by Brooke, Meg
“Of course,” he replied smoothly. “Good night.”
As the carriage pulled out of the park, Clarissa leaned back and closed her eyes. It was a dangerous game she was playing, and tonight the stakes had been made apparent. If she made it out alive, the rewards were great. But if she took one false step...well, the consequences did not bear consideration.
FIFTEEN
February 15, 1833
Dawn came far too quickly. Anders stumbled out of bed, feeling bleary, and went down to the cellar for a swim. The cool water woke him up, but it did little to clear his mind.
He had not expected to see Clarissa when he went into his study, but there she was, coat buttoned, wig perfect, not a hair out of place. “I had not thought to see you so early,” he said. “Did you enjoy yourself last night?”
Clarissa didn’t look up from the letter she was studying. “Lovely,” she murmured. He wouldn’t be deterred, even if she was angry with him for his behavior. Still grinning, he leaned across the table and kissed her on the cheek.
When she still didn’t look up, he asked, “What’s the matter?”
Her eyes finally lifted to meet his. There were tears in them. “There was a fire in one of the cottages at Ramsay,” she said. “Six people are dead. Three of them were children.”
He gripped the edge of the desk. “When?”
“Two days ago. The funerals are Monday.”
He sank into his chair, feeling rather dizzy. He didn’t know them well, but those were his people, out there at Ramsay. And now six of them were dead. “Does Jensen say how the fire started?”
Her eyes drifted back to the letter. “No,” she said, shaking her head.
“I must go to Ramsay. Today.”
“I will go home and pack,” she said, getting up.
“No,” he said. “No, you cannot come. How could we possibly travel alone together?”
She smiled and came across the room and around the desk. She put her hands flat on his chest and leaned in until her nose was nearly touching his. “Great men often travel with their secretaries. And besides, you will need me,” she added, her voice becoming serious. “You cannot face this alone.”
He slid his hand behind her neck and pulled her down for a kiss. “Thank you,” he whispered against her lips. “I will call for you in an hour.”
As she carefully folded her meager wardrobe and packed it into her case, Clarissa tried not to think about the irrevocable step she was taking. They would have to travel hard to make it to Somerset in two days, and when they got there she would be a long way from London, alone in the countryside with Anders. If anyone discovered who she really was, she would be well and truly ruined, and he would have to marry her. That was not what she wanted. She didn’t doubt his affection for her, but that didn’t mean she didn’t have her pride.
It took her all of ten minutes to pack, and then she had a good while to sit and wonder what Ramsay would be like. She had heard it was a grand estate, but from what she had read in Jensen’s letters it seemed that Anders had not been there much.
When at last the knock came on her door, it was Anders himself and not one of his footmen who stood outside. “Are you sure about this?” he asked as he hefted her case.
“Absolutely.”
“I sent word ‘round to Leo. No one else knows we’re going.”
“Good.”
It was only after he had handed her case off to a footman and they were both seated in the carriage that he took something from his pocket. “This was under your door,” he said, handing it across.
It was a letter, the direction written in an unfamiliar hand. She broke it open and read the few lines. “It is from my friend Cynthia Endersby. She wants me to take tea with her next week.”
“I suppose she will have to be disappointed.”
“Yes,” Clarissa said. “I will have to see her when we return. I have missed her companionship.”
“You two were good friends, then?”
“We were, yes. When we were growing up in Oxford there were not very many other little girls to play with, and our fathers were good friends. And we were both motherless, which drew us together.”
“How did your mother die?”
Clarissa sighed, remembering the stories her father had told. “It was when I was an infant. She fell ill after my birth and did not recover. I never knew her. Cynthia’s mother died when she was very young, too, before her father came to teach at Oxford.” Clarissa laughed softly, remembering those days. “We used to make up stories about our mothers being fairy princesses who had been spirited away to another world.”
Anders smiled.
“When we were older, and my father and I had come to London, she would visit and we would go to parties and dances. But then her father came into his inheritance and mine died and we just...lost each other, somehow.”
“Well,” Anders said, “here is your chance to find her again.”
“Yes,” Clarissa replied. “I only hope she isn’t offended when I don’t reply. I don’t suppose it would be wise for me to write her from Somerset.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“What is it like?”
“Somerset?”
“Ramsay.”
He shrugged. “I haven’t spent much time there.”
“You didn’t live there as a child?”
He shook his head. “I inherited the title from my uncle. He was my father’s older brother, and I don’t think he approved of my mother. She was only a country curate’s daughter, after all. Anyway, after my father died, she took me back to Devon to live in their village. Then she met Coleridge. His estate is in Kent, and when I had holidays from school I spent most of my time either there or at Sidney Park. I think I visited Ramsay perhaps twice in my whole childhood.”
“But you were your uncle’s heir your whole life?”
“He never had children. After his wife died, he didn’t remarry. I think he was content to have me.”
“But he showed no interest in your education?”
“Oh, he received reports from school every term, and wrote me a letter every Christmas. But beyond that, I think he was consumed by grief. My mother believes he mourned his wife until his death.”
“Goodness,” Clarissa said, staring out the window as they left London. “And now that you are the earl? Will you be there more often?”
“I keep meaning to be,” he said defensively. “I just...well, there always seems to be so much to do, and when I am in London, I forget.” His hands tightened into fists, and he pounded one of them against his thigh. “Perhaps if I had paid more attention to Ramsay and its tenants, this wouldn’t have happened.”
She reached across the carriage and took one of his fists in her hand, forcing the fingers open and lacing hers through them. “This wasn’t your fault. You cannot blame yourself when you don’t even know what happened.”
“I suppose not,” he said.
They lapsed into silence. After they had both stared out the window for a while, Clarissa reached into her case and pulled out Iphigenia in Tauris. Anders felt a strange surge of possessive satisfaction when she opened the book and began to read. “Will you read it to me?” he asked.
“In Greek?” she said, sounding incredulous.
He laughed. “Can you translate it?”
“Of course,” she scoffed. She turned back to the beginning and began to read without hesitation, “‘To Pisa, by the fleetest coursers borne, comes Pelops, son of Tantalus, and weds the virgin daughter of Oenomaus...”
They traveled straight through, stopping only to change horses and eat quick meals in tiny taprooms. Clarissa snatched brief periods of sleep in the carriage in between reading Iphigenia to Anders, who she suspected was quite bored with the story no matter how exciting she tried to make it, telling him the side stories of each of the heroic, godlike characters and giving them all unique voices.
At dawn on Sunday, they rolled into Somerset. “We’re about ten mile
s from Ramsay,” Anders announced when Clarissa woke from her fitful half-sleep. She stretched, wincing. She was sore and exhausted, and she was certain that despite the well-sprung carriage she had a bruise for each bump and pothole they had thumped over, but they had arrived at last. She gazed eagerly out the window.
In mid-February, the countryside was gray and bare, but she could see its potential. They passed large fields and tidy little cottages. Then they slowed to pass through a little village.
“The village is called Ramsay as well,” Anders informed her. It was a sweet little village, with a small church and pub. A few people in the street stopped to stare as the carriage went past.
“How many people live in the village?” she asked. He shrugged.
“A hundred, perhaps?”
“Really?” she demanded. “You don’t know how many people live in your village?”
“Clarissa,” he said, the defensive tone creeping back into his voice, “I have said that I mean to change. I haven’t been the best landlord, I know.”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “That was uncalled for.”
He nodded curtly. They were leaving the village and turning into a narrow lane. At the end of the lane, a wide gate led into a beautifully landscaped park, with a great Palladian house at its center. As they clattered up the long drive, Clarissa spied a narrow creek running through one side of the park. Beyond the bridge that crossed it she spotted a small summerhouse on the edge of a calm, glassy lake.
On the steps before the portico a spare man with thick mutton-chop sideburns awaited them.
Anders preceded Clarissa out of the carriage. “Ah, Jensen,” he said.
“We are exceedingly grateful that you came, My Lord,” Jensen said, bowing.
“This is my secretary, Mr. Ford,” Anders said smoothly, not stumbling at all over her pseudonym despite the fact that he had been calling her Clarissa for the better part of two days.
Jensen nodded in greeting. “A pleasure to finally see you in person, Mr. Ford.”
“I’m only sorry we must meet under these circumstances,” Clarissa said.
“I believe Carrington has put Mr. Ford in the blue room, My Lord.”
“Very good, Jensen. I think we will both rest a little this morning. It has been a long journey. Then we will go to see the tenants this afternoon.”
“Of course, My Lord,” Jensen said, leading them inside. Clarissa paused to take in the vast hall. Above them, the coffered ceiling was inlaid with paintings of nymphs and satyrs. A wide staircase dominated the space, with doors leading to parlors and dining rooms on either side of the cavernous space.
“Will you have Ford shown to the blue room, Jensen?” Anders asked, already disappearing up the stairs. When Clarissa and the steward were alone, she smiled at him.
“It is good to have a face to put to your letters, Mr. Jensen,” she said. “I cannot tell you how much I have appreciated the thoroughness of your communications.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jensen said. He glanced up at the landing above. “I take it you are not going to the blue room?”
“No, Jensen, I am not. There is much to do before we go out to the farms this afternoon. Do you have an office in the house?”
“Of course, sir.”
“Let us go there now. I want to know everything you can tell me.”
SIXTEEN
“There are nineteen tenant farms, housing one hundred eighteen people, and about sixty more in the village,” Jensen said, unrolling a large map across the desk in his office, which was at the back of the house behind the butler’s room. On the way there, Jensen had paused to introduce Clarissa to the butler, Carrington.
“How many acres?”
“A little more than eight hundred, the twenty acres of the park included.”
“And the cottage that burned?”
“It was the home of the Lapham family,” Jensen said. “Mr. and Mrs. Lapham, Mr. Lapham’s brother, and three of the Lapham children perished. The other two children have gone to live with Mrs. Lapham’s sister, Mrs. Rutledge, in the village.”
“I am glad to hear that they have a place to go,” she said.
“Indeed. But Mrs. Rutledge has four little ones of her own.”
“I will speak to His Lordship about it, but I am sure he will want to do something for them. How old are the two children?”
“Seven and five. Two girls.”
“Old enough to remember, then,” Clarissa said, regret clutching at her heart. In many ways, she thought, it would be kinder if they did not remember what had happened. “The earl will also bear the cost of the funeral,” she added. She and Anders had discussed that much in the carriage.
“Very good, Mr. Ford.”
“I have another concern I wish to discuss, Mr. Jensen.” The man pursed his lips, looking grim.
“You wish me to tell you how the earl is perceived in Ramsay.”
He had read her thoughts exactly. “I do.”
Jensen sucked in a breath between his teeth. “It’s not terrible, sir, but it’s not good, either. He has been here twice since the previous Lord Stowe died, once for the funeral and once for the second harvest last year. I do not believe the tenants think him uncaring, just overcommitted. He has many responsibilities, and they understand that. But Lord Frederick was not very involved with the tenants, either. They are clamoring for some attention, I think.”
“I understand, Jensen, and I thank you for your honesty,” Clarissa said. “We will begin this afternoon with a visit to Mrs. Rutledge in the village, and then we will go out to the Lapham farm, and perhaps some of the others if there is time.”
Jensen smiled. “Very good, Mr. Ford,” he said.
When he reached his chambers, Anders collapsed onto his bed fully clothed and fell immediately into a fitful slumber. When he woke, he was being shaken rather forcefully. Still half-asleep, he swung his arm at the intruder, groaning. But he snapped fully awake when his arm connected with soft flesh and a ladylike cry rang in his ears.
Clarissa sat sprawled on the Aubusson rug, a hand against her chest. She smiled lamely up at him. “Oof,” she said, reaching up to pull her wig straight.
Anders sat up. “I’m sorry,” he said, leaping off the bed and reaching down to help her up. “Are you alright?”
“Perfectly,” she said. “I wouldn’t have woken you, but I wondered whether you might want something to eat before we go to the village.”
“The village?” he asked, turning to the mirror that stood in one corner of the room and pulling his cravat straight. Clarissa stepped between him and the mirror and tugged at his waistcoat.
As she pulled at his collar, she said, “The two children who survived are living with their aunt in the village. I thought we might go there first, before we visit the farms.” She paused and looked up into his eyes. Then she lifted a hand and tucked a long strand of hair back behind his ear. As her fingers brushed the tender flesh of his earlobe, he shuddered. “Do you think you might do something for the aunt, Anders? Jensen says she already has too many mouths to feed.”
“Of course,” he said, smiling down at her. “But how do you know all this?”
She looked away.
“I thought I made it clear that you were to rest this morning, Clarissa,” he said.
“I know you did, but I wanted to make sure I knew a little bit about the estate before we went out. Now, are you hungry?”
Anders’s stomach growled. “It would appear so.”
“Good. I’m famished. Let’s have something to eat and then we’ll go down to the village.”
When they were seated at the table in the vast dining room, Anders asked, “Do you want to take the carriage down to the village, or can you ride?”
“Believe it or not, My Lord,” Clarissa said, “I took riding lessons as a—as a child,” she said. Anders smiled. She had been about to say ‘girl’, but had caught herself at the last moment.
“Excellent,” he said, knowing that he c
ould not ask if she could ride astride. It would be a foolish question to ask a man.
He had the horses saddled and brought around. A footman boosted first him and then Clarissa into the saddles. She settled herself atop the horse, and Anders saw that she did, indeed, have a good seat. She stroked the horse’s neck gently. “Shall we be off?” he asked.
She nodded, and they set off down the lane towards the village.
Mrs. Rutledge lived in a tiny cottage near the church. As Clarissa stepped onto the block and then down to the ground, she looked about. The cottage had a well-kept garden, as did many of its neighbors. Despite their absentee landlord, the villagers seemed to take pride in their homes.
Mr. Rutledge greeted them at the door, bowing deeply. “You do us great honor, My Lord,” he said.
“I am only sorry the circumstances of my visit are not better,” Anders said. “This is my secretary, Mr. Ford.”
“Welcome to our home, Mr. Ford,” Mr. Rutledge said, gesturing for them to come inside. In the tiny parlor sat a wan looking woman in a dark gray dress and white cap. She held a baby that could not have been more than five months old. She stood when they entered. “M’wife, Mrs. Rutledge,” their host said. “Miss Lapham, as was.”
“I am very sorry for your loss, ma’am,” Anders said softly, bowing his head.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She looked as though she might break. Her skin was very pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
“How are the children faring?” Anders asked, taking the seat by the fire Mr. Rutledge offered.
“I don’t think they quite understand, My Lord. They are playing upstairs with their cousins now. It seems that they think their family are coming soon, that they will all be together again.” Her lip began to tremble, and she clutched the child even tighter. “But they never will,” she managed to sob as the tears spilled down her cheeks.
Instinctively, Clarissa reached out and took the infant from her arms. As if she knew it was all right, Mrs. Rutledge surrendered the baby and took the handkerchief Anders had offered. Clarissa cradled the sleeping child protectively to her chest, dropping slowly onto the settee next to Mrs. Rutledge as the woman put her head in her hands and wept.
