The Wicked Guardian

by Vanessa Gray

  Miss Peek smiled gently. Her cap was awry, from her efforts in sorting out the books, and she put up both hands now to set it straight “But you, of course, told her of his sterling character and his eminent fairness? His meticulous attention to your welfare?”

  Clare stared at her. She had not suspected her companion of such a mischievous sense of humor, but to her great surprise, she saw that Miss Peek was entirely serious.

  “I should have asked you to declaim upon the subject of his character. You see much more in him than I do.”

  “Well, no doubt you are right,” said Miss Peek indulgently. “But I do think, my dear, that you would do well to cultivate such thoughts of him as would show off to advantage. It is no use to swim against the tide of popular opinion, you know.”

  “But popular opinion does consider him cold, you know. And full of his own importance.”

  But Miss Peek was already glancing surreptitiously at the books that she had chosen for her first afternoon’s reading, and gave only scant attention to Clare. When Clare took a book of her own, and the two ascended the stairs to the upper floor, each went to her own room, to revel in solitude—Miss Peek to plunge into the vicissitudes of Woman, and Clare to set her book down on a table and walk to the window.

  She found herself too much in sympathy with the beleaguered heroine of the romance to read about her with any enjoyment But one thing she did know—and that was that any young female so placed that her guardian rode roughshod over her sensibilities was a poor thing if she did not retaliate in whatever way occurred to her.

  Schooled in romance, Clare’s first thoughts were of a kind to make Miss Peek, had she known them, turn pale and grasp at a nearby chair for support. Clare could not elope to Gretna Green—there was no one to elope with. She could not flee the country, going to lose herself in Paris, for Napoleon was still at war with England. And the ever-present remedy in the books she knew well—to fall into a fit of swooning—would not serve.

  She toyed, for the next few days, with various plans to rout Benedict. But when the wildest of her ideas were subjected to a realistic light, she saw the flaw in them.

  Each of the plans she had in mind was aimed at escape from the hateful yoke of the wicked guardian—to live without the burden of his decrees that limited her into a close confinement.

  But she already had that. There was nothing that Benedict had arranged that she wouldn’t have arranged herself, had she had the power. She was living in her own home, and if her life was constricted, it was not Benedict’s fault, but only the fault of the required year of mourning. She did not resent the mourning for her grandmama, but she could not blame Benedict for it, either.

  She had her dear Peeky to keep her company, she was free to roam the hills and valleys of the countryside, send for books from Mr. Lane’s press in Leadenhall Street, receive visits from Lady Melvin and return them. Even to be driven into town by servants who loved her, to purchase whatever she needed, and be driven home again, without let or hindrance by her guardian.

  And perhaps that was the trouble—that Benedict had given her his full attention while he dealt with her, as he would have dealt with any dependent, seeing to her welfare, and then, having settled it to his satisfaction, departing to forget all about her.

  And Clare vowed to herself that she would not be left like a trunk in a lumber room, to be called for at some future time. She did not quite understand why she felt so strongly, but she believed it had to do with the Penryck pride, and surely he could understand that?

  She wished to humble him, to bring him to his knees. Make him so aware of her that he could think of no one else—and then she would...

  Her goals beyond that were dim and vague, shapeless forms in the future. Her first thought was how to gain her dearest wish. And there was nothing that she could do that would bring Benedict to his knees—the picture that lived ever in her mind.

  Finally, a week later, she had almost given up the entire scheme. It was a hopeless task. Benedict was totally immersed, doubtless, in his plans to marry Marianna Morton. He would not harken to any appeal from the wilderness of Dorset.

  But at this point, when the Penryck resolution lay limply bested, Fate took a hand and brought a gift in both hands to Clare. The gift, at first—as Fate’s usually are—was artfully hidden in disaster.

  16.

  Budge and Peg had trudged up the stairs to Clare’s bedroom, with the copper tub and pitcher after pitcher of hot water, for Clare’s bath. This was a daily occurrence, and there was nothing this day to mark it from any other day.

  Clare lingered in her bath until the water was tepid, and then added the last two pitchers of hot water, bringing the level to the top of the tub. Sliding down into the water, Clare let the warmth steal over her, drawing her into a timeless world, until suddenly she realized the water was cold.

  The day was warm enough, and when she was dressed she felt marvelously invigorated. Calling to Budge, she instructed her to dispose of the bathwater, and she herself went down the hall to Miss Peek’s room.

  “Oh, my goodness!” declared Miss Peek. “Is it time for tea already? I could almost wish that Lady Melvin had not brought us such an assortment of new books. I can resist the temptation to read again some of my favorites, but a new book is beyond any resistance of mine!”

  “But they are all alike, dear Peeky!” Clare laughed. “So many swoons per chapter, so many misshapen villains...” The ingenious authors had provided Clare with no help at all in her own problem.

  She lingered while they discussed the merits of the various heroines of their acquaintance, comparing Evalina with Julia, and the wicked Duke of Duomo with the Marquis of Tormolino.

  “And truly,” said Clare, “there’s not a jot or tittle of difference between them! And I wonder, Peeky, if you think they are all true to life?”

  Miss Peek considered seriously. “N-no,” she said at last. “For surely any young female would be able to get herself out of such outrageous scrapes! Or even better, were she well-brought-up, she would not find herself forced to flee headlong in the night. I cannot think that any female would have any credit in the world, if she did such a ramshackle thing.”

  “But sometimes,” said Clare, brooding upon her own trials, “the young female has nothing to say about her own affairs.”

  “Depend upon it,” said Miss Peek sagely, “that in England matters are arranged in the best possible way. But of course, I would not be quite so sure of it in a foreign land.”

  Clare realized then that she had been hearing some unusual sounds for the last few minutes, and they now increased in volume until they demanded attention. She turned toward the door and raised her hand to enjoin silence.

  There was the clamor of running feet and obscure muffled shouts, and Clare raced to the door and flung it open. Brushing aside Budge, screaming in the hall, both hands to her ears so as to shut out the sounds of her own voice, Clare quickly surveyed the scene. The floor was covered with water, unaccountably flowing swiftly from the open door and spreading across the hall.

  “The tub! The tub!” screeched Budge, and Peg thrust a harassed face around the corner of the bedroom door.

  “Budge!” said Clare in an incisive voice, but Budge ignored her. Leaving her to her screams, Clare, with a fleeting wish that she knew how Benedict had silenced her, lifted up her skirts and joined Peg in the bedroom.

  “What happened? Never mind, I can see what happened. The tub overturned. Oh, if I had only not filled it quite so full! But then, probably the pitchers would have been overturned as well. Run downstairs, Peg, and get mops, and bring up Chugg and Goodwin. Hurry, before this soaks into the carpet too far!”

  But of course, as she realized, it had already gone too far into the carpet. There was worse to come.

  After strenuous mopping-up efforts, in which Budge, strongly intimidated by her mistress, took part, the tub and the pitchers were taken down the back stairs by the two footmen. Peg followed, bearing mops a
nd pails, and Budge, spent from her emotional efforts, followed meekly.

  It had truly been a mess, Clare thought. But thanks to Miss Peek, who knew precisely what to do to minimize the damage, and directed the servants with a firm hand, there seemed to be little real damage. Miss Peek retired to her room to change her clothing, sadly soiled by water and an unfortunate encounter with a dirty mop, and Clare moved toward the stairs.

  There would be no comfort in her own upstairs sitting room for weeks, until the carpet was thoroughly dry. She must ask Peeky whether it would be best to take up the carpet and lay it out in the sun in the kitchen garden.

  Clare was halfway down the stairs when she became aware of an unexpected consequence of the accident. She stood there on the steps, one hand lightly on the banister, while enlightenment and culmination of her week’s thought came to her with a blinding flash.

  The ceiling of the downstairs hall was soaking wet, and already small pieces of sodden plaster had fallen to the tile floor.

  The water had seeped through to the downstairs. Perhaps ... She ran lightly down the stairs and into the drawing room. There were telltale signs of moisture creeping over the white plastered ceiling. And her plan was complete! She had already embarked on the first step of her great plan—the humbling of Lord Choate!

  The moisture had not yet done any great damage to the drawing-room ceiling. But still, having been presented with so much that would fulfill her purpose, she could certainly help it along.

  She slipped out of the side door and hurried along to the stables. Glancing swiftly around to see whether she was observed, she picked up a long pole from a pile lying beside the stable. Its purpose was unknown to her, but she knew what she intended for it. She failed to see Tom Swann, the coachman’s boy, emerging from the side door of the stable and stopping short at the unaccustomed sight of his mistress hurrying toward the abbey with a pole, at least seven feet long, in her hands.

  Curious, he followed her, taking care not to be noticed. For there was something very secretive about Miss Clare’s actions, he thought, and he was not of stern enough stuff to relegate the incident to oblivion.

  Peering, at length, through the drawing-room windows, he perceived a strange sight. Miss Clare stood near the door into the hall, the pole in her hands. She was prodding at the ceiling!

  Tom gulped. Miss Clare’s activity was rewarded, he noticed, looking again, for small bits of plaster were sifting down to the floor. She peered at them and smiled with satisfaction. Then, to his amazement, she moved to another spot and continued, loosening the plaster and watching it drop to the French carpet.

  There was something havey-cavey about the whole thing, thought Tom, and he wanted no part of it. Whatever Miss Clare wanted to do was her business, wasn’t it? And if she wanted advice or help, she would ask for it, wouldn’t she? Tom tiptoed away from the house, and as soon as he thought he would not be observed, fled at speed toward the safety of the stables, where horses at least acted like horses, and didn’t do daft things without any warning.

  But Clare, believing herself unobserved, prodded at the soaked plaster until she was satisfied with the results. There was a drift of plaster right across the carpet, and artistically she approved of the loosened piece that hung at a precarious angle, threatening to drop at the slightest breath. She looked down at the pole in her hands. Should she loosen a bit more?

  The sound of footsteps in the hall made her decision for her. Swiftly she hurried to the drawing-room windows, opening onto the lawn, and thrust the pole behind the shrubs alongside the wall. Later she would have to remember to return the pole to its original location, but just now she must turn back into the drawing room to greet Peeky.

  “What on earth! My dear, do you know that the hall ceiling has been loosened by the water? That foolish Budge! I cannot think what could have made her so clumsy!”

  “She wasn’t able to say,” said Clare, trying to hide her elation. “Only, look at this ceiling, too! We shall not be able to sit here this evening. It is too dangerous.”

  “Uncomfortable perhaps, but hardly dangerous.”

  Clare stared at the dangling chunk of plaster, willing it to loosen this second and drop to the floor. Obligingly, it swayed ominously. “Careful!”

  Peeky looked uneasily where Clare indicated. “Oh, my,” she said faintly.

  “You see? Even the slightest breath of air from opening the door makes it ready to fall.”

  “But,” said Miss Peek stoutly, “you see, it did not fall. And while there is plaster—yes, I see it, Clare—on the carpet, we must simply have it cleaned up and then call someone up from the village to repair the ceilings.”

  “I suppose so,” said Clare dubiously. “But I am sure it will cost a great deal. And it cannot be done at once, can it? Won’t the ceiling need to dry, and the floor above as well?”

  “I suppose so. But we must take expert advice on this.” “Certainly. I do hope Lord Choate will agree that the trouble must be fixed.”

  “But of course he will, my dear. After all, it is your money, and not his, that must be used.” Miss Peek frowned at the ceiling. She liked an orderly life, and although such catastrophes were truly a part of one’s life, bringing the opportunity to set all straight again, and nothing to be considered overwhelming, yet there was something she did not quite like about the situation.

  She could not put her finger upon any flaw in the sequence of events. Given a tub of water, overturned by clumsy maids, the natural consequence was that the unconfined water would seek a lower level, and there was eminent logic in the fact that the water had seeped through and loosened the downstairs ceilings. But yet she was uneasy.

  “I am sure Lord Choate will authorize the expenditure,” said Miss Peek firmly. “In the meantime, we shall simply ... What are you looking at, Clare?”

  “I thought that the damage was near the door, but look here. Halfway into the room. Come on, Peeky, let’s get out of here before the ceiling falls on our heads.”

  “Oh, I am sure it will not!”

  “How can you be sure? I had thought it would surely not fall on our heads there by the door, but you see, there is a great deal of plaster already fallen.”

  Clare eyed her governess with apprehension. Surely Miss Peek must fall in with her plot. She knew very well that Peeky would not lend herself to an overt scheme like the one Clare had in mind. But if she could be convinced...

  “If you wish to risk your life,” said Clare, “I don’t. And I will move into the morning room, where at least the ceiling is sound. I hope.”

  Once in the morning room, joined at once by Miss Peek, Clare sat with an exaggerated sigh. “I vow I do not know what to do next. Of course, I will desire Mr. Austin to write to Lord Choate, but what are we to do in the meantime? We cannot stay here!”

  “Of course we can. We are very comfortable here. A trifle cramped, my dear, but after all, there are just the two of us, and I daresay we can make out very well indeed.”

  “But,” wailed Clare, “where shall I sleep? I feel it is too damp in my chamber to be quite healthful, and the other rooms have not been aired recently. I am in such a stew!” After prolonged discussion, artfully nurtured by Clare, Miss Peek had grown considerably more anxious. She did not wish to believe that there was danger from the ceiling, but there was the evidence of the plaster on the floor. And after Clare had gone from the living room, and Miss Peek, had lingered, the large block of plaster that had wavered tentatively over her head had actually dropped, missing her by no more than a foot and shattering on the soft carpet. Miss Peek was convinced.

  “The only thing,” said Clare after a long silence, “is to remove from the abbey.”

  Miss Peek gaped. “Remove? From the abbey? Where?” “We would have to be away until the damage is repaired. It may be as long as six weeks,” cried Clare recklessly.

  “I am sure you are wrong,” said Miss Peek, but without conviction.

  “At least that long.”

&nb
sp; “But,” said Miss Peek, mindful of her instructions, “I do not think Lord Choate would consider it eligible to remove from the abbey. After all, there are still habitable rooms here, and we could manage very nicely.”

  “Damp,” pronounced Clare darkly, “and falling plaster. I wonder at you, Peeky. Or perhaps you see this as a ruined castle or the grotto of Mandovio? Pray disabuse your mind of that, for I have no longing to emulate Julia.”

  Miss Peek laughed slightly. “You know you are talking nonsense.”

  “I do know that, Peeky,” said Clare with a rush, rising to give her companion a kiss on the cheek. “But nonetheless, I do think I am right. I won’t press you, dear Peeky. Let us forget the entire thing.”

  But when it came time for bed, Clare decided that her room was indeed too damp to sleep in, and Miss Peek agreed. For the carpet had taken up the brunt of the overturned water, and held it, in the face of determined efforts to wipe it dry.

  It would have to be taken out the next morning and laid in the sun to dry, Miss Peek agreed. But in the meantime, Clare was warmly invited to share her governess’s bed.

  It was a long night for both of them. And the situation did not improve. For in the morning Clare awakened to the sound of soft rain on the window. The sky was leaden, and the rain promised to last all day, and perhaps a day or two more. Wisby, a thorough countryman, gloomily prophesied at least a week of unsettled weather.

  “And when it’s going to clear, the land knows when,” he said dourly. “And that won’t help the ceiling dry out, you can believe me on that, miss.”

  Clare believed him. More to the point, Miss Peek also believed him. “What are we to do, Clare?” she said anxiously. “Lord Choate would want us to stay, I am persuaded.”

  “But not at the peril of life and limb,” said Clare stoutly. “At least, not at peril of your life. Mine he holds of no account, but I do not care a rush for that.”

  “But where, then?” said Miss Peek, bewildered.

  Clare appeared to think for a few moments, and then turned a sunny smile to her dear companion. “I know, although you might think I am presuming too much on you, Peeky...”