The Spinster and the Earl

by Beverly Adam

  “Ohhh—no-o!” squealed the squire.

  Smack! The whip fell squarely upon Flossy’s ample back flank.

  The docile mount reared. The squire screamed. And together horse and rider galloped off down the main road towards the village.

  It was later reported the lads at The Boar’s Teeth rescued him for a quid each. No real harm done, except to the lining of the gentleman’s purse.

  Watching the horse canter down the road, the offended lady was satisfied that the audacious jackanapes would never bother her again. She emitted one last angry huff, and whipping her damp skirts around walked back to the manor house. Her revenge would have been complete, had not she heard a deep, masculine laugh coming from above. The manly laughter forewarned her that the entire debacle had been witnessed by another.

  She stopped in mid-twirl and looked up at the second-story window. A pair of twinkling blue eyes met her light-mint green ones. He smiled with piratical amusement down at her.

  The deuce! The English earl had obviously been witness to the whole dreadful fiasco. Embarrassed, and feeling strangely discomfited that he should be witness to her loss of temper, she continued towards the house, unable to muster any verbal display of anger. Instead, she hurriedly entered Brightwood Manor, giving the back garden door an indignant slam.

  * * *

  Captain James, the Earl of Drennan, set down his field glasses, a calculating gleam still shining in his shrewd, sapphire eyes. Some of those niggling questions about her shrewish character had been clarified by my lady’s display of unrestrained temper towards the squire. It was evident she needed a firm hand to bring her to heel. Despite the minor character flaw of her evident dislike of gentlemen, her wealth had not gone unnoticed. And he sorely needed a wealthy wife. And as for Lady Beatrice O’Brien, well, one day she would need a husband. So, why not him?

  He had a title to offer that was above her own. His nationality as an English subject guaranteed her children would be treated better than had they been born of an Irish father. Aye, it could be a very good match for both of them. He stroked his scar thoughtfully.

  Besides, the winning of her cold hand in marriage would prove to be a most interesting campaign, worthy of a seasoned strategist such as himself. That is, if he decided to set himself to the task of wooing her. But to do so would require finesse, planning, and help. The kind of help that he’d had when planning a siege against the crown’s enemies in Spain. He would have to send for his valet, ex-corporal in arms, Edmond Davis, immediately.

  Through Davis, the earl cunningly set about vicariously spying upon Brightwood’s household, his manservant bringing back daily reports concerning the running of the manor. Their main focus of interest was Lady Beatrice, herself.

  Acting as his intelligence officer, Davis gleaned from the servants that they took their orders not from the master of the household, but from the vanithee, the young mistress. It was reported that Lady Beatrice did the accounts, oversaw the welfare of the tenants, and made the estate profitable. The people at the manor both respected and pitied her, having concluded long ago that her ladyship would never find her way to a secure marriage bed.

  “The lady was once betrothed to a Viscount Linley,” Davis said handing his master the morning gazette. “’Tis said to have been a suitable match, what with the lady’s dowry and his adequate title.”

  He bent over and whispered in confidence to his master. “As it happened, sir, she called the wedding off. It was the night of the ball, when they were to have announced their impending nuptials. They say she suddenly received a letter telling her he’d run off to join the Royal Hussars.”

  The valet shook his thinning blond head in disapproval. “Such scandalous behavior, sir. What bad form to break the engagement the night of the ball held in its honor. Dreadful.”

  “And very cruel,” added the earl. “Hmm . . . but that might work somehow to my advantage.” He puffed thoughtfully on his pipe, a burning itch beneath his bandages causing him to point to a carved, silver-handled stick nearby shaped to resemble a hand. “Would you be so kind, old chap?” Davis handed him the scratching cane, the irritation serving to remind him of who had brought about his present discomfort.

  “Continue, Davis. You were saying?”

  “Oh, uh, right, Capt’n. The lady cried off and has ever since been safely on the shelf, so to speak. The nub of it being that she’s taken a certain dislike to any of the gentlemen her father has presented her. Especially detests, they say, the English ones. Her almost-betrothed having been one himself.”

  “But what of her family? Are they not distressed by her still unwed state? If she’s as wealthy as you imply, Davis, surely they would wish to see her well settled. And try to create some sort of suitable match for her?”

  “Aye, you’d think, sir. But ’tis only the lady’s father, Lord O’Brien, and a widowed aunt, I hear, who wish to see her tie the knot. The rest of the family are praying she remains permanently dressed in virginal white. They’d like to have a share of her vast fortune. Not that she shows any signs of popping off to the nether world, sir.”

  “But the lady is still young and fit and surely could be convinced to marry if a suitable husband was found.”

  A knock on the chamber door interrupted him. Druscilla, Lady Beatrice’s paid companion, brought in the morning tray. The earl looked the silver platters over. The menu was an exact replica of what he’d eaten the day before, which meant the same hands had prepared it.

  The companion glanced unabashedly at ex-corporal Davis. Ever since the solidly built English valet had arrived at Brightwood Manor, she’d found ways to be as much in his company as humanly possible. She’d set her cap on this stiff gentleman’s gentleman since the day she clapped eyes upon him. She always wanted to marry a nice solid man such as he, and there weren’t too many of her own station here for the taking.

  She giggled as she accidentally brushed up against him, setting the silver tray on the table next to His Grace. Her smile was genuine and slightly bucktoothed, as she bobbed a curtsy to the two gentlemen and left.

  When she’d gone, the earl casually asked, “Is it considered part of a lady’s companion’s duties to bring a gentleman his morning mess, Davis?”

  Puzzled, his man inspected the platters. If a two-headed snake had been served instead of the usual rumps of roast mutton, he could not have felt more discomfited. It had been bad enough that the woman had practically wiggled her bottom at him, but then to bring his master’s morning mess in, as well. Gads! It was intolerably impudent!

  “Nay, Capt’n—I mean, Your Grace. It isn’t considered part of a lady’s maid’s duties, or responsibilities to serve a gentleman. Unless he be her mistress’s husband, sir,” he said stiffening. He silently rebuked himself for permitting the lady’s companion entry to the usually exclusive all-male domain.

  “Just so, Corporal Davis.” The earl nodded. “Just so.” And without another word, he tucked into the delicious food with unfeigned relish.

  * * *

  Lord Patrick O’Brien’s gout had been easing quite nicely, and he felt fair pleased with himself as he ambled towards Drennan Castle’s ruins. It was nearing the hour of nine and a cool night wind blew dead leaves around his horse’s feet. Lord Patrick, an old, stout gentleman, carefully walked the animal through the maze of fallen square stones while holding onto a walking stick. The ruins had once been part of the castle’s stone walls.

  He heard a twig break and froze. Had he been followed? Perhaps a cutthroat purse-snatcher hoping to catch him out here alone was even now about to pounce upon him? Tensing, he let go of the horse’s leash and put a hand on his sturdy blunderbuss.

  A familiar young trebling voice called out, “Who goes there?”

  “’Tis I, lad, your master, Lord Patrick,” he replied roughly, easing the weapon down again.

  A slight lad of thirteen stepped out from the shadows. Tommy Flander’s freckled face greeted him with a broad grin of welcome. His own rude
weapon, a large pitchfork, he carried defensively in one hand.

  “Aye, so it be. ’Tis grand seeing your lordship up and about again. Bessy’s not been making her best. It was as if she knew you weren’t here to test her out, my lord.”

  “Is that so, Tommy, me boy? Well, now that be a grand shame, especially when I’m certain you kept her going at a fine trot.”

  The lord picked up a tumbler full of freshly brewed whiskey from a rough hewn table. He drank, swishing the liquid around in his mouth as he did so, tasting the flavors. “You fed her plenty of the secret ingredient like I told you to, lad?”

  He touched the distillery’s copper belly as if he were milking a cow of the most temperamental variety.

  “Aye, my lord. Though ’twas difficult warming her with the wind blowing about tonight. And I’ll be telling you, true, the moon was full-hitched in the sky. Afraid I was. They say the wee folk dance here when it be like this.”

  The lad glanced superstitiously at the half-ruined parts of the castle. In the moonlight, the ruins loomed forbiddingly in the quiet. Rumors had been spread aplenty and as fertile as the meadows in spring, as to the certain downfall of the Drennan clan. The talk now was that the new lord’s recent fall from his mount had not been an accident.

  For all the village knew that Lady Beatrice was one of the best shots in the parish. If she shot his lordship down, it was certain he would have been greeting the heavenly saints themselves that morn, instead of lying in a comfortable featherbed at Brightwood Manor as a convalescing guest. “Nay,” cackled, Mother O’Donnell, a wizened lady of some advanced years. “’Twas them rascally wee folk who’d whispered a word into the horse’s ear, which brought about his lordship’s present condition.” Young Tommy, one of the avid listeners, believed the old woman.

  He turned to his master. “’Tis been ever so quiet since the new earl settled at Brightwood to heal, m’lord. Faith, been right silent enough to wonder if the banshee wouldn’t howl at us at night in mourning for them noble dead knights buried over there.”

  He nodded in the direction of the castle’s silent cemetery, fearfully eyeing the tilted tall grave stones of long gone lords and ladies. He took a step back into the warm firelight. Their ghosts were rumored to walk about on nights such as this, capering with the fairies under the moonlight.

  “Nay, lad. There’s naught to concern yourself in that quarter. Dinna you know that the ghosts like it when it be quiet. ’Tis said to give them a bit o’ rest. Though if one had seen me lass come running from here, you’d think she’d seen one of the fey herself.”

  He winked at the servant and said in a voice full of confidence, “As long as we leave them in peace to do their fairy craft, there be no harm in putting ourselves under their protection. Why, tonight we’ll even leave a jug offering out to keep them from making mischief. I hear they take to a fine brew. And I’d like even to go so far as to say ours has begun to taste, quite magical.”

  Lord Patrick took another sip from the jug, not a wit concerned for the fey sprites that might dwell in the ruins, or the ill effects drinking would have on his gout. For, was it not his own levelheaded daughter who gave him the idea of moving his poteen-making operations here? What with the whole village full of superstitious heathens, he’d chosen the best spot in Urlingford to secret Bessy. All the credit was due to his brave girl coming home pale-faced one rainy night from the direction of the supposedly bewitched castle’s haunted ruins.

  At first he’d thought some foul play had been used against his strong-headed lass and had started to order his outriders to chase out the villainous rogues that had dared to frighten her. But she’d stopped him in mid-stride, her face rosy with shame, as she confessed she’d merely been frightened by the storm’s loud flashing show of thunder and earthshaking lightning.

  Now that was an astonishing bit of news. His strong-willed lass had never been inclined to be afraid of anything in her entire life. Brought up as an only child, she had learned to stand on her own two feet, without the protection or interference of bothersome siblings. She was quite fearless. Not even as a wee chit when she got stuck in a ram’s pen by accident, was she afraid. She’d merely blinked those bright green eyes of hers twice at the beast, daring it to charge and calmly walked out the gate as if taking a sunny Sabbath stroll to church. The doting father was certain that a braver lass than his Beatrice could not be found in the entire parish.

  He knew then that her fright had to have something to do with the castle. What, he was not certain. The castle was mostly in ruins, unoccupied with the exception of two remaining towers inhabited at the time by the old earl and his elderly servants. But knowing his lass to have a level head about her, he’d reluctantly accepted her moonshine of an excuse and developed his own brilliant plans for the ghostly ruins.

  “Aye,” he mused drowsily as he snuggled up against Bessy’s warm copper belly. I’ll have to get m’lass a husband. I canna have her continually running around the countryside like some wild hoyden. For sure, I am that tired of the lads at the Boars Teeth making fun of my Bea’ and those foppish suitors of hers. I have to find her a proper gentleman, one that can stand on his own two feet. Best I shut my eyes and do some thinking about it in the morn.” And with that resolve in mind, he drifted off into a drunken slumber.

  Chapter 5

  The following evening, Lord Patrick found himself seated comfortably by the turf fire of his own manor home deciding the fate of his only daughter. Lord O’Brien, the Earl of Drennan and Beatrice drank to the younger lord’s good health with contraband Spanish port, the bottle having been graciously provided by his recovering guest. Since it might be a crime either to keep it or to throw it away, the two lords decided it was best if they drank it then and there.

  “Slainte,” she heard her father say in Irish, toasting the earl’s health.

  “To your own good health, sir,” answered the younger lord, raising his glass in turn. Primly Beatrice sat frowning at her father for disobeying Wise Sarah’s orders of no strong spirits.

  She’d tried to ignore them, but made a poor attempt of reading a tome containing recently translated Irish folklore. Irish legends were currently à la mode with scholars. Until now they had not been translated from the original Irish. The particular legend before her was a recent publication sent directly from a press in Dublin connected with the Institute of Ancient Irish Lore. But her thoughts refused to remain focused on the giant warriors of old for long. They kept straying towards a far more contemporary personage. Principally, this ruggedly handsome lord sitting calmly, talking with her father.

  She listened as her father said, “I suppose once when your lordship is fit again, you’ll be wanting to kick up your heels a bit. The gossipmongers have it that you came directly here upon learning of your uncle’s passing. By now, a young buck like yourself must be after wishing to be back in London with the ton.”

  The earl shook his head in negation. “Far from it, sir. ’Tis doubtful I shall ever return to my former home or life. No doubt the moneylenders have long ago confiscated what few possessions I owned,” he openly admitted.

  “When I bought my stripes, I’d been running neck-high for some time in dun territory from gambling debts and living beyond my meager means. I behaved like a complete make-bait.” As way of explanation he added, “I am the youngest of three sons. ’Twas very decent of his majesty’s service to see to it I did not scorch myself any further into Newgate Prison. When I joined up, those money lending sharks no longer could pursue me. I was under his majesty’s protection. While in the army, I reformed, learning how to handle responsibility, becoming the wiser man you see today.”

  “But what of your family? Surely they’d welcome you with open arms now that you’re an earl?”

  “Miracles have been known to occur,” said James with an unemotional shrug.

  “Mayhap you’re thinking of returning to that fine regiment of yours? I hear from your man Davis that ye were a Jim-dandy fighter.” The old lor
d winked, taking a puff from his clay pipe.

  The younger lord smiled at the compliment, his eyes falling upon Beatrice’s dark, shiny head. She pretended to be absorbed in her book, feeling his eyes observing her, carefully hiding her own interest. She knew so little about him. She listened intently to their conversation.

  “My decision depends on a sundry of variables, Lord O’Brien. None of which exclude my choosing to make my permanent residence the family’s ancestral castle here in Urlingford. Living there does, I must admit, have certain advantages. One, of course, having such charming neighbors such as yourselves nearby.”

  She looked up, startled. Charming? No one had ever used that term in connection with them before. She’d heard gentlemen say several flowery and exaggerated compliments to her. This, however, was the first she’d heard anyone consider using more personal terms than one would use with, say, a well-trained pet.

  Her eyes met his. Unbidden, her cheeks flamed. It’d been two days since she’d felt his arms around her waist when she’d asked him to kiss her. The embrace was not one she could forget. It burned in her thoughts, reminding her how she had completely forgotten herself in that moment. If she was not careful, she’d soon find herself doing more than just looking at this appealing gentleman . . . she would find herself back in his bed. No, that would not do at all, not unless she wished to give up her independence and wealth to a man.

  Observing his daughter’s flushed expression, Lord Patrick helped himself to the port decanter. He turned to Beatrice and said, “Daughter, would ye be so kind, darlin’, as to fetch m’wrap? I feel a chill creeping up my back.”

  “Aye, Da,” she answered, forcing herself to move towards the door, reluctant to miss the conversation between the two. She sensed her sly fox of a father was up to something. He usually never played the part of a feeble old man afraid of catching a sudden chill. There’d been many a day when she’d seen him wander about on horseback with nothing on but a thin, frilled shirt. Now what the devil was he about?