The Bluestocking and the Rake

by Norma Darcy

  These are the bills for all your family’s debts, which I acquired as a means to have Thorncote. They belong to you. Your debt to me is from this moment dissolved. I hope this will relieve you of the necessity of having to leave your home and of ever having to see me again, which was the fervent wish you expressed this morning.

  Your ever obedient servant,

  Robert Holkham

  Miss Blakelow slowly lowered her hand to her lap, his lordship’s letter still between her fingers. She could hardly believe her eyes. Why would he do this? The money he was owed ran into thousands. Why would he give up his advantage and Thorncote? She went to her writing desk and seized her pen.

  Dear Lord Marcham,

  I return these bills to you along with my sincere apology for the hateful words I said to you this morning. I hope you know that you will always be welcome at Thorncote.

  I am grateful for the sentiment but I cannot accept your gift. It is too much. You must allow me to repay my debt to you in full. I will arrange payment for sixty-two pounds, which I believe takes care of my father’s hat-makers’ bill. The rest I will pay you as soon as I am able.

  Yours affectionately,

  Georgiana Blakelow

  The letter was given to her maid, and it was dark when that lady returned to Thorncote in his lordship’s gig, driven by his lordship’s head groom. Betsy’s excitement at having a ride in such a “bang up” equipage was such that it was many moments before Miss Blakelow ascertained that she had another letter for her from Lord Marcham. She almost snatched the note from the maid’s hand.

  My dear Miss Blakelow,

  While I cherish your note, you must allow that sending torn pieces of paper to each other is rather futile. So instead, I have placed all the bills onto the fire.

  As to payment—you know what I want,

  R

  “Well, I liked her,” announced Lady Harriet, reaching for a pastry at breakfast the following morning.

  “She was a plain little nobody who thought she was the Queen of Sheba,” said Lady St. Michael tartly.

  “She was shy,” insisted Lady Harriet. “You can be so judgmental sometimes, Sarah.”

  “I don’t recall any girls named Georgiana Blakelow living at Thorncote,” put in the countess. “Marianne, Catherine, and Elizabeth are all I remember. And an elderly aunt—funny creature, always talking about her ailments. Then there was Sir William’s first wife, Sophia, and his second, who was Jane or Judith or some such thing—or was it the other way around? Not that I ever paid particular attention. One doesn’t, you know, when one lives a life of continual pain. Your father was always more familiar with Sir William than I was. Frightful man—Sir William that is. Very unruly eyebrows.”

  “I am relieved to hear you say that you do not recall her, Mama,” said Lady St. Michael as she picked up her knife, “because I don’t recall her either. Robbie and Hal and I were always at Thorncote growing up, and I don’t remember ever seeing her there as a child. I had never heard of the name until yesterday.”

  “Whose name?” asked Lord Marcham, coming into the room at that moment. He was dressed for driving in buckskins and a close-fitting navy coat. He sat down at the head of the table and, at a nod of the head to Davenham to bring him some coffee, absently picked up the newspaper.

  “Georgiana Blakelow,” said Lady St. Michael.

  “What about her?” asked her brother, his eyes on the front page of his newspaper.

  “She claimed to have lived at Thorncote all her life, and yet I do not recall ever hearing her name before. Then she changes her tune and admits that she had in actual fact only been there for seven years and had lived abroad before that.”

  “Yes. So?” said the earl, as the butler placed his breakfast before him.

  Lady St. Michael rolled her eyes. “Why would a daughter be sent abroad on her own when the rest of the family stayed at Thorncote?”

  “Any number of reasons,” his lordship replied, picking up his knife and fork.

  “See, I told you!” cried Lady Harriet. “She might have had schooling abroad or gone to visit relatives or anything.”

  This thought had occurred to Lady St. Michael, but she was on the brink of discovering a secret and not to be put off her course. “She’s hiding something,” she announced.

  “Oh, what tosh, Sarah,” said Lady Harriet. “You are just miffed because she didn’t bow and scrape enough for your liking.”

  Lady St. Michael bristled. “I tell you she’s hiding something. Did you see her face when I asked her why she lived abroad?”

  “Leave the woman be,” said Lord Marcham.

  “You may choose to ignore it if you wish, but something about her story stinks to high heaven. And I know her from somewhere—I know I do. I recognized her face the moment I saw her.”

  “Yes,” cried Lady Harriet, “probably because you have seen her at Thorncote.”

  Her sister shook her head and spread her pastry with marmalade and sliced it in two. “Not here . . . I have seen her somewhere else. Perhaps when I stayed with Grandmama in Cheltenham. I cannot quite place her.”

  “Sarah,” said her exasperated brother. “I asked you to leave the woman alone. She has enough on her plate without being subjected to one of your witch hunts.”

  Lady St. Michael stared at him. “And who is she to you that you defend her so?”

  “A friend.”

  “A friend? How close a friend?”

  “That is none of your damn business.”

  Lady St. Michael and her mother exchanged glances.

  “If I didn’t know you better, I would almost think you in love with her,” said his sister, toying with a fold in the tablecloth.

  He gave her an acid smile. “Sarah, you are nothing if not typical of your sex. I only have to call a woman my friend and you have me in love with her.”

  “I know you to be on the hunt for a wife. But I must say, Robbie, I thought your taste ran to curvy blondes, not slender brunettes. The woman looked as if she could do with a decent meal inside her.”

  “Can I please eat my breakfast in peace?” he demanded, carving himself off a wedge of beef.

  “So it really is not the blonde piece. Well, well, perhaps you have grown up at last.”

  Lord Marcham sighed heavily. His home had been invaded. Even the quiet of his library was no longer sacred; his eldest sister had no qualms about tracking him down, whichever corner of the house he chose to hide himself in. He needed to escape for a few hours to regain his sanity. “Davenham?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Please have my curricle brought round at once.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  His lordship visited a small shop in the town of Loughton. He ducked under the door and made his way to the counter, the hem of his greatcoat fanning out behind him as he slowly drew off his gloves. He looked critically at the bolts of fabric behind the counter as a small woman appeared. He told the lady that he wanted to buy five ball gowns: three for young ladies just about to enter society, one for a matron, and one for a woman who was perhaps aged nine and twenty.

  The woman beamed at the thought of so much new business and brought down several bolts of white, pink, and cream material for his inspection. Lord Marcham approved these but also requested a pale blue, which he rather thought would suit Miss Marianne Blakelow. For Aunt Blakelow he chose a bronze satin with matching headdress and for Georgiana, a deep-red silk. He instructed the woman to visit Thorncote with the material and her pattern book and to send the bill to him. He then reached into his pocketbook and left a deposit before tipping his hat and leaving the shop.

  When the modiste arrived at Thorncote a couple of days later, Miss Blakelow was out on the estate speaking to Mr. Healey regarding repairs to an outbuilding; thus she had no knowledge of Lord Marcham’s gift. On entering the house, she heard much giggling and excitement coming from the parlor and was perplexed as to the cause. She walked into the room and halted dead on the threshold.
Amongst swaths of material and patterns, measuring tape, and pins were her sisters, clustered around a tiny woman who was holding a swatch of cream-colored lace up to Lizzy’s face.

  “Oh, there you are, Georgie!” cried Kitty. “Only try to guess what has happened! Lord Marcham has arranged for us to have new dresses for the ball!”

  Miss Blakelow blinked at her. “New dresses?”

  “Yes, come and look,” said Marianne eagerly. “I am to have this blue, which I have to say is just what I would have chosen myself, Kitty is to have the pink, and Lizzy the cream.”

  “And Aunt Blakelow is to have this bronze satin with the most delightful feather headdress to match. Isn’t it gorgeous?” demanded Lizzy.

  Miss Blakelow looked at her aunt, who would not entirely meet her gaze. “I see,” she said.

  “And you are to have this one,” said Kitty.

  “Me?” said Miss Blakelow incredulously.

  “Yes, miss,” said the modiste, bobbing a curtsy. “His lordship chose it for you himself.”

  “Did he indeed?”

  “I think it will be beautiful. It’s the color of crushed raspberries,” said Marianne wistfully.

  Miss Blakelow wondered dismally how many of his lordship’s mistresses had been clothed in the same color. “We cannot accept this.”

  “Oh, I knew she’d say something like that!” wailed Lizzy.

  “We cannot. It is kind of him but it is too much. Girls, help the lady pack her things up, and we’ll have John bring the carriage around to take her home.”

  “Oh, George, no . . . please,” said Kitty. “You don’t have to accept his lordship’s gift if you don’t wish to—but Marianne, Lizzy, and I do. And Aunt Blakelow too. It has been years since we had new dresses. Please, George. Please don’t take this away from us.”

  Miss Blakelow could say no more.

  She had a great deal of difficulty tracking his lordship down. A ride to Holme Park proved fruitless. Davenham informed her that he had gone to visit a friend and wasn’t expected home until late.

  As she had spent the best part of the ride over there rehearsing a speech, she was disappointed not to have the opportunity to say it aloud. She started home as a sunset was staining the clouds with pink, and the black leafless branches of the elms scratched at the October sky.

  She hadn’t long left Holme before it proved too dark to see her way back through the fields, so she decided to join the main road as soon as she could. A clump of trees screened her from the view of any oncoming traffic, and as she nudged her horse to jump the shallow ditch, a rider appeared, flying around the bend in the road with coattails streaming out behind him. The mash of hooves whipped up mud as he went, and it was all that Miss Blakelow could do to keep her seat. Her horse whinnied and reared just as the gentleman managed to bring his sweating steed to a plunging halt. His dog, a hunting hound of some description, set to barking, and before Miss Blakelow had a chance to grasp the reins, she was thrown clear of her horse.

  “Hell and damnation,” cursed the man, controlling his own horse with difficulty. “Damn fool woman. Don’t you know that is a blind corner? What possessed you to stand there?”

  Miss Blakelow moved gingerly, touching her hand to her forehead. “My apologies, sir. I was taking a shortcut.”

  “Are you alright?” he asked sharply, coming toward her.

  She nodded lamely and tried to get up, but the world was spinning around her head. Two iron hands gripped her under the arms and lifted her bodily onto her feet.

  “There,” he said, picking up her fallen whip and handing it to her. “Are you able to ride home?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

  “Never mind. Come over here and I will lift you onto your horse. Are these your spectacles? I fear my horse has trodden on them.”

  “No . . . no matter. I have a spare . . . I mean . . . oh . . .”

  And for the first time in her life, Miss Georgiana Blakelow fainted dead away.

  It was no mean feat to convey an unconscious woman and two horses back to Holme Park, but he managed it, and so he told Davenham when he reached the house. A footman rushed forward to take Miss Blakelow from his arms and the gentleman, relieved at last of his burden, was able to relinquish his hat, gloves, and greatcoat. He was trying to restore a semblance of order to his hair in the hall mirror, when a voice shrieked, “Hal!” at full volume, and a moment later, Lady Harriet cast herself into his arms.

  “Well, well,” he said, clumsily patting her back. “I said I should be here for your ball, didn’t I?”

  “Oh, I am so happy to see you. When did you get here? Where is your luggage? You are staying this time, aren’t you? Pray say that you are!” She perched on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Now my ball will be perfect, for everyone I love is here—well, except Caroline, but she’d never come anyway.”

  “Now let go of my sleeve, Harry, do. Twenty shillings a yard this material cost me,” he said.

  “Then more fool you,” said the cool voice of Lady St. Michael as she came down the main stairway. “Hal . . . is it you indeed?”

  “Sarah, how do you do?” he replied, setting aside his youngest sister and going to greet her ladyship. “When you put on that sour face, you put me in mind of a bulldog.”

  “Thank you,” she replied. “Are you here alone? Yes, I feel sure that you are. The handsome widower comes to try his luck with the hay-chewing populace of Loughton.”

  The Honorable Henry Holkham smiled, but the expression did not reach his eyes. “You really are the most frightful snob, Sarah; I don’t know how Edward puts up with you. Congratulations, by the way. I hear you are expecting a happy event.”

  Lady St. Michael smiled. “Shall we go in to Mama? She will be wondering what all the noise is about.”

  “By all means. Where’s Rob anyway?” he asked as Harriet looped her arm through his and led him through to the drawing room.

  “I have absolutely no idea. Out courting his lady love, belike,” Lady St. Michael said over her shoulder. “Have you dined?”

  “Yes, thank you . . . His lady love, you say? Never tell me he’s fallen in love at last?” he said incredulously.

  “She is nice,” said Lady Harriet impulsively. “Well, I like her. But Sarah doesn’t.”

  “And I can probably guess why,” said Hal.

  “Have you brought a change of clothes with you or are you going to smell of the stables all night long?” asked Lady St. Michael.

  “My valet follows with my luggage so you will have to wait. Hello, Mama. Lord, isn’t it hot in here?”

  He bent down to kiss his mother where she was reclining on a sofa. She swathed him in an embrace of sickly scent.

  “Hal! Is it you indeed? I knew that you would come, for your sister’s sake. Sarah thought you would not, but I knew you’d do anything for Harriet. How are you, dear boy? You have lost weight, haven’t you? And you look pale.”

  “Yes, yes. I’m fine. What’s this I hear about Robbie falling for the ball and chain?”

  The countess began to fan herself vigorously. “Pray do not mention it. I do not wish to discuss it. The boy has taken leave of his senses. She’s lured him. With arts and witchcraft. She’s lured my poor Robert.” She plied a tissue to her eyes. “My poor boy is taken in. Taken in by a . . . a harpy!”

  “Oh, hardly that, Mama,” said Lady Harriet, rolling her eyes.

  “Good for him!” grinned Hal, accepting a glass of sherry from the butler. “Is she a prime article?”

  “No, that’s the thing. She’s perfectly ordinary, and none of us can understand his fascination with the woman,” said Lady St. Michael.

  “Sticking your nose in my affairs again, Sarah?” asked a cool voice from the door.

  The company jumped collectively and Lady St. Michael reddened slightly. She turned serenely in her chair toward him. “I have said nothing that I would not say to your face.”

  “Hello, Rob,” said Hal, setting down hi
s glass. “Have you stolen the best-looking girl in the neighborhood for yourself?”

  His lordship, who had not until that moment noticed his brother, halted at the sound of his voice. “Hal, what the devil are you doing here?” he asked in pleasant surprise, coming forward to shake his hand.

  His brother grinned and stood up to clasp his hand and clap him on the back. “I heard some ball or other was taking place.”

  “Oh, not you as well. I have heard enough about the wretched ball from the women of this house to last me a lifetime. When did you arrive?”

  “Less than fifteen minutes ago. How do you do? I swear this place gets farther and farther away from the main road every time I come here. Nearly got run over.”

  “Run over?”

  “Yes, you know where that sharp bend is by the drooping tree? A woman flew around the other side, and it was all I could do not to run her down.”

  “How exciting!” said Lady Harriet.

  “My horse reared and her horse reared and Brisket—my new puppy, you know—was yapping for all he was worth, and I rather think the poor girl hit her head.”

  “And no doubt you offered her your manly breast to lean upon,” remarked Lady St. Michael dryly.

  “She passed out in my arms and I brought her here. Come to think of it, where is she? A footman took her from me. But I suppose someone ought to check on her.”

  “I’ll go,” said Lady St. Michael, standing and snapping shut her fan.

  “And I think I owe the poor girl a new pair of spectacles because Firestar trampled all over them with his great hooves.”

  Lord Marcham had been staring down into the fire, but at that his head shot up. “Spectacles, did you say?”

  “Yes, great thick ugly ones—what did I say?” complained Hal as his brother strode from the room.

  Lady St. Michael gave a grim smile. “It seems, Hal, that you have run over his paramour.”

  Lord Marcham took the stairs two at a time. He found his housekeeper coming out of one of the spare bedrooms.

  “Mrs. Haskell, the lady who was brought here, where is she?” he demanded.