by Henke, Shirl
“I'm suitably impressed.” He was. Brand had been following the newspaper accounts about the railroad planned to stretch from the Atlantic seaboard all the way to the Pacific Ocean. British capital would greatly contribute to American success.
“As well you should be. If my factor in the United States can win the bidding war for contracts, Auburn Iron & Steel will stand to make a fortune.”
“Not to mention Auburn Shipping,” he added with a grin.
She found herself returning it. “You're quite the thorough investigator yourself, aren't you, my lord?” He nodded, still smiling. When he looked at her that way, she could feel her heartbeat trip. I'm behaving like a schoolgirl, she scolded herself, but she was unable to stop smoothing her gray silk skirt. The outfit was dull and tailored for work, not something Lori and Tilda would have her wear for a social occasion.
But it was her daughter, not she, who needed to worry about pleasing the baron. Why did she have to keep reminding herself of that? It was hardly as if he'd consider an older woman as marriage material. Horrified at the way her thoughts kept straying into forbidden territory when he was around, she said coolly, “Other than upbraiding me for being involved in a carriage accident, do you have some purpose in being here, Major?”
Back to her Queen Victoria mode. Brand smiled wryly. “As a matter of fact, yes. I know Rushcroft Hall is in ill repair, but the staff there assures me they have things well enough in shape for guests. I'm extending an invitation for you and Miss Auburn to join me this weekend. It's a celebration of sorts, since two of Reiver's mares have foaled and from the looks of them, they'll be prime racing stock in a couple of years. I thought Miss Auburn would enjoy the outing,” he added as an inducement, recalling her highly unorthodox visit and her schemes.
“I'm not certain I can break away just now ...” Miranda thought about the wire from Mr. Aimesley naming another bidder, whose offer was holding up the completion of her deal.
“There is a telegraph office in Dorking. I can vouch that it works.”
“Lori would love to see the foals,” she equivocated, knowing how delighted with such a prospect her horse-mad daughter would be.
“And how about you? After all, you might be investing in my stud farm one day.”
“Is manipulating people with such charm an American trait, Major?” She could not resist his sunny smile.
“When it's done properly, ma'am, it is a Southern trait.”
How could she say no? “Very well. I shall ask my daughter, but I believe we both know what her answer will be.”
“I'll be here to escort you to the railway at five on Friday. I've reserved a car for us.”
“Are you always this sure of yourself, Major...or is it only with women?”
“Now, that's a question packed too tight with black powder for any Southern gentleman to answer,” he replied, reaching for her hand before she could stop him. He raised it to his lips, kissed it lightly and bowed.
As he walked out of the room, Miranda held to her lips that hand, scandalously bare since she had been working on accounts, and felt the heat of his mouth transmit to hers.
Bitter pain unexpectedly choked her.
* * * *
As they rode up the long circular drive to Rushcroft Hall, Brand felt considerable trepidation about the Auburns' reaction to his shabby home. As if their opinions were not worrisome enough, he'd been cajoled by Lorilee into inviting her friend Abigail Warring and her fiancé, Varley's son Jonathon, who was an utter snob. The Pelham family seat was adjacent to Rushcroft, and Jon had just informed the party that Geoffrey Winters and his wife were in residence that weekend. Bloody lovely.
The entourage took three carriages from the railway station, one for the guests, one for the servants and one filled to overflowing with an incredible mountain of trunks and baggage. How many changes of clothing did a lady require for a mere two days in the countryside, anyway?
The roses were spindly and diseased, and the goldfish pool in the gardens was so murky the fish could only be seen if they floated to the surface dead, an event he'd witnessed on his last visit. Brand hoped the yardman had managed to clean the water, at the least. He could see that the overworked fellow had hacked down the worst of the weeds and vines, but the lawns were bare of grass and muddy in many places, and what had once been ornamental shrubbery was now a more or less shapeless mass of boxwood and barberry all grown together.
The Hall itself had once been quite splendid. Unfortunately, that had been in the Elizabethan era. It commanded a stunning view of the countryside from the top of a gently rising hill backed by a magnificent stand of walnut and oak trees. Although expanded over the generations, with wings added on in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the main house was a rustic English manor of cleanly cut limestone, softened by sun and wind over time.
Large leaded-glass windows seemed to welcome visitors and bid them enter. Upon closer inspection, the cracked and broken panes and rusty hinges holding together the scarred oak door made the promise of hospitality appear thin indeed. At least the maids had washed what remained of the glass until it gleamed in the twilight.
“I said it was badly in need of repair. I may have understated the case,” Brand said dryly as the carriage slowed, nearing the front steps.
“Oh, I can picture it refurbished in the Gothic manner with a tower there and arched windows placed just so,” Lorilee said, pointing enthusiastically to her vision.
Brand struggled not to shudder. Was the girl playacting or was her father's execrable taste inherited? But it was Miranda who remonstrated for him.
“Why, I'd never ruin the simple lines of the architecture. It isn't a medieval church, dearheart, it's a country manor house. All it needs is a bit of polishing up to bring out the charm of it. Look at the way the light spills from the windows. It's enchanting.”
“The first time I saw it, I thought of River Trails,” Brand said.
“Your plantation home in Lexington?” Miranda asked as Lori and Abbie argued about how the exterior of the Hall could be refitted for modern sensibilities.
“Yes. It was white frame, a neoclassical structure. New by English standards, but beautiful. I loved its simplicity.”
“So tragic it was destroyed during the war,” she said gently.
He nodded. “When I first saw this place, I thought—not that they're anything alike architecturally, but this was...”
“Home,” Miranda supplied for him.
“Yes. The furnishings—what the late baron did not sell off to pay gambling debts—are in poor repair but similar to the Greek Revival pieces my family had in Lexington.”
“Quite unlike the monstrosities in my city house,” Miranda said with a teasing smile.
Brand grinned back at her. “I confess the Wanstead sofa in your parlor does come to mind.”
“I've bruised myself on those hideous griffins affixed to the ends of it so often, I've considered having it chopped up for firewood.”
“The house is obviously not to your taste. Most women with the means would leap at the opportunity to redecorate, if not sell it outright and purchase one they wanted. Why haven't you?” He was treading a dangerous path here and knew he should let the matter drop, but he wanted to know.
Miranda felt as if the two of them were alone in the large open carriage. When he looked at her, the laughter of the young people, even the strident voices of Tilda and St. John in the carriage behind them, all seemed to fade away. But still, she could not give him an honest answer. Did she know it herself?
She moistened her lips and said, “My business affairs require too much attention. I haven't the time or inclination to search for another home or suffer the intrusion of painters, plasterers and the like.”
“Well, here we are,” Jonathon Belford, the next Earl of Varley, said with disdain, curling his mustachioed lips as he looked at the house. The expression would have been more effectively insulting if his beard were not quite so sparse. The bare spots
about his mouth made him look like a mangy sheepdog.
Ignoring the steps the footman had pulled down, the baron jumped lithely to the ground and issued instructions for stabling the carriages once the baggage was unloaded. Grateful for the interruption, Miranda stood to alight. Courtesy demanded that she allow the baron to assist her. She could feel Brand's gaze still fixed on her, almost daring her to take his hand. Thank heaven they both wore gloves.
Still, it did not matter when the warmth of his fingers pressed into her palm. She was relieved when Lori and her friends followed, providing distraction for her most troubled thoughts. Miranda forced her attention from him to his home. It had once been lovely and could be again.
But it would never be hers. She'd lied about why she'd never redecorated her house. It had been Will's pride and joy, no matter how garish it was. And it was his only child's birthright. Just as this rambling country house would be for Brand and Lori's children. She tried to think of grandchildren with joy, but somehow the image would not come clear in her mind.
Miranda's disturbing thoughts were put aside as the party entered the spacious foyer, which had obviously been scrubbed and polished. The oak parquet floors bore the grooves and dips of great age but also revealed exacting craftsmanship. As did the gracefully curving staircase leading to the floor above. Fresh bouquets of wildflowers adorned a pair of spindly tables, but the walls above them, once covered with facing mirrors, were stripped bare.
“As you can see, I was not jesting about my predecessor’s penchant for selling whatever was worth a farthing, but I'm assured the beds have been fitted with clean linens and there is a table upon which we may dine.”
Lori turned to Brand with a smile, saying, “Then all's well for tonight, but tomorrow the first thing I wish to do is see those darling foals. Then perhaps, if this lovely weather favors us, we could have a picnic.”
“I say, do they play croquet in America?” Belford asked Brand. “My man has brought the equipment, which he could set up—with your permission, of course.”
“They call it lawn balls down where I come from, but yes, Jon, it's played. Awfully good of you to think of it,” Brand said with a smile. “I'm certain the ladies would enjoy it, but I was hoping we could find something a bit more challenging. Say, shooting? I've had my man pack a pair of matched self-cocking Adams Conversion revolvers. How about early tomorrow?”
Knowing when he'd been outmaneuvered, Belford harrumphed his assent. He had heard of the Rebel Baron's reputation as a crack shot.
As everyone dispersed to his or her assigned room to rest and freshen up before dinner, Miranda murmured to Brand, “That was a low blow indeed.” She chuckled. “Belford could not hit the Tower of London if he were standing directly in front of it.”
He winked at her. “I know. But I couldn't drive a wooden ball through one of those cursed little hoops if my life depended on it.”
Lori watched the two of them laughing and smiled to herself. She had some planning to do for tomorrow's picnic. That was why she'd invited the boorish Jon Belford, not to mention her erstwhile friend Abbie.
* * * *
“That...that man is the most insufferable, rude, opinionated, jumped-up—”
“Do you not like Mr. St. John, Tilda? Tell me true, now,” Lori teased as Tilda fussed over the girl's hair.
Miranda laughed as she observed Tilda's thunderous expression, made even more fierce by the hairpins in her mouth, around which she was muttering. “The argument between the two of you very nearly frightened the horses on the ride from the station,” she said, having overheard parts of it. “Mr. St. John appears smitten with you, Tilda.”
“He's far too full of himself to have any interest in me.” She paused to jab the last pin in Lori's hair, then continued, “Even if he did, I'd certainly not return the regard of a racecourse gamester such as that one.”
“He is a bit short of height for you,” Lori said thoughtfully.
“Ha! That's like saying Temple Bar is shorter than the Tower of London.” She inspected Lori's curly head and nodded with satisfaction. “Now it's your turn,” she said to Miranda.
“Just braid it and put it up out of my way.”
“Oh, no, Mother! Tilda and I have selected the gold tissue gown for dinner, and you simply must have your hair curled and piled up so its highlights will show by candlelight.”
An argument ensued. Miranda, as usual, lost to the combined forces of Lori and Tilda. She hadn't even known that the scandalously sheer gown was among the clothes the maid had packed. Lord only knew what else would materialize from the clutch of trunks scattered about the bare room!
When they came down for dinner, Lori was pleased with the way the baron stared at her mother, not even aware for a moment of what he was doing. As the ranking members of the entourage, he and Miranda were paired up for dinner, with a bit of skillful manipulation by her daughter. She sat between Jon and Abbie, whom she knew were appalled by the shabbiness of the country house. If only they could see the city house, this would appear a palace by comparison! She wisely kept that bit of information to herself, knowing that to reveal it would betray that she'd been there under less than proper circumstances. Even worse, it would be a betrayal of the baron, and she was developing a genuine affection for him.
During the long and rather dreary courses of the meal, Lori managed to chatter inanely with her friends about the regatta at Henley and what the ladies had worn to cheer on the crews. Knowing the conversation was boring in the extreme to Caruthers and her mother, she kept an eye on their discussion of political matters pending in Parliament, a subject upon which they could argue seemingly endlessly.
“Why can't you understand that giving votes to unpropertied men is foolish in the extreme? What stake do they have in society?” Miranda asked in exasperation.
“Keeping their families from starving?” Brand supplied helpfully. “Laissez-faire economic theory is all well and good—in theory. However, in practice it works only to the advantage of the rich. The leaders of industry can set any prices and pay any wages they wish. Factory workers must put their wives and children to work just to earn bare subsistence from their combined incomes. That, my dear lady, is the stuff of revolution.”
“And all this time I believed it was the highly educated planters and propertied merchants of America who rallied about the cry of ‘no taxation without representation,’ ” Miranda replied dryly.
“I was thinking more along the lines of the bloodbath in France in 1789,” Brand said. “In America, as in England, leadership has fallen to landholders and merchants, but because of the abundance of free land on the frontier, and concomitant opportunities for small businessmen to flourish, those with 'a stake in society,’ as you put it, are vastly more numerous. Here, in the richest nation on earth, you have literally millions of people trapped in an endless cycle of poverty. Look at the conditions in places like Seven Dials.”
“And you'd give the cutpurses in the rookeries the vote?” she asked sweetly.
“Not at present. But the government can educate and provide opportunities for those poor devils before they rise up and burn the whole of London to the ground. Don't think I haven't seen what can happen when human greed runs unchecked,” he said with a grim set to his mouth.
“I thought the war in America was about black slavery,” Jon interjected snidely.
“It was about many of the same issues plaguing England, the chief of which was the unchecked greed of Northern industrialists—and,” Brand conceded, “the evil of slavery, an institution that many Southerners never condoned.”
“Did you not own slaves?” Jon's tone made it an accusation. He was certain that a major in the Confederate Army must surely have done so.
“No,” Brand replied flatly. “My family paid fair wages to everyone at River Trails, white and black.”
“As I pay fair wages to those in my employ,” Miranda said, wanting to divert the conversation away from a topic she knew was painful for t
he baron and about which Jon Belford knew nothing. “It only makes good business sense.”
“Touché,” Brand replied as he raised his wineglass to her. “I could not agree more, but that still does not address the issue of what we're to do about the measures being considered in Parliament.”
His comment set off another spirited exchange between her mother and the baron. Lori took a sip of water, having declined any stronger libation, and smiled to herself. The evening was going just as she'd hoped.
After dinner, they adjourned to the music room, where Abbie attempted to coax a tune from an ancient and sadly neglected pianoforte. Since the gentlemen were to have an early go at shooting in the morning, everyone retired shortly. After seeing that her mother had gone upstairs, Lori followed Brand out into the garden, where she could see he was lighting a cigar.
“Everything went swimmingly tonight,” she whispered, catching him as he took a light puff.
“You think so, eh?” He appeared dubious.
“I know so. You and Mother have so much in common!”
He threw back his head and laughed. “If she'd been born in America, she'd have beaten every captain of industry in New England from old Jake Astor to young Jay Gould. Our political views are diametrically opposed.”
Lori dismissed that with a wave of her hand. “No matter. She really does treat her workers well, you know.”
“Yes, so I've heard,” he replied thoughtfully. “She is associated with Mr. Mundella from Nottingham, isn't she?”
“He's quite a progressive reformer—and a Liberal M.P.,” Lori replied with a cheeky grin.
Brand smiled at her. “You play the air-headed miss very well, but there's quite a brain busily at work behind that pretty face, isn't there?”
“If I know anything at all, I know it because I've learned from watching my mother.”
“You've had a fine example to follow. I only hope you don't have to pay the cost she did for her knowledge,” he said softly.
“You've learned about why she married my father?” Lori herself knew little but had always wanted to learn more. It was a subject Miranda always deflected by explaining that William Auburn had been a fine and upstanding man of whom Lorilee should be proud. End of story.
