The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (Burgundy Club)

by Miranda Neville

  “I can’t think of anything worse than being married to you if you despised me. You think I don’t notice these things, but I’d have to be even blinder than I am not to be aware you’ve a nasty way with a set down.”

  “I believe,” Tarquin said with a touch of hauteur, “that I know how to treat a wife correctly.”

  “Lucky her.”

  “I refuse to allow, after a few months marriage, that you are such an authority on the subject.”

  “You asked my opinion, Tarquin. Marry her, don’t marry her. It’s your affair.”

  “And what of Countess Czerny. Am I engaged to two different women?”

  Sebastian gave the matter his usual thorough consideration. “Not in any legal sense. You and she have never discussed marriage directly and you haven’t proposed to her. What her expectations may be based on Lord Hugo’s intervention, I could not guess. You may have a moral obligation.”

  “A greater one than I owe Miss Seaton?”

  “I think you owe her something, certainly if she is with child. I wouldn’t set too much store by the Duchess of Amesbury’s gossip. You can survive it. But you cannot abandon Miss Seaton without making some provision for her future.”

  “I know that. We came together by accident and she deceived me badly, but if she doesn’t marry me I can’t see any alternative for her other than ruin. With her reputation gone she is alone in the world with no means of making a living, or prospects of any kind.”

  “And let us not forget,” Sebastian said, “that she is under immediate threat from someone for a reason neither she nor you understand. Time enough to worry about her future when she has survived the present. Have you made any arrangements for her protection?”

  “You are quite right. I fear my brain isn’t working as well as it should. I don’t see how anyone would know where we are, but I also forgot Diana was expecting to be brought to bed.” He laughed at Sebastian’s exclamation of indignant disbelief that anyone could lose track of such an important event. “We should ride back and make sure Miss Seaton’s all right. She mustn’t go out alone and perhaps she should be armed. I wonder if she knows how to use a pistol. She’s quite an enterprising young woman. She’ll probably wield a weapon with as much dexterity as she spins a tale.”

  “Ice first. We’re here to get ice for Diana.”

  As they rode up to the great entrance front of Mandeville House, a man emerged from the rusticated arches on the ground floor, beneath the towering central portico. Tarquin braced himself for the deployment of tact, or more extreme measures to keep the peace, when he identified the Marquis of Blakeney, the Duke of Hampton’s heir and Sebastian’s cousin. Not only did the cousins share a lifelong mutual loathing, Blakeney had been a rival for Diana’s hand.

  Today he greeted the new arrivals amiably enough. “Of course,” he said when he heard of their errand. “Anything for Diana. I’ll have a cartload delivered to Wallop Hall. But knowing how long servants take to do anything, I suggest we ride over to the icehouse now and get some for you to take with you. It’s devilish hot and I wouldn’t want to keep Diana waiting.”

  Sebastian threw Blakeney a skeptical look but managed to respond with equal if curt cordiality.

  “What brings you here, Compton?” Blakeney asked. “I don’t often see you out of London.”

  “Tarquin,” Sebastian said, with commendable presence of mind, “has been good enough to come and offer me support. I’m very anxious about Diana.”

  The icehouse was almost half a mile from the house, quite inconvenient for the kitchen, Tarquin couldn’t help thinking, and extremely grand for such a utilitarian building. Surrounded by trees for extra shade, it was designed like a squat classical temple with Doric pilasters adorning the protruding front and a shallow dome. The door, partially below ground level, was approached by a short flight of sunken stairs.

  As soon as they entered a small entrance hall, spontaneous sighs of relief went up at the cool contrast to the blazing sun. Blakeney lit a lantern and led the way down a passage some ten feet long into a central brick-lined chamber with a deep round pit dug into the floor.

  “I haven’t been here in years,” Blakeney said. “We weren’t supposed to, but I’d come with my friends in the summer to cool off. We were always in danger of being shut in and freezing to death. Added a little spice to the visit.”

  “I doubt that,” Sebastian said. “It’s above freezing point up here. The ice doesn’t melt because it’s packed in tight and protected with straw. As it’s used up, the temperature rises and the melting rate increases.”

  “You never were any fun, Owl,” Blakeney said, using Sebastian’s childhood nickname. “I always thought this would be a great place to keep a prisoner. No one outside would hear him scream and as a rule the servants only fetch ice in the early morning. You could hide someone for hours.”

  Seeing Sebastian’s tolerance, never great when it came to Blakeney, stretched to breaking point, Tarquin put a halt to these boyish reminiscences and called them to the task at hand.

  He couldn’t remember the last time he’d engaged in manual labor, the kind of task seen to by servants. Aside from his recent foray into the art of cookery, that is. He enjoyed climbing down into the pit with the others and scouting out a suitable block of ice in the meager light. “Does the ice come from the lake?” he asked.

  “No, the springs flowing into it stop it freezing thickly,” Blakeney explained. “There’s a string of shallow ponds on the other side of the estate dug specially for the purpose.”

  “When do you run out of ice?”

  “Never, unless the winter is unusually warm. We bring the older ice up and use it first.”

  Tarquin thought the icehouse at Revesby was usually empty by late summer. He should think about improvements so he could enjoy iced confections year-round. Then shook his head in bafflement at the idea he should spend any time on his estate at all, let alone live there permanently. He was still not himself.

  Sebastian’s nerves wouldn’t permit any further discussion about the construction and use of icehouses. They stuffed three blocks, each the size of a couple of bricks, into a sack and raced their horses to Wallop Hall to get back before it melted. Taking the stairs two at a time, the prospective father carried one block up to the lying-in room. Tarquin followed directions to the kitchen to deliver the rest of the ice to the cook.

  There must be something about a lying-in that raised the drama level in a household. The scene was reminiscent of the recent one in Mr. Montrose’s study, only with tea-drinking females instead of drunken men. Celia and Minerva, each clutching a cup, sat at the long deal kitchen table, on either side of a very large woman wearing a mob cap over gray curls and a red face. The two young women listened to her with round eyes.

  “Three days, three days she was in labor, poor thing.” The woman, presumably the cook, appeared to be coming to the end of a long story. “And after all that time, the child was born with webbed feet and the head of a rabbit.” Tarquin sent up a silent prayer that Sebastian hadn’t come to the kitchen. He could only imagine what a tale like that would do to his friend’s tenuous sanity. “And that should be a warning to young ladies not to let gentlemen get too close.”

  “Ahem,” he said. Three pairs of eyes looked at him with a certain hostility, as though he might be in the habit of impregnating women with coneys. He held up the sack. “I have ice. Where shall I put it? Lord Iverley has taken some upstairs but it won’t last long in this heat.”

  The cook bustled over and bore it off to a pantry, taking Minerva with her. “One of the maids broke her wrist yesterday,” Celia explained, “and the other is visiting her dying mother. Minerva is helping the cook.”

  “Let’s go outside,” Tarquin said. In this household he wouldn’t be surprised if the cook ordered him to peel vegetables or scrub pots. “The best we can do is keep out of the way. I’m distressed that Lady Iverley’s confinement slipped my mind.”

  “They didn’t
expect her to begin her labor for at least another two weeks. The doctor hasn’t even arrived yet. He was away from home last night. Luckily the midwife is in attendance and Minerva says Mrs. Montrose knows just what to do. But little wonder the household is in disorder.”

  She appeared to have learned the layout of the house and led him down a passage to a back door. They were on their way out when Minerva caught them. “Here,” she said, handing Celia a basket. “Would you mind picking some peas for dinner? You’ll find the kitchen garden round the corner and to the left.”

  “I suppose,” he said, when they were alone again, “there’s no point inquiring what happened to the gardener.”

  “Probably suffering from the plague. I’m glad there’s something we can do to help.”

  “I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do with you.”

  “Minerva says we shouldn’t worry. I can sleep with her, and only one of the Montroses’ four sons is at home so there’s a room for you too. According to her, the family always welcomes guests and the only thing that ever bothers Mrs. Montrose is a sick dog.”

  Though he should be relieved that the solecism of arriving uninvited at such a time was to be overlooked, he couldn’t feel comfortable. Not for the first time, he heartily wished he’d never left London. Celia seemed quite at home in a kitchen garden. Was he really going to marry this woman?

  He shook his head at her appearance in the simple gown Mrs. Wardle had found her in Stonewick, a loosely constructed garment without the slightest pretension to fashion. The dull green suited her red hair, now improved by a good brushing and neatly confined by hairpins at the back of the head. The days outdoors had imparted a healthy glow to her eyes and complexion and he had to admit her lips were a good color. Nevertheless she looked exactly what she was, a governess.

  Nothing could be further from the elegant woman he’d envisioned as his bride. Yet when he thought about the Countess Czerny, he couldn’t quite remember her face.

  “The Montroses are very kind,” he said. “I’ll send my valet to an inn. I doubt there’s room here and he complained enough about the conditions at Revesby.”

  Celia’s face lit up with an evil grin. “You should have him brush the straw off you before he leaves. Or is rustic adorent the new fashion for gentlemen?”

  He hadn’t even noticed the wisps clinging to his coat after the exploration of the icehouse, eloquent proof of his disordered brain and the sorry state to which acquaintance with Celia had reduced him.

  “Well,” he said, delicately removing a straw from his sleeve and trying to make the best of things. “A gentleman’s attire should always suit the occasion. We’d better pick those peas. Do you suppose we need to pod them too?”

  Chapter 18

  A thirst for knowledge is not always healthy in a young woman.

  They shelled peas and tried to keep Lord Iverley distracted. Mr. Montrose and his youngest son, Stephen, joined them on the shady terrace once all the piglets had been rounded up.

  Celia loved the Montrose family. Every member seemed utterly unaffected, speaking fearlessly without thought of criticism or judgment, and accepted her in the same spirit. She had never, since leaving her father’s household, felt so much at home. More so, in fact. Not that Ghazala had ever treated her unkindly, but the gulf between Algernon Seaton’s native “bibi” and his daughter by his deceased English wife had been deep and unbridgeable. She might have shared her recollections of awaiting the birth of Ghazala’s sons, but experience had taught her to keep that time in her life buried. She did not believe the Montroses would condemn her for her past. Mr. Compton—Tarquin—was another matter entirely.

  Her so-called betrothed did not, in her opinion, show to advantage compared to the lively Montroses. He kept stealing glances at her and she could feel the weight of his disapproval. Scorning her appearance, no doubt. She didn’t care. Her simple gown was entirely appropriate for her company and surroundings and he was overdressed, especially since he’d somehow disposed of all the straw.

  She admitted, grudgingly, that Tarquin showed a certain skill in keeping his friend from becoming unhinged. When the doctor made his appearance, Lord Iverley had to be restrained from strangling the man for his tardiness.

  The next time the bell rang, Minerva was elected to answer the door. Judging by Lord Iverley’s reaction to the caller, it was just as well. Celia couldn’t think what there was to inspire his comical look of loathing, unless it was the newcomer’s extreme beauty. Celia had never seen a better-looking man. Much of an age with Tarquin and Iverley, he possessed golden hair, blue eyes, and perfection of face and figure that said Greek god.

  “What are you doing here?” asked Lord Iverley, who had been pacing around the seated group but now stopped and glared at the caller.

  “I accompanied the ice cart over from Mandeville,” he replied. “Naturally I wanted to inquire after Diana in person. We are, after all, old friends.”

  “There is no change in Lady Iverley’s condition,” her husband snarled.

  “Sebastian,” Tarquin said, leaping to his feet. “Let’s go for a little walk. It’ll take your mind off things.”

  “Just as well,” Minerva said once the two men were out of earshot. “You provoked him.”

  “Me?” the god asked with an air of astonished innocence. “I just brought the ice.”

  “Well, there was no need. It’s not as though you drove the cart yourself.”

  Celia knew Minerva to be frank, but she hadn’t seen her rude. In fact she’d learned the girl burned with ambition to become an influential political hostess. The animosity between this pair was comical, especially since Minerva, tall and fair like her mother, almost matched the visitor in beauty.

  “How gracious of you, Miss Minerva,” he said, “but you are always so charming.”

  Minerva flushed at his sarcasm and remembered her manners. “I beg your pardon. You haven’t been presented to our other guest. Miss Seaton, this is our neighbor, Lord Blakeney.”

  So in addition to resembling a deity, he was also heir to a dukedom. Celia felt quite out of her depth. Much to her relief he excused himself and Minerva escorted him back through the house.

  By the time she returned, Tarquin and Iverley had rejoined her on the terrace. “We’ve got so much that Cook has decided to make raspberry ices,” she said happily.

  “Why did he come asking after Diana?” Iverley demanded, straightening his spectacles which had fallen halfway down his nose. “None of his business.”

  “Calm down, Sebastian,” Tarquin said. “He brought ice and he meant well.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far, “Minerva said. “Blakeney is selfish to the bone. But I honestly don’t think he’s interested in Diana anymore. He was more curious about Mr. Compton, surprised he’d deigned to appear in the rural fastness of Shropshire.”

  “That doesn’t sound like Blakeney,” Tarquin objected.

  “I paraphrased. I told him you’d escorted Celia here for a visit.”

  “D . . . dash it. We told him earlier I’d come to support Sebastian. I wouldn’t want to harm Miss Seaton’s reputation by having it known she was traveling the countryside in my company.” He looked his formidable haughtiest but Minerva was unquailed, if apologetic.

  “I do beg your pardon. I didn’t realize it was a secret.” She grinned. “Don’t worry. Blakeney never takes much interest in other people’s affairs. He’ll have forgotten by the time he gets home.”

  “Isn’t his father a powerful politician?” Celia inquired. “I would think he’d be a good connection for you.”

  “The duke and duchess have been very gracious to me since Sebastian married Diana and we became relations. But Blakeney is a complete idiot. I used to be bored to death listening to him drone on about hunting. I am so thankful Diana didn’t marry him.”

  Celia grew curious to meet the elder Montrose sister, who had turned down the heir to a dukedom to marry the bespectacled and understated figure of Lord Ive
rley. True, the viscount was not perhaps seen to advantage with the wild hair and disordered garments of a man driven to the brink of madness. She thought his anxiety for the health of his wife, whom clearly he adored, spoke well of him.

  She’d like to drive a man to madness. It was quite impossible to imagine Tarquin so deranged. Terence Fish receded further into her memory.

  Sometime after ten o’clock Mrs. Montrose brought the news that Lord Iverley had a son. Leaving the family to celebrate, Celia retired to the room she was to share with Minerva. Too agitated to sleep after the day’s anxious vigil, she looked for something to read. Minerva’s taste in literature was astonishingly dull: historical memoirs, political treatises, and The Reformist magazine. Luckily she’d retrieved The Genuine Amours and tossed it into the small valise Tarquin had provided.

  Francis Featherbrain continued his adventures; Celia continued her education and enlarged her vocabulary. She felt a certain sympathy for the boy when his father lost his fortune and his studies came to an end. She did, however, find it hard to credit the way he claimed to be heartbroken by his separation from Nancy, the girl he’d forcibly seduced. His protestations of love would have impressed her more had he not continued to enjoy himself with several other women in a fascinating variety of postures.

  When Minerva joined her she stuffed the book under a pillow. Chattering away while she undressed and prepared for bed, Minerva sang the praises of her as yet unnamed nephew, the first Montrose of a new generation.

  “I’m much too excited to sleep,” the girl said, jumping onto the bed and hugging her knees. “Tell me about your engagement. I would never have expected Mr. Compton to fall in love with someone like you.”

  “What kind of woman would you have expected?”

  “Please don’t be offended. I meant that you seem quite sensible. I’d think he’d require someone much more tonnish. Someone like himself.”