by L. K. Rigel
The baroness caught his attention, and he brought her a glass of punch. “Baroness.”
She grunted. “I like it better when you call me old girl, my boy.”
An unexpected dart of love struck his heart. Her affection for him was genuine. He had to let go of his childish suspicions about his birth. Philly had no reason to lie. She hated the fact that Penelope Sande would inherit as much as he did.
It was time to face real life instead of dwelling in the life he imagined. Time to grow up He was thirty-two. Many would scoff and assure him of his youth, but he would never again be twenty-seven. Nothing could alter that woeful fact.
That evening he had a deliberately fine time. He was witty. He was thoughtful. He was generous. He danced with every unpartnered lady. He persuaded the baroness onto the floor for a turn, to the delight of all.
“That was lovely, my boy,” Philly said when it was over.
“I believe the Whitleys will soon have an engagement to announce.”
“I meant it was lovely of you to see the guests out.”
It had been a capitulation, his sign of surrender to his aged state. His habit was to retire from these things early. How lonely she must have been all these years. He kissed her on the forehead. “Good night, old girl.”
He dreamed of women who took no pleasure in his touch and of young ladies who looked on him as they did their fathers. He relived Whitley’s criticism and Gallagher’s surprised disappointment. The image of The Nightmare invaded his brain, that painting he had teased Singer’s wife about. Behind the incubus, the horse’s flared nostrils and wild eyes threatened him.
“Ha! Now you’ve come for me!” He sat up and yelled into shadows. The mocking images dissolved. He remembered where he was, remembered the ball and bidding the guests farewell. He resolved to do more to please Philomela. At last, he fell into restful and dreamless sleep.
At breakfast, Philly said, “We missed dear Mrs. Carleson at the ball last night. She is still looking after her invalid.”
Carey mumbled something to show he was paying attention.
“But she’s promised to attend a card party a fortnight from now at Martin Park,” Philomela continued.
He put a pleasant look on his face while she rambled. It had looked fine out earlier. He’d go riding after he finished eating.
“Which means she will put away her mourning at last.”
“Mmm.”
“Carey.” Philly put down her fork. “Elizabeth Carleson is in need of a husband. And you are in need of a wife.”
“Good lord.”
She rose from her chair. “Consider it, my boy.”
He caught and kissed her hand as she passed him. “I shall always be your ‘boy,’ eh, old girl?”
“Always, my boy.” On her way out, she said, “Consider quickly!”
On his ride, he found himself on Laurelwood land where the object of Philly’s affection was walking with her child. Elizabeth Carleson was a fine-looking woman. She had that odd quirk of keeping her hair cut short, which both repelled and fascinated him, but today this feature was hidden by her black mourning cap.
“Good day, Mrs. Carleson.” The toddler hid behind his mother. “And good day to you, Master Geordie.”
“Sir Carey.” Mrs. Carleson nodded. “Geordie, your manners.”
The little boy peeked at Sir Carey with large dark eyes, then stood apart from his mother and showed a leg with serious effort.
“Very good, young man.” Sir Carey touched his hat with his best Member of Parliament pomp.
Mrs. Carleson smiled. “How is the baroness today?”
“Very well. She missed you last night. She says you will attend the Martins’ card party.”
“I am considering it.”
She seemed gentle-spirited, though not shy. He realized he had held her in high esteem in all the five years since she had come to the neighborhood. It must have been hard being married to Carleson, even for so brief a time. The boy was her only child living. Cholera had taken her daughter and a son in the womb. Little Geordie looked quite healthy. Carleson had likely renewed the tail on Laurelwood before he died.
No matter. Even if the entail was in place and the property secured to the son, the boy would need a guardian’s guidance. Mrs. Carleson had always been rather mysterious, and Carey felt a pleasant small dread in the idea of pursuing her.
“Madam, might you be at home this afternoon?”
She seemed taken aback by the bluntness of his question.
“The baroness has asked me to bring you some of her daffodil bulbs. They’ve done so well at the rectory. She thought you would like some for your own gardens.” Philly had said no such thing.
“I will be at home after four o’clock.”
Perhaps Philly was right. Perhaps it was time—it was certainly not before time—to become a husband and father. Yes! That was why he felt so out of place these days. Because he was out of place. Marriage would be something new, and a pleasant anchor to steady him. He rode home to inform Philomela she was about to lose more of her daffodils.
“Oh, my darling.” She laughed. “It’s not the proper time to transfer bulbs. But go to it. Scoop her up before another man locks her down.” Likely she’d decided he should marry the mistress of Laurelwood the moment the squire was cold.
“Old girl, I think if you were a man, you would marry Elizabeth Carleson.”
Of all females, he regarded Philly most highly. While she had never encouraged his dalliances with the weaker sex, neither did she condemn him for them. She would have been an excellent man. Well, then. He had resolved to please her where he could, and in this he might make them both happy.
“Laurelwood has the added advantage of adjoining The Branch,” Philomela said. “Perhaps one day the two estates will be joined.”
“Laurelwood I am sure belongs to Geordie Carleson. And you know I can have The Branch.”
“You can’t have the title. But the estate? Circe wanted to run off and marry that pirate. Well, she got her wish. She abandoned us all and drowned in the bargain. I feel no obligation to advise her brat of her supposed rights. There must be a way to make you my heir.”
“I appreciate your sentiment, truly. In fact, I’m stunned to hear of it. But I hardly think Aristaeus Sande is a pirate. And I am sure he’s well aware of his daughter’s rights.”
“A pirate! And a slave runner at that. Outrageous to associate our family with that godless enterprise.”
“You are the only person who has ever accused Sande of trading in slaves. He does well enough trading around embargoes. At any rate, Penelope…”
“The sins of the fathers! She left me. Circe left me alone with this estate to manage and God knows how many dandies yapping at my skirts like dogs. Men who wouldn’t hear a word out of my mouth till a fortune fell my way.”
“Did you never wish to reconcile with your sister?”
“Circe can go to the devil—did go to him, I have no doubt.”
“No forgiveness for your enemies then. Doesn’t Devilliers say it’s up to God to damn them?”
“No, dearest. It is the other way around. I quite enjoy damning those I hate, and God will do what He likes without my advice. There are only a few: Aristaeus Sande, my sister Circe. My father. And for all I care, they are at this moment taking black tea together in some hellish circle.”
“You amaze me. And wish Penelope to join them?”
“I don’t hate my sister’s brat. I simply have no interest in her. And aren’t you the hypocrite: generous to a girl you will never see and beastly to the women you do.”
“Perhaps I should meet this Penelope. She should be of marriageable age.”
“Never!” Philomela’s features contorted beyond mock rage, and she lost what little color she had.
“Bad joke.” His purpose after all had been to please her by agreeing to approach Mrs. Carleson. “Perhaps I do need the right wife to tame me.”
“You do,” Philly said.
“And don’t worry, she’ll take you. As you say, her son’s future is secure; she can marry to please herself. I am thinking of your happiness, my boy. If you can win Elizabeth Carleson’s love, she will give you joy. We Ashers have had little enough of that. And she’ll keep you in your suit, away from other men’s wives.”
The last remark cut. He thought of Singer’s wife. He had never been proud of that—bad guest-host relations and all. He’d read her wrong. He’d thought her protest was from the false modesty women wear for public view. In truth, he’d believed she wanted him. But there was no misreading her afterwards, and he never recalled that night with ease.
In his dotage, he must be developing something akin to a conscience. But why? The world had no conscience where he was concerned, MP or not, baronet or not. When Philly was gone the only home he’d ever known would belong to Penelope Sande, and he would surely not be welcome—a fact which made Mrs. Carleson all the more attractive.
Mrs. Carleson’s Answer
The sitting room at Laurelwood had a good fire going against the still-cold spring. There was a double door of French-paned glass that had never been boarded up against the tax, and Sir Carey could appreciate why: The prospect showed an expanse of lawn and then a lake where a family of green-headed ducks floated serenely. An ancient oak grew near the bank with its branches spread out over the water like a swan’s arm over its brood.
One wall of the room was entirely taken up by bookcases filled from floor to ceiling. Tea and brandy arrived with sections of oranges and a plate of biscuits. The brandy was of excellent quality, despite embargoes, and the tea strong and fresh. All was served in cut crystal and Chinese porcelain. The squire had had no taste. All this had come from Mrs. Carleson’s hand.
He took Ovid’s Metamorphoses from the excellent collection of novels, history, and philosophy and settled into a chair with the book and a biscuit.
“Sir Carey.” Mrs. Carleson opened the door. “I am sorry to keep you waiting. I hope you have been made comfortable?”
“Quite.”
They exchanged the requisite bending and stooping and sat in chairs facing each other. Usually in this circumstance a woman would take up her handwork, keep her eyes on it and wait for the man to explain himself. Mrs. Carleson had no handwork. She folded her hands in her lap and looked at him directly.
“How fares your invalid?” he said. “It must have been such a shock.”
The lady raised a quizzical eyebrow. It worked on him like a fisherman’s fly, cast just beyond his reach. “More of a shock to poor Mrs. Peter than to myself,” she said. “It was a horrible scene, I am told, and a mercy that she has no memory of the event.”
“Her husband died, I hear, and the driver?”
“And the horses,” Mrs. Carleson said. “She took a blow to the head. She doesn’t seem to know who she is.”
“How is it she was brought to Laurelwood?”
“In the wreck, one of her rescuers found a letter addressed to me from the Duke of Gohrum. It was he who recommended her for the position.”
“I confess I don’t know who she is, but Gohrum is unpredictable. One never knows who he will take up.” He gave her one of his charming looks. “He has been good enough to take me up, after all.” Mrs. Carleson didn’t seem to realize he was joking. “What does Brennan say?”
“Rest, eat what she can, keep the wounds about her arm clean. What one would expect.”
“Of course,” he said. Where had his erudition gone? He’d better get to his object. “Mrs. Carleson, I had a particular reason for wanting to see you this afternoon. Since we first met, I have thought of you with respect and admiration. But in the last several months, my regard has metamorphosed into something . . . more.”
She glanced at the book in his hands and raised that eyebrow again. He set Ovid aside and took her hand.
“What I mean, Mrs. Carleson—Elizabeth—is that I would be most honored if you would consent to be my wife.”
Her quizzical look changed to a humorous one. Not the response he expected. He had rushed her. She was silent for an eternity, and he remembered Delia’s wedding when he’d been so intrigued by the new Mrs. Carleson. Even then, he’d known she wasn’t like other women. He should have prepared a better speech.
Finally she said, “Sir Carey, this is a flattering and unexpected offer.” She withdrew her hand, but not unkindly.
He couldn’t tell if he was being received or teased. It made him desperate to convince her of his feelings—love so tender he could hardly bear it, though he had been aware of its existence in only the last few minutes.
“When the squire died last year,” she said, “it wasn’t of consumption as is commonly supposed. He had contracted syphilis.”
He wasn’t shocked to hear it; Carleson had never tried to hide his appetites. But it was rather shocking to hear a lady speak so in such a matter-of-fact tone. He understood better why Philly liked her.
“He died in agony. He must have been…it must have happened,” now she colored a little, “when I was indisposed with my son. Mr. Brennan says I am not affected. Even so, I had not thought to marry again.”
“I understand.”
“Do you? She looked at him directly. “The squire often spoke of you. He had an idea in his head that you wanted Laurelwood and would devise some way to get it. That’s why he was so desperate for…well, his son has Laurelwood now.”
“As is right and proper.”
“At all events, he spoke of you in such harsh terms that I found myself taking your part. And then when we met, you were not at all the devil he had had described. Quite the opposite.”
How he had misread her! He’d thought she’d dismissed him that day. She’d barely said a word to him, though she chatted on long enough with Devilliers.
“It would be desirable for my son to have the guidance of a strong man,” she said.
Strong man. It felt quite pleasant to be referred to as such. He noted the curves of her figure and the line of her chin. She was too angular to be called beautiful, but she was vibrant, with an earthiness he suddenly and urgently desired to explore. He had to have her.
“Dear Elizabeth, let me be that man. Will you be my wife?”
She raised that eyebrow again, and her blue eyes flashed with humor. “Do you know something, Sir Carey? I will.”
Tea & Lilacs
In the morning sunlight, the ash leaves seemed to dance in a golden fire. Elizabeth’s black skirts soaked up the late dew. She should have put away her dark clothes months ago, and she would now that she was engaged. But for this particular errand, she wanted the cover of mourning.
The fact was she liked being a widow. She had been secretly ecstatic when the squire contracted his unspeakable disease—once assured by Mr. Brennan that she was free of it. Carleson wasn’t a bad man. From a distance, he was sometimes even endearing. But he was personally so revolting that he’d nearly smothered the life out of her. He never bathed, he drank brandy to excess, smoked a pipe his every waking hour, and he had no regard for where he pissed or farted.
He was amused by her hints about his hygiene. “My wife’s a funny one,” he said once, “with her baths and her haircuts.”
When Mr. Brennan first told the squire in her presence that he must leave off the marital relation or risk the health of his unborn child, she had gone to her room, locked the door, and cried herself to sleep with joy and relief. Then came his diagnosis, and she was free. She was sorry for him, but for herself she was elated.
The squire did try her door once, which she reported to Mr. Brennan. He must have spoken to Dr. Devilliers about it, for she later overheard the rector reacquainting the squire with the notion of the afterlife. The squire had listened eagerly enough, as the opportunity to see the place had become so much more proximal. He didn’t’ approach her again.
He stayed alive long enough to know that he finally had a living son. “He is as beautiful as you are, my lovely Elizabeth.”
“
Save your strength, my dear.” Guilt had gripped her when she’d said that. She had never called him dear, and it would have given him such pleasure.
“No need, no need. I am leaving you, dear girl. You were a good wife to me, and you’ll be a good mother to our son. I am sorry...”
She never did hear what he was sorry for. He left this world believing he had treated her like a queen and that she had loved him for it.
Laurelwood went to Geordie, and Elizabeth had been named his legal guardian. Of course, though she was twenty-eight years old, being a woman she had her own guardian. Carleson had made Dr. Devilliers the trustee.
She received a shock when they met to discuss the estate’s management. “Laurelwood’s five thousand acres bring in about three thousand pounds a year from the leases alone,” Dr. Devilliers told her.
“How can that be? That’s more than enough to keep the place.” With that kind of money, how could her husband have let the place go to ruin as he did? Every repair could have been—and should have been made the moment it was wanted.
“The squire put almost all the income into investments. He wanted his son to have a fortune. Geordie is already a very wealthy little boy.”
She couldn’t touch what had been invested in trust, but Dr. Devilliers let her access present and future income as long as he approved all expenditures. He agreed to all her plans. It took a year to get the house and the stables clean and neglected repairs made and a while longer to purge and replenish the household staff.
She had everything she had always wanted, a place to grow plants and keep sheep, with no father or husband to tell her what she could or could not do. She’d accepted Sir Carey in a moment of weakness.
It wasn’t, as some might imagine, that she loved him or wanted to be called Lady Asher. The moment she heard his ridiculous proposal, she’d intended to refuse him with her next breath. But he had paused in mid sentence, and as she’d waited for his next words, she’d looked at him. Really looked. He was extremely handsome and young, yes. But more than that, he was clean. Fastidiously clean. And so well-dressed. She thought about what care he took with his person.
