by Amanda Scott
Tiffany held her breath and the countess smiled ruefully. “I don’t know what we have done to deserve you, Catheryn. You leave me nothing to say. I doubt that Richard will approve, but you may go to Teddy with my blessing and my gratitude. You must travel post, however,” she added more briskly, “else you will be all night on the road. You may take Bert and Mary, of course, but you must not be dependent upon that dreadful Ben.”
“Then that’s settled. Will you be comfortable now, if Tiffany comes to help me pack? That is,” she added with a twinkle, “if she doesn’t mind.”
“Mind! I guess I don’t!” exclaimed that young lady. The countess assured them that she would do nicely, thank you, now that she knew Teddy would be in capable hands. “More capable than if she went herself, I promise you,” Tiffany confided with a giggle as they were climbing the stairs a moment later. “Mama always retires to her sofa with hartshorn and salts when one of us is ill.” Catheryn smiled vaguely, her mind occupied with a mental list of things to be done. She had no desire to be caught by darkness on the road, and Dambroke Park was nearly thirty miles away. To be leaving at half past six would be cutting it very fine. Tiffany paused on the step, biting her lip, and Catheryn turned impatiently to see what kept her. “I ought not to have said that about Mama,” Tiffany said in a small voice. “It was unkind, just as my behavior in the drawing room was childish. Richard is right. I shall never learn.”
“Nonsense,” was the crisp reply. “You simply want to learn to think before you act instead of afterward. I was angry before because you were making a bad situation worse. As to what you said just now about your mother, I am afraid I wasn’t attending. No, no, I beg you won’t repeat it. It is enough that you think I shall disapprove. If you think it, you are very likely right. Now, come along, do!”
As soon as they reached Catheryn’s room she rang for Mary and a footman. The latter, an abashed and profoundly apologetic Michael, was sent to give the order for the chaise and to alert the postillions and Ditchling. Tiffany informed Catheryn that Dambroke kept his own teams stabled along the Great North Road. “He usually only changes twice,” she said, “at Barnet and Welwyn, but he keeps horses in two or three other places as well, so he can travel more rapidly if need be. I’m not certain where, but the boys will know. Just tell them you wish to make all speed. It usually takes two and a half to three hours. You’ll never make it before dark, Catheryn.”
She feared Tiffany was right. Although she moved as quickly as possible and spurred the others to similar activity, it was twenty minutes to seven before Catheryn and Mary were tucked into the chaise under fur rugs. Nestled at their feet was a woven basket sent by Jean-Pierre, for even in the flurry of packing, Catheryn had not forgotten to send word requesting something with which to ward off starvation.
Ditchling and young Ben were waiting, and Catheryn’s eyes widened when she realized Bert was riding her own Psyche. He caught the look and grinned, begging her pardon for the presumption but pointing out that she plight like to have the nag along in case she had time, to indulge in her favorite form of exercise. Laughing, she agreed it was an excellent notion, and moments later, the team of matched grays leaped forward.
They rolled along over the cobbled streets to the Holloway Road, then through Islington Spa and across Finchley Common to the Great North Road. Two miles later, they drew into Barnet and pulled up at the small inn where the earl kept his team. Although the kitchen basket had been opened before they reached the Great North Road, there was plenty left, and Catheryn passed bread, meat, and fruit out to Ditchling and the young groom, while they waited for the change. The postillions had supped before leaving. So had Ben, but he confessed to hunger pangs, and Catheryn, recognizing a kindred spirit, was generous.
By the time they completed the second stage, splashes of crimson, apricot, and lavender had spread across the western sky; and by the time they reached Welwyn, it was dusk. Catheryn leaned out long enough to order the post boys to relax the pace a bit as it grew darker. It wouldn’t do to lose a wheel or have a horse step in a chuckhole. But no such mishap occurred, and before she realized how much time had passed, Ditchling was leaning down to shout that they were nearly there.
Dambroke Park was located southwest of Stevenage and some two or three miles off the Great North Road. The chaise turned into a private road just after passing a wayside inn, proclaimed by a torchlit sign to be the Running Bull. From the noise issuing from the taproom when they passed, Catheryn deduced it to be a popular gathering place for the local country folk. She could still hear faint echoes of revelry when the chaise slowed for the turn. A short time later, by the light of a rising full moon, she saw the large gates of the Park swing open. One of the postillions called out a cheerful greeting to the lodgekeeper, and she soon caught a glimpse of that worthy himself, plump and smiling, his lantern casting a warm glow across his ruddy cheeks.
It was still some distance to the house. The drive was lined on both sides with trees and thick shrubs; and, had it not been for the moonlight trickling and dancing on the branches and leaves, it would have seemed almost as though they traveled through a tunnel. The drive widened, and the trees broke away in a line that would eventually encircle the house and gardens. The house itself was now visible, and it was evident that they were expected. Light blazed from nearly every window of the massive central block and spilled out the front door. Catheryn just had time to take in the immense size of the place before the chaise swung between two stone lions on pedestals and onto a circular drive. Moments later, it rolled to a stop. She heard Mary let out a long breath.
“My, miss, but the place is huge!”
“Have you not been here before, Mary?” They had spoken occasionally on the journey, but the dust from the road and the constant noise of the horses and chaise made lengthy conversation difficult, and the subject had not arisen.
“No, miss,” Mary replied, peering out with wonder in her eyes. “I’m a Londoner, I am.” The door to the chaise was jerked open, and Catheryn found herself looking into the surprised face of a strange footman. She allowed him to help her alight and, with Mary right behind her, proceeded up the broad steps and into the great hall.
Twin fireplaces blazed merrily at either end, and chandeliers glowed with hundreds of little flames. Catheryn paid little heed to the splendor of the huge room, however, as she introduced herself to Carlson, the underbutler, and asked to see Miss Felmersham or, if she had retired, Mr. Ashley. She rather hoped it would be Mr. Ashley, since both the footman and Carlson had looked at her rather oddly. There was the unquestionable crest on the chaise door, however, as well as the familiar post boys, and now she seemed to have mentioned magic names. Carlson smiled, seeming at once more approachable.
“Miss Lucy was expecting his lordship, Miss Westering. She keeps early hours but left orders to be called when my lord arrived. I sent to advise her when we heard the chaise.”
Catheryn could restrain herself no longer. “How is Master Teddy, Carlson?”
“He’s fair knocked up, miss, but not in danger. Miss Lucy will tell you. Mr. Ashley is with him now. He won’t have heard the chaise, but I can send for him if you like.”
A moment before she would have accepted the offer with gratitude, but Carlson’s friendliness restored her courage. “No, thank you,” she replied. “I shall want to go up to him myself after I’ve spoken to Miss Felmersham. But perhaps someone could show Mary where I am to sleep, so that she can get settled.” Carlson immediately began to give instructions to the young footman but broke off when a door to the left of the entry was flung open. An elderly woman emerged, fastening a gray wool dressing gown that had seen better days.
“Richard!” she exclaimed without looking up. “So you are here at last, my lord. I expect I ought to beg your pardon for barging through your study, but it is the quickest way, you know. Dear me!” She stopped short and adjusted her spectacles with a rather bewildered look on her face. “Who are you and where is Dambroke?”
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Miss Felmersham wore her serviceable dressing gown over a high-necked nightdress and quite obviously had been roused from her sleep. Her nightcap was not exactly askew, but strands of gray hair had escaped its confines, and her pale blue eyes were bleary behind the wire-rimmed spectacles. She was not much taller than Catheryn and weighed a great deal less, so it was more than a little disconcerting when she thrust her head forward to peer at her, rather, thought Catheryn, like some strange bird ready to peck out the eyes of an intruder to her nest. Hastily introducing herself, Catheryn extracted a note written by the countess from her reticule and handed it to her.
“Indeed,” said Miss Felmersham testily, unfolding the note, “but where is Dambroke?” Catheryn explained and, while the old lady grunted and began to scan the note, reviewed what she had heard about her. Miss Lucy Felmersham had more than sixty years in her dish and had supposedly decided long since that she had no need to please anyone but herself. Criticized by an elder brother for not making a push to nab a husband who would support her in his place, she had applied to her cousin, Elizabeth, recently married to the sixth Earl of Dambroke. Elizabeth had welcomed her as companion and friend. In the course of years and differing interests, the two drifted apart but, by that time, Miss Felmersham was so much a fixture at the Park that it occurred to no one to wonder why she did not leave. She pursued her own interests and made herself useful by managing things when the family was in town. She folded the note and pushed her spectacles higher on her nose.
“So, you’ve come to tend the boy. Well, you’re welcome, of course, though I can’t imagine why Dambroke should waste his time over a man known only for wars and riots when his own kin have need of him. However, that’s neither here nor there. May as well go on up, I expect.” Without waiting for a response, she turned away, clearly expecting Catheryn to follow. “Young Ashley will be glad to see you, no doubt. Insisted on sitting with Edward himself, though there’s no need for it, I’m thinking. Still, Peter always was a stubborn lad, from the cradle.”
They had passed into an octagonal staircase hall, and half of Catheryn’s attention digressed to the magnificent stone staircase and intricately carved oak paneling. Dambroke family portraits followed the graceful curve of the stair as it swooped up and around six sides of the hall to a landing from which three doors opened. Miss Felmersham, silent now, charged through the nearest and turned left with near military precision, then turned again and proceeded up a carpeted service stair. Catheryn puffed after her. “Then Teddy is not seriously injured?”
“Early days yet, Dr. Quigley tells us.” Her words were crisp, and she had a habit of clipping them as though to be done with each one as quickly as possible. “Boy’s like a blasted cat though. Always lands on his feet. Figuratively, of course, but I do not think he landed on his head. Quigley fears concussion. More of an old woman than I am! Naught ails that lad but a cracked rib or two and a passel of bruises. Deserves them, too, to my way of thinking,” she added bluntly, pushing open the schoolroom door without ceremony.
XV
PETER ASHLEY SCRAMBLED TO his feet, letting the book he had been reading slip to the floor. “How you startled me!” he exclaimed. “This room is nearly soundproof. Welcome, Miss Westering. You can’t know how grateful I am to see you.”
Catheryn smiled as he bent to retrieve his book, but she spoke anxiously. “How is Teddy, Mr. Ashley? Miss Felmersham insists it is not so bad as we’d feared.”
“As to that, ma’am, and not knowing what you feared—”
“That he was dead, like as not,” interjected Miss Felmersham tartly.
Catheryn blushed. “There was a slight misunderstanding at first,” she admitted, “but we truly didn’t know what to think.”
“I see. Well, just let me shut this door a bit. Quigley dosed him with laudanum. Didn’t like to with possible concussion, but he said the pain would keep the boy awake otherwise, and he wanted him to sleep.” He glanced into the darkened night nursery before pulling the door to and motioning them to seats in front of the fire. Miss Felmersham sighed.
“Might as well ring for tea,” she said. “Brevity is not one of your virtues.” She gave the bell a tug. Ashley was just explaining how he had returned with his cousin from Baldock only that afternoon and had received word at his father’s house via the servants’ grapevine of Teddy’s accident, when the young footman entered with the tea tray. It occurred to Catheryn that Carlson must have given the order even before Miss Felmersham rang, in order for the tea to have arrived so quickly.
She examined the contents of the tray with approval. A chubby teapot nestled between a large plate of buttered toast and a basket of apple muffins. Thick mugs and small crocks of creamy butter and jam rattled against cutlery as the tray was deposited. Catheryn helped herself to a muffin and passed the plate to Ashley while Miss Felmersham poured out the tea.
“Thank you, John,” Ashley said to the departing footman. Then he grinned at Catheryn. “I daresay I’ve not had tea by a schoolroom fire since I left my old school.”
“Well, I never have,” stated Miss Westering between bites of buttered muffin, “never having had a schoolroom.”
“Get on with your tale, Peter,” ordered Miss Felmersham, “else we’ll be here all night. Did they find young Nat?”
“No, Miss Lucy. At least, if they did, I’ve heard nothing about it. Nat Tripler is Teddy’s friend,” he explained to Catheryn, adding with a grin, “one of the sort I mentioned before. Seems he was here when Teddy was thrown. I heard about it from young Hobbs. You met his father in London.” Catheryn nodded. “Well, he saw the accident but couldn’t tell from where he stood whether Teddy landed on his head or not. He thought young Nat might know. Nat’s father, Ben Tripler, owns the Running Bull, that inn you passed on the road, and John is sweet on Nat’s sister, Hilda, so he knows the family fairly well. I sent him to see if Nat could tell us anything, but they hadn’t seen hide nor hair of the boy. Seems he’s supposed to be off helping his Uncle Harry, one of Dambroke’s tenants, with some job or other.” Catheryn’s head was beginning to spin with all the unfamiliar names, but she didn’t want to interrupt. Ashley went on. “Ben said he’d send Nat over if he could add to what we know. I think Miss Lucy’s right, though, and Teddy landed on his shoulder. It’s very badly bruised.” He grinned at the old lady. “Miss Lucy is not happy with the situation.”
“Certainly not,” she asserted. “Dambroke ought to have known what would happen when he sent that dratted boy down here to cut up all my peace!”
Catheryn restrained a chuckle and tried to sound sympathetic, for she found Miss Felmersham rather formidable and had no wish to offend her. “But his lordship could not possibly have anticipated that Teddy would try to ride Blaze,” she protested mildly. “I know he gave strict orders when he sent the horse down here that no one was to ride him.” Miss Felmersham responded with a sound very like a snort, and Ashley carefully avoided meeting Catheryn’s eye.
“Don’t I know it, ma’am?” He shrugged expressively, his voice tinged with amusement. “You should have heard poor young Hobbs! I don’t know whether he’s more afraid of facing his father or the earl! He thinks Nat dared Teddy, but isn’t sure the whole idea wasn’t Teddy’s from the outset. Hobbs told one of the undergrooms to put a lead on Blaze so they could turn him out to graze. The boy said later that Teddy offered to do it for him. The upshot is that Teddy bridled him, mounted him, and before Hobbs or anyone knew what he was about, bolted out of the stable toward the paddock. He’s a bruising rider and might have been all right but for Straley’s big yellow mongrel. The mutt ripped after them, barking like mad, and spooked Blaze. With a saddle he might have stayed put, but when the horse wheeled on the dog, horse and boy parted company.” Ashley grimaced. “I’m glad I’m telling you and not his lordship. When I anticipated this conversation I pictured it being a shade more uncomfortable than it is. I expect I’ve still got that bit to look forward to in London, however.”
Cath
eryn appreciated the fact that he had not questioned her arrival in place of either Dambroke or the countess but had just accepted her and been grateful. She explained the earl’s absence, and Ashley expressed great shock over Perceval’s assassination, much more than Miss Felmersham had shown. Catheryn knew he wanted to pursue politics as an eventual career, though she thought personally that, if Dambroke could spare him, Peter would be a greater success as a diplomat. He had that rare knack for making each person within his sphere of influence feel special, and she knew the countess’s ball would never have been such a success had he not constantly served as a buffer between her ladyship’s capricious whims and the servants’ outraged sensibilities. He was frowning now.
“I must return as quickly as possible. His lordship no doubt has much for me to do. I had hoped to be here to introduce Mark to you tomorrow, but now….”
“You cannot leave before morning, Peter,” Miss Felmersham declared, “but you will want to be away at first light, I daresay, so I suggest we go to bed at once.” She stood up, brushed crumbs from her dressing gown, and pushed a loose strand of hair under her cap. Catheryn volunteered to sit with Teddy, but the old lady scoffed at the idea and Ashley insisted it was unnecessary. A bed had been made up for him in the old nanny’s room and, with the doors open, he would be certain to hear the boy if he called out in the night.
Catheryn let herself be persuaded but tiptoed into the nursery before allowing Miss Felmersham to show her to her own chamber. Holding a candle to light her way and with Ashley close behind her, she looked down at the sleeping boy. He was very still and pale, his breathing harsh. Ashley whispered that, according to Quigley, these symptoms were but normal effects of the laudanum, and with that explanation she had to be satisfied.