by Louise Allen
The contrast between her words and the smile made him narrow his eyes, presumably in displeasure. ‘Your side? This land belongs to you?’
Verity pointed to the one remaining post sticking out of the crown of the mound, twelve carefully measured inches back from the edge of her cut. ‘That is the remains of your fence.’
His lips tightened. Did he think that was an implied rebuke about the state of his boundaries? ‘I fear I should have introduced myself earlier.’ He removed his gloves, produced a vast and spotless white linen handkerchief, wiped his hands free of the dirt that had penetrated despite them and held out the right one to her. ‘I am Aylsham.’
‘I had guessed as much, Your Grace.’ Verity swiped her hand over her skirt and took his. ‘I am Miss Wingate.’ She retrieved her fingers rather abruptly. ‘My father is the Bishop of Elmham—the retired Bishop, that is. The current incumbent’s country seat is nearer the county boundary, but the Old Palace actually belongs to Papa. He bought it from the Church Commissioners when he was recovering from his stroke. They thought it too antiquated for present times, but we are very fond of it.’
She was talking too much and recognising why was no help. This was an attractive man—even if he was a judgemental aristocrat—and he had her at a disadvantage. She was partly responsible for his accident, she was looking a fright and under these circumstances she had no idea how to behave with him.
‘Miss Wingate. I was intending to give myself the pleasure of calling on your father tomorrow. If his health permits, of course?’
Why am I cross? Verity asked herself as she explained that the afternoon was the best time for her father and that, naturally, he would be delighted to meet the Duke. Because I care what he thinks, she answered. And that is infuriating. Just because he had broad shoulders and a firm chin and blue eyes and looked as though his smile—if he ever produced one—would be delicious, there was no reason to fawn over the man. She spent her life ensuring that, as far as it was within her power, men did not get fawned upon to the disadvantage of women. Once had been quite enough in her experience.
Now the Duke was looking around him. A small furrow appeared between straight brows two shades darker than his hair. ‘You are alone, Miss Wingate? I cannot see your maid or your labourers.’
‘My groom will be collecting me at eight.’ She glanced up to the east, noting the position of the sun. ‘It must almost be that now. If you will excuse me, I will secure my excavation.’ The skull was the most important thing, of course, but she had to make sure that the descent of one long-limbed male had not disturbed or damaged anything else.
‘May I assist?’
‘No,’ she said sharply. ‘I mean, no, thank you, Your Grace. If you could just stand over here, clear of the cut surfaces and the floor? Yes, there, perfect.’
Stop it, she scolded herself as she picked up the brush and tidied up the fallen pebbles and earth. He is not perfect, merely a well-formed gentleman. And do not pretend you were not examining the rear view just now. You knew perfectly well the tails of his coat would disguise any sign of damage done by that jawbone.
The Duke had broad shoulders and a trim waist to go with those long legs. It was maddening—surely something had to be imperfect? Other than his manner, of course. Who would need an ice house when they had the Duke of Aylsham to hand, ready to cast a chill over any situation?
The sound of wheels on gravel heralded the arrival of Tom with the pony and trap. He pulled up well clear of the excavation as he had been taught and came over, hat in hand. ‘Good morning, sir. Miss Wingate, are you ready?’
‘This is the Duke of Aylsham, Tom, and, yes, I am ready. Please put the tools in the back and then this box, very carefully.’
* * *
Will watched the retreating vehicle, picked up his hat and flicked the worst of the soil off it with his handkerchief. Both hat and handkerchief appeared ruined to him, but Notley, his valet, would no doubt work his magic on them, along with the scuffed boots, scarred gloves and soiled coat.
He made his way around the mound to the gap between it and the next, smaller, tumulus. For some reason he wanted to have his feet on his own land before he thought about that little episode.
What a hoyden Miss Wingate was, not at all what a prelate’s daughter should be. Will lengthened his stride along the headland, making for the point where a hedge and track cut back towards the house. Dressed like a working woman, no hat, no gloves, hair coming undone on her shoulders, grubbing about on hands and knees in the earth—and handling a human skull as though it was a pudding basin. Outrageous. And she had been laughing at him because of where that confounded jawbone had attacked him, he could tell, even though she had kept her face perfectly straight. There had been a devilish twinkle of amusement in her eyes. They were a rather attractive brown...
The unfortunate Bishop must be sick indeed if he was allowing his daughter to carry on in such a manner, Will concluded as he reached the track. In no way was such an occupation fit for a gentlewoman. Even his stepmother drew the line at grubbing about in earth for old bones. It was most unfortunate, because there was no way in which he could prevent his half-sisters from making her thoroughly unsuitable acquaintance, given that they were now neighbours. He could hardly snub a bishop.
How old was she? Twenty-three or four? Those dark eyes, that hair, like golden toffee streaked through with rich brown, those long legs and the elegant curves as she had risen to her feet... Her feet had been encased in boots more fitted for an under-gardener, but the flash of ankle he had glimpsed had been slender and rounded.
Stop it, Will, his conscience admonished as he climbed over a stile. She is clearly going to be an embarrassment as a neighbour and you have no business thinking about women at the moment in any case. Not for another forty weeks.
This mourning was a confounded nuisance. It was all very right and proper, of course. And he sincerely and deeply grieved for the loss of his grandfather, but he desperately needed help with his brood of half-siblings and a wife would be perfect for that. A wife with nerves of steel and a rigorous sense of duty, he added to his mental list of requirements. But no lady who was suitable to be the wife of a duke would consider flouting convention and being wooed and wed before the mourning period of a year was over.
And now he had gone half the distance he had intended to cover that morning and the encounter with Miss Wingate had made him forget to record points about the land as he went. Will climbed the next stile, sat down on the far step and got out his notebook.
Blockage in the west ditch, the fence across the tumuli...
A warm, mocking brown gaze... Mocking. She thought that entire episode was amusing, the confounded chit.
* * *
‘Good morning, Papa. Good morning Mr Hoskins, Larling.’ Verity caught sight of herself in the long mirror as she entered her father’s bedchamber on the stroke of half past nine and gave her reflection a nod of approval. She had bathed, changed, breakfasted and organised the events of the early morning into a suitably edited version in her head and now, looking the perfect model of a senior clergyman’s daughter, was ready to keep her father company while he breakfasted.
Her father smiled his lopsided smile, the Reverend Mr Hoskins jumped to his feet and mumbled a greeting in return and Larling, the valet, placed the breakfast tray on the bedside table.
A savage brain seizure almost two years before had left her father unsteady on his feet, liable to tire rapidly and with virtually no comprehensible speech. It had, mercifully, not affected his very considerable intellect. James Wingate was still a formidable scholar of the early church in Britain and was continuing his work with the assistance of his Chaplain and secretary, Christopher Hoskins.
Trial and error had helped the household establish a strict routine. Verity rose at dawn, had a cup of coffee, put an apple in her pocket and went off to her excavations for two hours, returning
to bathe and take breakfast. At nine thirty her father broke his fast, in bed, while she entertained him with the results of her morning’s excavating and plans for the day.
When he rose the Bishop would retire to his study with Hoskins and they would work, communicating in their own manner, until luncheon at twelve thirty. Then her father would rest for two hours and either resume his researches until four or receive callers.
Which left Verity the afternoon free, provided there were no visitors and the cares of housekeeping did not entangle her for more than the morning. And today there was nothing to detain her. The threat of a descent by the Duke tomorrow she would worry about when it happened.
Her father finished his porridge and lifted an eyebrow, her cue to recount events so far.
‘I have succeeded in removing the skull intact, Papa. I can see no sign of anything buried with the body, but then, the rest of the skeleton is not visible, being under the far side of the mound. I will clean it and take measurements and then I can rebury it and fill in the cut. You recall that I have already made sketches of the exposed interior of the mound.’
He nodded, smiling his approval, encouraging her to continue. The only problem was, nothing else had happened at the excavation other than her unexpected visitor.
‘The Duke was out walking and...er...dropped in to see what I was doing.’
‘The Duke of Aylsham?’ Mr Hoskins asked, quite as though the neighbourhood was replete with a selection of dukes to choose from.
‘Yes. He was perfectly civil and expressed a desire to call tomorrow, Papa. I said we would be happy to receive him.’
Her father’s hands moved in the rapid signs that only his Chaplain was able to decipher at speed. ‘Does he appear to be intellectually inclined?’ Mr Hoskins asked.
‘I have no idea, I’m afraid. He seemed intelligent, although whether he has intellectual leanings I could not judge. He does not seem to know anything of antiquarian matters.’
And he certainly does not appear to believe in women using their brains.
The Chaplain was translating again. ‘I look forward to meeting him. His grandfather was a man of great powers—I have high hopes of our new neighbour.’
Verity told herself to be glad. The stimulus would be good for Papa, the presence of the ducal household would be excellent for the local economy and she should not be selfish. What did it matter if the man thought her an eccentric hoyden or blamed her for the teeth marks on his posterior? His opinion, good or bad, was a matter of supreme indifference to her. She had better things to think about, surely, than a pair of chilly blue eyes.
Chapter Two
The breakfast room closely resembled a menagerie after all the cage doors had been opened. Will strode to the head of the table and nodded to Peplow, the butler, who pulled back the heavy carved chair, tilted it, then let it go with a thud.
The sound was enough to attract the attention of the other occupants of the room. Silence fell. Six heads turned in his direction, four footmen kept their gazes firmly fixed on the opposite wall. After the first two days they had learned not to flinch too obviously.
‘Good morning, Althea, Araminta, Alicia. Good morning, Basil, Bertrand, Benjamin. Gentlemen, your sisters are waiting for you to seat them.’ He remained standing while his half-sisters took their places with varying degrees of elegance, then sat, with a nod of permission to the boys which coincided with their own scramble to sit. ‘Basil, it is your turn to say grace, I believe.’
Basil, fourteen and possibly the world’s least devout boy, lurched to his feet again and looked around wildly for inspiration. ‘Er... Thank you, God, for kedgeree for breakfast. Amen.’ He sat down again with a grin of relief.
Will told himself that he should probably be grateful that the thanks had been addressed to the deity and not to Beelzebub and nodded to the butler to begin service. He had rapidly discovered that a breakfast where everyone helped themselves from the buffet was a recipe for chaos.
‘Boys, napkins. Benjamin, pass your sister the butter, she should not have to ask twice. Althea, Araminta, Basil, tomorrow afternoon you will accompany me to call on our neighbour, the Bishop of Elmham. Please inform Miss Preston and Mr Catford that you will be absent from your lessons.’
‘A bishop?’ Althea wrinkled her very pretty nose. ‘That sounds dull.’
‘Bishop Wingate has retired due to ill health. He is, however, a notable scholar and, I should not have to point out, it would not matter if he was as dull as ditch water, it would still be our duty to call upon our neighbour as a matter of courtesy. You address a bishop as my lord.’
The rest of the meal was an obstacle course through instructions on etiquette, a lecture on the absolute necessity to do things out of duty which might not give one pleasure, the privileges and responsibilities of rank and the discovery that Basil had a mouse in his pocket.
As the screams and tantrums occasioned by the discovery, capture and banishment of the mouse subsided, Will wondered whether he was doomed to a stomach ulcer by the time he was thirty and mentally prepared himself for the horrors of the daily meeting with the children’s tutor and governess.
It was too much to expect that a few weeks could undo the damage of a childhood where the only rule their doting and deluded parents had imposed was to do exactly as one wished, the moment one thought of it and without any pause for reflection. That way, his stepmother had explained, the natural genius of each child would unfurl tenderly, like the petals of a flower. They would learn what they needed to know as, and when, they felt the necessity.
The only small mercy was that they were not illiterate, he thought, doggedly finishing his ham and eggs. The desire to read completely unsuitable books had driven all of them to master their letters and then, when they wanted to compose their own stories, to learn to write. Mathematics, however, was apparently a closed book to all of them and as for basic etiquette, that was an alien concept he was painfully—for all concerned—imposing on them.
I need a wife, he thought again.
He could teach the boys to be gentlemen, but his sisters needed more than a governess. They had their mother, of course. Lady Bromhill was living in the Dower House, writing another tract on the natural education of children, no doubt, and holding forth at length to anyone who would listen on the iniquity of imposing rules of mourning on women. Her grief was deep and genuine, Will fully acknowledged, but her methods of expressing it were outrageous. He lived in daily anticipation that she would scandalise the neighbourhood by appearing in a crimson gown or emulate the women of Classical societies by rending her clothing and beating her bare bosom while wailing in Ancient Greek.
Will shuddered. It was unfortunate that his siblings would be exposed to another unconventional female tomorrow when they called on the Bishop, because the last thing that they needed was the example of more shocking behaviour. He mentally squared his shoulders; his grandfather had shown him all too clearly that being a duke was no easy undertaking but, somehow, he had not expected that raising a delinquent family would be part of his duties. For the thousandth time he reminded himself that they had recently lost their father, that their lives had been turned upside down as much as his had, that he must temper discipline with kindness.
* * *
Verity surveyed the sunny room at the front of the house with muted satisfaction, given that she was about to act as hostess to the Disapproving Duke. The Chinese drawing room was the smaller of the two reception rooms and, being next to the library, was the most convenient and comfortable for her father. He was seated in a deep leather armchair, discussing the morning’s newspapers with Mr Hoskins, who was reading out articles which Papa would then comment on by sign language.
They had reached the reports from the House of Lords which always prompted vehement gestures when Bosham, their butler, announced, ‘His Grace the Duke of Aylsham, Lady Althea Calthorpe, Lady Araminta Calth
orpe, Lord Basil Calthorpe, my lord.’
Verity did a rapid assessment of the ages of the juvenile party and sent Bosham a meaningful look. He nodded and departed, hopefully to warn the kitchen that more than Oolong tea and dainty cakes would be needed.
‘Miss Wingate, Your Grace,’ Mr Hoskins said, taking on himself the introductions that her father could not make.
The Duke blinked, stared and then had himself under control almost before she realised how surprised he was at her appearance. Verity produced a smile and saw a gleam of something very like approval in those blue eyes.
I am just the same woman as the one who shocked you yesterday, she thought crossly. I am wearing a suitably modest and pretty afternoon gown, my hair is just where it should be and I have powdered away the evidence of a touch of sun on my nose. So now you approve of me, do you? But I do not crave your good opinion, Your Grace.
He shook hands with her, went across to her father and waited a barely perceptible moment to be sure a handshake was going to be returned before offering his hand.
Mr Hoskins bowed. ‘My lord welcomes you to the Old Palace, Your Grace. I am Christopher Hoskins, chaplain and secretary to the Bishop.’
The Duke was not too top-lofty to shake hands with Mr Hoskins as well, which pleased Verity. He turned to beckon forward the youngsters. ‘Bishop, Miss Wingate, Reverend Hoskins, may I introduce my brother and sisters? The three younger ones have remained at home.’
They were a handsome family, Verity thought, but their manner was strangely stilted, as though they were performing by rote, not going through a familiar and routine courtesy. Were they afraid of their brother? She had an unpleasant suspicion that perhaps they were. He probably would not even have to administer corporal punishment to cow them—one look from those bleak blue eyes was enough for a sensitive child, she was sure.
The Duke took a seat by her father and Verity gathered the younger Calthorpes to her on two sofas set at right angles around the tea table. ‘They will bring in refreshments shortly,’ she said, smiling in the face of their poorly concealed examination of herself and the room. ‘Now, do tell me about yourselves. You have other brothers and sisters, I believe?’