by Darcy, Norma
“Well I know you to be on the hunt for a wife. But I must say Robbie, I thought your taste ran to curvy blondes, not slender brunettes. The woman looked as if she could do with a decent meal inside her.”
“Can I please eat my breakfast in peace?” he demanded, carving himself off a wedge of beef.
“So it really is not the blonde piece. Well, well, perhaps you have grown up at last.”
“Davenham?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Please have my curricle brought round at once.”
“Yes, my lord.”
* * *
His lordship visited a small shop in the town of Loughton. He ducked under the door and made his way to the counter, the hem of his greatcoat fanning out behind him as he slowly drew off his gloves. He looked critically at the bolts of fabric behind the counter as a small woman appeared. He told the lady that he wanted to buy five ball gowns; three for young ladies just about to enter society, one for a matron and one for a woman who was perhaps aged nine and twenty.
The woman beamed at the thought of so much new business and brought down several bolts of white, pink and cream material for his inspection. Lord Marcham approved these but also requested a pale blue, which he rather thought would suit Miss Marianne Blakelow. For Aunt Blakelow he chose a bronze satin with matching headdress and for Georgiana, a deep red silk. He instructed the woman to visit Thorncote with the material and her pattern book and to send the bill to him. He then reached into his pocket book and left a deposit before tipping his hat and leaving the shop.
When the modiste arrived at Thorncote a couple of days later, Miss Blakelow was out on the estate speaking to Mr. Healey regarding repairs to an outbuilding, thus she had no knowledge of Lord Marcham’s gift. On entering the house, she heard much giggling and excitement coming from the parlour and was perplexed as to the cause. She walked into the room and halted dead on the threshold. Amongst swathes of material and patterns, measuring tape and pins were her sisters, clustered around a tiny woman who was holding a swatch of cream coloured lace up to Lizzy’s face.
“Oh, there you are, Georgie!” cried Kitty. “Only try and guess what has happened! Lord Marcham has arranged for us to have new dresses for the ball!”
Miss Blakelow blinked at her. “New dresses?”
“Yes, come and look,” said Marianne eagerly. “I am to have this blue, which I have to say is just what I would have chosen myself, Kitty is to have the pink and Lizzy the cream.”
“And Aunt Blakelow is to have this bronze satin with the most delightful feather headdress to match. Isn’t it gorgeous?” demanded Lizzy.
Miss Blakelow looked at her aunt who would not entirely meet her gaze. “I see,” she said.
“And you are to have this one,” said Kitty.
“Me?” said Miss Blakelow incredulously.
“Yes, miss,” said the modiste, bobbing a curtsey. “His lordship chose it for you himself.”
“Did he indeed?”
“I think it will be beautiful. It’s the colour of crushed raspberries,” said Marianne wistfully.
Miss Blakelow wondered dismally how many of his lordship’s mistresses had been clothed in the same colour. “We cannot accept this.”
“Oh, I knew she’d say something like that!” wailed Lizzy.
“We cannot. It is kind in him but it is too much. Girls, help the lady pack her things up and we’ll have John bring the carriage around to take her home.”
“Oh, George, no…please,” said Kitty. “You don’t have to accept his lordship’s gift if you don’t wish to―but Marianne, Lizzy and I do. And Aunt Blakelow too. It has been years since we had new dresses. Please George. Please don’t take this away from us.”
Miss Blakelow could say no more.
* * *
She had a great deal of difficulty tracking his lordship down. A ride to Holme Park proved fruitless and Davenham informed her that he had gone to visit a friend and wasn’t expected home until late.
As she had spent the best part of the ride over there rehearsing a speech, she was disappointed not to have the opportunity to say it aloud. She rode home as a sunset was staining the clouds with pink and the black leafless branches of the elms scratched at the October sky.
She hadn’t long left Holme and was intending to ride back via the fields but it proved too dark to see her way so she decided to join the main road as soon as she could. A clump of trees screened her from the view of any oncoming traffic and as she nudged her horse to jump the shallow ditch, a rider appeared, flying around the bend in the road with coattails streaming out behind him. The mash of hooves whipped up mud as he went and it was all that Miss Blakelow could do to keep her seat. Her horse whinnied and reared just as the gentleman managed to bring his sweating steed to a plunging halt. His dog, a hunting hound of some description, set to barking, and before Miss Blakelow had a chance to grasp the reins she was thrown clear of her horse.
“Hell and damnation,” cursed the man, controlling his own horse with difficulty. “Damn fool woman. Don’t you know that is a blind corner? What possessed you to stand there?”
Miss Blakelow moved gingerly, touching her hand to her forehead. “My apologies, sir. I was taking a shortcut.”
“Are you alright?” he asked sharply, coming towards her.
She nodded lamely and tried to get up but the world was spinning around her head. Two iron hands gripped her under the arms and lifted her bodily onto her feet.
“There,” he said, picking up her fallen whip and handing it to her. “Are you able to ride home?”
“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“Never mind. Come over here and I will lift you onto your horse. Are these your spectacles? I fear my horse has trodden on them.”
“No…no matter. I have a spare…I mean…oh…”
And for the first time in her life, Miss Georgiana Blakelow fainted dead away.
* * *
It was no mean feat to convey an unconscious woman and two horses back to Holme Park, but he managed it, and so he told Davenham when he reached the house. A footman rushed forward to take Miss Blakelow from his arms and the gentleman, relieved at last of his burden was able to relinquish his hat, gloves and greatcoat. He was trying to restore a semblance of order to his hair in the hall mirror, when a voice shrieked, “Hal!” at a million decibels and a moment later, Lady Harriet had cast herself into his arms.
“Well, well,” he said, clumsily patting her back. “I said I should be here for your ball, didn’t I?”
“Oh, I am so happy to see you. When did you get here? Where is your luggage? You are staying this time, aren’t you? Pray say that you are!” she perched on tip-toe and kissed his cheek. “Now my ball will be perfect for everyone that I love is here―well, except Caroline, but she’d never come anyway.”
“Now let go of my sleeve, Harry, do. Twenty shillings a yard this material cost me,” he said.
“Then more fool you,” said the cool voice of Lady St. Michael, as she came down the main stairway. “Hal…is it you indeed?”
“Sarah, how do you do?” he replied, setting aside his youngest sister and going to greet her ladyship. “When you put on that sour face, you put me in mind of a bulldog.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Are you here alone? Yes, I feel sure that you are. The handsome widower comes to try his luck with the hay chewing populace of Loughton.”
The Honourable Henry Hockingham smiled but the expression did not reach his eyes. “You really are the most frightful snob Sarah; I don’t know how Edward puts up with you. Congratulations, by the way. I hear you are expecting a happy event.”
Lady St. Michael smiled. “Shall we go in to Mama? She will be wondering what all the noise is about.”
“By all means. Where’s Rob anyway?” he asked as Harriet looped her arm through his and led him through to the drawing room.
“I have absolutely no idea. Out courting his lady love, belike,” Lady St. Michael
said over her shoulder. “Have you dined?”
“Yes, thank you…his lady love, you say? Never tell me he’s fallen in love at last?” he said incredulously.
“She is nice,” said Lady Harriet impulsively. “Well I like her. But Sarah doesn’t.”
“And I can probably guess why,” murmured Hal.
“Have you brought a change of clothes with you or are you going to smell of the stables all night long?” asked Lady St Michael.
“My valet follows with my luggage so you will have to wait. Hello Mama. Lord, isn’t it hot in here?”
He bent down to kiss his mother where she was reclining on a sofa. She swathed him in an embrace of sickly scent.
“Hal! Is it you indeed? I knew that you would come, for your sister’s sake. Sarah thought you would not but I knew you’d do anything for Harriet. How are you, dear boy? You have lost weight, haven’t you? And you look pale.”
“Yes, yes. I’m fine. What’s this I hear about Robbie falling for the ball and chain?”
The countess began to fan herself vigorously. “Pray do not mention it. I do not wish to discuss it. The boy has taken leave of his senses. She’s lured him. With arts and witchcraft. She’s lured my poor Robert.” She plied the tissue to her eyes. “My poor boy is taken in. Taken in by a…a harpy!”
“Oh, hardly that, Mama,” said Lady Harriet, rolling her eyes.
“Good for him!” grinned Hal, accepting a glass of sherry from the butler. “Is she a prime article?”
“No, that’s the thing. She’s perfectly ordinary and none of us can understand his fascination with the woman,” said Lady St. Michael.
“Sticking your nose in my affairs again, Sarah?” asked a cool voice from the door.
The company jumped collectively and Lady St. Michael reddened slightly. She turned serenely in her chair towards him. “I have said nothing that I would not say to your face.”
“Hello Rob,” said Hal, setting down his glass. “Have you stolen the best looking girl in the neighbourhood for yourself?”
His lordship, who had not up until that moment noticed his brother, halted at the sound of his voice. “Hal, what the devil are you doing here?” he asked in pleasant surprise, coming forward to shake his hand.
His brother grinned and stood up to clasp his hand and clap him on the back. “I heard some ball or other was taking place.”
“Oh, not you as well. I have heard enough about the wretched ball from the women of this house to last me a lifetime. When did you arrive?”
“Less than fifteen minutes ago. How do you do? I swear this place gets further and further away from the main road every time I come here. Nearly got run over.”
“Run over?”
“Yes, you know where that sharp bend is by the drooping tree? A woman flew around the other side and it was all I could do not to run her down.”
“How exciting!” said Lady Harriet.
“My horse reared and her horse reared and Brisket (my new puppy, you know) was yapping for all he was worth and I rather think the poor girl hit her head.”
“And no doubt you offered her your manly breast to lean upon,” remarked Lady St Michael dryly.
“She passed out in my arms and I brought her here. Come to think of it, where is she? A footman took her from me. But I suppose someone ought to check she’s alright.”
“I’ll go,” said Lady St. Michael, standing and snapping shut her fan.
“And I think I owe the poor girl a new pair of spectacles because Firestar trampled all over them with his great hooves.”
Lord Marcham had been staring down into the fire but at that his head shot up. “Spectacles, did you say?”
“Yes, great, thick ugly ones…what did I say?” complained Hal as his brother strode from the room.
Lady St. Michael gave a grim smile. “It seems Hal, that you have run over his paramour.”
“Oh, Lord.”
Lord Marcham took the stairs two at a time. He found his housekeeper coming out of one of the spare bedrooms.
“Mrs. Haskell, the lady that was brought here, where is she?” he demanded.
“She’s in the end bedchamber, my lord, and resting now. She took quite a tumble and there’s a nasty gash on her head.”
“Has the doctor been sent for?”
“He’s on his way, my lord…but you cannot go in there, she’s in bed and it’s not decent―”
“Decency be dammed,” he muttered, flinging open the door.
In the centre of the room in the large canopied bed, Miss Blakelow lay supported by white pillows, her skin almost as pale as the bandage around her head and her hair for once free of the white lace cap. Her dark locks fanned out across the pillow like liquid mahogany. Her eyes were closed, her eyelashes a perfect delicate fan against her cheeks, her right eye bruised and blackened, as good a disguise as ever her spectacles had been.
The earl approached the bed and sat on the edge of it, taking her hand in his. Her eyelids fluttered open and she looked at him for a moment, uncomprehending, her green eyes unencumbered by her spectacles, were clear and beautiful. She blinked and recognition came.
She smiled. “Oh, it’s you.”
He squeezed her hand. “My―” he broke off and cleared his throat. He looked down ruefully at her black eye. “You did take a tumble, didn’t you? How do you feel?”
“I have a headache,” she said.
He gave her a slow smile. “Well, if you will go gallivanting around in the dark…”
“I was looking for you,” she said softly.
“Were you? Ought I to be flattered?”
“I don’t think so. I was going to tell you that we were very touched by your gift but we couldn’t accept it,” she replied, wondering vaguely when he was going to let go of her hand.
“I might have guessed, I suppose. And does this decree come from all the Blakelow women or just my little bluestocking?” he asked softly.
She gave a wry smile. “Well, I must confess that if I were to force my sisters to give up their chance of a new dress, I’d have a riot on my hands.”
“So then. Accept my gift with a good grace.”
“It was very kind in you, but I could not wear such a dress.”
“You don’t like the colour? I thought it would suit…”
“I think the colour is beautiful, and I’m sure your last mistress did too,” she murmured.
His lips twitched appreciatively. “My last mistress did not have a dress that colour and if she had I would have liked it exceedingly.”
“I’m sure you would. It is a colour that commands attention.”
“Which is why I would very much like to see you in it.”
“If you would not be offended, my lord, I would like to exchange it for something more…”
“Dull?” he suggested.
She pretended to glare severely at him. “Yes.”
“Well I would be offended. Mortally offended. I have seen you in enough grey and black and purple to last me for a lifetime.”
“My lord, please, you do not understand. If you wish to pay for a dress for me then let me change it to one that I may wear. I will not wear a ball gown. I don’t go to parties. I may choose a fabric half the price of the red silk and probably make myself two day dresses for less money than it costs to make one ball gown.”
“And what will you wear to Harriet’s ball?” he demanded.
“I am not going to Lady Harriet’s ball,” she said, trying gently to disengage her hand from his grasp.
“You damned well are,” he replied, holding her hand rather tighter.
“I am not. I cannot,” she said in a quiet voice.
“I want you there. If I am forced to attend the wretched event then I will at least have someone there I choose to talk to. And, I may add, someone to dance with who does not bore me rigid.”
“Please, my lord,” she said, trying not to smile. “Don’t be angry with me.”
“You are going; even if I have
to ride over to Thorncote myself and dress you with my own hands…which, now I come to think of it, does have a certain appeal…”
A footstep sounded outside the door and Lady St. Michael took in the scene. Miss Blakelow tore her hand from the earl’s but not quickly enough.
“Robbie, get out of here before you ruin this girl’s reputation for good,” complained his sister wearily, coming towards the bed.
His lordship stood up hastily. “I was checking that Miss Blakelow was comfortable.”
“I will see to her. Ask Mrs. Haskell to bring one of my nightgowns, would you? It is not at all the done thing for her to be wearing one of your nightshirts.”
“Well…I’ll…I’ll bid you goodnight then, Miss Blakelow.”
She turned her head on the pillow. “Goodnight, my lord.”
“Out, Robbie! Out!” Lady St. Michael said, pushing him through the door and closing it behind him. “Men are impossible, are they not, Miss Blakelow? Always under one’s feet. You will forgive my brother’s intrusion I am sure. It was kindly meant.”
“Lord Marcham was not intruding,” Miss Blakelow replied softly.
“Well, and are you comfortable? Mrs. Haskell seems to have done a reasonable job bandaging you up, at least. Can I do anything for you?”
Miss Blakelow licked her dry lips. “If your ladyship could arrange to send word to Thorncote. I fear they may be worried. I should have been home hours ago.”
“Of course, my dear. I will ask my brother to send the carriage for your aunt. I am sure you would wish to have her staying with you.”
Miss Blakelow tried to raise herself up on her elbows. “There is no need. I shall be well again tomorrow and hope to return home in the morning.”
“That’s as may be,” said Lady St. Michael, pushing the patient back down onto the pillows, “but my brother won’t let you leave until you are quite well again, Miss Blakelow. I shall send up some soup for you. Try to get some sleep.”
Chapter 17
“And how is the patient today?” asked his lordship the following morning, hovering outside the guest bedroom where Miss Blakelow was sleeping.