Where Love Restores (Where There is Love Book 4)

by Donna Fletcher Crow

  “Better go into town. See if we can find a sawbones,” Freddie said.

  Granville helped the groom Jason stow the picnic hamper and rugs in the barouche, and they drove back to town. “Stop at the chemist’s,” Granville ordered the groom. “He should know of a doctor.”

  The chemist knew the location of Dr. Aspery’s surgery. He also knew that the doctor had been called out early that morning to attend the birth of twins and had not yet returned.

  Upon leaving the shop, Granville raised his hat to a group of distinguished gentlemen gathered on the sidewalk. But he froze as he turned into the direct gaze of Lord Calthorpe, one of his father’s close evangelical friends.

  “How do you do, sir? Ah—er, um, pleasure to see you. I trust my father was well when you left him.” Granville tried to put the best possible face on it.

  “I believe he was tolerably well. Suffering from his headaches as usual, unfortunately.”

  “Yes, to be sure. I look forward to seeing him and my mother at Christmas. Will you be at Badminton, sir?”

  “Not I, but I believe my brother Frederick is going for the hunt.” Then Lord Calthorpe’s eyes narrowed in scrutiny of Granville’s sporting attire. “And what brings you to Newmarket, Ryder? Haven’t been to the races, have you? Such worldly amusement is not consonant with an upright life. Let the experience of Scrope Davies stand as a warning to you.”

  Granville’s blank look encouraged Lord Calthorpe to continue. “Davies was a great and liberal favorite at Cambridge in my day, but he was a betting man. He fattened his pockets to the sum of twenty thousand pounds at Newmarket. But, driven by greed and addiction to gaming, he sought to double it and plunged. Then came the evening when he hurried into his rooms and requested his bedmaker’s help in packing. ‘What is it, sir?’ she inquired. ‘Ruin!’ he replied. ‘I’ve just lost all I had and as much more. I must leave tonight. Tomorrow will be too late.’ He died abroad.”

  Clarissa chose that moment to call from the carriage in her shrilly nasal voice, “Darling Gran, do hurry! Fifi here’s in excessive pain.”

  Granville took refuge in a deep parting bow and turned from his father’s friend.

  Ever since the mention of Lord Harrowby’s headaches, Granville’s own head had begun to ache abominably. He longed for a quiet drive back to Cambridge in his phaeton. But Fifi cried once more that her ankle was hurting her severely. It seemed that the slightest jiggling caused pain to shoot clear to her knee.

  “Freddie, darling, you must zecure rooms for Clarissa and me at ze inn for ze night I cannot possibly travel in so much pain. I know you would not want me to; you are zo thoughtful.” She waggled a gloved finger under his chin.

  So Jason drove to The Bushel where Freddie engaged a room for the night. He and Granville carried the injured woman between them up the narrow, curving stairway to the private parlor. Clarissa lagged behind for a moment, but she soon appeared leading a serving wench carrying a tray of cheeses and biscuits with several bottles.

  “Put them by the fire,” Clarissa directed. “I knew you wouldn’t want to set out without some refreshment.” She smiled at Granville with half-lowered eyelids.

  “Thoughtful of you, but I’m not really hungry. If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll see if Merry is below.”

  A quick survey of the public rooms, however, told Granville that no help was available from that quarter. The only familiar face he saw was the man in the checkered suit who had parked near them at the race course. Granville was just debating whether or not to summon a stable lad to ready his phaeton when the arrival of Lord Calthorpe’s carriage sent him back inside. He could think of nothing worse than meeting his father’s close friend in an inn where Clarissa was sure to come and fetch him at any moment.

  “Not a sign of Somerville. Might as well join you.” He accepted defeat as Freddie, who was drinking wine from the glass Fifi was holding to his lips, obviously already had.

  The next morning neither Freddie nor Granville could recall any events beyond drinking the spicy, heady wine. Indeed, through the blur of his fuzzy vision and aching head, Granville could barely gather his wits to remember where he was.

  Then as the scenes of the previous day made their way to his consciousness, he knew. “The deuce! Rolled like a chuckleheaded flat.” That he should have been suckered by one of the oldest tricks in the book was doubly humiliating and infuriating.

  “Been made a cod’s head of, that’s what,” Freddie muttered.

  Granville didn’t have to check his pockets to know that his purse was gone. But a greater loss was the pocket watch his father had presented to him on his twenty-first birthday. He swore under his breath, too angry even to give vent to the words.

  “Thing that’s worrying me—’’ Freddie made his way unsteadily to the window and opened it for a breath of fresh air. “—is how we’re gonna pay our shot.” He started to leave the window, then turned back sharply. “Oh, there’s a piece of luck. Fellow we can borrow from—friend of my father.” He stuck his head out the open window and yelled loudly, “I say, Lord Calthorpe!”

  Eleven

  Everything must be simply perfect, Nixon.” Georgiana swept into the great drawing room ahead of the butler who had been following her all morning practically at a run, making careful notes of all she desired in preparation for the Christmas holidays.

  “That medallion will be the perfect place to hang the kissing bough.” She stood in the center of the room, craning her head backward to view the large plaster centerpiece symbolizing her father’s title of Knight of the Garter. “It will give excellent balance to the room.” She held a slim white finger to her cheek, considering. “Yes, that’s it. Make it in three tiers just like the chandeliers, only slightly larger. I want it to be the most elegant possible. And when the basic structure is ready, I shall take a hand with the boughs and ribbons. Have you got all that?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “Good.” Georgiana whirled around to consider the rest of the room. “It must be decked with greenery—holly and ivy over all the portraits.” She paused to look at the imposing naval officer in the gilt frame over the fireplace. “Make certain you find branches with especially nice berries for Admiral Boscawen; we must do honor to the heroes of His Majesty’s Navy.”

  “But what of the late Lady Worcester?” She considered the portrait of the elegant Georgiana Fitzroy. “If Worcester is to bring his new fiancée with him for the holidays… Nixon’s impassive face and poised pen implied that he would in no way allow himself to have an opinion on a matter of such delicacy. “Perhaps if we choose boughs with profuse foliage, it might just shadow the picture a bit.”

  “Very good, milady.”

  “And then we shall require garlands of laurel and bay in festoons from the cornice and mantel. And the other rooms and chapel in a similar motif—but no mistletoe in the chapel.”

  “Yes, milady.” Nixon’s stiff back showed that under no circumstances would he allow so much as one berry of that pagan foliage to desecrate the family chapel.

  “Now we must check with Cook to make sure she has all the ingredients for the Christmas pies. If everyone comes, we shall be twenty-some at table. There must be no shortages.”

  “No, milady.” Even Nixon’s impassive face registered the horror of such a thought.

  “Pheasant, duck, quail—Papa said they have all been in good supply this season.” She ticked them off on her fingers. Then she paused to lift her printed muslin skirt as she hurried down the scrubbed wooden stairs to the kitchens. “Venison, swan, bustards, peacocks—the gamekeepers have been notified, have they not?”

  “Yes, milady.”

  “Good. And, of course, the boar’s head.” Her quick steps led them into the vast white culinary center already bursting with scents of baking gingerbread and mincemeat, of roasting pork and beef, and of simmering apples and cinnamon.

  Cook was able to reassure her about the food preparations and put both her mind and appetite at ease
with samples of jam tarts, chess pies, boiled sweets, and steamed puddings.

  Still sucking on a Jordan almond, Georgiana left Nixon to expedite the plans on his pages of notes while she went to the yellow room to report to her mother. The duchess sat at a tall marquetry escritoire, her soft green dress and the coolness of the Dutch paintings on the walls setting off the warmth of the yellow flocked wallpaper and yellow striped upholstered furniture.

  “Well, Mama, I think we can plume ourselves that our Christmas celebrations shall be complete to a shade.”

  “I do appreciate your instructing Nixon for me, my dear. Worcester has me all at sixes and sevens with the pother over his engagement. I no more than have the announcement written for The Times than I receive a note from London scribbled post haste that it is not to be announced yet. Then I receive a long letter telling me about all the fine qualities the lady possesses. This is not like your brother. You don’t think the lady has cried off, do you? I cannot bear to see my children hurt, and he did suffer so over his wife’s death.” The duchess put her hand-held reverberator to her ear to hear her daughter’s reply.

  “The lady would need to have more hair than wit to cry off an offer from my brother. He’s the prime prize in the marriage mart.”

  Georgiana kissed her mother and then sat down on a tall-backed, petit-point-covered chair. “Don’t worry, Mama. I am certain everything will be perfectly unexceptional when they arrive.”

  “Well, I trust you are right.” The duchess picked up a letter from the pile in front of her and sighed. “But I am fearful I shall have to abandon my scheme for building my chapel in Monmouthshire. The subscriptions have fallen off shockingly, and I don’t know what to do about it. One doesn’t want to be in a position of actually begging from one’s friends, and yet I did have my heart set on the chapel. So many people in Wales are without spiritual guidance.”

  “But what of the local vicar?”

  “Alas, it is a plural living. The vicar is there no more than three times a year, and the curate is very idle. I had hoped to supply the district with a young man of energy and vision.” She picked up another note, the one informing her that Lord Berry regrets that circumstances do not allow his renewing his subscription.

  “Would Papa…?”

  “Perhaps he would. He is always most generous. Only at the moment all his attention to our duties in Wales is going to the clearing of Raglan Castle. He feels he owes it to our ancestors as well as to our national heritage. I really don’t think this is quite the time to distract him with my project. But my own income is quite depleted. I can lay my hands on nothing without touching my capital. ‘Pockets to let,’ as your brother would say.”

  “Mama, are you still feeding and clothing your two hundred poor families every year?”

  “I fancy it was nearer three hundred this year, my dear, but it wouldn’t do to bandy that abroad.”

  “Keeping your light under a bushel, Mama?” Georgiana smiled, then shook her head, thinking of all the misery her mother had relieved in ministering to both the physical and spiritual needs of these people.

  “You are too good, Mama. I’m confident something will turn up for your chapel. You won’t be obliged to abandon those souls in Wales. Perhaps The Society for Promoting the Enlargement and Building of Churches and Chapels? After all, Uncle Harrowby is its vice-president.”

  The duchess shook her head and picked up another missive. “I’ve contacted them. Their funds are fully committed for the next three years. Unless, of course, I could see my way clear to increase their subscription rolls.” She dropped the paper with a wistful smile.

  “But I am gratified, my dear, to hear that everything shall be precise to a pin here.” She held out a note, its red wax seal broken to reveal a fine copperplate hand. “Your cousin Granville informs me that he shall be with us the first of next week in time for the hunt.” She held the letter out to her daughter.

  The duchess laid her hearing aid aside and returned to her correspondence. Georgiana sat back in her chair holding Granville’s letter between her fingers, remembering the night more than a year ago when he had reentered her life. What delight it had brought her to discover that Granville, the companion and idol of her youth, had become the handsome man of the world she had always known he would be. Though unaware of it at the time, she realized now that she had always been waiting—waiting for her childhood comrade to return. Granville was the touchstone she had held all her other escorts to—and they had all fallen short.

  She sat long, a soft smile playing around her lips. But then the smile faded. What of the other side of the question? Had she been the image he had carried in his heart for nine years? Or was she merely a juvenile playmate, amusing but outgrown like his other toys, to be replaced by more sophisticated companionship?

  From that uncomfortable question she shifted her thoughts to their long talk after the harvest festival. She had prayed daily that he would find spiritual solace; but as no letters had passed between them, she had no idea if that had happened. She must try to discover the answer. That would mean contriving to spend time alone with her cousin this holiday. Something must be done.

  Three days later when Granville arrived bringing his much-neglected tutor, Mr. Peacock, along with all his baggage, Georgiana perceived that her cousin was still troubled. The deep furrows in the high brow and the self-contained silence of the man who had replaced the open, laughing boy she once knew wrenched her heart. She breathed a prayer for him.

  The morning of the Christmas hunt all was astir in the servants’ hall long before daybreak. Georgiana wakened to a great commotion of barking and yapping from the kennels. This would be a special day. She tugged impatiently on her bell pull. She was determined that today would mark a new beginning in her relationship with her cousin. “Agatha, lots of hot water.”

  The maid disappeared as quickly as she had appeared.

  Georgiana picked up her hairbrush and began pulling long strokes through her golden locks. Frederick Calthorpe would be here to occupy Charlotte. George Agar-Ellis was staying in London for the season. Neither Merry Somerville nor any of Gran’s Cambridge friends were coming, so there should be no interruptions.

  Agatha entered with a brass can of steaming water and turned to attend the fire. Georgiana shivered as she dropped her flannel chemise around her ankles and began splashing herself with warm water. She donned her best riding dress of Beaufort Hunt blue and buff. The finely tailored jacket with sleeves puffed from elbow to shoulder and the long skirt cleverly divided in the back to accommodate the side saddle horn showed off her slim form. “Just a bit more forward, Aggie,” she directed as her maid placed the narrow-brimmed polished beaver hat atop her curls.

  “Ooh, milady, you look just as elegant as Countess Kaunitz what cut such a figure when she hunted here last month.” Georgiana’s abigail sent her off with a smile.

  Her first goal would be to cheer her cousin up. It promised to be a perfect day in the field. If her best efforts and a day of running the Beaufort pack couldn’t raise Granville Ryder’s spirits, then he must be past hope.

  Family, guests, Beaufort Hunt members, grooms, and horses filled the courtyard. Dick, who had been waiting for her appearance, brought Mayflower forward and lifted her into the saddle. Georgiana could see her father mounted on his favorite hunter, Free-Martin, a highly prized animal for which he had recently refused an offer of five hundred guineas. And there on Tom Thumb was Worcester wearing green plush and carrying the horn, which signaled that he was serving as Master of the Hunt today. Near him on a small brown mare was Jane Paget, the woman whose unclear place in Worcester’s affection had all their family astir. Georgiana had met her only briefly the night before upon the couple’s arrival from London and did not yet feel she could form an opinion of her.

  Georgiana guessed there must be upwards of eighty in the field, most of whom the duke had granted the privilege of wearing jackets of Beaufort Hunt blue with buff lapels and brass buttons. Som
e from other hunts added a dash of scarlet in their traditional pinks. Others, not members of official hunts, wore riding habits of black or brown. The hunt servants were in green velour.

  The pack would be taken in the mule-driven van to Worcester Lodge three miles away. But the terriers and small dogs who followed the pack and were so useful in case the fox went to ground in a hole, milled around at the horses’ hooves, adding their excited yaps to the snorting of horses, crunching of gravel, and the happy calls and laughter of the hunters. The weather was keen with an easterly wind, and there had been frost over the night—conditions that should insure a strong scent for the hounds.

  The duchess and several non-hunting guests took their places in the Badminton coach which led the way out the arched stone entrance into the park. The company, ready for their breakfast, followed apace. The morning was complete except for its most important element to Georgiana—where was Granville? Georgiana reined Mayflower into step beside Charlotte. Her sister was listening to Frederick Calthorpe’s rather involved but apparently amusing story.

  “…And you can imagine my brother’s shock when he went into the parlor and found Granville had also spent the night with, er, ah—” Here Mr. Calthorpe turned as pink as his jacket and suffered an alarming coughing fit.

  Charlotte laughed. “Never mind, Fred. I am no schoolgirl to be shocked by the mention of a bit o’ muslin. But Granville? Are you certain?”

  “Oh, yes. My brother’s a high stickler. He’d never have lent money to that loose screw Freddie Perkins. But, of course, the son of Lord Harrowby was quite another matter.”

  Georgiana checked Mayflower to a slower pace. The beauty of the day suddenly clouded for her as if a thick gray fog had settled over the park. Well, if that was what he’d been about, the Honorable Granville Dudley Ryder deserved to feel troubled. She wasn’t about to lift a finger to soothe his feelings.