by Carola Dunn
No sense in repining! The countess had forgiven him—if she had understood his words in the first place—and Lydia would follow suit.
Colin was the best target for the present. His first goal was to learn more about the lad. Since Colin spent most of his time with Mills, Justin decided to seek out the bailiff, whom he also needed to see on his own account. He still hadn’t made arrangements with the man to learn about the business of the estate that one day would be his.
On his way to the door, he flattened a pie pan underfoot. With a sigh, he foresaw that the twins would be a stumbling block. He stacked the pie pans and deposited them on his dressing table for Tebbutt to deal with. He’d be damned if he’d go down to the kitchens himself to present them to Cook.
Mills was not in his office, but Duffy knew which direction he had ridden in, so Justin had Prince Rurik saddled and rode after him. He found him leaning on a five-barred gate, discussing with a tenant farmer whether the wheat in that field, known as Bragg’s Bottom, was ready to be harvested. They raised their hats to him.
Signalling to the men to continue, Justin listened to their words. Very much aware of his own ignorance, he watched as they each rubbed a picked ear between callused palms, chewed on a kernel or two, and knowledgeably eyed the cloudless sky. The pale gold hillside, splashed with blue cornflowers and scarlet poppies, shimmered in the afternoon heat haze, then rippled in a sudden cooling breeze.
“Best try to get it in afore the weather changes,” Mills advised at last. “But don’t push ’em too hard, Jake.” He pocketed a couple of ears. The men nodded to each other, then the tenant bade Justin good-day and trudged off.
Mills mounted his dun cob. “Thunderstorm within the week,” he said laconically. “What can I do for you, my lord?”
A straightforward question about Colin’s character would seem deuced peculiar, Justin realized. “Explain about that corn,” he requested, hooking a thumb back over his shoulder as they turned their horses’ heads towards the home farm. “Why should it not be ripe when you are harvesting elsewhere?”
“North-facing slope wi’ the wooded hill to the west keeping the afternoon sun off the valley bottom. He’ll get a good enough crop this year, such weather as we’ve had, but Bragg’s Bottom’s best left to pasture, if you ask me.”
“I saw you put some ears in your pocket.”
“To show Master Colin. He knows what wheat’s like when it’s good and ready. This lot’d profit from another week o’ sun but it can’t be guaranteed.” He grinned suddenly, his teeth white in his lined, weathered face. “Time to teach the lad the art o’ compromise.”
“An important lesson,” Justin agreed ruefully. To a diplomat it was perhaps the most useful art of all, but one he had forgotten when he first met the Websters. “When I asked you the other day whether Colin was capable of handling the gig, you gave me the impression that you have a high opinion of him?”
“Aye, my lord, that I do. He’s willing, and quick to learn, and good wi’ the men—not just to give orders, mind, but concerned for their welfare. For his age, he’s a responsible lad. He don’t care for keeping the books, but ’tis not my favourite occupation neither.”
“I cannot blame either of you.” He thought of Ginnie faithfully checking Mrs. Peaskot’s accounts. “I suppose I shall have to learn to understand an account book.”
“’Tis important, my lord, as Master Colin understands. The most important thing is, he has a real feel for the land, a love for it, you might say.” The bailiff looked embarrassed at this flight of fancy.
“Does he, indeed!” Justin was not sure he wanted Colin to love the land—his father’s land, one day his land.
“Aye,” Mills confirmed. “I don’t expect to have any doubts about handing over to Master Colin in a few years time, and so I mean to tell his lordship.’’
Justin stared at him. “You are training him to replace you when you retire?”
The bailiff stared back, his bushy grey eyebrows raised in surprise. “Aye, my lord. What else would I be doing?”
“With my father’s knowledge?”
“To be sure. You don’t think I’d do such a thing wi’out the earl’s permission, I trust!”
“No, no, of course not,” Justin hastened to soothe the man’s ruffled sensibilities. “Whose idea was it?”
“’Twas young Colin first asked me, but something he said made me think his sister put the notion into his head.”
“That would not surprise me in the least.”
“You don’t object, my lord? In the natural way o’ things, ’twill be you he’s working for sooner or later.”
“No, I don’t object, though after a few years of your training, I dare say he will be able to obtain a position anywhere in the country without difficulty, should he choose to.”
Mollified, Mills nodded his appreciation of the compliment. They turned to a discussion of what Justin ought to learn about the estate. He didn’t need to know the details of ripening grain or pasture versus cropland, but he must be able to take an intelligent interest in his bailiff’s work and in the welfare of labourers and tenants.
“So you will have a second pupil,” Justin said as the house came in sight, “as soon as my guests have left Wooburn.”
“Aye, my lord. I’ll be setting up for a schoolmaster next. You’d do well, though, to have a few words wi’ the squire as well. There’s no better landowner hereabouts, for all he’s always got a joke on the tip o’ his tongue.”
“I shall. In the meantime, I’ll ride out with you and Colin now and then,”
“You do that, my lord.” The man’s eyes twinkled, crinkling at the corners as if he were enjoying some secret joke.
Mills turned off on a farm track and Justin rode on towards the house. So Ginnie had suggested that Colin learn estate management, preparing the lad to earn a living, he thought. How could he have been so mistaken about her character? Everything he learned about her now that his eyes were opened made him admire her more: her loving care of her brothers and sisters; her insistence on not taking advantage of his father’s benevolence; her practicality, including the skilful supervision that had made his home such a pleasant place to live.
Pleasant, that is, except for the tricks that had been played on him. He had deserved them, he acknowledged ruefully. He had rushed in like a terrier into a rat-infested barn. Having once given credence to what the scandalmongers were saying, he had refused to believe the evidence of his own eyes.
His lips tightened in a flash of anger at Amabel’s eagerness to repeat the gossip. Yet he could not hold her greatly to blame; she was only following the example of the Ton. Once she was his wife, he’d make it plain that he did not care for such tattle.
Approaching the house, he saw his father’s carriage returning from the picnic and went to meet it. Before he reached it, it stopped before the front door and the twins tumbled out, a pair of dishevelled ragamuffins. One saw him and nudged the other. Two freckled faces glowered at him. They turned their backs with deliberate rudeness and scampered towards the lake.
“Master Jimmy, Master Jack, come here this instant!” The new nurserymaid, Alice, had descended from the carriage, burdened with a drowsy Nathaniel.
“Let me take him,” Justin offered, swinging down from Prince Rurik’s back and tossing his reins to the footman who jumped down from the back of the carriage. “You’ll have enough on your hands with the twins.”
“Thank you, my lord.” The girl passed the child to him, picked up her skirts, and ran after the boys.
As the earl handed Judith and his countess down from the carriage, Nathaniel sleepily put his arms around Justin’s neck and laid his weary little head on his shoulder. Justin’s heart swelled with unexpected emotion. He had always assumed that one day he would have an heir, and probably other children, but the notion had been abstract. Now, the prospect filled him with a sudden delight.
His children would be well brought up and properly disciplined, he reso
lved as Alice returned towards the house with a firm grip on each of two grubby collars.
All the same, on the whole it was amazing how well the young Websters had turned out, considering their mother’s indulgent, far-from-authoritative nature. Had Ginnie been entirely responsible for her siblings’ upbringing? For the first time he was curious about their father, about their past.
Carrying Nathaniel into the house, he promised himself a long and serious conversation with Virginia Webster in the near future.
* * * *
Ginnie dreaded her next meeting with Justin. As often as she told herself he could not possibly have guessed the strange, delightful yet terrifying sensations that had nearly overwhelmed her, she was determined to avoid him.
That evening she did not go down to dinner. The sultry weather had given her the headache, she claimed. Despite her guilt at Mama’s and Lydia’s dismayed solicitude—she was never ill! —she did not waver. The very thought of being near Justin made her tingle all over.
Sooner or later she’d have to see him, but time, she hoped, would lessen his alarming effect on her.
Lydia came up to her chamber after dinner to ask how she felt. “Steppapa wished to send for the doctor,” she said. “I told him you would not like such a fuss made and Justin persuaded him to wait until the morning, unless you should feel worse tonight. Justin said this hot, close weather is enough to give anyone a megrim, and likely a fuss would only make it worse. He said Mr. Mills expects we shall soon have a storm, which will cool the air.”
“I hope he is right.”
“But thunder is so horrid! Ginnie, I believe Justin cannot be quite so horrid as he sometimes seems. Tonight he was truly concerned for your comfort, I am sure. He is quite in Mama’s favour now, and Gilbert and Judith like him, and Priscilla.”
“He was amazingly kind to Pris today,” Ginnie conceded. Yet she could not forget overhearing his attempt to deprive Gilbert of an education, herself and Lydia of a chance to find husbands. He had her emotions in a whirl. “I don’t know what to think,” she said despairingly.
“Don’t try to think while your head aches, dearest,” Lydia said soothingly. “Only, will you mind very much if I do not sew up any more of his clothes? So that he cannot put them on, I mean.”
“No, of course not, Lyddie. You have far too much sewing to do already. I don’t know what we should all do without your hard work and your clever needle.”
“Mama does a great deal of sewing, too,” she said, but she looked pleased by the praise.
Ginnie wondered with another wave of guilt whether she neglected Lydia because she was so placid, never causing any trouble, never demanding attention. She dearly loved her eldest sister and best friend. How she’d miss her when she married! Perhaps Lyddie would accept Peter Mason’s hand after all, rather than that of some London gentleman, and thus remain in the neighbourhood of her family.
If so, Ginnie would not lose her company, for she had every expectation of staying at Wooburn Court herself, taking care of her brothers and sisters until she dwindled into an old maid.
Suddenly the prospect was unbearable. One day Justin was bound to marry and bring his bride to Wooburn. How could she endure that?
Her invented headache was rapidly becoming real.
That night her dreams were confused. She woke feeling restless and rose early to go down to breakfast while Justin was taking his usual morning ride. Then, for the first time, she took advantage of the arrival of Miss Tullycombe, Nurse, and Alice to go for a walk in the park on her own.
The air was still and oppressive, already losing its morning coolness under the assault of a brassy sun. Though the lake reflected a cloudless sky, somewhere beyond the horizon, thunder rumbled, faint in the distance. Despite the heat, Ginnie shivered. She did not care for thunderstorms, though for years she had pretended not to mind them for the children’s sake.
After hurrying down from the house, she paused in the shade of a willow to catch her breath. From the shelter of its drooping branches, she saw Justin cantering homeward, a straight, proud figure on the superb bay stallion. Her thoughts flew back to their first meeting. How much of his enmity was due to the humiliation of being thrown by Prince Rurik, practically at her feet? Would they otherwise have been friends by now? Wistfully, she watched him ride on before she continued along the path to the beech wood.
It was cooler in the wood and the thunder was inaudible. With an effort, Ginnie put Justin out of her mind, determined not to let the wretched man spoil her enjoyment of the freedom of walking at her own brisk pace.
* * * *
Several letters awaited Justin at the breakfast table. Over his usual solitary meal, he broke seal after seal to find pleased acceptances of his invitations.
The Parringales—why the devil had he invited them to Wooburn? He did not even like the couple. Her tongue was as malicious as Sally Jersey’s, a byword in a milieu not given to sparing the victims of gossip. As for her husband, Ferdie, though merely the younger son of a baron, he could trace his family tree back to the Norman Conquest, and he never let anyone forget it.
The Honourable Alfred Bascom was a harmless enough fop whose mind never rose above his clothes. Nor did his sister’s. Lady Pierce aspired to lead fashion, succeeding only in following it to extremes, whereas Lord Pierce was a dandy after the fashion of Beau Brummel, eschewing all extremes. Like Brummel, he prided himself on his wit, frequently sharpened at the expense of his wife’s excesses.
Justin brightened as he opened the third letter. Thank heaven George was coming, though he might turn tail when he discovered the identity of his fellow guests. His little sister, Lizzie, was indeed on the brink of making her come-out. A house party at Wooburn sounded like the ideal occasion to let her dip her toes in the waters of social intercourse.
He was looking forward to making the acquaintance of Lord Wooburn’s new family, George wrote. Justin was suddenly glad that he had merely mentioned their existence to his friend, not poured out on paper the furious condemnation he had felt at the time.
The fourth letter was from his aunt, Lady Matilda Hardwick, his father’s only sister, enclosing notes to the earl and his wife. She had been in Brussels with her soldier husband, had gone on to Paris after Waterloo, and had only just, quite by chance, heard of her brother’s remarriage. A sensible, good-natured woman, she was preparing to dash home to lend her countenance to her new sister-in-law. Whatever dreadful mistake poor Egbert had made in choosing a bride, she said, a breach in the family was what she would not stand for.
Knowing his aunt, Justin grinned. If his will to continue the feud with the Websters had not already withered, Lady Matilda’s arrival would have blighted it in short order.
The letters gave him an excuse to seek out Ginnie, to discuss provisions for the comfort of the visitors. His grin faded as he wondered how he was to account to her for his peculiar choice of guests. And ought he to warn her that he had invited Amabel to Wooburn with the firm intention of requesting her hand in marriage?
* * *
Chapter 13
In search of Ginnie, Justin went first to the morning room. The small room was hot and airless though the windows were wide open, the curtains half-drawn against a flood of sunshine. There he found Lydia, her golden head as usual bent over her needle.
Raising her vivid blue eyes from her work, she smiled, a breathtaking sight. She really was the loveliest creature, yet her face lacked the character and animation to be found in Ginnie’s less-perfect features.
Justin returned her smile. “Good morning, Miss Lydia. I must have a word with your sister. Do you happen to know where she is?”
“Ginnie went for a walk, sir. I do not know in which direction.”
“Alone?”
“She will not go beyond the park, but she likes to be alone sometimes. She has not often had the chance.”
“I suppose not,” Justin agreed, reflecting on how much he enjoyed his solitary morning rides. “And you, you do
n’t mind being alone? You prefer your embroidery to walking with her?”
“It is not embroidery. I seldom have time for embroidery. This is a shirt for Colin.” She spread the white cambric to show him. “Large as he is, he keeps growing. The boys always need shirts.”
“You make them all?” he asked, taken aback.
“Oh yes. Ginnie says it would not do for a countess to be found sewing shirts or mending. Mama does any sewing that will not shock ladies who call on her.”
“Good Lord, this will never do. Is there no sewing woman in the house?”
“Ginnie did hire a woman from the village to mend the household linen when first we came to Wooburn Court,” said Lydia guiltily. “It had been dreadfully neglected. Mama and I simply could not manage it and keep the family decently dressed as well.”
“Of course you could not. My dear Lydia, I am not finding fault with you in the slightest.”
“You cannot blame Ginnie!”
With a bewildered feeling that the conversation was escaping him, Justin said firmly, “No one is to blame. I shall see that a seamstress is hired as soon as possible, as a permanent member of the staff. And an abigail,” he added with reckless abandon.
“But Mama has an abigail,” Lydia protested. “Ginnie said—”
“—That a countess must have a personal maid,” he guessed, completing her sentence. “But so should you and Ginnie. Will she condemn my shocking extravagance if I insist on your hiring at least one lady’s maid between the two of you?”
Her blank look made it all too plain that she did not understand his teasing. Justin left her to puzzle it out for herself, took his leave, and went out to the stables. Riding about, he was bound sooner or later to come across either Ginnie or Mills and Colin.
He was trotting uphill on a flinty track between stubbled fields when the steward rode his Welsh cob over the brow of the hill towards him. Behind Mills towered a huge Suffolk Punch, with Colin perched on its back like a small child on a fat pony.
