by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews
“Oh, let him out,” Drucilla urged. “My father will love to see him run for all he’s worth. I’ll meet you at the home wood.”
Following at a distance, Drucilla acknowledged that Meacham and Standish were a magnificent sight. Sir Lawrence had been a masterful rider, but without any of the viscount’s grace. When Meacham rode, there was an air of excitement, even exhilaration, about him that Drucilla had not previously detected. Standish seemed to sense it as well, and lengthened his stride until he almost appeared to be flying. Even the gray mare flicked her ears at the sight of them.
When at last she came up with them, Meacham’s face wore a wry grin. “Lord, I’d love to own this horse,” he said.
“In time you will,” she reminded him, her dimples peeking out.
“That was not my meaning, Miss Carruthers. I should like to purchase him from Sir Lawrence.”
“My father still has an affection for Standish. He continues to ask about him and he loves to see him ridden. It would be wrong to take that pleasure away from him.
“Besides, how would we manage such a sale? You don’t believe my father capable of any business dealings, and you don’t approve of my conducting them.”
Meacham raised his brows. “Surely I haven’t been so rude as to say any such thing.”
She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “No, but you have thought it. And I have no doubt that you have resolved on having my father declared incompetent at the next quarter sessions. Which would place you in charge of Tarnlea.”
“Your conclusions are somewhat premature, my dear. Shall we just take one step at a time?”
Drucilla could only nod and bite her lip.
Within ten minutes they had reached the first of the tenant cottages. Smoke drifted from each of the chimneys, giving a snug aspect to the snowy scene. There were three groups of them on the estate, of five cottages each, and it had taken her the last two years to bring all of them into acceptable condition.
A number of tasks remained to be accomplished, but Drucilla was grateful that at least the major work had been completed As the solicitor, Mr. Wicker, had become more and more uncomfortable with the estate expenses, she had attempted to push the renovation schedule forward, but winter was not a time when a great deal of construction could take place.
“Two years ago these were ramshackle buildings with open fires in them that blackened everything in sight,” Drucilla explained as Meacham helped her down from the gray mare. “There was no water within easy reach and no privies for proper sanitation. Each cottage had only one large room, no matter how numerous a family occupied it. Now there are several divisions in each building, and often a loft above. And there is a pump for water indoors.”
The viscount was contemplating the neat cottages with interest. “Not everyone would have thought a pump necessary for the cottagers, Miss Carruthers,” he remarked, though with no disapproval in his tone.
“It was a simple enough matter to arrange when we were doing such extensive work. These poor people had suffered for many years with inadequate facilities. I cannot think it will spoil them to have a decent living space.”
“Why was it that their quarters were so deficient even before Sir Lawrence became so ill?” he inquired as he tied their horses to a railing, giving Standish an encouraging pat.
Miss Carruthers, no more than John Thomas or Lady Nibthwaite, vouchsafed him an answer to this query. “Shall we go in?” Drucilla suggested. “I’ve brought some treats for the children, which will provide an excuse. And, of course, the Brewsters will be pleased to meet you.”
The family seemed less pleased than curious, perhaps, but held wide their door to Miss Carruthers. Mrs. Brewster curtsied to Meacham and bid him welcome, while her husband asked after Sir Lawrence’s health. Two children peeked shyly from behind a doorway.
While the couple toured his lordship over their small kingdom, Drucilla beckoned to the children. When they came hesitantly to join her by the fire, she handed each a foil-wrapped confection that she had brought with her. The little girl dropped a sweet curtsy and the younger boy said, “Thank you, miss,” with an adorable lisp that made Drucilla want to hug them.
Before they left, she promised that she and Miss Script would be bringing pillows for the children’s cots for Boxing Day. “We’ve had goose down and goose feathers all over the winter parlor,” she admitted, laughing. “But we’re almost finished.”
As Meacham handed her up onto her horse, Drucilla noted his puzzled frown. “You make a very gracious Lady Bountiful,” he said, not unkindly, “but I cannot think that is the motivation behind all this renovation.”
“I have explained that the cottages were not fit to be occupied, sir.”
“Yes, but neither you nor anyone else has explained to me why you have taken such a demanding task upon yourself,” he persisted as he swung himself onto Standish.
“It is my firm belief that the cottagers and their children will be healthier and happier because of their improved living conditions. And if they are healthier and happier, they will be more productive.”
Meacham regarded her with a reproachful gaze. “What is it you are so afraid of telling me, Miss Carruthers? Do you think I will be censorious? John Thomas has already shown me that the previous estate manager defrauded the estate. Come, is there something worse?”
“You cannot like it that your inheritance has been depleted.”
“My dear lady, I have more than enough property for any man. I’m not so concerned with the expenses as with the condition of the estate. I would have done no less than you have, had I found the tenant conditions at Tarnlea so deplorable as you say. And I certainly don’t hold you responsible for the previous situation. Are you trying to protect your father?”
“He’s a good man.”
“I don’t doubt that he is. Yet you are obviously embarrassed by the deterioration he allowed even before his illness.”
“It was not his fault.”
The viscount’s brows rose. “If not his, then whose?”
Drucilla nudged Glory forward, and the viscount fell in beside her. “He should have paid more attention to the estate, but he trusted his estate manager,” she said, not looking at him. “That was imprudent of him, of course. Would that I had been older at the time and more aware of what was going on!”
“You had more than enough responsibility at such a young age, taking care of household matters. How could you be expected to recognize that problems were developing with the estate?”
This view held little consolation for Drucilla. “How could I not have noticed such misery as the cottagers suffered? The children were forever sick. I brought them soups and gruels from our kitchen, but I considered it not at all out of the ordinary. And yet I was never sick as a child, living in that big house with a fire any time I wanted one, and more than enough food to sustain me.”
“We are all guilty of being blind to the suffering of others from time to time, dear lady. You have done more than most to remedy any unconscious fault.”
“You’re good to say so, but I have sat for years at church listening to our vicar, Mr. Sampson, urge those of us who can well afford it to do our duty by those less fortunate, and yet I did nothing for so very long. I believe we have an obligation to the people who depend on us, don’t you, Lord Meacham?”
There was something she could not identify in the viscount’s indecipherable eyes, but he merely nodded. Drucilla continued, “I don’t come into my inheritance from my mother for another six months, so I have been forced to use funds from Tarnlea. But Miss Script and I have lived in a frugal fashion in order to do our part.”
“I wish you had not,” he protested. “The burden has always rested with the estate. I beg you won’t give another thought to any such claim on your own resources.”
Drucilla sighed and urged her mare to a faster pace. “Do you wish to see another set of cottages or the tenant farms?”
“Another day, perhaps. Let’s head back to T
arnlea.”
“Then let Standish out again, Lord Meacham, if you would. He needs the exercise.” And, Drucilla realized, she would very much enjoy watching the viscount’s expert horsemanship again.
His horsemanship, however, was not the only thing she was aware of as man and beast swept across the barren fields. Meacham’s handsome profile, the solid set of his shoulders, the athletic firmness of his legs—Drucilla could not remember feeling this odd sensation about any man of her acquaintance, and she was not at all sure she wished to feel it about Julian Winslow, Viscount Meacham.
Meacham’s valet helped him into a new coat of blue superfine that fit so exquisitely his services were definitely required in the donning of it. Meacham’s pale buff pantaloons were unexceptionable and his neckcloth tied in a restrained but fashionable style. He regarded himself critically in the cheval glass, then turned away.
The viscount was, in the ordinary course of affairs, indifferent to what he wore and allowed Fallot to discuss such matters only under duress. Certainly here in the country, dining only with Miss Carruthers and her companion, there could be no particular reason to pay heed to his appearance. And yet he brushed off a speck of dust from one sleeve and adjusted his solitary fob before he left his bedchamber.
The two ladies were already awaiting him in the salon, Miss Script in a discreet pastel gown, her former charge in something quite out of the ordinary. Miss Carruthers looked perfectly charming in a gown of such a deliciously rich shade of green that it made her blue eyes startlingly bright.
Meacham reminded himself that he was at Tarnlea to accomplish a specific purpose that had nothing to do with being attracted to an intriguing young woman. He would be wise to pay no heed to the artless curls that framed her face, or the sparkling animation that constantly lit her eyes. If her figure was both elegant and captivating, surely it could be nothing to him. They were to be reacquainted but briefly.
But Meacham could not resist complimenting her on her gown. “I would have no doubt of its origins, but you have not, I believe, ever been to London.”
“Never.”
He studied her thoughtfully. “But your father would not have completely succumbed to his illness by the time you were seventeen. I’m surprised he didn’t insist upon a Season for you. He could have applied to my mother to act as your chaperone and introduction to society. She was familiar with the routine,” he said, a rueful smile curving his lips, “having successfully launched two daughters of her own.”
Miss Carruthers said placidly, “London is not to everyone’s taste, Lord Meacham. Do you keep a house there?”
Meacham suspected that Miss Carruthers would have enjoyed London very much indeed, with her lively disposition and her quick understanding, but he refrained from saying so. “Yes, I have a house in Grosvenor Square, though it has not been much used these two years since my mother died. Occasionally I let it for the Season to a suitable family.”
Without at all meaning to, he added, “I would be more than pleased for you to make use of it if, for instance, Lady Nibthwaite were to bundle you off there for a few weeks’ entertainment. I think you would like London—once you grew accustomed to the noise and the bustle. There are wonderful shops, and delightful entertainments, and fascinating people.”
“I’m needed at Tarnlea,” she said somewhat defiantly. Then with a more conciliating air, she added, “I have only country manners, sir, and am used to a freedom not allowed a young lady in the city. I can scarce imagine not being able to ride where I wish, or not walking alone along the pavements.”
“For every disadvantage, there is a compensating advantage.”
“Well, as it is unlikely I shall go there, it cannot matter.” Her abstracted gaze became wistful and she admitted, “Though I should dearly love to see a play at Drury Lane, or watch the equestrian events at Astley’s Amphitheater. Miss Script and I have read of them in books and journals, and sometimes I can almost picture myself there.”
With very little effort, Meacham, too, could picture her there, all eagerness and ingenuous delight. Her open manners would attract the sort of people she would like, though certainly there would be those who frowned on them. What could it matter that the highest of sticklers would find her too unpolished and forward? She would not care for them at all.
If Hastings had not arrived then to announce dinner, Meacham might have described some of London’s more intriguing pastimes. But the butler nodded conspiratorially at him as the ladies gathered up their skirts and rose. Meacham offered an arm to each lady, his eyes full of a surprising playfulness that made Drucilla cock her head at him and ask, “What is it? Have I said something I ought not?”
“Not at all. It is I who have taken a liberty with your home for which I beg you will forgive me. In the spirit of the season, however, I found I could not resist.”
A beaming Hastings threw open the door to the dining room, and Drucilla gasped at the sight. The room was aglow with candlelight, wax tapers marched the length of the table and perched in the windows and on the side tables. Boughs of greenery were hung along the walls, decorated with red bows and gold ribbon and silver bells. The silver shone, the glass globes twinkled, the crystal chandelier above the table reflected light merrily over all. The chamber was redolent of evergreens and roast goose, with a hint of mince pies to come.
Miss Script, her eyes moist with nostalgia, said, “Oh, it’s just like Christmas used to be, Drucilla. Look, they have found the bells and the wonderful Italian angel your mama brought from her home when she came here as a bride. It’s like a fairyland.”
At first sight of the room Drucilla had felt close to tears herself. It was impossible not to remember the many years she and her companion had tried to recreate the festive holiday atmosphere her mother had once lavished on the whole of Tarnlea. But it was some time now since they had attempted even a minimal effort at celebrating the season, what with her father ill and their attempt to trim household expenses.
Drucilla raised glowing eyes to Meacham. “It’s magical. I’ve never seen it look more beautiful. You have indeed invaded my territory, sir, but how could I not forgive you? It was incredibly kind of you! And you have gotten all the servants in on it as well, I see.” Hastings stood beaming at the door, the housekeeper beside him with her hands folded in obvious satisfaction. Behind them were others, their faces wreathed with pleasure. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you all.” When Drucilla returned her gaze to Meacham, she found him observing her in a way that made her feel a little breathless. He was a man who held her future and that of everyone at Tarnlea in his hands, and yet by degrees she was coming to trust him. Maybe more than trust him.
The viscount raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. “A trifle early, perhaps, but no matter. Happy Christmas, cousin.”
“Happy Christmas, my lord.”
After Meacham and the two ladies had visited Sir Lawrence to share with him some sweetmeats Mrs. Kamidge had made especially for him and a kaleidoscope the viscount had purchased in the village, they retired to the salon, still basking in the pleasure of their meal and the delightful surprise he had arranged for them.
The knowledge had grown on Drucilla all evening that she was developing strong feelings for Lord Meacham. Previously, she had been so busy trying to direct the course of their interchanges, needing to hide certain thing and explain others, that she had not acknowledged the full force of his character. She had been aware during dinner that the viscount had set himself to amuse her and make her forget her many concerns for one evening. And she admired the way he showed respect to her father, even when Sir Lawrence was acting his most bizarre.
In the salon Drucilla found herself almost shy. Suddenly Meacham seemed far too sophisticated and elegant for their little family circle. This man undoubtedly had a place in London society, where people would listen to him and respect his opinions. Until tonight she had thought of him as one of the family, a country gentleman good-humoredly carrying out his duty.
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br /> “Is something the matter?” he asked, taking a seat opposite her on the sofa.
“Oh, no! You’ve given us such a memorable evening. Shall I play something on the pianoforte?”
“Oh, do,” said Miss Script sleepily. “Something very soft and melodic, Drucilla. Nothing vigorous, if you please. Unless Lord Meacham should object.”
“Music is the very thing we need to crown our evening.” He rose as Drucilla did and moved to stand by her stool. “If you will let me turn the music for you, I promise to pay attention.”
“Which is more than May shall be able to do,” she whispered, aware that Miss Script had already closed her eyes. Within minutes her companion was gently snoring, her head fallen down against the chair’s projecting wing. Drucilla played the song to its end, but looked up then to Meacham, a fragile smile on her lips. “May I ask you something?”
“By all means.”
“Have you always done the right thing? I mean, is there nothing in your own life to look back on with regret?”
Meacham’s momentary puzzlement was quickly replaced by an understanding of the significance of the question. “Oh, my dear, you’re quite wide of the mark if you’re envisioning me as some paragon of virtue. Come, I’ll tell you an instructive Christmas story.”
He caught her hand and drew her to her feet. For a moment they stood remarkably close, gazes locked on one another, a strangely powerful emotion drawing them together. Alarmed, Drucilla dropped her eyes and moved unsteadily to the sofa, where Meacham seated himself only slightly apart, close enough to retain possession of her hand.
“You remember me when I was twelve—all stiff and righteous and unbending. Doesn’t that seem to you something to look back on with regret?”
“But you were a boy. You had too many responsibilities for your age.”
Meacham nodded reminiscently. “I took it all very seriously, even when I was away at Eton. And then when I was nineteen I came to town, to London, with a friend of mine. And simply ran mad!”
