A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  “No, dearest, you weren’t,” she responded with a chuckle and a smile. She turned to Morris. “What do you think? Has he broken—anything?” She dreaded the thought that he might have tumbled from his curricle and shattered his spine.

  Augusta drew close and snapped her book shut. “Yes, Morris, what do you say?” Augusta, though frequently lost in the library for hours on end, and who relied more than she ought on the knowledge from books, enjoyed a tender heart.

  Morris leaned back on his heels and frowned. “He has movement in all his limbs—”

  “Thank God,” Constance breathed in unison with Augusta.

  Morris continued. “However, he has quite a lump at the back of his head.”

  “I see,” Constance said, her heart lightening. “Well then, let’s move him to the buttery—”

  “Not the buttery, Constance,” Marianne said, petting the young man’s head as she might a cat. “Take him to one of the spare chambers that he might enjoy a comfortable bed.” She looked down at him with a sigh. “He is clearly a gentleman and would be used to a good bed and properly aired sheets.”

  Constance frowned at her next-oldest sister, who was gazing on the young man’s face with a familiar expression that bespoke a sudden infatuation. For that reason alone she would rather the young man be taken by cart to Four-Mile-Cross and placed in the care of the good doctor and his wife than that he should remain at Lady Brook. Marianne was given to bouts of violent affection. She could not therefore like the sudden appearance of so beautiful and yet clearly so reckless a young gentleman on her lawn, especially when he bore no signs of wealth. By evidence of the cut of his ill-fitting and rather worn clothes, albeit at odds with the quality of his boots, as Celeste had noted, he could not be a man of means. The curricle, too, showed signs of neglect. The horses, which Stively and Katherine were leading away to the stables, were hardly of the finest blood.

  Of what use, therefore, would it be to encourage even the smallest tendre, when her un-dowered sisters must wed gentlemen of fortune? No use at all.

  Regardless of her practical misgivings of the present situation, especially Marianne’s tendency to fall in love at the drop of a hat, she could hardly send the young man away merely because he was so handsome and so poor. The lump at the back of his head might be of imminent danger to his health.

  She again considered Marianne’s suggestion that he be taken to a bedchamber instead of to the buttery. In this she concurred. Dr. Deane might not be able to attend to him right away because of his present duties, and until the young man regained his senses, she would not know how ill he actually was.

  She nodded to Morris, who had risen from his knees and who was now awaiting her orders. “The bedroom in the south wing,” she said at last, “next to the nursery.”

  “The nursery,” Marianne said, shocked. “But that is all the way on the other side of the-” She broke off, realizing her sister’s intent. Anger vied on her pretty face with embarrassment, both of which brought a rosy glow to her cheeks.

  “Precisely,” Constance stated, meeting Marianne’s gaze.

  Marianne pursed her lips, but Celeste quickly interjected, “I believe that will make it easier as well for the maids to tend to him. The servants’ stairs are quite close to the nursery.”

  Marianne glared at her eldest sister. “He will need far more attention than what our overworked servants can possibly provide for him.”

  “Since I have every intention of placing him in the excellent care of Dr. Deane as soon as he may be fetched from Four-Mile-Cross,” Constance said repressively, “we needn’t concern ourselves with the difficulty of his care.” She could see the militant light in Marianne’s eye and immediately nodded for Morris and the footman to cart the gentleman to the appropriate chamber.

  Marianne’s lips were clamped tightly together in strong disapproval as she rose to her feet. She walked beside the litter, holding the young man’s hand and bearing her part with all the appearance of martyrdom. Augusta and Celeste followed, leaving Constance alone to stare at the wreckage behind her.

  She heard Celeste say to Morris, “If you will have the undermaid launder his shirt immediately, I’m certain I can stitch up this tear with no one the wiser.” Celeste was an accomplished needlewoman.

  What Morris said to her was lost in the increasing distance as the processional moved toward the house.

  Constance surveyed the damage. The curricle, sitting lopsided in the bed of petunias, had lost a now-splintered wheel, and Stively had had to cut the traces in order to free the horses. The pole was also shattered. The body of the light vehicle looked alarmingly tweaked. She believed its days as a useful conveyance were at an end.

  She began picking up pieces of the fence and wondering what ought to be done next. She stepped through the breach and into the lane beyond, walking along the macadamized road to the dangerous turn that had set her household at sixes and sevens so many times over the years. She shook her head. A dense silver fir forest and a deep ditch had prevented the repairs for the past decade since her father’s demise. The cost of effecting the much-needed repair had always been beyond her means.

  Now, however, she felt compelled to see the job done regardless of the expense. She would have to borrow a portion of the required amount, of that she was sure. As for the rest, she had been setting aside a quarterly sum in hopes of one day purchasing the abandoned field that marched along the boundaries of Lady Brook. Only the previous day she had been able to add another fifty pounds to her fund. She understood now the field would have to remain fallow for several more years. The money must be spent correcting the lane, or one day an unlucky traveler would not survive an accident.

  She glanced up at Finch’s beautiful sign, warning all drivers to take the bend slowly. She realized his efforts may have achieved the exact opposite effect than what he had hoped. After all, what aspiring nonesuch, with a pair of lively steppers in his possession, a well-sprung conveyance, and the exuberance of masculine youth, would ever see such a sign as anything but a direct challenge of ability?

  She picked up a rock and with several careful, sharp blows separated the sign from its post. Tucking it under her arm, she headed back to the breach in the fence. Finch, who had returned to begin repairing the damage to the front landscape, saw the sign and gasped in horror. Constance lifted a hand and gently silenced him. She explained her reasoning, and though he shook his head in dismay, he couldn’t help but agree with her since the last three accidents had occurred within a two-month period from almost the day following the erecting of his well-meant sign.

  Constance handed Finch’s creation back to him and watched him amble in the general direction of the stables behind which his gardening sheds and succession houses were located. Once again she was left alone at the location of the accident.

  A brisk wind suddenly picked up, whipping at her faded peach skirts and blowing wisps of hair about her face. A strange excitement coursed through her, a sure indication that fate was stirring up her life again. After all, who was the extraordinarily beautiful young gentleman who had just been delivered to her front door? Even during her London Season so many years earlier she had not seen so handsome a countenance. What were the odds, then, that circumstance alone had delivered him to Lady Brook? Surely some larger scheme was at work.

  But what foolishness was this? What air dreams? What vague musings and stupid ruminations?

  Nothing to signify, she thought with an amused sigh, only the secret wishes and longings of a responsible young woman who always set aside romantical notions for the duties of the day.

  But just once, how very nice it would be if Lady Brook would take her interests to heart, her desire for a friend who could share in her thoughts, her daily employments, and in her sense of humor.

  Just once.

  * * * * * * * * *

  “Thank you, Simbers, but I have already been informed of Mr. Kidmarsh’s absence.” Lord Ramsdell used his most repressive tone. He touche
d a linen serviette to his lips. He took his morning cup of coffee leisurely in hand and sipped with what he knew was maddening nonchalance. He steadfastly ignored his servant’s concerned eye.

  Simbers, the butler of many years and his father’s butler before him, cleared his throat and danced on his feet. He moved the dishes around, clattering and clinking spoons, forks, and china together, hoping to gain the attention he sought. Clearly, he felt his master was not showing a proper concern for the boy. Ramsdell continued to ignore him.

  When the aged retainer, spry and energetic for a man of two and seventy summers, had twitched the tablecloth three times and cleared his throat twice as many, Ramsdell could no longer pretend he did not exist. He settled his cup with an irritated clink on its companion saucer, sat back in his chair, and glared at the old man. He refused to speak. Any of his London servants would have known better than to address him when he evinced such unwelcoming signals, but his country retainers, who had known him as a boy, were rarely intimidated.

  Simbers opened his mouth and stirred up his vocal cords. “But, m’lord—and I do beg your pardon for pressing you in this manner—the poor lad has not been seen or heard from since one o’clock yesterday. Langley waited up for him all night, continually climbing and descending the stairs to his master’s bedchamber with pails and pails of hot water hoping, believing, that at any moment good Mr. Kidmarsh would return home.”

  Lord Ramsdell lifted a brow. “And apparently Langley thought he would be in need of a bath?”

  Simbers appeared offended, his thin lips gripped together in a straight, disapproving line. “Whenever the boy is chilled, Langley puts him straight into a hot bath.”

  “Ah,” Ramsdell responded, his lips twitching.

  “Just so,” Simbers retorted. “I—we—your staff cannot help but feel that some mischief is afoot.” Here he shuddered dramatically. “Cook has had certain visions this morning that indicate that Mr. Kidmarsh has suffered an accident.”

  Ramsdell considered this. Cook was prone to visions whenever they served her. He chuckled inwardly. His staff was hopeless in their attentions to his cousin and ward who had lived with him from the time he was birthed. His uncle, within a week of Charles Kidmarsh’s entrance into the world, had died of a fit of the ague. He had left his son heir to one of the largest properties in England, but unfortunately his death had also left Charles bereft of a balancing force in his life. Mrs. Kidmarsh was overprotective in the extreme.

  Charles’s mother had come to live with her sister—his own mother—an arrangement that had always been a trifle queer except that the sisters were deeply attached to one another. Mrs. Kidmarsh had despised the notion of roaming the expansive halls of Kingsholt Manor with no one to keep her company.

  Both ladies were presently touring Europe, a venture that had been forced on Mrs. Kidmarsh by Lady Ramsdell in hopes that Charles might be given a chance to grow up a little. At seven and twenty he was hopelessly unprepared to take on the ordinary duties of life, having been wrapped in wool linen most of his life. The absence of his parent, therefore, was perhaps the uppermost reason Charles had availed himself of the opportunity to escape Aston Hall yet again. With the protective forces seriously diminished, undoubtedly he believed he would enjoy a longer holiday than usual. Ramsdell’s servants might be vigilant in their watch over him, but Mrs. Kidmarsh was nothing short of a lioness.

  Poor Charles. He was little more than a schoolboy in mind and heart. Ramsdell knew the boy had growing up to do, especially since much of his own life, from the time Charles had enjoyed his first London Season six years earlier, had been spent extricating the halfling from a dozen scrapes. Four of the unfortunate occurrences had involved elopements with completely unsuitable females—two undermaids, one opera dancer, and the fourth with an impoverished young woman who, as it turned out, was the Duke of Moulford’s current mistress. When the elopement was discovered, His Grace had demanded satisfaction from Charles, who was no more suited to confront the offended peer across twenty paces than he was to marry the stupid female in the first place.

  So it was not with a complete lack of understanding that Simbers was expressing his concern. Charles Kidmarsh was not yet fit to take up a manly place in the world. Overprotected, he lacked true judgment and fell from one scrape to another. Just how Ramsdell should counter the inept attentions of mother, aunt, and staff, he had never quite known. He was himself concerned that Charles had “disappeared” again, but what his cousin did not need was one more doting relative or servant bent on rescuing him again.

  What to do?

  He addressed his butler. “The young master,” he said with unruffled calm, “has had three such disappearances in the past year. Each time, he has merely escaped my house to be away from what I have always considered to be an inordinate amount of coddling and physicking.”

  “M’lord,” Simbers said, aghast. “You forget yourself. Master Charles was always of a sickly disposition and only by the careful ministrations of your aunt, your mother, and— if you don’t mind my saying so—your devoted staff, is he alive today.”

  Ramsdell drew in a deep breath. “To my recollection, the only time I have ever seen Charles Kidmarsh near to sticking his spoon in the wall was the time the surgeon leeched him to the point of death.”

  Simbers grew very stiff and disapproving. “He was suffering a humor of the blood.”

  “Fustian! But I won’t argue the matter further. I have long since understood that I am the only person in my house who holds to this opinion. I beg you will believe me, however, that Charles will not come to harm with a few days ruralizing.”

  “Even if this much is true, that his health is sufficiently vigorous to withstand an inflammation of the lungs or even the ague,” the old man said with a shake of his head and deep furrowing of his brow, “I daresay you are forgetting that other matter.”

  “That other matter?” he queried.

  “That other matter,” Simbers reiterated solemnly.

  “Oh,” Ramsdell murmured. His butler was right, of course. Charles would likely come back betrothed from another venture into the world, left unchecked. “The devil take it,” he said, rising swiftly from his chair and throwing his napkin on the table. “Don’t look so deuced triumphant. If I find him, when I find him, I might just decide to take him on a three-year voyage—around the world—and maybe, just maybe, he would come home a man.”

  Simbers bore these harsh words bravely. “He wouldn’t survive a fortnight at sea, m’lord.”

  Ramsdell rolled his eyes and headed to his rooms. He shouted for his valet who was, oddly enough, close at hand, as were half the servants of his household, including the long-suffering Langley, who had been Charles’s personal servant from the time he was a young lad. His own man, Marchand, informed him that his carriage had already been ordered around, his portmanteaus had been packed these three hours and more, and proper traveling clothes were laid out on his bed, waiting only for the appearance of his lordship.

  He went to his bedchamber, vexed almost beyond bearing. He grumbled his way through his valet’s ministrations. Trotting down the stairs, he ignored the expressed hopes of his staff that poor Master Charles would be found alive, and finally took up his place in his traveling chariot as one who had been persecuted for years.

  He ignored the wafting kerchiefs that waved from the windows and from the front steps of Aston Hall. He ignored them all.

  If—when—he found Charles, he thought maliciously as the coach bowled down the avenue, he would wring his neck and put an end to the dastardly business once and for all.

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Five days later, Constance wore an elegant dove-gray morning gown of twilled bombazine charmingly detailed with puffed sleeves for the strict purpose of charming Dr. Kent. She was hoping, by gentle persuasions, to convince him at last to move the stranger still inhabiting the nursery bedchamber to Dr. Deane’s house at Four-Mile-Cross.

  The gown was on
e of her best. A month ago, Celeste had stolen the dress from her wardrobe and secretly embroidered an adorable chain of minuscule white roses at the high neckline and added a quarter-inch strand of white lace to the top of the band collar. The effect was subtle, pleasing, and feminine. Constance had appreciated the beauty of it but adjured her sister that her time would have been better spent hemming a frayed tablecloth or reweaving one of the sheets. Celeste ignored her, as all her sisters tended to do when she argued for practical concerns over a more pleasing aesthetic approach to their labors. The truth was, Constance took great delight in Celeste’s roses and lace and wore the gown quite often.

  Dr. Deane, upon examining the young man, had initially insisted on consulting a colleague on the case. It would seem that the blow to the head the poor fellow had suffered during the accident had caused a breach in his memory. When he had regained consciousness, the young man—who the ladies had taken to calling Mr. Albion—could not recall his identity.

  Dr. Deane knew very well how to deliver babies, treat rheumatic symptoms, and ease the pain of those afflicted with consumption, but he was in no way prepared to prescribe treatment for a man who was experiencing a lapse of the brain.

  Dr. Kent was a famous London physician who frequently consulted with the royal doctors on the progress of King George III’s incomprehensible madness. So advanced was the king’s disease that he had been forced to forfeit the throne in favor of the Prince of Wales, who now reigned as regent. Dr. Kent’s reputation at court was renowned and Constance had found him knowledgeable, sensible, and highly skilled. She respected his abilities greatly and had the utmost confidence in him. Unfortunately, his opinion was at odds with her own regarding Mr. Albion’s fate, and the good doctor was proving nearly as stubborn as she.