by Carola Dunn
Since she greeted his every word with breathless delight and laughed at his weakest witticisms, this was not difficult. It was gratifying that his lack of practice at pleasing young ladies was no hindrance. When she left, he escorted her and her mother to the door and kissed her hand warmly.
“Hermione Grove is a widgeon,” snapped Lady Farleigh as he returned to the drawing room, “and that chit has her wrapped completely around her little finger. I suppose we may expect an endless stream of gawkers now that the word is out.”
“If so, I beg you will not tire yourself with receiving them, ma’am. If I am not at home, I shall satisfy their curiosity by returning their calls as soon as maybe.”
“Nonsense, Major. I daresay it will afford me considerable amusement, so long as I am not expected to stir from my chair. By the way, I hear you sent for Deakins.”
“Deakins? Oh, yes, the bailiff. I understand he went to Manchester on business and is not expected back until the day after tomorrow. I have much to learn and the sooner I start the better.”
“Admirable. Farleigh paid too little attention to the estate, being more interested in building.”
“To magnificent effect, ma’am,” Bernard put in, indicating with his good arm the splendid room, and the mansion beyond.
Chris nodded agreement, but he could not help wondering just how much damage the late earl’s neglect of his land had left for his heir to mend.
In the middle of the afternoon a groom arrived from Grove Park, with an invitation to dinner on the following day.
“Vulgar woman,” snorted Lady Farleigh. “As if being first to meet you were not a fine enough feather in her cap, she must needs be first to entertain you also.”
“Do you care to go, ma’am?” Chris looked forward to the opportunity of seeing Miss Grove again.
“Certainly not! I never go out, as Hermione Grove is well aware. At least she has enough sense of propriety to address the invitation to me, but that need not stop you, of course.”
“I believe I shall go, then. It must be an object with me to avoid offending my neighbours.”
Bernard was resting in his chamber. Chris went up to convey the invitation, though he did not think his friend strong enough for an evening party.
“You mean to accept?” Bernard sat up, his thin face brightening. “I cannot wait to see the beauty again.”
“I had hoped to leave you behind. Miss Grove will not look at me when there is a wounded war hero to cosset.”
“It will be good for you to have a rival. I shall do, Chris, truly. Dr. Bidwell told me I must exert myself to recover my strength, and since you insisted on bringing him from Broadway to look me over, you must abide by his word. You cannot keep me wrapped in cotton for ever.”
“He seemed competent. Very well, come then if you are quite sure, but if I catch you casting sheep’s eyes at the young lady, we shall leave early.”
“Devil a bit! I give you fair warning that I mean to cut you out if I can.”
“What, marriage?” Chris laughed. “I had not thought so far.”
Bernard lay back against the pillows, looking sheepish. “No, of course not. The notion had not crossed my mind. But be careful, for I’ll wager it’s crossed Lady Grove’s if not her daughter’s. You’re a good catch now, my boy!”
* * * *
Rowena prepared for the dinner party with unusual care. Though her wardrobe had not miraculously grown, she managed with Anne’s aid to put up her hair in a more elaborate coiffure instead of simply tying it back with a ribbon. Three honey-brown ringlets fell from a securely pinned topknot to caress her shoulders. It was a pity that the shoulders were, as usual, clad in grey muslin.
It was scarcely worth the effort, she thought as she and Anne went down to the drawing room. If the earl had dismissed her before, he was unlikely even to glance at her when Millicent was in the same room.
If he took no notice of her, she would take no notice of him!
The vicar and his wife and the curate, a painfully shy young man with a prominent Adam’s apple, had been invited to make up the numbers.
“In a vain attempt to make it less obvious that Millie is casting out lures to the earl,” as Anne had said, to her sister’s fury. “That’s the only reason I am being permitted to escape from the schoolroom for once.”
In her white muslin, with her dark hair pulled back, she looked like a schoolgirl. She was no more competition for Millicent than Rowena was.
The two of them attempted to entertain the curate, a task made difficult by his bashfulness and complicated by his blatant admiration of Millicent. He could not take his eyes off her as she paced to and fro, waiting for the guest of honour.
“Like a panther lying in wait,” Anne murmured.
Voices were heard in the hall and Millicent hurriedly adopted an elegant pose on a crocodile-legged sofa. The butler announced the Earl of Farleigh and Captain Cartwright. Rowena noted his lordship’s glance of warm admiration for Millicent as he advanced to make his bow to Sir Henry and Lady Grove. Disgusted, she turned her attention to his companion.
The captain was limping slightly and his arm was supported in a sling. He was very thin and his cheeks were pale, but at least he was conscious and not, as he had been the first time she saw him, bleeding. Of course he had been with the earl in the curricle the other day, though she had scarce noticed him. His bow was awkward, in contrast to the military precision of his friend’s.
“He is the one I told you about,” Rowena whispered to Anne. “He was injured fighting Napoleon.”
Anne’s eyes gleamed. “I shall ask him about the Peninsula, instead of Lord Farleigh. He won’t be able to get away.”
Rowena laughed. At the sound, the gentlemen turned from Millicent, looking ridiculously surprised to see anyone else was present. A glimmer of recognition crossed the earl’s face and he stepped forward.
“Have I the honour of your acquaintance?” he asked uncertainly.
Millicent frowned and tapped her foot in vexation as her mother performed the introductions. After an exchange of courtesies, Captain Cartwright returned to the beauty, but Lord Farleigh addressed Rowena.
“We met two days since, did we not, Miss Caxton? Potter told me you lived here. I must humbly apologize for mistaking you for a servant. Being more perceptive, Bernard rang a peal over me.”
His rueful grin won her forgiveness at once.
“Pray think nothing of it, my lord. It is not the first time. I am delighted to see your friend so much improved.”
“Not the first time? I knew I had seen you before! It was you who helped me care for him at the inn, wasn’t it? That wretched place in Kent, the Three Peacocks or Brace of Partridges or some such name.”
“You are close, sir. The Four Feathers. I used to live nearby.”
“Without your assistance Bernard might have bled to death. I am more grateful than words can well express. You disappeared before I was able to thank you.”
“I had to catch the stage, and by then the innkeeper had returned and you no longer needed me. I was glad to be able to help.”
“What brings you to Gloucestershire, Miss Caxton?”
“My aunt kindly offered me a home.” Her tone was reserved.
He was instantly contrite. “I beg your pardon, I did not mean to pry.”
“Poor Rowena’s papa lost all his money.” Millicent glided up to them. “We are excessively happy to have her with us. Are you fond of music, my lord?”
Rowena had lost his attention, but she had seen the fleeting compassion in his grey eyes. Was it better to be pitied than to be ignored? she wondered.
Lord Farleigh sat to the right of his hostess at dinner. However, Millicent was on his other side, with Captain Cartwright next to her. Seated between her uncle and the curate, Rowena had ample leisure to observe them. Though the earl and his friend conversed politely with Aunt Hermione and the vicar’s wife respectively, it was obvious that they were vying to impress Millicent with their
gallantries. Millicent favoured his lordship, but she did not neglect to flutter her eyelashes at the captain also.
After all, he was an unknown quantity who might prove worthy of her attention, and at least he served to pique the earl’s nascent jealousy.
When the gentlemen rejoined the ladies after their port, Millicent was urged by her fond mama to give them the pleasure of a little music. Rowena, chatting with the vicar’s wife, glimpsed dismay on the earl’s face, but when Millicent took up her favourite pose at the pianoforte, Lord Farleigh drifted to her side. Captain Cartwright sat down by Anne, who seized her chance to pepper him with questions.
At first he looked amused, but her genuine interest and intelligent enquiries soon won him to a serious discussion of the customs of the inhabitants of Spain and Portugal. Sitting close enough to overhear some of their conversation, Rowena was amazed at her cousin’s wide knowledge.
With an admirable display of gentlemanly politeness, not once did the captain’s gaze stray towards the pianoforte. When Millicent finished her Pleyel sonata, he joined in the applause, then turned back to Anne.
“Do you play, Miss Anne?”
“No, I do not care to compete with my sister,” she blurted out, then flushed. “I prefer to sing.”
“Will you grant us a song?”
“I have never sung in company before.”
“Lady Grove!” Captain Cartwright appealed to her mother. “Pray persuade Miss Anne to sing to us.”
Her ladyship, flustered, glanced at Millicent’s stormy expression. “Oh, I think not... Perhaps another... Anne is hardly—”
The vicar interrupted. “I, for one, should be delighted to hear Miss Anne. Her voice in the congregation gives us great pleasure every Sunday.”
“Oh, then… of course... Millicent shall accompany you,” said Lady Grove placatingly.
Anne had none of her sister’s graceful elegance as she moved to the instrument, but she held her head high with a youthful dignity that touched her cousin. Rowena remembered thinking her plain. She had long since ceased to judge her by her appearance, and she was astonished to realize that the severe hairstyle she deplored was very well suited to Anne’s fine-boned facial structure. Embarrassment tinged the girl’s usually pale cheeks with rose. The white dress was all wrong. In blue, or perhaps primrose, though she would never rival her sister, she might be passably pretty.
Rowena sighed. There was little hope of colours for Anne until Millicent was wed.
Millicent played the introduction to a Scottish ballad, and Anne joined in with the words. Her limpid contralto struggled against her sister’s deliberately misplaced rubatos, staccatos, crescendos. After three verses she gave up. There were tears in her eyes as she bravely curtsied to a scattering of polite applause.
“What went wrong?” whispered Rowena as Anne sank into a chair next to her. “I know you can sing better than that.”
“Sabotage! That cat played it all wrong just to humiliate me. I shall never let her accompany me again.”
Rowena pressed her hand sympathetically, then looked up as Lord Farleigh spoke to her.
“Will you play for us, Miss Caxton?”
“You must hold me excused, my lord. I am not at all musical.”
“To tell the truth, nor am I.” His lowered voice and conspiratorial grin invited her to share his relief. “Besides, it is time I dragged Bernard away. He is not yet in plump currant.”
“His indisposition makes a fine excuse for you.” She smiled up at him. He was much too agreeable for Millicent, but already his gaze had returned to the golden curls and alabaster complexion.
He had admitted to being less perceptive than his friend. She glanced at Captain Cartwright. His eyes, too, were on Millicent. However, there was a slight frown on his brow and Rowena did not believe it was entirely due to fatigue.
At least there was one gentleman who was not blinded by her cousin’s beauty.
CHAPTER SIX
“The accounts, my lord? I’ll be happy to show ‘em to you, of course, but it’s not by studying accounts you’ll learn the land, you know, not by a long chalk.” Mr. Deakins, a small, grey-haired man with a face like old leather, sounded as despondent as he looked.
“I realize that.” Chris was not impressed by his bailiff. “However, I must start somewhere. I’ve learned nothing from riding about the orchards, and I had some quartermastering experience in the army, so I understand accounts.”
“Then you’ll understand, my lord, that I need cash to pay the harvesters. I found a buyer in Manchester who’ll pay sixpence more per bushel of plums than any in London, but I have to get the fruit picked and shipped and that takes blunt. There’s no two ways about it.”
“How much?” Chris whistled when he heard the figure. “I don’t have so much cash on hand. I’ll have to write a draft on my bank and send someone over to Evesham with it. My London banker made arrangements for me to draw funds there.”
“I’ll go myself, my lord, for I’d not trust anyone else with such a sum.” Mr. Deakins brightened considerably at his lordship’s unexpected acquiescence to his request for the ready.
“You must be busy at this season. I’ll drive over myself, this afternoon, for I can’t stay cooped up with the accounts all day.”
The bailiff actually smiled at this evidence of thoughtfulness. On the other hand, Chris was now sunk in gloom. He cursed himself for wasting so much of his brass in London. In the first flush of the unexpected windfall, he had spent freely on his new curricle and pair and new clothes from Scott and Hoby and Locke. At least the need to oversee Bernard’s recovery had kept him from the gaming tables, not that he was addicted to gambling.
Mr. Deakins patted him on the shoulder. “Cheer up, lad. That sum’ll take us through the apple harvest, too, for there’s no shortage of labour with Boney on Elba and the army disbanding. Now, here’s the last ten years’ accounts here on this shelf. This is the current book, and this one’s 1813.” He lifted down the heavy ledgers and laid them on the desk.
Chris nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Deakins. Dismiss!” He shook his head ruefully at the other’s surprise. “I beg your pardon. I myself am still not entirely free of the army, it seems. I should say, that will be all for now, and I’ll send for you if I need you.”
His lordship sat a moment in thought. It would be pointless to sell his curricle, for he would not get the half of what he paid for it. He had chosen the horses with an eye to strength rather than speed, so nothing would be gained by selling them. There was one extravagance, though, that he would be happy to do without. His expensive and disapproving valet was more suited to serve a town buck than the gentleman farmer he saw himself becoming. Jessup should return to London on the next stage, with an excellent reference and a month’s wages. Potter could do all that was necessary to take care of his wardrobe.
There was another good reason for keeping the curricle, he thought as he opened the first ledger. The incomparable Miss Grove might be persuaded to let him drive her about the countryside.
After two hours of puzzling over the accounts, Chris was delighted when the butler interrupted him.
“Her ladyship asked me to inform your lordship that there are callers, my lord.”
Nothing loath, Chris abandoned Mr. Deakins’s hieroglyphics and made his way to the drawing room.
In the course of the next few hours, he became acquainted with a large proportion of his neighbours. With the excuse of calling on the dowager, the matrons had no need to wait for their menfolk to visit before they could with propriety bring their marriageable daughters to the new earl’s attention. The older gentlemen were eager to meet the premier landowner of the district, and their sons were ready to admire the exploits of a Peninsula soldier.
“I’m exhausted!” Chris sank into a chair as the last guest departed. “I am not used to doing the pretty by the hour. How did they all hear of my arrival? The country rumour-mill is as efficient as the regiment’s.”
“Surely
you did not expect the appearance of a handsome, titled and unmarried gentleman to go unnoticed?” asked Lady Farleigh dryly. “Every eligible chit within a dozen miles has now been presented to you, and a few whose eligibility is questionable.”
“Some of them are delightful girls, though not one has half Miss Grove’s beauty.” Bernard, as his lordship’s intimate friend and an interesting invalid, had come in for his share of attention.
“Will it be proper for us to call at Grove Park tomorrow, ma’am?” Chris asked the dowager.
“Hooked already, eh, Major? Yes, you might even go today to express your appreciation for dining there last night.”
“I must drive into Evesham this afternoon. Do you care to go with me, Bernard?”
“Thank you, no, though I do not mean to retire to my chamber today. I believe I shall explore your library.”
“No doubt you will appreciate it better than I. By the by, I forgot to tell you that Miss Grove’s odd little cousin turns out to be the young woman who stopped you bleeding to death in Kent. I knew I recognized those green eyes, though I could not place her.”
“Miss Caxton? That settles it, then, we must go tomorrow so that I can thank her.”
“What a fortunate coincidence that she happens to be Millicent Grove’s cousin.” Her ladyship’s voice was heavy with irony.
Bernard grinned at the old lady. “I assure you, ma’am, that were she cousin to Old Nick himself, I should feel obliged to thank her for saving my life.”
* * * *
Millicent glowered. All day yesterday she had waited for Lord Farleigh to call, and they had seen neither hide nor hair of him. Rowena was amazed at her cousin’s ability to persist in the sulks overnight.
Wise in his daughter’s ways, Sir Henry had breakfasted early and gone about his business, so only the four ladies were present in the dining room. Aunt Hermione nervously buttered her fifth muffin. Millicent’s megrims always made her overeat.
“Pass the marmalade, if you please, Rowena. You must not suppose that his lordship means to slight you, Millicent dearest. I daresay he is unaccustomed to polite society and does not realize that a courtesy call is proper after dining out.”
