by Gayle Buck
Chapter 19
It was a dismal homecoming for Verity. It was sleeting and cold when she descended from the mail coach. She was cold and hungry and tired, but she considered herself fortunate that the coach did make a regular stop in the village that she had known all of her life. Since she was well-known by the proprietor of the small inn, she was able to arrange for a carriage to Crofthouse on what little remained in her purse.
The innkeeper’s curiosity was naturally large about what had brought Miss Worth back into the district when all knew that Crofthouse had been closed, but he was discreet enough not to inquire. It would undoubtedly all come plain in time. In the meantime, he would make it his business to provide whatever services were required of him, even if it meant taking a loss, for he was confident that when the new baronet finally arrived, his lordship would express suitable gratitude for such loyalty.
When the carriage driver set Verity down, along with her baggage, before the manor, she climbed the front steps of Crofthouse to pull on the bell. It was several long moments before she heard the grating of the bolt inside. The door was opened only a few inches and a suspicious eye studied her.
“‘Tis I, Stafford,” said Verity, summoning up the travesty of a smile.
“Miss! Well, I never!” The door was flung wide. “Come in, come in, Miss Worth! Whatever brings you home at such an odd time? Have you heard from Sir Charles, then, miss?” The butler had hurried out and picked up her baggage, his eyes trained on her all the while as the questions spilled from him.
Verity stepped inside, at the same time pulling off her gloves. She surveyed the front hall, which was lighted by the single branch of candles. The illumination scarcely pierced the deep shadows of the staircase and the far end of the hall. The gloom matched the dimness of her spirit. “No, I have heard nothing from my brother. Has there been any word left here?”
The butler had retrieved her baggage and now set the bandboxes and portmanteau inside. He frowned, closing the door, but in his abstraction neglecting to bolt it. “No, miss. We have heard nothing.”
“Ah, well. Perhaps tomorrow or next week we shall do so,” said Verity, sighing. “Stafford, I am very weary. I should like a cup of tea. Would it be possible?”
The butler’s eyes sharpened. He noted for the first time the worn look on her face. It startled him and his fatherly instincts were roused. “If you would care to enter the sitting room, miss, I shall inform Mrs. Stafford at once.”
“Thank you, Stafford.”
The butler picked up the branch of flickering candles and preceded Verity down the entry hall to the sitting room. Opening the door, he went inside and began to light some of the candles standing about on the mantel and sideboard. The flickering lights gathered, putting the dark into retreat.
Verity stood in the doorway, inexpressible feelings falling upon her at sight of the covered furniture and the cold, cheerless hearth. “It does not look very much like home,” she murmured.
The butler heard her and, glancing in her direction, said, “No, miss. I suppose it doesn’t. But once I have informed Mrs. Stafford of your arrival, I shall return to lay a fire. That will serve to dispel some of the gloom.”
“Yes,” agreed Verity, though without much conviction.
When the butler had gone on his errand, she took off her damp pelisse and draped it neatly over one of the covered chairs. On top of it she laid her gloves and bonnet. Then she unshrouded one of the settees closest to the hearth from its holland cover.
The butler returned with the makings of a fire, which he laid on the hearth. Soon he had a brisk fire crackling in the grate. The warmth was immediately felt in the cold air of the room.
“That is immeasurably better, Stafford. Thank you,” said Verity quietly.
The butler straightened and turned. He was struck by the picture presented by the daughter of the house. He knew that she was quite unconscious of the forlorn appearance she made in the midst of the holland covers—she was always one to shoulder the troubles of others, rather than burden others with her own.
“It was Mrs. Stafford’s thought that you might want a bite of supper to go with your tea, miss. There are some slivers of mutton and the remains of a meat pie,” Stafford offered.
Verity realized that the butler was anxious to please. She smiled her acquiescence even though she had no real appetite. “I should like that, Stafford.”
The butler’s anxious expression eased slightly. “Very good, miss.” He exited the sitting room, carefully closing the door, leaving his mistress alone with her thoughts.
The clock on the hearth mantel ticked away the quiet minutes.
Verity did not care for her reflections. She was not naturally of a morose disposition and it was uncharacteristic of her to feel low; but there was no denying that for some hours past she had been feeling supremely sorry for herself.
“What a pitiful wretch you are, to be sure!” she mocked herself. But it was no simple matter, after all, to put aside the despair that threatened to overwhelm her—for she had lost something more precious to her than even her good reputation.
Verity desperately looked about for something to do that would change the direction of her thoughts. She found a basket of old piecework at the end of the settee and with relief took out the unfinished embroidery and some silks. The familiar task was soothing and she concentrated on the placement of her stitches to the exclusion of all else.
The door to the sitting room was thrust open and a quick step sounded. Verity did not look round, expecting that her supper was being brought in. “You may put the tray on the table there, Stafford. I shall serve myself.”
But it was not the butler who had paused in the doorway. A tall young gentleman attired in a coat of military cut, his bearing that of one used to command, left the door and strode into the room. His rather hard blue eyes considered Verity, whose attention had remained fixed upon her embroidery. “Well, this is a fine welcome, I must say! The place is covered in hollands and not a servant to be had. It’s a good thing I found the door unbolted or I daresay I would still be standing on the front step in the freezing rain! What the deuce is going on around here?”
Verity started up, the embroidery hoop and silks tumbling to the carpet. Her expression was one of startled disbelief. Then gladness swept her face. “Charles!”
She flew across the room to him and cast herself on his chest. “Oh, Charles!” She grasped his lapel, laughing and crying all at once.
Sir Charles Worth caught his sister close. He was somewhat alarmed and astonished by her show of emotion, for she perhaps more than the rest had always seemed particularly levelheaded. “Here, Verity, where’s Mama? Why does the place look like a dashed morgue?”
He grasped her shoulders suddenly and set her away from him. There was apprehension in his eyes as he demanded, “Is Mama all right? Nothing has happened to her, has it?”
Verity shook her head, dashing tears from her face. She gave a gurgling laugh. “Oh no! Mama is in Brighton with our great-aunt. We shut up the house, you see.”
“Thank God! For a moment I thought—” Sir Charles stopped, a frown descending between the line of his well-marked brows. “But why are you here, then? Why are you not with Mama?”
“I came home.” Verity gently extricated herself from him and turned to retrieve her tumbled embroidery hoop and silks from the carpet.
“Came home?” It struck him as odd, and looking around the sitting room he thought that Verity must have been powerfully motivated to return to Crofthouse under these conditions. “Do not tell me that you have quarreled with Mama. I shan’t believe it,” said Sir Charles, narrowly watching his sister’s face.
“Of course I did not. I have not been in Brighton at all,” said Verity, resettling herself on the settee. She made a show of straightening her work, hoping that her brother would not query too deeply into her concerns.
She looked up, saying brightly, “It came as such a shoc
k to see you just now when we have heard nothing from you. You must tell me about all that you have been doing and of your journey.”
But Sir Charles knew his sister too well to be diverted by such tactics. He looked over at her, his still-narrowed eyes very keen and bright. “You have that expression that you always get when you are turning things over in your head. Come, Verity, cut line. Pray do not try to spin a farrago for me.”
Verity considered her brother’s unsmiling expression. He did not appear to her to be in a frame of mind that would be lightly diverted. With a sinking heart, she saw that she would have to own up to at least part of the truth. How she would have preferred to put off this discussion! Her emotions were so frayed that she did not feel equal to the certain confrontation that would result from her disclosure.
Verity had never been one to cry craven, however, and so she summoned up a smile. “You will no doubt laugh when I tell you.”
She was quite certain that he would do no such thing, but her father had always said it was best to get over uneven ground as quickly as possible. She was about to prove or disprove her sire’s assertion.
“Why do I have the disquieting feeling that I am about to be put into a flaming temper?” Sir Charles wondered aloud.
Verity lifted her chin. With only the slightest quiver in her voice, she said, “I have been at our cousins, the Pettiforths. You will recall that Papa corresponded with Mr. Pettiforth for many years.”
“Yes, of course I do,” said Sir Charles impatiently. Ignoring the holland cover, he dropped negligently into a chair. Throwing one leg over the arm, he swung his booted foot slowly to and fro. “I find it dashed odd that you should go to stay with cousins that we are hardly acquainted with.”
“I went to the Pettiforths to become a paid companion and chaperone to their daughter,” said Verity quietly.
She had abandoned her embroidery, quite unable to set a straight stitch while she felt such anxiety. Her hands were clasped tight in her lap. She had steeled herself, but nevertheless she winced at her brother’s bellow of outrage.
Sir Charles leaped to his feet. “Paid companion! You, Verity! What were you thinking of? What was Mama thinking of? Yes, and August, too! I shall have a few choice words for our dear brother!” His hard blue eyes flashed while his lips tightened and thinned.
“That you shall not! You shall say nothing at all to August or to Mama, Charles. It was all my own notion and I would not listen to their objections. Indeed, it is all my own responsibility, every ... every bit of it,” said Verity. She had choked on the last words as thoughts of what she had left behind welled up in her. She shook her head quickly. “No, everything is quite my own fault. You mustn’t blame anyone else, Charles.”
“But why, Verity? I do not understand why you would insist upon doing such a thing,” said Sir Charles, curbing his ire under a taut rein. There was more to this thing than had yet met his eye—he would stake his life on it. His instincts had been thoroughly aroused and he had learned to trust in their accuracy, for more than once they had saved his life. “Why did you take such a position, Verity? For I know that you are as aware as I what is due your name!”
“We had to shut up the house and let go most of the servants.” Verity watched the altering of her brother’s expression. “There was nothing to keep it up, you see. It was all tied up in the entail and Mama’s portion just did not... suffice.”
“Good God! Of course I should have realized how it would be, but it never occurred to me that—” Sir Charles bit off what else he meant to say. He shook his head. “That still does not explain why you did not go to Brighton with Mama.”
Verity sighed tiredly. “I did not want Elizabeth to be obliged to leave the seminary. She has been so very happy there, you see. I thought that with what I could save I could enable Mama to keep her there.”
She saw that her brother’s expression was looking increasingly distressed, the weathered lines in his face from nose to mouth becoming more pronounced. She said gently, “It was only to be for a little while, Charles, only until you returned and set things right again.”
“I see. Of course I had Mama’s letter about Papa, but I had no notion that she would run aground so quickly.” There was a tight look about Sir Charles’s mouth. In a hard voice, he asked, “And the boys? What about Timothy and Ban? Were they forced to withdraw from school?”
“August took the boys back to Highcroft. He is tutoring them himself so that their education would not suffer. I imagine it is much like a holiday for them,” said Verity.
Sir Charles gave a crack of laughter. The tense look in his eyes had vanished, giving place to an amused gleam. “That I doubt! I suspect our August is proving himself to be something of a taskmaster, as those impudent puppies have probably discovered. No, Timothy and Bart shall think themselves fortunate to return to school with their fellows! They’ll be the better for it, however, and August will undoubtedly be elevated to awe-inspiring heights in their minds. I shall be quite eclipsed, I daresay.”
Verity smiled up at her brother, her own eyes reflecting amusement. “Surely a soldier must always command the admiration of his young brothers.”
“I daresay.” Sir Charles turned his head to stare into the fire. His lids drooped over his eyes so that their expression could not be easily read. Abruptly, he swung his gaze back upon his sister, taking her by surprise. “Tell me the rest, Verity. What happened at the Pettiforths that sent you scrambling back here to a cold empty house? Were they unkind to you? Was that it?”
“Oh no, no! At least,” amended Verity, “not dear Papa’s cousin, Mr. Pettiforth. I liked him very much.”
Sir Charles regarded her with a sardonic smile. “I take it that Mrs. Pettiforth did not stand as high in your regard.”
She gave a rueful laugh. “I fear not. Mrs. Pettiforth is consumed by ambition for her favorite daughter. As for my charge, Cecily, I have never had the misfortune to be acquainted with a more disagreeable girl.”
Sir Charles raised his brows, and sat down again. “That is a sweeping condemnation, coming as it does from you, dear sister. But none of this tells me why you have come back to Crofthouse with your tail tucked between your legs.”
“Does it not?” asked Verity, keeping her smile in place. She avoided her brother’s eyes by once more taking up her embroidery.
“Come, Verity! No dragoness or her spoiled pet is the equal of you and well I know it!” His voice was impatient. “I told you before, cut line with me. I shan’t be satisfied until you tell me the whole.”
“Will you not? Even when I tell you that I would prefer not to do so?” asked Verity with a shaking laugh. She dashed a hand across her eyes.
“Verity!” He came out of his chair in a shot and sat beside her on the settee. Putting a strong arm about her shoulders, he commanded, “Now tell me the whole, my poor girl.”
Verity struggled to retain her self-control even as all the evils of her situation rushed in upon her again. Her voice trembled. “I am all to blame, Charles, for it was my idiocy that placed me in such unhappy circumstances. Oh, I made such wretched work of it, Charles! I should have known how it would be. But I didn’t, not at first. Then, when I began to realize what was happening and how everyone was beginning to talk, I could not make him see that he was destroying me. Oh, Charles! How I wish that I had never said what I did, for it was all done for revenge! All of it!”
At some point Verity had turned to hide her face against her brother’s shoulder. Her fingers clutched tightly at his lapel. Her last words came muffled to his ears, but their meaning was appallingly clear.
Sir Charles’s face tightened. His eyes became deep pools of pale blue fury. He said thickly, “Never mind, Verity. It is all right now, for I am here.”
“Oh, Charles! I am such a stupid fool!”
A sob escaped Verity. She tried to swallow it back, but it burned so in her throat and chest that she could not contain it. The one was f
ollowed by others and she cried at last, held safe in her brother’s arms. His embrace was inexpressibly comforting in its unstinting acceptance.
It was as well that she could not see her brother’s expression, for it would have frightened her.
* * *
Chapter 20
The butler chose that moment to enter the sitting room. The sight of his young master made him start so badly that the tray in his hands was in danger of sliding from his hands. He steadied it, even as he exclaimed joyfully, “Sir Charles!”
“Yes, it is I,” said Sir Charles with a singular lack of appreciation for his servant’s effusive tone. “Is that supper for my sister? I shall have a tray of the same, if you please.”
“Yes, my lord! I shall return in a trice.”
Stafford set the tray on the table, sending a swift glance at Miss Worth, who had straightened and was attempting to mop her eyes. It was not at all wonderful that Miss Worth’s emotions had overcome her with the shock of Sir Charles’s sudden appearance, reflected the butler. He was himself still recovering. “I will be but a moment, my lord. Shall I bring a bottle of the madeira?”
“Yes, yes. And go about it quick, man,” said Sir Charles, impatient for the butler to be gone. There were a number of questions he still wished to put to his sister, which he could not while the butler was fussing about the room.
The butler bowed and exited, but he had not gone many steps down the hall before he heard the impatient pull of the front bell. “Now what is toward, I wonder?” he muttered to himself.
Straightening his shoulders as though bracing for another surprise, he opened the door. He was forced to step aside before the forceful entry of a lady. In her train followed a thin, respectably garbed female of scowling demeanor that the butler at once recognized as a dresser of superior talent.
The unexpected visitor was obviously of some standing to afford such a henchwoman. Nevertheless, it was his domain that had been trespassed without a byword or courtesy. Drawing himself up with all the affront and frosty mien of his station, Stafford inquired, “Madame?! May I help you?”