Sally MacKenzie Bundle

by Sally MacKenzie

  “No, of course not, Lady Caroline. I only meant…”

  “It matters little what you meant, Miss Peterson. You seem to have forgotten one crucial fact—Lord Knightsdale will have a wife. I doubt any lady of the ton will want to take charge of his brother’s brats.”

  “You’re a bad lady!” Claire said. Emma heard the tears in her voice. Isabelle looked as white as a ghost.

  “And you’re a very badly behaved child,” Lady Caroline said. “You’d better mind your manners if you don’t want to end up in the workhouse.”

  Emma had had enough. She dropped Prinny’s lead. Freed, the dog scrambled for Lady Caroline’s expansive white muslin skirts. Since he had been out by the stream, his paws had collected a generous quantity of fine Kentish mud.

  Emma grinned. Lady Caroline could scream very loudly indeed.

  “We have to do something, Claire.” Isabelle sat on Claire’s bed. Miss Peterson had gone downstairs to join the house party; Nanny was napping. Claire was supposed to be napping, and Isabelle was supposed to be reading, but Isabelle decided this was too important to put off. “We can’t let Uncle Charles marry any of the London ladies.”

  Claire sat up, rubbing the smooth end of her old blanket along her cheek. “Papa Charles is going to marry Mama Peterson.”

  “I hope so, but we can’t take that for granted, Claire. I think we had better do something to make certain they decide to marry each other.”

  Prinny padded in and jumped onto Claire’s bed. After his long romp on the morning fishing expedition and the excitement of chasing Miss Oldston and Lady Caroline down the corridor, he was exceptionally mellow. He rested his head in Isabelle’s lap and let her stroke his ears.

  “How do we do that, Isabelle?”

  That was the question Isabelle had been struggling with ever since Miss Peterson had dragged them up to the nursery. Miss Peterson had been so angry, she hadn’t been able to speak. She had stomped around and muttered and apologized in short, rough sentences for the mean London ladies.

  “I think we need to see that Miss Peterson and Uncle Charles are together as much as possible.”

  “We can go fishing every morning. I liked that.”

  “No, I think they have to be alone, Claire—just the two of them.”

  “Why?”

  Isabelle shrugged. “I’m not certain. Mrs. Lambert was talking to Nanny last week about a Miss Wendle who lives in the house where Mrs. Lambert’s sister works. Miss Wendle was alone with Lord Somebody-or-other and they got married right away. I think Mrs. Lambert was going to tell Nanny more, but then she saw me and stopped.”

  Claire put her chin on her knees. “Mama Peterson sleeps in Mother’s room now. There’s only a door between her room and Papa Charles’s room.”

  Isabelle nodded. “Maybe if we put something Miss Peterson needs—like her brush—in Uncle Charles’s room, she’ll have to go in there to find it.”

  “And let’s get rid of that ugly bonnet she had on today.”

  Isabelle sighed. “Yes. I wish there was a way to get rid of some of her dresses—they are not as pretty as the London ladies’ clothes.”

  “Papa Charles doesn’t care about that.”

  “I don’t know, Claire. I think men like women in pretty clothes. Mother always wanted the newest fashions. I heard her and Father arguing about it once.”

  “Well, if they were arguing, Father must not have liked the clothes.”

  “No, they were arguing about the cost, not the clothes. And when they made up, they ended up in Mother’s room together.” Isabelle rubbed Prinny’s back. “It’s a good thing Uncle Charles’s and Miss Peterson’s bedrooms are right next to each other. We’ll try to get them together there, and maybe the clothes won’t matter so much.”

  “All right. We can do that as soon as I finish my nap. Nanny said all the house guests were going to walk around the lake, so Mama and Papa won’t be in their rooms.”

  Isabelle nodded, but her mind was still on the fashion problem. She wished Miss Peterson’s clothes were prettier, but there wasn’t anything she and Claire could do about that. But maybe there was something they could do to make the London ladies less attractive. She grinned.

  “Let’s make those mean women uglier, too.”

  “You can’t make the fat lady uglier,” Claire said. “She looks like a pig.”

  “Yes, but a well-dressed pig.”

  “Not so well dressed now that Prinny has had his paws all over her skirts.” Claire leaned forward and patted Prinny’s head. “Good dog.”

  Prinny licked her hand.

  “Yes, but remember how the horsey lady, Miss Oldston, said it was a good thing Prinny wasn’t a cat?”

  Claire nodded. “She said the piggy lady would get all red and itchy if Prinny were a cat.”

  “And swollen, though it’s hard to imagine how Lady Caroline could be any fatter.”

  Claire giggled. “Queen Bess is a cat.”

  “Exactly.” Isabelle grinned. “And I bet she would love to see Lady Caroline’s bedchamber.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Emma was still furious when she joined the other house party guests for a stroll around the lake. She stayed as far away from Lady Caroline and Miss Oldston as she could—which meant she also stayed far away from Charles. The young ladies were swarming around him like bees on spilled lemonade.

  How could those spoiled misses have said such hateful things in front of Claire and Isabelle? It was beyond her understanding. Did they think the girls were deaf? Or stupid? If Prinny hadn’t muddied their gowns, Emma would have…what? What could she do? She was only the temporary governess.

  “It is a fine day, is it not, Miss Peterson?”

  She could accept Charles’s offer. She’d like to see those nasty girls’ faces when that announcement was made. And if she actually were the marchioness, she could have those two harpies tossed out on their ears.

  “Miss Peterson?”

  Emma blinked. Mr. Stockley was by her side, looking at her inquiringly.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I was woolgathering. You were saying?”

  “Merely commenting on the weather, Miss Peterson.”

  “The weather?”

  “Yes. The day is very fine, do you not agree?”

  “Yes. Certainly. Very fine.”

  Emma looked for someone to rescue her from Mr. Stockley’s excruciatingly dull conversation, but no savior was apparent. Most of the gentlemen were clustered around the young ladies who were still clustered around Charles. Lady Beatrice and the Society for the Betterment of Women had elected to stay indoors—Emma hoped Charles had locked up the brandy. The Duke of Alvord was keeping his wife company while she napped. At least that is what he’d said he was doing, but Emma had noticed the same intent expression on his face that Charles had had in the conservatory. The Earl of Westbrooke had gone to fetch Alvord’s sister, Lizzie, and Meg was probably off investigating Charles’s herb garden.

  “Are you enjoying your stay at Knightsdale, Miss Peterson?”

  “Um. Yes. Of course. And you, sir? Are you finding your accommodations satisfactory?” He should be. Mr. Atworthy’s house was comfortable but could not bear comparison with Knightsdale.

  “Very satisfactory. I am much interested in grand houses, you know. The architecture, furnishings, statuary.”

  “Indeed?”

  “Oh, yes. Have you had an opportunity to explore Knightsdale, Miss Peterson? In your capacity of governess, perhaps, or as a young girl? I understand you and the marquis were childhood friends. Did you play in the attics or the cellars? In any odd little closets or cubbyholes?”

  Mr. Stockley’s eyes shone with enthusiasm. Well, Meg could get extremely animated over some twig or other. Getting excited about a house was likely more understandable than being in alt over a weed. Knightsdale was a very impressive estate.

  “No, Mr. Stockley, the girls and I have stayed in the main parts of the house. And I wasn’t really a childhood friend of Lord
Knightsdale—more a childhood nuisance. You might ask Lord Westbrooke or his grace. Or Lord Knightsdale himself, of course.”

  Mr. Stockley chuckled. “I don’t believe Lord Knightsdale is terribly fond of me.”

  That was an understatement. Charles looked at Mr. Stockley just as Lady Beatrice’s Queen Bess looked at Prinny. With disdain. Or disgust.

  “I’m certain he would give you a tour if you asked, Mr. Stockley. Or perhaps Mrs. Lambert, the housekeeper, would be willing to show you the house.”

  “And you, Miss Peterson? Would you be willing?”

  “Mr. Stockley, I assure you I would not be a suitable guide.”

  They traversed a bend in the path and came upon a clearing with a Gothic cottage. The ladies and most of the gentlemen had gone up to examine the structure more closely. Charles stood back, hands on hips, staring. He looked over at Emma.

  “What the h—” He coughed. “What is this?”

  “A Gothic cottage, my lord.”

  “I know it is a Gothic cottage, Miss Peterson. What I wish to know is what it is doing here.” His sweeping gesture encompassed the trees and the lake.

  “You’ve not seen it before, my lord?” Mr. Stockley asked.

  “No, I have not.”

  “That is not surprising,” Emma said. “It wasn’t here the last time you visited, my lord. The late marchioness had it built shortly after she married your brother.”

  Charles grunted. “Are there any other monstrosities littering the estate, Miss Peterson?”

  “No new monstrosities, my lord. All the other follies were built by your father or grandfather or great-grandfather, I think.”

  “Thank God for that. I was afraid I might stumble onto a replica of Prinny’s Brighton stable next.”

  Emma expected an architectural enthusiast like Mr. Stockley to join the group exclaiming over the building, but he barely gave it a glance once he heard it was a relatively new structure. He wandered on ahead. Emma heaved a sigh of relief.

  “Happy to be rid of your beau?” Charles asked.

  “Shh.” Emma glanced at the others, but they were still cooing over the stained-glass windows. “Mr. Stockley is not my beau.”

  “I am very glad to hear that, sweetheart.”

  Charles had not wanted to lead this parade of idiots around the lake. He had wanted to spend time with Emma. Alone. Persuading her to accept his suit. They could investigate that ridiculous cottage, for instance, to see if it had a comfortable bed and a sturdy lock. He should definitely look into that issue. One never knew when one might be caught out in a storm.

  At least Stockley had finally removed himself. Charles took Emma’s hand and placed it on his arm. He wanted her with him—and if she were firmly attached to his side, he could not get stuck with one of the giggling girls.

  Alvord and Westbrooke had wisely dodged this treat. He would have a few choice words for them when he saw them later. Besides Mr. Stockley, the only men—and he used that term very loosely—assisting him in escorting the ladies were three beef-witted clodpolls. Mr. William Dunlee, a portly youngster otherwise known as “Chubs,” was the Earl of Dunlee’s second son. Pimply Mr. Frampton—“Spots”—was the oldest son of a baron. And Mr. Oldston, aptly christened “Toad” in honor of the bulging eyes that were a family trait, was Sir Thomas’s heir. They had all attended university together and had managed to escape without cluttering their brains with a scintilla of knowledge, as far as he could tell.

  Where had his aunt collected such an assortment of cabbage-heads? If these sprigs and giggling misses represented the future of British nobility, England was in serious trouble. Right now Chubs, Spots, and Toad were tossing bachelor’s buttons at each other. Their coats and breeches bristled with the burs, and the silly young girls watching them were laughing as if this was the funniest spectacle they had ever witnessed.

  “Shall we stroll ahead, Miss Peterson?”

  “That would be lovely.”

  “You must save me from these idiots, Emma,” he said as soon as they had walked out of earshot.

  “They are slightly juvenile.”

  “Slightly? I had charge of boys on the Peninsula much younger than these three. Some were not fully grown, yet they made admirable, brave soldiers.”

  “I imagine war has a way of maturing a person.”

  “Yes, you’re right about that.” He looked out over the lake, remembering when he had last walked this path. He had been a little younger than the three buffoons by the cottage. Surely he had not been as inane as they?

  He closed his eyes for a moment, flinching from his memories. Perhaps he had been, and not so innocently stupid, either. He’d been aimless and angry when he’d come down from university. He’d needed to do something—and that something often enough had been drinking, gambling, and whoring.

  When James’s wife, Sarah—an American and a fervent republican—had denigrated the British system of primogeniture, Charles had argued that not all heirs were like James’s evil cousin Richard, ready to murder to inherit. He’d insisted he did not envy his brother.

  He had spoken with complete sincerity.

  He had lied.

  He helped Emma navigate a tree root growing across the path.

  He had never coveted the title, true, but he had envied Paul. Paul had never been aimless. Never. He had always known his purpose. At twenty, facing the shallow world of the ton, Charles had craved that certainty.

  “If I hadn’t followed James into the army, I don’t know what would have become of me. I probably would have ended up a dissipated rakehell.”

  “Nonsense. I’m certain you would have done well at whatever you tried.”

  He looked down at Emma. She had spoken so matter-of-factly, as if there was no question he would accomplish any task he set himself.

  “You really believe that, don’t you?”

  “Of course.” Her clear, golden-brown eyes calmly stared back up at him from behind her spectacles. He remembered how she had looked at him when she was a girl. That had been hero worship—this was different. This was the confidence of a grown woman. She believed in him.

  Her trust was built on air, of course—on girlhood fantasies. She didn’t know him. She hadn’t seen him for twenty years, since he was a boy. Yet he wanted to believe she was right. He wanted her certainty next to him always.

  “Marry me, Emma. Please.” Did he sound too enthusiastic? She must think him a lunatic. But it would be a sensible decision on her part. He tempered his voice. “Our marriage would solve so many problems. We’d get rid of these London idiots. My nieces would get a mother and you’d get a home of your own. Your father could marry Mrs. Graham without disturbing your peace.” He grinned at her, leaning closer. “And I’d get the lovely opportunity—many lovely opportunities—to produce an heir. What do you say?”

  Emma’s stinging slap was eloquence itself.

  “Put the fish on the pillow, Claire. I think that will work best.”

  Isabelle stood in Lady Caroline’s room, Queen Bess in her arms. Her highness had been gracious about accompanying them once Isabelle had fed her a bit of trout. She meowed now and squirmed a bit. Isabelle adjusted her grasp.

  “In a minute, kitty. Claire’s making you a nice snack.”

  “Mrrow!”

  “The pillow, Claire. Put most of it on the pillow. That’s where the lady’s face will be.”

  “I know.” Claire grinned. “We want to make sure the piggy lady’s face swells.”

  “Right—but don’t put too much, either. If she smells the fish, she’ll be suspicious. She won’t put her face down in fish smell.”

  “Cook said this fish is very fresh.” Claire put one more fish flake on the pillow. “There. Done.”

  Isabelle deposited Queen Bess. Her highness paced the coverlet and then sat on the pillow, daintily consuming every fishy morsel. She searched for more tidbits and, finding none, licked her paws, yawned, stretched, and hopped off the bed, slipping out of the room.<
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  “I think that should do it,” Isabelle said.

  Claire skipped to the door. “I can’t wait until the piggy lady gets back from the lake.”

  “Let’s hope she lies down for a nap before dinner.”

  Emma was so angry she could barely see straight. She strode blindly down the path. She heard Charles call behind her, but she ignored him. Then she heard one of the lovely young London misses talking to him. Piggy Lady Caroline, she hoped. The buffle-headed cods-head deserved to spend some time with that harpy.

  She wished she’d had another china dog at hand. She would have smashed it over Lord Arrogance’s head. Marry him just to solve his problems? To enable him to get an heir and get rid of his unwelcome female pursuers? The overweening coxcomb! The mutton-headed, jinglebrained fribble! And how dare he bring up Mrs. Graham? Mrs. Graham was not a problem. Papa would never marry the woman. He respected his family too much.

  She should be home now, taking care of him. But Isabelle and Claire needed her, too. She couldn’t leave them to the callous, mean, spiteful, evil London girls.

  What if Charles married one of those girls? What would happen to Isabelle and Claire?

  She couldn’t marry Charles just to protect his nieces—could she?

  She stumbled down the bank to the grotto. She had always loved its quiet peacefulness. She needed that serenity now to collect her composure.

  Unfortunately, she was not the only one who had sought the grotto’s solitude. She stopped at the entrance and stared. Mr. Stockley stood next to the statue of Poseidon. He was behaving in the oddest manner. First he pulled on Poseidon’s trident. Then he tried to twist the statue’s arm. He knocked on its chest and looked in its mouth. He even stuck his hand into the small pool at its base and felt around in the water. Finally he stood, dried his hand on his breeches, and shrugged, moving on to the stone wall. He poked his fingers into the chinks between the rocks.

  Obviously, he would prefer to be alone. She turned to leave, but her foot sent a loose pebble skittering across the ground to bounce off the wall. Mr. Stockley gasped and whirled to face her.