by Jo Beverley
“She’s usually better behaved,” Kitty said as she closed the gate behind her. “But she’s been cooped up in the coach for most of the past two days.” And in Cateril Manor for so much longer. Perhaps Sillikin was feeling the same giddy relief as she was.
Ruth had draped the clothing over one line and was pegging the first garment in place on another. “You can let her run about in here. The hedge is dense and the gates are closed.”
There was a second gate into the lane that ran beside the parsonage. As Ruth said, it was closed, so Kitty let Sillikin free. Once she was sure the dog was content with snuffling around the area, she helped with the pegging.
The sun was low in the sky and a breeze flapped the clothing on the line, but after her misadventure in the kitchen, the crisp air was welcome. The embarrassing moment hadn’t been her fault, but she must avoid any more, especially where Lord Dauntry might hear about them. She paused to tuck hair back under her cap and then pegged her blue linsey-woolsey gown securely to the line. This was a good time to learn more.
“You wrote that Lord Dauntry is fashionable. My brighter gowns are years old.”
“He’s not expecting a peacock of fashion.”
“What is he expecting? What did you tell him?”
Ruth pinned the green. “I can’t remember exactly. That you’re a widow aged twenty-seven. That you’d run your household in London for many years.”
“Mere rooms,” Kitty protested.
“But your own establishment. I tried to give the impression that you were sound in body and mind.”
“An effort, was it?”
Ruth chuckled. “I sometimes wonder about the mind bit. I don’t forget you persuading me to slip out of school to visit a fair.”
“Nor do I,” Kitty said as she pegged out a shift. “We fled back to the school in terror.”
“You did it again the next year.”
“And you refused. Very wisely, I’m sure.”
“But that’s when you met Marcus.”
“Yes,” Kitty said.
She’d repeated the adventure simply to prove to herself that she wasn’t afraid, but she hadn’t intended to stay long. When she’d seen the scarred and wounded man leaning against a low wall, however, crutch propped beside him, she’d felt his despondence. She’d asked if she could help him in some way. He’d smiled and she’d seen the vibrant man beneath, so she’d kept him company for a little while.
Older and wiser now, she could see all the ways that adventure could have been disastrous, but Marcus had never been that sort of wretch. They’d talked of trivialities, but the bond had been forged. He’d responded to her interest, and she’d fallen in love with the vision of herself as ministering angel to the wounded hero.
He’d been in Leamington to take the spa waters and consult with a doctor there. The school servants were easy to bribe, so they’d exchanged messages and even managed occasional meetings until he’d left. A month later, it had been time for Kitty to leave school. Marcus had turned up in Coventry to court her in traditional form. Not long afterward, they’d married in her parish church amid orange blossom, tossed wheat, and smiles.
“Sad memories?” Ruth asked.
“Just memories. What did you tell Lord Dauntry about my appearance?”
“I don’t think he asked.”
“That doesn’t mean it won’t matter.”
“There’s nothing wrong with your appearance.”
“I’ve never been a beauty.”
“If only beauties married, the world would be an odd place.”
“Those without beauty or fortune often stay single. Don’t look at me like that. You wanted me to be practical.”
“And honest,” Ruth said. “Whenever we schoolgirls encountered young gentlemen, they were attracted to your charm.”
Charm? Kitty pondered that as she pegged out a pair of drawers. She’d forgotten those times, but perhaps Ruth was right. Swains had been drawn to Ruth’s prettiness, but Kitty had never been neglected. Marcus had been attracted to her for more than her compassion for a wounded soldier, and his army friends had sometimes flirted with her.
Sometimes too much.
Marcus had liked her to be his hostess and been proud of her popularity, but sometimes and unpredictably, he’d take objection to one man’s attentions. He’d even tried to duel with one of them. After that, she’d tried to deflect attention. When she thought back, it seemed it had become less necessary as she’d aged. Ruth was remembering a past nearly a decade old, not the way Kitty was today.
She moved to a new line to hang out her russet gown. Perhaps she’d wear that for her interview. It was the most sober color of her premourning gowns and it had long sleeves and a high neck. Unfortunately, it was trimmed with braid in a military style. That had been the fashion four years ago, but it wasn’t popular in peacetime.
She told herself Lord Dauntry wasn’t seeking high style. He wanted a sensible woman to manage his household. The brown could be just the thing. If not, it would have to be gray or fawn. The violet silk was an evening dress, and both the green and the blue too frivolous.
She picked up a pair of stockings, but then looked around. “Sillikin? Sillikin?”
She slung the stockings back on the line and hunted around the open area and along the hedge. Both gates were still closed. “Sillikin! Come, girl!”
She heard a bark, but it was at a distance. Over the lavender hedge she saw her dog, hindquarters wriggling in joy at her escape. “How did you get there, you bad dog? Come back.”
Then Kitty saw that there were cows in the field. They were all at a distance at the moment, but that could change.
She ran to the gate that led into the lane and saw a small gap where the hedge met it. It hardly seemed big enough, but a bit of fur was caught on one twig. She opened the gate, calling back, “She escaped this way. She’s not a country dog. She could get into trouble!” She ran into the lane, and Ruth joined her there.
“Call her. She should come.”
“Sillikin! Come!” Beyond the wide barred gate into the field, the dog turned but stayed where she was, wagging her tail, inviting Kitty to the game. The cows were turning their heads to look.
“Devil take you,” Kitty muttered, and then reminded herself to watch her tongue around Ruth. “I’ll go and get her.”
“I’ll help.”
But from the house came a call. “Mistress!”
“What now?” Ruth asked.
“Go. I can manage this.”
Ruth helped Kitty to open the gate a little way. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“I’m not afraid of a few cows.”
“She should be better trained, you know. She’ll have to behave herself in the country.”
“I know. She’s never wandered during walks at Cateril, and in London I mostly kept her on a leash when we went out. Go. I’ll manage.”
Ruth hurried back to the house, and Kitty slipped through the gate, keeping an eye on the brown cows. She’d said she wasn’t afraid of them, but that was true only if they kept their distance. She’d grown up in towns and then lived mostly in London. During her time at Cateril Manor she’d never ventured far from the gardens on her walks.
The ground was trampled to mud around the gate, so she picked her way along the drier edge, where some grass survived. Even so, she could feel dampness seeping through her jean half boots. She’d seen no need to wear her sturdier leather ones for travel.
“Pestilential creature,” she muttered at the dog, who remained out of reach, in cheerful expectation of play.
Just in time, Kitty avoided some cow dung, but that had her continuing to employ some of Marcus’s more colorful language as she navigated the field, holding up her skirts. Now three cows were watching her as they chewed. One took a few steps toward her. Sillikin danced fart
her away.
She had an idea. Despite what Ruth thought, Sillikin had been well trained and did usually obey a clear command.
“Sit!” she told her sharply.
Surprised but obedient, Sillikin sat. Kitty hurried over, but just as she reached for the dog, Sillikin looked past her and shot off toward the gate. Kitty turned and saw the attraction was a horse and rider.
They’d lived near the unfashionable side of Hyde Park, and Kitty had sometimes walked Sillikin there. That area was popular with men wanting a vigorous ride, so they’d often encountered Marcus’s friends on horseback and always received a welcome. Now, ears flapping, the dog was lolloping over to greet new friends. But this was a stranger on a rangy gray horse that was sidling and staring with white-rimmed eyes at the little monster.
“Sillikin!” Kitty screamed, racing after. “Sit!”
The dog skidded to a halt and obeyed, but only feet from the horse, which was trying to rear, despite its rider’s control.
Kitty dashed closer, grabbed her dog, and backed away. “My apologies, sir. She’s overexcited.”
“I’d say you were, woman. There was no need to screech.”
Cold eyed, blond, and fashionable enough for a London park. Kitty knew, and here she was, in unbecoming gray, a complete mess head to toe, clutching an unruly dog who clearly hadn’t avoided all the dung.
“Yes. No. I’m sorry, sir!”
With that, she fled down the lane instead of back into the parsonage gardens, as if she could somehow deceive him as to her identity. Perhaps Viscount Dauntry wouldn’t connect a hoyden in a field with the sensible widowed friend of the parson’s wife.
When she’d turned a corner, however, she collapsed against a low stone wall. It didn’t matter. As soon as he saw her again, he’d know. He’d never believe she could control his household, and even less that she could be a suitable viscountess. Ruth had been right to worry. Within an hour of arrival she’d ruined everything.
She pushed despondently through the gate and followed a path through graves to the parsonage, too depressed even to castigate the pungent dog. It seemed that Sillikin’s obedience had caused her to sit straight down in some dung, and she had more on her paws. Kitty couldn’t take her into the house like this, so she paused in the garden to try to clean off as much muck as possible with handfuls of grass. The dog’s coat was long, however, and grass didn’t make much impression.
“Wretched beast. I might as well clean you off with my brown gown, for all the good it’s going to do me now.”
Ruth came out. “Is she all right?”
“Safe but filthy.”
“The small washtub,” Ruth said. She left and returned to fill it with water from the pump. “I’ll get some soap and rags.”
Kitty put Sillikin in the water and kept her there. “Yes, I know you don’t like it, but perhaps this will teach you a lesson, milady. You know better than to run off like that.”
Suddenly contrite as well as miserable, the dog licked her hand and whined.
“Very well, but you’ve ruined everything. We’ll end up back in Cateril Manor, trapped under a dismal cloud forever.”
Unheard, Ruth had returned. “Is it as bad as that?”
Oh, Lord. Kitty took the pot of coarse soap and began to wash Sillikin in the cold water. “Marcus’s mother hasn’t regained her spirits, so she doesn’t want to think I have.”
“That must be difficult.”
“It is.”
“What will she say when you remarry?”
“I don’t know,” Kitty said.
And now we’ll never know.
Ruth went back into the house, and Kitty continued to clean the dog. She should have told Ruth the marriage would never happen, but she hated to shatter hope as much as she hated the prospect of returning to Cateril Manor.
Chapter 5
Viscount Dauntry, who’d been known most of his life simply as Braydon, trotted Ivor down the lane, trying not to let his annoyance travel to the unsettled horse. It would be pleasant to think the woman with the dog had been some servant, but her gown, though dismal, had been well made and her voice well-bred.
She had to have been the Honorable Mrs. Cateril, his prospective bride. He was astonished that Ruth Lulworth had been so duplicitous. That woman could never be a calming influence at Beauchamp Abbey or anywhere else. On top of riotous behavior, there had been riotous red hair escaping from her cap. He distrusted red hair.
He let Ivor canter to work out the fidgets, but that brought him back to Beauchamp Abbey all the sooner. He slowed to a walk as soon as it came into view. Was he the only new peer in Britain to so bitterly curse his fate?
Only weeks ago he’d been a happy man. He’d been plain Mr. Braydon, with ample funds, minimal responsibilities, and a comfortable suite of rooms in the most fashionable part of London. Now he was stuck here.
True, he’d become restless with an idle life, but he’d recently found occupation that suited him. A chance encounter with an army acquaintance had led him to an unofficial department of the Home Office that worked to prevent riot and revolution. It was headed by Sir George Hawkinville, under whom he’d served at times during the war, and it provided interesting, challenging work.
The nation seethed with unrest because of the hardships brought about by the expense of the long war with France. That had been worsened last year by the bleak weather caused by the explosion of a volcano in the Far East. Some had dubbed it the year without a summer. That hadn’t quite been true here in Britain, but crops had been damaged and prices of food had risen even higher.
The suffering was genuine, and Dauntry sympathized with the poor and with the honest reformers who were trying to bring about change. He had no sympathy with those who were exploiting distress to foment violence and revolution.
Hawkinville worked under the sponsorship, protection even, of one of the king’s sons, Prince Augustus, Duke of Sussex. Sussex was sympathetic to reform and wanted to find and deal with the revolutionaries without oppressing the honest poor or the honest reformers. He was a useful counterweight to the Home Secretary, Lord Sidmouth, who would prefer to crush all dissent, but all in all, Hawkinville’s task was as delicate as picking thorns out of a lion’s paw.
Now the death of Princess Charlotte and the consequent succession crisis had added chaos to the brew. Britain needed a cool head in command. Instead, the Regent was hiding in Brighton, surrendering to grief over his daughter’s death, and the government seemed paralyzed by his absence.
The situation could explode at any moment, and Braydon needed to be on hand in London, but damned duty tied him here. It was months since his predecessor died, and things had slid awry. Some of the paperwork was in disarray, possibly in order to obscure errors and even theft. Money was certainly unaccounted for. In addition, he had to handle the fifth viscount’s mother, the dowager Lady Dauntry, and his difficult daughter, Isabella.
He was learning his new trade and beginning to put things straight, but accounts, documents, and land management were one thing; difficult females were another. It was only natural that the dowager Lady Dauntry was in deep grief over the loss of her son and grandson, and Isabella mourned the loss of her father and brother. He understood why they both resented the stranger who’d taken over their home and could throw them out on a whim. Facts were facts, however. They were all stuck in this mess and nothing could change it. He’d pinned his hopes of sanity on a quick marriage to a sensible widow—a woman like the excellent Ruth Lulworth. Clearly opposites attracted. Had he somehow offended the gods that they thwarted him at every turn?
Pale Beauchamp Abbey was his ball and chain, but it was a handsome house. It had been well designed and well built nearly two hundred years ago, in a simple style that had probably been based on the Queen’s House in Greenwich, which was a notable work by Inigo Jones.
The gardens
in front had a similar old-fashioned formality, and there, walking three small white dogs along a white gravel path, was Isabella, in deepest black. She was still in her mourning period, but she and her grandmother dripped with black and jet as a blatant reproach to cruel fate—that is, him.
He carried on to the stables and put Ivor in the hands of Baker, his groom. Nearly all the servants here were from the fifth viscount’s time, so he appreciated the few of his own.
“Any problems?” he asked quietly. He’d been away for only six hours, but anything was possible.
“Nothing to speak of, milord. A Lord Nunseath paid a call. Happened to be passing by, he said. From fifteen miles away.”
A remarkable number of gentry and aristocracy did that, and Dauntry was glad to have missed one. They properly welcomed him to his new elevation, but they all bore invitations from their ladies, and most mentioned available daughters with handsome dowries, charming accomplishments, or both. He should have sought a bride from among those, but such a lady would not have welcomed a hasty wooing, nor her husband’s intention to leave her in command here and live mostly in Town. In addition, she would have brought entanglements.
The visiting gentlemen all sounded out his politics, trying to discover what side he’d be on in national and especially local matters. Some had requested financial support for this good cause and that. Braydon would pour out guineas to be rid of them, but he’d detected local politics behind some causes, and a few seemed like outright fraud. It wasn’t in his nature to ignore that. A wife without local connections had seemed to be a good idea.
He entered the house by the back door that lay close to his office, first entering the room used by his secretary. Worseley rose to hand him a message from the parsonage. As feared, it told him that Mrs. Cateril had arrived.
“Anything else of importance?”
“No, sir.”
Braydon put the letter in his pocket as he progressed to the front hall, considering what to do about the widow. He could write to say she would not suit. She’d know why. But that brought problems of its own.