A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

“I see. Well, it would seem we have guests to attend to. Would you also have Fanny prepare two more rooms for the night? I feel Mama would wish me to invite them to stay.”

  “Aye, that I will.”

  Constance then squared her shoulders and headed toward the blue drawing room. Her heart was pounding in her chest as she thought of Lady Ramsdell waiting for her to come to her. If she understood correctly, her good friend, Mrs. Spencer—whose head she would have on a platter in the not too distant future—had told her ladyship all about one Constance Pamberley of Lady Brook cottage, who had been caring for her injured son.

  ***

  Chapter Twelve

  Constance entered the blue drawing room and found to her surprise that Ramsdell had returned from his walk in the woods and was even at that moment greeting his mother and kissing her on the cheek. His brow was damp from his exertions, but she thought he looked most handsome with so much vigorous exercise warming his features.

  His mother’s gaze, fixed on him, was full of affection and pleasure, and she did not immediately release the hand she had placed on his arm. She was saying, “Eleanor became so uneasy that I decided we should begin our journey home quite before times, though I did insist we could hardly return from Europe without stopping at Brighton and paying a call on the regent. Prinny, of course, insisted we stay for at least a fortnight, then we received an invitation to Lady Bramshill’s ball, which I know was Sophia Spencer’s doing.”

  “The vicar’s wife, here, in Berkshire?” Ramsdell asked, a frown furrowing his brow. “I didn’t know you were acquainted with her.”

  Constance, who did not want to intrude on this conversation, remained unnoticed in the doorway. Mrs. Kidmarsh was reclining on the sofa beside the fireplace, her eyes closed and a vinaigrette held to her nose. Someone, presumably Lady Ramsdell, had closed the shutters of the two nearest windows, which darkened the chamber considerably.

  She then noticed that a slight blush was on Lady Ramsdell’s cheeks as she responded to her son’s query. “Yes. I—I used to know Mrs. Spencer many years ago. Her letter mentioned your accident, as well as Charles’s, so we both felt it imperative to leave Brighton that day, which was yesterday. But you know how carriage sick Eleanor becomes. We had to stop near the Berkshire border for the night—and here we are.”

  Constance chose this moment to step into the room, feeling that to continue pausing and listening would very soon border on eavesdropping. “I trust I have not kept you waiting long, Lady Ramsdell,” she said.

  “No, not at all. Hugo has just returned from his walk, as you can see.” She turned to her son. “Will you perform the introductions? Miss Pamberley and I have not been properly introduced.”

  Ramsdell performed this office with some formality, though the true ceremony of the introductions were lost when Mrs. Kidmarsh merely opened one suffering eye and barely inclined her head to her hostess.

  Constance did not feel insulted, however. She had already taken Mrs. Kidmarsh’s measure and knew that everything in that lady’s life, including basic manners and common sense, would always give way to her over-refined sensibilities.

  After Mrs. Kidmarsh closed her eye and moaned a little more, Constance addressed her ladyship. “I have ordered a little refreshment for you. Morris will be bringing it directly, if that would suit you.”

  “Why, yes, it would—very much, thank you. The drive from Sussex was rather stifling and I find I’m parched.”

  “I don’t wonder, ma’am, with the days as hot as they are, though I think you’ll find most of the house will be comfortable throughout the remainder of the day. The elms give us profuse shade against the afternoon heat.”

  “I can see that they do. You have a lovely home, Miss Pamberley. You are to be congratulated on the condition of the house and lands. Everything seems to be in remarkable order. I was given to understand by Mrs. Spencer that you are the present owner of Lady Brook?”

  Constance nodded. “I inherited the estate upon my father’s death. The entail, most fortuitously, was not exclusive of heirs female.”

  “Rightly so,” Lady Ramsdell stated with some finality. “I see no reason why any woman should be excluded if there are no sons born to the family.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Constance responded with a smile.

  “You own Lady Brook?” Ramsdell asked. He turned toward her as though seeing her for the first time.

  Constance glanced at him and realized with a start that for all their conversations regarding the property, somehow Ramsdell had assumed she merely served as housekeeper and bailiff for a male relation. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know?” she asked, dumbfounded. “After all our discussions!”

  “I supposed—I presumed that you merely had a love for your home.”

  “Well, I do.”

  Lady Ramsdell chuckled. “It would not be an unusual mistake to make, Hugo, since it is so rare that a woman owns property these days. But tell me, are you feeling well? Mrs. Spencer said that you were violently ill for several days together.”

  “I was,” he said. He appeared to struggle to take his astonished gaze from Constance but eventually was able to return his full attention to his mother. “Quite ill, but Miss Pamberley—and Marchand—nursed me back to health. There was a great deal of infection, you see, for the bone”—here he lifted his bandaged arm slightly—“pierced the skin when it was shattered.”

  Lady Ramsdell pressed a hand to her mouth. “I don’t know whether to be grateful or deeply distressed that I was so ignorant of your illness all these weeks.”

  Ramsdell leaned over and kissed her cheek again. “Don’t give it another thought. All’s well that ends well.”

  Lady Ramsdell smiled suddenly. “I won’t,” she stated again with finality.

  Constance had the impression that when Lady Ramsdell made up her mind about anything, the object was immediately accomplished.

  Mrs. Kidmarsh rose to a sitting position, the shift in conversation having caught her attention.

  “And did you care for my poor Charles as well?” she asked, addressing Constance.

  “Dr. Deane of Four-Mile-Cross attended to your son. He remained by his bedside that day and was quite pleased when Mr. Kidmarsh regained consciousness, I believe around four o’clock. He then sent for Dr. Kent. By the next morning Mr. Kidmarsh appeared to be in excellent health except for a mild headache. He remained abed for a fortnight and was tended to, most assiduously, by my four sisters. Ramsdell’s accident occurred on the fifth day, and all my attention was given to him.”

  “So Charles remained in bed a full fortnight, you say? Well, thank goodness for that. I’m glad he showed such excellent sense.” She wafted the vinaigrette beneath her nose one more time. “But why didn’t he know me just now? Mrs. Spencer’s letter stated that he had suffered some loss of memory, but how is it he did not know his own mother?”

  “He’s been suffering from amnesia, a peculiar disorder of the brain that sometimes attends a blow to the head. This is the primary reason he has remained at Lady Brook all this time instead of returning to Aston Hall, as both Ramsdell and I would have preferred. Dr. Kent refused to let him depart, believing that the recovery of his memory would be severely hampered were he to change his surroundings. It would seem, and I hope this will give you some comfort, that Mr. Kidmarsh has been very happy at Lady Brook.”

  Mrs. Kidmarsh’s expression took on a pained aspect. “I almost didn’t know him,” she said. “He is greatly altered, and so very brown, but why was he wet?”

  “Your son and my sisters had all just returned from Wraythorne, which is four miles distant. They had taken a shorter path home, one that involved crossing a stream by way of a fallen log.”

  “I don’t understand,” Mrs. Kidmarsh said. “How can a carriage cross a log?”

  Constance paused for a moment and blinked. “Oh, I see . . . no, no, they walked to Wraythorne—and back again. They did not take one of the carriages.”

  “Walked?
Walked? My poor Charles walked four miles, you say?”

  “Well, that would be more like eight by the time they returned to Lady Brook.”

  Mrs. Kidmarsh appeared ready to swoon again. “He has never done so.” She glanced at her sister, her eyes wide with horror. “I should never have left Aston Hall. Look what has come of it. Charles, walking. His health will be ruined. Ruined, I tell you.”

  “Nonsense, Eleanor. Charles looked the picture of health. Indeed, he seemed very much a man and not the little boy we left behind in Bedfordshire.”

  Mrs. Kidmarsh’s mouth fell agape. “Are you to turn against me too?” she said, aghast.

  “My dear sister, I love you very much, but you can be such a ninnyhammer. Charles has not suffered here at Lady Brook—he’s grown up. Grown up.”

  “You are greatly mistaken,” Mrs. Kidmarsh said with a decided sniff. She turned as one who has suffered mightily in this life and begged Constance to continue. “So, he was walking across this log—”

  “Yes, he, along with my sister Augusta, slipped from the log and fell into a pool of water. But I shouldn’t refine overly much on it. The day is so warm, I sincerely believe there isn’t the smallest concern that he will suffer because of it.”

  “You don’t know Charles’s constitution as I do. He was always a sickly babe.” Her face puckered up, and she began to weep again.

  Constance didn’t know what to say to her and so changed the subject. “I know that Mama will insist that you both stay the night, Lady Ramsdell, and longer if it would please you. She told me that she knew you from seminary so many years ago.”

  “Indeed, I did,” she responded quietly. She looked very conscious, just as she had earlier, when Ramsdell questioned her about being acquainted with Sophia Spencer. “But I don’t wish to intrude. I understand your mother is quite ill, that her apoplexy has robbed her entirely of her speech and movement.”

  “That was true,” Constance said, “until Mr. Kidmarsh arrived. It would seem your nephew has had a miraculous effect on my mother. She has in recent days, under his supervision, begun speaking again and has even shown signs of regaining her mobility.”

  “Good heavens,” Lady Ramsdell said. “Is this true?”

  “Charles?” Mrs. Kidmarsh said, astonished. Her weeping stopped quite suddenly. “How is this possible, when he knows nothing of such things?”

  Constance could not resist saying, “He mentioned to me that he was so well acquainted with the attending exigencies of the sickroom that he knew precisely how my mother was feeling and apparently set about to help her regain the strength of her limbs and her voice.”

  Mrs. Kidmarsh’s color rose on her cheeks, and she trembled as she spoke. “I have been a good mother to my son. No one knows the trials. From the beginning, I—”

  “You are greatly mistaken,” her sister interrupted. “We are all too familiar with your sufferings, Eleanor, so pray take a damper.” She then addressed Constance. “We should be exceedingly happy to accept of your invitation.”

  Since at that moment Morris arrived with a beautifully arranged platter of biscuits and fruit along with an aromatic carafe of peach ratafia, Constance left the ladies and Ramsdell to enjoy their refreshment. She sent the footman to bring in the baggage and Stively to tend to Lady Ramsdell’s fine traveling coach and two pair of horses.

  She then went in search of Charles.

  She found him just emerging from his bedchamber, dressed in a brown coat and buckskin breeches. His hair was still damp but arranged in his usual curls across his forehead.

  She led him to the library, which was as far from the drawing room as any two chambers in her home. She could see his heart was weighted with concern. The former amiability and joy of his countenance had given way to a paved look that boded ill for his health and his joie de vivre.

  She confronted him with what she believed to be the truth, that he knew precisely who he was and that Mrs. Kidmarsh was indeed his mother. He denied it at first, but when she expressed her sympathy, he was undone and spent the next half hour unburdening his soul to her. She was sickened by the lengths to which his overly devoted mother had gone to keep her son from all evil but made every effort to remain passive as his voice gave way to the numerous miseries of his former life.

  “I can’t go back there,” he stated at last with a strong shake of his head. “Now that I’ve known what my life can be, I will never place myself in her hands again. She sees me as an infant. She will never see me as anything more.”

  “You must make her see that you are a man now,” Constance said.

  He turned toward her, his hands outspread in an appealing gesture. “But how? How? I have but to sneeze and she puts me to bed with leeches and a warming pan even if the day is as hot as Hades.”

  “You are a man now, Charles. Have you considered an establishment of your own, apart from her?”

  His shoulders slumped. “If you knew the caterwauling that would ensue, that always ensues when I mention my own town house in London.”

  “Then you are doomed,” she said provokingly.

  He cast her a scathing glance, which made her smile. “The choice is yours. Undoubtedly, she will fall into a fit of hysterics at first, but eventually—especially if you press her with your true age—she will have to accept your decision. What other course is open to her? To disown you?”

  His face grew mulish. “If only she would.”

  Constance chuckled. “I have seen her kind before, and I truly believe that at the base of her overzealous mothering is a genuine, if misguided, love for you. In time, that love will assert itself probably with greater balance and proper intent—but only if you press her.”

  “Do you think so?”

  She nodded. “With all my heart.” She then recalled Ramsdell’s explanation that Mrs. Kidmarsh was not the only one to blame, that his entire staff was maniacal about Charles, whose cherubic visage had enchanted them all from the first. She added, “Though I daresay, you oughtn’t to return to Aston, at least not until you are prepared to battle Ramsdell’s battalion of retainers as well as your mother.”

  At that, Charles smiled crookedly. “You’ve no idea what my upbringing was like in the hands of so many good-intentioned people.”

  “You must also blame your kind heart. If I know you at all, Alby, I know that you were unwilling to hurt those who have loved you so profoundly.”

  “You do me too much honor in saying so. I would rather set down my entire conduct to a lack of courage.”

  “I would not be so harsh in summing up your character, but if that is what you believe, then it is time to take up your sword and defend your soul.”

  He met her gaze and his smile broadened at her words. “You are right. I shall begin at once.”

  * * * * * * * * *

  Nuncheon was a lively affair, since Charles had grown more used to having his mother close at hand. He seemed to have decided that she must grow accustomed to him in his newly awakened state and therefore behaved as he had almost from the time he recovered from his accident—in an enthusiastic, helpful, joyous manner. He let his wit run rampant and teased all the ladies, including his mother, until even she could not keep from smiling.

  Constance watched Mrs. Kidmarsh, who in turn rarely ever let her eyes stray from Alby. Her expression underwent several changes from the moment she sat down to table, from pensive and even curt in her responses to anyone, to almost confused as her son began cutting an apple for her and one for Augusta, to amused when he teased Katherine about loving the stables more than the drawing room.

  “Of course I do,” she said. “Who wouldn’t prefer the wind in one’s face to the stuffy confines of a receiving room?”

  Lady Ramsdell addressed her. “You sound very much like my son, Evan. Once he discovered the delight of the stables, he was never anywhere else, which at least had the advantage that I always knew where he was. The disadvantage was the abhorrent language he would try out on all of us, strictly for the
purpose of seeing our shocked and disapproving expressions. He was such a saucebox in those days. Now he loves his horses. Hugo, did I tell you he is considering selling out? We visited him in Brussels in late June. Since the war ended, he says he is fagged to death with sitting about in the most useless manner day in and day out. I should be happy to see him come home, only I wonder what he shall do to keep occupied.”

  “He will probably tend to his property in Worcestershire and breed racing horses.”

  A heavy sigh erupted from Katherine that first set all the eyes to landing on her, and then a swift, general laughter followed. “I don’t see why any of you are in the least amused. I couldn’t imagine a happier fate and wish only that I had a horse or two fit for the Newmarket races. Lord-a-Mercy has some good strides in him, but he is too short of bone to gather any real speed.” She began speaking to the air as her audience settled in for a long listen and began cutting slices of cold chicken, fruit, and slivers of Cook’s excellent pigeon pie.

  When her diatribe ended, Ramsdell addressed his mother. “And what will you be doing this afternoon?” he asked. “Though I would suppose you will spend much of it resting for the ball tonight.”

  “Perhaps later,” she said, smiling, her eyes bright. “From my bedchamber window I noticed the most beautiful rose garden and maze. I’m very good at mazes, and I intend to spend the next hour or so solving it. Eleanor, do you wish to join me?”

  Mrs. Kidmarsh nodded, her expression a little rapt as she was savoring the pigeon pie. “How on earth did your mother acquire such an excellent cook?” she asked, addressing Constance. “I vow I’ve never had better pie, and earlier the macaroons equaled the ones at Brighton.”

  All the ladies chuckled their pleasure. “Cook is a delight,” Augusta said, smiling sweetly, “but a stickler for the ingredients. She has an herb garden that she tends to personally and will not use a piece of meat that is not fresh.”

  “Well, I vow if I remain too long at Lady Brook, I shall become quite high in the flesh. I now understand why my son looks as though he’s been feasting on ambrosia. It’s because he has.”