Schooling the Viscount

by Maggie Robinson

  “We have an audience, my dear,” he whispered against her lips. “Follow my lead.”

  Rachel blinked, as if returning to the surface of a deep lake.

  “Good people of Puddling!” Henry began, having no idea where this greeting might take him, but he plowed on, buoyed by the fact that Rachel was by his side. “Miss Everett has agreed to make me the happiest of men.”

  There was an audible intake of breath up and down New Street.

  “J-just like Lady Maribel and Sir Colin Sykes,” his fiancée said.

  “Who?” Henry asked.

  “I’ll tell you all the details later,” Rachel whispered. She spoke louder, her teacher’s voice carrying to the end of the lane. “Puddling survived then, and it will survive now. There’s no reason to be afraid.”

  The donkey-cart man sniffed. “Lady Maribel’s pa was happy to get her off his hands. ’Course he didn’t object to her carrying on with the Sykes heir while she was locked up here. She was a wild piece and no mistake. But that marquess fellow—”

  “Don’t worry about my father. I hardly ever do,” said Henry, stretching the truth.

  There was a shuffling sound behind them, and Henry was appalled to see Pete Everett clinging to the door frame.

  “They have my blessing. In fact, the young lord is following my deathbed wish. Word of one soldier to another.”

  There was a cry of dismay from the neighbors.

  “Dad! Get back into bed!” Rachel extricated herself from Henry’s arms and rushed to her father.

  “Not until they all understand. Someone’s got to take care of my Rachel when I go.”

  “You are not going anywhere,” Rachel said. “And I can take care of myself.”

  “Very true,” Henry said. “But won’t it being a sight more fun taking care of yourself as a viscountess than a teacher? Let me help you back inside, Pete. We don’t want Dr. Oakley to read us all the Riot Act.”

  They left the cart, the donkey, the man and the neighbors to discuss this latest event. Pete went back inside with his future son-in-law’s assistance, collapsing into the bed with a chuckle.

  “There. Showed them. Let anyone object before the governors. Can’t contradict a dying man.”

  “You are not dying!” Rachel wailed.

  “Nonsense. We all are, every minute. Nothing to fear. Cycle of life,” Pete said with ancient wisdom. “I’m awfully hungry. I thought you’d never say yes.”

  “Neither did I,” Henry said.

  Rachel threw up her hands. “Men!”

  “Hungry men. Some cheese toast would be nice. Do you care to join me, Lord Challoner?”

  “I thought we’d settled on Henry. I’d love to, but I really must ferret out my father and Sir Bertram. There are some points we must go over before we send a notice into the Times. Rachel, could you explain a little more about this Maribel and Sir Colin?”

  In three minutes, Henry had more ammunition for his case. Apparently Puddling had been a hotbed of intrigue almost from the get-go. Duke’s daughters, clergymen, somewhat deaf and crippled soldiers—they were all vulnerable to the Cotswold Cupid’s arrow.

  With a promise to return and discuss his Service at the school, he indulged himself by kissing Rachel good-bye as Pete grinned. First stop was his own house to pick up a walking stick, maybe two. He was not as steady on his feet as he would like. Henry had the good sense to knock first. After waiting a decent interval—were they deaf too?—Henry opened the door and waited in the hall.

  “Vincent? Lady Bexley?”

  There were rustles and whispers from the parlor. At least Henry wouldn’t be embarrassed by flushing the lovebirds out of the upstairs spare bedroom.

  “L-lord Challoner?” Greta sounded frightened out of her wits.

  “It is I, and I’m alone. May I come in?”

  “It’s your house after all.” This from Vincent, who sounded equally nervous. Henry strode into the room. Greta sat, only slightly more mussed than before, upon the sofa. The vicar was a thousand miles away in a corner, making himself as invisible as possible. It was difficult since his dog collar had come undone and his thinning hair was on end.

  “Good news. Rachel and I are getting married.”

  Vincent’s kiss-chapped lips dropped open. “What?”

  “Her father’s dying wish. Don’t worry, your services will not be needed for his funeral for ages, I hope. It’s a scandal, isn’t it? A Guest falling in love with a Puddlingite. Imagine.”

  “I don’t appreciate your levity, Lord Challoner. This has serious implications for us all.” It was very difficult to take Vincent’s disapproval to heart when Lady Bexley looked so obviously kissed. Her cheeks were pink, her lips swollen and moist. Good for them. Henry was in a sterling mood, and wanted to share his happiness with everyone.

  “Can’t be helped. I admit your situation is a bit more dire than mine—there is Greta’s annoying husband to deal with.”

  Greta’s cheeks lost all their color. “I w-won’t go back to him. I won’t!”

  Vincent emerged from his corner and took her hand. “And I swear you won’t have to, my darling.”

  “So, we’re in agreement. Love conquers all, or something like that. I have a plan, my children, and each of you has a part to play. Now, are you listening?”

  Chapter 42

  It was a lovely day, with nary a cloud in the sky. The sun was directly above him, and Henry was amazed that so much had happened since Greta Bexley’s blubbering woke him up a mere few hours ago. He remembered Rachel’s directions to Sir Bertram Sykes’s estate, and the grassy track and gate were just as she had described it. The backs of Henry’s legs protested just a little as he climbed the inevitable hill. His body, not to mention his wits, was certainly getting excellent exercise in Puddling.

  There were a number of neat Cotswold stone outbuildings, and a rather magnificent manor house at the top of the rise. Below was a vast formal garden with several charming garden follies and every conceivable spring bloom scenting the air. Henry took a deep breath and went around the stable block to the front door, escaping the notice of an elderly groom who was busy with buckets of mash. Henry’s father’s coach was in its gleaming splendor on the paving stones, but there was no trace of the Harland team, coachman or outriders.

  A proper butler opened the door before Henry had a chance to rap upon it. He informed the man of his identity and asked to see his father.

  “Won’t you come this way? The marquess and Sir Bertram are at luncheon. It will be no trouble to set another place.”

  Henry was peckish, and causing indigestion to both men had some promise. He followed the butler to a large yellow-papered dining room and plastered on a smile as he was announced.

  “Captain Lord Henry Challoner.”

  Not for long. The captain part would go the way of Henry’s bad habits. The army wouldn’t have him anymore, but had yet to cut him loose. Henry was rather anxious to leave his captaincy behind.

  “Sir Bertram, Father. I hope I’m not intruding.”

  Both men exchanged guilty glances.

  “Talking about me, are you?” Henry asked, sliding into a seat a footman proffered. Glasses, plates and silverware were laid out in a trice. Sir Bertram’s staff was well-trained.

  “Pas devant les domestiques,” the marquess muttered, as if Henry had to be told not to speak of anything significant.

  “Anstruther, Kinsey, that will be all. We’ll serve ourselves,” Sir Bertram said hastily. Why, the baronet seemed a little frightened of Henry, which was fine by him. “Lord Challoner, would you care for a croquette?”

  “I haven’t really come for lunch, you know,” Henry said conversationally, pushing the place setting to the side.

  “Henry, this is neither the time nor the place,” his father warned.

  “I don’t intend to embarrass you in front of your host.”

  “Embarrass me! Pray tell, how?”

&nbs
p; “Your local liaison, Father,” Henry said softly.

  His father’s face turned puce. “I told you that you misinterpreted what you saw.”

  “Perhaps it’s now comme il faut to interview servants in their nightgowns. I’ve been out of the country too long to be sure.”

  “Don’t be impertinent!”

  “Forgive me, Father, but impertinence comes so easily for me. It’s difficult to break the habit of a lifetime. But that’s neither here nor there. Sir Bertram, I thought I should inform you that my Service has been chosen.”

  “What? Already? But the governors are meeting tomorrow—”

  “There really is no time to meet over it. Dr. Oakley will no doubt be getting in touch with you and the rest of them. I am to take Miss Everett’s place at the school while her father recovers. If he recovers.”

  Sir Bertram set down his fork. “If? Your father told me he’s resting at home. There was no need to transport him to hospital.”

  “How would you rather spend your last days, sir? Amongst strange faces and smells and medical devices, or in the comfort of your own home in the bosom of your family? Of course, Sykes House is a good deal more comfortable than a tumble-down weaver’s cottage in the middle of nowhere.”

  Henry’s father flashed him a look but said nothing.

  “I had not thought his condition was so serious. Dear me. Poor Miss Everett.”

  “You needn’t concern yourself over her. She has agreed to accept my hand in marriage.”

  Both men visibly jumped in their seats and spoke in unison. “What?”

  “It is her father’s deathbed wish. I could do nothing but agree.” Henry examined his reflection in the silver knife blade waiting for his father to erupt. He barely got to check one eyebrow.

  “You can’t do this, Henry. I forbid it. She’s not—”

  “I warn you to go no further,” Henry said, his voice icy. “Father, would you have me break my word to a dying man?”

  It wasn’t a lie. We’re all dying, as Pete said. Cycle of life, Henry reminded himself. “A man’s promise and his honor are sacred. You taught me that.”

  “This is ridiculous! I never meant—”

  “And you can surely have no objection, Sir Bertram. It’s not unheard of for a Guest to become attached to a Puddlingite. Your own mother was, I believe, a Guest prior to her marriage to your father. They fell in love right within these very walls.”

  “That’s completely different!” Sir Bertram sputtered.

  “Well, it’s all ancient history, isn’t it? I won’t stir up old rumors. Your and the town’s reputation is safe. Puddling can go on for the next hundred years reforming wayward individuals with no one the wiser. And I doubt my father will want to reveal the conditions under which I met my wife.”

  Both men looked faintly green. Henry was counting on the double blackmail—triple if you counted throwing Mrs. Grace in his father’s face—to keep them quiet for at least a little while.

  “There was another matter I wished to speak to you about,” Henry continued. “It’s come to my attention that Puddling recently played a part in forcing a young woman into an unsuitable marriage.”

  Sir Bertram stood up. “Never!”

  “Calm yourself, sir. Sit down, sit down.”

  “I can’t imagine where you heard such a thing,” Sir Bertram huffed. “The circumstances surrounding our Guests are completely confidential. If I find out who’s been bearing tales—”

  “Likely it’s Miss Everett,” the marquess interjected.

  “No, Father. It was not my fiancée who told me of this travesty, but rather the young lady herself.”

  “How do you know Gr—I mean, the young woman in question?”

  “We Puddling prisoners have to stick together. As I understand it, she was kept here until her will was broken and then was married off to a disreputable fortune hunter. In my opinion, that’s coercion, and Puddling was complicit in torturing the poor girl. I wonder what the Archbishop of Canterbury might have to say about such a thing.”

  Henry was pretty sure his father was on a first-name basis with the archbishop. What had happened to Greta would touch even the hardest of hearts. Henry was counting on his father’s sense of propriety and chivalry.

  “Torture! Now see here! No one laid a finger on the girl. If you mean she was deprived of bread and cakes and candies, that’s something else.”

  “She was starved?” the marquess asked, suddenly interested. Through trim in figure, the marquess had a very healthy appetite.

  “No such thing! She was given wholesome food, just as your son has been! We have never maltreated a Guest in three-quarters of a century!”

  “There might be a difference of opinion on that. I wonder how many other Guests were placed here to satisfy their families’ wishes rather than their own needs.”

  Henry’s father lifted an eyebrow at the oblique insult. “Are you accusing me?’

  “Not at all, sir. I know you’ve always had my best interests at heart, even if I have tested your patience time and time again, for which I apologize. I like to think I’ve grown up a little, and I have Puddling and her people to thank for that. This isn’t about my case at all. The young lady’s mother and solicitor have benefitted by the marriage, but she herself has not.”

  “Preposterous! The girl’s an heiress!” Sir Bertram’s high color was really quite alarming.

  “And the settlements included a very healthy return to those who arranged this loveless match, with very little allowance left for her. They bought a bankrupt titled bridegroom for their own consequence. He’s been unfaithful already—repeatedly—and cruel. She’s trapped. Miserable.”

  And still a virgin, although how long that might last with Vincent in the vicinity was anyone’s guess.

  “You can’t blame us…”

  “Oh, I think I can. In your greed, you overlooked the injustice of keeping a young woman against her will for no legitimate reason. Did you not question her mother?”

  “She was worried over her daughter’s health!”

  “Balderdash. The woman wanted to be mother-in-law to an earl, no matter how depraved he was.”

  “Good God,” Henry’s father said. “You’re not talking about Merwyn Bexley, are you? I heard he had married some poor innocent. Miss Holmes-Hamilton, wasn’t it?”

  Sir Bertram shook his head. “We name no names, my lord.”

  “I had a passing acquaintance with the girl’s late father. He must be rolling in his grave. I should hate to have any daughter of mine married to that Bexley wretch. If he doesn’t have the pox yet, he will have.”

  Henry looked at his father. The man had a righteous streak a mile wide, and had never, as far as Henry knew, ever broken his marriage vows when his wife was alive or consorted with the kind of woman one shouldn’t when she wasn’t. The pater was proving to be remarkably sympathetic to Greta’s cause, and Henry was pleased with his strategy.

  And the fact that he’d known Mr. Holmes-Hamilton was an unexpected bonus.

  “We had no idea—you can’t think we are responsible for an unsuccessful marriage. The bride’s mother was most persuasive that she had only her daughter’s future in mind. Her h-happiness.”

  “Would you swear to that in a court of law?”

  “A court! You don’t mean to pursue this. Why, it’s none of your business!”

  “I think standing idly by when a fine young woman’s life is ruined is everyone’s business. She was isolated here and, if not starved, put on short rations. Forced into a marriage that was abhorrent to her. This wasn’t about her fitting into a wedding dress, Sir Bertram.”

  The baronet was very pale now. “I don’t see what you want me to do.”

  “Just tell the truth. That Puddling received an even more exorbitant amount than usual to punish an innocent girl. You were an unwitting accomplice to her avaricious mother, I grant you.” Henry cleared his throat. “I unders
tand the marriage has not been consummated, which is the only piece of luck in this whole sorry affair.”

  The marquess steepled his fingers. “You seem to be very well-informed, Henry.”

  “I’ve seen enough misery, Father. If I can stop it where I may, I will. I hope with all your connections you can help me.”

  “I might,” the marquess said. “If you give up this foolish idea of marrying Rachel Everett.”

  Chapter 43

  Rachel had spoken regularly with Greta Holmes-Hamilton. The girl had participated fully in Puddling’s minimal social life for the three months she had resided here, meeting with the sewing circle and taking her turn reading and shopping for blind Mrs. Flint. When she had the time, Rachel had accompanied her on some of her thrice-daily walks in the company of the prune-faced maid who had been an extra set of eyes to ferret out any signs of dietary backsliding.

  Usually Guests weren’t permitted to bring personal servants—they had often been enablers of the very problems that were supposed to be solved by the Guest’s stay in Puddling. Greta’s maid was much like a prison guard and had gotten on like a house on fire with Mrs. Grace. The woman had made free conversation with Greta difficult, though Rachel was smart enough to hear what wasn’t said.

  But she hadn’t really thought of Greta precisely as a friend, and never expected to find the young woman at her back door, accompanied by a pink-cheeked Vincent.

  Rachel wiped her hands on her apron. Her father had eaten a substantial lunch, making Rachel feel much more optimistic about his recovery. She was now preparing his dinner, and not really in the mood for company. “Miss Holmes-Hamilton! No, I’m sorry—it’s Lady Bexley now, isn’t it?”

  “Please just call me Greta.”

  “May we come in, Rachel?”

  “Of course! You know my father took a bad turn today—I expect you want to see him, but he’s sleeping. Dr. Oakley will be here again soon.”