First Season / Bride to Be

by Jane Ashford

  Richard pressed his lips together, suppressing a bitter comment.

  “But you cannot go now, when Lydia is so stupidly insisting on leaving.”

  “My husband wants me home,” said Lydia.

  “I won’t be left all alone,” Richard’s mother wailed. “After that dreadful scene at Herr Schelling’s and…everything.”

  “You could come and visit us in Wales,” Lydia suggested.

  “Wales?” She said it as if the word were foreign to her.

  “The countryside is beautiful at this time of year,” offered Lydia.

  “But the Season isn’t half over,” objected Lady Fielding.

  “You can certainly stay for it,” Richard assured her.

  “But you will not,” she accused.

  He shook his head.

  “I don’t know what is wrong with you. You haven’t shown a particle of interest in society since you returned.” His mother looked from his face to Lydia’s. The corners of her mouth turned down. “I think you are both extremely disobliging.”

  Lydia gave her a compassionate smile.

  “Well, I will go to Wales then.” She said it as if someone had dared her not to. “But Richard, you must escort us. I will not travel across the country all alone.”

  He might have mentioned the servants who would be with her, or the post boys and outriders. But he would concede this much. He could have a look at his property in Wales before going on to Somerset. It was out of the way, but if he meant to set things in order, that property must be included. “Very well. When do you want to go, Mother?”

  Lady Fielding’s mouth fell open.

  Lydia looked surprised. She couldn’t seem to accept the idea that he was a changed man.

  “You will go?” his mother asked.

  “I will escort you down to Wales. I shan’t stay long.”

  “But you…”

  “We have plenty of room,” said Lydia.

  Richard didn’t bother to mention that he would be staying on his own acres. It would only provoke another protest from his mother.

  “When will we leave?” wondered his mother. Now that her request had been granted, she seemed at a loss.

  “You will have to pack,” replied Lydia. “What about Wednesday?”

  “Two days! I would never be able to…”

  “I’ll help you get your things together,” Lydia soothed. “I know just what you’ll need.”

  His mother looked stunned. Was she regretting her decision to abandon the delights of the Season? “Very well,” she said. “Wednesday.”

  Back in his study, Richard drafted a new letter to Taft, detailing his travel plans and assuring the man that all would be settled when he came to Somerset. After that, there was nothing more to do but resolutely suppress his regret.

  * * *

  “He didn’t mean anything by it,” Emily told the cook.

  “He called my ragout of beef a ‘glutinous mishmash,’” countered the stout older woman, hands on her hips.

  Emily wished, for perhaps the hundredth time in her life, that servants did not so relish repeating her father’s intemperate remarks. If they had not told the cook…

  “What is ‘glutinous’?”

  She wasn’t about to answer that.

  “And he overturned a perfectly good dish of oyster fritters.”

  And rather enjoyed seeing them rolling around on the tablecloth, Emily suspected. “He is an artist, you see. His feelings, er, run away with him. But he does not mean…”

  “It’s not what I’m used to.”

  Emily was sure it wasn’t. She was a good cook, highly recommended by Aunt Julia. No doubt she had worked only in calm, regulated households. “I know my father thinks your cooking splendid. He has said so.” She hurried over this small white lie. “When his painting goes badly, he is out of sorts, you see. He needs to…to grumble. But he does not really mean it.”

  The cook considered this.

  Emily watched her, hoping she wasn’t going to give notice. “You know how gentlemen are,” she ventured.

  The cook sighed.

  She was going to stay, Emily saw. She made a mental note to get her mother to compliment the dishes at dinner.

  “I suppose they all have their little ways.”

  Emily nodded, though it was difficult to imagine other gentlemen with “ways” like her father’s.

  “We just have to get used to them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’d best be getting back to the kitchen.” The cook turned, and gave a wordless exclamation at the sight of a figure looming in the doorway.

  “They did not tell me you were occupied,” said Richard, stepping farther into the parlor.

  That was another thing, Emily thought as she rose and the cook sidled out. Their housemaid had picked up her father’s free and easy manners, and let anybody in whenever they knocked.

  “A domestic crisis?”

  How long had he been standing there? “A misunderstanding merely.”

  “Ah.”

  He had been there a while, she concluded. She offered him a chair and sat down again herself.

  Richard seemed about to speak, but he didn’t.

  Emily tried to think of something to say. She could ask a question about railroads or steam engines. But somehow, with him sitting across from her, handsome in his blue coat, she couldn’t think of any.

  “I came to tell you that I am going out of town,” he said.

  “Oh.” She hadn’t expected this.

  “My mother has formed a desire to visit Wales. I am taking her to stay with my cousin there.”

  “Mrs. Farrell.”

  He nodded. “I have some business in the area as well. An estate my stepfather left me.”

  A fine excuse to spend more time with a relative he obviously found fascinating, Emily thought.

  “I believe you will be quite safe in my absence,” Richard added. “The attacks have stopped, and the culprits have apparently fled. You will continue to take care, of course.”

  “You seem eager to get away.” The remark had escaped her lips before she knew it.

  “It will be pleasant to see the countryside,” was the bland reply.

  Emily wanted to protest, but she had no grounds. Richard was not really her promised husband, despite the ring on her finger. She had no claims on him. “Wales is very beautiful, I understand.”

  “So they say.” Before she could answer, he was rising. “I must go. My mother has all sorts of commissions for me.”

  Emily stood. “How long will you be gone?” she couldn’t help asking.

  “I’m not sure.”

  In other words, it was none of her affair, she thought. Stung, she did not offer her hand. “I hope you have a pleasant journey.”

  “Thank you.” He hesitated a moment, then bowed and went out.

  He would have all the time he wanted to talk with Lydia Farrell. Staying in the same house, they would naturally form an even closer connection. She had a husband, Emily thought. But from what she had gathered during her brief time in London, that often made no difference whatsoever.

  * * *

  Over the next few days, Emily found that she had completely lost interest in London. When her aunt offered to escort her to a ball, she could scarcely muster the energy to refuse. The streets seemed dirty and the amusements pallid. Despite the hordes of people, there was nothing to do in town. One sat about waiting for something to happen, but it never did. She would almost have welcomed a sign from Lord Warrington’s attackers, but of course there was none.

  Was the threat really over? Had Richard’s obscure enemy given up and called off the vendetta? It seemed so. Nothing even slightly suspicious had occurred in days. When he returned to town, she would give him the ring back, a
nd announce to the world that their engagement was at an end, Emily decided. There was no reason to delay. And then…then she would get on with her life. This resolution provoked a small nod. It was very important that she get on with her life at once.

  “Are you quite all right, Emily?” asked her mother at breakfast the following morning.

  “Yes.”

  “Feeling well?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “I thought you seemed rather silent.”

  “I don’t really have anything to say just now, Mama.”

  Olivia Crane seemed pleased rather than disapproving of this bad temper. Indeed, the look she gave her daughter held equal parts of relief, gratification, and compassion. “When does Lord Warrington return to London?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Another mother would certainly have reprimanded her offspring for impertinence. Olivia hid a smile instead.

  Emily rose from the table and went into the front parlor, where she took up her station for another day of boredom. Her parents would be laying out their palettes, she thought. They would soon be deeply engrossed in their painting. What was she going to do? She must make a plan. She never had a proper plan. That was her problem.

  But her mind remained blank when the question of the future arose.

  She turned instead to the book she had gotten from the circulating library on new inventions and industries. The subject matter was more interesting than she had expected. She might have enjoyed reading it, except for the fact that every paragraph reminded her of Richard. She put the volume aside without regret when she heard the bell ring, followed by footsteps in the hall.

  Sarah Fitzgibbon hurried in, waving aside the maid who would have announced her. “I must speak to you.”

  “Of course. I’m so glad to see…”

  “There’s something wrong.”

  Emily blinked. “Your parents? What…?”

  “No. They’re fine. It’s the Bruiser. He sent a messenger to Lord Warrington. When he found he was gone, he came to Dad.”

  “Sit down and tell me,” commanded Emily.

  Her friend sat. “The Bruiser heard that those two men, the ones you suspected of being the attackers, have gone into Wales. And they went in the company of someone very frightening.”

  Emily sat back, shaken. “Frightening to London toughs?”

  “It’s very odd,” agreed Sarah. “But he heard it from one of their, er, lady friends. He seemed quite sure.” She hesitated, biting her lower lip. “Lord Warrington went to Wales, didn’t he?”

  All Emily’s faculties were painfully alert. She nodded. “When did they go?”

  “That’s what I don’t know.”

  “It was today you heard this news?”

  “Just now,” replied Sarah. “I came right over, though Dad didn’t want me to.”

  Emily sprang to her feet. “What if the killers are lying in wait for him?” Emily moved toward the door. “I must get word to Lord Warrington at once.” She hesitated, turned, then turned back again. “I must go after him.”

  “What could you…?”

  “We are working on this matter together!”

  Sarah looked startled at her vehemence. She drew back slightly when Emily grabbed both her hands and added, “Thank you for telling me this. If only it is not too late.”

  “I don’t think you should be—”

  “Forgive me, I must go,” Emily interrupted. “There is so much to do.”

  Sarah was beginning another protest as Emily swept out of the room. She stood still for several moments, frowning. Then she seemed to come to a decision. She contemplated it, nodded once, and also left the room.

  * * *

  Emily found her father in his studio. By great good luck he was not immersed in a painting, but rather was setting up a still life on a tabletop. He was humming too, which was a good sign. “Papa,” she said, rather loudly.

  “Eh? Oh, yes, my dear? What do you think of these figs?” He held one up with the tips of his fingers. “That purple sheen along with the…”

  “Very nice, Papa. But aren’t you tired of painting fruit and flowers? And you have so little room here.”

  He acknowledged it with a look around the cramped studio, then put a hand on his heart. “I would make any sacrifice for my daughter’s happiness.”

  “But I am not happy, Papa.”

  He looked astonished. “You aren’t?”

  Emily felt a twinge of guilt. Papa was so very easy to manipulate. But it was for a good cause. “I don’t like London.”

  “You don’t?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t like it either.”

  “I want to go back to the country.”

  “But I thought… Olivia told me you should attend all these balls and other idiocy so that you could…”

  “They’re so dull, Papa.”

  Her father looked at her with pride. “Exactly so. I knew you were too much my daughter to like that sort of thing. We’ll pack up and go home at once.”

  Emily gave him a brilliant smile. “Oh, thank you, Papa. But, I’ve been thinking, I should like to see some really dramatic country—to get the cramped streets of London out of my head.”

  “Dramatic?” he echoed, his attention truly caught now.

  “I have heard that Wales is very beautiful. Mountain crags and torrents. Ancient trees and rock.”

  Her father’s eyes grew distant. One could almost see pictures composing themselves in his head.

  “Waterfalls,” said Emily.

  “We must go to Wales,” declared her father. “At once. Today. I shall tell Olivia…”

  “I’ll tell her.” She didn’t want to risk a diversion. “I’ll go right now.”

  “Good girl.” He started putting tubes of paint in a wooden case. “Mountain crags,” he muttered.

  If Emily had expected opposition from her mother, she soon discovered her mistake. Olivia Crane seemed positively gleeful at the idea of packing up all their possessions and moving them on an instant’s notice to the wilds of Wales. In any other mood, Emily would have noticed the sidelong looks and knowing smiles her mother gave her. But all of her faculties were concentrated on one goal—reaching Richard and saving him from whatever plot the killers had hatched.

  Sixteen

  Richard watched the flames rise and fall in the wide kitchen fireplace of Morne. The kitchen was one of the few habitable rooms. He had a passable bedchamber as well, but the rest of the old house was barely furnished. Lydia had sent some of her servants over to scrub out the dust and cobwebs, all the while urging him to join his mother at her far more comfortable house.

  He listened. There was the crackle of the fire, the rustling of a breeze outside, an occasional creak of ancient boards. But no human voices, no chattering or demands for attention. That silence let something inside Richard relax, let a tension he had scarcely been aware of ease. He had grown accustomed to solitude in the jungle. He had regretted it most bitterly then, but it had set down roots. He would need occasional doses of it from now on. He took a deep breath, feeling as if his spirit had expanded to its full extent. Here in this house he had neglected and ignored, he felt a measure of content.

  Here was something about the man he had become. Here was one trait to mark down as his own. He savored it.

  Then he smiled and rose to add wood to the fire. These philosophical ruminations weren’t much like the old Richard either. Of course, the old Richard wouldn’t have spent half an hour in this primitive place. It was hard to imagine what circumstances would even have lured him to Wales.

  Richard walked through the other rooms. The walls and roof were tight; the windows, small and mullioned, still kept out the weather. He suspected that the old man who lived down the hill had kept an eye on the place and made repairs. The
way he had spoken of Morne showed that he loved it.

  Opening the front door, Richard looked out over a narrow valley and the crags of mountains beyond. Morne sat on the knee of another such range with a view that went on for miles. It was beautiful, but not the sort of land for anything other than sheep.

  A rider approached along the rough lane that meandered up from the valley floor. Squinting against the afternoon sun, he recognized Lydia. She waved, and he lifted an arm in response, trying not to resent her appearance. She was just trying to play the good host.

  “Hello,” she said as she dismounted and looped her horse’s reins around a post. “I just wanted to make sure that you were settled in all right.”

  “Very well. Will you come in? I can offer a mug of cider, if nothing else.”

  Looping up the skirts of her riding habit, she followed him into the kitchen. “Betty brought you supplies? If you need anything…”

  “She did, along with offers to come round every day and cook them. I am perfectly satisfied with the arrangements.”

  Lydia looked around the nearly bare room. “You’re certain?”

  “Completely.”

  She gave him a rueful smile. “Well, you’ve said I mustn’t bully you any more about staying with us, so I won’t. But you know that any time you wish to…”

  “I know.”

  “Yes.” She put her riding crop on the long wooden table in the center of the kitchen, then picked it up again. She walked a few steps toward the fireplace, then turned back restlessly. “Actually, I came to talk with you about something.”

  He gestured toward one of the three wooden chairs, but she didn’t notice.

  “William and I have been thinking about it for a while.”

  Richard waited, curious. Lydia’s husband had seemed to him a bluff, hearty man who thought very little.

  “We wondered if you would sell this place to us.”

  The unexpectedness of the offer kept Richard silent.

  “Now that you have had a chance to see it again,” Lydia continued, “you must have realized that it is not particularly productive. But it borders our land, and we could use the extra grazing. We do not need another house, of course.” She looked around the shabby room. “Another buyer would want a place to live.” Her tone implied that Morne would never be livable.