by Barbara Metzger, Connie Brockway, Casey Claybourne; Catherine Anderson
Forde was not certain he wished to attend the next night’s dinner, if he lived that long. His head was stuffed, his chest was congested, and not even the landlord’s excellent mulled ale could warm him after yesterday’s chill. Besides, he was certain the conniving Mrs. Cole would find another excuse to put him off. Whoever heard of canceling a dinner for three people because one’s cook was having a fit of the vapors or some such? She most likely figured that he would grow bored soon enough in this little village and leave her to her devious plotting.
He had a good mind to ride—no, he would take the carriage this time—over to her house right then and have it out with the wily widow. Except he felt as if he had a fever. He’d wait for the next day, then. Yes, and he would bring flowers, as if he truly believed there was illness in the house. That way she would not suspect his intentions and bar her door.
“Have you seen Mrs. Cole’s garden?” the innkeeper asked when Forde inquired as to a flower seller the next morning, after sleeping late and awakening in somewhat better condition, except for a few sneezes.
“It was, ahem, raining.” And a sore throat.
“She grows the finest roses in the neighborhood, she does, barring Lady Martindale, a’course, who has four gardeners. Asides, Mrs. Cole’s already come and gone from the village while you were sleeping, and she’s off to give music lessons in Little Brookville, then it’s trying to drum manners into the squire’s boys. She’d appreciate a fine ham better’n flowers anyway, iffen you were hoping to turn the lady up sweet.”
This backwater innkeeper was playing matchmaker? Now Forde had a headache. Roundtree’s words reinforced the conclusion that the Cole women were pockets-to-let, though. Or dallying with the nearby landowner.
Either way, Forde had no desire to turn Mrs. Cole into anything but a former acquaintance. He went back to bed.
Chapter Five
Why, that scheming shrew! This was no intimate dinner between strangers who were about to be related, or for combatants at daggers drawn. Mrs. Cole had invited half the countryside, it seemed to Forde, to avoid speaking with him. Every seat in her narrow parlor was taken when he arrived, as if that would keep anyone from noticing the threadbare upholstery.
Deuce take that innkeeper, and deuce take the female for letting him make a fool of himself, walking into a formal dinner party with a ham in his hand. Then an older woman in an apron, most likely that Mrs. Tarrant who had been ill, reached to take the thing, and Forde stopped worrying what Mrs. Cole’s other guests were thinking of him. If they were not flummoxed by a blue-handed housekeeper, a peer with a pork could not matter.
Mrs. Cole stepped forward to welcome him. She looked different tonight, naturally. She was not wet, for one, or wearing a shabby cloak with her hair scraped back in a braided bun. Tonight she wore a dark blue gown that, while not in the height of fashion or the depth of daring, still managed to show her lush, mature figure to wondrous advantage. The flesh that rose above the neckline was creamy and soft and inviting and—
She coughed. She must have caught the same congestion from the rain. Forde raised the hand she offered, and his eyes. Her eyes were a more vivid green than he recalled, with fascinating blue glimmers. Her fair hair was done up on top of her head, with long, honey-colored tendrils trailing down smooth, sun-kissed cheeks. She was no dasher, but damn if the widow was not one fine-looking woman, the equal to any London lady. In fact, she looked vaguely familiar.
“Have we ever met?” he asked when she took her hand back.
Katie noticed his heightened color—and his finely tailored Bath superfine coat, his biscuit trousers and his intricately tied neckcloth, and what was filling them to perfection. She could feel warmth come to her own cheeks. “Are you feeling quite the thing, my lord? We met the day before yesterday, you know.”
“I do know that. I mean before. For a moment I thought—”
“Impossible,” Katie replied before the viscount could say anything else. “Unless you have traveled through Brookville in the past. I have not been out of Devon since before Susannah’s birth.”
Forde’s brows were lowered, as if he were trying to dredge forth a distant memory. “No, I have never—”
“And here is Susannah now,” Katie quickly said, pulling her daughter over to be introduced to her prospective uncle-by-marriage.
The girl was not what Forde had been expecting, although Gerald would never have fallen for the painted doxy he’d been picturing. Well, he might have fallen, but he was wise enough despite his years to know one did not marry a light skirt. Miss Cole was a pretty young chit with blond curls and blue eyes, a pale complexion, and her mother’s determined chin. She had some of her mother’s poise, too, not simpering or blushing shyly as so many of the debutantes did. There was no mistaking her rosebud innocence, however, in sprigged muslin with ribbons in her hair. She was a bit shorter than Mrs. Cole, and daintier, like a china shepherdess.
Gerald had said she liked long walks, and the girl must help with the livestock and the gardens and the cottage if the family was as hard-pressed as it appeared, with so few servants. So Miss Susannah Cole was no hothouse bloom, either. He could see where the combination of delicacy and vigor might fascinate a man, especially a young, idealistic, untried fellow like Gerald.
“Susannah,” Mrs. Cole was saying, “why do you not take his lordship to meet the other guests while I see about dinner?”
The girl made the introductions as properly as any miss fresh from finishing school. He doubted his nieces could do as well, for all their years of governesses and expensive lessons. She offered him a glass of Madeira before leaving him with the squire while she went to pour one for Lady Martindale.
Squire Doddsworth was older than Forde, hefty, hearty, and hunt-mad. He would chase down anything furred, feathered, or finned, it seemed, and expound at length on the challenges of each. His eldest son, the only one ready for polite company, was a rangy youth dressed in yellow pantaloons and shirt collars so high they almost, but not quite, hid his protuberant ears. He stared at Forde’s neckcloth with such intensity, trying to memorize the folds, that the viscount took pity. He offered to let his valet teach Roland how to tie the knot, which earned him a fervent prayer of gratitude.
“Lud, I hope he outgrows it soon,” the squire muttered after the young man hurried off to boast to Miss Louisa Carlson, the vicar’s daughter, of his promised treat.
“What, the lad’s propensity toward dandyism, or his obvious attraction to Miss Carlson?”
“Oh, the nonsense about becoming a man-milliner. My eldest son ought to be studying agriculture, not how to be a fashionable fribble.”
Forde cleared his throat, not due to the congestion.
“Gads, I’m not implying any insult to yourself, needless to say, or your valet’s skill. That neckcloth of yours is a work of art the likes of which are seldom seen in our corner of the world. My fool of a son would have the cows laughing at him if he dressed so fine. As for Louisa, they’ve known each other since the cradle. Never looked at anyone else, either of them. A June wedding it’ll be.”
Now that was a match made in heaven, Forde thought. The two youngsters had everything in common, including a long-standing friendship, as opposed to Gerald and Miss Cole, who came from different social classes, different upbringings, and a handful of months’ association. Here, too, both families seemed to approve wholeheartedly. The vicar and his wife were smiling indulgently at Doddsworth’s heir, as if he were already part of their family.
The Reverend Mr. Carlson’s passion, he soon told Forde, besides the Church and the wife and daughter he left with young Doddsworth, was cricket. Despite his playing the Tulip, Roland played a mean game. Did his lordship enjoy the sport?
“Not since my university days, I fear,” Forde said, watching the door for Mrs. Cole’s return. The squire was watching, too, he noted. Doddsworth seemed more interested in her announcement that dinner was served than he was in rushing to her side to escort her to the t
able. That favor was extended to the vicar, while Roland took in the two young ladies. Doddsworth escorted the vicar’s wife, and Forde was delegated to help old Lady Martindale into the dining room, along with her shawls and cane and reticule and fan.
He was given the place of honor at the head of the table, as far away from Mrs. Cole as possible. The dowager was at his right hand and kept him busy answering questions about mutual acquaintances in Town and the latest on dits. Mrs. Vicar Carlson on his left was frowning, so Forde could not relate some of the more scandalous tidbits, and he tried to direct the conversation elsewhere, such as to their hostess.
The table was not very long—the whole room could have fit into the entry hall of Wellforde House—but Mrs. Cole might have been miles away, separated from his sight, even, by a large urn filled with autumn blooms.
Both of his dinner companions sang her praises, her good sense, her generosity, and her efficient capability, making do with her chickens and music lessons. She served the community just as a good neighbor should, teaching Sunday school, conducting the church choir, and visiting the sick. She did all this while raising a child, and never a hint of scandal about her, the vicar’s wife added, in subtle reprimand to Lady Martindale for indulging in gossip.
A veritable paragon, Mrs. Cole was, Forde learned.
And a thrifty housewife. Dinner consisted of a tasty chicken broth with herbs, followed by chicken fricassee and vegetables. The sweet was an egg custard.
The innkeeper had been right. Forde should have brought the ham over earlier. He could have had his talk with the women, and a more varied dinner menu.
After the meal, the ladies, and Roland, retired to the parlor, leaving the vicar, the squire, and the viscount to their port and cigars. But Forde did not smoke, and much preferred brandy. Besides, what did he, a man about town, have in common with a man of God and a man of the earth? Not much. Forde thought of suggesting they join the ladies, but Mr. Carlson placed his hands together and closed his eyes. The viscount worried they were all supposed to be praying—lud knew he had enough bad habits to ask forgiveness for—but then Mr. Carlson started to snore.
The squire was filling his pipe with tobacco from a pouch. Once he got the thing going, he puffed and probed at the same time. “You aren’t here”—puff—“to stop the wedding, are you?”
Forde sipped at his glass of port, not answering.
“The reason I ask is that you’ll be disappointing half the county, and disrupting my own plans, too. I mean to make the widow an offer, once the chit’s future is settled and she is out of the house.”
“Offer?” Forde thought the squire already had the bargain made.
“Aye, I’ve been biding my time, but it won’t do for Mrs. Cole to be out here all alone. And I want the property for my boy Roland when he weds. Not right that newlyweds should share a house with the groom’s old man and rapscallion brothers.”
“Ah, that kind of offer. You wish to buy Cole Cottage?”
“Buy it?” Puff. “No, I’ll count it as her dowry. Can’t expect much else, and I’d wager whatever widow’s portion she gets will end with the marriage.”
“Marriage?” The glass fell from Forde’s fingers, but luckily it was nearly empty. Even though he did not like the stuff, he wished for more. “You mean to offer Mrs. Cole a ring?”
“Can’t wed without one, can I? I’ve been thinking about it for a while now, what with my wife gone these five years and more. A house needs a woman’s touch, don’t you know, and so does a man. A fellow gets lonely, and the gals at the inn . . . well, you can’t bring them home with you, not without causing a stir in the neighborhood. Bad example for my sons, besides, don’t you know. The boys all adore Mrs. Cole, and they listen to her, too. And she is a fine-looking woman, what?”
What, indeed? Mrs. Cole was more than fine, for a nearly middle-aged mistress. “She is an attractive female,” he agreed, thinking of her green eyes and creamy skin, “but a wife?”
“You ain’t thinking of anything disrespectful, are you?” Doddsworth set down his pipe and scowled through the smoky haze.
“Heavens, no.” And Forde hoped the vicar was not listening or he’d rot in hell for the lie. “She is a devilishly attractive woman, as you say. I am just surprised. A man your age, a woman her age . . .”
“I don’t need any more heirs, if that is what you are thinking. Got three already,” the squire bragged, making Forde feel less of a man for producing only the one son. “Although that’s not to say it couldn’t happen, with Mrs. Cole not yet forty. She suits me to a cow’s thumb. And she is a real lady,” he added, in case Forde still harbored doubts.
He relit the pipe, then noticed Forde’s raised eyebrows. “Oh, I know the dead sailor had no title. But I met Mrs. Cole when she first came here almost twenty summers ago. Adjoining properties, and all that. My wife took pity on her, alone and breeding, without kin or friends in sight, don’t you know. We saw a good deal of her, introducing her around, showing her the sights. We wouldn’t have done so much if she weren’t a real lady. Both the missus and I knew right away that the widow was a gentlewoman, with her London gowns and fine manners and hands that had never held a broom or a mixing spoon. She came from a good family, I’d swear, although she won’t speak of them.”
The vicar woke up and added his opinion. “But she never put on airs, our Mrs. Cole, not at all. We were happy to have such an upstanding young woman come among us, to help with the choir and the children. She always gives to the poor box, even though she has to raise chickens to put food on her own table.”
“That is admirable, I am sure.” Forde was not sure of anything anymore. If Katherine Cole was not the squire’s ladybird, a fallen woman, then just maybe she was a lady fallen on hard times, and maybe he had no cause to stop the wedding. For a poor, virtuous widow, Mrs. Cole had done well for herself, and raised a lovely daughter, by all estimates. Her neighbors universally admired her, so she must not be the greedy, grasping female Gerald’s mother suspected. Gerald was still too young, and his bride was still too poor, but those were not sufficient reasons for the viscount to go back on his word. He had already given his approval of the match, albeit grudgingly. He could leave on the morrow and come back for the ceremony.
Still, doubts nagged at him. There was something smoky about the widow, or else she would have spoken to him sooner, alone. Her green eyes nagged at him, too. If this had been a cozy dinner for the two of them, who knew what could happen after?
Nothing. He was forgetting about the daughter, Gerald’s betrothed. He couldn’t go making advances to his nephew’s prospective mother-in-law, could he? No, not with the girl in the house. Squire was right: Mrs. Cole might be more amenable to an offer after the wedding. An offer of carte blanche, that was.
When the men reentered the parlor, Mrs. Cole stopped playing the pianoforte and stood up from the bench.
“No, no, please continue,” the vicar insisted. “Your playing is far more soothing to the digestion than cigars or spirits.”
She resumed playing, and excellently, Forde realized. She had to have studied with a master, so, yes, Doddsworth’s opinion of her gentility was not far-fetched. And yet she grew turnips and kept goats.
After a long, difficult piece, played to perfection, Mrs. Cole switched to popular songs. Roland and Louisa sang a duet to her accompaniment, not for the first time, it sounded. Then Susannah raised her clear voice in a lovely rendition of “Greensleeves.” Forde applauded with the others, genuinely appreciative of the picture the sweet young woman made—and her mother, leaning over the keys so her gown fell a bit lower, with a touching look of pride on her face.
He missed his boy. And a woman.
The same female servant, Mrs. Tarrant, wheeled in a tea cart. Mrs. Cole got up to pour, while Susannah handed the cups around and carried plates of biscuits.
When she reached his chair, Forde casually said, “I was wondering what ship your father was sailing on when he perished.”
The teapot thumped as Mrs. Cole set it down. “I do not like to speak of my dead husband, and Susannah was too young to know him.”
“Your pardon, ma’am. I merely thought I might know some of the men who served with him. Susannah might like to meet them, to hear their recollections.”
“I doubt it. That is, she has never asked.” Before the girl could, Katie said, “Here, Susannah, take the platter of raspberry tarts around again. You know they are Lady Martindale’s favorite.”
Forde carried his cup closer to where the widow sat, so the others would not overhear. “I am sorry if I upset you.”
“I find it difficult to speak of Mr. Cole.”
“John.”
“George,” she corrected.
“Ah. Did you meet him in London? Or at your home in . . .?”
She pushed the teapot away. “Please, this is too painful.”
“Odd. I have no trouble discussing my late wife, and she has not been gone nearly as long. You must have loved James very much.”
“George. I did. And I cherish his memory to this day.” Katie clasped her hands together to keep them from trembling.
“Yet you do not share your memories with your daughter—his daughter. What of her grandparents? If they are sending funds, as Gerald told me, surely she has met them?”
“A bank handles the matter. They are both deceased.”
“What of your own family, then? The reason I ask such personal questions is that I wonder why Susannah has not been brought to London. Brookville offers a solitary kind of life for a young lady, especially a beautiful, talented one like your daughter. She could do far better than Gerald if someone were to present her to Society.”
“She has never been interested in the city or the beau monde. And, no, I have no family, either. Would you like more tea? A biscuit?”
She might not have spoken. “Ah, you were born under a cabbage leaf? Left for the fairies to raise? Your musical ability was not learned at any orphanage.”