Lord Clayborne's Fancy

by Laura Matthews

  Gregory Mott approached her with a smile. “I’ve been looking for you. Are you promised for the set that’s forming?”

  “No, and I have acted the hostess quite long enough.”

  “Then allow me the pleasure,” he said, offering his arm.

  “I’ve just been with George, who is stuffing himself with cakes and lemonade and ices, and having a wonderful time. He said he’s never seen you dance before.”

  “I’d forgotten how enjoyable it is.” His eyes became thoughtful. “I’d forgotten a lot of things until I came here. Perhaps I have denied George the society he needs. We’ve kept too much to ourselves, I fear, and it has been my fault.” He gave a gesture of dismissal. “I shouldn’t be discussing such weighty matters at your party, ma’am, but I did want you to know how much we’ve enjoyed ourselves while we’ve been here.”

  “We’ve loved having you.”

  There was no chance to rest after her set with Mott, for she was solicited by each of the young men and most of the older ones as well. Toward the end of the evening Clayborne claimed her for a waltz. “It’s been impossible to get near you. Have you enjoyed yourself, Rebecca?”

  “Enormously, Jason. And you?”

  “Yes,” he replied as he swung her around Mott and Constance. “I believe even Miss Turnpeck cannot complain, for she has won an enormous pile of shillings at the whist table!”

  “No! A secret vice, I swear, for she was forever prosing at us that gambling is wicked.” They laughed together, causing several of the watching matrons to nod wisely and predict that his lordship would not be from home so much in future.

  When the last guest had departed and the ladies had wearily retired to their rooms, Mott urged Will to his bed and stayed Clayborne, suggesting a glass of brandy in the study. Though he was more than ready for his own bed, Clayborne acceded gracefully and dismissed Griggs, telling him not to wait up.

  Clayborne seated himself comfortably, stretched out his legs and heaved a sigh. Mott did not reply to his languid comment on the success of the party, but paced about the room with a distressed countenance.

  “You have spoken with Rebecca?” Clayborne asked at last.

  “No, I heard of the plan from Miss Exton. I do not mean to pry, Jason, but I cannot understand how you can sanction such an undertaking.”

  “I am informed that I have nothing to say to it,” he replied ruefully.

  “Be serious! Rebecca is your wife, and a more attractive, charming woman you could not find.”

  “I am aware of it, Gregory.”

  “Then how can you let this happen?”

  “It is a private matter I shall not disclose,” Clayborne replied coldly.

  “Of course not. Forgive me. But, Jason, they are such babes. I do not doubt that they can manage for themselves in a cottage, but I shall not see them set out alone. Do you know where they go?”

  “No, Rebecca will not tell me. I can contact her if necessary through a solicitor in Chichester.”

  “And you are satisfied with that?” Mott asked angrily.

  “I have no choice. I cannot keep her here by force, Gregory.”

  “Perhaps you should,” Mott retorted. “No, no, do not be angry with me. I shall convince Miss Exton that I am to escort them to their cottage, with a promise not to disclose our destination to you, of course. But it would ease your mind, would it not, Jason?”

  “Certainly. Do what you can, Gregory. I have told Rebecca that she could stay here at Gray Oaks and I would not come here, but it will not do. There is no way to dissuade her from this madness.”

  “Really, Jason, I’m surprised at you! A man of your address and experience really should be better able to manage his bride,” Mott said exasperatedly.

  “Enough, Gregory. I have said it all to myself. She is a willful young lady and I am a stubborn, self-righteous man. Let’s go to bed.”

  Mott was loath to drop the subject, but he realized there was really no more he could say. He managed to talk with Constance the next day and urge his escort on the two young ladies; and, though she knew that Rebecca would not be pleased, she was grateful and she knew Clayborne would be, so she accepted and presented Rebecca with the plan. “I shall feel much more comfortable with his escort, Rebecca, and anyway, I have already accepted.”

  “You will have him promise not to tell Clayborne our destination?” her friend asked.

  “I have already. And he will have Firely tied behind his carriage, too, which I am not sure you could do with a post chaise. It is agreed then?”

  “Certainly. You are good to put up with my cork-brained ways, Constance, for no one else would.”

  Constance refrained from pointing out that Clayborne probably would, and went off to her room.

  * * * *

  There were all of Miss Turnpeck’s shawls to be retrieved from various locations in the house, and Meg’s music to be sorted from Rebecca’s own, while Mary could not resist one last ride on Firely, but the preparations for their departure were eventually completed, and there was a minimum of confusion in the morning as the household gathered around the carriage to see them off.

  In a final spate of rhetoric, Miss Turnpeck allowed Clayborne to assist her up the steps. “Too kind! No right to expect such distinction! A lovely home, perfectly lovely. So good of you to have us. I am sure Meg and Mary have thanked you, haven’t you, girls? Yes, I was sure you had. No one could have been kinder...”

  Meg cast a despairing glance at Rebecca, who grinned and said, “Just remember that Will is riding alongside, my love. Surely you can bear anything when he is with you.”

  As Meg climbed into the carriage, Rebecca turned to Mary. “Do spare Turnip any trauma on the journey, my dear. I shall miss you.”

  Though little George was desolated to have Mary leave, he solemnly shook hands with her, and his father took the opportunity for a few extra words while helping her into the carriage.

  And then they were gone, the sound of hoofbeats slowly dying away in the morning heat. George immediately ran off to the stables but the four adults stood silent for some time. To break the awkwardness, and ever hopeful in leaving Clayborne with his wife, Mott urged Constance to ride with him, but Rebecca merely took the opportunity to settle some last-minute considerations.

  “Gregory will take us to the cottage, Jason, as I suppose you know. It is thoughtful of him, and I am sure we will be much more comfortable with his escort. Should you like me to leave Mrs. Lambert with the impression that I am going to visit with Constance?”

  “I am sure Mrs. Lambert is not so dull that your leaving with all your belongings, to say nothing of your horse, will escape her attention,” he said coolly.

  “You’re right, of course. I had not thought of that.”

  “There are a lot of things you have not thought of,” Clayborne retorted.

  “I doubt it, Jason,” she said softly.

  “What will happen if Constance leaves to marry or go back to her mother?”

  “I shall face that problem when it arises. But mind,” she laughed, “I have thought of it.”

  “Will you call on me if you need help, Rebecca?”

  “I cannot say. It would depend on the nature of the problem.”

  “I insist,” he began hotly, then grinned sheepishly as she raised her eyebrows at him. “Very well, just know that I shall always assist you out of some scrape or finance some necessary luxury as I would if you lived with me. Promise me that much, Rebecca.”

  “I promise,” she said solemnly, extending her hand for him to shake, which he did with due gravity, afterwards lifting it to his lips.

  Tentatively, they smiled at one another, her eyes wistful but with a determined hope for the future. She could not blame him for his belief, but she could not live with his constant anguish. In his eyes she read his regret for the past, and something more.

  Clayborne steeled himself not to ask her to stay again. Letting her go was the only thing he could do for her to ensure some meas
ure of peace in her life. Much as he wished he could forget her lie, his pride still rebelled at it, and even his reawakened love could not guarantee that he would not let her see his torture. If she left, there was no hope of reconciliation, and he had thought recently that perhaps she had, once or twice, looked on him more tenderly. That she... Well, he could not be right. She was leaving.

  Rebecca forced herself to speak over the lump in her throat. “I must finish packing now. Would you see that they have Firely ready for the morning?”

  The harpsichord was crated, their gowns packed, knickknacks carefully boxed, and by late afternoon their rooms already possessed a deserted air. Dinner was a subdued meal and conversation languished in the saloon afterwards. Rebecca leafed through some music that had just arrived from London and she accompanied Constance as they worked their way through it. No one spoke of what was on each of their minds. Eventually Mott and Clayborne were induced to join in the singing and the evening passed quickly, though they retired at an early hour.

  Mott’s traveling carriage and the carter’s wagon were piled high the next morning with boxes, trunks and the harpsichord. Little George scampered about, reminding everyone that soon he would have a pony of his own, but secretly slipped off to bid Bessie good-bye. Knowing that prolonged partings would not help matters, Constance gently coaxed the party toward the carriage, leaving only Rebecca outside with Clayborne. He handed her a wrapped package and said gruffly, “It is a traveling artist’s folder. I thought you might find some worthy subjects along the way.” Then he stooped quickly and kissed her cheek.

  “Thank you, Jason. I shall treasure it. Take care of yourself,” and she allowed him to hand her into the carriage, where she sat back as Mott instructed the coachman to start.

  Long after the carriage was out of sight, Clayborne stood staring off into the distance, and finally bestirred himself to return to his study. He found no peace there, nor anywhere in the house or stables. His entire staff were aware that Rebecca had left him, and much as he was dear to them, they had grown fond of their mistress, too, and blamed him for mismanaging things. It was the only day of his life when he swore at his valet.

  * * * *

  In the traveling carriage Rebecca tried valiantly to regard this as an exciting adventure and discuss their future with Constance, but she soon gave up the effort and retired to her own thoughts. Harpert had been instructed to bring with her plenty of items to amuse George and she set herself to this task wholeheartedly. George’s kitten curled up in Rebecca’s lap and she stroked it absently. Mott and Constance talked quietly and at length, without anyone paying the least heed, only occasionally interrupted by a question from George.

  It was a long and tiring journey for them all, with two nights spent on the road at comfortable if unfamiliar inns. When they arrived in Chipping Campden midmorning of the third day, Rebecca’s spirits began to brighten somewhat. At the village inn they were met by a Mr. Quince, who accompanied them to the cottage, which had been aired and cleaned for their arrival. It was located a short distance from the village shops and was, like them, of the native stone of the area. Roses covered the exterior in a wild array, obviously unattended for some time, but charming nonetheless.

  “It’s beautiful!” Constance exclaimed with delight.

  “Well, ma’am, I fear there is need for a great deal of decorating inside,” Mr. Quince murmured.

  No one paid him much heed as they hastened down from the carriage and into the charming little house. It was indeed as small as the estate agent had claimed it would be, and certainly had not seen any paint or wallpaper for half a century, but the young ladies were enchanted with it. Mott looked on skeptically, but George found it comfortable with its ragged carpets and scratched furniture.

  Rebecca and Constance went from room to room, planning as they progressed, and Mott eventually commented dryly, “I can see you shall not be bored.”

  “Are you satisfied with it, Constance?” Rebecca asked.

  “It could not be better… for our purposes, you understand,” she explained to Mott as she laughed and picked up a broken stool in the kitchen.

  “I understand perfectly,” he said with a grin, “if your purpose is to spend the next year of your life restoring it to habitable condition.”

  “Tut!” Rebecca exclaimed. “It is not so bad as that. It shall be comfortable within the month, I promise you.”

  “Then you may expect me back in a month to observe the miracle,” he retorted.

  “Pay no heed to him, Constance. Let’s see the bedrooms next.” They climbed the short stairs to find the four small rooms off the hall. “You pick your room first and we shall have the coachman send in your trunk,” Rebecca suggested.

  Constance chose a room overlooking the village street, and Rebecca one facing on the rear yard with a stream at the farthest end and a tiny stable beside it.

  Harpert also chose a room on the back side, and soon their trunks were being deposited hastily in their designated places. While Rebecca went off to scout out George, Constance assured Mott that they would do well in their new home.

  “I cannot like to see you out of touch with your brother,” he said with concern. “You will let him know immediately where you’ve located, will you not, Miss Exton?”

  “I shall write him tomorrow, as soon as I find my writing paraphernalia,” she chuckled. “You are good to have seen us here, Mr. Mott, and both Rebecca and I are grateful.”

  “I wish I could stay to see you settled in, but the journey is long for George and we should be on our way.” He took her hand and said, “You will allow me to return in a month, Miss Exton?”

  “It would give me great pleasure, Mr. Mott,” she responded shyly.

  “Gregory. And may I call you Constance?”

  “If you please, Gregory.” Their quiet moment was interrupted by a whooping George, who erupted into the room bearing an enormous outdated hat which he announced he had found in the attic.

  “It would ever be like this,” Mott sighed.

  “I know.”

  Rebecca followed George in and shooed the males out of the cottage, thanking them profusely for their escort and asserting that they should not be delayed another moment on their long journey. Mott assured her he would write Clayborne of their successful journey and did not delay his departure longer.

  The rest of the day was spent unpacking and shopping in the village for candles and food. Rebecca arranged for a village lad to come each day to care for Firely, and they made inquiries about a horse for Constance. Harpert prepared a simple but delicious meal for them and Rebecca and Constance sat down to plan for their new home in earnest.

  “We can each do our own bedrooms. I shall purchase some material for Harpert and anything else she may need. She shall be in charge of the kitchen needs, and you and I can work together on the downstairs rooms,” Rebecca suggested. “We need to keep the fourth room upstairs as a box room anyway.” She grinned. “So much for Jane Austen’s Robert Ferrars and his spacious cottages.”

  “I can hardly wait to begin. Mama did not allow me the least say in anything to do with the house in London and I am bursting with ideas.”

  “We shall not have a feather to fly with by the end of the week,” Rebecca warned her.

  “Speaking of feathers, the harpsichord will need to be requilled. I shall send to London for some condor feathers.”

  Rebecca lay in the unfamiliar bed that night wondering if she had done the right thing. She had come to want more than anything to settle matters with her husband, but she could not bear the anguish he lived with, inadvertently caused by her. To watch him suffer and not be able to reconcile himself was too painful for her. Perhaps the strong attachment for him which had grown in her these last weeks would diminish when she was away from him. And certainly he would be able to remake his life when he saw that she was sincere in her desire to give him the freedom to do so. The future stretched bleakly before her in spite of all the plans she had made f
or her new life.

  Chapter Sixteen

  It was almost a week before Clayborne received the awaited letter from Rebecca, in which she advised him of the safe journey and the condition of their new home, the pleasant countryside and the kindly neighbors. She spoke of the projects they planned to undertake and Mott’s comments on the cottage. Her thanks for the artist’s folder were again expressed and she had sketched a drawing of the cottage for him, with Constance in an apron waving from the window. She told him she had written her sisters and she enjoyed her rides on Firely. With the hope that he was well and that all flourished at Gray Oaks she signed it “Fondly, Rebecca.” There was no indication that she would write again, and the letter had been forwarded by the Chichester solicitor.

  Clayborne tried to read between the lines but eventually accepted the letter as it stood: Rebecca was happy and busy in her new situation and had no intention of involving him in her life henceforth. Since he had lived in anticipation that she might have regretted her decision, this letter merely cast him down further. He found it unbearable to remain in the country where the gossip was all of Rebecca’s departure, and decided to escape to London where it was unlikely to be known as yet. He had no doubt that it would be known soon enough, but he could always go on to Yorkshire if things got too much for him in the city.

  London did not prove to divert his black mood, for the balls were insipid, the card parties boring, and there were few outlets for his restless energy. He took to attending Jackson’s Boxing Saloon daily and became proficient in the sport. Though he saw Lady Hillston flirting with anyone wealthy enough to be of interest, he made no move to approach her. Hours were spent in his library with a book open in his lap, but he stared vacantly into the empty grate. At White’s he gambled, and because he did not care in the least, usually won. Occasionally he drove out to the races but could not remember which horse he had bet on.

  When he had been in London for a week, he was surprised and a little uneasy to run into Sir Rupert Farthington. This was not particularly propitious, for when he asked, “How do you do, Sir Rupert?” that vague, short-sighted gentleman replied, “Very well indeed. And you, sir? Oh, yes, it is Clayborne. Married to one of my daughters, are you not?”