Mr. Rushford's Honor

by Meg Alexander

  ‘The dear little creature needs someone to protect her. It ain’t much of a life for any woman on her own, and she has the girls to think about.’

  His companion muttered something unintelligible, but Thomas was lost in rapture and didn’t appear to hear it.

  ‘I expect you think that we haven’t known each other long,’ Thomas continued. ‘But I fell in love with her on that first day when she threatened me with her pistol.’ He began to chuckle. ‘I don’t believe there is another woman in the world with half her character. Don’t you agree?’

  Giles could only nod.

  ‘I knew it,’ Thomas said with conviction. ‘You and your family think so highly of her. Believe me, I shall do my best to make her happy if only she will accept me. You need have no worries for her future.’

  Giles could listen to no more. Seizing upon the fact that the storm had broken at last and the rain was now pelting down, he spurred his horse into a gallop and raced towards the Grange.

  Sleep eluded him that night. Each word of his quarrel with Gina was etched indelibly upon his mind. What must she think of him? She had offered him her love and he had spurned her. The old adage came back to him. What was it they said? ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.’ What would she do now?

  He was under no illusions. He had killed the flame of love which had burned so brightly in her heart for the long years of their separation.

  She had accused him of insufferable pride, but Gina too was proud. She would never forgive him.

  Sheer agony of mind kept him tossing upon his bed for hours. What had happened to his resolve never to be alone with her? That had been a fatal mistake. The urge to take her in his arms was uncontrollable.

  Ah, but it had been heaven to hold her to his heart again and to seek those yielding lips. But he cursed his own folly. He had succeeded only in hurting her. Whatever he was suffering now, he deserved it. All the torments of hell would not be enough to wipe out the memory of her bitter words. They were burned into his brain.

  Had he known it, Gina herself was regretting those words. She would have given anything to unsay them but it was too late. For her too, sleep was out of the question. She paced her room for hours, writhing under the lash of humiliation and self-reproach.

  What had happened to the iron self-control on which she prided herself? Love, it seemed, was no respecter of such attributes. As she reached out to Giles she had forgotten all her good resolutions. Heaven knows, she had waited for long enough before seeking out her love again. She could go on waiting, but he had not asked it of her.

  So she had struck out at him in despair, calling him a coward, a weakling who could not face the cynical amusement of their world, and accused him of putting his own pride before their happiness.

  In her own heart she knew that she was wrong. Honour mattered to Giles above all else. It was one of the reasons why she loved him so. Honour had caused him to promise her marriage all those years ago, though he was heir to the Rushford estate and she merely a servant. Honour had brought him back to England to do his duty by his family, though it must have cost him dear.

  Now it was that same honour which prevented him from offering for her. Giles would accept nothing which he had not earned. For him it was a matter of principle. He could not bring himself to live upon his wife’s fortune.

  She couldn’t bemoan the accidents of fate which had left her in her present circumstances. What was money, after all? To Gina it was merely a useful tool, certainly not to be despised as it eased one’s path in life. Yet it could buy neither health nor happiness. Yet for Giles it was an insuperable obstacle, and she could think of no way to persuade him to change his mind.

  After a while she grew calmer. She would not be defeated. Had she not been certain of his love she might have given up the struggle, but the memory of his kiss, brief though it was, set her senses aflame. His response had been as fierce as her own.

  She pushed the thought of their quarrel from her mind. What was done was done. There was no point in vain regrets. The mistake had been her own. She had intended to keep him guessing for a time, in the hope that he would try to win back her love. Now he was sure of it. She had given herself away, but she treasured the recollection of that moment when she was held once more against his heart. Surely a love like theirs could not be denied for ever. She would think of some way to overcome his scruples.

  Perhaps she should have made him a business proposition in the first place. Inventions such as the new seed drill might be patented. Gina herself knew nothing of such matters, but Isham thought them useful and intended to put them into service on his own estates.

  Then she remembered. Isham had already suggested such a scheme to Giles, but his brother-in-law had turned it down. Pride again, Gina thought sadly. Giles was only too aware of Isham’s generosity. Had it not been for India’s splendid marriage, his mother and his sisters would be living in a tiny cottage on the outskirts of Abbot Quincey dependent upon the goodwill of his uncle, Sir James Perceval.

  He himself would be penniless, unable to provide for them. Those months when he had scoured the country looking for employment had left deep scars upon his soul.

  Gina’s heart went out to him. It would take time to heal those scars. Perhaps as he took control of India’s estate and brought it into profit, Giles would recover some of his self-esteem. Honour, she realised suddenly, was all he had left at present.

  At last she fell into an uneasy sleep, but she was heavy-eyed next morning. When the girls had left for the Academy she started upon her daily tasks, but she found it difficult to give them her full attention.

  Did it really matter, she thought wearily, whether they dined on a green goose or a serpent of mutton that evening. Her gaze was abstracted as cook suggested various side dishes such as mushroom fritters, crimped cod, or boiled tongue with turnips. Then there were decisions to be made as to the various merits of an orange souffle´, a Celerata cream, or a basket of pastries.

  Gina forced a smile. ‘You will have us twice the size we are,’ she warned. ‘Let us have something light such as a dressed fowl. We might start with white almond soup with asparagus tips. That is a favourite with the girls, and so is your excellent orange souffle´.’

  ‘That won’t keep body and soul together, my lady.’ Cook was never slow to protest when she was robbed of the chance to show her skills.

  ‘It will be sufficient for this evening. We have no gentlemen to feed today. When we have dinner guests you shall choose the menu yourself.’

  Cook was startled. It was unlike her young mistress not to take the keenest interest in every detail of the management of her household. She said as much to Mr Hanson.

  ‘Madam may have her mind on other matters,’ her confidante replied in lofty tones. ‘Food, Mrs Long, cannot always be her first consideration.’

  ‘Without it we should none of us get far,’ came the tart reply. ‘If you consider it so unimportant perhaps I should forget the dish of neats’ tongues which I had in mind to make for your supper, Mr Hanson.’

  The butler hastened to soothe her wounded feelings with the assurance that her culinary skills were matchless. Neats’ tongues were, after all, a favourite with him. He went on to point out that it was largely due to the excellence of her cooking that the Whitelaw family was so healthy. None of the ladies suffered from the headaches or the fainting spells so common among the gentry.

  ‘That’s as maybe!’ Cook replied. She allowed herself to be mollified by his compliments. ‘But Madam ain’t herself. Mark my words, she has something on her mind.’

  Hanson decided to see for himself. Cook was not a fanciful woman, and she knew her mistress well. If Madam was worried he would do his best to lift the burden from her shoulders.

  He tapped gently at the door to Gina’s study, and entered to find her gazing into space.

  ‘Shall you wish to see the builder in your usual way, my lady?’ he enquired. He had to repeat the question before she became aware
of his presence.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The builder, ma’am. Must he give you a progress report?’

  Gina stared at him before she replied, almost as if she did not understand the question. Then she pulled herself together.

  ‘No, it won’t be necessary. I saw him yesterday and the work is going on well.’ She fell silent again.

  ‘Will there be anything else, ma’am,’ he pressed. ‘Have you orders for me?’ Hanson was appalled by his own temerity. In the ordinary way her ladyship was quick to let him know how he could best serve her. It was not up to him to take the initiative, but he persisted.

  ‘Shall you care to ride this morning, my lady?’ he asked. ‘I could send an order to the stables…’ Obviously his mistress was suffering from an attack of the megrims. This happened only rarely, but when it did a long gallop usually restored her to the best of spirits.

  ‘No…! Yes…! I don’t know…Tell the groom, I will send word within the hour.’

  ‘Well, Mr Hanson, was I right?’ Cook looked at him in triumph.

  ‘I fear you were. Madam is not herself. Let us hope that she will ride out this morning. For her it is a sovereign remedy for a sad mood.’

  Gina was in agreement with him, but there were other claims upon her time. Both she and the girls required replenishments to their wardrobes. Clothing that had been suitable in Scotland would not serve in the softer, warmer climate of Northamptonshire, especially during the summer months. That was, of course, if they were to see the sun at all this year. The last two summers had been disastrous, or so she’d heard.

  Idly, she leafed through the pages of Ackermann’s Repository. India had given her the name of a clever mantua-maker in Northampton, a French refugee, she thought. Even so, she would choose styles, colours and fabrics before she approached the woman.

  Gina knew what suited her, and elegance was her aim. She lacked the height to carry off extremes of fashion, such as the famous ‘Marie’ sleeve which was puffed and ruched with epaulettes, puffed oversleeves and frilled cuffs. In that, she told herself, she would resemble nothing so much as a gaily-coloured mushroom.

  Perhaps a plain blue walking-dress in French cambric? And a morning-dress of jaconet muslin, made up to the throat, with sleeves buttoned tightly at the wrists?

  She laid the magazine aside, unable to raise even a transitory interest in the coloured plates. She would return to the task later. It would not take her long to decide on the number of round robes she and the girls would require. They could be made in silk or muslin in simple styles and pastel colours.

  Evening wear was even less of a problem at the moment. High fashion would be out of place in the country, even when dining with Lord and Lady Isham.

  She caught her breath at the thought of returning to the Grange. How could she face Giles again?

  For a long desperate moment she was tempted to close the Mansion House and leave for Scotland with the girls. Then common-sense returned. There was nothing to be gained by running away, and much to lose. The girls were settled at the Academy, and Mair, in particular, must be closer to London to make her come-out during the following year.

  To flee would be the action of a coward, and cowardice Gina despised above all else. Giles, she knew, would never follow her to Scotland, so she would stay in Abbot Quincey, facing up to whatever the fates might have in store for her.

  For the first time the suspicion of a smile touched her lips. Gina was no believer in fate. She had always favoured giving it a strong push. Nor did she sympathise with those who bemoaned a lack of opportunity. Napoleon Bonaparte might be considered a monster by most of her acquaintances, but one of his precepts had stuck in her mind. ‘Opportunities?’ he had remarked. ‘I make opportunities.’ Gina was fully in agreement with his words.

  Well, now she was to be given the chance to put his advice to the test. She rang the bell and ordered her horse saddled and brought round. Her mind was always clearer on a long ride, and the fresh air would do her good.

  She was about to go to her room and change from her pale green sacque into riding dress when Hanson reappeared.

  ‘Madam, you have a visitor,’ he announced.

  Gina frowned. ‘I am not receiving this morning, Hanson. You must deny me.’

  ‘Madam, I tried, but the gentleman says that he is expected. It is Mr Thomas Newby.’

  ‘Oh, Lord, I had forgot!’ Gina struck her forehead. ‘You had best show him in…’

  ‘And your horse, ma’am?’

  ‘I shall still require Beau to be saddled. Mr Newby will not stay long.’

  Gina summoned up a smile to greet her visitor. She had not forgotten his kindness on the previous day.

  He came towards her looking anxious.

  ‘Have I been importunate, Lady Whitelaw? Your butler said that you were not receiving, and I feared that you were suffering from some malaise. I wished to assure myself that it was not so.’

  ‘Mr Newby, you are very kind, but as you see I am quite well. I gave orders that I was not to be disturbed as I had some matters to attend…’ Gina indicated the pile of papers on her desk. ‘And then, you know, I am not yet dressed for receiving.’ She glanced down at her simple dress.

  ‘You always look beautiful to me,’ Thomas said earnestly. ‘But I am sorry to have broken in upon your morning’s work. Do you find it onerous, ma’am?’

  ‘Why no! I like to keep myself occupied…’ Unreasonably Gina was irritated by the note of sympathy in his voice. ‘And I am accustomed to dealing with my own affairs…I have done it for so long, you see.’

  Thomas shook his head. ‘You are so brave, but it must be a strain on you. Ladies have no head for figures, so I understand. Sometimes you must feel the need for help…for a guiding hand perhaps?’

  He did not see the flash of anger in her eyes. Gina did not welcome interference, and the only guiding hand which she would tolerate was denied to her. She was almost tempted into a sharp retort, but she bit back the words. Thomas was on dangerous ground, but he meant only to be kind.

  ‘I find that I have a head for figures,’ she said mildly. ‘Mr Newby, it is good of you to be concerned, but you must not worry about me…’

  The next moment Thomas was on his knees beside her chair, endeavouring to seize her hands.

  ‘How can I help it?’ he cried. ‘Oh, Lady Whitelaw…Gina…I love you with all my heart. I long for nothing more than to share your burdens…to make you happy. That would be my purpose for the rest of my days. Will you marry me?’

  Gina was startled into silence. She looked down at the eager face of her companion in shocked surprise, and there was no encouragement in her expression.

  ‘Mr Newby, please get up,’ she said at last. ‘I am touched by your concern for me, but I fear that it has carried you away. Believe me, I have no thought of marriage at this present time.’

  Thomas stayed where he was. ‘Tell me at least that I may hope,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll wait for you for ever, if need be. I mean…until you have given some thought to my proposal. I may not be the cleverest of men, but I can offer you a loving heart.’

  ‘I know that, Mr Newby.’ Gently Gina withdrew her hands from his clasp. ‘Your heart will be given, in time, to a lady who returns your regard.’

  Thomas could not mistake her tone. He rose to his feet. ‘As you do not, Lady Whitelaw?’

  ‘I value you as a dear friend,’ she said, ‘Friendship is important in a marriage, naturally, but there must be something more…’

  ‘You speak of love? But surely that might come in time. I’d do my best to make you love me…’

  ‘Love cannot be forced,’ she told him quietly. ‘Mr Newby, I have had experience. My late husband was the best of men. He was my closest friend. I have not spoken of this before to anyone, but I want to make you understand. Sir Alastair and I were happy together, but there was something missing…If I were to marry again it would not be on the basis of friendship alone.’

  ‘There ar
e worse things,’ he protested.

  ‘True, but there are also better things…’ Gina fell silent.

  ‘Is there someone else?’ he demanded miserably.

  Gina gave him a long look and he blushed to the roots of his hair.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said quickly. ‘I had no right to ask that question. Will you forgive me?’

  ‘Of course.’ Gina smiled at him and held out her hand. ‘I intend to ride this morning. Will you go with me, Mr Newby?’

  ‘A pleasure and an honour, ma’am.’

  ‘Then give me a few moments to change my dress. I shall not keep you waiting long.’

  She was as good as her word, but they had scarcely left the outskirts of the village before they saw a horseman in the distance, riding towards them at breakneck speed.

  ‘Ain’t that Giles? What the devil…? Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Whitelaw. Didn’t mean to swear, but he’ll kill both himself and the mare if he don’t slow down.’

  Giles was upon them before she could reply.

  ‘Turn back!’ he ordered sharply. ‘I have bad news!’ He had eyes only for Gina, and she searched his face in terror. Her first thought was for the girls.

  ‘Mair and Elspeth?’ she said faintly. ‘Has something happened to them?’

  His hand went out to grip her shoulder. ‘Nothing like that, Gina, but my news is serious. Spencer Perceval was assassinated yesterday in the House of Commons…’

  ‘The Prime Minister?’ Thomas was incredulous. ‘Is it a conspiracy?’

  ‘We don’t know yet, but we can’t discuss it here. When we get back to Abbot Quincey I’ll tell you all I know.’

  Chapter Nine

  Obediently, Gina turned for home. Then Thomas seized her reins.

  ‘Please don’t do that,’ she said through gritted teeth. ‘I can manage Beau myself…’

  ‘But, ma’am, the shock!’

  ‘Mr Newby, I have suffered shock before…’ Gina spurred her horse ahead before she uttered words which she would be certain to regret.