by Diane Farr
“Was there enough, then, to pay the debts?”
“Not all of them.” He hated telling her this. “There was one sizeable parcel of land that my father had managed to mortgage. I have made sporadic payments to keep the mortgage holder from calling in the note. He would be well within his rights to do so but, fortunately, he’s a city dweller and hasn’t the foggiest notion what to do with the land.” He gave her an ironic glance. “You will understand that the gentleman is a bit of a slowtop. No one with half a brain would have lent my father money, secured by land or not. At any rate, this creditor is satisfied to make threatening noises from time to time. When the dibs are in tune, I pay him. When they are not”—he shrugged—“you can’t get blood from a turnip.”
She questioned him closely about the details of the estate, displaying a quick mind and a grasp of land management that surprised him. But, as Olivia reminded him, she was not a Londoner. She had grown up on her father’s estate, and those years had not been wasted. She had soaked up knowledge like a sponge, showing interest in everything, and had, she said, learned far more than was good for her. He caught the twinkle in her eye that belied her pious look.
He assumed an austere expression. “Did you usurp your father’s authority and manage his estate for him? I hope you were severely punished.”
“I was,” she assured him. “The bailiff took my advice without a blink, but he also accepted praise for the results without a blink. It was painful for me to hold my tongue while my father marveled at Hinson’s industry and excellent management.”
George chuckled. “Most galling,” he said sympathetically.
“Yes, but no more than I deserved. My family has always said it was a great pity that I was born a girl.”
“I hesitate to contradict them,” said George politely, “but I am deeply grateful that you were born a girl.”
She laughed, but something flickered in the back of her eyes and he felt her withdraw from him a little. He understood her reserve. She was still toying with the idea of jilting him. There was no question of that, however. He had no intention of returning her to Chelsea until she was well and truly his. By that time, the announcement would be in all the papers—which was his whole purpose in sending Miss Fairfax and that silly little countess back to London. Olivia had said yes to him under the shakiest of circumstances, but the betrothal announcement would add the weight of a fait accompli to the scales.
He had to have her. He desired her, now, almost as much as her money. He stole a glance at her and felt his blood heat. It wasn’t that she was conventionally pretty, although no fault could be found in her delicate features. She was better than pretty. A man could never tire of looking at that extraordinary, expressive face: the fine bones and clear eyes, the wonderful mix of strength and softness, intelligence and innocence, fire and laughter. And a man could certainly never tire of touching that soft skin of hers. But he wouldn’t think of that—not now.
They left the main road and started down a track that wound through peaceful fields, meadows dotted with sheep, and vast expanses of nothing. George soon fell silent under the weight of memories. He felt as if he knew every blade of grass, every stone and stile. They were alone now, with only the whisper of tall grasses bending in the wind and the cry of birds to keep them company. The road dipped and rose, and he knew that when it reached the crest of the low hill, Rye Vale itself, the manor house, would be visible. Overcome with emotion, he pulled the horses to a halt. He must master himself before he could go on.
“What is it?” asked Olivia.
For a moment he could not answer her. With the curricle stopped, the wild silence, fresh with sea wind, surrounded them. “Listen,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Do the gulls sound like that anywhere else in England?”
Her low chuckle warmed him. “Gulls sound the same everywhere. Are we close to your home now?”
“Very close.” He opened his eyes and turned to look at her. She sat beside him, straight and graceful, her smooth, pale cheeks spanked pink by the breeze. Amusement twinkled in her clear gray eyes—and understanding, too. He smiled. “I love this land,” he said simply.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I am glad you think so. It’s not to everyone’s taste.” He gazed out over the ocean of grass and tried to imagine how it might strike someone seeing it for the first time. “There are those who enjoy London and crave the excitement of town. They soon grow restless here. And then there are those who are accustomed to forests. This portion of England appears naked to them, strange and empty. They see no beauty in it.”
“Then I feel sorry for them,” said Olivia roundly. “I think it indicates a poverty of the soul, to perceive beauty only in the familiar.” She sniffed the sea wind appreciatively. “My! It’s lovely to breathe clean air, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
She held her hat on with one hand as a gust of wind rocked the carriage. “Invigorating,” she remarked.
He chuckled. “Are you putting a brave face on it?”
“No!” she assured him. Pleasure sparkled in her eyes. “I truly enjoy it.”
She really did seem to be enjoying it. His heart swelled with gratitude. What a dear she was. “I suppose you are wondering why we stopped,” he said apologetically.
The look of understanding in her eyes deepened. “I can guess,” she said softly. “There is something over the top of that rise. Something you are afraid to see. Is that it?”
He was a little startled by how near the mark she had come. “Not quite. Something I am eager to see—but afraid to show you, I suppose.” He tried to smile. “Once we crest the hill, the manor house will be visible. I’m afraid we will find it in a sad state of disrepair.”
“Never mind,” she said cheerfully. “We’re here to assess the damage, are we not? Let us begin.”
She was right, of course. There was no point in delaying the inevitable. He urged the horses forward again and they crested the hill.
It was worse than he had pictured. He gazed at his boyhood home, his expressionless face hiding his distress. The wild grass had completely taken over, obliterating what used to be lawn and garden and graveled drive and neat rows of flowering hedges. The stand of yews, no longer neatly clipped, still marched beside what used to be the main approach to the house. Otherwise, there was nothing to mark it. The house rose out of the sea of grass like a drowning man bobbing to the surface for a last gasp of air. And the roof of the south wing had fallen in. Why hadn’t the Rugglesfords written to tell him of that?
Olivia uttered a soft exclamation when she saw it and placed her hand lightly on his leg. It seemed an unconscious gesture of sympathy and support, and he was dimly grateful for it even through his pain. He said nothing, but drove down to the house. They had to approach it on a rough cart track leading to the back of the buildings, where the kitchen was. Here, a small yard had been cleared.
George drew the curricle to a halt before the low stone steps to the kitchen door. He barely recognized the place. Chickens flapped and cackled underfoot, making his horses dance nervously. Rows of beans and turnips were visible opposite the chicken coop ahead.
The ancient manor of Rye Vale had dwindled into a farm.
Impotent rage held George silent. The Rugglesfords were not to blame. How else were they to live? He was grateful for their industry. They had done their best to keep the place in repair; he could scarcely expect poor old Rugglesford to mend the roof with no funds and no help. Planting their own vegetables and raising chickens had doubtless helped them make ends meet. He could not blame them. No, he could not blame them. He knew where the blame lay. He sat like a statue as Mrs. Rugglesford, blessing herself and beaming, appeared in the kitchen doorway.
George thought his face would crack if he tried to speak or smile. He was profoundly thankful when Olivia immediately stepped into the breach, smoothing the moment over with her instinctive tact. She smiled and offered her hand to Mrs. Rugglesford, complimenting her
on the smells wafting from her kitchen. The good woman blushed with pleasure and launched into a monologue that related, in no particular order, her surprise at seeing the master, her delight at welcoming him home, her fears that he would find it much altered, an anxious enumeration of the ways in which she and her husband had tried to keep the place from falling into ruin, and an incomprehensible recipe for quickbread. Olivia bore it all very well, and her kind intervention gave George sufficient time to recover his aplomb.
George Carstairs had always been a lucky man. This day he learned, beyond all doubt, that meeting Lady Olivia Fairfax was the most spectacular stroke of good fortune that had ever yet befallen him. He was in a fair way to thinking it was the most spectacular stroke of good fortune that had ever befallen any man, anywhere. He actually felt humbled by it. Amazed. Nearly unmanned.
It wasn’t just that he did not deserve her, although he was keenly aware of that. No man deserved her. She was a wonder. A walking, talking, breathing miracle. She swept into the Rugglesfords’ humble home—which had once been Rye Vale’s kitchen, scullery, and butler’s quarters—and thoroughly won the hearts of George’s remaining staff. She knew exactly how to charm them. Ten minutes of her warm approval and expressions of appreciation for various tiny touches—which George would never have noticed had she not remarked upon them—and the job was done. The Rugglesfords were fairly tripping over themselves with eagerness to please her.
He was flabbergasted when Mrs. Rugglesford actually offered to show them through the major portions of the house. Olivia’s smile swept everything aside; opposition and timidity alike withered in its sunshine. So off they went, Mrs. Rugglesford’s keys jingling at her waist, to tramp through the great hall and the central wing.
The manor’s scanty furnishings were shrouded beneath holland covers and the place had the unmistakable smell of an uninhabited home: damp air and dust. He found it depressing, but such mundane hindrances as stale air and invisible furniture could not foil Olivia’s imagination. Her eyes sparkled, her foot tapped, and the concentration in her face plainly showed that the house was catching her interest. She exclaimed over beauties that he himself could barely make out beneath the film of neglect. Nothing could be hidden from her penetrating vision. It sought out everything good, transforming Rye Vale in her mind’s eye from a ruin to a showplace.
At the end of their tour, he waved the Rugglesfords off to their own quarters and drew Olivia aside into a window embrasure. “My dear Olivia,” he exclaimed, “I am ready to fall at your feet and worship you.”
She chuckled, briskly rubbing a smut of dust off her glove. “That won’t be necessary, my lord,” she told him demurely. “In fact, it would be a fatal mistake! Those who know me well would beg you not to encourage me. You haven’t encountered me in one of my enthusiastic fits—I can become quite unbearable, I assure you.”
“Do your worst,” he said, smiling. “You will find me a difficult man to frighten.”
She looked appraisingly at him. “I believe you are right. I can’t imagine riding roughshod over you.”
“You won’t,” he promised her. He linked his hands behind her waist and drew her close to him. “In fact, I pulled you aside to speak to you on that head. Before you calculate the cost of curtains and carpets and wallpapers and start firing off orders to the London warehouses, I need to make something clear to you.”
“Indeed?” She looked affronted.
“This is important, Ivy,” he said, as gently as he could. It was her money, after all. “I am delighted that you are able to see beauty in this ruin of a house. And I appreciate your willingness to transform it into what it could be. But if you mean to pour all your resources into the manor house, I must put my foot down.”
Her eyes flashed. “How dare you! How dare you dictate to me? I have not even made up my mind whether I will truly marry you.”
He winced. “I expressed myself badly. What I meant was, there are more important uses for your income than mere adornment.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She looked hurt as well as angry.
“Once the roof is repaired and the house made habitable, I hope to persuade you that we can be comfortable together without surrounding ourselves with luxuries. We shall have everything you want, in time. It hurts my heart to deny you. But even your income is not large enough to do everything at once, and we must not, cannot, shirk our responsibilities to the community.”
She stared at him, apparently flummoxed. Whatever she had been expecting him to say, he had evidently said something else. He pressed his point, speaking low and urgently. “Ivy, there are people who depend on me. It is my sacred duty to help them, and until now I have been utterly unable to do so. Can you not see, sweetheart, that it would be indecent—dishonorable—to fill my house with expensive ornaments while my tenants still suffer?”
For a second or two she did not move. Emotions chased themselves across her face, too quickly for him to decipher what they were. She eventually seemed to arrive at a decision. Then she reached up, took his face in her hands, and went up on her toes to kiss him. Surprised, but pleased, he returned her kiss. Finally she dropped back onto her heels and smiled blindingly at him.
“When can we meet with your bailiff?” she asked.
George thought he had never heard sweeter words.
24
Oh, she was right to love him. It did not matter whether she had picked up clues about his character from his actions and discourse or whether she had simply known it instinctively. She had judged him aright. Lord Rival may have lived the life of a rake, but he had the soul of a hero. All her giddy happiness returned, growing stronger as she received more and more evidence to confirm this view.
The tenants welcomed him with relief. There was no hint that they resented Lord Rival or blamed him personally for their plight. The Rugglesfords obviously held him in respect and affection, and when he located his father’s old bailiff—now stricken in years, but full of excellent advice—the old man choked with visible emotion at the end of their meeting and declared that it would be a blessing to have his lordship back at Rye Vale. Surely the esteem in which a man was held by those dependent upon him, especially when he had been able to do so little for them as yet, was excellent evidence that there was a side to George that the ton had never seen.
Fears and doubts still niggled at the back of her mind, but she defied them. She was in love and she was going to marry the man she loved, and the devil take the hindmost! More difficult to ignore was the sorrowful ache that worried like a sore tooth at the edges of her consciousness. It was crazy to marry a fortune hunter with her eyes wide open. It was worse to marry a man who did not love her. But she wanted him so badly that she deliberately turned her back on her wiser self.
Life with him might make her miserable; life without him surely would.
This portion of Sussex, very near the border of Kent, seemed to her a land of wind and sky. She had lived near London for so long, she had forgotten what it was like away from the smoke and noise of town. The sky was enormous. Beautiful. Her second day there, George rode over to the inn where, for propriety’s sake, she was staying. A horse was saddled for her and George took her out for a gallop. She laughed from pure joy as the wind snatched at her hair and flapped her clothing like a flag, loving the feeling of the horse’s muscles bunching and stretching beneath her. It had been a long time since she had ridden a horse, and longer still since she had galloped one. She had nearly forgotten what it felt like, how close it came to flying. To rediscover that joy with George at her side was heavenly.
She loved it here. Even the tumbledown house seemed beautiful to her, steeped in history, proud and ancient. George’s ideas marched with her own in every way. They put plans together to reclaim the lost fortunes of his family by paying down the debts and putting heart back into the land. After an initial infusion of cash, there was no reason why the estate could not become self-sufficient again. And the project would be exciting—
restoring the land, restoring the house. Building a family. All of it thrilled her. She felt fired with enthusiasm and eager to begin her new life. It didn’t matter that it was George’s project; she could not have been happier had she chosen it herself.
The future looked, in a word, bright.
It was a busy three days. With the help of the Rugglesfords they interviewed and hired a skeleton staff to begin setting the house to rights. It was obvious that George had given all this a great deal of thought; he had a dozen plans already in place, and all they had to do was decide which things needed to be done first. Laborers were found to clear the park, resurface the gravel drives, and repair the roof. The central portion of the house would be thoroughly cleaned and the holland covers taken off the furniture. New mattresses and linens and other household necessities would be purchased, all under the supervision of Mrs. Rugglesford—a sharp-eyed, honest, and thrifty woman. And George and Olivia would return to London, where George would procure a special license. They would be married within a fortnight, arrange for the smooth operation of the Fairfax School during Olivia’s temporary absence, and return at once to Rye Vale to direct and supervise.
