by Regina Scott
By the end of August, she was more than ready to return to the cool stone corridors of Wenwood Abbey. The last ball, celebrating one of Wellington’s victories, was over. All that remained was to finish packing and remand the staff to the agency from which they had hired them. When Perkins came to inform her that her mother wished to speak to her, she consoled herself with the thought that this would be one of the last times she’d have to deal with him.
Her mother was seated at the Sheridan writing table when Allison entered the sitting room. Her dove grey gown stood out against the flowers on the other surfaces. Mrs. Munroe looked up from her writing and nodded toward the nearest armchair. Allison sat, tilting her head to catch a glimpse of the list she was sure her mother must be making of the tasks remaining before their departure. To her surprise, she saw that her mother was penning a note, responding to some sort of invitation.
“Are we to have another dinner party?” Allison couldn’t help asking with a sigh as she plucked at the folds of her green sprigged muslin gown.
Her mother pursed her lips. “A lady is always ready to entertain as needed, Allison. However, this is not for a dinner party. I have decided to invite one of your friends to join us at Wenwood.”
Allison brightened. “Grace?”
“No, not Miss Dunsworthy,” her mother replied. “And not that willful Lady Janice or your dreadful Cousin Margaret.”
Allison made a face at her mother’s censorship. “I find Margaret’s company invigorating, even if she doesn’t have the social graces of some. But if not those you mentioned, then who?”
“I have invited the Marquis DeGuis,” her mother replied calmly.
Allison stared at her, not sure what to think. Her heart leapt at the chance to spend some time alone with the man and perhaps get to know him better, but it would be difficult to free Geoffrey if she were busy entertaining a visitor. “Oh, Mother, why?”
Her mother raised an eyebrow. “Is there some reason I should not?”
“A rather large one and a great many small ones,” Allison said. “If you invite only him, aren’t you concerned of what the gossips will say?”
“What can gossips say that could possibly be of interest?” her mother said with a sniff.
“They will say I’ve set my cap for him. And while that may not bother you, it bothers me a great deal.”
Her mother avoided her eyes, dipping her quill carefully in the ink well. “And haven’t you set your cap for him?”
“Mother!” Allison gasped, stunned by the very idea. “Good heavens, no!”
Her mother paused in her writing. “Oh? Why not? I understand he is all the rage with the young ladies.”
“I well imagine he is,” Allison allowed. “All the more reason for me not to attempt to attach his regard. Truly, Mother, you should not invite him to the Abbey. He will be bored beyond tears. He does not strike me as caring to live anywhere but London.”
“He has already written to say he finds the idea of a country sojourn delightful,” her mother replied.
Allison couldn’t make herself believe he would find Wenwood so entertaining. “He is used to the social whirl. Surely he will find the company of two women stifling in the extreme.”
“He will have the Squire’s company, I am assured, as well as Genevieve’s, at least for a time. And he certainly has not complained of your presence in the past.”
Allison gave up on logic. “But, Mother,” she all but wailed, “he isn’t any fun!”
Her mother shook her head with a martyred sigh. “There are more important things in life than fun, Allison. I had hoped you might have learned that this Season. However, your attitude only confirms the wisdom of my making this decision myself.”
Allison wanted to shout in vexation. An entire six months in London and still her mother did not see her as capable of selecting a guest. With great difficulty, she took a deep breath and forced herself to sit calmly beside her mother.
“I wish you would not take such a tone with me, Mother,” she murmured with ladylike restraint. “You began this conversation by saying you wished to invite one of my friends to visit the Abbey. I merely wanted to point out that the Marquis DeGuis is not a particular friend.”
Her mother gazed at her almost distractedly, and Allison wondered whether her sudden change of attitude was only serving to confuse. “Have you taken him in dislike, then?” her mother managed with a strangled voice.
Allison wanted to answer yes but knew it was not the truth. The marquis had been relatively pleasant company, even if he didn’t know how to talk beyond the common place, and one simply could not complain about his looks, demeanor, or wardrobe. “Not dislike,” she hedged. “He has been very kind. Perhaps I simply never got to know him.”
Her mother seemed to relax, turning back to her writing. “All the more reason to invite him to the country where you can spend more time with him.”
Allison grit her teeth but kept a pleasant smile on her face. “I do not think that is necessary, Mother. If I wish to get to know the marquis better, I can always do that next Season.”
Her mother sighed, long fingers going to squeeze the bridge of her nose. She closed her eyes and sighed again.
“Mother?” Allison swallowed, alarm rising at this unfamiliar display of emotion. “Are you all right?”
“You are a sad trial to me, Allison,” her mother murmured without opening her eyes. “You are entirely too much like your father—prone to odd humors and irrational whims. I truly thought you would outgrow them.”
Allison struggled with the weight of guilt the words placed on her shoulders. “I always admired Father. Many people did. I realize his approach to life was different from yours, but does that make it wrong?”
“For a man of adequate means, many things are possible,” her mother replied, opening her eyes at last. “You are a woman, Allison, and, despite the Squire’s generosity, you are a woman of limited means. You do not have the luxury of throwing away what is offered you.” She squared her shoulders and met Allison’s gaze. The determination in the grey-blue eyes only served to unnerve Allison further.
“The Marquis DeGuis has requested my permission to marry you. I have agreed.”
Allison stared at her, feeling the blood drain from her face. “You did what?” she whispered.
The determination in her mother’s face increased. “You will marry him before Parliament opens in November. I have already arranged for the gown, the flowers, and the church. He is an excellent match, Allison. He will make a fine husband.”
“For someone. Not for me.” She gasped in a breath. “You cannot do this, Mother. You cannot simply choose a future for me and force me to fit it. I’m not a dress pattern that you can alter to suit you.”
Her mother returned to the note in dismissal. “There is nothing more to be said on the matter. The announcement will appear in The Times as soon as the marquis deems proper.”
Allison swallowed. So, it hadn’t been announced publically as yet. She supposed she should have known that. People would have been congratulating her otherwise. But, so long as no one else knew, she was free to cry off with no repercussions on her own or her family’s reputations.
Her mother sniffed as if she was still much put out by Allison’s reaction. “Of course, I did not wait on ceremony. I have already written to tell Genevieve the news.”
Ice wrapped around her. “You told Gen?” Allison rasped, knowing how swiftly such news would travel in the country. By now, the entire village would know. And sooner or later, word would reach Geoffrey.
“I told Genevieve and the Reverend Wellfordhouse,” her mother replied calmly as if somehow she had failed to notice the world crashing down around her daughter. “The marquis would have preferred a London wedding, but Genevieve will be unable to travel by then and I must have her at the wedding. We could have postponed the event until after the child was born, I suppose, but I had promised his lordship you would wed before the year was out. He was ve
ry understanding that you needed this Season to acquaint yourself with Society. And in any event, he will want to return for the start of Parliament.”
“No,” Allison whispered, rising even as her voice rose with each repetition of the word. “No, no, no. I will not marry the marquis, not in Wenwood, not in London, not in November, not ever!”
“Allison,” her mother said quellingly, “moderate your tone.”
“No!” Allison shouted. “I will shout, I will jump, I will ride Rotten Row in my chemise if that will make you listen. This is my life, Mother. You cannot dictate who I will wed.”
“The subject is closed,” her mother replied, dusting sand across the ink on the note. “We will be leaving for the country in a week’s time. You may wish to speak to Mary about her future. No doubt the marquis has any number of servants, but I believe it is customary for the new wife to bring her own abigail with her. If Mary has given good service, you may wish to offer her the position. I will be offering one to Perkins.”
Allison said every word with determination. “There is no position to offer Mary. I will pack, I will return to the Abbey. But under no circumstances will I marry the Marquis DeGuis. And now, madam, you may consider the subject closed.”
Chapter Eight
“Easy,” Geoffrey soothed the panting mare, hoping her struggles wouldn’t waken the sleeping grooms at the back of the stables. “Easy now, girl. Just a little longer.”
“It’s no good,” Enoch McCreedy grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his worn lawn shirt. “I knew when that stallion of Henry Jarvis’s broke through the fence last summer there’d be trouble. The foal’s too big for her.”
Geoffrey glanced up at the most cantankerous man in Wenwood. After four months of nearly constant company, he recognized that Enoch’s set jaw and heavy-browed frown were more from concern than dismissal of the mare’s condition. He glanced down again at the lathered bay lying beside him. “She’s your best mare. Is there no way to save her?”
Enoch folded long legs to crouch beside him in the straw of the stall. Large hands reached out to stroke the heaving sides. “Maybe. It’s all up to her.”
As if in answer, the normally docile mare reared back her head and attempted to take a bite out of Enoch’s arm. He jerked back and rose, craggy frame stiff in the hastily donned, patched tweed trousers. “She doesn’t want my help. That’s clear.”
Geoffrey murmured soothingly, and the horse lowered her head, blowing out a breath. “Still, I knew when I heard her shuffling about out here her time was near. It made me glad you had me sleep in the back room with the grooms and stable boys. Perhaps she’ll let me help. Tell me what to do, Enoch.”
“It won’t be easy,” Enoch said, running a hand back through his already disheveled coal black hair. Geoffrey could feel the knowing blue eyes boring into his back. “Could take a couple of hours. You won’t get any more sleep tonight.”
“I’ll manage,” Geoffrey replied, glancing back with a grin.
Enoch nodded. “All right, then. Here’s what we do.”
Four hours and twenty buckets of sweat later, Geoffrey helped the foal to stand. It was the same warm bay as her mother, though the black patch down her nose spoke of her father as well. Coat still matted with birth fluid, she teetered over to her mother to demand her first drink. Geoffrey leaned against the stall door and sighed with relief, weariness, and elation.
Enoch nodded toward the foal. “This is only the beginning of her struggles. Born this late, she’ll likely not live to see the spring.”
“She’ll make it,” Geoffrey predicted. “She’s got spirit. You can see it.”
“Well, I don’t want the extra work,” Enoch maintained. “If you think she’s so fine, she’s yours.”
Geoffrey straightened, staring at the man. “Do you mean that?”
Enoch scowled at him, long hooked nose formidable. “Am I known to say things I don’t mean?”
“No.” Geoffrey laughed, offering his hand, which Enoch accepted with a telltale twinkle in his blue eyes. “Thank you, Enoch. I’ll take good care of her.”
“As to that,” Enoch growled, turning away, “you’d better speak to your brother. You’ll be going home soon. He’ll have to decide whether he has room for the foal.”
Not necessarily, Geoffrey thought, following Enoch out into the pale light of morning. He paused and stretched, breathing in the smell of dry hay, warm manure, and soft dirt. Soon the sun would heat the side of the old grey barn, but now the walk to the house was shaded and cool. Behind him, he could hear the grooms and stable boys hurrying to let the animals out of the stalls, accompanied by the creak of hinges and the answering whickers of welcome. The Manor where his brother and mother lived seemed much farther away than the three miles of pasture.
“Are you happy here, Enoch?” he asked the man’s retreating back.
Enoch stopped and turned to eye him. “Giddy,” he snapped.
Geoffrey grinned. “Yes, I should have been able to tell. Sorry.”
Enoch continued to eye him. “Are you?” he barked suddenly.
Geoffrey looked around at the barns, the green pastures rolling off on all sides, the horses starting off the day. “Oh, yes,” he said, letting out his breath. “Most of the time.” Somewhere in the distance it seemed to him that he heard the strains of waltz music. He glanced around again and suddenly, everything looked empty. He had never felt so alone. His smile faded.
“Go home,” Enoch ordered. “Go back to Wenwood. You won’t be happy until that girl is your wife.”
Geoffrey started. “Am I that transparent?”
“Clear as the brook in winter,” Enoch replied. “Go home, Geoffrey. Go today.”
Was it that easy? Geoffrey glanced about one last time. Could he simply go home and confess that he realized what was most important to him now?
“Do you think Alan will let me?” he asked Enoch.
Enoch shrugged. “Why not? He sent you here for a purpose, didn’t he? Have you accomplished it?”
Geoffrey started to laugh. “He sent me here to show me what will happen to me if I don’t learn how to behave as a gentleman. You were supposed to be a bad example, Enoch. Only I find I rather admire you.”
“Oh?” Enoch raised an eyebrow in challenge. “Why?”
“You’re honest. You put your heart into the work you do, one only has to look at your horses to know that. You don’t care for the villagers’ regard, but you’d go out of your way to help them if they needed it. I daresay your conscience is clear.”
“But I made you work, lad, harder I’ll wager than you’ve ever worked before. And as you said, your reward was a filling meal and a bed of straw with the other lads.”
Geoffrey shrugged. “So, I didn’t get to be the pampered second son of the biggest landowner in these parts. What you had me doing was a lot more interesting than tagging about after Dutch Mattison or Tom Harvey, which is what I would have been doing. I actually learned more than I thought possible, about horses, and about standing on my own. I rather liked being simply Geoffrey Pentercast and getting along on my own wits for a change.”
“What makes you think that isn’t exactly what your brother intended you to learn?”
Geoffrey stared at him, grin slowly spreading.
Enoch clapped him on the shoulder. “Go home.”
By noon, Geoffrey had done just that. His mother was delighted to see him, Alan gave him a brotherly hug, and Genevieve leaned over a swelling belly to kiss him on the cheek. He had expected them to be just as angry with him as when he had left, but everyone was welcoming and pleasant. He went to great pains to behave properly, but no one seemed to notice how much he had changed. He was bemused by his entire reception.
But that didn’t stop him from taking Alan for a ride later that afternoon. Riding was definitely safer than sitting about trying to converse with his mother and Sister Genevieve, although he did don the navy tailored coat and chamois trousers his sister-in-l
aw had purchased him for his birthday last spring. He needn’t have bothered; Alan wore his usual tweed coat and trousers and looked every bit the country squire as they set off across the fields and through the woods of the estate.
“I must say, sending you to McCreedy worked out rather well,” Alan told him when they stopped atop the knoll overlooking the Munroe and Pentercast estates. The Abbey perched below them and over the tree tops they could see the barns and fields of the Manor, stretching to the curve of the River Wen and beyond. Geoffrey had always liked the view from the top, although he would have preferred to have had another riding companion. He heard his brother’s comment as if from a distance and decided it was better to laugh than be annoyed.
“I suppose you have a right to crow,” he admitted. “I do have a different perspective on life now. I know what I want. It has never been clearer to me.”
“Oh?” He had obviously piqued his brother’s interest. “And what would that be?”
Geoffrey pointed to the lush pasture on the other side of the River Wen. “That part of the estate, for starters. There must be at least thirty acres of good bottomland.”
Alan raised an eyebrow. “So you want to farm?”
“No.” Geoffrey grinned. “I want to raise horses.” When Alan failed to catch his enthusiasm, he hurried on. “Don’t you see, Alan, it’s the one thing we’ve never mastered. You’ve got a fine herd of dairy cows, even after the flood last winter, and a good size flock of sheep. The orchard and fields produce nicely. What are you missing for a truly great farm?”
“Pigs?” Alan suggested.
Geoffrey shook his head. “There is no glory in being a pig farmer. No, Alan, we need sturdy draft horses for farming. That chestnut I saw in your back pasture is nearly past its last prayers, and I’m not much more pleased with the others I saw in the stables. How did you get any work done this season?”
Alan looked amused. “As I said, you’ve obviously learned a great deal. I can see I should have taken you with me when I purchased them.”