by Lyn Stone
* * *
The next morning dawned fair and it was already rather warm, but Jack had promised a lesson. She looked so smart in her new blue riding habit, he wanted to show her off. Perhaps they would ride to the village if she could manage her mount well enough to go so far.
“Are you afraid of horses?” he asked as he and Laurel walked arm in arm to the stables. She seemed more animated than usual, but he wasn’t certain whether it was caused by anticipation.
“No, not at all. I’ve ridden a little before so I’m familiar with them.”
“Where? At Orencio’s?” He felt a sudden stab of jealousy that that rapacious Spaniard had taught her anything. “I can’t imagine they taught you riding at the convent.”
“I told you before, it was a convent school, Jack. For young ladies. We were expected to learn things one would need out in the world.”
“But not music or dancing. You said you hadn’t learned those, so I assumed—”
She laughed. “I didn’t learn music simply because I have no ear for it, no talent whatsoever. As for dancing, granted, that was not among our lessons.”
“So you were taught to ride in the walls of a convent? I do wonder how that was done.”
“Well, we had two mounts, coach horses also used intermittently for plowing the vegetable garden. A sprightly pair for all that.”
Jack huffed a laugh. “Plow horses?”
“Well, you are to teach me the finer points, aren’t you?” she said, smiling up at him. “Then I shall be quite accomplished!”
The stable lad held the reins of their saddled mounts, a fine gelding for Jack and a docile mare for her. He helped her onto the block and watched as she mounted by herself. “Good show!” he commented.
“Thank you, sir.” She arranged her knee over the horn of the sidesaddle and adjusted her skirts.
Jack handed her a small whip, then checked the length of her stirrup and instructed her how to place her foot for best balance. “There. Comfortable?”
“It’ll do,” she said, reaching down to give the mare’s neck a pat.
Judging by Laurel’s wily expression, he fully expected her to tear off down the lane at a gallop, but she did nothing of the sort. He mounted his horse and eased up beside her. “Where shall we go? To the meadow there?” he asked, pointing.
“I would like to see the lands, the village and perhaps meet some of the people hereabout,” she declared.
“As their lady should,” Jack agreed, smiling his approval. “That way, then. And have a care how you go,” he warned. He feared she might prove overconfident and be thrown.
They rode down the lane at a walk and she managed very well. She listened to his every suggestion with rapt attention and minded to the letter. He should have known she wouldn’t court danger in any way. “You are a natural, I think,” he said. “Before long, you’ll be a true horsewoman!”
She merely shrugged. So modest, he thought. Laurel might have spirit, but was a very practical sort, not at all headstrong. He congratulated himself yet again for having the good sense to marry her.
“My goodness,” she said, surveying the fields and meadows as they rode. “Is all of this yours?”
“Ours, my dear,” he replied, thinking this might be the perfect time to tell her the truth, that he had married her so that this could be hers, too. And that he had needed her inheritance to keep it all going as it should.
“Oh, look!” she exclaimed, interrupting his thoughts, pointing to the flocks scattered about the pasture like fluffy balls of cotton wool. “There are so many of them!”
“Not nearly enough,” Jack admitted. “Some of the flocks were lost recently.”
“Roughly half if the count was correct,” she said offhandedly, still looking at the sheep. “So sad. And the crops suffered, as well. The farmers must have wondered if they, too, would succumb eventually.”
“How do you know what was lost?” he demanded, though he suspected he already knew how.
She turned to look at him. “From the side notes in the ledger in the library, of course. Before you forbade me reading any more of it, of course.”
Did he detect a note of annoyance in her reply?
He said nothing more. Now was not the time to make a confession about the inheritance. They rode on in silence for a while.
“That land over there beyond the hedge lies fallow,” Laurel observed and pointed. “Is it for grazing?”
Jack smiled to show he approved her interest. “I wondered the same myself. Northram informed me that the fields are divided into three portions, two planted, one fallow, and they are alternated to conserve and replenish the soil.” He was proud of the new knowledge he had acquired in the past few weeks. “I’m becoming quite the farmer.”
“Plant turnips,” Laurel said. “Those do more for the earth than doing nothing to it. “Also they would make good fodder to store for winter.”
“You’ve studied books on farming, have you?” He couldn’t imagine how she had learned such from what must have been a rather small vegetable garden that supplied the convent.
She nodded. “There are several good ones in the library and also almanacs and such that the old earl must have saved for reference. The turnips are a new idea here, but have been tested in other countries.”
Jack sniffed impatiently and looked away. “So you’ve been plundering my library again.” He knew from Hobson that she would learn nothing about her inheritance from the accounts ledger, but estate business was his business, not hers. How much clearer could he make that?
“I like to keep busy,” she replied, sounding totally unrepentant. “And it might take all of us using everything we know or can learn if there’s another growing season such as those that were had three and four years ago.”
He hadn’t the faintest idea what she was referring to, so he kept quiet to mask the fact.
“It was so cold the Thames froze completely over for two years running,” she declared. “And snow stayed upon the hills until late summer.” She paused for a few moments, as if waiting for him to comment. When he did not, she added. “People starved, Jack. Ours mustn’t.”
“It’s good that you care about them, Laurel, but we do have the wherewithal to feed everyone should that happen again.”
“Sufficient funds, you mean?”
“Precisely.” This was skirting dangerous ground. He misliked the mention of money, knowing where it could lead, and he was not ready to tell her the truth just yet. Soon, though, he knew he must. Keeping it from her ate at him every day, but the sense of urgency had diminished somewhat. “Don’t worry about it,” he ordered. “We have plenty.”
“Every well, however deep, has a bottom, Jack.” She toyed idly with the reins as she looked out across the land. “Aside from that running dry, food might not be available for purchase. Shortage would be inevitable, what with the Corn Laws and restrictions on grain imports.”
“Good God, woman, have you become the expert on affairs of state now?”
Jack quickly forced a laugh to soften the impulsive reproof. He had not meant to snap, but her industry shamed him. Instead of depending upon the manager to instruct him in the methods formerly used, he should have been in the library reading those books himself.
Laurel pushed her jaunty little top hat more firmly in place and urged her mare to a trot. “I hope we find something cold to drink in the village. It’s quite warm today.”
Ever the lady, Jack noted. She had ignored his scold and tactfully changed the topic of conversation. He wasn’t certain he liked the roundabout way she had managed to make him more aware of his lordly responsibility.
And yet, he felt proud of her, too, that she had risked pricking his temper in order to share what she had learned. He hadn’t specifically forbade her to use the library, only the accounts ledger, and she had at least minded that.
They went on to visit the village. Jack reined in at the Happy Ewe, the only local establishment that served anything to dri
nk. The establishment served as a posting inn, a mail station and a place where local residents gathered for conversation and libation.
Perhaps it would not be considered proper in higher circles for an earl and countess to frequent such a place. However, this was their village, their people and he intended to set the rules.
He helped Laurel down and they entered the inn. “Good day, Master Wilson,” he said, greeting the proprietor. “Have you two pints for a couple of weary riders?”
The scrawny fellow’s mouth dropped open as his eyes flew wide in surprise. All conversation at the tables halted. Everyone hurriedly scraped back their chairs, staggered to their feet, bowed and curtsied.
Jack doffed his hat and dusted it on his leg. “As you were, good neighbors. Lady Laurel and I don’t mean to intrude, but we are quite thirsty.”
The publican rushed to pull out chairs at the nearest vacant table. “Welcome, milord, milady! What will you have, sir? Wine?” He looked worried, probably about the quality of what he had available.
“Ale, if you please.” He knew from earlier introductions by Northram that the rotund Mrs. Wilson, standing behind the counter watching, was the local alewife. “They do say we have the best in the county.”
A hum of approval emanated from some of the patrons.
Laurel waited patiently for the moments it took for them to be served. Jack gave her a nod of encouragement when a pewter tankard was placed in front of her.
She lifted it without hesitation, took not a sip, but a couple of hefty swallows. Then she exhaled, daintily licked the foam off her upper lip, smiled and nodded her appreciation.
Jack had never liked her more. She had caught the mood of the public room quickly and did exactly the right thing. The local folk would love her.
When they took their leave, Jack could hear the buzz of conversation behind them and knew they would be the topic for the day in Elderidge Close.
“Let’s buy things,” she suggested, when he would have mounted to go home again. “Else the other merchants might resent our giving custom only to the Wilsons.”
Jack laughed. “We can’t make a purchase in every shop, Laurel.”
“Why not? There aren’t so many and it needn’t be much. As for the cost, we certainly enriched half of London whilst we were there and those weren’t even our people.”
She made excellent sense. “Why not, indeed? Where do we start then? You need thread and needles?”
“No,” she said with a laugh. “But I can pretend I still sew. Come along!” She reached for his arm and they set off to shop. Jack hated shopping, but he loved seeing Laurel endear herself to everyone she met.
The day had gone so well, Jack thought about telling Laurel everything. She seemed so happy now, already well invested in the estate and content with him as a husband. Even so, he still worried about her potential reaction to it. He would wait a bit longer, just until he was certain she understood how he felt about her and their marriage now.
* * *
As the days passed, Laurel hoped life could go on forever the way things were, with no outside interference. The nights were even better than the days.
She hoped to conceive soon and produce the heir that would repay Jack for his generosity. Or perhaps a daughter first and then a son. She actively dreamed of becoming a mother now that she knew it was a strong possibility and not a forlorn hope.
The dance master arrived within the week and their afternoons changed in a delightful way. Mr. Riggole kept them laughing as he put them through the paces of the Grand March, country dances and the Waltz.
Laurel did love to dance and found she had a real aptitude for it. Jack proved exceptionally good right from the beginning, and she suspected he had never needed the lessons at all.
The way he held her as they swayed and turned in three-quarter time seemed so natural. He was a graceful man, though he fairly thrummed with contained and carefully controlled energy.
He excited her with a mere touch of his hand as they came together in the statelier dances, the way his seductive gaze promised very close contact once he got her alone. Anticipation carried them both high until late evening when he finally followed through and lovemaking left them breathless.
Mornings, they spent riding out across the meadows, racing, laughing and loving the freedom and play both had been denied as children. Afternoons, they danced. Nights proved the best play of all when they made their own music.
She had never guessed that intimacy could run the gamut from deeply moving emotion to lighthearted teasing. Jack had truly opened her eyes. And her heart. She loved him without reservation.
The day their dance master declared them well taught and left for London, Laurel found herself at loose ends. Jack had gone into the village to attend the council. She missed him already, though he’d only been gone for an hour.
She decided she had neglected one obligation far too long. The dowager countess had not made another appearance since that fateful evening. Lady Portia was now their responsibility, even if she did not particularly like them. It was time to come to terms and reach an understanding. She changed into a walking dress and boots and rang for Betty.
“Go and request the carriage for me, would you?”
“Where are we going?” Betty asked. “We’re not going away from here?” Betty must fear leaving George for even a day since he had not come up to scratch with a proposal yet.
“No, of course not. Whatever gave you that idea? I’m merely going to visit the dowager’s house and you needn’t come along. I thought I might as well make peace if the poor lady is to be living there the remainder of her life. She must be dreadfully lonely.”
“She’s off in the head,” Betty said with a knowing nod.
Laurel thought so, too, given her actions that evening. All the more reason to see how she was getting on. “That’s as may be, but I should make the effort to ease her mind now that she’s had time to get used to our being here. Go along now.”
A half hour later, Laurel arrived at the small stone two-story house, and the driver helped her alight from the open curricle. “I won’t be long so you needn’t unhitch,” she told him.
“I figured,” he replied with a twist of his lips. “Nobody stays long.”
“She’s had other visitors?” Laurel paused to ask.
“Some. His lordship come but never got past the door.”
Laurel wondered why Jack hadn’t mentioned the visit to her. Probably because it had come to nothing. She marched up to the solid oak portal and rapped the knocker.
A slovenly maid opened it. That face alone was enough to sour the dowager’s mood. “I’m here to see Lady Portia.” For good measure, she added, “And I shan’t leave until I do see her.”
The maid stepped aside so Laurel could enter. “This way,” she muttered, not bothering to curtsy as was appropriate. Laurel sighed at how accustomed she had become to that gesture of courtesy from every female she encountered. Haughty ways, Jack’s mother would say.
She entered a small parlor where Lady Portia was sitting with an embroidery hoop on her lap. The woman looked up. “Oh, it’s you.”
Laurel curtsied. “I’ve come to see how you are and if there’s anything you need. Are you well?”
“Well enough for a charity case. And how are you? I see you’ve not stinted on your wardrobe. That’s one of Madame Eveline’s creations, is it not? She’s overly fond of trim.”
Laurel nodded. “You have a most discerning eye.”
“You ought to be wearing black, seeing that your father’s only been dead five months.”
“So you know who I am.”
“I’m not a victim of senility and I do read the London papers. The announcement appeared the day you arrived at Elderidge House.”
Mr. Hobson’s doing, Laurel guessed. She had not known about it.
The dowager poked the needle through the fabric, laid the hoop aside and clasped her hands in her lap. “I suppose you’ve come for the jewe
ls. Well, you shall not have them. Elderidge gave them to me.”
“Of course he did. I wouldn’t dream of depriving you of gifts from your husband, Lady Portia. Please ease your mind about that.”
The woman looked surprised. Then her face hardened. “You know I was the one who made him send you away?”
Laurel nodded. “You were very young and a new bride. How could you bear to raise the child of his first wife, one who was not received in any household of your peers? I quite understand why you did it and I hold no grudge. Besides, I had a very good life within the convent.”
Lady Portia covered her eyes with one hand, shaking her head. “It was a dreadful thing to do. I knew it then. The guilt made me sick, but I couldn’t bring myself to reverse matters. Every time he looked at you, he would have seen her.” Her voice broke. “Please don’t forgive me.”
Laurel’s heart went out to the poor woman. All these years she had carried a heavy heart and could not forgive herself. Laurel hurried to the divan and sat beside the older woman, placing her hand over Lady Portia’s free one. “Listen to me, please. It was the best thing for me, all things considered, don’t you see? I had a houseful of mothers to look after me, teach and guide me.”
“Papist women! Unnatural in their ways!”
“They were not at all! They gave me kind attention always and I loved them.” Laurel had to shake the woman out of these guilty doldrums. “Well, I loved them all but one. Sister Jean-Marie was a grouch of the worst order. Not a motherly sort at all. She rapped me with a ruler when I spoke out of turn. You remind me of her,” Laurel declared with a wry laugh. “You won’t rap me, will you, ma’am? Even should I be impertinent?”
Lady Portia sniffed and wiped away a tear. “I might, so you have a care!”
“Properly noted. I shall behave myself. Come now, ring for your maid. Let’s have some tea and you can tell me all the scandal from Bath. I’ll wager you know everyone there and all their secrets.”
They got on rather well after that, and Laurel found the lady quite interesting. Only when it was time to leave did Laurel risk unpleasantness and ask about her father.