by Laura Hile
“—and never in my life did I expect that you would be too occupied to give me the time of day! But so it has always been.”
“I wonder why.” He rose to his feet, his eyes on the document in his hand.
She stiffened. “You might reflect that the sooner we have this discussion, the sooner I shall be gone.”
Here was an agreeable thought. “Won’t you please sit down, Mrs. Huntington.”
She settled herself in the chair lately occupied by his business manager. “My,” she said, looking at the desk, “what a vast quantity of papers.” She leaned forward to get a better look. “Are you drawing pictures of carriages?”
“That is a schematic drawing of a steam engine, a little something I’m investing in.”
She sniffed. “Along with the London gasworks. Really, sir.”
He looked up at her. “Yes, really,” he said.
“It smacks of Trade.”
“Those who mean to keep their fortunes must keep abreast of the times,” he said. “One should tie up everything in the three-per-cents.” He resumed his seat. “Now then, what business has brought you all the way from Laurel Court?” He cast a look at the clock. “I can spare you precisely five minutes.”
“Well!” she sputtered.
“After which time,” he continued, “my chaise will arrive to take me to my next appointment.”
Mrs. Huntington sniffed again. “A true gentleman leaves his afternoons for leisure. My husband never conducts business at,”—she glanced at the clock—“nearly two in the afternoon.”
“Indeed, he would not dare,” McGillvary murmured, aside. “But I interrupt. Pray continue.”
Mrs. Huntington pulled herself to her full height. “What I have to say concerns your daughter, Cleora,” she said.
“My only daughter, yes,” he said. “I do happen to recall her name.”
“Your daughter, Admiral,” began Mrs. Huffington.
“… who is called Cleora,” put in McGillvary.
She gave him a scathing look. “Your dear Cleora is wasting away here,” she said. “Where does she go? Who does she see? Nowhere and no one, from what I can discover. You might as well lock her in a cage.”
McGillvary’s eyes narrowed. “In any case, it is not for you to dictate how—”
Mrs. Huntington interrupted. “I would like to invite Cleora to return with us to Laurel Court,” she announced. “The country air will do her good, not to mention the company of her cousins. Surely you cannot object?”
~ ~ ~
From the armchair by the window, Mary Musgrove watched Elise lift the ewer and go out. The woman had done her work in silence, but Mary knew she would soon be headed to Anne’s room, where she would chatter endlessly. Elizabeth might think what she wished, but Mary knew that Anne had always been Elise’s favourite. Elise had probably brought Anne’s lunch on a tray, and this, Mary thought, was Too Much. Such indulgence was bad for Anne and worse for her, for Anne hadn’t come in for a comfortable chat, as she was used to do.
Except for servants, who could not be said to count, Mary had hardly seen a soul all day. Captain Wentworth was shut up in his library, and Charles was somewhere or other. Mary never knew what Charles did with himself these days. After what Mrs. Barrymore said, she did not feel quite comfortable about Charles.
But Mrs. Barrymore was an inferior sort of person, she’d decided, and her judgment was not to be relied upon. In all these years Charles had never once looked at another woman—and why would he? Winnie Owen was not at all pretty. She was too tall, for one thing, and her feet and hands were enormous. As for the jutting chin and wide smile, well! If Charles (or anyone!) could admire such a creature, he was well-served!
Mary’s bedchamber windows overlooked the street. It had seemed amusing, when she had first arrived, to have this room. A cloud passed over the sun, casting the room into shadows. Mary went to the window. The sky was filling with clouds; it would probably rain later. On the street below stood Belle harnessed to the gig. Mary’s eyes narrowed in comprehension. If the gig was here, that meant Charles was going out.
So this was how it was! Once more she was ill-used and neglected. No one had bothered to enquire whether she would like to go on an outing! She was not so unwell that she must be left behind like so much baggage!
Mary found a hat and a shawl and hurried into the passageway. She descended the main staircase as quickly as she dared. No one was on hand to open the front door for her, which was hardly a surprise. Anne had the most ill-run household.
Mary got the door open and, seeing no one, found a secluded spot in which to wait. When Charles came out, she would spring from her hiding place and make him take her with him.
~ ~ ~
Charles took the two steps in a single bound and rapped smartly at Minthorne’s service door. It opened at once. He grinned. “Ready?”
Miss Owen came out tying her bonnet. She glanced at the sky. “Do you think it will rain?”
He shrugged. “Probably not. If it does, I have an umbrella handy.” He offered an arm and she took it. “Clouds and sun,” he remarked. “My favourite combination.”
Together they walked to the street. “So,” he said, handing her into the gig. “Where are we bound?”
Miss Owen did not answer right away. As he pulled on his driving gloves, he could feel her gaze upon him. “I am abusing your good nature sadly,” she said. “For you have been so kind to drive me everywhere I need.”
Charles was occupied with unknotting the reins from the iron fence, but when she said this, he looked up.
Winnie Owen’s smile became wistful. “Will you think it very bad if I tell you that I do not wish to go to Couling’s Emporium?”
Charles grinned and swung into the gig. “That’s a famous answer,” he said. “A drive in the country is what you need.”
Smiling, she shook her head. “Pray do not humour my fancies, Mr. Musgrove. To Couling’s, if you please.”
“Ah, but I’ve a hankering to see that canal. You know, the one that runs through Bradford-on-Avon.” Charles gave the reins a shake and called, “Walk on, Belle.”
He never saw Mary emerge from the house and stand staring as they drove away from St. Peter Square.
As for Winnie’s protests, he turned a deaf ear and made for the canal road, urging Belle into a brisk trot. Here the River Avon ran through a beautiful narrow valley, with wooded slopes and pretty villages.
“But my errand,” she said laughingly.
“Later. Belle needs exercise. We need open air. To be cooped up in a house for days on end—” He ended the sentence by shaking his head.
She gave a heavy sigh—of contentment, he hoped. Presently she began to talk. Charles slowed Belle to a walk, so he would not miss a word.
“I have decided,” she said slowly, “to leave for Porthkerry before the wedding instead of after.”
Charles could think only one reason. “Mrs. Barrymore’s showing her colours already, eh?” he said. “Asserting her authority and all?”
She became occupied with tracing the pattern of the wool lap robe. “I ought to be charitable about it, I know,” she confessed. “Naturally, Mrs. Barrymore will prefer to have things done her way. Any woman would.”
“But—” said Charles, smiling.
Winnie returned the smile. “Exactly so. And it is so very awkward. The servants defer to me, you see, so conflicts are unavoidable. I believe it will be easier for everyone if I were to go now.”
Charles turned to face her. “For everyone?” he said. His eyes met hers squarely; she quickly looked away.
“Please do not think that Mrs. Barrymore has been anything but kind,” she said. “It’s just that…”
“You are used to handling the reins and don’t like relinquishing them.” He shrugged. “A house can have only one mistress; anybody knows that. Even then, it’s the devil to pay if one dares to voice a contrary opinion. In fact, many times I—” Charles broke off speaking. He’d been
about to say something cutting about Mary.
“Mrs. Barrymore and my cousin have begun interviewing housekeepers,” she told him. “She is a very competent person. I am welcome to stay on as their guest for as long as I need.” The lap blanket had several loose threads. Her fingers found one and twisted it.
“But you wouldn’t like that,” Charles said. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. This parting was inevitable—he knew that—but he did not expect to have it come so soon.
They lapsed into silence, save for the rhythm of Belle’s hooves and the jingle of the harness. Overhead, the sky darkened, mirroring Charles’s spirits. “When, exactly,” he said at last, “are you planning to go?”
“I have purchased a ticket,” she said slowly, “for Saturday.”
So soon? And she would be going on the Mail, which was no fit way for a young woman to travel.
“Your plans remain the same?” he said. “It must be your father’s house?”
“Yes,” she said. “He needs me.”
“But what about—” Charles stopped himself in time. He needed her. He, Charles Musgrove, needed this woman by his side and not only for the pleasure of her company.
Winnie Owen was the embodiment of the perfect squire’s wife. She was helpful and sincerely kind; she wouldn’t complain about the isolation of Uppercross, or slight his mother, or shriek at the boys. Or plague the daylights out of everyone by wailing about her health.
What a fool he’d been to offer for Mary Elliot! And he was stuck with her, barring some unforeseen accident—
Charles kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead. Mary was tenacious, as cunning as an old she-ewe and every bit as determined to hold her place. What was the point in longing for his wife’s demise? She would likely outlive them all!
He glanced at Winnie. She would never be his, but he could not bear to lose her. The outrageous plan he’d hatched leapt to mind. Didn’t his father pension off elderly servants? There was nothing improper or scandalous about that. Winnie Owen would simply become his pensioner!
Presently he found his voice. “Living in the country is not expensive. You could find a snug little cottage for yourself in some out-of-the-way spot. You’d be safe, protected.”
“With what money?” she protested. “I’ve no income, Mr. Musgrove.”
Charles brushed this aside. “Twenty, maybe thirty pounds a year,” he said, “is all you would need—a paltry amount! In fact, my wi—er, some women spend that for a hat and gown!”
She smiled a little. “Some women.”
“Is there any place you’d like to live?” he said. “A cottage beside the sea, perhaps?”
Her sigh was audible. “That,” she said, “would be lovely.” The wistful expression soon gave way to a grin. “Or it would be on a fine day such as this, with spring coming on. In winter it would be dreadful.”
“A sheltered spot, then,” he amended. “With a view of the sea.”
She was obviously humouring him. “Very well,” she said.
Charles found it difficult to continue. His motives were noble; he spoke as a friend—nothing dishonourable! Why did his conscience smite him so?
“Porthkerry,” she said presently, “is near to the sea. My father now lives in the village at Cwmcidi.”
“Devilish-sounding name,” he remarked.
“The Valley of the Black Dog the English would call it.”
Charles gave a snort of derision. “A charming spot! No doubt in easy reach of a public house.”
Winnie said nothing. She sat very straight in her seat with her gloved hands resting in her lap, though the gig swayed with the occasional dip in the road. She was graceful, Charles realized, not with Mary’s drawing room poise but with a natural sort of charm. By comparison, he was a clod!
“Forgive me,” he said. “I mean no disrespect to your father. It’s just that I—” Charles could feel a blush rising. “—I fear for you. Whereas, in a cottage of your own—”
Again the silence hung between them. His throat grew tight. I’m a farmer, he told himself firmly. A farmer knows how to wait. If he rushed his words, he would make a mull of it. Patience would carry the day.
Winnie’s voice called him back from his thoughts. “A cottage of my own,” she said, “sounds rather lonely.”
“Lonely?” he said. “You? Why, within a fortnight you’d have a gaggle of friends. You’d soon be making the rounds of the village with that soup of yours…”
She smiled a little. “You have me there! But you needn’t worry about my well-being, Mr. Musgrove. My brothers live nearby. I shall not be without protectors.”
“When they are sober,” Charles pointed out.
“Mr. Musgrove, please!”
Charles pulled Belle to the side of the road. “Look,” he said, facing her, “it was for your protection that your mother’s family removed you from that house.”
“And a great disappointment I have been to them.” Her fingers plucked at the lap robe. “My aunts do not care for my company, nor do they approve of my work with Michael’s patients. But there’s no use talking about a home of my own,” she continued bracingly, “for there isn’t any money. Even if I had a fortune laid by—”
“You do have something saved?”
“Precious little.”
Patience, thought Charles. To prepare the soil effectively, the farmer must plow slowly. “I wish,” he said, “that you would let me help you.”
“But that would not be right!”
“It would not appear right,” he corrected.
Her cheeks were flushed and her brow furrowed. And yet sometime later when at last she looked up at him, her eyes held an expression he could not name.
Seeds do not spout overnight, Charles reminded himself. He must give the idea more time to take hold. He turned the gig around and headed back to Bath.
“And now,” he said, “to Couling’s Emporium.”
~ ~ ~
With a huff of frustration, Lady Russell tore up yet another sheet of paper. What was wrong with her? Could she not compose the simplest thought? She drew forward another sheet, determined to ignore the hum and bustle of the banking office.
My Dear Longwell,
I trust this finds you in good health. Enclosed you will find a token of my esteem.
She squinted at the word. Regard seemed too sentimental, and yet esteem was too stiff. She longed to write the word affection, but she knew this would be singularly improper. As it was, the amount of the draft was far short of Longwell’s worth. He, who was both servant and adviser, was past price!
But she could not sit here fussing over words and tearing up pages. The bank would be closing soon, and she and Sir Walter had an appointment with the rector. At last she finished the letter and sealed it up with a wafer.
The staff at Drummond’s was most accommodating. A courier was summoned; her packet would be delivered in Bath tomorrow morning. How she wished she could be, too! But no, she was headed out to sea.
Again she was confronted with memories—the sickening sensation of the ship plunging under her as the bow climbed into the sky. Sir Walter would no doubt scorn the agonies of seasickness. She would be confined to their cabin for most of the journey, eating dismal tea and toast and looking wretched, while her new husband amused himself with the others.
Lisbon, Gibraltar, Potofino, Messina—Lady Russell ticked off the ports-of-call in her mind. The voyage would be long indeed.
A nearby clerk approached with the letter of credit. With a sinking heart, Lady Russell read it through. At one time, leaving England sounded exciting and adventuresome. Now she had misgivings—grave misgivings! Once begun, where would it end?
Slowly she folded the letter, wrestling with her thoughts. The clock ticked; traffic rumbled by in the street. Where would it all end? At last Lady Russell put back her shoulders and took a long breath. “Excuse me,” she called.
The clerk came over. “I am sorry to inconvenience you,” she said, “but
I have had a change of plans. Would it be possible to reissue this letter with a few substitutions?”
~ ~ ~
Elizabeth was so occupied with thinking that she barely noticed her aching feet. How far had she walked today? Miles and miles—and she was no nearer to reaching her objective than before. Well, she could hardly walk to Lady Buxted-Heighton’s ball!
There was a hackney stand near Bailey’s Tearoom; perhaps she could arrange to have a job carriage come to St. Peter square? This daunting feat would be nothing compared to the rest. Somehow she must slip past Captain Wentworth and Anne and Mary and Yee—in her ball dress!
She resolutely thrust these worries aside. Her objective now was to find the hackney stand, and to do this she must begin at Bailey’s. Too late she realized that this was Thursday, her usual day to meet Mr. Gill.
There is nothing to worry about, she reasoned. After what happened yesterday, Patrick McGillvary would not come. Elizabeth kept her chin high as she walked, and yet as she came level with the tearoom windows, her steps slowed. What if he had come? Was he inside waiting for her? But she had nothing to say to him!
And yet he had called at Lady Russell’s. Had he called at St. Peter Square as well?
~ ~ ~
McGillvary walked the final block to Bailey’s, annoyed by the delay. It was past two when he pulled open the door and went in. The proprietor looked up, but McGillvary ignored him. One by one he studied the patrons. Elizabeth was not among them.
This has hardly a surprise, but it hurt. Against reason, he had hoped she would come. Hope, imagine that! He took a final look around the tearoom.
A woman walked past the window; McGillvary’s eyes followed. Could it be? Silently he remained beside the door, every nerve tense. He held his breath as she came near—but she continued walking. Elizabeth had come, but not to meet him.
Quietly, so as not to disturb the bell, he opened the tearoom door and slipped out. That Elizabeth was up to something was certain—the set of her shoulders told him that. He followed at a distance.
Presently her destination became clear; McGillvary hung back watchfully. She began speaking to the cabman on duty; he saw her open her reticule. She was hiring transportation, he decided. He watched her count out the coins, still speaking. The cabman nodded, then pulled out a pencil and made a notation. He made no move to call a vehicle, McGillvary noted. So, she would need a hack later, not now. McGillvary edged closer. Then he heard someone call her name.
