Angel's Guardian

by Scottie Barrett

  “He’s a handsome one. Divine dimples,” Tabby said with a wink only Angeline could see as she tidied up the sideboard.

  “Is his hair as fair as they say?” Angeline asked.

  “The color of sunlight and eyes so blue—”

  Constance sniffed, her thin nostrils quivering with distaste.

  Tabby didn’t seem to notice the subtle rebuke.

  “May I pay a call?” she asked Constance. “After all the living was initially provided by Silas. Would it not be the polite thing to at least welcome him to the neighborhood?”

  Constance eyed her with distrust. “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” she answered with obvious reluctance.

  Tabby flapped her hand towards Angeline’s plate. “You’ll need stamina for that, so eat your meat. His sister is a whirlwind. There isn’t a soul who visits the vicarage who doesn’t find themselves caught up in some project or other.”

  To keep Tabby quiet, Angeline started in on the bacon. Satisfied, Tabby collected the empty teapot and milk jug.

  “Your uncle allowed for far too much familiarity.” Constance said to Draxford as the door closed behind the maid.

  “Tabby practically raised me,” Angeline said.

  Constance gave a scoffing laugh. “Well, that does rather explain your manners. In future, my dear, please refrain from mentioning your inauspicious beginnings. Being raised by a scullery maid is nothing to boast about.” Constance set down her napkin. “Sentimentality has no place in an efficiently run household. If you’ll excuse me, Major, this must be addressed.”

  Angeline gritted her teeth. Instinct told her that arguing with Constance would only cause more trouble for Tabby.

  Once they were alone, Draxford leaned back in his chair and gave her a hard, considering look. “Do you hope to seduce the poor vicar?”

  Though she could feel a blush flowering in her cheeks her inborn mischievous streak asserted itself again. She attempted a cat-eating-mouse smile. “I’m afraid my repertoire is rather limited. Beyond spreading my legs and petting myself, I really have no other talents.”

  A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Chit, you are in need of taming.” He pushed himself out of the chair and buttoned up his jacket with sharp movements. “You do realize that little outburst has sealed it. There’s not a chance you will be paying a visit to the vicar.”

  She’d known better than to goad him, but she hadn’t been able to help herself. She’d always tested the limits. Silas’s limits had been very elastic. Draxford, on the other hand, preferred her in a cage.

  “Are you my guardian or my gaoler?”

  “Have I a choice? If so, I choose the latter.”

  She set her teacup down with a clatter and lifted her gaze to his hard face. “How I wish Gladys had been appointed my guardian.”

  He lifted one of his black eyebrows with obvious sarcasm, making it clear he wished the very same thing.

  ***

  As agreed, Tabby had attempted to fashion Angeline’s hair into the chignon Constance wore but her heavy hair had unraveled immediately. Not to be defeated, Tabby had begun work on an elaborately braided coiffure fit for a spinster.

  An hour later, Tabby was still looping and winding the braids. She’d used countless pins to secure the labyrinth bun and Angeline’s hair was pulled so tight that blinking felt unnatural. She rubbed her temples, a headache seemed in the offing.

  “Well, that’s done then.” Tabby pushed in the final pin.

  Angeline surveyed the result and wrinkled her nose. It was about the only part of her face that was still mobile.

  “’Tisn’t as bad as all that.” Tabby viewed her handiwork in the mirror with a tilt of her head. “Quite modish actually.” Tabby sounded as if she didn’t believe a word of it. “Now don’t dawdle.”

  Apprehensive about encountering Draxford, and not just because of how she looked, Angeline found reasons to more than dawdle. Their paths had not crossed since breakfast when he’d been so high-handed with her.

  Angeline timed her entrance so that she would at least miss the leisurely soup course. She eased through the dining room door and approached soundlessly on slippered feet. Constance sat at Draxford’s elbow at the end of the long table. She was speaking in confidential tones and Draxford, though silent, seemed to be attending to every word she uttered. He always treated Constance with gentlemanly reserve. He was even exceedingly polite with his aunt though she often rattled on about subjects Angeline was certain did not interest him a jot. It was only his unwanted ward that he had no patience for.

  They broke off from their conversation and lifted their heads as she neared, joining forces, ready to find something objectionable in her behavior. It seemed that their mutual frustration with her always served to unite them. Gladys’s chair was empty. A shame, since her quirky humor lightened the mood and often helped take the focus off Angeline.

  She pulled the chair out, wincing as it scraped on the oaken floor.

  Constance’s mouth pulled down slightly at the corners. “Angeline, you must learn to take a seat unobtrusively, particularly if you are late to the table.”

  Ridiculously, she looked to Draxford for support, but he was scrutinizing her with a lowered brow.

  “What the devil’s with her hair?” he asked Constance.

  “You have no notion how difficult it is to tame. It’s this, or cropping it short.”

  The stem of the wine goblet he was holding snapped in his hand. Angeline jolted in surprise. The red stain spread quickly over the white tablecloth, but he waved away the footman armed with a cloth to soak it up.

  He sat back in his chair and stared at Constance. “That is bloody well not an option.”

  Though Constance responded with a smile, the cords in her neck stood out. “I daresay, you’ve not been to London lately, sir, short curls are quite the thing. Luckily my maid is very skillful at shaping hair. She did wonders with my dear friend Harriet’s.”

  “If anyone comes near her with shears they will be sacked on the spot. On second thought, I will simply hand them their head.”

  Angeline picked up her goblet and sipped her wine enjoying the rare discord between her keepers.

  “Her hair may be too provincial to attract the right sort of man.”

  “Really?” he asked caustically. “Any man too blind to see how beautiful her hair is, would be an undeserving idiot.”

  Constance’s lips thinned. “As her guardian, the decision, of course, is yours.”

  “We are agreed on that at least,” he said.

  Amazed to hear that he actually liked something about her, Angeline found herself assessing his uncompromising features, his handsomeness made more dangerous by the reminders of past battles, the scar which trailed along and emphasized the chiseled jawline, the nose which had been broken more than once. He caught her staring and she quickly averted her eyes.

  His anger continued to vibrate in the air as they all ate in silence.

  Angeline picked at the poached salmon in front of her and then set her fork down in boredom. She lifted her empty glass discreetly gesturing for a refill. Draxford halted the servant’s approach with a shake of his head and she set her glass down with a sigh.

  “Any news from the farms? I heard the Criddles had twins.” Her voice sounded overloud in the hushed atmosphere.

  “The crops have survived the rains. All except Tom Wykes’. And what the rain didn’t wash away, his pigs have either trampled or eaten. The sty is a pile of scraps fit only for kindling.”

  “Poor Thomas.”

  “The man’s worthless. Midday and he could barely rouse himself.”

  “He’s grieving.”

  “His son has been dead a year.”

  “A year is nothing. I assure you his suffering is still acute.”
>
  His gaze locked on her. She knew the pain she felt over losing Silas flickered in her eyes.

  Constance cleared her throat. “Angeline, have you heard? We are to have a ball.”

  “How nice,” Angeline answered absently. She leaned further across the table toward her guardian. “Send Farmer Winter to counsel him. He once found solace from a bottle, but he cured himself.”

  “Even if Wykes pulls himself together it’s doubtful he will earn enough to meet the rent.”

  “Give him something to do. Let him work the mine.”

  He gave a faint lift of his eyebrow. “A drunkard with a pickaxe?”

  “Surely, he could help with sorting the coal.”

  Her pleading left him unmoved. His gray eyes considered her for a moment longer and then he turned his attention back to his meal. The conversation was at an end. The muscle ticking in his jaw was the only indication that her words had made any impression on him at all.

  There would be no convincing Draxford. He was a soldier with rigid self-discipline and no sympathy for people frailer than himself. “Because you are a man with no weaknesses you cannot forgive them in others.”

  He pinned her with a look so fierce she quickly dropped her gaze.

  She scooted her chair back.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” He reached out as though ready to capture her wrist, but he quickly pulled his hand back. With a shock, Angeline realized that at no point since his return had he touched her.

  “I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “You’ll stay until the meal is done.”

  She stifled a cry of vexation as she obeyed him.

  ***

  Angeline awoke the next morning to the stamping of hooves on the drive. Curious, she threw off her warm coverlet and strode to the window. She put her hands on either side of her face against the cold glass and peered out into the gray dawn. She watched as Draxford lifted himself into the saddle. He looked mysterious and darkly handsome clad in his greatcoat with the collar turned up against the chill. Surely, he was leaving early to avoid Angeline pestering him to come along. She quickly realized how conceited a notion that was. Draxford would certainly not alter his schedule just to avoid his ward. More likely he’d gone to evict Wykes. She wondered if her defense of the man had only solidified Draxford’s resolve to expel him from the property.

  It was in a bleaker mood than usual that she trudged up the stairs to the nursery. Constance greeted her with a smile as she opened the door and Angeline was tempted to look behind her to see if the smile was meant for someone else.

  Constance clapped her hands together, her smile broadening. “It took some doing, but I’ve gotten the major to agree to a masquerade theme. Everyone will need to wear a mask. There will be awards for the most original, the prettiest... I realize you’ve been out, but not properly.”

  So that was the reason for Constance’s glee. The ball was meant to put Angeline on parade and hope Stanbury or some other bachelor would make an offer. Draxford was obviously putting off his own marriage until he was rid of her. Perhaps he and Constance were already betrothed and just keeping it a secret. She refused to continue contemplating that heart-wrenching notion and picked through the quills to find the sharpest one.

  Despite her misgivings about the party, once she put the quill to paper, Angeline found herself lost in the process of creating.

  Once she’d laid out the pattern, Angeline began filling in the details for bead color placement. Constance leaned over her shoulder. “Lovely. Would you mind terribly if I use the butterfly idea as well? I’m hopeless when it comes to sketching.”

  “Please do,” Angeline said. What did a frivolous mask matter? Images of Wykes and his family being forced from their home overtook her thoughts. Pretending enthusiasm for the project, she said, “I will need Gladys’s help to realize this design. She is an expert at beadwork.”

  ***

  Knowing how brazen it was to show up unchaperoned, Angeline stared at the vicar’s door deciding whether to knock or flee. The prospect of facing Draxford’s wrath made her knees tremble. But this call wasn’t about her. She quickly rubbed her temples hoping to dispel the headache which had been plaguing her the entire walk to town, then took a deep breath and reached for the knocker. A woman answered the door with a welcoming smile. Flustered, Angeline introduced herself quickly and then started spilling her worries about the farmer and his family.

  “Dear, don’t waste your breath telling me alone,” the woman interrupted. “Let’s find my brother.” She hooked arms with Angeline. “I’m Beatrice,” she said as they strode through the small house and out the back door into a walled garden.

  “Your first challenge, Charles,” the woman called to the crouched figure tying up a drooping plant.

  The man straightened, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and dabbed the sweat from his brow.

  “This is Major Draxford’s ward,” Beatrice said.

  Tabby had exaggerated a little. Though the man was most assuredly handsome, his eyes were not actually a crystal blue more like a muddy indigo and his chin was a little weak. But then Angeline had a tendency of comparing all men to Draxford and they all came up wanting.

  Angeline took another steadying breath and recounted the farmer’s woes again. Encouraged by the vicar’s compassionate expression, she continued, “I was wondering if you might speak with him. Help him deal with his grief. Make him realize that his other children need him.”

  He smiled and the divine dimples made an appearance. “I shall not go empty handed.”

  “Mr. Wykes is a prideful man. He might be insulted by a charitable offering,” Angeline said.

  Beatrice gave Angeline’s arm a comforting pat. “We shall make a few baskets up and explain that the new vicar was distributing them among his flock as a way of introducing himself. That way Mr. Wykes will not feel as if he is being singled out for special attention.”

  Angeline had hoped to relay her concerns and then make it back home before Draxford’s return, but the vicar’s sister was a very persuasive woman and she soon found herself squeezed beside Beatrice in the small open-air carriage.

  The vicar sat on the box, clucking softly to the horse as they traveled the tree-shadowed roads. He pointed out the thriving smithy, the flowering window planters and the fresh paint on the cottages and shops. “I see evidence of your guardian’s influence everywhere. The man has single-handedly brought this village back to life.”

  The vicar slowed the carriage in front of the newly-renovated Twining Ivy Inn. He squinted at the sign posted on the entry gate. “The Moss Knot Colliery is looking to take on workers. I wonder if they’ve hit a rich vein.” He glanced back at Angeline with an expectant look on his face. “As you can imagine, my sister and I are eager to meet our benefactor.”

  Angeline offered a wan smile. The vicar was clearly hoping she’d be able to arrange an introduction. As if Draxford would heed anything his nuisance of a ward suggested.

  Loud voices drew her attention to the tavern. The broad door was ajar and drunken laughter spilled from the dark recesses of the ramshackle building. Someone had painted a thin yellow over the weathered exterior, the owner’s only concession to the restoration of the village. As the carriage rounded the corner, a group of boisterous patrons spilled out onto the road.

  To avoid hitting them, Mr. Firkins yanked hard on the reins. One of the men stopped in front of the stalled carriage and thumbed his hat up to stare at them.

  Angeline swallowed a gasp. The last time she’d seen Turley he’d been unconscious, laying face down in the makeshift boxing ring.

  The big man used the horse’s harness to steady himself as he walked toward the vehicle.

  “Unhand my horse, sir.”

  Turley released the harness and held up his thick hands in mo
ck apology. He gave Angeline an exaggerated wink.

  “Have a care, sir,” Mr. Firkins said.

  “Don’t vex yourself. I am acquainted with Draxford’s sweetheart,” he slurred. He swept the hat from his head and gave a stumbling bow.

  Angeline bristled. “I am the major’s ward.”

  “Ward is it?” His mouth twisted into a leering smile. “Call me surprised. You were such a mighty distraction for him, I nearly took his head off with my fist.”

  Beatrice leaned forward and nudged her brother’s shoulder. “Charles, drive on.”

  The vicar picked up the reins and urged the horse forward. Turley’s sly eyes followed their progress as the carriage picked up speed and Angeline quickly faced forward.

  “I’d heard rumors of that fight.” The vicar spoke loudly to be heard over the creaks of the carriage and the horse’s thundering hoofbeats. “Now I wish I’d been there to watch your guardian drop that villain.”

  Beatrice took Angeline’s trembling hand in hers. “Charles,” she said raising her voice as well. “Speak with the proprietor of the tavern. Persuade him to deny the man service. For men like that, once the ale dries up they move on.”

  The vicar nodded his assent.

  Once outside the village, the vicar slowed the carriage. The ride through the familiar farm lands served to settle Angeline’s nerves. The cool breeze blew wisps of her hair from her face and, despite her nagging headache, she thrilled to the freedom she’d been denied. But as the Wykes’ farm approached she grew anxious again.

  Was that Draxford’s horse grazing in the paddock? Angeline swallowed hard. How long did it take him to kick the man off his property? It was too late to turn back, besides the Firkins would think she was mad if she asked them to wheel the carriage around.

  Mr. Wykes looking sullen but sober hammered away at the fence that enclosed his garden. In the field behind him, his two young sons were holding a mock sword fight with wooden pickets. Mr. Wykes lifted his head as the carriage approached, tugged on the brim of his hat in a listless greeting then continued on with his work.