The Regency Romances of Mira Stables: Part One

by Mira Stables

  “This is no laughing matter,” declared Lady Eleanor indignantly. “She must have been wearing some of her Mama’s things, and if that is indeed the case, then matters are serious.” And she proceeded to outline to her nephew the awkward state of affairs in the Longden household.

  It seemed to him impractical to the point of farce that the family should be living in circumstances of some privation when there was money to be obtained easily enough by the sacrifice of some stupidly sentimental scruples, and he said so, in somewhat forthright fashion.

  “You don’t understand, dear,” said his aunt tolerantly. “The girls worship their father — and I’m sure it’s no wonder, for he is quite the kindest parent any daughter could desire — and so brave in his affliction.” She broke off as a wrinkle of distaste curled her nephew’s mouth, and said sharply, “No. Not at all what you are thinking. Not cheap dramatics brave. There is no heroic posing to catch sympathy. It is just that he has overcome his difficulties to the point that you would scarcely know that he was blind.”

  “Blind, is he, poor devil?” said Piers soberly. “I did not know — though all of you kept referring to his affliction. I thought you meant the loss of his wife and the mystery surrounding her end, which is certainly trouble enough for any man.”

  Here Giles intervened to give a brief account of the incident which had brought tragedy to their neighbour — an all too familiar tale of careless folly — a youngster carrying a loaded gun and crossing a stone stile in shoes grown slippery on the soft turf. Piers nodded shortly. There would always be reckless fools, too set up in their own conceit to listen to experience.

  “So you see how it is,” pursued Lady Eleanor patiently. “His one fault, poor man, is his refusal to face up to the probability of his wife’s death. And the girls shrink from forcing that acceptance upon him. But if they are brought so low as to be seeking employment, then something will have to be done. You must not blame John overmuch,” she added fairly. “The girls have undoubtedly shielded him from the truth. Which is, alas, all too easily done. Now he will have to be told, but the question is — who is to do the telling?”

  There was a tight little silence. The cousins looked at each other. Lady Eleanor, secure in the knowledge that neither of them would permit her to undertake so uncomfortable a task, considered them both thoughtfully. Piers, she decided inwardly, and not only to spare her son. Piers would do it better, impersonally yet kindly. Giles would stammer and hedge and embarrass his listener as deeply as himself. Even as she reached this decision, Giles spoke for her.

  “All yours, cousin,” he grinned, and went on reasonably enough. “In Longden’s eyes I’m little more than schoolboy. What weight would my opinions carry? You’re a man of the world — travelled — experienced. He might listen to you. He might even, in view of that old obligation, accept your help in sorting out his affairs.”

  Piers looked up sharply. Here again was the mention of an obligation. “Miss Longden mentioned something of the sort,” he said slowly. “I was taken sadly at fault, for indeed I had no recollection of it, yet dare not confess my ignorance.”

  Lady Eleanor laughed. “How should you know, indeed? You were a mere babe at the time. But of course the Longden girls have been brought up on the story — just the sort of tale that nursemaids delight in. I daresay John has forgotten the incident as completely as you have. But I do see that it makes a difference,” she went on thoughtfully. “Undoubtedly that is why Clemency felt that she might properly approach you.” She nodded comfortably to herself, satisfied that her young friend had not, after all, so grossly transgressed the principles of her upbringing. Piers glanced from one to the other and demanded further enlightenment.

  Giles obliged. “Yes, indeed, dear cousin. Only consider! If John Longden had not been so sure and cool a shot, I might well have fallen heir to all your worldly wealth. Though to be sure it would be a poor exchange for the pleasure of your society. Oh, yes —” for Piers was threatening dire punishment — “the tale is that he shot a mad dog just as it was about to sink its fangs into your infant person. None of the others dare shoot, for fear of hitting you.”

  An odd little frisson of horror chilled Piers’s blood. He had once seen a man die of hydrophobia. Inured as he was to the hideous injuries so often incurred at sea, that was still not a memory that he cared to recall. He had never guessed how easily it might have been his own fate. He glanced down at the powerful brown fingers holding his wine glass and thought of the pleasure he had taken of life. No wonder the chit had spoken of an obligation. Willingly he would admit it. Rather less willingly would he broach the subject of insolvency to his benefactor. However it was clearly his duty, and he was not one to put off a distasteful task.

  “I will call on him tomorrow,” he said briskly. “I may be a little late in getting back from Otterley’s, but not enough to signify. I hope Mr. Longden isn’t a stickler for punctilio.”

  His aunt beamed approval at him. “Indeed he is not,” she affirmed. “The least consequential of men. You will deal famously together. And it will be a great weight off my mind. I have been very anxious about those girls with only Betsy to turn to, and Clemency so fiery proud. The other two are more biddable, but Clemency is one who will always take her own way, however reckless, rather than depend on her elders. If you are to take them in charge I shall breathe more easily.”

  Giles nodded agreement. “Aye. She’s a bit hot at hand is Mistress Clemency, but sound as a roast for all that. I warrant she’ll be downright grateful for your counsel and support.”

  Piers thought they were both going a great deal too fast. He did not intend to involve himself deeply in the Longdens’ affairs. He would explain the position to Mr. Longden, discover tactfully if a loan would be accepted, and rid himself of the awkward business as soon as his sense of obligation permitted. As for Miss Longden being grateful for his help, it seemed to him highly improbable after what had passed between them. He was determined to regard his mood of the morning as a temporary madness which he would learn to subdue in good time. There was no place for a woman in the life that he had chosen, certainly not for a frail, delicately bred child. Not even his wealth, and it was already considerable and still growing, since the Yorkshire manufacturers were buying up his cross-bred wool with an eagerness only exceeded by their enthusiasm for Macarthur’s merino, could wrap a girl in comfort of the English standard in that far away colony. He said dryly that Miss Longden had not struck him as the kind of young lady who was eager to listen to good advice, and turned the subject by asking about some leases that Giles had been checking for him. Giles expounded at some length, and ended by asking if his cousin did not now wish to take matters into his own hands.

  Piers shook his head. “I’ve no intention of settling here,” he said bluntly, answering the question that had not found utterance. “Australia for me, with the Dower House as a second home when business brings me back. I’ve been meaning to discuss some such arrangement with you. If it suits, I’d have you take over here, Giles. The place will come to you in any case at my death. I’d rather see you enjoy it in my lifetime, and maybe,” he grinned at his cousin, “a parcel of brats in your image to temper the enjoyment.”

  He sat patiently through the storm of protest that ensued. He had not expected to win his way at first asking. His aunt, while expressing her deep appreciation of his generous offer, deprecated his intention of residing abroad. Giles wanted to know if he reckoned him incapable of making his own way in the world. It would take time to bring them round to his point of view, but ultimately he would succeed. They were his family. Why should he not provide for them, who could so well afford to do so? But he did not put forward this argument, advancing instead several temperate observations on difficulties that arose when the landlord was an absentee. When he felt he had made sufficient headway he left them to think it over and discuss it in private, pleading his early start next day as his excuse for leaving betimes.

  But despite the ea
rly start it proved impossible to hurry old Mr. Otterley in his careful inspection of the samples of wool. Each must be tested carefully in his fingers and then examined under a magnifying glass, so that it was past five o’clock before Piers found himself free to fulfil his promise to call at Ash Croft. Nevertheless he hesitated only briefly. The unpleasant interview had been on his mind all day. Even if the hour was unconventional, best tackle it now.

  He trod up a sadly neglected drive between untrimmed hedges to the front door. The house looked forlorn, with ivy encroaching on stonework where it should never have been permitted. There was no trace of smoke from the chimneys. All the evidence suggested that Miss Longden’s tale of poverty had actually been understated, and he was uneasily aware that his judgement had been less than fair. He tugged roughly at the bell pull, releasing some of his annoyance. He could hear the bell jangling in the distance but it was some time before footsteps could be heard approaching. There was the rattle of a chain and a struggle with a stiff bolt and then Betsy’s crabbed visage peered at him suspiciously round the edge of the door as though she suspected him of being a house breaker or a debt collector. Recognition dawning, she set the door wider but still stood foursquare in his path making no attempt to invite him to enter.

  Between amusement and irritability he enquired if it would be convenient for Mr. Longden to receive him. It was, he admitted, an odd time to be paying a call, but his business was urgent and his time limited.

  Betsy must have reached a favourable decision for she accorded him a brisk nod, muttered something that sounded like, “No time better,” and stood aside to allow him to enter the dark hall.

  “Ye’ll need to mind that wall,” she instructed him gruffly. “There’s stags’ heads and suchlike. Don’t go bumping into them. Keep to this side and you’ll be all right.”

  He wondered why there was no lamp burning to make the warning unnecessary as he followed his guide along a murky passage and nearly stumbled over her as she stopped unexpectedly to tap on a door. Of course a blind man had no need of lamps, but surely the daughters didn’t creep about in this gloom?

  At least there was a glimmer of light in the room into which the old servant was ushering him, with a curt, “Captain Kennedy to see you, Sir.” It came from a single candle set on the table, and Piers realised with dismay that his call had interrupted the family at dinner. But his stammered apology was swept aside by his host who rose to greet him with every appearance of sincere welcome.

  “Nonsense, my dear boy, I’m delighted,” exclaimed the blind man, advancing confidently with outstretched hand. “Pru, set another place for our guest. I can recommend the game fricassee,” he went on hospitably. “Some of your own birds that young Giles sent down. Of course you must stay. I’ll take no refusal. We always dine early — one gets so devilish sharp-set in the country. Your aunt will forgive you for once — you can tell her it was all my blame. She’ll understand that the chance of masculine support was one that I couldn’t resist, petticoat-ridden as I am,” and he smiled at his daughters with pride and love. “You’ll not remember my girls. Clemency, my eldest, and Prudence, younger by a quarter of an hour, and Faith, my baby. Make your curtsies to Captain Kennedy, my dears. Put him next to me, Pru. No need for ceremony, we’re old acquaintances, though it must be close on twenty years since last we met.”

  The tall girl had risen and was bringing cutlery from a side table. Clemency had been seated with her back to him but had swung round at the interruption, and she and the younger girl were staring at him with such expressions of shocked dismay that he began to wonder if there was something amiss with his appearance. His host, still in a bustle of hospitality, was directing Faith to set a chair for the unexpected guest, and asking Clemency if they had any of the good port left — the ’75 — for this was an occasion and should be duly celebrated.

  Piers’s eyes had now accustomed themselves to the dim light. A glance at the table with its snowy damask and gleaming silver showed him the true cause of the horror stricken faces. There was certainly a dish which had presumably contained the fricassee of game, but its entire contents were on Mr. Longden’s plate. The girls were eating baked potatoes.

  He looked swiftly at Clemency, erect as a lance in her chair at the foot of the table. Her head was high, but the great brown eyes were full of shamed tears. He found her distress unbelievably painful, the more so by contrast with the gallant front she had shown at their first meeting. He turned back to his host. “It smells wonderful, Sir,” he said, and smiled delightfully. “I shall certainly allow myself to be tempted. Thank you, Miss Prudence. Shall I serve myself?” And did so, helping himself to a potato from the dish which still held several.

  Prudence flashed him a glance glowing with gratitude, picked up the empty meat dish and made a slight clatter with spoon and fork before removing it to the side table. The action was so practised, so automatic, that Piers realised that this scene had been played many times before. Pitifully he remembered Clemency’s surprising greed over the cakes. No wonder, if the poor little brat was half starved. It was difficult to suppress his burning indignation, which, he discovered, was directed mainly at himself. Only the need to maintain a courteous interchange with his host saved him. When Betsy appeared with a dish of baked apples he was thankful to see that at least the girls shared this treat, though he declined it for himself, saying that he was not yet accustomed to country hours and that having done such ample justice to the first course, dare not indulge further greed. A statement which so moved Betsy that she actually patted his shoulder with possessive approbation before retiring to her kitchen fastness.

  Faith was gazing at him with blatant adoration, Prudence smiling over Betsy’s open capitulation, but Clemency remained stony faced, speaking only when directly addressed. If Giles had not appeared so untimely, she might, he thought, have forgiven him those stolen kisses. She would find it much harder to forgive him for having discovered the depth of their poverty. The delicate veil that she had drawn over it had been brutally wrenched aside by Betsy’s meddling. He could not be sorry that the truth had been shown him — but he knew, ruefully, who would be blamed.

  The travesty of a meal was almost done, and his hostess, at least, would not press him to stay longer. With his host he now wished to avoid intimate talk until he felt his way a little more clearly. The position was more serious and more delicate than he had guessed. He could picture John Longden’s distress if he should ever discover that his daughters had taken advantage of his blindness to starve themselves while he lived well. He excused himself to his host, saying that his aunt might be growing anxious over his non-appearance, and asked him to name a convenient date when they would all dine with him at the Dower House. “Though I fear Mrs. Beach can produce nothing so good as your fricassee,” he added. Mr. Longden beamed his delight.

  “You are complimenting my cook to her face,” he exclaimed. “Clemency made it.”

  And he had advised the girl to study domestic economy! He was thankful when his host told Prudence that she might set up the chess board for their usual game and then escorted him to the door.

  His farewells done, he walked briskly to the gate. But having made his departure perfectly audible, in view of Mistress Prudence’s by-play with plates and cutlery, he paused to consider his next move. If Prudence and her father were playing chess, it seemed to him very likely that Clemency would repair to the kitchen quarters, if not to help Betsy with domestic tasks, then certainly to scold her for admitting him into their carefully guarded secret.

  He allowed the chess game time to be well under way before climbing the gate, lest its creaking betray him, and fetching a wide circle round the house. A lighted window led him to the kitchen, but no one answered his soft tap although he could hear voices inside. This was no time for standing on ceremony. By conniving at the deception he had joined the conspirators. He lifted the latch and walked in.

  Chapter Four

  THE scene was much as he had expect
ed. Betsy was standing on the hearth, arms akimbo and an obstinate jut to her chin. Faith, flushed and excited, broke off what she was saying to stare at his sudden appearance. Clemency was sitting at the kitchen table, her head buried in her arms, one clenched fist beating a fierce tattoo on the scrubbed deal, and did not see him.

  Betsy nodded to him as though it was quite customary to have strange men stroll into her kitchen unannounced, then jerked her head significantly towards the table.

  “So it’s you, is it?” she grunted. “I reckoned you’d be back. And a fine mess of trouble we’re in, you and me, with her ladyship here.”

  Clemency’s head came up at that. Piers had feared that she was crying. Now that he saw the white furious face and blazing eyes he realised that she was only in a tearing rage. “Fiery proud”, Aunt Eleanor had said, and Gad! She looked it! A regular hell-cat, ready to spit and claw at the least provocation. He was thankful. Tantrums, he felt, would be easier to handle than tears.

  She was on her feet and coming at him, a small virago without fear or diffidence. “How dare you burst in here without knocking?” she hurled at him. “Another sample of your polished manners I suppose! You can just take yourself off as quickly as you please. You have found out all you wished to know and now you may leave us to manage our affairs without your interference.”

  Piers smiled at her kindly. “Thank you, my child,” he said. “I will indeed take myself off just as soon as I please. That will not be until you and I have reached a better understanding. And if you must rant at me like a fishwife, lower your voice. Do you want your father to hear you and come seeking the cause of the rumpus?”