A Lady of True Distinction

by Grace Burrowes

  “I won’t be long. Offer him water and let him blow.”

  “Right, Mr. Dorning.” The groom’s smile was particularly cheerful.

  Did the fellow suspect that Hawthorne had married Margaret yesterday? The servants at Dorning Hall had known that a ceremony had taken place in the conservatory. Before Margaret had quit the premises, the senior staff had lined up in the foyer to wish her and Thorne well, while Valerian and Oak had smiled like the pair of fools they were.

  Envious fools, most likely.

  “We want to come with you!”

  That childish demand reached Thorne’s ears even before he knocked on the door. Adriana was apparently in a taking.

  Thorne rapped softly, then let himself in. “Good day.” Margaret, Miss Fenner, and both girls were in the foyer, Margaret with a bonnet in her hand.

  “You’re going with him again.” Greta did not sound pleased. “You were with him yesterday. In the herbal.”

  Margaret aimed a look at Miss Fenner. “Somebody was spying out of windows.”

  “Daydreaming,” Miss Fenner said, grabbing one of Adriana’s hands. “Let’s wish your aunt a nice outing, shall we, girls? We have multiplication to do.”

  “I don’t like multiplication,” Adriana said. “It’s hard and stupid. I want to ride in the carriage with Aunt and Mr. Dorning.”

  “I like multiplication,” Greta muttered. “I don’t like you, Dree.”

  “Let’s not be rude,” Margaret said.

  Thorne eased her bonnet from her grasp and set it on her head. “I would love to take all of you fine ladies for a carriage ride, perhaps even for a picnic. Today, though, I brought only the gig. It’s too small for the whole family, and the seat is hard. When I take you out driving with me, I’ll bring the vis-à-vis, and we can have a nice visit while we take the air.”

  Adriana shook her hand free from Miss Fenner’s. “What’s a veez-ah-vee?”

  “Use your French,” Miss Fenner said as Hawthorne took Margaret by the hand and tugged her toward the door. “It means facing or at opposites. Now can you puzzle out what it might be?”

  Greta fingered Hawthorne’s watch chain. “Why didn’t you bring the big carriage today? Then we could all go now.”

  For the children to interrogate adults was surely unacceptable, and yet, Hawthorne had seen one of Greta’s tantrums. Perhaps he was about to witness another.

  “I did not bring the big carriage because next week will be furiously busy. The entire neighborhood will be involved in this year’s haying, and as many horses as possible need their rest today. They will work to the limits of their strength soon, so I took the smallest, lightest carriage and hitched only one horse to it. Mrs. Dorning, shall we be on our way?”

  Greta stepped back as if shocked by an electric spark. “Why did he call Aunt that?”

  “A mistake,” Margaret said. “He meant Mrs. Summerfield.”

  No, I did not.

  “What’s this?” Adriana asked, picking up a folded and sealed piece of paper on the sideboard. “It’s for Aunt.”

  Miss Fenner took the note from her and passed it to Margaret. “That came yesterday. I meant to mention it at supper, but I forgot.”

  “You can read it in the gig,” Hawthorne said, reaching to tie Margaret’s bonnet ribbons.

  She batted his hands aside. “This is from Bancroft. I recognize his penmanship.”

  Miss Fenner, Greta, and Adriana all looked worried, while Hawthorne felt his temper rising. Why the hell should a note from blasted Bancroft ruin the new Mr. and Mrs. Dorning’s first outing as a couple? Why couldn’t the newlyweds even get out the damned door without strife and accusations barring the way? Why couldn’t Margaret simply tell the children she was the new Mrs. Dorning?

  She tore open the note, which looked to Hawthorne to be a mere few lines.

  “Fenny, please take the children back up to the nursery.”

  “Right,” Hawthorne said. “We’ll return this afternoon, and I’m sure many multiplication problems will have been accurately solved by that time.”

  Margaret passed him the note. “Now, Fenny, if you please.”

  Greta looked as if she were holding her breath. Adriana began to hop on one foot. “I don’t want to go back to the nursery. We are always in the nursery, while Aunt gets to go for a carriage ride. She never has to do multiplication, and multiplication is stu—”

  “Enough,” Hawthorne said. “You heard your aunt. Begone and behave.” He’d sounded exactly like his father, whose patience was rising in Hawthorne’s esteem by the moment.

  Adriana stopped hopping. Greta took her by the hand, sent Hawthorne a dirty look, and towed her sister toward the stairs, while the governess brought up the rear.

  The peace and quiet was lovely.

  “Read it,” Margaret said as the children’s footsteps faded. She ripped her bonnet from her head and caught a lock of hair in her hatpin. “He’s coming to take the children. I’m barely married a day, and already, he’s coming to take my children.”

  The note was terse:

  Dearest sister-in-law,

  In anticipation of changes in my own situation, I’ve decided the time has come for my nieces to at last remove to the family seat. I’ll be by tomorrow morning to collect them, so please have their effects packed when I arrive. You will of course be free to visit them, though I’d suggest you wait a decent interval to allow them to settle in before you call upon my nursery.

  I remain most sincerely your brother-in-law,

  Bancroft

  “You were right,” Hawthorne said slowly. “I thought perhaps you were overreacting or borrowing trouble where Bancroft is concerned, but you were right.”

  Margaret whipped off her cloak. “Of course I was right. I’ve dealt with him for years, and he’s not the pompous fool everybody takes him for. He’s lazy, mean, greedy, and determined. You will write to him this instant and explain that his foolishness is at an end. You and I are man and wife, this is the only home those girls have known, and I won’t allow that vile—”

  A clatter of wheels on the driveaway interrupted what might have been a blossoming tantrum.

  Hawthorne peered through the window beside the front door. “He’s here, and he’s brought his traveling coach.”

  “So he can steal them and their worldly goods. Call him out, Hawthorne. Beat him to flinders, or threaten him with a press gang. Just make him go away.”

  Margaret had married Hawthorne precisely so he could defend the Summerton nursery from Bancroft’s machinations, and yet, the tactics she proposed were outlandish.

  “We are married, true enough, and this might well be the only home the children have known, but that Bancroft is taking an interest in them is not entirely bad. He doesn’t know you have a husband now, doesn’t know you’ve allied yourself with a titled family. I suggest we invite him in for tea and alert him to your good fortune.”

  “You still don’t believe me,” she said, snatching up the note and waving it. “You have proof of his perfidy in his own hand, and you don’t believe me.”

  Hawthorne had heard too many of his parents’ quarrels not to recognize an impasse when confronted with one. Nothing he could say or do, short of smuggling Bancroft in chains onto a vessel bound for New South Wales, would appease Margaret.

  Nothing she could say or do would persuade him to take such drastic measures. The problem came down to one meddling relation who simply needed to be reminded of his place. A short conversation over tea ought to see the situation put to rest, and then Thorne and his new wife could get on with their tenant calls.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hawthorne meant well, but Margaret knew in her soul that he did not grasp the seriousness of the threat Bancroft posed to the girls—or to her. That Bancroft would stage this ambush should not have surprised her, but it did. Oh, it did.

  “I was too busy being married,” Margaret said as she stalked into the family parlor. “Too busy pretending we had time to sort
out strategies and maneuver artillery into place.”

  Hawthorne closed the door behind them. “Your hair,” he said, waving a hand near his ear. “When you took your bonnet off, the pins…” He approached as if he’d tidy her up, the same way Fenny tidied up Adriana’s braids after too much hopping on one foot.

  Margaret turned from him and used the glass of the window to examine her reflection. She affixed the errant curl to her chignon, jamming pins against her scalp.

  “I cannot allow Bancroft to have the children, Hawthorne. He’s doubtless planning to court some lack-witted heiress and put on a show of avuncular affection for her sake. Once he’s netted his trout, he’ll pack the girls off to some awful school, and I will never see them again.”

  “We shall not allow that.”

  The very calm that Hawthorne exuded only upset Margaret more. “Greta won’t deal with even the upheaval of moving to Summerfield, and when she can’t manage a girls’ school, he’ll send her someplace far worse. Someplace cheap and awful. I won’t even know where she is.”

  “Margaret, you’ve spiked his guns. He hasn’t the legal authority to keep the girls from you. You are their guardian.”

  “Co-guardian,” she said. “Damn Charles for leaving me only that.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  Footsteps in the hall signaled the enemy’s approach.

  “Yes, Hawthorne, at this moment, I mean that. Don’t let Bancroft take my girls.” She wanted him to promise her that he’d prevent that outcome, to swear an oath, to offer assurances backed up with promises of violence.

  “We’d best order a tea tray,” he said as a knock sounded on the door. “We have good news to share with Bancroft, and in light of our nuptials, he’ll want to re-evaluate his plans for the girls.”

  “You underestimate him.”

  “Enter,” Hawthorne called, as if Summerton were his house, though his presumption was well timed, for civil discourse was beyond Margaret.

  Bancroft strode in, and the footman closed the door behind him. “Margaret, good day. Mr. Dorning, greetings. I’ll have to ask you to excuse me and Mrs. Summerfield. We have family business to discuss. I’d be happy to chat away the morning at another time, but as it happens, my errand is somewhat urgent.”

  He smiled that simpering, self-satisfied smirk that made Margaret want to smash a heavy pot over his head.

  “As it happens,” Hawthorne said. “I am now family, and Margaret’s business is my business. She did me the great honor of marrying me yesterday. I’m sure you’ll want to wish us both well.” Hawthorne apparently knew that in Margaret’s present mood, husbandly displays of affection were not well advised, though he did send a smile in her direction.

  “Mr. Dorning speaks the truth, Bancroft. He and I are man and wife. We were married before witnesses at Dorning Hall yesterday.”

  “A special license, then,” Bancroft said, seating himself uninvited. “My, my. I do hope the course of true love was not precipitous of necessity.”

  “The only person being precipitous—” Margaret began, but Hawthorne gestured her to a seat.

  “Let’s ring for tea,” he said, his tone excruciatingly reasonable. “I’m sure Bancroft was making a jest. Our happy news has surprised him.”

  Bancroft didn’t look surprised. He looked impatient.

  “Tug the bell-pull,” Margaret said, “though I’m sure Bancroft won’t be staying long. He never does.” She ought not to antagonize him, but she wanted to do much more than merely insult him. She wanted him jailed for being a horrible human being, a miserable brother, and a terrible uncle.

  “I am a busy man,” Bancroft replied. “I need tarry only long enough to collect my nieces, and I’ll leave you two to your wedded bliss.”

  “How are your preparations for haying coming along?” Hawthorne asked, in all apparent seriousness.

  “Splendidly. Hartley has all in hand, as usual. Are the girls packed? Looking forward to new surrounds in a more commodious household?”

  The problem with Bancroft was not simply that he was evil, but that he excelled at looking and acting genial and reasonable while being evil. For that alone, Margaret wished him to perdition.

  “Surely,” Hawthorne said, “you don’t mean to uproot the children now. This week has seen a significant change in their lives, and while I am overjoyed to consider myself family to them, I know their welfare must take precedence over my own selfish concerns.”

  Bancroft blinked, then his smile was back in place. “It’s you who bring the upheaval, then, Dorning. I am their doting uncle, offering them a haven at the family seat where they’ve visited many times. You are all but a stranger, and you’d take them off to some dingy cottage let at your brother’s sufferance. Perhaps you expect them to rattle around at Dorning Hall, half of which is scheduled for demolition, if the talk is to be believed. Even Margaret would agree that the situation I offer the girls is superior to your circumstances.”

  “What matters the number of unused bedrooms in a home,” Margaret began, “when the only person to love these children—”

  The footman interrupted with the tea tray. Margaret didn’t bother offering to pour out, lest she smash the teapot in the process.

  “That’s part of the problem,” Hawthorne said. “You expect the girls to leave the only home they’ve known, no explanation to them, no assurances that their aunt, the one constant in their lives, will remain in the role of guardian, as she’s legally responsible to do.”

  “Co-guardian,” Bancroft countered. “An unusual arrangement easily attacked in court given my brother’s precarious health at the time he revised his will. Summerfield is the family seat, and the children belong with me. They are ready for the schoolroom, for the care a devoted uncle can give them, and I’m not prepared to belabor that point with a fellow whose abode is nothing more than a large tenant cottage.”

  Limb of the Imp. Hell-spawned blight upon decent society. Vile, posturing, manipulative, affront to masculine honor. In her head, Margaret began concocting a strong purgative, one sufficient to ease the bowels of the most costive patient.

  “Forgive us,” Hawthorne said, pouring out a cup of tea, “for not acquainting you with the details of our situation sooner. Margaret and I will be making our home right here, and we chose this dwelling specifically to spare the children from a change of abode.”

  He added milk and sugar to the tea and passed the cup and saucer to Margaret. She did not dare take a sip while Bancroft’s cheap bay rum scent was befouling the whole parlor.

  “You’re moving here?” Bancroft asked.

  Despite her ire, despite her terror, Margaret knew a moment of pure respect for her husband. Hawthorne presented his intention to dwell at Summerton as a fait accompli, the choice any gentleman would make when it was in fact an enormous gesture of goodwill.

  “Of course I’ll bide here,” he went on, “though rather than spring that addition to the household on the children all at once, I’d thought I’d ease gradually into their lives. We’ve made good progress getting to know each other in a short time, and for you to yank them away, remove them from the staff who cares for them and from the very beds they’ve slept in for years, makes no sense. They are thriving in Margaret’s care, while you have no experience raising children, as best I recall. Would you care for some tea, Summerfield?”

  For an instant, Margaret thought Hawthorne’s concession might have won the battle. He would not claim he was moving to Summerton and then reverse course later, not with Bancroft circling the children’s settlements like a stray dog lurking near a knacker’s yard.

  “You have not, though, made Summerton your residence yet,” Bancroft observed. “I prefer my tea plain, by the way.”

  Hawthorne passed over a steaming cup. “I plan to wait until after haying to join the Summerton household. Have you a nursery staff in place?”

  “Any maid can make a bed.” Bancroft took a sip of his tea, made a face worthy of Adriana, and set do
wn the cup and saucer. “We have inside maids by the dozen at Summerfield. Any one of them can keep two little girls stitching samplers or whatever it is little girls do.”

  “They are too young to stitch samplers,” Margaret said.

  “What of a governess?” Thorne asked pleasantly. “Both children are avid readers. They are proficient at sums, picking up a little French, and making a rudimentary attempt at drawing. I’m fairly certain Margaret has started them on the pianoforte and natural science and perhaps a few Latin phrases too.”

  Hawthorne made it sound as if Fenny taught a well-planned curriculum, rather than scrambling to keep one step ahead of the girls.

  “What do a pair of girls need with all that?” Bancroft retorted. “I admit the French, pianoforte, and drawing have a place, and every lady needs to know how to tote up her pin money, but the rest of it seems excessive.”

  “They are heiresses,” Hawthorne said. “They need to be able to do more than tote up their pin money, and they are also quite bright. Education should not be denied them and certainly not merely on the basis of their gender.”

  Bancroft wrinkled his nose. “You’ve brought up many girls, that you’d know all about that, Dorning?”

  “I saw my sisters educated. I watched the earl’s daughter brought up at Dorning Hall until her recent move to a finishing school as she approached her presentation at court. I’ve seen my nieces raised, and—”

  “But like Margaret, you are not a parent, while I can claim that honor twice over. I do believe my status as a father rather overshadows all your good intentions and rhetoric. I am grateful to Margaret for doing what she could, but the girls no longer need female coddling. They can take their places under my roof, and my wife—should the lady see fit to accept my suit—can see to their further education.”

  Bancroft shot a bland smile at Margaret and reached for a tea cake. His words held a veiled threat, for his parenting experience probably hadn’t extended five minutes beyond the act necessary for conception.