by Laura Hile
Little Charles and Walter jumped and skipped along the pavement, talking all the way.
“First,” said Winnie, “I’ll show you the house and arrange for our supper. And then we’ll play games in the back parlour. What do you say to that?”
“Hide-And-Seek?” chirped Walter, tugging at her hand.
“And several more besides.”
“Then Papa will come,” said Little Charles, “and dance with Mama and she won’t be cross anymore.”
“What a very good thing that would be.”
As they approached the door of the Minthorne house, Little Charles squeezed her hand. “Know what I want for supper?” he confided. “Scrumpy! Heated up!”
“Me too,” bellowed Walter.
Winnie was struck speechless. Scrumpy was hard cider! A drink not fitting for a child! “I’ll—see what Cook can do for us,” she said faintly.
“Papa loves Scrumpy,” Little Charles announced.
“I am sure he does,” said Winnie. When—or if—Mr. Musgrove arrived in Bath was nothing to her, but she found herself hoping that he would come today—so that she could give him a piece of her mind. Scrumpy, indeed!
~ ~ ~
An hour or so later, a two-wheeled vehicle pulled up before the Wentworth house. Both horse and gig had obviously been on the road for most of the day. A solitary figure climbed down, removed several bulky parcels, and signalled his companion to drive on.
Hearing the commotion of his arrival, Mary Musgrove came out of the drawing room. “Bless me,” she cried, peering down at him. “Have you come at last? And in such dirt, too.”
Charles Musgrove shrugged off his overcoat and passed it to the butler. “It was a bit dusty,” he admitted. “What we need is a spot of rain. Not easy in the gig, rain. Glad it was clear.”
Mary became red in the face. “Never tell me that you have come to Bath in the gig!”
“Of course I did,” he replied cheerfully. He removed his hat and used his fingers to comb his hair.
“How dreadful.”
“It wasn’t so bad. I could hardly ask my father for the coach and horses, not at this time of year. You’ve always complained about not having transportation in Bath, so I thought why not bring the gig?”
“But it’s so shabby and provincial.”
Charles began to mount the stairs. “The gig’s in fine shape. Coney painted it not too long ago and—”
“Painted in black,” she flung at him. ‘Such a dreary colour.”
He halted. “What’s wrong with black? Would you rather it be yellow?”
“At least yellow is vibrant and alive. And sporting.”
“A gig is not a sporting vehicle.” Charles regarded his wife in silence. “You’ll think differently when you need to go out. I’ll tell you what: I’ll take you out tomorrow morning—whenever you like.”
“A handsome offer, to be sure, but as you see I am ill. I have no intention of being seen in a countrified gig. I’d as soon drive out in a dog cart.”
Charles began to draw off his driving gloves. “I thought you’d be pleased,” he said. “Bye the bye, where are the boys? Have you hired a new nursery maid?”
“I have not,” she said. “They are with Miss Owen next door.”
“At Minthorne’s house?” He turned and descended the stairs.
“Are you leaving, Charles? But you’ve only just arrived!”
“I am going to fetch my sons home—if I can find where Yee put my hat,” he said. “Burn it, where is the man?”
“Perhaps he took it below stairs for cleaning. I daresay it needs it.” Mary shrugged. “You may as well go without it. The neighbours here are such canaille they likely won’t notice.”
Charles jerked the door open. “If that is the case,” he said, “I wonder that you allow the boys to spend so much time with them.” He went out, slamming the door.
~ ~ ~
Walter Musgrove dissolved into giggling, and Winnie smiled. An afternoon like this was exactly what these boys needed. “Very well, gentlemen,” she announced, “in precisely three seconds I shall begin the count. Are you prepared to hide?”
Little Charles poked his head from behind the ancient wingchair. “Ready,” he hollered.
“Me too,” chirped Walter.
“Very well, I shall begin counting … now!” Winnie faced the wall. “One, two, three …”
She could hear more giggling and admonitions to hurry up.
“Four, five, six …”
What could be better than Hide-And-Go Seek? Unless it was Blindman’s Bluff. Winnie had played both with her brothers in their father’s barn. Wally had a particular way of playing this game …
“Twenty-eight, twenty-nine …” She paused for emphasis. “Thirty! Ready or not, here I come!”
She turned round. The room was silent, save for the ticking of the longcase clock and the muffled giggles of the boys. Why not try Wally’s trick? Winnie hunted up her cousin’s fringed lap blanket and arranged it over her head, as Wally used to do. Now to imitate his voice …
“When I find ye,” she growled in a heavy brogue, “ye’ll be sorry! For I’m the …” Winnie thought fast; these were very small boys after all. “… for I’m the Kissing Monster! When I find ye, I’ll be giving ye a kiss! So beware!”
Winnie slouched through the parlour in fine monster fashion, her face hidden behind the blanket’s fringe. The boys were not adept at hiding—or remaining quiet—but she did her best not to find them. She had Little Charles cornered once, but she became tangled in the blanket and gamely let him go. After all, there was no hurry.
So diverting was the game that Winnie did not hear the opening of the door or Ruth’s muffled announcement. She did hear the boys squeal more loudly, but that was not unusual.
“And when I find ye,” she repeated, taking a new direction, “there’ll be no escaping yar doom!” She bent over and took several monster-like lunges, growling in her best monster voice.
“The Kissing Monster! The Kissing Monster!” the boys shrieked gleefully. “Papa, Papa, save us!”
Papa? Winnie pulled up short. There, several paces away, was a pair of brown boots—a man’s boots. They were travel-stained. Winnie pulled the blanket from her head.
The man bent and held out a hand to her—a broad hand that looked to have some strength in it. “Miss Owen?” His was a distinctly friendly voice.
Winnie took in his pleasant, round face, his wide smile, and his curling light-brown hair. But it was his eyes that held her attention: they were hazel with a twinkling cheerfulness. Surely this was not the brute Mrs. Musgrove had ranted about! He must be an uncle. But the boys called him Papa …
Walter clung to his legs and Little Charles climbed onto his back, talking nonstop. Everything was poured into his ears: the games they’d played and the lake and the frogs and the birds’ nests. The man was not at all put off by their noise. He ruffled Walter’s hair affectionately and turned to her.
“Charles Musgrove, at your service,” he said laughingly. “Please, allow me.”
Reluctantly Winnie placed her hand in his. Her legs had become cramped from kneeling, so she needed his help to rise.
“I’m sorry to spoil your game,” he went on. “For a minute there, I thought I’d be the one to get the kiss!”
Poor Winnie blushed all the way to the roots of her hair—which was falling down around her shoulders because of the blanket. “H-how do you do, Mr. Musgrove?” she stammered.
~ ~ ~
McGillvary cursed under his breath as, one-handed, he fought to rein in Aoife. It took all his strength to keep from being unseated. At last she came to a standstill, shivering as the two dogs pranced round her feet. Keeping a firm hand on the reins, McGillvary turned his attention to Elizabeth. Her head was down; he could feel her breath come in sharp gasps.
“Elizabeth, my dear, I am so sorry! I would not have had this happen for the world.”
With a shaking hand she pushed back a fallen
lock of hair. McGillvary braced himself for the worst. She tipped her head; her eyes met his.
“Is that all?” she said, in a voice as hoarse as his.
“An accident,” he said, cursing Aoife’s perverseness. “The fault is entirely mine. You cannot know how sorry I—”
“No, no,” cried Elizabeth, taking hold of his arm. “I mean, is that all?” She was smiling.
“Is that … all?” he repeated blankly.
“Must we stop riding so soon? Oh,” she cried, “it was like flying. Flying with the wind. Speaking of flying, when are we to do that?”
McGillvary blinked. “I beg pardon?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Like they do in the Hunt. You know, sailing over the hedgerows and into the fields beyond. I don’t know the word for it.” Her smile dimmed somewhat. “I’ve always felt a little sorry for the fox,” she confessed, “but oh! How glorious for the rider! To—how do they say?”
She smiled in sudden triumph. “Ah yes. To give chase!”
“You like to ride this way?”
“Oh yes,” she said earnestly. “Hell-bent-for-leather! Er—as my brother Charles would say.” She blushed adorably.
He felt his lips twist into a smile. “You do not lack for courage, Miss Elliot, I give you that. Allow me to get my bearings and we’ll be off.” He urged Aoife forward at a walk.
“Did you think I was afraid? Riding is not a feat requiring courage.”
McGillvary guided the horse from the gravel drive to the turf of the lawn. “I quite agree. Boarding an enemy ship in the dead of night, now that requires courage.”
“Not as much as hearing one’s name announced at—oh, any of the London balls,” she countered, “for the fifth or sixth season in a row. With no husband to show for it.”
“It is in nowise the same,” he retorted laughingly. “I faced death, Elizabeth, certain death. On every hand!”
A dimple appeared in her cheek. “And so did I,” she said. “At least when you were boarding ships you did not have to worry about appearing unconcerned and keeping poise.”
“I had enough to do to keep my wits,” he pointed out, “as well as direct the men under my command.”
“Ah, but could you do all that and look beautiful into the bargain?” She gave a gurgle of laughter. “I think not.”
McGillvary could not help himself; this was too much. He reined in Aoife. His heart, his senses—his very being—were awash with desire. And there was something else: admiration. Desire and admiration, together. It was a heady combination.
Aoife bent to take a mouthful of grass; McGillvary let go the reins and brought his other arm to encircle Elizabeth. His feeling for her could no longer be denied. Tossing aside his fine resolutions, he moistened his lips. But as he bent to kiss her, he felt her body stiffen.
Elizabeth had not guessed his intention; she was gazing at something beyond. “What is that place, Mr. Gill?” she said quietly.
McGillvary’s head came up; he was struck by the odd note in her voice. She repeated the question, this time more insistently.
He turned to look. “The Belsom mansion. Quite a beautiful house, actually. Have you seen it?” He studied her profile. All traces of her smile were gone.
“It is his house, isn’t it?” She gave a perfectly genuine shudder.
His house. Meaning my house.
Sobered, he spoke his thought. “Have you considered that you might have misjudged the man?”
“Oh no,” she said easily. “I have not misjudged him.”
McGillvary sat silent, frowning.
“I know my opinion is not a popular one,” Elizabeth went on, “at least not among the ladies. They chase after him in the most shameless way.”
“They do, yes,” he murmured.
“It is certainly on account of his fortune. And there is the dashing uniform. I don’t suppose he objects.” She continued to study the house. “What do you think, Mr. Gill?”
“To be completely honest, I am afraid he—”
Before McGillvary could say more, Elizabeth shifted in her seat. He found he was now looking her full in the eyes. The expression in them took his breath away. And then she smiled—an enchanting smile that trembled at the corners. “But why should we spoil our afternoon talking about him?”
“Because I …” McGillvary fought to make the words come. Surely this was the moment to confess the truth! But all he could do was smile like an idiot.
She loves me. Without rank or fortune she loves me.
Elizabeth gave his arm a squeeze. “You promised to teach me to ride,” she reminded gently. “So, en avant!”
McGillvary swallowed. The moment for confession was gone, but there would be another. Yes, there would surely be another. He could not kiss her now, but there would be time for that, too.
He gathered the reins. “As you brother Charles would say?”
“Certainly not,” she answered, laughing. “Charles does not speak French. He has enough trouble speaking plain English.”
McGillvary grimaced a little. “He is not the only one.”
~ ~ ~
With shaking hands Elizabeth fumbled with the latch. She paused long enough to pull the gate shut, then gathered her skirts and took the path at a run. How could she have let the entire afternoon slip away?
She did not want to think about what would happen if anyone saw her. Her heart was pounding as she slipped into the house. Treading with agonizing care, she made for the servants’ stairway. The ascent was a challenge, for her legs were sore from riding.
At length she reached the safety of her bedchamber. She tossed her hat on the bed and went hunting for her brush. Her hair was a sight! After pulling out the combs that remained, she bent over and began to work. Her arms ached, but she ignored this.
It was then that she got a good look at her skirt. The light blue muslin was covered with hairs from the horse! Elizabeth was so surprised that she dropped the hairbrush.
She brushed savagely at her skirts. She would wear this dress, and that horse would be black! At last she gave it up. There was no way to remove them all. What would Elise think?
Elizabeth resumed working with her hair, none too gently. She did not care what Elise thought—or what Anne thought—did she? She was a grown woman; she could do as she liked! All the same, if she hurried, perhaps her sister would not notice the time.
6 Cause and Effect
On the following morning, Colonel Wallis came into his parlor, humming a tune. “Here you are, m’boy.” He held a letter aloft. “While you were away in Brighton, nothing. And on the very morning you return, this. What luck, eh?”
William Elliot took the letter, broke the seal, and examined the signature. So she had found him. Penelope Clay was not stupid. She would guess that sooner or later he’d visit the Wallises—his friendship with them was no secret. He read it through twice and put it down.
His sour expression did not escape Colonel Wallis. “Bad news, what?”
Elliot threw him a look and returned to the letter. Like the lady herself, it was littered with cloying expressions of love and devotion. Its ending was predictable, a heartfelt plea for his return. Like a mother hen, she was scolding and then begging.
He put the letter aside. His late wife had begged continually. Everything about her was loathsome, save for her fortune.
Nevertheless, Penelope’s tone was troubling. There was something she was hinting at, something between the lines. Elliot sat back, sucking his teeth and thinking. “Women,” he muttered.
Colonel Wallis turned. “How’s that? Trouble with a woman?”
Elliot swallowed an oath. He’d forgotten that Wallis was in the room. The man’s bluff banter grew more irksome every day.
Colonel Wallis gave a wheezy chuckle and sauntered over to Elliot’s chair, a wineglass in each hand. “Miss Elizabeth Elliot’s a rare handful,” he said, passing a glass. “That Rushworth fellow now—best to keep an eye on him. He’s moving in for the kill, so my Annet
te says.”
William Elliot cast his gaze to the ceiling. “Rushworth is an idiot. He’s always moving in for the kill, or so he thinks. I know my cousin. Elizabeth is toying with him. She’d sooner die than be his wife.”
“I hear his divorce is about wound up. Not something I’d like my daughter mixed up in—blot on the family name and all. Plenty of women are willing when the stakes are high.”
“Rushworth’s money will make a way for him,” Elliot agreed. “But not with Elizabeth.” He thought of something else. “What of Sir Walter, by the bye? He lives, I take it.”
Colonel Wallis puffed out his cheeks. “That he does.” He rotated the stem of his wineglass. “As much in debt as ever and falling behind every day, or so Traub tells me. Losing his tenant for that manor house of yours, too.”
Mr. Elliot smiled. “Shall I offer to take the place myself? As a sweet surprise for my darling bride?”
“Oho! So the wind’s in that quarter, is it?”
“Perhaps,” was all William Elliot would say. Any day he might become Sir William, possessor of a landed estate. He meant to enjoy his new position, but there were also social obligations. He’d once had a simpleton for a wife. He had no intention of repeating that mistake.
“Thought you’d changed your mind about her.”
Wallis was right, he had. And then he’d changed it right back. Elizabeth’s open scorn that day on the canal still made his blood boil. And yet …
“I want a woman who will be a credit to me,” he confessed. “A beautiful, accomplished woman. Not—” His gaze travelled to Penelope Clay’s letter.
“Miss Elliot will do you proud. Grows prettier each time I see her.” Wallis drained the contents of his glass. “Spirited too,” he added, smacking his lips.
Yes, Elizabeth was spirited. If he decided to make her his wife, that would need to change. Mr. Elliot was betrayed into a smile. “You should see her when she’s in a rage.”
“Time to have a little talk with Papa?” Colonel Wallis heaved out of his chair and took hold of Elliot’s near-empty glass. “I’ll drink to that. But first, we must reprovision, eh?”
Elliot returned to Penelope’s letter. There was something here, he knew it. She held more cards in her hand than she was showing. Why?
