An Earl Like No Other

by Wilma Counts

  Arriving at the Mortimer estate, Jeremy was glad to see that a number of guests had been invited. At least tonight there should be no repeat of that uncomfortable conversation in his own drawing room. A very correct butler announced his entrance.

  “Ah, Kenrick. So glad you could make it,” Sir Eldridge said.

  Jeremy bowed politely to the knight and his wife. “Thank you for inviting me.”

  “Well, we could hardly exclude our highest ranking neighbor, now could we?”

  Glancing around the room, Jeremy noted a number of very eligible young men in the group, as well as young women arrayed in colorful gowns. Of these, Charlotte Mortimer stood out in a red silk gown embroidered with silver roses. Her dark hair was swept up and pinned with silver clips. She was, he silently conceded, a very good-looking woman. His gaze moved on until he spotted the Dennisons talking with the vicar and his wife, but before he could move in that direction, Mortimer grabbed his elbow and steered him to the group that included Miss Mortimer.

  “My daughter has looked forward all day to your arrival,” Mortimer said.

  “Really, Papa!” she protested with a laugh. “You must know that we women like to keep men guessing.”

  “Been a long time since I did any courting,” Mortimer replied.

  Jeremy saw raised eyebrows and speculative looks directed his way at this comment.

  “Courting? Who’s courting?” old Mrs. Spencer, one of the neighborhood’s few octogenarians, called from a nearby chair where she was holding court.

  “Never mind, Mama.” Her middle-aged son patted her shoulder.

  “Young people get so much freedom these days,” Mrs. Spencer went on in the high-pitched voice of the hard-of-hearing. “In my day, a girl had a chaperone at all times.”

  “Ah, but my grandmother told me how you and she used to outwit them,” a woman bystander said.

  “That we did!” The old woman giggled like a schoolgirl. “Why, I remember one time—”

  Charlotte had moved to stand near Jeremy. She spoke in a low voice so he was forced to bend close to hear her. She wore a heavy, musky perfume. “I am glad you could come, my lord. When Mama and I planned this little soiree, it never occurred to us that the whole of Yorkshire would be preoccupied with shearing sheep!”

  “I know only of my part of ‘the whole of Yorkshire,’ Miss Mortimer, but it is true that at Kenrick we have had a few busy days.”

  She put a hand on his forearm and gave him an intimate smile. “Please, do call me Charlotte.”

  Aware that others watched them, though they could not hear, he glanced pointedly at her hand, then into her eyes in which he perceived a strange mixture of hope, triumph—and maybe—desire? “For the time being, I am more comfortable with Miss Mortimer,” he said quietly.

  Her expression tightened and she removed her hand. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Jeremy surmised that Miss Charlotte Mortimer was unaccustomed to having even the most trivial of her wishes thwarted.

  Dinner was announced and, as the guest ranking highest in the neighborhood’s social hierarchy, Jeremy was seated to the right of his hostess. He had not been at all surprised to find that his dinner partner, seated now on his right, was his hosts’ daughter. Still determined to judge her on her own merits and not blame her for her father’s heavy-handed behavior, he was nevertheless mildly surprised at the number of times her arm or hand “accidentally” encountered his own. He listened halfheartedly as she engaged him and the gentleman on her other side in what Jeremy thought of as typically vacuous dinner-table conversation. To entertain himself, he tried imagining the other guests at an Arapaho feast after a buffalo hunt. He grinned involuntarily at a vision of his host leading a dance around an open fire to reenact a kill.

  “Do you find the behavior of the Princess of Wales amusing, my lord?” Miss Mortimer sounded mildly shocked.

  Jeremy suddenly felt himself the focus of attention in their part of the table. “Well, I—”

  Lady Mortimer sniffed. “Caroline of Brunswick shows little regard for English customs or, indeed, for her own position as our future queen.”

  “But really, Lady Mortimer, what can one expect? She is German, you know,” said Mrs. Hartwick from farther down the table.

  “The royal family have many strong German ties, do they not?” Jeremy asked. “The current king’s father spoke English only with a marked accent.”

  “Oh, but our current royals have been polished by three generations of English influence,” Mrs. Hartwick asserted.

  “In any event,” the young man on the other side of Miss Mortimer put in, “the princess’s behavior is not so very different from that of her husband, now is it? Sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander.”

  This speaker was young Baron Whittley, who had only lately come into his father’s title. Jeremy had noted earlier that the baron flirted outrageously with Miss Mortimer. Now he wondered cynically if Sir Eldridge would settle for a mere baron for his daughter.

  Mrs. Hartwick, apparently feeling the conversation was entering improper territory, changed the subject to comment on the Chinese decor of the dining room. Jeremy went back to assigning Arapaho character and dress to other guests.

  Dinner finished, Lady Mortimer led the ladies in returning to the drawing room. Servants efficiently cleared the table and the male diners settled into rounds of port, politics, and other subjects thought unsuitable for feminine ears. Jeremy had always thought this custom silly; several women of his acquaintance—including his Aunt Elinor and his American mother-in-law—were quite capable of contributing to any subject gentlemen might wish to discuss.

  When the conversation turned to local matters, there was much grumbling about the price of wool.

  “You’d think with Napoleon safely tucked away, the market on the continent would open up,” Squire Dennison said.

  “Put it in storage. Wait a while. That’s what some are doing—eh, Kenrick?” Hartwick, one of the area’s largest landowners, said.

  “Ah, but how long can one store such a huge number of bales of wool?“ Sir Eldridge named a figure that was uncannily accurate to the bales Jeremy had only this week stacked in a barn on the home farm.

  Jeremy, who gave his host a hard look and thought the other man looked decidedly smug, merely shrugged. “A temporary measure.”

  “Well,” Hartwick said, “you know what they say: ‘Hope springs eternal.’ I wish you well.”

  “Thank you,” Jeremy said evenly, but he was profoundly irked that Mortimer kept such close watch on Kenrick affairs.

  Finally, their host drained his glass and rose, saying, “Gentlemen, I’m sure some of you young bucks are anxious to rejoin the ladies—and I did have rather strict orders from my daughter not to dawdle over the port.”

  In the drawing room, they found the ladies idly listening to Miss Mortimer and two other young women around the pianoforte, singing country ballads as a fourth one played the instrument. When the gentlemen joined them, an older woman took over the playing for a round of dancing.

  Seeing his offer as a social duty, Jeremy asked Miss Mortimer to dance. She eagerly accepted and rested her hand on his arm rather longer and more often than strictly necessary by the movements of the dance. Jeremy was again aware of raised eyebrows and curious glances cast their way. He later danced with two other ladies; then, feeling he had satisfied the social amenities, was on the verge of taking his leave when Sir Eldridge, his daughter on his arm, approached the group with whom Jeremy was talking. It included Squire Dennison and Baron Whittley, as well as the squire’s wife and daughter—the latter a comely young woman with silvery blond hair and blue eyes.

  “I say, Kenrick,” Sir Eldridge said during a lull in the conversation, “I don’t believe you’ve seen our orangery, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t,” Jeremy replied. “I think you mentioned adding one some months ago.”

  “It’s finished now and I doubt there’s a finer one in all of Yorkshire,”
the knight said. “Charlotte, my dear, why don’t you show his lordship the orangery? It is quite well lit. I had special lanterns installed.”

  “Oh, I’d love to,” she said. “My lord?”

  Heeding the warning bells clanging in his mind, Jeremy said, “Such a delight should be shared. Perhaps the others would care to join us?”

  The squire and his wife demurred, saying they had already seen this new feature of the Mortimer estate. The other two young people, pleased to join the earl and Miss Mortimer, were unaware of a certain tightness about Sir Eldridge’s expression or resignation in the set of Miss Mortimer’s shoulders as she led them to the orangery. She pointed out not only exotic fruits being grown there, but also some nonnative flowers.

  “I’m especially fond of the orchids,” she said.

  “So delicate. So beautiful,” Baron Whittley murmured with a meaningful look at Miss Mortimer.

  “Yes, aren’t they?” she responded. “Do have a look at this one, Lord Kenrick. Father and I are very proud of this addition to our collection.”

  With this comment, she led him into a small alcove housing some tall pillars with plants spiraling up them. They effectively screened Jeremy and Miss Mortimer from Whittley and Miss Dennison. Miss Mortimer pointed to two large delicate purple-pink blossoms.

  “These will be especially beautiful in a wedding bouquet,” she murmured for his ears alone.

  Embarrassed at both their seclusion and her intimate tone, he deliberately stepped aside. “Do have a look, Miss Dennison, Whittley.”

  They cast him curious glances, but dutifully examined the exotic blooms. Charlotte Mortimer compressed her lips in what might have passed for a smile.

  “The plants themselves look rather sturdy,” Miss Dennison said.

  Jeremy voiced appropriate and general admiration of what was undoubtedly—as Sir Eldridge had said—the finest, most elaborate hothouse in the county.

  They returned to the drawing room to find the party breaking up with carriages and cloaks already called for. Jeremy noticed a brief communication pass between Charlotte Mortimer and her father: The knight’s inquiring glance at the young woman was answered with a slight shrug and grimace of defeat.

  Jeremy rode home with a vague feeling of foreboding, no longer harboring any doubt as to Miss Mortimer’s full compliance in her father’s machinations.

  Kate had kept busy the last several days. Along with her usual duties she and the staff prepared bedchambers for anticipated guests to the manor. Wilkins had informed her that Lord Kenrick expected at least one male guest, perhaps more. Kate wondered fleetingly who such guests might be, but quickly decided any friends of her employer could scarcely be of any significance to the housekeeper. After all, she had never been a part of that strata of society when she was young, and certainly not as a widow later.

  They dusted, scrubbed, and aired three rooms, but no guests arrived. There had been a delay, Wilkins said. After a while, the process was repeated and curiosity rose among the staff, for, aside from a short visit from his sister, the earl had had no overnight guests since his arrival at Kenrick.

  May gave way to June with days growing ever warmer. Lady Elinor began to spend an hour or two each afternoon in what the household referred to as the rose garden, but which actually sported a profusion of blooms at this time of the year.

  “I dearly love the smell of the lilacs,” Lady Elinor announced to Kate when the housekeeper approached the padded wicker couch on which the earl’s aunt sat. “That’s your scent, is it not, Mrs. Arthur?”

  Kate had long since ceased being surprised at the partially blind Lady Elinor’s uncanny ability to identify each and every person around her. “Yes, it is. Well, mostly lilac.”

  “Mm-hmm. There’s a fresh, woodsy touch as well. Clara fancies lilac too, but I can always tell the two of you apart because she always smells of rosewater as well.” Clara Packwood, the vicar’s wife, was Lady Elinor’s friend.

  “Actually, I’ve come with a message from Mrs. Packwood,” Kate said. “She sent round a note that she will not be able to visit today. Her daughter has gone into her confinement.”

  “Oh, how exciting! This is Clara’s first grandchild. Still, I am disappointed to hear she’s not coming. We were going to start this new book today. Selfish of me, isn’t it?” The older woman touched a book within reach on the table nearby.

  “No, not selfish at all.” Kate knew how much Mrs. Packwood’s twice-weekly visits meant to Lady Elinor. The two women shared a love of popular novels. Regularly, Mrs. Packwood read for a while, then the two women had tea or lemonade and speculated on where the story was going.

  “Not selfish,” Kate repeated. “Human, I’d say. However, I have some free time at the moment. My son is at the stable for Lady Cassandra’s riding lesson and the staff are about their duties. I would be happy to fill in for Mrs. Packwood—that is, if you think Mrs. Packwood would not mind.”

  “Oh, would you?” Lady Elinor eagerly pushed the book toward Kate. “Clara has already read it—she was merely accommodating me.”

  Kate opened it and read the title. “Pride and Prejudice—by a lady. I’ve heard of this book!”

  “It came out a couple of years ago, and Clara read it then with great enjoyment. We both liked Sense and Sensibility.”

  “Well.” Kate smoothed the page and began, “It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife.”

  Lady Elinor chuckled. “A single man in possession of a fortune—or of a title!”

  Kate went on with the story, thinking not much got past Lady Elinor. Both women had heard, but neither talked about, the rumors that dominated local gossip after the Mortimers’ dinner party. Kate was dismayed by the speculations she heard, but reminded herself repeatedly that it was none of her business. Besides, she was concerned only on behalf of Lady Cassandra. Wasn’t she? She gave herself a mental shake and soon she and Lady Elinor were engrossed in the story of Elizabeth Bennett and the enigmatic Mr. Darcy.

  Thus it was that Kate’s duties evolved naturally to include her reading to Lady Elinor whenever Mrs. Packwood, now much occupied with a new grandson, was not available. In truth, Kate enjoyed her time with the older woman. She and Lady Elinor had similar tastes in reading materials and they shared an ironic sense of humor. Except for a few wives of fellow officers, Kate had had no female friends since leaving her childhood home, where she had always had her sister Beatrice, only a year younger, to confide in.

  Beatrice. Always, any thought of her four sisters and three brothers brought nostalgia and regret. And burning anger at a father who could so coldly cause an enduring separation of siblings who loved each other. She wondered if Beatrice had married? Goodness! Mary would be of a marriageable age now too. So would Suzanne. And her brothers? Surely they had gone away to school and then university. They would have escaped that iron hand to some extent.

  It was mid-morning a few days later when Lord Kenrick sent for his housekeeper. He rose from behind his desk, gestured for her to take a comfortable barrel chair, and reseated himself in its mate. As he crossed his legs, she sat on the edge of her chair and tried not to stare at the way his breeches molded to muscular thighs.

  “I understand you have taken on an additional duty,” he began.

  “My lord?” She found his tone and expression difficult to read.

  “Lady Elinor informs me you are regularly spending time reading to her.”

  “Oh, yes. But only when Mrs. Packwood is unable to do so. And I do assure you, my lord, I am not neglecting my regular duties. Have you a complaint? Has Mr. Wilkins—”

  He held up a hand. “Slow down, Mrs. Arthur. I’ve no complaint. Nor has Wilkins, to my knowledge.”

  “Then—”

  He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward in his chair, clasping his hands in front of him. “My aunt brought this new turn of events to my attention.”

  “And you disapprove?” She held he
r own hands tightly in her lap, trying to quell her nervousness.

  “Do stop jumping to conclusions.” His voice was stern, but not angry.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Lady Elinor is concerned that she might be imposing on your good graces. After all, she said, you were hired to be a housekeeper, not an old lady’s companion.”

  “She does not take up so very much of my free time. And I truly do enjoy her company. We have much in common, despite our differences in age and station.”

  “So she tells me.”

  There was a touch of irony in this comment and Kate wondered just how much of their conversations his aunt had repeated. Both women had lost husbands whom they had loved very much. Lady Elinor had also lost a son at a young age to an epidemic of scarlet fever. “He would have been Kenrick’s age,” she had confided. “Perhaps that is partly why I am so fond of Jeremy.” Lady Elinor had grown up an earl’s daughter and Kate as the eldest child of a wealthy country squire, but they had much in common in terms of education and interests, though Lady Elinor’s infirmities limited her activities at this stage of her life. “I seem to be living vicariously,” she’d said with a chuckle. Still, Kate worried, how much might she have revealed that she should have kept hidden?

  Lord Kenrick smiled. “Don’t look so worried. My aunt has not been telling tales.”

  Kate emitted a nervous little laugh. “Well, that’s a relief.”

  “However, she did want to establish that you are truly satisfied with things as they are.”

  “Yes, I am. Her ladyship is not unduly demanding.”

  “And you still find the staff adequate?”

  “For the nonce.”

  “So be it, then. Both my aunt and I thank you.”

  When he could contrive no other reason to detain her, Jeremy reluctantly allowed his housekeeper to return to whatever he had interrupted. He sat at his desk considering the effect of a trim figure, dark blond hair, and a set of hazel eyes that seemed to flit from almost brown to almost green, depending on light and emotions. Plus a faint scent of lilac, he reminded himself. And you’d probably do well to expend those kinds of thoughts on the Mortimer chit.