Debt of Honor

by Ann Clement

  The butler turned to the sideboard, probably chastising himself for his garrulity.

  “Lady Marsden was very disappointed with the changes taking place in the orangery,” Letitia added on a sigh. “I cannot blame her for that. I suppose I would feel uneasy about such alterations if I were in her shoes. Perhaps I should have chosen a different room.”

  Slater turned back to face her.

  “Oh no, my lady,” he said without hesitation. “Her ladyship was the only person who enjoyed her garden, and she has been gone these two years. And if I may beg your ladyship’s pardon for saying things that are on this old servant’s mind, Sir Percival needs a real home. He will work himself to death trying to forget the past, and God knows he did not have too much happi—”

  Slater stopped when the door opened and a maid walked in to take the dishes. He turned to the sideboard again, but not quickly enough to hide the mistiness in his eyes. Letitia pondered his loyalty and devotion to the man who married her for a ruin of an estate and could not forget his first wife.

  But there it was again. No one, except Ethel, said a word about poor Sarah. Could Sir Percival have murdered his wife without anyone noticing a thing? No, wherever Ethel had heard such an accusation, she would have been wiser to keep this piece of gossip to herself. Letitia knew firsthand that gossip had very little connection to the truth, if any at all.

  She put her cup down and asked for the gig to be ready. Civility required that she go to Pythe Park and inquire after Ethel’s ankle today.

  Ethel was in her room, writing letters, when she heard the crunch of gravel under the wheels in the driveway. She peered out the window. If it was one of her father’s cronies, she would have to perform the tea-pouring ritual and listen to their comments on the undesirability of being a widow at her age. Or perhaps it was a tenant, in which case she would not have to do anything at all.

  But her speculations came to an end as soon as she saw the gig and recognized the passenger. Anger caused by Percy’s demands resurged with full force. Her hand trembled a little when she put down the quill, but a few deep breaths returned a modicum of equilibrium.

  Ethel reached for the Journal des Dames and moved to the door.

  “Darling, what an unexpected and wonderful pleasure,” she exclaimed, coming down the stairs into the hallway where Letitia was being divested of her bonnet and gloves by the butler. “Father will be elated if you stay for tea, as will I, of course, and I don’t even need to say that.”

  She looped her free hand through Letitia’s arm and turned toward the door.

  “How is your ankle, Ethel?”

  “Oh, think nothing of it.” Ethel gave a peal of laughter. “It is perfectly fine today. I’m so glad you came. What a lovely day after that horrible storm. Shall we go to the summerhouse? I have so much to tell you. I’m going to Suffolk for a fortnight to visit my aunt, something I do every year, you know. But I also need to order new clothes. Will you help me select something pretty from the magazines?”

  “With pleasure,” Letitia replied, “although it is obvious you do not need any advice.”

  Ethel dissolved into a smile. Of course, she didn’t need anyone’s advice. She had always been the local arbiter elegantiarum, especially after she married Marsden and was spending a great deal of time in London. Marsden liked nice clothes and doted on her.

  But choosing another gown was not the object of this invitation.

  As the evening progressed, Letitia’s mood took a definite downturn. Nearly nine, and no sight of Percy. She glanced at the clock in her sitting room. He must have gone directly to Mrs. Vernon, without any intention of coming home.

  All day she had stupidly looked forward to seeing him again. But why would anything change? Just because they had accidentally met in the fields and ended up riding together did not alter the nature of their relationship. He knew this very well. She felt annoyed with herself that somehow she had expected otherwise.

  “What is bothering you, my dove?”

  Letitia set aside the Journal des Dames Ethel had lent her and shrugged.

  “Where do you think my husband is now?”

  “I cannot know.” Josepha lit the candlestick on the escritoire. “Where do you think he is?”

  “With his mistress. Where else, Josie?”

  “He is not a skirt-chasing type, like that Sir Walter Hasting back in Berkshire. You would have been right in his case, but I do not know why you berate your husband so badly. He is good for you.”

  “He is always absent too. Not that I need his constant company, of course, but I cannot accept the same life as my father imposed on Mama.”

  “Sir Percival is not like the earl.” Josepha shook her head, then smiled. “And you sound jealous.”

  “Jealous? Oh no, Josie.”

  But Josepha’s remark was close enough to the truth to sting. She did feel a little jealous. Not because of what he might be doing with Mrs. Vernon. By all accounts—actually, only one account, she corrected herself—it was a pretty paltry business that every sensible woman would wish to avoid. Yet she did enjoy being with him yesterday, and when he took her hand in his, she felt as if she belonged here, as if his home was the right place for her to be. Well, she was patently wrong.

  Or, maybe she was lucky after all. She was dying to ask another woman, an experienced woman, if that particular business was really so unpleasant, but she could not do so after having been married for more than two weeks without giving away the secret of her marriage. And there was no one to ask, anyway. She’d rather die than confess something like that to Ethel.

  And, if it was truly so bad, why did being in his embrace yesterday feel so good? She had been more than a little alarmed by the new and surprising sensations that overwhelmed her while they were riding together, particularly since they very much concerned those body parts that a lady should never, ever mention, or even admit to the knowledge of their existence.

  “Hmm.” Josepha pursed her lips while she sat in the chair opposite Letitia. “Mr. Petre told me today Sir Percival had spared neither cost nor effort to please his first wife whenever she wanted something. It seems he’s doing the same for you.”

  Letitia scowled. “He may be kind sometimes, but do not compare me to his beloved—” Then she sat up straight in her chair. “Mr. Petre? Where did you encounter him, Josie?”

  “I went to see the hothouses today when you were at Lady Marsden’s,” Josepha explained, her countenance a little dreamy. “Oh, they are so beautiful. Most of the plants from the orangery will be sold, but Mr. Petre gave me two small ones for my room.”

  “I hope he did not put them there personally,” Letitia grumbled. After all the years of vigilance to keep Josepha safe from the vultures of the species, she could not believe it was Josepha herself who was uprooting her efforts and her promise to Mama.

  Josepha grinned, displaying her perfect, white teeth. “He would if I asked, but I did not. No, I put them there myself, with the help of the kitchen maid. They are small and easy to carry.”

  Letitia sighed. Josepha had always been very perceptive when it came to people, although, given all the praises of Percy, her judgment had been faltering lately. But she had just turned thirty two months ago. What kind of advice could Letitia give someone seven years her senior? Especially now when her own thoughts about men—well, one man, really—could be described with only one word: confusion.

  She gazed at the pictures in Ethel’s magazine. The idea had been playing in her mind all day.

  “What do you think, Josie?” she asked, pointing to one of them.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Rose Cottage lived up to its name with delightful accuracy. Hardly an inch of its walls was visible underneath the rambling climbers. Even windows were encased by branches laden with fragrant blossoms. More roses surrounded the terrace behind the house where Letitia sat in a com
fortably cushioned chair while Mrs. Baillie poured tea. The elder lady seemed to live in a paradise.

  “You truly want to paint my portrait, my dear child?” she asked after Letitia disclosed the reason for her visit. “Well, my dear, you flatter me. Of course, if it is going to give you pleasure, you may paint me and my garden to your heart’s delight.”

  Letitia let out a pent-up breath. Mrs. Baillie seemed pleased with the idea, even if she wasn’t entirely convinced about the success of this undertaking. She must have assumed, like almost everybody whenever Letitia admitted to painting, that it was going to be a very amateurish thing.

  Only her mother used to tell her she was as good as Angelica Kauffman. Her mother’s gentle encouragement had always meant a lot to her. It became the foundation of her plan to make her living as a painter in America. Mrs. Baillie and her garden promised to be good practice.

  “It may take a few afternoons,” Letitia explained eagerly. “I shall make sketches to relieve you from spending too much time without moving, and the garden can be painted without your participation, if you agree.”

  “Certainly, my dear. It shall be such fun to have you here, painting in my garden. It promises to be a good summer.”

  “I have been thinking about asking you since my first visit here,” Letitia confessed. “May I start tomorrow?”

  Mrs. Baillie laughed and patted her hand.

  “I expect my man of business from Norwich tomorrow. On Wednesday, my dear child. But you and Percy must join me for dinner afterwards.”

  “That would be lovely, thank you. I do hope the weather holds. And I believe I can safely say my husband will be delighted with the invitation.”

  Truth be told, she was not sure of it at all. She could not imagine Percy would turn down an invitation to the Rose Cottage. But she had not seen him since that stormy afternoon when they rode home together and found Ethel in the orangery. There was no telling when he might put in an appearance in his own house again. Nothing could be done about the weather, but Letitia was determined to twist his arm, if necessary, in case he was not delighted with the prospect of dining with Mrs. Baillie.

  The matter took on some more urgency the next morning since Sir Percival had not come home for the night, or at least not before she fell asleep. If he was not going to come tonight either, the dinner invitation would remain undelivered to half of the invited party. Unwilling to give up her plans simply because he chose to ignore her existence, Letitia decided to find him.

  She called out her gig soon after breakfast.

  “Drive to Wycombe Oaks,” she told the groom, choosing the only place she could name. Percy could be anywhere, of course. But she had to start somewhere.

  Gradually, the opulence of the fields belonging to Bromsholme gave way to the desolation of the Wycombe Oaks land. Then, after about half an hour, its odd structure came into view. Recollecting the drawings and plans in Percy’s library, Letitia contemplated the house with new interest.

  “Stop here, please,” she said when they reached the turn from the main road into the narrower one leading up the hill.

  The old castle rose silently among the wild meadows, its walls bathed in the bright colors of an early afternoon sun. The castle was the backbone of the more modern structure attached to its southern extremity. The Gothic elements gave way to an Elizabethan house that terminated in an early eighteenth-century wing to one side, resulting in an odd mélange of styles that somehow never caught up with the great Palladian mansions of her father’s age. Yet, it was also oddly powerful and attractive. In spite of the evident neglect, the whole emanated strength and a will to survive. Tall and proud, it radiated determination over the aura of abandonment that surrounded it.

  Letitia contemplated the view for a few minutes. In her imagination, she could see a little boy playing in the gardens whose layout was still visible from the distance. She imagined his parents walking in the alleys demarcated by the topiary, the servants going about their business near the outbuildings and the carriages bringing guests.

  “Drive on to the main entrance,” she said, and the gig obediently lurched forward.

  Once out of the gig, Letitia carefully picked her way through the courtyard, stopping a few times, curious to compare its current condition to what it had been in the past. No one came to open the door for her, but when she tried the heavy doorknob, it gave way without resistance.

  The hall felt pleasantly cool. Letitia paused, taking in all the details she had missed before. Before, it had been a dilapidated entrance to the shabbiest house she had ever seen in her life. Now, she looked at the dirty paneling on the walls, the Italian pier tables under the darker rectangles of paint where the mirrors had hung, and in her mind compared what she saw to the drawings Percy had shown her. The walls were empty. All that was left on them were a few hooks.

  Letitia walked slowly from room to room, most of them sporting only a yawning fireplace and dirty windows through which seeped in anemic sunlight. Some were graced with the occasional ghost of a piece of furniture under cover. She had no trouble envisioning their past magnificence. How could she not have noticed it before?

  The library, with its vast, empty shelves, was such an opposite to its Bromsholme counterpart, where the shelves sagged under their burden and the room was so inviting. The Wycombe Oaks library could be just as inviting, just as beautiful. Or maybe even more beautiful. Her mind set to work, imagining the possibilities.

  Upstairs, she took off her bonnet and walked slowly through a long, empty gallery where the ghosts of paintings were still visible on the scarlet brocade lining the walls. She traced the design of the fabric with the tips of her fingers, then noticed a door at the other end of the gallery. This had to be a passage to the castle itself.

  She pushed the door open. Behind it was a dark corridor, barely illuminated by a few speckles of color filtering through stained glass in a small octagonal window in the ceiling. She’d guessed correctly then.

  Curious now, she determined to find out where it would take her, but the sounds of footsteps reverberating in the hollow space of the gallery made her turn back, her heartbeat quickening.

  Percy stood in the open door at the other end of the gallery. He wore no coat. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his collar unbuttoned at the top. The breeches hugged his powerful legs and the fitted waistcoat emphasized his usual aura of strength and virility. Letitia swept his figure with an appreciative artist’s eye, imagining what he would look like without clothes.

  Ouch, better not to venture into that territory. If her sense of the proportions of a male body did not mislead her, he would make a very nice statue. Well, definitely better not to venture into that territory.

  Too late. Letitia felt her blush turn into a burning heat spreading through her entire body. She winced inwardly, upset by this involuntary reaction, as well as the unexpected jolt of pleasure at seeing him. Thank God they were the length of the gallery apart and he could not read her thoughts.

  She started walking toward him while he, with the lazy ease of a lion, set out to meet her.

  They came face-to-face in the middle of the gallery.

  She watched Percy’s gaze wander to the top of her head.

  “Your hair,” he said and reached out, brushing a loose strand from her face. “I had no idea it’s so beautiful.”

  His touch was like a bolt of lightning that sliced through her body. Letitia stiffened, alarmed by her inability to control this latest reaction and the little pleasant palpitation that reverberated with his words.

  When Josepha reluctantly put scissors to her hair the night before last, she had nearly stopped her, afraid it might turn out to be a very bad idea. But Josepha had beamed with satisfaction once she finished. Then Slater had worn a strangely adoring expression the next morning, and Mrs. Baillie had told her she looked lovely with the short locks all over her head.


  And now Percy called her hair beautiful. Ethel hadn’t lied, then, when she told her Percy was taken with the newest fashion. That had been very kind of her.

  “Good morning,” Percy said belatedly, not taking his eyes off her hair. “I just saw your gig outside. Is anything the matter?”

  “Nothing is the matter,” she replied, still stupidly pleased with his admiring expression. She must thank Ethel for that little piece of information. “Mrs. Baillie invited us to dine with her tomorrow. I’d supposed I should tell you, so I just took my chances that perhaps you’d be here.”

  “You made quite a trip,” he remarked, finally meeting her gaze. He smiled, making her heart beat faster. Much too fast.

  “Under normal circumstances, I would have told you that at dinnertime. But since you don’t come home anymore, I had to try to find you.”

  A flicker of amusement lighted his face when he asked, “What makes you think I don’t? Are you spying on me, ma’am?”

  What a preposterous idea! Well, she did listen every evening for the sounds of his presence, but none came through the door separating their rooms.

  “Spying on you?” Letitia raised her eyebrows in indignation. “I don’t need to resort to such measures to notice your absence. The only meal you eat at Bromsholme is breakfast, and in the evenings your bedchamber is as noisy as a morgue.”

  The corners of his mouth twitched.

  Letitia felt her heart squeeze with resentment.

  “Do not try to come up with some excuse,” she said more harshly than she intended. “There is only one possibility, is there not?”

  Percy stopped smiling.

  “Is there really?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “Would you like to enlighten me?”

  “Why,” she blurted out, “it is so obvious. Apparently, you have a mistress.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The accusation stunned him so much that Percy stared at Letitia, unable to utter a word. Where had this crazy notion come from? What was going on in her head? Anger spiraled up his chest…at himself. For carelessly lowering his guard and thinking he might like her after all.