The Husband Campaign

by Regina Scott

  John glanced out into the field. Contessa had herded the other mares into formation. As a group, they trotted and turned, weaving about the grass in a complex dance.

  “Cavalry drills,” John explained. “She was well trained, and the training never left her. We have another mare who also served on the Peninsula, though she came back in better shape. She knows to follow Contessa’s lead.”

  Amelia was quiet for a moment, and he could see she was watching the horses. They gathered, then charged across the field, hooves as loud as thunder, grass flying up behind them. He could almost hear the bugle blowing.

  “We all march to the drum,” she murmured. “However we are raised, however we are trained, it never seems to leave us. Do you think we can break free?”

  John frowned, glancing at her. Her gaze never left the horses, but her hands were clasped in front of her so tightly her knuckles showed white.

  “I have done everything to make Contessa comfortable,” he assured her. “For all intents and purposes, she is a hunter again.”

  “And yet she remembers. I wonder if the same could be said of people.”

  Was that her worry? Did she think herself too used to London Society to deal well in the country? She seemed to have acclimated well, if he was any judge.

  “We can all learn,” he answered. “All grow and change. That choice is ours to make.”

  She unclasped her hands and turned to him, taking a deep breath as if his words had given her hope.

  “And so we must choose,” she said. “Thank you for being willing to consider my changes in the household, my lord. Unfortunately, your butler insists that we have no funds to support additional staff. I thought perhaps my dowry...”

  John held up his hand to stop her. “There’s no need to touch your dowry.”

  She took another breath as if trying to come up with a way to counter his refusal. “If there isn’t any other budget...”

  There wasn’t a dowry, either. He might never have married before, but he knew about the arrangements that were generally made when people of their class wed. A wealthy man might agree to settle a father’s debts, take care of an aging mother or younger siblings. A bride from a wealthy family, such as Amelia’s, might expect monies to be set aside for her use in buying clothing or accoutrements, for her children’s future and her own should she become a widow. Certainly James had provided for Caro, though he hadn’t thought she’d need that money quite so soon.

  The solicitor for Amelia’s family had made sure the marriage settlements included the language about Lord Wesworth’s colt. John had added in the words about setting aside money from Hollyoak Farm for Amelia should he pass away prematurely. Her father had offered nothing for her dowry. Marrying someone related to the Wesworth title seemed to be sufficient contribution to the marriage in his mind.

  “I can find the monies,” John told her now. “I’m not a skinflint, Amelia. I’ve refused some of the staff’s suggestions because I don’t believe in spending money on fripperies. But I will own that I find the house uninviting. If you have the patience to deal with that, I commend you. Draw up a plan, and I will provide the funds to complete it.”

  He would have thought he’d offered her the moon by the way she smiled. More, moisture glistened in her blue eyes as if she was truly touched. This time, he could not stop himself from leaning closer. Lips curving, she leaned closer, as well.

  “Watch out!”

  John jerked back at his groom’s cry, but not before a black shadow flew past. Magnum thundered to a stop in front of Amelia and blew a breath of challenge in her face.

  Most people would have cried out, backed away. Amelia held her ground, calm, cool.

  “Good afternoon, Magnum,” she said as if meeting the vicar in Hyde Park. “Have you forgotten your manners, sir?”

  Apparently so, for the black reared up and pawed the air, bugling his protest. From across the field, Contessa answered, whirling to race toward them.

  John dodged in front of Amelia. “Down!” he commanded the black.

  Magnum’s hooves hit the ground with a thud. He shook his massive head, hard.

  “Go on,” John told him with a wave of his hand. “Fight with someone your own size.”

  The black wheeled and took off across the field. When John was sure the stallion was running with Contessa, he turned to Amelia.

  Her face was crumpled, her lower lip trembling.

  John didn’t know what to do. Had she been a horse, he would have used calming words, perhaps stroked her face. Both seemed impertinent in the extreme. How was a man to soothe the fears of his own wife?

  “I don’t know what got into him,” he said.

  “Perhaps he, too, dislikes change,” Amelia murmured. “Excuse me, my lord. I have work inside, where I belong.”

  She turned and hurried for the house. Magnum’s reaction had clearly hurt her. She took such things seriously, it seemed.

  So did John. He’d always found horses to be excellent judges of character.

  What was it about Amelia that Magnum should so dislike her?

  Chapter Nine

  His horse hated her! Amelia hurried back across the field for the safety of the house. She was still shaking from the way the black had reared over her. Her father’s master of horse had always advised her never to show a horse that she was afraid. Even though she’d tried to remain calm, she was fairly certain Magnum knew he terrified her. But by remaining calm, at least she hadn’t disgraced herself in John’s eyes!

  She took a deep breath and forced her steps to slow to a ladylike tread. She should focus on her campaign.

  Her governess had provided an overview of history, and Amelia had been fascinated enough to read some of the treatises in her father’s library about the lives and plans of various military men of renown. They studied their opponents, revised their tactics, looked beyond individual battles to winning the war itself. Magnum’s attitude was a skirmish. She had bigger battles to fight.

  She had nearly reached the house when she noticed a movement on the road leading to the farm. Shading her eyes with her hand, she peered across the pasture.

  A man sat on a swaybacked brown horse. She could not make out its features or his, but something flashed in the sunlight. The reflection of a spy glass? Was someone watching the farm?

  A groom called out just then, and she turned to find that one of the yearlings had slipped his lead. He trotted into the yard, rear end higher than his shoulders, so ungainly yet, and so curious about everything, sniffing at a water pail, hopping past a weed growing up through the gravel. Amelia smiled as the groom came running and the horse darted away, clearly intent on being chased.

  When she looked back at the road, the man was riding off, the reins held wide. Far too wide.

  No! It couldn’t be the same man they’d seen on the way north. What would he be doing in Derby and spying on John? There had to be another explanation. And she had more important things to attend to in any regard. The most important was to develop the proposal John had asked for. She smiled as she let herself into the house. He acted as if he had the utmost confidence in her abilities. How refreshing! She would not let him, or herself, down.

  Accordingly, she spent the rest of the afternoon at the secretary in the withdrawing room, writing out her plan. Turner puttered about the room, straightening books on the shelves, rearranging the porcelain figurines Amelia had brought with her and placed on the side tables. She seemed to take any excuse to wander by and glance over Amelia’s shoulder.

  “You will see,” Amelia finally said, offering Turner a smile as she paused beside the secretary, “that I’ve included a spot for a lady’s maid.”

  Turner dipped a curtsy, spreading her gray skirts wide. “I can’t read, your ladyship, so I didn’t know.” She offered a smile back. “But
I can recognize my name, and I was curious if it might appear on your paper. Is that a list of servants you’re laying out, then?”

  “A list of positions and responsibilities,” Amelia confirmed. “I’d like to include wages as well as uniform and food costs, but I’m not sure what those would entail. I never had to deal with such things in London, and I imagine the cost here is different in any regard.”

  “Oh, very likely,” Turner agreed. “I can help you there. Mrs. Dunworthy was forever going on about the cost of things. And I know how the other houses run on account of the Conclave.”

  “The Conclave?” Amelia asked with a frown, lifting her quill from the page.

  Turner nodded eagerly. “It’s a group of servants who meet at the village inn every Sunday afternoon for fellowship.” She sidled closer. “If you have need of other servants, I can tell you who’s looking.”

  Amelia would hardly be welcomed in the dale if she went around poaching other people’s staff. “I wouldn’t want to encourage a servant to leave his master,” Amelia warned her.

  “Oh, certainly not!” Turner’s protest was at odds with the fervent light in her eyes. “But there are any number of reasons a serving person might wish to change places.” She went on to name a few.

  Mr. Hennessy at Lord Danning’s lodge felt his talents wasted at the retreat that saw no more than a month’s activity a year. Amelia had been impressed with his orderly way of managing things when she’d stayed at the lodge earlier. A footman and maid at Bellweather Hall, the home of the Duke of Bellington, were about to be discharged before his mother, the duchess, returned from London because their mistress felt they weren’t “grand” enough for a ducal estate.

  And because Turner’s mistress had left the area, the maid would have to return to cleaning and polishing if she wished to stay on at the Grange.

  “So we could solve most of our servant problems right here in Dovecote Dale,” Amelia explained to John that night over a much-improved supper.

  “Excellent plan,” John said as he reviewed the papers she’d handed him. He took a bite of the salmon with dill sauce and nodded. “Carry on.”

  Indeed, he never argued, never complained as she set about making changes in the house. She donated the heavy, dark drapes that eclipsed the windows to the Poor House to make shrouds for coffins. She retired the butler and brought in Mr. Hennessy, who promptly set to work instructing the two footmen, new maid and Turner on what he expected of them.

  Out went the dark furnishings, to be replaced by lighter woods and paler colors still in keeping with the country estate. Dusty navy bed hangings were traded for flowered chintz. Carpets were beaten, upholstery brushed and every wooden surface polished. She put flowers in each room, mirrors wherever feasible. The only two rooms she didn’t touch were John’s library and his bedchamber.

  If John noticed the changes, however, he did not comment. He ate dinner with her along with Dr. Fletcher, listened to her and offered insights when necessary. If she asked after his horses, she was likely to receive a quarter hour’s discourse on such things as dealing with colic, replacing a thrown shoe and replanting the south pasture. It was all too easy to be disappointed.

  Yet she could not doubt that what she’d done was an improvement. The staff worked efficiently and effectively; the rooms were far brighter and more comfortable; meals were pleasing to the taste as well as the sight, and they generally arrived when expected.

  The same, unfortunately, could not be said of John’s visitors. The first set arrived less than a week after Amelia had come to the farm. She’d been discussing options for the proper storage of the silver with Mr. Hennessy when the new footman, Reams, came to find her. While the butler was a strapping fellow with a commanding presence as well suited to the battlefield as household management, Reams still needed to add a few pounds before he grew into his height.

  “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, Mr. Hennessy,” he said, bobbing his head so hard he lost the center part on his brown hair. “But his lordship has visitors.” He lowered his voice. “He called them Amble Bys.”

  Amelia had heard Dr. Fletcher use the phrase. It seemed to apply to people who came to exclaim over John’s horses but not to buy. She’d been one the first time she’d come to Hollyoak Farm with Lord Danning. Now it was her turn to entertain them.

  “Tell Mr. Shanter to have lemonade, pastries, cheese and fruit ready,” Amelia told her new butler. “Reams, ask Turner to bring me my white parasol with the tassels.”

  Suitably armed with her parasol over her head, Amelia ventured out into the stable yard. Standing beside a travel carriage were a white-haired gentleman whose stomach nearly popped the silver buttons off his embroidered waistcoat and two young ladies with an excessive amount of brown curls and a tendency to giggle behind their gloved hands.

  John’s glower was particularly pronounced as he waited next to them, hands clasped behind his tweed coat. His head came up as Amelia approached, and his hair fell across his brow as if it, too, longed to escape.

  “My wife, Lady Hascot,” he said without preamble. “Mr. Gideon Pettibone and granddaughters.”

  Mr. Pettibone took her hand and pressed it fervently. “Lady Hascot, a pleasure. I was just telling my girls how Hollyoak Farm must have changed with a lady in residence. Count on it, I said. She’ll have knocked the rough edges off the fellow. Eh?” He laughed at his own wit and set his granddaughters to giggling anew.

  “I have no more time for pleasantries,” John said, displaying all his rough edges. “Good day.” He stalked back to the nearest stable.

  Amelia drew a breath. He’d said she was to look after these sorts of visitors, but she hadn’t expected him to disappear. She’d never been particularly good with strangers. Certainly her mother had been better at discouraging acquaintance rather than encouraging it. But now three sets of eyes looked to her for understanding and entertainment.

  “Welcome to Hollyoak Farm,” she said. “I take it you like horses.”

  As opening gambits went, it was not especially witty or endearing. But Mr. Pettibone and his granddaughters brightened, and they told her all about their admiration of shire-bred horses, the best of the hunting class, as she led them along the fence edging the pasture closest to the house.

  “See there, girls,” Mr. Pettibone said with a nod out to the obstacles John had erected on the field. “That’s where he teaches them to jump.”

  One of the grooms was working with a two-year-old named Falling Star for the bordered star that ran down her nose. As Amelia watched, he urged the dark bay horse to take a low fence. The Pettibone granddaughters applauded when the mare sailed over.

  “My friend Squire Welton brings his hunting dogs by every September,” Mr. Pettibone confided to Amelia. “To help accustom the horses to working with the hounds.”

  That must be an interesting week at Hollyoak Farm. “I understand from Dr. Fletcher, our veterinarian, that all our horses are thoroughly trained before their first hunt,” Amelia explained to her interested listeners. “They must be able to control their speed, walk backward and wait should other horses need to pass.” She went on to point out the various horses currently visible. Dr. Fletcher had told her their names over dinner a few evenings ago.

  “What about that one?” one of the girls asked, pointing to where Contessa had nipped at the shoulder of the mare Providence, who had leaned too close. “She looks mean.”

  Amelia smiled. “She is more stern than mean, like a good governess. She leads the herd and must make sure every horse is safe. She’s very disciplined, having served on the Peninsula carrying a valiant officer into battle.”

  The youngest girl was instantly enamored, her brown eyes shining, and Amelia couldn’t help thinking that John had made a great mistake by depriving himself of their company.

  “Charming,” Mr. Pettibone assured Amelia
after he and his granddaughters had consumed excessive amounts of food and Amelia had returned them to their waiting coach. “I must say, it isn’t at all what I expected.”

  “What did you expect, sir?” Amelia asked, curious.

  He made sure his granddaughters were safely in the coach before lowering his voice and leaning closer to Amelia.

  “You must know, my dear, that your husband has a reputation for incivility. A few in the capital have taken offense at his refusal to sell to them. You would do well to watch yourself.” He patted her hand, then climbed in after his girls.

  Amelia waved at them until they left the yard. She knew John had earned his reputation for gruffness, and certainly he was allowed to sell to whomever he pleased. She simply didn’t understand how that would affect her. It wasn’t as if she was going to be spending any time in Society soon.

  She scarcely spent time in her husband’s society. She was to tend to the interior of the house; his province was outside.

  But perhaps she could change that. Campaigning generals did not hesitate to advance into enemy territory if it served their purposes. Perhaps instead of waiting for John to come to her, it was time she took her efforts to John.

  * * *

  His home was no longer his own. John couldn’t help the thought as he rode Magnum in from inspecting the south planting. Hollyoak Farm still crouched upon the fields, squat and square, but inside she sparkled. Nay, she demanded a smile, a cheerful attitude, a pleasant word. Though his library and bedchamber remained untouched islands, he found it all a bit uncomfortable.

  Yet he could not deny that Amelia had made a difference. He had never eaten better. No longer did his footman have to apologize for the dust on his seldom-used coats. And listening to Amelia over dinner was a highly satisfying way to end the day.

  He rode into the paddock, turned Magnum to help quiet him. No groom came running to take the reins. John slipped from the saddle and grabbed them up himself. Still no one came to lead the big horse to its stall.

  Had something happened?