Lord Rathbone's Flirt

by Gayle Buck

  Murmuring, their heads together, the ladies began to reluc­tantly disperse. One or two bid Verity good night, a courtesy that she was amazed to receive.

  When all had gone, Mrs. Arnold said cynically, “And thus it goes. You may not need to leave the vicinity after all, my dear. Before the night is over, this entire unpleasantness will be seen simply as the work of a thoughtless, spoiled little beauty.”

  “Not entirely,” said Miss Tibbs softly with a significant glance. Mrs. Arnold and Verity, following the direction of her gaze, took the governess’s meaning. The lady of the house was still attempting to soothe her wildly weeping daughter and had paid no attention to what else had happened during the past several minutes.

  “I had forgotten that small detail. Never mind, Verity. Weshall simply go on as we had decided,” said Mrs. Arnold, sigh­ing.

  Miss Tibbs saw that her three young charges had crept to the door and were all staring, wide-eyed, at their elder sister, who was still carrying on with almost unabated unrestraint. “Come, my dears. Say your good nights to Mrs. Arnold and Miss Worth. I am certain that they shall be very glad to have all of this excitement done with so that they may also return to their beds.”

  “You are an intelligent woman. Miss Tibbs,” said Mrs. Arnold dryly.

  “Miss Tibbs!”

  The imperative stopped both the governess and Mrs. Arnold from exiting. Mrs. Pettiforth had at last emerged from her ab­sorption with her eldest daughter. She said coldly, “You will take my poor Cecily to her bedroom and see that she is com­fortably settled, Miss Tibbs.”

  Mrs. Pettiforth then turned a full glare on Verity. “I have a few choice words that I wish to say to Miss Worth which will not wait for morning.”

  “Now you are in for it, my dear.”

  Verity did not know which of her friends had uttered the soft conviction, but she very much agreed with its sentiments. She thought wearily that it would be a wonder if she managed to survive the remainder of this awful nightmarish night.

  “Certainly, Mrs. Pettiforth,” said Miss Tibbs coolly. “I must trust that the other daughters of the house will manage without me.”

  Mrs. Arnold took charge of the younger girls. “Come along, girls. You shall show me the nursery. It will be very much a nostalgic treat for me, you know, for I am quite ancient.”

  “Are you really? You don’t at all show it,” said Dorothy frankly, looking the lady over very carefully.

  “What a precious you are! I quite think that we shall be the best of friends,” said Mrs. Arnold, leading the girls away.

  Meanwhile Miss Tibbs had persuaded Miss Pettiforth to let go of her clutching hold on her parent and was forthrightly guiding that sobbing damsel from the bedroom. Miss Tibbs nodded to Verity as she passed her, but said not a word.

  “Pray close the door. Miss Worth,” said Mrs. Pettiforth in freezing accents.

  Verity did as she was bid and then turned to go over to one of the chairs before the fire. She gestured politely to the settee as might a gracious hostess.

  High color flew up into Mrs. Pettiforth’s face and she flounced over to the settee with ill grace. “Now, Miss Worth! We come to it, you and I,” she said awfully.

  Verity looked at her employer. Nothing showed in her ex­pression but polite interest. “Do we, ma’am?”

  “Do not play the innocent with me, miss! I heard the whis­pers tonight, as did my poor baby. It is no wonder that she went into hysterics! You have betrayed my trust. Miss Worth!”

  “That I have not. I have endeavored to encourage Miss Pet­tiforth to put forward her best manner,” said Verity.

  Mrs. Pettiforth flung up her hand. “Pray spare me, Miss Worth! If it was not for you, my dearest lamb would at this moment be celebrating her engagement to Viscount Rathbone! But you had to ruin all! Spinning your wiles and casting sheep’s eyes at his lordship, I do not doubt! Well, you have been found out, my dear Miss Worth, and now you must pay the piper. The consequences shall be dire, I promise you!”

  Verity shook her head. “If only you would listen to me, ma’am. Your daughter is undisciplined and completely uncar­ing of what it means to be the lady of a grand house. Pray be­lieve me when I say that Lord Rathbone would never have offered for Miss Pettiforth regardless of—”

  “How dare you!” Mrs. Pettiforth rose abruptly and glared down at Verity. “You dare to cast aspersions upon my inno­cent dear whilst you went about seducing his lordship. I shall have you out of my house, Miss Worth. Do you hear me?”

  Verity found that she also was standing. She was trembling with the strength of her feelings. “I hear you very well, Mrs. Pettiforth! And believe me, nothing could gratify me more than to shake the dust of this place from my feet. I have suf­fered unjust persecution and slander in this house. Unfortu­nately, I am too well-bred to throw at your head a few home truths, but know this much, cousin! Your ambition has poi­soned your eldest daughter. Unless she is curbed and brought under rein, you will never realize the advantageous marriage that you so desire for her.”

  “I have heard quite enough.” Mrs. Pettiforth surged toward the door. She turned. “You will pack your bags and leave within the hour. I will give orders to have a carriage readied to convey you to the village.”

  “Do you not intend to set me afoot, madame?” asked Verity, her eyes glittering, holding herself proudly.

  Mrs. Pettiforth drew herself up, affronted. “I hope that I am not a vengeful person, Miss Worth!” She wrenched open the door and exited, slamming the door behind her.

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  Verity sank down on the chair, numbed by what had passed. She could scarcely think, except that it seemed imperative that she rise and dress and collect her belongings. But still she stared about the bedroom, apparently unable to put herself into motion.

  At length, she rose. How much later, she did not know. Slowly, she changed her attire. Her fingers were fumbling and it was difficult to do up the tiny buttons on the back of her dress, but she managed most of them. Then she pulled out of the wardrobe her portmanteau and her bandboxes.

  The task of packing seemed insurmountable to her in her shocked state. But as she started, it seemed that the very activ­ity warmed her mind and limbs and she began working faster and faster. Yes, she would leave this house! As quickly as pos­sible. She would leave the Pettiforths far behind. And Lord Rathbone, as well!

  Her mind was filled with all that had gone before and every word, every action, loomed ever larger in her recollection. By the end, she was throwing garments and possessions into her baggage almost in a frenzied manner. Tears streamed down her face, but no sound issued forth from her mouth for she would not allow the pain that squeezed up through her chest to announce itself to the rest of the house.

  As she tightened the last strap on her luggage, there came a soft scratching at the door. Verity stilled. She swiped swiftly at her face. She still had her pride. No one must know the depth of her pain.

  She went to the door and opened it a crack.

  A footman stood outside. “I am to carry down your bag­gage, miss,” he said woodenly.

  Without a word, Verity opened the door wide. She watched the man pick up her small chest and bandboxes. Then she put on her pelisse and followed him out of the bedroom without a backward glance.

  The house was darkened except for the branch of candles that the butler held high over his head for the footman and the young woman so that they would not stumble on the stairs.

  As Miss Worth passed him, the butler glanced sharply at her pale, composed face. Miss Worth had been popular with the staff. The butler had had his orders and, even misliking them, he would carry them out. The butler had a shrewd notion that the master of the house did not have an inkling of what was taking place that night. A pity, that. Perhaps in the morning when he saw the master, it would not be beyond the scope of his duties to let drop a word about the strange happenings of this night.

  Verity was ushered outside. A carr
iage stood waiting. Her baggage was strapped to the back and she climbed up into the body. At once the carriage jerked forward.

  Verity shut her eyes. She was glad for the dark interior. Not that there was anyone to observe her, for which she was most thankful. But what she felt was more akin to the darkness than it would ever have been to the light of day.

  The drive into the village was accomplished in what seemed a very short time. She was set down at the inn, her baggage was placed beside her, and the Pettiforth carriage turned around and drove away.

  The innkeeper had come sleepily from his bed upon hearing the rattle of wheels in the yard and now he regarded the young lady standing alone at the door of his inn with not a little cu­riosity. He had recognized the Pettiforth carriage, as he did the young lady. She had arrived on the mail, to his recollection, and had been collected by that same carriage.

  Rumor had it that a companion had been engaged for that pesky Miss Pettiforth, and now here the young lady stood. The innkeeper shook his head regretfully. That was the way of it. Hired one day and let go the next.

  “May I help ye, miss?”

  Verity turned a startled face. She blinked and passed a hand before her eyes, as though coming awake. “Yes. Yes, you can. Is there a room available?”

  The realization suddenly burst upon her that she had very little in her purse. She had not yet been paid by Mr. Pettiforth that quarter and most of last quarter’s salary had been sent to her mother for Elizabeth’s care. “At least... no, perhaps it would be best to ask instead when the next coach comes through?”

  “Not until six of the clock, miss,” said the innkeeper. He saw the dismay and the shadow of fear and uncertainty in her eyes. “Perhaps you would be wanting to sit on the settle in front of the fire for a bit, miss? Just until you decide what you will be doing?”

  “Yes, thank you. It-it is quite cold tonight, is it not?”

  The innkeeper murmured agreement. “Just go right in, miss. I’ll be bringing your things.” As the young lady passed into the inn, the innkeeper picked up her pitifully few belongings. He weighed the boxes and portmanteau in his hands and swore softly. He misdoubted that he was too kindhearted for his own good, but he would allow the young lady to sleep on the settle for free. She was obviously quality and from all that he had heard in recent weeks, she had gone a fair way to curbing that testy Miss Pettiforth’s distempered freaks. A pity, it was. A real pity, he thought, shaking his head as he stumped into the inn.

  * * * *

  Verity was roused by a gentle shaking of her shoulder. She opened her eyes, confused by what she saw. A great hearth was directly before her gaze and a large woman was blowing the fire into existence. Verity frowned. Then memory came rushing back and she sat up abruptly.

  “There ye be, miss. I thought ye should be wakened, seeing as how the coach will be getting here in half an hour,” said a female voice.

  Verity looked up. Automatically her hands rose to smooth her hair. A short dumpy woman stood over her, regarding her with mingled curiosity and pity. “Would ye be wanting a cup of hot tea, miss? To take the chill off, like.” The woman held out a teacup and saucer.

  “Thank-thank you,” Verity stammered, flushing. She real­ized that she had fallen asleep and slept the night through on the bare wooden settle. The hard bench had left aches where she had not known before that she had muscles.

  As she sipped the hot tea, she took stock of her surround­ings. The inn was somewhat shabby in appearance, but had obviously at one time enjoyed quite a custom. Her predica­ment was much like that. She had very little money and nowhere to go.

  Verity realized for the first time that she had not even thought of appealing to Mrs. Arnold before she had been dri­ven off in the Pettiforth’s carriage. She knew that if Mrs. Arnold had been made aware of her eviction, she could have counted upon Betsy to help her. But that was past. What mat­tered more was what she was to do now.

  Verity thought about it for several minutes. Her brain seemed to be working with unusual clarity. Verity decided that what she had done was for the best, after all. She should not expect Mrs. Arnold to burden herself with her problems. No, it would even be best if she did not seek to join Mrs. Arnold on the road to London.

  Verity asked for paper and pen and ink. When they were brought to her, she penned a short note to Mrs. Arnold to briefly explain her feelings. Then she hesitated, wondering what to put down next.

  But if she was not to go to London, then where? Verity soon had the answer to that, as well, and she scrawled it down swiftly. Crofthouse. True, it had been closed up and the servants discharged, but there were still the retainers in residence and one room could be opened again for her use. She would go home.

  As she sanded the sheet, she reflected that she would have hours while she rode in the coach to think of a way to solve the dilemma of how she was now going to take care of the ex­pense of her sister’s seminary.

  Her mind made up at last, Verity rose and shook out her wrinkled skirts. She went over to the short dumpy woman to return the emptied cup. “How much do I owe for the use of the settle and the tea, please?”

  The short dumpy woman cocked her head. “Why, as to that, I’m sure I don’t know. And I haven’t time to figure it none, ei­ther, for there is the coach. Now ye best be getting the ticket, miss. Me husband is already handing up ye’re bags. Good luck to ye, miss.”

  Verity thanked the woman and the innkeeper for the unex­pected kindness and gave her note into their care to be deliv­ered that same morning to Mrs. Arnold at the Pettiforths. Then she climbed into the mail coach. She squeezed past two fann­ers’ wives, who did not interrupt their conversation about prime egg layers one jot as she did so.

  Verity closed her eyes and her ears, sighing. It would be a long, long ride. How very glad she was that she was going home. She could not understand in the least why she was choking back tears.

  Lord Rathbone did not breakfast at the Pettiforths’. He left at first light, driving himself away in his own vehicle, his valet up beside him. He did not glance back at the manor.

  Somewhat later a boy on a broken-down cob trotted up to the manor and put into the hands of a footman the note from Miss Worth. Miss Pettiforth happened to be passing through the hall when she overheard the footman report the note to the butler, and that it was from Miss Worth to Mrs. Arnold.

  Miss Pettiforth turned instantly round to the servants. She held out an imperious hand. “Give it to me, please. I shall see that it is properly disposed of.”

  The butler hesitated for a fraction of a second. He did not care for the hard look in the miss’s eyes, nor the white line about her mouth, both signs that she was in a proper temper. But he had little choice except to do as he was ordered. He gave the note into Miss Pettiforth’s hand, whereupon she dis­missed him and the footman to attend to their duties.

  Miss Pettiforth waited until the servants had left the hall. Then she tore the note across, and across again, before drop­ping the ragged pieces into the wastebasket. Without a back­ward glance, she went on into the breakfast room.

  If she had looked back, she might have realized that she had not been as alone as she had thought. Sophronia had watched her sister’s odd behavior from the landing. When Miss Pettiforth had disappeared into the breakfast room, Sophronia ran lightly down the stairs and retrieved the torn pieces out of the wastebasket. She escaped back upstairs with her treasure to the nursery, where she could examine it without running the risk of being discovered by her eldest sister.

  When Mrs. Arnold came down to breakfast, she found her host and hostess, Miss Pettiforth, and a few others already at the table. She greeted them all, her eyes sweeping the break­fast room for one particular face.

  “I do not see Miss Worth. Did she breakfast earlier?” she asked.

  Mrs. Pettiforth’s expression stiffened. “Miss Worth has left us, Mrs. Arnold. She will not soon be returning.”

  Mr. Pettiforth looked across at his wife, a frown co
ming into his face.

  “But—!” Mrs. Arnold bit back the remainder of her excla­mation. She could well read the malicious satisfaction in her hostess’s eyes and the sudden flare of curiosity that ran around the breakfast room. The scene played out in Miss Worth’s bed­room had been witnessed by nearly a dozen women, some of whom had conveyed the details to their spouses. Quite a num­ber of people had gone to bed trading speculations on just what had been transpiring the last few weeks in the Pettiforth house. Angered, and having guessed correctly that Mrs. Petti­forth had given Verity her marching orders, Mrs. Arnold yet did not wish to create just the sort of scene guaranteed to be memorable.

  She smiled and shook her head. “I see that Miss Worth has stolen a march on me. She had mentioned to me, of course, that she had a few things she wished to attend to before joining me in London. Mr. Arnold and I must leave for London this morning, so I shall take leave of you now, Mrs. Pettiforth.”

  A stupefied expression came over Mrs. Pettiforth’s face. She made a feeble attempt to dissuade, but Mrs. Arnold overrode all protest with a charming manner that was nevertheless inexorable.

  As she placed her napkin on the table, having consumed a light repast of biscuits and tea, Mrs. Arnold commented, “I shall be so glad to have Miss Worth make an extended visit with me. We shall shop and go to the theater and have all man­ner of amusement. I vow it will be very like old times.”

  Miss Pettiforth looked green at the thought of her former mentor enjoying such high treats.

  “Have you known Miss Worth long, then?” asked a dame with lifted brows.

  “Oh yes. We were in seminary together and came out the same season. Miss Worth became engaged immediately, whilst I did not accept an offer until four months later,” said Mrs. Arnold.