by Joan Vincent
“Close your mouth, child,” the baroness said with a slow smile.
“What did you do to them?” Sarita managed.
“They did do rather well for us, didn’t they?” the baroness smiled widely. “But tell me, how has your father persuaded the people to allow them to come?”
“And how did you know this was to be the last week of class?” Awe, suspicion were mixed in Sarita’s tones and look.
“This season is far too busy for the farmers to permit their children to come to class when they can be working in the fields. Since this week began in May, I concluded it had to be the last for classes.”
“Well, thank you for—for helping Mother. She does well unless distressed, then she withdraws . . . recalls only what she wishes.”
“Never mind, my dear,” Lady Imogene came to Sarita’s rescue. “We enjoyed it. Perhaps we could conduct the Sunday classes for as long as we remain?”
“But surely your coach will be repaired in a few days,” the young woman exclaimed, then blushed at the force of her words.
“Sadly not. It appears there will be an indefinite delay. Mr. Caine told us earlier this morn that the wheelwright in Pordean has a very large order from Lord Pergrine and will not be able to make a new axle for our coach for well nigh a month. As there is no wheelwright in Runnet, we have decided—”
“Could you not send Mr. Caine to Hastings to fetch an axle?” Sarita asked hopefully.
“Impossible,” Lady Brienne said adamantly. “We have instructed Mr. Caine to solicit help in removing the coach from its present position and bring it here. I believe your Mr. Traunt is aiding them.”
“He is not my ‘Mr. Traunt,’” Sarita shot back defensively. “You will be here for some time then.” She blanched slightly.
“If your father consents to our staying,” the baroness said gently. She wondered why the young woman was so dismayed.
“Oh,” Sarita shrugged hopelessly but tried to smile. “I am certain he shall.” She went back towards the door. Reaching it, she halted. “Thank you for your help with the class.”
“You never did say how your father convinced the farmers,” Lady Imogene noted curiously.
Blushing furiously, Sarita stammered. “It is—it is because Mother holds the classes and Lord Pergrine is aware that everyone knows of her weakness.” Tears welled in her eyes. “I must go. If you care to take the classes, it will be appreciated. I—I must return to weeding the garden,” she choked out and ran down the corridor.
“The poor child was about to cry. Now why?” Lady Imogene questioned aloud.
“Lord Pergrine becomes less likeable and more of a puzzle at each turn. Let us find Phillippa. I had the most unusual experience during my walk. Do you recall mention of the Frenchmen?” Lady Brienne spoke as they left the solarium making their way towards the front doors.
“Where do you think Phillippa could be?” Lady Imogene asked as the two halted on the front steps of the rectory. “The stables, perhaps?”
“No, our teams are with Mr. Caine, and Josh said Reverend Durham has only one poor beast, which he took this morn.”
“Isn’t it odd for a rector to have only one horse?”
“There are many strange things about the rector, his family, and his people.”
The two went down the steps and ambled towards the east as they spoke with one another. On this side of the rectory the remnants of a once-grand garden struggled to maintain shreds of its past glory.
Lady Phillippa, wandering through it, saw her sisters. “Brenny, Immy, here in the garden.” She fluttered a wave. “Join me.” When the two neared her, she smiled conspiratorially.
“I have been thinking and have decided that Sarita—”
“First let me tell you what happened during my walk,” the baroness interrupted. “Let us go to the arbour at the back there,” she pointed. “No one will overhear us.”
“What should no one overhear?” Lady Imogene questioned tartly as she and the marchioness exchanged knowing shrugs. When Brienne took this tone, there was no halting her.
After casting about to see if anyone was near, Lady Brienne sat beside her sisters. In a hushed whisper she told of having followed the path which Sarita had led them over.
“I spied a man walking ahead of me and hastened my steps, but suddenly he was gone. My first thought was that he was a poacher, but he carried no hunting piece or game. I spied a suspicious splash of white and crept forward.
Another man had joined the first. I could not see them clearly, for I feared going closer, but I did overhear their conversation, in French. How fortunate it was I and not you who chanced upon them,” she said in an aside to Lady Phillippa with an arched eyebrow.
“The one in white was called Pierre, mayhap the Pierre Mandel Sarita spoke of. They talked of an arrival and the need to arrange cover and that transportation should be ready.”
“What could that mean?” Lady Imogene puzzled.
Lady Phillippa dismissed Brienne’s intimation of worse.
“Probably just that they are smuggling in some French brandy.”
“But what if it isn’t something so harmless as brandy?” asked Lady Brienne. “Why does young Mandel need to meet with anyone secretly? His father surely would not disapprove of such smuggling? No, I feel it is far more serious than spirits.”
“Countess? Lady Phillippa? Baroness Mickle?” Sarita called for them.
Rising at once, they went toward the sound of the young woman’s voice. The baroness’ eyes narrowed at the sight of the white shirted young man at Sarita’s side.
“You were correct, Mademoiselle Durham. Les mesdames sont très belles.” He bowed with a flourish and a flutter of the ruffles on his cuffs.
“Monsieur Mandel, this is Lady Imogene, Countess of Lackland; Lady Phillippa, Marchioness of Bawden, and Lady Brienne, Dowager Baroness of Mickle. My ladies, Monsieur Pierre Mandel.”
“C’est mon plaisir, Mesdames.”
“Merci. Do you not find life here strange, Monsieur Mandel . . . after having lived in France all your life?” Lady Brienne asked lightly.
“With friends such as you English, how can life be but pleasing?” He shrugged languidly. “Especially with the companionship of one such as Mademoiselle Sarita.” Mandel put an arm intimately about the young woman’s shoulders.
Frowning at this familiarity, Sarita edged away from him.
Lady Brienne noted the glint of disapproval in his eye as she did. “A young man as handsome as you must be kept très occupé,” she said.
The arrogance of the man flashed to the fore briefly. He preened in response to the compliment. Brushing a speck of dust from the ruffles of his shirtfront, his eyes stole to Sarita, then snapped back to the baroness. “Vous parlez français, madame?”
“Only a few phrases.” Lady Brienne smiled. “My late husband was fond of the language.”
“Perhaps you could tell us of your home, Monsieur Mandel?” Lady Phillippa spoke with interest. “We travelled extensively in France many years ago.”
“Then you speak our language?” he questioned, his eyes narrowing.
“A kind not understood by Frenchmen,” Lady Brienne said, startling Sarita with a trilling laugh. “We found we could comprehend each other but not the French, nor they us,” she twittered.
Pierre smiled, relief plain in his eyes. “During my morning walk I thought I saw one of you. You, Madame Brickle, n’etait-ce pas?”
“Only if you were on the path in the woods leading to the road where our coach is mired,” she tossed back lightly. “I started out for our coach, but an unusual bird lured me from the path. “Unfortunately,” she let her face sadden, “I was unable to locate the bird.”
“I wish you better fortune next time,” he bowed. “Now I must take leave of you. It is my hope we shall meet again during your stay,” Mandel said unctuously. He took Sarita’s hand and kissed it.
“Till next we meet, m’amie,” he said lowly, then sauntered away.
Three pairs of eyes followed his swaggering steps, and then turned to a red-faced Sarita.
“I must attend to my duties,” she said, angry at Mandel’s presumptuous behaviour. “Supper will be served at the same tune as last eve.” She stalked away.
“Methinks the young lady dislikes yon Frenchman,” Lady Brienne rioted dryly.
“She is not alone in that,” Lady Phillippa murmured.
Lady Imogene recalled the marchioness earlier comment. “What was it you decided about Sarita?”
“First let me tell you about a conversation I had with a Mrs. Tessy O’Neal,” Lady Phillippa said. She motioned them back into the arbour.
“Mrs. O’Neal would do for a dragoon in the King’s army.” She winked as she sat down. “It appears she has a partiality for the Durhams and resents our imposition here.”
“Imposition,” blustered the baroness.
“Hear me out, Brenny.” Lady Phillippa smiled at her sister’s reaction. “I feel you could take a strong liking to Mrs. O’Neal, pardon me—to Tessy. I am under command to use her given name only. She has your ‘tactful’ approach, Brienne.” With a mischievous wink at Lady Imogene she continued, “Which explains why I rather felt like I was being trampled the first few moments of our talk.
“I must say it was a rather unique feeling, being identified with light skirts at my age. Well, what was I to think,” the marchioness explained with a shrug and a laugh, “when Tessy greeted me with, ‘Are you one of those women?’”
The baroness clucked, but Lady Imogene burst into laughter.
Feigning seriousness, Lady Phillippa continued, “When you see Tessy’s proportions, you will know how far she outranks my title.” She nodded at Lady Brienne’s grimace. “She has in the past been nursemaid, cook—of general service to the Durhams. In fact, she did so until two years past when, according to Tessy, Lord Pergrine began seriously dissuading his tenants from attending the Church or supporting it.”
“But why?” said the countess.
The baroness bristled.
“Reverend Durham had began speaking out against Pergrine’s high rents and other injustices to his tenants,” Lady Phillippa explained.
“How have the Durhams gone on without support? Is he of independent means?” Lady Brienne asked.
The marchioness shook her head. “Not from what I have learned. They have been nearly pauperised from what Tessy has told me. Only a few now dare to contribute to the Church. Some people give them food, but furtively, to escape Pergrine’s retribution,” she ended.
“But if the Durhams have no servants and little food, who has been doing all the cooking, cleaning, washing?” Lady Imogene wondered aloud. “Where has the food come from these past three days?”
“It could only be Sarita,” the baroness responded. “She has looked increasingly worn. Something must be done.” She stood up abruptly.
“Let us send Mr. Caine for our Meg and her girls.”
“No.”
Lady Phillippa’s vehemence surprised the baroness and the countess.
“The Durhams would refuse any help given in that way,” Lady Phillippa told them. “They are proud. Besides, I suspect they think we have seen better times and I do not wish to dispel that idea as yet.”
“Then what would you suggest?” Lady Brienne demanded. “We cannot let the child continue to do everything.”
“Exactly,” Lady Phillippa concurred. “Since we are the cause of the extra labour, why don’t we provide the help?”
“Help? Personally?” Lady Imogene echoed weakly.
“Yes, Immy. You were a tolerable cook at one time—”
“Tolerable!” The pudgy countess stiffened indignantly. “Only the best cook in the shire,” she blustered, but quickly grew uncertain. “That was many years past,” she said.
“And what, may I ask, have you planned for me?” Lady Brienne challenged.
“Our home at Hawkhurst was always the neatest. And of course, you would only be supervising Sarita and Deborah,” she ended hopefully.
“And you?” both sisters asked the marchioness in unison.
“Tessy has agreed to handle the laundry. There is the mending and many small tasks I can see to.
“Oh, come, you two, we will enjoy it. It is only for a short time. Are we not agreed to it?” Her eyes flew eagerly from one to the other.
Chapter 5
A soft breeze gently fanned Sarita as she sat beneath the huge old oak tree near the kitchen door. Its shade was refreshingly cool after the heat of the sun, which had shone full upon her in the garden.
Peas were pushed from their pods and fell into the pan in Sarita’s lap with clattering vigour until the bottom was covered. Beside her the heap of emptied pods steadily grew, but glancing into her pan Sarita wondered if she would ever have enough for supper. Resisting the urge to throw the peas she had already shelled to the wind, she shook her head and sighed heavily.
Why don’t I do like Deborah? she thought. Mother would not have objected to my going with them, and I enjoy the Dollard sisters. Think, they are about to have tea and—
“Tea! Oh, dear, I forgot tea,” Sarita bemoaned, then stiffened her tone. “Tea will just have to be late,” she pronounced a defiant sentence on the afternoon repast.
“Of course it will not be late,” Lady Imogene startled her.
The young woman jumped up, nearly upsetting the shelled peas. “But I cannot prepare—” she began angrily, turning to confront the countess. Her words died, and her eyes grew large at the sight of the tea tray in the Lady Imogene’s hands.
“Carefully, carefully,” Lady Phillippa admonished Sarita and took the pan from her unsteady hands.
“But—”
“Do sit down, Miss Durham,” the baroness commanded. “I do not care to take my tea standing.”
“But you should not be serving,” Sarita objected, still confused.
“‘Tis only a cup of tea,” Lady Phillippa objected and placed the pan on the ground. Mr. Caine and Ben set down chairs and the dowagers sat down.
Sarita continued dumbfounded as tea was served. “You act as if this were a regular occurrence,” she managed at last.
“And why not?” Lady Imogene smiled.
“But you are—ladies. Titled.”
“Titled by marriage only,” Lady Brienne returned. “We were once simple daughters of a mere fourth son,” Lady Phillippa explained, “whose marriages brought love, not fortunes. Our lives then and now are much as yours.”
Sarita was unconvinced. “I—I really do not have time for tea,” she began to excuse herself.
“Tsk, tsk. So impatient,” Lady Imogene reproved. “Rushing is bad for the complexion.”
But not for your supper, Sarita wished to say aloud.
“Phillippa and I will manage this eve’s meal. You are to rest,” the countess assured the surprised young woman.
“Yes,” Lady Phillippa smiled. “I would not wish you to be worn looking when—Well, you do need your rest,” she ended under her sisters’ questioning glances.
“Do you not wish us to help or do you fear we are incompetent?” Lady Brienne asked a dubious Sarita.
“Why—why, neither. I just—Father will—”
“Will see the justice in it, never fear,” Lady Imogene assured her. “Brienne will see to that. Now come along and show us the kitchen. We did manage tea. After all these years I find the prospect of cooking rather tantalizing.”
“Let us hope the results also are,” the baroness noted dryly, then smiled.
Laughing, Lady Phillippa and Lady Imogene took Sarita by the hands and led her to the kitchen.
* * * *
Reverend Durham returned to the rectory later than usual, washed, and hurried to the dining salon. Finding his wife anxiously pacing to and fro, he said softly, “Esther.”
She whirled towards him, her face ashen.
“Esther, has something happened to Sarita—to Deborah?” he demanded, fearing the worst.
“No, no. They are both well,” she answered in bewilderment.
“Then what has happened?”
“Good eve, Reverend Durham,” Lady Brienne greeted the rector as she entered the room. “I see Sarita still has not risen.” She nodded approvingly.
“Sarita is ill, then?” Reverend Durham questioned the baroness.
“She is as healthy as you and I. More so, I would think, with her few years,” Lady Brienne told him. “Let us sit down; supper is about to be served.”
Casting a dubious look at his wife, his questions still wanting answers, the minister moved to obey the authoritative tone. Seating his wife, he assisted Lady Brienne to her chair and then took his own.
“Good eve,” Lady Phillippa greeted everyone cheerfully as she hurried into the dining salon bearing a large, covered tray. Behind her Lady Imogene bustled with a steaming bowl of buttered fresh garden peas.
Reverend Durham leapt to his feet, consternation and indignation covering his features. “My ladies, I—Deborah, what is the reason for this?” he demanded of his daughter, who came in behind the countess with a tray of warm, newly baked bread. “Why are our guests serving us?” he demanded angrily.
“Reverend Durham.” The baroness’s icy voice turned him to her. “If you will permit my sisters and Deborah to take their seats, we shall explain.”
“Yes, my lady.” A wry grin came to the minister’s lips. “Pardon my—my hasty ire.”
“Most assuredly, Reverend,” Lady Phillippa piped. “But you see, we simply could not remain idly by when we realized the situation.”
“Situation?” he repeated hollowly.
“Lack of good help is always a problem in the country,” the countess took up the explanation. “What with all the young girls seeking their fortunes in London. Three guests can prove a burden.”
“Therefore we shall participate in the duties of the household till we depart,” Lady Brienne firmly told the amazed man. “Now, let us dine. I am famished.”
Acceding since he saw no other choice, Reverend Durham led grace.
Tentative sampling began when he had ended and soon everyone concurred that Lady Imogene, beaming brightly as she watched them eagerly partake, had not forgotten her culinary skills.
