The Forthright Lady Gillian, The Fickle Fortune-Hunter

by Amanda Scott

  Gillian had risen to her feet and was gathering her writing materials. “I will do whatever you command, sir, of course, but you ought to know that Hollingston is expected to return this afternoon to discuss what he has learned from Mr. Coke about his new seed. No doubt you will want to speak with him yourself.”

  “No, I won’t,” the earl said. “Hollingston will know what he wants to do, and if you must put your oar in, someone can tell you when he arrives. But take yourself off now, and don’t show your face to me again until you’ve come to your senses.”

  Gillian retained her dignity until she had shut the parlor door behind her, but she had all she could do not to slam it. She could not, however, and well she knew it. Though in the past year she had frequently been made to feel as if she were alone in the midst of the large household, she knew, too, that it did not do to give in to her emotions. Still, she had done nothing wrong, and she had an overwhelming need to talk to someone who would believe her and offer comfort. She went to find Meggie.

  Margaret Prynne had been her nurse when she was small, and had advanced from that position to serve her young mistress in whatever capacity was needed from that time until the birth of the new heir. But with a baby in the house again, Meggie had reverted to nurse, and Gillian found her in the nursery wing.

  Lady Marrick had spared no expense in the refurbishing of several rooms on the third floor for the earl’s firstborn son, and Meggie was found in the day nursery, sitting in a comfortably cushioned rocking chair with young John nestled in her capacious lap, contentedly sucking his thumb. She looked up when Gillian entered and smiled at her.

  Gillian, deciding her erstwhile confidante was not likely to notice that anything was amiss with her, smiled back and said, “He looks vastly pleased with himself. I take it, he does not miss Nurse Hammond in the least.”

  Meggie snorted. “That one! Why, she was worse than the first. Pretending she could look after our precious lamb and a husband and four children of her own as well. The very idea! Whoever heard of such a thing? The first one was able enough, but why her ladyship should want a London-bred nurse for the young master is a mystery to me, Miss Gilly, and that’s the word with no bark on it. And to take her to that outlandish castle, where she must have known the poor woman would catch an ague at the least—’Tis no wonder she went running back to town as fast as her skinny legs would carry her. I doubt Miss Clementina’s governess means to come back, either, and if you’ve clapped eyes on the new butler, you’ll agree the mistress has no skill when it comes to choosing servants. A chestnut wig the man has on, instead of a proper powdered one. And he drinks! I’ve never seen the like. But was there something you was wanting, my dear, or was you merely wishful to visit his wee lordship?”

  “I just had not seen you for a while,” Gillian said, “but you are busy now. We can talk later just as well.”

  She turned away with a small sigh of disappointment, but she had not reached the door before Meggie said quietly, and in an altogether different tone, “He won’t mind, you know, if you tell me what’s troubling you. He’s a good sort, the lad is.”

  Gillian looked back and smiled. “You are doing what you like best, Meggie, and enjoying it. I won’t trouble you.”

  “So that’s how it is, is it? You just come and sit down over here, missy, and we’ll have no more nonsense. Where the lad is concerned, I aim to look after him until the mistress gets him a proper nurse, one who ain’t so highfalutin she’s got to have servants of her own to look after her, nor yet one whose responsibilities are spread all over Devon. But that don’t mean I ain’t still your own Meggie. Sit!”

  Gillian grinned at her, wondering what Estrid would think could she hear the ever proper Miss Prynne speak so to her young mistress. “Very well, Meggie, but I must tell you first that I am in disgrace. You will be as shocked as I was to learn that my betrothal announcement appeared today in the Honiton newspaper.”

  “My goodness me! And just when did this astonishing event transpire, that you forgot to mention it to anyone in the house?”

  “Just so,” Gillian said. “I wonder that Papa believes I could have done such a thing and no one have known of it.”

  “Who, may I ask, is the fortunate young man named in this announcement?” Meggie asked, still rocking steadily.

  “A certain Baron Hopwood of London.”

  “The gentleman who helped you when you got cut off by the tide, then.” Meggie frowned.

  “The very same. Merciful heavens,” Gillian said suddenly, “do you know I never once until this very moment thought about what he will think of this turn of events? But perhaps he will not have occasion to see the paper.”

  “No reason he should, unless he lives near Honiton,” Meggie said. “Does he?”

  Gillian frowned. “To be truthful, I do not know where he lives. He was visiting that day at Braunton Burrows. He said he had sailed out of Bristol and taken shelter from the wind at Ilfracombe, but I do not recall that he ever mentioned his home. Maybe Hollingston will know something about him. Oh, Meggie, what a coil, but at least you do not think I placed that announcement myself. Papa and Estrid do. And so does Dorinda. Only Clementina believed me when I said I hadn’t.”

  “The dear, sweet lass,” Meggie said. Her expression hardened a moment later, however. “Tell me precisely what was said by everyone else, my pet.”

  Gillian obliged her, and when she had finished, Meggie said, “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if it was not Miss Dorinda who did it. Only think, pet. You did not, but some young woman did. Was Miss Dorinda not in Honiton at the end of last week with her mama, shopping for ribbons for her new party gown?”

  “We all were there,” Gillian said thoughtfully, “but I was not with them most of the day, because I had arranged to visit Grandfather’s friend Mr. Burton, who had written to us of some wheat seed he had had from Mr. Coke of Norfolk, to replace his rye. English rye has been a dismal failure of late years, even here, and indeed, that is what made me think Hollingston might know something of Baron Hopwood, for Mr. Coke has been visiting Lord Percival Worth, who has a house at Braunton Burrows as well as his seat at South Molton, where Hollingston went last week to see if he might purchase some of that seed for us to try. But, Meggie,” she added as her thoughts plunged down a new tangent, “Estrid would never allow Dorinda to visit a newspaper office!”

  “No reason she should know. I’d not be at all surprised to learn that Miss Dorinda had given her mama the slip long enough to do whatever she liked. And you know the newspaper office in Honiton is just a step from the linen draper’s. You just go and ask her, straight to her face, and watch her color up.”

  Gillian doubted that such a course would prove fruitful, and when she left Meggie sometime later, it was not with the intention of seeking out Dorinda. But she had no sooner returned to the second floor than she encountered Dorinda herself emerging from the parlor. The guilty look on Dorinda’s face when she had shut the door behind her and turned to see Gillian was enough to make her wonder if Meggie was not right after all.

  “I should like to talk to you, Dorinda,” she said calmly.

  “Well, I have no wish to talk to you. You are supposed to be in your bedchamber, and I daresay your papa would be very much displeased to learn that you had disobeyed him.”

  “Perhaps he would, though I doubt that he would be very much surprised,” Gillian said amiably. “He has not been in the habit for many years of heeding whether I obey him or not. For the past four years, in fact, I have been my own mistress here.”

  “I know, and my mama says that is a very bad thing, that no young girl ought to begin thinking she can make decisions for herself, that she ought to know very well that important ones ought always to be made for her by persons who know best what is good for her. My mama says—”

  “I am certain that your mama says a good many things,” Gillian said, taking her arm in a firm grip, “but unless I miss my guess, you have no desire to learn what she would
say if she were to learn that you are the one who placed that announcement in the South Devon Gazette.”

  “Why ... why, how dare you!” But she looked guiltily over her shoulder, as if she wondered whether their voices could be overheard, and she did not resist when Gillian pulled her into the next room, a surprisingly plain chamber redecorated by the new countess in the Etruscan style that had become fashionable some years before, after the discovery of the ruins of Pompeii. No one had been more amazed than her ladyship to see the result of her command. Having read that many persons of high order had expressed a delight for the style, she had communicated her desire quite firmly to the gentleman she retained for such projects, and then had left him to his business. Since she had been confined shortly thereafter, it had not been until after the birth of young John that she had seen the results. But even though she had been heard to wonder more than once about what could have possessed otherwise sensible persons to prefer the starkness of such decoration to the clearly much more desirable brocades and velvets that bespoke great wealth, she had not said one word about changing the style of the room.

  Gillian pushed the unprotesting Dorinda down upon one of the hard little benches that served as seating there, and said quietly, “You need not lie to me, Dorinda. I can see quite plainly that you must be responsible for this imbroglio.”

  Dorinda hunched a shoulder, then glared at her and replied, “I shall deny it if you accuse me, and no one will believe you against me if you do. Indeed, even if your papa does not believe me, he will pretend to so as not to annoy my mama.”

  “The point will not arise,” Gillian told her, suppressing her distaste not only at Dorinda’s words but at the unfortunate likelihood that the girl spoke the truth. “I am no talebearer, Dorinda, though I should certainly not object if your conscience pricked you to confess the truth. If you had any sense of honor, you would certainly speak up rather than allow someone else to suffer for your actions, but I do not think you can have any understanding whatever of honor.”

  Dorinda’s large blue eyes seemed to grow even larger. “I do not know what you are talking about, Gillian. I should have to be feeble-minded to confess to anything of the sort, particularly when I took such pains to arrange the matter. You cannot have a notion of what it has been like for me. At home, my beauty was greatly admired. I had more beaux than any of my friends, and Papa was always joking me about them and promising me that when he took me to London for my come-out there would be no room for them all. But then Papa died, and his money and the London house all went to his cousin, and of course Mama’s family are a pack of nobodies, so they could do nothing for us. Had we not been able to live in Papa’s hunting box in Leicestershire and had your papa not so fortuitously fallen on our doorstep, I do not know where we should be. But for all that, I have had to put up with being cast in your shade and to know that certain unkind persons like your Uncle Marmaduke even go so far as to pretend that Mama and I do not exist. That man slips into the house whenever he likes but never stays to pay a proper call. I do not know how your papa can abide him. Mama says he’s a libertine, and she says—”

  “Your mama will not change my uncle, Dorinda. He cared a great deal for my mother, and though he has a general weakness for females, he does not like to see another in her place.”

  “I suppose you will tell him about this,” Dorinda said sulkily, “and then he will think even worse of us.”

  “I have already said I will tell no one.”

  “I do not believe you. Why should you not tell? I would certainly tell everyone if you had done such a thing to me.”

  “That is one of the differences between us,” Gillian said. “I had hoped that if you were responsible, you would own up to it once you knew you had been found out. Since you will not, I must decide what is best to do next.”

  Dorinda flushed at her tone, then said defensively, “I suppose you mean that I am of lower birth than you. I do not know why you go on so about it. If worse comes to the worst, you can always marry the man, if he does exist. Ah, now you color up, so it is just as I thought and you did make him up! So, miss high-and-mighty, you are not so perfect after all.” She stood up, clearly pleased to think she had put Gillian in her place.

  Gillian shook her head. “He is entirely real, Dorinda. If my color altered when you mentioned him, it is only because I cringe at the thought of the humiliation I shall suffer if he ever discovers what you have done. You had better understand now, too, that although my principles make it impossible for me to bear tales to your mama or to my papa about your behavior, those scruples will not prevent me from explaining to Hopwood just what you have done if the necessity to do so arises. You had very much better hope it does not.”

  Again Dorinda hunched a shoulder and scowled at her. “Oh, pooh, Gillian, you know perfectly well that there is no such person. I must say, if I had made up a knight in shining armor to rescue me from a watery grave, I should have made him an earl at the very least. Only a zany like you would make up a mere baron! I just hope your friends will see you more clearly now, and will pay heed to someone more worthy of their notice!” And with that parting shot, she flounced from the room.

  3

  THE MARQUESS OF THORNE, peering out the windows of his traveling chaise, had been pleasantly surprised to see, even before the chaise rolled between the twin lodges guarding the entrance to Carnaby Park, that the rich, newly plowed fields and sheep-dotted pastureland surrounding it were well tended and prosperous-looking. The estate was set amidst well-timbered hills that nearly enclosed it on all sides but the south, which lay open to a beautiful bay of the English Channel. The views were magnificent, the weather extremely mild and salubrious.

  Thorne’s carriage passed a picturesque chain of mirrorlike lakes, surrounded by velvety lawns, flower borders just beginning to show spring color, and great, towering stands of trees. Because of them, it was some time before he saw the house, but when it came into view, it proved to be an imposing three-story mansion resting on a slight rise, framed by the surrounding parkland, which set it off exquisitely.

  His impression of Carnaby Castle had led him to suspect that Lady Gillian must have believed her plot would enrich her family coffers, but he was finding it necessary to alter that opinion a bit more with each passing mile. Carnaby Park was clearly the seat of a prosperous nobleman. The chit could have had no good cause to play such a trick as the one she had played on him.

  From the near-side window of the carriage he could see a garden bounded by a crinkle-crankle wall, and at the upper end of the chain of lakes, near the house, stood a building with brick walls and a thatched roof that he thought must be an icehouse. Two other outbuildings, facing each other across the central lake, also caught his eye, but these were classically designed with semicircular porticos and pilasters, one clearly a temple of some sort, the other an orangery or conservatory.

  The entrance to the house was screened by great Corinthian columns resting on rusticated arches and surmounted by a deep parapet. The architectural composition, in the Palladian tradition, was impressive, dignified, and extensive. Wings on either side of the central block increased the overall length, making a splendid display, and the drive was constructed in a circular manner to grant any visitor the full effect of the house on one side, the splendid view of the sea on the other.

  The carriage drew to a halt before wide, shallow stone steps, and Thorne opened the door for himself but allowed the footman to let down the steps. Emerging, he turned to look back the way he had come. The garden view was superb, in the style he recognized as that of the great landscape architect Capability Brown, who had also been responsible for much of the landscape design at Langshire Hall, in Derbyshire. Realizing that the man who had commissioned this imposing place, and who kept it in such good trim in the present uncertain times, would likely prove to be a formidable opponent, Thorne decided he would have to tread warily until he more exactly understood his situation.

  His footman had preced
ed him up the steps to knock at the great doors, and they opened as Thorne approached to reveal a portly man whose attire was that of a nobleman’s butler but whose bright chestnut wig was not only unpowdered but was sitting decidedly askew, with its beribboned tail lying on his shoulder.

  “What is it, my man?” the butler inquired of the footman in lofty accents, tilting his head back in order to look down his broad nose at the taller man. When his eye caught sight of the marquess, he snapped himself to a haughty posture that would have been impressive had he not stumbled backward in the attempt.

  The footman caught his master’s eye, but if he was tempted to express his opinion, in any way whatever, of a servant who dared to answer the door of a stately home in such condition as the butler so clearly enjoyed, the footman repressed the temptation, stepping aside as he announced the marquess.

  The butler inclined his head. “Pray enter, my lord,” he intoned. “I shall determine if her ladyship is at home.”

  “Do not disturb her ladyship,” Thorne said calmly, stepping across the threshold onto the black-and-white tessellated marble floor of the two-story, neoclassic entrance hall. Handing his hat and cane to his footman, there being no other in attendance and the butler being apparently blind to their existence, he noted with approval the subtle harmony of the chamber, the walls and domed ceiling of which were decorated in shades of green with white details, forming an ideal background for the pillars and pilasters supporting the semicircular wood-railed gallery overhead. “I would speak with Lord Marrick.”

  The butler blinked at him. “His lordship?”

  “Certainly, his lordship.” Thorne was rapidly revising his opinion of his host, with the result that he was now just a little confused. “Where are your wits, man?”