by Valerie King
That dark, predatory sensation returned to him. He suddenly wanted to be kissing her again. He glanced at Stockleigh and saw that he was nearly finished arranging the fruits and cheeses. He glanced in the direction of the rose garden and was gratified to see that both Henry and Sarah had disappeared into the wood beyond. He wished Stockleigh would go away. He wished he were wearing his mask and cloak.
“Why not Spanish?” she asked. “It is, after all, a romance language related to both French and Italian. I daresay it would be relatively simple to learn at this juncture.”
“No one speaks Spanish.”
“All the more reason that I ought to, then, I think. Besides, I should like to travel to Spain one day, now that the war is ended.”
Was she thinking of going away with the highwayman? He felt peculiar. He wished it were night and he was with her on the moors again.
“I seem to have robbed Lord Treyford of words,” she said, smiling.
When had they stopped walking? Was Stockleigh gone? Dammit, the man was plucking at the comers of the tablecloth. If he were to leave, by God, he would take Abigail in his arms.
Abigail laughed again, a sound that was becoming a strange music to his ears. Stockleigh was leaving. His heart jumped.
He could kiss her now.
He glanced out in the garden. His heart sank. Henry and Sarah had returned.
“Why have you grown so silent?” she asked. “Do not tell me I have offended you.”
“No, not in the least. I suppose you have merely surprised me.”
“You seem disappointed in me somehow.”
“Not in you. In the hour, in the fastidiousness of Lavant’s butler, in the manner in which Henry and Sarah disappear, then return.”
She was frowning as she again glanced out the window toward the rose garden. “It is such a dilemma,” she mused.
“It certainly is,” he returned, his eyes never straying from her face. Blinkers suddenly emerged from behind a large potted palm. He sat down and stared accusingly at Trey. It is a conspiracy, he thought. “But come. Let us enjoy the repast.”
Seven
For Abigail, the next hour passed in the most convivial manner possible. Lord Treyford entertained them all with London anecdotes, and Miss Lavant’s conduct was considerably softened by Mr. Ditchling’s presence. She could even see the young lady that her pupil would one day become, once she finally relinquished her childish predilections and, of course, if ever she was able to pick up a book in true enjoyment.
As for Mr. Ditchling, his eyes rarely strayed from Miss Lavant’s face, or her hands, or her hair, or the way she set her shoulders. If ever a man was in love, Henry Ditchling was that man.
She felt sorry for him. She could see that though he was strongly drawn to the daughter of his very good friend, he knew such an alliance was ridiculous in the extreme. When he entered into a spirited discussion with Treyford about the merits of pantisocracy as well as the quality of Wordsworth’s verses and Coleridge’s lectures, the disparity between him and the lady of his choice might as well have been a matter of centuries as years. Miss Lavant nibbled on her cheese and fruit but stared in a bored fashion out the window.
These manners were not lost to Abigail, and in them she felt certain she held the key to the young lady’s obstinacy where her studies were concerned.
When Miss Lavant lost interest in the general discussion for the fourth time, Abigail was about to bring her attention to it, but the sound of footsteps and voices in the hall beyond stopped the conversation entirely. She glanced up and through the glass walls of the conservatory, noted that three gentlemen were heading in their direction. Mr. Lavant led the way accompanied by Sir Christopher Waldron, and behind them both was a man, rather plainly dressed in a black frock coat, stuff breeches, dark stockings, and buckled shoes, with whom she was entirely unfamiliar.
“Do you know him?” Mr. Ditchling asked of Treyford.
Treyford shook his head. “I wonder if he is . . . ” He did not finish his thought.
A moment more, and the gentlemen entered the conservatory. Mr. Lavant’s face was set in a rather hard collection of his usually jovial features, and Sir Christopher seemed anxious, not unlike the first night of her acquaintance with him. The stranger, however, seemed almost excited.
Mr. Lavant made the round of introductions brusquely, ending with, “Mr. Burwash is from Bow Street.”
A quick strained silence followed.
“Bow Street?” Mr. Ditchling said, his brow furrowed. “In this outlandish place? Whatever for?”
Sir Christopher straightened his spine. “To capture the highwayman, of course. Our local people have been of no use whatsoever, no one being willing to take the night watches and see to the roads. Why, it is almost as though the county supported this thief. Something had to be done. I’ve been robbed of over two thousand pounds as it is.”
Miss Lavant, quite impetuously, blurted out, “But has not every tuppence gone to pay for our orphanage?”
Mr. Burwash said, “Even if he were building a church, his thievery still could not be excused.”
“Of course you are right on that score,” Treyford said. “Our good vicar of Oakmont is thought to be acquainted with the highwayman. You will perhaps desire to speak with him.”
“I shall, indeed. But, if you would not mind, tell me, are you the Treyford who holds the shooting record at Manton’s in London?”
Abigail was surprised at this unexpected turn of subject. Shifting her gaze back to the viscount, she saw at once that he had grown quite conscious.
“I believe I am.”
Mr. Burwash broke into a wide smile. “I thought it was you. I’ve seen you box a number of times at Jackson’s, as well. I am a friend of his and have watched you spar with him quite often.”
“Then, you have seen him beat me rather soundly.”
“Not so soundly as some. You’ve a fine pair of feet. Even Jackson said you moved as well as Molineaux.”
“Good God,” Treyford said. “I begin to think Jackson is in need of a pair of spectacles.”
Abigail felt certain he was quite embarrassed by these lofty accolades that even from Geoffrey’s tales were extreme indeed. So, Treyford had sparred with the famous Jackson and won his compliments and held a shooting record at Manton’s.
She felt rather strange suddenly, as though seeing his lordship anew. She recalled her first morning at the Mermaid Inn and hearing Treyford praised by several of the local farmers and tradesmen. Perhaps Henrietta Waldron had a strong grievance against Lord Treyford, but there could be no denying that in his larger community, he was greatly admired and that for a variety of reasons. Earlier, he had even recounted conversations he had enjoyed with the Duke of Wellington.
Her eye observed him, though she told it not to. She was again struck by the strength of his manly figure. He was remarkably fit, lean, and athletic in appearance, particularly for a man nearly forty. A little knot of pleasure formed in her stomach, something that for her was a severe warning that love was about to intrude its ugly head yet again into her life. She could never truly be interested in Lord Treyford. He was little more than an outcast in the local society. If only this wretchedly wonderful queasiness would go away.
Mr. Burwash, however, was not finished with his discussion of Treyford’s merits. “I have heard that you are one of the finest fencers in all of Britain. I myself am an advocate of the art, for it keeps one fit and agile, which in my line of work is sometimes of the utmost necessity. If ever you need a partner, I would be most willing to oblige you, m’lord, if I am not being overly presumptuous.”
Treyford smiled and said that though he had not fenced in several weeks, if he was of a mind to pick up his sword, he would certainly call for Mr. Burwash. “I presume you are staying at the Mermaid?”
“Indeed, I am,” he responded, his color heightening with pleasure. He then addressed the larger company. “Of course, I do not need to tell all of you that if you should
chance upon even the smallest scrap of information concerning our thief, you may leave word at the inn and I will call at my earliest convenience.”
Sir Christopher interjected strongly, “I should prefer, Mr. Burwash, that my neighbors come directly to me first. I wish above all things to be advised of every eventuality in this case.”
Mr. Burwash seemed completely taken aback. A hard light entered his eye. “Your blunt is paying the bill, Sir Christopher,” he stated coolly, “but I feel I ought to warn you now that such a plan is ill-advised.”
“As to that, I shall bear the reproach should our efforts come to naught. For now, however” —and here he glanced around the table—“please restrict your communications to me.”
“Very well,” Mr. Ditchling said.
Treyford merely eyed him coldly but dipped his chin in acquiescence.
For some reason, this was not sufficient for Sir Christopher. He said, “Though I doubt Treyford here will have much to say on the subject, at least to me.”
Abigail was startled, for Sir Christopher’s cheeks had turned a dark hue, and he leaned over the table suddenly, as though ready to pounce on Treyford.
Lord Treyford stood very slowly, his gaze never wavering from Sir Christopher’s face. “Perhaps it would be best, were I to learn anything of use to Mr. Burwash, that I inform Mr. Lavant. I would not wish to disturb your schemes by invading your home, or has your wife decided at last to forgive me?”
“You leave my wife out of this.”
Abigail felt Miss Lavant’s hand reach for her arm and grip it strongly. She was herself astonished at the manner in which the conversation had become so rife with violence.
“Your wife,” Treyford responded heatedly, “is the sole reason I am excluded from society hereabouts, and well you know it, and for reasons so twisted off her tongue that the truth could only become known to her should it grow fangs and bite her heel.”
“Good God,” Lavant muttered.
“Do something,” Miss Lavant whispered to Abigail. “They shall come to blows.” Indeed, this was true, for Sir Christopher’s eyes were bulging from his red face.
Abigail was on her feet in an instant. “Gentlemen,” she said, forcing a quick laugh. “Do you mean to challenge one another in the presence of Miss Lavant, or do I need to remind you how inappropriate your conduct is at this moment?”
The men, whose faces were but a foot apart, fairly flew back from the table and away from each other.
“Much better. Now, please beg Miss Lavant’s pardon, else I shall be forced to act in a manner that neither of you will find in the least pleasant.” Here she thumped a fist against her palm, a gesture so absurd that Mr. Lavant let out a roar of laughter. She ignored him. “And do not think I am incapable of it, for I have been witness to more than one boxing match myself.”
Treyford stared at her in some surprise, and Sir Christopher’s complexion turned as white as before it had been red. He began issuing a string of apologies to Miss Lavant longer than a summer day.
Through it all, Mr. Lavant continued to bellow his laughter. Mr. Ditchling joined him, and Mr. Burwash was not long to follow. Even Treyford began to smile when Abigail lifted her fists playfully to him.
Of everyone present, however, only Sir Christopher was incapable of finding amusement in Abigail’s conduct. He muttered his intention of leaving forthwith and once more begged Miss Lavant to forgive him for his ungentlemanly conduct.
“I should forgive you even more,” Miss Lavant replied with the grace of a woman, “were you to stay and share a little refreshment. You must be hot from your ride.”
“Thank you, Miss Lavant,” he responded, “you are very kind. But indeed, I have promised to bring Mr. Burwash round to Sir Walter’s before dinner, else I should be happy to accept your invitation. Good day.” He bowed and quit the conservatory in some haste with the Bow Street Runner tagging along behind.
It was not long before both Mr. Ditchling and Lord Treyford felt obliged to take their leave as well. Miss Lavant immediately professed a need to practice the Haydn sonata. Abigail walked with Mr. Lavant back to the stairs. He wore a perplexed frown, and she could not resist asking why he appeared so concerned.
“I have had the oddest thought, Miss Chailey,” he confessed just before she mounted the stairs to the schoolroom. “I am beginning to think Lady Waldron is in love with Trey. Why else would Sir Christopher conduct himself as he does?” He did not remain to elucidate his remark but headed for his study, all the while shaking his head.
Abigail was astonished, for nothing seemed less likely to her.
* * * * * * * * *
Two days later, on Thursday afternoon, Abigail watched her pupil pace the far end of the schoolroom. Miss Lavant was incensed and Abigail had remained at the opposite end, waiting for the storm to break.
Ever since the afternoon in the conservatory, Abigail had been pondering just how she was to approach Miss Lavant about her relationship with Mr. Ditchling as it might pertain to her studies. Just a few minutes earlier, she had finally decided to address the matter, when her pupil refused outright to do the geographical work she had laid before her only ten minutes past.
Perhaps she could have been more tactful, but she was all out of patience with Miss Lavant and had stated sharply, “Though I can comprehend perfectly your love for Henry Ditchling, how on earth do you expect him to reciprocate that love so long as you insist on remaining a child?”
Miss Lavant had flown into the boughs. Even then, the clouds were gathering in dark swells over Miss Lavant’s tempestuous brow. Finally, she paused in her hasty strides and proclaimed, “After my come-out ball, I will have no need of you, nor will my father. You will be dismissed, and that without a reference, for having tormented me in this ridiculous fashion.”
“Come off your high ropes, Miss Lavant. You are speaking to me, not a lady you can bully as you wish.”
“I—I thought you were a decent sort of person, but clearly I was wrong. And I am not a child.” She stamped her foot, tears of frustration rising in her eyes. “Why will no one believe me? I am nearly eighteen. I should have long since been liberated from the schoolroom. Instead, I have been consigned here to be mistreated by you in every possible way.”
“Perhaps you have misunderstood me,” Abigail said quietly. “You seem to be under the impression that I have been speaking of your age, yet I have not. Not in the least.”
Miss Lavant blinked and hiccoughed several times each. “What? Whatever do you mean?”
Abigail began crossing the room to her pupil. Somehow she had to make Miss Lavant see, to open her eyes even a little. “Actually,” she said, keeping her voice even, “I do believe Mr. Ditchling is in love with you, rather hopelessly, if I don’t much mistake the matter.”
“Wh-what?” Tears rolled down Miss Lavant’s cheeks. She brushed them away impatiently. “B-but you just said—”
“What I said was that Mr. Ditchling could hardly be expected to reciprocate your love, when you insist on remaining a child.” When Miss Lavant appeared ready to argue, she hurried on. “Do but think. He is of an age with Lord Treyford. He is truly old enough to be your father. When he weds, his wife will need to be prepared to enter into his interests, to converse with him upon the same level of knowledge if not experience that he presently enjoys. He has traveled extensively—Europe, the Mediterranean, even Egypt. Do you know where these places are? I understand he speaks fluent German, which means that he has undoubtedly collected a number of works from Germany that he has had the pleasure of reading but which he could never share with you. The content, yes, but there is a great difference in coming to comprehend the subtleties of another language and merely having the information reported to you.
“In addition, he has an estate that is one of the finest in the county. He has visited Coke of Norfolk, along with Lord Treyford. Do you understand the latest agricultural advances so that should he come to you of an evening and begin speaking of manures and crop r
otations, would you turn a dull eye away from him and let him speak to the fireplace or—or to Blinkers here?” She glanced down at the cat, who was slumped on a table near Miss Lavant. The lazy feline lifted his head at the sound of his name and eyed Miss Lavant as though making a similar inquiry.
By then, Abigail was standing before the young woman, noting the strain in her eyes.
“I would never do so,” Miss Lavant stated boldly.
Abigail did not hesitate to press her. “You did so on Tuesday when the gentlemen were speaking of pantisocracy. I noted it in particular.”
Miss Lavant began chewing on her lip. “Is it not a sort of pantaloon? I did not feel I was giving offense by not paying attention to a discussion of men’s fashions.”
“Pantisocracy is a theory of living that Coleridge, among others, promoted earlier this century. You might have divined as much had you paid the least heed to the entire scope of the conversation.”
Miss Lavant grew very somber, but she was not yet ready to give up the battle. Lifting her chin, she said, “These things you are saying are all well and good, but you are a spinster. I doubt you have ever been in love or can possibly comprehend the nature of my feelings, or those I believe Mr. Ditchling possesses for me.”
Abigail was pondering how to object to this irrelevant turn of subject, but something caught Miss Lavant’s eye and her attention was directed out-of-doors. She crossed to the window and said, “Someone has just turned down the drive from the lane. I thought it might be Mr. Ditchling, but he does not own such a brown horse that I know of, nor does he sit so slumped in the saddle.”
Abigail joined her by the window. The gentleman was too far away for her to possibly know who he was. She decided that while they waited for him to draw closer, she would address Miss Lavant’s last complaint. “You know, you are mistaken in one thing. I have been in love several times.”
“But never married,” Miss Lavant shot back, intending to wound.
“No, but I have been betrothed a number of times and for very good reasons broke off each engagement. I have also received several applications for my hand in marriage, which I rejected outright. The total number, including betrothals equals . . . twelve, I think.”
