The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “She be too busy rollin’ in the hay, lovin’ ‘tween the sheets, and wi’ who knows how many other servants by this time.” Clowenna placed the basket on a Roman plinth.

  “You knew her so well,” Melwyn agreed, though filled with regret. It wasn’t easy to have a notorious harlot for a mother. “I always hope she’ll repent the error of her ways and return to us, but as Auntie says, I digress.”

  “Observe, my lady, down here we have red concrete floors, and below that the Romans created a complete central-heating system.” He pointed out the large arched flues, the various heating channels and the vertical wall-flues. “This brilliant system kept the building warm over a thousand years ago.”

  “The benefactor must be my father.” Melwyn smiled slyly, not believing her papa would encourage her in anything but the heavy chains of marriage. Still, she must push for details. “When I return home, I’ll praise him profusely, and tell him I thanked you for telling me, yet shamed you for breaking the promise not to.”

  “He will pretend otherwise.” Sir Arthur’s cheeks flushed, bringing color to his parchment hue of a face. His hooded eyes spoke volumes. “I’d advise against it, my lady.”

  “‘Tis Lord Lambrick!” Clowenna unwrapped a meat pie and nibbled on the crust.

  “Fie! Where do you see him?” Melwyn spun around, her heart in her throat. Had he come for her? Would the viscount swoop down like a white knight on his steed and carry her off to his castle, or reasonable facsimile? She smoothed down her blue striped, risen-waist taffeta gown. “How does my hair look?”

  “Naw, I meant he could be your patron, I’ll be bound.” Clowenna bit into an apple from the basket. “Did ‘ee bring any gooseberry tarts?”

  Melwyn’s heart did a strange flip, but at least it had left her throat. She’d gotten what she wanted, her freedom, but why did she regret it now? “Thank goodness he’s not here; I do so hate the man. His very presence would revolt me.”

  “Yeah, right.” Clowenna snorted. “An’ I’m Queen Charlotte holdin’ court at Buckingham House. Georgie, the third o’ ‘ee, fetch me a tart.”

  “Well, give me that food, Queenie. Servants eat leftovers left by their betters, remember?” Melwyn slapped the cloth back over the victuals, crackling the basket. Her appetite had deserted her. She turned to Sir Arthur. “What century was this villa built? I know the Romans inhabited here, or dominated the ancient Britons, for about three centuries.”

  “The damp, dismal weather no doubt chased ‘em away,” Clowenna said. “It’s depressing, many kill themselves.”

  “Go and sit under a tree and contemplate your enormous and varied sins!” Melwyn ordered, though she hated to sound abrasive to her abigail, since the low-born woman was right, she was the only one who put up with Melwyn’s antics. “And I sincerely doubt his lordship would finance me in anything.”

  “Sins sounds like more fun than diggin’ in the grime. An’ when will ‘ee, admit ‘ee love that Lord Lambrick?” The maid plodded off and plopped down under an oak tree, her full brown skirts spreading out around her like a spray of dead leaves.

  “If we may continue in spite of these domestic spats,” Sir Arthur cleared his throat, “this villa dates back to the late first century AD.”

  Melwyn’s cheeks burned. Why did she love that villain? She had no time for love. She had a life to live, and artifacts to discover. Her head swam and she nearly toppled into the deeper elevations of the excavation. Had she just admitted to actual “love?” She scarcely knew the man. Who, except in silly romantic novels, loves someone on such short acquaintance?

  She grabbed Sir Arthur’s fusty frockcoat front with its overlarge, tarnished silver buttons. “Take me with you to Italy. I must leave England as soon as possible.”

  The old man’s mouth gaped, showing his yellowed teeth beneath his beak of a nose. “But you’re not yet of age, my lady. Your father would have me drawn and quartered, and then perhaps even pilloried. I’m too elderly for such stratagems.”

  “Why must I be a certain age to obtain my independence? And even then I’d be considered property of some man, father or husband.” Melwyn snatched up a brush to begin dusting aside dirt under the painting of Bacchus. An edge of something solid peeked out. She brushed harder, revealing dark blue glass. More scraping and a vase took shape. Her pulse skittered. “I believe I’ve found something.”

  Sir Arthur stared at her as if leery of coming too close again. He straightened his coat lapels. “Keep dusting, Miss Pencavel. Carry on.”

  She did. The dark blue vase she began to uncover depicted white figures in Roman garb, lounging under a tree. “The artifact is cameo glass, I’m sure of it.” She dusted off more, then chipped around the sides with her hammer, careful not to crack the glass, and finally pulled the item out. “Behold! It’s magnificent. Much like the Portland Vase at the British Museum.”

  “Bravo, Miss Pencavel, an extraordinary find.” The old man peered closer, bushy eyebrows raised. “It’s first century, confirming my estimation of the villa.” Sir Arthur clapped his bony hands together.

  “At last, I’ve made a startling discovery. I’ll go down in the history books. I’ve read that cameo glass is difficult to come by.” Her heart dancing, Melwyn traced her fingers over the opaque figures; she must travel to Italy on her birthday, and forget any foolish thoughts of men—or one grossly inappropriate man in particular.

  ****

  Melwyn laid her chipping hammer away in its leather case, on top of her Louis XV style desk with floral marquetry and cabriolet legs. “I’ll be written down in archeological magazines for my find. The Royal Society will clamber for me to join them.”

  “If Sir Arthur don’t steal your discovery. ‘Ee should o’ brought that vase here an’ not let him keep it at the ruin.” Clowenna brushed the dirt from Melwyn’s hem. “That’ll need to be soaked in urine to take out them stains.”

  “Always the voice of doom, aren’t you? But I will keep a gimlet eye on Sir Arthur.” Melwyn walked to her window and swept aside the muslin curtains. The rolling green land stretched toward the sea. Her time with Sir Arthur had sped by, and the bluebells and sea pinks withered among shards of granite in the August heat. The scent of flowers mixed with the briny smell of the ocean. She recalled romping on the grounds with her governess, and wondering why she had no brothers or sisters, and why her mother spent so much time in the servants’ hall.

  She turned back to her maid. “I continue to ponder who this mystifying benefactor might be. Who would care so much to give me this opportunity?”

  “I still say it be Lord Lambrick. He has the blunt, don’t he?” Clowenna dusted rosemary into Melwyn’s boots to sweeten the sweat. “An’ from what I seen, he loves ‘ee, as much as ‘ee love him.”

  “Balderdash, on both counts.” Melwyn twitched the curtain closed as her pulse jumped. “There is no love between us. And why would someone with Sir Arthur’s sterling reputation deal with a man like Lambrick? I think he’s a smuggler.” She had eavesdropped on her aunt’s and the duchess’s whispers about the viscount.

  “Why don’t we find out, m’lady?” Clowenna shook out a chemise from Melwyn’s portmanteau, her gaze alight with mischief.

  “What do you mean?” Melwyn sat on her bed, hiked up her skirt and two petticoats, and untied her gold filigree silk garters from above her knees.

  “I mean, ‘ee need some adventure afore you leave England. Still over two weeks till you’re of age, an’ no promise o’ money to sail. We could travel to that there Merther Manor an’ see what the man be up to.” Her abigail sat beside her. “I could question his servants, now couldn’t I?”

  “That sounds foolhardy to the extreme.” Melwyn rolled down her stockings, her mind tumbling over this suggestion. The possibilities of seeing Lambrick again did entice yet unnerved her. “Why would I care to be anywhere near that blackguard, in his own home, under his jurisdiction?”

  “To uncover the true criminal that he be?” Clowenna poked her sho
ulder with a forefinger. “‘Ee could snoop about that huge manor ‘ee refuses to be mistress of. No secret your da controls your inheritance. If we prove his lordship be a miscreant, it might shock the master into givin’ ‘ee control. How else is we to live abroad?”

  “You are a conniving wench, whom I’ve taught well. But—it still sounds insane.” Melwyn rubbed a cramp in her calf from her climbing about the villa. “Lord Lambrick might never allow us to stay there, and would mistrust our motives.” The remembrance of intense dark eyes sent shivers along her shoulders. She sighed. “Dash it all, I like it. We’ll do just that, and I am curious about the manor. I’ll send a letter announcing our impending visit, but we’ll leave here before he’ll have the chance to refuse us.”

  ****

  Griffin stared across into the pasture at his flock. The sheep were Dartmoor, a descendent of Cornish Heath. Medium sized and short legged, the animals were classified as Lustre and Longwool. They were shorn now, and looked bedraggled as they munched at the grass.

  He smiled in appreciation that their wool financed his other activities and the upkeep of his home.

  He breathed deeply of the mossy smell of the pasture, the stink of sheep. Then the scent of linseed oil reached him, and he turned. Mrs. Loveday, his housekeeper, approached.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” The slender older woman with the pert face smiled her sweet smile he remembered from throughout his life. “They’re fine specimens, your sheep.”

  “Indeed they are. The estate is well managed as when my parents were alive, don’t you agree?” Here was one woman whose approval he’d always sought.

  “It is. But when will you wed, sir? You need a fine lad to leave this estate to. Don’t let it pass to a greedy cousin, or some-such nonsense.” She tugged at her mobcap lappet. “Since your beloved brother died in the war with those frog-eaters, there is no heir.”

  Griffin stuffed aside the mention of Alan. He loathed to think about his younger brother who died in the Austrian Netherlands, fighting the damned French. His stomach clenched. This tragedy gnawed at him, but it was best to leave the past in the past.

  “You ask me about my marriage prospects every day. Before, I could put it off, but I am rethinking that decision as I am growing older.” He should pursue a docile, insipid girl, but the idea made him downhearted. For some reason, the blistering spirit of Miss Pencavel was much more to his liking. However, he had little hope of ever taming such a hellion into a recognizable domestic pattern.

  “Your dear, if very ordinary parents, would have been exceedingly pleased to see you happily settled, sir.” Mrs. Loveday patted his shoulder. “And perhaps it is time to curtail your dealings—though I know nothing about them—in your secret tunnel.”

  “It may be time to desist, if I’m not yet certain. A woman would heartily disapprove, as you’ve just proven.” He turned around to view his home. Built in the Elizabethan era, where comfort took place over defense in more peaceable times, Merther Manor was constructed in an H shape with tall many-paned mullioned windows in its golden brick facade. The roofline was curved in a Flemish influence. “I released Lady Pencavel from our contract, and I’m sure she was delighted.”

  “You were always a wayward boy, but this may be for the best, m’lord.” Mrs. Loveday lowered her eyes. “If I may speak out of turn, you do know about her mother?”

  “A shame that the poor girl must live under such a dark shadow. However, I didn’t think it common knowledge. Most of the ton in London seemed ignorant.” He harbored sympathy for Miss Pencavel? Griffin shrugged it off. He must move on, trudge forward, march into battle...philosophically of course.

  “She isn’t good enough for you, sir. Inclinations like that could run rampant in the blood.” The older woman shook her head in lament. “The servants wouldn’t be safe.”

  “Lady Pencavel professed a clean slate to me.” Nevertheless, women could find many ways in which to finagle.

  A horse galloped in the distance. When horse and rider drew closer, Griffin stiffened as he recognized the sheriff of the Padstow region.

  Rawlyn Tremayne reined in his mount, and lifted his bicorn hat. “Good day to you, Grif. Mrs. Loveday, it’s always a pleasure.”

  “Is it a pleasure, Raw? What brings you out to my estate?” Griffin considered the sheriff a friend, but any lawman on his property presented a problem. “Do I have poachers?”

  “We’re the profoundly honest people we’ve always been.” Mrs. Loveday smiled benevolently at the sheriff. “Nothing to see here.” She excused herself and scurried back into the manor.

  “Merely a social call, pray?” Griffin asked, studying his friend. “I have some fine Canary we could partake of, if you are so inclined.”

  “Don’t I wish, my good sir.” Raw dismounted and swiped his hat over his dusty breeches. “I’m afraid I’ve had more complaints from the excise men, and because of that, the High Sheriff is concerned.” His horse snorted and stomped a front hoof as if in agreement.

  “In what capacity are these unfounded complaints, exactly?” Griffin turned from the man to hide any guilt, and started to walk toward the elegant, studded front door of his home.

  “The revenuers say they were here about three months ago, and almost caught smugglers down in the cove.” The slender sheriff followed, his gaze noncommittal, his boots scuffing the gravel drive. “They’re certain they shot one of them.”

  “Is there a body somewhere in the cove I should know about?” Griffin did his best arched-brow-in-irony as he paused before his door. He twisted at the front latch. “It would be decomposed by now.”

  “Wounded, only, I believe.” Raw looked him up and down, and up again, his brow now arched as well. “How is your health?”

  “Couldn’t be better, thank you for asking.” Griffin’s shoulder had completely healed by this time. He refrained from touching it. “If this incident happened months ago, why are you questioning me about it now?”

  “I put if off for as long as possible, but pressure is being applied.” Rawlyn shrugged, but it seemed in exasperation. “I do have a job to perform, no matter our relationship.”

  “I understand your unenviable position.” Griffin had behaved himself these past months, hoping everything would quiet down—or perhaps just slowing down himself. He disliked putting his friend in such quandary. “What else is the High Sheriff, the redoubtable John Enys, concerned about?”

  “That a man of good lineage and huge property holdings could be delving into illegal deeds.” Rawlyn stood, arms akimbo, scrutinizing Griffin. “I’ve warned you before, Grif. Soon I’ll be forced to act.”

  “I pay my taxes on time, finance a war I wish had never happened, and have never sired any by-blows—that I’m aware of.” Griffin gave his what he knew to be disarming smile. He pressed a knuckle into the knot of tension on his nape. “He should leave me to my own devices.”

  “A lawless land is not to Mr. Enys’s liking.” Rawlyn crimped his thin lips. “Don’t force me to investigate you too closely. Why must you play the daredevil? Find more acceptable pursuits.”

  “Acceptable as the rest of my class? Drinking myself dotty on port? Gambling away my fortune, perchance? Dying in a duel over a perceived insult?” Griffin leaned against his door, his jaw tight. “I invest my money into the people here, my tenants, that’s what drives me.” And the thrill of being devious and clever, he didn’t say.

  However, he was starting to admit to himself that his nocturnal exploits didn’t hold the same incentive as they did before he’d met a certain golden-haired vixen.

  ****

  The hired landau driver hurried his team along the road to Merther Manor under scattered oak and beech trees. “You ladies without male escorts, tisk, tisk; wouldn’t have happened in my youth,” the middle-aged man grumbled. “‘Tis not safe at all.”

  “Don’t be nettlesome, sir. Why do we women have to be treated like children?” Melwyn swayed in the seat and smacked his shoulder with her glove. “Wome
n have sought rights to no avail for centuries. Christine de Pizan in the fifteenth century defended the value of women in her, The Book of the City of Ladies. And Englishwoman Aphra Behn was an abolitionist and a spy for Charles II. She also wrote plays deriding forced marriages.”

  “Me da was right; they should never teach women to read—or write, God preserve us.” The driver slapped the long reins over the horses’ sweaty backs. “Preggers an’ barefoot, that’s the way to keep ‘em.”

  “I’m still waitin’ to be taught.” Clowenna glared at her mistress as they jostled along. The silk flower on her straw hat bobbed up and down with the vehicle. “All this talk o’ women’s rights, an’ where’s mine?”

  “We’ll start in the morning with your ABC’s and P’s and Q’s.” Melwyn nearly fell of the seat at the next jolt. She grabbed the wrist strap. “My dearly appreciated but impatient maid.”

  “Criminey, what’s this world come to? Teachin’ lowly servants to read and write?” The driver groaned then spit out onto the road. “You should be whipped, Miss. You are not natural.”

  “And you are an impertinent bounder. Do you realize you are speaking to an earl’s daughter?” Melwyn had never hidden behind her father’s rank before, but couldn’t resist the opportunity. Her stomach roiled at the ride, and the idea that any moment she’d reach Merther Manor. “I’ll have you know that in 1696, that’s a hundred years ago for an oaf such as you, sir, reformer Mary Astell wrote a thesis called A Serious Proposal to the Ladies. Her astute observations stated that the male patriarchic system was responsible for the differences between men and women. Education, or the lack of it for women, was the signature factor in this issue.”

  “Oh, la, here we go; she’s off on a tangent.” Clowenna pulled her hat brim low as if she could pretend she was invisible. “I shoulda listened to me mam and become a laundress.”

  “So, in conclusion, saying I’m not natural, or not a woman of my time, is ridiculous and flawed.” Melwyn sat straighter and stared out from the open landau. Astell also warned against attraction being a factor in marriage, when understanding should prevail.