Ridiculous

by D. L. Carter

  “Lack of preparation?” suggested Shoffer. “You are young for your responsibilities and could have been no more than eighteen when your father died. Your father could hardly have expected you to inherit so soon. My father trained me from boyhood for my estates. I imagine if the training were not completed, I would have found it difficult, nay, impossible. Even a small estate has its particulars and problems. If I may be so impolite as to inquire, how large an estate weighs on your mind?”

  Millicent closed her eyes and rattled off the list of Mr. North's properties she had memorized. She opened her eyes and peered up at Shoffer sitting tall on his much larger horse, with a rather stunned expression on his face.

  “That is a considerable estate,” he said, after a pause.

  “I know.” By this time they were back within sight of the manor buildings. Despite the weather, Mrs. Prichart and her daughters were out and about in the kitchen garden. One of the girls caught sight of Millicent and Shoffer and her shout immediately set off a round of handkerchief fluttering waves and curtsies. Exchanging a glance with Shoffer, Millicent straightened her spine. “The sad thing is, so do they.”

  Chapter Four

  Dinner, set at country hours, was not bad. Millicent concentrated on being the fribble and rattle that everyone seemed to accept so well and distracted the women of the family for most of the meal with humorous stories of Bath society. The eldest daughter, Eilowen, positioned between Shoffer and Millicent, practiced what coquetry she knew to no avail. Millicent pretended not to notice and left Shoffer to suffer and deal with the situation as best he could. As with every social event both good and bad, dinner came to an end and Mrs. Prichart, determined to demonstrate the superiority of her household, summoned the ladies to accompany her to who knew where since the other parlor was currently a bedroom.

  A bottle of port was brought to the table and Shoffer offered around his own selection of cigars. Millicent declined both.

  “I must say,” said Mr. Prichart to Millicent as the door closed behind the ladies. “That you are not the man your father's letter led me to believe you were.”

  Millicent's hand trembled on her wineglass. Letter? Whatever had the old man written? That Mr. North was as blind as a bat? Had it given his age? His interests? What item of description had revealed Millicent's deception?

  Her breath caught and she could barely bring herself to raise her eyes to her hosts.

  “Why, I expected someone, well … I'm not sure what I expected,” continued Mr. Prichart. “You are a rattle, that's for sure, but not stupid or ignorant. You listened to me, to his Grace here, and took time to think about my problems. I have to say, I never expected to respect you.”

  “You do surprise me,” said Millicent, forcing herself to unclench her death grip on the glass stem before she shattered it. “Firstly, because I was not aware of any letter.”

  “Oh, it arrived a few months before your father died. It was supposed to reassure me that you would not be my landlord for long. Gave me the impression you were ill.”

  Millicent said nothing, but sat contemplating her wine while her mind raced. Obviously, Mr. Prichart brought this subject up for a reason, but she did not know what to do. It was not as if the late Mr. North had taken her into his confidence regarding his relationship with his parent, nor even on the subject of his health.

  “Mr. Prichart, I suspect you have performed a miracle,” said Shoffer. “You have rendered Mr. North speechless.”

  Millicent cast a faint smile in his direction. “I am merely contemplating the contents of such a letter. Until this moment, I was unaware of communication between my father and Mr. Prichart and I was wondering why Mr. Prichart should be my father's confidant. Did you know him so well?”

  “Never met him. All matters between us were dealt with by letter with his man of business. But you misunderstand me, Mr. North; I was not the only one who received it. It was my impression that a similar letter was sent to all those who would become your tenants. I do remember discussing the matter with Mr. Owens on market day. You will be calling upon him next, I imagine, since his property is nearest, near thirty miles from here.”

  After some hesitation Millicent ventured a soft, “I wonder what he wrote.”

  “I have the letter still, Mr. North, if you wish to see it?”

  When Millicent did not answer Shoffer stood, glass of port in hand.

  “Of a certainty, he would. If you would be so kind, Mr. Prichart?”

  “It's in my office.” Mr. Prichart heaved his bulk out of his chair and led the way from the room.

  “Where are you going?” cried Mrs. Prichart as they passed the open door of the kitchen.

  “Just a few items of business, my dear. We shall have you back to sit with us in a moment.”

  Mrs. Prichart appeared to be about to protest, but with a worried glance toward Millicent, she fell silent and let them pass.

  Mr. Prichart settled himself comfortably in his tiny estate office. The lack of decoration and layers of dust told that this was one area of the house that Mrs. Prichart did not enter. Probably, Millicent mused, because she would not fit between the stacked boxes of papers. Mr. Prichart appeared to want to be a literate man. His private retreat was filled with pamphlets on various farming techniques and years of scandal sheet papers from London piled on every flat surface and shelf.

  Shoffer picked up one yellowed sheet of newsprint and raised an eyebrow.

  “Aye, I have heard your name before,” said Mr. Prichart. “You need not worry we will write to the gossip sheets about your visit, although nothing will stop my wife from crowing over the other families in the district. It is her greatest woe at this moment that the roads are too bad for any dinner invitations to be sent out.”

  “I am thankful for the rain for that blessing,” murmured Shoffer, “if for nothing else.”

  “If you stay long enough nothing will save you,” added Mr. Prichart, emerging from under his desk with a heavy lock box. “She’s been at me and at me about hosting some entertainment before you escape.”

  “If the wind continues as it is all night,” said Shoffer, indicating the trembling shutters with his glass, “then the roads will improved enough for a messenger to go in the morning. I have written to my man of business to send our older traveling coach and have it meet us. I expect it will take Mr. North a few more days to complete his business with you, then we can impose on him for assistance in reaching Merthyr Tydfil to await the coach's arrival.”

  “Mrs. Prichart may never forgive me for letting you go before she can show you off to all the neighborhood.”

  “My apologies for the ear bashing you shall suffer after our departure,” said Millicent. “But, in this season of the year, if you have two days good weather together you cannot waste them.”

  “Spoken as a true country gentleman,” said Mr. Prichart reaching into his box. “And here it is. I keep the rental documents together with your correspondence, Mr. North. Here is the last letter from your father. The next to arrive was from the lawyer informing me that I should continue depositing the rent at the Mercantile, but under a different name.”

  Millicent accepted the bundle and read the letter. The first time she read through quickly seeking such a line as “my true born son has a mole shaped like a rabbit on the back of his thigh, if he should call on you, demand to see it!” but there was no such statement. The second time she read through, Millicent could not hold in her gasp.

  “Mr. North,” said Shoffer. “You have gone quite pale.”

  For the first time, Millicent felt a small stirring of pity for the departed Mr. North. Holding the thin sheet of paper to the light she read:

  Mr. Prichart,

  I write to inform you that death will soon require me to divide my properties between my sons, Perceval and Anthony. I would prefer that all go to Perceval, but my father's will requires I equally share the estate. Your misfortune, sir, is to be counted amongst those properties that will come unde
r the control of my younger son, Anthony North. Do not despair, as I have so created my will that Anthony cannot sell nor gamble away his inheritance. We can only hope that his degenerate lifestyle will result in his speedy death and you will not be long burdened with him. When the day comes that Anthony descends to receive his eternal judgment everything that he owns will devolve upon his brother, and you shall come under the better husbandry and management of my son Perceval.

  Until that time, hold fast and endure.

  Respectfully, etc.

  “My God,” said Shoffer. “Why would he do such a thing?”

  “But your reading is very fine, Mr. North,” added Mr. Prichart, seeking to offer some comfort. “And you have a splendid voice. Perfect diction.”

  “Titled estates are wrapped in entails all the time, Your Grace,” said Millicent. “You hardly can be surprised when your lessers begin to imitate the practice.”

  “But to write such a note, to people with whom you must work. Disgraceful! No matter what his opinion of you, that was unjust!”

  Millicent did not answer for her mind was racing and she read and reread the line “sell nor gamble away” as her mouth dried and hands shook.

  “North?” Shoffer left his perch and crossed to tower over Millicent. “Pray, do not be overset by this. Just because the man did not understand your humorous nature…”

  “It is not that, or if it is, it hardly matters.” Millicent folded the note and glanced across at Mr. Prichart. “I hope you do not mind that I keep this, and the letter from the lawyer?”

  “Why ever for?”

  “Because if I was given this information at the time of my father's death, I do not remember it. I must ask to see a copy of the will to know if any provision has been made for me to bequeath something to my heirs.”

  Shoffer's head came up and he frowned, but Mr. Prichart's face continued to display his lack of comprehension.

  “This letter says everything will devolve upon Perceval,” continued Millicent. “Everything! I must know if there is any flexibility. If I acquire dependents, may I provide for them?”

  “My God, you are right,” said Mr. Prichart, as understanding dawned. “If you wed and have children, will they, with your money and property, go to your brother?”

  “I would not throw a dog onto Perceval's charity,” said Millicent. “He has none.”

  “Then you certainly must speak to the lawyer who probated the will,” said Shoffer. “I am surprised that you were not fully informed.”

  Millicent said nothing. It was entirely possible that the late Mr. North had known the full terms of the will, which might have explained why he had never married. No doubt the provisions had been discussed at length prior to the old man's death, probably at volumes that shattered the window glass. But she needed to know the full extent of the entail. In the back of her mind over the last few months, had been the confident thought that she could provide very well for her sisters’ futures. She had Mr. North's full estate to bestow upon them as dowries, as well as making provision for her mother – an annuity or some such – so that she would never be helpless, penniless, or again, afraid.

  But now? Perceval North fully and legally expected to receive all of it upon Anthony North's death.

  With no dowry at all, what sort of marriages could Mildred and Maude make?

  And if anyone ever discovered Millicent’s deception would she be merely deported or hanged?

  “We should rejoin the ladies,” suggested Mr. Prichart.

  “It will not be taken amiss, given the news, if you choose not to,” said Shoffer.

  Millicent shook herself out of her distraction.

  “Gentlemen, the old Mr. North has been dead for years. Any evil he has set in motion will wait. You will find I am not easily or long cast down.” She stood and waved for Shoffer to precede her through the door. “Besides,” she whispered as Shoffer drew near. “I am not so unkind as to leave you to these ladies without some protection.”

  “The full legions of Rome would not be enough, I suspect,” shot back Shoffer.

  The evening was not so bad as Shoffer had feared. Millicent was back in good form by the time they entered the best parlor. She cajoled the girls of the household into presenting their party pieces. The house possessed no piano, but there was one lap harp and both girls were blessed with surprisingly good voices. Millicent even dragged Shoffer to his feet and persuaded him to sing the male part of a sad Italian love song they both knew. Millicent, singing the lady’s part in a false and brittle soprano, effected to be so overcome with tears that by the end she was sobbing into a handkerchief and Shoffer laughed himself into a chair.

  “It is ever so,” said Millicent, returning the borrowed handkerchief to the eldest daughter. “Men cannot endure tears.”

  Mrs. Prichart blushed.

  “Not so,” said Shoffer. “I do just require that each emotion should be offered at the appropriate time.”

  “And when, pray, are tears appropriate?”

  “When I am not in the room,” replied Shoffer, to universal laughter.

  “There, ladies, you have it,” said Millicent. “When we have departed you have His Grace's permission to weep, but I think he would prefer the return of his cravats and handkerchiefs.”

  Both girls blushed, confirming Millicent's suspicion that some pilfering of the ducal linens as souvenirs had occurred.

  “Well, now, I must say, ’tis time for those who must rise with the sun to seek their beds,” said Mr. Prichart.

  Everyone else came to their feet.

  “I do hope your sister will be recovered enough from her ordeal to join us tomorrow,” said Mrs. Prichart to the duke.

  Shoffer shot a puzzled look at the ceiling as if he had just that moment noticed the girl's absence. “I am certain she shall.”

  Later, when Millicent was hidden again behind the back of her chair and had pulled on her nightshirt, Shoffer returned to the parlor, came around the couch, and sat on the floor beside her.

  “I went upstairs to speak to my sister while you were in the privy,” he said.

  Millicent seized the nearest blanket and pulled it up and around her shoulders, and holding it tight across her chest, dragged another blanket across her legs. Fortunately, Shoffer was distracted enough not to pay any attention to her excessive modesty, but stared off into the distance.

  “Mrs. Fleming was asleep already so we could speak. It seems that the reason Beth has not been seen today is Mrs. Fleming will not let her leave the room. They took all their meals on trays in their room at her command.”

  Grateful that he had not cried out “Fraud!” or “Female!” Millicent's heart settled back into its proper beat.

  “Did she give a reason?”

  “Not that I understood. We could only converse in whispers and not for long, lest Mrs. Fleming awake.”

  “Perhaps, if the weather is good by Welsh standards, we can invite her to ride out with us tomorrow. Mrs. Fleming can hardly accompany us with her wounded hand. And riding with her brother's protection would be eminently suitable. You may converse then.”

  Shoffer slapped her across the back with enough force to knock her sideways onto her pile of bedding. Laughing as if she had done it intentionally, Shoffer hauled her back upright by the arm.

  “You are a good fellow, North. All I can think is your father was a narrow-minded idiot who did not appreciate your humor.”

  “You are kind to say so, Your Grace.”

  “Oh, stop with the ‘Graces,’ I beg you. Call me Shoffer and have done. I will tell you, North. I do not trust easily or often. I have few true friends as a consequence. Sycophants and pretenders without number follow me about and I tolerate them since I must. But, based on our short acquaintance, I know I can trust you and I ask you to call me friend.”

  He held out his hand to Millicent who felt like a complete fraud.

  Sitting there beside him on the floor, the firelight flickering over the planes of his fac
e and flashing highlights on his curly hair, Millicent almost cried.

  Almost confessed.

  Almost leaned forward to catch his hand and hold it to the breasts hidden beneath their bindings.

  But, she did not.

  If she did she would ruin her sisters’ futures, her mother's security, and her own life, since the theft of such a large estate would be judged a capital crime.

  No. Instead she gave a sharp masculine nod, and grasping Shoffer's hand in both of hers, gave it one hard squeeze and shake. Looked directly into his dark eyes and fell the rest of the way, helplessly, in love.

  Later, wrapped in her blankets, unable to relieve her feelings with tears for fear he might hear, she held his offer of friendship in her heart and tried to convince herself that it was enough.

  Would be enough.

  Was not enough.

  * * *

  Thudding of farmer's feet on hard, bare wood floors woke Millicent and Shoffer the next morning before the sun even hinted at rising above the horizon.

  Again they shaved in barely heated water, pulled on wrinkled shirts (by now Shoffer was borrowing linen and small clothes from Millicent's supply of men's clothing), and joined the parade to the kitchen for a hearty farm breakfast.

  After speaking briefly to Mr. Prichart, and Eilowen, who was supervising breakfast, Shoffer ran upstairs to tap on his sister's door. The girl must have been awake and waiting for the knock since she emerged immediately and was taken to another room by the daughters of the household. Within half an hour she was down, dressed in an old-fashioned riding dress two sizes too large. After breakfast, Shoffer lifted his sister onto a pony bearing an equally ancient side saddle.

  Lady Beth raised her face to the sky as a breeze brushed over her face.

  “Is it raining or not?” she asked. “I cannot tell.”