by Amanda Scott
In the library, she turned to face him, her color high, her hands pressed tightly into the folds of her skirt.
Rochford pushed the door shut with the head of his cane. That he was still angry was evident from his expression, but she saw lines of pain in his brow, as well, and felt immediate contrition at having brought him to such a pass.
“Perhaps you ought to sit down, Rochford.”
“What, before I fall down? I am not such a weakling as that, madam. Nor was there any reason to repair to this room, for I have only one thing to say to you. You are to order those signs removed at once.”
Philippa stiffened. “I beg your pardon?”
“It is not my pardon you must beg, but that of the men whose hunting you have disrupted with your childish whim. Your quarrel—whatever it was—was with me. You had no business to act so precipitately, and you must put matters right at once.”
“I see,” Philippa said, wondering how it was that this man could turn her softer feelings to blazing anger with so little effort. “Because you order it, I am to submit to your wishes. Is that the case, my lord?”
“The case is that you don’t realize what you have done, and I do. For once in your life, dear Philippa, you will attend to wiser counsel than your own. This is no time to allow you to indulge in a temper tantrum, though from what I have come to know of you, I do not doubt that you have been allowed to indulge yourself far too often in the past.”
“Dear me, you sound very like Mr. Assheton-Smith,” she retorted sarcastically. “He left me in no doubt as to what method he would like to use upon me.”
“He has my sympathy.” Rochford was clearly having difficulty keeping rein on his temper. “If I were in better trim, I’d at least give you the thorough shaking you deserve for this piece of work. But I did not come here for discussion. If you like, I will convey your instructions to your bailiff before leaving here.” He turned back toward the door.
“Mr. Weems already has my instructions,” said Philippa hotly, “and I daresay he knows better than to take any from you, sir. If you have said all you mean to say, I wish you will go away, for I have nothing further to say to you.”
He took an unwary step toward her, wincing as he came down on his left foot. “Do you mean to tell me you refuse to do as I bid you?”
“Indeed, sir, for I do not recognize your authority. A proposal of marriage—which, I might remind you, I refused—scarcely gives you the right to dictate to me.”
He let out a long breath of exasperation. “Though, as always, I cannot wish to contradict you, madam, no offer of marriage was made. If you will but recall the moment in question, I am persuaded you will agree.”
She knew he was right. She had never allowed him to say the words he had begun to say, and oddly, now that memory irritated her. She shrugged. “What you said or didn’t say does not signify. I recognize no one’s authority save my own.”
“Philippa,” he said gently, “I should dislike being put to the trouble of applying to your trustees in such a matter as this, but do not think I will not.”
“You cannot,” she retorted, triumph gleaming in her eyes, “for there are no such persons. I am the principal trustee for my own estate as well as for—”
“Good Lord, do you mean Wakefield was such a flat as to put full control of your entire inheritance into your own hands?”
Philippa’s chin rose sharply. “And why should he not, sir? Wakefield was not so gothic as to think women cannot decide things for themselves. Besides,” she added, “he taught me everything I need to know, so he could scarcely declare me unfit and give my affairs into some one else’s hands.”
“But your father! Surely Wakefield must have named him—”
“I am sorry to distress you further, my lord, but you have only me to contend with, and I have no intention of taking orders from you or any other man. I have every right to do what I have done, and some good may even come from it if your precious Melton men learn a lesson in civility. It cannot hurt them, certainly, to learn that a love of hunting does not endow them with the right to crash through property without the owner’s leave to do so. And now I must ask you to take your departure, sir. There is no more you can possibly have to say to the purpose.”
He hesitated for a moment, regarding her narrowly, and she thought she saw dawning respect in his eyes. But then he turned on his heel without another word and she watched with a sudden tightness in her throat as he limped across the common parlor to the hall. For no reason that she could call to mind, she had a wish to burst into tears, and when the front door had shut behind him, she slumped down into one of the library chairs in a way that would have promptly called maternal censure down upon her, and shut her eyes as tightly as she could, as if by doing so she might stop her tears from flowing.
It was impossible to maintain this position for long, of course. First her eyes began to ache and then the muscles in her back began to protest. When she heard footsteps approaching the library from the direction of the hall, she straightened quickly, putting a hand up to smooth her hair as Bickerstaff entered the room carrying a silver tray. He glanced around in bewilderment.
“Oh,” Philippa said, attempting to sound casual, “his lordship has gone, Bickerstaff. I am surprised you did not hear the door shut behind him.”
“But you ordered refreshment, my lady.”
“So I did. Well, you may leave the tray, in any event. I am parched, myself, and can do with a restorative.” The butler looked her over with an experienced eye, but he said nothing, taking his dismissal without protest. That he believed she ought not to be left to her solitude, however, was brought home to Philippa some minutes later when Miss Pellerin entered the library.
“Mercy me!” that lady exclaimed, throwing up her hands as though she were startled to discover Philippa in the room.
“Doing it much too brown, as Edward would say, Cousin.” But Philippa smiled at her. “I collect that Bickerstaff advised you to seek me out, believing I was in need of solace or some such thing.”
“Well, dearest,” Miss Pellerin said, taking a seat and feeling the teapot for warmth before pouring herself a cupful, “he did say that Viscount Rochford had called.”
“And he no doubt also said his lordship was blustering like bull-beef when he descended upon us. Well, he was, but as you see, I have routed him, foot and guns, and have come through the ordeal unscathed.”
“Oh, Philippa, what did he say?”
“Why, he was angry that I have posted our land, of course, and he had the unmitigated gall to order me to take the signs down. To tell you the truth, Cousin,” she added with a rueful sigh, “I was well along to a decision to do just that before he came roaring in, shouting his orders.”
“Oh, dear, he ought to have known a demanding attitude would merely serve to set up your back.”
Philippa grinned at her, more relaxed now. “Well, yes, I think he ought. But the poor man clearly thinks he is still on the Continent leading a squadron or whatever it was he led, with subalterns who salute and say ‘Yes sir’ to his every command. But I am no subaltern, and he ought not to bark his commands at me.”
Miss Pellerin regarded her speculatively. “He did not behave well, certainly, my dear, but must you continue at odds with him this way? You did say you had intended to have the signs removed.”
“I didn’t say that, precisely,” Philippa corrected her. “I confess I had had some thought of doing so, for I met one of our tenants, a perfectly horrid man who would have liked nothing better than to string me to the nearest tree, I think, and he has threatened to arouse the other tenants. Then, of course, Mr. Assheton-Smith and Lord Lonsdale are put out, and I never meant for anyone to be affected but Rochford.”
“You did not think the matter through carefully, Philippa. That has always been one of your worst faults, you know.”
“Yes,” Philippa replied candidly, “I do know, and since this was by way of being a decision about a business matter, I canno
t think why I did not consider it in the methodical way Wakefield taught me. I daresay, however, that left to myself I would have had the stupid signs removed when I discovered what a row they had stirred. But you must see that I cannot do such a thing now, or Rochford would believe I have bowed to his will. That, ma’am, I could not tolerate for an instant.”
“No, I don’t suppose you could,” her companion said with a sigh, “but perhaps you ought to consider the wisdom of returning to London.”
“What? Run from the storm? I promise you, I am not such a rabbit as that. I daresay things may become a trifle difficult, but we shall muddle through.”
“Difficult” proved to be a mild word to describe the events of the next week. Indeed, at Saint Mary’s church in Melton Mowbray the very next morning, Philippa saw that word had passed to everyone about her dreadful deed. A good many glares were shot her way, and after the service she received the cut direct from no fewer than three gentlemen. Mr. Brummell shook his head at her, but she was certain she could detect a glint of amusement in his eyes. In Lord Alvanley’s, when they met on the flagway afterward, there was none.
“Harden your heart and tighten your girth, ith that the way of it, my lady?” he asked with a carefully blank expression.
“Oh, sir, are you at outs with me too? I promise I never meant to make so many people angry.”
“Mutht have meant to,” he said. “Certainly did a proper job of it. Daresay you intended only to play off a trick against Rochford, but your game affecth many more people than that. Hunting’s therious business in Melton, ma’am.”
She tried to explain that it was no game to her, but she could not feel that she had succeeded, and as the week progressed she came to see just how seriously the Melton men took their hunting. On Wednesday Weems informed her that he would have to send to Grantham for feed for their horses.
“Good gracious, I thought you attended to all that in Melton Mowbray,” Philippa protested.
“To be sure, ma’am, we have done in the past, but there seems to be no feed available at present.” He gazed steadily at a point beyond her left shoulder as he spoke.
“I see,” she said, seeing very clearly. “Very well, do what you must.”
Her tenants reacted just as Giles had predicted they would, but she instructed Mr. Weems to explain matters to the most assertive of these, which the poor man did as best he could. Her gamekeeper presented yet another problem, for Jake Pottersby had informed her that Sam Cudlipp was as annoyed with her as Tom Giles was. By far the greatest portion of Sam’s income came from his earth-stopping fees, which were considerable. Still, she could not see what was to be done about that and determined to avoid the gamekeeper altogether for the present, if she could manage to do so.
In order to avoid any incident that might jeopardize Jessalyn’s or Lucinda’s safety, Philippa was forced to forbid their afternoon riding, causing Jessalyn to express her annoyance in such inconsiderate terms that the scene between them ended with Philippa’s ordering her to bed without supper. Fortunately, however, although his own frequent visits had ceased, Rochford did not choose to forbid his sister’s daily visits to Chase Charley—probably, Philippa told herself acidly, because he would then have had to look after her himself. Nonetheless, she was grateful to him, for she was convinced that without Lucinda’s visits to keep Jessalyn’s boredom at bay, her stepdaughter must have driven her mad. As it was, by Friday she was exhausted and sick to death of the whole business. When she entered the drawing room that afternoon in time to see Miss Pellerin whisk a sheet of crude paper out of sight beneath her gray woolen skirt, it was nearly the final straw.
“What, pray, is that, Cousin?” she asked coolly.
“That?” Miss Pellerin removed her silver pince-nez and gazed up with limpid innocence. “Why, ’tis nothing at all, the merest trifle.”
“Then you will not object to showing it to me, my dear ma’am.” Philippa held out her hand, looking down at the older lady in such a way as to make it clear that she would not be denied.
Frowning a little and shaking her head as much in annoyance with herself for having been caught out as for any other reason, Miss Pellerin extracted the sheet of paper and handed it over.
Philippa scanned the clumsily penciled note quickly, her indignation rising with every word. “Who dared to give this to you, ma’am?”
“Why, Bickerstaff did, of course, but you must not be angry with him, for he only did as I asked. That is not the first such missive we have received, you know, but when the first arrived, you were out somewhere, so he brought it to me, and I could not think that showing it to you would serve any good purpose. I made no doubt, in point of fact, that it would infuriate you, just as this one seems to have done. In any event, I instructed Bickerstaff to bring any future things of this sort to me.”
“How many have there been, Cousin Adeliza?”
“Oh, merely two or three,” that lady replied airily.
“I see. Did they each threaten harm to me and mine if I did not see reason, as this one does?”
“Oh, to be sure, none was precisely conciliating, my dear, but wild threats, you know, must not be taken too seriously. I am persuaded no one would truly wish harm to any of us.”
“Well, I cannot like it. Has Bickerstaff any notion who is sending them?”
“No, and they do not come through the post, as you can see. He merely finds them stuck in the door, and there was one in the grain wagon when they came back from Grantham with supplies for the stables. No one can think how it got there. I did ask Mr. Drake if he had any suggestion, you know, but he agreed with me that the least said, the soonest mended.”
“Mr. Drake? Was he here?”
“Well, you know he was, Philippa, for you spoke to him yourself.”
“Oh, yesterday. I had thought you meant today.”
“No, no, and I must say I take it very kindly in him that he has not aligned himself with Rochford over this business. He says there is plenty of hunting and that the affair is no concern of his. And he comes to visit as often as he did before, which when no one else does must be considered a point in his favor, you know.”
“Yes, of course,” Philippa said vaguely. “Do you know, ma’am, I had thought this nonsense would blow over rather more quickly than this.”
“Well, it hasn’t. Mr. Drake says poor Rochford has felt the force of it, too.”
“Rochford? How can that be?”
“Well, you see, my dear, the Melton Men seem to have come to the conclusion that he is somehow at fault for your behavior. I dare say you may thank Mr. Brummell or that rattle Alvanley for putting the notion in their heads. Mr. Drake says that however strongly they might pretend in public that his lordship is merely a victim like themselves, privately they are pressing him most urgently to do whatever he must to bring you to a more conciliating frame of mind. Some, Mr. Drake says, have even gone so far as to badger Rochford to organize a ladies’ hunt.”
Her words gave Philippa food for thought, but she had barely had time to consider whether either the Melton men or Rochford believed that a tame ladies’ hunt would satisfy her, before she had other matters to occupy her mind, for they had no sooner sat down at the dining-room table that evening than there was a clatter of wheels and horses’ hooves on the drive outside the window, and the sound of several masculine voices upraised in cheerful shouting.
“Mercy me!” exclaimed Miss Pellerin, exchanging a startled glance with Philippa. “Has there been an invasion?”
Jessalyn, forgetting her manners in the excitement of the moment, leapt from her chair and scurried to the tall, heavily draped window. That neither of the older ladies censured this unladylike conduct spoke volumes for their own curiosity. For her part, Philippa held her breath, watching the child as she pulled the heavy blue velvet curtains aside and peeped out the window.
Jessalyn let out a shriek of joy. “It is Edward! Edward is come. Oh, ma’am, may I go to him? Please.”
“You wi
ll do no such thing,” said Miss Pellerin firmly. “The very notion. You will sit down at the table and eat your dinner like a Christian, young lady, and we will hear no more about running out to meet what sounds like a whole cavalcade of gentlemen.”
“Well, there were at least four of them,” acknowledged Jessalyn, returning to her place with patent reluctance. “I daresay he has brought friends from school for hunting, and maybe to spend Christmas with us. ’Tis only a fortnight off, after all.”
Philippa had not said anything, but to say that she was delighted by her stepson’s arrival would have been to exaggerate the matter. Rather, she was dismayed. Whether Edward had come for the hunting, which was all too likely, or merely to spend Christmas in what was left of the bosom of his family, he could not be counted upon to take cheerfully the information that his stepmother had set herself against the whole of Leicestershire.
Nor did he. It was apparent before ever he opened his mouth upon entering the dining room that he had seen at least one of the signs. Young Lord Wakefield was in his eighteenth year and had been raised by an affectionate father and a succession of doting nannies to think himself quite a fellow. Even his years at Eton had done little to lower his opinion of himself, for he had had the good fortune to be very good at games and thus was able to escape most of the trials of being a less-than-brilliant scholar. He was of medium height, with curly blond hair, an athletic build, and a generally sunny temper; however, at the moment, his blue eyes were narrowed ominously, and his lips were pressed firmly together, bespeaking his displeasure.
Philippa spoke quickly. “How do you do, Edward? You ought to have sent word ahead, apprising us of your intended arrival. However, if you and your friends do not object to taking potluck, I daresay we can contrive to feed you. And pray, do not think you must change,” she went on hurriedly when he opened his mouth to speak. “We are quite en famille tonight and will not mind you all in your dirt. Will you not introduce your friends to us? You do remember my cousin Adeliza Pellerin, do you not?”
“Well, of course I do,” the young man said abruptly, but her rapid burst of words had served her purpose, for he had evidently recognized the unsuitability of speaking his mind before such an audience. He grimaced, shot her a look of intent, then turned to usher in the three gentlemen who had accompanied him. “That’s Winky—Lord Winkburn, that is,” he said, indicating the first of these, a young man whose neckcloth was rather taller than allowed for comfort and whose body one might have thought a trifle too chubby for the tight yellow pantaloons and bright green jacket he affected.
