by Amanda Scott
“Good morning, Jake,” she said, smiling, “and good morning to you, too, Mr. Weems,” she added, speaking to the older, rather stout man who had been speaking to Pottersby. Both men removed their caps and returned her greeting, Pottersby cheerfully, Weems with his customary doleful reserve.
“Expect the wheat’s done been drowned in its fields, m’lady,” the older man said, “what with that downpour ’n all. First, there be so little rain a man might fear t’ see ’is wells go dry, and puts off plantin’ ’is winter crops. Then, ’e no sooner gets the seed in the ground than it be washed away.”
Philippa shook her head at him, twinkling. “Truly, Mr. Weems, I don’t think the wetting it got last night was enough to do any damage. We must be grateful rain came with that wind so that all the loosened topsoil wasn’t blown away. And I daresay,” she added thoughtfully, “that there is a deal more damage to the wheat from the hunters always riding through the fields than from the elements, when all is said and done.”
Weems regarded her as though he knew not what to make of a woman who could speak so glibly of topsoil, let alone anything more complicated, and Philippa struggled to suppress her amusement. She had realized a week before, within moments of letting her bailiff know she would be taking a strong interest in his activities, that he didn’t know quite how to deal with her. She smiled at him when he remained silent. “Come now, Mr. Weems, you know very well that you tend to look on the gloomy side of things. Confess that you are not truly fretting over the wheat at all but have come to discuss with Jake here whether today will be a good one for the hunters. ’Tis all you Leicestershire men think about, I’ll warrant.”
“Not all, m’lady,” Weems said, but his attitude was a little less stiff. “Like as not, yer in the right of it about them fields. Right in the path t’ the Whissendine crossing that north wheatfield be. Be right more than Tom Giles can do t’ keep that field in seed. Not with upward of three hundred hunters a-crossin’ of it two and three times in a week.”
“Gracious, then I cannot think why he sows that field at all!” Philippa exclaimed. “I collect that Mr. Giles is the tenant for that particular farm, but I must say that to sow and resow seems a dreadful waste of his manpower and my money.”
“Damages,” said the bailiff succinctly, exchanging a look with the groom.
Jake Pottersby nodded wisely. “Aye, sithee, mistress, ’e bahn make a sight more off t’ damages nor ye gain from t’ wheat. Happen ye got other fields fer wheat. That north field be t’ only one by way o’ being in direct line o’ the crossing, howsomever.”
“You mean to say we plant a field just so that we can claim damages from the hunts each year?”
“Aye, m’lady, that’s near enough the mark,” said Weems.
“Well, I cannot approve of that,” Philippa said, shaking her head. “Surely Tom Giles need not plant that field at all but can put it to grass to pasture some of our dairy cattle.”
“Can’t do that,” said Weems, looking scandalized. “Fouls the scent. We keeps the cattle in barns through the winter, m’lady. Agreement with the hunts, ye ken.”
Philippa bit her lip. “Of course. I had forgotten we had such an agreement, but I still think we ought to let that north field go to grass until spring, Mr. Weems.”
“Ye’ll ’ave t’ speak with Giles, then, m’lady, ’n ’e ain’t goin’ t’ like the notion, I’m thinking. He goes shares on the damages, half and half with the old lord … that is, wi’ yerself, I expect.”
“With the estate, you mean,” Philippa said. “I see, so Mr. Giles augments his income by claiming damages from the hunt, is that right?”
“Aye,” said Weems, showing relief that she understood the matter at last.
“Then you are to give Mr. Giles no more seed,” Philippa said firmly. “He may claim whatever damages he thinks fair, but to plant and replant under the circumstances is not sensible. I daresay he will not be able to collect for more than one crop in the field, in any event.”
Weems shrugged. “Kin claim nigh well what ’e wants t’ claim, m’lady. Hunt alius pays. Can’t afford to set up any backs by refusin’.”
Philippa remembered the Duke of Rutland saying much the same thing when he explained why he had paid his cousin rather than battle him in court. She shook her head again and asked Pottersby if her mount was indeed ready.
“Aye, mistress, and full o’ gig.” He stepped nearer the tall roan gelding and patted its cheek. The roan tossed its head and pawed nervously at the ground, whickering. Pottersby smiled. “Always like this after a storm. Nobbut all-alive ’n framing t’ fratch. Ye’ll want to keep a sharp eye and a firm rein, look how.”
Nodding, Philippa turned back to Weems. “On my way here this morning I noticed that the pond by the entrance to the park is spilling over its banks. Today is as good a day as any if you have some young men to put to cleaning it. I daresay there’s a good bit of silt built up by now if it hasn’t been attended to these two years or more.”
The bailiff nodded. “Set ’em to it immediate, ma’am. Can’t rightly say when the last time was it was done. I’ve put a couple of lads onto thinning out that ash coppice north o’ the park, too. Ye’ll ’ave a good bit o’ firewood out o’ that fer the big house, as well as fer the kitchens.”
He turned away a moment later, clapping his cap back onto his head and striding purposefully from the stableyard. Philippa allowed Pottersby to give her a leg up into her saddle, then waited for him to mount his own horse.
“Where to, this mornin’, mistress?”
“Toward Melton, I think. I want a gallop. What sort of hunters have we got in the stables, Jake?”
“Got two cobby young’uns the young lord sent up from Oxford,” Pottersby replied, raising his voice as she turned toward the drive and urged her mount to a trot. “Noan so much trained, I’m thinkin’, though me ’n young Ned Owen been workin’ ’em. Got a couple of older fellows, too, but happen ye’ll do better t’ sell ’em or use ’em fer cover hacks than to hunt ’em.”
“Well, I need at least two good hunters who can be trained to carry a sidesaddle, Jake, and I need them as soon as possible.”
The groom rode up alongside her. “Two, m’lady?”
She nodded, looking straight ahead of her. She had known Jake Pottersby since her childhood in Yorkshire, and she did not wish to give him the impression that she would listen with any patience to remonstrations from him.
He took the hint. “Happen it’d be best an ye get Leicestershire hunters, born ’n bred, then, Miss Philippa. Can’t do better nor that, look ’e how. Happen ye could find a rare nesh nag or two through Lord Lonsdale or Mr. Assheton-Smith.”
“No, thank you, Jake. Not unless there is no other way. I daresay they might even refuse to sell me one, just out of masculine contrariness.”
“I’ll ask about, then, shall I and all, Miss Philippa?”
She nodded, and then as they came to the Oakham Road, she touched the roan’s flank with her spur, leaned forward slightly, and dropped her hands. The roan was quick to take her meaning, and his stride lengthened smoothly and quickly until he was galloping full out.
By the time they returned to Chase Charley, the steam was off the grass and tiny white clouds were gathering over the western horizon. Just wisps, they were, but Philippa found herself hoping they were not precursors of another storm. She was looking forward to playing governess, and the Lady Lucinda Drake was expected to arrive for her first lessons with Miss Raynard-Wakefield at half-past ten. Another downpour might prevent her from coming.
Philippa found that her fears were being echoed in the breakfast parlor when she joined her cousin and stepdaughter there a half-hour later, having changed from her habit into a becoming morning gown of fawn tabinette with cherry satin ribbons tied at the high waist and threaded through the blond lace trim at the bodice edge.
“Do you think it will rain again, ma’am?” Jessalyn asked anxiously around a mouthful of well-buttered apple muffin
. “Cousin Adeliza says it will not, but there are clouds forming on the horizon, don’t you know, and it did rain ever so hard last night, so it may very well do so again, and if it does, then Lucy might not come, after all.”
“Goodness, Jessalyn, draw breath!” Philippa exclaimed, laughing. “You prattle like a bagpipe, child.”
“Do let your stepmama fill her plate, at least, before you press her for a weather report, Jessalyn,” said Miss Pellerin with a wry grimace, “and have the goodness to remember to wait until you have quite finished what you are chewing before you speak. A lady does not talk with her mouth full of food.”
Jessalyn swallowed hastily. “But I fear that Lord Rochford will not allow Lucy to come to us if it comes on even to mizzle, and certainly he will not do so if we get another storm like we had last night. It well nigh blew the house down.”
“Hardly that,” Philippa said, taking her seat and nodding to Stephen to fill her coffee cup before adding shrewdly, “I daresay his lordship is keeping just as anxious an eye on the weather as you are, my dear. He will see that the Lady Lucinda gets to Chase Charley though there be a snowstorm, I believe.” She glanced at her cousin. “Do you not think so, ma’am?”
Miss Pellerin smiled at her. “I do, indeed,” she said. “He seemed most anxious to provide her ladyship with proper companionship, so I have not the least doubt that half-past ten will see her on our doorstep.”
Her prediction proved to be an accurate one, for Lady Lucinda Drake arrived punctually, accompanied by her brother, who was looking precise to a pin despite the fact that he was dressed for riding rather than for paying morning calls, in buff leather breeches and top boots. His dark blue coat had been cut by a master, and he wore a proper neckcloth rather than the Belcher handkerchief preferred by most of the young bloods of sport. He carried a riding whip, but as he explained to the ladies in the stone hall, where they had been sitting by the fire, though he had indeed ridden over, he did not intend to leave the carriage for his sister’s convenience.
“I don’t care for being clapped up in a coach when I might ride instead,” he said, smiling at Philippa, “but I’ve only the one carriage at my disposal at the moment, and I mean to see if I cannot find some respectable female through the worthy Mrs. Haversett today. I don’t doubt I shall make a better impression if I call to see her in a carriage rather than on horseback. Then, too, my uncle is arriving today, and though he will bring his traveling carriage, I should rather ride in my own, which is not nearly so old and musty, and I should—with your kind permission—like to bring him to call this afternoon when I return to collect Lucy.”
They agreed that it would be pleasant to meet the Honorable Archibald Drake, and Rochford soon took his leave after adjuring his sister to be on her best behavior.
Philippa turned her attention to the two young ladies. They provided quite a contrast in appearance, for whereas Jessalyn was flaxen-haired and deceptively fragile-looking, the Lady Lucinda had glossy black shoulder-length ringlets, a delicate white complexion, deep blue eyes, and rosy red lips. She was an inch or two shorter than Jessalyn and prettily plump instead of willowy slim. But both girls possessed the same mischievous twinkle, and both appeared to be under the impression that they had been rather clever.
“We shall have our lessons in the morning room, I think,” Philippa said to them. Then, as the two looked at each other and giggled, she added sternly, “I do hope that you, neither of you, think you have achieved something marvelous by contriving to remain in Leicestershire instead of being sent back to school in disgrace as you should have been.”
Jessalyn bit her lower lip and regarded the black-and-white pattern in the stone hall floor as though she had discovered something there of abounding interest, but Lucinda looked up at Philippa in dismay.
“Oh, dear Lady Philippa, are you still at outs with us? I promise, I at least shall never do such a thing again. I … I shouldn’t dare.” Her voice caught on the last words, and Philippa, remembering Rochford’s description of the confrontation he had had with his sister at Belvoir, found herself hoping the girl wouldn’t burst into tears on the spot.
“I collect that your brother gave you a severe scold,” she said matter-of-factly, “just as I gave one to Jessalyn—and just as you both deserved, I might add. But the matter is behind us now, Lucinda, and there is little to be achieved by dwelling on the past. You would do better to put your mind to what you mean to accomplish now.”
“Accomplish?” Lucinda looked at her now as though Philippa had suddenly begun to speak a foreign tongue.
Miss Pellerin, speaking for the first time since Rochford’s departure, said dryly, “Indeed, Lady Lucinda, you have come here for lessons, you know.”
“Oh, yes, of course, but I quite thought … well, you see, I thought that perhaps Jessie and I would merely take our sketchbooks out and sketch trees and plants like we did with Miss Blandamore, or rather with Miss Cynthia, for Miss Blandamore don’t like to walk about the gardens when she can sit with her cup of tea, don’t you know, and …” But here Lady Lucinda seemed to lose the thread of what she had. been saying, and she broke off to look toward Jessalyn for help.
Jessalyn rose to the occasion by saying earnestly to Philippa, “We are very good at sketching, ma’am. I daresay our efforts may astonish you.”
“No doubt,” Philippa replied, exchanging a look with Miss Pellerin. “We shall repair to the morning room, however, where I shall explain to you just what schedule I mean for you to follow. You may take your sketchbooks outside this afternoon if the weather remains clement.”
As it turned out, the lessons were not as much of a loss as Philippa feared they might be after this inauspicious beginning. Both Jessalyn and Lucinda were well-behaved and attended to what was said to them, and although Miss Pellerin might indeed have winced a time or two when they betrayed their ignorance, she also discovered in herself a talent for relating information in such a way as to fascinate two young ladies who had never had the benefit of truly academic lessons before. No one, however, was more astonished than Lord Rochford later that afternoon when his sister greeted his entrance into the yellow drawing room, where the ladies had gathered after the promised sketching expedition, with the enthusiastic announcement that she had been learning the relationship of all the Norse gods, one to the other.
“And,” she added in the tone of one confiding astonishing news, “tomorrow Miss Pellerin is going to tell us all about the Valkyrie, who sound as though they must have been quite the most fascinating ladies, Andrew, truly!”
“If,” said the older gentleman who had come into the yellow drawing room with the viscount, “your Miss Pellerin has a clear understanding of how all those gods and goddesses are related to each other, I for one would like to meet her.”
“Well, this is her—I mean, this is she,” said Lucinda, correcting herself hastily.
“That is scarcely a proper introduction,” her brother informed her gently.
“Never mind that,” said the older gentleman, turning to bow toward Miss Pellerin. The slight squeak that accompanied this action gave Philippa at least to realize that the Honorable Archibald Drake was confined in that contraption known as the Brummell Bodice, a whalebone corset worn by many dandies of the period in the hope that it would force their bodies into a shape more like that of the great arbiter of fashion himself. In Mr. Drake’s case, the hope was a forlorn one. No amount of lacing could conceal the roundness of his stomach. Nor did the padding in the shoulders of his superfine coat succeed in making his own shoulders look anything but a trifle lumpy. Certainly they were not of a breadth or strength to compare with his nephew’s, Philippa thought, letting her eyes stray to the viscount’s magnificent shoulders. A moment later, when she realized that Rochford had caught her staring, she blushed and turned quickly back to Mr. Drake, who had stepped forward to clasp Miss Pellerin’s plump, beringed little hands between his own. “You, good lady, have truly been explaining the descendants of Odin, V
ili, and Ve to these children?”
“Uncle Archibald, we are not children!”
“Hush, Lucinda,” said her brother. “A lady does not contradict.” He turned to Philippa, his eyes gleaming. “Does she, Lady Philippa?”
“No, indeed not, sir,” Philippa replied without a blink, wondering suddenly how it was that she should feel as though she had known him since her early childhood. The thought was disconcerting, and she found herself sounding rather more shatterbrained than usual when she said, “Will you allow me to ring for refreshment? Oh, there is no need, for here is Bickerstaff with the tray now. How quick you are, Bickerstaff. Will you take a glass of Madeira, Mr. Drake, or perhaps some claret?”
“Madeira,” replied Mr. Drake tersely, taking a seat by Miss Pellerin. He had not taken his eyes from her face and was still examining her as though he had discovered some rare specimen. “You have not replied, dear lady,” he said now. “Do you indeed expect to explain such things to these … these young ladies?”
“Certainly,” said Miss Pellerin, folding her hands primly in her lap, but looking adorably self-conscious as she did so. “There is no particular mystery, you know, if one but approaches the Eddas logically. It is interesting, sir, that you refer to the descendants of Vili and Ve, as well as of Odin, for most persons, you know, think of them all simply as Odin’s descendants.”
Philippa, realizing that the conversation was about to enter realms that would leave the rest of them behind, turned to Rochford with a grin. “I daresay we ought to leave them to it, sir. Will you sit? Jessalyn,” she added, looking at that young lady, “perhaps you will prefer to take Lady Lucinda up to the morning room, where you may order some cakes and ratafia for yourselves, if you like.”
