In truth, he was put off by that description, for though he didn't want a doting wife, a sorrowful one would be little better. A pale-faced creature in dripping black could become wearing very quickly. In fact, he decided, if he did offer marriage to this woman he'd insist she stop mourning entirely. That could hardly be considered an unreasonable request.
He thought he heard voices at the back of the cottage and looked for a way around. There was a path at the end of the row and so he trotted down and followed it. As he hoped, it took him to a spot overlooking the narrow back gardens.
The widow's garden was clearly devoted to vegetable production and was mostly turned and bare, though a few plants remained. He had no idea what they were producing; such matters had been no part of his education. Three people stood talking on a path. They had just finished putting out laundry; three small dresses, and one larger black one, flapped in the wind. The figures were a blond girl in pale muslin and shawl, a dark-haired boy in nankeen trousers and jacket, and the widow in black.
Her hair was as dark as her dress. She wore it in a knot on her head, but strands were coming loose and flying about her face in curly tendrils. Every now and then she would push them back. She was turned away from him so he couldn't see her features but her figure appeared good, and there was an impression of energy and supple strength. He did not find it unattractive. Certainly not a drooping, weary type.
He suddenly felt self-conscious about assessing the lady's parts as if she were a mare he proposed to buy. He pulled the gray's head around, and returned to the lane onto which the cottages fronted. He knew, however, that he was definitely interested in pursuing this matter of marriage to the Weeping Widow. He considered carefully how to go about it.
He could simply ride up and put the matter bluntly. There were various arguments against this. In the first place, without the briefest meeting, he couldn't be sure she would do. Though his requirements for a bride were minimal, he didn't think he could bear an inane chatterer, or a particularly shrill voice. There were doubtless other characteristics which would make a lifetime in her company impossible.
In the second place, no matter how businesslike the whole affair, experience had led him to believe that people, and women in particular, preferred even business wrapped up in spangles and lace. If he was too blunt he could be refused as a matter of principle. On the other hand, he had golden-tongued diplomacy in his blood and should be able to sail through this assignment.
So how to meet the Weeping Widow?
He rode slowly back to the main street of the village aware of curious glances from the people of Mayfield. They'd stare even more if they could read his thoughts. He himself wondered occasionally if he were crazed, but without great concern. Some of the most interesting people he had met had not been quite as most people were.
He wanted to settle in England and put down roots, and would go about it in the most direct and expeditious manner possible.
Still, he sometimes wondered if he should have accepted Lord Castlereagh's offer of a post in Vienna. The man had as good as told him it was his duty to put his skills to work for his country, but Leander had had his fill of a wandering life.
He stopped Nubarron in front of the Dog and Partridge under the interested stare of a couple of ancients soaking up the afternoon sun. He gave his horse to a stable lad, and went in for a tankard of ale.
He told the publican that he was a guest of the Marquess of Arden and soon had the beefy man chatting. It was a natural skill of his to put all kinds of people at their ease.
"And I hear you had a famous poet in these parts?" he asked at one point.
"Aye, sir. Mister Rossiter. He could spin a lovely verse, he could. Had 'em printed up in Lunnon."
"Died, I hear."
"Aye, over a year back." The man shook his head. "Took a chill and it settled. Never did have the look of a hearty man, if you know what I mean. Once or twice I said to him, 'You ought to take to drinking stout, Mister Rossiter,' I said. But he mostly drank tea and water, and never a barley brew. And look what come of it."
Leander took a deep draught of his ale to prove he wasn't so foolish. "Indeed, but perhaps it's the poetic temperament. So many of them seem to die young. Did he have family hereabouts?"
"Came from Lunnon, as I hear tell, sir. But he married a Hunstead girl. His wife and children still live in the village. If you know of him, you'll know of her. Wrote nearly all his poems to his Judith."
"Ah yes." Leander put on a sentimental expression. " 'My Angel Bride.' "
"That's right, sir!" declared the man with a pleased smile. "Can't say I go for that sort of rhyme misself, but the womenfolk love it."
"It was a very affecting piece. Does the lady live nearby? I would like to gain a glimpse of her."
The innkeeper gave him a narrow look then shrugged. "She seems to be quite famous. I've been asked afore." He gave directions to the cottage. "You might care to visit Mister Rossiter's grave, sir. A very touching monument his widow raised, I must say." He leant forward confidentially. "Round here they call her the Weeping Widow, took it so hard she did."
Well, why not? A wise soldier scouts the territory before going into action. Leander paid for his ale, checked on his horse, and strolled off toward the village church and graveyard.
The church was ancient—he thought he saw Saxon work—and the churchyard was graced with mighty spreading trees and old, tilted stones covered with moss. Beyond the ranks of stones the land sloped away down to the same river that wound along the edge of the gardens at Hartwell.
He wandered through the churchyard looking for the poet's grave. It was easy to find because of its newness and grandeur. In fact, it looked very out-of-place. An angel drooped on a pedestal, weeping, two cherubs at its—her?—knee.
He read the inscription.
In loving memory of Sebastian Arthur Rossiter, Poet, born May 12, 1770. Died October 3, 1814.
Sadly mourned by his wife Judith and his two children, Bastian and Rosie.
He had been a good deal older than his wife, then. Leander had gained the impression that he was a young man. There was a verse engraved below.
When I am gone to rest be sure, my dear,
That I will watch and treasure every tear.
On high, forever faithful, I will wait,
Longing to greet my angel at the gate.
Presumably the poet had composed his own epitaph. Leander thought it distastefully morbid and possessive but noted there were fresh flowers on the grave. He questioned his plan. Would there be a ghost in the marriage bed?
Pondering this, he continued through the graves and down the slope to the river's edge to idly toss stones into the shallow water.
He wondered whether Judith Rossiter really did long to join her dead husband; what it felt like to feel such grief. He hadn't mourned his parents, for his father had been too wrapped up in his work to engender fondness, and his mother had been too wrapped up in his father. He'd grieved for the death of a number of brothers-in-arms, but he'd felt damn-all desire to share their fate.
If this miserable clinging was the consequence of love he was better off without it.
But then he found himself thinking of Lucien and Beth. They'd made him welcome and not at all uncomfortable, and yet he sensed the power of the bond between them. They fought—which wasn't surprising in view of Lucien's blue-blooded arrogance and Beth's egalitarian principles—but they were bound together in a way no petty disagreement could touch.
That, he supposed, was love. But he couldn't imagine, if either Beth or Lucien should die, them wanting the survivor to hurry to meet them.
It would be hell to be married to a woman who thought only of joining her first mate in the grave. He laughed at his situation. It appeared his choice was either a wife who drooped over him from excessive devotion, or one who did the same from excessive grief.
Really, Vienna would be a far more sensible choice....
He heard the laughter of children
and turned just as they ran into view between the gravestones and headed down the hill. He thought they were the Rossiter children. They paused momentarily but then came on—startled by a stranger but unafraid.
They seemed unsure, however, as to whether to speak or not, and so he did. "Good day. Do you live around here?"
The boy gave a little bow. "Yes, sir. In the village." He was handsome, with dark curls and an attractive confidence in his manner.
"I'm staying with the Marquess of Arden," Leander offered as credentials. "He has a place farther along the river, as you doubtless know. My name's Charrington. Lord Charrington."
The boy bowed again. "Honored to meet you, my lord. I'm Bastian Rossiter, and this is my sister, Rosie."
It was them indeed. Was this an augury from the gods?
The girl, who had bewitching deep blue eyes and flaxen hair like silk on her shoulders, drew herself up. "Rosetta," she said firmly.
Her brother groaned, but Leander gave her a very proper bow. "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Rosetta Rossiter."
With a grin that showed two charming dimples she returned the honor with a curtsy.
Leander looked up to find their mother had come up behind, a neutral expression on her face, but wariness in her eyes—large blue eyes, just like her daughter's, but made even finer by thick dark lashes. She didn't look lugubrious, thank God. In fact she looked sound as a ripe peach. He glanced meaningfully at Bastian and the boy took the hint.
"Mama, may I present Lord Charrington? He's staying at Hartwell. Sir, this is my mother, Mrs. Rossiter. "Then he looked between them anxiously. "Did I do that right?"
"Perfectly," said Leander, and was rewarded by a touch of warmth in the widow's expression. She held out a black-gloved hand. "My lord."
He took it making rapid inventory. She was above average height so her lovely eyes were almost on a level with his own. Her dark hair was now firmly tamed under a plain black bonnet. Other than those eyes, her face was unremarkable except for a hint of roundness in the cheeks. He suspected there'd be dimples if she ever smiled. The roundness and the eyes gave an impression of youth that most women would envy.
Perhaps that illusion of youth was what suddenly made him feel protective, or like a knight errant come to rescue the lady in the tower. He was drawn to her. He wouldn't at all mind taking her to wife. Should he seize the moment?
To achieve anything, he needed to keep her in conversation. Presumably the easiest opening would be the dear departed. "If I may be so bold," he said, "I assume you to be related to Mister Rossiter, the poet."
"That is so," she said without particular warmth, most of her attention on her children, who were walking ahead. "I am his widow."
"A sad loss. Please accept my condolences."
"Thank you."
She was clearly not thrilled by this conversation. The children had run off to investigate the shallows of the river, and she moved to follow them.
Leander went along. It was refreshing that she wasn't blushing and simpering at first acquaintance, but he found that for once in his life he was struggling for something to say. "This is a beautiful churchyard in which to take his final rest."
She glanced at him. "It is indeed a charming spot, my lord, though I can see no reason, sentimental or spiritual, why the dead should be supposed to care."
As she walked on, Leander realized he was making a fool of himself. Clearly, no matter how deep her grief, the widow was not to be reached by the sentimental route. For a moment he was annoyed by the absurd situation in which he found himself, but then he smiled and adjusted the tilt of his elegant beaver.
By her cool behavior the lady had passed the last test. There was nothing about her he found objectionable.
The wisest course now would be to seek some conventional way of courting her, but that could be difficult. Beth had told him the widow took no part in county life, and had little free time. He wanted all this settled so he could get on with his plans. He couldn't spend months hanging around Surrey.
Why shouldn't he just press his suit? He was, after all, the one who had managed to pacify the Duke of Brunswick after he had been insulted by one of the minor Bourbons, and was flirting with the idea of throwing his state behind Napoleon. Persuading a penniless widow to become a countess should be child's play.
Still, he hesitated.
He hesitated, he realized, because he cared about the outcome. There was something about this composed woman which made him want to know her better, and ease her way in life. He was attracted to her children.
Good God, he actually wanted to marry her!
She stopped her stroll and glanced back at him. A slight smile tugged at her lips. "Should I apologize, my lord? I fear I shocked you."
There was the faintest hint of dimples.
She was referring to her comment about the dead. He walked to join her. "No," he said, "but I fear I am about to shock you."
A flicker of wariness passed over her face and she glanced once at her children, made a move toward them.
"Please," he said quickly, "I'm not going to do anything you wouldn't like... Good heavens! Would you believe I was reputed to have a golden future as a diplomat?"
She relaxed slightly, and her lips twitched. Those dimples flickered once again. He conceived a strong desire to see them in all their glory.
"Not at this moment, no. Is there some way I can help you, my lord?"
He pulled himself together and gave her one of his best smiles. "Yes, in fact there is. I would like to talk to you about it. I see a stone over there well shaped for sitting, if it would not be too cold."
After the briefest hesitation she walked toward it. "Not at all. I usually do sit here while the children play. They call it my throne."
She sat on the lump of granite, gathering her black bombazine skirts neatly together. With permission he sat beside her. There was not a lot of room but she made no silly protest about them sitting so close. He liked her more by the moment.
She turned to look at him with polite expectation.
"You are going to find this a little strange..."
"And even shocking," she added quizzically.
A sense of humor as well. "I hope not too much so." He still could not quite see how to open the subject.
There was distinct amusement in her eyes. "I'm likely to be so overwhelmed with curiosity, my lord, that I'll take a fit of the vapors, and scare you to death. Have pity, please."
He laughed. "One of the first lessons a fledgling diplomat learns, Mrs. Rossiter, is how to handle a lady with the vapors." Even so, he couldn't imagine this woman in a state of collapse. For a moment he wondered if he had the wrong lady and was about to propose to the vicar's wife or such. But then he remembered that she had admitted to being the poet's widow.
He braced himself. "Despite my diplomatic background, Mrs. Rossiter, I can see no fancy way to dress this up that would serve any purpose at all." He summoned up an expression of sober worthiness. "The simple truth is that I would like to marry you."
She paled. In a second she was up and standing, looking away. "Oh, good heavens," she said. The tone was pure exasperation.
It was not a response he had expected. He rose to his feet, too. "It may be precipitate, ma'am, but it is an honest offer."
She turned back, eyes snapping. "Honest! When you don't know anything about the woman you are proposing to take to wife?"
"I know enough."
"Do you indeed? I can't imagine how. Well, so do I know enough. The answer, sir, is no."
She was marching away. Leander hurried after, feeling more like a green boy than he had since he was sixteen, when he'd tried to kiss a daughter of the Duke de Ferrugino and had his face soundly slapped. If the Rogues ever heard of this they'd die laughing.
He caught up to her. "Mrs. Rossiter. Please listen to me! I can offer you all kinds of advantages."
She whirled around in a swirl of black skirts to face him almost nose to nose. "Name on
e. And no, I do not need any more odes to my eyes!"
He stared at her. Those eyes were so magnificently filled with rage that he was tempted to try. But he said, "That's as well. I wouldn't know where to start."
She took a step back. "You are not a poet?"
He extended his hands. "Diplomat. Linguist. Soldier. Earl. No odes on any subject, I give you my word."
"Earl?" she asked dazedly.
He bowed, thinking that at last they were making progress. "Leander Knollis, at your service, ma'am. Earl of Charrington, of Temple Knollis in Somerset."
"Temple Knollis?" she queried faintly, showing the awe with which he was all too familiar. At the moment, however, he'd take any advantage he could get.
"Yes. There's a London house, too, and a hunting box. An estate in Sussex, and a place in Cumberland I've never seen."
Damnation. I sound like the veriest mushroom listing off my properties like this.
Perhaps she thought the same. Color flushed her cheeks. "I don't know what game you are playing, sir, but I think it unconscionable of you to amuse yourself at my expense. Bastian! Rosie!" she called out. "Come along. We must leave."
The children ran over. Bastian took one look at his mother and turned on Leander pugnaciously.
Leander backed off. "Don't fight me, lad. I'd have to let you win or your mother will never marry me."
The children stared at them both wide-eyed.
Judith Rossiter, however, glared as if she'd like a mill herself. He saw her hands were clenched into serviceable fists. "Good-day!" she snapped and stormed off up the hill, her children running behind.
She was like a ship of the line with a pair of pinnaces in tow. He could quite imagine that at any moment she would turn and broadside him into oblivion.
Leander watched them go, wondering ruefully what had possessed him to so mishandle matters.
Chapter 3
By the time Leander arrived back at Hartwell, he had reluctantly decided he would have to tell Lucien and Beth all about it. He needed help.
After dinner he related the incident. Despite all their efforts his hosts burst out laughing at his description of the scene.
Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] Page 3