A Proper Guardian

by Carolyn R. Scheidies

  Thou hast put gladness in my heart,

  More than in the time that their corn and their wine increased.

  I will both lay me down in peace and sleep:

  For thou, Lord, only makest me dwell in safety.

  Winter slowly closed the bible, blew out the bedchamber candle and snuggled under the covers. “Yes, Lord, thank You for keeping us safe.”

  The large four-poster bed enfolded her in its welcoming depth. She snuggled even farther under the warm covers until they all but covered her face. Feeling like royalty, she idly wondered if indeed some prince or princess ever slept in this room. It was her last thought before she slept.

  * * *

  Winter awoke with a groan to find a young maid in her room lighting the candles. Of medium height, the dark-haired young woman moved with a grace Winter envied. “M’lady?”

  Winter yawned and smiled sleepily as the maid bustled about readying a bath in front of the fireplace. “Why are you getting me up in the middle of the night?”

  The maid stilled a grin. “M’lady, you have slept the day away.”

  “I what!” The maid’s eyes held the truth. “Oh, my.”

  Groaning, Winter got up, rubbing her aching thigh and slowly working her stiff joints. The days of traveling had exhausted her more than she realized. Hobbling over to the tub, Winter sank contentedly into the warm, scented water and let herself relax.

  “Did Polly get off all right?”

  “The woman who came with you? Yes, she did. Would have said goodbye, but she didn’t wish to disturb you. I’ll be your personal abigail from now on.”

  Winter watched the young woman’s graceful movements and heard her cultured speech. Even an impoverished gentlewoman did not usually become a servant, not if she was able to become a governess or companion.

  Her curiosity overcame her hesitance. “Why?”

  Her new abigail did not pretend to misunderstand. “My parents had to flee from the persecution in France. They were thankful to escape with their lives.”

  “Were you born here in England?”

  “Yes, soon after they arrived, in fact.”

  “That accounts for your lack of accent.” Winter paused.

  The abigail smiled. “I am thankful to have honest work. Many French women have taken to the stage or...worse.” She bit her lip.

  “What do I call you?”

  “Mary will do fine.”

  “Mary? Not Maria?”

  “Actually, yes, it is Maria, but we thought it best to seem as English as possible.”

  Winter assumed she referred to her parents. “Are your parents also employed by his lordship?”

  “Oh, no, m’lady, but—” she dimpled as she continued “—he did hire my husband as a groom, as well.” There was a look in her eyes that Winter was unable to interpret.

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Eight months, m’lady.” The water growing cold, Winter permitted Mary to help her from the bath.

  “Congratulations.”

  A soft light shone in Mary’s eyes. “Thank you, m’lady.”

  Winter focused on drying herself. While she did not wish Mary any less happiness, it brought a pain to Winter’s lonely heart.

  With a soft sigh, Winter dropped the towel and let Mary assist her into a clean shift and petticoats. Winter relaxed while Mary brushed out her hair in long smooth strokes. Pulling up the sides, Mary braided them around Winter’s head with a rose-colored ribbon, leaving the rest flowing down her back in soft rippling waves.

  The abigail brought out a gown Winter had never seen before. “Where did that come from?”

  “Her grace did some shopping on her own for you this afternoon.”

  “How kind of her!” exclaimed Winter, who had secretly been worried about embarrassing her guardian with her country clothes. “I’ll be sure to thank her.”

  Mary carefully lowered the gown over her head and tied the white sash. Staring at Mary in the mirror, Winter shook her head in amazement. “This gown makes me look so, so...”

  “Refined.”

  “That’s the word. You’re a wonder. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure, m’lady. Let me show you the way downstairs. I am certain his lordship is waiting.”

  James, the pompous butler, stiffly showed Winter to the parlour off the long dining hall. Done in shades of brown, the room showcased several fine Fragonards.

  “Winter.” She looked up to find Alistair standing beside her.

  “I’m sorry, Justin. I didn’t see you. You look magnificent.” Her cheeks flushed, and she covered them. All she did was blush around her guardian, but he did look wonderfully handsome in formal blue jacket and white breeches.

  “I didn’t mean to sleep all day.”

  “You needed the rest. Besides, once Aunt Helen takes over, you will thank me you got some rest first. A season is seldom conducive to much sleep.” He followed her gaze. “You appreciate my paintings?”

  “I do. I can’t get over how many different and valuable paintings you have. I love Renton Hall. After all, it is my home, but this...” She indicated the luxurious paintings and furnishings.

  Lord Alistair chuckled. “My ancestors spent a great deal of effort acquiring works of art.” He motioned toward the valuable compositions. “They entailed them so that even if an heir needs the money, he cannot sell the family treasures. They can only be passed on to his son and heir.”

  “How strange it would be to starve in the midst of this wealth because your ancestors wanted to preserve this beauty.”

  “Almost funny, isn’t it? It has happened to more than one family when they lost their money, often at the baize tables.” At the look on Winter’s face, he reassured her. “Have no fear, dear Winter. I am quite deep in the pockets so you must not be concerned about this peer. Wonder what’s keeping Aunt Helen?”

  “Before she arrives, I have a question.”

  “At your service, m’lady.”

  “Upstairs in my room are several Rembrandts, here there is not one, but several Fragonards. Last night the room we were in held several van Dykes. Are all the rooms like this with the works of the individual painters grouped together? Why?”

  “Grandfather started it. He liked to study the differing styles at his leisure and hated mixing them. So, instead of having the blue or red room, we have the van Dyke parlour, the Stubbs study, the Rembrandt bedchamber. He was the same about furniture, but we’ve gotten away from that somewhat.”

  Winter laughed. “I see. It is rather simple after all. Oh, and I wanted to thank you for Mary. She is delightful.”

  Alistair smiled and Winter got the distinct impression he was secretly amused by her remarks. “I thought you might like her. Not exactly a bluestocking,” he teased, “but she is well-educated.”

  He turned as the duchess walked toward them. “There you are, Aunt Helen.”

  James chose that moment to announce dinner. Giving an arm to each, Alistair escorted the two women into the dining parlour.

  Winter’s hair, sparkling silver in the light from the gold candelabrum on the table, caught Lord Alistair’s eye. Watching him, his aunt commented, “Always did think a woman looked her best in candlelight. None of those garish oil lamps for me.”

  That launched the duchess and her nephew into a discussion, bordering on an argument, regarding the latest inventions coming into fashion. Winter, glad for their diversion, ate whatever was set before her.

  At one point, finding Alistair’s intense gaze focused on her, Winter became so discomfited she dropped her utensil, which clattered against her gold plate.

  “Justin,” the duchess addressed him sternly, “can’t you see you are making the child nervous?”

  A laconic smile spread acros
s his face as he glanced from Winter to his aunt and back again. “My most humble of apologies, Winter. Don’t let my quiet observation cast you into the dismals.”

  “Don’t concern yourself,” Winter managed to say with a false sweetness he could not help but detect. “I’d hardly let the sight of you trouble me so.”

  The duchess gulped, choked back a snicker. “That’s one for your ward, Justin. She may not be as they say, ‘up to snuff’ yet, but she will be soon. I predict she’ll be an original, and I plan to take my share of the credit.”

  * * *

  Winter finally relaxed and listened to the two wrangle. In time, she even interjected a comment or two.

  There was no doubt her guardian believed that any day they would hear that Napoleon no longer had a truce with England. He spoke with such authority, Winter asked, “Did you ever fight the French?”

  “Not exactly.” He exchanged a look with the duchess she could not interpret, and changed the subject.

  Biting her lip, Winter glared down at her plate. Already in her short stay, she intercepted strange looks, silences, or, like this instance, times her guardian changed the subject. What could it mean?

  She missed the start of the new topic on the merits of French émigrés returning to France to regain their inheritance from Napoleon.

  “It’s all a farce,” the duchess claimed. “How can you trust that Corsican? Contrary to many of my contemporaries, I wonder what’s he going to do next?”

  “I’d rather have the émigrés return to their homeland than to remain here as Boney’s spies.” Alistair’s voice took on a hard edge.

  “Spies?” Winter paled. “Why would they spy for the French government? After all, England gave them sanctuary when their own people were trying to murder them.”

  Alistair sadly shook his head. “I fear that it has already happened and much more is suspected.”

  “Mary?”

  Again that look passed between the duchess and her guardian. “No, not Mary.” He explained, “She married an Englishman and has set solid roots down into our country. As far as she is concerned, she is English and has proved herself a loyal citizen.”

  Winter wondered how, but Alistair’s expression forbade further inquiry.

  “Time we leave you to your port, Justin.” The duchess rose gracefully.

  Winter leaned forward and tried to emulate the graceful movements of the duchess but failed. As usual, her leg stiffened from the long sit, and it took several steps before she walked normally.

  Behind her, she heard the grate of the chair as her guardian also rose. “I never cared for sitting alone. I prefer the company of lovely ladies.”

  “I’ll wager you do,” the duchess said with a chuckle that disheartened Winter, though she did not know why.

  “You two go along. It has been a long day for me.” She smiled at Winter. “I’ve made a lot of plans for the next few days, and we’ll be very busy getting you ready for your presentation. I think I’ll retire for the night so I’ll be ready first thing in the morning.”

  Alistair tucked Winter’s hand in the crook of his arm and led her down the hall to the library. Immediately, the warmth and security of the room surrounded her; though, if she were honest, she would have admitted it also had to do with the broad-shouldered man at her side.

  “I thought we’d spend the evening here. It is my favorite room in the whole place.”

  Winter loved the room on sight. The heavy mahogany desk, with its clean ornamented lines, caught her gaze as she took in the solid walls, covered with tall oak bookcases, bulging with original calfskin-bound volumes.

  A large fireplace to one side of the desk insulated the room from the chilly London evening, while the deep rust carpet and matching damask curtains at the tall windows secured the room against the outside world.

  “Feels like home,” she told him, her eyes shining with excitement.

  “A sampler among all these treasures? I like that.” Moving closer she said, “I always liked that poem.”

  Dramatically, Alistair intoned, “‘Come live with me and be my love....’”

  He laughed cynically. “I’m afraid most women prefer rubies to roses, and an impressive title with deep pockets to a simple shepherd with nothing but a heart to give.”

  “Jesus was a shepherd,” Winter told him. “He sacrificed His life for love.”

  “That kind of love doesn’t seem to go far with women these days.”

  Winter sensed a deep hurt inside her guardian and castigated herself for her quick judgments. With a compassion in her voice he could not miss, Winter said, “You’ve been hurt in love.”

  Alistair laughed, as though seeking to cover the unexpected exposure of his feelings. “It’s nothing, all in the past. Why would a past love affair concern me? I’m a dashing rake, you said so yourself.”

  “Father always did caution me about my quick temper and even quicker judgments. I sense you are hurting.” She bit her lip. “I judged too harshly, I fear. Forgive me.” Reaching out, she touched his sleeve.

  * * *

  He melted under the plea in her soft blue eyes. Covering her hand, he cleared his throat. Why was it so easy to talk with this tiny young woman who barely reached his heart? Mayhap that was the reason. Despite the shell he constructed around his heart, she had reached him, and he didn’t know how to respond.

  He pulled himself up, reminding himself sharply the young woman was his ward. “Umm. Yes. From what Mrs. Duncan said, you haven’t gone to services since the death of your father. Am I correct in assuming you would like to attend church?”

  “Oh, yes. Is it possible?” Winter’s eyes lit up, then dimmed. “Where do you usually go?”

  Alistair studied his ward. The very mention of church excited her, and she spoke of Jesus as though He was right there in the room with them. Scary thought. For all that, her faith drew him.

  His lips twisted as his thoughts turned to the woman who had spurned him. Amelia would have scorned Winter’s simple but living faith.

  “This will probably astound you, Winter, but I regularly worship with a small nonconformist congregation on the north side of town that adheres to the teachings of Wesley.”

  Winter gaped at him. “You truly worship with these people every Sunday?”

  Her amazement brought forth a cold frown. “Thank you for your faith in me, Lady Renton.” He relented at the lowered lashes. “I fear it is a pretty well-kept secret, so I should not be angry with you over such a trifle.” The dawning respect on the face of his ward made his cravat feel decidedly tight.

  “Oh, do I owe you an apology. That’s all I am doing this evening, but I am sorry.” She sat down with him near the hearth. “But, if I may ask, why?”

  “Why the small radical congregation rather than St. George’s Cathedral on Hanover Square, where the haute ton go to show off their finery?”

  Winter nodded. A muscle twitched in his cheek. “It was a promise I made Mother...before she died.”

  “I am so glad. Here I was afraid that if we did attend services, it would be at St. George’s or St. Paul’s.” She added, “I am sure they are lovely cathedrals and hope I can view them while I am here, but...”

  Alistair nodded. “As you probably know, the ton does not go there for spiritual nourishment. Sometimes it is difficult to meditate in those churches patronized by polite society regardless of how magnificent the architecture. You’ll find I am the only member of the ton to find his way to this little church I attend.”

  “Then mayhap,” Winter said with quiet assurance, “I’ll feel more at ease there.”

  They continued to converse for some time until a yawn seemed to catch Winter unprepared. “I shouldn’t be tired already.”

  Taking Winter’s hands, Alistair pulled her up beside him. “Just as wel
l. I should not keep you up too late. You heard Aunt Helen. She wants to get started bright and early in the morning.”

  He grinned down at her. “Now off to bed with you.” At her hesitation, he threatened, “Of course, I could carry you....”

  “Odious man.” Chin out, Winter tried to march from the room, but her leg buckled beneath her, and she fell against her guardian.

  Righting her, Alistair shook his head. “I shouldn’t have teased you.”

  “And I shouldn’t be so quick to take offense. It is difficult to adjust to a guardian when I’ve been on my own.”

  * * *

  The next afternoon, Winter stood in her bedchamber, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other to keep them from going to sleep. “Stand still,” commanded the trim modiste, not for the first time.

  Sighing, Winter tried to curtail her impatience by quoting Psalm 37:8, which her father had made her memorize when she was five. Cease from anger, and forsake wrath: fret not thyself in any wise to do evil.

  She winced. Standing and turning and standing and waiting. It was hard not to fret. She was glad the modiste, thanks to the consequence of the earl and the duchess, had come to the house, instead of having to go to the woman’s shop downtown.

  Her mind turned toward Alistair. Why did he always seem to bring out the very worst in her?

  “Lord,” she muttered to herself, “help me honor him. He is my guardian. I don’t understand why I get in a spin every time Justin is around.”

  The domineering modiste bullied her assistants and intimidated Winter, who would often have given in just to have the session over had not the duchess taken charge.

  As the dressmaker and her assistants fitted and measured, held up fabrics of various styles, designs, colors and weaves, the duchess made her choices, even, at times, in the face of the modiste’s suggestions to the contrary.

  “No. No,” the duchess said. “That color is all wrong for her. The yellow makes her look sallow.”

  At a particular pattern. “That bodice is much too revealing. His lordship would not approve. He wishes his ward to be stylish not provocative.”

  Then again. “No. No. No! That material is far too transparent for modesty.”