The Loves of Lord Granton (The Changing Fortunes Series, Vol. 2)

by M C Beaton

  By the time Annabelle had finished and the tea tray was brought in and he was able to murmur excuses and make his escape to his room, he found, looking out of the window, that it was already dark outside. Poor little Frederica! She would probably be tucked up in bed by now. But he changed rapidly into clothes suitable for walking: a cambric shirt, a comfortable old coat, cotton breeches, and top boots. He hesitated. With the company still downstairs, there would be a lot of coming and going across the hall. Feeling like a guilty schoolboy, he opened his window wide. A stout creeper clung to the wall outside. With a grin, he swung himself over the windowsill and climbed nimbly down.

  He did not expect to find her still at the pool, but he was determined to go anyway, and then he would visit the rectory and try to convey a message to her that he had kept his promise.

  He walked into the dim hush of the wood, suddenly grateful for the peace and quiet of the night. And he saw a glimmer of white by the pool. She was still there!

  “Frederica!” he called.

  Frederica quickly masked the look of real gladness and relief on her face as she slowly rose and turned around.

  “I thought you had forgotten, my lord.”

  “Not I. Annabelle was playing that damned harp of hers forever. I could hardly walk out in the middle of the performance, crying, ‘Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen, but I have a secret assignation in the woods with Frederica Hadley.’”

  Frederica gave a gurgle of laughter. “I would be doomed.”

  “Let us sit down. What have you been doing?”

  “Very little. Reading. Sewing for the poor.” She tugged at her gown. “I must begin to sew for myself.”

  “Your sisters’ rejects?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Do you not have gowns of your own?”

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I lack looks, I am not considered worth the money.”

  “I have already told you that you most certainly do not lack looks.”

  “Thank you. There is great disappointment in my family because they have not seen you, except briefly at church, and must rely on servants’ gossip for news of you.”

  “I have the feeling that it would be regarded with disfavor by my hosts should I suggest a call on the rectory.”

  “Not only that. If you find Townley Hall boring, then you would find a visit to the rectory stultifying.”

  “How so?”

  “As I explained, I would need to show you my watercolors and Mary would read you some of her poetry.”

  “Is Mary a good poet?”

  “I do not think so, but perhaps I am not a very good judge.”

  “Do you remember any of her poetry?”

  “Yes, once I have heard something, it seems in my brain forever. I never forget anything.”

  “Recite me some.”

  “Her latest composition is called ‘The Contented Soldier.’”

  “Begin.”

  “I hear the raindrops patt’ring fast

  Upon my canvass’d roof;

  I see it bending to the blast,

  But still ’tis tempest proof.

  And as upon my bed of straw

  Expecting sleep I lie,

  I fear no fragile casement’s flaw,

  My bed is warm and dry.

  Dear to me that humble bed

  When tir’d with Duty’s call;

  For sweet the soldier’s sleep can be,

  If Conscience does not gall.

  Then give the great their beds of down,

  And Affluence all its charms;

  The morning shall not see me frown

  When Duty calls to arms.”

  There was a long silence when Frederica had finished. Then Lord Granton said, “That was truly wonderful.”

  “Oh dear, you do like her work!”

  “No, I mean it is truly wonderfully awful. Does she write much?”

  “Reams and reams. But I should not be cattish about Mary’s poetry. It does scan to a certain extent. I suppose I am so used to being considered the inferior one that I am delighted to hear criticism of my own sister. Quite shabby in me.”

  “But oh so human. What are you reading these days?”

  “About there being little difference between men and women.”

  “There is quite a difference, as you will find out when you are older. Who says there is no difference?”

  “It was an article in the Edinburgh Review.”

  “I am surprised the rectory not only allows you to read such an intelligent publication but pays for it, too.”

  “Oh no, Mama takes the Ladies’ Magazine for the embroidery patterns, and the article was reprinted there.”

  “And how did this learned article come to the conclusion that the sexes are the same?”

  “They argue that the difference in the masculine mind and the feminine mind arises simply through different training. They say that although they doubt that women should learn everything that men learn, there is no need for such great disparity in education between the sexes. They said that there is no just reason why a woman of forty should be more ignorant than a boy of twelve. Women—and this is so true—are excluded from all the serious business of the world. Men are lawyers, physicians, clergymen, apothecaries, and justices of the peace—positions, they point out, that require less effort than rearing and suckling children, so why should not women be employed in the professions? You see,” went on Frederica eagerly, “daughters are kept to occupations in sewing, patching, and mantua-making and, therefore, kept with nimble fingers and vacant minds.”

  “That is a very revolutionary idea.”

  “It is simply new, that is all.” Frederica tugged at his sleeve for emphasis. “Do you not see? A century ago, who would have believed that country gentlemen could be brought to read and spell with the accuracy they do now?”

  “I shall play devil’s advocate,” said Lord Granton. “It is said that the effect of knowledge is to make women pedantic and affected.”

  “That is because it is so rare, my lord. All affectation and display proceed from the supposition of possessing something better than the rest of the world possesses. Nobody is vain of possessing two arms and two legs. Diffuse knowledge among women and you will at once cure the conceit which knowledge occasions while it is rare.”

  “Now that is saying that a dandy should be aware his clothes are more expensive than anyone else’s and parade them accordingly, and yet a vain man is regarded as a coxcomb.”

  Frederica bit her lip. “It says that there is a great deal of jealousy of learned women among pompous and foolish men.”

  “I gather from your father that you yourself read a great deal of learned works. He does not protest?”

  “I am not considered marriageable, so I may read what I like. Mary prides herself on her brain, but she confines herself to acceptable womanly pursuits like writing poetry, painting watercolors, and designing tapestry.”

  He picked up a small stone and threw it in the pool. They watched the ripples spread out, sparkling under the rising moon.

  He was sitting quite close to her. He could smell a light scent coming from her body, not a fashionable perfume, something sweet and summery.

  “There is another thing you have quite forgot,” he said. “If women are to be apothecaries and lawyers and so forth, how do they find time to raise children and run a household?”

  “You see, they would be earning a wage and could pay someone to do all that for them!”

  “If you carry that argument to its logical conclusion, they will want someone else to bear the children for them. I apologize! I did not mean to be coarse.”

  “It is all right, my lord. We are not in the drawing room now or we would not dare talk thus. I think perhaps the answer is not to marry at all. Only think!” She stretched her arms wide. “A world where women can earn money at respectable jobs and do not need to marry, do not need to be condemned to a lifetime of breeding.”
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  “Is your conversation usually so indelicate?”

  “Of course not! I am not going to apologize. If you wish me to be missish, then I will go home immediately.”

  “Perhaps you should go home now in any case. What if you are missed?”

  “I will not be.”

  “What of your sisters, your mother, your maid?”

  “My mother and my sisters do not talk to me much, and I do not have a lady’s maid.”

  “So how do you come by all the books you read?”

  “The previous rector was a great scholar. When he died, his family did not want his books. His wife complained that they collected dust, and so they were left behind. There is quite an extensive library.”

  “There must be an appreciation of literature in your family or they would have been thrown out.”

  “Mama thought some of them might be valuable, and so they were all, except for a few handsome calf-bound ones, consigned to a room off the cellar in the basement. It is warm and dry. I take my candle and go down there and periodically search for more treasures.”

  “Do you read novels?”

  “Yes, my mother and sisters read those. I enjoy some of them very much indeed.”

  “You should be brought out,” he said half to himself.

  Frederica laughed. “There is no money to bring me out, and besides, we have been having an interesting discussion on the rights of women to have a good education and yet the only future you can see for me is marriage.”

  “You do not want to be a spinster!”

  “Why not? There are worse fates. I could be married to someone I don’t much like. Better to live at the rectory with my books for company. Do you plan to stay long?”

  “Not very much longer. I would have left before this, but my friend, Major Delisle, likes it here.”

  “So you are not going to propose to Annabelle?”

  “No, she doesn’t suit.”

  Frederica sighed. “How easy it is to be a man. To be able to pick and choose, to say this one won’t suit, that one will, rather like a cattle auction.”

  “The ladies have their say. You should see some of the great beauties at the Season, playing one man off against the other.”

  “But they do not have the final say. When it comes to the matter of which one they should wed, the parents have the last word. Miss Beauty might be pining for a half-pay army captain as she meets Lord Thingummy at the altar. Then after they are married and a son is secured, Lord Thingummy will return to the arms of his mistress, and Lady Thingummy, jaded and neglected, takes the army captain as a lover.”

  “You have been reading the wrong books!”

  “Do you mean it is not so?”

  “In some cases, yes, but not all.”

  Frederica suddenly went very still. He would have spoken, but she held up her hand for silence. Then she murmured, “There is someone in these woods.”

  “How can you tell?” he whispered. “I hear nothing.”

  She got to her feet. “I must go. There is a presence here. I can sense it.”

  “Wait! I shall see you again, before I go. The day after tomorrow?”

  “Very well, my lord. But earlier, please.”

  She turned and ran away lightly through the trees.

  Lord Granton stayed where he was, straining every nerve to see if he could detect a watcher. But the wood was very quiet.

  At last he rose and headed out of the wood.

  Behind an oak tree, poacher Jack Muir heaved a sigh of relief. But as he, too, walked home with two rabbits concealed in the back pocket of his coat, he wondered what was going on with that pair. Miss Frederica from the rectory he knew by sight. She had called the man “my lord.” It was probably that Lord Granton who was staying at Townley Hall. His slow brain turned the information over and over in his mind, wondering if there was any money to be made out of it.

  The following day Lord Granton and the major were out driving through the village with their hosts. As they passed the church, Lord Granton said suddenly, “Why do we not call on the rector?”

  “He is probably out on his parish rounds,” Annabelle said quickly.

  “Shall we see, nonetheless?” Lord Granton said pleasantly, and with obvious reluctance, Sir Giles called to the coachman to stop.

  Lord Granton heard a piercing scream from the rectory and wondered if someone had met with an accident.

  But it was Mrs. Hadley, who had looked out the window of an upstairs room to witness their arrival and had screamed with alarm and surprise. For days and days she and Mary, Amy, and Harriet had been dressed in their finest, sitting, waiting, striking various Attitudes in the drawing room, but on this day they had given up hope. Amy and Harriet were still in bed, and Mary was mixing messes in the stillroom, and Mrs. Hadley herself was still in her undress.

  She darted into Amy’s room and then Harriet’s, screaming that they must rise and dress in minutes. “Lord Granton is here! He is arrived!”

  Down in the stillroom, Mary heard this and dropped a bottle of lavender water to the floor, where it splintered.

  Meanwhile the company were being led into the drawing room by a little maid.

  “Just listen to the fuss abovestairs,” said Annabelle with a smile. “We have come at a bad moment.”

  “Exactly, my dear,” said Lady Crown. “I think we should leave.”

  Lord Granton frowned. “I think the fuss is because they are making ready for our call. It would be most rude to leave now.” He leaned back in an armchair and crossed his legs.

  Finally the door opened, and a breathless and flurried Mrs. Hadley came in.

  “You must have tea,” she gasped after curtsying all round. “Yes, tea. Such another hot day. Quite tropical.”

  “There is no need,” said Annabelle. “Lord Granton was desirous to speak to Dr. Hadley, but as he is obviously not here…”

  “But he will be back any minute,” said Mrs. Hadley, and then screamed at the maid, “Don’t stand there gawking, girl. Tea! Tea!”

  Annabelle raised her eyes to heaven, then shot a rueful look at Lord Granton.

  Amy, Harriet, and Mary came in. Amy and Harriet were in white muslin, Mary in lilac silk. And Mary, Annabelle noticed with a sinking heart, was carrying a sheaf of what looked like poetry.

  “So there are my beauties,” said Mrs. Hadley proudly after the introductions had been made.

  “And Miss Frederica?” asked Lord Granton.

  “I am sure she is about somewhere,” said Mrs. Hadley vaguely. “Always wandering, that girl.”

  “I have written a poem in honor of your arrival,” said Mary, stepping forward.

  “Oh, please,” complained Annabelle, “I am sure Lord Granton is eager to be on his way.”

  But Lord Granton wanted to wait a little longer to see if Frederica made her appearance and so he said, “I would be charmed to hear it.”

  Mary took up a stance in the middle of the room. Harriet and Amy reclined in various Attitudes on the sofa.

  “‘To Friendship,’” began Mary.

  She cleared her throat and read her poem.

  “Spring of delight! My muse would fain

  Present a tribute to thy name:

  Thy name belov’d by all!

  Thy smile benign can soften pains:

  Before thee Slav’ry drops her chains;

  Fear ceases to appal.

  Oh! May I always feel thy pow’r

  Companion of the rural bow’r,

  Thou sweetener of life;

  I ask no greater bliss below,

  Thy presence makes my bosom glow,