A Scandalous Plan

by Donna Lea Simpson

  This was different. Every time she saw James she noted something new to admire. He was gentle, and she admired that trait in a man. As far as she could tell he was rigidly moral, following his own strict beliefs about how a man should act; she could never respect any man who did less.

  If he was occasionally hasty in temper, it was no more than her own outbursts of frustration or pique.

  But it was what his behavior said about his heart that attracted her. He would sacrifice anything for his children’s benefit, no matter how misguided some might think him. Many would criticize him and believe he was harming his daughter by keeping his son in the household. It was even possible that that was the truth. Many worthy suitors might be repelled by the odd, silent younger brother. But James Martindale was doing his utmost to balance the needs and rights of both his children. Angelica might feel herself ignored, but Theresa had seen the love in James’s eyes when he looked at his daughter. It was there, naked and exposed, for anyone with the will to see it. He loved her with all his heart and would do whatever he could that was consistent with his other child’s good, to benefit her. Theresa had never met, among the many widowers who had courted her of late, anything to compare with his behavior toward his children.

  But she was completely realistic. She had no reason to think him looking for a wife or even open to that possibility. He was consumed with making a home for his children. In her mind the right wife would only enhance—

  Wife?

  Theresa pulled herself up. She had long ago decided that she was not wifely enough for any man. She could not be less than she was, nor would she hide her questing mind and biting intelligence from anyone, and those characteristics, in her experience, were not what a man looked for in a wife, nor were they designed to make a marriage happy and easy. And besides, she had everything she could want without marriage.

  “Tuppence for your thoughts, my dear,” her father said, coming up behind her and putting his hands on her shoulders.

  She put her right hand over his left. “I am afraid I have not the change necessary to give you my thoughts and what is left over after their worth is paid.”

  He chuckled and sat down beside her at the table. “So, we are to have company this Midsummer Eve,” he said. “Remember how your mother would prepare? ’Twas like Christmas for my darling.”

  Theresa put her head on his shoulder. “She would have wreathes on all the doors and mummers to play fairies. She loved this time of year.”

  They were silent with their memories for a few minutes.

  “I wish I were more like her,” Theresa said, straightening.

  “Do you think yourself so different, then?” Lord Leighton had a quizzical expression on his lined face.

  “Well, yes. Completely different. I am so pragmatic . . . not the least bit romantic or fluttery.”

  “No, you are not the least bit romantic.”

  Disconcerted by her father’s secretive smile, Theresa said, “You must admit I am very unlike Mother.”

  “Unlike her, and yet so like her. Do not ask me to explain, for you will not understand. So, what time are we to expect our guests, and what do you have in store for them?”

  She let him change the subject, but she did wonder what he meant.

  • • •

  Twilight fell late, as it was now just past the summer solstice, when day stretched long into evening. On a high hill overlooking the ancient, turreted Leighton house, Theresa, with Angelica on one side and Jacob on the other side and trailed by Dora, watched a man from the stable—traditionally, to honor the saint whose day it would be, it had to be a fellow named John, so it was old John the senior groom—set fire to a huge pile of sticks and logs. A flame flickered and then a blaze danced from one log to another, fueled by lamp oil liberally spilled on the tinder. The flames, gold and red and orange, capered wildly against the indigo and kohl sky.

  Jacob, his eyes wide, quivered. Theresa whispered to Angelica, “We must keep close to your brother tonight. This is all so new to him, and I am not sure how much he understands.”

  The girl nodded. “But we must stay out long enough for the plan to work.”

  “Until after midnight. I told enough people. We are sure to have a few villagers creeping up here to watch.”

  The fire blazed and danced, the flames eloquently flickering against the dark, star-jeweled sky. Theresa, with the children and Dora, held hands and danced around the fire, then they took some of the wreathes, liberally laced with herbs and flowers, and tossed them on the blaze. The next day the ashes would be spread on the fields to ensure a good harvest.

  Dora, her eyes wide, said, “My lady, does the vicar approve of these paganish goings-on?”

  “We are just honoring St. John. Nothing pagan about that.”

  “I suppose not,” she said, doubt in her tone. “But the wreathes and the dancing . . . I don’t know what me mum will say!”

  “Then don’t tell her,” Theresa said.

  The girl looked startled, as if such a thing would never cross her mind.

  Angelica, as if she had been taking part in such mad events her whole life, twirled and shouted to the dark sky, head back, long hair streaming out behind her. Jacob held tight to Theresa’s hand and she did not let go, happy that he trusted her. His eyes wide, he watched his sister. On his face was an expression Theresa had never seen there; Jacob was smiling.

  She made a memory of that moment: Angelica in the darkness, happy and young, Jacob, smiling and reaching out his free hand as if he were taking everything in through all of his senses. If she never had children of her own—and she did not expect to—this would have to suffice, this night and these children.

  Her senses heightened, Theresa was aware just when some of the villagers arrived to watch. Like a mummer in the plays her mother used to put on, she felt the tightening in her belly that told her the performance of her life was about to take place.

  It had started, the Midsummer madness.

  Eight

  It was Midsummer Day, St. John the Baptist’s feast day. The second stage of her plan must now begin.

  They were all sedately going to town in the barouche, children dressed immaculately, Theresa for once not driving. This was no time to emphasize her unseemly independence. She needed to draw on all the dignity of her position in the community this day.

  “First, Mrs. Parsifal’s cottage, Anthony, and then the church,” she said to the driver.

  With the stop first to her old friend’s home they would not be in time for the St. John’s Day service, but Vicar would still be there. That was all she needed.

  She glanced from right to left. Angelica, sitting on her right, was dressed sweetly in a white muslin gown with a tidy spencer against the morning chill and dampness. Jacob, on her left, was perfectly turned out in breeches and jacket, his dark hair, so like his father’s, damped into place. Dora was with them, of course, facing them, her eyes wide at the treat of riding in a barouche. She was going to visit her mother while they were in the village. That was Theresa’s doing. She did not want to involve the naïve and scrupulously honest Dora in her scheme any more than she had to; it didn’t seem right, somehow. Angelica, she trusted, could be as devious as need be. Her scruples did not extend to involving a child in her scheme, she noted dispassionately, but then, she had known immediately that the girl was a very special child. And Jacob was her brother, after all.

  When they finally did reach St. Mark-on-Locke, after their visit to Mrs. Parsifal and dropping Dora off at her parental home, they were just in time to find the vicar in the church, putting away his vestments. They could see him through the open side door of the church, laying his religious accoutrements away with reverence and a methodical hand.

  Vicar Jamison was an old friend of Theresa’s; he had even had an affection for her at one time that could have blossomed into something more if she had not been so far out of his social sphere. But there lingered a preference, and a gentleness in his treatment of
her. It would be sorely tested over the coming weeks, but Theresa knew his heart and that she could explain to him her methods and her madness. There was no one kinder than he.

  Theresa helped the children down from the carriage and approached the gate at the end of the path to the churchyard. He greeted them just as he closed the side door to the church.

  “Lady Theresa, who do we have here?” he asked. He walked down the stone pathway toward the gate where they stood waiting.

  “Mr. Jamison, this is Miss Angelica Martindale and Master Jacob Martindale. They are Mr. James Martindale’s children and are the new tenants of Meadowlark Mansion.”

  “Yes, I met Mr. Martindale.” Jamison gravely shook hands with both children, paying particular attention to Jacob, who was silent, of course, but whose eyes were devouring the man in front of him.

  “Angelica, will you take care of your brother for a moment while I speak to Mr. Jamison?”

  As the children walked hand in hand into the church garden, she took the vicar aside; he gazed at her with a question in his eyes.

  “So, how was the service this morning?” she said, her voice lilting with mischief.

  “’Twas very interesting. Higher attendance than usual, but I fear most were here to speak to their neighbors, rather than give thanks and worship.”

  Theresa bit her lip uncertainly and examined the handsome black-haired man in front of her. She had never imagined herself in love with him, though he had made plain his feelings for her, but she did hold him in a great deal of affection and respect, and she would not abuse a long-standing trust and friendship between them.

  However, if he was a willing participant in her scheme—

  “Jacob Martindale . . . have you heard anything about him?”

  “Not a lot. I must admit, folks were talking mostly about your ‘heathenish’ Midsummer Eve celebration.”

  “Ah, so word got around. How did they know anything about it,” she exclaimed innocently, “when it was meant to be a private affair, with just our family, the children, and our staff attending?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he answered. “Could it be that you spoke of it with such mysterious mutterings that some of the local lads just had to check it out to see if there was any . . . er, unseemly behavior?”

  “Good heavens,” she said, genuinely startled. “Is that what they thought?”

  The vicar colored. “I’m afraid so. They were disappointed, and I will not be surprised if they begin to embellish the story over a pint. You can be sure I will vigorously dispute such embellishments.” He took her arm and they strolled after Jacob and Angelica. “But much of the talk was about young Jacob Martindale. Theresa, what do you have in mind? What are you up to?”

  She gazed off after the children. “Jacob is . . . different. No one is quite sure what is wrong with him, but he is silent and sometimes withdrawn. On occasion, he cannot bear to be touched and freezes up into a state almost like catatonia.”

  “Poor child.”

  “But he is so full of love,” Theresa said. Under a spreading tree she stopped her friend with a hand on his arm. “You can see it in his eyes sometimes. Mr. Martindale is a wonderful father; he will not farm that poor boy out to some family of keepers like he is a . . . a wild beast. You must have heard the talk from fools like Dame Alice and ill-tempered gossips like Mrs. Greavely. Why do people shun Mr. Martindale rather than honor him?”

  “Folks are afraid of anything different.”

  “Then ‘folks’ ought to think for themselves rather than being blinded by idiotic prejudice and superstition.” She looked away. “I’m sorry; I should not be battering you. I came to ask your help, or at least your silence.”

  “I will do anything to help that boy that is consistent with my pledge to God.”

  “Don’t worry, Andrew, I will not ask you to dance around my Midsummer night fire or any such thing. Let us walk through the graveyard. I have something to ask of you.”

  • • •

  In the butcher shop a while later, Theresa huffily reflected on her old friend’s words. The best she had been able to pry out of him was an agreement that he would not actively counter her plans, but he was not pleased and had told her why. It just illustrated how little he understood the villagers’ deeply superstitious nature. She supposed it was understandable coming from a man of God; he had to condemn much of that old way of thinking as pagan nonsense.

  But her mother had understood and made use of the old ways. Surely there was nothing wrong with it when the end result was a better life for all involved. Today, though, she would rely on the truth to try to improve the Martindales’ position in the community.

  She entered the butcher shop with Angelica and Jacob to find Dame Alice there—her husband was very particular about his meat and no one could see to it but his wife—with her other friend, Miss Tratt. There was a very interesting tug-of-war between Mrs. Greavely and Miss Tratt over friendships, with the end result being that they shared the same group of friends but were never in their company at the same time. Theresa had known Dame Alice would be there; her schedule was unchanged through three decades. But the presence of Miss Tratt was a pleasant surprise.

  Dame Alice, at the sight of Jacob, drew back, but Miss Tratt, curious and eager, stepped forward.

  “Lady Theresa, how nice to see you,” she said, her eyes wide with curiosity.

  “And you, Miss Tratt. May I introduce to you Miss Angelica Martindale and Master Jacob Martindale.”

  The spinster shook Angelica’s outstretched hand and turned to Jacob. Theresa saw something change in the older lady’s eyes. She touched his head gently and said, “Master Jacob, it is a pleasure to meet you.”

  She was rewarded by a fleeting smile, a rarity on the small boy’s lips.

  “He likes you,” Theresa said, genuinely amazed.

  Miss Tratt, tears in her gooseberry eyes, said, “He is very much like my nephew’s son, Lawrence. That child was the sweetest baby in the world, but they sent him to the country to live with a slatternly woman and he . . .” She turned away, sniffed delicately into her handkerchief and turned back, clearing her throat. “Welcome to the village, children.” She fished in her reticule and found a couple of paper-wrapped sweets. She handed them each one and gave Jacob another affectionate pat of the head.

  Dame Alice, hesitant still but braver in the face of her friend’s rare endorsement of anyone considered a newcomer, stepped forward and said, “Yes, welcome.”

  That was the height of her courage, but it was a step forward, Theresa thought.

  She spent an hour in different shops, and in every one she found people to talk to. Her topic was the great improvements Mr. Martindale was making to the land, and what a boon it would be to have someone buy the Meadowlark property and really take an interest in it. At the drapers she spoke of Mr. Martindale’s service to the military during the war, how, when a supplier of cloth for flags and uniforms was caught in a scandal for vastly overpricing his wares, Mr. Martindale stepped in and gave Wellington ells and ells of cloth to clothe the poor tattered foot soldiers. For nothing!

  At the genteel tea shop newly opened, she and the children stopped for luncheon and she engaged the proprietor, a Mrs. Smythe-Blessing, in a conversation about Mr. Martindale’s illustrious family, the Viscount St. Boniface, his father, and his eldest brother, the Baron Wyethorpe. She rambled quietly as the children stuffed themselves on cream cakes, about how modest Mr. Martindale was and how he would never mention his distinguished family ties.

  Of the people she spoke to during the morning some were silent, some disbelieving, but enough were interested and encouraging for Theresa to be satisfied with the day’s work. But at long last she guided the children to the livery where Anthony would be waiting with the barouche. They started down the lane to the inn stable and a man stepped out and spat on the ground in front of them.

  “’Struth, but he’s an odd duck, ain’t he, milady?”

  “Are you addres
sing me?”

  “I am. Even a commoner can address a queen, eh?”

  She looked him over. He was acceptable-looking and neatly dressed, which made his bitter expression and sneer all the more shocking somehow. One generally associated rudeness with the ill-kempt and dirty. She decided to ignore him and held tightly to the two children’s hands as she searched for a sign that her carriage was being brought around.

  “That is the man Father let go,” Angelica whispered.

  “Yer coach’ll be here soon.” The fellow spat on the ground again. “’E’s evil, y’know,” he said, pointing one stubby finger at Jacob. “I seen with me own eyes that look he gave the mare, an’ then she miscarried. ’E done it. Give it the evil eye.”

  “Angelica, take Jacob around to the front while I see what is keeping the carriage,” Theresa said, her voice tight with anger. She was not afraid of the groom, as there were others near enough that he would try nothing foolish. As Angelica hurried around the corner with her brother, Theresa said, “You will stop your foolish talk immediately. If I hear you maligning that poor boy again, I will—”

  “You’ll what, milady? ’Ave me dismissed? They’re lucky to get me here, an’ they know it. But that there boy caused me to lose a soft job, an’ interfered with a promising bit o’ fun with Dora. So I be thinkin’ the Martindale brats oughta consider a new home, back in London, where they belong.”

  A promising bit of fun with Dora? Theresa opened her mouth to ask him what he meant, but she would not lower herself to speak with this man. She turned and strode toward the stable, calling out, “What is keeping my carriage?”

  A scared-looking groom, probably threatened by the other man to hold back the carriage, led the team forward; Theresa’s driver followed, swearing at him in colorful language. When he saw his mistress, he stopped abruptly.

  “Pardon, milady,” Anthony said. “But this dolt swore there was something wrong with the strapping and would not send the carriage out until he had inspected every harness. I told him—”