The Wicked Guardian

by Vanessa Gray

  “I am on my way to Lady Thane,” she said, her voice trembling in spite of all her effort. “Pray let me pass.”

  And then Sir Alexander arrived. Unfortunately, he was a man, at best, of little sensitivity, and now he blundered as badly as possible. Ignoring the signs of brittle anger in Clare, and the hurt puzzlement of Ned Fenton, Sir Alexander greeted them both ponderously.

  “I have been looking for you, Miss Penryck, this long time,” he said. “I thought we might stand up for the quadrille. A lively dance which I do enjoy, even though I know the steps only imperfectly.” He beamed impartially on them both. “But I fancy the next sets are all made up. We shall try again later.”

  “Have you seen Lady Thane?” Clare faltered, not knowing how else to answer Sir Alex.

  “Yes, she is in the Chinese Room,” said Sir Alex. “I left her there when I began to search for you. Someone,” he added in obvious disbelief, “said that you had ventured outside the house, into the garden, but since Lady Thane and my sister are upstairs, and I knew you weren’t with me, then I took leave to counter such a canard. Never, I said, would Miss Penryck stoop to such a disgraceful action—”

  Clare had been sorely tried, and now she reached the end of her limited patience. She cried, “Oh, be quiet!” in an unfortunately carrying voice.

  The measure of her error lay to her appalled eyes in the faces of her two companions. Sheer horror lay in Sir Alexander’s blue eyes, the color of a Scottish lake in winter. But Ned Fenton’s brow creased in grave concern.

  He said quickly, “Let me take you to Lady Thane. I fear you are ill.”

  She was aware of a little circle forming around her and the two men, just before tears came quickly to film over her vision.

  “Ill!” she cried out. “I am! I wish you will not bother me!”

  “As you wish,” said Sir Alexander stiffly, stepping back, unfortunately treading on the toes of a curious onlooker. “I fancy that I was mistaken, then, in thinking that you could not be outside the house in the gardens. With whom were you, then, Lord Choate? In that case, I collect that he was the soul of honor.”

  “Don’t speak such fustian!” she cried, and started blindly away. She scarcely knew what direction she was traveling. Her eyes had misted over, and even if she could have seen, it is most likely that her mind could not have taken in what she saw. For she was near fainting, and sobbing wildly.

  Making her way with difficulty through the crowd, she ran into a veritable brick wall, only to find herself against the vast abdomen of the prince regent.

  “Here, here!” said that astonished man. “What’s all this! What’s all this!”

  Since there was no answer, she did not try to explain, but only cried out inarticulately, and went on her way. Her progress was marked by a murmur of swelling disapproval behind her. She did not care, even though she thought, bleakly, that one day she would care very much.

  She scarcely knew how it all happened, but at length she was in the Tottens’ coach, alone with Lady Thane. Sir Alex had directed the coachman to take his passengers to Grosvenor Square at once, and then return to collect Sir Alex and his sister. It was a welcome respite for Clare, leaning back against the velvet squabs and letting her head throb as it would.

  For the liquor that had been in the lemon squash had at last worn itself off, and, while Clare was not sure of everything she had said, she was quite positive that however bad she had felt before, she had now put the cap on her desolation.

  Her first—and only—season in London was now an unmitigated catastrophe. And if she had not realized it herself in her rapidly sobering mind, Lady Thane was able to confirm it.

  “Never have I seen such an overweening display of rudeness! I cannot imagine what can have possessed you to act in such a fashion! My dear child, only my love for your mother prevents me from putting the event in the proper light, but I can say that it will be weeks before I can raise my head in society again.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “And sorry won’t do it, Clare. I shall not even go into society until next season. What on earth can have occurred to set you off in such an ill-bred way?”

  Clare could not think over her throbbing head. She might have mentioned the liquor in the lemon squash, but that would lead to Harry Rowse. Or she could have commented on the comments of Marianna Morton, but then she would have to confess to eavesdropping, and then to the reason why she was in the retiring room at all, and that would lead to Harry Rowse.

  “My head aches,” she said, knowing it was only a feeble extenuation.

  “I should think it would,” said Lady Thane. “I vow I cannot face tomorrow with a calm set of nerves myself. But I should have known this would happen.”

  Her curiosity aroused at last, Clare said, “How could you have known this, ma’am?”

  “It is my fault,” announced Lady Thane as the carriage turned into Grosvenor Street and debouched into the square. The rectangular park in the center of the square, was dark, and the iron railings glimmered faintly in the lights flanking the doors of the houses lining all sides of the square.

  “My fault,” she continued. “I should have responded to your grandmother at once, telling her that she simply did not understand how things can go awry in London. It’s been fifty years since she set foot in town, and manners have changed greatly. But it is never amiss to acquire a little polish, and perhaps that is what has happened tonight.”

  “I’ll never go anywhere in town again,” muttered Clare.

  “Of course not” said Lady Thane, having talked herself into a more comfortable frame of mind. “We must bid farewell to Sir Alexander. That sister of his is such a stickler for the proprieties that I fear she will never get over this evening.”

  “I did not want him,” said Clare, through a lump in her throat that threatened to overset her.

  Lady Thane affected not to hear. “But perhaps a life in the country might appeal to him. Surely to be Lady Ferguson would be a pleasant state, and no one in Scotland will care about your decorum,” said Lady Thane, dismissing an entire nation out of hand.

  “I won’t see him,” said Clare. “Even if he were so ... kind as to forgive me, I won’t see him. I couldn’t!” She turned a tear-streaked face to Lady Thane.

  “Well, well,” said Lady Thane, falling a victim to unjustified hope, “perhaps it will all look better in the morning. We’ll just have a good night’s sleep. I find that a glass of hot milk often calms one’s nerves, and we’ll see what is to be done.”

  Such a restorative plan was destined not to take place. For inside the foyer there was bad news. Swann, the coachman from Penryck Abbey, waited on the chair usually occupied by the stripling footman, and sprang to his feet when the door opened.

  “Miss Clare...” he began, and then could go no further. Darrin took pity on him and said with oppressive solemnity, “I fear this is bad news, and cannot wait until the morning, my lady. Lady Penryck has died.”

  It was too much. Clare sank to the floor in a swoon. When she came to herself, she was in bed. Lying propped up against pillows dampened with her unstemmed tears,

  she thought, with meager consolation: Now at least Grandmama will never know how I’ve failed her. How I’ve disgraced her and the family name, as Miss Morton said. How right Marianna was! The thought did nothing to raise her spirits.

  She would leave for home tomorrow morning, and never, never show her face in London again. She was a failure, a disgrace, a hopeless country clod, and a chit too soon out of the schoolroom.

  But at least she would not have to marry Sir Alexander, she thought. She would go home to Penryck Abbey and live a quiet, retired life, doing what Great-Uncle Horsham told her to do, and minding everything that she was bid. And I won’t regret London for even one minute! she thought fiercely, just before she fell asleep.

  10.

  Penryck Abbey stood on an eminence overlooking the River Stour and bore little resemblance to the monastic establishment which gave i
t its name. The monks had lived in what was now a disused wing until Henry VIII’s time, when they found their ordered life in shambles.

  Later Penrycks had added to the original structure, none daring to tear it down, even though they would not have admitted to the least superstition. Yet the monks’ cells had fallen into ruin, as had the fortunes of the Penrycks themselves.

  Made of mellow brick, the main part of the new building had been erected in Queen Anne’s day, and it was these spacious rooms that Clare loved the best. She had now been home for three days and had settled back into the old familiar life as though she had never been away. The strenuous days in London were only a memory already, and even though in the middle of the night Clare would wake suddenly with the scene at the regent’s ball vivid in her mind, it too was losing its urgency.

  Her own bedroom looked down across the hills toward the river, past the little clumps of trees and the sheep upon the grassy slopes. Far below was the church spire, where bells were rung on Sunday, and if the wind were right, she could hear them from here.

  She wandered aimlessly those first days from room to room. Budge was happy, back in the land she loved, and put on airs in the servants’ hall. For the first time in a long time, Clare longed for her parents. She had learned from Lady Thane that her mother had been a great beauty, a girl of biddable temperament, and sweet of disposition.

  But Clare herself knew that she partook more of the Penryck heritage than she did the Tresillian. Her father, the late baron, was improvident, and optimistic, and a gambler. This had often been pointed out to Clare as a bad example. But yet he had been full of charm, and laughed a lot, and suddenly she longed for him with all of her heart. She had been only five when her parents had been killed and she had come to live with her invalid Grandmama. But the portraits in the upper gallery had served to keep her memory green.

  She had not gone up to the gallery since her return. She knew why, too, although she would not quite put it into words. She kept away from any reminder of Benedict Choate.

  There was one thing she could rejoice in, she told herself. Never again would she need to see that tattling, superior, arrogant, and thoroughly unlikable man!

  But still, until she heard from Uncle Horsham, she could not settle down at Penryck Abbey. He might hail her up to Wiltshire, where he lived in some grand state, according to what Grandmama had told her. “My own brother,” said Grandmama, “my only relative, one might say, and I hate to say it of him, but he is living up to the limit of his income. There will be little enough left, and no doubt what he will leave you is small enough, but added to what I can give you, there will be a respectable dowry.”

  The dowry didn’t matter to Clare. But Uncle Horsham’s wishes did. Well, she would soon enough find out what Uncle Horsham wanted her to do, for Mr. Austin was coming to the abbey this morning to tell her how she was to go on.

  She was sitting in the salon, her thoughts vacant, when he was announced. He came into the room with his curious crablike gait, almost as though his wish was to turn around and leave at once. But he was a kindly man, mostly bald, with a gray fringe around his shiny dome, and an air of mustiness that invaded his chambers and seemed to have become part of the man himself.

  She rose to greet him warmly, and ordered tea for him. Setting down his empty cup, he looked around him.

  “My, my,” he said with a sigh, “it surely doesn’t seem right not to see Lady Penryck sitting in that green chair, her little dog at her feet, and holding her cane.”

  “I suppose you will miss her nearly as much as I,” said Clare. “I feel sorry that I was not here when she died.”

  “Now, now, young lady,” said Mr. Austin, wagging a square-tipped finger. “It was her wish to have you go. And she was so pleased with the reports that Lady Thane sent back. An invitation to the prince regent’s ball, I think she told me. Is that right? My, my, I surely envy you. Tell me, is the regent as ... well, obese ... as they say?”

  Upon Clare’s assurance that he was indeed as portly as rumor had it, Mr. Austin moved smoothly on to her own future.

  “Now, just let me find my spectacles, and we will get down to business. I know that you have a head for this kind of thing, not like most females, I am sure. But Lady Penryck could not take care of all things here, and I know she relied much upon you.” He put on his spectacles and at once peered at her over the top of them. “Is Lady Melvin here? Would you like me to call her for you?”

  “No, Mr. Austin,” said Clare, puzzled. “I cannot imagine why I should wish her here. This is, after all, my business, is it not? Perhaps you can tell me at once what my great-uncle wishes me to do?”

  “Your great-uncle.” Mr. Austin let the words rest in the air. “Now, I fear, that is just what I can’t tell you.”

  “I wonder why not?” said Clare. “Hasn’t he been in touch with you?”

  “Actually, my dear,” Mr. Austin sputtered, “I have not been in touch with him.”

  Clare looked her puzzlement. “But I don’t understand...”

  “Of course you don’t,” he said heartily. He seemed to be in two minds—one was to pat Clare on the head as one does a small tot and go on his own way, and the other was the necessity to deal with her as a reasoning person. He swung pendulum-like between the two.

  “You remember your great-uncle?” he said.

  “No, I never saw him. He was Grandmama’s half-brother, I know that.” Clare eyed Mr. Austin with skepticism. There was something odd about Mr. Austin’s manner, and she wished he would get to the point. But he was off again on another tangent.

  “Lady Penryck was the daughter of the second wife. This made Lord Horsham—your great-uncle—her half-brother. A man of great eccentricity, you know. Lived on his capital,” Mr. Austin said, gamely exposing the iniquity of Lord Horsham. “Why the estate wasn’t entailed, I don’t know. Or—do I remember?—he was able to break the entail. At any rate, there was nothing left.”

  His odd phrasing struck Clare. “You say was.”

  ‘That was why your grandmother wrote her new will.”

  “New will?” Clare echoed faintly.

  “Just three weeks ago, she gave me the instructions,” he said, “and she signed it one week before she died.” He beamed in satisfaction that at least one loose end was neatly tied up.

  “So,” he added, “you must not count on much of a dowry. There will be money enough to keep the abbey going as it has been. If you exercise strict economy. But of course that won’t matter, since from what I hear, you will not be living here long, is that right?”

  Archly smiling, he waggled his finger again. “A certain wealthy man has been charmed by your pretty face, your grandmama told me. But I am far from surprised,” he added, “for you must have set the world of London a-reeling with excitement.”

  A shadow crossed her face. Reeling, perhaps, but not with admiration. And Sir Alexander’s offer was as good as whistled down the wind. Mr. Austin’s perambulations were disconcerting, to say the least.

  “Not quite,” she said with a faint smile.

  “Well, your guardian will see to your swift wedding, I am sure. He is a man of great integrity, and of the highest ton, I am told, so we needn’t worry about that, need we?”

  “But what about Uncle Horsham?” she persisted, trying to get at least one end of this bewildering skein into her hands. “You said there was nothing left. Does that mean he died?”

  “Oh, yes. A month ago. Just after you went to London. Didn’t your grandmother write to you about it? No, I can see she did not. Well, it is not fitting for me to say what I think, but females in business...” He left his thought unfinished, but it was clear to Clare.

  “Well, then, if Uncle Horsham is gone, there is nobody else to turn to,” said Clare. “But I don’t understand. You did mention my guardian. Please, Mr. Austin, I must beg you to tell me at once how I am left. If I have a guardian, then I am not on my own?”

  “Oh, no, no. It would be most improper for
that to be the case, you know. I could not have approved a will leaving you without a legal guardian. He must sign the papers, you know, for your marriage settlement, when it comes time for that. And I must expect that any moment, mustn’t I? And your guardian will have full control of the funds and of the farms here at the abbey, and of course of the household here, until your husband takes over. And I am sure that he—your guardian, that is—will see that you have a proper establishment here.”

  “But I have an establishment here!” said Clare, resorting to a barely concealed mutiny to cover her growing dismay.

  “But not quite comme il faut, as they say. But then, it is not my province to instruct you on this. It will be your guardian’s obligation, and I am sure he has a strong sense of responsibility toward his duties.”

  Clare rose to her feet and took a turn around the room. “Mr. Austin,” she said, turning to face him, “it would be best, I think, were you to tell me directly what my grandmother’s will provides. I collect there have been great changes in her plans since she made me acquainted with them a few years ago.”

  “Oh, my, my, yes!” exclaimed Mr. Austin. “And I confess that I am much more pleased with them than I was before. I could not quite like, you know, a man of Lord Horsham’s age, so unsuitable, you know, so—so to speak—out of tune with a young person.”

  “Then who?” demanded Clare. Something in the tone of her voice must have warned Mr. Austin.

  “You will be pleased to know that you will be subject to the guardianship of a member of the Penryck family instead of your grandmother’s.”

  Even a growing suspicion did not prepare Clare for Mr. Austin’s fateful announcement.

  “Your guardian is Lord Benedict Choate!”

  The room tilted and straightened again.

  “Now, what do you say to that, young lady?”

  Stonily Clare answered him. “I wish I were dead!”

  11.