Lady Bountiful

by Laura Matthews

  "She don't anymore," said Slocum. "Saw her on that gray mare the other day. Nice bit of blood, of course, but no high flyer."

  "Treated her more like a boy than a girl," mused Gladham.

  Slocum nodded sapiently. "No heir," he said succinctly. "Some distant cousin gets the place when he dies."

  Meacham coughed apologetically and said, "I'm the cousin, I'm afraid."

  The two youthful gentlemen stared at him in something of a bosky haze and exchanged embarrassed glances. Slocum straightened his slender body. "No offense meant, I'm sure, sir."

  "None taken," Meacham assured him. "Another round?"

  "Don't mind if I do," Gladham agreed. "Have you seen Standish?"

  "Yes, and ridden him. I wouldn't bet a guinea that I've ridden a more promising animal."

  "Finest piece of horseflesh this county has seen in a dozen years," Slocum informed him, and proceeded to bicker with his friend as to whether his own Rufus or Gladham's Mars ranked first of the hunters originally owned by the baronet.

  When Meacham eventually made his way back to Tarnlea on Standish, he had much to think about. The sharp clarity of the night seemed in keeping with his thoughts, which were centered, as they had been so often lately, on his cousin. It was obvious now that all Drucilla's efforts had been to prevent his learning of her father's careless and unbecoming behavior, both with regard to the estate and to herself. What astonishing loyalty from someone who had not been treated with even ordinary consideration!

  As he rode down the lane that skirted the Tarnlea property, he imagined a young Drucilla mounted on one of her father's enormous hunters, frightened but determined not to admit it. Meacham thought that perhaps she'd been forced all her life to accept responsibilities that were only with astonishing courage within her grasp. Not many women in similar circumstances could have turned into the delightful creature he had spent so much time with these last few days.

  The avenue of oak trees leading up to Tarnlea looked ghostly in the pale moonlight, but the building itself seemed grandly solid and enduring. Meacham had developed an affection for this ancient property, something he would not have expected on that morning of his arrival. Tarnlea then had seemed merely another problem in search of a solution, and one he had taken on only out of a stringent sense of duty. He had considered sending his secretary, a very capable young man, who would have surveyed the situation and brought him an admirable report. The thought distressed Meacham inordinately.

  He would not have been reacquainted with Drucilla, would not have seen with his own eyes her courage and her capabilities. His secretary could not possibly have conveyed her mischievous-angel face, or the resolute sincerity of her eyes. No secondhand account of Drucilla could capture the innate liveliness or the subtle innocence of this remarkable lady.

  Meacham knew that, from a distance, he might have ordained a resolution to the Tarnlea situation that would have shown his cousin very little more consideration than her father had done. The prospect appalled him. And yet, on the scene and faced with all the necessary evidence himself, he was no closer to knowing what he should do.

  How could he walk away from Tarnlea? Oh, it would be simple enough to put someone in charge of the estate. That wasn't the problem at all. Nor was Sir Lawrence the problem. Drucilla was the problem.

  As Meacham swung down from Standish at the Tarnlea stables, he ruefully admitted to himself that his time spent here had changed his life. Drucilla had become a necessary part of it and he would not willingly leave her behind. But he hadn't the faintest notion if she returned his regard. She had given no more indication than perhaps he had himself.

  Well, there was nothing for it but to put it to the touch, he thought as he relinquished Standish to the sleepy waiting groom. An alarming prospect, the viscount acknowledged, when all one's happiness depended on the outcome.

  Though Meacham was up early the following morning, he was not able to catch Miss Carruthers at the breakfast table. When he noticed that her place had already been removed, he turned a questioning gaze on Hastings, who said apologetically, "Miss Carruthers has gone to look for Teddy."

  “Teddy?" the viscount repeated.

  "The goat, milord."

  "Of course. What else would she be doing than searching for the lost sheep?" Meacham inquired rhetorically.

  Hastings gave a discreet cough. "Actually, it is a goat, milord. Sir Lawrence is excessively fond of goat's milk in his tea."

  Meacham thought this sounded positively disgusting but asked, "Where would Miss Carruthers be likely to look for the... er... Teddy?"

  "It's difficult to say. Once she was found at the home wood, another time beyond the spinney."

  "Would Miss Carruthers have ridden?"

  "Oh, yes, sir. The goat has roamed far afield at times."

  Meacham made a hasty repast and headed toward the stables. He was already dressed for riding, as he had hoped to induce his cousin to take some exercise with him. Glory was gone from her box, and Meacham tapped his whip against his top-booted foot as Standish was saddled.

  The stallion was restive, tossing his head and stamping his hooves. The groom grinned at Meacham and said, "He's going to be a wicked one to handle this morning, my lord. Seen him this way before. He'll try to unload you in the first pasture."

  "Thank you for the warning. Do you know which way Miss Carruthers headed?"

  "Toward the spinney, but more'n half an hour gone."

  Meacham swung himself onto the horse, who was attempting to sidle toward a railing. Not wishing to have his leg crushed, the viscount spoke firmly to his mount and held the reins in a powerful grip. Standish obeyed, but Meacham knew he only awaited an opportunity to unseat his rider.

  Clear of the stable yard, Meacham gave him his head across the first pasture, bearing in mind the groom's caution. Standish shied wildly at a rabbit leaping in front of him, a perfectly normal occurrence in the country. Meacham had no difficulty in retaining his perch, but Standish was far from finished with his antics.

  Amused, the viscount endured the bucking, twisting, and bolting with no more than a sharp dig of his heels or a tightening grip on the reins. At length the horse tired of his tricks and settled into a headlong gallop that would have outpaced many of the racehorses Meacham had backed in his younger days.

  He scanned the spinney, and beyond it a tenant farm, to more pasture land. To the east there was an avenue of oak trees that led up to Tarnlea, to the south a glimpse of water. Meacham had not as yet ridden toward the tarn for which he assumed Tarnlea was named, and with a frown turned Standish in that direction. Buttermere Lake was much further away, out of the present range of his vision. But in the vicinity of the tarn he detected movement that looked very much like a riderless horse.

  Distance was deceptive on the hazy December morning, and it took him ten minutes to arrive at the scene. He could easily identify Glory when he was still some little way from the mare, but she was indeed without her rider. Glory was not tied to any bush or tree, though there were plenty surrounding her.

  Meacham saw no evidence of his cousin, but the mare was in a little depression nearer him than the water. A shale-covered hillock behind the mare shielded much from his view.

  "Drucilla!" he called, grasping Glory's reins. "Are you here?"

  A faint response reached his ears, but he could not be certain of its direction. He swung down from Standish and tied his mount to a nearby tree, trusting that Glory would stay close. On foot he scrambled up the steep slope toward the water, fearing that his cousin had attempted to ride Glory up it and been thrown. As he crested the hill he saw that it was far otherwise. His cousin was down on her knees, wrapping a bleating white and brown goat in her own cloak.

  "Drucilla," he said quietly, so as not to startle her.

  Drucilla looked up at him with surprise. "Meacham! I thought it would be Rall. He's out looking for Teddy, too. Have you seen him?"

  Meacham shook his head. "Perhaps he searched in the opposite di
rection. Are you perfectly all right?"

  "Yes," she said with a wry smile, "but this stupid goat has done herself an injury. I found her in the water with her foot caught between two rocks, and though I have managed to release it, she does not seem to be able to walk."

  "I don't see how she could with your coat wrapped around her that way," he said, placing his own upon her shoulders. When Drucilla moved to protest, he said, "You'll catch your death."

  "Well, if one of us has to freeze," she said, with a pert smile, "I'm certainly glad it's you. I cannot tolerate cold weather." Which was true enough, but mainly because she knew that her nose got red and her eyes watered unbecomingly when she was chilled. His coat felt heavy and warm, and she'd been out in the cold longer than she'd planned.

  Meacham was regarding her with a look that was not at all indecipherable in his eyes. Drucilla felt somewhat abashed at his decidedly tender gaze and busied herself slipping her arms into his coat and wrapping it tightly about her. After a moment he reached over to lift the collar against her neck before saying brusquely, "I'll carry the goat. Let's get you back to Tarnlea where you can put on dry clothes and warm yourself before a fire."

  Teddy bleated pathetically as she was picked up, but she allowed herself to settle into the viscount's arms without a struggle. Her long legs made her an exceedingly awkward burden. Meacham remarked caustically that he planned to remove goat carrying from the list of things he was willing to do for his cousin. Drucilla preceded him, grinning appreciatively as he maneuvered his way over the slippery shale and down to the solid ground below.

  "I was afraid you had suffered a fall when I found Glory without her rider." Meacham set the goat down on the ground and Teddy scrambled to stand up, only to subside again when she could not bear her own weight.

  Drucilla placed her foot in the hands Meacham held out for her, and he tossed her neatly up onto her horse. "She'll stay where I tell her to, if I drop the reins over her head. Why don't you hand Teddy up to me? I would dearly love to see you try to mount with her in your arms, or holding her on Standish while you swing into the saddle, but I'm afraid she would be the worse for it."

  The viscount, who had been wondering how to best accomplish this feat, said, "I trust Glory will be more tolerant of Teddy than I fear Standish would. How were you planning to manage if you'd been on your own?"

  "I daresay I would have been forced to leave Teddy here while I went for help." Catching the amused gleam in his eyes, she admitted, "Yes, I'm very grateful you came along, Lord Meacham. That goes without saying."

  "You called me Meacham a while ago. I liked it."

  "Did you? And I believe I heard you call me Drucilla, rather than your depressingly correct Miss Carruthers. Shall we agree to a more cousinly form of address?"

  "Cousinly?" He eyed her speculatively. "By all means. You might even call me Julian."

  She laughed. "Oh, I don't think I could go so far as that, sir. Come, hand Teddy up to me."

  Meacham bore the goat, protesting with its knobby-kneed legs, up onto Glory's back. The mare calmly accepted the wriggling bundle, and Meacham wrapped Drucilla's cloak more securely about Teddy to keep her still. When he stood back, frowning, he said, "I don't see how you're going to hold her on and manage the horse as well."

  "Glory is a very obedient creature, Meacham. Lead the way on Standish and she'll follow."

  Standish was not as easily convinced that he wished to walk abreast of a struggling goat, but Meacham had no difficulty in keeping him in line. As they rode slowly back toward Tarnlea, he said, "Did you have to go yourself to look for her?"

  Surprised, she turned her face toward his. "And why shouldn't I?"

  He shrugged. "You have a sufficiently resourceful staff to trust them with such a task. You seem to me to feel a personal responsibility for even the smallest matter at Tarnlea."

  Drucilla studied him rather sharply, uncertain as to his meaning. "I'm fond of Teddy. She's rather like one of the dogs here, a member of the family."

  "Yes, but you could have stayed home in comfort. Rall would no doubt have found her eventually."

  "I see what it is. You think me a managing female, but that is only because I have had to become one. Who was there but me to take the management of Tarnlea in hand?"

  "You could have asked for my help."

  Drucilla's brows rose in surprise. "Well, to be honest, that thought never occurred to me."

  "I wish it had. Not that I mean to say you have not done a fine job, but it was a large burden for one of your years. I don't perfectly understand why you didn't wish Wicker's help. Perhaps you could explain that to me."

  But she dismissed his question, saying only, "Mr. Wicker is far too cautious for my taste."

  "In other words, you could not trust him to do precisely as you wished."

  She responded to the teasing in his tone with a decided grin. "True. He might have called you in."

  "I wish that one of you had. Under the circumstances Tarnlea is my responsibility."

  "I have everything in hand."

  "Mr. Wicker, however, no longer appears to agree with you."

  "Mr. Wicker has been badgered by a younger partner into laying the whole matter before you in the hopes that a competency hearing will not only bring them in fees, but that you will choose their partnership to oversee matters here on the estate."

  "I am more likely," he assured her, "to think them very lax in their duties for having taken so long to inform me of the situation."

  "You mustn't blame that on poor Mr. Wicker!"

  "No? Who shall I blame it on, then? A certain young lady who managed to cozen an elderly solicitor for the better part of two years with her charm and her earnestness? Did the poor man ever see your father during that time?"

  "Never," she admitted. "But Mr. Wicker could see that the estate was given our every attention. And it was he who sent John Thomas to me originally."

  "Probably expecting Mr. Thomas to keep him informed of what went forward here. But Mr. Thomas soon switched his allegiance to you."

  Drucilla laid a calming hand on the goat's butting head. "You make it sound for all the world like a devious plot, Meacham. All we wished to do was set things to rights."

  "And to get it done before I knew of your efforts."

  "Well, yes, because we had no way of knowing whether you would approve of the expenditure. It has all been shockingly dear."

  "And you've tried to compensate by making household economies." Meacham regarded her with amusement. "Now that I could not have approved of."

  "Why ever not?"

  "Because there was not the least need. In the first place, they could hardly make a dent in your overall outlay, and in the second, there is no reason you should not live at Tarnlea in perfect comfort."

  "Oh, you are thinking we have deprived ourselves, which is not at all true. But you are quite right that our economies served little to the purpose. Meacham, do you really not mind what I've done?"

  "I think it was probably very necessary."

  She was surprised by the knowledgeable tone of his voice. For a moment she thought perhaps he had discovered her father's culpability in the disintegration of his own property, and a touch of color crept up into her cold cheeks.

  The blandness of Meacham's expression reassured her. No one at Tarnlea was going to point a finger at the baronet. And if Meacham had met any local people, they would have been much too impressed with his rank and family connection to gossip about Sir Lawrence.

  Drucilla was gratified that they had reached the stable yard by this time. Meacham was instantly on the ground and allowing a stable lad to lead Standish off. Teddy bleated hopefully as the viscount reached up to remove her from Glory's back. While a groom studied the goat's injury, Meacham helped Drucilla down from her horse, keeping hold of her hand a moment longer than necessary.

  "We need to talk further," he said.

  Drucilla looked around for some means to escape from his penetrating gaze.
"Yes, certainly we shall. But now, my dear sir, I must change my clothes. I am also hopelessly behind on my daily tasks because of this wretched goat. Will you see that they take proper care of her leg? Here, you will need your coat and I must hurry into the house so that I don't freeze."

  Meacham, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly, watched her hasty retreat with a mixture of frustration and amusement.

  Drucilla couldn't help but wonder what the viscount might have discovered. Heaven knew she had done her best to protect her father's name and reputation in Meacham's eyes. After all, this was her only family and she did not wish an outsider—even if he was distantly related to her—to despise her father for his lack of attention to his holdings. Sir Lawrence had been shattered by his wife's death, and embittered by his lack of an heir. If he had taken to drink, who could blame him?

  Meacham could, of course. Tarnlea was his to inherit, and he could not have failed to assess when the damage to the estate had taken place. It was possible that the viscount might assume Sir Lawrence had been mentally distressed long before he indeed was, and lay his disinterest to that cause. In many ways, that was precisely what Drucilla hoped would happen, and had been at some pains to insinuate. Meacham's own youthful indiscretions, though a hopeful sign, hardly meant he would regard an adult's irresponsibility as something readily tolerated.

  Putting aside her concerns, she busied herself with the task of conferring with the housekeeper about linens, and the cook about the meals for the next few days, until Meacham was safely away from Tarnlea. But her mind would not stay on these tasks. Much to her distress, an image of the viscount, usually with a laughing light in his eyes, continually disturbed her thoughts. She could interpret this light as mocking, or as humorous, but she could not interpret the way she felt each time it arose as anything but a breathless sort of excitement.

  If it had been a warm and sunny day, she would have taken off across the park on a long, exhausting hike, forcing all thought of Meacham from her mind. As it was, she paced about the small library which doubled as her household office, pausing now and again at the window to stare unseeing at the shrubbery.