She forked the frost-hardened soil of the vegetable patch preparing it for the coming spring. She usually enjoyed gardening but failed to this time, as she found herself furiously attacking the dirt with the garden fork as if a highwayman hid there.
Horatia made daily requests for her father to accompany her on a ride and tried to quell her temper when he refused. She hated to see The General left in his stall far too often.
Her father, perhaps tired of her low spirits, suggested an outing to the village inn for afternoon tea. He would send a servant with an invitation for Lady Kemble to join them. Horatia seized the offering eagerly, even though it meant coming under the scrutiny of Fanny’s mother. She wore her favourite moss-green wool beneath her pelisse. Although the weather remained cold, the chance of snow had lessened, although it now rained almost every day.
Once past the old mill and the rectory, the grey stone church came into view. Her father cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Mr. Oakley.”
Her heart sank. She had hoped he would forget about Frederick Oakley. They had not seen him since Lady Kemble’s dinner party.
“He’s a good fellow, don’t you think?”
“Yes, he is.”
Her father drew the rug up farther over his knees. “He has a fine property and good income.”
“That’s true.”
He studied her. “You might sound more enthusiastic.”
“I don’t love him, Father,” she said, distracted by the image of a pair of blue eyes.
“Marriage isn’t always about love.”
“You loved Mother.”
His eyes grew sad, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned it. “Our mutual regard grew into love after we married.”
As they swayed over the road, Horatia smoothed the fur trim on her sleeve. “Father, I could never come to love Frederick Oakley. We are too different in our sensibilities.”
He sighed heavily. “He dislikes poetry?”
She gave a small laugh. “He has no sense of humor.”
“Oh, very well, then. I shall not insist, although some fathers might do so.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “You are two-and-twenty; most women your age are long wed.”
“Do you not like having me at home?”
His mouth pulled down at the corners. “That is the trouble; I’m growing to like it too much.”
“Oh Father!” Filled with compassion and a sense of helplessness, she kissed his cheek.
The carriage pulled up outside the Duck and Cockerel, a wattle and daub building in the high street.
“Well, I did try, my dear. But here we are,” her father said with relief in his voice.
Horatia alighted with the hope that the conversation would rise above tedious subjects such as an effective treatment for chilblains, recipes for the vegetables in season, and, of course, when the cold weather would finally abate. She yearned to know what was happening in the world beyond Digswell.
Frederick Oakley waited for them on the footpath. He bustled forward in his lanky gait to bow over Horatia’s hand.
“Mr. Oakley,” her father said, with a pleased expression, which told Horatia he hadn’t quite given up on Frederick as a son-in-law. Had he encouraged this meeting? “Good to see you. We are about to take tea. Will you join us?”
Frederick kept hold of her hand rather too long. “I shall be delighted,” he said, smiling at her. Out of the corner of her eye, Horatia saw a tall man emerge from the general store and turned to see Guy stride towards them. She pulled her hand from Frederick’s, her eyes on Guy’s face. He raised an inquiring brow as he removed his hat.
Her father promptly issued a similar invitation to Guy, which caused an unattractive scowl to appear on Frederick’s face.
While they waited for two tables to be joined together and the seating arrangements to be organized, Guy bent his head and spoke in an undertone. “I just heard from the shopkeeper that Eustace informed him he planned to remain here permanently. Only a few weeks ago.”
“Have you discussed Eustace’s plans with him yet?”
“I have not been able to talk to him. He’s still on his sickbed.”
Alarmed, Horatia asked, “Is he very ill?”
Guy looked frustrated, his lips thinning. “I believe he is avoiding me.”
“You cannot be sure of that.” Horatia thought Guy unsympathetic. She planned to visit her godfather as soon as he emerged from the sickroom.
“Have you two forgotten your manners?” Her father tapped her shoulder. “Look who has arrived.”
Fanny, Lady Kemble, and Mrs. Illingworth entered the room. Mrs. Crimpton, who ran the establishment with her husband, promised them currant cake and gingerbread before rushing off to the kitchen.
Frederick Oakley held out a chair for Horatia and slid into the one beside her. “I have been hoping for a chance to talk to you, Miss Cavendish,” he said with an earnest expression. “I have had great success developing a new variety of squash. It is far bigger and a finer green than any I have seen. The flesh whiter...” Horatia caught Guy’s eye over Frederick’s shoulder. An enigmatic smile played on his lips before he turned his attention to Fanny.
Horatia set her teeth in frustration. She wanted to discuss Guy’s problem with Eustace further, and it might be quite a while before she would get the opportunity before the rift widened and became impossible to mend. Especially, if Guy left for London in search of a bride.
Frederick discussed his garden at length as Fanny giggled with Guy and quite spoiled the occasion for Horatia. Her father had sat next to the widow, Mrs. Illingworth, and spoke fulsomely of her sound good sense in the carriage on their return journey. He was to visit her the following afternoon to advise her on her investments.
If she hadn’t been so distracted, Horatia would have shown more interest in this latest development. Was it possible it might lead to marriage? She liked Mrs. Illingworth. She was a calm, fair-haired lady of some forty years, who always seemed to measure her words before speaking.
Horatia had gone home with a headache.
The next afternoon, her father spruced himself up and looked quite animated as he left to visit the widow. A fledgling hope sparked in Horatia’s breast. She would write to her Aunt Emily at once. If another invitation came, her father might agree to part with her while his attention was caught by Mrs. Illingworth.
In the library, Horatia sat behind her father’s desk. Drawing a sheet of bond from the drawer, she trimmed her pen. Dipping her pen in the inkwell, she began, Dear Aunt Emily, and then paused, thinking of her conversation about Eustace with Guy. She would not wait for word that Eustace had risen from his sickbed. The letter forgotten, she headed to the kitchen to ask Cook for some treats to tempt Eustace’s appetite. She would visit him tomorrow.
Guy walked toward the house from the stables. He’d been making himself known to the remainder of his tenants, ensuring they had a plentiful supply of coal. He was disturbed by their primitive living conditions and promised to improve them. Some roofs needed rethatching, their livestock looked to be in poor condition, and their children, thin and undernourished. The peasants were starving in France, but he had expected Rosecroft Hall to be in better shape than this. The estate manager had painted a grim picture, blaming the high price of bread on the Corn Law in ’15. He complained about the decline of English trade owing to the war and Napoleon’s Continental System, high unemployment, and high taxes. Despite the overwhelming obstacles, Guy remained determined to put all to rights here at Rosecroft, and planned to employ more staff as soon as possible, even if it meant traveling to London to find them.
He stood admiring the symmetry of the old house when he heard a vehicle rattle its way up the carriage drive. As it grew closer, he saw it was Simon driving a gig with Horatia beside him.
Guy dismissed the footman and went to help her down. She wore a green pelisse with a fur collar the color of her hair and a pretty bonnet lined with amber silk. The breeze toyed
with the hem of her skirts, revealing a slim ankle, and he considered what delights might lie beneath.
“Good day, Simon,” Guy said with a smile. “I’m sure Williams will be glad of a chinwag.”
“And I. Thank you, my lord.” With a bow, Simon slapped the reins and drove towards the stables.
“You look nice today.” Pleased to see her in a pretty dress, Guy studied Horatia as she pulled away a stray curl blowing into her eyes.
“Thank you,” Horatia said briskly. She tucked her basket over her arm. “I’ve come to see my godfather.”
It wasn’t the warmest of greetings. “Then you must do so. He has left his bed and seeks the sun in the conservatory.”
“That is good news.”
“You won’t find him very talkative.” Guy followed Horatia indoors, waiting as Hammond took her coat and bonnet.
She patted her hair into place, her big expressive eyes filled with doubt. “Perhaps he’s not happy here.”
“Not happy?” A prickle of annoyance tightened his shoulders as he escorted her along the passage. “He has been happy here for the past thirty-five years.”
“He might suspect you want him to leave.”
“I’ve made it perfectly plain. The Hall is large enough for several families to live here and seldom meet.”
“That’s not the point.”
He took her arm and turned her to face him. “Do you think I’m discourteous to Eustace?”
She gave him a quizzical look. “I don’t know. Are you?”
Her lack of faith in him affected him far more than he would have thought possible. Perhaps because it was so unfair. “I have made it plain to Eustace he may remain here for the rest of his days. What more do you suggest? Shall I offer to rub his back?”
She narrowed her eyes. “You are talking nonsense. Perhaps all he wants is your friendship.”
Rather difficult when the man was as frosty as the weather, Guy thought. And then there were those unexplained attacks of which he was somehow unwilling to accuse Eustace of involvement. Eustace exuded lassitude rather than menace. Guy found it difficult to envisage him worked up over even a trifle. But this wasn’t a trifle; it was a great deal. “I’m willing to be friends, if he would explain certain things to me.” He stood at the door to the conservatory and waved her inside. “I won’t discuss it further.” He bowed stiffly and left her there. If she couldn’t understand his point of view, so be it. But when his outrage drained away, he felt decidedly flat. He made his way to the library where he was studying the estate books and articles on modern methods of farming. He had a lot to learn.
Dismayed, Horatia crossed the tiled floor to where her godfather sat with a shawl around his shoulders. She had expected Guy to be more generous, and Eustace did look sad and dejected.
He looked up from his book. “Horatia. How nice to see you. What do you have there?”
She laid her basket down, thinking he did look peaky with sallow skin and purplish bags beneath his eyes. “Some of Cook’s biscuits, plum jam, and an apple cake.”
“My, you do spoil me,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
She bent to kiss him and found he smelled of cloves. Laudanum. He patted her hand. “You are the closest thing I’ll ever have to a daughter, Horatia. The kind of daughter to make a man proud.”
Horatia was touched but couldn’t help feeling uneasy. Eustace’s eyes looked glazed and his movements slow as he summoned a footman.
“Take these to the kitchen,” he instructed the servant. “We’ll have the cake with our tea, shall we?”
She looked around the conservatory as she sat down. The sun highlighted dirty glass panes and corners filled with cobwebs. The area was almost bare of plants. The orchids crowded their pots, needing to be divided and repotted, and the violets struggled in sour soil and appeared to have rot. She had been surprised at how empty of staff the house was. With so few servants to tend them, it was not surprising they’d been neglected.
“Guy told me he hopes you will continue to live here,” she said.
“Yes, he’s said as much to me, but I’m planning to leave for London soon. The season is almost upon us.”
“Will you be well enough?”
“I may as well suffer there as here. I hope to see you in London. Have you had any luck with your father?”
Horatia smiled. “He is taking tea with Mrs. Illingworth this afternoon. I do believe he is developing tender feelings for her.”
Eustace’s ginger eyebrows shot up. Warmth sparked in his blue eyes. “Really? The old dog.” He grew red in the face. “I do apologize, Horatia. Not fit talk for a young lady’s ears. This laudanum has me saying the darndest things.”
She smiled. “Father needs someone to care for him. And someone for him to care for.”
“But not while he has you to look after him. Ah, here is the tea.” A servant placed the tray on the table.
Horatia leant forward to pour.
“Go and find his lordship, Moody. Ask him to join us,” Eustace said to the footman.
Moments later, Guy walked into the room. He cast Horatia an injured look and took his place at the table.
“I’ve been to visit the tenant farmers, Eustace,” Guy said, taking a cup and saucer from Horatia. “They are all in difficult straits.”
Eustace stirred his tea. “As is the whole of England. The Prince of Wales is a ridiculous spendthrift, and there’s no help from his father for he is mad. Lord Melbourne’s Tory government is coming under enormous criticism, but they’re doing their best.” Eustace took a sip of tea. “But I don’t feel it polite to discuss politics now.”
Guy nodded and said nothing.
“This cake is first rate. Please pass my compliments to your cook when you return,” Eustace said.
Rather disappointed not to be part of a robust political discussion, Horatia passed Guy a plate. He was still frowning. If she’d hoped to lighten the atmosphere between them and make things better, it hadn’t worked.
When the tea things were taken away, Eustace leaned back and yawned behind a hand. “Horatia, take Guy to see the lake. I feel in need of a nap.”
Eustace had clasped his hands over his stomach and closed his eyes before they left the room. Guy opened the gate at the bottom of the parterre garden and stood aside for her to pass through. Ahead was an empty fountain with a pile of rotting leaves in the bottom. They skirted the maze, now so overgrown one couldn’t find their way into it, let alone out again.
She strolled with him over the lawns of the park towards the glimmer of water. The breeze had lost it sharpness, and the grass no longer crunched underfoot. “Winter is losing its grip,” she said to fill in a long pause. It was unlike Guy to be so stiff and formal with her.
“It should be nice here in the spring,” he said.
“It’s beautiful.”
“I look forward to it.”
“Have I done something to annoy you?”
He stopped and took her by the shoulders. At his touch, she started. He was so physical, Englishmen weren’t so, at least not the ones she knew. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes, I do,” she said without hesitation.
“You believe unequivocally that I am Lord Fortescue?”
“Yes.”
“Merci.” He dropped his hands. “I hate living under a cloud like this. I feel…helpless. Something I’m not used to.”
“You must be patient. Eustace has written to your sister—”
“It’s not that, for it will be settled in time. It’s a matter of trust.”
“If you could just see it from Eustace’s point of view, Guy—”
“Why should I?” he interjected. “Look around you at the state of the place.”
“I’m sure there’s a good reason for it.”
“You’re so loyal, Horatia.” He took her arm and turned back to the path.
They reached the grassy bank to gaze out over the lentic calm of grey water dotted with waterfowl. “Let’s n
ot talk further on it,” he said. “When I’m with you, I want to think of other things.”
“Like what?” she asked, smiling at him.
A wicked twinkle entered his eyes. “Life about to burgeon forth. And how much I like your laugh.”
She was pleased but shook her head at him. “I do declare you would flirt on your deathbed.” Remembering how close he’d come to it, she put a hand to her mouth.
He reached for her hand. Rubbing his thumb along the underside of her wrist, he said, “I don’t wish to dwell on death. I want to think of life and how much I enjoy kissing you.”
At his gaze rested on her mouth, she sucked in her breath. “You wouldn’t dare kiss me again.”
He stood close to her. Reaching out, he traced the shell of her ear with a finger, moving down to the outline of her jaw. “I never turn down a dare.”
“Such rakish behavior is unforgivable, my lord,” she said, batting his hand away while fighting her own need. It was so hard to resist him.
“You have labeled me a rake, so I’m inclined to fulfill your vision of me.” He took her chin in the heal of his hand and lowered his mouth towards hers.
She stilled. “It’s a matter of trust. Didn’t you just say that yourself?”
Guy straightened and shook his head with a slow grin. “How clever of you, Horatia. Checkmate, one might say.”
He offered her his arm, and she took it. As they strolled back to the house, Horatia didn’t feel clever at all, just regretful that he hadn’t kissed her. But the closer they grew to one another, the more difficult it became for her to face the fact he would never be hers.
Three weeks passed with it raining every day and only a card party at Lady Kemble’s on the social agenda. Both Guy and Eustace sent their regrets, but Mrs. Illingworth attended, and her father’s courtship with the widow continued at a snail’s pace.
Bored and frustrated by not knowing what was happening at Rosecroft Hall, Horatia turned her attention to the plight of The General. She sought her father and found him in his favourite chair in the library, sorting through his salmon fly hooks, his new copy of Thomas Best’s A Concise Treatise on the Art of Angling open on the desk.
A Baron in Her Bed Page 9
