Bancroft smiled as he watched the duke stride from the room. Ashleigh was a good man, a responsible man, perhaps too responsible. He sought to take care of all about him, which was no doubt admirable. However, his conviction that he was best suited to make the decisions for all about him could be trying for others.
Now, he wanted Bancroft to be the one to talk to Lady Talmadge about her estate, to explain how to manage it? To be closeted with her for hours on end?
For a protective brother, Ashleigh could be incredibly blind.
*
As Ashleigh strode into the hall, he encountered his sister, bearing down on the door with Clara in tow. Before he could ask, she sailed past him, not meeting his eye as she announced, “I have promised to take Mrs. Darling and her niece to see Miranda.” He could only watch as she flew down the steps and into the carriage, her daughter scurrying to keep up.
Ashleigh shook his head. She was annoyed with him, and he was damned if he knew why she was in such a taking. He was only trying to protect her, and she would have been a sight better off if their father had done the same.
It was only when he was in the stable yard, waiting for his horse, that he realized his sister had said she was to take Miss Darling with her. He could have offered to accompany them. He could have said that he needed to speak to Merton. That would have provided an excuse. He might have been able to discover what was bothering Alice. And he could have furthered his acquaintance with Miss Darling.
Not that he wished to pursue Miss Darling’s acquaintance, of course. That would be pointless. No matter what tales his imagination spun about her, what he knew was that she was the niece of a merchant, and that merchant was Andrew Darling, a man to whom he owed both respect and affection. Miss Darling was too high for a mistress and too low for a wife. She should be treated with courtesy and respect, and that was all. No matter that she was lovely, with those eyes, those incredible green eyes.
He wanted to drown in those eyes.
And fascinating. She not only read books, she thought about them. Had he ever before been fascinated by a woman’s mind?
Mysterious. So prickly, so defensive—he could not keep from wondering why. What secret was she hiding? She had the manners and bearing of a lady—was she ashamed of her connection to the Darlings, ashamed that she needed to turn to a merchant’s widow for help? But she seemed genuinely fond of Franny Darling and grateful to her. It was a puzzle.
No.
He had to stop thinking about Miss Darling.
This was madness.
Chapter Eight
The carriage ride was a trifle awkward. Lady Talmadge stared out the window at the passing scenery, responding with barely a shrug while the others produced trifles to fill the silence. Each of the ladies was relieved when they arrived at Schotten Hall after a journey that had seemed interminable but, in fact, lasted less than half an hour.
Kate’s first glimpse of the house was reassuring. It was hardly an insignificant house, but its Elizabethan brick facade seemed warm and welcoming after the chilly perfection of Kelswick, just as Lord and Lady Merton had always seemed warm and welcoming. Still, Lady Talmadge was clearly upset about something, and that kept Kate on edge as they entered the house.
Mrs. Darling and Clara may have been as hesitant as Kate to comment on Lady Talmadge’s mood, but the lady of the house had no such qualms. The moment the visitors were ushered into the cozy sitting room where she was reclining on a chaise, Lady Merton said, “Good heavens, Alice, what has you in such a state?”
“And hello to you, too, Miranda,” said Lady Talmadge, bending over to kiss her friend’s cheek before collapsing inelegantly in the chair by her side. “It’s my brother, of course.”
“Ah, he is being his overbearing and pompous self? I regret that I have not been about to humble him, but even though this creature is not expected to put in an appearance for another four months, Tom is in a tizzy if I so much as step outside the house without him. Ashleigh himself could not be more insistent.” She patted her belly, which was just beginning to be rounded, and grinned, not looking at all put out by her husband’s strictures. “You English make a great deal of fuss over this sort of thing.”
“Yes, we have heard your tales of women in the colonies giving birth in the fields and then getting up to continue with the plowing, but I am sure you would much prefer to be in a bed when the time comes.” Lady Talmadge smiled at her friend.
“Do they really do so in America?” asked Clara, her eyes round.
“I think it unlikely,” said Mrs. Darling. “I suspect that tale is akin to the frontiersman killing a bear with his bare hands.”
“Or Alexander strangling a serpent in his crib,” added Kate.
The friendly chatter seemed to be having an effect on Lady Talmadge, who was already looking less distressed. “Oh, I know I am probably making too much of it, but it is so frustrating,” she said. “He treats me as if I am a child, incapable of doing or even understanding anything.”
“Well, that is the way he treats everyone,” Lady Merton pointed out. “One does have to remind him constantly that he is not the only adult in the universe.”
“But I am so tired of it! First my father—well, I was a child then—and then Talmadge and now Peter. I have no say in my own life.”
“Has anything in particular happened?”
“Oh…” Lady Talmadge sighed and waved her hand. “Nothing dramatic. When that toad Wilton asked for my hand, Peter sent him off with a flea in his ear.”
“But surely you did not want to accept him.” Mrs. Darling looked horrified.
“Of course not. But I did want to put the flea in his ear myself. It is as if he thought I might actually accept if left on my own. And then just now I asked him about Longwood, the estate I received from Talmadge, and he told me I need not worry. It was all taken care of.”
Kate frowned. “Do you suspect that something is wrong?’
“Of course not. If there is one thing that is certain, it is that my brother will take even more care of my inheritance than he does of his own estate. If I leave all in his hands, he will doubtless make me a rich woman.”
“I can just hear him,” Lady Merton said with a laugh. “There is no need for you to worry. I will take care of everything.” She captured his intonation exactly.
Kate continued to frown. “I don’t understand. What is it that worries you? Do you think he will force you into another marriage you do not like? I would not have thought it of him.”
“Oh, no, my dear, Peter would never do that to me, and I have no fear that he will do it to Clara either. He is truly desirous of our happiness.”
Kate began to laugh. “My lady, you have a brother who protects you and guards you from insult, who is solicitous of your happiness, who sees to it that you are safe from care, and you wish to complain? This kingdom is full of women who would gladly take your place.”
Lady Talmadge smiled ruefully. “When you put it that way it begins to sound foolish.”
“No, not foolish at all. There is a point at which protection becomes oppression. The shackles of kindness and good intentions are still shackles. This should prove interesting,” said Lady Merton with a delighted smile. “But this is a discussion that definitely calls for refreshments beyond tea.” She called to the footman, “Harold, please bring us some cakes and Madeira.” Then she caught sight of Clara and added, “And a pot of tea as well.”
The wine was poured and passed around along with little cakes sprinkled with caraway seeds. The ladies all settled down in expectation of enjoyment.
“We shall have a proper debate,” proclaimed Lady Merton. “The topic is this: which is worse, a man who smothers you with his protection or a man who fails to protect you at all? Since this is the sort of topic that can be discussed honestly only among friends, I suggest that we dispense with formality and call each other by our first names. Is that agreeable?”
She directed the inquiry at Kate with a smile to
accompany it. Kate could feel herself flush, but it was with pleasure rather than embarrassment. “Most agreeable,” she said.
“Good. My name, if you do not already know, is the Shakespearean Miranda. My mother called me so because she found herself in a brave new world in America.”
Kate laughed. “My name is Shakespearean as well. My mother called me Kate after Shakespeare’s shrew. She said that ‘shrew’ is just the name men give to women who stand up for themselves, and the world would be better off if all women were shrews.”
“Bravo!” Miranda clapped her hands in delight.
“Oh, that is my Mary,” said Franny. “It is good to know she did not lose her spirit.” She reached over to clasp her niece’s hand.
“Then let us drink a toast to friendship,” said Alice.
Miranda raised her glass. “And may we all endeavor to be shrews!”
They laughed and drank the toast—even Clara with her tea.
Alice sighed. “I think I need lessons in shrewishness. At present, I feel smothered by my brother’s protectiveness.”
“But is protectiveness such a bad thing?” Kate asked. “A brother who was indifferent to your welfare, to your safety, who thought only of his own benefit, might put you in actual danger.”
Miranda cocked her head to the side. “But the smothering protectiveness that keeps a woman from making any decisions, from even knowing the situation of her family, can be a danger in itself. Should she suddenly be tossed out into the world, she has no idea how to manage.”
Clara, who had been listening carefully, asked, “Why would someone who had been taking care of a woman suddenly throw her out?”
Miranda smiled at her. “He might not, but death, illness, all sorts of disasters can intervene. Far too many widows find themselves with no one to turn to and no notion of how to proceed on their own.”
Kate raised her brows. “You would say then that indifference from the start is preferable to loving care?”
Miranda shook her head. “No, I would never say that. But I would say that truly loving care does not keep a woman in ignorance and does not keep her from doing things she is perfectly capable of doing. Would you have been happy if instead of being allowed to read Virgil, you were told that the classics were much too demanding for a woman’s brain and you should go embroider a cushion instead?”
Kate nodded an acknowledgement of the point and took another sip of her wine. Her glass was nearly empty, as were the glasses of the other women. She was unaccustomed to drinking in the middle of the day and was feeling a trifle lightheaded. The other women seemed to be in a similar state. She smiled fondly at them.
“I know that far too many women are tossed out on the world with no one to help and protect them, but that does not prevent me from resenting the arrogance of men who insist that they always know best.” Alice frowned at her empty glass. She reached over for the decanter to refill it and the other glasses as well. Then she continued. “What they know best is what suits them. When my father told me to marry Talmadge, I do not believe he was thinking of me at all. Talmadge was his friend, and it was Talmadge he wished to please.”
“I know what you mean,” Kate said, nodding owlishly. “It is as if we are not quite human, as if we are things. We can be either toys to be protected and kept wrapped up, away from the real world, or tools, used for their profit or pleasure. But in either case, they behave as if we are not quite real.”
Franny had a dreamy look about her as she shook her head sadly. “Don’t be too harsh. It is not always selfishness or greed that makes fathers choose badly. At times, they make dreadful mistakes with the best of intentions, through pure foolishness. My own father would not listen to Andrew’s suit, and disowned me when we eloped. Father never stopped to consider Andrew’s sterling character.” She turned to her niece. “And then he insisted your mother marry Newell without stopping to discover that he was a total wastrel. He assumed marriage to a viscount would be enough to guarantee her security at the least.”
There was a sudden silence.
Then Miranda smiled and said, “I confess I had noticed that there is a remarkable resemblance between you and your niece.”
Franny closed her eyes. “I am such a fool. Forgive me, Kate.” She looked at the others then. “I beg you, forget what I said. This is no trivial matter. Please do not mention it to anyone.”
“Of course not,” said Miranda, “if that is what you wish.”
“Did you say something?” Alice smiled. “I must have been woolgathering. I cannot recall a word of it.”
Kate’s shock must still have been obvious, for Alice looked at her and said, “Do not worry, truly. Nothing said in this room will ever be repeated. But be assured, if you need our assistance, you may have it.”
Miranda nodded agreement, and Kate began to breathe more easily.
Clara, who had been sitting silent and had therefore been overlooked, was finding all of this most confusing. She continued to sit still and silent.
“What I have been woolgathering about is my brother,” said Alice. “I know his intentions are of the best, but he is overly arrogant and sure of himself.”
“Hear, hear,” said Miranda.
Alice acknowledged her with an inclination of her head and continued. “I shall simply have to assert myself. I cannot wait for him to allow me to take charge of my life. I will simply have to do so.”
The others all applauded, but Kate could not help but feel a trifle melancholy. Alice had the right, the power to take charge of her life. It would be more than six months before she would have the same right. And when she did declare her independence, she would lose these friends because she would put herself out of this circle. Out of Ashleigh’s circle.
*
When they returned, Ashleigh was relieved to see that his sister no longer seemed annoyed at him. Indeed, she seemed quite cheerful, as if smiling at the world in general. In fact, if it had been anyone else, he might have thought she was a trifle foxed. Then he remembered that she had been visiting Lady Merton, so anything was possible. With a small smile, he took her arm and suggested a turn around the garden.
Clara, who accompanied them, also seemed to have enjoyed the visit immensely, though she was looking a trifle serious, as if puzzling over something in her mind. She frowned. “You know, the way people are named is really very strange.”
Ashleigh asked, “Strange in what way? Do you mean to ask why you are called Clara? I believe that was in honor of one of your father’s aunts, was it not, Alice?”
Lady Talmadge nodded dreamily.
“No,” said Clara, “I mean last names. For example, it would be much simpler if names and titles were all the same. How could a stranger know that Selina Webster is Lord Ambruster’s daughter? Or that Lady Talmadge is my mother when I am Lady Clara Grammont?”
Her uncle smiled slightly. “One might suspect that part of the reason is to make it immediately apparent who is a stranger.”
Clara continued to frown. “And then, how can Kate be Miss Darling if her mother was Mrs. Darling’s sister?”
“Clara!” The dreamy expression fled from Alice’s face and she spoke sharply. “When one is asked to forget something, one forgets it completely. One never mentions it again.”
Clara looked at her mother in confusion. “I didn’t think that meant at home.”
“It means everywhere, at all times, and under all circumstances.” Lady Talmadge turned to her brother. “You did not hear that. This is not a joking matter.” She sounded so angry that Clara was on the verge of tears.
Ashleigh smiled to reassure both of them. “Hear what?”
*
It was not until much later, after dinner, that Ashleigh had a chance to think about what he had been told to forget. There is nothing like being told to forget something to imprint it on the memory. He sat long at the table, sipping his port slowly while he considered.
Miss Darling was not really Miss Darling. Instead, she was th
e daughter of Franny Darling’s sister. If she was going by the name of Darling, she was not using her real name.
There might be a number of reasons for this. There might be any number of perfectly innocent and honorable reasons. It was possible, he supposed, though he could not think of one. He could only think that the most likely reason was that she had no name of her own, that she was a bastard.
He could not remember Franny Darling ever speaking of her sister. For that matter, he could not recall Franny ever speaking of her family at all. He had heard somewhere that Franny’s father was some sort of country gentry and had disowned her for marrying Andrew Darling. Such a father would doubtless have been even more harsh with a daughter whose child was born out of wedlock.
Was that Miss Darling’s secret? After her mother died, with no father to provide for her, to protect her, she might well have sought out her mother’s sister. Then Franny Darling, with her generous heart, would certainly have taken the girl in. Franny would have had sympathy in plenty for a girl cut adrift by her family. She would also have helped the girl to keep silent about her origins.
That would explain so many things.
Miss Darling had clearly been raised as a lady, but if she was illegitimate, a suitable marriage would be difficult, if not impossible. Few gentlemen would be willing to take a bastard for a wife, especially one with no dowry, and she would find marriage to a tradesman an uncomfortable fit.
That, in turn, would explain why she would consider taking employment in a shop. Miss Darling—Kate—would seek independence. Her pride would demand it. Franny might be more than willing to give her a home, might be delighted to do so, but Kate would see that as charity. She must have been in truly desperate straits to have come seeking even temporary shelter from her aunt.
That would also explain why Kate was so prickly, so quick to take offense. He could easily forgive that. Indeed, he could only admire her pride, her refusal to be cowed. She was quite a little warrior, his Kate. His beautiful Kate.
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