by Valerie King
He considered Constance’s pithy comment about his own role in Charles’s lack of development. Perhaps what she had said was true, that he was partially to blame, though he wasn’t certain what might have happened to Charles if someone hadn’t interrupted the four hapless elopements he had become entangled in over the course of the past several years. Still, Constance’s words carried some merit.
Besides, Charles was different at Lady Brook—a blow to the head notwithstanding. His conduct had become humble and helpful. He had even cared for the chickens alongside
Augusta and Katherine, actually making repairs in the fence that made up a portion of the coop.
The fact that earlier Charles had stood his ground about not leaving Lady Brook also gave him pause. His cousin appeared to be growing up in the feminine environment of Lady Brook. Who was he, then, to thwart the workings of fate, since so far the results had been exemplary?
By noon he was so reconciled to this avenue of thought that he found some of the knots in his shoulders, chest, and arms unwinding. By dinnertime, with the smell of venison reaching every hallway in the mansion, he was well disposed to enjoy a second evening among the Pamberley ladies.
The next day, Dr. Kent arrived and examined both gentlemen. He pronounced Ramsdell’s wounds as healing faster than anything he had witnessed before, and recommended some mild exercise—a stroll in the gardens twice a day—to encourage his health. As for Charles, he remained adamant that until he regained his memory, he should stay where it was obvious to a simpleton he was thriving.
And that was that.
* * * * * * * * *
Secretly, Constance was aux anges that Ramsdell would remain under her roof, yet she knew she could not possibly resume their former intimate discourse. The mere sight of him, however, had the ability to rob her of breath, to send her pulse racing, to make her dream of sugar plums and fairies and poor country maidens wedding dukes, earls, and even viscounts.
These romantical sensations and musings, however, she could ignore or dismiss at will and afterward go about her business without being much affected. However, let her once more fall deeply into conversation with Ramsdell, and suddenly those dreams seemed laced with a deal too much reality to be kept entirely at bay.
She knew what the future must be, so in order to protect her heart, she avoided any serious conversation with Ramsdell. She also knew he understood, for he avoided being alone with her, or even, when in company, engaging her in any lengthy discussion.
How proud she was of her discipline and common sense and how grateful she was that the daily requirements of keeping the manor running smoothly occupied most of her time. As the days began creeping by, she became more and more accustomed to his presence at Lady Brook, at mealtime and during the evening hours when both gentlemen and ladies joined together for song, card games, reading, dancing, and tea.
How Ramsdell occupied himself throughout the day, and what his thoughts were, she could not know, except that she suspected he spent a great deal of his time in the library since Augusta said she had found him there more than once over the course of the week.
“And did his lordship seem content?” she asked Augusta on the fourth day, her curiosity besting her.
“As to that, I couldn’t say,” her softly spoken youngest sister replied. “He was always reading and upon my arrival would exchange a few polite sentences with me. Afterward, he would resume reading, I would fetch the books for which I was searching, and then would leave. I suppose one could say he seemed content. Certainly he was quiet in his endeavors.”
Constance found Augusta’s report less than satisfactory. She would only have to glance at him to assure herself of his content or discontent. Augusta, it would seem, was not endowed with such perception. In the end, she could only sigh, wonder, and go about her usual duties.
* * * * * * * * *
Ramsdell was miserably discontent. He was not used to lying about quietly for hours on end, and the one diversion that had come to mean everything to him—Constance’s company—he could not have by dint of the way his heart quickened just looking at her.
He knew her gowns were old and some of them even dowdy, a fact that made him smile. He suspected she had been wearing the ugliest of them for his benefit. But even this humorous thought made his heart ache. Constance understood the rules and was abiding by them with enthusiasm. He found himself wishing she had less self-control—or that he did.
More than once he had awakened from a dream in which he had been kissing her with both his arms wrapped about her tightly. His body had been on fire with desire, and something more, a powerful sensation in his chest that spoke of the true nature of his feelings toward her. He tried to tell himself that the intensity of his interest in Constance was solely because he knew he couldn’t have her, either as wife or mistress. But another possibility badgered him, that he had at long last found the woman for whom he had been waiting all these years.
With a brisk snap, he closed the book he had been reading, arose from the comfortable leather chair near the fireplace, and crossed to the window. The library was situated on the first floor and overlooked both the southern and the eastern vistas. He had a clear view of the rose garden and the maze, a great deal of the home wood, which sloped up a southern hill to disappear beyond, and a view of the downs that rolled eastward.
The Lady Brook property included several wooded copses scattered along the borders of numerous fields. The berry vines were found to the southeast, something he now realized because the younger ladies and Alby, er, Charles, had just appeared, each carrying a small basket slung over their arms. Charles, on the other hand, had a shotgun propped over his shoulder, probably in hope of bringing down some small game.
How much he wanted to be anywhere but indoors. The July sun—no, it was August now—shone brightly over the verdant fields and woods. He could hear the ladies’ laughter float up to the window as they passed through a gate covered with a rose-laden arch and began winding along the path toward what had been described to him as the merriest little brook in all of England.
The dancing stream bubbled and laughed for miles along the northern and eastern borders of the property and had been the source of the name for the Pamberley mansion. Lady Brook had been built in the late sixteenth century by a romantic husband who had made his fortune in trade and erected his home for the love of his life, or so Miss Marianne had told him last night between rounds of whist. The Pamberley ladies were distant relations of the original owner.
He supposed that the present house was owned by a male relative who had kindly allowed them to continue living and directing the affairs of the estate until such a time as Mrs.
Pamberley passed away or one or more of the young women were situated in prosperous marriages.
Not much chance of that, he thought with a shake of his head. Portion-less Ladies of Quality, however beautiful, rarely married well, if at all. Such was the unhappy state of their
society. A lady without a dowry was as likely to marry well as was a second-, third- or fourth-born male likely to marry an un-dowered female. There would be no basis for financial security. Even if such an alliance resulted because of a love match, chances were poor that the couple would enjoy a happy marriage, since the man had no fortune by which to keep his wife in the fashion to which she was accustomed. He had seen it happen time and again.
If the thought occurred to him that were he to wed Constance he could change all their fortunes with a blink of an eye, he quickly dismissed the thought. He knew his duty to his title, to his family’s extensive heritage, to his coffers, and to his estate. He could command a half-dozen ladies of his acquaintance with a snap of his fingers, ladies who possessed by birth the right combination of qualities. His wife would be the next Lady Ramsdell. She would enjoy wealth and privilege, something the lady would have known all her life.
The rub seemed to be that the only lady who had ever appealed to him as the sort of companion he had been hoping for
all these years was a country miss whom he could not have.
He watched Charles and Augusta fall behind the others, walking more slowly, apparently caught up in a conversation that the elder sisters found tedious. A few more minutes, and all of them disappeared into a tangled copse.
With the sight of them gone, Ramsdell was left alone again. Impatience and agitation welled up within him. He was sick to death of shuffling about the house, of dawdling over a book in the library, of walking alone about the garden and the estate, of staying out of Constance’s way. He was not used to so much inactivity. He detested being idle and could hardly wait until he could mount a horse again.
He made up his mind quite abruptly. He would follow Charles’s lead. He would search out Constance and find out in just what way he could be of service to her.
***
Chapter Eight
Constance stared up into one of the cherry trees and saw what had been concerning Finch. “Shall we have Mr. Hook smoke all of them?” she asked. The blight had come to attack
her orchard, and steps needed to be taken immediately.
“Twould be best, miss. Sooner the better.” He suddenly looked past her. “Well, wot d’ye think o’ that. ‘Tis his lordship, if I don’t much mistake.”
Constance turned in the direction of his gaze and saw that he was right. Lord Ramsdell was coming straight for them from the direction of the house.
“So it is,” she murmured.
“A man o’ his stamp canna sit around fer days. In a fortnight, he’d go stark, staring mad.”
Constance smiled faintly. “That he would.” She turned to the business at hand. “Well, you had best have Jack fetch Mr. Hook, then.”
“Aye, miss.” He paused, waiting wordlessly, but his eyes formed a question he didn’t want to put into words.
She sighed and laughed. “Very well. Yes—Jack may ride Lord-a-Mercy again.”
Finch nodded and smiled a toothless grin. “Thankee, miss. He’ll be that pleased, he will.”
He ambled past her on a quick country tread and doffed his hat to Ramsdell as he walked by.
Constance watched the viscount approach, wondering why he had waited so long to venture out-of-doors. She knew he must have been bored to tears these past several days, with nothing to do but kick his heels or open a book or two.
She smiled as he advanced on her, but cloaked her heart with her common sense. She extended her hand to him.
“Have the books been crawling off the shelves and making you think murderous, darkling thoughts?”
He chuckled. “It is almost as though I never have to explain anything to you. Why is that?”
“Because, m’lord, as I have said before, we are very similar in temperament, at least that is my opinion. Idleness drives us both to distraction, but tell me, what possible amusement have you sought by coming to the orchard?”
“I was hoping to find some way of being of use to you while I complete my recovery. Charles has clearly benefitted from entering into the routines of Lady Brook. I am hoping to do the same. Besides, I see you at all hours of the day, marching upstairs and downstairs, running about the estate, quite independent from your sisters, and I am all agog with curiosity. What, for instance, were you doing here? I am convinced it was not to enjoy the beauty of the orchard.”
She planted her hands on her hips and directed her gaze back up into the trees. “We’ve a problem with the blight, as you can see.” She cast an arm upward. “There and there. I’ve just ordered our stable boy to fetch Mr. Hook from Sandhill to come and smoke the orchard. There are also a few wasps’ nests near the stables I want him to blow up as well.”
She glanced at him and smiled. “It would seem you and Mr. Hook have a great deal in common. Though he could spend his days leisurely reading, since he is retired, he far prefers to be employed in some manner.”
“Hence, his interest in blight and wasps.”
“Precisely.”
“So, Miss Pamberley, how can I best assist you and thereby end the weariness of my idleness?”
She smiled at him, struck by how greatly he was improving. Much of the color had returned to his complexion, and the shuffle was almost completely gone from his step. He did not in any way look like a man who had battled death just a week or so past. If a certain tightness in her stomach accompanied her perusal of his face, she ignored the sensation. Common sense would win the day.
“Would you like to attend me while I deliver a few baskets to the poor? Cook has demanded more berries of my sisters and Alby, so I was left to make the trip. Since I am going
without them, I can easily manage the gig and be back in a little over an hour. With your help, even less, for you can hold the reins while I deliver our packages.”
He breathed a sigh of what sounded very much like relief, and agreed readily to the scheme. By the time she reached the stables, Stively had harnessed the gig for her, and the
large wicker basket strapped to the back was burgeoning with the various articles the ladies had assembled to be disbursed that week for the poor—loaves of bread, jars of pickles, preserves, and honey, children’s smocks, and wooden toy whistles that Jack had carved in his spare time.
“You have nice, light hands,” he commented after she had set Old Nobs at an easy trot heading toward Sandhill.
“Thank you. I take that as a great compliment if even half of what Mrs. Spencer has said of you is true.” She turned and smiled at him. His beaver hat shaded his face against the strong sunshine, but already a sheen of perspiration was beaded on his brow. He was clothed in a corbeau coat, a white waistcoat, buff pantaloons, and glossy Hessians. The neckcloth he wore had been tied if not with precision at least with some order, the work of Marchand, undoubtedly. He was probably very warm engulfed from head to foot in proper clothing as he was, while she was comfortable in her serviceable gown of primrose yellow cord muslin, half-boots, and a wide-brimmed bonnet tied beneath her chin with a yellow ribbon.
He smiled in return and settled back more comfortably in his seat. She realized he had been, until then, wary of her skill, which made her chuckle.
She tended to her horse, to the reins, and to the lane. She let him view the pretty Berkshire scenery as she kept Old Nobs at a moderate pace. She might have worried about sustaining a polite conversation with Ramsdell, but in the end she decided the less said between them the better, since even a small resumption of their former rapport would give her heart far too much encouragement.
She heard him huff a sigh several times as beautiful farmland, islands of woodland, and a dozen signs of wildlife all passed into view. Every now and then he made a comment about what he was seeing—enclosures richly set with oak, ash, and elm, a flock of geese being prodded along by a little girl with a stick tied up with a pretty blue ribbon, a caravan of handsome Gypsies. She responded in kind, the beauty of the day and the gentle heat of the sun filling her with a lazy kind of peacefulness.
In less than half an hour she drew the gig up in front of a fine brick house. Ramsdell lifted his brows. “The inmates of this dwelling are in need of your bread and honey?” he queried.
She chuckled. “Of course not. Do you see the path beside the fence?”
He nodded. She went on. “An old woman, who raises the most pitiful ducks you have ever seen, also cares for her two young great-grandchildren on the most meager of incomes. I trade her a few things for one of her ducks each week. Only, it is quite uncanny how the duck escapes my gig and waddles all the way home before I know what has happened to it.”
He caught her hand as she began to descend. “Are there no rough edges about you?”
She was surprised. “I am stunned you would say such a thing,” she said, “when I seem completely unable to keep from speaking my mind to you at every turn.”
“Have I complained?”
“You are trying to turn me up sweet,” she retorted playfully. “I know full well you are hoping to take the reins in your one useful hand for the dri
ve home.”
He was smiling in just that way of his, with his eye crinkles catching up sunbeams and showering them into her eyes. “I haven’t fooled you a bit, eh?” he murmured on a caress.
Her heart fluttered almost to a standstill as she shook her head and dropped lightly to the ground. She gathered up the various articles from the wicker basket and on a brisk tread made her way to the hovel some quarter-mile distant at the edge of a pond.
She brought the poor duck back with her to show Lord Ramsdell. He saw the unhappy, thin creature, and his smile of amusement made the entire journey worthwhile. She then set the duck at the top of the path and immediately watched it start its journey home, quacking irritably all the while.
Apparently, he was tired of his part in the weekly charade.
She drove the gig a little farther up the street in front of a narrow house with a well-swept walk and porch and carefully tended flower garden. “Mrs. Applegate has just birthed her fourteenth child. Mr. Applegate, the farrier, was kicked by a horse two months ago and is just now recovering from several broken ribs. We have a number of smocks for the new baby and some honey.”
“Are those her children swarming about the landlord of the Turtle Inn?” His gaze was directed to the other side of the street.
She eyed them for a moment. “Most of them.”
“They are remarkably tidy.”
“Do you see the oldest girl?”
“The fair one with a red ribbon catching up her curls, with the fat toddler on her hip?”
“Yes. She is just turned fifteen and has been in charge of her younger siblings from times out of mind. She has taught them their numbers and letters and keeps them bathed and fed. She has an amazing ability to let them run about as children ought, yet she keeps them tending to their sums and doing their chores without hardly a complaint.” The girl recognized her suddenly and waved to her. Bidding good-bye to the publican, she began a swirling progress toward her with her siblings scrambling for the right to possess her free hand as she began crossing the street.
