by D. L. Carter
Millicent smiled at that information, hoping that her recently acquired tan would cover any blushes. Complicated heraldic devices could only be Trolenfields. It was not as if she had any reason to blush. Shoffer thought of her as an acquaintance only. A fribble. A useful man to know when one wanted a shy sister to chat. That was all.
And the thought stabbed through Millicent's heart.
It was not as if, even if she had met him as a young lady, things would have been any better. Indeed, it would be worse. As the penniless daughter of a tutor, she would never have been granted the honor of an introduction. Shaking herself out of the dismals, Millicent concentrated on Mr. Fields.
“Indeed, that is good news,” said Millicent. “Please tell your good lady that if she waits until I have had a chance to wash off the dirt of the road and read my letters, I should be pleased to give her what gossip I have and I shall cut off the seals for her to keep. She will have to be content with on-dits from Bath, since I have no acquaintance in London.”
“Thank you, Mr. North. That will please her mightily.” Mr. Fields gestured the maid toward the narrow staircase. “Shall I send up a small beer or brandy with your wash water?”
“Tea will do,” said Millicent.
* * *
The maid who brought up the tea tray was young and buxom. She made a point of jiggling her breasts in Millicent's direction when she bobbed her curtsy and accepted her tip. Millicent sighed and shook her head, politely declining the proffered companionship, endeavoring to give the impression of fatigue rather than disgust. The maid took the rejection in good spirit, no doubt expecting to have other opportunities to seduce Mr. North.
Millicent dismissed the girl from her mind as well as from the room and made good use of the jug of hot water to wash herself before pouring a cup of tea and settling down beside the window to read the five letters the maid had carried up with the tea. One, very thick, was from Bath, and likely from both her sisters as well as her mother. Two were from tenants and one each were from Shoffer and his sister.
It took a great deal of her willpower not to tear open the letter from Shoffer first. Indeed, she sat with it in her hand for several moments before putting it to one side. It was as if she had not received a letter every month from the man since parting from him in Wales. As Shoffer had assisted her in plotting out her summer tour, he knew approximately when she would be at various towns. Despite the fact the letters were full of advice on negotiating with tenants and comments about farming such as would be shared between gentlemen of similar age, wealth, and interests, Millicent kept them in her valise and read them until she knew every line, as if they were missives of a love-struck admirer.
Sighing, Millicent set the package aside and took up her mother's letter. Distance, it seemed, reconciled Felicity to her daughter's odd life. The letter was much the same as she would have sent to her husband, or to a son – demanding, petulant, and gossipy. Since Millicent sent an express telling them that a previous innkeeper’s wife was in the habit of opening her guests’ mail, the letter contained no references to Millicent's true gender.
Bath, it seemed, was pleasant in the summer time, with frequent entertainments and more visitors from London and outlying counties as gentry, bored with their own homes, sought distraction. London, everyone swore, was pestilential in the summer. Bath was blessed with clearer air, softer breezes, and was therefore to be preferred.
The downside to the new visitors, Felicity informed her, was that she was gradually coming to realize that the people with whom her daughters had danced and flirted the past winter, were the impoverished members of the ton.
“I will not,” wrote Felicity, “permit the girls to marry into poverty. They are pretty girls, with good address and talent. I am certain they can do very well for themselves if we were to just put them before the proper people. Maude, particularly, has sufficient beauty for her to deserve to have ambition. Therefore, Mr. North, I implore you, this winter the girls must have a season in London.”
Millicent swore ripely – one of the advantages of being a man – and tossed the letter to one side. A London season? If Felicity imagined that the men of the ton in London were in better funds than those in Bath, she deluded herself. Likewise, how could she imagine that two girls with no dowry at all could attract even a highly placed country gentlemen, let alone a titled one?
Of course, Felicity probably expected that Millicent would bestow some part of Mr. North's estate upon her sisters. Millicent, coward that she was, had not written to her mother and sisters about the exact nature of the elder Mr. North's will. She planned to disclose that information in person, rather than commit it to paper, and because she could imagine the histrionics that particular revelation would inspire, she happily delayed her return to Bath.
Taking a sip of cooling tea to fortify her, Millicent returned to the letter. It seemed that Felicity was advised by one of the visiting matrons that rental houses in the fashionable areas of London went early. Therefore, Mr. North must act immediately to obtain the proper house for the family for the season.
And how did she imagine Millicent would know how to do that? With no experience of the capitol herself how would Millicent know the proper streets, the proper rents? When they had removed to Bath, Millicent had set the family up in a good hotel for three weeks while she had hiked all over Bath examining houses and exploring neighborhoods. Now she was expected to choose from a distance, or did Felicity imagine Millicent would go to London now to find a house?
Lacking inspiration Millicent turned to her other letters. Determined to prove to herself, if no one else, that she was not preoccupied with the Duke of Trolenfield, Millicent read her tenants’ letters first.
One wrote to thank Millicent for rapidly approving the repairs to various outbuildings and to tell her of the progress of the work. The other to confirm the appointment for Mr. North to visit. Both brief, to the point, and barely legible.
Finally, Millicent carefully lifted the seal from Shoffer's letter with her pocket knife and set it aside as a gift for the landlady.
My dear Mr. North, – ran the duke's bold script – my sister informed me this morning of her intention to write to you. She has become most bold since making your acquaintance, but as before, I assure you I have no objections to the change. She is much more interesting than the wilting flower she was under the domination of our grandmother. As to her, and my, reason for writing. We have made a game of following your planned progress through England's fair fields, using maps and my old toy soldiers. We have come to the conclusion that in order to return to meet with your family in Bath you must pass near to my principal estates in Somerset.
We have just returned from a house party in Dorset and Beth has declared it was a terrible bore. There was no one there, she says, who knew how to make conversation, or play cards in an interesting manner and she was not interested in dancing with any present. She is determined that this summer should not pass without some entertainment; therefore, she has announced, mind you without so much as a by your leave to her chaperone or to me, that she is going to invite you to visit. She also wants more training from you in the manner of conversation with strangers, a subject in which you are an acknowledged master, at least in this house. I admit to you that Beth had some trouble during the house parties. As each visit went on, she became quieter and more reserved. I believe she would benefit from more nonsense from you. Knowing that you have responsibilities elsewhere, the suggested visit should be for a fortnight's duration, before you return to hearth and home. I hope you will accept the invitation for I have found the summer to be dull myself. If you agree, Beth and I will return to Somerset for the remainder of the summer, the better to enjoy your company. Yrs, Timothy Shoffer.
It took Millicent a few moments to recover from the near informality of the invitation and signature. Timothy, indeed! Where was the “by the Grace of God and King” prior to "the Duke”? And the suggestion that the duke's family would move from one p
lace to another for her convenience? Astonishing.
Millicent's chest tightened and she clutched the letter to her bosom before cursing herself as a fool. The duke regarded her as a friend, a male friend, nothing more. Never more.
Dropping the letter to the table, she pressed her hands to her face and blinked rapidly to hold back tears. As if Shoffer's opinion of Mister North did her any good. They could ride about the countryside together, undo their cravats, and relax with feet on furniture while smoking cigars and drinking brandy late at night – except that Millicent could not bring herself to either drink or smoke.
What good did that do Millicent Boarder, the late and barely lamented daughter of a country gentleman, to be friends with Timothy Shoffer?
What good did visiting at the request of his sister do for Millicent's heart?
Nothing, except tear a great hole in it.
In the terror of the moment, when her cousin had died, Millicent had not thought of anything beyond securing the safety and well-being of her mother and sisters. She had consigned her name and future to the grave and taken on the mantle of Mr. North willingly, but without considering the consequences for her feminine heart.
There might be, if she could think of a way to grant her sisters decent dowries, a chance of obtaining marriages for them. Husbands and homes and children for Mildred and Maude, but not for Millicent. For Mr. North? Nothing.
Even if there were not the terrible will of the elder Mr. North there was no way for Millicent, as Mr. North, to marry.
There could never be the love of a husband to warm her nights. Children to tease and torment and fill her days. No one to love her, to care for her. No warmth, no passion. No love.
She pressed the heels of her hands against her eyes.
No love. No intimacy. No kisses. No one to caress and hold in the dark of the night. No one to teach her the secrets of the marriage bed. Instead she would go virgin to her grave.
She might love Timothy Shoffer, the Duke of Trolenfield, but there were was no way for her to realize that love.
Tears fell despite her best intentions. Hastily, she put the letter aside lest her tears smear and smudge his words.
She loved him and he thought of her as merely a friend.
Horrible, unjust reality. How could she endure it?
* * *
For two days Millicent ignored the letters resting on the table back at the Hind and Fox. In fact, she did not open Beth's letter that whole time. Instead, she met several times with her tenant, visited the local shops, and avoided the matrimonial trap set for her by the tenant's wife. (A disheveled daughter was to jump from behind a hay rick with witnesses at hand to declare that North had interfered with the daughter. However, Millicent overheard the plot being hatched and took another path.)
She was packing for the next stage of her tour when she felt she could avoid answering the letters no longer.
Beth's letter was longer and chattier than her brother's, as was to be expected from a young lady. She included a fair amount of gossip about people Millicent could never hope to meet and included a reference to Mr. Simpson, the duke's much trusted and overworked man of business, solving another complicated problem.
Millicent's eyes narrowed as she thought. If anyone would know how to choose a house in London, Mr. Simpson would. In fact, Mr. Simpson would be so well informed that he would know within a whisker an address in London that would inform all callers that here lived a country gentleman of some means, with two distant relatives with no dowries to marry off.
However, writing to Mr. Simpson would not do. Such a request of someone else's man of business required a personal appeal. Mr. Simpson would require his employer’s approval before undertaking such a task. Therefore, it was necessary for Millicent to accept the duke and his sister's kind invitation so she might seek the advice of his secretary.
At least, that was what Millicent told herself.
And while Millicent visited with the duke's sister, she would appeal to that young lady for assistance in firing off Mildred and Maude. An introduction or two from someone so high in rank would ensure the opening of doors and issuance of invitations.
It was only to advance her sisters’ places in society that she would spend two weeks with Timothy Shoffer, by the Grace of God and King, Duke of Trolenfield.
And may God have mercy on her poor heart.
Chapter Six
Millicent's reception at the Duke of Trolenfield's estate was as enthusiastic as anyone could desire. Millicent was barely descended from the post chaise and was paying off her hired driver and outriders, when the duke himself, dressed in riding gear, descended the front steps just behind his butler.
“Your Grace,” Millicent bowed and grinned at him. “I must thank you for ordering such fine weather.”
Shoffer glanced up at the drizzling, overcast sky and laughed.
“If it were within my power, I would have requested better weather for your arrival,” he said, seizing Millicent's hand and shaking it vigorously. “But with luck, it will improve tomorrow and I shall give you a long overdue riding lesson.”
“I am certain, since it is the duke's command, the weather will not dare to be anything other than perfect,” said Millicent. “The skies themselves are yours to command. How would it dare to cast down rain, when you say not, and put smudges on your boots?”
“You are very welcome to my home, Mr. North, fool that you are. Lest you forget, we first met because torrential rain had nerve to turn a road into a quagmire.”
“Oh, but that was in Wales,” cried Millicent with a dismissive wave, “heathen place that it is, and not in any civilized county.”
Shoffer turned to face his butler. “See, Forsythe. I did not exaggerate. Mr. North is the most ridiculous man in Britain.”
Forsythe, a rather young appearing man for such a responsible position in a duke's household, inclined his head toward Millicent.
“Indeed, sir. We were all breathless in anticipation of his visit,” said Forsythe in a cool, even voice.
Millicent recoiled, her hand to her throat. “Dear God, Shoffer, what have you said of me? I shall have maidservants and footmen following on my heels in expectation of such things that even Drury Lane farces decline to perform.”
“Exactly,” said Shoffer.
“Good,” said Millicent, relaxing from her horrified stance and bowing again. “I shall endeavor to give satisfaction.”
“Do not overexert yourself, North. We did not invite you so that you might be our jester. Your company is all that is required.”
“I shall be myself in good quantity, since that pleases you, Your Grace.”
“Good. And put away the ‘Your Graces,’ I beg you, North, for I know from you that they are merely mockery. Now come inside. I have it on good authority that Beth is waiting to be gracious lady of the manor in your honor. Pray remember to be impressed. She has been fussing for the last few days that the summer drawing room decorations are too extravagant.”
Shoffer led the way up a grand marble staircase and into the house. Millicent removed her hat and gloves and handed them to a waiting footman.
“Whatever made her think I was an arbiter of fashion? Did she, perhaps, contract a fever of the brain since last she saw me?”
“No, but she remembers you being humorous at the expense of another lady's drawing room in one of your letters and fears what you might say.”
Millicent paused beside a grand painting, that if laid on the floor would be larger than some of the rooms she lived in, and cast a grave look toward Shoffer.
“Surely, she does not think I am so lost to good manners that I would make her unhappy.”
“Of course not,” said Shoffer. “Only remember, it was under your influence that she became less shy. It is to be expected that there would be the occasional backsliding to self-conscious behavior.”
“I shall endeavor to reassure her.”
The butler ducked ahead of them to throw wide both doo
rs into a spacious drawing room. Millicent paused just out of sight to run her hand through her hair, brushing all the uneven locks forward to hang over her eyes. Shoffer watched her in confusion, then shrugged and entered the drawing room.
“His Grace, and Mr. North of Yorkshire, my Lady,” intoned Forsythe.
Beth rose from an ornate and gilded chair to glide across the room, one hand outstretched.
“My dear Mr. North,” she began, then halted as Millicent came into the room.
Millicent minced across the Aubusson carpet as if wearing high polished heels. Stopping three feet from Lady Beth, she sank into a low bow, one hand waving through the air as if clutching a large, befeathered hat. That bow would have looked bad enough were Mr. North attired in courtly garb, but as Millicent was wearing a cut away coat three years out of fashion and two sizes too big, and loosely fitting trousers over well-worn boots, the sight was hysterical.
Before anyone could speak, Millicent fell to her knees and clutched Beth's proffered hand in both of hers.
“My dear Lady Elizabeth,” cried Millicent, peppering the captured hand with light kisses. “Only tell me, how did I manage to lose your favor? I am desolate without it.”
And pressing the hand against her cheek, Millicent burst into simulated tears.
“Mr. North, please cease. You have not lost my regard at all.” Beth glanced across at her brother. “Whatever did you say to him?”
“Only that you were concerned about his reaction to the drawing room,” replied Shoffer.
Beth attempted to retreat and retrieve her hand, but Millicent shuffled along on her knees beside her.
“Oh, do stop, Mr. North.” Beth tapped Millicent on the head with her folded fan. “You are quite the most ridiculous man.”
Grinning, Millicent climbed to her feet. “Your servant, madam.”
“Well, since Timothy has embarrassed me by calling your attention to my fears, do tell me, what do you think of the chamber?”
Millicent assumed a contemplative posture and began prowling the room, rubbing at her chin. She even when so far as to lift up a vase and examine its maker's mark, much to Beth's amusement.
