by Bess McBride
“Not yet,” Mary finally said in the absence of a response from anyone.
Rachel rose. “Well, we must be going,” she said, extending her hands as if she were sweeping everyone from the room, especially the Whiteheads.
Mary stood as well. “The baby. I am so sorry to cut your visit short,” she said to Lady Whitehead.
Lady Whitehead and Penelope rose.
“Yes, of course. Shall we see the St. Johns and Halwells at Lord and Lady Fairchild’s ball tonight? And you, Lord Rowe?” Lady Whitehead asked.
“Yes,” Mary said briefly.
“Many felicitations, Lord Rowe,” Penelope said, passing him on her way out and dropping a curtsey.
Clara scowled behind her hand as Penelope favored Roger with what appeared to be an intentional view of her cleavage.
Hussy, Clara thought.
The Halwells and Whiteheads left, with St. John escorting the group to the door. As Roger turned to leave, Mary stopped him.
“Can you stay a minute, Roger?”
He turned back, his shoulders sagging.
“Sit down, you poor man, before you faint. Clara told us all about Hickstrom’s ultimatum.”
Clara looked away as Roger moved to sit in a brocaded high-back chair. St. John returned to the room and sat in chair opposite Roger.
“Well, well, well,” he said. “Roger apprised Halwell and I of Miss Hickstrom’s latest...incentive...and whom should appear on our doorstep but the Whiteheads. It is too much to assume that to be a coincidence. I see Miss Hickstrom’s hand in this.”
“Yes,” Roger said dully.
“I must say that I have taken little notice of Miss Whitehead, Roger. She is an attractive young lady.”
Roger raised his eyes to look not at St. John but at Clara. She squirmed under his scrutiny.
“She is,” he said. He looked down at his clasped hands.
Clara, released from his gaze, felt bereft in some way.
Chapter Ten
Roger stared at his clasped fingers, the knuckles of which were white. He sought to visibly ease the force of his grip.
“But?” St. John prompted.
Roger raised his head and avoided Miss Bell’s stare, focusing solely on St. John. He could not describe his humiliation at discussing his future thus...in mixed company, in Miss Bell’s company. He did not mind Mary’s presence, but Miss Bell’s attention disturbed him. To have his private life exposed in such a way made him feel undressed, vulnerable, and terribly awkward.
“Perhaps we could discuss this another time?”
“I understand your reluctance to talk about your private life like this, Roger. Believe me, I do, But this involves Clara as well, and she is our responsibility,” Mary said quietly. “We have all been where you are, Roger, though in different ways. You know that. You can speak freely. We won’t judge you.”
Clara disagreed with that statement. She felt very judgmental at the moment, toward everyone! “This is just too embarrassing for him,” she said. “For me too.”
Roger gave her a grateful glance.
“Yes, of course. You are correct,” St. John said. “We shall say no more on the matter at present. I understand that you have agreed to stay with us for two weeks, Miss Bell, and that Miss Hickstrom will return you to the twenty-first century at the end of that period. We must endeavor to ensure that your time with us is pleasant.”
“Lady Whitehead reminded me, though, that we do have a ball to attend tonight. I remembered yesterday but forgot again this morning. I have just the dress for you, Clara.”
“Oh, can’t I just stay behind, Mary? You know I couldn’t dance, and I wouldn’t know what to say to anyone!”
“Aww, come on! It will be fun. You can stay by my side the entire time. Rachel probably will. She’s still not quite comfortable at these big events either. You don’t want to go back without experiencing a Regency country ball.”
Clara acquiesced and nodded. “Is Lord Rowe going?” she blurted out, surprising herself.
Roger looked up. “No, not I. I am naught but a mere estate agent. I attended one such ball here at Alvord Castle before and felt quite out of place.”
“That was before you inherited a title, Roger,” St. John said. “Yes, of course he must attend. You should take your place in society, Roger.”
Roger shook his head vehemently. “I have no invitation.”
“I am inviting you,” St. John said, a smile spreading across his face.
“I have nothing suitable to wear,” Roger attempted.
“You were suitably dressed for our ball last year,” St. John said.
“Perhaps the next event?”
“Or this one.” It seemed clear that St. John was going to win, as Mary had.
“If you insist,” Roger finally said, looking as if he were going to a funeral.
“That’s settled then,” St. John said, rising. “I think I will ride out to visit the tenants. Will you accompany me, Roger?”
“Yes, of course.” The men rose, bowed, and left the room.
“I really do need to check in on the baby. Will you be all right on your own for a while? We’ll eat in a couple of hours, but you can always stop by the kitchen and ask Cook for something if you’re hungry. And ring for tea anytime you want.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll just finish the tea here. See you later,” Clara said, trying to show a positive outlook so Mary wouldn’t fret. She wanted nothing more than to be alone...and outside. The castle felt confining in some way that she couldn’t explain, and she longed to set out walking again. It wasn’t like she worked outdoors at home. She worked indoors, but couldn’t explain her need to get out. Maybe she just wanted out of the bizarre nightmare in which she found herself.
Mary left the room, and Clara followed soon thereafter. As she had earlier, she told the footman to tell Lady St. John that she had gone out for a walk if she inquired. She set off down the drive, certain in the knowledge that Roger would not be at the gatehouse and that she could leave the castle grounds if she wanted...if the gate was unlocked. Since the Halwells and Whiteheads had recently left, she hoped that it might be.
She passed the gatehouse without incident and was pleased to see the gate standing open. She ventured through the gate and stared at the rutted dirt road that passed in front of the castle. With no idea of a particular direction, she turned to the left and sauntered down the road, feeling a bit freer than she had.
She’d been walking about fifteen minutes when she heard a sound from behind. Turning, she saw a closed carriage pulled by four horses. Two liveried coachmen sat up front. Intimidated by the size of the vehicle and concerned about being discovered, she stepped off the side of the road and waited—unobtrusively, she hoped—in the grass. Unfortunately, the carriage slowed and came to a stop beside her.
A striking man looked out at her before doffing his top hat. Well-groomed silvered hair gleamed, matching a broad mustache. Bright-blue eyes, particularly young for his middle age, regarded her.
“May we offer you a ride, miss?”
“No, thank you,” Clara answered, blinking at the man’s broad smile.
“Ah! You are American! I have just returned from there. From where do you hail, madam?”
“Virginia,” she replied. Her mother had been from Virginia before moving to Washington State, and Clara had just thrown that state out there. Some vague high school history memory that anything west of the Mississippi as the frontier made her think that Washington probably wasn’t well traveled in the early nineteenth century.
“The very place where I visited! I toured the tobacco factories there. James!” he called out.
“Right away, your lordship.” One of the coachmen jumped down and strode to the door, opening it. The man stepped down—tall, lean and sprite for an older gentleman. His black cutaway coat, dark-gray breeches and bright-white cravat looked expensive. He bowed and doffed his top hat again.
“James Landry at your service, miss. We are
just on our way to the village to secure lodgings for the evening. I am en route to my estate. If you will not accept a ride—and I cannot say that I fault you in your decision—may I at least accompany you? We can speak of America while we walk. I think the village is not too distant.”
“Well, I was just about to turn around,” Clara said reluctantly. “I should be getting back.”
“Do you live near?”
“I’m staying nearby,” she said.
“Then I should accompany you there. It is not wise for a young woman to walk alone. Some old curmudgeon might attempt to pick her up in his carriage!”
He laughed, a deep, attractive resonant sound, and Clara couldn’t help but smile.
“You’re persistent.”
“I am that, madam.”
“I’m staying at Alvord Castle, about a mile back up the road. I doubt if your carriage can turn around.”
“Alvord Castle! Just the very place I planned to visit!”
“Oh, I didn’t hear of a James Landry expected. Not that I would have.”
“I am not expected, hence, the lodgings in the village. I was on my way to my country home in Bedfordshire and thought I might look in on young St. John. I knew his parents but was not close to them. I did enjoy the young boy though. That has been many years.”
“Oh, he’s all grown up now,” Clara said. “Married, with a child.”
“I heard that he married an American, and here you are. Are you Lady St. John then? But I think not. You said you were visiting.”
“No, I’m not Lady St. John. Just plain Clara Bell.”
“I do not see anything remotely plain about you, Miss Bell. Is it miss?”
“It is,” Clara replied, her cheeks reddening at the frankly admiring gleam in the man’s eyes.
“My carriage can manage a turn at some point further down the road. If you do not wish to ride, then permit me to accompany you. I cannot simply drive away and leave you unattended. It would be most ungentlemanly.”
There was little Clara could do. She turned and walked the opposite way, and James fell into step beside her, walking with his hands clasped behind his back. He kept up a good pace, and she wondered how old he was.
“Your driver called you ‘your lordship.’ Is there more to your name? It seems like everyone is titled around here.”
“There is a bit more, yes.”
Clara waited, but he didn’t offer the information.
“And that is?”
“I thought you Americans did not care for such trappings as titles.”
“We don’t have any, but I think we’re fascinated by them. So what’s yours?”
James laughed outright again. “I did so enjoy being James Landry while I was in America, so refreshingly simply. I am more formally known here in England as Lord James Carswell. I am the Fifth Baron Carswell.”
Clara missed a step and would have tripped if James hadn’t caught her around the waist. She sprung from his embrace.
“Baron?”
“Yes.” He gave her an inquiring look.
Clara turned away and resumed walking, her pace more rapid this time.
“How long have you known you were going to visit Alvord Castle? I mean...how long ago did you plan on it?”
“My decision was quite impromptu really. I decided several hours ago as I was traveling up to Wayburn Hall, my estate. I am not quite certain why I decided to stop here at this very moment, but I am very glad that I did.”
“This is ridiculous,” Clara muttered under her breath.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I’m sure Lord St. John will be happy to see you.” Privately, Clara knew no such thing. However, she didn’t know what else to say. The implication of a baron showing up at that moment, slightly older, as she had mentioned to Hickstrom, seemed too coincidental. But wait!
“And where is Lady Carswell?” Clara asked, breathing a sigh of relief.
“There is no Lady Carswell,” he said. “My wife passed away ten years ago.”
“Oh! I’m sorry.” Clara’s sense of relief was short lived.
“No need,” he said briefly. “No need to express your regrets to me, that is. We did not enjoy a close union.”
“I’m sorry about that then,” Clara said.
“As am I,” he said. “However, that is in the past. I have not had a desire to repeat the experience...certainly not before now.”
Clara swung her head to look at him. His blue eyes twinkled, and he grinned. She understood then that he was flirting with her.
“That’s not even funny as a joke,” she said. “I’m never getting married!” Clara hadn’t had that opinion before, but now the statement seemed authentic. It felt right to say that.
“Ah! Such vehemence! But what has soured you to the state of wedded bliss at such a young age, Miss Bell?”
She glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. He still grinned.
“It’s too complicated. I don’t need a husband. I hate being threatened. Or forced.”
Lord Carswell laid a hand on her arm and brought her to a stop.
“Forced? Never tell me you are being forced into a marriage. I have heard of such coercion of young ladies but have never encountered such. How can I be of assistance? Could I speak to your parents?”
Her parents. No, they hadn’t been born yet. Her mother hadn’t abandoned her. Her father hadn’t died. Suddenly, Clara’s eyes filled with tears, and her nose started to run. She sniffed.
Lord Carswell pulled a linen handkerchief from inside his coat and handed it to her.
“There, there, my dear girl. It grieves me to see you so saddened. Please tell me how I can help.”
“There’s nothing you can do,” Clara blubbered into the handkerchief, her tears getting out of control. “Really. I don’t have any parents. It’s not them. No one is forcing me to do anything. Not really.”
To his credit, Lord Carswell seemed to understand her hiccupped words.
“You are orphaned,” he said gently. “How very unfortunate. Yet you do not completely convince me that you are not being coerced in some way. Is Lord St. John attempting to force you into marriage with someone?”
“No,” she sobbed. “Oh, no! He’s great.”
“His lady?”
“No, not Mary. She gets it.”
“Gets what?”
“Understands,” Clara clarified, still sobbing.
“My poor Miss Bell, you are overwrought. Please lean on me, and I will support you back to Alvord Castle. Perhaps you could explain your predicament to me. I have considerable resources at my disposal. I feel certain that I could help you if I knew how.”
He gently pulled Clara’s free hand into his tucked arm, and despite her better judgment, she leaned against him. Lord Carswell exuded safety and security. She felt herself in good hands with the older man.
“I doubt if there’s anything you can do, Lord Carswell, but thank you. You are very kind.”
“Will you not let me try? I cannot know if you do not tell me what is the matter?”
Clara’s sobs subsided, and she shook her head. “I can’t really. I’m not even sure you’re not part of the problem.”
“I?” he asked. “How can I be part of the problem when we did not know each other until moments ago?”
Clara lifted her head from his shoulder, realizing what she’d said. “Oh! Did I say that? No! You’re not part of the problem. I don’t know what I was saying. I should get back.”
She tried to pull away but was still ensnared by Lord Carswell’s arm. He patted her hand and moved forward with her.
“I believe that I shall call in at Alvord Castle now and wait upon St. John. I had thought to acquire lodgings in the village today and call tomorrow, but I cannot leave you in such distress, Miss Bell. I simply cannot!”
Clara stopped and turned, her cheeks flushed. “Oh, you don’t have to do that!”
The sound of hooves caught their atte
ntion, and they turned to see two riders trotting toward them.
St. John and Roger slowed their horses and brought them to a halt.
“Lord Carswell!” St. John greeted. “Is that you?” He slid off his horse and approached.
Clara looked up at Roger, who stared at them with an unambiguous expression of disapproval on his face.
“Miss Bell?” he asked. “Where have you been?”
Chapter Eleven
“Out!” Clara retorted. She turned a shoulder on him and watched St. John approach.
“St. John! You have grown into a strapping young man! How many years has it been?” Lord Carswell said.
“You look fit as a fiddle yourself, Lord Carswell! It has been too many years since I have seen you. I was but a boy,” St. John said, bowing before them. “And you have found our guest, Miss Bell!”
“I did indeed, St. John. She was walking, and I decided to accompany her.”
“I thank you for attending to her. What do you do here, Lord Carswell?” St. John asked.
“I had thought to come and visit you en route to Wayburn Hall. I was on my way to procure lodgings in the village before calling upon you tomorrow, but fortune put Miss Bell in my path, and here we are!”
Roger’s horse pawed the ground, and Clara threw him a sideways glance. His set jaw and pursed mouth indicated some sort of displeasure, but he refused to meet her eyes. Which was fine with her.
St. John caught the horse’s motion and turned.
“Lord Carswell, may I introduce my estate agent, Lord Roger Rowe?”
“A pleasure, Lord Rowe,” Lord Carswell responded with a bow.
Roger inclined his head, nothing more.
Lord Carswell quirked an eyebrow toward St John. “Your estate agent?”
St. John smiled. “It is a long story. Roger, this is Lord James Carswell, Fifth Baron Carswell, an old friend of the family. I am not sure you would remember him.”
“Ah! Young Roger Phelps. Your father was estate agent. I remember meeting both of you, though you were but a boy. And you are a lord now?”
