by Carola Dunn
“Likely he got in the wrong carridge by mistake. There were his Uncle Aubrey’s carridge too, weren’t there?”
Selena paled. “That’s right. And I have no idea where he was going. That was hours ago!” She picked up her skirts and ran out of the room.
Half way down the stairs she met Bannister, somewhat out of breath, coming to find her.
“Miss Selena!” he panted. “There’s a boy from the Crown brought a letter. He says as how ‘tis urgent and he won't give it into any hands but yourn.”
“Where is he?”
“In the kitchen, miss, and dripping all over Cook’s nice clean floor.”
Selena was nearly at the bottom of the stairs before he finished his sentence. She hurried to the kitchen and found the lad steaming in front of the fire. Assured that she was Miss Whitton, he handed her a soggy paper.
She unfolded it with care. The ink had run but the writing was still plainly legible. She read it, and put out a hand to the table to steady herself, her face white.
“How did you come by this?”
“A man brung it, and paid to have it delivered tonight, miss. Dunno who he were. Di’n’t think to ask, miss.”
“No, of course not. What, Cook? No, I’m all right. I must see my mother at once.
“My lady’s in the drawing room,” said the butler, who had just caught up with her. “Miss Delia too.”
“Thank you, Bannister. Tell Jem to come to me there, if you please.” She walked slowly this time. There was no need to hurry. As she entered the drawing room she heard Delia.
“Honestly I’m not wet, Mama. Clive brought me home in the carriage. I’ll change later.”
“Yes, don’t go yet, Dee,” said Selena, her voice sounding strange in her own ears. “You’ll have to know sooner or later.”
They turned to her.
"Know what?” Delia asked.
“Selena, what is it? You look ill. Come and sit down, dearest.”
She sank into a chair and unfolded the grubby letter again. “This is from Cousin Aubrey. He has Peter. If I don’t marry him, he’ll sell him to the gypsies for his fare to Jamaica and we’ll never see him again.”
“We must rescue him! Call all the farmhands together and we’ll go after him!”
“We don’t know where he is, Dee. You know how the gypsies move about.”
“Someone must know. The boy from the Royal Oak! Send Jem to ask him.”
Selena and her mother looked at each other with dawning hope. “Good idea! Jem should be here in a minute.”
“If he has not told you where he is, how does he expect you to contact him?” asked Lady Whitton.
“I am to be at the Crown and Thistle at seven o’clock.” Jem came in and she waved at him to wait. “Someone will meet me there and take me to him.”
“Then the men can follow you and rescue you as well as Peter,” said Delia.
“No. If anyone goes with me, even a maid, I will not be contacted and Peter will disappear."
The groom gasped, and Selena turned to him.
“Jem, go down to the village and ask the ostler’s boy at the Oak where he took Sir Aubrey this afternoon. Try not to arouse curiosity, but be as quick as you can.”
“Right, miss.” Wasting no more time on words, he left.
The half hour before his return passed with agonising slowness. Outside, gloomy dusk merged into blackest of black nights, and rain still fell in sheets. Polly came in to draw the curtains and light more candles. She looked at the three sombre figures and burst into tears.
“It’s all my fault!” she moaned, and ran out. Lady Whitton could not summon the energy to go after her.
“I know Aubrey’s mama was a gypsy,” said Selena, “but I never saw him talking to them.”
“We never saw him with Polly either,” pointed out her mother sadly.
“Where else could he have gone?” asked Delia.
They fell silent again. At last Jem came in, bootless, coatless, his damp hair sticking up in spikes where it had been roughly dried.
“Ted ain’t come home yet, my lady,” he reported. “Mr. Liddell says he were that wore out after being out all night on an errand, he prolly fell asleep somewheres. He don’t look for him till morning.”
Chickens come home to roost, thought Selena. If she had not written that letter, if Ted had not taken it to Iver . . . “I shall have to marry Aubrey,” she said, her voice leaden.
“I’ll go wi’ you to Abingdon, Miss Selena,” the groom said. “They’ll never see me ifn I take care they don’t. Wi’ the two of us, we’ll save Master Peter right enough.”
“No,” said Selena flatly. “We cannot risk it. I shall go alone. Have Orion saddled for me by half past six, if you please.”
“Yes, miss.” Jem looked mutinous but did not persist. He padded out in his stockinged feet, muttering ominously.
At half past six, he brought Orion to the side door. Selena was waiting with her mother and sister.
“You will never find your way to Abingdon!” exclaimed Lady Whitton. “It is pitch dark.”
“That is one thing you need not worry about. Orion could find his way there blindfolded. Do not cry, Mama! Only this afternoon I was wondering whether to marry Cousin Aubrey, and now I find my mind made up for me. Dee, take care of Mama.”
She kissed them both, Jem helped her mount, and she rode off into the night.
Chapter 19
Being in no hurry to confront his mother, Lord Iverbrook drove south at a leisurely pace, stopping en route for luncheon. He did not arrive at Iver Place until late afternoon, and even then did not hasten to Lady Lavinia’s side.
As Tom Arbuckle drove the curricle round to the stables, he mounted the brick steps and rang the bell, as usual feeling like a visitor to his own house.
A liveried footman he did not recognise opened the door. “Yes, sir?” he enquired.
“I’m Lord Iverbrook, dammit!” exclaimed the viscount. “Where the devil is that old hoaxer Prynn?”
“Beg pardon, my lord. I’ll find him at once, my lord. Shall I take your lordship’s coat, my lord?” stammered the servant.
“Is my stepfather at home? Mr. Ffinch-Smythe, clothhead!” he added as the footman gaped. “Lady Lavinia is my mother, Mr. Ffinch-Smythe is my stepfather, and this is my house!"
The butler sailed out from the nether regions to investigate the commotion.
“What is it, Frederick?” he asked. “Oh, my lord! Your lordship was not expected.” His demeanour was frosty.
“This,” pointed out Iverbrook again, his voice equally cold, “is my house. I hope I may come and go as I please?”
“Naturally, my lord. I shall at once inform her ladyship of your lordship’s arrival.”
“Don’t. I wish to speak to Mr. Ffinch-Smythe first.”
“Certainly, my lord. I believe Mr. Ffinch-Smythe is, ah, down at the farm.”
“In that case, Frederick, I shall keep my coat. Prynn, in future when you hire new staff during my absence, I suggest you take them up to the long gallery to study my portrait, before I arrive home unexpectedly.”
“Yes, my lord. An excellent idea, my lord. Might I make so bold, my lord, as to enquire whether your lordship intends to make a long stay at the Place?”
“Two nights at most. And for God’s sake stop ‘lording’ me!”
“Yes, my . . . sir.”
In a high dudgeon, the viscount strode down to the pigpens. The exercise cooled his temper, and the last of it was banished by his stepfather’s usual greeting.
“What-ho, Iverbrook! Come and look at Primrose.”
The black and white sow looked much the same as the last time he had seen her, though if possible even fatter.
“She’s put on weight?” he offered dubiously.
“Ha! Right on the mark. She’d just had a litter when you were here in July, takes it out of the poor old girl, you know. Nearly time to breed her again now."
“Is it that long since I was at
Iver? The devil! I daresay my mother has been enacting you a Cheltenham tragedy on the subject of Prodigal Sons.”
“Fine litter it was, too. Growing fast, not too plump. Must confess Lady Lavinia has mentioned Turkish treatment once or twice.”
“Turkish . . . ? Oh, you mean she has complained of my absence. For a moment I thought you had plans for importing pigs from Turkey!”
“No, no. Don’t know if they breed ‘em. Mohammedans, you know. Naples, it was, we talked of, but I spoke to Lord Liverpool and he says it won’t do. At least until Boney’s beaten. Wouldn't worry about your mama, if I was you. She’ll come round, what?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. However, I have news for her that I fear won’t be welcome.”
“Want us to move out? ‘Fraid that’s one thing won’t wash. I’ve asked her a hundred times if I’ve asked her once to live at Ffinch House. My house, after all. Fond of it, what? She won't budge.”
“I know. It’s not that. I’m getting married.”
Mr. Ffinch-Smythe looked puzzled and scratched his wig. “Funny. Thought you was talking of bringing your nevvie here, not a bride. Must have misheard. Getting leg-shackled, are you? Who’s the lady?”
“Miss Whitton. My nephew’s aunt.”
“Ah, I see.” The old gentleman’s brow cleared momentarily. “Good thought that. But you’ll be wanting to live here and it don’t do to have two females in the same house, my boy, take my word. Have to come up with a way to persuade her to remove to Ffinch House, what?”
“I believe it would kill her, sir. Fortunately my betrothed owns her own property and we plan to reside there. You know I never could abide the Place, and all the pomp and circumstance that go with it.”
His stepfather brightened. “Excellent notion! Had me worried for a minute. Shouldn’t be too hard to bring her round then. Better wait till morning though. Always at her best just after breakfast. Fine woman, your mother, but touchy. Like Primrose here. Downright temperamental at times, ain’t you, Primrose?”
Since the sun was setting behind the hill, Mr. Ffinch-Smythe consented to accompany his stepson back to the house. It looked more attractive than usual, with golden evening light softening the harsh brick and lamps shining in the windows. They entered by a side door, thus avoiding Prynn.
“Better change right away,” suggested Mr. Ffinch-Smythe. “Lady Lavinia likes to dine early in winter. Knee-breeches, mind! Bring your man with you?”
“Yes, thank you, sir. You don’t think I should visit Mama first?”
“No, no. See her at dinner. Won’t be able to rake you over the coals with the servants present, what?”
“That’s a point.”
“Just takes a little savvy-fair, my boy. French for know-how. Women need managing.”
Thinking of his temperamental beloved, Lord Iverbrook laughed. “I wish you had said that four months ago! It would have saved me a great deal of time and anguish and I should not now be quaking in my shoes at the prospect of meeting my neglected mother!”
“Wearing boots,” pointed out his stepfather. “Muddy ones too.”
Tom Arbuckle had ascertained the precise hour of dinner, thus enabling his master to descend from his chilly chamber to the chillier gallery a mere five minutes before the gong. Lady Lavinia, fragile as porcelain in her floating pearl grey drapery, had only time for the indispensable tenderly maternal greeting before her husband offered his arm to lead her into the dining room. Her dutiful son, following with the frigidly disapproving Miss Sneed, noted that she walked with firm steps, not making use of the support.
The viscount took his place at the head of the table. His mother, at the other end, was a good twenty feet distant, his view of her obscured by a large silver epergne embossed with excessively ugly Chinese mandarins. The servants would not be the only barrier between him and a scolding, he realised. Apart from distance and obstacles, Lady Lavinia had always been most particular about the propriety of conversing only with those seated directly to one’s left and right.
It was a long meal, enlivened only by Mr. Ffinch-Smythe’s discourse on pig breeding. Lord Iverbrook had plenty of leisure to compare the high-vaulted room, its dark panelling hung with the more distinguished of his ancestors, to the cosy dining room at Milford Manor. Having grown used to perfectly cooked plain roasts and stews and pies, he nibbled distastefully at the elaborate creations of his mother’s expensive cook, as often as not singed or curdled or half raw. My lady ate like a bird and was not interested in food. Her husband consumed ravenously anything that was put before him, talking round mouthfuls of grey fricassee or blackened pastry with equal ease. Her son watched the last course removed with a hollow in his stomach and, when she and her companion withdrew, drank a glass too much of the excellent port his father had put down before his birth.
The extra glass stood him in good stead. Lady Lavinia apparently did not consider the drawing room an appropriate place to comb her son’s hair with a joint stool. Nonetheless it was a painful evening, from Miss Sneed’s wooden performance of a Handel suite upon the spinet, to a game of whist for penny points during which my lady called for her smelling salts every time she was trumped. Iverbrook only survived it by remembering and anticipating other evenings. In his mind, Delia sang ballads and thumped out merry gigs. Peter sat on his knee while Lady Whitton's kindly voice read a fairytale. He caught Selena’s eye, and almost rose to his feet to go and sit beside her before he realised it was all in his imagination. He wished he’d had two glasses of wine too many, and wondered at his stepfather’s continual good humour.
At eight thirty, to the second, Prynn brought in the tea tray. At nine, Lady Lavinia rose and held out her hand to her son. He jumped up and kissed it.
“You will come and see me first thing tomorrow morning, Hugh,” she commanded.
“Yes, Mama. Goodnight.”
“Lady Lavinia rises at ten,” said Miss Sneed severely, and supported her ladyship’s tottering steps from the room.
“Brandy?” offered Mr. Ffinch-Smythe.
“I think not, thank you, sir. I shall need all my wits about me in the morning.”
“I believe I’ll take a glass. Come to think of it, it’s your brandy, my boy. You don’t mind?”
“Of course not.”
“I generally retire at ten. The pigs rise early, what? No need for you to do so though. Make yourself at home.” He laughed at his little joke.
The viscount looked around the drawing room and wondered what he was supposed to occupy himself with for the rest of the evening. “I think I’ll go to bed too,” he sighed. “I have grown accustomed to country hours at Milford.”
* * * *
Iverbrook woke early next morning and went downstairs. It was a wet, blustery day, made no warmer by Prynn’s sour greeting. The butler’s manner did not thaw as he served his lordship’s solitary breakfast. He waited until Iverbrook had abandoned a half-full cup of lukewarm coffee and pushed back his chair before he announced ponderously:
“I believe, my lord, that an urgent letter for your lordship was delivered late last night.” He ruminated. “Or possibly early this morning, my lord. Would your lordship wish to see it now?”
Iverbrook looked at him in exasperation. “Yes,” he said shortly.
“I shall ring for Frederick, my lord, to fetch it from the hall table for your lordship.”
“Don’t bother. I shall fetch it for myself.” He strode out, ignoring the butler’s smug face.
He recognised the writing at once, though it was less neat than usual.
Selena, he thought. The darling! She must have written it only a few hours after he left the Manor. Smiling in anticipation, he went to the library to enjoy it in comfort.
The smile faded as he read the salutation. “My lord, Pray do not trouble yourself to return with the betrothal ring. It will not be needed after all. I daresay I should be flattered that you finally decided marriage to me was preferable to a lawsuit. I find I am not. As no doubt you
will be pleased to hear, Mr. Hastings is delighted that you have at last taken his advice. S. Whitton.”
“The devil!” he said aloud. “Next time I see you, Hasty, I’ll wring your wretched neck, or better, pull out your tongue with red-hot pincers. Selena, my love, for an intelligent woman you are the veriest featherhead! Now what do I do next?”
A clock striking ten reinforced his dilemma. Prynn’s lethargic service had left him no time to think. How could he tell Lady Lavinia of his betrothal when his poor, deluded sweetheart had just cried off? On the other hand, if he waited until he had persuaded her of her error, he would have to come right back to Iver Place, starve through another dinner, doze through another endless evening, and suffer through another painful interview.
Put that way, the choice was easy.
He made his way to his mother’s boudoir. As he expected, she had risen from her bed only to collapse immediately upon her chaise longue, guarded by Miss Sneed. Not for the first time, he wondered if she was really the frail invalid she appeared; unfortunately, he could think of no way to test the matter that would not lead to disaster if it was true.
The elegant, diaphanous gown was the colour of woodsmoke this time, a fashionable shade described in Ackerman's as soupir d'automne.
“Charming, Mama!” said Iverbrook hopefully. “How well that dress becomes you."
“But I am very unwell, Hugh,” she sighed. “If your poor, sainted papa can see how you neglect me, he must be turning in his grave. Four months with never a word.”
“Three and a half.”
“Don’t contradict me, Hugh! I am sure a few days are neither here nor there. What have you been doing all this weary time that is more important than comforting a sick mother?”
Seeing an opening for his main purpose, Hugh began to explain that he had been getting to know his nephew.
“A child, a mere child, can be of no interest to a gentleman of your years. Or indeed of any age. I regret to say that I do not believe you, my son.” Agnes Sneed was heard to snort in agreement. “You have returned to your libertine ways, the shocking conduct you dare not describe to your loving mama. How well I know the lies, the evasions! My vinaigrette, Agnes!”
