by Amanda Scott
“I must say, my dear, that considering the size of your fortune, there is little else needed to add to your consequence. I do think your husband was a mite peculiar, however, to have put you so completely in charge of your own affairs as he did—and the children’s affairs as well.”
Philippa’s eyes continued to twinkle. “After teaching me everything he knew, he could scarcely say I was unfit, ma’am. Moreover, he would have thought himself bound to name his brother principal trustee otherwise, and that he could not bring himself to do. He had no wish to offend Mr. Raynard-Wakefield, so he did name him as adviser to me, but he did so knowing I should have no need for such advice as he might give me. And, I must tell you, ma’am, I certainly prefer being my own mistress to having to answer to a trustee. Imagine how annoying, always to have had to have my expenditures authorized. We should never have had such a good time in London as we did.”
“You did enjoy the gaiety and all the attention at the outset, did you not?” Miss Pellerin said.
“Indeed, I found it quite stimulating,” Philippa admitted. “But then the pressures increased, with everyone encouraging me to marry again, and it began to feel as though several of the more obdurate of my suitors were beginning to claw at my skirts. I remembered Wakefield’s hunting box as a place of marvelous privacy, and since he left it to my use for my lifetime, it seemed the perfect haven.”
“Hunting box,” repeated Miss Pellerin with a chuckle. “I certainly envisioned something quite different from this when you told me where you wished to go, my dear. Like Mr. Quinlan, I quite thought we should find ourselves in the wilds, but this place is scarcely that. Why, this house is wanting in none of those accessories which would be considered indispensable in a house in London.”
“No,” Philippa agreed, “although in London the paintings on the walls would be by Constable or Gainsborough rather than by John Ferneley or Ben Marshall. But in Leicestershire, no house can be complete without at least several hunting portraits. I particularly like the Ferneley over there by the chimneypiece—the short-tailed horse falling neck and crop over a flight of rails, whilst the thoroughbred, who ought to be advancing, viciously kicks at the leap his rider desires him to face.”
Obediently Miss Pellerin glanced at the picture, but her interests did not include hunting or hunting portraits. “I daresay it is very nice,” she said. “You mentioned riding with the Belvoir when you were down here with Wakefield. Do you intend to hunt whilst we are here? I cannot think it a seemly activity for a woman of quality.”
“Well, I enjoy the sport immensely,” Philippa informed her with a smile, “and I should like very much to attempt it here in the shires again, but not,” she added, glad of her newfound knowledge, “until the scent is high. Have you discovered the inventory amongst all that litter, ma’am?”
Recalled to her duty, Miss Pellerin sniffed in exasperation. “I declare, Philippa, no one seems to have attended to this business properly since eighteen-aught-four. You may count yourself fortunate if we discover that your servants have not fleeced you prettily in the meantime.”
Philippa grinned at her. “I should be well served, should I not, Cousin? You will forgive me, however, if I do not mention your concern to Mrs. Bickerstaff, since it was her sister who looked after the house in our absence.” Amused by her companion’s grim look but having no wish to hear again her opinion of the way the household had been run, she added quickly, “Is a ten-year-old list truly the most recent one you have discovered?”
“Indeed.” Miss Pellerin replaced her pince-nez, scanned the papers before her, then selected and offered several yellowed sheets to Philippa. “See for yourself, my dear. ’Tis a disgrace.”
“Well, it is not my disgrace, after all,” Philippa said, taking the lists from her. “I was no more than sixteen then and didn’t marry Wakefield until three years later. We spent a bare month here the first year of our marriage and less than six weeks altogether during the second and third, which is when he first fell ill. The last two years, as you know, his illness precluded our leaving Wakefield Priory.”
“That is still three years you were in residence here, however,” Miss Pellerin pointed out in her prim voice.
Philippa chuckled. “Have a heart, ma’am. I was no match for Mrs. Bickerstaff then, not at the Priory and certainly not here, where during the hunting season I was treated like an accessory whose value was placed slightly higher than that of my lord’s favorite dogs but far and away below that of the least of his hunters.”
“My poor child!” exclaimed Miss Pellerin, instantly sympathetic.
“Not a bit of it, ma’am.” Philippa’s eyes danced. “I should scarcely have chosen to return to Chase Charley had my memories been unhappy ones.”
“Why on earth did the Raynard-Wakefields call this place by such an extraordinary name?” demanded her companion.
“They didn’t. Until some fifteen years ago, it was Raynard Hall, for you must know that the Raynard-Wakefield connection is little more than a hundred years old, and this estate belonged originally to the Raynard branch. It was Wakefield’s son—Edward, you know—who renamed it. When he was small, it seems there was a slight misunderstanding about where his papa was going when he said he was going to ‘chase Charley.’ Hunters refer to the fox, any fox, as Charley, of course, but Edward did not know that, for he had never been here himself then. His mama did not enjoy the solitude.”
“But you did?”
“Indeed, I had my books, my own horses to ride, and my music. To be sure, despite my lord’s numerous guests, I was generally the only female in the house who was not a servant; however, we visited Belvoir Castle several times, and the duchess and her mama-in-law are delightful hostesses, I promise you.”
“I have known Isabella for years, of course,” said Miss Pellerin, referring to the Dowager Duchess of Rutland, “but although I have encountered the young duchess from time to time, I know little about her, except of course that she is Carlisle’s fifth daughter. I have heard it said that she prefers to spend most of her time at Belvoir.”
“Yes, but despite a near-eight-year difference in our ages, we have more in common than both of us being daughters of earls,” Philippa said with a laugh. “Her eldest child—called Elizabeth after herself—is with Jessalyn in Bath at Miss Blandamore’s Seminary for Young Gentlewomen. The duchess and I, as a result, enjoy a somewhat haphazard correspondence, exchanging views on the proper rearing of young ladies.”
“It is devoutly to be hoped that the Lady Elizabeth Manners is not such a romp as your harum-scarum stepdaughter,” said Miss Pellerin with a grimace.
Philippa managed to smile again, but her companion had unwittingly struck a nerve. There had been no word from Miss Jessalyn Raynard-Wakefield for more than a month, despite the fact that Philippa had made a point of keeping that young lady apprised of her frequent movements. That she had likewise received no word during that same period from the thirteenth Baron Wakefield did not weigh so heavily with her. Edward was an indifferent correspondent at the best of times, and being heavily engaged in his first year at Oxford, he would no doubt have found better use for his time than to waste it writing to his stepmother. Jessalyn was another matter. If a letter did not arrive from her within the week, Philippa knew she would no longer be able to put off sending a letter of inquiry to Miss Blandamore, and she was quite certain that Jessalyn would prefer that she do nothing of the sort.
She did not speak of these concerns to her companion, however, and the conversation drifted to household matters. There was, despite the fact that the pair of them had now been at Chase Charley for nearly a week, still a good deal to be done. The skeleton staff had done an adequate job of keeping the place habitable during their mistress’s long absence, but there were still many chores that must be attended to before the beautiful house would meet the high standards of such a stickler as Miss Pellerin. Philippa had no qualms about turning most of the household management over to her companion and the exce
llent Mrs. Bickerstaff while she dealt with matters of business with her late husband’s bailiff, Mr. Weems, and it was to his office in the stable pavilion that she repaired an hour later.
Lord Wakefield had chosen his servants well, and she had quickly discovered that everything about the Leicestershire estate was in good trim. The rents were up again, and her tenants were a contented lot. Mr. Weems’s only concern seemed to be that the hunting season reach its peak as quickly as possible, giving Philippa to assume that he wanted the sport over and done so that spring planting might begin as early as the weather would allow. She submitted today to an explanation of his system of bookkeeping, knowing full well that while he was flattered to have her attention, he would firmly resist any suggestion she might be foolhardy enough to make to him. At the moment she had no reason to question his methods, however, so she was able to compliment his skills with sincerity.
She and Miss Pellerin enjoyed a light repast at four o’clock, after which they spent the evening sorting through the desk and writing-table drawers in the library, where a crackling fire kept them cozy and where the glow from a dozen candleholders glinted off the gilt lettering of the books that lined the walls. After several hours of industrious occupation, the two ladies retired early to their separate bedchambers, Philippa’s in the southeast corner of the upper floor, adjacent to the morning room, and Miss Pellerin’s in the southwest corner, beyond the breakfast parlor.
Like other such houses of its period, Chase Charley had originally been built upon a low ground floor known as a rustic, which had contained several informal family rooms, including a breakfast room, a coffee room, a supping parlor, and a hunting hall, but over the past thirty years or so the family had moved its informal living upward and the kitchens had been moved from what was now the laundry pavilion into the rustic. Thus, as the baron had explained enthusiastically to Philippa upon her first visit to the house, although the servants must now carry breakfast up two flights of stairs to the “new” breakfast parlor, the food actually came warmer to the table than it had in the days when it had been necessary to carry it along the open colonnade from the kitchen pavilion to the rustic. As she surveyed the dishes lined up on the buffet for her examination the following morning, however, Philippa could not see that their warmth or lack of it was of much concern.
“Really, Cousin Adeliza, we must find a better cook. These eggs are green.”
“Used a tin pot instead of an iron one, saving her strength,” opined that lady as she accepted a silver tray containing the morning post from a straight-faced young footman. “ ’Tis a pity your Mrs. Lacy refused to accompany us from London.”
Philippa smiled, remembering her cook’s outrage at the suggestion that she might be induced to leave the city to take charge of a hunting-box kitchen, but her expression turned to one of scarcely veiled anxiety as she watched her companion begin to sort through the post. When Miss Pellerin paused to look at one letter more carefully, Philippa asked quickly, “Is that from Jessalyn?”
The older lady shook her head. “It carries the Rutland crest, I believe—two unicorns and the famous peacock.” She held it out. “I daresay the duchess has heard of your arrival and is very kindly observing the amenities.”
Setting her plate down on the sideboard, Philippa took the letter with more haste than grace and sat down in the nearest chair. “Perhaps she has received word from young Beth and will have news of Jessalyn.” Opening the missive, she read rapidly, her expression changing from curiosity to amazement to near-outrage.
“What is it?” demanded Miss Pellerin. “Has she heard something regarding that young scamp?”
Philippa looked up from the letter, her expression grim. “Elizabeth informs me that my darling stepdaughter has been her guest this past week and longer. It seems, if you please, that Miss Blandamore was given to understand that ‘dearest Jessalyn’ had my permission to assist her grace in the celebration of her recent birthday.”
—2—
THOUGH PHILIPPA HAD LITTLE CONCERN after that for breaking her fast, she gave way to Miss Pellerin’s insistence that she sustain herself against the coming storm. “For I have not the least doubt,” said the older lady, “that you will set forth to collect the minx at once.”
“I shall indeed,” Philippa agreed, getting up to retrieve her plate and moving to take her place at the table. As she did, she spoke over her shoulder to the young footman, who was now holding her chair. “Stephen, you will relay instructions to the stables that my traveling carriage is to be brought round promptly at eleven o’clock, and see that someone fetches up two portmanteaux from the trunk room.”
“Yes, m’lady.” Pausing only long enough to pour out a cup of India tea for her and to refill Miss Pellerin’s cup, Stephen departed upon his errand, leaving the two ladies alone.
“The duchess has kindly offered to put us up for the night,” Philippa said, cutting a bite of ham before adding grimly, “Not that she had much choice in the matter once she had discovered Jessalyn’s deception.”
“What, precisely, does she say with regard to that matter?” inquired Miss Pellerin, lifting her cup to sip daintily at the hot tea.
“Her note is a brief one, which you may certainly read if you like, but the gist of the matter is that Jess and another child, one Lucinda Drake, decided off their own bat to accompany Lady Elizabeth Manners when she was called home to take part in her mother’s birthday festivities. Aside from the bit about Miss Blandamore’s having believed I had given Jessalyn my permission to make the excursion, she writes only that she will explain the whole upon our arrival, which she expects to be this afternoon.”
“She must have routed that messenger out at an uncommonly early hour to get him here so quick,” Miss Pellerin said, “particularly in view of the fact that when I looked outside this morning, everything appeared to be hidden by fog.”
“Would you not do the same, ma’am, if you were to discover that a young lady visiting you was doing so under false pretenses? I daresay the messenger had his orders last night, for all that.” She paused, then flashed a rueful smile at her companion. “I am dreadfully sorry, Cousin Adeliza, to be dragging you out upon the road again just when you’ve begun to settle in.”
“Don’t give it a thought, my dear. I shall be pleased to see Belvoir Castle again. Back in the days before it became unseemly to puff off one’s skill in the French language, you know, we said the name properly. Now, calling it ‘Beaver’ as everyone does, one expects to find log dams cluttering the moat—or would if there were a moat. Isn’t one, as I recall.”
“No, ma’am. I suppose that means you haven’t been there since the present duke married. Elizabeth said it had all been let go to rack and ruin, because of the dowager and most of the Manners preferring to live at Haddon Hall or Cheveley. The sporting men amongst them came to Belvoir to hunt, of course, and the others appeared for the occasional hunting-season house party, but that was all. Elizabeth, on the other hand, has made a near-crusade out of renovating the house and turning it into a real castle.”
“Could be she thought her life would be less tumultuous away from her mother-in-law,” suggested Miss Pellerin with a twinkle.
“If that was her intent, it didn’t answer very well. The dowager spends more time there than ever she did before. But then, Elizabeth has made the place amazingly more comfortable, too, although she insists there is still much to be done. Her letters, even recently, have been as full of her plans for redoing the state apartments as of news of her infant son. You did know, did you not, that the duke has an heir at last? They had nearly despaired after fifteen years of marriage, three daughters, and I don’t know how many stillbirths and miscarriages.”
“Indeed, I did know there was a Marquess of Granby at last—born in August, was he not?”
“Yes. I daresay we shall be granted a peek at him, don’t you think?”
“No doubt,” agreed Miss Pellerin, setting down her cup. “However, if you mean to leave by eleve
n o’clock, we’d best stir our stumps, my dear. I’ve any number of chores that must be seen to, and you were meaning to speak to Weems about new gravel for the front drive and about setting someone to weeding those herbaceous borders. Ought to have been seen to last month, but I daresay there was rain the day they’d set aside for that particular chore.”
Philippa chuckled at this sour reference to the chief excuse that had been tendered for nearly every lack spotted by Miss Pellerin’s eagle eyes during the past week. Then her glance came to rest upon the duchess’s letter again, and the laughter faded.
Miss Pellerin, shaking crumbs from her skirts, did not fail to note her changing expression. “Young Jessalyn wants a hearty scold for this mischief, I’m thinking.”
“Indeed, ma’am, she deserves more than that. Only wait until I get my hands on that abominable girl.”
Since her temper did not improve noticeably during the next two hours, it was as well for her coachman that he brought her traveling carriage to the door promptly at eleven o’clock, as ordered. The morning fog had lifted, and the sun had managed to break through gray clouds, giving a burnished golden look to the pale yellow brick walls of the house. Glancing about her as she gathered the pomona-green skirts of her traveling dress in preparation for accepting the footman’s assistance to enter her silk-lined carriage, Philippa decided that the white gravel she had instructed Weems to order would be a distinct improvement over the gray that now decked the front drive. Her spirits lifted at the thought, and her gaze drifted to the lawn, where sunlight glinted on short, damp blades of grass, then further to the sparkling blue river below. Even the twin baroque towers of Wyvern looked welcoming, outlined as they seemed to be by gilded halos.
“You know, ma’am,” she said when Miss Pellerin had clambered in behind her and settled voluminous dove-gray skirts neatly about her on the crimson velvet seat, “it has just struck my mind that the Lucinda Drake to whom the duchess made reference might well be some connection of the Earl of Wyvern.”
