Midsummer Magic

by Catherine Coulter

  “Most assuredly,” said the marquess, hope flaring.

  Frances gave him a quite dazzling, beautiful smile. She pulled the cap off her hair and flung it to the floor. She stomped on it.

  She next pulled the pins from the severe bun and shook out her thick hair.

  She burst into merry laughter. “I believe, my lord, that the dowdy mouse has just died behind the wainscoting.” She threw the spectacles into the air, and when they landed, she ground her heel into the lenses.

  “My lord, do you know of any acceptable modistes in York?”

  “We will invite Lady Alicia Bourchier to tea, Frances. She will know of a top-of-the-trees modiste, doubt it not. As for funds, as the mistress here, you have all you need. Now, my dear, I know of a trunk that holds some of Nevil’s clothing. Perhaps we can find a pair of trousers for you. You would like to go riding, would you not?”

  Frances threw her arms around the marquess’s neck. “You are a wicked old man, sir!”

  “And you, my dear daughter, are a minx.”

  Frances laughed gleefully, and didn’t hear the marquess add under his breath, “My poor son. You haven’t a chance, not now.”

  He wondered as he rode beside a laughing, carefree Frances, how long he should allow Hawk to absent himself. Well, he would just wait and see how Frances settled in. Then he would decide how to bring his son about. If it were not for wicked, meddling old men, he thought, heedless young men would not gain their just deserts.

  As for Frances, didn’t she realize that her husband would return? He wondered what she would do when that realization struck her between the eyes, as it surely would, sooner or later.

  12

  She lays it on with a trowel.

  —WILLIAM CONGREVE

  Mrs. Jerkins gawked at the vision, her mouth opening in a most undignified manner. Agnes had gasped that her ladyship had changed, but Mrs. Jerkins was of a tenacious, unchangeable nature, thus retrenching proved difficult.

  “I .... my lady, what ... ?”

  Frances gave her a sweet smile and said gently, “Please be seated, Mrs. Jerkins. I believe that you and I have some plans to make.”

  “But here, in his lordship’s estate room?‘ No lady in Mrs. Jerkins’ experience would ever poach in a masculine preserve.

  Frances understood well enough, but her smile never faltered. Mrs. Jerkins was quite used to being the oracle of housewifely behavior at Desborough. But Frances was taking over Delphi, and without further delay. She’d delayed too long as it was.

  “Please be seated,” she said again, and Mrs. Jerkins sat, the keys at her waist jingling loudly.

  “Now,” Frances said, “here is what you and I shall do. First of all, I will go over the menus for the week each Monday morning—”

  “But,” Mrs. Jerkins sputtered, “you can’t read!”

  Frances laughed at that. “What a poor impression I first gave you of my countrymen, Mrs. Jerkins. I assure you that I can read, it was just that I was in my, er, spectacle mode and thus was quite blind. I gather that menu you showed me wasn’t for a dinner?”

  “It was a linen list!”

  “Ah, I trust you still have it, for I should like to see to that this morning. Then, a complete tour of the house.”

  Mrs. Jerkins was still looking like a full-ballasted three-rigger floundering in the shoals. Frances sat forward, her hands flat on the beautiful mahogany desk. “I believe that you and I will deal quite well together. It has been difficult, I would imagine, not having a mistress here. A household of men must have made your life less than harmonious.”

  That hadn’t been the case at all, but Mrs. Jerkins wasn’t stupid. She thought suddenly of the chipped dishware, of the linens that were tattered and moth-eaten, of the draperies in the Crimson Room that had seen better days a generation ago.

  “Well, perhaps,” she began, her tone grudging. After all, this still was a savage little Scottish girl ... well, perhaps not savage. “There are the dogs, my lady!”

  “Dogs?” Frances repeatedly blankly. “What dogs?”

  “His lordship ... his former lordship’s hunters. His new lordship normally brings them into the Hall, but he didn’t this time, for what reason I don’t know, but still—”

  “I perceive the problem, Mrs. Jerkins. There will not, of course, be any more animals allowed to frolic in the Hall.”

  Mrs. Jerkins pulled her scattered wits together by a thread. Everything was changing so quickly, at a dizzying pace. She could but nod.

  Their tour of the vast house produced a surprise for Frances. Mrs. Jerkins was marching her through the long, narrow portrait gallery in the West Corridor when Frances spotted the painting of a young woman who looked like the feminine counterpart of her husband. She walked to the picture and stared up at it blankly.

  “That is Lady Beatrice, my lady,” said Mrs. Jerkins, “his lordship’s older sister.”

  I can’t very well tell her that I never heard of a sister, thought Frances. She said instead, “Tell me about her, Mrs. Jerkins, since of course I have yet to meet her.”

  Mrs. Jerkins’ lips thinned a bit, but blood loyalty was strong. “Well, you know of course that Lord Nevil was the eldest, would have been thirty-one had he not drowned. Lady Beatrice is twenty-eight and his lordship twenty-six. Lady Beatrice was a very high-spirited young lady, married against her father’s wishes when she was nineteen to a man older than her father, a Lord Dunsmore.”

  Frances frowned a bit at that. It wasn’t as if Beatrice—her sister-in-law!—was impoverished. “Why did she marry this man?”

  “I shouldn’t know, but old Lord Dunsmore was quite wealthy and Lady Beatrice wanted to be her own mistress.”

  “Where do she and her husband live now?”

  “Lord Dunsmore died two years ago. Lady Beatrice is in London, I believe, now betrothed to a much younger gentleman, a Viscount Chalmers.”

  Frances didn’t wonder why Hawk hadn’t mentioned he had a sister. Heavens, he hadn’t told her anything about himself or his family, for that matter. She wondered now if she would ever meet Lady Beatrice, particularly since her husband wanted her in the north of England, out of his way.

  She forced a bright smile. “Onward, Mrs. Jerkins.”

  Mrs. Jerkins said later to Mr. Otis, in the privacy of her small sitting room, “Just like a whirlwind she is, James. And her looks! I don’t mind telling you that I was bowled about the head!”

  “She informed me,” said Mr. Otis, unbending just a bit at this confidence, “that she doesn’t care for the footmen’s livery! She said she’s been studying the Rothermere coat of arms and that our colors aren’t quite right.”

  Mrs. Jerkins clasped her bosom in instant commiseration.

  “What his lordship will say, I can’t begin to imagine. The change in her, ‘tis astounding, though.”

  The two old martinets drank their tea in silence for some minutes, each thinking that life as they had known it was long gone and wouldn’t likely return.

  “More milk for your tea, James? No, well, I tell you, she needs to be put swiftly and firmly in her place, that’s what I think! Why, his lordship left her without a backward glance! It’s all very odd, you know. And her appearance, her former appearance—very smoky, I say.”

  “Agatha, she is the mistress, no matter what his lordship has done, no matter what she has done to herself. It is very odd, but it appears that she has just realized the fact that she is mistress here. It is the marquess’s doing.”

  “She knows how to read,” Mrs. Jerkins exclaimed as if it were a mortal sin.

  “That is a relief,” Mr. Otis said, sipping his tea. “A bit more milk, please, Agatha.”

  “More dresses and gowns and riding habits arrived for her this morning from York. Agnes is all agog. What his lordship will say with her spending all his blunt—”

  “Her need was most pressing, I should say,” said Otis.

  Mrs. Jerkins glanced toward her small clock on the table beside her.
“Oh dear, I believe that Lady Bourchier is to arrive shortly. Her ladyship requested a special tea.”

  “I believe,” Mr. Otis said calmly, a glimmer in his rheumy eyes, “that Mr. Carruthers is to join her ladyship for dinner. She has given orders that only the second dining room is to be used.”

  “Scandalous, I call it!”

  Lady Alicia Bourchier was a very pretty woman who had been much infatuated with Lord Philip Hawksbury some six years before when he was in London at the Hawksbury town house on leave, his arm in a sling. He’d flirted with her, healed, then left again. She’d met her childhood friend John again after a distance of two years, fallen in love, and now felt only an occasional twinge of regret when thoughts of the handsome Philip took her unawares.

  She looked over her teacup at Philip’s wife. She had felt so sorry for him upon her first meeting with Frances. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, she should feel more sorry for him now.

  “So, Alicia, you must come see the rest of my new wardrobe when we finish our tea. I do thank you for all your help. Ah, I must tell Mrs. Jerkins that the tea is much too weak!”

  “Frances,” Alicia said suddenly, “I really do not understand, you know.”

  “It doesn’t matter, truly. And to be frank, I do not wish to discuss it. Now, you haven’t told me what you think of this gown.”

  “You look beautiful,” Alicia said quite honestly. Indeed, she did, Alicia thought to herself. It was a round dress of thin jaconet muslin over a lemon-colored sarcenet slip. The bodice was trimmed with a triple fall of lace at the throat, the hem flounced with matching rows of like lace. The fitted bodice, though quite modest, did nothing to deceive the viewer of the abundant bosom beneath.

  Frances was elegant, there was no other word for it, Alicia admitted to herself, from the tip of her glossy chestnut curls—or was her hair more auburn or perhaps blond—she couldn’t decide.

  She realized for the first time that she was Frances’ elder by at least three years. It was a daunting thought, and one that she tried earnestly to dismiss. She wanted to be Frances’ friend, after all, for Philip’s sake. Even though she was from Scotland. Even though she was Philip’s wife. However had she attracted him in the first place? Why had she played the shy dowd?

  It was a mystery Alicia did not despair of unraveling, in time.

  She said brightly, “Have you heard from Philip?”

  “No,” Frances said, sounding not at all downcast.

  “But it’s been nearly two weeks, Frances! Whatever is he doing in London?”

  Frances shrugged, a glimmer of a smile playing about her mobile mouth. “I am fairly certain that he amuses himself.”

  “I shouldn’t approve of that if I were you!”

  Frances said very gently, “But you are not me, Alicia. Ah, here are my dear father-in-law and Marcus! Come in, gentlemen, and make your bows.”

  Amenities were the order for the next few minutes.

  “You’ve a letter from your father, Frances,”the marquess said, handing her a rather disreputable, wrinkled envelope.

  “Thank you, sir. Now, here is your tea. Marcus, you like milk, do you not?”

  “Yes, my lady,” Marcus Carruthers said. He felt still in something of a state of shock. The new countess had turned from a toad into a prince—or something along that order, he amended to himself—and she was charming to him. She’d requested his assistance for the following day. He didn’t yet know what to make of it.

  Frances saw that her father-in-law was gazing pointedly at the letter she’d laid on the tea table. “I shall get to it later, sir,” she said. “All outright lies and jests and advice I shall pass on to you, you may be certain.”

  The marquess nodded. “I like the gown, Frances. It suits you quite nicely.”

  That was an understatement, thought Marcus.

  “Thank you,” Frances said in a very demure voice, but there were demons dancing in her gray eyes. “Incidentally, sir, I saw a portrait of Lady Beatrice in the gallery. She is quite lovely.”

  The marquess said nothing for a long moment; then he shrugged. “That’s as may be,” he said obliquely, and Frances’ left brow arched upward.

  “I haven’t seen Beatrice for a goodly number of years,” said Alicia. “She goes well, sir?” At his nod, she continued to Frances, “She is recently betrothed to Edmund Lacy, a quite charming gentleman, from all I hear. He was a good friend of Nevil’s and now a friend of Philip’s. He owns quite a respectable stud and racing stable. Isn’t it in Devonshire, sir?”

  “So I hear,” the marquess said.

  Frances wasn’t blind. She saw that the marquess was discomfited by this talk, and though she didn’t understand why, she took pity on him and quickly changed the topic. “I was just on the point of asking Alicia how one goes about meeting all our neighbors. I believe I am ready for the assault.”

  “Indeed you are,” said Alicia. “Now, we must have your visiting cards made up. Mr. Crocker in York is quite accomplished. Something simple yet elegant, I think.”

  “An excellent combination,” said Frances, thinking that she’d been through the simple, and now elegant was the order of the day.

  “But I shall spread the word that you are now receiving. You do not need the cards until you wish to visit.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Frances. “I wasn’t raised completely bereft of proper social behavior.”

  “No, of course not!”

  Frances grinned at her.

  It had begun to drizzle by the time Alicia left Desborough Hall, and Frances, concerned, said, “Should you wish to remain to dinner, Alicia? I could send a footman to tell John.”

  But Alicia refused. Frances, rather than returning to the drawing room, sought out Otis.

  “Tomorrow, Otis, I should like you to accompany me to York. I wish your assistance in choosing new livery for the men.”

  Otis was stunned by such an invitation. He felt immensely flattered, and his impassive features showed it. “I should be delighted to assist you, my lady,” he said. His opinion, without his conscious realization, had just shifted markedly.

  “Yes,” he said later to Mrs. Jerkins, “her ladyship has asked me to help her. What do you think, Agatha? Shall it be wool or broadcloth? Perhaps both. Her ladyship does not stint. I rather fancy her color selection. The crimson and blue will be most elegant, yes indeed, most elegant.”

  Agatha was jealous as could be until Frances summoned her and asked her advice on new linens. “You know, we need to do quite a bit of refurbishing, Mrs. Jerkins. You have done so well all this time, but now it is appropriate to lay out the funds. I trust your experience in this matter.”

  Mrs. Jerkins expanded under Frances’ twinkling eyes.

  “Ah, another thing. The dishes the staff use—they’re in deplorable shape. You and I shall select a new set. Something that is sturdy and will last awhile, but also something nice. What do you think?”

  Tomorrow, Frances thought, I shall beard you, Mr. Carruthers, in your den. She returned her wandering attention to Mrs Jerkins’ excited suggestions. The woman was actually smiling at her, for the first time. Let us have wine and women,

  mirth and laughter,

  Sermons and soda-water

  the day after.

  —LORD BYRON

  Hawk smiled down at Lady Constance, pulling her just a bit closer as he twirled her about the ballroom. He’d forgotten how lovely she was, how her breasts pushed so seductively against his chest, how her fingers tightened on his shoulder.

  But she was in the devil of a snit. He supposed he couldn’t blame her.

  “I would speak to you, my lord,” she said in a throbbing voice that gave him pause.

  “Continue,” Hawk said. “I am at your service.”

  “Apparently not. The question, my lord, is why you are here without your bride.”

  “That is not part of the service, Constance. Is there anything else?”

  “Well, you know there are the strangest rumors
going about.”

  “There always are. Mine aren’t terribly interesting or titillating, I wouldn’t imagine.”

  “Sally Jersey doesn’t agree with you.”

  “She will grow bored soon enough,” said Hawk, trying out Lyonel’s lazy drawl.

  Constance managed to make her chin tremble just a bit. It was, in her experience, a very effective ploy. “I had thought, indeed hoped, my lord ... Hawk, that there were something more between us, something that—”

  “Ah,” said Hawk, “the music has come to a halt. Would you like a glass of champagne, Connie? An old married man like myself would be most gratified.”

  She drew a deep breath, one so profound that his eyes were drawn to her very ample bosom. He still wanted her, she knew it. Why this ridiculous marriage? Why had he left his bride in Yorkshire?

  They were sipping their champagne when Lyonel strolled by.

  “Quite a crush,” he said, lazily surveying Lady Bellingham’s ballroom. “Your servant, Lady Constance, Hawk—but not your servant, old fellow.”

  Constance wondered if she would try for Saint Leven. It was her second Season, and she knew her parents wanted her to make a push to attach an appropriate gentleman. He was handsome, she thought, and seemed pleasant enough. She listened with half an ear to the gentlemen’s conversation, pausing, her eyes widening when Lyonel said, “I should think Frances would much enjoy herself here. Does she enjoy the scandalous waltz, Hawk?”

  Frances. So that was the bride’s name! Lord Saint Leven had met her?

  “I don’t have the foggiest notion,” said Hawk, trying his best to frown Lyonel down.

  To his relief, Lord Bellamy minced up at that moment to claim his dance.

  “Silly fop,” said Lyonel, watching the baron lead Constance into a country dance.

  “Please drop that damned eyepiece of yours, Lyonel, it reminds me of Frances in her spectacles.”

  “Miss her already, do you, my boy? And this only your second day, er, night, in London.”

  “What I miss,” Hawk said, “is Amalie. If you will excuse me, Lyon, I’m off to Curzon Street. Amalie, unlike others, is awaiting me, with great sweetness, no doubt.”