by Joan Vincent
The ladies were barely settled in their chairs beneath the huge oak when Josh came running up to Lady Phillippa. “A rider just brought this, milady. Said I was to give it to you at once.” He waved the letter in her face.
“Calm yourself, Josh,” the marchioness said, finally catching hold of the missive. “Is the rider awaiting a reply?”
“No, milady. He left as soon as I told him you were here.”
“That will be all.” She dismissed him with a smile and broke the seal on the letter.
“Who is it from?” Lady Imogene asked excitedly.
“It is our answer and as we expected,” Lady Phillippa said conspiratorially. Placing the letter carefully in her pocket, she picked up her cup and saucer.
“Have you ever thought seriously of marriage, Sarita?” she asked, a matchmaking twinkle in her eye.
Chapter 7
Late June’s bright morning sun was uncomfortably warm as Sarita hurried down the steps of the rectory. Her early morning tasks completed, she was rushing to Monsieur Mandel’s greenhouse where she helped with his work once or twice a week.
“Sarita! Oh, Sarita!” Lady Phillippa call halted her fast-paced steps. “My dear, are you going to Monsieur Mandel’s?”
Turning, the young woman was confronted with the startling sight of the three dowagers. The countess’ ample figure was swathed in a bright floral print; a huge spray of artificial flowers burdened the large straw hat upon her grey curls. Lady Brienne’s toilet, very proper, was more subdued pale blue linen, but the hunting jacket style of the bodice and the tricorner hat atop her head couldn’t help but draw eyes. A vivid green walking gown matched the spriteliness of the marchioness’s spirit, and the long peacock feathers in her straw bonnet a fitting touch.
“We shall accompany you to Monsieur Mandel’s,” the baroness told Sarita as the young woman dumbly nodded in reply. “Lead on, child. Tardiness is not a pleasant habit, especially for those who await you.”
“Yes, my lady.” Sarita forced her eyes from their costumes but could not suppress a bubble of laughter as she led the way.
“Parasols, ladies,” Lady Brienne commanded.
“Yes, Brienne.” The marchioness hurried forward to Sarita’s side. “Walk with me, my dear,” she said. “We wouldn’t wish you to have too much sun.”
My complexion is far too darkened already for me to bother about the sun,” she laughed.
“‘Tis true,” Lady Imogene put in from behind them. “‘Haps your beaux don’t care for milk and toast misses,” she offered hopefully. “I have heard that vinegar will whiten the skin.”
“And lead arsenic also does,” the baroness added. “Would you poison the child for your sport?”
“Oh, Brienne,” the countess groaned.
“Don’t worry, Sarita. Nothing so desperate as that will be necessary,” Lady Phillippa assured her puzzled companion. “Now tell me about Monsieur Mandel’s work. Does his son take part in it?”
“Does Monsieur Mandel approve of Napoleon?” asked Lady Imogene.
“Has there ever been gossip as to why Lord Pergrine allows them to stay?” Lady Brienne added.
“My ladies,” Sarita’s eyes twinkled mischievously, “I understood that curiosity was a bane to gentle women.”
“Respectful manners—” Lady Brienne began curtly.
“Come only after courteous questions,” Sarita glanced back, not flinching. “As for the Mandels,” she hurried on, “Monsieur Mandel is a loyalist, but totally immersed in his work with crossing strains of grains and vegetables. He never speaks of France, although it is my understanding he had extensive lands there.
“Pierre, I think, wishes to return to his home,” she continued. “But he rarely speaks of Napoleon other than in polite murmurs of little meaning.”
“And Lord Pergrine?” Lady Imogene asked.
“When the Mandels first came, there was a rumour that Mandel was a count who had opened his home to Lord Pergrine years ago in France. Hence his lordship’s present hospitality.”
“Do you believe this?” the baroness questioned.
Sarita halted and faced her. “From what I know of Monsieur Mandel, I do not. I have seen him and Lord Pergrine together. It appeared to me that they disliked each other intensely.”
“It grows more interesting,” noted Lady Phillippa.
“Yes, We must meet Lord Pergrine.” Lady Imogene bobbed her flowered head.
“That shall be arranged,” Lady Brienne said confidently.
“My ladies.” Sarita looked worriedly from one to the others. She had become fond of all three in the days since their arrival. “I ask you to heed a warning. Matters here are troubled. Do you not recall the murder we learned of your first day here? If you remain intent upon probing, I fear it will only bring you to harm. Father says—” she reconsidered the wisdom of her words and left them unspoken.
“Do not fear for us, Sarita.” Lady Imogene patted her on the shoulder. “What need three old women such as we fear—or anyone fear from us? Your father is in much more danger than we.”
Pierre Mandel suddenly appeared before them. “Risqué? What is this you speak of?”
“We were just speaking of the unfortunate deaths that have occurred in the area,” Lady Phillippa explained.
Lady Imogene stepped forward. “Monsieur Mandel, we were hoping so much to see your father’s greenhouses. Do you think it would be possible?”
“For such mesdames charmantes as yourselves, anything is possible.” He smiled warmly at Sarita.
“Then you must escort us.” Lady Phillippa took his arm.
“I stall attend your father,” Sarita said and hurried off unaware his scowl followed her.
“Monsieur Mandel,” Lady Imogene tugged at his sleeve. “Is that not one of the greenhouses behind those sycamores?”
“Oui,” he replied, forcing his attention back to the dowagers. “But it contains only the grain and vegetable plants. Would you rather see the belles fleurs that my father works with this morn?” Mandel smiled enticingly.
“In good time, young man,” the baroness answered. “For now the grain will do.” She motioned him to proceed.
Glancing at the path down which Sarita had disappeared Pierre summoned a warm smile to his haughty features and spewed copious compliments as he began an explanation of his father’s work.
By the time they joined the elder Mandel and Sarita, it appeared the three dowagers had been entirely captivated by the young Frenchman’s charms.
“Monsieur Mandel,” Lady Imogene crooned, “such a handsome son. So well mannered, pleasantly different from many of our young Englishmen. You must be very pleased with him.”
A flicker of distress crossed the elder Mandel’s features.
“And so brilliant,” the marchioness added her praise.
Shifting uneasily, Monsieur Mandel murmured, “Merci.”
Father and son refused to look at one another.
“If you will excuse me, mesdames, Mademoiselle Durham, I have a matter I must attend.” Pierre bowed and strolled away without a word to his father.
“What beautiful flowers, Monsieur Mandel,” Lady Phillippa filled the awkward silence. “Your work must be very enjoyable.”
“Oui.” The bent, balding man brightened. “They are as my enfants.” He gazed lovingly over the bright array of blooms. “Every flower that blooms I have tried to gather together here.”
“Is that not expensive?” Lady Brienne inquired.
“Lord Pergrine has been—most generous,” Mandel replied, his features darkening. “But I have my own resources, and it is my hope to continue on my own soon.” He smiled conspiratorially at Sarita.
“With the prize money—But no, we must remain sans paroles on that.
“I have a rare lily in bloom.” Mandel changed the direction of the conversation. “Follow me. I think you will find it most beautiful.”
* * * *
“Thank you so much, monsieur,” Lady Brienne spoke
for the three as the tour of the greenhouse ended.
“May we return?” the marchioness requested.
“At any time,” he beamed. “Mademoiselle Durham’s friends are most welcome. Good health, mesdames,” he said in farewell and returned to his work.
“We can find our way to the rectory, Sarita. There is no need for you to interrupt your work,” the baroness told her. With brief parting words, the three women left.
Once away from the greenhouse, Lady Brienne halted. “We shall go to the main road.”
“But that is much too far for us to walk,” Lady Imogene protested, her round face already tinged with a hint of red from the morning’s exertions.
“I had a most interesting conversation with that Mr. Conner who called on Reverend Durham last eve. Come, if you wish to see what I learned.”
“We may as well follow,” Lady Phillippa told the countess, patting her arm encouragingly. “Brenny’s simple sounding whims usually have their own way of developing into something major.”
“I wish she’d learn not to be so priggish about it,” Lady Imogene countered.
“Come along, Immy. You know you shall,” the marchioness cajoled. “Tell me, what do you think the Earl of Dunstan will be like?”
“Knowing Henrietta, he could only be a dandy. I can see him, tall and thin as she and attired in some outlandish style current among the ton. His mother never did anything but mimic others.”
“You shouldn’t be so harsh, Immy. Henrietta has her good features. You know she was even likeable after her marriage. How unfortunate that Lord Enoch died so young.” The marchioness sighed. She had long regretted the breach between the sisters but saw little hope of reconciliation since such a senseless rash of ill-timed occurrences had caused it. No one was any longer certain just why it had occurred.
“Enoch,” snorted the countess. “If I recall rightly, the lad was burdened with that dreadful name as well as a silver tray full of other names. What are they?” she asked as the two tramped along doggedly behind the baroness.
“Enoch Crispen Henry Edward Kennard, Earl of Dunstan,” Lady Brienne tossed back.
“Didn’t know you had taken such an interest in the lad,” Lady Imogene taunted.
“Lad,” hooted Lady Brienne. “At one and thirty? You are worse than his mother, wishing to keep him in swaddling. I do, though, fear your judgment may prove true. While his letters oft have had the flavour of his father, Henrietta has more than likely had her way with his exterior. Be warned that Sarita will not take him if this proves true.”
“Both of you should be ashamed,” Lady Phillippa reproved them. “None of us has seen the lad—man,” she altered at the twitch of the baroness’s eyebrow, “for many years. He has continued his correspondence with us in open defiance of his mother. Why should he not prove to be his own man in other matters as well?”
“Say what you will, Phillippa,” said Lady Brienne. “I for one believe he will be meticulous in detail, foppish in dress, and uncertain in all other things,” she pronounced in judgment.
“But come along. If we tarry too long, we shall miss him.”
“Who?” Lady Phillippa questioned as she hastened after her sister.
“You will see. Ah—I can hear the coach. Quickly now.”
“Coach?” The countess exchanged a glance with Lady Phillippa.
“I told you she always knows more than she says. We had better bolt for the road.”
The two joined Lady Brienne at the roadside just as a pair of high-stepping bays drawing a smartly appointed landau came into view.
Feigning a totally worn, frightened expression, the baroness fluttered her kerchief frantically in the air. The short-bodied man in the landau reluctantly ordered his driver to halt as she stepped into the middle of the road.
“Oh, dear, kind sir,” gushed the baroness, “how good of you to come to our rescue. We are horribly fatigued and our footmen have not returned with our carriage. Help is so undependable in these times.” She brushed a hand tiredly across her brow. “Why, I told my sister, the Countess of Lackland,” she motioned vaguely towards Lady Imogene, “that we simply must do something about them. But without the firm guidance of a man—” She sighed, letting the gentleman supply his own ending.
At the sound of the title, the bony, hawkish-faced wife came to attention. “You would he the guests of Reverend Durham,” she half-asked, leaning across her husband’s bulging stomach for a closer look at the three.
“Unfortunately, yes,” the baroness answered. She toed Lady Phillippa with enough force to stifle her defence of the Durhams. “One simply is not accustomed to such a household. Why, they have only one servant. Now I am a baroness and expect more discerning treatment.”
“Then you must be the marchioness.” The woman softened and stared at the three as if they were champion steeds. “You must repair to our estate at once. The Durhams cannot possibly care for you properly. We shall.” Her pride in having three such titled trophies grace her home and upcoming ball for the envy of all the local gentry, showed plainly.
“Anne, we haven’t—”
“Never fear, sir,” the baroness said haughtily. “We do not live in just any home.”
“A thousand pardons, my ladies.” Lady Pergrine fluttered a hand at them. “Let us introduce ourselves. My husband, Viscount Pergrine.
“I insist that you come to our home. It must be ghastly for you, what with Mrs. Durham’s—”
“Your invitation is most gracious and sincerely appreciated, but there are times when one must decline such offers. Sacrifice for a better good, you understand. Reverend Durham is, after all, a minister,” Lady Brienne noted stiffly. “And we have a nephew, the Earl of Dunstan, coming soon who shall expect to find us with the Durhams.”
“It would be a vast relief, however, if we could feel free to call on you,” Lady Phillippa spoke for the first time.
“Oh, yes, do so. At any time, my ladies. I know several women whose company I am certain you would enjoy. Perhaps you could come to tea on Thursday next? And you must consider coming to our ball. Lord Gerard is coming for a visit shortly, you know.”
“That sounds delightful,” Lady Phillippa told her, flashing her warmest smile. “And of course you shan’t object if Mrs. Durham and her daughters accompany us? I just dread awkward situations.”
“Why—I—I don’t . . ..” Lady Pergrine looked with dismay to her husband.
“‘Tis no matter,” he grunted, eyeing Lady Brienne with a curious intensity. “Don’t be giving such open invitations again,” Pergrine whispered loudly. Turning to the dowagers, he tipped his hat.
Before his lordship could order his driver on, Lady Imogene stepped forward. “Why, Lord Pergrine, I don’t know what we should have done had you not come along. “We had lost our way and our naughty footmen have not returned for us. How kind of you to take us back to Braitlathe,” she continued, her hand firmly upon the landau’s door.
“Why—why, of course. We shall take you back to Malvern’s Manor, or so it is called by most,” Lady Pergrine prattled, ignoring her husband’s scowl.
The bays turned about, Pergrine ordered the driver to use his whip. The landau slowed as it neared the place where the dowagers’ coach had been disabled.
Grabbing hold of their hats as the driver veered his team off the road, the startled trio were jounced over stones and large limbs before finding themselves once again on the rutted path.
Lady Pergrine twittered apologetically. “The bog,” she motioned behind them. “Only strangers try to manage it unless it be thoroughly dry. I have told Lord Pergrine that the road should be diverted about it, but it is such an expense and everyone knows to avoid it.”
Chapter 8
“This cannot be the way,” Lin Sullivan fretted. “We have seen no one for hours.” Lin readjusted his lace jabot as they jostled down the rutted road.
“We left Pordean only a few hours past,” Lord Dunstan returned. “Enjoy the countryside.”
<
br /> “There,” Sullivan pointed, “there is a path, Cris.” Lin looked back as they passed it. “It was the only one we’ve seen.”
“Didn’t look wide enough for the phaeton. You wouldn’t want us tipping over, would you?”
“Oh, no.” Lin sought assurance that Dunstan was joking. The journey thus far had firmed his conclusion that he was indeed a pitiable traveller, for being bounced at breakneck speeds over bad roads had wearied him, while his cousin had laughed at the discomfort and revelled at being in the open air.
“I think mayhap we shall go on to. Runnet before going to Braitlathe,” Dunstan thought aloud. “Might be best to establish—”
“Mayhap we shall even go on to Hastings,” Sullivan snorted. “To speak with more of your unusual acquaintances. I never realized what odd friends you have acquired, Cris.”
“To Hastings it is, if you wish,” Dunstan tossed back with a wide smile, hoping Lin would forget those odd friends. “Cris, look ahead. I believe you had better halt,” Sullivan warned, seeing the suspicious morass before them. “Cris—” A huge rut ended his words. He grabbed hold of the phaeton’s side to keep his seat.
The blacks reached the midpoint of the mire with only slight trouble but bogged down as the phaeton sank below axle depth.
“Now what are we to do? We’re surrounded by . . . by mud,” Lin cringed. “How are we to get beyond this?”
“By walking,” Dunstan told him cheerfully.
“Through it?”
“Of course. It brings to mind Old Nanny, shuddering at the sight of me coated with mud from head to foot. I hesitate to recall Mother’s words,” laughed the earl as he quieted his team.
“Actually walk in it.” Lin looked at him aghast. “You do mean it.”
“Have you never had a good romp in the mud?” Dunstan feigned shock while inwardly staving off the laughter his cousin’s consternation brewed. Lin’s fastidiousness had long been a tolerated bane to the earl. He could not help teasing his cousin. “You certainly will have that romp now, for one of us must get yon branch and place it beneath the axle if we are to be free of this bog.”