by Joan Vincent
“I shall ready a letter for Ballin to post announcing your arrival to Lord and Lady Darby,” Sir Aderly told her enthusiastically.
“But don’t you think it wise to seek their opinion on when we should come?” Miss Bea asked cautiously.
“A woman’s thinking, Miss Strowne. They will be pleased to help me in this matter. Audacia is not unattractive and can be well mannered. Off with you. Go see to her. I must write that letter.” He waved dismissal.
“Oh,” the baronet sighed aloud as he walked to the small parlour and sat at his desk. “So lucky to have come through this with so little damage done. Perhaps ‘twill even prove a blessing in the end.”
Then he thought of Audacia as she had looked sitting on his workshop table, her face aglow from her walk in the cold, her brother’s breeches scandalously clothing her legs. Somehow this did not match the idea of a docile young miss coming into society, for to his eyes young misses had always looked like milky shadows who would not dare stray from their maternally plotted courses.
Was he wrong to send Audacia into the midst of such? What chance would she have without the guidance of her mother?
Chapter 5
“Is something amiss, Father?” Audacia asked at supper. “Your appetite is poor indeed, not to do justice to one of Miss Bea’s roast of lamb.”
“There is nothing wrong with me, but I cannot understand how you can sit there and eat as if nothing occurred this day. The excitement should have sent you into high whoops. Why most ladies would still be hysterical,” noted Sir Aderly. “At the least you should have a decent case of the sniffles.”
“You know I enjoy good health, Father. I was not wet that long. The gentleman’s more to be pitied for he had to ride home without his cloak.”
Sir Aderly raised a cautious eye from his plate. “Did he happen to mention with whom he was visiting?”
“We were not on an outing, Father. I do not even know his name, but I was thinking how cold he would be with neither his cloak nor his flask to warm him,” Audacia observed before taking another healthy bit of roast.
“Have you no gratitude, child? The man did save your life,” her father returned gruffly.
Miss Bea peered cautiously into the morning room from the doorway, then came forward and set a bowl of steamed carrots on the table. She glanced from father to daughter before she hurriedly left them.
“I do think this afternoon has proven too much for Miss Bea,” Audacia whispered contritely. “Ever since you and Mr. Ballin carried me in, she has gone about as if expecting a cannon to be fired at any time.”
Colouring slightly, Sir Maurice renewed his pursuit of an exceptionally reluctant piece of lamb.
There was little conversation during the remainder of the meal. Indeed, Audacia thought it odd for her father to be so silent. Their evening meals were more often than not continuous discussions of his work and ideas for improving upon it. As was her habit, she rose when Ballin served Sir Aderly his glass of port and daily pipe of tobacco.
“Audacia, I would like you to stay with me for a time yet,” Sir Aderly said breaking his silence.
“If you wish, Father,” she answered and sat back down. “Did your work go poorly today?”
“My work? No, that is not what I have in mind to speak to you about.”
“If it is about wearing Daniel’s breeches, I promise to be very careful in the future,” Audacia rushed to assure him.
“You are never to go about in them again. It is indecent.” Sir Aderly’s voice rose angrily. Taking a sip of port, he forced himself to become calm once more.
Audacia leaned forward, her arms upon the table. “I am sorry for today . . . that you are so distressed.” Her grey eyes, which had borrowed the green from her dress, pled for forgiveness.
“It is not just today that worries me,” Sir Maurice said. He shifted his bulk in the Queen Anne chair. “It’s your future, child. I have been wrong to keep you here with me all these years. You should have gone to a lady’s finishing academy. At least to London long ago as did your friends.”
“But I care not for such foolishness,” Audacia told him honestly. “What can London give me that I do not have here?”
“A chance for a good match,” her father came to the point.
“But I could have that here if it was what I wanted. I have no desire to wed and leave you, Father.”
“That is unnatural. All young women wish for a husband and a family. It is the way of things. I mean to take steps to give you that opportunity,” Sir Aderly told his daughter, sensing the opening he had sought.
Suspicion flared over Audacia’s face. “What do you mean to do? Are we all to remove to London?”
“No.”
Relief came with an audible sigh.
“You and Miss Strowne are to go to London. To stay with old family friends, Lord and Lady Darby. You must recall her ladyship, she was your godmother and the dearest of your mother’s friends.” The lack of reaction from his daughter made Sir Aderly pause.
“Do you mean the giggle-ridden lady whose son broke my spinning top?” Audacia asked with studied seriousness.
“How am I to recall that? How can you for a certainty? But, yes, Lady Darby was prone to . . . to gaiety in those years. She will be most pleased to see you again,” he said in a rush.
“I will write her shortly then, if that is what you desire—” began Audacia
“There is not need for you to do so. Ballin has already posted my letter telling Lady Darby that you and your abigail, Miss Strowne of course, shall arrive by mail coach within the week.”
“Within the week!” Audacia jerked upright. “You cannot mean this, Father. Why, I cannot go. Who would care for my animals and . . . I—”
“You have no choice in this Audacia. I have not required much of you in the past. Now I ask that you go to Lady Darby and follow her guidance for the duration of the season. When it is at an end and Lady Darby removes once more to her Worcester home, you may return here.” He rose, walked to his daughter’s side, and took her hand in his.
“Audacia, you are a young woman00your mother would have been very proud. She would want this. It is, after all, only one spring in your life.”
His gentle tone and loving gaze rocked Audacia’s resistance. She wanted to shout “One spring—why must I give up any?” but she held back the words. Her father had asked little indeed and even this, she knew, was not for his benefit. Blinking back a tear, she managed, “Only if Mr. Ballin will care for the animals.”
* * * *
The windows of Lord Greydon’s chambers on the upper floor of Web Manor twinkled warmly in the cold night air. Inside a fire burned brightly and candles cast their shadows across the large man reclining against the pillows propped behind him in the large canopied bed.
“I shall sit with his lordship,” Squire Webster whispered to the valet who had risen at his entrance. As the man left Geoffrey settled in an overstuffed high-backed chair situated before the fire so he could watch Roland. Sipping at the port he brought with him, he kept an attentive eye on his friend. His thoughts went to their time in Spain and Portugal. Geoffrey gave himself a shake when his gaze strayed to where his left arm should have rested on the chair’s arm.
“Is it late, Geoff?” Greydon asked in a voice distorted by the chill he had taken.
“Not very . . . for you. But you have managed to sleep the afternoon and early evening away. How do you feel?” Webster asked, leaning forward in his chair.
“I don’t think I really want to consider that. Find me a glass of brandy,” Roland grunted irritably.
“Oh, ho, my lord is out of sorts,” Geoffrey quipped as he rose, poured a glass of brandy from the decanter in the chamber, and took it to his friend. As he returned to the table to pick up his own glass he jested, “See, I am still somewhat useful.”
Greydon inwardly winced at the words. A pain far different from the misery of his chill clouded his eyes. A tremor ran through him. Roland fretfull
y pulled the bed covers closer about him.
“Could the fire be built up? I am as cold as the ices I fetch for the ladies in the heat of July.”
The squire set his glass upon the bedside table and pulled another comforter from the bottom of the bed to cover his friend. “I find it difficult to believe a man such as yourself would succumb so easily to a chill. You have not been taking proper care of yourself of late, I fear. I did not think you looked very rested when you first arrived and yet it has been well over four months since you sold out of the army.”
Greydon’s slightly feverish eyes avoided the squire’s.
“We have been true friends, Roland. I owe you much . . . my life. Mayhap we should talk of . . . of that time. I want you to know I no longer resent your interference with my death.”
“I wish you wouldn’t, Geoff. I never held your words against you. Other men have said worse. Your looks, your actions—your enthusiasm for the future bloody well tell of your complete recovery. I marvel that you . . . have done so well.” Lord Greydon hurriedly drained his glass.
“Fill this?” he asked, holding it out.
“Only one time more,” Webster told him. “It would be better if you would eat. I could send for some broth.”
“No, I feel no hunger.” Roland shook his head. He studied the back of his one-armed friend, the empty sleeve pinned up near the shoulder.
“How did you do it, Geoff? How did you manage to forget it all?”
Was it the distortion of his voice or was it anguish he heard, Geoffrey wondered as he walked slowly back to his friend’s bedside, brandy in hand. “I haven’t forgotten it, Roland. I’ve too constant a reminder for that. But I’ve put it behind me, slowly, surely, and with help.”
“Help? Then someone has replaced Lucille in your affections?”
A shadow passed over Webster’s face before he turned away. “Does she ever ask of me?” he asked in a strained voice.
“No, but sisters are an odd sort. She has never said a word.
“What happened, Geoff? Why weren’t you two wed after you came home from Portugal? I had thought to come home an uncle.”
“That is a cruel jest, Roland. I had thought better of you,” Geoffrey clipped out, and then waved his hand. “Let us say no more about it. You are not well and should rest.”
“Pardon this damnable bore, Geoff. I’ve made a bloody mess of too many things of late. It would displease me greatly to lose your friendship,” Greydon entreated in a quiet voice. “Remain awhile.” He forced a more cheerful tone.
“You never did answer my question about the ‘lad’ and here I am,” he shifted into a sitting position on the pillows, “abed as you bid.”
Geoffrey sat in the chair before the fireplace. A low chuckle escaped him. “I take it you have discovered the ‘lad’s’ secret.” He poised his head in question.
“Why did you not tell me at the time,” Greydon grumbled. “I am not fond of making a bloody fool of myself.”
“I thought you accounted very well for yourself,” the squire said, raising his glass in salute. “Few come out of a scrap with Audacia as well as you managed.”
“Now who is in high whoops,” Lord Roland noted uncomfortably. “You know I would never have laid hands on her if I had but known.”
“Let this thought ease your mind. Even had Audacia known that you are an earl of the realm she would not have been forestalled one twit. She has the greatest disregard for the proprieties of anyone I know.”
“Just who is this Sir . . . Aderly? I believe that is the name the woman at the cottage mentioned? Why does he allow his daughter to go about disguised? Even I am taken aback by her . . .” He stumbled for want of a word.
“Audacity?” the squire offered.
“Well, the chit is well named for all that.” Roland’s features relaxed; tenderness came over him.
“You know she has the most startling and changeable eyes. They seem to take on whatever colour she wears,” he noted.
“Now I know why you were always chosen for reconnaissance duty—such keen observation, old friend.” Webster spoke earnestly enough, but the wide grin on his face betrayed him. He ducked the pillow that Greydon hurled.
“Should we think it is the chill that has disturbed your usually excellent aim, my lord, or has your heart—no, I surrender,” he offered with a laugh as Roland made to throw a second pillow.
“As to Sir Aderly—he is a baronet. A widower with a son, Daniel, now at Oxford, and a daughter whom you have met— Audacia. They live in that smallish two-storey house we rode past about four days ago on one of our jaunts.”
“The one where all the clattering and clanging disturbed the peace of the countryside?”
“That was Sir Aderly at work. He is trying to perfect a harvesting machine . . . among other projects. He also attempts to produce seed grains more suitable to our weather here. Quite a pleasant chap, really.”
“I am surprised I never noticed Miss Aderly among the milksop squad of green girls loosed upon London this fall. I cannot help but think she would stand out in such a group.”
“Of a certainty. But Audacia has never been to London. At least not since Sir Aderly removed the family here. That was some five and ten years past, I believe. His wife had passed away and he sought to . . . to leave memories behind.
“I can understand that.” Geoffrey looked away, attempting to conceal painful recollections.
“He never remarried?” Roland asked, his empathy urging him to draw his friend from his sudden melancholy.
“No. A spinster housekeeper came with them. He appears perfectly content.
Webster’s mood lightened. “Do I detect a note of interest?” the squire teased lightly.
“Ha! I have no need for a masquerading ‘lad’ to amuse me. Come to London and I shall show you women.”
“Of that I have no doubt,” Geoffrey said as he laughed in return. “And now that I have answered your questions you must tell me what occurred to deprive you of both your caped coat and your flask.”
“It was nothing. I merely came across the ‘lad’ floundering in the river. Can you imagine anyone daft enough to risk thin ice for a water hen? I came to the river just in time to see this Miss Aderly heave the bird from the water, with a branch mind you, only to sink through the ice herself.
“After I managed to pull her free, she directed me to a nearby cottage. It was when I sought to divest the ‘lad’ of the wet garments that I discovered the reason for your good humour. Quite a jolt it was.”
“I can well imagine Audacia’s reaction. But how did you manage to get that far?”
“The girl was not in her senses,” Roland explained. “Fainted from the cold. The woman in the hut recognized her and immediately sent her boy, Ned—”
“Oh, the Stollards—but go on,” the squire urged, eager to get all the facts.
“She sends this Ned to fetch Aderly and gives me a scold like I haven’t had since I left my nanny’s care. You’d think I compromised . . . the girl,” Greydon ended, his ire rising. “The chit herself was as thankless as the water hen when she came to her senses. Almost regret I pulled her from the river,” he ended and finished his brandy.
All signs of humour left Webster. “If word of this gets abroad you have compromised her. Did you speak to anyone? What did Sir Aderly have to say?”
“I wouldn’t know. Left as soon as I was certain she was all right. Gave her my flask and coat. Wasn’t that enough?” Greydon asked irritably. “What’s your concern in this?”
“Audacia is . . . a . . . a dear friend. I won’t have her harmed in any way. No one knows she goes about in her brother’s clothing. Well, very few,” he added at Roland’s sceptical look.
“The local ‘good’ women will have her ostracized if they hear of this. Something must be done,” Webster said agitatedly.
“Well, I won’t marry the chit if that’s what you have in mind,” his lordship snorted and sneezed. “More than likely she hasn’t
even taken a chill.” He sneezed again.
“I hope you are right about that. I doubt your liberty will need be surrendered,” Geoffrey replied. “Audacia has some rather set ideas on that subject.
“Sleep now. In the morn I shall ride over to Aderly’s and see the lay of things. But,” Webster paused at the door, “you could choose a much worse wife.”
Chapter 6
“Good morn, Mr. Ballin,” Squire Webster greeted the smiling butler. “I was hoping to speak with Miss Audacia. Is she in?”
“A good day to ye, Squire. I think Miss Audacia is in the barn with her animals. If ye wish I shall tell her ye have come,” Ballin said with a bow.
“No, I’ll just go there. I know the way. You needn’t bother.”
He turned as Ballin closed the door and hurried through the crusted snow towards the barn.
“Who was that?” Miss Bea called, stopping at the foot of the stairs, her arms full of bed linens.
“Squire Webster callin’ on Miss Audacia,” he answered with a sprightly wink.
“You had the good sense to tell him she was out, didn’t you?” she asked refusing to be baited.
“Of course not. I directed him to the barn. Have ye no romantic bones hidden within, Miss Bea?” Ballin asked, coming to her side and taking the bed linens.
“Miss Strowne to you, Mr. Ballin. And I can manage those myself,” she said attempting to retrieve the sheets and pillowcases.
“‘Twould be most ungracious of me now,” he replied. Starting up the stairs, he asked, “Wouldn’t ye like to see the squire and Miss Audacia make a match of it?”
“Why he’s a cripple. It’s a whole man I’ll have for my miss,” the housekeeper snapped.
“Ah, there’s where ye be wrong, Miss Bea. There’s far more a man could be lackin’ than an arm. Me thinks he manages right well.”
“The squire’s a fine man. It’s just that . . .”
“I know, Miss Bea,” Ballin said, tossing a sad look over his shoulder. “There are many who think as ye do, for all yer good heartedness. But think of this.
