An Earl for the Shy Widow

by Ann Lethbridge

  Petra looked up at the sky. Mare’s tails were riding high above them. ‘I would go today if I were you. The weather is about to change. You may have only a day or so before it rains.’

  He looked startled. ‘You can tell that?’

  ‘Really, my lord,’ Mrs Beckridge said. ‘Do not encourage them to remain in the district. Please, send them to the right about, as my husband would say. We do not need their sort around here.’

  ‘Your husband does not have several fields of hay in need of mowing and no men to help,’ the Earl said with a pleasant smile.

  Petra could not help herself. She beamed at him.

  He recoiled slightly, as if he did not welcome her approval of what was a very sensible response to the Vicar’s wife.

  Mrs Beckridge shook her head. ‘Far be it from me to dictate your actions, my lord, but were my husband here he would say the same thing.’

  ‘I am sure he would,’ Longhurst said. He bowed. ‘If you will excuse me, ladies.’

  All three ladies watched him stroll away. Petra had never seen anyone stand up so well to Mrs Beckridge’s forceful personality. Perhaps he did not yet understand the lady’s position and reputation in the village. No doubt he would when the Vicar heaped coals of fire on his head at the church service on Sunday. It would be interesting to see how he reacted to that.

  ‘Why are you so set against these gypsies?’ Marguerite asked Mrs Beckridge. ‘I certainly have not heard of any abductions or theft associated with them.’

  ‘Not yet, you haven’t,’ Mrs Beckridge said sullenly. She pressed her lips together. ‘Likely, I should not make mention of this, but I fear I must warn you.’

  ‘Of?’

  Mrs Beckridge glanced about her and then drew closer, lowering her voice to a whisper. ‘One of them tells fortunes.’

  Marguerite shook her head at the lady. ‘It is only a bit of entertainment, Mrs Beckridge. No one truly believes in it.’

  Mrs Beckridge sniffed. ‘People around here believe all sorts of blasphemous nonsense. All I can say is do not let yourselves be taken in.’ She nodded her head and stalked off.

  Marguerite sighed. ‘More fire and brimstone to look forward to on Sunday. I should have kept my opinions to myself.’

  ‘Perhaps she ought to have been a little less forceful in hers,’ Petra said.

  Marguerite chuckled. ‘Every time I see the woman she rubs me the wrong way. If she said “Up”, I would likely say “Down”. I think your suggestion was the best. Give them some gainful work and leave them in peace. It is all anybody wants. Come along, I need to buy some bread.’

  It would be interesting to see if the Earl actually went against the Vicar’s wife and offered the gypsies work. They were people who really understood the land and who worked hard. And if they occasionally poached a rabbit, well, why not? The rabbits didn’t belong to anyone any more than the blackberries did, even if the law said otherwise.

  * * *

  When Petra came in from the garden after a satisfactory hour of pulling weeds without any interference from Jeb, she found Marguerite in the hallway tying on her bonnet. ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘Oxted. We are almost out of candles and the stall at the market there is cheaper than our shop in the village.’

  ‘Not to mention that it would not do for our neighbours to know we are burning tallow in the private rooms.’ Beeswax ones were kept for visitors and used only sparingly.

  Marguerite pursed her lips for a second, then chuckled. ‘Precisely.’

  Marguerite always looked far too serious for her twenty-seven years. She was not the same person Petra remembered growing up in the Westram household in Gloucester. She had seemed to change after her marriage. She rarely laughed any more. It lifted Petra’s heart to see her sister smile for once. ‘I’ll come with you. I have nothing else to do today.’ It would be like old times, going shopping with her sister, even if it was a small village market and not London’s Bond Street. Indeed, it would likely be more enjoyable.

  Jeb had already brought around the pony and trap when they got outside and seemed ready to argue when he realised there would not be room for both him and Petra and he would therefore be left behind.

  At a raised eyebrow from Marguerite he touched his cap and returned to the barn.

  They set off at a spanking trot and as they passed the scene of the great blackberry robbery, Marguerite waved her whip. ‘It seems Lord Longhurst took your advice.’

  The field was more than halfway to being mowed by five men with their shirts off and expertly swinging scythes. Stooks of hay dotted the pasture. Petra could not help searching for one particular man, but she was disappointed. Lord Longhurst was not among the workers. ‘It would seem so,’ she said non-committally.

  ‘It is good to see Lord Longhurst is taking his estate seriously at long last,’ Marguerite said.

  ‘It is indeed. Though I do not know how long he intends to stay. He prefers life in the army to life as a country gentleman, I believe.’ As Harry had. Though Harry preferred life in town, he’d seen the army as a means of escape from an unwanted wife. She swallowed down her feeling of mortification. She had married the wrong man and she wasn’t going to make that sort of mistake again.

  The conversation turned to other topics, but Petra could not help wondering about the whereabouts of Lord Longhurst.

  ‘I wonder if there will be any servants looking for employment at the fair,’ she said.

  ‘We cannot afford to hire more help,’ Marguerite said sternly. ‘I am not going to ask Red for more money when he is so hard-pressed.’

  Their brother, the Earl of Westram, had inherited the Earldom only to discover its financial affairs in a state of disarray. When Marguerite and Petra had insisted on their independence after their husbands died, they had promised not to be an additional burden on their brother. Marguerite was determined to stick to their agreement.

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of us,’ Petra said. ‘I was thinking of Lord Longhurst. He needs a housekeeper and a butler.’

  Marguerite frowned. ‘I am sure it is not our place to be telling Lord Longhurst how to run his affairs.’

  ‘I was not going to do any such thing. I simply thought if I saw any likely candidates I could mention Longhurst Park. Mr O’Cleary is not only looking after the horses and opening the front door, but he is serving tea—in his riding boots.’

  Marguerite looked suitably scandalised. ‘Very well. If you feel you must. But please do not let your kindness result in any sort of gossip or scandal. I do not want Red using it as an excuse to force us back beneath the family roof.’

  It was not that they did not like Red; they did—indeed, they loved him dearly—but Red’s idea of being a good head of the household was to find them each another husband. Neither of them wanted that. ‘I promise you, I will be careful. Besides, there may not be any suitable people to be had so late in the Season. The Earl also needs a bailiff,’ she mused, but one would not expect to find one of those at a fair.’

  ‘Why don’t you offer to take on the job?’

  Petra’s jaw dropped. Her heart gave an odd little thump. ‘Me? Westram would never approve.’

  Marguerite gave her an odd look. ‘I was joking, Petra.’

  Yes. She had to be. But the idea was just so appealing Petra could almost see it in her mind’s eye. She’d followed Red about when their father was teaching him about the land before he went off to university. She loved the rhythm of the seasons, watching things grow and bear fruit. Unfortunately, Harry’s father had been a mill owner and his only interest in land was how many sheep it had and how much wool it produced. And Harry had turned a pale shade of green when she’d suggested they live in the country.

  She had been too blinded by his easy-going manner and handsome face to see the true man beneath. What a little fool she had been.

  T
heir arrival at the Red Lion brought her uncomfortable thoughts to an end. Marguerite handed over the pony and trap to an ostler, and arm in arm they walked to the market held at the foot of Oxted’s market cross.

  Petra left Marguerite haggling over candles and wandered off to see what else was on offer. An enquiry led her to where servants were hiring out their skills, but there she found only a couple of dairymaids seeking employment. Lord Longhurst didn’t have any cows as yet.

  Oh, well, she hadn’t really expected a housekeeper or a butler to fall into her arms. Which also meant she had no excuse to visit Lord Longhurst. Just as well, since she seemed drawn to the handsome man whose obvious ignorance about running an estate made him seem vulnerable. Seeing him at a loss made her want to offer her aid, when she should be keeping her distance if she didn’t want the villagers to start gossiping.

  Vulnerable? Longhurst? Surely not. Now she was making up stories in her head.

  She wandered aimlessly among the stalls until she discovered a small crowd gathered around a shabby wagon sporting a pole from which fluttered an array of brightly coloured ribbons.

  ‘What is going on?’ she asked a portly farmer in a linen smock.

  ‘Gypsies.’ The disgust in the word was palpable.

  ‘If you dislike them so much, why do you remain?’

  His mottled red cheeks darkened to crimson. ‘I heard as how they had a couple of horses for sale. The bidding will start shortly.’

  ‘I see.’ About to move away, she stopped at the sight of a young woman obviously far along in her pregnancy emerging from the wagon, grinning cheerfully. ‘Madame Rose says it will be a boy,’ she announced.

  The farmer cursed beneath his breath. ‘Fortune telling. Against nature that is.’

  How odd. Mrs Beckridge had mentioned the gypsy camping in Crabb’s Wood who told fortunes. Could this be the same one? Petra edged closer.

  A man appeared at her elbow. ‘Want your fortune told, miss?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I mean madam.’

  How did he know? Was her widowed state written on her face or could he see the outline of her wedding band beneath her glove. She curled her fingers into her palm. ‘I...er... Why not?’ It would be the only way she would know if this was the woman the Vicar’s wife had spoken of.

  The man helped her up the steps. ‘Cross her palm with a bit of silver and Madame Rose will tell you all you need to know.’

  It would be interesting to see what sort of nonsense the woman came up with. Petra knew exactly what her future held. A quiet life in the country with her sister. She climbed the three steps and pushed aside the canvas blocking the way.

  The interior of the wagon was a great deal larger than she had expected and lit by lanterns hanging from hooks. Bright red fabrics edged with glittering gold adorned a narrow cot and the table behind which sat a young woman, rather than the old crone Petra had expected. Clothed in brightly coloured scarves decorated with intricate gold stitching, with large gold rings hanging from her ears and a multitude of gold bangles jingling at her wrist, she looked exotic. The woman thrust out a hand, palm up.

  Petra dropped the thruppence into her palm and the coin seemed to disappear. ‘How did you do that?’ she asked.

  ‘Curiosity kills the cat,’ Madame Rose said, her voice heavily accented. She grinned cheerfully. She was actually quite beautiful, with dark hair and eyes and skin the colour of polished oak.

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  Petra swallowed. ‘Your man out there said you would tell me my fortune.’

  The dark eyes stared at her unblinking. ‘Is it the name of your second husband you are seeking?’

  Petra froze. ‘How did you know I am a widow?’

  The girl shrugged. ‘How do I know anything?’ She shuffled a deck of cards with rather horrifying-looking pictures on their fronts.

  A cold shiver trickled through Petra’s veins. ‘I have changed my mind.’ She turned to leave.

  Something grabbed her. She glanced down at the long fingers gripping her wrist. Strong, elegant fingers. She raised her gaze to meet that of Madame Rose. The woman smiled. ‘It is not the future that interests you. Most of all you wonder about the past.’

  Petra squared her shoulders and turned back to meet the woman’s scrutiny head on, for she had realised that, despite her youthful appearance, Madame Rose was a woman with a very old soul. ‘I cannot deny there are things about the past that I question. But don’t we all?’

  The girl nodded. ‘The person who could answer your questions has passed over.’

  She shivered. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Sometimes the spirits are cruel with their answers.’ She laughed and it was not unpleasant or mocking, rather it held sympathy. ‘Your future is more easily discovered.’

  It was too late to change the past, and besides, the woman was talking in riddles. ‘Then I will settle for that.’

  She removed her glove and held out her hand.

  Madame Rose traced the lines across her palm. ‘You are fortunate indeed. I see a long life, with two paths. One leads to discontent, the other to happiness. Yours is the choice.’ She sat back. ‘Good day, my lady.’

  What? Petra stared at her, mouth open. ‘That is it?’

  ‘It is what I see.’

  Behind her, the curtain at the door drew back, flooding the interior with harsh daylight, making the furnishings look tawdry and cheap and the young woman behind the table look weary and older than her years.

  ‘This way, madam,’ the man outside said.

  Petra stumbled out and down the steps.

  ‘What did she tell you, sweetheart?’ one of the men gathered outside called out. ‘I’ll marry you, if it’s a husband you want.’

  Petra smiled brightly. The man meant no harm. ‘She said to avoid men like you at all costs.’

  A chorus of laughter greeted this sally.

  A hand grasped her elbow. She spun around, ready to defend her person. ‘Lord Longhurst,’ she gasped.

  ‘Lady Petra. Allow me to escort you.’ A fierce frown on his normally smiling face made her feel breathless. Her heart beat a little faster than normal. No, no, it was the stares of the crowd that had her feeling on edge.

  ‘I would not put you to any trouble, Lord Longhurst,’ she said, trying to maintain the easy brightness of her smile.

  ‘It is no trouble at all,’ he said in his lovely, deep, calm voice. ‘Since I am going your way.’ He held out his arm.

  She cast him a look askance. ‘How do you know where I am going?’

  The twinkle returned to his eyes and his brow cleared. ‘Naturally, I go in whichever direction you are headed.’

  Was he flirting with her? ‘Very droll, sir.’

  He chuckled. A rich warm sound that started up a flutter in her stomach.

  She felt oddly light-hearted. She repressed the urge to giggle like a schoolgirl. That was the Petra of old. She was a sensible woman now and a widow.

  ‘You are not here alone, I presume,’ he said rather more seriously. ‘Your maid is nearby?’

  ‘I am here with my sister. She is shopping in the market.’

  ‘Your sister approves of your visit to the likes of Madame Rose? Surely you do not believe in such nonsense?’

  She felt herself bridle. Men always thought they knew best. Even lackadaisical Harry after they’d wed.

  ‘You don’t believe she can tell fortunes?’

  ‘Certainly not.’ He looked down at her from his great height and there was a troubled look in his gaze. ‘Nor do I believe a sensible woman like yourself would believe it either.’

  He thought she was sensible? Most men looked at her face and diminutive figure and decided she was nothing but dizzy headed. A warm feeling in her chest spread outwards.

  ‘While I do not consider myself foolish, sir, it seems to me that there
are mysteries in this world that cannot be accounted for by logic or the church would be doing a very poor trade indeed.’

  His beautiful blue eyes widened. ‘Such heresy! Mrs Beckridge would be aghast.’

  She laughed. ‘I trust you not to betray me, sir.’

  ‘Upon my honour, I will not,’ he said. ‘I am a gentleman. Besides, I have to admit there is something of the truth in your words. It is my belief mankind does not know all the answers as yet.’

  ‘I see.’ She smiled. ‘I presume you were not about to seek Madame Rose’s wisdom yourself?’

  He grinned. ‘Lord, no. I came to bid on some horses.’

  ‘Then I must not keep you from your transaction.’

  ‘All done. Two plough horses and a carriage horse, much to Jack’s relief.’

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘My mount. I brought him home with me from Spain. He was not best pleased at the idea of doing all the work on the estate since all the horses were sold off by my cousin before he died.’

  They strolled along the line of stalls. Merchants called out, encouraging them to inspect their wares.

  ‘Better to sell them off than keep them eating their heads off to no good purpose. The land has not been worked for several years, I think.’

  He sighed. ‘If I had realised how badly my cousin had left matters I would have come sooner and found someone to oversee matters. With the war going badly and Wellington needing every experienced officer... Well, it is of no matter now. Hopefully I can come to grips with it and find the right man for the job.’

  Her heart sank at the implication in his words. ‘You maintain your intention to return to the army?’

  ‘My place is with my regiment. While I do not wish to appear a braggart, I believe I am needed.’

  Could he not see he was also needed here? What difference did one man risking his life on the Peninsula make to the war effort when so many people depended on him here at home? ‘Your cousin had been ill for some considerable time, I gather. The locals say he rarely came to Longhurst. Had he come here more often, things might have gone better. I am surprised he did not discuss these matters with you as the heir apparent.’ She winced. ‘I beg your pardon. It is not my business to speak of your cousin in such a way.’