by Beth Bryan
“Yes, he came to dinner at The Priory last week.”
“Talkative chap, ain’t he? Bent my ear for nearly an hour on what a good idea the whole hospice business was.”
“Papa is pleased with him, I know. But I do miss our dear Mr. Bunthorpe.”
“Doing well at the new hospice in London, I hear.”
“He’s made a great success of it.”
“On the river, ain’t it?”
“Yes, a most healthful situation, Mr. Bunthorpe says. It is essential for those who are ill to get out of the unwholesome city air. I do so look forward to seeing the new hospice and Mr. Bunthorpe, of course.”
Will grinned. “I didn’t think there was anything in Town that you were looking forward to.”
She laughed happily. “Oh, there is! There is!”
“But just last week, you—”
“That was then. But now—” she smiled at him “—now I feel quite differently.” She frowned a little. “Not ... not so exposed.”
Will looked rather helplessly at her. His hand crept towards his throat. He looked past her and breathed a sigh of relief. “Ah, here is Mrs. Cleeson come to fetch you in.” He took her hand. “I thank you for everything, Lucinda.”
Shyly Lucinda smiled up at him. “I knew you could not really mean to cry off. For we are always the best of friends, are we not?”
Mr. Ryland made the only reply he could. “The best of friends, Cinda. Always the best of friends.”
CHAPTER TWO
Jasper Neville was not one to puff off his consequence, but he was well aware of what was owed to him and his daughter as members of one of the county’s oldest, and wealthiest, families. Thus it was some three weeks before the arrangements and the entourage deemed necessary for Lucinda’s departure could be completed.
At last all was in readiness. Two outriders, liveried and mounted on matching greys, led the voyagers. Behind them came the large and luxuriously appointed travelling chaise with the Neville arms emblazoned on the doors. Then followed a coach containing Emmie, Lucinda’s maid, Albert, her footman, and Mrs. Cleeson’s abigail. They all peered rather apprehensively at the mountain of boxes and baggage strapped precariously to the roof of their vehicle. The rear was brought up by another liveried rider. On a big, spirited black, Will waited beside Lucinda, who was in the first chaise.
Jasper was giving last-minute instructions to the coachmen. Both looked rather nervous, as it was the first time either had been to London, or indeed, beyond the nearest market town.
A list in one hand and an overstuffed reticule in the other, cousin Ethelreda bustled distractedly from carriage to carriage and back to the house. Mr. Neville finished his instructions to the drivers, then waited patiently for his cousin.
“Now, Ethelreda, permit me to repeat: when you reach London, you will come first to Agincourt Crescent, but you must continue—”
“Papa!” Lucinda leant out of the chaise, her face alight with laughter. “Papa, pray do not give your cousin Ethelreda any more instructions. She will be in the twitters altogether!”
Mrs. Cleeson half smiled, glanced down at the list and shrieked, “Mercy! I haven’t checked those pillowcases!” She darted off.
At length, however, Mrs. Cleeson was installed beside Lucinda. The last goodbyes were said and the cavalcade set out. Nether Wilden and its village fell behind. The chaise rumbled down the country lanes and out onto the main road. The fields and hedgerows slipped by till it was time for lunch.
They stopped at a pleasant little inn, where a private parlour had long since been bespoke for them. Mrs. Cleeson called Emmie and Albert together and they huddled over yet more lists.
Will and Lucinda stretched their legs in the inn’s small garden.
“I find the journey extremely wearying,” Lucinda confessed. “It is tiresome to be cooped up inside like this.”
“I should think it would be,” agreed Will, “especially for you. I’ll wager you wish you were on horseback, too.”
“I certainly do,” said Lucinda fervently.
“But even for a horsewoman like you, it wouldn’t be at all the thing.”
“I suppose not. But this is the longest journey I have ever made in a chaise, you know. I really do not care for it.”
“But, Lucinda, I am afraid that we have still a considerable distance to go.”
“Pray do not remind me! I shall be tempted to climb up behind you on Black Shadow.”
Will laughed. “I should like to see Mrs. Cleeson’s face if you did. But, speaking of horses, have you heard yet what happens to Mountmellor’s stables?”
“No.” Lucinda sighed. “As soon as the will is probated, Papa says he will be able to discover who the heir is. So we have just to be patient until then. But I do wish I knew just what is to become of Castor and Pollux.”
“They’re magnificent beasts,” Will said as they went in to eat. “Whoever gets ’em is bound to look after ’em.”
“I do hope you’re right.”
The inn’s cook had made a very special effort and the table was crowded with a variety of delicious choices, including cold boiled beef, pigeon pie and several roast capons. But Will was the only one to do justice to the meal. He declared it a capital spread and eagerly set to. Mrs. Cleeson nibbled without much attention as she studied her lists and Lucinda was too excited to eat more than a few slices of chicken and some strawberries.
Afterwards they renewed their journey. For a while Lucinda’s interest in the route held. She peered out of the window, watching for signposts and marker stones, remarking on the passing traffic and enquiring as to which village that church spire over there might belong to. But gradually she grew quieter and sank back against the squabs.
“Are you quite well, my love?” Ethelreda looked anxiously at her.
Lucinda pushed back a curl from her damp forehead. “It is so very hot,” she fretted, “and I think I am getting the headache.”
Cousin Ethelreda produced a bottle of rose-water from her bulging reticule. She sprinkled a few drops on a handkerchief and pressed it to Lucinda’s forehead. “You are very hot, dearest,” she murmured. Next she reached beneath the seat. She pulled out a basket and extracted a bottle, wrapped in damp newspapers. “The lemonade is still cold.” She poured some into a glass. “Here, Cinda, see if this helps. The dust does dry one’s throat so.”
Lucinda drank eagerly, then lay back again. She moved her head irritably. “How much further must we go, cousin?”
Mrs. Cleeson’s anxiety increased. “We have just come out onto the London road, but I fear we have a good four hours before us yet. I do hope, dearest, that you will not suffer from travel sickness.”
But as the hours wore on, this proved a vain hope. By the time John Coachman had turned onto the crowded city streets, Lucinda’s head throbbed incessantly. The dust seemed ingrained in her very pores and her eyes smarted. Each jolt and bounce of the chaise racked every bone in her body.
“How much further, do you think, Will?”
Riding beside the chaise, Will turned his head at Mrs. Cleeson’s question. “I couldn’t undertake to say, Mrs. Cleeson. We’re only on the outskirts and traffic is very heavy.”
Ethelreda looked out at the great variety of vehicles crowding the road beside them. “So I see. But I cannot be at all easy in my mind about Lucinda. We must get her to bed as soon as possible. Do, pray, urge John Coachman to hurry.”
“I will ask him,” Will agreed, but to himself he thought that the driver had all he could handle in this, his first experience of city traffic.
Ethelreda took Lucinda’s hand. “Only a little while longer, my love. Try to be patient.”
“If only the noise would stop,” Lucinda muttered fretfully. “If only I might be quiet.”
Doubtfully, Mrs. Cleeson glanced out of the window again. Now that they were within the city limits, the noise from the grating of iron wheels had increased enormously. “Soon, dearest, soon,” she said soothingly, but she
looked up eagerly when Will appeared at the window.
“We’re in Piccadilly now, Mrs. Cleeson. Agincourt Circle is quite close, is it not?”
“Dear me, Will, I collect it is so. I was in London some years ago, but I have not stayed in that house since I was a girl. I could not find it now after all those years.” She frowned. “Now, wait a moment. Was not Jasper trying to tell me something about Aginc—”
“Cousin Ethelreda, cousin Ethelreda,” Lucinda tossed on the squabs. “I feel so very sick. Couldn’t I get out, leave the chaise for just a moment, please?”
“Is that possible, Will? An inn perhaps?”
John Coachman shouted and Will followed the direction of his wave. “Ah,” he sighed thankfully. “It’s all right, ma’am. It’s all right, Lucinda. We’re here. We’re at the right street. The coachman’s seen the sign.”
“Thank heavens!”
Lucinda opened her eyes. “May I get out now?” The carriage lurched suddenly as it swung round a corner. Lucinda moaned and fell back.
“What is it? What is it now?”
“It’s the second carriage, Mrs. Cleeson. He took the turn too sharply. Some of the boxes have fallen off. I must go to help them.”
“But Lucinda, she must...”
“We are at Number 25 already now, ma’am. The servants will be out directly. The boxes are blocking the roadway. We must clear them before we have trouble with the watch.”
“Please, cousin Ethelreda, let us get out. I cannot bear it any longer.”
“I see lights inside,” Mrs. Cleeson muttered. “But the door is still closed. They cannot have set anyone to watch for us.”
Lucinda pressed her hands to her temples. “Shall we never be out of this dreadful carriage?” she demanded, her voice rising.
“Yes, yes, dearest, this very minute. Here is John Coachman with the steps. We shall dismount directly.”
Inside 25 Agincourt Crescent, three gentlemen were just finishing dinner.
“Unfashionably early,” the host, Mr. Richard Devereux, remarked. “But Charles has just come up from the country and I feared he might starve if we forced him to wait for Town hours.”
The rather heavy-set young man beside him laughed. “I’m grateful to you for setting aside your scruples, Dev.”
The eldest of the three men pushed the port decanter along the table. “So am I, Ricky. I’ll eat one of your dinners, my boy, any time you care to serve ’em, and as for your wine—” he held a crystal goblet up to the light from the candles “—well, I’ll get up from my deathbed for that.”
“An eventuality that is far in the future, I trust.” His nephew filled his own glass. “You’re in no danger at the moment, I suspect. You would never miss a Season.”
“I enjoy myself, neffy. I’m not as cynical as you, or as romantical as Charles here.”
“Romantical?” Sir Charles Grantham spluttered indignantly as he reached for the port decanter. “What do you mean, romantical?”
“It’s all those plays you see, Charles. They can’t help but have an effect. For instance—” Dev shook his head mournfully “—I notice that you have taken to wearing your hair a la Kemble in last Season’s Hamlet. It does for the stage, my dear fellow, but not, I assure you for London drawing rooms.” He closed his eyes and said in a faint voice, “If you do not care for vintage port, Charles, I have some mediocre claret you may brandish about if you wish.”
“Great heavens!” Ivor rescued the decanter and set it reverently down. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you, push, don’t lift port?”
Sheepishly, Charles apologized, then went on, “But, truly, Dev, are you not looking forward to the Season?”
Richard raised one straight dark brow and his air of well-bred boredom increased. “When you have seen as many Seasons as I have, Charles, you too will become a trifle weary.”
“Had as many caps set at him, you mean, and held off as many matchmaking mamas,” Ivor put in with a grin.
His nephew frowned at him but Ivor continued irrepressibly. “I don’t doubt you’re a catch yourself, Charles, but you can’t compare with Beau Devereux.”
“I shouldn’t try,” said Charles frankly. “But is that really why you don’t enjoy the Season, Dev?”
“It’s why he won’t enjoy this one.”
“Ivor,” said Richard gently, “haven’t you ever heard that good wine is best appreciated in silence?”
“I don’t suppose you enjoyed much silence with m’sister Melpond.”
Richard’s lips twitched, and his rare, charming smile lit his face. “How did you know my aunt had visited me?”
“Told me she was goin’ to. Wanted me to come along as well.”
“Did she indeed!”
“Now don’t fly up in the boughs, Ricky. I told her I wouldn’t interfere. Not my affair—not hers, either, if it comes to that, but Melpond never could mind her business.”
“My aunt was quite right,” said Richard calmly.
Ivor choked and wine splashed on his waistcoat. “Demme, boy, don’t say things like that when I’m drinking. Hang it, how could Melpond be right?”
“Her luck has to change sometime.”
“Come now, Ricky, be serious. You can’t have agreed with her. Dash it all, Charles, you tell him. He can’t have agreed with her.”
Sir Charles’s bewilderment increased. “I don’t quite...”
“Parson’s mousetrap,” said Ivor succinctly.
“Married? You, Dev? Married?”
Richard regarded his guests through his monocle. “Your enthusiasm touches me deeply, my dears.”
Sir Charles flushed. “I say, I didn’t mean, that I never—”
“Means he never thought to see you under the cat’s foot.” Ivor was unrepentant.
“Never thought to see it myself.”
“If you’d done your duty years ago, Ivor, you’d now be surrounded by a parcel of brats and my aunt would not be hounding me to save the family line.”
“Never one for the petticoats, neffy,” Ivor replied with a chuckle. “But tell me, have you any particular gel in mind, or are you waitin’ to see the current crop?”
The eyebrows rose. “A schoolroom chit, Ivor?”
“No, not the thing at all. Sorry I mentioned it. What’s it to be, then? A widow? Not too old, but with—”
“You are incorrigible, Ivor.”
“Well, if you don’t have a preference, I’ll wager m’sister Melpond does. Who’s she backing?”
“You are becoming excessively vulgar, my dear,” Richard complained; nevertheless, he answered. “If you must know, Lady Melpond favours Lady Chloris dePoer.”
“Lady Chloris dePoer!” his guests echoed.
“I am glad,” drawled Richard, “to see how my aunt’s choice meets with your whole-hearted approval.”
“An accredited beauty, of course,” Ivor said hastily. “But dash it...”
“But,” Sir Charles began, “don’t they call her...” His voice trailed off.
“The Ice Queen?” Dev supplied calmly. He cracked a walnut, easily manipulating the elaborate gold cracker with one hand. “Not a bad title for a wife, don’t you think?”
Sir Charles blinked, but Ivor nodded wisely. “So that’s the way of it; then—an arranged match. Aye, Chloris dePoer might well do for that—beauty, breeding, fortune, she’s got ’em all.”
“Just so.” Dev’s boredom was barely concealed.
“Chloris dePoer?” Sir Charles was frowning. “I’m trying to think. When I first came up to Town, wasn’t there talk of a match between her and...”
“The younger Cranford.” Ivor nodded. “They were making a book on it in White’s. Thought it was a sure thing.”
“So it never came to anything?”
“Dropped fifty guineas over it myself. Their fathers had some kind of falling-out, I heard. Don’t know about what. But all the Cranfords have tempers to match their hair and dePoer’s immovable once he gets a maggot in his head.”
“Aye, and the next son, too. Young Rollo’s the earl now, but he’s not come back to England yet, that I’ve heard anyhow. How about you, Ricky?”
His nephew shrugged. “Not that I’ve heard. Must you rehearse this ancient gossip, Ivor?”
“Good Lord!” A thought struck Ivor. “I suppose you’ll give up this charity start of yours when you marry. A female ain’t likely to hold with your putting all that time, not to mention blunt, into such notions. I warn you, Ricky, there’ll be no bearing Melpond if she thinks she’s managed that.”
“I haven’t offered for Lady Chloris, Ivor, and should I do so, I see no reason why I should rearrange my life. Naturally I shall pursue my own interests as usual. But I repeat, at the moment I have merely agreed with my aunt that it is time I considered a suitable alliance. Lady Chloris is an unexceptionable choice.”
“Rather you than me, neffy.” Ivor caught sight of Richard’s face. “Oh, aye, aye, boy, I was about to say I’d as lief embrace an icicle, but I’m mum, I’m mum.”
Richard changed the subject by turning to Sir Charles. “Lady Grantham and your sister are safely arrived?”
“Yes, indeed. But you know how my mama dislikes travel. She’s taken to her bed, with Patience to feed her thin gruel.”
“Miss Grantham makin’ her come-out this year?” Ivor asked. “Remember her when she was just a slip of a girl.”
“She is, and my mama is also bringing out her god-daughter, Miss Ryland.”
“That’s Oliver Ryland’s gel, ain’t it? Heard he’s under the hatches again. Finally done up. Though I did hear something about his coming round after all, didn’t you, Ricky?”
Mr. Devereux had been staring absently into his empty goblet. “Oliver Ryland? He hasn’t had sixpence to scratch with since I’ve known him.”
“I’ve heard talk of his son’s marrying an heiress.”
“Will Ryland?” asked Charles. “I know him, but I’d heard nothing about a match.”
