by Amanda Scott
Mistress of the Hunt
Amanda Scott
For Terry
Contents
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A Biography of Amanda Scott
—1—
WARMTH WAS CLEARLY NOT OF prime consideration in the great stone hall at Chase Charley, for although a fire burned determinedly in one of the twin marble fireplaces, the dancing flames accomplished little by way of taking the chill from the dreary mid-November afternoon. The chamber’s two occupants, however, were neither of them in a mood to consider the temperature or the splendid surroundings, for they had not so much as taken seats upon any of the green-velvet-covered walnut furniture but stood facing each other, the gentleman earnest, the lady resigned.
To be sure, the gentleman’s natty attire argued a taste for the magnificent, so having been left for some moments to his own devices while the lady’s dignified butler excused himself to discover her pleasure, he might well have taken a moment to appreciate the restrained masculine splendor of the forty-foot-high perfect double-cube hall. He no doubt had had sufficient time to admire the stone bas-reliefs above the twin marble chimneypieces, carved more than a hundred years before by famous designer Michael Rysbrack, and the enormous chandelier suspended on a great long chain from the center of the high ceiling’s circular motif, which incorporated the Raynard coat of arms on a pale blue background surrounded by decorated side panels. While pacing the black-and-white diamonds of the parquet floor, he must certainly have noted, above, the stone-balustered balcony supported on ornamented masonry brackets, which formed a projecting gallery at first-floor level around all four walls of the great chamber. In fact, had his thoughts strayed so far from the purpose of his visit, he might well have marveled at having discovered such splendor in the twelfth Baron Wakefield’s so-called hunting box.
On the other hand, it would never have occurred to the slender, dark-blond Lady Philippa Raynard-Wakefield to wonder at such a thing, for she considered Chase Charley to be just one among many of her late husband’s holdings and, for that matter, one that was smaller and a good deal more comfortable than his principal seat, Wakefield Priory, in Sussex. If she had given any particular thought to the setting of the present discussion, that thought had been merely one of gratitude for the fact that her butler, the estimable Bickerstaff, had had the good sense to leave Mr. Arnold Quinlan to kick his heels in the hall rather than permit him to invade the privacy of any more favored chamber.
Though she was herself feeling the chill and knew that Mr. Quinlan, attired as he was in little more than the buff breeches, brilliant waistcoat, and equally bright blue coat of a gentleman of fashion, must be feeling it too, she had no wish to encourage him to repeat his visit by desiring him to remove with her to some other, warmer room. She wished, in fact, that he would take his departure, for he had begun to bore her. Idly she picked a fluff of lint off one long sleeve of her tawny cashmere afternoon dress and rolled it between one slim finger and her thumb.
Mr. Quinlan had been waxing eloquent for some moments by then, but her movement brought him to recognize at last that his hostess was inattentive. Drawing himself up so that he might very nearly enjoy the advantage of looking down at her, he squared his padded shoulders, firmed his jaw, took two steps toward her, and grasped one softly rounded cashmere-clad arm. Then, his earnest, youthful dignity quite unimpaired, he looked searchingly into her ladyship’s dark brown eyes. Those dark eyes, which were set becomingly well apart in her attractive oval face, were open wide now, regarding him calmly, albeit with a flicker of indignation.
“Philippa, you must marry me,” he said, adding as he gave her arm a little shake, “Dash it all, I insist upon it.”
“Pray, unhand me, Mr. Quinlan.” There was quiet emphasis upon the formal use of his name, and Lady Philippa’s pleasant voice carried a chill distinct enough so that no one of the slightest sensitivity could fail to notice it. Her gaze shifted pointedly to the hand clutching her arm.
“Oh, very well,” Mr. Quinlan said, releasing her with sullen abruptness, “though I must say you might be a dashed sight more civil to a fellow who’s taken the trouble to pursue you from London clean into the wilds of Leicestershire.”
“Please, sir,” Philippa said, stepping away from him, “disabuse yourself of the notion that I must regard such pursuit as either romantic or desirable.”
“Dash it, Philippa—”
“No,” she said more sharply, moving at the same time to elude him as he sought to grasp her arm again. In a vague hope of making her movement seem a natural one, she continued casually toward the nearer of the two tall green-velvet-draped windows that flanked the impressive double-doored entry. The window overlooked a parapeted porch and lateral stairs leading down to the circular front drive and smooth, still-green, gently sloping lawn. As far as her eye could see, the landscape continued in an orderly progression of hedgerows and wide green fields, sloping steeply at first, then more gently down to the valley floor and the River Eye. Beyond, she could see more flat fields and knew they stretched as far as the hills of Belvoir, some fifteen miles to the north.
The river flowed as a mere brook at first from the low, undulating hills behind Chase Charley, widening significantly as it tumbled merrily down the slope to the village of Whissendine at its foot and beyond for nearly five miles, sweeping and swirling over stones and around boulders to Wyvern Towers, the seat of the Drake family, Earls of Wyvern for nearly as long as there had been Barons Wakefield. Today, in the gloom, the twin dark gray towers, looming as they did out of the trees around them, seemed almost menacing, like a setting for some lurid gothic romance, but on sunny days Philippa had often allowed her whimsy to drift to fairy tales when she looked down upon the scene. The brook, becoming deeper as it continued to widen, curved sharply a short distance beyond the towers, much, Philippa had often thought, as though having decided to become a river, it had changed its mind about its destination and resolved to join the River Wreak at Melton Mowbray just to see what all the fuss was about. Certainly, Melton had become amazingly popular among sporting gentlemen as the new century had progressed. On a clear day one could see the little town from Chase Charley. One could not do so today, however.
Mr. Quinlan had continued silent behind her, and much as she would have liked to prolong her examination of the view, she knew she must not. Turning, she said quietly, “You must believe, sir, that I am fully conscious of the honor you do me by offering me your name, but I have determined not to marry again.”
“You can’t mean that,” he said. “No female wishes to remain unwed.” When she said nothing, he continued to regard her in disbelief for some moments. Then his brow cleared, and he snapped his fingers. “I have it. You want courting. Crashed my fence and nearly came a cropper. Not to worry, begin a new cast, that’s what.”
She shook her head, amused in spite of herself that he had fallen so easily into the vocabulary of the hunt. “Do not think to change my mind, sir. I am entirely resolute.”
“But, dash it, Phil … Oh, very well,” he amended quickly when her eyes narrowed, “though why a fellow mustn’t call you by name when he’s offering his hand in marriage is more than I can see.”
“The point, Mr. Quinlan, is that I have not accepted your generous offer. Indeed, I cannot think how you managed to persuade yourself that I would, for we are not by any means well-acquainted. We cannot have met in Town above three or four times.”
“Saw your ma
gnificent blue eyes and—”
“My eyes are brown, sir.”
“So they are,” he agreed, peering at them and then continuing unabashed, “Saw how beautiful they are and tumbled straight into love.”
“Do not take me for a mooncalf,” she said tartly. “You, like so many others, became enamored of my fortune. I cannot think why gentlemen must look upon a wealthy widow as a quarry to be hunted. No, no,” she added, when he seemed about to issue a wide-eyed protest, “grant me my intelligence, sir, and be grateful that your trip will not be entirely wasted. The George Inn in Melton Mowbray is an outstanding hostelry, and I am persuaded that if you send word to Mr. Assheton-Smith at Quorndon Hall, he will be happy to include you in tomorrow’s hunt if there is one.”
“Much you know,” was the near-sulky rejoinder. “The only reason I might be able to engage a room at the George without having made arrangements to do so months ago is that everyone knows the scent in Leicestershire is devilish low in November.”
“No, is it?” Philippa regarded him with curiosity. “I didn’t know, though I expect that is why his lordship—my late husband, you know—always chose to spend November in Scotland. Why is the scent low?”
He seemed taken aback by the question. “Why? Lord, I don’t know. The damp weather, perhaps, though it’s just as damp in December and January, I should expect. I cannot think why you—a gently nurtured female, after all—should care about such things, or why you should wish to come into Leicestershire, for all that. To my way of thinking, it was a crack-brained thing to do.”
“Well, you see,” she said gently, “I was seeking privacy. I had hoped to find it in Town when so many people seemed fixed in Brighton with the Regent, but it was not to be.”
“I do see,” he said stiffly, turning to retrieve his curly-brimmed beaver hat from the green velvet chair where he had deposited it earlier. “I suppose I should thank you for condescending to receive me at all.”
“Don’t be absurd, sir, you had traveled a good distance. I could not deny you.” Not, she added silently as she moved to pull the bell rope, when she had never expected to be pursued so tenaciously. She must remember to instruct Bickerstaff more carefully in the future.
Mr. Quinlan, having accepted his congé at last, made no further attempt to delay his departure but allowed the stately white-haired Bickerstaff to show him out the way he had come in. Philippa did not wait to see him go but made her escape through the great stair hall before he had disappeared through the front doors and down the steps to call for his horse.
The present house at Chase Charley, designed by Colen Campbell and built under the direction of a local architect on the site of a much older, much less convenient domicile, had been completed in 1735 and was pure Palladian in structure. Seen from the outside, the rectangular pale-yellow-brick central block was perfectly proportioned with a white marble pediment and pilasters in the middle and Venetian windows in the shallow corner projections. Colonnades connected it to small pavilions on either side, one housing the stables and estate offices, the other the laundry, stillroom, and dairy. Inside, the chief rooms were arranged symmetrically on either side of the central two-story great stone hall and equally magnificent baroque saloon. Thus did the dining room and billiards room off the west side of the stone hall agree in their dimensions with the common parlor and the library off the east side. So, too, did the sizes of the yellow drawing room and blue damask bedchamber to the east of the baroque saloon agree with those of the green drawing room and green velvet bedchamber to the west of it. Even the small bedchamber off the library, used by the late baron upon those occasions when he had been too weary to climb another flight of stairs to the family apartments, had its mate in an equally small bedchamber off the billiards room, which was used when the house overflowed with sporting men. The great stair hall was matched in convenience if not in magnificence by the west stair hall, and there were likewise service stairs at each end of the house.
Upstairs, while the family apartments in the east wing remained symmetrical in arrangement to each other and to the rooms below, the rooms in the west wing had been arranged for convenience rather than symmetry and, except for the breakfast parlor and a small sitting room, consisted mainly of guest bedchambers. The stone hall gallery provided access from the east to the west wing of the house.
As Philippa entered the stair hall, the great mahogany flying staircase with its carved balusters, their newels formed as Tuscan columns and surmounted by round glass candle-holders, seemed to swoop around and above her. The walls of the staircase, as well as those of the passageway leading from its upper landing, were hung with portraits of Elizabethan statesmen, of the royal Stuarts, and of the Raynard and Wakefield families, but Philippa, having seen them all before, hurried up the stair and along the passageway to the morning room, where she had been helping to search for a recent inventory of the house’s contents when Bickerstaff had come to inform her of Mr. Quinlan’s arrival.
When she entered the cheerful yellow-and-white room, a lady of late middle years and comfortable figure, who was attired in lavender silk and seated at a deal table strewn with papers, looked up from her intent perusal of one of these, her severe expression softening noticeably. By the time she had removed the silver-rimmed pince-nez from the bridge of her button nose, her pale blue eyes were twinkling.
“Another one, my dear—this Mr. Quinlan?”
“Indeed, ma’am, and most insistent.”
Miss Adeliza Pellerin clicked her tongue in annoyance. “Mercy me, I knew I ought to have accompanied you. ’Tis not seemly for you to meet with young men without a chaperon, my dear, and that’s the nut with no bark on it.”
“Nonsense, Cousin, it is quite customary for a lady to receive a proposal of marriage privately.”
“Not without the young man applies first to her papa, it isn’t,” countered Miss Pellerin.
“Well, for him to ride into Yorkshire to seek Papa’s permission to pay his addresses to me and then back here to find me afterward would be absurd. Not only have I had more than my share of experience dealing with would-be suitors, but having been a widow these two years and more, I am scarcely a green girl who wants careful watching.”
“I collect that you were able to speed Mr. Quinlan on his way, then?”
“Easily, for despite his insistence, he was not nearly so determined or so arrogant as some I have encountered since poor Wakefield was so obliging as to leave me a wealthy widow. Beyond pointing out that he had pursued me into the wilds of Leicestershire—”
“Wilds?”
“Indeed, his very word. But aside from that, he was rather docile.”
“Disappointingly so, perhaps?”
“No, of course not. I was grateful that he was no worse.” Philippa sighed, taking a seat opposite Miss Pellerin. “I truly believed I should escape all this attention by coming here. I never thought any of them would follow me.”
“Well, they say Leicestershire is a man’s county, after all. You won’t escape the company of gentlemen altogether by coming here.”
“Oh, but they never paid any heed to me here before. They thought of nothing but their hunting and shooting. Even when I hunted with the Belvoir, the men ignored me and the other ladies entirely, fixing their concentration upon the hounds and the fox.”
“Your husband was nearby,” Miss Pellerin pointed out gently.
“True, but he was amused rather than angry whenever men flirted with me. He always said it was no more than he would expect of any intelligent young man, and he always made it clear that he knew I had too much sense to be impressed by such stuff. Schoolboys, he thought most of them.” Philippa was silent for a moment, collecting her thoughts, but when she looked at Miss Pellerin and realized from her sympathetic expression that the older lady was misinterpreting her silence, she smiled to reassure her. “Truly, ma’am, I held Wakefield in the greatest esteem and affection, but he was many years my senior, and it was in the nature of things that he
should predecease me. Indeed, he prepared me for widowhood much more carefully than my parents had prepared me for marriage, and after his long illness, I am sure that no one of compassion could have wished for him to linger. I confess, I felt little more than sad relief at his passing.”
“But you scarcely saw anyone after his death, my dear. Except for your servants—excellent folk, I am sure—you were alone at Wakefield Priory for an entire year and more.”
“At first I was exhausted,” Philippa explained. “Despite the servants, I did much of the nursing myself, you know, because he fretted at having others attend to him and he liked to talk with me, to instruct me with regard to such matters as I should have to attend to after his passing. The last months were particularly difficult. For a long time afterward I wanted only to rest.” Her quick grin flashed, showing even white teeth. “I look dreadful in black, if you must have the truth, and there was no one I particularly wished to see and nothing I particularly wished to do, beyond setting our affairs in order. And that, I daresay, I managed to accomplish only because of Wakefield’s careful teaching, for when Edward and Jessalyn were down for the long vacation that first summer, I attended to them more as though they were characters in a dream than as a proper stepmother ought to have done. But somehow the months just disappeared until one day I realized that the year was well behind me and a new London Season lay before me. It was the most astonishing thing, as though I had wakened from a long, refreshing sleep.”
“That was when you wrote to me,” said Miss Pellerin with a reminiscent smile.
“Indeed, it was,” Philippa replied, reaching across the table to squeeze the older woman’s plump beringed hand affectionately. “My friends and the family had been urging me for some time to pick up the threads of my old social life, but I wanted to do nothing that would reflect dishonorably upon Wakefield’s memory. Since you go everywhere and know everyone while maintaining a reputation of the highest respectability, I knew you could only add to my consequence.” The saucy grin peeked out again and was reflected by amusement in the older lady’s eyes.
