The Wagered Widow

by Patricia Veryan

  Rumpled curls the colour of winter sunshine appeared from behind young Mr. Parrish. Great blue eyes peeped at the relieved adults.

  Anthony gave her an impatient push. “Make your curtsey, do,” he adjured sternly.

  A finger was removed from the dimpling mouth. The child bobbed something vaguely resembling the first stage of leap-frog. “My name ith PaythenAth—” she lisped, her last name fading into a deep breath. She smiled shyly, thus revealing that one front tooth was noticeable by its absence.

  “Awful!” Anthony held out his hand. Hers was at once tucked trustingly in it, and he led her over to Rebecca. “This is my mama, Mrs. Forbes Parrish. Say ‘How do you do?’ No! Not like that! Hold out your skirt. Out—not up, silly shrimp!”

  Rebecca battled a smile and said gravely, “I am most glad to meet you, Patience.”

  “How do do?” The child nodded. “You pretty.”

  “And this,” said Anthony, continuing the tour, “is my great aunt, Mrs. Boothe.”

  Patience’s awkward salutation was followed by the offer to “Have a hug now. If you want to,” an offer that was at once accepted, though it reduced Mrs. Boothe to tears.

  Sir Peter said gratefully, “Anthony, you have saved the day! Now, I am assured you ladies would like to see the cottage. May I drive you, or would you prefer to walk? It is just a short distance.”

  * * *

  Rebecca gazed around the spacious bedchamber, noticing rugs that were not in the least bit worn, a large, comfortable-looking bed, an ample chest of drawers, and a large press. The curtains were pretty, the pictures charming, and even the fireplace gave no hint that this was the home of a servant, for it had none of the tell-tale stains above the mantelpiece that bore mute witness to a smoking chimney. The other two bedrooms in this “cottage” were as impressive; the parlour was a delight, and it was as well that the faithful Falk, who combined the duties of cook and housekeeper in London, did not see the splendidly equipped kitchen.

  Anxiously watching Rebecca’s expressive countenance, Ward asked, “Will it serve, ma’am? There are other cottages about the estate, of course, but this is at a—er, proper, but not taxing, distance from the main house. Or so I think. Should you wish to inspect the others? I assure you they are all very livable, and—”

  “No, no,” she interposed with her lilting laugh. “If I seem speechless, it is because I am! My goodness, sir! If this is your notion of a cottage, whatever must you think of my London house? It would fit into one corner of this establishment!”

  He said in a more hopeful tone, “Then you think you could endure it for a week or two, at least? If your aunt does not desire to take on the girl, it will give me a chance to search about for someone else.”

  Mrs. Boothe, Patience’s tiny hand fast clamped on her skirt, intervened to say that she thought the cottage a veritable delight, and as for Mistress Ashton—she rested a fond hand on the pale curls—“Who could not love such a darling child?”

  Overwhelmed by such kindness, Patience nursed Albinia’s hand to her cheek and smiled mistily up at her.

  Rebecca said, “May she stay here tonight, Sir Peter? It would be as well for us to get started on the right footing, do you not think?”

  He beamed. “Capital! But may I propose an exchange?”

  For one shocked moment, Rebecca could scarce breathe, and Mrs. Boothe stared at him in outright astonishment.

  “I regret the lateness of the hour,” he said, sublimely unaware of the consternation he had aroused. “But my chef promises dinner at eight o’clock. I trust you are not too wearied to honour me with your company?”

  Rebecca pulled herself together, and assured him they were not too wearied. Evans, the buxom housemaid who was to serve them, had already taken Anthony off to the kitchen, and Patience was now conducted thither while the ladies went to change their gowns.

  The air was cool and sweet as they walked through the park to the main house. They arrived in the glow of sunset to find lamps already lit, and candles waking a thousand sparkles from the prisms of the chandelier that hung above the table in the dining room. Sir Peter, his gaze lingering appreciatively on Rebecca’s demure white gown, explained that this was the small, family dining room. “I trust you will forgive us, but the large dining room is so”—he waved one graceful hand—“so—large.”

  There were no other guests, but he seemed not in the least discomposed by the lack of another gentleman and, with a lady on each side of him, was the perfect host. Rebecca tried not to make any remarks which so conservative a gentleman might judge unfeminine, and even when the recent tragic Rebellion somehow found its way into the otherwise innocuous conversation (a topic on which she held deep and rather treasonable opinions), she contrived to remain meekly tactful.

  Mrs. Boothe, who had several times trembled lest her niece’s hasty tongue lead her into indiscretion, was gratified by this restraint. Rebecca was a picture tonight. The white taffeta gown with dainty red scroll embroidery about the hem looked pure and virginal and was complemented only by a simple ruby pendant that glowed against her white bosom. Sir Peter, impressive in brown velvet, his fair hair unpowdered and gleaming in the candlelight, could scarce tear his eyes from her. He was the very epitome of good breeding, however, and never once slighted the elder lady whilst catering to the younger. Watching him with the critical eyes of a prospective aunt-in-law, Albinia could find nothing to displease. He was gracious without being condescending and amusing without having that regrettable tendency to flirt exhibited by so many gentlemen. Although he certainly led the conversation, he never monopolized it and would listen with interest did a lady venture an opinion, even if later he felt obliged gently to point out aspects of the subject of which she might be unaware. His smile was warm, his laugh well modulated, his manners exquisite. And he was very rich. Her prior conviction that he would make a kind and devoted husband was strengthened, and she could not wonder that her niece had lost her heart to the handsome fellow.

  At eleven o’clock Sir Peter escorted his guests back to the cottage. As they strolled through the fragrant gardens under a bright half-moon, Albinia contrived gradually to fall behind, leaving the young couple to chatter together. Sir Peter did not take advantage of the situation by indulging in a little light flirtation. Instead, he chose to speak of the history of Ward Marching, which had been awarded to his ancestors soon after the Battle of Hastings, in 1066. “The original pile,” he said, “is gone, of course, but you may see the ruins still, about a mile to the west of here. My great-great-grandfather, Sir Montague Ward Marching, had the present house begun in 1635.”

  Rebecca thought it a pity that no one had instructed Sir Montague as to the benefits of building on high ground, rather than in a hollow. “Did he choose the site so as to be away from the wind?” she asked.

  He chuckled. “No, ma’am. So as to be away from his wife. If history speaks truth, she was a fearsome lady of violent moods, and with a tongue like an asp.”

  “Poor man! And did he dwell here all alone, then? He must have been very solitary.”

  “Yes. But—er, he was something of a rascal, I fear, and—ah, he—”

  “Brought his chère amie here?” She gave a ripple of laughter. “And right under his wife’s nose! Lud, but there must have been some royal battles!” The nervous cough from behind them caused her heart to thud. Slanting an uneasy glance at her companion, she saw a surprised expression. Why, oh why, must she say such things!

  Sir Peter murmured without looking at her, “Yes. I believe their life was not tranquil.”

  She had shocked him, of course. Something must be done at once.… She stumbled and reached out for support. With a startled exclamation, he swung out an arm. His movement was very fast. Unhappily, Rebecca had moved just as fast, turning her head to him. His knuckles collided violently with her jaw, just below the ear, and every star in the heavens seemed to explode.

  * * *

  “There, my love.” Mrs. Boothe laid a cold wet c
loth across Rebecca’s brow and straightened. “Are you better now?”

  Rebecca blinked up at her, stupidly. “Whatever…?” she gasped, and clapped a hand to her chin.

  “It was purely an accident, dearest. But—alas, I fear ’twill bruise.”

  Struggling to sit up, Rebecca peered about. She was laid down upon the sofa in the cottage parlour, and of her selected mate there was no sign. “Is he gone, then?” she cried. “Lud! What a fiasco! I vow, Aunt, I can do nothing right!”

  Mrs. Boothe put a hand over her lips and glanced to the open doorway. “He is outside,” she whispered, her eyes dancing with mirth. “So far he has vowed three times to blow out his brains! Play your cards right, my sweet, and you may have him yet.” She checked her niece’s position, adjusted her skirts carefully, then hastened to the door. “She is awake now, sir, and asking for you.”

  A pale, distraught face appeared around the door. Eyes haunted by terror scrutinized Rebecca. Ward tiptoed into the room, wringing his hands and asking an anguished, “Are you … are you better now, Mrs. Parrish?”

  Mrs. Boothe winked mischievously, and slipped away. Quite unaware of either her wink or departure, Sir Peter stumbled to kneel beside the sofa and take the hand Rebecca held out. “My God! My God!” he moaned, bowing his face upon it. “I have never struck a woman in all my life!”

  Infuriatingly, Rebecca had to battle an urge to giggle. “But you never did such a thing,” she said comfortingly. “’Twas purely accidental.”

  Grasping at this straw, he looked up. “Yes! That is truth, but— Oh, your poor sweet cheek is so red and already swelling! What a brute I am! What a clumsy fool! And you so gentle as to forgive so heinous an offence!”

  “Nay, how could I judge it so when you have been all that is kind.”

  “Do you know,” he said, looking at her wonderingly, “almost, at times, Mrs. Parrish, you put me in mind of—of my dear, lost lady.” His eyes fell. Stroking her hand, he went on, “I need not tell you how frightful it is to lose your love, for you know too well, poor gentle creature. All these lonely years, Helen has been seldom from my thoughts.”

  “How unhappy you must have been,” said Rebecca, squeezing his hand sympathetically.

  “Oh, no. For I have my birds, you see. But—” he sighed. “Always I have felt there could never be—another, to replace her. And yet, of late…” His eyes lifted again, gazing into her own. “Of late, it has been in my mind to … to ask you…”

  Rebecca’s breath began to flutter. “Yes, dear sir?” she prompted gently.

  “If you might … consider…” He wrenched his eyes away and gabbled with frantic haste, “Consider coming up to the main house tomorrow morning. There is a portrait of Lady Ward Marching in the gallery. I know you will like to see it, and then, if you are feeling up to it, we could—we could picnic on the Home Farm.”

  Disappointed, Rebecca thought that the gentleman was nothing if not adept at extricating himself from a dangerous moment. She forced a smile and said she would like very much to see the portrait and would be quite recovered after a night’s sleep. Very daring, Sir Peter pressed a salute upon her hand and left, bowing to Mrs. Boothe as she returned to her patient.

  Waiting until he was safely out of earshot, Albinia demanded to know what had transpired. “What did he say? Did you suffer heart-rendingly?”

  “Probably not. I should have, shouldn’t I? But the poor man was so repentant I could not punish him further.”

  “And so wasted a golden opportunity!” Mrs. Boothe shook her head and offered a fresh cloth. “Well, what did he say?”

  Rebecca sat up, holding the cloth to her aching head. “He told me that he has never got over his dead love, but he is very brave about it, and says he has not been lonely because he has his birds.”

  Mrs. Boothe gasped and sank into the wing chair opposite.

  “Did you see him drop to his knees, dearest? Well, he did. And he said—”

  “What? What?”

  “That I reminded him of his Helen.”

  “Huh!” said Mrs. Boothe.

  “And that he had never thought another could take her place, but of late he’d had it in his mind to ask me—”

  “Yes? Yes?” cried Mrs. Boothe, leaning forward, her eyes bright with anticipation.

  “If I would care to see the portrait of his great-great-grandmother.”

  Albinia’s jaw dropped. “The man is alone with you, on his knees, and you lying ravishingly lovely before him, and he talks of his birds and his grandmama? Dear heaven, Rebecca! Is he short of a sheet?”

  “Why? Because he did not take advantage of my helplessness?” Rebecca defended, indignant. “I make no doubt de Villars would have been tearing the gown from me in such a situation! Ward’s gentleness, his dignity, his nobility, are the very qualities I so admire. He has been much courted, do not forget. And I suspect he is—a trifle wary. Unless…” She hesitated and, her brows a little knit, went on, “Poor fellow, he has been so very lonely all these years, that I think he may perhaps have forgot how to court a lady.”

  “Faith, it sounds to me as though he’s forgot a sight more than that!”

  “Aunt!” gasped Rebecca, much shocked. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Mrs. Boothe blushed and disclaimed, “I—we—oh, my!” She rallied, saying with a remarkably girlish dimple, “Well, you have the right of it, I do not doubt. He is wary.”

  “Yes.” Rebecca nodded. “And is going to be more difficult to snare than I had fancied.” She felt her jaw tenderly. “I must look my best, dearest. Shall this be dreadfully unsightly tomorrow?”

  Mrs. Boothe assured her there was little cause for worry. “We can always arrange your curls so as to hide it, never fear.”

  By the following morning, the bruise was quite lurid, but the swelling had gone down, and between her aunt’s skill at arranging her hair, plus a careful application of cosmetics, the desired result was achieved. The bruise was evident, but not to the extent of being unsightly. One did not wish that the gentleman forget his brutality entirely!

  Anthony burst into the room while Millie was busied with pounce pot and pomatum, powdering his mother’s curls. He announced with several leaps and bounds that it was “a lovely day! Oh, what fun this is, is it not? But how noisy it was last night. I never heard such a clamouring of creatures! I wonder country folk ever get any sleep. Do we take the shrimp with us today? Her legs are very short, you know.”

  Inwardly amused, Rebecca said that he should not criticize Patience. “She has had a very sorry time of it, and besides, we all were little once, Anthony.”

  He thought this over and asked in some awe if that included Sir Peter. “I cannot make him into a little boy.”

  She laughed. “I fancy he was a very handsome little boy.” Reaching out to ruffle his hair, she smiled fondly. “Though not as dashing as another young gentleman of my acquaintance.”

  His guileless eyes met hers earnestly. “Do you think that, too, Mama? Mr. de Villars is a great gun even if he is not handsome.”

  Startled, Rebecca said, “You like him?”

  “Oh, yes. I did not at first, but then I found out that his eyes say different to his words.”

  Millie chuckled. “From the mouths of babes…”

  “Hmmnnn,” said Rebecca. She sent her son away then, while Millie dressed her. She had chosen a frock without hoops purchased two years earlier for a picnic that had been postponed due to inclement weather. It was a simple style, of powder-blue India muslin with a tiny fitted waist and many petticoats. The neckline, very low cut, was edged with white lace, and the same lace, threaded with blue ribands, fell in rich gathers about her elbows. Standing to scan herself critically, she had to admit that Millie had been right in suggesting they bring the gown although it was not of the latest style. It looked fresh, and, with her hair powdered and arranged in ringlets that fell over her bruised jaw, added to an impression of youthful purity.

  She smiled faintly at her refle
ction. Today, Sir Peter was going to see a different Little Parrish. Today, she would be all rustic simplicity, enjoying the country delights, with the children romping happily about her. He would discover she could remove from London’s sophistication and be just as at ease amid gentle rural pleasures.…

  Nature seemed to lend its good will to her hopes. The sun shone brightly, the skies were azure, and a very few clouds drifted slowly across the heavens. Mrs. Boothe and the children were to be taken up later for the picnic, but Rebecca had promised to be at the main house by eleven o’clock and, taking her parasol, walked through the dewy gardens, looking glad-eyed on the beauty all about her.

  Sir Peter met her on the steps of the main house. He looked very well, as always, his unpowdered hair shining in the sunlight. To his anxious enquiries Rebecca turned a smiling face, and he touched her cheek with one gentle finger and groaned over his misdeeds. She comforted him and said teasingly that he might make amends by giving them a memorable day.

  “How could it be otherwise, Mrs. Parrish? For me, at least. Jove, but were I an artist we’d not stir from the house till I had put you on canvas, you look so charmingly in that dainty gown.”

  She blushed and was happily elated as he led her into the Great Hall. All here was bustle; maids and flunkeys scurrying about, dusting and polishing, the air redolent with the fragrance of several large bowls of cut flowers.

  “My grandmama arrives tomorrow,” said Ward, by way of explanation for the flurry of industry. “The dear soul abhors travel and comes only so as to help with Priscilla.”

  “Patience,” Rebecca corrected softly.

  He sighed. “I know. But the very young and the elderly are both sore trials at times, do not you agree?”

  She could not forbear to giggle at this. “I meant, Sir Peter, that your cousin’s name is Patience.”