Rather taken aback, Clayborne replied, “Yes, sir, your daughter Rebecca.”
“Of course. Of course. Is she in town? I should visit her I suppose. And her mother will wish to know, of course.”
“No, she is not in town,” Clayborne declared exasperatedly. “I think you had best come home with me, Sir Rupert, for I have something to discuss with you.”
Sir Rupert appeared very reluctant to accept this invitation, but Clayborne refused to allow him to join his cronies at White’s until he had spoken with the negligent parent, offering him a choice vintage Madeira as inducement. When Sir Rupert was settled with glass in hand, Clayborne caught his attention by announcing, “Rebecca has left me to set up her own establishment.”
The older man goggled at him and protested, “No such thing. You must be mistaken!”
“I assure you I am not,” Clayborne replied patiently.
“Why should she do such a thing? M’wife assured me you were all the crack, well-breeched and nice spoken. Made Rebecca a ladyship, too. She’s a good little puss. Wouldn’t go causing any trouble.”
“Sir Rupert, I tell you she has left Gray Oaks.”
“Then perhaps she has gone to Farthington Hall,” he suggested hopefully.
“She has not gone to Farthington Hall. She has let a cottage in the country with a young woman she met in London last year.”
“Really? Where is this cottage?” Sir Rupert asked belligerently.
“I have no idea. She would not tell me and she assured me that she has no intention of telling you or her mother either.”
“Whatever has come over the chit? I know what it is, you have frightened her. You young men, always rushing your fences! She’s a shy chit, Rebecca, where it comes to men. Bookish, you know. You’ve made too many demands on the poor little thing,” he said indignantly.
Goaded, Clayborne replied, “Quite the opposite, I assure you.”
“Huh? What’s this? So you are taking your pleasure elsewhere? You have hurt the poor young lady’s feelings, no doubt. Women do not understand these things.” He was full of reproach.
“Sir Rupert, I have no intention of trying to explain why Rebecca has left me. You shall learn that from her, if at all, which I doubt. I merely wished to apprise you of the situation and give you the name and direction of the solicitor in Chichester who will forward any mail to her.”
He turned to the desk and dipped a pen, scratching on crested paper for a moment before handing the sheet to his father-in-law. “I shall not detain you longer. I hope you will convey my respects to your wife.”
Sir Rupert was ushered out of Clayborne House darkly muttering “Young sprig!” and Clayborne wondered if he was to expect a visit from Rebecca’s mother. He was beginning to feel relieved on this score by the next day, when she was announced and he reluctantly had her shown into the library.
Lady Farthington had not been informed of her daughter’s waywardness until two hours before, owing to Sir Rupert’s absentmindedness. She had been shocked and appalled, coming directly to Clayborne House on finishing her lengthy toilette.
Lady Farthington entered the room with handkerchief to eyes to indicate her great distress. She would not actually shed tears, for she feared it was bad for the complexion and knew that it reddened the eyes, and she was justly proud of her large blue eyes. Regarding Clayborne with a tremulous, wistful smile perhaps appropriate to a younger woman but not suitable to her age or the flintiness in her eyes, she began her attack.
“I understand, Lord Clayborne, that Rebecca has set up an establishment of her own somewhere in the country.”
“That is true.”
“With whom is she sharing this cottage?” Lady Farthington queried, wrinkling her nose distastefully.
“Constance Exton. I believe you are acquainted with Miss Exton.”
“To be sure. Just such another as Rebecca herself, bookish and uninterested in society. Plays the harpsichord rather well, though, as I recall. But her mother is a harridan.”
“Just so,” Clayborne said.
“What is the cause of this escapade, Clayborne? Is it known of yet in London?”
“As to the cause, you shall have to inquire of Rebecca herself. I do not believe word has reached town of it as yet.”
“And what do you intend to do when it does? You will be a laughingstock and I shall have to retire to the countryside! I shall not be able to present my beautiful Mary in the spring!”
“It will be no more than a nine-days’ wonder, Lady Farthington. I am sure Mary will not suffer from it at all. She is quite beyond worrying about such things, I feel sure,” he mused, remembering her part in the escapade at Vauxhall.
“I shall be the judge of that,” Lady Farthington snapped. “What do you intend doing about the situation?”
“There is nothing I can do, ma’am. Rebecca has an allowance sufficient to maintain herself in this cottage and she shall do just as pleases her.”
“I make no doubt it has something to do with Lady Hillston,” Lady Farthington proclaimed. “Rebecca is so unsophisticated that I did not speak with her about it before the wedding. You were probably indiscreet.”
When Clayborne did not reply, she demanded, “Did she learn of you and Lady Hillston? I knew there would be trouble when I heard he died last December,” she cried with annoyance.
“Again, Lady Farthington, I must refer you to your daughter.”
“Oh, that ungrateful girl! She will ruin the whole family.”
“Her present situation is not immoral, merely unconventional. I assure you that the blame is far more likely to be placed on me.”
“And I am sure you deserve it!” she retorted hotly. Again he did not answer her, and she stood glaring at him, impatiently tapping her foot. “What do you suggest I do?” she asked at length.
“No doubt you will wish to write her, but it will only put her hackles up if you berate her and insist that she return to you or to me. You would do best, perhaps, to indicate your support of her as your daughter.”
“Nonsense! You would do better to stop her allowance and force her to come back.”
Clayborne studied her coldly. “I cannot and shall not stop her allowance. It is part of the settlement and is hers alone. Furthermore, it would merely drive her to earn her own living in some manner, which I assure you you would not like. I daresay she could go for a governess or publish her cartoons—she is devilishly clever with them. Would you feel more comfortable with that?” Clayborne asked softly.
“You are insolent, young man. It is no wonder she left you.” Lady Farthington sniffed and walked from the room with all the dignity she possessed. Clayborne sighed as the door slammed behind her, in no way distressed that he had managed to upset both of Rebecca’s parents, but singularly unhappy that she had grown up with such a lack of fondness from these self-interested and unfeeling people. He remembered his own parents with real affection, and though he had lost them both before he turned eighteen, he and his sister had been the delight of the late-married couple. Even his Uncle Henry, who was seldom in England now but had managed to spend a good deal of time with him and Caroline when they were orphaned, never left Clayborne with the least doubt that he was held in the highest regard.
* * * *
At Farthington Hall Meg and Mary had received Rebecca’s letter about a week after they left Gray Oaks and mutually agreed to keep the news from Miss Turnpeck. Meg was upset and kept murmuring that she had known something was wrong, wringing her hands and asking her sister what they should do.
“Nothing, of course, goose. Rebecca is able to manage for herself. She has Constance with her, and even Firely,” Mary stated, as though that clinched the matter.
“But, Mary, it will cause a scandal. It will be the talk of the ton.”
“And what business is it of theirs?” Mary wanted to know.
“It does not matter to the gossips if it is their business or not,” Meg cried despairingly. “They will say the unkindest
things of Rebecca and Clayborne!”
“Well, and what they say cannot make the slightest difference to either of them,” Mary pointed out.
“But it will upset Mama dreadfully, and she might be so shamed that she will not bring you out next spring,” Meg retorted coldly.
“Bravo, then, I say. I have not the slightest desire to sit around stuffy ballrooms and receive ridiculous compliments from doddering old men. Perhaps I will join Rebecca myself. I shall write this minute and suggest it to her,” Mary flung back at her sister, and glided out of the room to find her writing equipment.
* * * *
Rebecca received this letter with a great deal of amusement, and told Constance that they had started a new style. “Perhaps we should found a home for wayward young ladies. We could let a much larger house and have more servants, you know.”
“How can you even think of such a thing when we are only beginning to make this place presentable,” Constance grumbled good-naturedly. “I would welcome a ride. Has the saddle come for Thomasina yet?”
“No, but that need not trouble you. I used to ride bareback when I was a girl and I have a skirt which will do nicely. Do not look so amazed, Constance. You have no idea how much more comfortable it is than riding sidesaddle. You shall have Firely’s saddle and we can ride up into the hills and have our luncheon there.”
The young ladies left the blue draperies partially hemmed and went to change while Harpert prepared a basket of food for them. They avoided the village, as Constance could not feel that its inhabitants would be properly impressed with Rebecca’s manner of riding. The villagers had accepted them calmly, and if they had not taken them to heart as yet, they were kind and helpful. Rebecca introduced herself as Mrs. Clayborne, and Harpert was warned to watch her tongue, from which the “ladyships” flowed too freely.
The rolling green hills with their rushing streams invited exploration, and now that Constance had acquired a mare of her own they were pleased to leave the cottage work behind and taste the freedom of the summer day.
“It feels good to be on our own,” Rebecca sighed when they topped a hill and gazed down on the charming stone village. “Here we have no one to be forever prosing on and on about the proprieties. And if the villagers should not care for our style of living it really need not concern us unduly, for it harms no one but ourselves.”
“I am sure they find us most virtuous,” Constance laughed. “Did Clayborne do that? Prose on about the proprieties, I mean?”
“Yes, sometimes. But it was only his way of venting his spleen. He does not draw cartoons, you know!”
“Most of us cannot,” Constance retorted. “When I am especially angry I kick something.”
“No, really? Perhaps I have never seen you angry,” her friend grinned, “but I have no doubt that I shall drive you to a temper eventually.”
“Do you miss Jason?” Constance asked abruptly.
“Yes,” Rebecca replied simply. She sat looking past Firely’s ears into the distance. “But I am rather happy here and I feel sure Jason will do better without me. It’s like removing a thorn from your foot. It is painful to draw it out and sore for a while, but soon you are walking again and have forgotten all about it,” she said sadly.
Constance took leave to differ with this philosophical view, but she did not voice her disagreement. She was aware that her friend had been too engrossed in her own problems to notice Constance’s own developing fondness for Gregory Mott. It amused her that Rebecca thought Mott was interested in Mary because she was so like his dear Caroline. But Constance had no intention of destroying Rebecca’s illusions at this point, though she found herself frequently lost in daydreams and had some reason to believe that her regard was returned. She worked diligently to have the cottage looking attractive and comfortable, for although Rebecca believed that Mott was only teasing about returning in a month, Constance placed great reliance on his promise.
When they had settled in a picnic spot and were happily discussing the continuing renovation of the cottage, they were startled by a horse galloping close by them. It was immediately apparent that the young girl bestride the gleaming bay had lost control of him, for the reins hung loose and flapping against his sides.
Rebecca immediately flung herself onto Firely and dug her heels into the mare, giving chase to the fast-vanishing bay. Firely caught her urgency and lengthened her stride until she began closing the distance as the other horse tired. Once alongside Rebecca grasped the loose reins and spoke gently to the lathered horse.
Gradually he slowed his pace, with Firely matching his stride, and eventually Rebecca was able to bring him to a halt, shuddering and prancing. She turned to the girl, who was white with fear and had scratches about her face and arms where the branches had whipped against her.
“Are you all right? Here, let me help you down,” Rebecca said kindly. She dismounted quickly and, commanding Firely to stand, aided the girl, who must have been no more than fourteen, to alight. Her legs would not support her and Rebecca steadied her to a seat on a fallen log close by.
By this time Constance had arrived and tethered the bay to a sapling before approaching the others. Rebecca held the child in her arms and stroked her hair comfortingly, assuring her that all was well now.
“I... I am so gr—grateful,” the girl whispered. “I th—thought I should be k—killed,” she explained and tears oozed out of her gray eyes and rolled unheeded down her cheeks.
“Well, aside from a fright and some scratches, you are perfectly fine,” Rebecca replied bracingly. “What happened?”
“He was startled by a rabbit and I could not bring him under control and he tore through the bushes and I lost hold of the reins and I do not know what Uncle Lawton will say!”
Constance mopped up the tears with her handkerchief and assured the girl that the horse appeared uninjured, so Uncle Lawton was unlikely to say anything.
“Now there you are wrong!” a masculine voice roared at them. “I shall have a great deal to say about it, Elvira.”
Rebecca started up and eyed the newcomer coldly.
“Please do not say it now,” she urged. “Can you not see that the child is overset?”
He eyed her insolently from head to foot and then pointedly ignored her and turned to the girl. “Be home in half an hour to receive your punishment,” he growled, then wheeled his horse, grasped the bay’s reins from the sapling and rode off leading the second horse.
The terror in the girl’s eyes startled Rebecca. As soon as he was gone the child began to shake uncontrollably and her tears flowed again, coursing down the ashen cheeks. Rebecca once more cradled the girl in her arms, rocking her softly and saying, “It will be all right. You shall see. Come now, try to get hold of yourself, my dear. Constance and I shall see you home, never fear. You shall ride with me on Firely. Is she not a beautiful mare? Come, dry your eyes.”
The soothing words gradually calmed the girl until her tears ceased, but her eyes did not lose their look of tenor. She allowed herself to be helped up onto Firely and pointed out to her rescuers the direction of her home, but she seemed unable to speak.
“My name is Rebecca Clayborne, and you are to call me Rebecca. My friend is Constance Exton. May I call you Elvira?” The girl nodded her head. “Who is that bully?” Rebecca asked finally. It appeared at first that the girl would not answer, but when she spoke at last the flood gates seemed to open wide.
“He is my Uncle Lawton, my guardian. My parents died a year ago in an accident and he came here and lives with me in the manor house, when he is not in London. He is so mean to me! No matter how hard I try to please him, he is never satisfied. Today the kitchen maid cut her hand very badly and Uncle Lawton was not on the estate, and the groom was away with him. So I said I would ride for the doctor. Only there was only Hotspur, the bay, you know, in the stables, and Marlys, of course, but she is old and lame. He sold my lovely gray, saying I should not need such a horse! He does not allow me to ride Hotspur o
r Lark, the horse he was on, but I had to get the doctor, and so I took him. I knew he would not like it, but I had no choice. At least I found Dr. Mantles before I had the accident. He must be there by now, for he was driving his gig by the road.”
“Well, Elvira, I am sure if you explain it all to your Uncle Lawton he will understand,” Rebecca said kindly, and Constance, too, smiled reassurance.
“No, he will not,” the girl said sadly. “He will whip me as he always does.”
The young ladies shared a shocked glance, and Rebecca asked gently, “He has whipped you before?”
“Yes. Not a week goes by when he is at the manor that he does not find some reason to whip me,” she said matter-of-factly. “He is a cruel man, and I pray every night that he will return to London. He whips the horses—they have become quite skittish—and the groom, too, for the smallest things.”
“Have you no other relations living with you, poor child?” Rebecca asked.
“No, I have no other relations that I know of at all,” Elvira replied.
“And what of the staff?” Constance asked, with a troubled frown.
“There is Mrs. Hodges, the housekeeper, but she is rather deaf and was hired by my uncle. There is a cook and kitchen maid and one other maid. Most of the house is in holland covers. There is only the one groom. All of the servants who were here when my parents lived were turned off, even my governess. Uncle Lawton said they were too expensive. He will not keep an estate manager but handles the accounts himself. He says that I should be grateful that he is saving me so much money to inherit one day. I would be grateful if he would go away!” she exclaimed, and then her fear overcame her again and she said urgently, “You must let me down here. If Uncle Lawton thought I had not walked home he would be even angrier.”
Rebecca drew in the mare and assisted Elvira to the ground. The girl was trembling again, and Rebecca said impulsively, “Let us come with you. We shall talk to your uncle.”
Lord Clayborne's Fancy Page 18