"Hours ago."
"I love you."
"I love you."
They kissed. They somehow progressed to their bed. They made love again.
Three-quarters asleep, Beth muttered, "The Weeping Widow."
"What?"
She stirred herself enough to make sense. "If Lee really wants a marriage without love he should marry the Weeping Widow. Anyone who adored her first husband as devotedly as Judith Rossiter did will be able to resist even Leander Knollis."
"Don't be a gaby," said Lucien, drifting off to sleep himself. "It's just some bee he has in his bonnet. He'll come to his senses."
* * *
But the earl did not appear to change his views.
After being pressed, he agreed to stay for a few days and proved to be an unexceptionable guest. He was polite, charming, and thoughtful, and knew when to make himself scarce. Beth began to doubt those shadows she had sensed on the first night.
And Lucien had been right about his self-sufficiency. No man is an island, said Donne, but Leander Knollis came close. He moved through the days like a skillful courtier—charming, and with the most exquisite manners, but unentangled.
She was not surprised to learn that his first career had been that of diplomat, following in his father's footsteps. The late Earl of Charrington had been famous for his ability to pour oil on troubled waters, and had devoted his life to the work. Leander had clearly inherited the gift, and been trained to the life. He had been born in Istanbul and raised everywhere. He had not even visited England until he was eight.
His next visit to England after that had been when he was twelve and sent to Harrow School.
"And," he confessed to Beth one day in the rose garden, "I'm not sure I would have survived if it hadn't been for Nicholas and the Rogues. I don't know why he picked me, but I'm eternally grateful. I could handle kings and princes of every nationality, but I had no idea how to rub along with other boys, and was woefully unfamiliar with all kinds of English customs."
It was a beautiful sunny day for November, and Beth was poaching on the gardener's preserves by cutting back the roses. "It seems a little thoughtless of your parents to have sent you to Harrow so unprepared."
"Oh, I had the best tutors. I speak eight languages."
She looked up sharply. That wasn't an answer to her implied question. It seemed to Beth that whenever Leander's parents entered a conversation, that conversation took an adroit turn. He was good at it, very very good, but she noticed. She decided to probe.
"When did your father die?" she asked.
"A year ago in Sweden."
"And your mother?"
"Three years earlier in Saint Petersburg."
He was not evading her questions but there was a distinct restraint in his manner. Did he think of his life solely in terms of geography? Perhaps it lacked any other fixed point.
Beth left the basket of cuttings for the gardener to dispose of and led the way back to the house, stripping off her gloves. "I suppose you didn't see much of them at all during your school years. Where did you spend the holidays? At Temple Knollis?"
He held open one of the French doors for her. "No. My maternal grandfather had a London house, and an estate in Sussex. I also spent some time with one or other of the Rogues. There was never any problem. I was always a welcome guest."
A professional guest, in fact. But, thought Beth, where was your home? She had grown up as somewhat of a waif herself in Miss Mallory's School for Ladies in Cheltenham, but it had become a home because it was permanent, and because of the genuine affection between herself and Miss Mallory. Had Leander Knollis ever had a home of any kind at all?
Suspecting she would be wiser to talk about the weather, she said, "I suppose it would have been a long journey into the West Country, but you must have been sorry not to be able to spend time at Temple Knollis. It is said to be one of the most beautiful houses in England."
He stopped and she saw his eyes had that flat expression. The silence stretched too long and almost became an embarrassment before he said, "My father hated the Temple and he raised me to feel the same—that it was a foolish, wasteful folly, and dangerous. I never visited it until earlier this year, when I returned to England." He raised his chin slightly and she suspected that for once he had said more than he intended.
There was something here and it needed to be exposed.
"And do you think it beautiful?" she asked, simply fishing for a reaction.
He met her eyes but all the barriers were well in place. "Oh yes," he said. "It is undoubtedly very beautiful. Excuse me."
With no further explanation he was gone.
Beth went thoughtfully in search of Lucien and found him in the stables. "What do you know of Temple Knollis?" she asked him.
He didn't look up from a poking inspection of a hoof. He was in shirtsleeves and very grubby. Beth still found it remarkable how gentlemen loved to play the groom.
"The Temple? That's how Lee always referred to it. I gather his father didn't like the place so they never went there. They were hardly ever in England anyway and the first earl—Lee's grandfather—didn't die till eighteen-ten or thereabouts, so it wasn't even their home."
"But Lee was obviously going to inherit one day. You'd think everyone would have wanted him to learn about the place."
"I gather his grandfather tried quite hard to get him down there." Lucien finished his task and straightened. "Why the interest?"
"He just told me he was raised to hate it."
Lucien nodded. "That could be. He's always been uncommunicative about his family, and I wasn't one to push him. My relationship with my father wasn't remarkable for its warmth." He looked at her quizzically. "You're turning meddlesome. Clearly some Greek lessons are called for to raise your mind to a higher plane."
Though Beth was proficient in Latin she had never learned Greek, and so Lucien was somewhat lackadaisically teaching her. For the moment, however, she had no interest in academics. "I hope my mind will never be above the welfare of my fellow man. Your friend is troubled."
Lucien sobered. "It does seem so. But I doubt there's anything we can do other than be here if he needs us."
"Why is it that men always take that line? There are any number of things we could do. For example, we could tell him about the Weeping Widow."
Lucien went over to wash his hands in a bucket. "Not that again. He hasn't mentioned marriage since that first night, and if he was still insistent on it, Mrs. Rossiter would hardly be a candidate. She has two young children, she's still draped in black long after her husband's death, and she must be years older than he."
"Surely not."
Lucien turned, wiping his hands on a cloth. "How old do you think she is, then?"
Beth thought. "She looks younger than I."
"That's because she has those big eyes, but think. Her son is turned eleven."
"Heavens. So she must be close to thirty." Beth sighed. "And I had quite decided it would be the answer to everyone's prayers. Though she's too proud to admit it, she must be dreadfully short of money. If that dreamy poet of hers left her with a guinea I'd be astonished. Though she's very reserved, I think I could like her if she would cease seeing me as the local Grande Dame. And if Lee truly wants a loveless marriage she would be ideal."
"Who would?"
Beth turned around guiltily, to see their guest at the stable door.
"Sorry if I was eavesdropping," he said, "but no one can resist the sound of their own name. Do I gather you have a candidate for my hand?"
It was all very light but Beth sensed a serious interest. Whatever was motivating Leander Knollis it was not a whim soon to be forgotten. She purposefully didn't look at Lucien. "I thought so, but Lucien has pointed out that she's ineligible on all counts."
Leander picked a straw out of a bale and twirled it. "Not on all counts, surely. You are far too clever to have scored a duck, Beth. What makes her eligible?"
Beth shrugged. "She's hig
hly unlikely to fall in love with you. It's the local melodrama. She was married to Sebastian Rossiter, a poet who rented Mayfield House in the village. He died before I married Lucien, so I never met him, but at the drop of a hat any of the locals will tell you the affecting story."
"It'll affect you to nausea," Lucien interjected, shrugging into his jacket, "Sebastian Rossiter was a strip of dreamy wind with long flaxen ringlets—I'll swear he put them in curling papers—and long, limp white hands. I'm surprised he managed to beget two children."
"He was very beautiful," countered Beth firmly, "or so the local ladies say. He was also gentle, kind, generous, and utterly devoted to his wife. They were madly in love. He wrote nearly all his poems about her, or to her. I believe one had a minor success—'My Angel Bride.' "
Lucien emotively quoted, "Though Angels throng the Heavens high,/ And bend to soothe each human sigh,/ Mere man's bereft on this bleak earth/Lacking an Angel by his hearth." Though he declaimed it satirically, even he could not entirely blight the beauty of the sentiment. "There's more. Let's see..." he said reflectively. "My Judith sits in God's pure light/ And holds our child to bosom white./ And dew that pearls the gleaming grass/ Shows Angels' envy as they pass."
"I certainly couldn't compete with that when courting."
Lucien shook his head. "I'd disown you if you were to try."
"So," said Leander, "what are the impediments to the match?"
"Two children," said Beth.
"How old?"
"A boy of eleven and a girl of six."
Lee considered and said, "I don't see any problem there. The boy is old enough not to become confused about our own children and the inheritance. In fact," he said with a sudden inexplicable gleam in his eye, "I'd quite like a ready-made family."
Beth shared a look with Lucien.
"Lee," said Lucien, "think how old that makes her."
Lee considered. "Over thirty?"
"Not quite that, I suppose, but you're only twenty-five."
"Why the heat? Nearly all my lovers have been older than I. In fact my father's firm advice was to have nothing to do with a woman younger than myself until I was at least thirty. I should have listened. If I'd gone bride-hunting among the older set from the start I'd have been far more likely to find a woman of sense, one too wise to make a fool of herself over me."
He nodded contentedly. "Marriages of practicality are still common on the Continent, you know. I'm not uneasy at the notion. As long as this widow's still likely to bear me a few children, I don't care about her age. However, I see no reason why the lady would consider me if she still grieves as much as you say."
Beth was succinct. "Money."
"Poetry not lucrative?"
"One gathers not, though 'My Angel Bride' was on every sentimental schoolgirl's lips a few years back. Not everyone can be a Byron, I suppose. When Rossiter died the widow had to leave Mayfield House and take a cottage in the village. I gather she's one of a large family of a curate and can expect little help from that quarter. Her son is coming to an age to need schooling and a start in life. It's possible that she has been able to put money aside for her children's future, but I doubt it."
Lee leaned against the edge of a stall and stroked a horse's nose. "I have to confess, it seems a situation cut to my requirements." He looked at Lucien. "What bothers you?"
"Go to hell in a handcart if you wish," said Lucien shortly. "But," he added, putting a hand on Beth's shoulder, "love in marriage is not a thing lightly to dismiss."
Chapter 2
Judith Rossiter straightened up from the washing tub with a hiss as her back complained. She hated washing day. She had the sheets and underclothes boiling in one corner of the small kitchen, and was wringing out the colored garments. Her hands were red and the room was heavy with sour steam.
She was nearly finished with this task, but it seemed that the work was never, ever, done. Now she had scraped together the money to buy more dried fruit, she had to chop it for the Christmas mincemeat. That meant there were raisins to be stoned, another job she disliked.
Perhaps she should look on the bright side; poverty had reduced the number of raisins to be stoned.
She sighed over it. If she put in lots of apples maybe no one would notice the lack of imported dried fruits. She was determined, one way or another, to give her children a proper Christmas.
She threw the last item into the tub and called Rosie to help her to peg out. She hauled the tub onto her hip, and went out into the garden.
She was assailed by delicious, fresh, cool air, and stole a moment to relish it.
It was a lovely late autumn day. The air was crisp, the sky clear blue, and the leaves on the trees were russet and gold. As she watched, some drifted down to join the gilded carpet on the ground.
When Sebastian was alive they would walk out on days like this, across fields and through woods. The children would run about and explore, while Sebastian thought up elegant phrases and noted them in his book. Judith would just drink in the sights, the sounds, and the aromas, and be content.
There had been money then. Not a lot but enough with careful management for a cook, two maids, a gardener, and leisure.
Time and security, the two things she missed most.
Six-year-old Rosie, a pretty girl with her father's fly away pale blond hair and her mother's big blue eyes, came running to help. She passed the pegs and supported trailing ends as Judith fixed the laundry to the rope.
By the time they'd come to the bottom of the tub, Bastian, as her second Sebastian was always called, came out. "Can I help you with the prop, Mama?"
Judith smiled. "Thank you, dear. That would be wonderful."
The two children fixed the forked end of the long stick under the line then pushed up, settling the other end securely in the earth. They checked the laundry was raised well away from ground and bushes and that the prop was secure then turned, well satisfied with themselves.
Judith gave them both a hug. She was blessed with wonderful children. They didn't complain at their simple life, and they did their best to help with the work. They were her greatest joy, but also her greatest concern. She noted that Bastian's head was up to her shoulder now. Her first babe was growing fast too fast.
Keeping him in clothes was a strain on her purse, and she had no idea how to provide for his future. She knew her own family would always give her and the children a roof over their heads, but more than that was impossible.
Sebastian's family were not particularly wealthy either, but they had provided a small but adequate annuity for him when he decided to set up as a poet. It had continued even after their deaths, and been sufficient. Judith had not known that income would die with Sebastian.
That blow, on top of his sudden death, had almost undone her. She had written to his brother and received help. Thank heavens for Timothy Rossiter. If it wasn't for the small quarterly allowance he sent she didn't know what she would do. From his letters, she feared Timothy could ill afford it, but she could not refuse to take it.
If only Sebastian's poems had made money, even a little, but instead he had actually paid to have them printed—on vellum, bound in Cordovan leather—and then given the handsome copies away. It had seemed a harmless indulgence when the money had been available, but now she grudged every glossy leather volume.
He had kept one copy of each work. They sat in a row in the front room of the cottage—eight slim volumes full of poetry about her. Her sole inheritance.
She was occasionally visited by the traitorous thought that real devotion would have been more provident.
She had just enough money for this austere life, but there was nothing to spare. Even the fee for an apprenticeship in some skill would be a perilous expenditure, and Bastian was entitled to more than that.
"Mama." Bastian's voice was a welcome interruption to depressing thoughts. "You know Georgie's rat?"
Judith shuddered. She knew Wellington all too well. Georgie was Bastian's closest
friend, and Wellington was Georgie's inseparable companion. The creature was well behaved and even seemed clean, but she still had an urge to beat it with a broom.
Bastian took the shudder as answer. He sighed. "I don't suppose you'd let me have one..."
"No!"
"But it wouldn't eat much, and Georgie's found another clutch of babies. He's taking one for himself, because Wellington's getting old—"
"No, Bastian. I'm sorry, but I could not tolerate a rat in the house. Off you go now, both of you and finish your work." Impulsively, she decided the raisins could wait. "When I finish the whites," she promised, "we'll walk down to the river."
They hurried back into the house, and Judith sighed. Really, they asked for so little, and got even less.... But a rat! The Hubbles' cat had just had kittens. Perhaps she should take one, and that would do as well...
Judith went back to the laundry, popping into the front room of the cottage to check that the children were doing their work correctly, and praising them. They were both so bright and good. They deserved a chance in life. Was she to see them end as servants?
As she began to haul the steaming whites out of the boiler and into the rinse water, she thought bitterly that a more useful woman would be able to earn some money—be able to write novels or paint pictures. Something with a marketable value. The only thing of excellence she could create was elderberry wine. She looked at the rows of newly bottled wine, her hope of some small increment to their income, and sighed.
They would make no impression at all on her desperate situation.
* * *
Leander sat on his gray, Nubarron, and considered Judith Rossiter's cottage. It was one of a row that lined a lane winding off the main street of Mayfield. It, like all the rest, was small and thatched—could do with rethatching, in fact—but it had the distinction of rose vines around the door. They were bare of blooms now, but he supposed they would pretty the place up in season.
He also supposed the cottage to be damp and cramped. He knew such houses, and they were rarely as appealing to live in as to look at. He'd checked out Mayfield House on his way here; this was quite a comedown for the Weeping Widow.
Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] Page 2