by Jo Beverley
“Oh, that’s not at all necessary,” Amy said. She needed to put the full five miles between herself and Harry Crisp as soon as possible.
“It assuredly is,” he said. “Besides, Corny’s fellow, Firkin, did try to get back yesterday and slipped and twisted his leg. He’s laid up at his sister’s for the next few weeks. We thought we’d ride over to a friend of ours after seeing you safe, see if he can put us up for a day or two while we find a replacement.” He winked up at Mrs. Coneybear. “We did ask if we could hire Meg, but her mother won’t have it.”
Mrs. Coneybear gave a wry smile. “Quite apart from the fact that I need her here, Mr. Crisp, as they say around here, ’tis a foolish shepherd what puts sheep in with wolves.”
Meg giggled and flashed a look at Chart Ashby. He made a gesture of mock alarm. “Don’t flirt with me, girl. Martin’ll tear my arms off!”
“That he will,” Meg said saucily and went off on an errand with a laugh and a swing of her hips.
Her mother sighed. “I’ll be glad to see that one safely wed. So you’ll be away a few days, sirs. I’m sorry to hear about Josh Firkin, but I’m sure I can find you someone if you want me to look.”
As they discussed this, Amy messed aimlessly with the remains of the food on her plate, until she realized what she was doing and stopped it. Why did she envy Meg so?
Because Meg was so sure of her place in her family’s affections, and in those of her husband-to-be. And doubtless in the Howgarth family, wherever they were.
These days Amy’s family seemed to see her only as a taskmaster and a wet blanket, and Jassy, at least, envied her beauty. The future offered little chance of improvement. Either she must continue to bully her family into economy or sell herself to the highest bidder. She could hardly expect a man who bought beauty to have the kind of wholesome warmth Martin showed for Meg. And if she married an older man for his money, his family would surely all hate her.
A hand covered hers. She looked up. It was Harry Crisp. They were alone. She could hear Mrs. Coneybear talking to the other men outside.
“What is it?” he asked seriously. “Do you not feel well?”
Amy pulled her hand away. “I feel perfectly well. Are we ready to go?”
She would have left the kitchen, but he detained her with a gentle hand on her arm. “You are unhappy, Miss de Lacy. I wish you would tell me why. Is it your family?”
Amy had the strangest urge to lean against his broad chest and have all her problems soothed away.
He spoke again. “I couldn’t help but think your family were not as concerned as I would expect, Miss de Lacy.”
“Don’t criticize them,” she said sharply, stepping away. “It is as you said. They knew I could take care of myself.”
He stiffened and removed his hand. “I’m sure you can, too,” he said coolly, “but I would still be concerned if you were out in a storm.”
Despite the coolness, there was a message in his eyes which a part of Amy hungered to read but another part knew would be disastrous. “You have been very kind, sir,” she said flatly, “but my safety, and my high or low spirits, are none of your concern.”
With that she finally made her escape.
5
TRUE TO THEIR WORD, the three young men escorted her home, but Zephyr’s ambling pace was too much for their patience, and they took turns at racing off across nearby fields and setting their mounts at a variety of obstacles, often at hair-raising speed.
Amy couldn’t help thrilling at their magnificent horsemanship, even as she told herself they were reckless fools and that Mr. Owen Staverley would prove to be a quiet, restful companion in life.
Harry Crisp chose to escape rather less often than the others, and showed less impatience with ambling alongside the cart chatting to Amy.
“You’re going to have to retire poor Zephyr soon,” he said at one point.
“I know,” said Amy with a sigh. “But that will leave us entirely without transportation.” She was perfectly happy to hammer home their destitution in order to squelch any inconvenient tendencies on his part.
“You could replace her for a few guineas,” he pointed out. “Surely that would be a good investment.”
“A few guineas may seem nothing to you, sir, but we simply do not have it to spare.”
She saw him raise his brows skeptically, but he did not persist. “Then I suppose you will have to depend on neighbors for assistance. When you need to go into Stamford or such like.”
“I am sure they will be pleased to help if it should become necessary,” Amy said, hearing the chill in her voice. It was perhaps ungracious, but she felt as if she were being interrogated. The fact was that their friends and neighbors had been very kind, but the de Lacys had refused most offers of help. They could not be forever accepting hospitality they could not return.
“Miss de Lacy,” he said with a frown, though not unkindly. “I fear you are ill advised. It can happen to anyone, to fall on hard times, and I am sure your friends and neighbors would take pleasure in helping you until your family has restored itself.”
She looked up at him in irritation. “You make it sound,” she sharply, “like a frosted plant which will grow lush with time and sunshine, sir. In fact, the family is a group of people who are teetering on a razor’s edge between destitution and a chance of a prosperous future. Only hard work and constant vigilance will prevent disaster.”
“I think you worry too much,” he said blandly, making her want to hit him. “But if so, all the more reason to let your friends and neighbors help you.”
“Your mount is looking restive, Mr. Crisp,” she said pointedly. “Would he not enjoy a gallop?”
He looked thoughtfully at her, not obviously dismayed by the dismissal. “It does all creatures good to run free,” he said and turned the big bay toward the fields. He entered decorously enough through a gate but then set an alarming pace toward a fence and flew over it, then headed for the next.
In this low-rising countryside, it was easy to watch his progress over hedge and fence and gate. He was a fine rider—courageous but also considerate of his horse.
Amy sighed, wishing she were riding with him. If she still had Cloud, her favorite mount, she could offer a fair challenge. She had usually held her own against Jasper, and the four years’ difference in age surely didn’t matter in such things, as his best horse, Caligula, had been a hand taller than Cloud.
They seemed so long ago, those carefree times. Riding parties, dancing, picnics. The hunt had met at Stonycourt once a season, the mounted host taking a stirrup cup before setting off. The de Lacy men had always been among the best mounted.
They could regain it all, she told herself firmly, with prudence and management. The hunt would meet again at Stonycourt, with Jasper as the host. There would be dowries and a Season for Jassy, at least. All it needed was management and a rich marriage.
Harry Crisp headed back, flat out, aiming to leap the high bushy hedge onto the road behind her. She gasped and twisted to watch.
The bay gathered and soared over the brush without fault. But a plover was flushed and flapped up noisily from beneath the horse. The horse landed awkwardly, almost going down. Heart in mouth, Amy saw the skill and strength used to hold him and right him.
Harry leapt off and went to the jibbing, trembling horse’s head to quiet him.
Amy pulled up Zephyr and ran over. “Is he all right?” The damned man could kill himself with that sort of insanity!
“Yes. Just bothered a bit. There, boy,” he said, rubbing the bay’s nose. “It’s my fault, not yours.” He looked ruefully at Amy. “I should know to be cautious with that kind of thick hedge.”
She nodded sternly. “Yes, you should. I don’t know what you were about.”
He smiled lazily. “I was trying to impress you, of course.”
Amy stared helplessly at him, then, face rosy, she hurried back to the dogcart. The way her heart had leapt at his words was positively terrifying.
For the remainder of the journey, Harry Crisp rode decorously alongside the cart but in silence. Amy was aware of him, however, all the time, whereas Chart Ashby and Terance Cornwallis could have ridden off the edge of the world without her being any the wiser.
When they turned in the gates of Stonycourt, all three men settled to riding nearby, looking at and admiring the rolling meadows and occasional stands of trees. There had been a great many more trees once, but they had been felled, some by her father to provide money for extravagances but most since his death to feed the gaping maw of their debts. They would all have gone except that Jasper had put his foot down and declared he refused to have his land completely deforested.
Nothing Amy had said had moved him.
Now Amy admitted Jasper might have had a point. To a person who had never seen it in better days, Stonycourt Park looked well enough today.
“I am perfectly safe now, gentlemen,” she said as the house came in sight. “I thank you for your escort.”
“Not at all,” said Chart Ashby. “Take you to your door, Miss de Lacy. This is a very pleasant property.”
In the spring sun the house and grounds did look almost as they had. It brought tears pricking at Amy’s eyes but it was also undoing all her good work in deterring Harry Crisp.
“Burdened with debts,” said Amy bluntly.
“But full of potential,” said Chart, looking around with a shrewd eye. “Fine land.”
Amy cast a quick glance at Harry Crisp to see if he was as impressed as his friend. His face was unreadable. “All leased,” she countered, “and the income being used to pay interest and reduce debt.”
“What? All of it?” asked Chart, startled.
“Yes,” replied Amy firmly.
Amy loved Stonycourt, but at this moment she could have wished it a moldering ruin. Instead it rested in placid beauty in its landscape, as handsome as ever. It was a substantial, plain three-story stone building with a two-story wing at each side. There was no ornament to it at all—not even a portico over the door. It owed its beauty to perfect proportions and simplicity. It would take a long time for poverty to take those away, and the fact that there now were sheep grazing right up to the drawing-room windows meant that they had a well-groomed sward in all directions.
“Why?”
Startled out of her thoughts, Amy realized it was Harry Crisp who had spoken. “Why what?” she asked.
“Why does all the income go to service the debt?”
“Is that any of your business, sir?”
He raised a brow. “I suppose not, but you seem determined to air your family’s woes, and I am curious.”
Amy could feel her cheeks heat. “It was not my intention to burden you with my family problems. I merely find it detestable to be pretending to be something other than the truth. As for our financial arrangements we do not starve and my brother attends school, but we prefer to live simply for a few years to set the estate on a sound footing once more.”
“Very frugal,” he said without obvious approval, “but I think the estate could bear the burden of a few indulgences. Another nag, for example. I’ll act as your agent to buy one if you want.” When she did not immediately agree, he said with an edge, “I engage to pay less than the cost of that dress you ruined yesterday.”
Amy could think of nothing to say. He thought her the sort of featherheaded fool who would fret about a guinea or two while carelessly ruining a valuable garment, and there was no explanation she could make. She was relieved that they had arrived at the house at last.
Beryl appeared, flushed with excitement, trailed by the ever-watchful Prettys. Amy made the introductions but managed to forestall Beryl’s attempts to invite them in.
Then Aunt Lizzie appeared to support Beryl, but Amy grimly prevailed and soon the men were mounted again.
But then Chart Ashby said, “Hume House is only a couple of miles cross-country from here, Miss de Lacy. Can I hope we’ll be welcome if we call to see how you are?”
What could she possibly say but yes?
“Three handsome heroes!” declared Beryl ecstatically as soon as the door was closed. “Amy, dearest, you’ve outdone yourself. One for each of us!”
“But why you didn’t want to invite them in, Amethyst,” said Aunt Lizzie, “I cannot imagine. Very rag-mannered.”
“What on earth could we have offered them?” Amy demanded. “I doubt they have a taste for chamomile tea.”
“I doubt I have either,” sniffed Lizzie. “I don’t know why you won’t let us buy just a little bohea to add to it. Anyway, I do believe there is a quarter bottle of brandy left. That would be more to their taste.”
“After our grand lottery party,” said Amy, “that is all we have. We had better preserve it carefully, not waste it.”
“It wouldn’t be wasted,” Lizzie pointed out. “It would be more in the way of an investment. You have to make men comfortable if you wish to attract their interest, Amethyst.”
“I have no desire to attract their interest,” said Amy firmly.
Beryl laughed her disbelief. “But they are handsome and charming and all you could desire!”
Amy said, “Except rich.”
This was drowned by Aunt Lizzie’s, “Shame about London, though. They say Tsar Alexander’s going to be visiting in June.”
Amy could feel a familiar exasperation creeping up her neck to form a headache.
Pretty, who was hovering—in case there was something to be learned rather than making himself useful—muttered, “I thought you was off after that Staverley gent, Miss Amy.”
“So I was, Pretty,” said Amy crisply. “For heaven’s sake, Beryl, those poor young men just assisted me. Are you going to shackle them for it?” When she saw the hurt disappointment on her sister’s face she was immediately contrite. “I’m sorry, love. Indeed, Mr. Ashby did say he might ride over to call. Perhaps you can engage his interest.”
Beryl brightened a little. “Is he the dark one? Oh no. I’m sure he’s too much of a high-flier for me. What about the portly one with the friendly smile?”
Amy was going to protest her sister’s self-denigration, but had to acknowledge that it was true. It was impossible to imagine the arrogant, though charming, Chart Ashby and her plain, sweet-natured sister having anything in common. “Mr. Cornwallis,” she supplied. “He’s very shy, so I haven’t shared more than a couple of words with him, but he does seem very pleasant.” There was no harm in encouraging Beryl’s dreams a little, and heaven knows, if she could find herself a husband, that would be one less person depending on Amy for survival.
Beryl linked her arm happily with Amy’s and led her toward the kitchen. “So that leaves the two dashing ones for you and Jassy.”
“Jassy’s far too young!” Amy protested. “Where is she anyway?”
“She’s walked over to the Burford’s to visit Amabelle. Tell me all your adventures.”
Amy wasn’t up to objecting to Jassy’s outing, though she would return discontented and with a charity package from Amabelle Burford’s mama. She decided to give Beryl and Aunt Lizzie the official version of her adventure and mention nothing of the hours spent in a blanket in Harry Crisp’s kitchen.
Aunt Lizzie frowned as she made the herb tea, both at the concoction and the story. “Why did you linger in the barn in your wet clothes, you silly girl? You could have caught your death!”
“But I would have had to cross the yard to get to the house, and it was raining so hard,” Amy pointed out. “And it was a good thing I stayed where I was, for Mr. Crisp was all alone in the house. That would never have done.”
Aunt Lizzie got a calculating look in her eyes. “Seems to me it would have done very well indeed, dear. He’d have been smitten…likely have become a bit carried away…honorable thing and all that.”
Amy felt sick at the thought and took a deep breath to stop herself saying something unforgivable. “That would have been disastrous, Aunt,” she pointed out. “He’s
not rich enough.”
Lizzie splashed boiling water on the leaves. “Ugh. I don’t care what you say, this might be good medicine but it isn’t tea. You can carry this fortune-hunting thing too far, Amethyst,” she said. “A bird in the hand, and all that. He’s doubtless warm enough to keep you in comfort and to help your sisters along a bit. Don’t be greedy.”
Amy sat down at the table, feeling as if she’d stepped back into a quagmire after a few brief hours of relief. “Even if that were so,” she said, “how could we all marry and go away, leaving Jasper here at a Stonycourt crippled with debts? And the Prettys must have their pension,” she continued, “and you, Aunt, should have enough to live in comfort in London near your friends.”
“That would be nice,” admitted Lizzie. “You’re a kind, thoughtful girl really, Amethyst.” She brought over the tea, and the other women sat down at the table. “Are you sure they’re not rich?” she asked.
Amy realized she didn’t know for sure, but she wanted to squelch these notions. “Not particularly,” she answered firmly. “They all will have to wait years before they are in control of their fortunes. They aren’t in a position to pour money into the estate or provide dowries.”
“You mustn’t worry about us, dearest,” said Beryl. “Truly, I am quite resigned to being a maiden aunt. I will dote on your children. I will look after Jasper until he finds a bride and then go where I can be most useful.”
She was being completely honest, thought Amy, which made it even worse. Beryl the dreamer had bravely scaled her dream down to fit her circumstances. Amy was determined she should have more. “Beryl, that is all nonsense,” she said briskly. “I have no particular interest in any of my rescuers, or they in me. In fact, in Mr. Crisp’s case, it was refreshing to encounter one male who did not lose his wits over me. That dratted storm ruined my plan to meet Mr. Staverley, but I will think of another.” She looked ruefully at the dress. “I am sorry about this, Beryl.”
