The Defiant Miss Foster & A Highly Respectable Widow

by Melinda McRae

  “Transportation?” the boy’s eyes grew wide in alarm.

  “You look like an adventurous sort of lad,” Knowlton continued, barely able to suppress his grin. “Just the type to enjoy a long sea voyage. Why, I daresay you would find it the adventure of a lifetime.”

  “I don’t want to be transported,” the lad protested. “I have to stay here and take care of my mama.”

  “Oh, I am certain we could arrange for her to travel with you too,” Knowlton agreed amiably. “I don’t hold with the practice of splitting families up on these occasions.”

  “I bet if you went to the earl he would not mind too much that I took some of his plums,” the boy said. “Everyone says he’s a right’un. Maybe if you told him I would never do it again, he would not object.”

  “I hate to disillusion you, my boy, but I am the Earl of Knowlton.”

  The boy’s eyes widened with surprise and he bowed hastily. “It is an honor to meet you, my lord. I could pay you for the plums,” he offered eagerly. “Leastwise, not with money, but I could do some work for you. Anything you want. I can pull weeds or scrub pots.” He looked at Knowlton with eager apprehension.

  Knowlton rubbed his chin as if deep in thought. “I don’t know. I have a whole staff of gardeners to pull my weeds. And there is more than one scullery maid to scrub my pots. What else can you do?”

  “I could write your letters! Even Mama says I have a neat hand.” Then his face fell. “ ’Course, you might have to help me with the spelling.”

  “A secretary who cannot spell. Just what I need.”

  “I could carve you a whistle.”

  Knowlton looked skeptical. “A whistle?”

  The lad nodded eagerly. “From the willows down by the pond. They make the most marvelous sound when you cut them just right. Mama won’t even let me blow them in the house,” he announced proudly.

  “Well enough, then, you can make me a whistle to pay for the plums. And I will concede you do not know your own strength and did not mean to hit my horse with your missile. But there is still the trespassing . . . although I suspect,” said Knowlton, unable to keep a grin from his face, “that someone’s mother is going to be extremely perturbed about the state of his clothes.”

  The lad looked down in chagrin at his dirt-bespattered breeches. “I guess she is going to be angry.” He looked up, brightening. “She might not mind as much if I bring her lots of plums.”

  Knowlton threw back his head and laughed at the logic. He put his arm companionably around the boy’s shoulder.

  “I remember a few times in my youth when I received a thrashing for ruining my clothes,” he confided. “I think plums just might do the trick for you.”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “It is worth a try. Come, I will help you. How many plums does your mother need?”

  The lad shrugged. “There are just the two of us. How many can two people eat?”

  “Where do you live?” Knowlton asked in curiosity as he reached up to pull a ripe plum from its branch.

  “Down across that field there,” the boy said, pointing. “In the Rose Cottage.”

  Knowlton nodded in recognition. He recalled there had been a new renter in the spring.

  “If that is the case, you may feel free to help yourself to as many plums as you like, anytime,” Knowlton said. “Do you have a name, lad?”

  “Robert Mayfield, my lord,” he replied. “My mama calls me Robbie. That’s ’cause I’m named for my father and it was too confusing to have two Roberts.”

  “Your father is not living with you?”

  “He’s dead,” Robbie said quietly.

  “I am sorry, Robbie,” replied Knowlton, berating himself for his curiosity.

  “He was killed at Salamanca,” Robbie said with a proud air. “He was a captain in the cavalry. I have his sword, except Mama won’t let me play with it. And when I am old enough I am going to join a cavalry regiment.”

  “An admirable goal,” said Knowlton. So Mrs. Mayfield was a widow? It might behoove him to look in on his latest tenant. Widows could often be very lonely. He stripped off his coat.

  “We can use this to carry the plums to your house,” he said easily.

  Robbie stared at him. “Won’t your mama be mad if you ruin your coat?”

  Knowlton laughed. “She would if she were still here, Robbie my boy. But I can ruin my coats without fear these days. She died many a year ago.”

  “I am sorry, sir,” said Robbie.

  His evident sincerity touched Knowlton. He reached down and picked out a ripe plum fom the pile upon the ground. Polishing the fruit on his sleeve, he bit into it and savored the satisfying, juicy tartness. He gestured toward the stack. “Have one.”

  Robbie eagerly complied. Knowlton eased himself to the ground, stretching out his tall frame on the sweet-smelling grass, leaning back on one elbow while he savored his plum. Lord, it was good to be home.

  After the dirt and noise of the city, the country seemed even more peaceful than he remembered. The sound of the breeze rustling the leaves overhead, the nearby trill of a bird, all brought back in a rush memories of his own childhood here at Warrenton. When every new day was an adventure and all was new and exciting. He had never been bored in those days. Maybe he could recapture some of that youthful enthusiasm during his stay this time.

  With a disgruntled sigh, Knowlton flung the pit into the far reaches of the orchard, wiping his sticky fingers on his now-filthy buckskins. Between his coat and breeches, his valet would have a fit. That brought a grin to Knowlton’s face. The man was far too concerned with his master’s consequence.

  Knowlton cleared his throat. “Now, Robbie, if you can manage to hold on to the plums, we can probably get that foolish beast of mine to carry us both. I will escort you home and explain matters to your mama.” And he could avail himself of the opportunity of meeting the widowed Mrs. Mayfield. Would she have the same flaming red hair as her son? In his experience, the old adage about the passionate nature of redheads held true. With renewed interest, Knowlton started back toward the lane, Robbie half-running to keep up with the lengthy strides.

  Knowlton untied his horse and held the reins, then looked expectantly at Robbie.

  “Up, boy. We haven’t got all afternoon.”

  “I have never been on a horse, sir.”

  The revelation astounded Knowlton. “You want to join a cavalry regiment and you do not know how to ride? I think you had better set your sights on a rifle brigade. Of course, you probably have not fired a gun either.”

  Robbie shook his head. “Mama says both are too dangerous.”

  Knowlton sighed in exasperation. Hen-witted women could be the death of little boys. He took the parcel of plums and set them on the ground, gave his horse a stern admonition to remain still, and put his hands together. “Step here and I will boost you up.”

  Robbie did as ordered and managed to creditably scramble into the saddle. Knowlton handed him the coat full of plums, then climbed up behind him.

  “This is prodigiously wonderful,” Robbie exclaimed with awe, surveying the world from his new vantage point.

  “Prodigiously?”

  “That is my new word this week,” the lad explained proudly. “Mama has me learn a new one every week. The vicar says it is an admirable plan.”

  ' “You are friends with the vicar?”

  “He is giving me my lessons.”

  Knowlton’s brow furrowed. “You have lessons in the summer?”

  | “Mama said I missed too much time last spring when we made the move here, so I needed to study all summer if I wasn’t to fall too far behind.”

  “And what is the vicar teaching you?”

  “Oh, Latin, Greek, a little history. But I think Mama knows more history than he does.”

  “And how do you find Latin and Greek?” Knowlton asked impishly.

  “Truly?” Robbie asked warily.

  “Truly.”

  “Not very well.”


  Knowlton laughed. “I shall tell you a secret, Robbie, my boy. I loathed Latin and Greek when I was your age. Hated them. Detested them.”

  “And did your mama make you study them anyway?”

  He nodded. “Not only my mama, but my father and my tutor. And if my lessons were not perfect, I was thrashed. The vicar does not thrash you if you make a mistake, does he?”

  “No,” said Robbie, with obvious relief. “Do you still hate Latin and Greek?”

  “Promise me you will not tell your mother?” Knowlton whispered conspiratorially.

  “I promise.”

  “I still loathe them.”

  Robbie grinned. “Mama would be very angry if she heard you say that. She says education is very important.” “I did not say education was unimportant,” Knowlton said. “I merely meant that cramming Latin and Greek into children’s heads is an abominable practice. I much more approve of learning a useful language like French or Italian.”

  “Or Spanish!” said Robbie excitedly. “I can still remember one time when Papa was home he taught us a few words of Spanish. Buenas lardes—that means ‘good afternoon.’ And gracias is ‘thank you.’ ”

  “A sight more useful than Latin, I am certain,” muttered Knowlton as the Rose Cottage came into view. Stopping his horse at the gate, he dismounted and carefully assisted Robbie down. So Mrs. Mayfield was a mother who did not approve of horses and rifles—yet knew history and insisted her son have a gentleman’s education. His interest piqued, Knowlton followed the racing boy down the front path. It was time to make the acquaintance of this intriguing lady.

  Chapter Two

  She was a Phantom of Delight When first she gleamed upon my sight.

  —Wordsworth

  Katherine Mayfield rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand, leaving a smudge of flour behind. She returned to her rhythmic kneading with renewed determination. Soon she could turn the loaves into the pans, pop them into the oven, and direct her attention to . . .

  A frown marred her pale face. There were so many things she needed to accomplish: the washing, the mending, letting out Robbie’s clothes for what must be the hundredth time. She shook her head in dismay as she thought how rapidly he was growing. The clothes he had now would last until the weather turned this fall, but then she would be faced with providing him an entire head-to-foot wardrobe. And that meant money. Which meant she must turn from her own chores to her work for Mrs. Gorton, the local seamstress. One more afternoon of stitching delicate lace trim onto some squire’s daughter’s gown.

  Gazing longingly at the bright sunlit yard outside, Katherine wished she could afford to toss her sewing work aside and take the afternoon for herself. It would be heaven to free her mind for a few hours from the never-ceasing struggle to survive. She could pretend she was a grand lady whose servants took care of every minute detail of running the house while she spent her time as she wished.

  Katherine shook her head at her futile longings. She could only attach the blame to herself for the state she and Robbie were in. The knowledge that she had done the right thing provided cold comfort when they lived so close to the edge.

  With the bread tucked safely into the oven, Katherine turned to wash the flour from her hands. Hearing Robbie’s excited chattering through the window, she paused to listen. He had been gone most of the afternoon and she prayed he had not got into any more mischief this week. She froze in mid-step when she heard a strange masculine voice. Robbie had been up to something, the wretch! Hastily rinsing her hands, Katherine dried them on her apron as she hastened through the narrow passageway to the front hall.

  Pulling open the door, she saw Robbie dancing down the cobbled pathway, followed by a tall stranger whose demeanor and bearing belied his disheveled appearance.

  “Mama, Mama,” cried Robbie. “ ’Tis the earl; I met him today in the orchard and he says we can have as many plums as we want.”

  Katherine wanted to sink into the stone steps. How many

  times had she warned Robbie against trespassing on the earl’s property? Instead, she gathered her skirts and bobbed a deferential curtsy to her new landlord, keeping her eyes carefully averted.

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, my lord.”

  The standard greeting he had planned froze on his Ups as Knowlton obtained his first close look at Mrs. Mayfield. Dear God, an angel had landed on his doorstep! His pohte social smile transformed itself into a wide grin of male appreciation as he perused her from head to toe. He easily looked past the drab dress, cap-covered head, and flour- smudged nose to what lay beneath. Mrs. Mayfield was quite one of the most stunning women he had ever seen. The stragghng red curls peeking out from under her cap set off a flawless complexion unmarked by the trace of a freckle. And her form ... It looked to be ample in all the right places, soft, and curving where it should.

  Returning his gaze to her face, he found himself staring into the loveliest pair of blue eyes he had ever seen. The mingled expression of anger and wariness he saw there bemused him.

  Katherine lifted her gaze and caught her breath at the appreciative look in the earl’s eyes. Was it going to start all over again here? She struggled against her anger. “Have you seen quite enough, my lord?”

  Her tone was icy, but as Knowlton expected, the accent was cultivated.

  “You don’t have to call him ‘my lord,’ ” Robbie piped up. “He’s not toplofty at all. See all the plums we gathered? And I got to ride on his horse! It was ever so high in the air. And I did not fall off. Can I get a horse of my own now?”

  “Do not bombard your mother with so much information at once, you scamp,” Knowlton said, ruffling the boy’s hair. “If you know what is good for you, you will run off and make yourself more presentable before your mother has a chance to take a good look at your appearance.”

  Katherine caught only a brief flash of Robbie’s stained clothing as he raced by, and she grimaced in dismay. Turning back to the earl, she smiled coolly.

  “I can only surmise you found him stealing plums in your orchard,” she said. “I am very sorry, my lord. He has been

  told time and time again not to wander onto the estate grounds, but he—”

  Knowlton raised a forestalling hand. “I do not mind in the least. He was in the oldest portion of the orchard. I always allow my tenants free access to the fruit there. He did nothing he should not have.” Knowlton had already determined not to alarm her with the plum-throwing incident. He thought Robbie had already been properly chastened for that indiscretion.

  “Thank you, my lord,” Katherine replied. She noted the expectant gleam in his cool gray eyes. “Was there another matter?”

  “It is a hot afternoon,” he said. He wanted to linger in her presence, to determine if his first reaction had been overhasty. He could simply not believe his good fortune. “Perhaps a glass of something cool . . . ?”

  He watched carefully as dismay momentarily flitted over her face; then her previous closed expression returned.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord. Please come inside. I can bring you a glass of water, or there is some May wine, if you prefer.”

  “Water would be most welcome,” he said, following her over the threshold and into the parlor.

  Katherine hastily retreated to the kitchen, searching to find a glass that was not cracked or chipped. So here was the great Earl of Knowlton. He did not look at all like she had imagined. In his shirtsleeves, with the casually open collar, stained buckskins, and windblown hair, he looked more like a country squire than one of the richest men in the kingdom. And one of the most notorious womanizers. A frisson of apprehension gripped her. Katherine prayed there would be no trouble here, as there had been in the last two places she had lived. She had been all too aware of his appreciative appraisal on the front steps. Those scrutinizing gray eyes made her uncomfortable.

  She hoped the intentional drabness of her costume had given him pause. It was only a pity she could not do something to h
er hair. One sight of that color and all men thought one thing. She did want to stay in this neighborhood for a while, at least; another move would be ruinously expensive.

  During her absence, Knowlton’s sharp eyes appraised the shabby parlor, noting the worn upholstery on the two chairs and the tallow candles on the highly polished but conspicuously bare table. It was very clear that Mrs. Mayfield was not a widow of means. She might have an interest, then, in improving her financial station. This promised to be a most propitious situation.

  When Mrs. Mayfield reappeared with his water, Knowlton gestured for her to sit, sensing her wariness. He did his best to put her at ease.

  “Is the cottage to your liking?” He noted approvingly that a few recalcitrant locks of hair crept from beneath her kitchen cap, giving her a less-than-matronly appearance. Particularly since her hair was the same flaming shade as Robbie’s. There was something elementally exciting about red hair on a woman.

  Katherine nodded politely, uncomfortably aware of his close examination.

  “No leaking roof? Sticking windows?” He arched a quizzing brow.

  “Everything is satisfactory, my lord.”

  “You have only to speak to Mr. Taggert if you encounter any difficulties.” Knowlton smiled easily. “I want my tenants to be happy. Any justified repairs will be performed.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” Katherine relaxed her guard slightly. If he remained true to his word, Lord Knowlton would be a vast improvement over her last landlord. She suppressed a shiver at the memory of the old, drafty, and damp cottage in which she and Robbie had spent the previous winter.

  “You have a lively son,” Knowlton commented. “He must lead you on a merry dance.”