by Candice Hern
Miles laughed. "I must say that I rather admire what he has done at Woburn and Stoneleigh. But, in this case, I have to agree with you. It would be almost criminal to force a sort of rustic informality on Chissingworth. It is a grand estate and ought to remain so."
"Thank you, my friend." Stephen reached for the port, refilled each of their rummers, and returned the decanter to the pierced silver wine coaster. "I am pleased you have come, Miles," he said. "I hadn't known that Mother invited you. I am glad she did. It has been too long since you have paid us a visit."
"To tell the truth, I almost did not come," Miles said. "I do so hate to leave the girls for very long. But two things decided it for me. When I heard you were not planning to bolt this year—your mother enclosed a note with the invitation—I decided I had kept myself cooped up at Epping far too long. I wanted to be with friends again. Of course, I did not really expect you would participate in the party. I do know you better than that, you see. But I thought I might be able to sneak away from the other guests now and then and beard the absent lion in his den, so to speak. That is, if you can be torn away from your conservatory long enough to share an occasional brandy. You do recall that I know of the secret door to your office."
"And you are welcome to use it, my friend," Stephen said. "So long as it remains a secret to the other guests. It is the only safe haven I can imagine during the next month."
"Indeed," Miles said. "For who would expect the Duke of Carlisle, owner and resident of one of the largest estates in the land, to work in a small, cluttered office tucked away behind the old conservatory? Any duke worth his salt would have a spacious library office—Gibbons paneling, walls of glass-enclosed bookshelves, an enormous, but very tidy, carved oak desk, an old master or two staring down from the walls. You know the sort of thing."
"Yes." Stephen laughed. "Rather like your own office at Epping, I should think."
"Exactly," Miles replied with a grin. "It does wonders for one's consequence to be surrounded by such grandeur. But there you are in your cubbyhole of an office—"
"It's not that small!"
"—with a desk whose surface you probably have not seen in twenty years, surrounded by mountains of books and pamphlets and drawings. Yes, Stephen, I should think you will be very safe in your office. No one would dream of finding His Grace in such a place."
"And I do not have to act as His Grace when I am working there," Stephen said.
"Which is no doubt why you spend so much time there."
Stephen grinned and shrugged. "No doubt," he said. "But you mentioned two reasons for coming, Miles. What was the other?"
Miles took a long swallow of port and replaced the glass carefully upon the table. He kept his hand about its stem, however, and did not look up. He cleared his throat nervously. "I . . . I have decided to marry again."
"Miles! But that is wonderful," Stephen said as he clapped his friend soundly upon the back. "I am so pleased for you. I had not thought. . . I did not expect you would ever . . . Oh, for God's sake, man! Who is she?"
Miles looked up with an uncharacteristically sheepish grin. "I. . . um . . . don't know yet," he said, running his fingers absently up and down the stem of the glass. "That is why I have come, you see. I thought I might begin my search here at Chissingworth. Your mother always used to invite several unattached young ladies to her summer gatherings, as I recall."
"Yes," Stephen said, "in hopes of luring me to stay and join in." He studied his friend closely, surprised to think that he might want to marry again. There was no possibility that Miles was joking. He was a fine man and a good friend, but not one given to light-hearted jesting. Of course, he had little to be light-hearted about. Stephen took another sip of port. "I must say, Miles," he continued, "you have taken me quite by surprise. I had no idea you wished to remarry."
Miles leaned back in his chair, ran a hand through his short-cropped dark hair, and sighed. A shadow of sadness gathered in his eyes for the briefest moment before he shrugged it away. "I had not thought I ever would," he said. "Amelia was the one true love of my life, as you well know. I would never try to replace her. But the girls . . . ah, Stephen, they are so sweet and so precious to me. But so very young. They need a mother."
"So you are tossing yourself back into the fray for the sake of your daughters?" Miles chuckled softly. "I hadn't actually considered it in such frightening terms. But I suppose you are right. I have not been at all looking forward to reentering the Marriage Mart. The whole notion only brings on waves of melancholy as I recall that Season when I first met Amelia."
He paused, and his eyes stared off into some private distance. Stephen did not disrupt his friend's reverie. He knew that grief still held hold of Miles's heart, and Stephen had never known quite what to say to ease the pain. Never having loved deeply, he could not imagine the effect of such a loss. He had tried to be a good friend to Miles during those awful months after Amelia's death two years ago, but he had never felt adequate to the task. What can one ever do or say to a friend whose heart and life have been shattered?
He had once envied his friend's love match. He had wondered what it would be like to love like that. But he no longer pondered such things. Stephen had never allowed himself to love a woman, and never would, for he would never be able to believe that she really loved him and not only his title and fortune. Almost every time he had ever been introduced to a young woman, he caught a glimmer of avaricious interest in her eyes before it could be masked with civility. It was always the same. And always would be. He had once envied Miles, but would rather never love at all than to love without being able to trust that it was truly returned. A ridiculous conviction, no doubt. But there it was.
Miles shook his head and then took another swallow of port. "Anyway," he continued at last, sounding more in control, "now that I have made the decision to marry again, I was hoping to ease into things gently, so to speak. Perhaps make the acquaintance of a few young ladies here at Chissingworth, without actually announcing that I am in the market for a wife. Who knows? I may meet just the girl right here, and never have to suffer through a Season in Town."
"If that is what you want, old chap, then I wish you good luck," Stephen said, raising his rummer in salute.
"It is what I want, Stephen. Truly. I need a mother for my daughters."
"And what of yourself?" Stephen asked. "You will be getting more than a nursemaid for the girls. She will be your wife. Your countess."
"Yes, of course, and I will do everything I can to make her comfortable and content. And I. . . well, I will not miss the loneliness, I suppose. But do not think, Stephen, that I look for another love match. That will not happen."
"I know that, Miles. I do. Just be sure to look to your own needs as well as those of your girls. And I do wish you luck, my friend. I am not privy to Mother's guest list, but she did mention something about a few new faces this year. Perhaps you will find one of them suitable."
"I hope so," Miles said. "Oh, but please do not tell the duchess of my plans. She is a dear lady, your mother, but. . ."
Stephen laughed. "I know. She can be an unstoppable force once she gets a bee in her bonnet. It would never do to give her any matchmaking ideas. Not to worry. She shall hear nothing from me."
"Thank you. I should like to go about this rather slowly, at my own pace." Miles heaved another sigh. "God, Stephen, it's been so long since I've even looked at another woman—I hope I haven't forgot how to do this."
Stephen laughed. "I am certain it will all come back to you, old man."
Chapter 3
The late afternoon sun still hung high in the summer sky as the carriage approached the gatehouse of Chissingworth. Catherine sent up yet another silent prayer of thanks that the great estate was located in the uplands of Kent and so only a day's drive from Chelsea. She shuddered to think what measures would have been required if they had had to stay overnight on the road.
The massive Tudor gate
house—Catherine knew it to be Tudor for she had looked up Chissingworth in the Beauties of England and Wales at the Chelsea Lending Library—included four battlemented corner turrets and a pointed arch entry surmounted by a carved heraldic shield. The shield included two facing lions, and Catherine recognized it from the seal on the duchess's invitation. The Carlisle coat of arms, apparently.
After a word from MacDougal, the gatekeeper waved them through. As the carriage lurched forward Catherine's shoulder bumped against that of young Molly Finucane, the young niece of MacDougal, who was to maid them during their stay at Chissingworth. Molly smiled shyly and then returned her attention to the passing scenery. Susannah, sitting on the opposite seat with Aunt Hetty, also stared wide-eyed out the carriage window, her spectacles firmly in place so that she would miss nothing as they entered the grounds of the estate. Catherine turned her own gaze toward the sprawling woodlands as her fingers trailed lightly along the rich velvet of the softly upholstered squabs.
Tis indeed a wonder, she thought, that she and Susannah and Aunt Hetty should be entering one of the grandest estates in the kingdom as invited guests, traveling in an elegantly appointed, well-sprung coach, wearing fashionable gowns, and accompanied by their personal maid. Thanks to the efforts of MacDougal, no one would guess that only this morning they had been simply three impoverished ladies of no consequence living in Chelsea.
Catherine and Aunt Hetty had scraped together just enough money to take them by mail coach to Maidstone, and from there to hire a post chaise to carry them the rest of the way to Chissingworth. Aunt Hetty had argued that they could not afford a post chaise, and that the duchess would be happy to send a carriage for them to the nearby village of Hitchcock. But Catherine had been adamant that they arrive in a private carriage. She would have been mortified to have it known that the Forsythe sisters had arrived with the mail. And so she had compromised by agreeing to take the mail coach as far as Maidstone.
In the end, however, they had been saved from spending what little money they had. The day before, MacDougal had pulled up in front of the tiny house on Flood Street, bold as brass, driving a splendid coach and four.
"Me cousin, Robby MacDougal," he had announced, "keeps the stables and carriage house over to Lord Petersham's in Cavendish Square. His lordship's off to Italy wi' Lady Petersham—her health bein' delicate and all that, he wanted to get her away from the damp, ye ken." MacDougal's eyes crinkled up in the corners as he smiled at Catherine. "Aye, and so, there be all them fine carriages just sittin' there gatherin' dust, and horses just pinin' for a good exercise. We be doin' his lordship a favor by taking 'em out, keepin' 'em fit and healthy. And wi' him in Italy, why, they'll never be missed."
Catherine had strongly objected. There were, after all, limits to how far she was willing to go in her pretense of a comfortable fortune. "This isn't like a stack of discarded dresses that could be altered, MacDougal," she had argued. "I am sure Lord Petersham has no intention of discarding his carriages. And we certainly cannot alter them. You had no right taking them. You must return them at once."
"Weel, noo," he had said, rubbing his chin and narrowing his eyes, "the fact is Robby's in charge while his lordship be away. The horses and the carriages be in his care, ye ken. If Robby's willin' to let us borrow 'em, who are we to argue? He says he'll take full responsibility, so there ye have it."
Catherine had still not been completely convinced. It was surely tempting and could be the answer to their dilemma, but the last thing she wanted was to be caught out in a charade.
"Lord Petersham's crest is there on the carriage door for all the world to see," she said. "How do we explain arriving at Chissingworth in his lordship's carriage? We cannot say we just borrowed it. What if one of his acquaintances is among the guests?"
MacDougal smiled again and his dark eyes glittered with triumph. "Dinna worrit yerself, Miss Catherine. Look here."
He reached inside the carriage and retrieved a plain black wooden panel. While Catherine watched, bewildered, he anchored the panel between two grooves at opposite sides of the window's edge. With only a slight push from the top, the panel slid down between the grooves, stopping with a loud clack as it landed against a small ridge along the bottom edge of the door. Catherine had gaped in astonishment to see a plain black coach where once had stood the crested Petersham carriage.
"Good heavens!" Catherine had exclaimed. "What—"
"Apparently Lord Petersham likes to be anonymous now and again," MacDougal said.
"But I do not understand—"
"Dinna ask too many questions, Miss Catherine. 'Tis no' a subject fit fer a young lass such as yerself."
"Oh." Catherine said no more, though she would have liked to pursue such an interesting topic. In the end she had accepted the use of the carriage with gratitude. And with MacDougal to act as coachman. He had even gone so far as to borrow from his cousin a striped waistcoat and black top hat, so that he looked every inch the professional whip. As the carriage hugged the winding road that snaked through the woodlands of Chissingworth, Catherine had to admire MacDougal's prowess with the ribbons, and wondered once again where he had come by his many talents.
Later that same day, after "borrowing" Lord Petersham's carriage, MacDougal had presented them with Molly.
"She be m' sister Lizzy's girl," he had said. "The wee lass be only fifteen, but she's been workin' as a tweenie at Sir Horace Drummond's place, where Lizzy's the head house parlor maid. Molly here wants to be a lady's maid one day, don't ye, girl?"
"Oh, yes!" she replied. "'Tis what I want more than anything in the whole world."
"And so," MacDougal continued, "she be willin' to work fer ye ladies, so long as ye dinna mind her practicin' on ye. I reckon it'd be good trainin', doin' fer all three of ye ladies while ye be away. I told Molly ye prob'ly wouldna mind her bein' inexperienced and all. And I told her she shouldna be expectin' any pay, since she'd only be practicin' and all. Ain't that right, Molly girl?"
"Oh no, 'twouldn't be right to pay me whilst I be just learnin'," she said.
Catherine had been overwhelmed that MacDougal had made such an arrangement for them. More than anyone, he knew the extent of their straitened circumstances, and he had gone out of his way to make this trip to Chissingworth successful. But Catherine had not felt entirely comfortable with the arrangement with Molly, thinking that they would be taking advantage of the girl, when she could be making at least a small salary somewhere else. She had opened her mouth to protest when MacDougal had stopped her short.
"Dinna fret about not payin' the girl," he said, as though reading her very thoughts. "We'll find her a decent meal and a place to sleep in the servants' quarters and she'll be fine. And I'll be there to look out fer her. Promised Lizzy I would. Besides, she couldna expect to ever get maidin' experience anywheres else. No' at her age. She'd have to work her way up, like, over the years. Nae, this is the best thing coulda happened, ain't it, Molly m'girl?"
"Oh, yes," Molly replied in an anxious voice. "I'd be that grateful if you'd let me maid for you. And I promise to work real hard and learn ever so quick."
Aunt Hetty had gratefully accepted Molly's offer on behalf of all three of them before Catherine could protest further. And so it had been settled. Young Molly had not exaggerated her willingness to work hard. She had been a great help to them as they had packed their trunks for the trip. With the castoffs from the Fairchild daughters, the wardrobes of all three ladies had grown tremendously.
And so, here they were, three impoverished ladies from Flood Street, in a fine carriage with fine clothes and a personal maid.
And one other thing. Catherine glanced at the small wooden case on Molly's lap. One other small detail for which they must once again thank MacDougal.
This time he had gone straight to Aunt Hetty rather than risk any argument from Catherine. Her ever-so-obliging aunt had shown no scruples about accepting the small case of jewelry.
Like the carriage, the jewelry had been temporarily "borrowed" from an absent household where one of MacDougal's ubiquitous relatives was employed. The mistress of the house had, of course, taken her best pieces along with her. But the few baubles left behind were good quality and not at all showy, and, according to MacDougal, would never be missed.
By the time the thick woodlands had given way to broad expanses of green parkland, Catherine was full of conviction that not a single guest would question their circumstances. Everything had been perfectly arranged, thanks in large part to the wily MacDougal. It was going to work. There was no question in her mind. It was going to work.
When a slight rise dipped away to reveal their first glimpse of the great house, Susannah gasped audibly.
"My goodness!" she exclaimed in a breathless voice. "Oh, my goodness! Is it not wonderful? And so large! Have you ever seen anything so grand in your entire life, Aunt Hetty? Oh, Cath, is it not beautiful?"
"It certainly is," Catherine replied, for once in perfect agreement with her sister's hyperbole. In the distance, the house sat in solitary splendor amidst sweeping green lawns dotted here and there with clusters of ash trees. Red and fallow deer grazed peacefully in small groups, some lying in the shade of the trees, their heads jerking to attention at the sound of the passing carriage. A narrow tributary of the River Beult, just ahead, was spanned by a gracefully arched stone bridge. Just then, the road curved sharply to the left and Catherine could see that they were to cross the bridge.
The impressive north front with its grand Palladian façade and pedimented entrance disappeared from view as the carriage approached the older, turreted west front. MacDougal reined in the horses as elaborate iron gates were swung back from an enormous arched gateway. The carriage easily cleared the entrance, which opened onto a large courtyard. What was apparently the main entrance to the house was at the opposite end, and echoed the appearance of the outer gate. Two domed turrets stood on either side of the pointed archway of the central entry. Three stories of mullioned windows topped with fanciful crenellation flanked the entrance.