A Daring Courtship

by Valerie King

  On the following morning, Madeline dressed herself with extra care. Her grandmother was a high stickler, and every hair on her head must be placed properly in order to avoid the censure which would surely follow otherwise. When she informed her father that she meant to call on his mother, an oddly concerned expression crossed his face, but then quickly passed.

  “Yes, of course, my dear,” he said. “She will be pleased to have you call.”

  Madeline left wondering why he had seemed distressed. But as she walked the half mile to the cottage in which Mrs. Piper lived, she set her mind to arranging precisely how she was to place her request for assistance before the old dame.

  The “cottage” in which Mrs. Piper had resided from the time of her husband’s death some twenty years prior was a very fine house of some twelve rooms, in many ways grander than Fairlight proper. The dwelling had served any number of Piper dowagers for the past four centuries and had been built upon the original foundation of the stones of a quite ancient Norman moot hall. Mrs. Piper received guests on but rare occasions, a rheumatic complaint having restricted both her movement and her enjoyment of company generally. Madeline, however, called on her once a week as a matter of duty and form, if not a great deal of affection, a visit which she believed her grandmother relied upon for comfort and information.

  Today, however, Madeline was not so easy as she might have been. She had heard her grandmother’s views on every manner of societal dictum and could not conceive of just how she was to persuade her to help in bringing a Scotsman into fashion.

  She entered the drawing room with a flutter in her stomach and approached the wizened woman of one and seventy years. Mrs. Piper was situated comfortably in a Bath chair and smiled at her. Madeline bent down and placed a kiss on her cheek. Her skin was cool, and a faint redolence of lavender greeted her senses. “Good morning, Grandmama. Are you feeling well today?”

  “What a good girl you are, Madeline, to visit me,” she said, smiling and patting her hand. “You always were, even as a child, though perhaps a trifle too high-spirited then. But the years have tempered you, and I could not be prouder of a granddaughter than I am of you.”

  “Thank you,” Madeline stammered, surprised by so much unsolicited praise.

  “As for myself,” Mrs. Piper continued, “I am as well as can be hoped for given the general creaking of my bones. Ring for some tea, will you, my dear?”

  Madeline crossed the room to give a tug on the bellpull, then took up her usual seat near her grandmother.

  “A fetching bonnet,” Mrs. Piper announced. “And your curls are done just as they ought to be. These fashions without the smallest semblance of order are a complete absurdity. Did I tell you I saw Harris Rockingham a sennight past while driving through Chilchester? I thought he was a Gypsy, his hair was so hither and yon. Albinia ought to take a stronger hand with that boy.”

  Madeline refrained from pointing out that Harris was two and twenty and as a young man who had already attained his majority had the right to wear his hair however he wished. Instead, she folded her hands politely on her lap and began the delicate process of waiting for the right moment to place her request before her grandmother. The rather one-sided discourse began, and Madeline focused her attention on the old woman, letting her talk and talk. She nodded politely, made a comment now and then which supported her diatribes, and generally strove to keep her mind from drifting away from whatever subject was at hand. When tea arrived, she prepared her grandmother’s cup, then her own, and, after taking a sip, decided the moment had arrived to address the prickly subject.

  “I was wondering, Grandmama, if you might help me with a very difficult problem.” As succinctly as she could, she addressed her reasons for feeling that Sir Roger and Lord Anthony ought to be brought into Chilchester society, spoke of Lord Selsfield’s supposed attendance at what was now a scheduled Christmas ball and added that even Mrs. Crawley had agreed to help the knight in planning the fete. “What I would like to know, therefore, is whether you would like me to take a message to Mrs. Rockingham on your behalf or whether you would like me to pen a note inviting her to come to the cottage and pay a call?” She was trembling at the end of this speech, especially because of the utterly stunned expression on Mrs. Piper’s face.

  The very air in the drawing room grew as taut as the grim line of Mrs. Piper’s lips. Madeline’s heart sank. There would not only be no relenting in this woman today, but no compassion, no interest, no curiosity, nothing. She therefore simply sat back in her seat, sipped her tea a little more, and waited for the impending thunderstorm to hurl bolts of lightning at her for daring to suggest anything so vile as to come to the aid of a Scotsman.

  Mrs. Piper’s fury on the subject waxed long and thorough. She even referred to the battle of Culloden of 1746 as one of England’s finest hours and stated that the repeal of the Act of 1746, accomplished heinously in 1782, had been a dark time, indeed. “Of course when I learned that that man had so grievously insulted all of Chilchester society by wearing his kilt at Mrs. Crawleys soiree, I was once more convinced that all tartans should have been burned once and for all.”

  Madeline had not heard so much viciousness in a long time, nor had she understood until this moment the depth of Mrs. Piper’s prejudices. The Scots, of course, were not her only domain of hostility. The French held a particularly low place in her esteem, as well.

  Preparing herself a third cup of tea just as Mrs. Piper finally came to the end of her tirade, Madeline was arranging her thoughts as to just what sort of apology might atone for having made so odious a request in the first place, when suddenly her father appeared on the threshold.

  Madeline was about to address him with a smile, even thinking she had never seen so welcome a sight in her life, when the cold expression on his face froze the curve of her lips in place. She could see that he was angry, as she had never before known him to be angry, but not at her. No, not in the least. In truth, his gaze was fixed wholly upon his mother.

  His hat, which had dangled in his hand, he flung into a nearby chair. A moment more and he approached his infirmed mother’s throne. “Narrow and bitter to the last,” he said.

  Mrs. Piper had never appeared so small nor so startled in all the years Madeline had known her. She had ruled her family with a strong hand, perhaps too strong, it would seem, for this bird had apparently come home to roost.

  “Horace, have you lost your senses completely?” she asked. “Whatever is the matter with you that you would storm in here in this fashion? Did you learn nothing at my knee?”

  “I learned a great deal, Mama, as well you know, but nothing so horrid as your own prejudices.”

  Madeline settled her cup on her saucer, her gaze transfixed on her father, who appeared for the first time in his life to be ready to cross swords with his mother. What she saw shocked her, for in the past her father had always been entirely submissive to the great dame of Chilchester society. She could only wonder what had prompted him at this juncture in his life to give voice to opinions which she did not doubt for a moment had been withheld for a very long time.

  Give voice, he did. Madeline watched him stand firmly before his parent and begin in a solemn voice. His complaints were numerous, from his mother’s high-handed manner in society in general to her constant criticisms of everyone around her and in particular to her machinations in his life, the latter of which appeared to hold the greatest resentment for him.

  Madeline found herself bemused on several scores. Why at this moment was he giving utterance to his long-suppressed feelings, and why, in particular, had he followed her to the cottage, almost as though he knew what would transpire? In some odd, vague way, she felt that her father was making use of her secret betrothal to Sir Roger for purposes that were not yet apparent. Indeed, her suspicions grew quite profound when she recalled his manners generally from the time he had told her of his gaming losses in Brighton, even until Sunday, when he had forced her again into engaging her bid for Sir
Roger’s hand in marriage.

  Something, she realized, was ‘rotten in Denmark’, but what she could not imagine.

  She was startled from her reveries when her father suddenly turned to her. “Come, Maddy, we are finished here.”

  She rose abruptly, took his arm, and marched beside him as, proudly, he quit his mother’s presence.

  Once outside and heading back to Fairlight, she attempted to engage him in conversation about what had just happened, but he refused to speak of it.

  “I am far too happy in this moment to tell you anything beyond what you have just witnessed. Suffice it to say that my mother’s mode of thinking has been outdated from nearly the time I was born. It was high time I spoke the truth to her.”

  Madeline grew quiet as her father began to whistle happily. He even laughed several times. Once they arrived at Fairlight, he looked about him and said, “Maddy, my dear, I will not be home for dinner this evening.”

  With that, he headed in the direction of the stables.

  “Where are you going?” she called to his retreating back.

  “None of your business, my girl. Not yours, nor anyone’s.”

  ~ ~ ~

  On the following morning, Madeline sat before her dressing table, aware of two things: first, that her father was still whistling, for she could hear him in the hall beyond her bedchamber, and secondly, that Friday had stolen upon her without giving her even a hint as to how she was to achieve the impossible. How the deuce was she to persuade Mrs. Rockingham to extend an invitation to Sir Roger and Lord Anthony?

  Her mind flew in several directions at once, from the astonishing dressing down her father had delivered to Grandmother Piper, to his odd conduct yesterday in disappearing from Fairlight until the small hours of the morning, and finally to Sunday’s quite remarkable stroll with Sir Roger along Halland Creek. Whatever had been the origin of her secret betrothal with Sir Roger, the events which had succeeded it had thus far been extraordinary indeed.

  Upon Halland Creek her mind, however, seemed to wish to settle. She had pondered her conversation with Sir Roger numerous times over the past few days, wondering at the degree of rapport which had existed between them during that leisurely hour. Having brangled with him so many times previously, she still could not credit that they had actually had a civil conversation, one that in several ways had pleased her very much. She had enjoyed hearing his stories of India, though she was convinced he had left a great deal out of several of his anecdotes. She smiled, remembering several awkward pauses in which he would clear his throat and take his discourse down another path altogether. The time had been pleasant, indeed.

  And then he had taken her hand and placed a lingering kiss on her fingers. She drew her hand up to her mouth. For the oddest reason, she had thought of that kiss so often, the feel of his lips tenderly against her skin. These thoughts always reminded her of kissing him in Mrs. Crawley’s herb garden. He was a powerfully built man, and yet he could be so gentle. Really, he was a most confusing gentleman.

  If only he had not insisted upon Lady Cottingford’s harvest ball as the price for his hand in marriage. She was persuaded she could accomplish many things by way of bringing him into fashion and certainly could achieve all that he might wish given sufficient time. However, with but two weeks now before the ball, she knew it would be an utter impossibility to gain an invitation without Mrs. Rockingham’s blessing. And without that lady’s cachet, she would not have the smallest chance of gaining an invitation to Lady Hambledon’s fete in a sennight’s time. This in turn meant that if she didn’t attend the same picnic that Lady Cottingford always attended, Madeline would not have even the remotest chance of speaking with the viscountess.

  No, it was Mrs. Rockingham’s picnic or nothing.

  She forced herself to think harder and harder. There had to be a way. She would not let her family sink into scandal and obscurity, not with three younger sisters needing good husbands of excellent standing. No, she must get Sir Roger to the picnic, but how?

  Her thoughts turned to Harris’s revelations earlier, when he had spoken of his mother having loved a Scotsman once. She gasped. A bold plan pierced her brain in that moment, but could she possibly do this terrible thing merely for the sake of an invitation?

  Did she have a choice?

  No, she would do it, and she would do it now.

  She rang for her maid, and within the hour was ensconced within her father’s coach and traveling at a clipping pace the two miles to Dallings Hall.

  The sprawling Tudor mansion of ancient stone did not lend itself to lightening Madeline’s spirits. The dwelling had a dark, brooding aspect which from childhood had always caused her nerves to grow tense and wary. Given her present mission, she found she was frightened as she had never been frightened before. In one sense, her fears were ridiculous, since what could Mrs. Rockingham actually do to her once she heard her request? She certainly would not set her in the village stocks, nor have her flogged publicly, nor hurt her in any other respect. Still, the harm she could do to all the Pipers should she choose war in this moment instead of acquiescence caused even her ears to throb with her misgivings.

  Once inside, Mrs. Rockingham received her quite imperiously, her expression smug.

  She expects an apology, Madeline thought. For some reason this irritated her and at least a portion of her fears subsided.

  The expected civilities were exchanged, inquiries of health and comments upon the weather and at least one cup of proffered tea drained properly. When a second cup had been stirred to Mrs. Rockingham’s satisfaction, she said, “To what, then, Miss Piper, do I owe this unexpected visit, or do you mean to be shy with me today?”

  “Shy, ma’am? No, I suppose I do not.” She paused for a moment, then decided that directness was the only acceptable course. “Let me be very clear about what I desire of you, for it is a request. Would you be so good as to issue two invitations to your picnic tomorrow, one for Sir Roger Mathieson and the other for Lord Anthony?”

  Mrs. Rockingham’s brown eyes bulged unattractively. For several seconds she was utterly speechless, her mouth opening and closing like a fish cast upon the bank of a river. Finally, she said simply, “How dare you even speak that man’s name in my home?”

  Madeline had been prepared for a vast show of temper, so she again came directly to the point. “Because he is not the first Scotsman to have offended our valley, is he, ma’am?” She let her words seep deeply.

  Once more, Mrs. Rockingham gulped for air. When she could breathe at last, however, she remained silent. It would seem she had understood her hints to perfection.

  “I am hoping you will send for your writing materials and compose the invitations at once.”

  “You . . . you. . . what a dastardly girl you are become.”

  “As you say, but I still require the invitations, although I will promise you that Sir Roger will be wearing proper breeches tomorrow if that will ease your distress. Shall I ring for your maid?”

  For a full ten minutes, Mrs. Rockingham sank into herself. When at last she lifted her gaze to Madeline’s, she bore a hollow expression of dreams long forsaken. “I suppose you are in love with him?”

  Madeline shook her head. “No, but I do hope to wed him.”

  Mrs. Rockingham frowned. “Why, if you do not love him? Why risk so much?”

  For a reason she could not explain, she decided to confide in the older woman. “I do not believe I can speak of all that has happened, but suffice it to say that though I never thought to contract a marriage of convenience, it has now become requisite that I do so.”

  Mrs. Rockingham was aghast. “Are you saying that your father is in low tide?”

  Madeline nodded.

  “Good God. I have heard nothing of it. Dun territory, eh?”

  Madeline withheld a sigh as she nodded again.

  Mrs. Rockingham scowled. “But what of Captain Bladen or John Calvert? Either of these gentlemen would wed you in a trice.”
>
  “As I have said, our circumstances are changed.”

  “As bad as that?” she said, clearly shocked.

  “Worse.”

  Mrs. Rockingham was silent apace. “Only tell me one thing. How did you hear of my—my Scotsman? No, it is not necessary for you to reveal the source of it. I already know. My son, I fear, is a dolt.”

  In this moment, Madeline almost liked Mrs. Rockingham.

  “Very well. Ring for Graff.”

  When the invitations had been written, sanded, and sealed, Madeline took her leave. If behind her she left a quite sobered dragon, all the better, she thought.

  She did not return directly to Fairlight, but passed the manor and began the ascent to Pelworthy. Bidding her coachman await her, she was told by a servant near the gatehouse that Sir Roger was in the western portion of the castle, somewhere near the keep, he thought. He said he would find his master at once, but Madeline had a different notion entirely.

  “Thank you, but if you do not mind, I should like to surprise him.”

  “Very good, ma’am.”

  The servant bowed and Madeline moved in the direction of the turreted keep, which sat elevated on a hill covered in grass and surrounded by shrubs and tees. The keep had always been one of her favorite places, since from the top of the turret a view of most of Chilchester Valley could be enjoyed.

  Climbing the rise, she was reminded of how, as a child, she used to pin her arms by her side and simply roll down the hill. She could not help but smile. How many times had she disappeared from Fairlight, run to the castle ruins, and engaged in hours of make-believe? Countless, if memory served.

  As she reached the shallow doorway of the turret and began mounting the narrow, winding staircase, she was reminded forcibly of one particular occasion upon which her mother had come to fetch her. She had been but a child of ten—or was it eleven—when she had been pretending to fire arrows from a slit in the turret at an imaginary enemy and her mother had suddenly appeared.