Lovers and Ladies

by Jo Beverley

He was most disappointed that you were away. I took Jassy for convention’s sake but it did not serve, for she was bored and restless, so I think I will go alone next time. Do you think that too bold? I told him a little of your triumphs and I am sure it piqued his interest. So if your London beaux are not to your liking perhaps you should give Mr. Staverley another chance. I am convinced he is shy. Though he does not advertise the fact I believe he was born a trademan’s son and has made himself. I think the better of him for it.

  The only problem I have to relate is that the pig seems very out of sorts whenever either I or Jassy feed him. (It does not surprise me that he misses you as much as we all do.) He eventually settles to his feed but there is a great deal of squealing at first, as if he is in pain. Do you have any advice?

  Wave at the tsar for us, dearest.

  Your loving sister, Beryl.

  Amy chuckled, rather misty eyed. She’d go odds they wouldn’t earth up the potatoes high enough, especially if Beryl had her head in a book on medieval architecture. She feared Mr. Staverley was taking advantage of Beryl’s generous nature but it was providing diversion, which was something.

  As for poor Augustus…

  Amy sat at the writing desk and gave a cheerful account of her activities, especially Clyta’s ball, for Beryl would like that. She made no mention of Harry Crisp, and only passing reference to Sir Cedric. She wanted Beryl to be prepared for the news when it came, but did not want to raise her hopes too high in case nothing came of it.

  She paused and worried the end of the quill with her teeth. It must. It must.

  She briskly dipped the pen in the well. “As for Augustus,” she wrote, “I fear he may have a delicate digestion. I find a whole apple or carrot with his food seems to stimulate his system. Failing that, a large hunk of stale bread or even cake if available. This may seem indulgent, but I fear it is necessary if he is to fatten up adequately for”—Amy had to brace herself to write the words—“slaughtering day.”

  A tear rolled down her cheek. She only just whipped the paper away before it fell. More splashed to the desk, one after the other. She gulped and swallowed them, then wiped at her eyes. She couldn’t be weeping over a pig!

  But she wasn’t. She was weeping over herself, for her own slaughtering day approached.

  She forced herself to contemplate roast pork, plump sausages, crunchy-crust pie. That, however, reminded her of the Melton pie she had shared in the kitchen of Coppice Farm, with Harry Crisp sitting across from her, smiling, and confessing that he wasn’t truly mad about hunting.

  He had talked to her easily and honestly. She had never really been honest with him, except when she had told him she would marry for money. This was tragic, when he was the one person with whom she might be able to share her thoughts.

  Oh, damnation! Amy blew her nose, sealed the letter, and picked up Clyta’s, praying it was a cheerful message.

  Dear Amy,

  We are planning a jaunt to Lord Templemore’s estate, Maiden Hall. (I overheard my mother comment that a less appropriate name for his residence was hard to imagine. My father was unwise enough to say that he didn’t doubt any number of maidens had passed through the door. You can imagine the fireworks! I was very nearly forbidden to go, but Chart and Randal both weighed in to assure Mama he is a reformed man now that he is married. I am a little disappointed. Gossip has always painted a very intriguing picture and I saw him at Randal’s wedding. Quel beau! I could imagine his fatal attraction.)

  We very much want you to join us. Rowanford says he is going to call and ask you, and will provide a mount. Please say yes, otherwise I’m not sure he will join the party.

  I know I gave myself away last night, dear friend. I fear I am no hand at dissembling. I doubt I have a chance to attach his interest, but I must make a push. I fear he is too used to regarding me as an awkward younger sister, just like all Chart’s friends.

  I do show well on a horse, though.

  In case you have not brought a habit to Town, I have had Melrose take up the hem on my spare one and sent it over, along with a spare pair of boots. We always were of a size, except for a couple of inches of height.

  Please, please, please agree, Amy.

  Your dearest friend,

  Clyta.

  Amy sighed.

  “Bad news, dear?” asked Nell Claybury as she entered. Amy feared her tears had left a mark.

  “Not really,” she said with a smile. “It is just Clyta Ashby asking me to join a riding party. Or at least, forewarning me that Rowanford is going to invite me.”

  Nell looked unconvinced that this was the whole story but said, “That is wonderful, Amy. Just what you need.”

  “I told you I have no wish to move in high circles,” Amy said. “And I may have other invitations.”

  “If you mean Sir Cedric,” said Nell, causing Amy to blush, “did you not hear him say that he will be out of Town for a few days?”

  That must have been while she was daydreaming. Amy felt a mixture of frustration and relief at the news.

  “So there is no reason,” Nell continued, “for you not to enjoy yourself. What harm can it do if you spend a pleasant afternoon with your friends?”

  None at all, thought Amy, except that she feared Harry Crisp would be one of the group.

  But she wanted to go. It was over two years since she had ridden a decent horse. Why the devil should she let Harry Crisp keep her from such a treat? He could stay home if the situation bothered him.

  “Lord save us!” declared Nell, startling Amy out of her thoughts. “Do you mean the Duke of Rowanford is going to come here?”

  “I think so,” said Amy. To her amazement, sensible Nell Claybury was transformed before her eyes into a bundle of anticipation and nerves, dashing around to make sure every corner of the house was perfect, and lamenting the fact that she did not keep a butler who would be knowledgeable about wines.

  In the end she sent the footman to her friend, Jerome Irons, the wine merchant, begging him to send over a selection of fine wines suitable for immediate drinking. Within half an hour four clerks arrived bearing the bottles with great care, so as to avoid disturbing them, and left them along with careful instructions for their correct handling.

  “Bertie always looked after the wines,” said Nell nervously. “I have no palate at all—the cheapest wine tastes as good as the most expensive, so I don’t bother myself overmuch. Am I acting the fool?” she asked ruefully.

  Amy smiled. “Not at all. A duke is a duke, after all. I just hope you don’t mind him coming here. I’m causing you a great deal of bother.”

  “Not a bit of it,” said Nell. “I was bored to death before you came. I’m having a wonderful time.”

  And indeed, thought Amy, that was surely the truth. Nell was looking brighter and younger day by day. Amy told her so, adding, “I expect we will have your suitors beating down the door as well as mine.” She was amused when Nell blushed, and wondered just who the promising gentleman might be.

  Francis, the footman, looked puffed up with pride when he ushered the duke into Nell’s drawing room, and the maid who helped bring in the tea tray appeared ready to drop it with nerves. Aunt Lizzie had the complacent look of one who says to herself, “I told you so.”

  Rowanford must be aware of the effect he was having—Amy wondered if he found it tiresome to be set apart so young merely by a title—but he put on no airs and graces. He soon had Nell at her ease. He was a thoroughly pleasant man.

  Again the thought came to Amy that she could surely induce the appropriate degree of warmth for him in her heart if she tried, and she certainly wasn’t above the idea that marrying the duke would be a glorious triumph. But then she remembered Clyta. It wouldn’t do. And the simple fact was that it might be possible to make oneself fall in love, but only when the heart was free.

  Amy was having to accept that her heart was not free.

  Rowanford turned to her and delivered the expected invitation. Amy hesitated. Her accep
tance might encourage him, and she knew she was going to be thrown together with Harry. Perhaps it might be wiser to say no.

  On the other hand, she wanted to go, and perhaps she could find a way to promote Clyta’s cause. Sir Cedric would be out of town, so she needn’t feel guilty.

  The old saying came to mind—While the cat’s away, the mice will play. That wasn’t the right sort of thing to think at all.

  Then she recalled Nell saying, “So there is no reason for you not to enjoy yourself,” as if she did not expect Amy to have true pleasure with Sir Cedric. Amy looked at Nell with dismay. That was nonsense, surely.

  “Amy, dear,” said Nell. “Are you all right?”

  Amy collected her wits. “I’m sorry.” She turned to Rowanford. “That is very kind of you, your grace. If you can provide the mount, I will be delighted to join the party. But please make the horse a gentle one. I am somewhat out of practice.”

  His smile was exceedingly warm. “Don’t worry, Miss de Lacy. I will take the greatest care of you.”

  As he left, Amy realized he had taken her confusion as being the result of her feelings at receiving such a flattering invitation. He might be a thoroughly pleasant man, but he was a duke. He had apparently inherited during his school days, so it was not surprising that he have a high opinion of his own importance.

  She feared she had paved the way for yet further complications in her life.

  Two days later, Amy waited the arrival of the party, dressed in Clyta’s rich red habit, and tremulous with the hope that Harry Crisp would be present.

  It was stupid, it was wrong, but she was rapidly losing control of her feelings. She was glad Sir Cedric was away, as if she had been let out of prison. She wanted to see Harry and be with him as happily and warmly as they had been in the farm kitchen.

  She knew that was impossible, but she would see him. At least she would see him.

  It was Rowanford who came to the door, and who tossed Amy into the saddle of the rather solid gray he had brought for her. She gave a general, cheery greeting, her eyes passing over Harry without pause, but catching an impression she held in her heart. She hadn’t clearly noted who else was present.

  As they set out, she was aware of him riding behind, but as her feelings steadied, she took in the party. Harry was behind, she knew, riding with that dark-haired girl from Clyta’s ball—Lucy Frogmorton.

  He was going to marry her. It must be so if he was singling her out in such a fashion. She shouldn’t begrudge him his happiness, but she did.

  Ahead in the lead were Lord Randal and his wife, behind them Chart and Clyta. Clyta waved back cheerfully.

  Amy remembered her purpose. “Clyta and I were great friends at school,” she said to the duke. “She has a wonderfully warm heart.”

  “Yes,” he said carelessly. “A pretty good sort. Doesn’t make a fuss over things.”

  “And very pretty,” Amy continued. “I’m sure she’ll make an excellent match.” Was she laying it on a bit thick? It was clear, however, that she would need a bludgeon to make an impression upon his mind.

  “Clyta?” he said, looking at the subject of the conversation. “She’s got a fine seat. All the Ashbys are bruising riders. How do you find your mount, Miss de Lacy?”

  Amy found it a slug. It was clear Rowanford had taken her caution too seriously. This horse would be ideal for a none-questrian grandmother. “I feel very safe,” she said.

  “Excellent. I shall take good care of you, Miss de Lacy. Have no fear.”

  Amy sighed and wished there was a convenient piece of furniture to heft to prove she was not as fragile as she appeared.

  It was not too bad as long as they were on the city streets, but they were soon in countryside and the pace began to quicken. Amy’s mount quickened, but not nearly as much as the others. This was made worse by the duke saying that they must hold back for Miss de Lacy’s sake, as if she were scared to canter.

  In the end, as when she had returned home from the Coneybears, the rest of the party took side trips while she ambled along, trying to pretend she was content. Even Rowanford abandoned her at times, though someone always kept her company.

  She suddenly found Lord Randal by her side. “Is this pace really the best you can do?”

  There was something in his eyes that brought out an honest answer. “It is the best this horse can do. But don’t say anything. The duke will be hurt.”

  He grinned. “I am an authority on dukes. A duke’s self-esteem can only be dented by a grenade.” He put two fingers in his mouth like a barrow-boy and whistled. His wife waved and rode back.

  “You,” he said as soon as she arrived, “are in need of a rest.”

  “Hardly,” she replied.

  He ignored this. “Miss de Lacy has kindly agreed to let you borrow this placid, gentle beast for a while. I’m sure you are grateful.”

  “Oh no,” Amy protested, but was overridden.

  “How kind,” said Sophie. “I’m sure I am in need of a rest. Married life,” she said faintly, with a sliding look at her husband, “is so exhausting.”

  He was fighting laughter as he dismounted and assisted them in the exchange, adjusting the stirrup leathers. By this time the rest of the party had gathered.

  “Is something the matter?” Rowanford asked.

  “Sophie needs a rest,” said Randal, causing looks of astonishment from all except the duke, “and Miss de Lacy has agreed it would do her good to be a bit more venturesome. Perhaps you could stay with Sophie for a little while, Rowanford, while I see how Miss de Lacy does.”

  He gave the duke no chance to object but led the way into a piece of light woodland. Amy happily followed. Lady Randal’s black Thoroughbred was a marvelous piece of horseflesh. They were soon traveling the wide bridle paths at a canter.

  He grinned at her. “All right?”

  “Of course! I only meant I was a little out of practice, not that I was unable to ride entirely.”

  There was a log lying across the path ahead. “Game?” he asked.

  Amy nodded and they both sailed over it. She laughed.

  He slowed his mount down. “We mustn’t tire them. There’s a way to go. If we head this way it should bring us back to the road.” As the pace steadied he said, “You ride well.”

  Amy looked at him. “I was raised in the Shires, Lord Randal.”

  He laughed. “I suppose you were. And the Belvoir used to meet at Stonycourt, didn’t it? I remember attending there.”

  Amy nodded. “In better days.”

  They rode on, hooves muffled by the soft leaf mold, seeming alone among the trees in heavy green leaf.

  Suddenly he spoke. “There are more important things in life than money, you know.”

  Amy was shocked by the attack. “There speaks someone who has never been without.”

  “True,” he acknowledged. “But my comment is still valid. No one can survive without food and shelter, but I would give up almost everything for Sophie.”

  Amy knew what he was saying, and it was unfair, but she couldn’t say so. “We are all different, I suppose, my lord.”

  They had come to the road, and the party was some way behind.

  “I wonder,” he said, then called to the others.

  12

  THEY SPEEDED UP and soon the party was all together again. Amy insisted on changing horses and soon found herself partnered with the duke.

  “I am sorry the horse is too slow for you,” he said stiffly.

  Amy was about to be conciliatory when she realized that she might serve Clyta’s case better if she could keep his feathers ruffled. “It is a little placid, your grace,” she said. “I was raised in hunting country and am used to spirited mounts.”

  He turned distinctly cool. “Perhaps Templemore will be able to offer you an exchange for the return.” At the earliest opportunity he jumped his gray into a nearby meadow for a gallop. Randal and Sophie were already gone. Chart and Miss Frogmorton were ahead. When Clyta and Harry mov
ed to follow the duke, Amy saw her chance and called out, “Mr. Crisp!”

  He turned, startled, then waved Clyta on and came back.

  Clyta flashed Amy a grateful smile and set off after the duke. Amy had acted on impulse, but now she was faced with the problem of what to say to her rejected suitor.

  “Yes, Miss de Lacy,” he said warily as his horse came alongside hers.

  Amy badly wanted him to smile at her. “I wish we could put an end to the ill feelings between us, sir.”

  He raised his brows. “Ill feelings?” he queried. “I would say we disliked one another intensely.”

  Amy swallowed and stared between her horse’s ears. “I don’t dislike you.”

  When she risked a look at him, he seemed sober. “Don’t you? You’re very tolerant of insults then.”

  “You insulted me and I hit you. That should wipe the slate clean.”

  He appeared skeptical. “What’s the matter? Are all your other suitors failing you, Miss de Lacy? You have just mishandled Rowanford, but don’t despair. You can doubtless get him back with a smile or two.”

  “I don’t want Rowanford,” said Amy sharply, “and if you were to ask me again to marry you I would again say no. I do have thoughts other than marital!” She moderated her tone. “I just wish we could be more at ease.”

  “Why?”

  Amy looked away. It was an excellent question. “I don’t know.”

  They rode for a while in silence, then he said, “So it’s to be the banker. You surprise me. Rowanford’s nearly as rich, and there is no comparison in other respects.”

  “Sir Cedric is an estimable man.”

  “Yes,” he said dryly. “He’d make you an excellent father.”

  Amy looked at him. “It is not unusual for there to be a disparity of ages in marriage.”

  “But not desirable. It will be a foolish match. He’s not an old man in need of an heir, and I doubt he wants a new young family to add to his grown one. What have you in common? Ah, I forgot,” he said with what could almost be a touch of humor, “you share an interest in steam engines.”