“The stink in that old man’s carriage was positively wretched. I shall be surprised if I can eat very much, because it has rendered me nauseated. But I should try to eat, or else I might faint. My head is feverish sore.”
Aunt Lizzie assured her that food would be prepared immediately.
“Where is the rest of your house?” Lady Mercy asked in the same brusque tone. “Did it burn down? Is there more beyond?”
“I’m afraid this is all there is, my lady.”
“But it’s all so small and confined. Why, I could walk from one end to the other in less than a minute. There is nowhere to hide.”
“It’s quite enough for me to keep up. ’Tis all a widow like me can need.”
“Of course it’s enough,” Ellie agreed warmly.
“And there’s not much call for me to hide. Not at my age, my lady.”
On the outside, her aunt’s cottage was somewhat shabby: the roof dipped in the middle, and the old casement windows were in need of fresh paint on the trim. The interior leaned toward practical rather than elegant, but it was as comfortable and as beloved to Ellie as a dear old friend. She took a glad breath of the familiar smoky odor, for her aunt’s chimney was stubbornly reluctant to let smoke outside, preferring to blow it back into the house. Underfoot was the same crooked flagstone floor, and above her head the upper storey of the house still tilted west at a steep angle, requiring the inhabitants to find their bed with a somewhat drunken lurch every evening.
Everything was as it should be. Few things in her life were this reliable.
She hugged her arms and crouched by the parlor fire to let the heat tickle her face, and listened to the muffled thumps of James dragging her trunk up the stairs to the guest room. He must be taming his curses on her aunt’s behalf. Now what was she going to do with him until Grieves arrived with Dr. Salt?
“I had better make some tea.” Her aunt was tidying the parlor with quick, fidgety hands, folding sewing away, closing a newspaper, and reorganizing pillows on the sofa.
“I’m very disagreeable if I’m not fed on time,” Lady Mercy exclaimed before catching sight of the parakeet and dashing over to study it. “Does he speak?”
“Quite frequently,” Aunt Lizzie replied. “And always when I don’t want him to do so. The things he picks up…oh dear!”
“He is beautiful,” the young lady exclaimed. “I should like to buy him. How much, my good woman, will it cost me?”
“Cost…oh dear…he is not for sale, my lady. I could not part with him. He belonged to my deceased husband, Captain—”
“Of course he is for sale. Everything is. For the right price.”
“Lady Mercy,” Ellie admonished her, “indeed, everything is not for sale! Mind your manners. And your coin.”
The girl pouted ferociously, her lion’s mane of copper curls seeming to stand out from her head, bristling with anger.
Ellie ignored her and silently greeted the familiar objects along her aunt’s mantel. The old clock and its steady, galloping click-clack reminded her of quiet afternoons by this fire with her sisters, whenever the summer rain kept them indoors. Her sisters played with their dolls and quarreled with each other, while she played solitaire or wrote in her diary—elaborate, adventurous stories, seldom with a shred of truth. She looked farther along the mantel, at the little china ornaments, and then the framed pictures above the spinet in the corner.
“I won’t be any trouble this time, Aunt Lizzie. I promise.” It was something she’d uttered many times, standing in this room. Now it came mechanically from her lips.
The scuffing, groaning cacophony of James as he labored with her trunk across the floor above made all three women roll their eyes to the ceiling to follow his bumpy progress. First to glance downward again, Ellie saw the anxious frown pleating her aunt’s brow.
“I assure you, Aunt Lizzie, I am quite beyond all mischief now and content to be good. At my age, what else can I be?”
The ancient parakeet let out a slow, tremulous squawk that sounded very much like an “uh, oh” from his large cage by the window.
She threw the bird a quick frown, and her aunt scurried off to make tea.
As she perused the mantel again and rubbed her arms, Ellie’s gaze came to rest on a clay pipe beside the clock. Her eyes had only skimmed it before, taking it for one of her uncle’s possessions kept by her aunt out of fondness. She picked it up and sniffed the bowl. There was a strong odor of fresh tobacco smoke, and if her fingertips did not deceive her, the pipe was still warm, as if it had not long been put out.
Carefully she set it back where she found it. She assumed her aunt must have taken up the pipe in tribute to the dead captain.
She realized suddenly that the lady went to make the tea herself, when she would usually call for her housemaid, so Ellie hurried down the passage and into the kitchen. She entered just as the back door closed. Her aunt turned, almost dropping the teacups she was setting on the tray.
“My dear girl, stay by the fire in the parlor and get warm. You must not catch cold.”
“Was that Mary Wills just gone out?”
It seemed her aunt’s hearing had also deteriorated, for she didn’t answer, causing Ellie to repeat her question in a louder voice.
“Goodness, no,” came the rattled reply eventually. “I have not had Mary here these last two winters. She went to look after her sister in Thrapstead, you know, and it was well she did, for I could scarce afford her any longer. I have little Molly Robbins only a few times a week now to help around the house. She’s hoping to secure a post as a housemaid in a year or two, in Morecroft, and the experience is good for her.”
“Perhaps Smallwick can give her some advice.” Smiling, Ellie stole a shortbread biscuit from the tea tray.
Her aunt set the teapot down with a bang. “That is James Hartley, is it not? My eyesight is poor, but not that bad, Ellie! What can you be up to now?”
“Aunt Lizzie, it is nothing to—”
An ominous crash stole the sentence from her. The two women hurried out into the hall just as James tumbled down the narrow stairs and landed at their feet.
He lay there in an ungainly sprawl, blinking up at them. “I banged my head on the ceiling and tripped. Who built this damned cottage? An elf?”
Poor James. He wasn’t used to small houses with narrow stairs and treacherous, threadbare carpets. As Aunt Lizzie helped him upright, that entitled, peevish expression vanished from his face again, replaced by a blank look. One more befitting the “injured” subservient valet.
But for those few seconds in which he let down his mask, startled by the abrupt fall, the old arrogant James was there again.
Ellie saw, and now she knew for certain what she had previously begun to suspect.
The lying hound!
She was unable to restrain her laughter. It burst out of her in a gale and swept her double.
***
“Well, really, Ellie!” her aunt cried. “This is no time for hilarity.”
James, rubbing his doubly abused head and clambering unsteadily to his feet, quite agreed. How typical of the woman to find humor in his pain. She was laughing so hard she almost choked. If his head fell off, she might expire with amusement.
Lady Mercy immediately wandered out into the passage to see what all the fuss was about, and with her talent for observing fault, pointed out that he’d split his breeches.
Eliza Cawley took charge. She shooed him down the passage into the kitchen, trying to cover his behind with her apron. James ducked his head to pass into the small, warm kitchen.
“Now you take those off, Mr. Hartley, and I’ll have them sewn up for you in no time.”
He glowered down at the little woman. “The name, madam, is Smallwick. You confuse me with someone else.”
She squinted through her round spectacles, lips drawn together in a small “o.”
“I assure you, madam,” he added firmly, “the name is Smallwick.”
The little
woman knew otherwise, and he feared she might turn him out of her house, but instead, her misty-eyed gaze perused the bump on his brow and the black eye. Her expression softened. “I can see you’ve been in the wars, young man. Trailing after my niece has brought you little good fortune, no doubt.”
Her kindly tone surprised him. She must have been put out to suddenly receive three guests all at once in her tiny house—especially with one of them being a Hartley—yet she took time now to fuss over him, and he was grateful for it. His back ached from hauling that woman’s trunk around all day. His clothes were uncomfortably damp, and he was quite certain he had a broken ankle.
“Take off your breeches,” she repeated, “and I’ll have Molly Robbins mend them. She’s a bony wisp of a girl, whom a good gust of wind could blow clear across the common, and she’s in possession of a frightfully melancholic disposition, but she has a very neat stitch. Worry not a bit, young man, I’ve seen it all before. Drop your breeches. At my age, precious little is a shock anymore.”
He’d never been treated like this in his life. Servants were helpful but detached, and they did not chatter or pat his cheek as if he was a little boy up to no good. But it was quite pleasant.
Although she’d been widowed more than twenty years, Eliza Cawley produced another pair of breeches for his temporary use. They were too wide around the waist and too short in the leg, but “any port in a storm” as she remarked merrily—attributing the saying to her dear departed husband, Captain Cawley, as if he was the first person ever to use the phrase.
When Ellie saw him in the borrowed breeches, she exhaled another guffaw that continued, off and on, for half an hour, before they all thought she finally had it tamed.
“Poor Smallwick,” she remarked as they sat down to tea in the parlor, “what a day you have had.”
Her aunt was silent for a while as she periodically stared at James, then at her niece. Ellie eventually found a subject to distract her aunt from any potentially difficult questions. “Tell me what news of the village. There must be so much that has happened since I was last here.”
“Well!” The little woman got comfortable in her chair. “You will remember I wrote to you that Henry Valentine was selling his land?”
“Yes.”
“He and that dreadful wife of his have moved to Norwich.”
“Ah. Good.”
“And Miss Sarah Dawkins married Obediah Shook over in Sydney Marshes, only to find that she did not like him very much after all and fled—to Bury St. Edmunds, of all places, with his gardener. That was a dreadful scandal. Then her sister…you will remember Amy Dawkins? Not to be outdone, she eloped with a brush salesman. Can you imagine? He simply came to their door one day to sell brushes, and before anyone knew anything about it, she up and left with him. Now, I understand, she goes by the name of Mrs. Arthur Hopper, although whether or not there has been a proper marriage to warrant the name is a matter for dispute.” The little woman gave an emphatic shrug. “Poor Jane Osborne remains unwed. She no longer comes to visit me as I have only the one parlor, and she thinks herself suddenly too good now to visit anyone with less than two.”
“Really?”
“It all began when she went to Bath for a Season this year. Her father paid a vast sum for an entirely new wardrobe and arranged for her to stay with a good family there. He had hoped, you see, to broaden her horizons. I suppose he thought she would return with a husband, or at least a beau. Alas, she returned only with a very fashionable but ugly parade of new bonnets, and a swelled head upon which to wear them. Now no one can get a word out of her about anything except her visit to Bath and her many dances there at the upper rooms. And that was very nearly twelve months ago.”
Ellie looked enthralled by this gossip. She nodded, encouraging her aunt.
“However, I do believe there was one gentleman—a distinguished, titled, older man. She talked of him quite a lot when she first returned to Sydney Dovedale, and her father thought there might be a connection, but the fellow never wrote, and it has all come to nothing. As these things often do.” Every other word or so, Eliza Cawley threw James a quick glance and then looked at her niece.
By the by, he wanted to say out loud, I bought your niece for a thousand pounds, and she’s agreed to spend five nights with me. Now that was news.
“You came to Sydney Dovedale just in time, dear Ellie,” her aunt continued, “for the Kanes are holding a Christmas party tomorrow evening up at the farm. The entire village is invited, although I daresay some will not attend. Old Mr. Carstairs has the gout and does not go out for fear of someone knocking into his foot. And Mrs. Winstanley is in mourning for her youngest son, who was killed most tragically near Oxford when his carriage overturned, so she will not venture out for the party. But Sophie will be so delighted to see you again. She asks me, each time I see her, how you are doing and if I have had a letter from you lately. Even though I know she has letters from you at least as often as I.”
James looked down at his hands where they rested on his thighs. Sophia. He hadn’t seen her for two years. Oddly enough, while following his quarry into the country, he had not given any thought to what else he might find in Sydney Dovedale. His thoughts had been filled with Ellie Vyne and only her.
He looked up. Their gazes locked. He saw the doubt, the question in her eyes. Quickly he looked down again, wondering why she cared whether he still had feelings for Sophia. She wanted only his money. And a stud service.
“A party! That sounds wonderful, Aunt Lizzie,” she said.
“I want to go to the party,” Lady Mercy announced through a large bite of sponge cake.
“You may not still be here by then,” Ellie told her. “Your brother comes to take you home.”
The girl fell into a sulk, lifted only when Eliza Cawley offered her more cake. “Considering you keep no cook, this is really rather good. Quite edible,” the girl announced, watching another slice descend to her plate. “Of course, since these people have neglected to feed me today, I could eat anything. I would not know if it tasted vile. No one gave a thought to me once on our journey, although my stomach has rumbled like a lion all morning. They were both too busy looking at each other and touching—”
“Your nausea has passed, Lady Mercy?” James interrupted swiftly.
“Oh…yes.” She bit daintily into her slice of cake. “I am, fortunately, of a strong constitution. I am seldom ill for long.”
“More tea, Smallwick?” Ellie asked.
“No thank you, madam.” He’d never liked tea and really drank it only when forced.
“Yes, I daresay you’d prefer something stronger.”
Eyes narrowed hastily, he looked at her across the table, but her expression betrayed nothing. He was quite sure he still had her fooled into believing his amnesia.
“You ought to let me go to that party,” chirped Lady Mercy, glaring hard at Ellie. “You owe me a favor. Remember?”
Ellie sipped her tea. “I remember.”
“Besides, my brother won’t be in any hurry to come and get me. Carver hates leaving London and hasn’t been to the countryside since Papa’s funeral. He doesn’t even visit the estate because he says it’s too boring there. You’ll see. He won’t come for ages. Whether you like it or not, you’re stuck with me, so there! You’d better entertain me, or I shall be very sour, I daresay.”
Eliza Cawley made a small whimper of distress as she watched the diminutive tornado work its destruction upon the food she’d provided. James felt a sharp twinge of guilt for leaving the child to this poor woman’s care, but he could not take her to Hartley House, for it would expose his own presence in the county, and he didn’t want his grandmother knowing he was there yet. She would instantly try to involve him in a storm of social activities, forcing various titled young ladies down his throat. All he wanted was to spend time with the villainous, lying baggage for whom he’d paid a thousand pounds.
She had a little speck of sugar on her lip. He itched to wipe it fo
r her, but their eyes met again just as she found it with the tip of her tongue and swept it clean. Her lips toyed with a smile. “Are you sure there’s nothing more you want, Smallwick?”
James stared.
“You look as if you want to ask for something,” she pressed.
Miss Vyne was in the mood to flirt with her manservant, apparently.
“Nothing…at the moment, madam.”
He thought about that narrow bed upstairs in the spare chamber. It was barely big enough for one careful sleeper, let alone two clandestine lovers. If she meant to seduce the hapless Smallwick, how was she going to manage this? For once the problem was someone else’s, not his. Inwardly, he smiled. There were advantages to being a servant, it seemed. Tonight’s arrangements were her problem, if she wanted her nightly servicing. From the smokiness of her eyes, she wasn’t about to let his memory loss stop her. Why would it? The woman was a stranger to scruples.
When Grieves failed to arrive with Dr. Salt and night began to close in with the brutal swiftness of winter, Mrs. Cawley told James he might sleep on the parlor sofa. It could be made quite comfortable with pillows and blankets. Lady Mercy was to sleep with Ellie in the small spare bedchamber above.
“What will people think?” the old lady muttered. “A single man spending the night in the house of a respectable widow! Had Merryweather’s Tavern any rooms free, I could send you there, young man.”
“Thank you for the hospitality, madam. I am grateful, for until my master arrives, I have nowhere else and would be forced to spend the night on a park bench were it not for your kindness.”
She turned to leave, taking a candle from the mantel with her.
“Good night, madam,” he said as he plumped his borrowed pillows. “And thank you again for the breeches. It was a lucky thing you should have some here, in this house of a respectable widow.”
She looked over her shoulder, and a flush stained her cheeks. “Yes. I…I kept some of the captain’s things when he died.”
James smiled. He remembered Captain Cawley as a lofty, spare fellow. The breeches she’d lent him belonged to someone as broad as they were tall. While dragging Ellie’s trunk into the spare room earlier, he’d chanced to look out of a window just in time to see such a rotund figure departing the back gate of the cottage in the manner of someone who preferred not to be seen. Eliza Cawley apparently had a gentleman friend.
The Wicked Wedding of Miss Ellie Vyne Page 16
