The Chaperone's Secret

by Donna Lea Simpson

  She watched the marquess for a moment and considered his odd behavior to Lady Rowena. He watched her often, and in any other gentleman she would have thought his behavior an indication he was a fair way to being in love with her himself, but he seemed to watch her to criticize. He often made cutting remarks and was wont to point out her faults of behavior. Granted, he did not do it in front of anyone else—she had only overheard him a couple of times herself by accident and because it was her duty to be near her charge—but Amy was fascinated by Rowena’s response. She appeared to be doing everything in her power to impress him. And yet he would not be impressed, remaining stolid in the face of her most enchanting flirtatious behavior.

  A serving girl brought in a plate of cream cakes, a pitcher of buttermilk, and a flask of port for the gentlemen. Tea was also provided, and an apple tart glazed to an exquisite sheen. Amy thought she had never seen such fine country cookery and said so to the sweet-faced maid, by her looks the landlord’s daughter.

  The company fell silent as they indulged in the treats arrayed before them. It was an informal party, so the gentlemen helped the ladies to some of the food, with Lord Bainbridge the most attentive. He poured tea with a twitch to his mouth and a joking comment that he was playing mother.

  All was well for a time until Rowena, taking a large mouthful of a cream cake, choked and her face turned a brilliant scarlet. She stiffened, but then spat out the food in her mouth in the most unladylike way and let out a string of vulgarities that turned Amy scarlet too, just to hear them. The young woman stopped only to take a long swallow of buttermilk, and it dribbled down her chin as she gulped deeply.

  “What is wrong with you, Rowena?” Amy said, leaping up from her chair and approaching her charge.

  “What is wrong is that this food, th-this cream cake has p-pepper in it! I got a mouthful of pepper!”

  Lord Pierson had leaped up to aid her as well, but unfortunately his precipitate movement somehow unsettled the pitcher of buttermilk and it rocked and then tipped, spilling down onto Lady Rowena’s fine spring cloak. That was the end of any hope of peace, as Lady Rowena leaped to her feet and pulled off her cloak, screaming like the banshees the Donegals used to tease their children about. Amy called Lady Rowena’s maid, who had been in the kitchen having tea, and sent the two out of the room to deal with the results of her string of misfortunes. Lord Pierson followed briefly to ensure that the landlord was informed of their need for hot water and cloths.

  Lord Newton-Shrewsbury appeared almost smug, and Amy recalled Lord Bainbridge’s conjecture that he, somehow, was responsible. But surely he was nowhere near Rowena just then, or was he? He had been seated beside her at first, but then had changed seats to sit beside Lady Harriet. Then she caught Lord Bainbridge’s eye. That gentleman was doing his best to conceal a smile, and Amy felt her instincts twitch unhappily. Lord Bainbridge. Why would he be intent on torturing poor Rowena?

  She sat back down as the maid came in and cleaned up the spilled buttermilk and smeared cream cake. Lord Bainbridge winked at the girl and slipped her a crown surreptitiously. Amy wondered if that was some sort of bribe or just an apology for the fuss and bother they had caused her. Should she accuse him outright, or was it ludicrous to even suspect he had anything to do with the recent spate of accidents?

  He had been absent from the room for a while, supposedly out speaking to his groom. He could have tampered with the cream cakes . . . but that was ridiculous to even contemplate! Worried and puzzled, Amy paced outside into the fresh air to think for a moment, and felt rather than saw someone follow her. She turned to find it was Lord Pierson.

  “Are you all right, Miss Corbett? This has not upset you, has it?”

  “No, not at all. I’m puzzled by this continuing string of misfortune, but not upset.”

  “Lady Rowena is in a fair taking,” he said gloomily. “I apologized as best I could for upsetting the pitcher of buttermilk, but she would not listen to me.”

  “She will once she has calmed. She’s just agitated right now.”

  They paced to the terrace overlooking a hedgerow and the gently sloping valley beyond. It was the end of a lovely spring day, Amy thought, and she should be as happy as the proverbial lark, since Lord Pierson appeared to be completely intent on wooing Rowena, and contrary to her long-stated objection to marriage, she seemed amenable to being wooed. If he just did it the right way, though. The duke’s daughter was not a girl to be wooed with talk of an estate that needed work and years of toil ahead.

  So how would she deal with the reality of such a life? Lord Pierson, for all he had the reputation of a rake and rogue, seemed a most sober young man now, intent on reformation. Amy felt an unwilling spurt of respect added to her attraction toward him, but didn’t think his new steadiness would inspire such a feeling in Rowena, who would have preferred he act as impulsively and erratically as was his reputation. Should she advise him on how best to woo the fractious girl, or would putting such things into words be indelicate or even unproductive? It did seem, unfortunately, that Lord Pierson’s feelings for Rowena were based on her appearance of dove-like mildness and sweetness of temper.

  She glanced up at him, the strong line of his jaw just darkening from the bristle of beard coming in. His arms were folded over his chest and she thought that he looked the very image of a well-dressed Vulcan, dark and handsome but brooding, too.

  “My lord, Lady Rowena is volatile, I know, but good at heart. Don’t concern yourself with her outburst, please.”

  “What? Oh, no, Miss Corbett, I was not brooding on that, I assure you.” He smiled at her. “Shall we walk?” he continued, indicating a winding path that followed the hedgerow. “It will take a while, I think, for her maid to dry Lady Rowena off. We must go soon, for it is beginning to get dark, but we still have an hour or more of daylight.”

  Amy acquiesced and the viscount took her arm.

  They were silent for a few minutes, but then Lord Pierson cleared his throat. “You know,” he said, “I have spoken more to you of my plans than to any living person, even Bainbridge, and he is my best friend in the world.”

  “I’m honored, my lord.”

  “You just seem to inspire me to talk. I feel like I am boiling up with things I’m thinking of and longing for and needing to do. But Lady Rowena is . . . well, she’s so lighthearted and spirited. I can’t blame her for not wanting to speak of dry subjects like my recovery of Delacorte.”

  But if she loved you, anything you said would be fascinating. The thought came unbidden to Amy, and she tamped it down furiously, angry at herself for letting such a traitorous thought have a voice, even if it went unspoken. She rushed into speech, reluctant to think too long on her own feelings and how they had become entangled in Lord Pierson’s life and desires. “Is there so very much to do at Delacorte, then?” Twilight’s golden hue colored the hedgerow and lush valley grass a brilliant green, and it took all of Amy’s considerable willpower to keep her mind on any topic at all when she was so very content just walking on Lord Pierson’s arm.

  “There is. It’s not irrecoverable at this point, I hope, but I will need to make plans, plans that will encompass decades, not just years. And I’ve never applied myself, so I haven’t any idea of where to start. I’m taking advice from Bainbridge’s man, who has been very helpful so far. Frankly . . .” He paused and glanced down at her. “I shouldn’t be so very candid with Lady Rowena’s chaperone, should I? However, you inspire confidence, Miss Corbett, and I seem to forget, when I’m with you that you will be the one with influence over Lady Rowena and her future.”

  He was silent for a long minute. “I really don’t know what I’m doing. I have made a start by hiring a new land manager through Bainbridge, whose man was able to recommend someone. But I’ll have to go to Kent and make some plans, and that, inevitably, will involve confessing to this new fellow my absolute ignorance. He will despise me.”

  “Not at all,” she said softly. “He will respect you for your wi
llingness to learn and your determination to do better than your father and grandfather.”

  “And I will do better. Miss Corbett, I’ve been wild, impetuous. My title has been dragged through the muck by three generations and stands at very low tide. I’m not saying anything to you now that hasn’t likely been said by others. But I am determined that I will be different. I’m willing to work long and hard at it. I just wish I had awoken to this ambition earlier in my life instead of frittering my time away in London.”

  “I cannot tell you how much I honor you for your determination and your brilliant plans,” Amy said, squeezing the viscount’s arm to her side in a reassuring manner.

  “My first step, I have decided, is to attach and marry a young lady of worth, of morality and goodness. She will be my shining beacon, my moral compass!” Pierson’s voice trembled, full of emotion. “I have vowed to be guided by her gentle hand and submit myself wholly to the joys of marriage. She will direct me away from vice and folly and toward respectability.”

  Doubt overwhelmed Amy. There was so much to fret upon in his words, not the least of which was the absolute lack of similarity between the young lady he described and Lady Rowena, his supposed object. But she must not contradict him there, and in fact her concern went much deeper, to the very heart of the problem. “My lord,” she said, “I think . . . are you not approaching things from the wrong direction? In fact . . .” She took a deep breath. “I must say this, my lord: that is rubbish! Out of line totally.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Amy hesitated, but then plunged ahead. “You cannot make another person your moral compass. Really, my lord, it is every person’s responsibility in life to come to an understanding about correct behavior.”

  “I have done wretchedly until now.”

  “But admit it, in your own heart you knew you were doing wrong . . . or at least omitting to do right. I think you always knew, and if you had listened to your heart you would have understood what to do. If you want to change it is entirely up to you. No one else will be able to make you over, and certainly, with all the power in this world residing in male hands, no wife is going to be able to do that chore.”

  He stood and stared at her for a moment, her hand still held in his. With his free hand he had just plucked a new leaf from the budding hedgerow and he twirled it in his fingers. “What should I do then? What would you advise? I mean, if you were going to give advice, which you are clearly loath to do.”

  She chuckled, gazing up at him, the golden light of twilight blazing in his warm brown eyes. He was so very different from his reputation, she mused, that she would never again judge anyone by what others said. And yet he clearly had a wild side, one she regrettably found intriguing. It exposed an impetuous and impulsive heart, and in her own controlled, quiet existence a little spontaneity would have been a welcome thing. With his infatuation for Lady Rowena, of course, he would never look at someone like her, but she could be his friend.

  But if he wanted advice—

  “You cannot marry goodness and expect it to rub off on you, my lord,” she said, her tone gentle. “I think you already know this deep inside but I will say it anyway: you have to start within yourself. You might be surprised at how true your own compass will be if you let it guide you. Change will not come easily, for you have a lifetime of habit to battle, but if you’re sincere and really want to make a difference to Delacorte, the people who work for you, and for yourself, you can do it.”

  Slowly, he nodded. “You’ve given me much to think of, Miss Corbett. And now I think we should return to the inn, for it is past time that we should be on our way.”

  They walked back slowly, silently. Once back at the inn the carriage was waiting, and Amy was sure Rowena would question her closely about where she had been with Lord Pierson, but the girl was silent and stiff, sitting and looking straight ahead. Even Lord Bainbridge looked stiff and angry. Amy wondered if she had missed some set-to.

  But she had given up for the time being her usual role of mediator and smoother of ruffled emotions. She would let everyone be in a foul mood if that was their preference. For herself, she was going to go back to London and remember the golden light in Lord Pierson’s warm eyes, and how it had bathed her for a brief time in delight.

  Eighteen

  The day had been a long one and they were committed to a card party that evening. Later, when they arrived back home from it—it had been exceedingly dull—and Rowena was in her room having her hair braided for sleep, Amy entered.

  Lady Rowena had been unusually quiet all evening. The day’s events had been upsetting, Amy surmised, and she was exhausted and agitated, an unusual state for the duke’s daughter. Her own suspicions about the origin of the string of accidents was upsetting to herself, but unanswered. She could not imagine a reason in the world why Lord Bainbridge would plan such a nasty attack against Lady Rowena, and yet who else would she accuse? There were far too many incidences to dismiss it as chance.

  She waited until the maid finished and Lady Rowena, with a tired wave of her hand, dismissed the dour woman, who took her mistress’s clothes into the connecting dressing room to hang for repair and cleaning. Rowena met Amy’s eyes and frowned. She opened her mouth to speak but then closed it again.

  Answering some plea that went wordless, Amy knelt by her side and took the girl’s hands. “Rowena, are you all right? You did not get a chill today, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Come, let me tuck you in,” Amy said and pulled the young woman to her feet.

  Rowena was no child but she obediently crossed to her bed, climbed in, and allowed Amy to pull the covers up to her chin.

  It seemed to Amy from what she had gathered over the months living in the duke’s household that as the youngest child, Rowena had been spoiled and indulged by her three much older sisters to such a shocking degree that how she had turned out was a foregone conclusion. Would someone as infatuated as Lord Pierson ever exert the demands on her that would force her to grow up into a woman, or would she need to scramble into that learning herself over the years, as she became a mother and matron? Perhaps it would be best if she waited to marry until some of that maturation had taken place.

  Amy sat on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her. “Are you happy with your life, Rowena?” she asked, without quite knowing why. The girl had never shown a moment of introspection.

  Rowena blinked and stared up at the canopy of her ornate bed. “I have always thought so, unless I was crossed, which didn’t happen often. But I’m not sure now. Amy, have you ever been in love?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh.”

  “Why?”

  “I was just wondering how one knows? All the girls say it is when you can’t sleep and can’t eat and you’re floating on a cloud. They say your beau seems just perfect to you. But then, most of them have since married and it appears to me that they went rapidly from that stage to detesting their husbands, or at the very least disliking them. I only know one girl who married and still has a pleasant word to say about her husband.”

  “I think that wedded happiness and the kind of love you are talking about, the not-eating-not-sleeping kind, do not get on very well,” Amy said mildly. “I think a marriage can likely be very successful even without love, if the two are committed to being kind to each other.”

  “Kindness.” Rowena stretched and yawned, blinking sleepily. “Do you think that’s important in a husband?”

  Amy smiled, thinking about Lord Pierson and his gentle nature, despite the wild stories about him. “I do think kindness is important.”

  “Then I’m quite sure Lord Bainbridge will never marry, for he is very unkind. He said the most horrible things to me!” Her pretty face was twisted in a scowl and she plucked at her bedspread.

  “Lord Bainbridge?” Amy said, surprised. “I can’t believe that. He has always been the soul of kindness to me.”

  “Yes, well, he detests me, I’m sur
e of it.” Rowena punched her pillow and turned onto her side. “He says the most awful things to me. He says I am spoiled and unpleasant and childish.”

  Amy was silent. What could she say to counter what was, after all, only the truth?

  But Rowena didn’t need an answer; she continued, “So how does one truly know when one is in love?”

  Amy considered her answer carefully. “I think that when you love a gentleman, you want . . .” She consulted her own feelings, for despite what she had asserted to Rowena, she suspected she knew what it was to love, even though that love expected no return. Softly she went on, “You want what is best for him. You want to be with him and it doesn’t matter where you are, just as long as you’re together. You’re willing to compromise, to bend and grow together and not insist on your own way in everything.”

  “Oh.” Rowena, her expression thoughtful, frowned. “I’m not sure, then. That sounds very much like not getting to do what one wants most of the time.”

  Amy sighed. Had she even now pushed herself into poverty? She laid her hand over Rowena’s on the pale coverlet and stroked the girl’s hand. “I think if you are truly in love, and you examine your heart without vanity or stubbornness, you’ll know.”

  • • •

  Pierson and Bainbridge had spent the evening together too, though not at the card party Amy and Rowena attended. They were at their club and it was very late. They had both been silent for some time.

  “Pierson, we must talk,” Bainbridge blurted out finally.

  The viscount gazed at his friend, assessing him anew. The marquess was agitated, restless, and that was unlike him, for Bainbridge was the calmest, coolest fellow Pierson had ever met. “You were very cruel to Lady Rowena today,” Pierson said. “You called her spoiled. It upset her.”