by KJ Charles
Pat felt somewhat frowsty in the morning, but her crochets were quickly blown away by the breeze. The day was bright, early September sun giving the world a golden glow, and it was possible for a while to think of nothing but the hunt.
The party consisted of the Earl, Jimmy, Mr. Keynes, Mr. Bouvier-Lynes, Bill, and Pat, plus three well-trained dogs and the beaters with the game-cart and hampers. They started at a cover on the edge of a spinney. The wind was fairly stiff and the birds wary, making for tricky shooting. The Earl, used to the weather, bagged four birds; Jimmy and Mr. Keynes both took three. Bill, who was sadly out of practice, only winged a single partridge and cursed himself for an incompetent; Mr. Bouvier-Lynes wasted his shot entirely; and Pat brought down seven.
“Magnificent, old girl,” Bill told her, with a clap to the shoulder. “By God, you get better and better.”
“I’m awestruck,” Mr. Bouvier-Lynes said. “When you’ve finished instructing Miss Carruth, will you accept a new pupil?”
“Superb,” Jimmy agreed. “I did tell you, sir.”
“He said you’d outshoot the best of us, Miss Merton, and he was right.” Lord Witton seemed himself out here, in his weatherbeaten shooting garb, walking his lands with a countryman’s leisurely stride. He looked decent, dignified, happy, not the silenced old man of last night.
By the time they’d had their late breakfast from the picnic basket, Pat was on first-name terms with Jack and Preston, it being a great deal easier for gentlemen to relax if they could treat her as an honorary man. She took a fervent part in the analysis of weather, terrain, cartridge, and distribution of game, then sat back as the conversation became more general.
Jimmy didn’t seem as able to forget his troubles as his father. He had the miserable, strained look that he’d been wearing for much of the visit. Bill too had a set look to his face, and spoke as though his mind wasn’t really on what he was saying. Jack and Preston were both cheerful enough, though Pat doubted they’d be seeing the former for many more shoots. Still, one could not think poorly of a man who took failure in such good part.
The morning’s shooting was excellent, but by noon the wind was decidedly getting up, and there were clouds scudding over the sky. They ate luncheon under a spreading oak tree and discussed the likelihood of storms.
“There’s weather on the way. It’ll come by nightfall, I should think,” the Earl said.
“So we’ll take advantage now?” Jimmy asked. “Suits me.”
Everyone agreed with that, although Jack’s nod wasn’t wildly enthusiastic. They set off to their next location, walking along a path that ran by a small, brisk river and was only wide enough for pairs. Bill and the Earl were leading, followed by Jack and Preston, which left Pat to bring up the rear with Jimmy.
“I think he’s got blisters,” she said with a nod to Jack where he walked ahead.
“I’m sure he does. Those are new togs, aren’t they?” Jimmy’s own shooting clothes, like those of any self-respecting gun, could have belonged to a tramp. “Fellow’s a lounge lizard. Has he hit a thing all day?”
“Count your blessings; he hasn’t hit me, you, or a beater. At least he’s good-humoured about it.”
“Very true,” Jimmy admitted. “He isn’t a bad fellow, or at least he wouldn’t be if he wasn’t hanging around my sister.”
“I’d rather have him than Haworth too,” Pat said. “Can I take it your brother-in-law isn’t a gun?”
“Thank God, no. I don’t know if I could bear him all day as well as in the evenings.”
“But if he came out, we could shoot him and blame Jack. Jimmy, why on earth—”
“Don’t ask.”
“I really think I must. It’s one thing that he’s vile; it’s another to see it tolerated in this extraordinary way. As a friend, I have to ask, are you afraid of something?”
The colour drained from Jimmy’s face. Pat had seen that before, when her father had received the telegrams about Frank and Donald, healthy ruddiness turning a nasty sallow colour. “What do you mean?” he managed.
“I don’t know,” Pat said, somewhat alarmed. “That’s why I’m asking. Is he liable to be violent if crossed? To Lady Anna or—” Good heavens, she didn’t even know the child’s name. “—your nephew?”
“Is he a wife-beater? Not as far as I know. I wouldn’t put it past him, but his tongue is weapon enough. They have the most awful rows, although any man might if his wife—” He nodded at Jack up ahead to complete that thought.
“Then if you’re not afraid of what Haworth might do, why don’t you send him to the devil?”
Jimmy scowled, much as a man might on realising he’d just failed to grasp a convenient excuse. “It’s not that easy. He’s Anna’s husband.”
“And you’re Fen’s fiancée,” Pat said. “And if you were my fiancée, Jimmy, after last evening I should be returning your ring to you, and you’d be lucky if it came back by post rather than thrown at your head. Do you want to marry her?”
“Of course I do.”
“There isn’t any ‘of course’ about it. Nobody would think you gave two hoots for her.”
“I don’t know what business it is of yours,” Jimmy said, attempting dignity. “My relations with my fiancée—”
“Oh, come off it,” Pat snapped. “I’ve spent more time with her than you have here, and Bill’s made three times the effort to stand up for her.” He winced. She pressed her advantage. “Really, Jimmy, if you don’t care for her you should do the decent thing and talk to her. And if you do, you should make some sort of show of it.”
“Has she said anything to you? About the engagement?”
“If she had I shouldn’t repeat it, any more than I should repeat your words to her.”
“No, of course not. But— Oh, God, Pat, I’ve made a bloody awful mess of this.”
“You have, yes.”
“No, you’ve no idea. Really, you don’t. This business with Fen is only the start.”
“What on earth is wrong?” Pat demanded. She was beginning to feel seriously worried.
Jimmy kicked a stone into the river. “I don’t know where I’d begin. Suffice to say, we’re in a dreadful hole, I need money, and this seemed the best way to go about it. Fen gets a coronet, I get the funds, everyone’s happy.”
“You don’t look happy. And nor does she. And I haven’t seen anything to suggest she’s on the hunt for a title.”
“Well, she accepted me.”
“Possibly she was under the impression you were a decent sort of chap,” Pat said icily. “I used to think that too.”
“Oh, don’t,” Jimmy said. “I know. I thought I was doing the practical thing. I thought I could be a good husband, I truly did, but everything’s gone wrong, and of course blasted Maurice is setting out to sabotage the engagement for the hell of it, and there’s damn all I can do about it.”
“You could talk honestly to Fen. She doesn’t know what’s going on, does she?” Jimmy shook his head. Pat clenched her fists, feeling an upswell of anger. “It won’t do, Jimmy. You can’t marry her for her money and foist your debts and troubles and Maurice Haworth on her without warning. You don’t have to tell me your secrets, but you have to tell her, and give her a fair choice. If she understood, perhaps she could help you. Stand by you. At least know not to be hurt when you throw her to the wolves.”
“Not all women are like you, old thing. I have no doubt you’d stand by your man and fight his battles. Fen’s more the taken-care-of sort.”
“Rubbish,” Pat said. “You have no idea what she’s like, because you’ve never bothered to find out. You haven’t even been bowled over by her pretty face; I’d think more of you if you had. She isn’t a featherbrain in the slightest, I think she’d fight tooth and nail if she had to, and even if she were a frippery sort of person she’d still deserve a great deal better than a man who only cares for her father’s wallet.”
“I do care for her.” Jimmy was entirely scarlet now. “She’s a g
reat girl. Good fun. It’s just, this is absolutely the worst possible time for her to be here.”
“But she is here. And if she is fool enough to marry you, she will continue to be here. So you’d better get used to it, and start behaving as if you want her here. Hadn’t you?”
Pat didn’t give him a chance to reply but lengthened her stride and speed, stalking away. She was shaking with anger and, she realised a few moments later, she was also deeply and profoundly miserable.
The fact was, she didn’t want Jimmy to be a decent fiancé. She wanted him to be terrible so that Fen would end the engagement, and it would be nothing to do with her own behaviour when Jimmy lost the industrial wealth on which he was depending to pull Rodington Court and the Earl and Countess and himself out of that hole of theirs.
It was a shameful hope. If Fen broke things off, no matter how justified she might be, it would be her third jilting. The whispers about her would turn to sneers; she’d be branded fast, unreliable, foolish, a joke. Not at all the sort of woman that a good, steady man should pick. Her father’s wealth might mean she was still received but it would attract the kind of predators who liked nothing better than a wealthy woman with limited marriage prospects. Whereas if she married Jimmy, she would one day be Countess of Witton. Women married far worse men than Jimmy could ever be for the sake of a title.
Not to mention Jimmy. Whatever was going on, he’d sounded desperate, and he wasn’t given to histrionics. Pat was a practical woman, and saw nothing wrong with a practical marriage so long as both parties were happy with the arrangement. It didn’t matter if he didn’t love Fen as long as he was kind and she was happy; she suspected that he would fall in love with her after the marriage anyway. Who could not?
Fen and Jimmy both needed this marriage, and a friend who cared for either of them would help them to make it work. Pat had done the right thing in giving him a talking-to. It was exactly what she’d have done if she and Fen had never shared that dizzying kiss, which meant it was the right thing to do because, in the end, what did a single kiss between women count for?
She told herself all that as she walked on. None of it made her feel better.
The afternoon’s shooting was trickier. The weather was moving in on them faster than expected, and the partridges kept low to the ground, a sure sign of approaching storms. The Earl called a halt around four o’clock.
“We’ve a long tramp back and we’ll be doing well to beat the rain,” he told the party with a glance to the darkening sky. “Let’s go.”
Pat moved towards Bill as they set off, but he had attached himself to the Earl once more. Preston and Jack paired up again, leaving her to walk with Jimmy, somewhat to her annoyance. He was Bill’s friend; why the blazes couldn’t they talk to each other?
“Think we’ll make it home without getting soaked?” he asked after a few awkwardly silent moments.
“Possibly,” Pat said. “It’s going to be a big blow. Listen, the birds are quiet already.”
“Mmm. Looks like a day indoors tomorrow.”
“I’m sure we can occupy ourselves.”
“Thank God it’s a big house,” Jimmy said. “Look, Pat, I want to say thank you.”
“Sorry?”
“Thank you. You were right, in what you said. I’ve been busy feeling sorry for myself and that’s not fair to Fen, because none of this is her fault. I made a decision and it’s up to me to take the consequences. I can’t have everything I want and that’s all there is to it, and I’m jolly lucky that Fen accepted me in the first place. It’s time I pulled myself together. And I am also jolly lucky to have friends who tell me when I’m being an ass.”
“That’s all right,” Pat said. “I’ll do that whenever you like.”
Jimmy grinned at her. “Try and stop you, eh? I do appreciate it, old girl. And I hope we’ll stay friends once I’m married. You and Fen seem to be getting on like a house on fire.”
“Yes.” She couldn’t manage any more.
“Just don’t steal her away from me tomorrow, that’s all I ask.”
“Sorry?” Pat said. “What do you mean—steal—”
“Well, I’ll want some of her time for myself,” Jimmy said. “Take advantage of the bad weather to do my duty, show her the house properly, all that. What did you think I meant?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The heavens opened about ten minutes before the party arrived back at Rodington Court—sluicing rain that seemed to come in spears rather than droplets, accompanied by a distant, ominous grumble of approaching thunder, and made the Earl shout back at them all about India and monsoons. By the time Pat finally got inside, she was wet through to her smalls, and the Countess insisted on hot baths for everyone to prevent chills. Pat did not particularly enjoy sitting around in water, but hiding in the bath seemed like a better prospect than facing Fen, or Jimmy, let alone the Haworths. Please God this evening would be better than the one before.
Of course, in one particular respect, no evening could be better than the one before, but Pat had to put that from her mind. Fen had a choice to make about the course of her life, and Pat had no right to distract her. Unless she wanted to be distracted, of course. In which case she could come and find Pat herself.
Pat allowed herself to imagine that for a moment. A soft knock on the door, a rustle of skirts, Fen slipping into the room while Pat reclined naked in the bathtub. A giggling offer to help with the soap, a plump hand, frothy with lather, sliding over her shoulder, down to cup her breast...
This was not helping.
She sat in tepid bathwater a while longer, listening to the rain lash the windows outside, then heaved herself out. Her legs had the pleasant ache of an active day; the persistent ache between them was less welcome. She ignored it and set to dressing, wishing she had more interesting jewellery, or perhaps some face-paint and the experience to apply it, or the sort of hair that looked good in piled ringlets. Anything to make herself less workaday and practical. She settled for a bright Indian shawl that she always brought on visits and virtually never wore, and set off downstairs telling herself that dinner couldn’t possibly be more uncomfortable than yesterday.
The raised voices from the drawing-room suggested she was wrong.
Bill was standing outside the open door, looking smart enough in his dinner togs, but wearing the pinched expression of a man with a headache. Inside the room, Preston Keynes was speaking at uncharacteristic volume and without his usual cheerfulness—Pat clearly made out “damned offensive”—while Lady Anna, Miss Singh, and the Countess all seemed to be talking at once.
Pat sidled up on light feet, and whispered, “What on earth is going on?”
“Haworth,” Bill said, unnecessarily. “Suggested the Countess order her ayah to fetch her slippers, as a delicate reference to Miss Singh who is second cousin to a Sikh maharajah, and then called her a rather less flattering name, at which point Preston offered to teach him some manners, and Haworth suggested extremely crudely that he had an ulterior motive for doing so. Did you know Preston had an interest there?”
“Mr. Keynes is pursuing Miss Singh?” Pat attempted to picture the intellectual vegetarian and the boisterous hunter as a pair. “Really?”
“So it appears, judging by his reaction: the poor fellow went red as a beetroot. It seems to have come as a surprise to the Countess too. Haworth clearly has a knack for snouting out private matters.”
That sounded extremely bad to Pat. She had no idea if her face might give anything away when she saw Fen; she had no desire at all to be mocked as the unattractive spinster with a pash on a pretty girl. “Better stay out here then,” she said, half to herself.
“Sorry?” Bill said sharply.
“Until it’s died down in there.”
“Ah. Indeed.”
They stood together in the hall. Pat couldn’t help wondering how they’d look to any footman who came by, and then decided she didn’t care so long as he c
arried a tray of drinks. Bill leaned his shoulders against the wall.
“Decent shooting today,” she offered, after a moment. In the drawing room, the Earl was speaking in a placatory, almost pleading tone that sat ill on the man who’d been so confident walking his lands.
“I’m hopelessly out of practice.”
“You weren’t on form, certainly. Are you all right? You look rather worn and this isn’t precisely the rest cure you were hoping for.”
“You can say that again,” Bill muttered. “I’m fine.”
He didn’t look fine. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face had a tense look, as though keeping composure required an effort.
“Rotten luck about the weather,” she said, in lieu of pointing that out. “A few more days in the fresh air would do us all good.”
“That’s your all-purpose remedy, isn’t it? Not that I’m arguing. Suppose you take Haworth for a ten-mile forced march in the rain, there’s a good girl.”
“Suppose you do,” Pat said. “Should we...?”
It seemed to have quietened down in the drawing room. Bill straightened with obvious reluctance and offered her his arm, and brother and sister went in together.
Even if she hadn’t heard the row, it would have been obvious something was up from the flushed faces and silence. Preston Keynes looked ready to punch someone, and Haworth’s smug look made it obvious who. Jimmy was standing by Preston, a restraining hand on his arm. Fen had drawn Victoria Singh over to the side of the room. She flashed a glance over at Pat that held a certain amount of desperation. Outside, the wind howled. Nobody spoke.
“Well,” Bill said heartily, into the social void. “Nasty spot of weather we’re having, what?”
“Awful rain, yes,” Fen returned, voice bright. “Did you get a soaking?”
In true British fashion the weather carried them through the next fifteen minutes or so, with Pat, Fen, Bill, and Jack contributing remarks of varying relevance or interest about weather they had experienced, meteorological patterns at their various homes, and comparative rainfall in different parts of the country. By the time they were seated to dine, Pat felt like a chattering parrot but at least the atmosphere had reduced to a slow simmer. She was quite ready not to open her mouth again all evening, but Fen, who had borne a good half of the conversational burden and whose chirpy tone was starting to ebb, said, “So do tell us all about the shooting!”
