My Lord Winter

by Carola Dunn

  He resented Miss Brooke’s disturbing his conscience. “No doubt you would be woebegone if obliged to sit beside the Manchester merchant,” he snapped.

  “Not at all. Mr. Ramsbottom’s manners leave something to be desired, admittedly, but he is not by any means difficult to converse with.”

  Her quizzical expression brought a tide of heat to his cheeks. He had not been put to the blush in years and it did nothing to improve his temper. He had no desire to continue the conversation, but if he fell silent now, he would be proving her point.

  “My sister, Mrs. Parmenter, is next.” Wife of the codfish. He dared her to comment. “Then the Honourable Eustace Tuttle. He and his wife are old friends of my aunt.” Toad-eaters who bolstered her high opinion of herself and were often to be found living in clover at the Abbey, hanging upon his sleeve—to mix several metaphors. “Lady Wintringham you recall, I trust. Then one of the two young men you brought with you, I forget his name.”

  “I cannot see from here without peering. Tall and apologetic or short and chirpy?”

  Again his lips twitched involuntarily. “Tall and apologetic, ma’am.”

  “The Honourable Aloysius Reid. You see, we had aristocratic company on the Mail, though Mr. Reid rode outside so I had no opportunity to become better acquainted.”

  “I see.” He wondered if she was on the catch for a noble husband to save her from the miserable life of a governess. So bold a female would have little trouble entrapping a meek youth like Reid. Edmund disliked the thought intensely. He would keep an eye on the two while they were under his roof, he promised himself.

  “And beside Mr. Reid?” she queried.

  “Mrs. Tuttle, my aunt’s friend, and beside her, Lady Amelia’s husband, Lord Danforth.” A good enough fellow if one expected no more of a man than to keep his acres in order, ride bruisingly to hounds, and drink himself into a stupor after dinner. Still, Cousin Amelia seemed satisfied to lord it over her rural neighbours.

  “The gentleman who looks like a country squ...as if he enjoys country pursuits?”

  Miss Brooke had a devilish penetrating eye to go with her unbridled tongue! “The Danforths spend most of their time in the country,” he admitted grudgingly.

  “Do you often go up to Town, my lord?” she asked. Though the question was casual, he gained the impression that she was more than a trifle anxious about his answer.

  “I do not care for the Season’s entertainments. I go up occasionally to speak in the House of Lords and to attend the theatre and the opera.” And for auctions of rare books, but a provincial miss would scarcely be interested in those.

  Rather than pepper him with questions about the theatre and the opera, Miss Brooke returned with an unexpected air of relief to the subject of his present guests. “Since Lord Fitzgerald is beside me, and his lady beside him, Miss Chatterton and Mr. Hancock must be in between?”

  “Yes, and they are flirting abominably.” The moment the words passed his lips, Edmund wished them unsaid. He was descending to her level and Lavinia’s coquetry was none of her business. Nor did he consider it his business. If the girl hoped to make him jealous she was going to catch cold.

  Miss Brooke giggled. “I cannot say I am surprised. I believe Mr. Hancock to be a confirmed flirt.”

  “Indeed,” he said with quelling hauteur.

  “I beg your pardon, I should not make light of it, only I did not suppose you enamoured of Miss Chatterton?”

  Ignoring her enquiring tone, Edmund took refuge in silence.

  Jane accepted his retreat philosophically. Not only had she succeeded far beyond her expectations in drawing him out, she had nearly made him smile, and she had discovered that he did not attend Society parties. He was something of a recluse, she suspected, not surprisingly since he refused to put himself to the trouble of making himself agreeable.

  Of course, she was glad there was little risk of meeting My Lord Winter in London. Still, once or twice she had caught hints that beneath that icily handsome mask lurked a human being, and she rather regretted having no chance of coming to know him better. The fog was bound to clear in the night and tomorrow she and Gracie and Ella would resume their journey to Town.

  In the meantime, she was soon going to have to face the ladies without the buffer provided by their menfolk. Thank heaven Gracie would be by her side.

  She was just wondering whether she could possibly fit in one of the delicious-looking mille-feuilles on a nearby dish, when Lady Wintringham gave the signal to the ladies to withdraw. Jane and Miss Gracechurch followed the others to the drawing-room, walking behind the awkwardly moving Lady Fitzgerald, who leaned on her sister’s arm.

  Lady Wintringham sent Miss Neville to find her embroidery and, as soon as Lady Fitzgerald was settled on a chair, she summoned Miss Chatterton to her side. The elderly Mrs. Tuttle joined them by the fire. Lady Amelia crossed to a small escritoire and began to write. Mrs. Parmenter, with an unfriendly glance at Jane and Gracie, took a seat near Lady Fitzgerald and said something to her that made her utter a faint protest.

  “I am worried about that young woman,” Gracie murmured to Jane. “If I am not mistaken, she is near her time. Do you look out of the window, my dear, and see whether the fog has lifted yet.”

  Jane went across the long room to one of the tall windows, parted the heavy olive-green velvet curtains, and peered out. A pale blankness reflected her face and the yellow glow of candle and firelight.

  “Miss Brooke!” said Lady Wintringham sharply. “Pray close the curtains at once.”

  “What can you be thinking of? We shall catch our deaths of cold,” Mrs. Tuttle seconded her, adding in a slightly lower voice, “The lower classes have no notion how those of refined sensibilities suffer from the least draught.”

  Miss Chatterton shivered ostentatiously.

  The Princess and the Pea, thought Jane, smothering a smile as she pulled the curtains together. She might have felt the chill herself had she been wearing thin silk instead of warm wool. The atmosphere was chilly enough, despite the blazing fire, and the stiffly elegant furnishings added no warmth of comfort.

  Returning to Gracie, she overheard Lady Wintringham reproving Miss Chatterton for being too familiar with Mr. Hancock. “If you think to make Wintringham jealous,” she said, “I can assure you that only a young lady of the most unexceptionable conduct has the slightest chance of winning his regard. My nephew is a high stickler. Regrettably your father is a mere baron, but I have made an exception in your case because...”

  Regretfully, Jane moved out of earshot. No doubt Miss Chatterton had connexions of the highest rank, allowing her to aspire to the earl’s hand. She wished them joy of each other.

  Miss Gracechurch had seated herself at a small table with a chequered top of inlaid ivory and ebony. Jane took the second chair and reported that the fog was as thick as ever.

  “Oh dear! Well, it cannot be helped. We must hope that Lady Fitzgerald has calculated her months correctly, since I cannot believe her husband would have brought her from home had she known she was due to give birth.”

  “No, he seems prodigious fond of her. Perhaps she is carrying twins.”

  “Perhaps. You found Lord Fitzgerald a congenial neighbour at dinner, did you not?”

  “A bore, but a friendly bore.”

  “And our host? I fear he broke off your conversation abruptly, and with displeasure.”

  “It was a triumph to draw him into conversation at all. All my polite and unexceptionable openings he squashed with monosyllables. He is so starchy and censorious that I knew I could not please him whatever I said,” Jane added guiltily, “so I did not mind my tongue as I know I ought.”

  “Oh, Jane!”

  “Dear Gracie, as you yourself said, no one knows you are my governess, so no one will blame you for my shocking lack of conduct. Look, there is a little drawer in this table, and a chess set within. Shall we play a game?” She took out the box of pieces and began to place them on the inlaid squares
on the table top. They were beautifully carved in red and yellow wood in the form of Chinese warriors.

  “I wonder whether we ought not rather to retire, since we are being ignored with such determination,” said Miss Gracechurch uneasily.

  “Fustian! I do not mean to be intimidated, I assure you. Besides, Mr. Selwyn and the others will not ignore us when the gentlemen finish their port and join us.” Also, she admitted to herself, she was not averse to another skirmish with My Lord Winter. “There, I have given you the white so the first move is yours.” Miss Gracechurch, with more experience and more patience, generally won their games, so Jane concentrated fiercely. The gentlemen came in when she was pondering a move, so she did not look up until her bishop—a Buddhist monk—had dashed across the table to rescue a mustachioed warlord of a knight.

  Mr. Selwyn had come straight over to them. “Do you object to an observer?” he enquired. “I promise not to interfere.” They welcomed him and he pulled up a chair.

  Footmen were setting up a pair of card tables. The Danforths and the Parmenters appropriated one.

  “Mr. Reid, do you play whist?” Lady Wintringham demanded.

  “N-no, my lady,” the shy young man confessed. “Only p-p-piquet.”

  “I like a good game o’ whist,” said Mr. Ramsbottom. “It’ll be a pleasure to take a hand wi’ your ladyship.”

  The countess blenched, but there was no gainsaying the cotton merchant. “Miss Chatterton, be so kind as to give us a little music,” she directed, accepting defeat. “Wintringham will turn the pages for you.”

  “Pray hold me excused, ma’am,” said the earl curtly. “I was about to offer Mr. Selwyn a game of chess. There is a second set—in the library.”

  Miss Chatterton pouted. “I daresay Miss Brooke will like to play. She cannot often have the advantage of so superior an instrument as your pianoforte, ma’am.” Possibly she hoped to embarrass Jane by exposing her deficiencies, for her tone held more malice than generosity.

  Everyone looked at Jane. She scarcely noticed, for she was staring at Lady Fitzgerald, now seated beside her sister. Knocking over several chessmen, Jane clutched Gracie’s arm. “You were right, ma’am. I believe Lady Fitzgerald is going into labour!”

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Like everyone else in the drawing-room, Edmund stared at Lady Fitzgerald. She was holding her swollen abdomen, looking surprised.

  “Send for a midwife,” yelped Fitz. “Daphne, you said there was a month yet to go!”

  “Oh, Fitz dear, you know I am so bad at numbers,” she said placidly as the contraction eased.

  “Send for a doctor,” shouted her distraught husband, clasping her hands. His own shook.

  Edmund took a stride towards the bell pull.

  “Unfortunately, the fog precludes sending for anyone.” The calm, authoritative voice was Miss Gracechurch’s. She rose and moved forward. “However, I have considerable experience with childbirth and I see no reason why her ladyship should not be safely delivered. My lord, your agitation can only distress your wife. She must be carried to her chamber.”

  “I shall carry her,” Edmund offered. “Fitz, drink a glass of brandy and pull yourself together, man.” Without waiting for a response, he picked up Lady Fitzgerald as if she were an unwieldy package full of fragile glassware, and headed for the door.

  Miss Gracechurch was there before him to open it. As he passed her, she turned her head and said quietly, “Jane?”

  Crossing the hall to the stairs. Miss Gracechurch at his side, he heard Miss Brooke saying, “My lady, we must have plenty of clean linen and hot water. Miss Gracechurch’s maid, Ella, will know what is needed. She has often worked with us. Pray give orders....”

  He started up the stairs, careful not to jar his burden, and heard no more. “That chit...that girl... Miss Brooke will assist you?”

  “She is no girl but a woman, and yes, she will assist me.” She sounded faintly amused. “I have never found it possible to prevent Jane doing anything she has set her heart on.”

  “That I can believe, more easily than that you are a midwife, ma’am.”

  “The neighbourhood where we both have lived is isolated, with neither midwife nor doctor, so I considered it my duty to learn the necessary skills.”

  “Estimable.” Edmund’s approval was dubious. Delivering babies was no proper occupation for a lady, however reduced her circumstances.

  “I am very glad you did, ma’am,” said Lady Fitzgerald with a sweet smile.

  “Gad, yes!” When it came to the present situation, he concurred wholeheartedly.

  “Poor Fitz is in such a taking,” poor Fitz’s wife continued. “Will you tell him, my lord, that I shall do very well?”

  He looked down at her in surprise. As far as he could remember, she had never before spoken so many words to him at one time, let alone asked a favour. What was more, he had supposed that a woman in labour would be moaning and groaning, not serenely reassuring her husband.

  “Of course, ma’am,” he promised. “I shall keep him company.”

  Entering the Fitzgeralds’ chamber, he laid her on the bed and, suddenly embarrassed, turned to leave just as Lady Fitzgerald’s abigail rushed in.

  “Oh, my lady, I knew this would happen,” she wailed. “I said you was reckoning the weeks wrong. What’ll we do?”

  “My good girl, you may safely leave your mistress in Miss Gracechurch’s hands.”

  “Begging your lordship’s pardon, but you don’t know nothing about it, my lord, being a man. And not even married!”

  Before he could utter the blistering rebuke that rose to his lips, he found himself shepherded towards the door by Miss Gracechurch. “I shall deal with the girl, my lord,” she said, unruffled. “Her ladyship will be glad to have someone with her whom she knows. Do you deal with the expectant father, if you please.” With a smile she added, “Yours is the harder task.”

  Next moment he was out in the passageway with the door firmly closed behind him.

  He went back down the stairs. There was something about Miss Gracechurch that inspired confidence, and the youthful Miss Brooke had also sounded calmly competent. Now he just had to convey his trust to his frantic friend.

  The drawing-room door was open, and once more he overheard voices within.

  “I must go to Daphne, my lady,” cried Lavinia. “She needs me. She will wish for a familiar face. Pray say I may go.”

  “Out of the question.” Lady Wintringham, still at her whist table with a hand of cards, sounded as scandalized as her always measured tone permitted. “No young, unmarried lady ought to know of such things, far less to be present.”

  “But Miss Brooke...”

  “My dear Miss Chatterton,” the countess interrupted, “Miss Brooke is no lady.”

  As Edmund stepped into the room, Lavinia flew across to him. “My lord, how is Daphne? Does she not ask for me?”

  He took her hands, liking her better than he had thought possible. “Your sister begged me to tell you that she is as comfortable as can be expected,” he lied. “Her abigail is with her and I am certain that Miss Gracechurch is to be relied upon.”

  Over her head, he caught Mr. Reid’s eye. The youth whispered to his friend and the two of them approached.

  “Miss Chatterton,” said Mr. Hancock with a slight bow, “Reid and I were wondering if you’d be so kind as to give us a spot of music. We both have a fancy to sing a glee or two and we need the pianoforte to keep us on the note.”

  Silently Edmund blessed them. “An excellent notion,” he said. “Fretting will not help your sister, Miss Chatterton. ‘In sweet music is such art: Killing care and grief of heart.’ ”

  She gave him an alarmed look and went off with Mr. Hancock. Mr. Reid lingered.

  “Shakespeare?” he asked. “I thought so. It don’t do to quote Shakespeare to the ladies. Mr. Selwyn took Lord Fitzgerald off to the library, my lord.”

  “Thank you.” Taken aback by the unsought advice, Edmund watched
the lanky young man lope over to the pianoforte.

  The rest of his guests had not allowed so minor a matter as a woman in labour to interfere with their whist. Danforth, a bottle at his elbow, was redder in the face than ever. He and Cousin Amelia were undoubtedly losing as usual. Edmund’s sister Judith never played unless there was a good chance of winning, and her colourless husband was tied to her apron strings.

  At the other table. Lady Wintringham was in a good humour, discernable only to those who knew her well. Her unlikely partner, Mr. Ramsbottom, must be an excellent player. Though indifferent to the money involved, her ladyship liked to win, yet she would not permit the Tuttles to lose deliberately, as they were all too willing to do. The vulgar Ramsbottom evidently had hidden depths.

  In fact, Edmund thought as he made his way towards the library, he had cause to be grateful to all his unbidden guests. Even the Mail coachman had obliged by driving his vehicle off the road, thus providing medical assistance in time of need.

  Miss Neville met him in the hall. “Is there anything I can do to help, Cousin?” she asked timidly.

  “Thank you, all is well in hand.” Edmund continued on his way.

  “But has Lady Fitzgerald any clothes for the baby?” she persisted to his back.

  He stopped and turned. “No, you are right, I don’t suppose she has. However, I would not have you stay up all night sewing.”

  “Oh no. But I am sure there is a box of baby clothes laid up in lavender in the attic.”

  “If you can find it, I shall be most grateful.”

  “I know just where it is!” Beaming, she trotted off to the stairs.

  Recalling his earlier feeling of guilt in her regard, Edmund called after her, “I should like to speak to you tomorrow, Cousin. Shall we say three o’clock, in the library?”

  She gave him a frightened nod and scurried up the stairs. He frowned, he had not meant to alarm her, but she was a nervous little woman. No matter, his intentions would be clarified on the morrow. He sent one of the footmen on duty in the hall to carry down the box if she found it.