by Allison Lane
“This will only take a moment. You must tell me what is wrong with this verse.”
“I cannot believe such ramshackle manners,” she snapped. “This is neither the time nor the place. Either behave, or I won’t listen to it at all.”
Reginald glared at John, but reluctantly headed for the family dining room.
“Is he facing a deadline?” asked John.
“Heavens, no.” She lowered her voice. “His poetry is abominable, but it keeps him occupied.”
“If it is occupation he seeks, why does he not do something useful?”
“Many activities are closed to him – weak chest. And as he won’t set aside his verse to serve as a gentleman’s secretary or demean himself by accepting some lower post…” She let the sentence hang as they entered the dining room.
If Simmons was strong enough to throw petulant fits, he could certainly earn his keep. Even duke’s younger sons were expected to support themselves once they came of age. Their great-grandsons…
But it wasn’t John’s place to interfere, so he seated Miss Harper, then took the place to her right that had been laid for him.
The first bite distracted him from lust, puzzles, and everything else. The food was awful. Half was oversalted, the rest unrecognizable. The fish had turned some time ago. No wonder Lord Chester ate elsewhere. If this was the usual fare at Westcourt, he might have to do the same.
Forcing a polite expression onto his face, he gamely chewed.
* * * *
Faith kept her head down lest Mr. Lascar note her embarrassment. If only she hadn’t been delayed, she could have contrived a warmer welcome. He deserved better than snubs. His consequence was equal to the doctor’s, yet Hortense and Reginald were treating him like the village looby.
Of course, it had been three years since Doctor Bainbridge had last dined at Westcourt, so everyone was out of practice. Or perhaps they were as embarrassed as she that a stranger had invaded their private sanctums, seeing how poorly they lived. Catherine received callers in the formal drawing room, which was kept as elegant as they could contrive, but no one had penetrated the rest of the house since Cook’s last spell.
Poor Cook. Tonight’s dinner was worse than usual. How much longer could Faith protect her from Chester? Or from Catherine, for that matter. If Mr. Lascar complained…
Yet he might help there, too, in the end. If he convinced the trustees to visit Westcourt, they would see for themselves that they must pension off those who had served long past their time. Chester wouldn’t do it, but the trustees could, if only they would exercise their power. Even if they couldn’t visit in person, surely they would send a representative to validate Mr. Lascar’s report.
“You’ll love what I wrote today,” Reginald murmured, sliding his chair closer. He struck a pose and began a verse extolling the glories of the sun – maybe. His confusing imagery made his poetry so obscure she often didn’t understand a word of it.
“Not now,” she said crossly. “One cannot pay proper attention while eating.”
“You converse while eating.”
“Conversation does not require deep thought.”
“Faith! You must—”
“No. Manners require that you speak with Esther this course. Move back where you belong.”
“What nonsense! We never follow formal rules at dinner.”
It was true. The family generally spoke over and around each other, often disagreeably. Fighting vied with complaining as their favorite pastime. She was rarely included in such conversations, of course, but she didn’t object. It was enough that Catherine no longer treated her like an insect.
Reginald was responsible for that change, which was why she tolerated his muse nonsense. But it was growing tedious.
“Manners always demand formality when the table includes guests,” she reminded him.
“How many times—” He snapped his mouth shut when she scowled. “Please, Faith,” he tried instead.
“Later.” Faith turned to Mr. Lascar, who was eating silently – Baines had left an empty seat between him and colonel, so there was nothing else he could do. “We will finish your tour in the morning, sir.”
“Thank you. Are the outbuildings as neglected as the house?”
“No. Chester demands adequate stabling.”
“God forbid that his horses live as poorly as we do,” muttered Hortense, jumping into the conversation.
“That’s enough, Hortense,” said Catherine. “You know very well that it is Firby who maintains the stables. He is a stickler for order.”
Something flashed in Mr. Lascar’s eyes, but he said nothing beyond, “We will begin in the Tudor wing. It looks unstable. A collapse may endanger the house.”
She sighed. “Very well.”
“You needn’t accompany me for that portion. I won’t risk anyone else.”
“Nonsense. Someone must be at hand to summon help when you are dispatched by a falling chimney or rotten floor.”
“There’s no need—”
Reginald tugged on her arm. “If you’re going to run off tomorrow, then you must help me now.”
“I haven’t time.”
“You had time to invade my study this afternoon!”
“Chester ordered Mr. Lascar to inspect the entire house. If you object, discuss it with him.”
“First you must help me with this verse. Rays command and blossoms stay / hapless ’mongst the dawning day / to me they—”
“Chester should have joined us this evening,” Catherine barked, thankfully drowning Reginald’s voice. But interrupting his perorations in front of a stranger revealed how furious she was. “I’m ashamed to claim kinship with that man. His manners are deplorable.”
“Nonsense,” snorted Hortense. “He knows better than to eat this rubbish. The fish has gone off again.” She gulped wine to wash away the taste even as she signaled the footman to remove her plate.
Catherine glared. “Mind your own manners, Hortense. Condoning his irresponsibility won’t earn you the dower house. You know you hate him as much as we do.”
“I know no such thing,” snapped Hortense as Esther cringed beside her. Esther hated strife.
Faith shook her head. Catherine and Hortense had been at odds over the dower house for years, though it was hardly dinner-table conversation. Each wanted to live there and did everything she could to draw favorable notice from Chester. He would never agree to open it, but everyone had dreams.
Catherine pushed her soup aside. “You would do better to consider how to support yourselves, girls. Once Chester has the title, he’ll see the lot of you on the road.”
Esther dropped her spoon. Hortense frowned. It was the first time any of them had admitted the possibility aloud.
“That was unkind, my lady,” the colonel growled, forking fish into his mouth. “Chester may be selfish, but he cares greatly for society’s welcome. Ignoring his duty would lower his consequence.”
“But what is duty?” demanded Catherine. “Some gentlemen limit their duty to parents and children. Others don’t even go that far. Do you really think Chester will provide for distant cousins?”
Everyone burst into speech, even Esther and Reginald.
Faith shrank into her chair. The brangling was bad enough, but how could they argue here? Even if Mr. Lascar remained silent, the tale would sweep Buckinghamshire by morning, for the staff owed them no allegiance.
At least Faith had already planned her own future. Now the others must do likewise. No longer could decisions be postponed until the duke returned.
“Chester would never toss us out,” shouted Reginald, interrupting Catherine. “We’re his family and his responsibility. But you will be gone. Marriage severed our duty to you. It’s time your husband’s family lived up to their responsibilities.”
“How dare you!” Catherine snapped. “I will certainly remain. It was Chester himself who suggested I return home, so he will never toss me out. It is you who must leave. Your own argume
nt condemns you, for your only connection is through two females. Where is your father’s family if you truly need help?”
“How dare—”
“Don’t curse me for pointing out truth. Chester doesn’t tolerate wastrels. Nor will he accept other men’s responsibilities. Don’t think you can twist him round by claiming patronage of the arts. He was selfish from the moment he was born.”
“You’re wrong. He won’t waste money on those who shamed the family”—he smiled maliciously—“but he will never deny a poet. All gentlemen support the arts.”
“Hah!” Catherine straightened an already stiff back. “He has no use for poetry or any other genteel occupation. Your wishes matter only if they match his own.”
“Then the dower house is ours.” Hortense smiled. “He is obliged to house us but will not wish us underfoot.”
“Blind as bats, both of you.” Catherine shook her head. “He is obliged to pay you a quarterly allowance. Nothing obligates him to more.”
“But we could never support a cottage on what he pays.” Esther’s voice cracked.
“Cease your incessant megrims,” snapped Catherine. “Spinsters can’t afford to put on airs. It would serve you right if Chester tossed you out without a farthing to your name.”
Esther burst into tears.
Faith shrank into her seat as a furious Hortense turned on Catherine. Meals were never pleasant, but this was the worst she could recall. Voices rose from all sides. The colonel ordered Esther to buck up and face the future like a man. Catherine barked insults. Reginald kept tempers on the boil.
Esther’s cat jumped from her lap, taking advantage of the chaos to sink its claws into Reginald. He smacked the beast into the wall, sending Esther into screaming hysteria.
Faith couldn’t recall a worse evening. She hid her flaming face as Mr. Lascar valiantly sipped soup, more of a gentleman than anyone else at the table.
Chapter Four
Westcourt’s staff is very good, which leaves me little to do. Mrs. Baines runs the house with a firm hand, and Cook’s scones would tempt a god. So I will look for occupation outside. Westcourt has no rose garden. No flowers of any kind. A curious lack…
Duchess of Westfield, May 1784
“Ignore them,” Faith murmured to Mr. Lascar as she signaled for the next course. “They are unsettled just now. No matter what the investigator discovers, change is coming.”
He shifted so the footman could replace his plate, then met her gaze. “Will Lord Chester really turn them off?”
“Probably. He despises them. Your arrival is forcing them to confront the future.”
“But why must they leave? Every estate in England houses family connections.”
“Chester doesn’t care. He considers us all parasites so there is little hope that he will behave kindly.” She lowered her voice, leaning closer as the argument grew louder. This wasn’t a topic anyone raised with strangers, but nothing about this meal was usual. And she needed an impartial ear to help her organize her thoughts. She had so little experience in the world.
“The real problem is that they have nowhere to go. I can find a post as a companion, but Colonel Parker’s pension won’t cover more than a shabby room. Even a cottage is out of his reach. As it will be for Esther and Hortense – Chester will slash their allowance the moment he controls the ducal purse, for he despised their father. Lady Catherine has no income at all. Her husband lost everything at faro, then killed himself. His brother blamed her. He has his own financial woes, so refused to take her in.” She shrugged. “If Chester really did suggest she apply to the trustees, it can only be because he hoped she would drive the rest of us off.”
“I don’t understand why Lord Chester would object to any of you. The house must be maintained whether people are in residence or not. Is the estate so pinched that feeding six mouths threatens it with ruin?”
“Of course not. The dukedom has always been wealthy, and the trustees have made it more so. Chester games often and deep, so he does not skimp when it comes to his own pleasures, but he resents spending a groat on others. Repairing the house to create an impressive seat suits him. But he will not share. Nor will he open the dower house.”
“So inflating the price of his most unsuitable requests will not discourage him.”
It took her a moment to follow his thoughts. “He will pay whatever he must to obtain what he wants, for he is selfish rather than miserly. If anything, he will prefer extravagant changes because they are out of reach of the average man.”
The argument finally ceased as Ned set the last serving dish on the table. It looked even less appetizing than usual.
Faith picked at her food. Something had to be done about Mrs. Foley. Her last spell left her unable to work a full day. What she did manage was far from her old standards. Tonight she’d sent up a stringy joint, grayish cabbage, overdone turnips, and something that might have been beans.
“No wonder Lord Chester dines elsewhere,” murmured Mr. Lascar so only she could hear. “Does he keep an incompetent cook to encourage you to leave?”
“No.” She would have continued, but the colonel interrupted.
“Mutton again,” he growled.
“Cook must have scoured the county to find a sheep this stringy,” grumbled Hortense.
“Cook does her best.”
Faith nearly dropped her fork, for the comment came from Catherine. The woman usually led the outcry against Cook. Only Chester’s refusal to pay more than twenty pounds a year kept Catherine from firing Mrs. Foley. A decent cook would demand as much as a hundred and expect to serve guests frequently, thus gaining a reputation for excellence.
But perhaps this was Catherine’s way to atone for her appalling manners. By now she must realize that Mr. Lascar was not only superior to the average tradesman, but that he had access to upper class homes. If he reported this scene… A shattered reputation would make it impossible to return to her husband’s family.
Catherine’s next words validated Faith’s suspicions. “Forgive us, Mr. Lascar. Our hospitality is sadly lacking. We do our best, but…” She paused to grope for an excuse. “Westcourt has been deteriorating for thirty years. What the duchess was thinking to send the ninth duke away I will never understand. Better to keep the boy home so he could learn about his inheritance.”
“You know she didn’t think,” said Esther hesitantly. “She ran mad.”
“Of course she ran mad.” Catherine scowled. “What else can one expect from chits who wear their hearts on their sleeves and ignore every precept of proper behavior? Why Richard thought her suitable… Bewitched, he was, and uncaring of how an ill-bred wife would affect us all. But he should at least have anticipated where it would lead. He saw the credence she put in that medieval rubbish.”
Faith nearly choked. Catherine’s purpose was now clear. By blaming the duchess for Westcourt’s deficiencies, Catherine could sidestep any responsibility – she’d reigned over Westcourt for fifteen years.
“I heard that she ran mad,” said Mr. Lascar slowly, keeping his eyes turned from Faith. “But no one mentioned medieval rubbish.”
“She loved tales that extolled the virtues of fostering heirs away from the competition of siblings.” Catherine lifted her head in judgment. “Richard was barely cold before she sent poor Montrose away. And him but two, with no siblings at all! A fragile, sickly child, small for his age. Yet she sent him away! Murderous to expose his constitution to the vagaries of the world. She might as well have smothered him and been done with it.”
“Fustian!” snapped Hortense, misreading Catherine’s purpose, as usual. “Her Grace had no interest in medieval tales, as you would know if you’d spent more than two minutes with her. Granted, she was odd, but that was from inferior breeding, not madness. Her mother’s family was quite common.”
“All the more reason to blame Richard.” Catherine glared.
“And I can assure you she had no interest in chivalry,” added Hortense. “I’ve al
ways believed the maid put that nonsense into her head, then abducted Montrose the moment they escaped Westcourt. You know how venal the servant class is.”
Mr. Lascar ground his teeth.
Faith covered his hand. “She doesn’t mean you,” she murmured. “Hortense is blunt to a fault and often exaggerates. I suspect she’s just being contrary, for there is less evidence for abduction than for an interest in chivalry.”
He said nothing, but he seemed less tense.
“I’ve never heard a more preposterous theory,” snapped Catherine.
“Because you don’t listen.”
“But there was no ransom demand!” Catherine set her knife down so hard it bounced.
“Of course not. The boy died during their escape. The duchess realized that revealing that truth would see her tossed out – or prosecuted for collaborating.” Hortense waved her fork, sending a clump of mutton flying. “I recall that period perfectly well. The duchess swore that seeing Montrose worsened her grief, though we knew that was false. Montrose eased her mind; she was always calmer with him at hand. So the maid must have suggested that explanation.”
“Hardly,” scoffed the colonel. “She’d made that claim for days before the maid left.”
“You’re wrong. The maid made that claim, harping on it until the duchess agreed to send him away for a few days. But she never intended his exile to last. Not once did she think the maid might be false. When she discovered her mistake, she nearly died of the shock.”
“Nonsense!” snapped the colonel. “If she meant to bring him back, she would know where he was supposed to be. But she swore time and again that she knew nothing. I was here the last year of her life, as you were not – not once did you call. Even on her deathbed, when she knew the end was near, and we begged and pleaded for information, she could not tell us where the boy was. Because she didn’t know.”
“Because she was deluded by her maid,” insisted Hortense. “They hadn’t gone to the town house like she’d ordered.”
Catherine thumped her cane. “If she fell prey to anything, it was medieval chivalry.”
