Lord Iverbrook's Heir

by Carola Dunn

  “Finish your milk first, dear. Selena, cannot John Peabody manage the harvest? You know how ill it makes you.”

  "Old John may know the land like the back of his hand, but he has no real authority with the men. If I am not there, they will spend hours arguing about which field to cut first and which end to start and whether the scythes are sharp enough.” Looking harassed, she ran her hand through her curls.

  It was Lady Whitton's turn to sigh. “Well, I shall make you some clover tea,” she said practically. “It is one of the best things for hay fever.”

  Selena dropped a kiss on her mother’s rose-petal cheek. Peter had finished his milk and climbed down from his chair. White-mustached, he shook her hand and submitted with dignity to being picked up and hugged.

  “I’m going to read my book to Finny,” he said, and ran out of the room, narrowly missing the butler in the doorway.

  “The post is come, my lady,” announced Bannister, presenting a silver tray with a heap of letters.

  “Thank you, Bannister. Pray give them to Miss Selena,” said Lady Whitton, as usual.

  Selena sat down again and sorted through the pile. “For you, Mama, from your Learned Society, and here's a couple of household bills. Bannister, these are all farm business. Put them on my desk, if you please.”

  “Is my Lady Magazine not come?” asked Delia.

  “No. Now what is this? A letter franked by Lord Iverbrook! I did not know he was in England. It is addressed to me, but it must be meant for you, Mama.”

  Lady Whitton, already deep in the report from the Learned Society of Herbalists, waved it away. Selena broke the seal and unfolded a brief note.

  “He’s coming to see me this afternoon! How extraordinary! I must suppose that he wishes to present his condolences on Phoebe’s death though we are now out of black gloves even, and perhaps to see Peter; but it is you he should speak to, Mama.”

  Her oblivious parent stood up, report in hand. “Here is a decoction of mullein leaves which will be the very thing for your sneezing, Selena. I will go and pick some at once, for it must be carefully strained to remove the bristles. It will be ready for you by the time you come in for luncheon.” She wandered out, still reading.

  “I’m sure we have not seen hide nor hair of Iverbrook since Gil and Phoebe were wed,” said Selena. “I daresay I shall not recognise him.”

  “I remember him well,” said Delia dreamily. “He is excessively handsome and romantic. Clive says he is a rake.”

  “You exaggerate, Dee, and so does Clive, I feel sure. All I remember of him is that though I was Phoebe’s maid of honour and he was Gil’s best man, he did not see fit to dance with me after the wedding. Dear Papa was quite incensed, and I have no patience with such ramshackle manners, I vow. And now here is another example. Does he think I have nothing better to do than to sit at home this afternoon awaiting his condescending arrival?”

  “I daresay he does not know about your barley harvest. It is not at all the sort of thing in which ladies of quality are generally interested.”

  “I own I had as lief not go out there in the fields today. When John Peabody retires I shall look about for a bailiff who can supervise the men. But I prefer to manage my own farm, and I could never be satisfied with a life of novels and gossip and embroidery, like Clive’s mama.”

  “There is nothing wrong with novels,” said Delia defensively.

  “Well, before you begin the one I saw Jane passing to you in church yesterday, give these bills to Mrs. Tooting, if you please, since Mama has forgotten them. And you had best warn her of Lord Iverbrook’s visit. I suppose it is but common courtesy to invite him to dine, though if he has but common courtesy he will decline.”

  Leaving her sister gazing out of the window, apparently engaged in a daydream about the coming noble guest, Selena set out for the Forty-Acre Field.

  It was still early when she and her groom rode down the lane. The breeze was cool on her face, but the threatening clouds had blown over and the bright sun made dewdrops twinkle on spiderwebs in the hedgerow.

  “It’s going to be hot later,” she said.

  “Yes’m. Good harvest weather.” Young Jem, the groom, had but recently advanced to that exalted position. He now took care of the ladies’ riding and carriage horses, leaving to mere stableboys the great, patient Shire horses that did the farm work. "Take care, Miss Selena, Orion’s a bit resty this morning.”

  Selena curbed her black gelding as he danced skittishly sideways, and stroked his neck soothingly. As they drew level with a five-barred gate, she brought him to a halt and looked across a field towards the river. The Thames glinted through a tangle of willows; the pasture was overgrown with meadowsweet, its scent hanging heavy in the air. Selena sneezed.

  "One day!” she muttered in frustration, and urged Orion onward.

  A couple of hours earlier, at first light, she had sent a message to John Peabody, and he had gathered some two score harvesters who now awaited her at the Forty-Acre Field. Most were local villagers, glad of a chance to supplement their meagre incomes. A dozen or so were gypsies, swarthy folk whose encampment south of the village had been making the inhabitants of Kings Milford uneasy for days. Jem grunted disapprovingly and urged his cob protectively closer to his mistress’s side.

  After a brief consultation, the harvesters were stationed along one side of the field. Selena took a scythe, tested it against her thumb, and with a graceful swing cut the first swathe of corn. It fell neatly, ready to be sheafed. A cheer went up and she flushed with pride. There was a trick to it, and she had been practising for a week on the long grass in the paddock.

  The reapers started across the field. Pale golden barley, scarlet poppies, sky-blue cornflowers, all fell before them, and behind them stooped the binders, boys and women, tying the sheaves with wisps of straw.

  Gradually the line of figures spread out. Old John and Selena marked where slow scythers kept their followers waiting, and where stragglers laboured far behind. At the noon break the teams must be rearranged, and fast workers given the longer or more awkward rows. John knew what must be done, but without Selena's authority behind him there would be argument, bad feelings, and time wasted.

  Selena sneezed again, as the breeze brought a swirl of dust and pollen. It was going to be a long day.

  * * * *

  Under the blazing midday sun, a curricle drove slowly down the deserted village street. Lord Iverbrook reined his sweating team to a halt before the inn. Though a faded sign over the door proclaimed the Cross and Gaiters, it was scarcely more than a hedge-tavern. No eager ostler ran out to enquire as to how he might serve the travellers; even mine host seemed uninterested in his aristocratic guest.

  Iverbrook removed his hat and wiped his forehead with a damp and crumpled handkerchief.

  “Go ask the way to Milford Manor, Tom,” he ordered, “and bring some ale back with you, if this godforsaken place can produce such a thing.”

  While his servant trudged into the silent inn, he looked around. The dusty street came to an abrupt end here on the riverbank. Near a small jetty, a solitary coot bobbed in the water; its bright, cynical eyes seemed to regard him with amusement.

  The opposite side of the river was lined with a tangle of willows upstream; downstream he could see well-tended watermeadows, dotted with black and white cattle. Beyond these, the bank rose higher above the water, and there terraced gardens led up to an attractive brick and stone house.

  The viscount turned and looked back down the street. Thatched, whitewashed cottages, with candytuft and gilliflowers wilting in the gardens; a pleasant enough place, no doubt, were it not for this infernal heat. He wiped his face again.

  Tom emerged from the dim recesses of the inn, bearing an earthenware mug. He watched his master drain the ale at a draught before he spoke.

  “It’s the wrong Milford, m’lord,” he said expressionlessly.

  “What the devil do you mean, the wrong Milford? We're in Berkshire, aren’t we?
Near Abingdon?”

  “Yes, m’lord. Seems as how this is Milford Abbot, and what we wants is Kings Milford. In Oxfordshire.”

  “Devil fly away with that lawyer! Berkshire, he told me.”

  “Yes, m’lord. The landlord explained as the local Receiving Office is in Abingdon, which is in Berkshire, so the direction for the mails . . ."

  “To the devil with the mails! Where is this other Milford then?”

  Tom hooked a philosophical thumb over his shoulder. “That’s Milford Manor over there, m’lord. On t’other side of the Thames.”

  Lord Iverbrook held his breath for a long moment, then let it out in a sigh and grinned wryly.

  “He did tell me Kings Milford. I ought to have given you more precise instructions when you enquired in Wallingford. I suppose all these ‘fords’ are merely a manner of speaking?”

  “I wouldn’t advise trying to drive across, m’lord. There’s usually a boat, a skiff the landlord said, but all the men are gone to harvesting over there. There’s a bridge about four miles on, seemingly, in Abingdon.”

  “Abingdon it is then. I trust the place also has a decent posting-house. I’ll leave you there with the horses and hire a pair. We’ll rack up there tonight.”

  * * * *

  “But, Grandmama, Aunt Sena promised I can go harvesting if I be good!”

  “Your aunt is still waiting for Lord Iverbrook, Peter, and besides, she has the headache. Be a love and fetch me the jar marked ‘hyssop’. An infusion with a little honey and oil of almonds will do her a world of good.”

  Peter obediently fetched the herb, but repeated sadly, “She promised.”

  “Of course I did!” Selena entered the odiferous stillroom at that moment, attired in a most becoming morning dress of amber crepe. "Mama, I am quite out of patience with Iverbrook and will not await his pleasure any longer.”

  “How is your head, dearest? I was just preparing a draught of hyssop for you.”

  “I am vastly better, thanks to your mullein tea. I will try the hyssop next time. It smells delicious. Peterkin, do you go and ask Finny to dress you for the fields. You will need stout shoes for walking across the stubble. I will change too, and meet you at the stables.”

  “I want to ride with Jem. Can I ride with Jem, Aunt Sena? ‘Cos Jem says ‘Rion is a lady’s horse and I’m not a lady. So can I?”

  “Jem’s cob is so very large,” said Lady Whitton anxiously. “I think Peter will be safer with you, Selena.”

  “Jem is very trustworthy, and Pippin is a docile beast, not to say phlegmatic. Peter will come to no harm if he behaves himself.”

  “I’ll be good, Grandmama. You can come and see me riding Pippin, will you?”

  “Off you go to Nurse, young man, or you’ll not be riding at all!”

  * * * *

  Not long after Pippin and Orion trotted out of the stable yard, Lord Iverbrook’s curricle drew up at the front door of the Manor. He sat for a moment looking at the house, before tossing the reins to the postboy.

  Close up, it seemed even more attractive. It was built mostly of a fawn-coloured stone, embellished with decorative red brick, though parts of the facade were Tudor style black and white. A curious mixture, but somehow the whole was harmonious. The mullioned windows gleamed and the open door offered a welcome.

  The butler who answered Iverbrook’s ring invited him into the cool hallway, redolent of lemon oil and beeswax.

  “Miss Whitton is out, my lord,” he said apologetically. “I fear she is not expected to return for some time. If your lordship would wish to see Lady Whitton, I shall enquire as to whether her ladyship is at home.”

  “My business is with Miss Whitton . . . but I daresay I ought to pay my respects to Lady Whitton,” responded the viscount with annoyance. As the butler bowed and withdrew, he wondered a shade anxiously whether he would recognise Gil’s mother-in-law. He had no more recollection of her than of her daughters, except for Phoebe, though they must certainly have been introduced at the wedding.

  The butler returned.

  “It seems her ladyship is also out, my lord. I had thought her to be in the stillroom but Mrs. Tooting says she walked down to the village, and Miss Delia with her. Will your lordship wait?”

  “Dash it, I’ve no alternative! Is it customary in this household for everyone to leave when a visitor is expected? I suppose my letter was received?”

  “I cannot take it upon myself to say, my lord,” reproved Bannister.

  “What about my nephew? Mr. Carrick’s son. At least I can go up to the nursery and see him!”

  “I understand, my lord, that Master Peter rode out with Miss Selena. Miss Whitton, that is. Perhaps your lordship would care to take some refreshment in the drawing room? Or, the gardens are particularly fine at this season."

  The irate viscount had no desire to see the gardens, but the thought of being shut up in a stuffy drawing room to cool his heels was still less bearable. “Bring me some ale in the garden, dammit,” he growled, then smiled his sweet, rueful smile. “I beg your pardon! I should not come to cuffs with you only because your mistresses’ notions of courtesy do not suit mine. Refreshments in the garden, if you please, and if possible, a newspaper. And notify me the instant Miss Whitton returns!”

  The gardens were peaceful, full of humming bees and the fragrance of roses and spicy marigolds. Brick steps led down from terrace to terrace to the river bank, where Lord Iverbrook found a comfortable bench in the shade of an oak. The Thames slid by, green-brown, smooth, hypnotic.

  A pretty maidservant in white cap and apron appeared, bearing a tray. “Here’s your ale, my lord,” she said, bobbing a curtsey, “and a bit of lardycake. Cook baked it just this morning and it’s right good. Oh, and the paper. Mr. Bannister said to tell you it’s just Jackson's Oxford Journal and is there anything else I can get you, my lord?”

  “Not unless you can produce your mistress.”

  “Oh no, sir. Miss Selena’s at the harvest and my lady’s took a salve to Miss Pauley’s cookmaid as burned her hand. My lady’s better nor any ‘pothercary. Excuse me, my lord. Mrs. Tooting said to come straight back.”

  So Miss Selena had gone to watch the reapers, had she? She had not even the excuse of a prior social engagement to plead for her absence. My lord sank his teeth into the sticky lardycake, full of plump raisins, as if he were a mastiff and the sweetmeat Miss Whitton's ankle.

  Chapter 4

  By the time Selena returned from the fields, her headache was back in full force. The dust raised by the reapers had, as usual, made her sneeze till her nose and eyes were red; Peter had fallen over and scratched his hands; and a gypsy had come to blows with one of the locals, leading to the premature departure of all the itinerants.

  “Good riddance,” Jem had snorted, but John Peabody had cocked a weather eye at the sky and muttered forebodingly, “Hope it holds fair.”

  Selena entered the house through the side door from the stables. As she and Peter passed the butler’s pantry, Bannister popped out.

  “His lordship’s here, Miss Selena.”

  “Iverbrook? I’d forgot him! I’ll go and change and be with him shortly.”

  “He’s been waiting near two hours already, miss. He’s in the garden, pacing up and down like a tiger in a cage."

  “Oh dear! Perhaps I had best go straight out. Thank you, Bannister. Peter, you run up to Nurse and have her put some of Grandmama’s ointment on your hands.”

  Selena glanced in the gilt-framed mirror in the hall and poked ineffectually at her hair. It would take more than a couple of minutes to set the flaxen curls to rights, without considering her shabby riding dress. It was six years since Phoebe’s wedding, when the viscount had displayed an arrogant disregard for her person. If she had been beneath his notice then, the intervening time could hardly have raised her in his esteem. Her chin tilted defiantly, Selena went out into the garden.

  His lordship was indeed pacing up and down, but his tall, lean form brought to mi
nd a picture she had once seen of a giraffe, not the moth-eaten tiger that had come with the fair to Abingdon last year. She stood at the top of the steps for a moment, watching him. Certainly not romantically handsome—Delia’s memory had been looking through rose-coloured spectacles. How he might look without the wrathful expression that presently distorted his regular features, she could not guess.

  “My lord!” she called.

  He came towards her eagerly, relief at the ending of his long wait overcoming his resentment. As he reached the terrace below her, he took in her unkempt appearance and hesitated.

  “Miss Whitton?”

  “We have met before, sir.” Selena’s voice was cold. “I must apologise for having kept you waiting.”

  “I should dashed well hope so!” exploded the viscount. “I’ve been here forever. I informed you that I was coming, did I not?”

  “You did not specify the hour. I waited for you for two hours, but I had pressing business elsewhere and could not spend the entire afternoon attending your convenience. Enough said. We must not quarrel when we are scarcely out of mourning. I most sincerely condole with you on the loss of your brother, my lord.”

  “And I with you on Phoebe’s death.”

  “Gil was a gentleman of superior understanding and morals, and he made my sister very happy. I expect you will wish to see their child?”

  “Such was my purpose in coming here today. I intend to relieve you of the responsibility of caring for my nephew, Miss Whitton. He will reside at Iver, as befits my heir.”

  Selena thought she must have misheard. Then she wondered if he could possibly be jesting on such a subject. She descended a few steps, trying to read his face.

  “Surely you cannot be serious?” she said uncertainly.

  “Never more so. You cannot expect me to allow him to be bred up among the petty squirearchy, and in a household of females besides. It was generous of you to give him a home during my absence, but now that I am returned he should be under my protection.”

  “I suppose you will concern yourself intimately with his upbringing? You are going to make your home at Iver, I collect?”