by Carola Dunn
* * * *
It was a golden morning. Raindrops glinted in the spiders’ webs on hedgerows entwined with silky old man’s beard and colourful necklaces of bryony berries. Vixen danced impatiently as Rowena reined her in to keep pace with Anne on Rocinante. Close behind them plodded a groom on an aged cob.
The earl and Captain Cartwright were waiting beside the five-barred gate that led to the short cut across Farleigh land to Down Stanton. His lordship spotted the groom.
“Good morning, ladies,” he called, raising his hat.
“What a surprise to see you out so early.”
“We are on our way to the village,” Anne responded, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. “May we ride through your orchards? It’s much shorter, and I fear I am no horsewoman.”
“But of course, Miss Anne. It is in any case an ancient right of way, I collect.” He leaned down from the saddle and unlatched the gate.
“Only for walking, not riding,” she corrected him. “It is a footpath, not a bridle way. But you are right that it is ancient. I have seen medieval maps of this area where the path is clearly marked.”
Captain Cartwright wanted to know more about the maps. He fell in beside Anne, sitting very straight and somewhat stiffly on his bay mare. He no longer had his arm in a sling, though Rowena had noticed that he used it as little as possible and that with care. His thin face had filled out a little from the gaunt planes she had first seen, and his animated conversation with Anne brought some colour to his cheeks.
“The captain looks quite well today,” she said to Lord Farleigh as the groom closed the gate behind them. They rode slowly after the others.
“His health is vastly improved. I fear he is still in some pain, and he has spells of weakness which I cannot like, though Dr. Bidwell says they will pass. Gentle exercise on horseback seems to have a beneficial effect, and your cousin’s chatter distracts him from his discomfort without encouraging him to exertion he is not ready for. She’s a nice child.”
“She’s no child, my lord, for all her schoolroom dress. She is seventeen, near eighteen, and will go to London in the spring if she can be persuaded that the frivolity of a Season is not an utter waste of time.”
“I thought she looked very grown-up this morning. That brownish colour suits her better than white.”
“Brownish! That, sir, is couleur d’oreille d’ours, and a very fashionable shade indeed, straight from Ackermann’s Repository. Not, I hasten to add, that Anne is in the least interested in fashion. Her habit was made from some cloth Millicent bought and then decided she did not care for.”
“Bear’s ear colour! You are roasting me again.”
“Indeed I am not. It sounds better in French, however.”
“I have a feeling that bear’s ear is the common French name for the primrose, or perhaps the cowslip. No odder than our cow’s lip, I suppose. But surely the colour should be yellow?”
“If so, you must blame Mr. Ackermann, who describes it as ‘a rich brown colour.’ My French is not adequate to mislead you. I sadly neglected all the ladylike accomplishments in my youth and now I am sorry, as Pinkie always said I would be. I do make an effort now and then, though. Here is the handkerchief you lent me, my lord, and the stitchery in the corner is intended to represent an F.” It cost Rowena a struggle to give up the one item of his that she was ever likely to possess. She wondered whether some time in the future she would regret it, but at present returning it seemed the wisest course.
He was regarding her embroidery with judicious interest. “An F, is it? It might pass for an S, which will do very well, for my surname is Scott, you know.”
“Now you are roasting me.”
He grinned as he tucked the handkerchief into his pocket. “Not at all. My name really is Scott. But why do you speak of your youth as if it is past? I daresay you have had that birthday you mentioned and have attained the great age of one and twenty, if my arithmetic is correct.”
Rowena was astounded that he had both remembered her words and bothered to calculate her age. For some reason it made her feel shy, and she stammered a little as she said, “Yes, that’s right. My aunt was kind enough to make a family celebration of it. No great age perhaps, but too late to return to the schoolroom for embroidery and French.”
“Your accomplishments are far more to the purpose, Miss Caxton,” he said warmly. “What is your opinion of these apple trees?”
She drew rein and looked about her. “The trees need to be replaced. They are past their best bearing years, and there is little demand for this variety since better ones have been developed.”
She saw his disappointment. “Of course there are things that can be done to improve your yield until you are in a position to replace them. They are badly in need of pruning. Look at all the dead branches, and the green ones are so crowded that no light and air reaches the interior. However, you must wait to prune until the trees have lost their leaves. The best you can do for the moment is to have the weeds scythed and shoot some rabbits.”
“That will please my cook, no doubt.”
“You might consider giving some to your tenants and workers, though I daresay they poach a good few already.”
“Will that make them view me more kindly? My tenants are my biggest problem, for it will take money I do not have to solve their troubles.”
Emboldened by his trusting her with his financial difficulties, Rowena ventured to say, “If their rents are not too high, they can help themselves.”
“They were cut by half on my predecessor’s death, yet I see no signs that the savings are being invested in the farms.”
“Perhaps they were afraid the new heir would raise the rents again.”
He looked at her, startled. “I never thought to tell them I would not. What a nodcock I am! I have assumed that they realized I had their best interests at heart, but of course they could only judge me by their last landlord. It’s like taking over a company from a bad officer, except that I know how to talk to soldiers and I am so confounded ignorant about farming.”
“You are doing your best to learn. What more can anyone expect? Let us go on to the next orchard.”
They trotted on, passing Anne and the captain with a wave. In this way they covered a good portion of the earl’s land, pausing here and there to examine the trees while they waited for the others to catch up. Rowena would have been happy to continue all day, but Captain Cartwright’s tired face drew her attention to passing time.
It had been the most enjoyable morning she had spent since leaving Kent, and she had every intention of repeating the experience. If Lord Farleigh was interested in her only for her agricultural expertise, he should have his fill of it.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
“Anne Grove is a pleasant young woman.” Chris led the way out of the stable yard, El Cid moving smoothly beneath him. The misty morning sky was clearing to the pale blue of a fine September day.
“She is far more than that.” Bernard was indignant. “Her intellect is superb. I tell you, at times I am hard put to it to keep up with her, and I don’t mean that this sluggard is even slower than Rocinante. With formal schooling to supply discipline and experience of the world for understanding, she could develop into a formidable scholar. It is criminal that her brain should be wasted because she is a female.”
“You had best marry her and make it your business to see that it is not wasted.”
“I am not so selfish as to chain that enchanting child to a cripple.” For the first time, Bernard sounded bitter about his injuries. The gaiety in his voice was forced as he turned the subject. “But what of your plans? Do you mean to have the fair Millicent?”
“Ask rather whether she will have me. At our last meeting she gave me the cold shoulder in favour of Ruddle. He is something of a Croesus, I collect, and a better catch than an impoverished earl.”
“Gammon! It’s my belief she’ll hold out for a title. The Grange is impressive enough and I doubt she bothers her pretty
little head about the state of your farms. Besides, rumour has it she will bring twenty thousand. Surely that is enough to set things to rights?”
“Yes, with that to spend I believe I could soon have the place producing a decent income.” He hesitated. “I fear her character leaves something to be desired.”
“You have noticed!”
“Her temper is not always under her control, but as she is young yet, she will learn to govern it. The chief difficulty is that I cannot like to be thought a fortune-hunter.”
“A title for a fortune is fair exchange, and not uncommon either. You will not even have to wed some Cit’s ugly daughter. Her beauty goes without saying and her father is a baronet and a respected magistrate. You had best put it to the touch.”
“I will not ask Sir Henry for his daughter’s hand until I can show him that I mean to use her fortune wisely, not fritter it away. I must first set in train what improvements I can.”
“Rationalization,” muttered Bernard.
Chris pretended not to hear. Of course he wanted to marry Millicent, he tried to persuade himself. If he sometimes suspected that she was not quite kind, she was beautiful, rich and eligible in every way, and he could not blame her for wanting to be a countess. He suspected that yesterday’s pointed flirtation with Adolphus Ruddle had been intended to make him jealous. Besides, it would be unfair to expect her not to encourage the wealthy fop when she had no certainty that he himself would come up to scratch.
He would, as soon as he had proof for her father of his sincere intent to restore his estate. All the same, it was a pity that she was not more like the estimable--and penniless--Miss Caxton.
He turned El Cid’s head towards the orchard nearest the lane to the village. The great gelding was restless this morning, eager to stretch his legs, but Chris kept him on a tight rein. He was afraid to leave Bernard’s side lest his friend be overcome by one of his dizzy spells.
“I had a notion you were growing fond of Rowena,” said Bernard conversationally.
“Fond! I have the greatest respect and admiration for Miss Caxton’s competence. There is another case of a female’s abilities going to waste.” Chris paused, then added grudgingly, “Perhaps I am fond of her as I am of my sister. She amuses me, and her lack of respect for the dignity of an earl is refreshing.”
“Judging by the direction you have taken, you expect to meet her again today. I did not hear you making arrangements.”
“We didn’t make any. She knows how much I need her help and she is too generous not to give it unstintingly. Besides, she likes to ride and she is only free in the mornings.”
“She likes to gallop across the hills, I collect. She is indeed generous to give up to you the only time she has for that pleasure.”
Chris frowned. “You are right, I must not take up all her time. I know, I shall insist that she gallop with me before she goes home.”
“You can safely leave Anne and her groom to pick me up if I fall off Sluggard.” Bernard laughed wryly.
“If they come.”
Chris was beginning to doubt his own certainty. Was it a form of arrogance in him to expect Rowena to come without being asked? He let El Cid lengthen his pace and reached the gate to the lane ahead of Bernard. The faint tones of the church clock in the distant village striking nine floated through the still air.
Rowena appeared round the bend and rode down the hill towards him. His heart lifted, and he realized how much he enjoyed her company. Was Bernard right? He could not afford to allow himself to develop a tendre for Rowena.
He plunged straight into the question of the rival merits of sheep and geese to keep down the weeds in the orchards. Vixen and El Cid soon outpaced Rocinante and the newly christened Sluggard. Their thoughts elsewhere, Chris and Rowena scarcely noticed.
An hour passed before Rowena looked round and discovered that they were alone.
“Oh, dear, I must go back to Anne. She will be wondering what has become of us.”
“I doubt it. More likely she and Bernard are discussing some obscure subject and are unaware of our absence. Before we rejoin them, let us ride up that hill.” He pointed with his whip. “There is a good view of most of the estate. I’ll race you.”
“Your Cid is twice Vixen’s size!”
“Craven, Miss Caxton?”
“No!” She urged the mare forward, sailing across the stream that divided the orchard from the grassy slope.
A pair of magpies flew up with a screech of warning.
Hooves thundered behind her, overtook and pounded ahead. It would never occur to the ex-soldier to hold back and allow a lady to win, and Rowena was glad of it. Following at Vixen’s best speed, she saw him draw to a halt at the spinney on top of the hill. He was laughing.
“You took me by surprise. I had intended to show you the bridge, but before I knew it you were over the brook and away.”
“Even with a start, I was beaten hollow. He’s splendid.” She reached over to stroke his horse’s nose. “You bought him in Spain?”
“I inherited him from a friend who was killed at Ciudad Rodrigo.”
“I’m sorry.”
His smile was twisted. “We all lost many friends. Can you wonder that I fought as hard to save Bernard as I did against Napoleon? Come, it is time we returned to the others.”
They cantered down the slope without admiring the view. Rowena was sure his words had slipped out without his volition. He had never spoken of the war before, not in her hearing, for he was not one of those men who enjoyed recounting tales of heroic battles. She was honoured that he had revealed his feelings to her, however briefly.
The memory of his pain stayed with her as she and Anne rode slowly homeward.
They had nearly reached the house when Anne said abruptly, “Bernard was talking about his injuries, about his limp and how weak his arm still is and his dizzy fits.”
“I have never noticed him having a fit.”
“Fit is the wrong word. He feels suddenly faint, then it passes. I have seen it once or twice. He stops speaking and sits with his head down for a few moments, then he is all right again. But I do not want to discuss his symptoms. It’s just that I had a strange feeling that he was trying to tell me something quite different from what he was saying.”
“What on earth do you mean?”
“There was something behind his words, that he could not say outright, but that he hoped I would understand. And I didn’t.” Anne’s eyes were bewildered, hurt.
“Perhaps you imagined it?”
As Anne shook her head they rode into the stable yard. The groom swung down from his horse and came to help them dismount, putting an end to confidences. The cousins went into the house.
Rowena automatically checked the post on the table in the front hall in passing, though her only regular correspondent was Pinkie, from whom she had heard not a week since. There was a letter there addressed to her in a masculine hand that seemed familiar though she could not identify it. She turned it over. It was sealed with a vast quantity of red sealing wax.
She needed the paperknife in her chamber to open it, and she wanted privacy to read it. She followed Anne up the stairs.
“Just tell me this.” Anne turned as they reached the landing. “Should I ask him what he meant?”
Rowena tore her thoughts from the letter. “The captain? No, don’t do that. If it is important he will surely explain himself in the end.”
Minton came down the hall towards them.
“Miss Millicent’s been asking for you this half hour, miss,” the abigail said sourly. “I suppose I’d best help you change so’s you don’t keep her waiting any longer.”
“Thank you, Minton, but I shall send for you when I need you.” Rowena went into her chamber, found her paperknife, and carefully slit the seal of the letter.
Anne had followed her. “Who is it from?” she enquired with her usual lack of ceremony.
“I don’t know.” She unfolded the two sheets of paper and
stared at the uppermost. “Good gracious, it’s a bank draft. In my name!”
“How much? Who from?”
“Ninety-eight pounds, three shillings and sixpence ha’penny. The letter is signed by Mr. Harwin, my lawyer. Wait a bit.” She scanned the precise, legal handwriting. “I told you Papa left his papers in such a muddle? It seems Mr. Harwin’s clerk is still going through them and this is the result of something he found.”
“Blessings on Mr. Harwin’s clerk! A hundred pounds—you could live for a year on it and be free of Millie while you seek a position. You can afford to pick and choose.”
Rowena was thoughtful. “But suppose the next thing he finds is an unpaid debt? Mr. Harwin even hints at the possibility, though he is not so imprudent as to say it outright. No, I shall buy new gowns, for both of us, and put a little aside for insurance.”
“Oh, no, Rowena, you must not waste your money. I am sure Mama will buy us new gowns if we only make a push for it.”
“I will not ask, and have Millicent think of a hundred reasons why we should not, or why we must continue in grey and white. I want something pretty for a last fling before I go to be a companion.”
“To think I always considered you such a practical person! I wonder if Mama will let us take the barouche into Broadway tomorrow.”
“Not Broadway.”
“Evesham?”
“No. For Lady Amelia’s ball we are going to have ball gowns from the best modiste in Cheltenham.”
“That will take all day. I shall ask Papa for the carriage and Millicent will have nothing to say in the matter.”
“You are the practical one, Anne dear.”
When Sir Henry understood the purpose of their proposed expedition, he not unnaturally forbade Rowena to spend any of her money on his daughter. In fact, he pressed her to save it and accept a sum from him sufficient to purchase several dresses. Her refusal was adamant. All too clearly she foresaw Millicent’s accusations of cozening her uncle into indulging her. She could no more take the offer from him than from her aunt.
