by Carola Dunn
Bernard laughed. “Did she, indeed! That’s plain speaking to an officer and an earl.”
“I don’t believe my rank impresses her in the least, any more than it does Mr. Thorncrest.”
“What did you say to him?”
“I traded insult for insult like a schoolboy. That’s one house we’ll not be invited to again.”
“I shouldn’t count on it. It’s my belief Lady Amelia rules the roast and unlike Miss Caxton she is very much aware of your rank.”
“Much good it does me being an earl,” said his lordship gloomily. “I’d a sight rather be back in the army.”
“Many men in your position live in town and wring every penny out of their estates to support them in style.”
“I couldn’t do that. There are too many people dependent upon me.”
“Your wretched sense of duty.”
“I shall have to marry a fortune.”
“An excellent solution. And is it not fortunate that Miss Grove possesses one?”
“Yes, if I must do it, but I’ve no desire to be leg-shackled to anyone just yet. I shall put off the dreadful moment as long as I can.”
* * * *
A less amicable atmosphere prevailed in the closed carriage that followed the curricle along the lane towards Down Stanton half an hour later.
“What did you mean by enticing the earl to your side, Rowena?” snapped Millicent. “It is most unbecoming in you to put yourself forward in such a manner in public, I vow.”
“Would you prefer that she meet him in private?” Anne sprang to the defence, unsnubbed by her mother, who was snoring gently in the opposite corner.
“For heaven’s sake, Anne, there is not the least chance of that.” Rowena could not help feeling that her younger cousin’s efforts on her behalf were as likely to throw fuel on the flames as to douse them. “Lord Farleigh sat beside me because that was the only seat available at the back of the room. He is too much the gentleman to create a stir in the middle of a performance by moving to the front. He had gone out to talk to Mr. Thorncrest, you know.”
“No, I did not know! I suppose you pried his business out of him in your underhanded way.”
“I saw them leave together and presumed that they had conversed.” She spoke with some asperity. “For all I know, they sat in silence staring at each other for a quarter hour. Really, Millie, why should his lordship confide in me when his admiration for you is plain to see?”
Millicent chose to misunderstand. “He told you that he admires me?” she demanded eagerly, her raised voice disturbing Lady Grove’s slumber. “I knew it! Though he has not Mr. Ruddle’s superior address, he is a much more splendid match. Only think, I shall be a countess.”
“Countess,” confirmed her mother, blinking sleepily.
“You oughtn’t to count your chickens before they hatch.” Anne’s ire was not easily appeased. “One of these days his lordship will notice how odiously disagreeable you are to Rowena.”
“I merely wanted to warn her not to take his attentions seriously. Earls do not marry penniless nobodies and she is bound to be hurt.”
“You are kind to be concerned for your cousin,” Lady Grove said, beaming. “Though I’m sure Rowena has too much sense to be taken in. Lady Amelia complimented me on your singing, Anne. It is such a relief to me to know that you have at least one acceptable accomplishment.”
“Captain Cartwright said my voice is like a nightingale,” said Anne with pardonable pride.
Naturally her sister took exception to this, so Rowena was left in comparative peace while they wrangled.
She was not such a ninnyhammer as to take Lord Farleigh’s attentions seriously, if their brief conversations could be dignified by that term. However, she had not the least intention of avoiding him to please Millicent. She enjoyed talking to him, and she knew her teasing amused him even if he forgot her the moment he turned away.
What had Mr. Thorncrest said to put him in such a passion? She had found it hard to curb her curiosity, especially as she guessed it must be something to do with his land. It was a month and more since his arrival and still she had seen no signs of the simple minor improvements she would have suggested. Of course he had arrived too late for summer pruning of plums and cherries and the pear harvest was in full swing, the apple harvest beginning. All his men were busy, and perhaps he was making plans for the coming months.
She longed to discuss it with him. The more she saw of him, the more commonsensical he seemed—except on the subject of Millicent—and the less likely to take offence at a genuine effort to help. She resolved that if ever he provided the slightest opening she would broach the subject. At worst, he would think her an interfering female.
She told Anne of her determination at their usual post mortem on the events of the day.
“Good for you,” said her cousin absently. “Do you think Captain Cartwright was just being polite?”
“About your voice? Of course not! His manners are more polished than Lord Farleigh’s, to be sure, but I cannot think him guilty of paying Spanish coin. Besides, I heard at least a dozen others compliment you, and he is something of a connoisseur of music, is he not?”
“Yes. He was telling me about the Royal Opera at Covent Garden, and the Philharmonic Society’s concerts. I think I should like to live in London, with all the music, and Hookham’s Library and Hatchard’s book-shop just round the corner. Captain Cartwright counts his cousin’s house in Marylebone as home, for she is his only living relation and he has been abroad so much he has had no need of a place of his own.”
“Gracious, how did you find that out?”
Anne flushed. “You sound like Millie. I did not pry it out of him. The subject came up when I asked how long he meant to stay with Lord Farleigh, and you need not tell me I ought not to have asked that, either. He is so easy to talk to that I forget to mind my tongue.”
“I wish I could say the same of the earl. Do you think he will cut me dead if I venture to offer advice? At least it would please Millie if he never spoke to me again.”
“I was thinking about that. Did you not notice how she changed her tune when she thought he had told you how he admired her? All you need to do is tell her she was the subject of the conversation, and she won’t say a word however often he talks to you.”
“I can always salve my conscience by mentioning her name once or twice.” Rowena laughed merrily. “How ingenious you are! You are equal to anything.”
“You will be out of mourning any day now, will you not? And it is such a waste of all these parties to go about in grey and white! I must remind Mama that she agreed we should have new gowns.”
“Pray do not, Anne. I have no money to buy clothes, and I do not care to beg for more charity than I must accept perforce. You must ask for yourself, of course.”
“She will just buy me more white. Even Millie had to wear white the first year she was out, only it became her, as everything does. But I do not care so much for myself—I want you to have pretty dresses. If I spoke to Mama, you need have nothing to do with it.”
Rowena remained adamant. Despite her efforts, Anne had not succeeded in changing her mind when the evening of the next entertainment arrived. It was to be a harvest supper at the Berry-Brownings’. This was an annual event at which many of the county guests appeared in what they conceived to be peasant costume, while the farm workers and their families celebrated at a respectful distance in a barn.
The Berry-Brownings’ ballroom was decorated with sheaves of wheat, baskets of rosy apples and golden pears, and garlands of autumn leaves. It reminded Rowena of harvest celebrations at home, and she was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of homesickness. She found a quiet corner, half hidden by a display of succulent fruit, and sat down on one of the rustic benches there to watch her cousins twirl down the set of a country dance.
In two days it would be the anniversary of Papa’s death. Her period of formal mourning was about to end; convention would once again permi
t her to dress in her favourite green and join in the dancing. The prospect had no power to cheer her.
Papa would still be gone, Pinkie far away and she would still be a poor relation or at best a paid companion.
“You look as if you are about to fall victim to the blue devils, Miss Caxton.” Captain Cartwright smiled down at her kindly. “May I join you? The dictates of convention are hard on a pretty young girl who longs to be dancing.”
“I do not miss it as much as I miss riding, sir.”
“Ah, yes, you were telling me about your mare when we were interrupted. Surely mourning does not preclude riding?”
“No, but Millicent is terrified of horses, so it was not thought necessary for me to bring Vixen with me.”
“I am sorry for that. Does Miss Anne not ride?”
“She has little opportunity, but she told me she enjoys ambling about on an elderly hack if it does not go too fast.”
The captain laughed, and said ruefully, “That sounds like my present speed. I have bought a horse, you know. It was growing tedious strolling about Chris’s shrubbery for exercise.”
“Who is insulting my shrubbery?” Lord Farleigh came up to them with Millicent on his arm.
“Farleigh Grange has the prettiest shrubbery in the world,” Millicent assured him. “It must be quite delightful to stroll in it.”
“Since that is not possible at present,” said Captain Cartwright, “perhaps you would care to stroll about the room with me, Miss Grove?”
She looked at him vaguely. “Heavens no, I am engaged for every set. Ah, there you are, Mr. Ruddle. It was kind in you to stand up with my little sister.”
“If you are not my partner, Miss Grove, it matters little who is.” With a jealous glance at the earl, Mr. Ruddle bowed as low as his excessively tight purple coat permitted. “The next dance is mine, I believe?” He offered his arm and led Millicent onto the floor.
“If that man were not a coxcomb, I should be deeply insulted,” Anne exploded.
“An excess of gallantry and a shocking want of tact.” Captain Cartwright had a twinkle in his eye. “How fortunate that the man’s a coxcomb. We need not let his words disturb us.”
Anne grinned at him. “‘A worthy fool! Motley’s the only wear,”’ she quoted.
“As You Like It?”
“It is one of my favourite plays. Have you ever seen it on the stage, sir?”
“Come, Miss Caxton,” said Lord Farleigh, “let us leave them to their Shakespeare and take a turn about the room. I am sorry I cannot offer you my shrubbery to stroll in, for it is the prettiest shrubbery in the world.”
“I’ll wager you have never set foot in it, my lord, have you? I thought not.” Rowena’s megrims had vanished. “Besides, Mrs. Berry-Browning’s decorations are exceptionally beautiful, and worthy of our admiration.”
“I find them depressing. My own harvest could not make such a show.”
The earl sounded bitter. She forgot her misgivings in an instinctive desire to comfort him.
“Your orchards only want a little attention, sir. You cannot expect splendid fruit after years of neglect.”
“So even you, a newcomer like myself, know in what shocking condition my land is. It must be the scandal of the neighbourhood.”
“On the contrary, I have never heard it mentioned. I saw for myself, the first time I took the short cut to the village.”
“You saw for yourself? Miss Caxton, I have ridden about my orchards a dozen times and I still cannot see what’s amiss.”
“But you are a soldier, my lord, and I am a farmer. Or rather, I was.” It was Rowena’s turn for bitterness. “The land hereabouts is very like my own home in Kent. I ran Chillenden Manor for five years.”
“Impossible. You were in leading strings five years ago.”
“I was fifteen, near sixteen. Necessity is a good teacher, and I had help from a neighbour.”
“You were luckier, then, than I am.”
She looked up at him, trying to read in his eyes whether he would accept her help. “Not necessarily, sir,” she said softly. “I am your neighbour.”
CHAPTER NINE
“Miss Caxton! Miss Caxton, what the devil is the matter?” Chris had ridden over to Grove Park to consult with his new mentor. When he stabled El Cid, he heard sounds of weeping in the next stall and, glancing over the partition, saw Rowena with her face buried in the flank of a pretty sorrel mare.
In the sudden silence, the mare turned her head to nuzzle the girl’s shoulder gently.
“Nothing’s the matter,” said a gruff little voice. “I know it is excessively stupid, but I am crying for happiness. Geoff sent Vixen to me for my birthday.”
“Geoff?” There was an odd twisting sensation somewhere near Chris’s heart, quickly gone and quickly forgotten.
“Geoffrey Farnhouse.” She turned to him, pink cheeked and red eyed. “I must look a perfect fright.”
He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. “Here. The water in that bucket looks clean.”
“Thank you, my lord. I told you about Sir Edward Farnhouse, who taught me about managing the estate. Geoff is his son, and we grew up practically as brother and sister. He wasn’t there when they auctioned Chillenden, and he just happened to see Vixen in a neighbour’s paddock a couple of weeks ago. He’d thought I had her with me.” As she spoke, she splashed her face with water, and now she regarded the sodden handkerchief ruefully. “I shall have this laundered for you.
“Pray keep it, as a small recompense for the... ah, garment you sacrificed to Bernard’s needs.”
“Well, thank you, but I cannot think what use I shall have for a gentleman’s handkerchief.”
“You could embroider your uncle’s initials in the corner and give it to him for Christmas.”
“It is plain that you have never seen my embroidery!” she exclaimed, laughing. Her laugh was not an enchanting trill like her cousin’s, but a low, infectious chuckle. “The poor man would bruise his nose on the knots.”
“Your talents lie elsewhere, of course. That is why I am come to see you this morning. Were you about to go riding?”
“No, I have just returned. I daresay I shall be stiff tomorrow for I have not been on horseback in months, but I could not resist a long gallop over the hills. Oh, dear, Millicent will be down by now.”
“Farm talk will bore Miss Grove, I fear. I’d have come earlier but Lady Farleigh forbade visiting a lady before eleven.”
“Is it so late? Heavens, I must run.”
“No, it is scarcely ten.” His grin was sheepish. “I could not wait so long to show you my plans.”
“Then let us go to the library. Not even Anne will be there at this hour.”
As he followed her into the house, Chris reached for the sheaf of papers in his coat pocket. In the two days since the harvest supper he had written down as much as he remembered of her hurried suggestions and tried to make up a schedule for putting them into practice. He had a thousand questions. Though the huge desk in the library dwarfed her slight figure, Miss Caxton acquired an air of authority when she seated herself behind it. He pulled up a chair at her side and eagerly spread his notes before her.
“You said November is the best time to plant pear trees?” He plunged straight in. “I could not recall the name of the variety you advised me to look for.”
An hour passed unnoticed.
“So there you are, Rowena!” Anne burst into the library. “And Lord Farleigh! Mama is in the vapours, what with Rowena’s mare and a strange horse in the stables and Rowena nowhere to be found. She’ll have a spasm if she finds out you have been closeted in here together without a chaperon, and I hate to think what Millie will say.”
“We have been discussing business.” Rowena felt her cheeks redden. She did not dare look at his lordship, who was hastily gathering his papers. She had not spared a thought for propriety.
“I shall not tell,” her cousin promised, “if you can think up a good story. But you had bo
th better come to the morning room at once.”
As they followed Anne out, the earl reached for Rowena’s hand and pressed it.
“I have landed you in the suds,” he murmured remorsefully, “but I shall do my best to extricate you.”
She glanced up at him. A sudden shyness had struck her as the implications of Anne’s words sank in. She had been alone with him for an hour, enough to ruin her reputation if it became known. And she had presumed to instruct him, which most men would deeply resent. His face showed nothing but concern for her.
“Let me speak first,” he commanded.
“Yes, Major.” Despite her gratitude, she could not resist the urge to tease.
He was laughing as they entered the morning room.
Aunt Hermione was laid on a sofa with her abigail waving her vinaigrette under her nose, while Millicent paced the floor, a look of fury distorting her features. Rowena saw her expression change to calculation as she espied Lord Farleigh, and then to delighted welcome.
“I beg your pardon, ma’am.” He bowed over Lady Grove’s hand. “I’d no notion I was causing such consternation. In my eagerness I arrived too early for propriety, so I slipped into the library to pass the time until a decent hour for paying visits. Miss Anne tells me my horse’s presence and Miss Caxton’s absence have combined to distress you. We met just now in the hall. I gather Miss Caxton has been riding for the first time this age. A stroll in the gardens is an excellent remedy to ward off stiffness.”
“In the shrubbery,” corrected Rowena. Green eyes met grey in a glance of shared amusement.
“It was excessively thoughtless in you not to inform someone of your return, Rowena.” Aunt Hermione sat up and shooed away her maid. “I have been in quite a worry and Millicent was in need of your company.”
Any need of her company that her cousin might have felt had evaporated with the earl’s arrival. As he had no doubt intended, Millicent assumed that his stated eagerness was to see herself. She swooped on him.
“Like a hawk on a fieldmouse,” Anne whispered to Rowena.
