The Earl Returns

by Marek, Lillian

  “Those years when he was missing? Those years when he was pressed into the navy and served as a common seaman, you mean?” Miranda was feeling annoyed. Why did these people refuse to speak directly, as if Merton’s years in the navy somehow shamed him? “Yes, many of those impressed seamen, to say nothing of the foot soldiers released from the army, are finding it difficult to adjust. Some have found that without them there to run the farm or the business, their families were turned out to starve. Many, not just those who have lost an arm or a leg, discover that there are no jobs for them. It is, indeed, a difficult adjustment.”

  Lady Merton turned to Miranda with a frown. “Such an attitude is not at all helpful. You do not seem to appreciate that an earl has many responsibilities, that many people depend on him. Merton cannot simply do as he pleases.”

  “Are you suggesting that he neglects his responsibilities? I would have thought quite the contrary. This house and its park seem to be in a beautiful state, the farms I have seen in the area appear to be flourishing.”

  “Of course Merton manages the estate well. There was never any question of that. But he has social responsibilities as well, and that is where his wife will need to help him. He needs a wife who will be comfortable among the ton, who will be able to hold grand parties and dinners, who will be able to act as his hostess.”

  “You think he is neglecting his duties as a host?” Miranda raised her brows at the countess.

  “You are being deliberately obtuse,” the countess sighed. “I love my grandson, and I do not want to see him cut off from the life he was meant to live. Merton has not spent more than a week or two in London since his return. He does not associate with his peers. He spends all his time with riffraff. I know you consider that Hodgson fellow to be a friend, but he is in no way Merton’s social equal. You cannot help but realize that.”

  Miranda shook her head slightly. It was Lady Merton who was being obtuse, she thought. “Look at the gentlemen here. I’m quite fond of my cousin, George, but I can hardly admire his behavior. He spends his days drinking and gambling away money he does not have. Mr. Philipott knows a good bit about horses, but only when it comes to riding or driving them. Mr. Rollins does not seem to know much about anything other than which tailors and bootmakers a gentleman should patronize. They are pleasant enough gentlemen, but utterly useless.”

  Lady Merton dismissed that with a wave. “They are young men who have not yet come into their responsibilities. But they are gentlemen and will behave as they should when the time comes.”

  Miranda looked skeptical. “Like my uncle? Lord Carraby is a good man, kind and gentle, but he also spends most of his life asleep.” Lady Merton was about to speak, but Miranda continued. “You say you love your grandson and wish him to be happy. Do you truly think he will be happy in a life like that?”

  Lady Merton looked away, snapped her fan open and wielded it vigorously. Then she turned back to Miranda. “I realize that Merton has not yet settled back into his normal life, the life he led before—before the unfortunate incident. However, I do not think he will be happy in the future if he finds himself tied to a wife who will never be accepted by his peers, who will never fit into the world in which he belongs by birth and by training. Even if he should prove willing to live cut off from society, there is the question of children. Would he be happy if his children were to be cut off from their peers as well, never accepted into society, unable to make a decent marriage, all because he himself had made an imprudent marriage? I do not wish to insult you, but I do not wish you to raise your hopes through misjudgment.”

  Miranda rose and dropped a stiff curtsey. “Madam, for someone who does not wish to insult me, you do a remarkably thorough job of it. However, you need not fear. My parents and I will be returning to Boston next month. And now, I pray you will excuse me.” She hurried to join Lydia and George. Lydia was garnering so much praise that Lady Carraby was looking too pleased to notice Miranda’s distress.

  *

  Merton appeared at Lady Merton’s side, surprised to see her looking upset. “A delightful performance, was it not, Grandmama? I seem to remember hearing you and Uncle Belton sing that song when I was a lad, or something very similar.”

  Lady Merton recovered herself and gave him a flirtatious tap with her fan. “You always seem to remember my worst behavior.”

  Merton caught her hand and held it while he looked at her with genuine fondness. “No, Madam, what I always remember is the kindness with which you have ever treated me.”

  She looked at him seriously then. “I only want your happiness, you know.”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know. But what might have made me happy five years ago, what I might have settled for then, would not make me happy today.” There was a warning tone to his voice.

  “Well, then, we must find a path that pleases both of us.” She patted her grandson’s hand. “Now, Merton, I believe it is time for me to retire. And then you can go and improve your acquaintance with the young ladies.” She let him help her rise, and then she paused. “It is not that I dislike Miss Rokeby, you know. She is a charming and lively girl. But she is not of our world. Your countess will have responsibilities, just as you do. If she cannot move about comfortably in our society, if she is not accepted, it will make your life more difficult. I fear that, sooner or later, you would both be unhappy. A girl who has been born to it, on the other hand, who has been raised to handle those responsibilities…” Her voice trailed off as she looked around the room at the girls she herself had invited to this party.

  “My dear, I think you underestimate Miss Rokeby. I suspect she is fully capable of doing anything she sets her mind to.”

  “That is precisely what gives me pause. I fear she will set her mind to something completely unacceptable.”

  “Something to upset the prim and proper, perhaps, but never anything in the least dishonorable.” Merton smiled sardonically. “Would you instead have me marry someone like Pamela?”

  Lady Merton closed her eyes and gave a sad laugh. “Heaven help us. I cannot understand what possessed Edgar. Had the lawyers not prevented him from taking control of the estate, I swear she would have bankrupted the earldom. And the woman has no taste.” Then she looked at Merton shrewdly. “I have heard that she once tried to trap you into marriage.”

  He laughed. “And is that an example of her lack of taste?”

  “You know that is not what I meant. Is it true?”

  He gave a shrug. “Ancient history. It is a story that flatters neither of us and should never have made its way into gossip.”

  She nodded. “I do not believe there was anything specific in general circulation. There was simply a hint that something had happened. I am only glad that whatever it was that she tried proved unsuccessful.”

  “So am I,” he said fervently.

  Chapter Twelve

  In the early hours of the morning, a figure wrapped in a black cloak slipped out the side door of the Hall and hurried down the path that led to a garden shed hidden behind a wall of shrubs. There, a man dressed entirely in dark clothes moved out of the shadows. They did not bother with greetings.

  “Have you been able to find your way around the shipyard?”

  “It is easy enough. One shipyard is much like another. If you walk through looking purposeful, no one stops you. It is not as if they are building a ship of the line.” His voice was contemptuous. “I was able to locate his office easily enough. It is up above some storerooms.”

  “He will be there tomorrow morning. He is planning to show the Rokeby girl and her cousins around. His idea of a romantic gesture, no doubt.” It came out like a sneer.

  “In that case, he will probably be concentrating on his work to get it out of the way before they arrive. He won’t notice anything until it is too late.”

  “Are you certain you can make it look like an accident?”

  “Quite certain.”

  “Yes, you are always certain. Unfortunately, your certainty t
oo often fails to produce results.”

  He flushed. “This time it will.”

  “We may not have a great deal of time, I hope you realize. Given the way he looks at that American chit, I would not be surprised if he married her. He seems to have no notion what a disgrace such a marriage would be, and much as his doting grandmother objects, she would probably tolerate the girl for his sake.”

  “There would then be two people to kill, and that would be more costly, I hope you realize.”

  “Had he died on the ship, as you vowed he would, there would be no need for any of this.”

  “He has the devil’s own luck. He should have been dead a dozen times over.”

  “Should have been, should have been. The excuse of all incompetent idiots. Are you sure you were not too fond of tormenting him? Trying to break him?”

  “He should have broken!” It came out as a cry of protest, and he collected himself to speak more calmly. “It had to seem natural—a death in battle or an accident.”

  “And if you had succeeded, you would now be a captain, with a command of your own, and the patronage of an earl to give you entree into every ballroom in London. Your failure cost you just as it cost me. Just make sure that you succeed this time.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  The morning fog had burned off by the time Lydia and Miranda settled themselves in the barouche for their excursion to the shipyard. They were setting out far earlier than Lydia would have liked, but Miranda had spent a restless night going over her conversation with Lady Merton. Half the time, she was convinced that Lady Merton was right, that Merton would be happiest in his role as earl, in London with his peers. But the other half of the time, she had been convinced that Lady Merton was wrong, that the life his grandmother wanted for him was too narrow, that his grandmother allowed the title he bore to overshadow, to smother the man. Now she wanted very much to see Merton in his shipyard. She needed to see him.

  Miranda had dressed with care. Her dress was cream-colored poplin, with a tracery of green leaves embroidered near the hem. Her deep green spencer was trimmed with three rows of brass buttons, rather like a hussar’s uniform, and she had a plaid kerchief at her neck. One feather of the green plume on her Wellington bonnet curved down to frame her face. It was an outfit chosen for its military overtones. She did not know what a visit to the shipyard would reveal, but she was prepared to do battle if that should prove necessary.

  The day was pleasantly warm, and even Lydia was willing to ride with the top down, trusting that her bonnet and parasol would be adequate protection against the sun. Her mother had dressed her in a white muslin dress with six rows of narrow flounces at the hem. A pale pink spencer had flounces around the neck and shoulders. Her leghorn bonnet had a deep brim lined in a matching pink silk and tied with deeper pink ribbons, and her parasol was a charmingly frivolous bit of white lace and ruffles.

  However, the gentleman facing them was not George Saunders but James Rollins. Precisely how this had come about, neither Lydia nor Miranda knew, and neither one was inclined to inquire. Miranda cared little who provided the escort, so long as she reached the shipyard and Lord Merton. Lydia was indifferent to the excursion but not to the company of Mr. Rollins and was pleased that her mother had insisted on the pink and white outfit. Mr. Rollins was also indifferent to the excursion—he was no more enamored of the smell of tar than was Mr. Saunders. He was, however, not at all indifferent to the company of Miss Saunders, and he was smiling quite foolishly at her. It was an expression likely to please most young ladies. It certainly pleased Miss Saunders, who blushed prettily under his gaze.

  “I say, Miss Saunders, that’s an enchanting bonnet,” he said, staring at her eyes.

  “Thank you,” said Lydia with a shy smile.

  Miranda concluded, quite correctly, that her participation in this conversation was unnecessary, and concentrated instead on the passing scene.

  It was a scene deserving of attention, she decided, and confirmed what she had thought about Merton’s care of his estate. The fields of grain were flourishing, the cows in the meadows looked fat and contented, the cottages they passed were all neat and trim. In fact, they looked as if they had just recently been rethatched, and there was glass in the windows. Merton’s primary interest may have been his shipyard, but he had not neglected his lands and the workers there. Such obvious care and prosperity spoke of either a good landlord or a good steward or both.

  Her life would be simpler, she thought, if she found Merton less attractive, less admirable. If he had a weak chin, perhaps, instead of that strong, square one with the hint of a dimple. Or if he kicked puppies. Or if he at least did not make every man she had ever met seem insipid—if he were not so much more alive than everyone else.

  She looked at Mr. Rollins. He had a pleasant face. He actually had a chin, and his nose was not overlong. He was not terribly tall, but then he was not terribly short either. He was neither fat nor thin. He was just medium. He was looking at Lydia admiringly—no, more than admiringly. He looked like a puppy hoping someone will notice him and play. She sighed and went back to admiring the scenery.

  They went through the village of Schotten with its whitewashed cottages, the square tower of St. Botolph’s Church rising behind them, and passed the common. Lydia and Miranda smiled at the children who paused in their play to stare at strangers. Mr. Rollins kept smiling at Lydia.

  Soon enough, they were traveling downhill to the small harbor that was home to the shipyard. Lining the road were newly built workmen’s cottages of brick and flint, within easy distance of both the shipyard and the village. The shipyard itself was busy and noisy, the human clamor almost drowning out the cries of the gulls. There were a dozen buildings of various sizes, some apparently storage buildings and others workshops. A wharf went well out into deep water, but no ship was offloading at the moment. There seemed to be barrels everywhere, and men walked busily from place to place. Over it all loomed the skeleton of the new ship, propped up well above the high tide mark.

  To Lydia and Mr. Rollins, is was an intimidating, chaotic scene, and they hesitated to leave the safety of the carriage.

  To Miranda, it looked like home, and she was already down on the ground, peering about, by the time Hodgson came up to greet them. He managed to persuade Lydia and Mr. Rollins that it was safe to descend, and they huddled close to Miranda while he led the coachman and carriage to a safe spot out of the way.

  “Goodness,” said Lydia, eyeing the workmen nervously, “they look rather rough, do they not?”

  “No need for you to worry,” said Mr. Rollins, who sounded not at all certain of the wisdom of this excursion. He positioned himself so that he was on one side of Miss Saunders and Miss Rokeby was on the other and looked out defiantly.

  “There is no need to worry at all,” said Miranda. “The men are all busy. Just try to keep out of the way.” She looked around curiously and her eye was caught by a movement by one of the buildings. A man dressed in dark clothes was peering out from behind the building. He must have felt her staring at him because he looked straight at her.

  Miranda made a startled noise and stepped toward him. Just then, Hodgson came back and joined the others in looking at her curiously.

  “That man by that building over there—I saw him yesterday on the cliff path.” She pointed at a two-story structure at the far end of the yard.

  Hodgson looked where she pointed, but by that time the man had disappeared.

  “On the cliff path?” Hodgson frowned. “I can’t think why any of the men would be up there.” He began walking in the direction she had indicated. “But Merton’s office is on the upper floor there. I’ve sent Curry to tell him that you’re here.”

  A workman, Curry presumably, on his way to the building Miranda had pointed at, stopped suddenly and sniffed. He ran to the corner of the building, turned and shouted, “Fire!”

  One shout was enough. Fire in a shipyard was almost as terrifying as fire aboard a ship. The
area was covered with flammable material—piles of timber, coils of rope, barrels of tar. There was fear in the air, but no panic. The workers on the site had been drilled as carefully as sailors at sea, and knew exactly what to do.

  Oily smoke was coming from the rear of the building. Some men were carrying buckets of sand to smother the fire, others were bringing rakes to drag any burning material away from the building so the flames could be beaten out. The fire hose crew had a pump going and were using sea water to wet down the area around the fire. There was no wasted effort, and no one wasted breath on unneeded words.

  Miranda ignored all the activity. She had eyes only for the door to the building where Merton had his office, the door at which he had not yet appeared. No matter how hard she stared at the door, he still did not appear. Unable to move, she kept staring.

  Hodgson nodded as he saw that the men were doing what needed to be done. What he did not see was Merton, who should have come down from his office by now. Who should have been the first to smell the smoke, since his office was right above the site of the fire. Hodgson uttered a curse and headed for the door to the stairs at a run.

  The sight of Hodgson in motion broke Miranda’s trance. Mr. Rollins was pulling Lydia away from the fire to the shelter of what appeared to be a tool shed. Miranda ran after Hodgson. When she got to the stairs, she could hear him yelling and banging on a door.

  “Merton! Tom!” he shouted. She reached the top of the stairs in time to see him step back and aim the heel of his boot at the latch on the door. That made the door shiver. A second kick shattered the latch and the door flew open.

  Smoke was coming in the window, enough to make Hodgson cough. Miranda pushed around him to reach Merton, who was collapsed on his desk, his head in a pool of blood. Hodgson cursed, and felt for a pulse.