A Country Flirtation

by Valerie King

  Constance watched as Charles turned toward his mother and offered her a genuine smile. Mrs. Kidmarsh looked at him, responding in kind, though sudden tears sparkled on her lashes. His expression then grew wholly sympathetic, which was nearly Mrs. Kidmarsh’s undoing. She immediately began clearing her throat and hastily swallowed a gulp of Madeira.

  Charles, for his part, grew a little more subdued, his thoughts inscrutable except for the pinch of his lips and the faint working of his jaw. She knew that he loved his parent but suspected he was steeling himself against her extreme affection in order to succeed in making his own way through life.

  When nuncheon concluded, the party broke up into several portions. Alby stole away with Marianne and Augusta to return to their favorite berrying copse, Katherine commandeered Celeste to help her put the finishing touches to her ball gown, Ramsdell took Stively into the home wood to view the latest poaching trap he had uncovered, Mrs. Kidmarsh and Lady Ramsdell retired to the terrace, the rose garden, and maze, and Constance made her way to her mother’s room, where she intended to spend the next hour.

  She read to her parent for some time and discussed at length her previous acquaintance with Lady Ramsdell. Constance learned that though Lady Ramsdell had been a year her mother’s senior, she had always been kind to her as well as to all the younger girls.

  “Was that when she met Sophia?”

  “Yes . . . Sophia knew . . . her younger sister. Good. Friends. We . . . were all excited for her . . . when she married the fourth . . . viscount. A brilliant . . . match.”

  “Indeed?” Constance queried more out of politeness than anything else.

  “Poor as . . . church mice . . . Mary’s family. Daughter of . . . country squire . . . in Wiltshire.”

  Constance heard the words but couldn’t quite make them fit into her brain. “Poor?” she queried.

  “Yes. Very . . . much so.”

  Constance couldn’t credit what her mother was saying.

  “Was she un-dowered?” she asked.

  “Yes. Pockets to let.”

  Constance was completely dumbfounded. Ramsdell’s father had married a woman of unequal connections and wealth? How was that possible, given his son’s determination to do otherwise? She had always felt that Ramsdell’s convictions had been learned within the structure of his family, handed down to him from his father, and his father before him. Now, learning that the dowager Lady Ramsdell had been an impoverished miss from Wiltshire set her own heart beating strangely in her breast—not of hope, but of fear.

  From the first, she had known a certain sense of ease with Ramsdell for the very reason that he was completely unattainable. She had nothing to fear from him.

  Yet what was it she feared?

  She felt sick with anxiety suddenly and recalled yet again the prophecy of her former suitor. He had told her she could never love a man for Lady Brook and her family would always be uppermost in her mind and heart.

  Yet, she hadn’t believed that—at least not exactly. She had always thought that her heart had simply remained untouched these many years, that the right man had simply not come to Lady Brook. Now, with the knowledge that in some manner Ramsdell was not quite as unattainable as she had thought, nothing but fear raced through her.

  Constance wanted to know more, to pelt her mother with a dozen questions about Lady Ramsdell and the fourth viscount, but she could see that the lengthy conversation had fatigued her parent. “I should go,” she said at last.

  Lady Ramsdell stayed her with a lift of her hand. “One . . . moment. Connie . . . do you love him? Tell . . . me.”

  Constance felt a sudden warmth flood her cheeks. “Yes – no . . . I don’t know! But it hardly signifies. We don’t suit, we can’t suit. The disparity in rank—”

  “Means . . . nothing. Do . . . you . . . love . . . him?”

  “Oh, Mother, don’t ask. All these weeks I haven’t permitted myself to even wonder about the depth of my sentiments for from the first I knew—we had both decided—that ours would be a simple, summery country flirtation, and nothing more.”

  She saw a crooked smile touch her mother’s lips.

  “How . . . very foreseeing . . . of you . . . both.”

  She knew her mother was laughing at her, and that made her smile. How different it was to have her parent speaking and making sport of her. How wonderful it was.

  She rose from her chair and leaned over to place a kiss on her cheek. “I intend to end this quite useless conversation right now. I have several things I must do before the ball—for one thing, I have yet to cut the flowers for our guests’ rooms. So, if you will excuse me, I’ll let you have your afternoon sleep and, pray, forget about Ramsdell.”

  “Love . . . you,” her mother said, her eyes softening in expression.

  “I love you too, dearest. Sleep well.”

  She reached the door, but her mother could not resist one parting thought. “Don’t . . . be a . . . goosecap. Marry him if you can.”

  She merely laughed, though uneasily, at the absurdity of it and quit the room.

  Constance made her way to her own bedchamber, intending to fetch a pair of gloves suitable for cutting roses. She eventually found them on the table by the window and noticed above the tops of the silver fir trees in the forest across from Lady Brook, a billow of dust that shaded the deep blue sky. The creation of the new lane had been under way for some time but probably wouldn’t be complete for months, not until sufficient crushed rock could be laid a foot in depth to create a suitable macadamization. Without the rock, the lane would turn to mud during any rain and would become virtually unpassable.

  Change.

  She didn’t want anything to change, she realized with a start. She wanted Lady Brook Bend to remain as it was, but the dust in the air told her that was now impossible. She had effected the change herself when she had hired Mr. Bellows to cut a gentler arc through the forest.

  Now she had learned that Lady Ramsdell had been even poorer than herself when she had wed her husband. Again, an inexplicable fear coursed through her. She felt threatened as never before, as though destiny was hovering over her and demanding she acquiesce to a marriage that had not even been offered to her. After all, the precedent had been set within Ramsdell’s family. History could repeat itself.

  But she didn’t want change. She wanted everything to remain the same. The dust rose higher into the sky, and a chill shook through her body.

  But this was ridiculous.

  She gave herself a strong shake. She told herself her fears were absurd, that she was the master of her own fate, and that whatever Lady Ramsdell’s life had been did not mean hers must follow suit. Not by half.

  She squared her shoulders. She lifted her chin to fate. She would live her own life as she saw fit. The fears, the anxiety, the inexplicable tremblings in her legs, left her—that is until from the corner of her eye she saw Augusta and Charles emerge from the shrubbery near the lane.

  Change.

  Even from that distance she could see that her sister was overset as she wiped a tear from her cheek. Her shoulders were slumped, so unlike Augusta. Charles stood over her, speaking. Augusta listened and wrung her hands. He cupped his palm beneath her chin and lifted her face to his.

  Then he kissed her.

  Augusta would surely push him away, perhaps even strike him a blow across the face. Surely.

  Instead, Constance watched in stupefaction as her sister forgot entirely where she was. She leaned into Charles and slid her arms about his neck and kissed him back. The incredible truth hit her fully in the face—she had kissed him before.

  Constance could watch no more but turned away from the window, her former anxiety wreaking new havoc in her body. She felt dizzy and queasy. Her heart raced. She could hardly

  breathe. She could barely keep her balance.

  Change.

  She didn’t want change. She loved her home, her family, just as it was. She had clung to the routines of Lady Brook for so
long as her primary security in such a wretchedly insecure world that she couldn’t bear the thought of a lane being cut through the fir forest, or of Lady Ramsdell having been an impoverished miss, or—heaven forbid—of Augusta in love.

  She sat down in a chair and forced the frightening sensations away. She spoke rationally to her overwrought mind. She forced her limbs to relax. She took a hundred deep breaths.

  Even so, she was not able to leave her bedchamber for a full half hour, and only then after she had reminded herself again and again that she was the master of her fate.

  She was.

  She was.

  ***

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ramsdell knew he had made the trek back into the home wood, Stively at his side, not so much to help dismantle another poaching trap but for the strict purpose of being apart from the rest of his family and Constance, at least for an hour or so. He had needed time to adjust to the truly unsettling news that Constance was the owner of Lady Brook Cottage.

  The walk had calmed his disturbed sensibilities, and now, with Stively having returned to the stables, he made a slow progress back to the house and began to determine just in what way Constance’s property changed things, if at all.

  She owned Lady Brook.

  The moment his mother had made this fact clear to him, he had been in a state of stupefaction. He couldn’t think with any degree of precision, and thoughts of Constance reigning over Aston Hall kept vying with his long-nurtured ideal of exactly the woman he would take to wife.

  Constance did not fit that ideal. She was not the daughter of a peer, she did not have sufficient London experience to be an immediately successful hostess, and regardless of her property, she was not well dowered.

  But she did have Lady Brook and he could no longer ignore that her possession of the property changed how he viewed her. The question rose in his mind, how fixed were his ideals, and was it possible that he could set them aside in favor of Constance?

  The very nature of the question, however, disturbed him deeply, and Lady Alison, his first love, rose suddenly to mind. Had she viewed him in a similar manner? Did she ask herself, does he have enough wealth, enough potential, a high enough rank?

  He felt sickened suddenly, because for the life of him, he could see no difference between his thinking and her scheming. Yet that had not been his intention when he laid out the particulars of his notion of a proper wife. He had merely wanted to fulfill his father’s strictures and to protect his own heart.

  Surely these were admirable objects?

  Still, he could not differentiate between Lady Alison and himself, not in this situation.

  After all, was Constance truly worthy of him now only because she could bring Lady Brook with her? His stomach churned and burned his throat. For one of the few times in his life he was ill at ease with himself and his beliefs.

  He turned these arguments over in his mind again and again until he reached the terrace and the rose garden, where he found his mother and aunt enjoying the beautiful vista. He felt relieved to see them, for then he could set aside a debate he could not seem to resolve.

  Both ladies reclined in chaise-longues that were shaded by a large elm. His aunt, he discovered, was fast asleep and snoring gently. Between the sisters was a teapot, two cups and two saucers, and a plate that might at one time have held either biscuits, tarts, or perhaps a cake but which now was nothing but a gravel bed of crumbs.

  Lady Ramsdell greeted him in a hushed voice. “Do draw forward a chair, Hugo, that I might enjoy a few minutes of your company.”

  The terrace was laid out with several wooden chairs and lounges for the purpose of taking the air and viewing the gardens. Ramsdell settled a chair close to his mother’s chaise-longue.

  “Were you much shocked to learn that Charles had stolen away from Aston Hall—again?” he inquired.

  Lady Ramsdell hid a yawn behind her hand. “Poor Charles,” she whispered. “He’s been desperate for years to take his own life in hand. With no one to fend off the excessive ministrations of your staff, I daresay he escaped from Aston as quick as the cat could lick her ear.”

  Ramsdell huffed a sigh. “I know that I am partially to blame for all that has happened. I ought to make changes, oughtn’t I?”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t begin to tell you what you could do. Our servants are all so devoted.”

  Ramsdell chuckled. “Don’t I know it.”

  Lady Ramsdell glanced up at her son and gave the subject a turn. “You know, Miss Pamberley would be wise not to manage her house with such excellent efficiency, and she ought also to get rid of her cook, otherwise she will tempt me to remain at Lady Brook through the remainder of the summer.”

  “Mama,” he said, laughing. “What an odd thing to say.”

  She eyed him carefully for a moment. “She strikes me as a superior young woman.”

  “Indeed, she is,” Ramsdell responded.

  Lady Ramsdell sighed. “Should we be dressing for dinner soon, for I imagine we will need to leave for the ball at a timely hour?”

  “I don’t know, but I am persuaded Con—Miss Pamberley will send a servant round to gather everyone up at the proper time.”

  “Of course you are right.” She glanced at her sister. “I don’t like to wake her,” she continued, lowering her voice. “She is entirely overset as much by her son’s conduct as by the fact he doesn’t recall who she is.”

  “I’m sure in due course he will remember her. As to his conduct, I find him greatly improved. Don’t you?”

  She nodded. “Remarkably so. He seems very manly these days. But what if he doesn’t want to remember his mother? The mind is a curious thing and, though I am deeply fond of Eleanor, she has not been the best of parents.”

  “I have little doubt he will one day know who she is.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “He is half in love with the youngest daughter, you know.”

  She nodded. “The pair of them do smell a great deal of April and May. It is Miss Augusta, is it not?”

  “Yes.”

  “A delightful child, to be sure, very gentle in spirit, which I believe would suit Charles well.”

  He heard the approval in her voice. “You would not object to such a match?”

  She glanced up at him. “Why would I? She is a Lady of Quality, clearly of excellent breeding. The lineage, though not noble, is quite unexceptionable. All that Miss Augusta lacks is a dowry, which can be of no consequence to Charles, after all.”

  He stared down at her, feeling the color drain from his face. There it was again, the truth he had not seen before. He held the prejudice deeply in his own heart, of whom he should marry and whom he should not. His mother, clearly, held an entirely different set of dictums close to her heart.

  His father, on the other hand, had made known his expectations from the time he could remember. His strictures rang in his ears—add to the property, make wise investments, marry the daughter of a peer. His father had even left a letter for him in his will, which he had memorized.

  Aston Hall is given to you in trust. Never betray that trust. And for God’s sake, don’t let your head be turned by a provincial miss or any lady living on the fringes of tonnish society. You will regret it infinitely, for she will never function well as Viscountess Ramsdell and all that that position entails. You will have need of her abilities as your responsibilities to Parliament increase through the years. This is the advice I give you, the advice my father gave me and his father before him. One day you will pass along the same wisdom to your son, I have little doubt. For now, know that I love you and God be with you.

  The advice had been sensible. He had seen no reason to part with a basic philosophy that had served his family well for generations. His mother, though not the daughter of a peer, had brought a handsome dowry to her marriage, some fifty thousand pounds. She had been presented at court by the Marchioness of Glyndebourne at the age of eighteen and had had a score of beaus. His father had tumbled in love with h
er, married her, and had been exceedingly happy.

  “Your father meant well,” his mother intruded as though having read his mind, “but the truth is there is something he kept from you, something I think you ought to know.”

  Ramsdell felt as though every nerve in his body had suddenly been lit on fire. He sensed that from that moment, his life would change. “Yes?” he encouraged her.

  “My dowry was fabricated.”

  He blinked, pondered, and shook his head. “What?”

  She nodded and laughed. “I have always detested the whisker George and his father concocted in order to make our union more acceptable to the beau monde—that a wealthy distant cousin, upon his death, had quite fortuitously bestowed fifty thousand pounds on me. The money, of course, belonged to the Ramsdell estate. Have you ever heard anything more absurd?”

  Ramsdell felt for the second time that day as though he had been knocked flat by a heavily laden wagon. “You were poor, then, Mama?”

  “Very. And we had hardly any connections worth mentioning except my father’s distant relation, the elderly Marchioness of Glyndebourne, who by some miracle actually agreed to present me during my first Season.”

  Ramsdell couldn’t believe his ears. He stared at her, through her, into her. “I don’t believe it,” he said.

  “It is all too true, and at the moment I’m excessively relieved to finally have revealed the truth to you—especially to you. Having received a letter from Mrs. Spencer and then actually visiting in the home of a woman with whom I attended seminary was quite uncomfortable for me, you’ve no idea. I felt the truth would out at any moment, and then where would I be? What would you think of me?

  “I know your father wanted to prevent a fortune hunter from enticing you into an inappropriate marriage, but I have long since believed that his intentions harmed you. I have never known such a stickler as you. I also think your notions of an acceptable bride have kept you from forming a serious attachment long before this—that is, until now.”

  He sat back in his chair, his neckcloth suddenly feeling a great deal too tight. “What do you mean?”