Jo Beverley - [Rogue ]

by Christmas Angel

  "You'll spoil them," she protested.

  "A little indulgence won't spoil them. It will merely bring them closer to their future station in life. After Christmas, I will arrange for Bastian to have a tutor to prepare him for Harrow."

  The runaway horse was off again, despite her dug-in heels. "Thank you."

  "And a governess for Rosie."

  "Of course." This all seemed like the wildest dream. Judith sought a point of solidity. "My lord, where are we to live?"

  He was engaged in pulling on his soft leather gloves. "Why at Temple Knollis, of course. Where else? We should be there in time for Christmas."

  * * *

  "You're going to marry Lord Charrington, Mama?"

  "Will you be 'my lady'?"

  "Will he live here with us?"

  Judith faced her excited children in their kitchen. "Yes, yes, and no."

  "Where will we live, then?" asked Bastian with the anxiety of any child facing change. "Back at Mayfield House?"

  "No, dear. In Somerset, at Lord Charrington's house. It's called Temple Knollis and it's supposed to be a splendid place."

  "Somerset's a long way, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  "So I won't see Georgie again."

  She ruffled his curls gently. "I'm afraid not. But you'll make new friends."

  Rosie said, "Will we dine off golden plates?"

  Judith laughed. "Not if I have any say in the matter."

  "Will I have silk gowns?"

  Judith took in her patent longing and kissed her brow. "Not for every day, darling, but you may have one for the wedding, and for special occasions."

  "Pink?" asked Rosie.

  "If you wish."

  "With lace and roses?"

  Judith grimaced inwardly at the thought. "We'll see."

  Bastian was somber, but then he suddenly said, "There'll be lots of horses, won't there?"

  "I expect so."

  And that seemed to settle that.

  Chapter 5

  The runaway horse was fully in action. The next day Leander escorted Judith and the children to church to hear the banns read for the first time. She was pricklingly aware of the stares of the villagers, and the wandering whispers.

  After the service, some came forward to offer good wishes, and be introduced to her intended, but his aristocratic presence, and the attendance of the marquess and marchioness deterred most from anything but staring.

  Judith knew they must be wondering about such a strange twist of fate, but she raised her chin and smiled as if it were the most commonplace of matters.

  On Monday, she found herself in a coach with Lady Arden heading into Guildford on a shopping expedition.

  "You probably think this a silly extravagance," said Lady Arden as they rolled along the Guildford road.

  "No, I don't think that."

  Lady Arden looked at her with surprise. "I was poor when I married, and the de Vaux virtually had to torture me to make me accept anything."

  Judith didn't know what to say to such an extraordinary statement. If she admitted what a joy it would be to buy new things, she feared to be thought mercenary. In the end, she said, "Perhaps you were not in quite such desperate straits, my lady. One day these clothes are going to shred off my back."

  Lady Arden's attention was arrested. "You are correct. I was never truly poor. There was always food, and decent clothing, with two new dresses every year."

  Judith smiled sadly. "And time."

  "Well, I was employed as a teacher, but yes, there was time." She smiled warmly. "I'm pleased to see that you are not being coerced to this. Now we can have fun. I must confess, I'm still opposed to wanton excess, but a modest selection of becoming garments cannot be a sin, particularly as we will be patronizing local workers. In these hard times that is a duty."

  Judith fretted she might have sounded too enthusiastic about giving up her blacks. "I would prefer to wear sober colors, of course, but I fear Lord Charrington would not like it."

  Dear heaven, but she hated duplicity.

  "No, he wouldn't," Lady Arden agreed. "It is not my place to advise you, Mrs. Rossiter, and probably impertinent as I am some years your junior, but I would suggest you try to think of yourself as a bride rather than as a widow."

  "Could you do that scarce twelve months after Lord Arden's death?"

  Lady Arden paled.

  "Oh, I'm sorry," said Judith. "You are newly-weds. It isn't a fair comparison."

  "Not at all. I hope time doesn't make an alteration. You are right to take me to task, but still, if you are to do this at all, you must make the attempt to put the past behind you."

  "I am willing to do that."

  "And are you willing to call me Beth? I would like it very much, and that would give me permission to call you Judith, and be comfortable."

  With this arranged Judith almost felt like a girl again. She had left behind a number of good friends upon her marriage but made none thereafter, for Sebastian and the children had demanded all her time. Since his death there had been even less leisure, and there had been the problem of her confused social station. By marriage and birth she was a lady, but in reality she was one of the village poor.

  It would be pleasant to have a friend, even if only for a few weeks.

  The carriage took them to the premises of Mrs. Lettie Grimsham, Guildford's foremost dressmaker. "I haven't patronized the lady," Beth said as they alighted, "but I'm told she is the best in the locality. I would suggest in any case that you order only the essentials. When you are settled in your new life you will have more idea of what you require."

  Lettie Grimsham was short and very fat, with half a dozen jolly chins, and fingers like sausages. She clearly knew her business, which wasn't surprising as her thick accent revealed her to be French. She explained that she had come to England during the Terror and married Josiah Grimsham, a local corn factor.

  When the lady waddled away to pick up her tape and pad, Beth leant sideways and whispered, "I've encountered a number of modistes with Gallic names who have clearly never been closer to France than Brighton. And here we have a Lettie Grimsham, no less, who is the genuine article."

  The dressmaker took measurements which were noted by an assistant. Madame Grimsham was perceptive and shrewd. She made no comment about Judith's well-worn clothes, but produced swatches of cloth in the sober colors of half mourning.

  Beth said, "We want something brighter. Mrs. Rossiter is to be a bride in a few weeks. In fact, why don't we start with a wedding gown?"

  Madame Grimsham's black eyes brightened with delight. She studied Judith for a moment then called, "Sukie! Ze silk. Ze peach."

  In a moment the assistant was back with a bale of wonderful silk, a golden peach figured with embroidered cream sprigs. Judith gasped at the beauty of it but said, "I don't think that is my color."

  But she was herded into a private room and ordered to strip down to her stays. Then the dressmaker flung a length of the silk over her shoulder and wound it around. "Zere!" she demanded of Beth. "Am I not right?"

  Judith looked at Beth as Beth's eyes widened. "Madame Grimsham, you are a genius," Beth said.

  "C'est vrai, "said the woman complacently. "I could 'ave gone to London, me, but Josiah would not like it zere, and I would not like it zere wizout 'im." She turned Judith to a mirror, and Judith's mouth fell open.

  "I always thought blue my color."

  "Because of ze eyes, yes? But your eyes need no extra glory, madame, and see how zis color lights up ze skin."

  Indeed it did. Judith's complexion was good, though a little browned from outdoor work and walks, but she had thought it ordinary. Warmed by the peach silk, it had radiance, and the deep blue of her eyes stood out even more in the frame of it.

  It gave an illusion of beauty.

  The wedding gown was soon agreed on, in a simple, high-necked style. They chose a velvet spencer to go with it, and in view of the season, a brown Russian wrapping cloak, hooded, trimmed with
fox, with muff to match.

  Consulting pattern books and dolls, and riffling through swatches of materials, they had soon chosen: a deep green cloth pelisse with braid; two muslins with frills and lace; a warm round gown of soft pink cloth; another spencer of maroon gros de Naples; and an excessively fine evening dress of ivory lace over a peach satin slip. The latter had a vandyked bodice and a rouleau of brown and peach ribbon around the hem. In the illustration the bodice was cut to reveal a great deal of the bosom and Judith tried to amend this, but the other two ladies firmly overruled her.

  "Judith," said Beth, "we have only chosen such a gown in case you should wish to attend an evening affair. In such a case a low neckline is de rigueur."

  "At this season?" Judith protested. "I'll freeze!"

  "Such occasions are generally overheated, but we must purchase you some shawls in case." She looked at Mrs. Grimsham.

  "Zere are places in Guildford where one can buy such items, milady, but perhaps not of ze quality...?" An expressive hand gesture dismissed such places, and reminded Judith of Lord Charrington's foreign manner. "As I will have to send to London for some of my materials for zis order," the dressmaker continued, "perhaps I could have suitable items sent...?"

  Judith supposed the woman would make a handsome profit on this arrangement, but took some comfort from the fact that her good fortune was being spread. As Beth had pointed out, in these hard postwar days it was the duty of the fortunate to help others.

  A perusal of Ackermann's led to a choice of an ivory silk scarf and a cashmere shawl, both English made. Mrs. Grimsham was sure she could procure something very similar.

  The dressmaker promised that all items would be delivered by the wedding day, and sooner if possible, and offered to complete the pink dress quickly if required. Judith dismissed this. She had no desire to suddenly be peacocking about Mayfield in this finery, and in fact would find it ridiculous when there was so much work to be done. She would change her style when she changed her name.

  Judith also gave Mrs. Grimsham Rosie's measurements and requested a warm wool dress suitable for traveling, and one of pink silk, lightly trimmed, for the wedding.

  The dressmaker directed them to a tailor, a milliner she allowed to be tolerable, a shoemaker who knew his trade, and a good haberdashery establishment. Within a few hours, Judith had ordered or bought:

  From the tailor—a smart suit, a warm coat, gloves, and cap for Bastian.

  From the milliner—two bonnets for herself and two for Rosie.

  From the cobbler—a pair of half boots for herself and Rosie, three pairs of slippers each, and a pair of shoes and boots for Bastian.

  From the haberdasher—all the intimate items any of them could possibly require. By this time she was beginning to feel a little numb at the sheer quantity of her purchases and tried to be moderate.

  She had no problem with replacing her patched shifts and drawers with new ones of fine lawn, prettily worked with embroidery or threaded with ribbon. Nor with the purchase of three pairs of silk stockings to go with the dozen of wool. She balked, however, at the purchase of a silk nightgown.

  "How impractical," she said, adding in a mutter, "especially as he says he wants me to be naked."

  Beth heard, and her eyes twinkled. "But perhaps," she said softly, "he will want to disrobe you himself."

  Judith didn't know what to make of this, and knew she was pink at the thought. Sebastian had always announced before bedtime his intention of visiting her, and then come to her in the dark. Even if Lord Charrington—Leander—wished to take off her nightgown, would it make much difference in the dark if it were silk or cotton?

  Being distracted, she found she now owned the silk nightgowns, and two of cotton flannel. "For occasions," said Beth, "when warmth is of more importance than looks. Now, new stays."

  Beth's footman shuttled backward and forward to the carriage with packages.

  Judith felt that perhaps she shouldn't, but she stopped at the small shop that sold toys and books. She bought each child a new book for their studies, and some paper and pencils. How pleasant it would be not to have to ration such things anymore. Then, feeling they should share in the general frivolity, she bought Bastian a hoop, and Rosie a top.

  When they left the shop she said, "Heavens above, let's go home before I buy the town! I daren't think how much I have spent."

  They were both content to settle in the carriage, but Beth said, "Whatever the sum, I assure you Lord Charrington will scarcely notice it. Besides, you have bought only the bare necessities. It would be pointless and foolish to be going about looking shabby, and it would upset him. I suspect that, apart from the army, his life has been rather rarefied."

  Judith looked at her in surprise. "I thought you were well acquainted."

  "Oh no. He's an old friend of my husband's, but I met him for the first time a week ago. Lord Charrington has been out of England since he was eighteen."

  Stranger and stranger, thought Judith with sudden concern. "Do you think he will want to go abroad again?"

  Beth looked at her. "You would not like it?"

  "No, I don't think I would."

  "You had best ask him, though I understand that he intends to live in England now."

  Judith felt sick."But I've just spent all that money!"

  Beth put a hand over hers. "Don't let it count with you for a moment, Judith. I'm sure he would not be so petty as to make an issue of it, but if he does, I will pay your bills."

  "I couldn't let you do that," said Judith, though she had no idea what else she would do.

  "Of course you could. I don't forget that I persuaded you into this."

  However, when the subject was raised, Leander said without hesitation that he intended to live in England. He suggested they might want to visit the Continent at a later date, but only for a brief visit.

  He was delighted with the account of her purchases, and dutifully admired the children's new toys. Then both she and he were coaxed out to admire Bastian's expertise with the hoop, and Rosie's with the whip and top. Rosie found it hard to keep the top spinning, and so Judith went to help her.

  When she heard Bastian asking Leander for help, she suspected that it was more a plea for equal attention. She heard Leander confessing that he knew nothing of hoops, and looked over at him, sad for the childhood he seemed not to have had. What had his parents been about? Even if they had little time for him, could they not have hired better attendants?

  Rosie demanded her attention again, and so she concentrated on the girl until the top was spinning well under the lash of the whip.

  When she looked up, it was to see elegant Lord Charrington running down the lane, bowling the hoop under her son's tutelage. She bit her lip to hold back a laugh, and hurried into the house to put on the kettle.

  When they all came in at last, bringing frosty air and laughter, she poured tea and served cake. She only realized when she sat that she'd cut a piece of cake and placed it before Leander without asking him, just as if he were another child. Heavens, she'd be cutting his food up next!

  He didn't seem to notice, nor did he seem put out by the indignities in which he had participated.

  He raised his brows, however, when introduced to Magpie. "Perhaps not the wisest acquisition when we are about to go on a journey..." But then he grinned at them all. "But we'll manage. Remind me to tell you sometime of a bunch of piglets we transported across the Pyrenees."

  She remembered again that he'd been a soldier, and presumably there he'd not been able to preserve his perfect gloss. And he'd been a schoolboy, and had surely been in some rough and tumbles.

  She had the feeling, however, that she didn't know him at all, and it frightened her. She'd been raised in the country where strangers were a five-day marvel. She'd married Sebastian after a six-month engagement, and even then she hadn't known him aright.

  What, in time, would she discover about this mysterious man who was to be her husband? And would she only discover it
too late?

  * * *

  On Tuesday Leander borrowed the Arden's carriage for the ten-mile drive to Hunstead. He insisted on taking the children. This made Judith nervous for it would be his longest continuous exposure to them, but Bastian and Rosie were on their best behavior to an almost painful extent. It seemed they, too, couldn't quite believe this good fortune, and feared it would slip away.

  When they approached the parsonage Judith watched him anxiously. Hunstead Glebe House was a plain building, and never in good repair. The diocese was supposed to maintain it, but didn't. Judith suspected that the Vicar of Bassetford, whose curate her father was, misspent the money.

  She saw no expression on Leander's face, though she suspected those strange amber eyes were not missing any detail. The children were hanging out of the window, unable to suppress their excitement, for visits to their grandparents were rare. Leander grabbed the back of Rosie's gown to make sure she didn't tumble out.

  As soon as the carriage stopped, the children were out and running over to their gray-haired grandparents. Plump Reverend Millsom and his tiny wife were both delighted to see them, but plainly bewildered by the visitation, especially in a grand carriage.

  The two of Judith's siblings who lived at home came out to see what was going on.

  She made the introductions and explanations. Her sister, Martha—an uncomplicated soul—practically fainted with excitement. Her brother, John, however, was suspicious. That was hardly surprising. He was very like her.

  Her parents said all that was proper, but they looked a little dubious without having the nerve to question such a wonderful surprise. For the first time she wondered what they'd really thought of her marriage to Sebastian.

  When they went into the house, Leander proved his diplomatic abilities. He accepted without a blink a seat on a threadbare sofa, deaf to the objections of the two cats who'd been moved to make room for him. He discussed with equal ease the terrible lack of employment, the question of absentee churchmen, the prospects for lasting peace, and the difficulty in obtaining good currants.