A Poor Relation

by Carola Dunn

  “Now that is of all things the most surprising and the most delightful! Dearest Rowena turns out to be quite an heiress after all, a most respectable portion. With Anne off my hands, I shall take her up to town in the spring, for she may expect now to make a most eligible connexion. Indeed, I venture to say she may look for a splendid match.”

  The arrival of Mr. Ruddle, Mrs. Berry-Browning and her son saved Chris from the necessity of responding. He managed to utter polite greetings, but his mind was in a whirl.

  His immediate reaction to the news was joy. Though Rowena’s aunt, with unusual reticence, had not mentioned a figure, a respectable fortune could only ease their life together. He would not have to ask her to do without the elegancies he longed to provide.

  Second thoughts came all too soon. The world would think that having lost Millicent’s dowry, he had seized the chance of securing Rowena’s before anyone else learned of it. They would whisper pityingly that he had only married her for her money. The very day he heard the news, they would say, he offered for her, and never a hint before that he had eyes for any but Millicent Grove and her twenty thousand.

  The worst of it was that Rowena might believe it. The more he tried to convince her of his love, the more she must doubt his sincerity. How could he face the questions in her green eyes?

  He cursed himself for not begging her to marry him before she left the Grange.

  Yet if he had, and if she had accepted, the only honourable course of action now would be to free her from her promise. Lady Grove was talking of a London Season, the height of every young lady’s ambition, and of a splendid match. All Chris had to offer was a rundown estate and a great deal of hard work.

  The unpleasant reality was impossible to ignore: he could not ask Rowena to be his wife.

  Several more visitors arrived to discover for themselves the details of Lady Grove’s triumph, which had quickly spread about the neighbourhood. Bernard appeared with Sir Henry, both beaming. Anne and her captain were surrounded immediately by well-wishers. Then Rowena came in.

  She paused in the doorway, glancing about the room. In the moment before she caught sight of him, Chris saw that she looked well, with a becoming colour in her cheeks. Not daring to meet her eyes, he looked hastily away from her face. Her slight figure, clad in a gown of her favourite green, seemed vulnerable, defenseless. He ached to hold her, to protect her.

  He turned away to answer Miss Desborough. When he looked back, Rowena was the centre of a congratulatory group.

  With a rush of jealous fury he noted that Mr. Desborough and Mr. Berry-Browning were both hovering about her with a hopeful air. He must leave before he did something he would regret. Bidding his hostess farewell, he told Bernard he would see him later and made his way to Rowena.

  The glow in her green eyes when she looked up at him almost made him forget his resolution. It was only pleasure at the unusual attention she was receiving, he told himself. He bowed over the hand she held out to him, not touching it.

  “My felicitations, Miss Caxton.” His voice sounded strange to his own ears.

  Her smile faded. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “You must excuse me, I have business to attend to.”

  With a nod to the other members of her circle, he departed.

  He rode long and hard over the hills in a vain attempt to drive her image from his mind. Everything reminded him of her.

  It was sunny, though the October breeze had a nip to it—a perfect day for a gallop, and Rowena loved a good gallop. How alarmed he had been when he had found her weeping over her mare—had he loved her even then, unknowingly? Would she go back now to Geoffrey Farnhouse, who was fond enough of her to buy her horse and send it to her? Her denial of interest in him as anything more than a friend had seemed convincing, but perhaps it was wishful thinking on his part.

  He swung over the crest of a hill, scattering a flock of sheep. They turned to look at him with reproachful eyes. I did it for the best, he wanted to shout at them; it would be dishonourable to ask her to marry me.

  The shepherd’s tuneless whistle brought memories of joking about their mutual lack of musical appreciation. Even the innocent grass was green, her favourite colour.

  By the time he reached the Grange stables, El Cid was near exhaustion, and the return through the orchards had set the seal on Chris’s misery. Those had been his happiest times with Rowena, riding among the trees discussing his improvements. Was he to lose even the benefit of her advice?

  He strode into the house, scowling. The dome over the magnificent vestibule was just another reminder that bricks and mortar had stolen his inheritance and his beloved from him.

  “Her ladyship desires a word with your lordship,” announced Diggory.

  “Later,” said the earl curtly.

  He managed to avoid Lady Farleigh and Miss Pinkerton until dinnertime. Bernard had still not returned from Grove Park. However, a number of callers had dropped in at the Grange, bringing with them the news of Lady Grove’s triple triumph. Chris spun out his description of the captain’s successful wooing, and to his relief the ladies refrained from interrogating him further, though he knew they were agog to hear about Rowena. The dowager had made it plain enough that she would welcome Miss Caxton as a surrogate daughter-in-law.

  Chris sat long at the table after the ladies had withdrawn. He had never appreciated the rich sweetness of port but the level in the brandy decanter sank considerably before Bernard joined him.

  Though it was hard to focus, he noted with annoyance the spring in his friend’s step, negating his limp.

  “Take a spot?” he mumbled as Diggory materialized with another glass.

  “Just a drop of the port.” Bernard studied Chris’s face and wisely forbore from comment. “Thank you. I leave for London first thing tomorrow.”

  “Want to bring Cousin Martha back... meet your betrothed?”

  “May I? That would be ideal, for Lady Grove cannot be spared to accompany Anne to town.”

  “Welcome. What time we leaving?”

  “I hope to be off by half past seven. With luck I’ll make it in a day. There’s no need for you to come with me, Chris. I am perfectly well, never felt better in fact. I shall hire a post chaise in Broadway.”

  “I’m going, too,” said Chris flatly.

  The gentlemen were long gone when Miss Pinkerton set off next morning for Grove Park. It was a little after ten when she was ushered up to Rowena’s chamber.

  Rowena was sitting at a small table, writing. With unshaken composure she set aside her pen, but when she embraced Pinkie her hug was convulsive. “You are quite chilled! Sit down here by the fire and let me help you take off your bonnet. There, that’s better, but your cap is awry, and I never thought to see you tousled.”

  “One of the grooms was kind enough to bring me in the gig. Lady Farleigh does not keep another carriage and I could not like to borrow his lordship’s curricle. Such a sporting vehicle! The travelling carriage was gone, you see. His lordship and the captain left for London at dawn.”

  Rowena nodded sadly. “I thought he would go with Bernard.”

  “What happened, my love?”

  “I don’t know.” She stood up again and restlessly paced the room. “There were a number of people there when I went down. He was on the other side of the room. I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw his face. So stern and unhappy! He spoke scarce two words to me before he left. I hoped he might come back when there were no visitors, but when he did not, I knew he would go to London. I can only suppose that he really does love Millicent, that her betrothal was the cause of his distress.”

  Rowena sank to her knees and buried her face in Miss Pinkerton’s skirts, though no tears came. “Oh, Pinkie, I did think he was beginning to care for me!”

  “So did I, my dear.” Pinkie gently stroked her hair. “I trust that nothing I said raised your hopes above what was warranted. Lady Farleigh, too, fears that she may have encouraged you beyond reason.”


  “It was he, his actions, his looks, that gave me encouragement. How could I have mistaken him so? And yet I cannot think him dishonourable. I saw what I wanted to see, I daresay. What a fool I have been!”

  “He is the greater fool!” said Miss Pinkerton in indignation. “He’ll not find himself a better wife if he looks for a thousand years.”

  Rowena stood up, went over to the table, and began to mend her pen. “I wish I could be gone before he returns. I cannot go on living so close. I expect my aunt and Sir Henry will not approve, but I have written to Mr. Harwin to ask him how to go about buying or renting a little farm. Will you come to live with me?”

  “I should be grossly offended if I thought for a minute you doubted it, Rowena. A neat, small farm will be the very thing to occupy your mind. What a delightful notion!”

  “You are not promised to Lady Farleigh?”

  “No, no, our plans were all contingent upon... that is, I daresay she will continue at the Grange for the foreseeable future.”

  “Then I shall send this letter today.” She folded the sheet, directed and sealed it. “It may take some little time for Mr. Harwin to reply.”

  For the next few days, while awaiting the lawyer’s response, Rowena did her best to appear cheerful. She supported Anne’s spirits during Bernard’s absence; she listened to Millicent’s descriptions of the luxurious life she would lead as “dear Adolphus’” wife; she tactfully discouraged Aunt Hermione’s preparations for a London Season without revealing her own plans.

  Sure that Lord Farleigh must have guessed her feelings, she dreaded his reappearance. She recalled with shame how she had hung on his neck and pressed against him when he carried her. He had been kind enough not to show his disgust at her want of conduct—or had he been amused? That would almost be worse.

  She never wanted to see him again.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Rowena, pray come to the Grange with me. How can I possibly meet Miss Cartwright without your support? She is Bernard’s only living relative and he is excessively fond of her. I am so dreadfully afraid she will not like me.”

  Curled up at the foot of Rowena’s bed, Anne let slip the eiderdown wrapped about her thin shoulders as she waved the brief note from her beloved to emphasize her plea.

  “I did not know he meant to bring her back with him.” Rowena tried to postpone the moment of decision.

  “Nor did he, before he left. He says Chris suggested it. Was it not kind of him?”

  She ignored the question. “Could you not invite Miss Cartwright to come up here?”

  “I think it would be more proper for me to go to her.” Anne looked dubious. “Bernard does ask me to go.”

  “Yes, of course, you are right, but surely Aunt Hermione ought to go with you.”

  “I daresay, but you know very well Millie has talked her into going to Cheltenham tomorrow to order brideclothes. I know you are not quite recovered, but if I send word to Bernard first thing tomorrow that we shall not have the carriage, I’m sure Chris will send his for us. Perhaps he will fill it with cushions again.”

  She giggled. Rowena winced. Unable to explain how unlikely that was, she capitulated.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “Good. Let’s not tell Millie they are back or she will want to come, too. Though I must say she seems quite happy to be engaged to dear Adolphus. I wish she had taken the plunge sooner, for her disposition is much improved, is it not? All the same, we shall say we are going to see your Pinkie.”

  Rowena scarcely slept that night for planning what she would say to Lord Farleigh if she were forced to speak to him. Nor could she decide what to wear. In one of her pretty new dresses she might give the impression that she was trying to attract him, yet she could not bear to go back to her old, shabby half-mourning. Besides, it would look excessively odd and provoke no end of comment.

  When morning came and she had to make up her mind, she settled after all on the moss-green Circassian cloth trimmed with peach. It hung loose on her, for she had lost weight since her accident, and it made her pale face look still paler. She stared crossly at her image in the mirror, then shrugged.

  Bernard came in the Farleigh carriage to fetch the girls. He and Anne were too preoccupied with each other to note Rowena’s apprehensive silence.

  Lady Farleigh and Pinkie awaited them in the green-and-gold drawing room. With them was a motherly, cheerful woman whom Bernard introduced as his cousin Martha Cartwright. Rowena murmured greetings and curtsied, trying not to let her gaze wander about the room in search of his lordship.

  Her efforts were unnecessary. He was not there. He must have gone riding to avoid her.

  She sought refuge beside Pinkie, and did her best to take an interest in the conversation. Bernard was looking wary. Anne’s intellectual pursuits and sometimes sharp tongue accorded ill with Miss Cartwright’s comfortable common sense, and for a time a clash seemed inevitable. However, with a little nudging from Pinkie and Lady Farleigh they quickly found a mutual interest in their adoration of the captain, to that gentleman’s patent embarrassment.

  The girls were invited to stay for luncheon. Lord Farleigh had still not put in an appearance.

  “Now, how am I to escort five ladies into the dining room?” said Bernard, laughing. “I ought to have insisted that Chris return with me to perform his duties as host.”

  “Is he still in London?” Anne asked the question that hovered on Rowena’s tongue.

  “He went down to Dorset, to see his sister.” He offered his arm to Lady Farleigh, as the first in precedence and most in need. “He is very fond of her, and of all his nephews and nieces, too, and he has seen little of them since we returned to England.”

  Rowena trailed after the others into the dining room. She was not hungry. Bernard might explain Chris’s absence by his affection for his sister, but she was afraid it was her presence nearby that had driven him from his home.

  Miss Cartwright stayed for a week. The day after Bernard accompanied her back to town, Rowena received from an agent in Evesham a list of four local properties he thought suitable for her purposes. She disclosed her plans to the Groves. Their reactions were exactly what she might have expected.

  Millicent was utterly incredulous at the very notion of choosing to become a farmer instead of a debutante. Aunt Hermione wailed about the impropriety of a young lady leaving her family to live alone. Sir Henry told her she must do as she saw fit. Anne was both encouraging and practical.

  “You will have to inspect all the farms to see which you like best,” she pointed out. “I shall go with you, since Bernard is away. Papa, may we have the carriage tomorrow?”

  So, early the next morning the two young ladies set out on a tour of inspection, dressed in sensible warm clothes and boots suitable for walking about a farmyard. It was a perfect October day, still and sunny with a hint of frost in the air. Woods and orchards were dressed in autumn russet and gold; in the hedgerows flocks of chaffinches squabbled over the crimson haws.

  Neither her cheerful companion nor the prospect of once again running her own farm could rouse Rowena to enthusiasm.

  The first place, somewhere north of Evesham between Salford Priors and Abbot’s Salford, was in excellent heart, but given over to sheep and cattle and grain. The second was planted to fruit trees, only they were in even worse condition than those at Farleigh Grange, and the house was a dilapidated shack. By the time they turned south, Rowena’s dream of independence and a quiet, useful life was fading as the dream of winning Chris’s love had faded.

  “The next is bound to be better,” Anne encouraged her. “Besides, you would not want to live in a village called Wyre Piddle.”

  Rowena summoned up a smile. “Hinton on the Green has a solid, respectable sound,” she agreed, “and there has been nothing but orchards for some way. Are you sure your papa’s coachman understood the directions to the farm? We seem to have been driving for... Oh, what is that?”

  A shout was fol
lowed by a confused sound of cursing as the coach came to a sudden halt.

  “Highwaymen!” Anne’s eyes sparkled with excitement.

  Rowena let down the window and looked out. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, but it seems to be Bernard. Oh, and Lord Farleigh!” She ducked back into the carriage as Anne flung open the door and jumped out.

  What was Chris doing here? A moment’s reflection told her that he had simply accompanied Bernard, who must have been impatient to see his betrothed.

  She heard him now, talking to the coachman, at first apologetic then in a no-nonsense tone of command, his “major” voice. She could not make out his words. A moment later he led El Cid and Sluggard past the window towards the back of the carriage, presumably to tie them on behind, for he next appeared without them at the open door.

  Of all the high-handed, arrogant wretches, to assume that she would want to ride with him!

  “Good day, Miss Caxton.” He doffed his hat and bowed, his dark hair ruffled by the breeze.

  She saw uncertainty in his grey eyes, and her resentment melted. After all it was Anne’s carriage. As Bernard’s friend, Chris could hardly be refused a place in it.

  “Good day, my lord.”

  “I beg your pardon if we caused you any alarm. I had not thought that your coachman might take us for highwaymen.”

  “I did not for a moment credit it. However, I trust we shall not be much longer delayed for I have two more farms to look at this afternoon.”

  “Ah, yes. As it happens, Bernard and I have already done some inspecting and have decided that the next is not at all what you will like. I know of the ideal place for you. In fact, I have taken the liberty of directing your coachman, in the hope that you will be so kind as to take me up so that I may show it to you.”

  His look was so appealing that she could not resist. Besides, her curiosity as to what he considered suitable was almost as great as her chagrin that he should fall in so readily with her plans for the future.

  “Very well,” she said gruffly.