“No, no, a mere acquaintance. I have heard,” he continued helpfully, and without the least remorse, “that he was quite ramshackle in those days.”
“Yes, for Mary brought tales of him and teased Rebecca with them. Heaven knows where Mary would hear such gossip. I am sure she never kept her ears so wide open in the schoolroom,” she sniffed. “Mary is the one for hanging about the stables and gossiping with the maids at the Bird in Hand, though I am sure that I do my best to have her act as a young lady should. I cannot imagine what it will be like if she is my only charge in the schoolroom next year. I shall be so distracted,” she moaned piteously.
“Mary could certainly be a handful,” Clayborne agreed. He flashed his most sympathetic smile at Miss Turnpeck and urged, “What was it Mary had learned about the young rascal?”
“Dear me, I am hard pressed to remember,” she demurred, only to continue in full flow, “but he seems to have wagered and drunk a lot, in London and in the neighborhood. Mary told us of a curricle race he had with a friend of his where he drove another carriage into a ditch and did not stop to help for fear of losing the race. Such a wicked thing to do, and ladies in the carriage, too, no doubt. Young men these days are certainly outrageous—not you, my lord, of course I did not mean that.” She became flustered again and dropped silent
“Yes, Thomas was forever up to some mischief,” Clayborne pronounced pontifically. “But I imagine such a scamp would seem fascinating to your four charges, off in the country at Farthington Hall.”
“Well, you know how it is with these girls—any new face. But no, I think they were just given to funning about him amongst themselves, for though I saw him in the neighborhood several times, he came to the house but rarely. Though, as I said, I did see him the day the dog went missing, and I have always had my suspicions,” she said nodding wisely, as she placed the last of the rhubarb tarts on the picnic rug.
“You think he took the dog? Why should he do that?” Clayborne asked curiously.
“Now there I cannot help you, for I cannot think of the least reason. But then, he seems to have done many things which don’t bear scrutiny, so why not take the dog? Though I cannot believe that he would do it when he knew that Rebecca was so fond of Rags, for Mr. Burns seemed rather taken with Rebecca. But then he soon wed little Sybil Caruthers, whose grandfather’s made a fortune in India. Such a sweet girl she is, shy and quiet-like, but ever so kind and thoughtful of others. She’s a neighborhood girl too, you know, though my young ladies didn’t see her so much, as she spent a great part of her early years with her grandfather. Only came back to Foxton when the old gentleman died. And imagine inheriting his entire fortune! It was the talk of the neighborhood for weeks, I assure you. But it did not affect her manner one bit, still the dearest girl.”
Miss Turnpeck gave Clayborne the impression that her life would have been a lot simpler if she had had the likes of Miss Caruthers to instruct in her schoolroom. “And now she is Mrs. Burns with a son. It does make one feel aged,” she remarked coyly.
“But it is just these young people who keep you looking so youthful yourself, Miss Turnpeck,” Clayborne responded gallantly.
Miss Turnpeck blushed happily, but disclaimed, “What a farradiddle, my lord. And there is Trudy about to set up her nursery, too, and who knows who next,” she said slyly, blinking up at him.
“Indeed, who knows?’ he responded calmly, if more coolly than she expected. “Shall we call the young ladies to luncheon? I fear there is a storm brewing,” he remarked, indicating that the fleecy white clouds they had started their drive with were now becoming ominously gray, while the heat had become oppressive.
When Miss Turnpeck summoned the sisters, who were loath to leave their sport, Meg whispered, “Just like Turnip to spoil our fun.”
“I have no doubt it was Jason’s doing,” Rebecca grumbled good-naturedly.
Overhearing this sally, Clayborne explained, “There is a storm brewing, Rebecca.”
“I have no doubt of it, my lord,” she responded saucily, and accepted his offer of assistance to seat her. She and Meg did justice to the extensive selection of cold meats, bread, fruit, wine and tarts while Miss Turnpeck kept up a rambling discourse on the vagaries of the weather, the destructiveness of storms, and somehow ended up complaining of the condition of the roads, a transition which her audience did not perhaps follow but whose obscurity was not commented upon.
With a glance at the sky, Clayborne rose first from the meal. “The storm is closer now. We should have everything packed away quickly.”
To have the first excursion she had planned for her sister so abruptly brought to a halt was distressing for Rebecca. It might be days before she got the nerve to solicit his attendance at another such expedition, and she did not want Meg to be bored after her busy London season. The darkening clouds were still some distance away and she made a face at her husband and lingered, finishing her tart and wine. But she did not ignore the glare he sent her, and rose shortly to join the others in their preparations. “I had hoped we could gather some periwinkle and columbine,” she said wistfully. “You see those clumps? Well, perhaps another day,” she conceded, as she helped Miss Turnpeck pack the last of the food in the hamper.
They arrived at Gray Oaks just as the rain came, large drops spattering the dusty ground where the carriage stopped. The three women reached the house with muddied boots and hems, and repaired to their rooms to change, while the storm grew wilder outside. Fires were hastily lit in their rooms, as the day grew dark and chill after the earlier heat.
Rebecca huddled in a chair near her fire, while the wind lashed rain against the mullioned windowpanes and the thunder and lightning rocked the world outside. She assured herself, as she had many times before, that her fear of storms was irrational, but she had once been pinned under a lightning-struck limb and had not been found for an hour, soaked, chilled and in shock. Regardless of how she tried she could not seem to overcome the shivering which thunder and lightning precipitated in her. She was about to seek out Meg for comfort when the door from her husband’s room opened and he stood there staring at her.
“I trust you will now wish to acknowledge the justice of our early return home,” he said coldly.
“Please leave me alone, Jason,” she murmured through chattering teeth.
“I am waiting.”
“Well, wait somewhere else,” she said with some asperity. She saw the muscle in his jaw tighten and said dutifully if exasperatedly, “Your pardon, sir. I fear I do not enjoy thunderstorms. I am grateful that we are safe at home and I regret delaying us.”
“I accept your apology.”
“Most kind of you, I am sure,” she retorted.
Thunder rolled outside and there was almost immediately a rending crack as lightning struck some nearby tree. She gasped and failed to conceal the shudder which shook her.
In a moment he was at her side, exclaiming, “I didn’t realize you were afraid of storms. Why hadn’t you said so?” But of course he already knew the answer, so he took her icy hands in his large warm ones and she felt immeasurably comforted.
There was a soft rap on the door, as Meg called softly, “Are you there, Becka? I thought you would like company.” Clayborne gently returned Rebecca’s hands to her lap and opened the door to Meg.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were here, Jason. I won’t stay,” Meg mumbled, embarrassed.
“No, don’t go. I am sure your sister will welcome your company, and I should see what damage has been caused by the lightning.” He looked at Rebecca and asked gently, “You will be all right now?”
“Yes, thank you. I think the storm is beginning to pass,” she replied. He bowed to the two of them and departed.
Meg pulled up a chair and chatted soothingly to her sister until the storm died away.
Though Clayborne went outside to survey the damage, his mind kept returning to his wife. How many storms had she suffered through alone in her room while he had been aw
ay from Gray Oaks? How many times had she sat shivering with no one to comfort her? God, what a mess he was making of being a husband! He was overwhelmed by the now familiar feelings of sadness and despair, anger and hurt.
Chapter Six
That evening when the party was assembled in the large, trussed dining hall, Clayborne announced, “I have business in London which will take a few days.”
“How splendid!” Meg exclaimed, assuming without hesitation that he intended to take the whole party. “And I have just been wishing that I might purchase a bonnet to match my new pink cambric lace gown. I am sure Chichester has very admirable shops, Rebecca, but Mama has taken me to the most marvelous shop in London and I am sure you will simply dote on Madame Piscaud’s hats. The lavender one I have with the wide brim and small puffed crown we purchased there, and it is quite the thing, is it not? You have not been to town for some time, have you? I’ll show you the steps of the quadrille, which Lady Jersey has introduced from France, in case we should go to a party. Would you like to go to London, Becka?”
“I have not been for a while,” she replied cautiously with a questioning glance at her husband. When he nodded she continued more enthusiastically, “I should like it of all things.”
“And you, Miss Turnpeck? Would such an expedition suit you?” Clayborne asked.
Miss Turnpeck was pink with delight. “It is many years, sir, since I have visited the metropolis. I wonder if we would have time to visit some of the sights? And I have a sister there who is a seamstress. I have not seen her these past ten years or so, but of course we write to one another regularly. I would be so pleased to see her again.”
“Then it is settled,” Clayborne pronounced. “Town may be light of company with so many gone to Brighton, but I daresay you will find enough to amuse yourselves. If you can be ready by the day after tomorrow, I shall send warning of our arrival to Clayborne House.”
When Meg and Miss Turnpeck had headed for bed, Rebecca stayed behind for a moment to speak with her husband. She stood awkwardly at the door and could not meet his eyes. “I’m sorry if Meg forced your hand, Jason. She doesn’t understand that you do not take me... that you usually travel alone,” she concluded, flushed with embarrassment.
Clayborne crossed the room to her and took her hands firmly. “There is no need to apologize, Rebecca. I had intended to ask all of you. You do wish to go, don’t you?”
Rebecca raised her eyes to his uncertainly. “Very much,” she admitted, “but I had not intended that Meg’s visit should prove a burden to you. There was no need for you to include us.”
“I wanted to. You have not stayed yet at Clayborne House and you are mistress of it.” He dropped her hands, too conscious of their contact. His voice became more formal. “Shall I see you to your room?”
As she regarded his now withdrawn countenance, Rebecca sighed. “No, thank you, Jason. Good-night.” She slipped silently from the room as he gazed after her, aware of the empty hands at his sides.
* * * *
So it was that two days later the ladies found themselves shivering in the cold morning air as they ascended into the traveling carriage, having spent a day in between happily learning the quadrille’s intricate steps, planning expeditions to Bond Street (and Westminster Abbey), to the theatre (and the Tower of London), and perhaps to Vauxhall Gardens (and St. Paul’s, of course). Their comfort had been provided for with hot bricks and warm traveling rugs lined with fur, and each expressed her excitement in her own way.
Since Miss Turnpeck’s particular means was a rambling discourse on her chosen sights, the sisters felt no qualms at solicitously urging her to nap during the stage of their journey which followed a light luncheon. With a pillow at her head and resting easily against the comfortable squabs of the carriage, Miss Turnpeck was soon slumbering and snoring lightly.
“I’m sure I understand now how you felt on your journey from Farthington Hall,” Rebecca remarked. “I feel certain it will be unnecessary for us to go to Westminster Abbey. We could not possibly learn more about the Cloisters or the Chapel of the Pyx, to say nothing of the Confessor’s Chapel. How do you suppose she remembers all those dates?”
“No doubt she has been studying ever since Clayborne suggested the trip,” Meg replied. “I saw her sneaking out of the library,” she added, laughing, “and I do not doubt that she has it all written on her cuffs, and that is why she keeps shifting about so!”
Then she giggled and said, “No, I have it. When she was a very young girl she was kidnapped by a band of bluestockings and forced to reside in a gloomy haunted castle until she could recite the whole of English history without a mistake.”
“And a knight in armor restored her to her rightful position as a governess when he fell under the spell of her snoring,” Rebecca contributed.
“For her stepmother, you must know, was very wicked and would not tolerate having Turnip within her sight, reminding her, you see, of Sunday dinner.”
The sister’ giggles left Miss Turnpeck undisturbed, and just when they had begun to further embellish their tale, they were surprised to feel the carriage coming to a halt. Rebecca looked out the window to find they were on the open road, with no sign of a cottage, let alone a village. Much to her amazement, there was no sign of Clayborne, either.
“Why are we stopping here, Frantley?” she called to the coachman.
“My lord desired that the carriage await his return, my lady,” he responded.
Rebecca cast her eves heavenward in mock despair. “So much for our escort.”
Puzzled, Meg frowned out at the deserted countryside. “We seem to be nowhere near any village, Becka. What do you suppose has happened?”
“I have not the faintest idea,” Rebecca answered, “and his lordship does not seem to have found it necessary to explain his departure to us. Let’s descend and stretch our legs. Turnip will doubtless continue her nap,” she laughed, glancing at the dozing governess cradled happily in a corner, from which soft snores still emanated.
When the coachman had let the steps down and the sisters had tumbled into the warm sunshine, Rebecca once again questioned him. “In which direction did Lord Clayborne ride, Frantley?”
“His lordship took the path yonder,” he said indicating a narrow, overgrown trail to the right rear of the coach.
“Well, Meg, shall we explore it?” Rebecca asked with a twinkle, ignoring the coachman’ s reproving look.
Meg was easily led by her elder sister and her answering smile was suppressed. She replied demurely, “I cannot think Turnip would like it. I am sure she would exhort us on the dangers of a strange countryside and unknown country people, to say nothing of the wild animals which must obviously lurk in that wood yonder. Certainly we shall go.”
“Now, miss,” Rebecca informed her sister sternly as they set off, “you must remember that you are accompanied by a married woman and that every propriety must be observed, else you shall be left to your governess in future.”
Blithely ignoring this homily, her sister asked, “Do you suppose Jason has some acquaintance in the neighborhood? I am sure I don’t even know where we are.”
“Nor I. But look, there are some people hurrying there, beyond the wood. I think,” she said happily, “that we are about to have an adventure. How Mary would envy us.”
“I have written Mary that we are to be in London,” Meg replied, still rankling from Mary’s roasting her about Will Travers. “I am sure she would rather be in London than Bath, but she was so sure that her holiday would be more entertaining than mine,” she sniffed.
“Frankly, I can only imagine Mary getting into trouble in either place,” Rebecca admitted, “for she is wild enough in the country.”
“Yes, but do you know that Mama has the highest hopes for Mary’s season next year? She seems to be entirely overlooking our sister’s hoydenish nature, and sees only her beauty, which is considerable, I will admit,” Meg allowed handsomely.
“I certainly do not envy Mama
the chaperoning of her.”
As they emerged from the wood they joined an odd assortment of dogs, children, a few chickens and perhaps twenty country people milling about, gazing in wrapt wonder at the most astonishing sight Rebecca had ever seen. There was an enormous red and yellow striped balloon, gently listing to one side, while the ropes holding the gondola were hopelessly entangled in a tree. Three men in the gondola were tossing ropes over the sides to the men on the ground below. The balloon, loudly emblazoned with the name The Carberry, was tilted at a perilous angle, and appeared ready to topple at any moment and eject its passengers to the ground below. Clayborne apparently had taken charge of the rescue operation and Rebecca murmured in tones of exasperation, “Just fancy his excluding us from such an exciting event.”
“I saw a balloon ascent in London in the spring, but it was so crowded that I did not get so close as this,” Meg said. “And Will was with me, so I did not pay perhaps quite the attention it deserved. Do you think they can get the men out without overturning the boat?”
“I fear not,” Rebecca answered anxiously. But even as they watched, Clayborne was directing the men below to haul the ropes carefully on the right and the gondola slowly achieved a more level aspect. When this had been accomplished, the ropes were all held tightly and the gondola lodged firmly in the trees. The balloonists then gingerly, one at a time, descended, clinging to the ropes and dropping to the ground. When the last man, hampered by a useless left arm, had reached safety, a great cheer went up and there was much back-slapping and congratulations all about.
Rebecca urged Meg around the crowd as far away from Clayborne as possible, and the sisters made their way toward the two younger men, as the older one was speaking with Clayborne in a booming voice. “I am Josiah Carberry, owner of this magnificent balloon. Twenty-two trips I have made in it with nary a disaster.” The crowd tittered at this, observing the lodged gondola and the shriveling balloon. “We have had the misfortune of encountering some unexpected air currents, aggravated by a faulty valve, but the damage is negligible, I assure you,” he proclaimed.
Lord Clayborne's Fancy Page 6