What Ales the Earl

by Sally MacKenzie

  She pushed it firmly out again.

  Lady Darrow smiled. “Good.”

  Good, indeed. Now perhaps the woman would take her leave and Pen could—

  “I do hope I can convince you to be his wife, however.”

  Pen stared at Lady Darrow for several heartbeats while Harry’s mother looked calmly back at her.

  She can’t have said what I think she said.

  She tottered over to sit in the empty chair before her knees gave out.

  “Pardon me. I . . .” She swallowed. “That is . . .” She looked intently at Lady Darrow. “Did you just say you wanted me to marry Harry?”

  Lady Darrow’s smile widened and she nodded. “Yes, that is precisely what I said.”

  Pen blinked. “But . . .” She scoured her brain. She couldn’t come up with a single plausible reason. “Why?”

  Lady Darrow shifted a bit on her seat as if she wasn’t quite comfortable. “Perhaps you’ll understand better if I begin at the beginning. You see, I knew about Harriet before she was born, but I thought she was Walter’s child.”

  “What?!” If Lady Darrow had thought Harriet was Walter’s, then, obviously, she’d also thought Pen had had carnal relations with the man.

  The notion was revolting. And insulting.

  “Why did you think that?”

  A small frown formed between Lady Darrow’s brows. “I’m not certain. I might just have assumed it. Irate fathers were always coming to see the earl about Walter’s, er, wild oats. He had so many illegitimate children, people even had a name for them.”

  Pen nodded. “Walter’s whelps.”

  Lady Darrow flinched.

  Oh, blast. She should have bitten her tongue.

  “Yes, Walter’s whelps. So, when I heard your father had come to speak to the earl, I thought he was just the next in a long, depressing line.”

  “But Walter and me?”

  Lady Darrow smiled. “You must remember, I didn’t know you, except by sight. And if I’d been at the estate that summer, I might have noticed you and Harry were together frequently, but I was in London until just before Harry left for the Continent.”

  That’s right. Now Pen remembered. Lady Darrow had stayed at Darrow House, so Letitia, who’d been pregnant with Bianca and having a very hard time of it, could be closer to her physician.

  Walter, however, not being one to, er, hover over his wife, had been in the country, busily hopping in and out of any bed he could. But not her bed.

  Though she could see how Lady Darrow might have assumed otherwise.

  Harry’s mother tapped her teacup against her lip. “You know, now that I think about it, I believe the servants told me your father said the baby was Walter’s.”

  Pen stiffened. “No, he wouldn’t—”

  She stopped, mouth ajar. Of course, that was exactly what her father would have done, and without a moment’s hesitation. He’d likely have assumed he’d have less of an argument if he claimed Walter, the well-known philanderer, as her baby’s father. As Lady Darrow said, everyone expected Walter to scatter his bastards over the countryside. And perhaps he’d also thought he’d get a better deal by accusing the heir.

  Oh, hell.

  She’d thought she was done being hurt by her father.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I’ll confess I put the matter out of my mind,” Lady Darrow was saying. “Does that sound callous?”

  She sighed, suddenly looking all of her fifty-some years. “Perhaps it is. But I had a new granddaughter to dote on, and, well, when faced with the same pain over and over again, I long ago learned I had to take steps to protect my heart or it would shatter.”

  Lady Darrow put down her teacup with a clink. “I have at least a dozen grandchildren on the estate whom I can’t claim, Pen, and who I didn’t know about until the Graham streak finally appeared in their hair when they were two or three years old—or even older. Before Walter died, I used to wonder at every christening in the parish church—is this baby one of mine?”

  She rubbed her hand over her face. “But of course they can never be mine. Even once the streak appears and it’s clear they are Walter’s, everyone pretends they belong to whichever farmer the earl was able to pawn Walter’s pregnant paramour off on.”

  Her expression grew sadder. “And it doesn’t help Letitia’s spirits that eight of those children are boys.”

  Pen nodded. She’d never looked at the situation from Lady Darrow’s point of view before, but now that she did . . . Yes, she could see it would be painful.

  “As you must know—or will discover soon enough—a mother’s job is difficult, frustrating, and sometimes, if one is especially unlucky, extremely disheartening—even heartbreaking. I couldn’t keep Walter from fornicating with any willing female he wished to. I just thanked God he only fornicated with willing women.” Her face froze. “At least, as far as I know. I don’t believe anyone ever accused him of rape.”

  Lady Darrow looked at Pen, the unspoken question in her eyes.

  Pen hastened to reassure her. “I never heard even a whisper of Walter forcing himself on anyone, Lady Darrow. He didn’t have to. Women—not me, of course, but many, many women—were anxious to, er, entertain him. He had a reputation for being very—” She probably shouldn’t tell Walter’s mother the glowing reviews Walter’s amatory skills had received. “—pleasant.”

  A little of the tightness left Lady Darrow’s face. “That’s good. I-I did wonder from time to time, but the thought of Walter . . .” She shook her head. “No, it was too horrible to contemplate.”

  “I would think if Walter had forced himself on anyone,” Pen said in what she hoped was a reassuring tone, “his victim’s father would have come storming up to the house to tell the earl.”

  Lady Darrow nodded. “That’s what I’ve always told myself.”

  “Didn’t you ask Lord Darrow?” Pen frowned. Lady Darrow had said the servants told her Pen’s father had claimed Harriet was Walter’s child. Odd. She would have thought the earl would have shared that information with his wife directly.

  Lady Darrow shook her head. “No. Darrow and I didn’t discuss such things. Well, we didn’t discuss anything. We had a typical marriage of convenience, I’m afraid. Once I’d given him his heir and spare, I went my way and he went his. There were times when weeks would pass without us exchanging a single word. It was very . . . lonely.”

  Oh. Suddenly Pen wondered if the composed, ethereal beauty she’d always admired in Lady Darrow had really been hard-won detachment.

  “Harry told me he expected to have a marriage of convenience with Lady Susan.” The words tumbled out before she could stop them.

  Stupid! It’s none of my concern. Lady Darrow will—rightly—put me in my place.

  Still, she hated the thought of Harry condemned to such a sterile union, especially now that she’d met Lady Susan.

  It’s the way of the world—of his world.

  Pen frowned.

  And mine, too?

  Wasn’t she looking for something similar—an amiable union built on respect and courtesy?

  Likely it was only in fairy tales that a man and a woman married for love and lived happily ever after.

  To her surprise, Lady Darrow did not take her to task for her impudence. Instead, she nodded.

  “Yes, I think that is precisely what he would have done, which is why it would be much, much better for him to marry you.”

  And just like that, they were back at the preposterous notion they’d begun with.

  “I don’t understand.” She must be missing some crucial piece of information. “Harry told me you were, er, urging him to find a bride from the ton during the London Season.” Badgering, more like.

  “I’m sorry to say I was.” Lady Darrow sighed. “I wasn’t thinking clearly. You see, when Walter d-died—”

  Suddenly her eyes filled with tears. She sniffed a few times, and then pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose. When she spoke again, her voi
ce was halting.

  “As I’m sure you can imagine, b-burying a child is one of the most p-painful things a mother can endure. Walter had many sins, but he was still my son. And he was only thirty-five. Strong and healthy. His d-death was a terrible, terrible shock.”

  Pen put a comforting hand on Lady Darrow’s arm. She could imagine—all too well. If anything were to happen to Harriet . . .

  Dear God, I’d want to die.

  Lady Darrow blew her nose again and took a sustaining sip of tea. “And Letitia and the girls were distraught, of course. It was a horrible time. Just horrible. I-I think I went a little mad.”

  She shook her head as if that would dispel the memory. “I let myself be consumed by the need for an heir, Pen. It was all I could think about.” She frowned. “And it was so . . . silly. I’ve suspected for years, ever since Letitia’s last miscarriage, that Harry would inherit the title, and yet I never felt the need to write and tell him to come home and marry. But when Walter died—”

  She pressed her lips together and swallowed several times.

  “Harry had to come home then. He was the earl. He had to take up his new responsibilities—and one of those was to marry and get an heir. He doesn’t have a brother to follow after him. If he dies without a son, everything goes to a distant cousin, a man I’ve never met or even corresponded with. And if that happens, I don’t know what will become of me and Letitia and the girls.”

  Pen understood all too well the desperation she heard in Lady Darrow’s voice. She’d felt it, too, when she’d left Darrow and then again when Aunt Margaret died.

  “So, yes, I made him promise to find a bride this Season. I thought I was right to do so, especially after the first ball when he complained how young all the girls were. They were only going to seem younger the older he got.”

  Pen nodded. Harry had said as much.

  “He went to almost all the Season’s events, danced with any number of girls—and he chose Lady Susan. I knew he didn’t love her, but, as I know all too well, love isn’t necessary to get an heir. Just a bit of respect. Some courtesy.”

  Exactly what Pen had thought to look for.

  “It was what I’d had with his father. It wasn’t . . . wonderful, but it wasn’t dreadful, and it got the job done.”

  Lady Darrow blew out a long breath. “I admit I was annoyed with him when he didn’t offer for Lady Susan before the Season was over—he’d told me he would—but when we were all invited to the Duke of Grainger’s party, I thought Grainger was going to help with the matter.”

  She laughed. “Which he did, though not in the way I was expecting. I was very, ah, displeased with the duke when I got up Saturday morning to discover Harry had vanished. He was suspiciously vague as to where Harry had gone, but then Lady Susan was able discover Harry’s whereabouts from a stableboy, so we set off—Lady Susan, Letitia, and I in the traveling coach and my friend, Lord Muddlegate, on his horse. Lady Susan’s father washed his hands of the matter and went back to Langley.”

  Lady Darrow wrinkled her nose. “I now know why—Lady Susan is a very unpleasant traveling companion. I was heartily sick of her long before we reached Little Puddledon. And then, when she got back from that walk a little while ago . . .” Harry’s mother grimaced.

  Pen could well imagine how incensed Lady Susan must have been.

  “There wasn’t much we could have done to avoid her, Lady Darrow. It wasn’t as if we could cross a street or duck into a shop. We were walking by the stream when we encountered her and Letitia.” Pen frowned, remembering that awful moment. “I know it’s not considered good form for someone like me to address people like Lady Susan and Letitia, but my first—my only—concern was to protect Harriet. They knew she was Harry’s daughter. I couldn’t risk them hurting her feelings or embarrassing her in any way.”

  Lady Darrow was nodding as if she agreed with her. “Yes. Quite right. You did exactly as you should have.”

  Had Pen heard correctly? “But I’m . . .” She wouldn’t say the word. “I’m not married to the father of my child.”

  “You’re the mother of my grandchild.”

  True, but beside the point. Didn’t the woman understand?

  “Lady Darrow, Lady Susan was going to call me a . . .” Oh, just say it. “She was going to call me a whore. I got Harriet away before she did, but Harriet’s very bright. She knew what Lady Susan was going to say.”

  Pen leaned forward a little and held Lady Darrow’s eyes with hers. It was very important the woman understand.

  “I want you to know that I am not . . . That is, Harry is the only man I have ever been with. I loved him and I showed him that love, even though I knew I was breaking the rules. I don’t regret it, and I don’t regret Harriet. I work hard to support us and to see she has everything she needs. She can read and write, add and subtract. When she is older, I will help her find a trade or a craft or some way to support herself and be independent. I can and I will take care of her.”

  “I know you will,” Lady Darrow said, patting Pen’s arm, “but she still needs a father.”

  “Yes, she does.” Pen gripped her hands tightly together. “I hope to find her one soon. The village will be getting a new vicar. I—”

  Lady Darrow cut her off. “Balderdash! There’s no need to go looking at vicars. Harriet has a father.”

  “Well, yes, of course. But, as you know—”

  “Marry Harry.”

  And there it was again.

  Pen gaped at the woman for several seconds before she found her voice. “Lady Darrow, please! You and I both know I cannot do that.”

  “And why not?” Lady Darrow helped herself to a slice of seedcake. “Oh, this is very good.”

  Pen was happy for the distraction. “Yes. Avis, the girl who does all our baking, is quite gifted. Our main business now is brewing, but we still sell some of Avis’s baked goods.”

  “I do believe this seedcake is as good as any I’ve had, even in London.” Lady Darrow took another bite, savored it, and then washed it down with some tea. “You might be able to find a market for it in Town, if you wished.” She smiled. “But you were telling me why you can’t marry Harry.”

  Sadly, they were back to that. Of course, they were. Pen could see she wasn’t getting out of this room without discussing the matter to Lady Darrow’s satisfaction. She thought briefly about walking out, but she’d really missed her best opportunity to do that—and she wouldn’t put it past Lady Darrow to follow her.

  “There are too many reasons to list them all.”

  Harry’s maddening mother raised her brows. “Try.”

  Very well, she’d play this game for a little while. “My birth. I’m only a farmer’s daughter—a drunken farmer’s daughter.”

  Lady Darrow nodded. “True. I suppose we all began as farmers or hunters or traders or . . . soldiers. A lot of men earned their titles by killing people for the king.”

  “Er . . .” Pen blinked, her mouth half open. She supposed there was some truth to that.

  “Oh, I’m not advocating that we go the way of the Americans or, worse, the French,” Lady Darrow said, “but I do sometimes wonder if we put too much emphasis on a person’s birth. I mean, just look at Lady Susan. She’s an earl’s daughter, but she’s also crass, selfish, and exceedingly annoying.”

  “Mmm.” Pen agreed wholeheartedly.

  “And your father didn’t take to drinking in excess until after your mother died. I always thought he was drowning his sorrows.”

  “W-What?” Pen stared at Lady Darrow. “You knew my mother?”

  Lady Darrow nodded slowly, a frown appearing between her brows. “Yes. She was my abigail. She came with me when I married the earl. I quite depended on her at first, while I was getting used to Darrow”—Lady Darrow smiled—“both the place and the man. Perhaps that’s why I tried to convince her not to wed your father. But she would not be dissuaded. She thought him handsome and fun and exciting.” Lady Darrow shook her head. “She was b
esotted.”

  Pen wished she could remember her mother. She wanted to ask Lady Darrow—

  No. That would prolong this exceedingly awkward conversation.

  Lady Darrow sighed. “I’ve always thought I should have kept more of an eye out for you, but I’m afraid I got distracted by my own problems. And then when I believed Walter had—” She shook her head. “I thought I would see you married to a local farmer, and I’d have yet another grandchild in the village that I couldn’t claim.”

  She took a sip of tea and looked at Pen over the rim of the cup. “Why didn’t you marry a local man?”

  “The only one available—or at least the one the earl offered Papa—was the blacksmith’s son.” Pen couldn’t keep the revulsion from her voice.

  Lady Darrow inhaled sharply. “Felix?! You would have been miserable.”

  She would have been miserable married to anyone but Harry, but with Felix she’d have been . . .

  She couldn’t think of a word strong enough to adequately convey the horror she’d have endured as Felix’s wife.

  “Yes. I refused to consider the match. My father, however, did not agree with my decision. We, er, argued about it. That’s why I left.”

  Lady Darrow nodded. “Ah. I was so busy with Letitia and the new baby, I didn’t miss you right away. When I finally asked the vicar’s wife where you were, she said you’d gone to your aunt’s and were much better off. So I let the matter drop.”

  She looked a bit . . . remorseful before glancing down to dust a few crumbs off her lap. When she looked back up, there was steely determination in her eyes.

  Oh, Lord.

  “Now that we’ve dispensed with your birth, what’s the next reason you think you can’t marry my son?”

  They had not dispensed with her birth, but there was clearly no point in belaboring that, especially as Pen had, unfortunately, a mountain of other deficiencies.

  “I had a child out of wedlock.”

  “Harry’s child.” Lady Darrow swept her fingers through the air as if that took care of reason number two.

  Pen frowned. She wasn’t a complete chawbacon. She knew the woman was making too light of the situation. “It’s not that simple.”