A Regency Christmas VI

by Mary Balogh, Jo Beverley, Sandra Heath, Edith Layton, Laura Matthews

  Drucilla looked doubtful. “I find that hard to believe.”

  “Nevertheless, it was true. I had never experienced that degree of freedom, that heady realization that I had the resources to do whatever I wished. We were up to every lark—boxing with Gentleman Jackson, betting on which raindrop would slide down the glass fastest at White’s, off to every prizefight and horse race, gambling in games that were far too rich for our blood, even though he, too, came from a well-heeled family.”

  “Did you not go to any of the balls and ridottos?” she asked wistfully.

  “Most assuredly we did, but they were pretty tame for us. Standing up with our sisters, and doing the pretty to the girls one’s mother introduced to one. William and I were ripe for trouble, not for something so subtle as flirtation or social pleasantries. Eventually we were taken in by a very clever gamester who was introduced by William’s cousin.”

  “What happened?”

  “Less than we deserved,” he admitted ruefully. “You see, William’s father is a remarkably clever fellow. Though he gave William plenty of rein, he always had his eye on his son from a distance and he allowed things to go only so far before he stepped in.”

  “Didn’t William consider that interfering?”

  “I suppose he would have, if he had not already realized that we were about to disgrace ourselves. In the most gracious manner possible, the earl showed us how to set things right. More than that, he and his wife rather adopted me into their already large family. Spending time with them had a very beneficial effect on me.”

  “Do you think so?” she teased.

  Meacham met her quizzing with a placid smile. “So I believe. It was comforting to know that an older, wiser head was concerned with my progress in the world. With my father dead and my mother of a singularly retiring disposition, I had felt very much adrift. As you do, I think.”

  “And are you to be my older, wiser head?”

  “I would very much like to help you, cousin. I’m older, certainly, and more knowledgeable about certain matters, but I won’t claim to be wiser. Still, I think there are things you are reluctant to discuss. I wish you could learn to trust me.”

  Drucilla’s hand squirmed under his, but he steadily retained hold. Her eyes did not meet his when she said, “You are very kind, sir. There is nothing, I think, that you need to know which is being withheld.”

  “Perhaps not,” he agreed, giving the hand a light squeeze and allowing her to withdraw it. “And there is no reason that you should place such dependence upon me. However, I would be honored if you did.”

  Drucilla’s lips trembled, but she forced herself to say, “It is late and I really ought to see Miss Script up to her room. Thank you so much for your delightful Christmas surprise.”

  Meacham regarded her with calm acceptance. “It was a great pleasure for me to arrange it, my dear. Sleep well.”

  It was not, in fact, very late at all, and after Miss Carruthers’s withdrawal from the salon, Meacham decided that there was no reason why he should sit before the cozy fire, drinking exceptional brandy, when he could ride out on a coldly bitter night to the only inn he had discovered in the closest village. Off the main road, it was not a coaching inn, but its attractions for the local residents were surely enough to lure someone out on a moonlit night.

  When he had given over Standish to a lad who promised him a warm stall for the next hour, Meacham entered the inn, brushing flakes of snow from his coat and stomping his boots. There was a festive air to the taproom, with a fire blazing in the hearth and greenery hung over the windows and doors, tied with large red bows.

  Meacham requested a tankard of ale from the ruddy faced landlord and sat down at a rough wooden table. Stretching his long legs out toward the burning logs, he discreetly surveyed the thinly populated room. In the opposite corner were two rough country men, to whom he nodded cordially. Nearer at hand sat two elegantly dressed gentlemen, younger than himself and obviously aspiring to a higher standard of fashion than generally prevailed in the country. Instead of the informal neckerchiefs he had seen sported on his earlier visit to the town, this pair wore neckcloths of pristine whiteness, carefully shaped into what Meacham guessed to be a tortured version of the Waterfall.

  The viscount was aware that there was some interest piqued by his appearance in the room, both the youths and the older men covertly stealing glances at him. When one of the younger gentlemen came over to toss another log on the fire, he said to Meacham, “I’ve not seen you here before, sir. Are you staying in the area?”

  “At Tarnlea, for a few days,” he answered willingly enough.

  “If that don’t beat all! My family has known the Carruthers family forever. Allow me to introduce myself—James Slocum, sir, at your service.” The young man swept him an impressive bow and indicated his companion. “That’s Charles Gladham, who has lived here all his life as well.”

  “Julian Winslow,” Meacham said. “Please join me.” The two youngsters, whom he judged to be about twenty years of age, took seats opposite him, and Meacham ordered another round of ales from the landlord. “So you’ve known Sir Lawrence and Miss Carruthers for many years.”

  “Oh, lord, yes,” James Slocum assured him. “Drucilla is only a year older than I am. Known each other since we were in leading strings. Sir Lawrence was used to...” But he stopped abruptly and asked, “You’ve seen Sir Lawrence, haven’t you, sir?”

  “Yes. I was much shocked by his condition. Until recently I was not aware of how badly his mind ... wanders.”

  Gladham nodded energetically. “So we hear, but the old gentleman hasn’t been out of the house in ... oh, years, I should think.”

  “My mother visits Drucilla and her companion, of course,” Slocum explained. “Not that she sees Sir Lawrence on her calls. Well, I daresay she wouldn’t wish to, would she? Mad as a hatter, the poor devil. But it’s the sort of thing one might have expected.”

  “Is it?” Meacham asked, surprised.

  “Not at all!” protested Gladham. “There’s not a drop of madness in the family that I know of.”

  “Of course there’s not,” Slocum retorted. “But, lord, the way the man drank! Might have driven a lesser man crazy years ago.”

  Gladham could not accept this and stated, “Never knew a man to go mad of drink, Jimmy. Not like Sir Lawrence, at all events. It was his wife’s dying that pushed him over the top.”

  “Hardly!” returned his friend. “That happened eons ago. Everyone knows that.”

  “Yes, but my father says it was her dying that drove him to drink,” Gladham reminded him. He turned to the viscount and explained, “Made him a bit unbalanced, don’t you know? Everyone says so.”

  Slocum glared at him. “Well, I don’t know about that. The fellow was a bruising rider to hounds long after Lady Carruthers died. Had some of the finest hunters in the county.”

  Gladham took a long draw on his ale and appeared to consider this. “Thing is, that’s all he cared for, demme.”

  “By God, it isn’t,” rejoined young Slocum. “Can’t say he didn’t care for Drucilla, Charles. Not an unnatural father, Sir Lawrence.”

  Much struck by this, Gladham relented. “So he did, so he did. Took her riding, didn’t he? I could almost have felt sorry for her, though, little bitty thing up on one of those great hunters. Don’t know as I could have done it at that age. She had the stoutest heart of any of us. Never cried craven about the biggest, wildest horse he put her on. She could ride anything.”

  “She don’t anymore,” said Slocum. “Saw her on that gray mare the other day. Nice bit of blood, of course, but no high flyer.”

  “Treated her more like a boy than a girl,” mused Gladham.

  Slocum nodded sapiently. “No heir,” he said succinctly. “Some distant cousin gets the place when he dies.”

  Meacham coughed apologetically and said, “I’m the cousin, I’m afraid.”

  The two youthful gentlemen stared at him in something of a bosky h
aze and exchanged embarrassed glances. Slocum straightened his slender body. “No offense meant, I’m sure, sir.”

  “None taken,” Meacham assured him. “Another round?”

  “Don’t mind if I do,” Gladham agreed. “Have you seen Standish?”

  “Yes, and ridden him. I wouldn’t bet a guinea that I’ve ridden a more promising animal.”

  “Finest piece of horseflesh this county has seen in a dozen years,” Slocum informed him, and proceeded to bicker with his friend as to whether his own Rufus or Gladham’s Mars ranked first of the hunters originally owned by the baronet.

  When Meacham eventually made his way back to Tarnlea on Standish, he had much to think about. The sharp clarity of the night seemed in keeping with his thoughts, which were centered, as they had been so often lately, on his cousin. It was obvious now that all Drucilla’s efforts had been to prevent his learning of her father’s careless and unbecoming behavior, both with regard to the estate and to herself. What astonishing loyalty from someone who had not been treated with even ordinary consideration!

  As he rode down the lane that skirted the Tarnlea property, he imagined a young Drucilla mounted on one of her father’s enormous hunters, frightened but determined not to admit it. Meacham thought that perhaps she’d been forced all her life to accept responsibilities that were only with astonishing courage within her grasp. Not many women in similar circumstances could have turned into the delightful creature he had spent so much time with these last few days.

  The avenue of oak trees leading up to Tarnlea looked ghostly in the pale moonlight, but the building itself seemed grandly solid and enduring. Meacham had developed an affection for this ancient property, something he would not have expected on that morning of his arrival. Tarnlea then had seemed merely another problem in search of a solution, and one he had taken on only out of a stringent sense of duty. He had considered sending his secretary, a very capable young man, who would have surveyed the situation and brought him an admirable report. The thought distressed Meacham inordinately.

  He would not have been reacquainted with Drucilla, would not have seen with his own eyes her courage and her capabilities. His secretary could not possibly have conveyed her mischievous-angel face, or the resolute sincerity of her eyes. No secondhand account of Drucilla could capture the innate liveliness or the subtle innocence of this remarkable lady.

  Meacham knew that, from a distance, he might have ordained a resolution to the Tarnlea situation that would have shown his cousin very little more consideration than her father had done. The prospect appalled him. And yet, on the scene and faced with all the necessary evidence himself, he was no closer to knowing what he should do.

  How could he walk away from Tarnlea? Oh, it would be simple enough to put someone in charge of the estate. That wasn’t the problem at all. Nor was Sir Lawrence the problem. Drucilla was the problem.

  As Meacham swung down from Standish at the Tarnlea stables, he ruefully admitted to himself that his time spent here had changed his life. Drucilla had become a necessary part of it and he would not willingly leave her behind. But he hadn’t the faintest notion if she returned his regard. She had given no more indication than perhaps he had himself.

  Well, there was nothing for it but to put it to the touch, he thought as he relinquished Standish to the sleepy waiting groom. An alarming prospect, the viscount acknowledged, when all one’s happiness depended on the outcome.

  Though Meacham was up early the following morning, he was not able to catch Miss Carruthers at the breakfast table. When he noticed that her place had already been removed, he turned a questioning gaze on Hastings, who said apologetically, “Miss Carruthers has gone to look for Teddy.”

  “Teddy?” the viscount repeated.

  “The goat, milord.”

  “Of course. What else would she be doing than searching for the lost sheep?” Meacham inquired rhetorically.

  Hastings gave a discreet cough. “Actually, it is a goat, milord. Sir Lawrence is excessively fond of goat’s milk in his tea.”

  Meacham thought this sounded positively disgusting but asked, “Where would Miss Carruthers be likely to look for the ... er ... Teddy?”

  “It’s difficult to say. Once she was found at the home wood, another time beyond the spinney.”

  “Would Miss Carruthers have ridden?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. The goat has roamed far afield at times.”

  Meacham made a hasty repast and headed toward the stables. He was already dressed for riding, as he had hoped to induce his cousin to take some exercise with him. Glory was gone from her box, and Meacham tapped his whip against his top-booted foot as Standish was saddled.

  The stallion was restive, tossing his head and stamping his hooves. The groom grinned at Meacham and said, “He’s going to be a wicked one to handle this morning, my lord. Seen him this way before. He’ll try to unload you in the first pasture.”

  “Thank you for the warning. Do you know which way Miss Carruthers headed?”

  “Toward the spinney, but more’n half an hour gone.”

  Meacham swung himself onto the horse, who was attempting to sidle toward a railing. Not wishing to have his leg crushed, the viscount spoke firmly to his mount and held the reins in a powerful grip. Standish obeyed, but Meacham knew he only awaited an opportunity to unseat his rider.

  Clear of the stable yard, Meacham gave him his head across the first pasture, bearing in mind the groom’s caution. Standish shied wildly at a rabbit leaping in front of him, a perfectly normal occurrence in the country. Meacham had no difficulty in retaining his perch, but Standish was far from finished with his antics. Amused, the viscount endured the bucking, twisting, and bolting with no more than a sharp dig of his heels or a tightening grip on the reins. At length the horse tired of his tricks and settled into a headlong gallop that would have outpaced many of the racehorses Meacham had backed in his younger days.

  He scanned the spinney, and beyond it a tenant farm, to more pasture land. To the east there was an avenue of oak trees that led up to Tarnlea, to the south a glimpse of water. Meacham had not as yet ridden toward the tarn for which he assumed Tarnlea was named, and with a frown turned Standish in that direction. Buttermere Lake was much further away, out of the present range of his vision. But in the vicinity of the tarn he detected movement that looked very much like a riderless horse.

  Distance was deceptive on the hazy December morning, and it took him ten minutes to arrive at the scene. He could easily identify Glory when he was still some little way from the mare, but she was indeed without her rider. Glory was not tied to any bush or tree, though there were plenty surrounding her.

  Meacham saw no evidence of his cousin, but the mare was in a little depression nearer him than the water. A shale-covered hillock behind the mare shielded much from his view.

  “Drucilla!” he called, grasping Glory’s reins. “Are you here?”

  A faint response reached his ears, but he could not be certain of its direction. He swung down from Standish and tied his mount to a nearby tree, trusting that Glory would stay nearby. On foot he scrambled up the steep slope toward the water, fearing that his cousin had attempted to ride Glory up it and been thrown. As he crested the hill he saw that it was far otherwise. His cousin was down on her knees, wrapping a bleating white and brown goat in her own cloak.

  “Drucilla,” he said quietly, so as not to startle her.

  Drucilla looked up at him with surprise. “Meacham! I thought it would be Rail. He’s out looking for Teddy, too. Have you seen him?”

  Meacham shook his head. “Perhaps he searched in the opposite direction. Are you perfectly all right?”

  “Yes,” she said with a wry smile, “but this stupid goat has done herself an injury. I found her in the water with her foot caught between two rocks, and though I have managed to release it, she does not seem to be able to walk.”

  “I don’t see how she could with your coat wrapped around her that way,” he said, placi
ng his own upon her shoulders. When Drucilla moved to protest, he said, “You’ll catch your death.”

  “Well, if one of us has to freeze,” she said, with a pert smile, “I’m certainly glad it’s you. I cannot tolerate cold weather.” Which was true enough, but mainly because she knew that her nose got red and her eyes watered unbecomingly when she was chilled. His coat felt heavy and warm, and she’d been out in the cold longer than she’d planned.

  Meacham was regarding her with a look that was not at all indecipherable in his eyes. Drucilla felt somewhat abashed at his decidedly tender gaze and busied herself slipping her arms into his coat and wrapping it tightly about her. After a moment he reached over to lift the collar against her neck before saying brusquely, “I’ll carry the goat. Let’s get you back to Tarnlea where you can put on dry clothes and warm yourself before a fire.”

  Teddy bleated pathetically as she was picked up, but she allowed herself to settle into the viscount’s arms without a struggle. Her long legs made her an exceedingly awkward burden. Meacham remarked caustically that he planned to remove goat carrying from the list of things he was willing to do for his cousin. Drucilla preceded him, grinning appreciatively as he maneuvered his way over the slippery shale and down to the solid ground below.

  “I was afraid you had suffered a fall when I found Glory without her rider.” Meacham set the goat down on the ground and Teddy scrambled to stand up, only to subside again when she could not bear her own weight.

  Drucilla placed her foot in the hands Meacham held out for her, and he tossed her neatly up onto her horse. “She’ll stay where I tell her to, if I drop the reins over her head. Why don’t you hand Teddy up to me? I would dearly love to see you try to mount with her in your arms, or holding her on Standish while you swing into the saddle, but I’m afraid she would be the worse for it.”

  The viscount, who had been wondering how to best accomplish this feat, said, “I trust Glory will be more tolerant of Teddy than I fear Standish would. How were you planning to manage if you’d been on your own?”