Lord Clayborne's Fancy

by Laura Matthews

  Her sister smiled and said, “You are incorrigible, Mary. I have put it away. Just a moment.” She withdrew her drawing folder from the writing desk and submitted to Mary’s request to see all the cartoons. Mary was delighted with them, as she did not share her sister Meg’s disapproval of the irreverent nature of some of the drawings of Clayborne. “You’ve caught him at his worst and at his best, you know, Becka. Has he seen these?”

  “Dear me, no,” her sister sighed. “I fear I irritate him more than enough without that.”

  There was a tap at the door, and Meg entered to advise them that the captains were below requesting the pleasure of their company for a drive in the park.

  “Captain Hardcastle says he can take Becka and me with his groom driving, and Mary may go with Captain Gray. He has offered to let you practice your driving, Mary, as the park will not be crowded as yet.” She awaited their assent and then hurried off to get a shawl.

  In spite of the hot sun, a cooling breeze made the drive refreshing, and it was only marred by the sight of Lady Hillston, once again dressed in a very revealing mourning outfit and smiling coquettishly at a man old enough to be her father. The gentleman, stuffed into a fashionable coat with fobs and rings abounding on his person, gazed bemusedly at Lady Hillston and patted her hand proprietarily.

  Mary turned to wink at Rebecca, and in doing so lost control of the pair she was driving. Before Captain Gray could get the animals under control their confusion caused Lady Hillston’s mare to bolt, leaving the old gentleman staring in bewilderment after her. Lady Hillston, hat askew and rumpled, was eventually rescued by a young Pink of the ton, to Mary’s cries of “Bravo!” The widow, considerably disgruntled, ignored Mary and her party and rode off, with what dignity she could muster, her smiling groom in attendance.

  Later Rebecca accused Mary jokingly, “I believe you did that on purpose, Mary.”

  “Well, no, but I would have if I could,” she admitted frankly.

  Clayborne was absent that evening, and the ladies spent a quiet time at home. Meg’s friend Althea and her mother joined them for a few hours of music and conversation. When Rebecca mentioned that her nephew joined them the next day, Lady Stonebridge reminisced about his mother.

  “Clayborne’s sister, Caroline, was a beautiful girl. Totally uninterested in the ton and its entertainments, she seemed destined to be an old maid. Then she accompanied her brother on a trip to his Yorkshire estate and met Gregory Mott, who shared her taste for the country life, and they fell head over ears in love. They married at his estate in Yorkshire and I don’t believe they ever came to London at all. So sad she should have died. I understand the poor fellow did not take it well at all. Clayborne spent most of the first year afterwards with him, until he began to cope again. How old is the boy now?”

  “I believe he is four, and I look forward to meeting him,” Rebecca replied.

  Lady Stonebridge eyed her speculatively, started to say something, and then merely said, “I don’t imagine he has ever been to London before. His father brings him, you say?”

  “Yes, and we plan to go down to Gray Oaks when he comes. I’m sure he’ll find a deal more to do there than in town.”

  * * * *

  And indeed she was glad, the next morning when she met young George Mott, that they were going to the country. He had brown curly locks and the most impish eyes she had ever seen. After exploring the house like a puppy, he begged Clayborne to take him to the stables. Clayborne, casting a meaningful look at Mary, informed his nephew that he wished to talk to his father for a while, but that Miss Mary would no doubt be glad to take him. Mary quickly replied that she would be pleased to oblige her brother-in-law and took George by his pudgy hand to escape joyfully from the house.

  Rebecca was interested in her husband’s brother-in-law. Mr. Mott was quiet and had polished manners, but he evinced a strong curiosity about her. His son bore an incredible likeness to him, but whereas the boy’s eyes were gay, the father’s were sad.

  “I was sorry you could not accompany Jason when he visited us last fall, Lady Clayborne. We had thought to attend the wedding, but Jason said he would be bringing you with him to Yorkshire soon after, and so we excused ourselves. I’m afraid we don’t go about much,” he said apologetically.

  Clayborne looked uncomfortable, but Rebecca paid no heed to him. She tried to draw Mr. Mott out about his estate and the life he and George led there. He explained that he had business to attend to for his mother which should not take above a week, two at the most, and he would come to Gray Oaks to take George back with him.

  “Plan to stay with us a while,” Rebecca urged. “I’m sure Mrs. Lambert will not gladly give up little George once she has him about, and I would welcome the chance to get to know you better.”

  Mott agreed to consider it and soon went off with Clayborne to discuss some matters privately in the study. Clayborne returned alone a half hour later, excusing his brother-in-law, who had left, and handed Rebecca a letter. “Bridge sent this along from Gray Oaks for you. We shall leave early tomorrow, so be sure your sisters and Miss Turnpeck are ready.”

  He walked over to the window and stood there for some time. When he did not say anything more, Rebecca took the opportunity to read her letter.

  “My friend Constance Exton is writing me from Brighton, Jason. How her mother hounds that poor dear! May I invite her to stay at Gray Oaks for a while?”

  “Certainly. Your friends are always welcome. It is your home, too,” he said stiffly, not turning from the window.

  “Then I shall write to her immediately and urge her to come as soon as she may. Will you frank it and have it posted today?”

  “Yes.” He turned finally to speak to her, his eyes troubled, but she was already closing the door softly behind her. With a sigh he followed into the hall and ordered his horse brought round. There was really very little he could say to her in any case.

  As she signed her letter to Constance Exton, Rebecca was summoned by Harpert to receive morning callers in the drawing room. She arrived there to find Miss Turnpeck, Meg and the two captains.

  “We have just learned that you are to leave tomorrow for the country,” Captain Gray announced. “You shall all be sorely missed in town.”

  “We have already extended our stay, and though we shall miss you, I must admit that I look forward to the peace of the country,” Rebecca commented.

  Captain Hardcastle urged, “Would you come for one last drive in the park? It’s a bang-up day.”

  “Would you mind having my nephew and youngest sister accompany us?” Rebecca asked with a twinkle in her eye.

  “Not at all,” Captain Gray offered handsomely.

  They set out in two carriages, Meg and Rebecca with Captain Gray, Mary and George with Captain Hardcastle. George was agog with the London scene, and kept up a steady stream of questions ranging from “Why is it so noisy here?” to “Do you suppose it would be fun to be a crossing sweeper?”

  In the other carriage Captain Gray told his passengers that he was soon to leave London himself, as duty called, and he did not know when he would return.

  “We’ve been most grateful for your escort while we’ve been here,” Meg assured him.

  “Yes,” Rebecca concurred, “and I think Jason has appreciated your assistance with all these females as much as anyone.”

  “I could not wish a better husband for you, Lady Clayborne,” Captain Gray said seriously. “I don’t know if you are aware of some of the business which has brought your husband to town, but I have heard fellow officers speak of him admiringly. A lot of poor souls returned from Waterloo last year incapable of working, or dreadfully handicapped, and your husband has spent considerable time and effort, to say nothing of money, on finding them jobs and homes and medical assistance. It’s an honor to know him.”

  “Thank you, Captain Gray,” Rebecca responded automatically, though this information took her by surprise. He had never spoken of it to her, but she felt warmed by t
he knowledge of his concern for these unfortunate men. Though she had been aware of the respectful attitude of the captains toward her husband, she had not been able to account for it completely.

  They continued their drive down Rotten Row, where they saw Clayborne himself on his favorite horse, so abstracted that he did not notice them for a moment. When he joined their party, however, he was cordial, assuring George that there would be plenty of riding in the country and, before he left them, thanking the captains for their kindnesses with the hope they would all meet again soon.

  Rebecca watched him until he was out of sight, sighed softly, and suggested that they should return to Clayborne House, as there was much to do in preparation for their departure.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Will you take me fishing today, Uncle Jason?” George asked hopefully. “We could have our catch for lunch. Miss Mary says she cannot ride until the afternoon, and Miss Meg has some letters to write. And I would rather go fishing with you than anything else.”

  Clayborne rumpled the boy’s hair and laughed. “Very well, we’ll go fishing if you will have Griggs see to our tackle.” He watched fondly as the little boy gave a whoop of pleasure and discarded his napkin on the floor before vanishing from the breakfast room.

  Left with all the ladies, Clayborne was reminded that yet another was to arrive soon. “I believe your friend Constance Exton comes today, Rebecca. Does she travel post, or shall I have the carriage meet her in Chichester?”

  “Thank you, she comes post, probably at midday, if she gets an early start.” Rebecca glanced around at all her companions—Meg, Mary, Miss Turnpeck—and felt a surge of guilt that she so looked forward to her friend’s coming. But Constance was different—not family—and therefore someone she could confide in, at least in some small measure. Now she could begin to make her plans.

  “Is there anything I can do to prepare for her visit, Becka?” Meg asked.

  “No, love, I’m sure you’ve all been the greatest help just keeping little George happy. He must miss his father, but one would never know.”

  “He hasn’t the time!” Mary laughed. “What with his riding lessons, and Meg always ready to play blind man’s bluff or spillikins with him, and Miss Turnpeck ever vigilant to instruct him in history. I doubt he has a free minute in the day.” She turned, smiling to Clayborne. “He follows you about like a puppy, Jason. I had no idea small boys could think of so many questions to ask. Yesterday I heard him plaguing you with his curiosity about the carriages. Had you driven a gig when you were his age? Could he try it? Was the harness different for the gig and the curricle? Would your horses go in either of them? Did a carriage horse eat more than a hack? I wouldn’t have had the patience to answer the half of his questions!”

  “I’m sure I was just as inquisitive when I was a child, and I don’t doubt that you were, too,” he replied, amused.

  The contretemps between the two of them in London was long forgotten, Rebecca knew, and her husband treated Mary as he might his own sister. With Meg, too, he was relaxed if not so easy-going, and his thoughtfulness to Miss Turnpeck won the admiration of them all. Unfamiliar as he must be with the likes of the eccentric governess, he found no difficulty in dealing with her. It is only me, Rebecca thought despairingly. He cannot come to terms with me. “If you will excuse me, I should see that Constance’s room has fresh flowers.” She offered her husband a hesitant smile as he politely rose.

  “I can bring George back early so that we will be here when your friend arrives.”

  “No, please don’t spoil his fun. Constance will want

  to refresh from her journey before seeing everyone.... But thank you!”

  Her friend arrived full of laughing apologies. “Do forgive me for accepting your invitation so precipitately, Rebecca. I could not bear another day in Brighton with Mother. For she will push me at every man in sight and I cannot tolerate it. She extols my nonexistent virtues until I am speechless with mortification. I wonder half the gentlemen in Brighton don’t believe me mute!”

  “I have an idea in mind, Constance, which I would discuss with you,” Rebecca said, drawing her friend up to the room made ready for her. “I know you must be tired from your journey and I should not pester you, but I have been so eager to speak with you that I cannot wait.”

  “Whatever is this? I am not in the least tired and beg you to tell me,” Constance urged as she removed her large poke bonnet and dropped it on the bed. She shook out her long, blond hair and turned inquiring eyes on her friend.

  Rebecca hesitated. “It is easy to tell you what I have in mind, but I fear I find it difficult to explain why. You are one-and-twenty now, are you not?”

  “Last month.” Constance eyed her curiously. “Is that to the point?”

  “In a way, for I have in mind to set up my own establishment and I would have you join me,” Rebecca blurted.

  Constance’s expression turned to one of incredulity. She grasped her friend’s hand and asked sadly, “You wish to leave Clayborne, Rebecca? I cannot believe it. What’s the matter?”

  “Even to you, Constance, I cannot explain it,” Rebecca replied, turning her head away. “We have been estranged practically from the day we wed and I cannot bear to be in his house any longer. I’ve saved my allowance for most of this last year; really there was little enough to spend it on,” she admitted, “and I think I can afford to let a small cottage in the country somewhere. But I could not do it alone, for it would but add to Jason’s distress and my parents would surely not countenance it. Besides, I should dearly love your company. I just wanted you to think about it. You don’t need to answer me now, for you must consider many things. Your mother will not like it, and we would live secluded so that we would not be likely to meet many gentlemen for you. But we could read and I can draw. You would be able to practice your harpsichord to your heart’s content. It should not be so dull a life,” Rebecca finished with a twisted smile and a pathetic little laugh.

  Constance’s eyes filled with tears and she hugged Rebecca to her. “Poor dear, you are dreadfully unhappy, aren’t you? I shall think about it, Rebecca, and we can talk more of it another time. Frankly, I have been considering such a scheme myself but never in my wildest thoughts did I think to have your companionship. Run along now so I can freshen up.”

  “It’s good to have you here, Constance. Don’t worry about me.”

  But Constance thought of little else for several days, though Rebecca did not introduce the topic again. Her friend’s calm self-possession was impressive, but it seemed to have no influence with Clayborne. Although he was unfailingly gracious to Constance, as well as to Rebecca’s sisters and Miss Turnpeck, with his wife he appeared stiff and withdrawn.

  How could a man who fenced with short wooden swords with his nephew, laughing in the summer sun at the child’s antics, meet his wife in the hall not ten minutes later to offer only a formal nod, as though they were mere acquaintances passing in the street?

  Constance was horrified to find that Rebecca accepted this as a matter of course, going about her daily routine—the planning of meals, a reading lesson for Harpert, whom she had brought from London, the delivery of a basket of food to a sick tenant, a drive to take George to visit a neighbor’s children—as though there were nothing amiss.

  One afternoon when they were riding out alone she said, “I’ve been thinking about your proposal, Rebecca. I fear Clayborne wouldn’t like it at all.”

  “Of course he won’t, but it cannot be helped. He has taken me in aversion and I cannot tolerate being treated that way.”

  “And yet he’s really not like that. He’s good with everyone but you.”

  “I know. Don’t think I haven’t tried to change his mind, for I have. But I will not admit to a lie, and I doubt that it would help if I did,” Rebecca murmured sadly. “There is nothing for it but to leave.”

  Constance studied her friend’s dejected face. “Very well, Rebecca. If your circumstances don’t alter in
the next few weeks, I’ll join you in your cottage. Where shall it be?”

  “I’ve always wanted to see the Cotswolds. Perhaps Chipping Norton or Moreton-in-Marsh. We could write to an estate agent there to see what’s available. Shall I do that?”

  “Yes. Find out what you can, and then we shall decide,” her friend reluctantly agreed.

  “Thank you, Constance. I know you cannot truly like the scheme, but I promise you it will be best for Clayborne and me to separate.”

  Caught up with her own thoughts, she did not notice that they were silent on their return to Gray Oaks. They found Gregory Mott arrived, with plans to stay for a while, and his son ecstatically chatting of his new achievements.

  “I’ve been riding a pony, Papa, and Miss Mary says I shall be a neck or nothing rider.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a moment, George,” his father laughed as he swung him up onto his shoulders and allowed the boy to convince him to come to the stables to see Bessie, his borrowed mount and “Quite the finest pony for miles around.”

  At dinner Mott thanked them all for their care of his son. “I believe you have kept him so busy that he’s hardly had time to get into mischief.”

  “Well, not exactly,” Mary giggled, “for one day I found him in the stables merrily cutting up a piece of harness leather to make a whip for himself.”

  “And once he took a pot of cream the cook had set out to use for dessert,” Constance admitted. “He had found a stray kitten and wanted to feed it. You now have a pet to add to your household, I fear. George has been keeping it in his room and will not hear of its banishment to the stables.”

  “In other words, you’ve all been spoiling him shamelessly,” his father suggested with a grin.

  “I suppose we have, but somehow he doesn’t ever seem the worse for it. He gives as well as takes, you know, and is considerate for such a young fellow,” Constance replied.

  “I have often thought so, but I feared it was my prejudice,” he admitted. “You know, Miss Exton, it has just occurred to me that you might be related to Charles Exton, a friend of mine at Cambridge.”