Crawling outside, he wrenched branches away from the crushed boot, digging through detritus until he uncovered his valise and Sedge’s. At least now he could shave.
They would be stuck here for some time, even if Sedge’s arm healed quickly. But accepting hospitality from a man he could not respect cast a pall over his spirits. He wanted nothing from Fosdale except his daughter.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Randolph dipped a cloth into a basin of water and wiped John’s face and shoulders. The coachman was burning with fever.
He sighed as he repeated the procedure. He had come up to check on John’s condition, not to treat him. But Letty had been nearly incoherent from exhaustion – hardly surprising, for she and Elizabeth had taken turns watching John for more than three days now in addition to their other activities. He had sent the girl off to bed, assuming the chore himself. It seemed reasonable that a fellow employee and friend might do so. And Elizabeth should arrive in another half hour.
This was merely one more oddity in a household he had yet to understand. Only Elizabeth and her maid paid the slightest attention to John. It was a situation he found unsettling, especially when he realized that he had no idea how ailing servants fared on his own estate. But regardless of the treatment accorded the resident staff, he could not imagine neglecting a guest at Orchards, not even a servant.
Ravenswood was the most off-putting estate he had ever stayed at. At first, he had ignored his isolation, accepting it as the result of his imposture. But that was no longer possible. The staff considered him a gentleman despite his declared position with Whitfield. Mr. Randolph might not be a lord, but they treated him with far more deference than his apparent position required. Yet the service was a far cry from what he was accustomed to. He hated to think what this stay would be like if he had been relegated to the servants’ quarters.
The fault lay with Fosdale, whose hospitality lacked any pretense of welcome despite demanding marriage to his daughter. Other impoverished lords made sure that guests were treated as well as possible. But Fosdale seemed to delight in forcing hardships on everyone under his roof.
At first, Randolph had decided that the poor living conditions arose from apathy – many of the problems had no relation to poverty – but he was now convinced that malice was at work. Fosdale wanted his staff miserable. He wanted his family miserable. Discomfort was a constant reminder of his impoverished state, assuring that no one would make demands on his depleted purse. And fostering that misery relieved his frustrations.
Had malice contributed to the eagerness with which Fosdale had embraced a lowly scholar as a prospective son-in-law? Perhaps he sought to sever Elizabeth’s ties with Society by tying her to a nobody – he had demanded marriage even before learning of the remote connection Randolph was claiming to Whitfield. Or maybe he had welcomed the unimportant stranger because doing so promised to provide a new outlet for his spite. So lowly a lad could hardly fight back against an earl.
Randolph shook his head, again dipping the cloth into the basin. Could such odious conclusions be true? He had formed them from conversations with servants and occasional exchanges with Elizabeth. He had not spoken to Fosdale since his arrival, taking his meals with Sedge and splitting the rest of his time between John and an exploration of the house. The one time Fosdale had approached, he had ducked out of sight.
He could not afford to speak with the earl just yet. Discussing a marriage contract under false pretenses was dishonorable, and doing so without his solicitor present was stupid. But beyond that, he could not stomach deferring to the man. And the more he learned of Fosdale’s character, the stronger that feeling grew. Every new fact increased his disdain for the fellow. Even his forays through the house raised questions.
Ravenswood Manor was laid out in the classic H form, though most of the rooms were smaller and gloomier than he preferred. But that had probably arisen from the harsher northern climate, for small rooms were easier to heat in winter.
His explorations revealed a house in desperate need of repair, yet like everything else, money did not explain all the neglect. He had found furniture in an attic that was in far better condition than that in the drawing room. A footman claimed that Fosdale had forbidden his family to use it. No one knew why.
Of greater interest was his discovery that the servants slept under the leaky part of the roof, despite ample space elsewhere. But the earl would tolerate no changes.
Did Fosdale’s malice arise from hatred of his family and staff, or was he using them as scapegoats because they could not fight back?
The question gnawed at his mind. He was honor-bound to wed Elizabeth, but Fosdale was not a man he could welcome into his family. So the marriage contract must contain some unusual clauses. And that required a better understanding of Fosdale’s motives and character.
But first, he must tend John Coachman.
Three days had convinced him that Elizabeth cared about John’s health. He had initially feared that her attentions were an attempt to ingratiate herself with Symington, for Sedge’s mumblings had convinced the staff that he was unusually concerned about his coachman’s health. Despite Randolph’s arrival, which remedied the confusion over John’s identity, the impression remained and was now accepted without question. Yet Elizabeth had not visited Sedge since setting his arm. Though she discussed his condition each day with the housekeeper, she did not tend him, had made no effort to meet him, and insisted that he remain in bed a full week even though he was already fretting to rise.
Randolph had stayed away from Sedge’s room whenever Elizabeth was free, giving her ample opportunity for anything she chose to do. But she had done nothing. Either she was playing a very deep game, or her denials were genuine and she had no interest in Symington.
In fact, he was beginning to wonder if one of her reasons for avoiding marriage might be her concern for the Ravenswood dependents. She went out of her way to help them and temper her father’s harsh commands. In turn, they made her life as easy as possible, keeping her rooms comfortable, replenishing her stocks of herbs, and serving her better food than that delivered to the dining room, if Lady Cecilia’s complaints could be trusted.
He had not yet met Cecilia or Lady Fosdale, though he had overheard them yesterday. His impressions were unfavorable.
Lady Fosdale affected the same die-away airs his aunt so often used to manipulate those around her. And Lady Fosdale’s complaints mirrored those of other petulant women. Megrims and spells made her life a misery. Fosdale’s clutch-fistedness was making them a laughingstock in local society. No one understood her, not even Cecilia. Elizabeth was the bane of her existence – unsympathetic, undutiful, and determined to call Fosdale’s wrath onto all their heads.
Cecilia had commiserated, adding complaints of her own. The food was bad, the weather worse. And life was unutterably dull and too boring for words, an obvious exaggeration since she had no trouble expounding her petty grievances in meticulous detail.
Why was Elizabeth so different? The question revived all his suspicions, for most girls patterned their behavior after their mothers’, producing marked similarities among the women of a family. Yet neither Lady Fosdale nor Lady Cecilia had paid the slightest attention to their guests. They had avoided Mr. Randolph, ignored Symington’s injuries, and spurned helping John, despite Elizabeth’s obvious weariness from long nights of nursing. As near as he could tell, the other ladies did not lift a finger to do anything. They only complained.
Again he sighed. He could not avoid the family much longer. His shoulder had healed enough that he could dress himself. Even Sedge would be up in another day or two, despite Elizabeth’s orders. It was doubtful anyone could keep him in bed longer without strapping him down.
So far his imposture had been simple because he had kept to himself. Elizabeth had been too tired to notice his slips. Letty was the same. But remaining aloof was no longer possible. He had to spend time with Elizabeth. The arrival of his baggage coach would likely
expose him. Before that happened, he needed to know whether she could like Randolph Catherwood. Without titles. Without wealth.
He must wed her, but he had no intention of changing his habits to suit her. If she could not fit into the routine he had established at Orchards, he must make alternate arrangements for her. Yet learning the truth was impossible until he breached the wall she hid behind. Had he made any progress?
The rattling window reminded him that a new storm raged outside, raising the likelihood that his baggage would suffer further delays.
“What are you doing here, sir?” Elizabeth asked from the doorway.
“Keeping John cool.”
She seemed flustered. “Where is Letty?”
“She was asleep on her feet, so I sent her to bed.” He berated himself for acting so decisively, but she ignored it, more concerned about the lack of hospitality.
“You should not have to do this, sir. I can tend him quite well.”
“True, but I don’t mind. And even the best nurse needs rest now and then.”
She flushed. “Your breakfast awaits you, Mr. Randolph. If you wish to help, then see that Symington remains in bed. He is not as well as he would have us believe.”
“I will try.”
“Thank you. I sent a deck of cards to his room, along with a chess board. Perhaps you can keep him entertained.”
“As you wish.” He nodded. “John seems cooler this morning.”
“I hope so. I changed his tonic last night. This prolonged fever is discouraging. Despite his long exposure to cold and wet, I had expected a response by now.”
His hand froze as he again wiped John’s brow. “Is this a subtle way of telling me he will die?”
“No!” Shock filled her eyes.
“Then what?”
She hesitated before succumbing to his silent plea that she talk. “I do what I can for the sick and injured, but I am no doctor.” She paced about the room. “There is so much I do not know. I often fear that my ignorance will kill someone. Leaving Symington in Mrs. Hughes’s hands was a risk, for I had no idea whether his fever would worsen. Failing to inquire about his servants was a mistake John is still paying for.”
“John’s illness is not your fault,” he said, interrupting her obvious anguish. Her caring ran deeper than he had suspected. “If I didn’t believe you were doing everything possible for him, I would have sent for a doctor by now.”
“You would?”
He bit back a curse. “I know I have no authority, but Symington is aware that John has been a friend since childhood. He would see that everything possible was done.” Blessing the dimly lit room for hiding the embarrassment warming his cheeks, he rose to leave.
“Forgive my rudeness, sir,” she begged. “I am unaccustomed to such loyalty. Enjoy your breakfast. If John’s condition changes, I will send word.”
His face snapped into a frown the moment he closed the door behind him. He could not afford any more slips. Allowing emotion to control his tongue removed a necessary censor. He had to pause long enough to think before speaking.
But he had learned much today. Whitfield had been right – again. Elizabeth might suit him very well…
Three hours later, he entered the library to find Elizabeth poking at one of the window frames with a knife.
This was the most pleasant room in the Manor – and the best maintained. He had spent several enjoyable hours there already. His initial fear of encountering Fosdale had dissipated once the staff confirmed that the earl avoided the library.
It stretched nearly a hundred feet along the main block of the house, its bookcases alternating with settees and game tables. Portraits clustered between Flemish tapestries on the walls, lit by the huge leaded windows that offered a spectacular view of the valley and surrounding mountains. But the books had been his greatest surprise. Whoever had stocked these shelves had excellent taste.
“So there you are,” exclaimed Elizabeth when he joined her. “No one could find you.”
“Is something wrong with John?” He had been exploring an older wing that had not been used for some time.
“His fever finally broke. Letty is with him at the moment, though he was sleeping naturally when I left.”
“That is good news. What are you doing to the window?”
“Fixing a leak.” She pressed another bead of paste along the edge of the frame.
“Surely there is someone more qualified to make repairs.” The comment was out without thought, and he grimaced.
“Wendell, but Fosdale hates books. Wendell has orders to ignore the library.”
Appalled, Randolph could only gape at her.
She smiled. “You deplore his antagonism as much as I.”
“Of course. But why does he keep a library if he despises it?”
“Surely you know more of gentlemen than that after living at Whitfield Castle,” she said, shaking her head in mock despair. “A gentleman must have a library, and that library must be stocked with leather-bound volumes. It proves that he is cultured, civilized, and can afford quality – not that Fosdale can. Most of the books have been here for decades. Fortunately for him, no one expects him to have read any of them.”
“I am not as unknowing as all that. Publishers sell sets of books to those who need an instant collection, and many gentlemen have little interest in reading. But I do not understand hatred.”
“My grandfather loved books and spent much of his meager income on this room, a fact Fosdale will neither forgive nor forget.”
“Pardon my curiosity, but if he hates the library – and avoids entering it, from what I hear – he can hardly be preserving it for show, so why not sell it?”
“He is. Why else is Symington here?”
“To purchase a single manuscript. But are you saying he will sell others as well?” He fought to keep excitement out of his voice, for he had already discovered several volumes he would like to own – though he had to question whether his interest was strong enough to pay Fosdale for them.
“The Chaucer is the only thing of value.”
He hesitated, but she deserved the truth. “I beg to differ, Lady Elizabeth. This room contains many treasures.”
“You jest!”
“Hardly.”
“Are any of these supposed treasures in that case?” She pointed toward the corner.
“Why?”
“The contents of the first two cases belong to me: an inheritance from my grandfather.”
“Then he has done you proud.” He met her eyes. “I know books, my lady. Whitfield would hardly employ me if I didn’t. Your inheritance is a marvelous collection of first editions and rare manuscripts.”
“How can that be?” she said, half to herself. “Grandfather lost nearly everything before Fosdale was born, a misfortune Fosdale still considers a personal insult. All my life he has derided Grandfather as a man of no sense and less ability.”
“Yet he knows about the Chaucer, and he has a good – albeit somewhat inflated – idea of its value.” Though they had not yet discussed the purchase, he had read the letters Fosdale had exchanged with Whitfield.
“But the Chaucer was a gift, so it never reflected Grandfather’s acumen.”
“From whom?” But the question was meaningless. Anger snaked through his belly as he realized that he had been set up. Her reply confirmed it.
“The Duke of Whitfield gave it to Grandfather on the occasion of Fosdale’s birth.”
“I take it you do not share your father’s hatred of these volumes?”
“Never.” She struggled to control her intensity. “Grandfather and I were quite close. He needed someone to converse with, to share ideas with. And I have never been content with the frippery ways ladies fill their time, so I have read a great deal.”
“Will my—Symington’s purchase of the Chaucer prompt Fosdale to evaluate what else is here?” An idea was forming in the back of his mind, but he needed time to examine it. Fosdale was sure to make financial
demands during the marriage negotiations. What if he countered with the suggestion that Fosdale turn over the Chaucer as Elizabeth’s dowry?
“I doubt it,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “He would never admit that Grandfather might have acquired anything worthwhile.” She frowned. “Just how valuable are the books I own?”
“I can’t say at the moment, but I can give you an estimate in a day or two.”
“Thank you.”
It was dismissal, so he went in search of Sedge.
* * * *
Elizabeth watched him go, hardly daring to believe his words. Yet he was knowing about books. That was why Symington had brought him here.
You can always rely on this. Her grandfather’s voice echoed. His gesture would encompass the library as he made the vow – which he had done often toward the end. She had assumed that he meant the knowledge she had gleaned from this room, but perhaps not. He had promised her security. And he had left her a specific collection, listed by title as well as segregated by case.
She had wondered at his selection, for it omitted many of her favorites. But she had never suspected them to be valuable. The Fosdale poverty was too entrenched in her mind.
Yet this raised new questions. Some of the books had been purchased by his ancestors, but most had not. So where had he raised the money to amass this collection? He had lost the fortune acquired by his forebears. His only income derived from the estate. But if it had covered acquisition of numerous rare books, why had he perpetrated the myth of poverty, a myth continued by Fosdale? And why did Fosdale not suspect? Surely the estate records would show the book purchases. And why had he left the collection to her rather than his heir? It made no sense.
But perhaps she was exaggerating its value. Not all first editions were rare, and rarity did not always translate to fortune. The value of an item depended on demand. He might well have acquired odd volumes cheaply because few people wanted them at all. His hope that they would appreciate over time had been prescient – after all, Mr. Randolph recognized them as having value – but that did not mean they would bring a fortune.
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