The Audacious Miss

by Joan Vincent

  “Boney made many to be like the squire before he was put away for good. What are they to be doin’ with their lives? Squire Webster’s still a man, and better than most I’ve seen.”

  Ashamed, Miss Bea grimaced uncomfortably as Ballin halted before the linen closet. “I—I meant nothing,” she said under his accusing stare.

  “I know, Miss Strowne,” the short butler replied gently, “but it’s those who speak unthinkin’ like that can give the most hurt.” He said no more as she took the different sheets, one at a time, and laid them in their proper places.

  Seeing regret still visible on her face, Ballin shrugged as she closed the door. “But I know ye didna’ mean it, about the squire I mean.”

  The housekeeper broke into a weak smile at his sudden awkwardness.

  “Why, Miss Bea, there’s hope to be had still. ‘Tis the first time ye actually smiled upon me,” Ballin said with a twinkle in his eyes. Breaking into a whistle, he did a jig down the stairs.

  The stunned housekeeper stood with her smile frozen in place. With a hand over her heart, she breathed, “My—my goodness, what can he mean by that?” Turning, she walked straight into the door of the linen closet.

  * * * *

  The squire stood still for several minutes after he stepped into the barn to allow his eyes time to adjust to the muted light from the dazzling light reflected off the snow. He could hear Audacia singing, but instead of the usual lyrical joy this melody was filled with sadness. He noted happily that for all the lack of happiness in the tune, her voice was clear and strong. The cold dunking had done her no harm.

  Geoffrey thought of Greydon and could not suppress a chuckle. The earl had been even more miserable and irritable this morn.

  The last words of the dirge-like ballad were faint in the air when Webster stepped noiselessly into the small area of the barn partitioned off for Audacia’s “brood.” Many animals stayed only a short time—until they had regained their strength or an injury healed. A miscellaneous assortment of birds, rabbits, even a wild fox now occupied the pens and cages. The longest tenant was the one over, which Audacia now bent. It was a yearling deer that had been badly injured by a wild dog, probably the same one that killed the squire’s sheep.

  Geoffrey watched as Audacia ran her hands gently over the trusting animal, adjusted the bandage, and rose. He walked forward, the crinkle of the straw beneath his boots startling Audacia, who had not heard him enter.

  “Oh, Geoffrey,” she cried, recognizing him. In an instant she flew to the squire and wrapped her arms about him.

  Overcoming his shock at this greeting, Geoffrey put his arm about her shoulders as she sobbed against his chest. When the outburst had calmed to sniffles, he attempted to humour her. “You had better use your kerchief or my cravat will be forever ruined.”

  Releasing her hold, Audacia dug into the pockets of the apron she wore over her burnt-orange day dress and withdrew a large, white kerchief.

  “Blow hard,” the squire admonished as he guided her to a bench against the wall. Sitting, he tugged on her hand until she sat beside him. “What has occurred to bring such a storm of tears, Audacia? It is most unlike you.” Geoffrey swept a quick glance over the cages and small pens in the area. “Has one of your little ones died?”

  Shaking her head, Audacia raised her tear-filled eyes to his. “I am . . . being . . . a . . . a bloody coward,” she managed between sniffles.

  “You—a coward?” His hand kept her from turning from him. “I cannot imagine that. Why don’t you tell me what troubles you so? It would please me greatly if I could be of aid to you this time.”

  “If only you could help,” Audacia said lowly, then blew her nose vigorously and straightened her shoulders. “There is no help for me, though. Father has made up his mind and it cannot be altered.

  “Oh, what am I to do?” she asked, so woebegone his heart wrenched. “Father is sending me to stay with Lord and Lady Darby and they are to take me to London for the season.”

  A laugh broke from Geoffrey, which he tried to swallow when he saw Audacia’s reaction.

  “There is nothing amusing in this,” she said sharply. “I do not see you agog to go to London each season.”

  “But I have a good reason for remaining here. You should be rejoicing to at last have a season like all the other young women you know. Many a young girl—woman,” he amended quickly, “dreams of just such an opportunity. There will be balls, soirees, morning calls, afternoons in the park, shopping . . . ah, shopping as you have never seen.

  “And you—you shall be noticed wherever you go,” Webster ended with a sudden appreciation of Audacia’s looks. Roland is right, he thought, her eyes, glistening with tears, are like great sparkling diamonds.

  “I do not care for dancing . . . or for any of that folderol. What do I care for shopping? Why you know I am not one for geegaws. What are you staring at?” she demanded, irritated that he was not taking her part in this.

  “You are in quite good looks this morn, Miss Aderly,” Geoffrey answered lightly. “All the beaux and dandies will fall at your feet for the simple pleasure of a dance.” With a teasing glint, he added, “Now what is it that is so different? Why, I cannot decide.”

  Audacia blushed fiercely. “You know it is that I am in a gown today,” she retorted, “and it is all your fault.”

  “Lord forbid I should dictate the dress of any female,” he feigned shock. “How can your mode of toilet be laid to my head,” the squire tossed back innocently.

  “It is that—that oaf you have staying with you. I only hope he has taken a dreadful chill,” she pouted.

  “Vengeance is not your way, Audacia” Geoffrey frowned. “Why so harsh a feeling for a man you do not know?”

  “There is just something about the man. His air of—of being a nonpareil, I suppose,” she muttered.

  “He has taken a dreadful chill. I left him in his bed shivering like a wet pup, filled with fever and cough.”

  “‘Tis not like you to jest me thus,” Audacia noted, her suspicion of the truth of his words apparent.

  “I have never told you a falsehood before and I do not now,” he assured her. “The Earl of Greydon feels very miserable—thanks to you.”

  “The wretched man. Can he not even . . . ohh,” she sighed. “Have you given him honey balm for the throat and cough? What of a plaster for his chest?” Audacia’s words ended abruptly as a thought occurred. After a pause she asked, “Did you say the ‘Earl of Greydon’?”

  “Yes, his lordship, Roland Mandel, Earl of Greydon, heir to the Marquess of Mandel.”

  “Oh, dear, Father will be even more upset if he learns of this.” She clasped and unclasped her hands.

  “Why would Roland’s rank be of note to your father?”

  “Because,” she began, then halted as she saw Geoffrey’s telling grin. “You know. You do know all about it. Oh, he has told you and everyone.

  “To hear father such a happening is worse than if I had drowned. Can you tell me what is so scandalous about being rescued from drowning?” Audacia ended disgustedly.

  “Certe, I do not wish you had drowned . . .”

  “And I know Father does not either. But just explain what is so terrible about the event. When I question Father he simply ahems until he’s flushed in the face and then disappears.”

  “So he has not told you what occurred after you were pulled from the river. I do not wonder at that, though.”

  “Happened? Nothing happened. I think you men should all be taken to Bedlam. You’re all daft,” she snapped and rose abruptly.

  “Audacia, Roland thought you were a young lad. When he got you to Stollards' cottage he began to take off your wet garments so that you would not catch a chill. It was then that he learned you were not what he thought,” the squire told her bluntly.

  For a second Audacia simply stared. The words penetrated slowly; her cheeks flamed, then paled. She settled soundly back on the bench. “Father knows of this?” she breat
hed.

  “He must. Why else would he be sending you to London? I imagine Mrs. Stollard told him, but Roland has spoken to no one and will not,” Geoffrey assured her. He patted her awkwardly on the shoulder.

  “How could he do that?” Audacia breathed aloud to herself.

  “Use your sense now. Roland saved your life. You seem to think he had a definite plan to compromise you. It was not his fault you could not let a water hen freeze. How was he to know you were a . . . woman,” Geoffrey defended his friend. “In London it would be unthinkable for a female to appear in breeches.”

  “Here also it seems,” Audacia said with a wry grin. “Oh, I did not mean to speak harshly of the earl. It must be that I am so angry with myself I cannot see reason. He will mend?”

  “Roland has the constitution of a draft horse. A chill will not keep him abed for long.”

  “Anyone who is as insufferable as he is couldn’t become too ill,” Audacia quipped. “Oh, there it is again. Why is it he sets my hackles up so? No one has ever had this effect on me before.”

  “I know not why, but do you recall how I was when we first met?” Geoffrey slowly asked her. “I was ill in body and spirit and had it not been for you I would have put an end to my life.”

  “What reason do you have for mentioning that now?” she asked, peering sharply at the squire for signs she may have missed in her self-concern.

  “Do not stare so, I am fine,” he assured her, “but Roland reminds me of how I was then in so many ways.”

  “But he has no signs of wounds. What reason would he have for . . .”

  “It is a fact that neither bullet nor blade ever did serious damage, but his moods, his actions, some of the things he says are . . . are so at odds with the man I knew before the war. If you would visit with him I know you would understand what I mean.”

  “Roland—Lord Greydon. That name seems strangely familiar. Greydon?” Recognition widened her eyes. “He is the one who . . .” Her eyes went to the empty sleeve—this was why he was of such importance to the squire.

  “Yes, Audacia, he is the one.”

  “Audacia? Squire Webster?” they heard Sir Aderly call.

  “Coming, Father,” Audacia answered, rising. “Pretend to know nothing about yesterday. It will ease Father’s mind so,” she urged in a low tone.

  Smiling, Geoffrey nodded and taking her hand led the way back to the main area of the barn.

  “Good day, Sir Aderly. Miss Audacia was showing me how well the deer has progressed.”

  “Ahem, well, yes,” Sir Maurice mumbled taking in the clasped hands of the two. “Well, come inside now. You could use some warm punch to take the chill from your bones after your ride here.”

  “That would be appreciated. Mayhap I could also see how your work progresses,” Geoffrey noted.

  “Always happy to do that, my boy,” Sir Maurice returned brightly. “Where is your cloak, Audacia?” he asked, seeing none close at hand.

  “I left it with the animals. Wait a moment and I will fetch it.”

  With his daughter out of sight, Sir Aderly edged closer to Squire Webster. “Have you heard of any London dandies or fops visiting anyone in our area?”

  “Dandies? Why no, sir, although the Earl of Greydon is staying with me. He came to rest and relax and is now abed, having taken a chill,” Webster returned, managing a straight face.

  “Abed, you say? No harm there,” he said distractedly. “Oh, too bad about your friend. Hope the chill is of short duration. But tell me, have you heard of any . . . gossip of late?”

  “Nothing unusual, sir. Is there something I should know?”

  “No. No. Here you are, Audacia. Let us return to the house. Squire Webster and I can look over my work and you can help Miss Strowne with the packing. I have decided you are to leave on the morrow,” Sir Maurice told her, taking advantage of the squire’s presence to impart the news.

  “On the morrow?! Father, please—”

  “You know you shall enjoy your visit, Audacia. We must not bore the squire with family matters.” He turned to Webster and asked, “Do you know of the Darbys from Worcester?”

  “I have not been to London, except for matters of business, for over five years,” Geoffrey answered, ignoring Audacia’s grimace. “Therefore I do not know many of the gentry who attend the season. The name does seem to ring familiar though.”

  “When Lady Aderly and I were in London, the Darbys were very popular. I imagine it is the same now. But come, I have added a pulley which may solve one problem.”

  Audacia walked slowly before the two men toward the house, their conversation a mumble to her ears. The morrow would come swiftly, she knew, and the thought of leaving her home was a heavy weight on her heart.

  And Geoffrey’s friend, she thought with a strain of regret, I will not meet him now. But I only wanted to become acquainted with him because of Geoffrey, she assured herself, only to blush fiercely as she recalled the squire’s words about what had occurred after her rescue.

  What would I do if ever I did meet him? she wondered, her cheeks hot in the cold winter air. Even as she questioned her response, the regret persisted. Reaching the house, Audacia pushed this ruing she could not understand from her mind and gathered courage for her coming journey.

  Chapter 7

  Having bid Audacia a sombre farewell, Squire Webster rode leisurely toward Web Manor. Conflicting, confused thoughts crowded his mind. He wished to sort through them all before speaking with Roland again.

  Greydon’s brief mention of his sister on the eve before had evoked the full storm of emotions Geoffrey had with great difficulty forced to the shadows of his mind. He now had to battle through the pain of rejected love once more.

  It was as if it were yesterday. That last awkward, heartrending interview with Lady Lucille in London seven years past.

  * * * *

  “The Honourable Lieutenant Webster,” the Mandel’s butler announced to the two women in the sitting room. He stepped aside to allow the gaunt, red-coated gentleman to enter.

  Lady Mandel rose with a smile. “Geoffrey, how good to see you looking . . . so improved.”

  He nodded greeting, his features taut with tension. He begged the young lady still seated beside her mother to meet his gaze with his eyes.

  “Do forgive me, I have just recalled I neglected to give cook the menu for this eve,” Lady Mandel said. “I will return shortly.”

  Lady Lucille fretfully twisted the white ribbon at her tiny waist. Her look implored her mother to take pity and remain.

  Webster nodded his gratitude for the privacy she was granting them. He swallowed hard when Lady Mandel paused at his side and gave his remaining arm a consoling squeeze. “She is so very young,” she whispered as if to apologize and was gone.

  “Will you not look at me, Lucille?” Webster broke the heavy silence, his voice weighted with resignation.

  “Of—of course.” Her eyes flitted to his, winced at the concealed stub of arm, and hastened to her hands. “I—I—oh, do sit, Geoffrey,” her voice rose in panic as he wavered on his feet.

  “‘Tis nothing,” he assured her but sank to the settee with relief. “Cursed weakness from the . . . the operation. The doctors say it will pass now that the infection is gone.”

  She fidgeted with the cameo lying against her white throat. “It—it is healing, then.”

  “Yes. I mean to return to Web Manor on the morrow.” He studied her light brown curls caught by a bright blue ribbon, which matched her gown, and memorized how they framed her delicate oval face.

  “Oh, good . . . oh.” Red tinged Lady Lucille’s pale cheeks. “I did not mean . . . I, that is, the air is so much better in the country,” she ended feebly.

  The lieutenant’s shoulders squared; his resolve to carry through his decision was stiffened by her relief at his leaving London. “I thought we should speak of our betrothal before I departed.”

  Lady Lucille jumped up, her agitation poorly concealed. “Yes,
I suppose we must.” She tightly clasped her hands and walked to the fireplace. “Shall a date be set as soon as you regain your strength?”

  “I love you, Lucille.” Geoffrey’s voice cracked over the softly spoken words. He held out his hand.

  She turned slowly, steeled herself. “I promised to wed you and I shall.”

  The lieutenant gulped back the sudden tears that welled in his throat. He silently cursed his weakness. Her look, her words confirmed his worst fears. Slowly Geoffrey drew back his hand. He could not endure seeing pity in her eyes every day for the rest of his life, dared nor risk it turning to hate. Rising unsteadily, Webster walked slowly to her.

  Lady Lucille stiffened at his approach but allowed him to caress her cheek.

  Geoffrey tenderly brushed her forehead with a kiss then turned abruptly away. “Do you love me, Lucille?”

  “Why . . . yes. Of course . . . I did . . . I must.” Tears sprang to her eyes as he faced her. “I am so sorry, Geoffrey,” she reached out but he shook his head.

  “I think it best that your father announce our betrothal is ended.”

  “No, we must not—”

  “We must not make each other more wretched than we now are.” Webster regained control of his emotions. “I will send a letter to him. He will understand. You need fear no embarrassment. I shall remain in Warwickshire . . . indefinitely.”

  Lady Lucille opened her mouth but no words came. Confusion rioted in her heart. Of late she had thought it would be a joy to be freed from their betrothal but now only a dull ache filled her. He looked so brave. She blinked back tears recalling how gay and handsome Geoffrey was the day they had bid each other farewell, vowing never-ending love. How she had hungered to have his arms remain about her that day.

  “Give me time, Geoffrey.” The words sprang forth unbidden. “I will become accustomed . . .” Her voice trailed away in uncertainty.

  “I am highly honoured to have been your betrothed.” Geoffrey bowed stiffly. “I wish you happiness.” He turned on his heels and walked swiftly away.

  * * * *