by Carola Dunn
“So I gather.” Chris had reached the end of his patience. “I believe I had best go and talk to my tenants.”
“You do that, my lord! Just what I was going to suggest. They’ll give you the straight tale without roundaboutation and glad to do it.”
His lordship counted silently to ten and went to find Bernard.
It was obvious even to Chris’s untutored eye that the farms they visited were in a shockingly dilapidated state. Since he had not thought to give notice of his inspection, the farmers themselves were out at the harvest. Their wives took one look at his obviously expensive curricle and greeted him with reserve. As they drove away from the last one, he ran his fingers through his hair.
“What am I to do? I cannot have my tenants living in such disgraceful conditions, yet when I ask Deakins what is to be done I cannot get a straight answer out of the man. I don’t know if it’s lack of knowledge or a simple inability to explain himself.”
“Have you considered that maybe he has been lining his own pockets?” Bernard knew his friend’s trusting nature.
Chris frowned. “I had not thought of that possibility. No, I doubt it. The books are well kept, and Lady F. herself admitted that her husband took little care of the land. Only, when I ride about, I see nothing wrong! The trees are green, with fruit growing on them. I need advice, dammit.”
“If you cannot get it from your bailiff, perhaps you had best approach your neighbours. There were a couple visiting the other day who own orchards nearby. Mr. Thorncrest, for one, and I believe Lord William Desborough also.”
“I daresay you’re right. I hate to make a cake of myself by exposing my ignorance to them.”
“Not so much ignorance as lack of experience. You would not hesitate to go to Beau Douro for advice on tactics or strategy. Thorncrest and Desborough have doubtless been bred up to the business. Better yet, they both have marriageable daughters so you will need no excuse for calling.”
“If I remember aright, Miss Thorncrest is muffin-faced and Miss Desborough is a trifle long in the tooth, with a laugh like a horse’s neigh into the bargain.”
“What’s that to the purpose? It’s their fond papas you wish to consult.”
“True, but it will be as well not to find oneself too much indebted to the fathers of such daughters! It’s a pity Sir Henry Grove grows sheep, not fruit. However, I owe them visits, and we have received invitations from both, so I shall scout the territory before committing myself.”
“No doubt Wellington would approve,” said Bernard dryly.
* * * *
The dinner party to which the Desboroughs had invited Lord Farleigh and Captain Cartwright took place a week later. The first person Chris noticed on his arrival was Miss Grove. Not for a moment did he suspect that she had chosen her seat to ensure this result. Nor had he an inkling that the debate as to whether to arrive early for this purpose, or late so as to make a grand entrance, had made life uncomfortable at Grove Park for days. He saw, as he was meant to, the shining golden curls, the blue eyes gazing meltingly into his own, the rosy lips pouting in sweet reproach that she had not seen him this age.
Under these circumstances it was difficult to tear himself away to do the pretty to Miss Desborough. When at last he succeeded, he found that despite her unfortunate equine laugh, she had a dry wit that made her pleasant company.
He really must not allow himself to be monopolized by the fair Millicent, he decided. As Miss Desborough turned to speak to someone else, he spotted Miss Caxton across the room, dowdy in her half-mourning, and went over to greet her.
“Good evening, my lord.” Though friendly enough, she seemed a trifle wary. “Your arrival in the neighbourhood has made a fine excuse for any number of parties. We less exalted souls can only be grateful.”
He laughed. “I am sure any newcomer in a country district must be cause for a round of entertainments.”
“You underrate yourself, sir. My appearance went quite unnoticed, I assure you.”
Chris was taken aback. He had thought her a mouse, and now it seemed he had a tiger by the tail. She intrigued him but he had no pretty speech ready to answer her wry comment. He was glad when at that instant dinner was announced.
“May I take you in?” he requested.
For a moment stars shone in her eyes, then she shook her head wistfully. “You are truly unaware of your status, my lord,” she marvelled. “As ranking guest it is your duty to take in Lady William. But I thank you for your kind offer.”
Not without regret he went to find his hostess. Miss Caxton was an unusual girl. It was a pity she did not match her cousin for beauty.
After dinner, Chris braced himself to approach Lord William. The younger son of a duke, his lordship had aristocratic features belied by the blunt manners of a country squire. He led his guest to a library with walls boasting more sporting prints than books, seated him, and offered a cigar.
“No? Thought all Peninsula men indulged in the filthy weed. You won’t mind if I take a puff myself. Well, Farleigh, what can I do for you? I don’t flatter myself you’re after poor Lizzie’s hand after a meeting or two.” He laughed a braying laugh that revealed the provenance of his daughter’s. “Not that you couldn’t do worse, mind. She’s a head on her shoulders, my girl.”
“Miss Desborough is charming, sir.” Chris was thoroughly embarrassed. “However, our acquaintance is so slight… I cannot suppose... The truth is, I find myself in the devil of a coil and I need your advice. You must be aware of the condition of my estate.”
“Aye, and many’s the time I warned Farleigh that it don’t do to put all your eggs in one basket. Daresay you won’t find a finer house this side of Blenheim Palace but there’s no denying your orchards are all to pieces. It’ll take a fortune to set all to rights. You don’t happen to have a fortune, do you?” Lord William asked hopefully.
Chris shook his head, his heart sinking at this confirmation of his suspicions.
“Then no amount of advice is going to help. You could have my Lizzie with my good will, for I like the look of you, but even her five thousand ain’t the half of what you need. You’d best fix your interest with Millicent Grove, my boy, for she’ll jump at an earl and she has twenty thousand from a great-aunt or some such. That’s the kind of blunt you need. Now, what say we return to the ladies?”
Unenlightened as far as agricultural wisdom was concerned, Chris trailed his genial host back to the drawing room. This time, the first person he saw was Miss Caxton. She glanced at him, and the look of concern that crossed her face warned him that his own showed too much of his dejection.
He frowned. Pity was the last thing he needed. He would continue to seek knowledge, and in the meantime he would follow Lord William’s only practical suggestion. He hastened to Miss Grove’s side. It was his duty to court Millicent.
Rowena was puzzled by Lord Farleigh’s rapid change of expression from despondency to annoyance when he caught her eye. He was not such a nodcock as to be angry at her refusal of his escort to dinner, so perhaps he resented her witnessing his faux pas, forgetting his duty to his hostess. It must be difficult to go from battlefield to drawing room. No more difficult, though, than she found it to make the transition from mistress of her own estate to dependent on the charity of others.
He had no right to scowl at her so. Trying to dismiss the ridiculously disturbing thought of him from her mind, she turned back to her companions.
Anne, gawky as ever in white, and Captain Cartwright were lost in a discussion of some expedition to Albania which Rowena had never heard of. She was once again struck by the breadth of her cousin’s understanding and interests. This time the captain was questioning Anne, since she had a copy of the recently published account of the journey and he had not yet read it.
If Captain Cartwright was ready to concede Anne’s superior knowledge of Albania, might not the earl be willing to heed Rowena’s advice about his orchards?
No, if he was put out of countenance at showin
g his ignorance of etiquette, he would never admit to ignorance of agriculture. It would be useless to approach him. Besides, Millicent was already irritated because his lordship always made a point of speaking to her cousin. She had been furious to learn of the brief curricle ride up the driveway. It was simply not fair to the rest of the household to be the cause of her petulance, so Rowena would endeavour to avoid antagonizing her further. She consoled herself with the prospect of receiving a favourable response to one of her applications for the position of companion.
She had not yet received any response, favourable or otherwise, to the letters she had sent out. Perhaps she had done something wrong. Since her aunt was bound to be shocked and offended by her desire for independence, Anne was the only person she could consult. She resolved to do so that very evening.
As soon as Minton, with a sniff of disparagement, had removed her dress to be cleaned, Rowena hurried to Anne’s chamber. Propped against a heap of pillows, her cousin was perusing a large volume. Lamplight gleamed on her dark, straight hair, a waterfall about her slender shoulders.
“Captain Cartwright is coming tomorrow to borrow Mr. Hobhouse’s book,” she announced. “I was just checking a few facts.”
“He will never be able to hold that great, heavy thing.” Rowena flopped down at the foot of the bed and hid her toes under the counterpane.
“He told me the carpenter at the Grange has made a special stand for him. He says he thinks himself in heaven to have the leisure to read and Lord Farleigh’s library at hand. You cannot imagine how delightful it is to have someone to talk to about books. He is able to explain things to me that I cannot understand for want of experience of the world, and I have information he lacks because soldiering has occupied his entire life.”
“You are excessively well suited to each other. Do I scent a match?”
Anne flushed. “Pray do not joke, Rowena. I like him very much but I cannot expect to engage his interest while that cat Millie is unwed. He only talks to me because she takes no notice of him.”
“Oh, that Millie were wed! If she were, I should be perfectly happy here with you and my aunt and uncle. As it is... Anne, I cannot bear it any longer. If I am to be treated as a servant, at least I want to be paid for my labours. I am determined to seek employment.”
“I do understand your feelings, but I wish you will not. Besides, I fear it is unlikely that anyone would hire a female land agent.”
“Unfortunately. I would enjoy that. Perhaps I should dress up as a man?” Rowena tried to smile. “No, I fear I should be found out soon enough. All I am fit for is as a lady’s companion, and I have already sent off several applications for positions advertised in the Ladies’ Magazine. Only that was at least ten days ago and I have not received a single answer. Do you think I did something wrong?”
“What precisely did you send?”
“I wrote a letter explaining that I am young and healthy and willing—oh, and respectable!”
“Anyone might claim such qualifications. You need references from previous employers.”
“Of course! But I have no previous employers, and I daresay Aunt Hermione will not oblige.”
“Of course you must not ask Mama. It will sadly discompose her to have her own niece choose to live with strangers. Is there no one else you can apply to?”
Rowena frowned in thought. “There is Lady Farnhouse, or the vicar’s wife at home, but they are no more likely to approve than is my aunt.”
“I’ll tell you what.” Anne giggled. “I’ll write you a reference myself. I’ll pretend I’m a cantankerous old lady and I’ll praise you to the skies for putting up with my whims and crotchets.”
“Oh, dear, when you put it like that it sounds no more attractive than wondering what Millie will next do to put me out of countenance.”
“Well, I do think it will be more difficult than you suppose, but if you insist, I shall start work on your references. In any case, you will have to wait till the next issue of Ladies’ Magazine before you can apply again. With any luck Lord Farleigh will come up to scratch in the meantime and then Millie will soon cease to plague us.”
Rowena tried hard to be pleased at the prospect.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mr. Thorncrest had had the good fortune to marry the daughter of an earl, and Lady Amelia never let him forget it. As a result, he was not charitably inclined towards earls.
As a newcomer to the area, the Earl of Farleigh was unaware of this prejudice. In fact, he rather thought he was doing his host a favour when, between performances at Lady Amelia’s musical evening, he begged for a few words in private. As Miss Barrington’s harp was carried onto the makeshift stage by two sturdy footmen, the two gentlemen made their escape from the long gallery.
“Well, what is it, my lord?” asked Mr. Thorncrest testily, ushering Chris into the orangery which ran the length of the southern side of his house.
Belatedly recognizing the gentleman’s hostility, Chris hastened to compliment him on the flourishing orange and lemon trees growing in tubs along the glass wall.
“I know your reputation as an expert in the cultivation of all kinds of fruit,” he went on. “That is why I wish to solicit your advice. As I’m sure you know, my own orchards are in a sorry state.”
“That they are!”
“I fear I have little money to invest in them, but there must be some improvements I can make without a fortune to spend, are there not, sir?”
“Money! Money can do nothing without knowledge. I have spent my entire life studying, experimenting, working with the land, and you expect to come along and learn the answers in a few minutes. Ha! It can’t be done, my lord. You’d not expect me to walk onto the battlefield, ask a few questions and go on to win the war, eh? Cobbler, stick to your last, I say.”
“I did not choose to inherit Farleigh Grange.” His lordship’s voice was deceptively mild. “Since it is mine, I consider it my duty to bring it about if I can.”
“There speaks the optimism of ignorance.” Mr. Thorncrest laughed in scorn. “Haven’t I just told you it will take decades just to know your land? There are no easy remedies.”
“If the commanding officers of the British Army treated new ensigns with the arrogant contempt you have just displayed, then Napoleon would now be Emperor of Europe instead of languishing on Elba.”
Chris stalked out. Only the necessity of driving Bernard home stopped him leaving the house on the instant, thus insulting Lady Amelia and a dozen amateur musicians as well as his host. Instead, after pacing the hall for a few minutes to regain his outward calm, he slipped back into the gallery.
The harpist was done and another youthful female was singing. Chris looked around for an inconspicuous seat at the far end of the room from the stage. The only one available was next to Miss Caxton, which suited him very well. She was one of the few females who would not insist on flirting with him, and the last thing he felt like at present was a flirtation.
“Do you mind if I join you, ma’am?” he whispered.
“Hush!” she hissed, intent on the performance but waving her permission.
He sat back, amused at her greeting if such it could be called, and studied her. She was a pretty enough creature if one were not newly dazzled by her cousin. The everlasting grey muslin was cut well enough to reveal a neat figure. In the candlelight her hair gleamed warm amber, one lock brushing a gently rounded chin. Her mouth, lips slightly parted in her concentration, was soft and vulnerable, her nose sported an endearing pair of freckles, and long lashes veiled those startling green eyes. Altogether a delightful package for some lucky man, were it not for her unenviable status as a poor relation.
The song ended and she clapped vigorously, her happy smile revealing pearly teeth.
“I remember you claiming to be unmusical,” Chris accused her laughingly, as the applause died away.
“I am, but that was Anne. Even I can tell she has a lovely voice, and Miss Desborough kindly played for her so that Mill
ie could not... I mean, since Millie could not this evening. Besides, she sings English folk songs I can understand, instead of Italian arias, and she does not warble the way trained singers do. Are you over your dudgeon?
“What do you mean?” He was startled.
“You came into the room looking like a thundercloud. Your face is very expressive, you know; at least I find it so. I daresay no one else noticed.”
“I hope not. I must confess to having been in something of a temper, but I am now, as you put it, over my dudgeon. Pray tell me, since you read me so easily, is my face sufficiently calm for me to go and make my excuses to Lady Amelia? Bernard is a trifle weary, I believe, though he will not admit it.”
“What a useful friend the captain is!” She regarded him with an understanding twinkle. “Yes, you look perfectly unruffled. Good night, my lord.”
“Good night, Miss Caxton.” He bowed, smiling down at her. “I shall take care to school my features in your presence in future.”
“But it’s your eyes, my lord,” she murmured to his retreating back. “I defy you to hide their message.”
Bernard was quite willing to leave.
“It is not that I am tired,” he said as they drove homeward, “but any performance must be anticlimactic after Miss Anne’s singing. She has a glorious voice, has she not?”
“I am no judge, and I fear I was in no case to listen.”
“No, I saw that. What put you in such a pelter? Mr. Thorncrest was not helpful, I take it.”
“To put it mildly! He laughed at my notion that anything less than decades of work might atone for my abysmal ignorance. You saw that I was in the boughs? Am I then so transparent?”
“I’ve known you for years, Chris. I expect you appeared your usual imperturbable self to anyone else.”
“On the contrary, Miss Caxton told me I looked like a thundercloud.”
