Lady Bountiful

by Laura Matthews

  "You're good to say so, but I have sat for years at church listening to our vicar, Mr. Sampson, urge those of us who can well afford it to do our duty by those less fortunate, and yet I did nothing for so very long. I believe we have an obligation to the people who depend on us, don't you, Lord Meacham?"

  There was something she could not identify in the viscount's indecipherable eyes, but he merely nodded. Drucilla continued, "I don't come into my inheritance from my mother for another six months, so I have been forced to use funds from Tarnlea. But Miss Script and I have lived in a frugal fashion in order to do our part."

  "I wish you had not," he protested. "The burden has always rested with the estate. I beg you won't give another thought to any such claim on your own resources."

  Drucilla sighed and urged her mare to a faster pace. "Do you wish to see another set of cottages or the tenant farms?"

  "Another day, perhaps. Let's head back to Tarnlea."

  "Then let Standish out again, Lord Meacham, if you would. He needs the exercise." And, Drucilla realized, she would very much enjoy watching the viscount's expert horsemanship again.

  His horsemanship, however, was not the only thing she was aware of as man and beast swept across the barren fields. Meacham's handsome profile, the solid set of his shoulders, the athletic firmness of his legs—Drucilla could not remember feeling this odd sensation about any man of her acquaintance, and she was not at all sure she wished to feel it about Julian Winslow, Viscount Meacham.

  * * * *

  Meacham's valet helped him into a new coat of blue superfine that fit so exquisitely his services were definitely required in the donning of it. Meacham's pale buff pantaloons were unexceptionable and his neckcloth tied in a restrained but fashionable style. He regarded himself critically in the cheval glass, then turned away.

  The viscount was, in the ordinary course of affairs, indifferent to what he wore and allowed Fallot to discuss such matters only under duress. Certainly here in the country, dining only with Miss Carruthers and her companion, there could be no particular reason to pay heed to his appearance. And yet he brushed off a speck of dust from one sleeve and adjusted his solitary fob before he left his bedchamber.

  The two ladies were already awaiting him in the salon, Miss Script in a discreet pastel gown, her former charge in something quite out of the ordinary. Miss Carruthers looked perfectly charming in a gown of such a deliciously rich shade of green that it made her blue eyes startlingly bright.

  Meacham reminded himself that he was at Tarnlea to accomplish a specific purpose that had nothing to do with being attracted to an intriguing young woman. He would be wise to pay no heed to the artless curls that framed her face, or the sparkling animation that constantly lit her eyes. If her figure was both elegant and captivating, surely it could be nothing to him. They were to be reacquainted but briefly.

  But Meacham could not resist complimenting her on her gown. "I would have no doubt of its origins, but you have not, I believe, ever been to London."

  "Never."

  He studied her thoughtfully. "But your father would not have completely succumbed to his illness by the time you were seventeen. I'm surprised he didn't insist upon a Season for you. He could have applied to my mother to act as your chaperone and introduction to society. She was familiar with the routine," he said, a rueful smile curving his lips, "having successfully launched two daughters of her own."

  Miss Carruthers said placidly, "London is not to everyone's taste, Lord Meacham. Do you keep a house there?"

  Meacham suspected that Miss Carruthers would have enjoyed London very much indeed, with her lively disposition and her quick understanding, but he refrained from saying so. "Yes, I have a house in Grosvenor Square, though it has not been much used these two years since my mother died. Occasionally I let it for the Season to a suitable family."

  Without at all meaning to, he added, "I would be more than pleased for you to make use of it if, for instance, Lady Nibthwaite were to bundle you off there for a few weeks' entertainment. I think you would like London—once you grew accustomed to the noise and the bustle. There are wonderful shops, and delightful entertainments, and fascinating people."

  "I'm needed at Tarnlea," she said somewhat defiantly. Then with a more conciliating air, she added, "I have only country manners, sir, and am used to a freedom not allowed a young lady in the city. I can scarce imagine not being able to ride where I wish, or not walking alone along the pavements."

  "For every disadvantage, there is a compensating advantage."

  "Well, as it is unlikely I shall go there, it cannot matter." Her abstracted gaze became wistful and she admitted, "Though I should dearly love to see a play at Drury Lane, or watch the equestrian events at Astley's Amphitheater. Miss Script and I have read of them in books and journals, and sometimes I can almost picture myself there."

  With very little effort, Meacham, too, could picture her there, all eagerness and ingenuous delight. Her open manners would attract the sort of people she would like, though certainly there would be those who frowned on them. What could it matter that the highest of sticklers would find her too unpolished and forward? She would not care for them at all.

  If Hastings had not arrived then to announce dinner, Meacham might have described some of London's more intriguing pastimes. But the butler nodded conspiratorially at him as the ladies gathered up their skirts and rose. Meacham offered an arm to each lady, his eyes full of a surprising playfulness that made Drucilla cock her head at him and ask, "What is it? Have I said something I ought not?"

  "Not at all. It is I who have taken a liberty with your home for which I beg you will forgive me. In the spirit of the season, however, I found I could not resist."

  A beaming Hastings threw open the door to the dining room, and Drucilla gasped at the sight. The room was aglow with candlelight, wax tapers marched the length of the table and perched in the windows and on the side tables. Boughs of greenery were hung along the walls, decorated with red bows and gold ribbon and silver bells. The silver shone, the glass globes twinkled, the crystal chandelier above the table reflected light merrily over all. The chamber was redolent of evergreens and roast goose, with a hint of mince pies to come.

  Miss Script, her eyes moist with nostalgia, said, "Oh, it's just like Christmas used to be, Drucilla. Look, they have found the bells and the wonderful Italian angel your mama brought from her home when she came here as a bride. It's like a fairyland."

  At first sight of the room Drucilla had felt close to tears herself. It was impossible not to remember the many years she and her companion had tried to recreate the festive holiday atmosphere her mother had once lavished on the whole of Tarnlea. But it was some time now since they had attempted even a minimal effort at celebrating the season, what with her father ill and their attempt to trim household expenses.

  Drucilla raised glowing eyes to Meacham. "It's magical. I've never seen it look more beautiful. You have indeed invaded my territory, sir, but how could I not forgive you? It was incredibly kind of you! And you have gotten all the servants in on it as well, I see."

  Hastings stood beaming at the door, the housekeeper beside him with her hands folded in obvious satisfaction. Behind them were others, their faces wreathed with pleasure. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you all."

  When Drucilla returned her gaze to Meacham, she found him observing her in a way that made her feel a little breathless. He was a man who held her future and that of everyone at Tarnlea in his hands, and yet by degrees she was coming to trust him. Maybe more than trust him.

  The viscount raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. "A trifle early, perhaps, but no matter. Happy Christmas, cousin."

  "Happy Christmas, my lord."

  After Meacham and the two ladies had visited Sir Lawrence to share with him some sweetmeats Mrs. Kamidge had made especially for him and a kaleidoscope the viscount had purchased in the village, they retired to the salon, still basking in the pleasure of their meal and the del
ightful surprise he had arranged for them.

  The knowledge had grown on Drucilla all evening that she was developing strong feelings for Lord Meacham. Previously, she had been so busy trying to direct the course of their interchanges, needing to hide certain thing and explain others, that she had not acknowledged the full force of his character. She had been aware during dinner that the viscount had set himself to amuse her and make her forget her many concerns for one evening. And she admired the way he showed respect to her father, even when Sir Lawrence was acting his most bizarre.

  In the salon Drucilla found herself almost shy. Suddenly Meacham seemed far too sophisticated and elegant for their little family circle. This man undoubtedly had a place in London society, where people would listen to him and respect his opinions. Until tonight she had thought of him as one of the family, a country gentleman good-humoredly carrying out his duty.

  "Is something the matter?" he asked, taking a seat opposite her on the sofa.

  "Oh, no! You've given us such a memorable evening. Shall I play something on the pianoforte?"

  "Oh, do," said Miss Script sleepily. "Something very soft and melodic, Drucilla. Nothing vigorous, if you please. Unless Lord Meacham should object."

  "Music is the very thing we need to crown our evening." He rose as Drucilla did and moved to stand by her stool. "If you will let me turn the music for you, I promise to pay attention."

  "Which is more than May shall be able to do," she whispered, aware that Miss Script had already closed her eyes. Within minutes her companion was gently snoring, her head fallen down against the chair's projecting wing. Drucilla played the song to its end, but looked up then to Meacham, a fragile smile on her lips. "May I ask you something?"

  "By all means."

  "Have you always done the right thing? I mean, is there nothing in your own life to look back on with regret?"

  Meacham's momentary puzzlement was quickly replaced by an understanding of the significance of the question. "Oh, my dear, you're quite wide of the mark if you're envisioning me as some paragon of virtue. Come, I'll tell you an instructive Christmas story."

  He caught her hand and drew her to her feet. For a moment they stood remarkably close, gazes locked on one another, a strangely powerful emotion drawing them together. Alarmed, Drucilla dropped her eyes and moved unsteadily to the sofa, where Meacham seated himself only slightly apart, close enough to retain possession of her hand.

  "You remember me when I was twelve—all stiff and righteous and unbending. Doesn't that seem to you something to look back on with regret?"

  "But you were a boy. You had too many responsibilities for your age."

  Meacham nodded reminiscently. "I took it all very seriously, even when I was away at Eton. And then when I was nineteen I came to town, to London, with a friend of mine. And simply ran mad!"

  Drucilla looked doubtful. "I find that hard to believe."

  "Nevertheless, it was true. I had never experienced that degree of freedom, that heady realization that I had the resources to do whatever I wished. We were up to every lark—boxing with Gentleman Jackson, betting on which raindrop would slide down the glass fastest at White's, off to every prizefight and horse race, gambling in games that were far too rich for our blood, even though he, too, came from a well-heeled family."

  "Did you not go to any of the balls and ridottos?" she asked wistfully.

  "Most assuredly we did, but they were pretty tame for us. Standing up with our sisters, and doing the pretty to the girls one's mother introduced to one. William and I were ripe for trouble, not for something so subtle as flirtation or social pleasantries. Eventually we were taken in by a very clever gamester who was introduced by William's cousin."

  "What happened?"

  "Less than we deserved," he admitted ruefully. "You see, William's father is a remarkably clever fellow. Though he gave William plenty of rein, he always had his eye on his son from a distance and he allowed things to go only so far before he stepped in."

  "Didn't William consider that interfering?"

  "I suppose he would have, if he had not already realized that we were about to disgrace ourselves. In the most gracious manner possible, the earl showed us how to set things right. More than that, he and his wife rather adopted me into their already large family. Spending time with them had a very beneficial effect on me."

  "Do you think so?" she teased.

  Meacham met her quizzing with a placid smile. "So I believe. It was comforting to know that an older, wiser head was concerned with my progress in the world. With my father dead and my mother of a singularly retiring disposition, I had felt very much adrift. As you do, I think."

  "And are you to be my older, wiser head?"

  "I would very much like to help you, cousin. I'm older, certainly, and more knowledgeable about certain matters, but I won't claim to be wiser. Still, I think there are things you are reluctant to discuss. I wish you could learn to trust me."

  Drucilla's hand squirmed under his, but he steadily retained hold. Her eyes did not meet his when she said, "You are very kind, sir. There is nothing, I think, that you need to know which is being withheld."

  "Perhaps not," he agreed, giving the hand a light squeeze and allowing her to withdraw it. "And there is no reason that you should place such dependence upon me. However, I would be honored if you did."

  Drucilla's lips trembled, but she forced herself to say, "It is late and I really ought to see Miss Script up to her room. Thank you so much for your delightful Christmas surprise."

  Meacham regarded her with calm acceptance. "It was a great pleasure for me to arrange it, my dear. Sleep well."

  It was not, in fact, very late at all, and after Miss Carruthers's withdrawal from the salon, Meacham decided that there was no reason why he should sit before the cozy fire, drinking exceptional brandy, when he could ride out on a coldly bitter night to the only inn he had discovered in the closest village. Off the main road, it was not a coaching inn, but its attractions for the local residents were surely enough to lure someone out on a moonlit night.

  When he had given over Standish to a lad who promised him a warm stall for the next hour, Meacham entered the inn, brushing flakes of snow from his coat and stomping his boots. There was a festive air to the taproom, with a fire blazing in the hearth and greenery hung over the windows and doors, tied with large red bows.

  Meacham requested a tankard of ale from the ruddy-faced landlord and sat down at a rough wooden table. Stretching his long legs out toward the burning logs, he discreetly surveyed the thinly populated room. In the opposite corner were two rough country men, to whom he nodded cordially. Nearer at hand sat two elegantly dressed gentlemen, younger than himself and obviously aspiring to a higher standard of fashion than generally prevailed in the country. Instead of the informal neckerchiefs he had seen sported on his earlier visit to the town, this pair wore neckcloths of pristine whiteness, carefully shaped into what Meacham guessed to be a tortured version of the Waterfall.

  The viscount was aware that there was some interest piqued by his appearance in the room, both the youths and the older men covertly stealing glances at him. When one of the younger gentlemen came over to toss another log on the fire, he said to Meacham, "I've not seen you here before, sir. Are you staying in the area?"

  "At Tarnlea, for a few days," he answered willingly enough.

  "If that don't beat all! My family has known the Carruthers family forever. Allow me to introduce myself—James Slocum, sir, at your service." The young man swept him an impressive bow and indicated his companion. "That's Charles Gladham, who has lived here all his life as well."

  "Julian Winslow," Meacham said. "Please join me."

  The two youngsters, whom he judged to be about twenty years of age, took seats opposite him, and Meacham ordered another round of ales from the landlord. "So you've known Sir Lawrence and Miss Carruthers for many years."

  "Oh, lord, yes," James Slocum assured him. "Drucilla is only a year older than
I am. Known each other since we were in leading strings. Sir Lawrence was used to..." But he stopped abruptly and asked, "You've seen Sir Lawrence, haven't you, sir?"

  "Yes. I was much shocked by his condition. Until recently I was not aware of how badly his mind... wanders."

  Gladham nodded energetically. "So we hear, but the old gentleman hasn't been out of the house in... oh, years, I should think."

  "My mother visits Drucilla and her companion, of course," Slocum explained. "Not that she sees Sir Lawrence on her calls. Well, I daresay she wouldn't wish to, would she? Mad as a hatter, the poor devil. But it's the sort of thing one might have expected."

  "Is it?" Meacham asked, surprised.

  "Not at all!" protested Gladham. "There's not a drop of madness in the family that I know of."

  "Of course there's not," Slocum retorted. "But, lord, the way the man drank! Might have driven a lesser man crazy years ago."

  Gladham could not accept this and stated, "Never knew a man to go mad of drink, Jimmy. Not like Sir Lawrence, at all events. It was his wife's dying that pushed him over the top."

  "Hardly!" returned his friend. "That happened eons ago. Everyone knows that."

  "Yes, but my father says it was her dying that drove him to drink," Gladham reminded him. He turned to the viscount and explained, "Made him a bit unbalanced, don't you know? Everyone says so."

  Slocum glared at him. "Well, I don't know about that. The fellow was a bruising rider to hounds long after Lady Carruthers died. Had some of the finest hunters in the county."

  Gladham took a long draw on his ale and appeared to consider this. "Thing is, that's all he cared for, demme."

  "By God, it isn't," rejoined young Slocum. "Can't say he didn't care for Drucilla, Charles. Not an unnatural father, Sir Lawrence."

  Much struck by this, Gladham relented. "So he did, so he did. Took her riding, didn't he? I could almost have felt sorry for her, though, little bitty thing up on one of those great hunters. Don't know as I could have done it at that age. She had the stoutest heart of any of us. Never cried craven about the biggest, wildest horse he put her on. She could ride anything."