His eyebrows peaked. “Do you mean that French poets are so sublime we tend not to read beyond our shores? We are a nation of romantics.” He put down his cup. “I recently discovered a new poem of Byron’s. Written this year, I believe.” He began to recite it, his voice lending it just the right tone of regret.
“Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well:
Even though unforgiving, never
’Gains thee shall my heart rebel.”
Hetty released the breath she’d been holding. She’d hung on every word. He quoted Lord Byron as if he truly understood the meaning behind Byron’s words. With the memory of his kiss, she feared she was gaping like a foolish, smitten girl and bent her head over the teapot.
“Written to his wife, when his marriage ended after one year, I believe,” Guy added, helpfully bringing her back to earth.
Her father replaced his cup in its saucer with a rattle. “Modern verse!” He shook his head and climbed to his feet. “I declare, I can’t follow what young people talk about nowadays.” He bowed. “If you’ll excuse me, my lord, I’ll go to the library, there’s some business needs my attention. It has been a pleasure to have your company. I had no idea you were so interested in fly fishing. You must call on us again.”
Guy stood and bowed. “Merci, Colonel Cavendish. I should be delighted to learn more from you before I embark on the sport.”
With both doors left ajar for propriety’s sake, her father settled by the library fireside.
After a glance at her father rustling his periodical, Guy turned to her. “Horatia,” he said in a quiet voice, edging closer to her on the sofa. “Might we be friends?”
She needed time to build some sort of resistance to his charm. “Friends don’t treat each other the way you did,” she said in a small voice.
“I am sorry.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “I could not resist. You were very beguiling.”
She was? Hetty tried to ignore that. “You’re not sorry at all.”
“You did trick me, Horatia.”
“I explained why.” She glanced at her father who was intent on lighting his pipe. “I was right not to trust you.”
Guy grimaced. “But you can trust me, I promise you.” He tilted his head and smiled. “No one has been badly wounded by this escapade, have they?”
His words sounded so convincing, and she had to admit that the last few days had been quite extraordinary and certainly not dull. She would consent to a friendship for it put the relationship on a safer plane. “You’ll tell no one…?” she whispered.
He chuckled. “Kiss and tell? That is not my code.”
She allowed him to take her hand. He was quite convincing, despite his behavior in the stables.
When he turned her hand over and pressed a kiss on her palm, endless quivers of sensation raced along her nerve endings. She snatched her hand back. “That is not within the bounds of friendship!” An English gentleman would never behave so…
He held a finger to his lips, his dark lashes hiding his expression. She was sure his eyes were dancing. He was so outrageous she tamped down an urge to laugh. She must not give him an inch, he was likely to take a lot more.
“Forgive me,” he said, a smile in his voice. “It won’t happen again. Unless you wish it.”
“Rest assured, I shall not. Let us talk of something else.”
Mary came in and bobbed. “Shall you require more hot water, Miss Hetty?”
“No thank you, Mary.”
“So, you’re called Hetty?”
“Yes. Although my father prefers Horatia.”
“Mm. I shall you call you Hetty.”
She sighed and shook her head. It wouldn’t do the slightest bit of good to argue with him.
“I have discovered an excellent library at the hall. I imagine you have availed yourself of it? You’re welcome to continue. There are some excellent volumes of poetry.”
“That won’t be possible now. As you must know.”
“Come dressed as Simon. I shall enjoy it to no end.”
She glanced across at her father. It was lucky he was slightly hard of hearing. “You are impossible!”
His gaze roamed over her. “But I must confess, I do prefer you in that rouge-colored gown.”
She gathered the folds in her fingers. “This hue is called rose-pink.”
He laughed and shrugged in that Gallic way he had, which was so charming. “Rouge, rose-pink, chestnut?”
“They are all different.” Her tone censorious, she resisted the urge to pat her hair.
“Well, the color suits you.”
“You are a compulsive flirt, my lord.” She shook her head but couldn’t prevent a small smile hovering on her lips. “Weren’t we to speak of other things? How is my godfather today?”
Guy shrugged. “He has taken to his bed.”
“Poor Eustace. He suffers terribly from gout.”
“So I believe.” He fell silent.
“I’m sure he will rally soon and become better company.”
“I do hope so. There is much for us to discuss.”
“I daresay. Years to catch up on.”
“I have tried, but he shows little interest in the family.”
“Oh? Because he is unwell, I suppose.” This surprised her, for wasn’t it Eustace’s wish to confirm Guy’s right to claim the barony?
He looked doubtful. “Perhaps.”
“Is Eustace returning to London?” Would he be cast out of his home after all these years? Surely Guy would not do such a thing.
“In truth, he has enjoyed my father’s hospitality unencumbered for many years. It might be difficult to relinquish it.”
“He enjoys living in Digswell,” Hetty said. “He has made many friends here.”
“I wrote to advise him. Did he mention it?”
“Not to me.”
“Until he heard from me, he might not have expected an heir to appear after the bloody Revolution.”
“Nevertheless, he would wish you to take your rightful place.”
He shrugged. “Not if I had met my end on the way here.”
What was Guy suggesting? She cringed. “Surely, you don’t suspect Eustace to be behind the attack.”
Guy looked down at his hands. “I’ve yet to find that out. As well as what lies behind the poor state of the hall. Until then, it makes no sense to discuss it.”
Outraged at even the faintest suggestion of impropriety on her godfather’s part, Hetty rose. “I’ve known Eustace for many years. He’s a good man. He would want to do the right thing.”
“It is hard to know the workings of a person’s mind. We are strangers after all. He holds no affection for me in his heart.”
“That’s very different from…” She couldn’t say the words.
He stood. “I must go. I hope we shall meet again soon.” A grin tweaked the corner of his mouth. “On horseback perhaps?”
She sighed. “This episode has put an end to my riding alone. And Papa seems to have lost his love for it.”
“That’s regrettable. But it has become dangerous, as I’ve taken pains to explain to you.”
He was just like her father beneath his bravado. His wife would have to obey him in all things. It hardly mattered, for it would not be her. Fanny, perhaps, with her biddable nature, would make him an agreeable partner in life. Hetty walked with him to the door. “You have much to do to put your estate to rights. I wish you well with it.”
He pulled on his gloves. “A difficult but necessary enterprise.”
At the parlor window, she watched him ride away through the trees. Guy must have met the real Simon at the stables who would have returned from the village.
She shivered and returned to the fireside. Did he really believe her godfather could be capable of such evil? Although to be fair, Guy hadn’t come right out and accused him of it.
She wound the tassel on a cushion through her fingers. What had occurred for the hall to fall
into neglect? Perhaps Eustace’s condition was more serious than they knew.
Simon’s voice came up the kitchen stairs. Hetty was tempted to go and ask him what he thought of Guy. The groom was a levelheaded fellow, and she trusted his judgment. No need for the matter was at an end. She sighed and patted the cushion back into place. Guy had expressed the intention to marry and safeguard his heritage with an heir. And, rightfully, his wife would come from the upper ten thousand. She must put him out of her mind. A season in London had become imperative. She must find a way to persuade her father.
Chapter Eight
Several weeks passed, each day was very much like the last. The only visitors her father received were the widow, Mrs. Thompson, and her sister, Alice, and self-appointed organizers of all matters relating to the church. They took great delight in discussing the fascinating new member of the parish. Hetty suffered through their fulsome praise of Lord Fortescue, how charming he was, and how he’d granted a substantial endowment for improvements to the rectory.
To fill the long days, Hetty wrote letters, played the piano, and read, but even Byron’s poetry failed to captivate her for long. Her own attempts at verse were uninspired. She organized the maids in their duties and began to embroider a new sampler, but, after pricking her finger for the third time, threw it down in disgust.
It was hardly gardening weather. Undaunted, she forked the frost-hardened soil in the vegetable patch to prepare it for spring. It was a pastime she usually enjoyed, but she found herself furiously attacking the dirt with the garden fork as if a highwayman hid there.
Hetty made daily requests for her father to accompany her on a ride and tried to quell her temper when he usually refused. She hated to see The General shuffling in his stall, but it was too cold to put him in the paddock.
Her father, perhaps tired of her low spirits, suggested an outing to the village for afternoon tea. He would invite Lady Kemble to join them. Hetty seized on the offering even though it meant coming under the scrutiny of Fanny’s mother. She wore her smart moss-green wool beneath her pelisse. Although the weather remained chilly, there seemed little chance of snow.
The carriage rattled along through hills of oak and thorn, following the curve of the valley which led to the River Mimram. They passed the gray-stone church with the two cedars of Lebanon planted by Capability Brown last century, and then the rectory, with the Monks Walk and grove of sweet chestnuts. “Is this not God’s country?” Papa asked.
She glanced out to where sheep dotted the rolling green hillocks and sheltered beneath spreading oaks. “Digswell is very pleasing to the eye.”
“Would you really want to leave it for the teaming metropolis?”
“The city would offer a very different life,” she said cautiously.
Her father cleared his throat. “I’ve been meaning to speak to you about Mr. Oakley.”
Her heart sank to her half-boots. She’d begun to hope that her father had given up on Frederick Oakley. He hadn’t called since Lady Kemble’s dinner party.
“Oakley’s a decent man, Horatia.”
“Yes, he is.”
Her father drew the rug up farther over his knees. “With a fine property and a decent income.”
“That’s true.”
He studied her. “You might sound more enthusiastic.”
“I don’t love him, Papa,” she said, distracted by the image of a pair of blue eyes.
“Marriage to a good man counts for a lot.”
“You loved Mama.”
His eyes turned sad, and she wished she hadn’t mentioned it. “Our mutual regard grew into love after we married.”
As the vehicle swayed over the road, Hetty smoothed the fur trim on her sleeve. “Father, I could never love Mr. Oakley. We are too different in our sensibilities.”
He sighed heavily. “He dislikes poetry?”
She gave a small laugh. “He has no sense of humor.”
“Oh, very well, then. I shall not insist, although some fathers might do so.” He gave a sorrowful shake of his head. “You are two-and-twenty, most women of your age are long wed.”
“Don’t you like me living with you?”
He sighed. “That is the trouble, I’m growing to like it too much.
“Oh Papa!” Filled with compassion and a sense of helplessness, she kissed his cheek.
“And I suffer some guilt that you cannot go to London.”
“Aunt Emily is more than willing to sponsor me.”
“I tremble at the thought of what sort of life you would live there. Much as I love my sister, she is not in the ordinary way. When a fox got into the hen house, she was so distracted with her poems he ate several of our chickens before she shooed him out.”
Did Papa liken Hetty to a chicken and fear that Aunt Emily would let the foxes in? Hetty sighed. She would never go to London.
The carriage pulled up outside the Duck and Cockerel, a wattle and daub building in the high street.
“Well, here we are,” her father said with relief in his voice.
Hetty alighted with the hope that their afternoon would rise above tedious subjects such as an effective treatment for chilblains, recipes for the vegetables in season, when best to prune the roses and of course, when the wintry weather would finally abate. She yearned to learn what was happening in the world beyond Digswell, but she seemed the only person interested.
Frederick Oakley waited for them on the footpath. He bustled forward in his lanky gait to bow over Hetty’s hand.
“How good to see you, Mr. Oakley,” her father said, looking pleased. He hadn’t quite given up on Frederick as a son-in-law it seemed. Had he encouraged this meeting? “We are about to take tea. Will you join us?”
Frederick kept hold of her hand rather too long. “Delighted.” He smiled at her. Out of the corner of Hetty’s eye, a tall, dark-haired man emerged from the general store. Guy crossed the road toward them. She pulled her hand from Frederick’s, her gaze resting on Guy’s face. He raised an inquiring eyebrow as he removed his hat.
After their greetings, her father issued an invitation to Guy, which caused an unattractive scowl on Frederick’s face.
While they waited for two tables to be joined and the seating arrangements to be organized, Guy bent his head to her and spoke in an undertone. “Eustace has told the shopkeeper that he plans to remain here.”
“Do you mind?”
“No. The house is big enough, I just wish things were better between us.”
“Have you discussed your misgivings about his running of the estate?”
“I’ve not been able to talk to him. He’s returned to his sickbed.”
Hetty inhaled. “Is he very ill?”
Guy looked frustrated, his lips thinning. “I suspect it’s a means to avoid me.”
“You cannot be sure of that.” She thought Guy unsympathetic. “I shall call on him when he rises from his bed.”
“Have you two forgotten your manners?” Her father tapped her shoulder. “Look who’s arrived.”
Fanny, Lady Kemble, and Mrs. Illingworth entered the room. Mrs. Crimpton, who ran the establishment with her husband, promised them currant cake and gingerbread before rushing off to the kitchen.
Frederick held out a chair for Hetty and took the one beside her. “I have been hoping for a chance to talk to you, Miss Cavendish,” he said with an earnest expression. “I have had remarkable success developing a new variety of squash. It is far bigger and a finer green than any I have seen. I intend to enter it in the village fair. The flesh is whiter…” Hetty caught Guy’s eye over Frederick’s shoulder. An enigmatic smile played on his lips before he turned his attention to Fanny.
Hetty set her teeth in frustration. She wanted to discuss Guy’s problem with Eustace further, to try to help matters between them. It might be quite a while before she could visit Eustace, and the rift might widen and became impossible to mend. Especially, after Guy left for London.
It was an entirely unsatisfactory aft
ernoon. Frederick discussed his successes in his garden in detail while Fanny giggled at Guy’s droll remarks. Her father talked to the widow, Mrs. Illingworth. He spoke warmly of the lady’s sound, good sense in the carriage on their way home. She’d invited him to visit the following afternoon to advise her on her investments.
If she hadn’t been so distracted, Hetty would have shown more interest in this latest development. Was it possible this new friendship could lead to marriage? She had taken immediately to Mrs. Illingworth, a calm, fair-haired lady of some forty-five years, who always seemed to measure her words before speaking.
Hetty arrived home with a throbbing head.
The next afternoon, her father dressed in his best coat. He was quite effusive as he said goodbye. A fledgling hope sparked in Hetty’s breast. She would write to Aunt Emily at once. If an invitation arrived, her father might agree to allow her to go to London while his attention was caught by Mrs. Illingworth.
In the library, Hetty sat at her father’s desk. She drew a sheet of vellum from the drawer and trimmed a pen. Then, dipping the pen in the inkwell, she began, Dear Aunt Emily, then paused, thinking of her conversation with Guy about Eustace. She would not wait to hear if Eustace had risen from his sickbed. The letter forgotten, she went down to the kitchen to ask Cook for some treats to tempt Eustace’s appetite. She would visit him tomorrow.
*
Guy walked back to the house from the stables. He’d spent the morning making himself known to his tenants, ensuring they had a plentiful supply of coal. He was disturbed by their primitive living conditions and promised to effect immediate improvements. Their children were thin and undernourished, their livestock in poor condition, and some of their roofs needed rethatching. The peasants were starving in France, but he had expected more from Rosecroft Hall. The estate manager had painted a grim picture, blaming the high price of bread on the Corn Laws last year. He’d complained about the decline of English trade owing to the war and Napoleon’s Continental System, high unemployment, and high taxes. Despite the overwhelming obstacles, Guy remained determined to put all to rights here at Rosecroft. He would employ more staff as soon as possible, even if it meant traveling to London to find them.
The Baron's Betrothal (Dangerous Lords Book 1) Page 9