A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  The thought spun strangely through her mind.

  Not to come home to Lady Brook?

  How odd that would seem, how foreign, how unwelcome.

  She found herself a little surprised by her thoughts. She remembered her former suitor, who had declared she would never love and never marry because she was already wed to

  Lady Brook Cottage.

  But what un-purposeful musings were these? What nonsense.

  Ramsdell had already made it clear that he would never wed beneath his rank, so she was safe.

  Why safe?

  She felt so confused, even distressed in a way that made no sense to her.

  She gave herself a strong shake and returned to attacking the ledgers. Within a few minutes, her inexplicable qualms were gone and her devotion to Lady Brook was fully upon her once more.

  Two hours later, Constance was disrupted from her labors when Katherine peeked in and called to her, “There you are. You must come to the kitchens at once and see how many berries we found. We went to the usual place, the copse behind Whitley Wood, but you can’t imagine what happened!”

  Constance replaced the lid on the inkpot and laid her pen on the silver filigreed tray directly in front of her. She rose from her chair, welcoming the domestic diversion. Her shoulders ached from having sat scribbling her numbers for such a long time.

  “Tell me all,” she responded with a smile, aware of the sparkle in Katherine’s hazel eyes.

  “You’ll never guess. Alby pushed through a particularly thick part of the copse, and found an old lime pit, now dripping with moss and ferns and the sides hanging with gooseberries. You’ve got to come see. The vines have probably been untouched for centuries. I’ve never seen such lush fruit. The ground everywhere is deep with mulch.”

  Constance accompanied her to the kitchens, where Cook was exclaiming over the size and obvious succulence of the berries. All five of the adventurers showed signs of scrapes and stains from having invaded a new land, but each cheek was flushed with excitement, pleasure, and the happy effects no doubt of having sampled the fruit without restraint.

  Was there anything quite so pretty as four damsels in gloves, straw bonnets, and beribboned summer gowns showing in mood, gesture, and expression that summer was richly on Berkshire? Nothing, surely.

  Alby, she realized, was not wearing his hat. His face was becoming quite bronzed from his daily excursions with the ladies. His hair was damp across his forehead, his smile broad, and his beautiful eyes sparkling with life. Augusta was beside him.

  “No, no. Just one more, I promise,” he was saying to the youngest Pamberley sister. “Now, open?”

  Augusta blushed and parted her lips, tilting her head in embarrassment. Alby popped a fat gooseberry into her mouth. She chewed and smiled and giggled. Her eyes shone like stars as she stared up at him.

  While this romantic vignette transpired, the scullery maid gently spread the berries out and separated them with care, Cook set a large copper pot on the stove, Katherine examined her plunder, and Marianne and Celeste argued over who had collected the most berries, all oblivious to Charles’s flirtation with Augusta.

  Katherine accidentally knocked over one of the smaller baskets and began shrieking and dancing about in an attempt to keep the berries from rolling onto the floor.

  All the while, Constance was fixed on only one sight—of Alby slipping his hand under Augusta’s chin and staring down at her as though seeing her for the first time. Through the clamor of the bustling kitchen, lightning passed between Augusta and Charles as tangibly as if a white bolt were actually visible. Had they been alone, Constance was convinced nothing would have stopped Charles from kissing young Augusta.

  She whirled around to leave, to collect her stunned thoughts, but collided with Ramsdell, who apparently had been standing behind her for quite some time. He steadied her with a hand to her elbow, but his attention was equally caught, as her own had been, by the sight of his cousin dallying with Augusta. Constance turned back to watch them as well.

  Augusta had fallen into a fit of the blushes and turned away from Charles to tend to one of her baskets, but Charles moved to stand behind her and whispered something in her ear.

  Constance felt as though she were eavesdropping and could no longer bear to watch. She slid past Ramsdell and headed back to her office.

  After she had been there just a few seconds, his voice startled her. “What do you mean to do?” he asked.

  Constance, who was standing behind her desk, her fingertips resting on one of the black ledger books, glanced sharply at him. “Oh, what a fright you gave me. I didn’t expect you to follow me.”

  “Follow you? Of course I followed you. I wish to know what you mean to do.”

  She stared at him. “Of the moment, nothing.”

  “Are you saying you don’t intend to disrupt this wholly inappropriate flirtation?”

  Constance turned more fully toward him and straightened her shoulders. “What? In front of Cook, the scullery maid, and Augusta’s three older sisters? You must be mad.” She laughed, but the sound of her voice was slightly hysterical.

  The truth was, she didn’t know what to do. She had had sufficient warning that Augusta might be in the throes of a calf love, but she had scarcely been prepared for the light that suffused her face when she stared up at Charles.

  “At the very least, Miss Augusta ought to be admonished,” Ramsdell stated, flustered. “At once!”

  “Oh, at once, he says,” she responded sardonically, but did not budge from her place behind the desk.

  He leaned into the hallway and glanced back at the kitchen. “Good God, they are leaving together—going into the garden. You must stop them.”

  “Why don’t you stop them?”

  “But don’t you understand,” he said, turning back to her, “anything might happen in a garden.”

  Constance bit her lip and felt her heart soften. “Yes,” she agreed quietly. “Anything might.”

  Ramsdell’s eyes narrowed, and, seeing the direction of her thoughts, cocked his head and glared at her. “That was very different.”

  “Enormously so.”

  He grunted. “You and I are both of an age.”

  She considered this for a moment. “According to your calculations, if you and I are of an age when eight years separate us, therefore, Charles and Augusta must be of an age, since just a little over eight years separate them. Augusta will be nineteen in September.”

  “You are splitting hairs,” he snapped. “You know very well such a comparison is ridiculous. You and Augusta might as well be twenty years apart in age.”

  “Yes, yes, you are right, of course,” she acquiesced. “However, I have no intention, at least not at the moment, of admonishing my sister. Later, perhaps—probably. If you are so set on disrupting their tête-a-tête, might I suggest you go to the gardens and perhaps ring a peal over Alby’s head about dallying with chits just out of the schoolroom?”

  He seemed horrified by the suggestion. “I could not possibly do so.”

  “Why not?” she pressed him. “Or is it because he is a man and as such must be allowed his flirtations without redress?”

  “You can be very provoking—”

  “And rational, which is why I daresay you diverted the subject back to my character when I had brought forward a basic dictum of society. No, no, pray don’t eat me. Rest assured I shall speak with Augusta. May I hope that you will do the same with Charles?”

  He nodded once curtly. “Very well.” He slapped the doorframe and disappeared down the hall, but not in the direction of the kitchen or the kitchen gardens.

  Constance watched him go, relieved by the exchange. Perhaps her acerbic tongue would serve to put him out of patience with her and thereby end some of their wretchedly pleasant camaraderie. Perhaps. Oh, the devil take it—unlikely!

  * * * * * * * * *

  Later, Augusta sat on the end of the chaise-longue in the library, her hands folded primly on
her lap. Her cheeks bore two spots of bright color. “I have told myself these very things every day from the first moment I laid eyes on Alby, that his clothes and the state of his curricle gave strong indication of his impoverished state, that there couldn’t possibly be anything serious or of a permanent nature between us, but then I but look in his eyes”—here she lifted shining blue eyes to meet Constance’s gaze—“and I am lost. Constance, I never thought of myself as a particularly romantic female—Jane Austen always appealed more strongly to me than Lord Byron—but ever since Alby lay on the nursery bed so white-faced and so very beautiful, my heart has ceased to beat properly.

  “I suffer from palpitations and feel nigh to swooning when he draws near. And . . . and I think he is beginning to feel the same way about me.”

  Constance wrung her hands. “But it is hopeless, my dear. You do understand that much. Ramsdell told me he hasn’t a feather to fly with. He has been his guardian for years, you know, and he is perfectly knowledgeable with every aspect of what constitutes, I daresay, a pitiful competence. That, combined with your own un-dowered state, you do realize that such an alliance would prove disastrous.”

  Tears filled Augusta’s eyes. “Tisn’t fair,” she murmured. “If only he had not crashed through our fence and landed in our petunias. If only I had married last fall, when I had the chance.” She pounded a fist against the palm of her hand determinedly. “I should have accepted Joe Chaddleworth’s hand, then I would never have even met Alby.”

  Constance’s heart felt pressed into the size of a cherry pit. Her chest ached for her dear sister. She dropped down in front of her and gathered up Augusta’s hands within her own, larger clasp. “But, dearest, do but think. Mr. Chaddleworth is an extremely portly man, and I daresay any of the children you bore him would have looked like toads.”

  A chuckle burst from Augusta’s throat, but fresh tears raced down her cheeks. “Constance, whatever am I going to do?” she wailed softly. “I am in love with Mr. Albion.”

  Constance gathered her close and held her tightly. “I know, I know.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Constance suffered with her sister’s unhappiness for a full hour, during which time she determined to speak with Charles herself, in order to hopefully persuade him to cease encouraging Augusta’s heart. She found him in the music room, idly plucking at the strings of Celeste’s harp. He was clearly in a brown study, which could only mean that Ramsdell had made good on his promise and had already spoken with his ward.

  She viewed him from the doorway, his body half draped over the harp, his expression somewhat inscrutable. He appeared lost in thought and none too content.

  She closed the door behind her.

  “Hello, Alby,” she called to him, straightening her shoulders a trifle as she entered the chamber.

  He glanced at her and drew into a more upright position. “Good afternoon, Miss Pamberley.”

  He was only two years her junior, but in experience she suspected he was not much older than Augusta, which in many ways made him an excellent match for her sister. A measure of melancholy descended on her as she took up a seat on the piano stool near him, a reflection perhaps of his own misery.

  He shifted slightly to meet her gaze squarely, a gesture that pleased her. “I hope you have not come to comb my hair—I have already received a severe dressing-down for my conduct from, from my guardian.”

  She studied his face carefully. His large blue eyes were heavy with concern, but there was none of the petulance she might have expected from a man who had been so wretchedly cosseted during the course of his life. “Is your heart engaged?” she inquired. She hadn’t meant to begin with such a bold question, but there it was.

  He seemed a little taken aback. “I don’t know,” he responded honestly. “I will confess to you that since my arrival I have enjoyed the company of each of your sisters prodigiously. Only in the past two days have I found that my attention wanders more and more to Augusta, which seems odd to me since she is not the prettiest nor the liveliest nor even the most accomplished. But there is something in her expression, of sweetness and intelligence, which I have come to find distracts me.”

  Constance felt a small measure of relief pour through her, both that Alby was not simply toying with her sister and that his affections clearly were not fully engaged. A disruption of the romance at this point, therefore, would not be an impossibility. “You have spoken forthrightly, and for that I am gratified. Are you aware that my sister believes she has tumbled in love with you?”

  A look of surprise and pleasure darted into his eyes, then quickly disappeared, replaced by his former heavy concern. He gave himself a shake, his blond curls dancing about his forehead. She was again reminded of Renaissance paintings and sculptures. Was it any wonder that all of her sisters were half in love with him?

  But at this thought, she drew the reins of her mind up sharply. She realized with a start that Marianne, Celeste, and Katherine had showed decreasing interest in Alby over the past several days. Only Augusta had sustained her enthusiasm, though she was not comforted by this rumination.

  Alby rose from his seat behind the harp and moved to stare out the windows. “Did Augusta confess as much to you, that she held me in some affection?”

  “Yes,” Constance stated, repressing a sigh. “She said she loves you.”

  His shoulders slumped slightly. “Then I have behaved unconscionably.”

  “You mustn’t repine or even berate yourself. After all, ‘tis summer in Berkshire, and though some may say that the springtime brings thoughts of love, I myself have never been unaffected by the bounty of the fruit-, nut-, and wheat-laden season. The rose garden alone intoxicates every sense.”

  He turned back to her, a faint smile on his lips. “I believe you are right.”

  “You have but to conduct yourself with discretion until you are completely well, and I am persuaded Augusta’s attachment can easily transform into a profound friendship.”

  He frowned, appearing perplexed. “Though there are only a few scattered parts of my memory that have not fully asserted themselves, I do recall that no one has ever spoken to me as you have just now, as though I could hold a particle of sense or intelligence in my brain. Not even Ramsdell.”

  “He was all scold and little tolerance.”

  A bitter expression crossed his face, darkening his angelic beauty. “He spoke solely of responsibilities to my position and to our family, nothing of Augusta’s abilities or virtues.”

  Something about this remark did not entirely make sense to her. “Your position?” she asked.

  “Yes. I may not recall Ramsdell entirely, but I do know that I am heir to Kingsholt.”

  The name was a pistol ball fired from his lips to ricochet about the walls of the music room to finally pierce her ear and her brain. “Kingsholt?” she asked with fainting heart.

  He turned bitterly away from her, leaned his hand on the upper frame of the window, and stared down into the countryside below. “Yes.”

  “But I thought—Alby, when you arrived, your curricle, your clothes, with the exception of your boots, were ragged.”

  At that he gave a chuckle and turned back to her, a crooked smile on his lips. “Apparently, the only way I could escape from Ramsdell’s house as well as the notice of the entire county of Bedfordshire was if I donned the appearance of a young man, with pockets to let, traveling about England after the fashion of the romantics.”

  Constance felt any number of emotions surge through her. Alby was a man of means and could therefore take on an impoverished wife. Yet, Kingsholt was a mansion of enormous proportions, whose attending wealth was one of the finest in the kingdom. None of the Pamberley sisters was suited to reign over such a property. Alby’s mother and aunt had great ambitions for him, the alignment, for instance, of Kingsholt with a duke or an earl’s daughter.

  Yet, why had Ramsdell insisted Alby was impoverished? She recalled very specifically that he had said his cousin had n
o portion to speak of.

  So he had purposely lied to her.

  She understood, or thought she understood, and found herself furious. With every ounce of restraint she shoveled her ire into the back of her mind and addressed the matter at hand. “All that I ask, Alby, is that from this point on, you protect Augusta’s heart. I am convinced you are a gentleman, not just in breeding and form, but in conduct as well, and I have every confidence you will not encourage my sister’s love for you beyond what you are willing or able, by the nature of your circumstances, to return to her.”

  He seemed to grow several inches in height during her brief speech and promised his obedience to her request. She believed him.

  She then excused herself and went in search of Ramsdell.

  However, Marchand informed her that he was resting and was not to be disturbed the rest of the afternoon.

  Her heightened anger, finding no outlet, demanded that Lord-a-Mercy be saddled.

  She donned her riding habit and took enormous pleasure in settling well into the saddle, speaking a few provoking words into his ear, then giving the fine bit of flesh and blood his head. Soon, the August air was rushing madly over her heated features as she made her way to the vicarage of Hartfield.

  * * * * * * * * *

  Ramsdell watched her from the infrequently used parlor on the first floor of the mansion. He had a fine view of her bonneted head as she dug her heels into Lord-a-Mercy’s flank and sped down the drive and into the lane. He was torn by what he saw. His admiration of her abilities rose with each day he spent at Lady Brook. He could also see, however, that she was in the devil’s own temper, and he thought he knew why.

  Marchand had told him she had been speaking with Charles in the music room, and he had little doubt she now knew the truth of Charles’s circumstances, that he was nearly as rich as Croesus.

  He sighed deeply. She would not forgive him for having confirmed her belief that Charles was impoverished. He could not recall the day precisely, but he believed it was during the first few days of his recovery, when she had come to visit him and converse with him. She had asked if Charles had always resided at Aston Hall, indicating she felt the gesture magnanimous. For some reason, he had said, “Poor Charles! He hasn’t a feather to fly with.”