by Carola Dunn
“Golightly, send a groom for Dr. Farrow at once,” ordered Lizzie, taking charge. “Sir, will you be so good as to carry my sister above-stairs?"
He was nodding his willingness, when Alfie charged into the hall. Seeing Claire in the arms of a stranger, he raised his fists, his face thunderous.
“What you done to her?” he demanded. “Leave her be!"
“If you want to take a poke at me, lad,” said the gentleman calmly, “wait until I have set your mistress down."
“Alfie, Miss Claire has hurt herself,” Lizzie hurried to explain. “You must fetch some coal from the shed and take it up to our chamber. Then ask one of the maids to light a fire. Do you understand? Take some coal up and ask Molly to light a fire."
“Un'stand, Miss Lizzie. Miss Claire be all right?"
“Right as rain, Alfie. Hurry now and have a fire made up in our chamber."
Lady Sutton, sweeping into the hall, heard these words.
“What do you mean by ordering a fire in your chamber, Elizabeth? It is quite unnecessary. Heavens, Claire! What disgraceful scrape have you landed yourself in this time? You will be the death of me, I vow. Sir, I beg you will not allow my daughter's shocking behaviour to disturb you."
“Miss Sutton has hurt her ankle, ma'am.” The stranger's composure was unimpaired. “If you will allow me to carry her up, I shall return at once to present myself in due form. I am George Winterborne. Sir James is expecting me, I believe."
Lady Sutton gasped. “Lord Winterborne! Of course, my lord! But pray put Claire down, I am sure she can walk up, the silly girl."
“No, she cannot, Mama,” interrupted Lizzie firmly. “If you will follow me, my lord, I shall show you the way."
With a nod to her exasperated ladyship, Lord Winterborne strode after Lizzie.
Claire wanted to die of humiliation. She ought to be used by now to being scolded in front of strangers, she told herself, but she still found it difficult to bear, impossible to ignore. And somehow it was worse because this stranger had been so kind and understanding. Now he must think her a ridiculous old maid. She avoided meeting his eyes as he laid her gently on her bed.
“Thank you, my lord,” she whispered.
“I wish you a speedy recovery, Miss Sutton,” he said, then turned to Lizzie. “Will your servant remember the fire, or do you suppose your mother has rescinded the order?"
“He will bring it,” Lizzie assured him. “He obeys Claire and me without question, and will take no notice of anything Mama tells him. I do not mean to be rude, my lord, but as soon as you leave I can make Claire more comfortable."
He grinned, looking almost boyish. “Then I shall go down and explain matters to her ladyship. May I have your abigail sent to you?"
“We have none. We help each other."
“Admirable,” he murmured, and departed.
Soon Claire was in her nightgown and under the covers. Alfie and Molly came, and a fire burned merrily in the small grate. Dr. Farrow arrived, diagnosed a bad sprain, and promised that it would heal quickly if she did not put her weight on it for a few days. He bound her ankle and left laudanum, but she discovered that as long as she kept still it only ached a little. Lizzie brought their favourite book of poetry and read to her. She was warm and comfortable and beginning to be drowsy, when Lady Sutton burst unannounced into the chamber.
“Elizabeth, I cannot imagine how you managed it, but Lord Winterborne complimented me on your pretty manners. He admired your appearance, also, and your care of your sister. I do believe Claire's clumsiness may be turned to good account for once."
“Who is he, Mama?"
“How shockingly ignorant you are, child! Why, he is the Marquis of Bellingham's heir. He is one of the most eligible gentlemen in the country. Rich as Croesus in his own right, and he will inherit I know not how many estates. You must try if you can catch him, Elizabeth. I have persuaded him to spend the night here, and you shall sit next to him at dinner."
“But he is quite old, Mama."
“Not a day over six and thirty, and handsome into the bargain. What more can you ask? Besides, you will do better with an older husband to hold the reins. I depend upon you to set your cap at him."
“Rome was not built in a day,” murmured Claire.
Her mother rounded on her. “I will not have you interfering in this, miss! Just because you could not bring any gentleman up to scratch in an entire Season, there is no reason to suppose that your sister cannot make an impression upon Lord Winterborne that will at least bring him back. He already admires her, after all. Now, let me see what you have in your wardrobe that will be suitable."
As they searched through the meagre collection for the least shabby dinner gown, Claire mused on the extraordinary fact that for once she agreed with her mother. Lord Winterborne would be a splendid match for Lizzie.
Chapter II—Bertram
A scowl twisted Lord Pomeroy's usually affable features as he urged his chestnuts onwards. His lordship's groom, Abel, perched up behind the swaying curricle, hung on for dear life. He disremembered when he'd last seen his even-tempered master driving in such a neck-or-nothing style, just like the veriest whipster!
“Eight years!” muttered his lordship. “And I still love her, the devil take her!” he groaned. “I am altogether too honourable a gentleman!” he castigated himself savagely. “I ought to have taken her into my arms years ago and kissed her till she set the date."
They reached the top of the long, steep hill down to the little town of Banbury. It was early yet, but January days were short and already the setting sun glinted on windows in the valley below. Cotswold stone turned to mellow gold, and snowy roofs glowed rosily. Abel closed his eyes and wished he had had the sense to join his lordship's valet, Pinkerton, in the travelling chaise. He should have known that after near a week knocking back bad brandy in that hovel of a tavern, his master was in no fit state to drive.
Lord Pomeroy heard his faithful servant moan. Grinning, he glanced back at his pale companion, and slackened their headlong pace. Though his own life might not be worth living, he would not risk his horses’ legs on the icy slope.
Abel had accompanied him on many a wild race without turning a hair: if he thought they were going too fast for safety, he was undoubtedly right.
Half an hour later, as the last light faded from the sky, the curricle came to a halt before the pillared portico of an imposing manor. Abel jumped down and took the reins from his master.
“We leave for Tatenhill the day after tomorrow,” said Lord Pomeroy, swinging to the ground with the grace of an athlete. “You can travel with Pinkerton."
“Oh no, m'lord! Druther go wi’ your lordship, for ye're a top sawyer, be ye in never such a dudgeon."
His lordship clapped the wiry young groom on the shoulder. “You're a brave man,” he said with a wry smile, “or a foolish one."
Abel watched him run up the steps to the front door, his tall figure imposing in his many-caped greatcoat. He shook his head.
“A rare dance that Miss Hartwell led you, m'lord!” he muttered to himself as he led the chestnuts towards the stables.
Lord Pomeroy, handing his curly-brimmed hat and gloves of York tan to the butler, allowed a footman to divest him of his greatcoat, revealing a close-fitting coat of russet superfine, pale yellow waistcoat, and beige inexpressibles. Even after five days spent trying to drown his sorrows, his fair hair was unruffled, his cravat impeccably creased, and no speck of mud marred his glossy Hessians.
“Is my sister at home, Braithwaite?"
The butler beamed. It was a pleasure to serve a gentleman like Lord Pomeroy. Never overly familiar, but he always remembered your name just as if you were a member of the Quality.
“Her ladyship is expecting you, my lord,” he said.
Lady Caroline Carfax, a matronly blonde some five years older than her brother and equally easygoing, sat by a roaring fire in the Crimson Drawing Room, her head bent over a Gothic novel. She looked up as his
lordship entered, and beamed. He bowed over her outstretched hand.
“Bertram! I have been expecting you this age and had given up for today. It grows dark so early these winter afternoons. Have you seen Louise?"
“My niece goes on famously,” his lordship assured her briefly. “How are the boys?"
“Oh, scarlet fever is a wretched business. We have been unable to entertain for fear of infection, but they are out of quarantine now and will go back to school shortly.” Caroline had noted his discomfort at the mention of her daughter. “I hope Louise has not been troublesome? I am well aware that she is the veriest hoyden, so you need not scruple to tell me all."
“If she has been in the briars these last few days I have not heard it. She was well and happy when I saw her."
“It was a prodigious kind of Lord Daniel to take her in for the Christmas holiday. Miss Hartwell must have been relieved not to be charged with her."
She looked at him questioningly, but he did not respond. He was staring into the fire with a look of utter despondency, his broad shoulders slumped.
“Bertram, is it not settled yet?” she demanded.
“Yes, it's settled,” he told her in a voice of gloom. “She is to marry Winterborne."
“Winterborne? Lord Daniel? Oh Bertram, I am so dreadfully sorry! How could she treat you so after you have been faithful to her for so long!"
He shrugged. “You must not blame Amaryllis. She has changed—we have both changed over the years. After all, we did not see each other for six years! She loves him, and you would not wish me to be married to a woman who loves another."
“They are betrothed, then."
“If they are, they have me to thank for bringing them together.” He laughed hollowly. “They had quarrelled, and she told him she was to marry me. Then she refused me, and I could not bear to see her unhappy, so I went and told him. Or at least his brother, George Winterborne."
Lady Caroline clasped her hands and gazed at him with glowing eyes. “How utterly chivalrous you are, my dear!” she crowed. “It is just like something out of a novel. Of course I am sorry that you are unhappy, but perhaps if you have both changed so much you will recover. After all, you were only two and twenty when you first asked for Miss Hartwell's hand, and you were engaged for two whole years without ever setting a date for the wedding. And I daresay if you had exerted yourself these past six years you might have found her sooner. You have not been abroad all the time!"
“Are you trying to persuade me that I never really loved her, Caroline? You'll catch cold at that."
“Of course not.” Her ladyship had the grace to look a little conscious. “Only that you were a mere boy when you fell in love, and now you are thirty and much better able to choose what will suit you. And you must choose soon, Bertram,” she added anxiously. “I had a letter from Mama only yesterday saying that Papa is fretting. He is far from well, you know, and it would relieve his mind greatly to know that his heir is settled with a wife."
“You need not tell me that he is in queer stirrups. I suppose I shall have to spend the Season doing the pretty to all the eligible young ladies. The thought makes me shudder. Half will be outrageous flirts and the other half milk-and-water misses without a word to say for themselves. I believe that is why I first loved Amaryllis—she was neither coy nor forward but totally self-possessed."
“Perhaps I can find you a bride beforehand so that you can enjoy the Season in peace,” said his sister thoughtfully. She was about to go on when the door opened and her husband entered. “James! See, Bertram is come, is that not delightful? He brings word that our dear Louise is well."
“Servant, Pomeroy,” Viscount Carfax nodded to his brother-in-law. A quiet, stern-faced gentleman of middle height, he was dressed with propriety but with none of Bertram's fashionable flair. Their relationship was cordial but distant, and upon his arrival the conversation turned to indifferent matters.
Braithwaite appeared bearing a silver tray with a pair of
decanters. Lord Pomeroy accepted a glass of Madeira and forgot his sorrows and his prospective search for a bride in a discussion of the bloodlines of foxhounds and the price of corn.
Later, when they went up to change for dinner, Lady Caroline assured her brother that he need not put on his London finery.
“We dine en famille tonight,” she explained. “Indeed, as I said, we have not entertained this age, but I have in mind to plan a dinner party while you are with us. There is someone—there are some neighbours I should like you to meet."
He looked at her suspiciously. “I am expected at Tatenhill,” he said. “I cannot stay beyond tomorrow."
“Then you must give us some of your time on your way to London next month. Perhaps I shall be able to rescue you from the horrid fate of spending the Season hunting for a wife."
“Who is it?” he asked with a resigned sigh.
She glanced down the hallway. Lord Carfax was closing the door of his dressing-room behind him. “A Miss Sutton. She is eight and twenty, or thereabouts, so she has quite put missishness behind her."
“A trifle long in the tooth to remain unmarried! An antidote, is she? Squint? Crookback? Laugh like a hyena?"
“Certainly not!” said his sister indignantly. “I will not claim that she is a beauty, and I believe she did not take in Town, but she is very well-looking, I assure you."
“What's wrong with her then? Come on, Caroline, out with it."
“Well, she is a trifle unconventional. Nothing too dreadful, I promise. She behaves with perfect propriety, but perhaps a little oddly."
“So you would wed me to an eccentric!"
“Say an original, rather. There are not a great number of unmarried young ladies available, Bertram, who are neither flirts nor insipid! You will not expect, I suppose, to fall in love again? I am persuaded that Miss Sutton would make you a perfectly unexceptionable wife."
“I assume her birth is acceptable, or you would not suggest her. Sutton ... Not Sir James Sutton of the Sutton Stables? They are near Banbury as I recall."
“His elder daughter. They are an old and respected county family with aristocratic connexions."
“Penniless, I daresay?"
“No, she has a handsome fortune from her godmother. Two thousand a year, I have heard, which is not to be sneezed at! Not that you will have the least need of it when you inherit Tatenhill. I do not consider that an inducement, particularly as you were willing to take Miss Hartwell with nothing. But if you do not care to meet her, I shall invite her next week instead of waiting on your return."
Bertram grinned at her pout. “No need to get on your high ropes. It can do no harm to meet her, so long as you promise me you will not so much as hint to her of your intentions!"
“I promise.” She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “And now I must run and change my dress, for Carfax likes to sit down to dinner on time. You will not mention this to him?"
“You cannot expect me to encourage you to keep secrets from your husband,” he said severely.
“Bertram, you would not tell! Oh, you are roasting me. I never knew such a tease!” she complained, and pattered off in high good humour.
The weather held clear and cold two days later when Lord Pomeroy set out for his ancestral home at Tatenhill in Staffordshire. Abel was relieved to find that his master once more handled the ribbons like the top-o'-the-trees Corinthian he was. He drove to an inch, to be sure, but with cool competence rather than reckless abandon.
It was dark by the time they reached their destination; the windows of the great mansion glowed with a welcome promise of warmth and comfort. It was impossible not to feel a certain pride in being heir to such magnificence, but Bertram did not think of this place as home. Between Eton, Cambridge, and the diplomatic service, he had spent little enough time at his family's country seat since his early youth. He was not yet ready to settle down and take from his ailing father the burden of running the great estate.
If only he had been able to
bring a bride home to share his new responsibilities—but Amaryllis was lost to him forever.
The Earl and Countess of Tatenhill were quite as distressed as he had expected to hear his news. Also as expected, they accepted it without discussion or recrimination. With a new sensitivity, Bertram realised that he had never heard his parents air their differences, and though devoted to each other in an undemonstrative way, they must surely disagree on occasion.
He had never argued with Amaryllis. She had quarrelled bitterly with Lord Daniel, and yet in the end she had chosen him.
He had been mistaken in her; she was not the cool, collected creature he had fallen in love with so long ago. The last thing he wanted was a life of emotional turmoil, and for the first time he began to look upon her rejection of his suit as a narrow escape.
Lord Tatenhill, with the gout which had plagued him for years now creeping painfully from joint to joint, wanted nothing so much as to see his son settle down with a wife. He had managed to attend Queen Caroline's trial last year, but the effort had exhausted him and he was now a semi-invalid. Bertram accepted with quiet acquiescence his orders to get himself betrothed by the end of the Season.
He would do so for his mother's sake, if not his father's. He had been shocked to see how tired and worn she had become recently, and it would be unconscionable to add to her burden by not doing his utmost to bring home a bride.
Surely it would not be difficult for the wealthy heir to an earldom to find a quiet, well-bred female willing to accept his hand, if not his heart!
Not a week later, a suitable young lady was presented to his attention, nay, forced upon it. He had spent the interim mostly on estate business with his father's land agent. Riding home that evening after visiting a tenant farmer, he found a large and antiquated travelling carriage preceding him into the stable yard.
The faded baronial crest upon the door instantly warned him that his Aunt Dorothy had arrived.
When he entered the house, the butler informed him in a sepulchral whisper that Lady Harrison was accompanied on her visit by the eldest Miss Harrison and by Mr Harrison.
