The Elusive Miss Ellison

by Carolyn Miller

  “I must speak with Johnson about the hedges.”

  His muttered words brought to mind her earlier ponderings. Perhaps this was an opportunity after all. “My lord, I was wishing to speak with you on a matter of importance.”

  “A matter of importance? I can scarcely wait to hear.”

  “I was hoping you might condescend to visit Mrs. Foster with me.”

  “I am all astonishment. For what purpose, may I ask?”

  She fought to calm her voice. “You expressed an interest in the conditions of the tenant housing. The Foster house is in dire need of much attention.”

  “I thought you mentioned the Thatchers the other day.”

  “Yes, but I would not have you visit them, as they are quite unwell with influenza.”

  “But Miss Ellison may visit?’

  “If I may say so, you, sir, do not seem terribly comfortable with children. The Thatchers have six, and I’m afraid they are not the quiet and well-behaved kind.”

  “That makes me afraid indeed.” He glanced at her. “I only wonder that you do not fear such wild creatures.”

  “As you have so rightly pointed out, I am a superior female.”

  “A most superior young lady.” He smiled.

  Her heartbeat quickened. She pressed her lips together firmly and lifted her chin. She was being ridiculous. Lord Hawkesbury might possess a warm smile and hold a certain charm, but she refused to be beguiled. He was a colossal tease; that was all. To believe anything more was to be a vain fool. But she couldn’t help notice a certain degree of disappointment mixed with relief when they reached the village’s outer buildings. “Thank you, sir. You may drop me here.”

  “Why? To avoid the gossipmongers?” He frowned, slowing. “This is not Mrs. Foster’s house.”

  “You know where she lives?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “I have some idea.”

  “Mean you to visit her?”

  “That is what you requested, is it not?”

  “But not now. She would not be expecting you!” She touched his cloaked arm. “Please, sir. Drop me here.” Too late she noticed Sophy and Perry traveling in a chaise, Sophy’s eyes wide with interest, Perry’s face tight with consternation. She sighed.

  “I see.” The earl’s voice was flat. He pulled up in the middle of the village, near the tiny row of shops.

  She noticed the glances they were attracting and quickly jumped down before he could move to offer her assistance. “Thank you, my lord. I have errands to run.”

  “Did you not wish to show me Mrs. Foster’s house?”

  “You truly wish to see it now?”

  He shrugged. “Why not?”

  “I thought you knew where she lived.”

  “Nevertheless, I would appreciate the introduction.”

  She bit her lip. If she did not assist him now, perhaps he would never find time to visit poor Mrs. Foster. “Very well. I must first attend to Papa’s medication; then I will accompany you.”

  He nodded, and she exhaled, thankful to escape his scrutiny—and the feelings of fluster he seemed to evoke within her heart.

  The sun burned hot on his neck. A large bumblebee buzzed past lazily. From his perch on the phaeton, he could see inside the small shop to Miss Ellison’s discussion with the apothecary, who was now joined by a plump woman holding a tiny bundle. Miss Ellison’s stiff posture—no doubt his doing—relaxed as she smiled tenderly at the tiny babe.

  His heart clenched. She had guessed rightly that he did not particularly care for young children, but if he had a wife, he would want her to look exactly like that, right down to the curly golden tendril resting on her cheek.

  He blinked, and glanced away, across the green to the square, gray tower of the church. He would not allow himself to be distracted by a mere chit of a girl. Especially such an unsuitable girl. The heat must be addling his brain. He continued a steadfast perusal of stone and mortar while the scent emanating from the basket at his feet tickled his nose.

  “He’s so handsome.”

  He turned. Miss Ellison stood next to a rosy-cheeked woman holding a bundle of blankets. She glanced up at him, her hand caressing the baby’s head. “Isn’t he sweet?”

  “Very.”

  The dimple hovered; then she turned and smiled at the woman. “You must be so proud.”

  “Aye, we are, miss, that’s to be sure.”

  The apothecary handed a small package to Miss Ellison. “There you go, miss.” He caught sight of Nicholas and nodded. “Good day, m’lord.”

  “Good day.” He smiled at the new parents. “My felicitations to you both.”

  “Thank you, m’lord.”

  He waited as Miss Ellison thanked the apothecary, who promised to see her at services, and offered his hand to help her into the phaeton. “May I look after your father’s medication?”

  “There’s no need. It’s not heavy.”

  The wariness was back. He glanced around. Faces at windows were swiftly replaced by the flutter of curtains. Ah, the joys of village life.

  “Very well, Miss Ellison. Take me to meet the famous Mrs. Foster.”

  He drove behind the blacksmith’s shop, gave the horses into the care of a youth who looked awed at the sight of such horseflesh, and followed her—and her basket—to a nearby ramshackle cottage.

  An attempt had been made to prettify the outside with daisies and geraniums, but mildew was taking hold, mottling the whitewashed walls with its telltale color and odor.

  Miss Ellison knocked on the door then murmured, “Every year it reappears, no matter Mrs. Foster’s best efforts.”

  The door swung open to reveal a stooped, white-haired woman, her soft, lined face wreathed with smiles. “Miss Livvie! ’Tis lovely to see you.” Dark eyes glanced over Miss Ellison’s shoulder and widened dramatically. “My word! The earl hisself!”

  “Mrs. Foster.” He bowed.

  She stepped back inside before fluttering about. “I wasn’t expecting company, my liege.”

  His mouth twitched.

  “But I can offer you some tea.”

  Miss Ellison frowned at him. “That won’t be necessary, dear Mrs. Foster. I don’t think—”

  “That would be most kind, thank you.” Nicholas glanced at Lavinia. “Let’s see what things Miss Ellison has been cooking. It certainly smells delicious. She has tantalized me all morning.”

  She gasped. “You, sir, are the outside of enough!”

  He smiled.

  She blinked. “I did not cook for you.”

  “No? A thousand pities.”

  Mrs. Foster barely noticed the exchange, muttering to herself as she searched for teacups and matching plates.

  Lavinia leaned forward as their hostess disappeared from the room. “She can barely afford to give away her tea. You should have refused.”

  “My dear Miss Ellison, you proposed a visit to an elderly woman’s house and did not expect her to offer refreshment? I’m surprised.”

  Her cheeks pinked, but before she could speak, Mrs. Foster was back, murmuring something about a neighbor’s silly daughter who had borrowed a plate for her cat.

  He restrained a shudder. Still, he had survived worse on the battlefield, and to win the villagers’ trust, he could not afford to be fastidious.

  But apparently Miss Ellison could. “Mrs. Foster, allow me.” She retrieved the offending plate and moved away, carefully wiping it with a handkerchief from her reticule. She offered him a beseeching look and resumed her seat.

  As the minutes passed, tea was drunk, the delectable baked goods were consumed, and he listened to their talk of village affairs—which bored him immeasurably—until Miss Ellison noticed his barely constrained yawns and began conversing about the state of the building.

  As Mrs. Foster continued her litany of complaints he exchanged glances with Miss Ellison, before offering his hostess a wry smile. “So the problem is in the walls.”

  “Yes, m’lord. Every spring, sure as sure, the mold reappe
ars. Mortal nastry it be.”

  He nodded. “I gather Mr. Foster worked on the estate?”

  “Yes. He worked the farms for nigh thirty years.”

  “And you have no children?”

  “Only one, but he passed away, when just a wee lad.”

  “I’m very sorry to hear it.”

  Miss Ellison glanced at him, as if surprised. Did she think him incapable of feeling? But as her face softened into lines of approval, he found a growing desire to please her.

  “Has Johnson been informed?”

  “Yes, my liege, numbers of times. He always says he’ll get to it.”

  “And never does,” Miss Ellison murmured.

  Nicholas glanced at her. “He will now.”

  She arched a brow. “Really? Because promises are mere words on the wind until something is actually done. And we are growing heartily sick of that man’s word.”

  “And we all know Miss Ellison despises those who don’t keep their word.”

  She eyed him narrowly but held her peace until it was time to take their leave.

  Once outside, she frowned. “That was too bad of you, sir!”

  “What? I thought I did remarkably well. Especially when she threatened to serve your lovely cake on a cat-dish! I don’t believe I looked dreadfully appalled.”

  “No, merely horrified.” She shook her head. “Imagine serving tea to an earl on a cat-dish!”

  “I have no desire to imagine it. I have every intention of forgetting it.”

  Her gurgling laughter was quickly smothered in a sigh. “But it was truly bad of you to use up her tea-leaves. And to eat all my baked goods.”

  “But they were so delicious! And I found myself prodigiously hungry. It must have been the fresh air and stimulating conversation of before.”

  She gave him a severe look.

  “Ah. How may I make it up to you?”

  “I know! You should come and visit Eliza Hardy with me! Her house has rising damp and a roof problem.”

  “I’m afraid I might have to leave the joys of rising damp for another time. I have an appointment in Stroud this afternoon.”

  Her face fell.

  “But I would be very much obliged if you could introduce me to your Miss Hardy tomorrow. That is, if you don’t mind being seen around the village in my company.”

  Her chin lifted. “My reputation is faultless, sir.”

  “Let us hope it remains so.” He smiled at her rising color. “Shall we say tomorrow at eleven?”

  She nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”

  After giving brief directions as to where to meet, she said goodbye and crossed the street, basket held high, her posture unbending until she paused to speak and share smiles with an elderly couple.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  Quite possibly he was the world’s biggest fool, or perhaps it was merely heat-affected boredom, but he couldn’t help feel certain of two things. One—that yes, Miss Ellison was a most superior young lady, indeed. And two—his heart sank a little—that despite possessing such superior qualities, Miss Lavinia Ellison could never meet his mother’s criteria for suitability.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  LAVINIA GLANCED AT the faded young woman rocking patiently beside the fire. Eliza Hardy stitched a pair of trousers seemingly more patches than original cloth, while her own poor skills were applied in mending a vest as they both attempted to avoid the obvious.

  He wasn’t going to come. The church bell had already struck the half hour as both the tea and this morning’s fresh baked currant scones cooled. She glanced at Eliza, her face lined with weariness—small wonder as she cared for three brothers.

  Heat filled Lavinia’s chest. He must have forgotten. Or, more likely, been too busy.

  She forced her fingers to unclench. No, she would be gracious. He had been surprisingly kind yesterday with Mrs. Foster. When she had visited this morning she had learned he had gone so far as to send Mrs. Foster a large basket of tea and supplies. His generosity had put her own meager offering in the shade, so she’d kept the tea leaves she’d brought to compensate the widow and given them to Eliza instead.

  Dust motes floated through the freshly scrubbed room as Lavinia attempted to think of a reason that might reflect well on the man. Perhaps an emergency had arisen. He may have succumbed to illness. Or been thrown from his horse. Surely he could not have forgotten?

  She glanced across as the chair continued its rhythmic wheeze. “Eliza? Shall we have some tea?”

  The lines of long-suffering grooved deeper. “He’s not coming, is he?”

  The resignation in Eliza’s voice clogged Lavinia’s throat. She peered through the dimness at the tiny knots in the mending until her voice was steadier. “Something must have prevented his coming.”

  Her friend nodded, busying herself with tea preparations as Lavinia finished her stitching and laid the mending aside.

  Eliza’s lips lifted in a ghost of a smile as she handed Lavinia her cup. “To be sure, Livvie, I thought it but a dream. An earl? Sitting in my parlor?” She waved a hand around the green-furred walls that no amount of scrubbing could ever erase. “I’m sure he had something far more important to attend to.”

  Indignation filled Lavinia. She took a sip, tried not to grimace at the tepid temperature. How dare Lord Hawkesbury forget? Had he been listening to Perry Milton, or worse, his mother? Eliza was too young to be so resigned to being ignored. He might be an earl and Eliza a poor cottager, but she was a human!

  “You are important, Eliza.” She rose and placed her teacup on the table. “And I intend to let him know.”

  The dark eyes, so often clouded by sorrow, seemed to lighten with amusement. “I’m sure you will.”

  Lavinia managed a smile and hugged her goodbye. She whistled for Mickey, who came running from playing with Eliza’s brothers, and walked up the hill to the Hall.

  The sun beat down as she passed the fields. Somehow she managed to nod and wave to the farm workers, but inwardly she seethed. How dare he forget?

  She crossed the stone bridge. A hot breeze threatened to whip her bonnet from her head. She reached the bend in the road, her heart clenching as it always did until she was safely round the corner. Resentment deepened with every stride, the earl’s crimes trudging across her mind.

  By the time she and Mickey made it to Hampton Hall’s shallow front steps, any desire to be conciliatory had quite gone. Indeed, she felt almost ready to scratch the perpetual smugness from his face.

  She rapped on the heavy oak door, which was soon opened by a familiar face.

  “Miss Ellison!”

  “Good day, Giles. How are you?”

  “Quite well, thank you, miss.”

  “I need to speak with Lord Hawkesbury, if you please.”

  If he was surprised, he didn’t betray it with a single flicker of an eyelash. “I’m afraid he is not within.”

  “Oh.” Well, at least he was not simply at home twiddling his thumbs. Her resentment eased, replaced by concern. Perhaps he had been thrown from his horse after all.

  Giles cleared his throat. “I believe he is in the stables.”

  The stables? She drew in her breath, managed a polite sounding thank you, and stomped to the nearby stone building as the sense of injustice flared again, hot and heavy across her chest. How dare he?

  She entered the large, hay-strewn room, and the vile smell of horses assailed her nose. Mickey barked and bounded up to where Lord Hawkesbury stood with McHendricks and a stranger. McHendricks leaned down to rub the dog’s head, while the earl—hale, hearty, and definitely not sporting a broken leg—glanced down. His conversation ceased. He turned, saw her, murmured something then strode toward her.

  She stepped back from the shadowed doorway into sunlight. Nobody should overhear this.

  “Miss Ellison. What a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe this honor?”

  His affected drawl only fueled her ire. “Did you forget something today, my lord?”

>   “Judging from the icy tone, I gather I did, but I confess I’m at a loss.”

  “You, sir, had an appointment this morning.”

  His crooked eyebrow lifted. “Yes, with my stable man here. We are improving the stables—”

  “Your stable man? You ignore poor Eliza Hardy because you wish to beautify your horse accommodation?”

  The other brow lifted. “It would appear so.”

  “How could you?” Her fists clenched. “Poor Eliza’s cottage is falling down, and you care more about horses than people!”

  “Miss Ellison, control yourself, please.”

  “Oh. Am I not docile enough for you to understand?”

  “I understand you perfectly well. And no, you are not docile. At this moment you rather remind me of a bull, all quivering and red.”

  She gasped. “And you, sir, remind me of a puffed-up peacock, mere pride and showy feathers!”

  His eyes grew hard. “Miss Ellison, if you cannot be civil—”

  “Civil? Is it civil to ignore a poor girl whom you promised to visit today? She cleaned and cooked for you and was so disappointed when you failed to show—”

  “Was she?” His eyes gleamed. “Or were you?”

  Anger filled her until she could scarcely speak. “You have an obligation to help the poor!”

  “The poor, the poor.” He waved a hand. “Even your father says we will always have the poor with us.”

  She blinked. He listened to her father’s sermons? She shook her head, drew herself up to her full height. “The tenant housing is still your responsibility.”

  “A fact you remind me of almost daily.”

  “Which I wouldn’t have to do, if you or that wretched steward of yours actually did something—anything—to alleviate the situation!”

  Her breath came unevenly. Mickey circled her, barking at her upset.