Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind

by Heidi Ashworth

  Heidi Ashworth

  This title was previously published by Avalon Books; this version has been reproduced from Avalon Books archive files.

  To Mom, Louise, and especially Shirley. Without the encouragement of each, this book would never have been written.

  To my husband who proves each day that real life is better than fiction!

  Impatient, Sir Anthony Crenshaw, baronet, took a turn about the elegant gold study of his grandmother’s London townhouse. How long had it been? Two, maybe three years since he was last summoned? He remembered it had something to do with her grandniece, the pious one who had some namby-pamby ideas about true love and the like. What was her name? Janey? Jenny. Ginny!

  Whatever Grandmama wanted this time, he wished she would bestir herself to attend to it. He hoped she wasn’t going to read him another lecture on the ills of his frivolous existence or indulge in her when-was-hegoing-to-settle-down-and-set-up-his-nursery monologue. It was far too early in the morning for such things, and, after all, it wasn’t as if he were a duke. His uncle, the seventh Duke of Marcross, held that position, and Sir Anthony wished him joy in it.

  He took up a chair before the fire, stretched his legs into a tolerable position and consulted his watch. Ten A.M. Stifling a yawn, he cursed the early morning habits of the elderly.

  At length, the study door opened and a small woman bustled into the room. Her tiny stature belied the great strength evident in her fierce eyes. Crossing the room with astonishing speed, she plucked the timepiece from Sir Anthony’s hand.

  “Anthony, you have no need of this when in my home. I shall inform you when pressing matters necessitate your departure”

  Sir Anthony rose to his feet. “You are in good looks this morning.” He gave the Dowager Duchess of Marcross a deep bow and kissed her hand. The one holding the watch.

  He curled his fingers around it and tugged.

  “Not a chance,” the dowager snapped and turned away.

  Sir Anthony inclined his head. “Very well. I have little enough to occupy myself of late. May I sit?”

  At his grandmother’s nod, Sir Anthony settled himself in the chair, lifted his legs to the ottoman, and stretched his hands behind his head. “I am completely at your disposal, madam.”

  “Good. Then we can get to matters of importance.” her grace proceeded to lose herself behind a large satinwood desk, shuffling papers to and fro with apparent disregard for her grandson.

  Sir Anthony longed for his timepiece. Why was he here, anyway? He could be enjoying a gallop through the park, a round at Jackson’s, or better yet, his bed. He brought his eyes to rest on his grandmother, whom in private he called “the virago.”

  What changes had three years wrought in her? He allowed his eyes to rove over her person. None. No changes at all. One would suppose a woman of eight and sixty might have shown some signs of age, but there it was. The same flame-red hair. The same proud tilt of the chin. And could it possibly be the same puce satin she donned the last time she required his presence?

  The dowager rose majestically from her desk and moved to Sir Anthony’s chair with her characteristic swift stride. “These are they” She thrust a thick packet of papers beneath her grandson’s nose.

  Sir Anthony gazed at the documents, then raised his quizzing glass to her face. “Pray, have the goodness to tell me, are these … rose pedigrees?”

  “Excellent! I have long suspected there was something going on in that head of yours. Your father wouldn’t hear of it, but I told him otherwise.”

  “Yes. Well, in spite of my late father’s lack of faith in my abilities, I did manage to catch a word or two. `Rose’ and `pedigree’ were the most enlightening ones that came to eye,” he said dryly. “What I am not astute enough to discover is what they have to do with me. I crave your indulgence.” Sir Anthony inclined his head and looked up at his grandmama.

  “Don’t be obtuse! You know exactly what they have to do with you. Think a moment. My pedigree roses are my pride and joy. Many of them are as old as the manor. Why, Henry the Eighth admired some of them!”

  “Was that before or after he admired your greatgrandmother?”

  “That will be enough of your nonsense, Anthony. I need you to go to Dunsmere to check on them”

  “Check on whom?” He tapped his riding crop against his boot.

  “My roses, of course”

  Sir Anthony stopped his whip in midair. “Roses? You are asking me to undertake a journey of considerable length to admire roses? Grandmama” He arched an eyebrow. “Tell me you are funning.”

  “No, I am not,” she said with a snap, then returned the papers to her desk. Folding her hands against her stomach, she frowned at him in that way which usually spelled displeasure.

  “I see,” Sir Anthony said through thin lips. The truth was, he saw nothing at all. The frown, however, was something with which he was most familiar. In spite of it, he was quite fond of his grandmama and hated to displease her. He sighed. “May I ask when I will be required to depart for the nether reaches of the kingdom?”

  The dowager walked around the desk and seated herself in her chair. “It is only as far as Bedford. You can be there tonight. That is, if Ginerva is ready.”

  “Ginerva?” Sir Anthony felt a spark of alarm. “By that you can’t mean Ginny, that grandniece of yours? I daresay her governess would not allow it.”

  The duchess glared at him, an imperious gleam in her eye. “Ginerva is now one and twenty. You only think of her as seventeen. That is how old she was when first she came to live with me”

  Could that slip of a girl truly be a woman grown? He remembered her to possess large, dark eyes, a tangle of brown hair, and some annoying opinions. Wellvoiced ones. Sir Anthony felt his composure slipping. “What has Ginny to do with your roses, anyway?” he demanded. “If she comes along, I shall have to return home for my cattle and rig.”

  “You shall take my barouche. I won’t have Ginerva bounced about in that curricle of yours for the better part of the day. Not that she would mind,” the dowager said with a fond smile. “She is quite the nature lover. It is she who cares for my roses. She prefers the company of the garden over that of the multitude of rakes and rattles one finds in the city. Being a forthright young woman, she doesn’t quite know how to deal with society’s way of never saying what they mean” Grandmama pressed her lips together. “For this reason, she always spends the season at Dunsmere, but this year I insisted she come with me” Her voice became low and worried. “She is looking rather pale of late”

  Sir Anthony rose from his seat and made ready to depart. “She was always pale, Grandmama. She never did anything but sit inside all day and dream of true love. As if such a thing exists.” If it did, it had certainly eluded him. No matter; marriage was not for him. “If you wish me to go on a madcap journey to take a look in on your roses, I will do so, but must you saddle me with the chit?”

  The duchess did not respond, for just then the study door opened. A young lady, tall and willowy, walked into the room, her eyes wide with reproach.

  Good Gad, it was Ginny. When had she turned into this lovely girl in the fashionable green gown? He stared at her, at her perfect oval of a face. The graceful curves of her figure. The enormous gray-green eyes and the full lips set above a dimpled chin. They were all he recognized of the girl he had met years before, the childishly round face now turned to elegant planes and angles. Even her once-indifferent brown hair hung in rich chestnut coils against her neck and shoulders. Astonishing! And most delightful.

  “Come, Ginerva.” The dowager duchess waved an authoritative hand, then motioned at Sir Anthony. “This addlepated exquisite is my grandson, Sir Anthony Crensh
aw, as you may recall. He will see you to Dunsmere if you still wish to go”

  “I should not wish to trouble the gentleman,” Ginny replied in a clear, well-modulated voice. Her words were polite, but the look she gave him was one of cool condescension.

  He was surprised to find he felt a bit sorry for her. In spite of her insouciance, there was a spark of real distress in her eyes. Sir Anthony bowed. “Rest assured, Miss Delacourt, it would be no trouble” When she made no reply, he lifted his gaze to meet her cool stare.

  “Come now, Ginerva. You needn’t be so nice in your ways. You wish to go home-I have provided you with a perfectly acceptable escort. We all get what we desire most.”

  Sir Anthony bent a look through his quizzing glass at his grandmama. “And which desire of mine will be realized through this experience, my dear? Aside from a day spent in the company of the charming Miss Delacourt, that is,” he added with an apologetic smile for Ginny. He was startled by the positive glare his grandmama gave him.

  “You don’t know a good thing when it’s nibbling on your nose, young man. Now, be off with the both of you and don’t let me see your face again until you are prepared to give me a full report on my roses!” With that, the dowager bent her head to her papers.

  Sir Anthony bit his tongue and regarded his fingernails. No doubt this was another one of Grandmama’s misbegotten schemes to see him in leg shackles. Ginny had turned into quite a taking little thing, but it would take more than a pretty face and figure to bring an end to his bachelor days. He had eluded the parson’s mousetrap so far, a plan of action he had absolutely no intention of abandoning anytime in the near future.

  Deeming it best to quit the room before his annoyance became evident, Sir Anthony favored each lady with a bow. “Your servant, Miss Delacourt,” he said and, retrieving his watch from the desk, headed for the door. “Oh, and Miss Delacourt, I shall return within the half hour. I hope the arrangement allows you sufficient time to prepare for our departure.” He paused, then added, “I look forward to it.”

  Ginny lifted her chin. “Very prettily said, sir, but nowhere near the truth. Never fear, I shall be ready and waiting long before you arrive. I travel light, you see”

  Sir Anthony was struck speechless. True, the young lady had filled out her gown to admiration since last they met, but she was sadly lacking in address. He sketched her a slight bow and, flourishing his whip, strode out.

  Precisely one half hour later, Ginny watched the English landscape fly past through the carriage window, the nodding head of Nan, her young abigail, on her shoulder. She glanced at Sir Anthony, looking very much asleep on the bench opposite. London’s elite were all the same. They were arrogant. They were amoral. They feigned sleep on long journeys. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.

  She should have stayed with Grandaunt Regina rather then subject herself to Sir Anthony’s company. But no, her grandaunt, the dowager duchess, would insist that she attend the endless balls, routs, and soirees replete with the glib of tongue and faint of heart.

  Dejected, Ginny laid her head against Nan’s. She would not have been able to get through the last few weeks of a rather humiliating London season without Nan, not to mention the last three years. She was more companion than servant, despite being four years younger than Ginny, and they had been together since the vicarage days when Ginny’s father had been alive.

  Best not to think about home now, she thought. Ginny sighed and checked Nan’s cheek. Goodness, she felt warm, even feverish! Most likely she was overheated from being cooped up in the carriage for the better part of the day. Ginny loosened the ties of Nan’s cloak to let in some air.

  “You should be restored to your roses by nightfall, Miss Delacourt,” a deep voice drawled.

  Startled, Ginny glanced into the languid gaze of a pair of penetrating blue eyes. She could determine no other sign of Sir Anthony’s wakefulness. His hat still teetered at a jaunty angle along his brow. Against his silver-striped waistcoat his hands were still. Even the steady rise and fall of his chest indicated that he slept.

  Flustered, Ginny busied herself with Nan’s cloak fastenings. “I should be glad to get Nan home and into her own bed. I fear she is not feeling well.” She settled Nan against the cushions, then made a point of staring out the window to indicate she was not interested in conversation.

  “If I didn’t know better, I would think you were the abigail, Miss Delacourt”

  “And why is that, sir? Is it my gown or my lack of gentility that most betrays me?” Her voice held a particle of censure.

  Sir Anthony arched a brow. “Why, neither,” he answered, in some surprise. “However, I find your costume charming.” He smiled, a lazy, one-sided affair, then reclaimed his hat and placed it firmly over his eyes.

  “I see. As you reserve judgment on my gentility, may I inform you that even amongst the fashionable, there are some who deign to treat their servants as human beings? My mother was one such, and she was the beloved niece of your grandmother, the Dowager Duchess of Marcross.”

  “Yes, I believe your mama was a Wembley,” he commented into the curly brim of his hat. “Hers is a very fine name.”

  “If what you mean by that remark, sir, is that my name leaves something to be desired, why do you not simply say so?”

  The impudent man lifted his hat, regarded her for a moment, and replied, “Clearly, there is not the need” He let the brim of his hat fall once more over his eyes.

  Ginny fumed. He had insulted her family name and had insulted her as well. And he had been so polite throughout. The man was a charlatan. Why, even his air of languid repose was an affectation.

  “No response, Miss Delacourt?” Sir Anthony drawled.

  Ginny was aghast. Why, the man didn’t even have the decency to remove his hat when conversing. Hefting her reticule in her hand, she considered lobbing it at his arrogant head, but owned that even her belief in unrestrained communication could not uphold such a hoydenish act. Ashamed of herself, she moved to place the reticule by her side, when the carriage lurched and the bag was sent flying across the velvet interior, smack into the center of Sir Anthony’s high-crowned hat. There was a crunching noise followed by a loud thunk as the reticule bounced off his hat into the carriage squabs, coming to rest against his shoulder.

  Sir Anthony did not move.

  Ginny gasped. He was unconscious. No-dead! There was no other explanation. A man simply did not sit still through such an assault, not when the weapon was a reticule containing scissors, a flask of rose water, and a bottle of Denmark lotion.

  Her former indignation forgotten, Ginny leaned closer to Sir Anthony and searched for signs of life. The silver threads of his waistcoat still wavered. She trembled with relief. With great care, she put an unsteady hand to his hat and lifted it from his brow.

  Sir Anthony regarded her out of one eye. “Would you be so kind as to leave it be?” He reached behind him and restored the reticule to her. “You wouldn’t want to be without that”

  Ginny jumped and let the hat drop with a thud. Odious man! He was polite to a fault. If having sophisticated manners meant letting her Nan die of fever, she would have none of it.

  “By the way, Miss Delacourt,” Sir Anthony mumbled, “hadn’t you better attend to your girl?”

  “Whyever do you ask, Sir Anthony?” Ginny replied, feeling haughty.

  “Why, she looks as if she is about to launch her breakfast,” he drawled with a smile.

  While Ginny fussed over Nan, Sir Anthony studied Ginny through the hole she had made in his hat. She must have had a loaded cannon in that dratted bag. Nevertheless, he had to admire her spirit. She had bottom, spunk. She was an original. He groaned inwardly. No use wrapping it up in clean linen, she was a hoyden. In point of fact, she was the perfect choice to guard Grandmama’s roses. No doubt she was a whirlwind of destruction. He had a vision of obliterated blight, eradicated black spot, and coshed beetles.

  She had been under Grandmama’s thumb far too long. Someon
e ought to marry the girl and save her from turning into a shrew and then an out-and-out virago like his grandmother. That is, somebody other than himself.

  His scrutiny of the girl became more intense. Was she aware of Grandmama’s intentions? Surely Ginny was not so dim-witted to believe the dowager’s prattle about roses. Perhaps she was not only aware of Grandmama’s plans to throw them together, but party to them as well. The thought made him squirm.

  Ginny must have noticed how he shifted about, for she regarded him with surprise. “Oh, Sir Anthony,” she said with relief. “You were so silent, I feared you might have been injured after all”

  Guilt nudged him out of his negligent sprawl. “Not at all. Truth be told, I was lost in contemplation of roses”

  “Truly? Do you admire roses?” She seemed pleased.

  “Not especially.”

  “Oh”

  The lack of pleasure in the chit’s voice had made a hole in his detachment. Exasperated, he turned his gaze out the window with a groan.

  “You are hurt!” Ginny settled Nan against the squabs and took up a seat next to him. “Here, turn about and let me see.”

  Sir Anthony presented her with his profile. “Miss Delacourt, pray be at ease. I have sustained no injury. Now, would you be so kind as to attend to your abigail?”

  There was a tiny pause, then a rustling of skirts as Ginny did as he asked.

  “Sir Anthony?”

  “Yes, Miss Delacourt?”

  “Nan feels a bit feverish. Would it be out of our way to stop at an inn so she may rest?”

  Sir Anthony consulted his watch. Past luncheon. “It is getting rather late, but heaven knows it doesn’t matter what time we pull into Dunsmere. I believe the Swan and Flute is just ahead. We will stop for tea and perhaps consult a physician for the unfortunate Nan”

  “That is kind of you,” Ginny said, her voice grave and thoughtful.

  Kind? What would make her say such a thing? He was merely doing what was necessary. Any gentleman would have done the same. “Not in the least. Your servant, as always, Miss Delacourt”