The Spinster and the Earl

by Beverly Adam

  “Yes, Snipes,” he said, sipping his mulled wine. His eyes glazed with a madman’s dreams. “It’s time we put our plan into action. Contact your friend.”

  Placing a pile of gold coins on the table, he began to make concrete his own plans for the Spinster of Brightwood Manor to become his bride.

  * * *

  Under an almost cloudless blue sky, Lady Beatrice found herself floating along in a boat rowed by young Lord Reginald Fortescue. Normally, she would have found the company of the young lord to be a bit overpowering, like too much perfume, cloying, overly sweet. But not today. Today was glorious no matter whose company she found herself in.

  She had spent half of the previous night dreamily thinking about the earl and his proposal. She had not yet confided in anyone what had passed between herself and the handsome master of the house. Not even to her inquisitive aunt, who was usually so uncannily aware of all that occurred in the castle. No one knew of their meeting last night.

  “Did you enjoy yourself last night, Lord Reginald?” she asked, lazily letting her fingertips dip into the cool water of the lake.

  “Not exceptionally,” murmured the young lord. Then not able to resist a tiny jibe, he added, “Not like some ladies and gentlemen in the assembly I can think of.”

  “Is that so?” Blithely smiling, Beatrice adjusted her parasol to her right shoulder. The lace silk sunscreen twirled fetchingly in her gloved hands. She did not realize what a pretty picture she made in her yellow poplin afternoon gown trimmed with white lace, her dark curls spread about her as she leaned comfortably back into a pile of pillows, her emerald eyes half-closed, dreamily thinking of the gentleman she’d kissed.

  “Faith, I had such a glorious time last night myself. Captain James, I mean His Grace,” she blushed, “took a great deal of care in planning for the ball, supervising nearly every detail of it himself. I do believe everyone had such a grand time dancing.” She sighed blissfully, remembering the feel of his hands on hers as they waltzed.

  “Including his exalted self,” murmured the disgruntled young lord, jealously remembering the way he’d seen the lady and the earl together on the balcony.

  “What was that you say?” asked Beatrice, suddenly sitting up and causing the boat to rock a little.

  The young lord stopped his rowing and looked her directly in the eyes, water dripping from the oars. “It was noticed that your ladyship and His Grace did not return immediately to the ballroom after you finished your dance,” he said, his face placidly shuttered from any revealing expression. “So I went looking for you, Lady O’Brien, supposing you had taken a stroll out onto the balcony for a breath of fresh air.”

  “I . . . uh . . . that is, I did,” she said, a telling tinge of pink staining her cheeks. Suddenly, she recalled that if the earl had not asked her to dance, she would have with Lord Reginald.

  She cast a questioning look at the young lord before her. Had he been witness to her and the earl’s embrace? If so . . .

  “Lord Reginald, I—” she stammered, but found she could not continue. It was far too embarrassing.

  “Yes, Lady Beatrice.”

  “I, uh—that is—I regret missing our dance last night,” she said. “And I don’t want you to think that I don’t esteem your friendship. It was intolerably rude of me to have forgotten you were next on my dance card.”

  “Not to fret, my dear,” he said reaching for her hand.

  She immediately stopped her ramblings. She looked at him.

  “Lady Beatrice,” he said, swallowing. “I want you to know that it is I who value your friendship. At one time I thought our friendship might develop further into something dearer, at least I thought that would happen. There had been for me a hope it would grow and allow us perhaps to contemplate a match between us.”

  He sighed deeply, as if lifting off a heavy burden that had been hanging over his head since they first met. He thrust aside his mother’s dire warnings of cutting him off without a guinea. He was a man, not a puppet. Now he intended to cut the invisible maternal strings that had been dictating his actions all week.

  “I now realize that we would never suit. Lady Beatrice, it would appear you and I were meant to remain simply friends.”

  Beatrice leaned over the oars and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, Lord Reginald. I would like that. I have so few.”

  At that the young lord laughed. “And that is why, madam, almost every gentleman on this lake watching us right now would like nothing better than to hang me by my own cravat. And if I’m not mistaken, one gentleman in particular is glaring daggers at me in a rather dangerous manner. I hope he doesn’t decide to call me out after this. I’ve grown rather fond of not having any holes in my tender hide.”

  “For sure now?” she asked laughing, highly amused at the thought. The idea of someone fighting a duel over her was absurd. Turning her head in the direction of the shore, she glanced to see of whom he spoke.

  Her hand stilled above the water. She ought to have known. He stood there, imperiously watching them, lordly with impatience as he awaited her return to shore.

  “Aye, so it is him,” she said pleased, for it was none other than the Earl of Drennan.

  She winked at the young lord. “And a grand sight he is, too, if I don’t mind saying so, my lord.”

  “Are you contemplating a match then, ma’am?” asked the young lord, and strangely felt a tinge of envy for his rival.

  She shrugged, sobering at the question, her eyes never leaving the shore where the earl stood watching. “I confess I am contemplating the question.”

  “Hmm . . . ,” murmured the young lord, eyeing the shore and the man. “I’d decide quickly if I were you. He doesn’t strike me as a very patient fellow.”

  * * *

  When they reached the shore, the Earl of Drennan came and stood in the knee-high water. He held his hand out for her as she stood, ready for the moment when she would step out of the boat and onto the pebbled shore. Unexpectedly, the bottom of the boat hit the sand. Caught off balance, she fell heavily against his sturdy chest.

  He smiled wickedly down at her, and without any warning, swooped her up into his arms and carried her effortlessly to the shore.

  “Did you thank young Lord Fotescue for the ride, my dear?” he asked looking down at her with a possessive gleam in his eyes.

  “I did, my lord. Why?”

  “Because from now on, my sweet, I intend to be the only one allowed to be alone with you in a boat.”

  “Indeed, sir,” she said smiling, listening to the happy, steady thumping of his heart.

  “Yes, vixen,” he murmured into her ear. And when they reached dry land, he reluctantly put her down.

  A group of young dandies made their appearance, boisterously insisting that they needed her ladyship to come settle an important dispute between them. Without a backward glance at their host, they proceeded to whisk her away.

  * * *

  On the morrow, the first planned hunt turned out to be a misty one. North Sea fog rolled into the hills and valleys surrounding the castle. A light, hazy rain had dampened the fields the night before. Spring flowers bloomed brightly in contrast along the sheep paths beyond the stone fence. One’s blood raced with anticipation at the sound of baying hounds. It was, in Lady Beatrice’s opinion, a glorious morn for a hunt.

  She watched attentively the Master of the hunt come up the castle drive, a tall, dignified Irish gentleman about fifty years of age with gray sideburns and a portly figure. He was dressed in a striking, scarlet hunting jacket, black, polished hunting boots, and wore an elegant tri-corn with a single pheasant feather gaily saluting from the hatband. He carried a beautiful silver flask on his belt with the best hunting recipe in the parish, perhaps even the entire country.

  She smiled and waved a hand in recognition. For it was her own father, Lord O’Brien, who served as Master of the hunt. She did not know by what miracle had brought about his leading, but she highly suspected it figured with her
. The sporting lord rarely loaned himself and his hounds to anyone, no matter how important his consequence. He valued his hounds far more than his neighbors or any of the puffed-up English titled.

  The servants stood about in the Earl of Drennan’s livery, passing out hot tankards of mulled port or watered whiskey topped with cloves and a dash of sugar on lemon rinds to the assembled gentry.

  Among the castle’s guests were many familiar faces, those of Urlingford locals, among whom she had grown up hunting. Many came by and greeted her with smiles, nods, and a kind word.

  Her father grinned at her as he passed on her left, begrudgingly admitting to the castle’s hostess, “The brew’s passable, m’dear. Although mind, it doesna have the numb blinding effect of one of me own. But I suppose that be for the best, as I donna want anyone knocked off his mount before we get started.”

  “Aye, sir, ’tis best we save that event for the hunt itself!” she quipped with a coquettish wave of her whip. This light remark brought about a scatter of chuckles from those nearby, who knew that before the day was out, several of the assembled followers would find either themselves, or their mounts, the fallen losers in the field.

  Captain James, she noted with surprise, was mounted on a superb black thoroughbred that appeared to be a little high strung. The animal kicked out at another horse from behind him that had drawn a little too close.

  He was elegantly attired in a black-waisted hunting jacket and sported a matching black hat with a modern brim. His white cravat was properly tied in the square knotted mathematical and held firmly in place to his starched white shirt by a sapphire stud. Although his mount appeared to be spirited, the earl looked completely at ease on the animal, and she noticed he remained admirably in control of the horse’s movements.

  She had thought that maybe he would forego that day’s hunting due to his previous injury from the bog. The hunt would not be the simple easy trot into the countryside that they had enjoyed together when she had shown him the parish. The hunt required a great deal of stamina and skill. Not only because of the demands of the obstacles met in the field, but because it was not uncommon to remain mounted on one’s horse up to six hours at a time.

  One of the whips in charge of the dogs approached Beatrice and asked where the final rendez-vous place would be at the end of the day’s hunt. She answered that they would stop at the castle for a repast at midday. She glanced again in Captain James’s direction when she heard his horse give a snort of eagerness to be off.

  He caught her glance and brazenly winked at her, tipping the brim of his hat.

  She blushed, remembering the feel of his strong, sturdy arms beneath her when he had carried her away from the boat.

  Her father gave the signal to release the dogs from their pens.

  The hunters, who for the most part were seated on their own sturdy mounts, which they’d brought expressly for the purpose of this event, prepared themselves.

  Beatrice watched her father lead. The whipper-ins were in charge of the hounds and the assembled hunters followed them down to the field below the castle.

  Red foxes were frequently sighted by the old castle ruins, having dug sturdy dens full of numerous exits and entrances under the fallen stones. A more perfect place to find foxes would not be found in the entire parish. The castle was located near a thickly bracketed field not too far from ripe crops of grain. The foxes ate and hunted mice and ground fowl, which made it a perfect habitat for their game.

  A forest grew along a quick running stream, which ran through the fields. It was perfectly suitable terrain for the horses to follow the dogs as they chased the line of scent of the chosen game.

  Lord O’Brien gave the order to cast the hounds, which meant setting the pack loose in a set pattern in search of the scent. Upon casting, the huntsman blew his horn signaling the beginning of the hunt. Everyone waited with anticipation. From a bush down near where the ruins met a cornfield, a red fox slipped out from under the broken remains of a toppled chimney.

  Espying the reynard, as the fox was affectionately called by the huntsmen, the Master of the Hunt lifted his hat in the direction of the fox.

  “Tally ho!” he yelled out to all, immediately following the dogs on the field that were already in pursuit. Lady Beatrice and the others followed from behind. It was bad form to pass the Master and the dogs during a hunt.

  The first obstacle in the form of a sturdy sheep rail loomed up quickly. Beatrice watched with admiration as her father and the whips jumped over the fence. The dogs ran rapidly beneath it. The rail did not so much as twitch or twang at their passing.

  She rode a good, solid horse that day. It was a white mare, who was fresh and willing to go wherever commanded. Eagerly, she followed them, her horse jumping the rail effortlessly as she kept her seat.

  The earl and Beau Powers followed, both of them successfully making it over. The next gentleman rider, young Lord Reginald Fortescue, was not to be so blessed. The back hooves of his horse knocked off the top post.

  She turned to see two debutantes stuck behind the fumbling jumper. Their horses, now skittish from the falling post, refused to take the jump. It was only on their second attempt that they were able to follow over the post. It was at that moment the pace of the hunt quickened. The fox was spotted again. It appeared as a red dot off in the distance, racing across the stream. The hounds were a grave danger to his brush, as his tail was so fondly called.

  “Grand day for a hunt, Mistress O’Brien!” called out one of the tenant farmers. He tipped his hat as she passed him leaving the field.

  She waved a hand in greeting at several of the workers who had gathered in the field to watch the gentry.

  “Yes, it is, Master Flanagan!” She nodded in agreement and with a click of her tongue set her horse at a brisk trot to catch up with her father and the hounds. The hunt then raced across the muddy path near the brook where the previous night’s rain had left pools of wet and muck.

  She could not help but laugh out loud as she witnessed dainty Laeticia Powers, who had been trying to keep up with the earl, receive a direct hit from a flying clod of mud from the rider in front of her. The pocket Venus had not been paying attention to the path ahead and took the flying mud clod squarely on her face, dirtying her dainty nose, mouth, and chin. She now wore a mask of splattered mud and dirt.

  Not surprisingly, young Lord Fortescue gallantly rode up to the pretty blonde and offered her his monogrammed kerchief with which to wipe her face.

  Upon entering the woods, they met their next obstacle, the dark running stream. The horse in front of Beatrice, a dappled gray quarter horse, which belonged to one of the whips, balked at the water.

  Her own mount hesitated only briefly, she was proud to say later, and effortlessly sailed over the stream. Others, including Captain James and Beau Powers, did not manage quite so well.

  She watched as Captain James came up from behind. He looked a little ruffled and dirty from his own mount’s balking and leaving him on the ground. But with a tip of his hat and a happy smile, he rode on.

  It was at this point by the water’s edge that the hounds lost the fox’s scent and the riders took a needed pause.

  Hunting flasks were passed around as all shared a word or two about how they had so far fared. Already some of the hunters had given up and returned to the castle.

  The quest for other game and another run took them until midday. At this point, her father and the whipper-ins called an end to the hunt and a return to the castle.

  She did not know how it came to pass, but as she was turning towards the castle, her horse stumbled near the stream. She dismounted to check the animal’s hooves and legs. She had to be certain it was not lame.

  Captain James and Beau Powers reined in their mounts. James lightly dismounted. Self-conscious of the handsome gentlemen watching her, she made a few quick brushes at her riding habit and tidied a thick strand of hair back into place. She was not aware of how pretty she looked when she did so. The
sparkling stream and green forest served as a picturesque backdrop behind her.

  “Lovely day, isn’t it?” said Beau Powers, removing his hat gallantly and smiling down at her from his gelding, Aries. His own handsome blue eyes shone with amusement at how the earl had tossed that lucky coin of his and won the privilege of being the one to dismount and help the winsome lady.

  Blushing, secretly delighted that the two most handsome and dashing gentlemen of the field had stopped to check on her, Beatrice answered, “Aye sir. ’Tis as grand a day as we could wish for. Lord O’Brien, to be sure, ought to be pleased. Monsieur Le Reynard led us a merry chase.” She watched as the earl checked her mount for any possible injuries.

  “And how are you, my lady?” he asked when he’d finished his inspection.

  Lowering her eyes, she smiled, dimples appearing, “I’m fine, Your Grace. ’Twas kind of you and Master Powers to stop and keep me company.”

  Nodding, he said, “I think it’s safe for you to remount. May I offer you a leg up?” He cupped his hand under her right foot at the ready and pushed her gently up into the saddle. Then he swung up on his own mount. His sapphire blue eyes shining with delight at the beautiful, dark-haired lady whose hunting hat was now coquettishly tilted to one side.

  “Uh—hmm.” Beau Powers coughed discreetly, reminding the couple of his presence.

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” murmured Beatrice.

  “The pleasure, my dear, was all mine,” he answered, tipping his hat. The trio turned their horses in the direction of the castle. Upon their arrival, a sumptuous feast, presided over by the ever-efficient Davis, was served soon afterwards.

  Chapter 10

  Blissful thoughts of happiness were not, however, what occupied Aunt Agnes’s keen mind at supper that night. She had been closely observing the one person at the table with whom she was well acquainted, her niece. And she was worried. Beatrice had not taken more than a few nibbles of food off the full plate set before her.

  Her young niece was not known to eat like a little twittering bird. And knowing that her niece had planned the menu, Aunt Agnes quickly dismissed the notion that the food somehow had not agreed with Beatrice.