of the time.”
“I suppose I am. It comes from having become mistress at Fairlight long before I ought to have . . . if ever, in truth.”
He continued speaking to her in this manner and learned much about her. Appearing to grow more at ease, she spoke of the death of her mother and the subsequent difficulties of assuming so responsible a role as she had, when previously her greatest concern had been the perfecting of scales on the pianoforte or mastering verb conjugations in French.
In turn, he shared with her many of his experiences in India, those at least that he could recount to a lady, and had all the pleasure of seeing her expression become as animated as her questions were pointed and articulate. When the stream began to widen and the land lost its shelter of elms, she suggested they turn back. As he did, he saw a horseman on the rise well beyond her, a stationary soul he believed to be watching them both. Of this, he said nothing to Madeline.
Returning back up the path, she said, “Tell me of your mother.”
“Do you truly wish to hear of her?”
“Of course,” she returned sincerely.
“Very well. First, she was a brave woman. She married for love, never expressed the smallest regret because of it, but sacrificed all social happiness in having wed a horrid Scotsman.” He watched a faint blush mar her checks. “So you have had that thought, eh?”
“Shall I spare your feelings, sir?”
“I beg you will not. Ours may be an unusual courtship, a rather daring one in some ways, but I want you to speak the truth to me, always.”
“I see your mother’s bravery has descended to you.”
He chuckled.
“Yes,” she confessed. “I did think you a horrid Scotsman, especially for having worn your kilt last night when I expressly asked you not to.”
“I wore it because you asked me not to.”
“I ascertained as much at once. I was as mad as fire, but I learn quickly so I shan’t make that mistake again.”
“I am found out,” he admitted.
She laughed. “You are not so boorish as I had thought you might be. But I suspect you could be, so I promise I shan’t give a fig if you pretend to behave the boor a thousand times over the next three weeks, for in that I do know the truth.”
“You are a delight, Miss Piper.”
“Do you mean to begin making pretty love to me?” she inquired.
He glanced at her and grinned anew. “I fear were I to attempt even the smallest line of a poem, you would bite my nose off. No, I shall simply hope that you will one day accustom yourself to me sufficiently so that we do not quarrel very often. I begin to think this day’s ramble an excellent beginning.”
She turned into him slightly. “And you are still set on Lady Cottingford’s harvest ball? You will not relent in that?”
“Indeed, I will not relent,” he stated firmly. “My children, our children, will be included in Chilchester society. Nothing less will suit me.”
“Is that why you offered for me, then? Because you believed I could give you the entrée?”
He knew it would be completely unwise to confess more, so he nodded. “It is.”
Once more, he saw her lips compose themselves into their former prim line. He was beginning to understand her a little.
“Very well,” she said. “But first, Mrs. Rockingham’s picnic. Oh, lord, how shall I ever manage that?”
On an impulse, he caught up her hand and placed a lingering kiss on her fingers. “I have every confidence you will manage it to perfection.”
***
Chapter Seven
For two days, Madeline fretted about just how she was to achieve her most pressing object of obtaining an invitation for Sir Roger and Lord Anthony to Mrs. Rockingham’s picnic. She turned the matter over in her mind a hundred times, whet
her while brushing out her long curls at night, reading at various times during the day, pouring through her correspondence, or walking to Chilchester with her sisters.
On Tuesday afternoon, she chanced upon Mrs. Rockingham at the milliner’s, but received so cold a stare that she knew even to commence the process of gentling the older woman’s temper was a complete impossibility. Indeed, with such a beginning, she felt certain Mrs. Rockingham would not have a single word for her until Christmas had come and gone some five months hence.
This would not do, and yet she could not conceive of just how she was to finagle the critical invitation.
By Wednesday morning, she was feeling desperate. So much depended upon her success in this matter that her nerves were growing quite frayed with all her worrying. She was even considering approaching her grandmother for help. Mrs. Piper held tremendous influence in the valley, even though she did not go about much in society. Still, one word from Eleanor Piper would be enough to set everything to rights, even with a recalcitrant Albinia Rockingham.
However, knowing her grandmother’s staunch prejudices against all foreigners—and to her a Scotsman was a foreigner—she held little hope that an appeal would be of much use.
Later that afternoon, she was reviewing the current state of the linens with Mrs. Linch when she received word that Harris Rockingham had come to call. A shot of hope burst through her, and she all but ran to the drawing room. Harris. Of course.
Caught in the grips of his calf-love, she felt certain he would be willing to help her, even though he had already expressed his severe disapproval of Sir Roger’s presence in Chilchester.
Just outside the drawing room, she stopped, took a deep breath, and forced a smile to her lips. With a broad step, she swept into the chamber. “Good afternoon, Harris. What an excellent surprise. I had not thought to see you all week because of your mother’s picnic.”
“I stole away,” he confessed, approaching her hastily in order to greet her. “How beautiful you are this morning, my dear Madeline.”
At that, Madeline swept her hands behind her back. She felt certain if given the smallest encouragement he would take them both up in his and plant wet kisses over her fingers, a circumstance she could not allow. “Do sit down and tell me what has brought you here.”
“You, of course,” he said fervently.
She first made as if to take up a seat on the sofa, but immediately thought better of it. Harris, seeing her first intention, was quite in her way, however, and jostled her as he first sat on the sofa, then rose abruptly when she moved the other direction. She felt his foot on the hem of her gown and heard the rip before she could balance herself.
“I do beg your pardon,” he cried. “How clumsy of me. Have I ruined your skirts?”
“It is of no consequence, and it was entirely my fault. I remembered at the last moment that I had strained my back and the sofa is not at all comfortable.” She settled herself in a wing chair and gestured for him to sit opposite her. He did so readily but his color was heightened from having torn her gown.
“I cannot conceive how I could have been so stupid,” he said. “Forgive me, Madeline? Perhaps there is something I might do to make amends. Shall I have a bolt of fabric sent from Chilchester, or London? Yes, perhaps I should go to London and search the shops on New Bond Street for just the right fabric.”
She laughed. “It is not necessary. I shall give the gown to Charity who, as you know, is famous for her ability to ply the needle. I beg you will not give it another thought. Besides, there is a favor I would ask of you, a very important one.”
“Anything,” he said.
She drew in another deep breath. “I wish you to invite Sir Roger and Lord Anthony to your mother’s picnic.”
So many expressions crossed the young gentleman’s face in quick succession that she felt as though she was watching a violent wind pass through a tree. Every second which lapsed brought forth a new configuration of his features. He appeared to be shocked, disgusted, and quite angry, all the while frustrated that he had all but given his word to her and now must break it. “What you ask is impossible,” he said, rising hastily to his feet. He began marching to and fro, holding the hilt of his imaginary sword. “That man, that cretin, cannot be allowed to cross the sacred portals of Dallings Hall. It would be blasphemous.”
“Blasphemous?” she asked innocently, but her lips were twitching. Fortunately, her young swain was too occupied by his marching to take note of it. “I see. You fear your mother’s wrath, then?”
“My mother’s wrath? No. Yes. No. That is, you have not considered nor have you heeded any of my warnings against that fellow.” He stood before her, his complexion enflamed. “He is not a gentleman, and someone ought to give the deuced blackguard a hint.”
Madeline held her tongue. She wanted to warn him against ever uttering such an opinion in Sir Roger’s presence, but restrained herself. Nothing would be served to begin brangling with Harris on the subject.
Instead, she offered to ring for some tea.
When he accepted, appearing nonplussed by her civility, he once more resumed his seat. She rose, gave a tug on the bellpull, and began speaking on indifferent subjects until a maid arrived. She made her request, and the servant departed. Madeline turned back to Harris, determined to keep the tenor of the conversation innocuous. “Is that a new coat?”
He looked down at the burgundy velvet and smiled faintly. “Weston,” he stated proudly. “Can’t say as he cared for the fabric, but the cut is perfection. A little buckram in the shoulders,” —he cleared his throat—“that is, Weston wanted to puff me up like a Bond Street beau, but I said, ‘No buckram, my good man.’ He had to consent, of course. No one like Weston.”
“So I have heard.” She continued in this vein until all signs of apoplexy had disappeared from Harris’s forehead. Only after two cups of tea had been enjoyed did she approach the subject from an entirely different direction. “Why is it, do you think, that your mother’s dislike of Scotsmen is so great?”
He was quite at his ease now and shrugged. “She was in love with a Scotsman once,” he said. “At least, that’s what I’ve been told by my aunt. Of course, her good sense warned her away from him. After all, she could not have truly loved the man. Her brain must have been momentarily addled, like a horse kicked hard with a new pair of spurs.”
Madeline could see at once that Harris did not have even a particle of understanding as to what he had just related to her. She had no doubt whatsoever that had Mrs. Rockingham overheard her son’s revelation she would have fallen instantly into a decline. Madeline, however, schooled her countenance to one of indifference. “She fears, then, that perhaps Julia might succumb were a Scotsman to inhabit our neighborhood?”
“Precisely. M’sister is something of a ninnyhammer and wouldn’t know when she was being bamboozled.”
“I see. Then I can most certainly comprehend your mama’s abhorrence of Sir Roger’s presence in Chilchester.”
At that, Harris’s brow clouded. “The man should be driven out, forced to sell Pelworthy.”
Madeline sighed. Even though Harris had all but sworn upon his honor to grant anything she desired for tearing her gown, she understood now he would never relent where his mother’s picnic was concerned.
Harris continued, “Which leads me to warn you against being seen with Sir Roger, as you were on Sunday.”
“Seen together?” she queried, mystified.
“Yes, at Halland Creek. You were walking with him, unchaperoned.” His complexion began to turn pink again.
Fearing that her swain would once more work himself into a temper, she felt she ought to give him a hint. “I am six and twenty, Harris. I believe I know how to manage myself.”
“You are a lady,” he said. “You do not know the danger in which you are placing yourself.”
She withheld a new sigh. “Sir Roger is courting me,” she stated bluntly. He might as well begin to comprehend the truth of her si
tuation, even if she was unable to relate the whole of her family’s troubles at present.
At her pronouncement, however, the earth trembled as Harris set his teacup and saucer aside, rose to his feet, and assumed the attitude of a prophet. His temper rose once more, and she sank more deeply into the cushions of her chair, preparing for the storm to break. She did not have long to wait, for he immediately set about reading her the riot act about all Scotsmen, about these wretched cretins who try to pass themselves off as gentlemen but who secretly mean to seduce innocent young women, about vile usurpers on English soil who pollute the land by purchasing castle ruins and committing the most heinous offense of actually restoring them, of men who traipse about in short plaid skirts so that anyone might have a look at their knees, and on and on until he had quite literally worn himself out.
“Are you finished?” she asked quietly.
“I suppose I am,” he said with a solid huff.
She rose to her feet and shook out her skirts. “Then I must bid you good day. I have delayed speaking with Cook this hour and more, and I simply cannot keep her waiting a moment longer. If she takes a pet, my father’s turkey will be decidedly undercooked, and that, as you must know, will never do.”
Though Harris seemed bemused by her speech, he did not offer more than the mildest of protests, so that Madeline was able to usher him from Fairlight without the smallest difficulty. Once rid of him, she leaned against the front door and pondered the quite odd revelation that Mrs. Rockingham had loved a Scotsman in her youth. How intriguing.
A moment later, however, she dismissed this interesting news. These were Albinia Rockingham’s private affairs, which Harris should have had the good sense to keep private. In other respects, Harris had proven to be not the smallest use to her, and she was left with no great confidence that she would be able in the end to get an invitation to the picnic at Dallings Hall.
As she wended her way to the kitchens, however, she came to a simple conclusion. Though she had no desire to broach the subject of Mrs. Rockingham’s wounded sensibilities with her grandmother, she was quickly becoming desperate. If she could on any score persuade Mrs. Piper to help her, these present difficulties would be solved in a trice.
