by Jane Feather
“I hardly think I’m worthy of such attention, ma’am,” Perry demurred.
“You are a Blackwater, Peregrine,” Eliza stated with a degree of satisfaction. “Of course you are.”
“Indeed, Perry, you’re an exotic in our little backwater,” Marcus put in with a mischievous grin. “Satisfying local curiosity really is a case of noblesse oblige.”
Peregrine shook his head, half amused, half annoyed. “My sisters-in-law, ma’am, are both beautiful, a credit in every way to themselves and to their husbands.”
“Are their families well known? I’m always interested in how these matches are made.” Eliza sipped her watered wine. “ ’Tis time Marcus looked for a bride. A little advice might not come amiss.”
“Ma’am, I have no need of advice on such a matter,” Marcus expostulated, taken aback by his parent’s swift thrust.
“And indeed, Lady Douglas, I would be ill equipped to provide it,” Perry said, his eyes dancing. “As would my brothers.”
“Oh, and why would that be?” Eliza looked puzzled.
“My brothers both made love matches,” Perry said simply. “As I understand it, such unions are made only with celestial intervention.”
Marcus gave a shout of laughter. “Outplayed, Mama. You must admit it. If the heavens are good enough to drop the perfect love match in my lap, then I shall give up all hopes of a confirmed bachelorhood and welcome love and marriage with open arms.”
“Oh, you are absurd, both of you,” Eliza declared crossly. “ ’Tis a serious matter. I don’t know why you think ’tis so amusing.”
“Forgive us, Mama.” Marcus leaned over and kissed his mother’s hand. “We are but callow youths. Will you take the air in the barouche this afternoon? I would be delighted to accompany you.”
Peregrine admired his friend’s masterly handling of his mother. Having barely known his own mother, he found the relationship a mystery. Marcus’s patience was clearly underpinned by affection, and Perry was conscious of a prickle of envy. He and Sebastian had been inseparable growing up, and Jasper had been their mentor, their protector, their inspiration. Their father had died when the twins were barely out of petticoats, and their mother had taken to her own apartments, showing little or no interest in her offspring.
“Well, a little outing might do me some good,” Eliza was saying, mollified. “Maybe I will take some preserves and some of Mistress Baker’s calves-foot jelly to the vicar’s wife. She’s expecting another child, poor woman. She must have a dozen at least, by now.”
“Not half as many, Mama,” Marcus said, laughing. “But I will gladly accompany you. What of you, Perry? Will you accompany us, or do you have something else planned for this afternoon?”
“I have some correspondence to attend to,” Perry said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
“Of course, dear boy.” Marcus nodded his comprehension. There was no need for his guest to participate in Marcus’s filial duty. “We are bidden to the Abbey for dinner this evening, if you’ve a mind for it.”
Another evening in the company of the fascinating Mistress Hathaway? Most certainly, he had a mind for it. “I should be delighted.” Perry rose from the table and bowed to his hostess. “Lady Douglas. I hope you have an enjoyable afternoon.”
“I daresay it will be well enough,” the lady responded. “But I had forgotten about my engagement with Lady Lucas this evening. Perhaps I should spend the afternoon on my bed, otherwise I may not have the strength for it. Roddy shall take the preserves and the calves-foot jelly to the vicarage. See to it, will you, Marcus?”
“Immediately, ma’am.” Marcus helped his mother up and escorted her upstairs to her boudoir.
Peregrine chuckled. It would probably be infuriating to live with such a valetudinarian, but for a short visit, the lady’s affectations were quite entertaining. He went up to his own chamber, looking forward to a quiet afternoon with his books and letters.
Alexandra passed a sheet of parchment across the desk to her employer, who was sitting and tapping his fingers. “You will see here, Sir Stephen, that these stocks”—she indicated with her quill—“have lost value in the last two months, but wool from Flanders has gained in value, and I believe that if you buy at this price, you will be able to sell in about six months at a considerable profit.”
Stephen looked at the rows of figures, the columns of profits and losses. He couldn’t fault his advisor. Mistress Hathaway had steered him well over the three months that she had been in his employ. “So you would advise selling the shares in the Burnley mine and buying shares in Scottish fleece.”
“Yes, sir.” Alexandra sat back, surreptitiously easing her shoulders. Maintaining the hunched shoulders to accommodate the pad grew tiring after a few hours. “But most important, I think you should expand your holdings in the new Bridgewater Canal. After its opening last year, traffic on the canal has increased tenfold. If you also buy into the new Turnpike Companies that maintain the roads into and out of both Liverpool and Leeds, you will have an interest in every aspect of transport between the two cities. The number and variety of goods being passed along the roads and the waterways can only increase. I don’t see how this could be anything but a wise investment.”
Stephen stroked his chin and considered. “How much profit d’you anticipate, Mistress Hathaway?”
Alex did a swift calculation. If she told Stephen six thousand guineas and the transaction finally netted eight, then she would have two thousand to invest for herself. The trust fund she was building for herself and Sylvia was also benefitting from her expertise. The profits she skimmed from Stephen she was reinvesting for herself. It seemed entirely reasonable that she should use her own expertise to benefit herself and her sister. Sometimes she had the urge to embezzle much more. Stephen was so greedy, he was only interested in profit, and he really didn’t fully understand the markets in which she played. As long as she kept him satisfied, she could fiddle with the books to her heart’s content. But greed led to mistakes, and she wasn’t going to risk that. Sometimes she fantasized about ruining Stephen—she could do it easily enough, greed had made him so gullible. But that would ruin the estate. However angry she was at her father for forcing this impossible situation upon his daughters, she couldn’t see Combe Abbey fall into rack and ruin.
She glanced at her cousin and saw his little eyes fill with predatory anticipation as he awaited her answer. He licked his lips, a snakelike dart of his tongue. Maybe she would dip a little deeper just this once, she thought.
“Four thousand within six months,” she said, keeping her gaze lowered to the paper in front of her. Four thousand to be invested for myself and Sylvia. In an industry that cannot help but succeed. She bit the inside of her cheek again to keep from showing the slightest indication of triumph.
Stephen appeared satisfied. “Good . . . good.” His eyes shone. “And then, if I reinvest the profit in the further development of the canals, there would be no end to the possible profits from the commodities that could be transported so cheaply.”
“Coal, pottery, wheat . . .” Alex gave an expressive shrug. “The barges and canals are transforming the way goods are transported. A wise investor could make a killing.”
She bit her cheek harder, hearing how decisive she sounded. Sometimes when she was talking to Stephen in this way, she forgot to maintain her diffident character in her voice. So far, Stephen, in his own acquisitive excitement, seemed not to notice or, if he did, to accept that his librarian had a different manner when she was talking about financial speculation. But she must be more careful.
“Excellent . . . excellent,” he said. “Do exactly what we’ve discussed, Mistress Hathaway. You do very good work. I’m most pleased with you.”
“Thank you, sir,” she responded softly, once more self-effacing.
Stephen got up from his chair. “How soon will you have finished cataloguing the books?”
Alex had tried to draw out the process. Even though she intended to profit fro
m the sale herself, her soul still revolted at the idea of selling the product of years of loving labor by her father and grandfather. Books she had grown up with, books that informed the person she was. But if she was to succeed in her plan, she could not prevaricate much longer. “Within two weeks, sir. Maybe less.”
“Excellent,” he repeated, rubbing his hands together. “And with the money from this collection, Mistress Hathaway, I shall be able to invest in every up-and-coming stock. Get in on the ground floor, that’s what they always say. Isn’t that so?”
“So I believe,” she responded without expression, reaching for her quill once again.
“Well, I leave you to your work. Very satisfactory, ma’am. I’m pleased.” The door closed behind him, and Alexandra dropped her head into her hands. She was exhausted but also exhilarated. The mental gymnastics fascinated her, and the results as she saw her own funds expanding filled her with triumph. But the energy required to maintain the deception drained her.
Lady Maude crossed the hall with the firm step of one intent on a particular goal. She had seen her husband leave the library, which meant that Mistress Hathaway was now alone. There was something about the librarian that irritated Maude, but Stephen couldn’t see it for some reason. There was something sly about her, and Maude sometimes felt as if the woman looked down on her. Which, of course, was ridiculous. She was merely a servant, an educated upper servant, certainly, in the same league as the governess, but despite her nambypamby ways, the downcast eyes, and barely whispered responses, something didn’t sit right in Maude’s opinion. She was too clever. Of course, it was that cleverness that made Stephen so blind. He couldn’t see anything wrong with the woman, couldn’t catch that flash in her eye sometimes, the derisive twitch of her lips, or the strength in her voice when she laid down a winning card. As long as she continued to direct his investments into paths of greater riches, he would never see any of that or listen to his wife when she tried to point it out.
She opened the library door quietly. Mistress Hathaway was sitting at the desk, her head resting on her hands, which were otherwise idle. Maude smiled. “Ah, I’m glad to see you’re unemployed, Mistress Hathaway. I had thought you must have some free time—you spend so many hours alone in here.” She gestured slightly contemptuously to the bookshelves. “Anyway, I have some other employment for you, to fill your spare hours.”
Alexandra raised her head abruptly, her heart beating fast, as if she really had been startled out of sleep. She regarded the lady of the house with mingled astonishment and trepidation. Maude remained an unknown, but Alex sensed her malevolence and hadn’t yet discovered a way to neutralize it. She contented herself with a quiet “Indeed, ma’am?” and a raised eyebrow.
“Yes, I need you to tutor Master George,” the lady declared. “He will be going to Eton next year, and he needs to brush up his arithmetic and Latin. I understand from my husband that you are proficient in both, so you’ll be pleased to assist Master George with his preparations.”
“I am not a governess, ma’am,” Alex protested, keeping her tone soft but failing to quell the spark of outrage in her gray eyes. “Your husband employs me as his financial advisor and librarian. I have little time for anything else, I assure you.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Maude declared, waving her fan. “When I came in here, you were dozing at the table. If you have time to sleep in the afternoon, Mistress Hathaway, you have time to tutor my son.”
Alex’s jaw dropped at this outrageous statement. “Forgive me, ma’am, but I was not asleep. Sir Stephen has just left me after an intensive session with his financial affairs. I was merely preparing myself to return to the cataloguing of the books.”
“Well, that’s as may be. I still wish you to take on this additional task. You will find Master George an excellent and attentive pupil. He will await you in the schoolroom after breakfast tomorrow.”
Alexandra stared at the woman, for the moment lost for words. Lady Maude’s gown of pale yellow silk opened over an underskirt of tangerine damask and did little for her sallow complexion, despite the thickly caked powder that covered her freckles. The color of the underskirt clashed rather horribly with her hair, Alex thought with an almost vicious satisfaction. How anyone could have so little sense of what suited her, she couldn’t imagine. Maude was a very plain woman, but her pinched lips and little green eyes also gave her an air of spite, the look of a deeply disappointed woman. Life had not given Maude what she considered her due, which at this point gave Alexandra a degree of pleasure.
“I would need to discuss this with Sir Stephen, ma’am. I believe he is my sole employer,” she said.
Maude’s nostrils flared at her tone, at the look of disdain in the clear gray gaze. She snapped, “There will be no need for you to do so. I will inform my husband of the new arrangement,” and exited the library in a rustle of yellow and orange.
Alexandra wanted to leap to her feet and fly after Maude, hurling her indignant fury in her miserable face. But she couldn’t do that, in fact had probably done more than enough damage already. That unpleasant exchange would have repercussions, she had no doubt. But she’d have to face them when they materialized. She looked at the papers in front of her with a twinge of distaste. They seemed to have lost their appeal for the moment.
She put them aside and drew a fresh sheet of vellum in front of her. Composing her weekly missive to Sylvia could never lose its appeal. It had been a more interesting week than usual, she reflected. It would amuse her sister to read side-by-side descriptions of their stepmother and the woman who had supplanted her at the Abbey. Two such very different women, one whom both Alex and her sister could like, the other whom Sylvia would detest as heartily as did Alex.
And then there was the arrival of Peregrine Sullivan. Would Sylvia be interested in that? No particular reason she should be, Alex thought. He was no different from any of the other visitors to Combe Abbey. Or at least, no different from any of the younger visitors from London. Of course, he was a friend of their stepbrother, and Alex liked Marcus and knew that Sylvia would, too. That was good enough reason to include his arrival in the week’s events at Combe Abbey.
Alex stroked the feather tip of her quill, staring down at the blank sheet. How to describe the Honorable Peregrine? Fair-haired, striking blue eyes, tall. Understated clothes, but he wore them well. Nothing flamboyant about him, just an air of natural, unobtrusive elegance, a sense that he was totally comfortable in his skin, never likely to second-guess himself. And most important, he had an educated mind. He enjoyed intellectual pursuits, which did set him apart from the usual run of visitors to Combe Abbey.
She dipped the quill into the inkwell, took it out, and shook surplus ink from the point. Should she tell Sylvia of the uncomfortable curiosity Peregrine seemed to have about herself? Should she mention the sharpness of those blue eyes, the ready glint of amusement, the strange and disturbing feeling she had sometimes that he was seeing more than he should? And the even stranger and more disturbing feeling that she, Alexandra Douglas, wanted to spend time in his company, meet him on equal terms, be her true self when she was with him?
But she couldn’t tell Sylvia that. Not in a letter—it was far too complex to describe. She didn’t understand it herself. Why did she have this urge to risk everything by engaging in some verbal sparring that was quite out of character for Alexandra Hathaway and quite in character for Alexandra Douglas? What was it about Peregrine Sullivan that brought out the devil in her, the spark of mischief that she had worked so hard to quell? And now, here, where it was so dangerous. If he asked questions, pushed for further information, he could ruin her . . . ruin Sylvia. She’d end up in prison, and Sylvia would starve.
It didn’t bear thinking of. From now on, she must have no private conversations with the Honorable Peregrine. If he was in a room, she must leave it. She mustn’t even look at him, since that seemed to start the damage, and once they began to talk, it just got worse, her resistance fading inexorably.<
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Alex drummed her fingers on the desk. She had always been truthful with Sylvia. Her sister found it difficult to be helpless, unable to be a concrete support while Alex took all the risks. If Alex so much as hinted at a difficulty, she would worry herself into a shadow. Somehow she must choose her words carefully, giving nothing away. Amusing descriptions of Maude and Eliza would be well and good, along with an account of her latest financial triumph and maybe a brief mention of Marcus and his friend. That would be sufficient. Nothing at all about how attractive she found the Honorable Peregrine Sullivan. Nothing at all.
It took her an hour before she was satisfied that she had struck the right note for her sister, sufficiently informative while revealing none of her own confusion. She sanded the sheets, folded and sealed them, and took them with her to her own chamber to dress for dinner. On her way, she passed Lady Maude’s boudoir. Raised voices came from behind the door, and she paused, unable to help herself. In another life, she would consider eavesdropping a dishonorable activity, she reflected with a sardonic smile, but in her present circumstances, it was an essential tool. And most particularly when, as on this occasion, she heard her own name.
“Georgie needs help, Sir Stephen. He struggles so with his lessons, and he will never manage at school without more preparation.”
“The boy struggles because he won’t concentrate,” Sir Stephen stated, his tone dismissive. “He’s lazy and distracted, and that tutor has no control over him at all. You coddle him, ma’am, always have done. The slightest sniffle, and you send for the damn leach. If he doesn’t want to do his lessons, you find excuses for him. ’Tis no wonder he can barely read, let alone construe Latin or add up two and two to make four.”
“You are too harsh, sir. The poor child has always suffered from ill health, and he needs a little more help. Mistress Hathaway has time on her hands. I found her sleeping in the library this afternoon instead of at her work. She’s overpaid, and she can certainly devote some time to Georgie.”