by Carla Kelly
He rode toward his own fields, the sun warm on his back and welcome in October. Soon it would be cold and the snow would come. As Sepoy carried him up the gradual slope to his hayfield, he noticed the woman walking through the field. He smiled, wondering for the umpteenth time who she was. He had noticed her first in August’s heat, when she walked with only a bonnet dangling down her back. All he could tell about her was that she was slender but not tall and possessed dark hair. Since September she had been cloaked as well as bonneted. He had mentioned her to Mama once over dinner, but Louisa Chard—she who knew all shire news—only shrugged. “Perhaps she is a relation of the Wetherbys, and you know I do not visit them,” was her pointed comment.
He rode toward her once out of curiosity when she crossed his land, but she only edged away the closer he came, so he changed his mind. If I were a lone woman, I would not choose to be harassed by a stranger on horseback, he reasoned and gave her a wide berth. He was always mindful of her, even if he never asked anyone else who she was. He even dreamed about her once, and woke up embarrassed and puzzled with his body. He vowed not to think about her again, and he seldom did, even if he saw her every day.
For no real reason, he turned to watch her as she skirted the boggy patch in the low spot, on the path that had probably been there since Hadrian built his wall. She stepped over the creek that ran so cold and continued her steady pace to the top of the rise. He noticed that she was walking more slowly than in August, and then his attention was taken by his men in the hay field; he did not think of her again.
Chard worked all week on his farm at that same steady pace which had characterized his army service in India and which had earned him the nickname Lord Mark Time. It was a stupid name bestowed on him by a few fellow officers and was never used by his own men, who knew him best. He thought about it one night and considered that those officers even now lay rotting in India, having discovered in the last minute of their lives and far too late to profit from, that steadiness usually overrules flash and dash. At any rate, it had proved to be the quality most in demand at the Kaihla ford in Assaye.
“Mama, am I stodgy?” he asked suddenly.
Lady Wythe looked up quickly from her solitaire hand. “Well, not precisely, Pete,” she said finally, after rearranging some cards. “Careful, perhaps, and certainly reliable.” She laid down the rest of the cards, sweeping them together to shuffle and cut again. She folded her hands in front of her. “I would call you firm of mind, but only a little set in your ways.”
“Predictable?” He couldn’t resist a smile at the look on her face. “Now be honest, Mama.”
“You are predictable, indeed, but it doesn’t follow that this is a defect,” she protested.
He glanced at the mantelpiece clock. “It is nine o’clock, my dear, and my usual bedtime,” he said. “Perhaps I will astound you and remain awake until midnight!”
She laughed as she rang the bell for tea. “You would astound me, indeed, for I know you have been in the saddle since after breakfast.”
I am much too predictable, he thought as he stared into the fire hours later, his eyes dry from reading. Mama had given up on him two hours ago and kissed him good night, and still he sat reading, and wondering what he was trying to prove, and to whom.
He paid in the morning by oversleeping, with the consequence that St. Phil’s was full when he arrived. He knew that he could march down the aisle and take his patron’s pew, where for centuries Marquises of Wythe had slumbered through services, but he was not so inclined. Mama sat there even now, with Emma and Will, but there was a shyness about him that made him ill wish to call attention to his tardiness. Lucy used to relish her late arrival and the opportunity to peacock her way to the family box. He chose not to.
Will noticed him as he genuflected and sat in the back, and he came down the aisle to join him. Will’s clothes smelled faintly of camphor, and it was a reminder, along with the hay, grain, and fruit of the vine tucked in his barns, that the season had turned. He noticed that Will’s wrists were shooting out of his sleeves. His son would be nine early in the New Year. Mama would scoff at the expense, but Chard decided that it was time for Will to meet his own tailor. I will take him to Durham, and we will both be measured, he thought, pleased with himself.
They stood and bowed when the acolyte bore the cross down the aisle. The smell of incense rose in his nostrils, and then the little procession was past. As he sat down again, he noticed a woman, well bundled in her cloak, standing in the aisle, hesitating. He motioned to Will to move closer to him and give her room, but she chose instead to seat herself directly in front of him.
He sat back, concentrating as always on the service because he cared what Mr. Woodhull said, and he felt a genuine need to express himself in prayer. I am so blessed, he thought simply; it follows that I should be grateful, even if gratitude is not stylish. They rose for a hymn. As usual, he prepared to flinch at the unfortunate lack of musical ability among his tenants and fellow parishioners. That he did not, he owed entirely to the woman standing in front of him.
He had never heard a more beautiful voice, full-throated and rich, with a vibrato that was just enough without overpowering the simple hymn they sang.
“Oh, Papa.”
He glanced down at Will, who appeared to be caught in the same musical web. He put his arm around his son and they enjoyed the pleasure of a beautiful voice together.
He was hard put to direct his attention to the rest of the service. When he and Will returned to the pew after taking the sacrament, he tried to see who she was, but she had returned to the pew before him and knelt with her head down, as he should be doing. Instead, he knelt behind her again and watched her. Only a moment’s concentration assured him that she was the woman who walked the hills. The cloak was shabby up close.
From what he could tell, she was small but sturdy. She was the happy possessor of a wealth of black hair, long and managed into a tidy mass at the back of her neck. He could see nothing remarkable about her—no ribands, no jewelry—until a baby in the pew behind him burst into sudden wails and she turned around involuntarily. She was beautiful. Her eyes were wide and dark, her features perfectly proportioned, and her lips of tender shape. To Chard’s honest delight, she smiled at either him or Will before she turned back around.
When the Mass ended, he wanted to speak to her, but he found himself hard put to think of a proper introduction. To his knowledge, she was not a tenant, so there was no connection. From the look of her cloak, clean but well worn, she was not of his social circle. While he puzzled on what to do and nodded and smiled to various friends, she escaped and his ordeal was over.
He took his time leaving the church, waiting until the last parishioner had congratulated Mr. Woodhull on his sermon. He held out his hand before the vicar could give him the little bow that always embarrassed him. The vicar shook his hand instead.
“My lord, I trust you found the sermon to your liking? I remembered your fondness for that scripture, which you commented upon at dinner last week.”
Scripture? What scripture? Dinner? God bless me, I am an idiot, he thought wildly before he had the good sense to nod with what he hoped looked like wisdom. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Mr. Woodhull,” he said, praying that the vicar would not question him about the sermon. “Tell me, sir, if you can,” he ventured, “do you know who was that lovely woman sitting in front of me? She has the most extraordinary voice.”
“Ah yes, a rare thing in this parish,” the vicar replied with dry humor. “Has Lady Wythe commissioned you to help her find some voices for our Christmas competition?”
He was too honest to perjure himself further. “Not entirely, sir. I simply could not help but enjoy her voice. I will certainly inform my mother, of course,” he added.
They were walking together toward the foyer. Chard looked up as they neared the entrance. The day had turned colder. He hoped that the beautiful woman had a ride home, wherever it was she lived.
&nb
sp; “Who is she?”
“You can only mean Junius Wetherby’s little widow.”
“Junius Wetherby?” he asked in surprise. “I had no idea that rascal was married, much less dead.” And what a relief that is, he thought without a qualm. He only remembered Junius as a care-for-nobody who gave the district a bad stink.
“And yet, it is no puzzle why they are keeping it so quiet.” He looked around him again. “I gather that the Wetherbys, despairing of the church, bought the scamp a lieutenancy, which took him to Portugal.” The vicar moved closer. “Apparently he met Rosie, promptly married her, and about a week later, fell out of a window while he was drunk.”
Chard blinked in surprise. The vicar shook his head.
“The Wetherbys sent for his body and his effects, and Rosie showed up, too, to everyone’s amazement.”
“Is she Portuguese?”
“No. From what I have learned of the whole business—which is precious little—she is the daughter of a Welsh color sergeant. Imagine how that sets with the Wetherbys, who probably think even captains are not sufficiently elevated!”
He had no love for the Wetherbys, but Chard winced anyway. “Trust Junius to disrupt, even from beyond the grave,” he said. “Well, good day, Mr. Woodhull.”
“Good day, my lord. Remind your mother of the necessity of recruiting a choir, if you will, sir. She promised, and I shall hold her to it.”
They were waiting for him in the family carriage, but he indicated Sepoy tied nearby and motioned them on. The wind was picking up now, and he quickly regretted that he had not tied his horse behind the carriage and joined his mother and children inside. In his rush to not be late to church, he had forgotten his muffler, so he buttoned his overcoat as high as he could and resolved to move along quickly.
As Sepoy took him up the rocky path to home, the woman caught his eye again. Head down, she struggled across the field toward the Wetherby estate, which was still two miles distant. He stopped a moment and watched her and then continued on his way.
“She is Welsh, Mama,” he said over Sunday dinner. “Perhaps that accounts for the beautiful voice. Oh, and she is a sergeant’s daughter.”
“She smiled at me,” Will added.
“No, I think it was at me, son,” Chard teased.
“No, Papa,” Will said, sure of himself.
“Obviously she has had a profound effect on both of you!” Mama declared. With a glance at her grandson, she leaned across the table. “But, Pete, really! A sergeant’s daughter and a Wetherby? That is more strain than any of us can stand.” She laughed. “Can you imagine how things must be at the Wetherby’s? No, I do not think we want to get embroiled in that.”
“It was just a suggestion, Mama. Her voice is so pretty.”
And her face, he thought later that night as he wrestled with accounts in the bookroom. It had been the most fleeting of glances, and by nightfall now, he remembered only the beauty of her eyes. He put down his pencil and rubbed his temples where the headache was beginning. I must admit it, he thought. She stirs me. One glance and she stirs me. No wonder wretched Junius was a goner. He chuckled softly. And I do believe she did smile at Will.
By the end of the week the last of the hay was stacked in ricks and he faced the fact that he must have another barn. A visit to the Corn Exchange sent him home smiling with the news that corn was up and that the year would enjoy a prosperous conclusion. The day ended less satisfactorily with the sight of Rosie Wetherby walking in the cold. From the warmth of his carriage, he reached the glum conclusion that quite possibly she was not wanted at the Wetherbys and chose to walk away her days out of bleak necessity.
He was on the verge of mentioning something about his suspicions to Mama, but she gave him news of her own. “Son, I have succumbed to the fact that I must beg for a good soprano, even if she is a sergeant’s daughter and a Wetherby,” Mama said as soon as the footman served dinner and left the room. “I have written a note to the Wetherbys, stating that I will call on Monday.”
“Take Will along,” Emma teased.
Will, bless his calm demeanor, ignored his sister. “I would be happy to escort Grandmama,” he declared, which left Emma with nothing to say.
“I will be depending on tenors and basses dropping from the sky before practice begins in two weeks,” Lady Wythe said as she set down her fork in exasperation. “I so want a good Christmas choir for once, if only so my friends who reside within the parishes of Saints Anselm, and Peter will not quiz me from Christmas to Lent!”
“Would you consider changing your circle of acquaintances?” Chard asked with a slight smile. “Or perhaps becoming a Muslim.”
“Certainly not! I will find singers!”
As it turned out, by nine o’clock, while she lamented in the sitting room and he read to Emma and Will in his own bed, events smiled upon Lady Wythe. Her daughter wrote a hasty, tear-splattered note to tell of chicken pox among her offspring and the dire necessity of her mother’s presence immediately in Leeds. The welcome news was handed to her by postal express. The courier had scarcely left the house when she arrived at her son’s bedroom, letter held triumphantly aloft.
“Pete, I am needed in Leeds!” She handed the letter to him and sat on his bed. “Now how can I possibly help Mr. Woodhull locate singers?”
He looked at her as warning bells went off in his head. “Mama, you don’t imagine for one moment that this task of yours is to pass to me.”
She gathered her grandchildren to her side. “Children, I cannot believe your father would fail me at this desperate moment when young lives are at stake in Leeds!”
“From chicken pox?” Will asked, always practical.
“It is scarcely fatal, Mama,” Chard stated but knew when he was defeated. “Bella needs you, I am sure. We’ll manage here.”
“And the choir?”
In his mind, ruin, disgrace, and another year’s humiliation in the Christmas competition passed in review. “I will discharge your duty, my dear. Now get Truitt to help you pack. If I know Bella, she needs you this instant. I will escort you.”
Leaving his children in the care of housekeeper, butler, and numerous doting servants, Lord Wythe took his mother south to Leeds and the open arms of his little sister Bella. He lingered long enough to observe the ravages of chicken pox among his nieces and nephews, notice that Bella was increasing again, and visit some former brothers in arms for needed information. Equipped with it, he wrote a few letters, walked the floor one night with a particularly feverish niece, and returned at noon on Monday at peace with himself and possessed of a plan.
Mercy, but I am tired, he thought as he changed clothes, ate standing up because he was tired of sitting, and kept one eye on the clock.
“I can go with you to the Wetherbys, Papa,” Will offered.
Perhaps not this first time,” he replied, “but I do appreciate your interest, son.” He took longer than usual with his neck cloth and wished for the first time in years that he had a valet. “How is that?” he asked finally.
“A little crooked,” Will said. “Bend down, Papa.” Chard did as he was advised, and Will tugged on the neck cloth. The result was much the same, but he complimented his son and let him carry his hat to the side door, where his butler handed him his overcoat again. He took the hat from Will. “I am off to hunt the wild soprano, my boy,” he said, and Will laughed. “Do wish me luck.”
To be fair, there really wasn’t anything the matter with the Wetherbys, he decided. He knew that if someone were to ask him point blank, he would be hard-pressed to explain his dislike. But there you are: I do not like Sir Rufus Wetherby or his family, he thought as Sepoy stepped along with his usual sangfroid.
Chard decided that Sir Rufus was very much like a cat that had insinuated himself into their household years ago. Someone—was it Bella?—named the beast Wooster for no discernible reason. Wooster had showed up one night at the servant’s entrance, hollering and importuning, and then zipped in when someone opened
the door, as if he had forgotten something inside.
Wooster never left, Chard remembered with a smile.
He usurped the best spot before the fireplace, and always rushed to the scraps bowl before the other more polite household felines. In his rush to be first, he invariably ate too much and then threw it up, after much upheaval and noise. He would dash back to the bowl and repeat the process before the cook got disgusted and threw Wooster out. Wooster never learned. He was always there, first in line, when the door opened.
Bella loved the disgusting creature, but Papa threatened to anchor the cat in the driveway and run over it with the barouche.
That would be Sir Rufus, Chard thought. He has to be first at the food bowl. He is merely a baronet, yet he takes what he thinks are the best spots in the Corn Exchange, or the tavern, or even at church, when it suits him to go. It must chafe him that the Wythe box is so prominently situated, Chard thought. I believe he would have felt right at home with Cortez or Pizarro, rushing about and claiming things in the name of Spain. Sir Rufus is oblivious to the disdain of others and thinks himself quite my equal.
Chard owned to some discomfort over that last thought. “I wish he would not fawn and slave over me because I am a marquis and he is a baronet, Sepoy,” he told his horse. “It smacks of the shop and embarrasses me. Perhaps that is why I never visit him.”
