"Perhaps, I'll think about it." Emily dismounted with a hand from her father's head groom and gave Feather a pat on the nose. Her father had reserved the mare for her use.
It was pleasant to be able to ride again. Richard had kept neither horses nor a carriage in Winchester. The first brief rides Emily had taken after her temporary remove to Mayne Hall had left her so stiff and sore she was almost convinced that women in their thirties ought to give up the saddle and content themselves with being driven. Now she was glad she had persisted.
"...a roan gelding just like Smithers's," Matt was saying as he led Pie to the stables. Even when Matt was small, Emily had insisted that her son see to his pony himself, though there had always been a groom to help the boy. She was glad Matt had not forgot his training.
She watched as her eldest unbuckled the girth and removed Pie's saddle, rubbing the pony down and inspecting his coat carefully before allowing the groom to lead Pie to water and the oat bag. She gave Feather the carrot she had been saving. The groom lifted the heavy sidesaddle from the mare and Matt rattled on about the superior points of a horse he had seen at the Home Farm that morning.
She and Matt had made a circuit of the Wellfield estate. It was a fine day for riding. The cherries were hung with white clouds of blossom, their annual Easter display, and everything seemed forward for the season. The bailiff Emily had hired to oversee Wellfield was a good man, no doubt of it, but she couldn't help wishing she had been able to see to the planting herself.
Emily had been homesick for Wellfield all through the winter. She meant to enjoy as much of its spring beauty as possible. She was almost certain it was her last Wellfield spring. Her melancholy sharpened the pleasure of the ride.
She watched as the groom rubbed Feather down. Then she gave the mare a last affectionate pat and followed Matt, who was still talking horse, out into the watery spring sunlight.
"...and Grandpapa says I may stable the roan here," Matt was saying, "and Will can exercise him for me until school lets out for the summer holidays. Say I may buy him, Mama."
Emily focussed on her son. He was pink with eagerness, flaxen hair ruffling in the spring breeze. "It's too soon to decide, Matt. Your stepfather hasn't made up his mind where we're to live, and I don't want to burden Papa with another horse. He's very kind to keep Pie and Eustachio for us."
"I want a proper mount," Matt said fiercely. "I need one. You can sell Pie."
"Sell Pie? You don't mean that, Matt. Pie is a very old friend."
"I don't care."
"What would Tommy ride?"
Matt kicked a clod. "I want the roan. If my stepfather is so rich, he can buy Pie for Tommy."
Emily stared at her son in silence.
Matt's eyes dropped. He was red in the face. Shame-faced, she hoped.
"We shall keep Pie," she said carefully, "for Tommy and Harry and Sally. Until he drops dead of old age, which will, I trust, be many years in the future. Perhaps by that time you will have learnt something of family feeling. In the meanwhile, if you insist, we shall pay you a fee every time one of the younger children mounts your pony. Perhaps you'd like to sell rides for ha'pence to other children as well. You should turn a handsome profit, enough perhaps to purchase the roan by your twenty-first birthday." Matt was twelve.
"You always take their side."
"Whose 'side'?"
"Theirs. The Falks'."
"You are speaking of your brothers and sisters."
"Tommy isn't my brother."
Emily closed her eyes briefly. "Upon my word, Matt, are you so selfish you grudge poor Tommy's existence? He takes nothing from you. To be sure, he is your stepbrother..." She regarded her son rather helplessly.
In the past year, since Tommy's illness, Matt's jealousy had taken to bursting forth in ugly little scenes like this one. She knew Matt loved the other children, nor did she suppose he hated his stepfather.
Matt's moments of anger, sparked by the ordinary frustrations of childhood, had been fanned to hostility by his paternal grandmother. If something were not done soon, his natural self-importance and hot temper were going to lead him into a permanent state of fancied grievance.
He continued to stare at her, lower lip jutting.
"I think we had best have a talk."
"We're always having talks."
Emily sighed. "Another talk, then. I understand that you want a more suitable mount. You shall certainly have one, though not just yet. When I'm sure we can stable it properly, it will be purchased from the income of your own estate and will belong to you alone. I'll keep an accounting for you of the price, as I have done since you were three years old of all other expenses relating to your father's estate, and when you come of age I shall turn everything that is yours over to you. I never forget what is due to you as your father's son, Matthew."
The boy's eyes dropped.
"Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Grandmama said my stepfather was milking the estate," he muttered.
Emily drew a sharp breath. "What?"
"I think that means--"
"I know what it means. Your grandmother--"
Emily broke off. Is a damnable liar, she had been about to say. Not a diplomatic utterance. "Mrs. Foster is mistaken."
"But she said my stepfather was battening on my rents."
"She may claim that, and perhaps even believe it," Emily pronounced, "but it is untrue, Matthew. Look at me."
Matt raised his head. There were tears in his eyes. Emily melted. She bent and pulled him to her in a fierce embrace. "How unhappy you've been, Matt. I'm sorry."
Matt squirmed. "I didn't think it could be true, Mama, but she said it was." He began to cry in earnest.
Emily held him, patting him as if he were a much younger child until the first gust of tears--born of relief, she suspected--had spent itself.
How long had Matt been trying to deal with the old woman's poisonous allegations? He had spent a month with Mrs. Foster after Tommy's illness, but how long before that?
When Matt reached the hiccoughing stage, Emily released him and straightened. It wouldn't do to injure his dignity with too much babying. "Let's walk to the spinney, darling, and try to sort this out."
Matt daubed his eyes with his sleeve. "All right."
"Do you know why we closed Wellfield House and moved to Winchester?"
He sniffed. "So I could come home from school Sundays and so Amy could go to her school."
"Those were benefits of the move but not the reason. We moved because your stepfather thought it best to establish his own household. When I married Richard we continued to live at Wellfield because I wanted to oversee the estate. And," she added, determined to make a clean breast of it, "because I loved the house and felt comfortable in it. You were very young, too, and I wanted you to spend your childhood there. I thought you should know the land and I wanted your tenants to know who you were."
"The s-squire," Matt offered the old joke hesitantly; He would be the squire of Wellfield as his father had been, and one of the Wellfield tenants, an elderly farmer, had insisted on calling Matt "young squire." Emily had teased him with the nickname. The joke was stale now, but there was truth in it.
"I think my plan succeeded," Emily said cheerfully. "When you come of age, Wellfield and its people will be ready to welcome you home. That's what I wanted for you."
"But Papa Falk--"
"Your stepfather is a soldier and a writer. He is not wonderfully interested in agriculture."
That was an understatement. Richard listened politely enough to Emily's bucolic enthusiasms, but he had once confessed to her that when he saw a field of waving corn, the words that popped into his head were "forage" and "bivouac." The revelation had shocked Emily to the core.
Matt was looking at her, owl-eyed. He had grown half a foot in the past year. The top of his head reached her chin.
She gave his shoulder a brief, reassuring squeeze and walked on. "Your stepfather had reservations about
living at Wellfield, but he knew I wanted to stay on, so he didn't raise any objections until last year, when we heard of unpleasant gossip in the village. Then you began to echo some of the gossip, and we knew we'd have to find a way to set your mind at ease. Besides, it wasn't fair to Amy and Tommy and the babies to rear them at Wellfield when it could never really be their home."
"I don't see why not," Matt muttered. "I don't mind."
Emily sighed. "It's too complicated. Keeping estate records and household records separate fairly addled my brain. Of course, your stepfather always paid the household expenses." Emily had thought Richard overscrupulous. He had even paid Matt a rent for the house. Now she was glad he had insisted.
Matt said nothing but she knew she had his attention.
After a moment, she went on, "When we found that Tommy was...had lost his hearing, we knew we should have to provide for him, something in addition to his education, I mean, and living in Winchester was less costly than running a large house like Wellfield. So you see..."
"But now that Papa Falk is rich we can move back to Wellfield." Matt's eyes blazed. "We can open the house again."
"Oh, Matt, no."
"Why not?"
Emily shook her head. She had tried to explain about the duchess's legacy and what it might mean. As she was not herself sure what it would mean, her explanations had necessarily been foggy. Clearly Matt had not understood.
"We'll probably have to live in one of Richard's houses. Or he may purchase an estate. In any case, we cannot live at Wellfield."
"Where shall I live?"
"Oh, Matt, with us, of course."
"But I want to live at home, at Wellfield."
So do I. Emily repressed the thought. "You shall when you come of age, of course. And we'll make sure Wellfield is properly cared for."
"Grandpapa says a house that's not lived in can't be cared for properly."
Emily was silent. She agreed with her father. Only a resident householder could see to the thousand and one small details that kept a house in prime twig.
"I want to live at Wellfield," Matt repeated mutinously.
"I wish you could, but would that be fair to Amy and Tommy and the others? Would it be fair to me?"
Matt stared.
Emily cocked her head. "Hadn't you thought of that? I've been keeping Wellfield for you, but when you marry it won't be my home either."
"You can live with me for the rest of your life, Mama."
Emily laughed, but she was touched. "Your wife would very properly object to that--and so would my husband. Besides," she added on what she hoped was a practical note, "you're in school now most of the year and you'll go down to Cambridge, too, as your father did. Wellfield will wait for you, Matt."
They had reached the spinney. Sir Henry's saplings were budding out, and the established trees made a misty show of lime green against the brilliant sky.
Matt cut a switch with his new penknife, a Christmas gift from his stepfather. His face was no longer swollen with tears or, indeed, rage. He looked thoughtful.
He took a practice slash at a tuft of winter weed. "May we still visit Mayne Hall in the holidays?"
"I'm sure your grandfather will always welcome us."
He heaved a sigh. "It's not the same as living at Wellfield, but it's better than nothing." A promising sign of mental compromise, Emily thought.
She decided to leave the discussion at that. Her own feelings were too confused to admit further probing. She did not want to live in Bath or, God forbid, London. Where Richard went she would go, but she was afraid a piece of her stubborn heart would always remain at Wellfield.
* * * *
"We can't betray Owen," Jean insisted.
Maggie still had the headache, two days after her encounter with the brickbat. The physician had clipped the hair over the swelling and the lump was going down, but she was sore all over and she knew she looked a fright. She was half-glad Johnny Dyott had not seen her since the riot, though she longed to see him. She wondered, disconsolate, whether he would ever talk with her as comfortably as he had. She missed their talks, and she longed to ask his advice.
"I promised. I won't say anything about Owen's poem, Jean, but I hate the pretence."
Jean sat on the foot of the bed. The movement sent a jolt through Maggie's skull. She bit back a groan.
"I don't like it either," Jean said earnestly, "but Clanross would dismiss Owen if he knew of the poem, and I should never see Owen again."
Maggie did not particularly wish to see Owen, but she tried to enter her sister's feelings. "Did Clanross say anything?"
Jean shook her head. Because of Maggie's head injury, neither of the girls had yet been called to account. Jean, who had dined twice with the family, reported that the atmosphere was chilly. Maggie dined on invalid fare from a tray. Apart from Jean, Elizabeth had been her only caller, and Elizabeth had so far said nothing of crimes or punishments.
It was only a matter of time before the axe fell, however, and that meant the girls had to make sure their stories jibed. Jean was repeating the tale she had foisted on Johnny in the hackney.
"...so we went to Greek Street to see Mr. Lawrence's house. Is he the one who painted Cromwell's warts?" Maggie shifted on the pillows.
"Lord, no. Mr. Lawrence is still alive. I believe he painted Mrs. Siddons. He is a member of the Royal Academy."
"It was Reynolds who painted Papa, wasn't it?"
"I think so."
Maggie brooded. "Which was his house?"
"Reynolds's?"
"No, daff-head. Lawrence's."
"I don't remember the number," Jean confessed. "Perhaps it won't come up."
Maggie closed her eyes. "Let's hope not. Have you got Ivanhoe?"
"Yes. Shall I read you more of it?" Colonel Falk had given them a copy of Mr. Scott's new work as a cheering up gift. It was quite enthralling, though Maggie's headache had cut the first reading short.
"Go ahead," she murmured. "I like Rebecca."
Jean had been reading for ten minutes or so--just long enough for both girls to lose themselves, in the Middle Ages--when Elizabeth rapped on the door and entered.
Jean laid the book on the counterpane. "I thought you were going to the theatre."
"I decided not." Elizabeth came to the head of the bed and looked down at Maggie. "Are you feeling more the thing?"
Maggie nodded.
"Good. It's time the three of us had a talk."
Maggie caught her twin's eye. Jean grimaced.
Elizabeth touched the vase of flowers on the stand by the bed, then drifted to the window. It was dark, but the street lamps made a soft glow and the reflected gaslight sparkled in the rain.
With a sigh, Elizabeth pulled the curtain to and took her seat by the hearth. In deference to Maggie's condition a small fire burnt. "I have been trying to decide what to do about your presentation."
Maggie and Jean exchanged glances but said nothing.
"At Christmas," Elizabeth continued, "you persuaded me you were ready to enter society this year. When the May levee was announced, it seemed that the Ton meant to go on much as usual despite the king's death, so I determined to do the thing properly. I spurred Anne to procure tickets for you at Almack's and I asked the housekeeper to set things in train for a formal ball. Your presentation gowns will be ready for fitting next week."
"We know we've caused a great deal of bother," Maggie muttered.
Elizabeth sighed again. "Oh, Maggie, I don't grudge you the effort. It's your due. The thing is, I can't be sure of your conduct any more. Jean is suddenly indifferent to the fripperies that sent her into transports a few short months ago, nor am I convinced you should be undergoing the exertion of a Season in your present state."
"I'll be all right," Maggie muttered.
"Believe me, tumbling from one ball to the next until two and three in the morning every week night and twice on Saturday can be exhausting. I believe we'd be wise to wait for the June levee. What
say you?"
"May we go home to Brecon first?" Jean was white with suppressed tension.
"I certainly intend to. I mean to see the babies." Elizabeth gave her a searching look. "You insist that Owen Davies hid nothing to do with your excursion to Greek Street. Unless Maggie offers me another tale, I'm constrained to believe you."
Jean inclined her head but said nothing. Maggie's head ached.
"I'll take you home with me for the rest of this month and most of May. I warn you, though, Jean, I shall watch you like an eagle."
Jean's mouth compressed.
"Maggie, what is your word?"
"We drove to Soho on a lark," Maggie lied glumly. "Jean thought of hiring the hackney and I came up with the disguises. We only went into Crown Street to find another hackney. We didn't mean to be caught up in a riot."
"Very well." Elizabeth stood up. "We'll return to Brecon as soon as your gowns are fitted, and delay your presentation until June. We shan't stay in London after the June levee, and I'll wait until the Little Season to give your ball. Perhaps by then you'll have a clearer idea of what is owing to your name."
Jean made no protest. Maggie's eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back, but it seemed unfair to her that their come-out should be curtailed.
Perhaps Elizabeth saw her disappointment, for she added in a gentler voice, "Anne and I mean to bring you out properly, my dears. You may make your curtseys to the king and try out your feet at Almack's this season. When autumn comes you may count on spreading your wings." She rose. "Now I'll leave you to your book. The new Scott, is it not? You must be sure to thank Colonel Falk for his kindness."
When she had gone, Jean made a face. "Treating us as if we were babies again. 'Be sure to thank Colonel Falk.' Good heavens, does she think we have no manners?"
"It might have been worse," Maggie said philosophically.
Jean stared.
"She might have made us wait until next spring." Maggie closed her eyes. "I want to go to sleep, Jean. My head aches."
* * * *
Tom poked his head in the book room. Richard was standing at the wide table at a sort of lectern, scribbling away. "How goes the history?"
"It marches." Richard scratched out a line. "Blast you, you broke my train of thought. The world has lost a masterpiece."
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