The Singular Mr. Sinclair

by Mia Marlowe

  Horatia’s frocks were hardly identical to Miss Braithwaite’s. They were more like pale copies, Caroline thought but didn’t say. It would have been an unnecessary slap. Horatia had suffered enough over Miss Braithwaite’s gowns. “What did Lady Ackworth discover?”

  “Well, it seems Madame Fournier has not been designing her own gowns for some time. Miss Braithwaite’s frocks were made by her apprentice, Mary Woodyard,” Freddie said with glee. “She sewed them by night, after she finished her work for her mistress. Honestly, the girl must never have slept. In any case, Madame Fournier caught her at it, took the money she’d made on the side, and decided to use the patterns of Miss Braithwaite’s dresses for the ones she sold to Horatia.”

  How Lady Ackworth had discovered this unusual bit of intelligence was a mystery. If she’d been a man, Caroline had no doubt the lady could have served as an agent for the Crown. But none of the girls doubted the veracity of the story. Whatever Lady Ackworth said, however cruel or cutting it might be, was invariably true.

  “Once the matter came to light, did Madame Fournier give Miss Woodyard the sack?” Caroline asked.

  “No, the poor girl has another year to serve on her apprenticeship, and Madame will not release her early. She’ll be working her fingers to nubbins for at least one more Season,” Frederica said with a sigh.

  “It will serve Madame Fournier right if Miss Woodyard sets up shop right next to her once she’s free,” Horatia announced. “I’d certainly give her my custom.”

  If you can afford her, Caroline thought, but she held her tongue. Lord Frampton’s ball had taught her to guard her lips more carefully, even when there wasn’t a string quartet around. Besides, Horatia couldn’t help that her father either didn’t have the money to spend or didn’t want to spend it in support of his daughter’s appearance on the marriage mart.

  Again, men make all the rules, she fumed.

  “I suspect a lot of people would support Miss Woodyard if she opens a shop,” Frederica went on. “No one likes a thief. And one could argue that Madame Fournier stole her apprentice’s creations. But I doubt Mary Woodyard will still be sewing once she’s finished her obligation to Madame Fournier.”

  “Why is that?” Caroline asked.

  “As it turns out, Miss Woodyard has been quietly helping a gaggle of street urchins, sewing up their ragged clothes, giving them extra food, things like that. Heaven only knows when the girl found the time!” Frederica explained. “In any case, Lady Ackworth and her clique have taken up Miss Woodyard’s cause and are raising funds to start a public school for homeless boys. They’ll be taught to read, write, and do sums, all while having a roof over their heads to boot. Once she finishes her apprenticeship, Mary Woodyard is to be their first headmistress.”

  “Well, I never thought I’d say this, but huzzah for Lady Ackworth.” Caroline raised her teacup in salute to the ton’s nemesis. Her friends joined her.

  “You know,” Horatia said, “I believe this proves Mrs. Birdwhistle correct.”

  “How so?” Caroline asked.

  “Mary Woodyard’s situation is certainly going to change.”

  “Yes, but that’s Lady Ackworth’s doing,” Caroline pointed out. “Not because Miss Woodyard willed her life to be different.”

  “Perhaps, but Lady Ackworth wouldn’t have discovered Miss Woodyard and her charity cause if she hadn’t first sleuthed out the situation about Miss Braithwaite’s dresses,” Horatia said. “Mary Woodyard willed her life to be different by taking matters into her own hands, first by helping those street boys and then by designing more beautiful gowns than her mistress could. Her will led her to take action, which led to a change in her circumstance.”

  “I believe you’re right, Horatia,” Frederica said. “Mrs. Birdwhistle’s advice is once again proved correct.”

  Could it be that simple? For all her claims of being an independent woman who sought out adventures, Caroline had been doing nothing but waiting. She hadn’t really acted on what she wanted. A devious but brilliant idea burst in her brain with such force, she nearly leapt to her feet.

  “I’m sorry to be such a bad hostess,” she told her friends, “but I suddenly realize there’s something to which I must attend immediately.”

  “Can we help?” Frederica asked.

  “No. This is something I must do for myself.”

  To her friends’ credit, they didn’t press her. As soon as Freddie and Horatia left, Caroline practically bounded up the stairs to her chamber.

  Heart racing, she drew Lawrence’s letter to Teddy from its hiding place in her journal. She reread the simple note in which Lawrence first confessed that he loved her. She drew courage from it.

  And strength of will.

  Lawrence Sinclair loved her still. She was sure of it. Despite his denials, he wasn’t a weathercock sort of man, changing with the slightest puff of wind. He was steady. Dependable. He didn’t give his heart freely, but he’d given it to her.

  She didn’t think he could unlove her that easily.

  Now she only had to convince him of it.

  Caroline pulled out a fresh sheet of foolscap and sharpened her quill. It would be tricky to recreate the unusual slant of Lawrence’s handwriting, but with a little practice, she was sure she could do it.

  * * * *

  A few nights later, Bredon announced at supper that he’d received a letter from his friend, Lawrence Sinclair.

  “Apparently, he wishes us to come to Ware. With his uncle away on his honeymoon, Sinclair has decided to host a house party,” Teddy said with a shrug.

  “Whom do you mean by us?” Lady Chatham asked, casting a curious glance at her firstborn son between spoonfuls of white soup.

  “All of us,” Teddy said. “You and Father, me, Ben, Thomas, and Charles. Caroline, too. This is Sinclair’s way of repaying our hospitality while he was in London.”

  Lady Chatham made a tsking noise. “That guest list seems a terribly one-sided party. All those gentlemen with only Caroline and me will make for awkward placement around the dinner table.”

  Caroline was careful not to meet her mother’s gaze. She was sure her mother would see her guile if she did. But so much depended on this admittedly underhanded plan, Caroline clutched her napkin in a death grip under the table.

  “Surprisingly enough, Lawrence has considered that problem,” Teddy said. “Sinclair wants us to bring Caro’s friends, Miss Tilbury and Miss Englewood, as well.”

  “Well, that evens up the table somewhat.”

  “Hmph,” was all Caroline’s father said.

  “Did Mr. Sinclair say how his mother is?” her mother asked. “I was given to understand she’s quite ill.”

  Oh, no. Caroline had forgotten all about Lawrence’s mother. How could I be so heartless? So selfish? I deserve to go to hell.

  But she wanted more than anything to go to Ware Hall.

  “Come to think on it, he didn’t mention her in his letter,” Teddy said. “Her health must have taken a turn for the better if he’s planning a house party.”

  “Well, that’s a mercy, then, isn’t it? What do you think, dear?” Lady Chatham asked her husband. “Shall we accept?”

  “I can’t be haring off to Cumberland as long as the House of Lords is in session,” Lord Chatham said. “Those blasted Whigs will—”

  “Language, my lord,” Lady Chatham said, slanting her gaze toward Caroline, whose tender ears evidently needed protecting.

  As if I haven’t heard Father say far worse about the Whigs.

  Lord Chatham cleared his throat. “The Whigs would love to see every Tory leave London early so they can ram through their rebellious agenda. No, I must stay until the last gavel falls.”

  “Then I shall stay as well,” Lady Chatham said with a sigh. Clearly, Caroline’s mother was ready to quit London for the summer.

 
“But that doesn’t mean we must remain,” Teddy pointed out.

  “No, I suppose not,” their mother said. “Of course, Caroline will want to stay in London as long as possible. The Season isn’t quite finished, and the Harewood girls are giving their final recital in a few days.”

  The boys groaned in unison.

  “Mother, I’m satisfied the Season is over for me,” Caroline said.

  “Are you sure, dear?”

  The subtext was plain. This was Caroline’s third time casting her line into the marriage mart and the third time she’d be leaving Town without reeling in a husband. Despite her better than passable looks, impeccable breeding, and generous dowry, Caroline would be accounted hopelessly on the shelf.

  “I’m sure, Mother.”

  “If Caro goes, you must accompany her and the boys to Ware,” Lord Chatham told his wife.

  “If you insist,” Lady Chatham said. “We’ll miss the Harewoods’ recital. I shall send our regrets.”

  This was greeted by cheers all around. Teddy proposed a toast to a summer without wind instruments. Despite the general good mood round the table, Caroline’s mother sent her a sad smile.

  Lady Chatham clearly feared Caroline would die an old maid. Caroline almost wanted to tell her not to worry. If Mrs. Birdwhistle was right, if a woman could change her circumstance by virtue of her will, Lady Chatham’s only daughter would never make a spinster.

  “I’ve not been to Cumberland,” Caroline said, trying not to let the triumph she felt show. She’d never been fond of cards, but now she wondered if she ought not to try her hand at games of chance. Forging an invitation from Lawrence was a rash act, but it was the last card she had to play. She’d been lucky. Her boldness was paying off. Teddy was convinced the letter had come from his friend, so she saw no way the invitation could be traced back to her. The game with Lawrence Sinclair was still on. “Tell me, is the Lake District as lovely as everyone says?”

  Chapter 25

  The time we have on earth is finite. The good we might do for those we love in that short span is infinite.

  —Lawrence Sinclair, who is trying mightily to make up for lost time.

  Lawrence paused at the edge of the meadow to survey the improvements to the dower house. The plastered wattle-and-daub between dark half timbers gleamed with fresh whitewash. A new thatched roof topped the structure. Glass glinted in every previously broken window. The wooden awnings, which had hung drunkenly over each portal, were now repaired, repainted, and shaded the interior of the cottage, like half-closed eyes. The chimney was being repointed by the estate’s mason and his apprentice. Once it was thoroughly cleaned, it would heat the whole cottage. Inside, all the walls had been replastered, the oak floors sanded and restained.

  Best of all, his mother was there, seated by the newly planted flowerbed, enjoying the sunshine and watching the workmen at their tasks. Lawrence had ordered a simple chaise to be built so his mother could be carried out by a couple of servants to benefit from the fresh air. It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it would do until a Bath chair, specially fitted with four wheels, arrived next week.

  “I’d never have thought it possible, Master Lawrence,” Mrs. Bythesee said as she came up beside him, “but your mother hasna looked this good in months.”

  “Your receipt for horehound cough syrup seems to have helped her.” With regular doses of Mrs. Bythesee’s concoction, his mother coughed less often and less virulently. When she did, she took pains to conceal her bloodstained handkerchief, but Lawrence was too observant for his own comfort. Despite her brave smiles, the disease marched on. Consumption took its victims slowly, like a gentle tide going out, and like a tide, was just as relentless. “I know this new medicine is not a cure.”

  “Perhaps no’,” the housekeeper agreed, “but she feels better, and there’s a mercy. Every day is a blessing. Besides, the best medicine for your mother has been for you to come home. For the now, at least.”

  He couldn’t stay. Everyone knew that without saying. Once Lord Ware and his new bride returned to Cumberland, Lawrence would be cordially invited to leave. Probably for good this time. But during this precious time, he was determined to make his mother’s brief future at Ware as comfortable as possible.

  “A letter has come for you.” Mrs. Bythesee handed him a many-folded piece of foolscap. The red blob of sealing wax was embossed with the Chatham crest. The letter had been franked, a privilege of the noble class, so Mrs. Bythesee hadn’t been required to pay the carrier for its delivery. Lawrence’s heart raced.

  A letter from Lovell House. Caroline?

  He thought he’d let it go, but hope sprang up to lodge in his throat. Then, when he tore the letter open, he recognized the masculine scrawl. It was from Bredon.

  My dear Sinclair,

  Chances are good we shall arrive before this missive does, but in case the post is running faster, or we are running slower—a real possibility when one is traveling with four ladies!—I am writing to let you know we have accepted the invitation to your house party and shall descend upon you shortly.

  “What invitation?” Lawrence muttered without reading further.

  “I beg your pardon?” Mrs. Bythesee said. “Did ye say something, sir?”

  Lawrence shook his head and read on in disbelief. Apparently, he was about to become an unwitting host.

  “Somehow, my friend Lord Bredon is under the mistaken notion that I’m throwing a house party here at Ware.”

  “A house party, aye? Well, that’s grand, is that!” Mrs. Bythesee said, skipping right over the mistaken part of Lawrence’s sentence. “Ware hasna seen enough merriment these past years and that’s a fact. How many guests will ye be expecting, then?”

  Lawrence shook his head. He’d never even been a guest at a house party. He hadn’t the first clue how to host one. “It’s a mistake. It must be. I don’t know how this could have happened.”

  “Well, if it be a mistake, ’tis a happy one,” Mrs. Bythesee said, cheerful as a cricket. “Guests will liven up the old walls of Ware Hall, indeed they will. How many?”

  Clearly, Mrs. Bythesee wouldn’t be dissuaded. Lawrence scanned the letter again.

  Father insists on staying in London until the House of Lords calls a recess, but my lady mother, my sister, her two friends—though, in truth, I wonder at you for including Horatia and Frederica; a couple of parakeets chatter less than those two—three of my brothers, and yours truly are on our way.

  Lawrence did a quick count. “Have we room for eight?”

  Mrs. Bythesee laughed. “We’ve room for eighty. The rooms will want airing and fresh linens, o’ course. Some of ’em have been shut up for years. Mercy on us, there’s much to be done.” She began to tick off the tasks on her bony fingers. “There’s a fair fiddle player in the village. Ye’ll want him for the dancing, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “There’ll be dancing?”

  “If there’s lads and lasses about, it follows there’ll be dancing,” Mrs. Bythesee said. “I’ll have Mr. Holt set up archery butts. Like as not there’ll be some among your party who’ll wish to have a tournament. Let me see. What else?”

  “I expect they’ll want to ride.” Lawrence knew Caroline enjoyed taking a turn on Rotten Row during the fashionable hour for it. If she rode here at Ware, he could show her some of the loveliest places on the estate, the river that cascaded down from the peaks and the overlook with a long view of Conniston Water. Lawrence began to warm to the idea of a house party. It might well be the best mistake of his life.

  “Aye, a good suggestion, sir,” Mrs. Bythesee said. “The stable hands will make sure we’ve enough saddles and mounts for your guests to go riding of a morning. Cook will be in fine fettle when I tell her she must do up some special dainties for each night. And I’ll have to check do we have supplies enough to feast your guests good and proper.”

&nbs
p; The housekeeper scrunched up her face and frowned, as if trying to visualize the manor’s pantry. “I expect we’ll have to slaughter a calf or two to add to the larder. A few chickens willna come amiss either.”

  “I had no idea so much was involved in hosting a party.”

  “Of course not. Men never do. But just you leave it to me. I’ll see ye through this right enough. It’ll do everyone who works here good to have a bit o’ purpose again,” Mrs. Bythesee said. “When will your guests be arriving?”

  The letter was dated three days ago. “Soon.”

  “Then there’s no time to lose.” The housekeeper turned and started to scurry away.

  “Wait! What about Mother?” Lawrence said. “Won’t she be upset by the commotion of having so many people about?”

  “Commotion is life, Master Lawrence. Your mother will dearly love watching you enjoy a slice of it. Mark my words, this house party might even put a rose or two back into her cheeks.” She took another couple of steps toward the manor, then stopped and turned back to him. “Oh! One more thing. How long will your guests be staying?”

  “Lord Bredon doesn’t say.”

  “Undoubtedly, ye must have mentioned a length of time in your invitation, sir,” she suggested, as if he were a schoolboy who’d failed to study and must be coaxed to come up with the right answer.

  “But I didn’t—oh, never mind,” he said. Mrs. Bythesee refused to believe Lawrence hadn’t actually issued an invitation. He decided not to fight her on it. “Plan on a fortnight. Maybe more.”

  It was a long way from London to Ware, after all. They must expect to stay a while.

  Bredon was playing a joke on him. That’s all it was.

  Still, the part of his heart he kept tucked away lest it become too painful to bear began to throb afresh.

  Caroline is on her way.

  * * * *

  When the Lovell party, along with the Misses Tilbury and Englewood, arrived around teatime the next day, Lawrence got a rather nasty surprise.

  Oliver Rowley had joined them en route.