Earls Errand

by Monroe, Jennifer

  “It’s a pleasure,” his mother said, her tone of dismissiveness clear. “What an interesting dress. I have not seen that pattern in many years.”

  Joseph glanced over at Miss Cooper. The woman had no idea of fashions, not like his mother, and he feared her response. However, he need not have worried.

  “Before my father’s untimely death, he brought this dress back to me from Paris. Of course, your observation is correct in that is an old pattern; however, I have made it new with the yellow ribbon.” How this woman was able to lie so easily astounded Joseph, but he was thankful for it, for his mother seemed to relax a little at her words. “Shall we go to the drawing room for some tea?” Miss Cooper stepped aside to allow his mother to pass.

  As Joseph neared her, he leaned in and whispered, “The dress? How did you get it?”

  “It belonged to Mr. Templeton’s wife,” she replied just as quietly. “Leah worked on it all night to get it to fit me.” She gave an anxious glance at the door. “We had better go. She does not seem the type to be left waiting.”

  Joseph could not stifle a small chuckle. “No, she most certainly is not,” he said, relieved that the introductions had gone well. Now he only needed to worry about the conversations that would follow, and he wondered if Miss Cooper was as accomplished at navigating conversations as she was introductions. If she was, this meeting would end quite well after all.

  Chapter Ten

  Rachel sat as straight as she could as Sherman served the tea, her mind racing as she attempted to remember the instructions Leah had given her the previous night and this morning on how one would conduct herself as a lady. She had soaked in every word from Leah's years of observing how those of title and wealth spoke and held themselves. Rachel knew she needed more time to practice; however, she could do nothing more than do her best.

  Taking the teacup from the saucer she left on the table, she moved it toward her lips and stopped. Lady Linfield sat next to her on the settee, and her eyes seemed to bore into Rachel, which made Rachel shiver. Lord Linfield sat across from them in a red leather chair as if everything that was happening was an everyday occurrence. How he could sit there so comfortably while she felt as if she would jump out of her skin at any moment was beyond her.

  She offered the older woman a smile as she took a sip of her tea. It was overly sweet—she had been so nervous she had added four teaspoons of sugar before realizing it. Hopefully, the Dowager Countess had not noticed. Rachel found herself questing every movement she made, wondering if she was doing everything correctly.

  How can one sip a cup of tea incorrectly? she wondered. The entire affair was absurd, in Rachel’s opinion. The list of expectations the Earl had outlined in the message he had sent her the previous evening had been tediously exact. What did it matter what his mother thought anyway? He was an Earl; surely he had no obligation to this woman who never seemed to smile.

  “My son has informed me of your father’s passing,” Lady Linfield said. “I am sure it has devastated you greatly.”

  Rachel set her teacup back in its saucer and a portion of the liquid sloshed over the side of the cup. She heard a sharp intake of breath from the Earl, but she ignored him and turned her attention to his mother. It was only a bit of tea. Even an Earl could spill his tea and not expect to be admonished for it.

  “Yes, it was unfortunate,” Rachel replied to the Dowager Countess’s statement. “But, he had family and close friends at his bedside when he passed. There’s no way we’d have left him alone in his final moments.” Rachel realized her leg was bouncing beneath her skirts and she placed a hand on it to get it to stop.

  Lady Linfield leaned forward, and Rachel wondered if the woman had seen through the lies already. “You seem to be quite composed for having recently lost your father,” she said with a tilt to her head. “And you wear white rather than black typically worn by those in mourning. Were you and your father not close?”

  Rachel swallowed hard in an attempt to get moisture back into her throat. She had had dealings with many people in her life and her typical response would have consisted of strong words that more than likely would have sent the woman into a fit of shock—or rage. However, Rachel knew how important all this was to Lord Linfield, so, in an attempt to show pity on the man, she refrained from sharing those few choice words.

  “Very close, actually,” she said, attempting to keep her voice from shaking as her mind churned for an appropriate response. “But, I’ve learned to hold in my grief, not let it get to me, you know? Plus, I have to concentrate on my soon-to-be husband.” She gave Lord Linfield a smile and reached over to pat his hand. The man’s eyes widened significantly, and Rachel realized she might have made yet another mistake.

  An awkward silence descended upon the party, and Rachel wondered when Lord Linfield would do his part in maintaining the conversation. His letter had been specific in ordering her to allow him to answer any and all questions, but he had said very few words since they had entered the drawing room. She was not certain she could keep up the ruse all that much longer if he did not do his part.

  She felt relief wash over her when he finally said, “Mother, you must show Rachel your gardens when we come to visit. I am sure you will find her enjoyment of gardens as great as yours. And her embroidery skills are quite impressive.”

  The only indication of what the Dowager Countess was going to say next was a small pursing of her lips. “For a woman who has received the finest schooling, you certainly speak more like a…commoner.” Her voice took on an accusatory tone. “Why is that?”

  It was as if her mind had descended into a fog as she attempted to find the words that would appease the stern woman beside her. “Well, you see, my father…would allow me to visit the men on the ships. They taught me a lot about the business.” Her eyes caught the shocked look on Lord Linfield’s face, but she could not stop the tumble of words that fell from her lips. “That is, to learn the ways of a shipping merchant, not how to speak, of course. My father always said that the only way to learn about a business was to be a part of that business, so, as you can see…”

  Lord Linfield finally stepping up to take over the conversation. “The man had a strange way of instruction in my opinion…”

  However, it was far too late to salvage what they had started. The Dowager Countess raised a hand and her son immediately went silent. Then the woman turned back to Rachel. “Now, my dear, you were saying something about learning the ways of a shipping merchant? My husband had holdings in the same business, and I had several opportunities to pick up a few interesting tidbits of information from him. What did you learn exactly from these ‘men on the ships’, as you put it?”

  Rachel felt a small bead of sweat roll down her back. This was meant to be a friendly meeting with her future mother-in-law, even if it was not all real, not a line of questioning at an inquisition. “I have no idea where to begin,” Rachel said. “There was so much I learned, such as bookkeeping.” She cringed. How foolish her words sounded.

  Lady Linfield must have thought the same, for she looked first at Rachel, then her son, and then back again at Rachel. “A lady…who spent time with groups of men on ships…learning about bookkeeping,” she stated, clearly repeating what she thought she had heard. In all reality, it was what had been said, and Rachel winced at hearing her story told back to her. “A lady who attended finishing school who speaks more like a commoner than a woman of a refined household. Your dress is not of the latest fashion. It is clear you are not who say you are. So, who are you truly?”

  Rachel stared at the woman and then turned to Lord Linfield. He dared to sit staring at her, anger in his eyes, and something inside her erupted. If this man was going to remain silent and allow this woman to accuse him of any wrongdoing, that was on him. However, she was not going to allow the same to happen to her. Never in her life had she allowed anyone to get away with treating her with such disdain and deprecation, and she was not about to start now. The tension she had be
en holding inside her snapped and nothing could have stopped the flood of words that fell from her lips.

  “The truth, then?” Rachel snapped. “Very well. I’ve worked in my family’s pub my entire life. I’ve never had tutors, nor have I been trained in how to be a lady. I served pints, wiped down tables, and defended myself from anyone who dared to falsely accuse me of anything. This dress might seem out of fashion to you, but I have never in my life owned anything so fine. That is who I am.” She found herself sitting up straighter than she had since beginning this farce, and she felt pride for speaking her mind at last.

  The Dowager Countess, however, did not see it the same way, for she brought a hand to her breast and gasped. “Joseph, is this true?” she asked in a choked voice. “You are engaged to a commoner, to a tavern girl?” She shot her son a glare that should have singed him on the spot. “What have I ever done to deserve this? Have I not taught you better than this? You have a title to protect, and you know that women of the lower class wish to worm their way into titled society, a place they do not belong.”

  “Mother, I can explain everything.” He sent Rachel a glare. All she could do was glare back. How dare he place the blame on her when he was the one to bring the woman to meet her before she had even had her first lesson in how to conduct herself? “But I can see you are upset. Come, let me take you upstairs to one of the bedrooms where you can lie down and rest, then we can discuss this situation.”

  “Thank you, my son,” the woman replied in an over-exaggerated tone of shock. Well, perhaps it was not over-exaggerated. It very well could have been true shock. Rachel knew women of the upper class tended toward hysterics, or so she had heard. “I cannot be in the presence of that vile woman any longer.”

  Rachel jumped out of her chair and narrowed her eyes at the woman before her. “Vile, is it?” she seethed.

  “Enough,” Lord Linfield said through clenched teeth. “You have embarrassed yourself enough.”

  “Have I?” Rachel demanded. “Then perhaps I should simply leave. I have nothing to keep me here anyway.”

  The Earl glared at her from the door but said nothing. Soon the two disappeared from sight, and Rachel stared at the empty doorway. Anger filled her as she hurried over to the window, which looked out onto the garden. She fought back tears as she contemplated becoming a part of a group of people, this upper class, and she realized she had never wanted it for herself. Although her parents wanted the best for her, she realized it was not going to be here, not among these people.

  As she watched a bluebird flitter to a branch of a nearby tree, she thanked her lucky stars that her engagement to such a contemptible man was all a farce, for if she had to deal with the likes of his mother, she would not last a week. Then she laughed. She had not even lasted an hour.

  ***

  Rachel had been pacing before the fireplace in the drawing room for over an hour, at least according the clock that sat upon the mantle, and Lord Linfield nor her mother had deigned to return. The anger that had overtaken Rachel during the unfortunate first encounter with the Dowager Countess was now replaced by something different. Panic. If the Earl allowed her to leave, where would she go? It would break her parents’ heart if she reappeared after promises of a better life. Her parents had dismissed her only true friend, Sally Pagette, due to the pub’s flailing business, and Rachel felt a wave of guilt that she had not reached out to Sally once she was no longer employed at the pub. It would only be adding salt to the wound to show up on her doorstep of sudden to ask for even a corner in which to lay a palette. No, she could not, and would not, do that to the woman.

  Footsteps coming down the hall made her mind race and her heart skip a beat. When she turned, Lord Linfield was entering the room, a scowl on his face. Nothing less than she expected, of course, but it still irked her that he put the blame on her. He was the one who had directed her to allow him to answer the questions, and instead of doing so, he had sat in his chair like a bump on a log.

  “Lord Linfield,” she said, mustering as much courage as she could, “I’m glad you’ve returned. We need to speak about what happened…”

  “Quiet.” The Earl’s command was soft, but Rachel could hear the harshness behind his tone that was as hard as a rock. “Sit.”

  Rachel sat on the edge of the couch and placed her hands in her lap. She felt more fear at this moment than she had during her encounter with Jacob Down only days earlier, and she could not understand why. This man was not anything like Jacob. He was a Lord, for one thing. Lords were not evil men, not in the same sense of scoundrels like Jacob, were they?

  “I just wished to say…”

  “You will remain silent and listen,” that voice that was as soft as stone demanded.

  Rachel could do nothing more than nod her head in the face of such rage. The man had not sat since entering the room, and Rachel felt her neck ache from staring up at him. She refrained from stretching it, too afraid he would shout at her again.

  “What I witnessed today were the actions of a fool. A woman who was no lady treating my mother as one of the patrons at her pub.”

  Rachel raised her chin in indignation, and the previous fear receded as her anger rose. How dare he place all the blame on her! “Well, she…”

  “I said to be silent!” A tiny vein pulsed in the man’s temple as he punctuated each word, and Rachel once again went quiet, her sprout of bravery cut short at the roots. “Now, I will not allow you to ever speak to my mother that way again. Is that clear?”

  “May I speak?” Rachel asked, trying to force a meekness into her voice that she did not feel. Granted she was afraid of this man, but she had never been one to experience even the tiniest bit of demureness in her life.

  However, Lord Linfield refused her request. As a matter of fact, he ignored her question completely. “Do you not understand how important our arrangement is?” he asked. “The plan was simple: we pretend to be engaged, we wait for the reading of the will, you get what you want and I get what I need. All you were expected to do was present yourself as a lady, and we would be set.” His eyes shone so brightly, Rachel was reminded of a man after too much drink. However, she knew when a man was inebriated, and this man showed no other signs of drunkenness.

  He fell silent and the room echoed with the lack of sound. His eyes still bored into her, and she felt the need to pull back, to allow herself to become a part of the flowered cushion on the settee. However, she forced herself to meet his gaze, compelled her back to remain stiff.

  When she was certain he would not continue with his tirade, she once again made her request. “May I speak?”

  He snorted. “Why should I allow you to speak? Will you only use that tongue to berate me as you berated a Countess?”

  She had heard enough of his absurdity and jumped from the settee. “How dare you place the blame on me!” she shouted. “You were the one who insisted that I not speak, to allow you to answer all questions your mother would ask.”

  “Yes!” he shouted back. “And did you remain silent? No, you did not.”

  “And yet you did nothing to direct the conversation,” she threw back at him, her bosom heaving under the stress of her heavy breathing. “You sat there sipping your tea. You were no better than the pattern on the cushions! And then you made no comment, no acknowledgment for what I did try to do in such short notice. My first full day here and you expected me to be able to perform like some Ashtley trained horse without one single word to what I had been able to accomplish.”

  Rachel had been on such a tirade, she failed to notice that his features had softened, that is until he placed a hand on her shoulder. She glanced at the hand in shock and then gaped at him, unsure if she should be angry he had touched her or pleased.

  “I do appreciate you making an attempt, even one as feeble as turning this old dress into something new,” he said quietly, the stoniness now gone. “It is much like you.”

  His statement only confused her further. “I don’t unders
tand,” she said, concerned that he had yet removed his hand from her shoulder and she had done nothing to see that he did.

  He stared down at her, and Rachel could not take her gaze from his. “The dress does not make the woman, but rather it is the other way around. But know this. I will make you into the woman I wish you to become, the woman I want.” He lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers. A heat coursed through her body, an urgency she could not deny.

  However, the meaning of his words broke through the desire, and she pushed him away from her. “How dare you!” she said, her voice seething. “You do not own me, nor will you dress me to your liking.”

  He chuckled. “That is where you are wrong. If you are to be my wife, you will become a lady.”

  “Your wife? This was all meant to be a farce. Even that kiss was a farce.” She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand to punctuate her words.

  Ignoring her, he continued, “The dressmaker will be here day after tomorrow, and then I will send the finest instructors to see that you learn how to conduct yourself properly. You will learn,” his glare become pointed, “or I can do as you requested and allow you to leave before you receive even one item that is to be left to you. As to marriage, this engagement might be a farce, but it is real to everyone else, including my mother. Ending an engagement can be as easy as tying my cravat.”

  The man was mad, that was the only explanation that made sense. She had to do what she could to be away from him, and the sooner, the better, before his insanity caused him to do something she would regret.

  “You are clear,” she replied haughtily. “More than clear, and it makes me sick. I don’t want to marry you; I have made that point since we began this venture. So, in saying this, I must inform you that I’ll be on my way. Tomorrow morning, as a matter of fact.”

  His reaction was not what she expected. What she had expected was for him to once again scream at her, demand she follow his direction, but instead, he laughed as he walked over to a liquor cart that sat in a corner of the room.