by Wilma Counts
Kate did not respond, but showed the ladies to another section of the house. She opened the drapes in the music room and in another, smaller, drawing room, which was sparsely furnished.
“This room will be perfect for entertaining lady friends,” Miss Mortimer said.
“Charlotte!” her mother admonished.
Kate pretended not to notice the older woman’s speaking look at her daughter.
Miss Mortimer laughed. “Never mind, Mama. We both know I am not one to count my chickens before they are hatched.” She laughed again—triumphantly, it seemed. “And I believe mine are being hatched even as we speak.”
Again, Kate politely ignored the exchange between mother and daughter, but she could not ignore her own inward reaction. Miss Mortimer’s crassness and her possessive attitude were grating, but as Lord Kenrick’s housekeeper, Kate could evince little interest in her employer’s personal life.
They continued the tour with the housekeeper dutifully showing such of the guest rooms as were presentable. Chambers occupied by Lady Elinor and Lord Kenrick were, of course, out of bounds, but the adjoining chambers of the master suite—those of the long absent countess—were not.
“A charming suite,” Miss Mortimer pronounced them, “though, please, not lavender and purple.” She put a finger to her cheek. “Hmm. Bright yellow, perhaps. I am one of those rare women who can wear yellows.”
Kate was fast developing a disgust of the other woman’s seeing everything in terms of herself. But the behavior of a guest was none of the housekeeper’s business, now, was it?
Finally, Miss Mortimer asked, “Have we seen it all, then? That is, all that is showable now?”
“All but the nursery,” Kate said. “That section of the house is the domain of Lady Cassandra, who is cared for there.”
“Oh, but we must see that too,” Miss Mortimer insisted.
“If you insist . . .” Kate was reluctant to thrust strangers upon the child.
“But of course. We could not possibly visit Kenrick Hall without paying our respects to dear Crannie,” Miss Mortimer gushed. “She was once my nurse, you know and lately Mama’s companion. She is like a member of our family. It was I who recommended her to his lordship.”
In the nursery’s main room, she gushed even more. She made a point of greeting Nurse Cranstan effusively and Kate noted that the nurse basked in such attention.
“How are you, really, Crannie? I would not have you unhappy.”
“I am quite well, miss. I do what I can. I must say, though, I haven’t such fertile ground here as I once had.” This was said with a coy tone and a sidelong glance at the child whose quiet play had been interrupted.
Miss Mortimer sympathized. “One can only expect so much. I am sure you do your best, but blood will tell, will it not?”
Cranstan nodded vigorously. “Ah, yes.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “And when it is mongrel blood, it fairly shouts.” She seemed unduly pleased with her little play on words.
Miss Mortimer smiled her appreciation of the simple joke and patted Nurse Cranstan’s shoulder. “Well, you just do what you can, dear Crannie. You will be amply rewarded for your efforts.”
“Thank you, miss.”
Miss Mortimer then turned her attention directly to the child. “And how are you, Lady Cassandra? Have you been learning your letters and numbers?”
The child nodded solemnly and Nurse Cranstan barked, “Answer the lady properly.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
It was not clear to Kate whether the little girl responded to Miss Mortimer or to Nurse Cranstan.
Miss Mortimer spied the golden-haired doll on a chair and picked it up. “What a beautiful doll. You must love this toy very much.”
Lady Cassandra looked as though she wanted to please, but did not know which woman to please at the moment. Kate caught her gaze and gave her an encouraging smile, which the little girl returned fleetingly.
“Where did you get such a lovely doll?” Miss Mortimer went on in the same false, condescending manner many adults used with children.
“My papa . . .” the child said softly.
“Your papa gave you this? How very nice.” Then she added, sotto voce to the adults, “Not exactly a match, would you say?” She fingered the blond tresses of the doll.
The little girl gazed from one woman to another in some bewilderment. Kate wanted pick her up and hug her and tell her everything was all right. Already Nurse Cranstan put a hand on her charge’s shoulder to direct her back to her play.
Miss Mortimer absently put the doll on a nearby table and said, “I believe we have seen everything now. You may escort us back to the drawing room, Mrs. . . . Arthur, was it?”
“Yes, miss.”
Kate happily took her leave of the Mortimer ladies at the drawing room door. However, she was deeply disturbed—not only by the young woman’s proprietary attitude toward the Hall, but, more profoundly, by what she had observed in the nursery. Cranstan’s attitude toward young Lady Cassandra angered Kate. And her anger quickly shifted to the child’s father.
Why on earth would a loving, caring parent entrust his child to a woman who felt as Cranstan obviously did? Or was he loving and caring? She had seen him only twice in the company of his daughter. They had walked through the kitchen on Kate’s and Ned’s first morning at the Hall. Father and daughter had both breakfasted already and were on their way to the stables. Ned had been sitting at a side table in the kitchen, finishing his own breakfast.
The two children were introduced and eyed each other warily—embarrassed as children are wont to be with adults hovering about.
A short while later, from a window in the kitchen, Kate had seen the earl and his daughter ride out, he on a fine-looking gray and she on a chestnut pony. He had seemed loving enough then. The next day he had brought her to the kitchen in the afternoon to suggest that the two children might enjoy playing in the garden—there was a maze there and the earl had asked a young footman to keep an eye out for them—and lead them out of the maze, if need be. He explained that this was Nurse Cranstan’s half day off.
Later, Kate had asked Ned how the playtime had gone. He shrugged and said it was all right, he supposed. And had he enjoyed getting to know Lady Cassandra? Kate pursued.
“She’s all right—for a girl,” Ned said.
“Oh, high praise, indeed,” Kate teased, ruffling her son’s hair.
Kate thought her employer’s child was mostly quite lonely. But despite Kate’s deliberately discouraging servant’s gossip, she knew that the earl made a ritual of spending time with his daughter every evening.
She shook her head. This business with Cranstan just did not make sense. And was he seriously considering Miss Mortimer as a possible stepmother? “Blood will tell,” indeed!
When the Mortimer women returned to the drawing room, both men rose and Sir Eldridge asked that his carriage be summoned. Jeremy managed—barely—to uphold his share of civilized conversation. He was grateful that it was of short duration.
“Oh, what a fine house you have, Lord Kenrick,” the daughter said with bright enthusiasm.
“Very nice, indeed,” the mother offered more calmly.
“Thank you, Miss Mortimer, Lady Mortimer.” Jeremy gestured for them to be seated and, when all were sitting, added, “Unfortunately, some of the house has suffered neglect for quite a long while.”
“But it could be put right in no time,” Miss Mortimer said. “Isn’t that right, Papa?”
Her father nodded. “As you say, my pet.”
“The ballroom is magnificent,” Charlotte Mortimer went on. “Oh, my lord, you really must give a ball! Mama and I would be very pleased to help you do so—send invitations and plan decorations. Wouldn’t we, Mama?”
“Of course, dear.”
Jeremy thought the knight’s wife looked slightly embarrassed, though she maintained a placid expression.
“I fear a ball must wait on other matters,” Jerem
y said. “Perhaps in late autumn, or next spring. . . .”
He was deliberately vague, but Miss Mortimer clapped her hands together and said, “Autumn would be perfect. A harvest ball! Absolutely perfect!”
Jeremy put up a hand in the universal halt sign. “Please. I said perhaps. Much could happen between now and then.”
Miss Mortimer affected a pretty little pout for a moment. Then her voice and manner became distinctly coy as she held Jeremy’s gaze. “Yes, it could, could it not?”
Her father interjected at this point by clearing his throat. “Hold on, daughter. Don’t rush your fences. Patience, my dear. Patience.”
The pout returned. “But, Papa, I’ve not been to a real ball in such a long time . . .” Her voice trailed and Jeremy thought perhaps a subtle sign from her father had warned her off.
“We missed the London season this year because of her grandfather’s passing.” Lady Mortimer’s quiet explanation filled an awkward gap.
“I’m sorry,” Jeremy murmured.
“It was months ago,” Sir Eldrige said, “but it would not have looked good for us to be frolicking about in society then.”
Jeremy had no reply for this conversational gambit other than a nod. Wilkins announced the carriage to be ready and Jeremy saw his not-quite-welcome guests to the door. He then returned to his desk and sat in growing darkness, for outside the windows a storm threatened. Good! He hoped the Mortimers were thoroughly drenched. He shook his head at the pettiness of this thought. Again, he went over that bizarre conversation with his chief—his only—creditor. He wondered just how much of the scheme the daughter was party to. Clearly, she was aware of much of it.
Trying to view the matter in a cool, detached way, he thought Miss Mortimer pretty enough. Such arrangements as the knight suggested were not uncommon among the ton, especially between financially strapped peers and the so-called “made men” of the merchant class. Some men would leap at the father’s proposition. All that money and a handsome woman on one’s arm to boot. Enticing offer, that.
Enticing—if one were primarily interested in appearances; the appearance of wealth and independence, the appearance of an enviable marriage. His father had opted for that—twice. Both his father’s marriages had been contracted with pretty girls who came to the title of countess well dowered. Jeremy had not known his mother well; she had died when he was four. He remembered laughing blue eyes and an exotic scent. Cassie had those eyes.
For some years, there had been no strong female presence at Kenrick Hall, though his grandmother had wielded a wicked tongue on occasion. Then his father had brought home a new bride, the laughing, bubbly Amelia, scarcely ten years older than her youngest stepson. The boy Jeremy had immediately developed a hopeless infatuation for this splendid creature. She seemed the epitome of his adolescent view of ideal womanhood—beautiful and pure. His love for the younger sister and brother she later provided had, at first, been an extension of his naive adoration of the charming Amelia. In time, though, he learned to love Margaret and Robert for themselves alone.
The death of his obsession with Amelia had long been a painful memory. During his last year at Oxford, Jeremy had been sent down for some minor infraction. Bored and restless, he had gone to the music room one day to work off some of his ennui at the pianoforte—only to discover his beautiful stepmother there locked into something more than a mere embrace with a man definitely not Jeremy’s father.
Jeremy’s surprised gasp had wrenched their attention away from what they were doing. The man, one of his father’s younger friends, seemed only slightly embarrassed as he nonchalantly straightened his clothing.
Amelia had rolled her eyes and said in a bored tone, “Oh, dear, Reginald, I do believe we have shocked the poor boy.”
Wanting to cling to his view of Amelia—that boyish dream of female perfection—Jeremy had turned his fury on the man. “You, sir, are a—a—scoundrel!”
“Yes, I probably am,” the man agreed calmly. “But there’s no need to make a Cheltenham tragedy of this.”
“Indeed not,” Amelia chimed in, hooking her arm gaily into her lover’s. “You must know by now that such is the way of society.”
Her tone made Jeremy feel like the greenest of schoolboys. He even felt himself blushing!
She went on brightly, “We shall keep this our little secret, shall we?”
Jeremy had mumbled incoherently and fled the scene, Amelia’s laughter echoing behind him.
He had told no one of what he had seen. He had considered telling his father, but this would hardly have been an ordinary father-son conversation, even if he and his father were given to such—which they were not. One could not stroll up to one’s father and casually offer, “Oh, I say Father, are you aware that your wife is cuckolding you?”
And, to be honest, was her behavior so very different from her husband’s? After all, his father kept a mistress in one of the lesser sections of London.
Nevertheless, the secret had gnawed at him—and it had certainly altered his view of half the human race. Now, he thought with disgust, he had learned nothing—nothing—from that experience. He had been as wrong about his wife’s character as he had been about Amelia’s. These two events had undermined his confidence in his judgment regarding women.
Was he now to walk blindly into another such misconception? Not bloody likely! “Twice burned, forever cautious,” he told himself, not at all sure he quoted the adage correctly.
On the other hand, he remembered his comment to Miss Mortimer’s father. It was true that he hardly knew her. He should at least be fair to her. After all, she should not be held accountable for her father’s boorishness.
No. It went beyond mere boorishness. The man had an agenda, and he did not care how he achieved it. Jeremy could not shake the deep, offended anger that he felt at Mortimer’s outrageous plan. The man had bought himself a knighthood. Was that not enough?
Jeremy answered his own question: No, it was not enough. Not for a man like Mortimer. His knighthood was valid only in the knight’s lifetime. Mortimer’s plans were more far-reaching. That business with the name change proved that much. Sir Eldridge Mortimer not only intended to appropriate the earldom, he would steal the earl’s very identity.
“Think again, sir!” Jeremy vowed silently. “I still have several months.”
His mind drifted to a far more pleasant subject: Cassie. It occurred to him that now that the weather was generally nicer—this threatening storm notwithstanding—his daughter needed to get out more. Being cooped up all winter had been an alien way of life for his little Indian maiden.
With this, another thought occurred to him. He rose and reached for the bellpull. When Wilkins responded, he again sent for the housekeeper and stood staring out the window as he waited for her.
She arrived momentarily. How was it that this woman’s very presence had a calming, comforting effect on him?
“Ah, Mrs. Arthur. I apologize if I have interrupted an important task.”
She smiled. “No, my lord. An onerous one, but necessary.” He raised a brow. “The chambermaids were helping me inventory linens.”
He nodded absently. “I wanted particularly to thank you for the improvements I have noted—and for your showing the Mortimer ladies around.”
“It was merely my duty.”
“Even so, I am grateful. But that is not the only reason I sent for you.”
“My lord?”
“Would you object to your son’s taking riding lessons?”
“My lord?” Surprise in her voice told him he had caught her off guard.
He explained. “My daughter is being introduced to English riding, and it occurred to me that she would find the lessons more enjoyable if she shared them with another child.”
“Oh, I . . . see.” She spoke rather slowly, almost as though she were weighing her words carefully.
“It will not be dangerous, you know,” he assured her. “Has he ever ridden before?”
; “Yes, though not lately.”
“Well, it would not take him long to regain his skill.”
“No, I don’t suppose it would.”
Again, he detected some reluctance in her tone and he wondered at it. “Being able to ride might be advantageous to him one day—should he want to be a stable hand or a coachman. Most boys like the idea of learning to handle horses,” he said persuasively.
“Oh, I know Ned would enjoy any time spent around the stables.”
“Then it is settled,” he said firmly. “Tomorrow morning—unless this storm is still upon us—he shall join Cassie for her lesson.”
“Yes, my lord. And—thank you. Ned will love the idea.”
Yes indeed, he would, a troubled Kate thought, as she returned to the servants’ area of the house. This was a problem she had not foreseen—and she should have done so!
An ordinary housekeeper’s son would probably not be conversant with fine riding cattle. Ned, however, had been riding ever since he could sit on a horse. As an army officer, Arthur had been a capable rider and had loved seeing his young son master each new technique. She recalled with a twinge of nostalgia Arthur’s proudly showing off the little boy’s skill.
Kate had deliberately not explained to her son anything more than he absolutely needed to know about their current living situation. He knew, for instance—and was glad—that his mother was keeping him away from the grandfather whom Ned disliked and feared. She did not think he understood their decline in status, though. For him, this was another wonderful adventure—his whole life had so far been mostly about change.
Would he now inadvertently reveal his mother and himself as impostors?
CHAPTER 7
When the next day dawned dry and sunny, Kate found herself of two minds about it. On the one hand, she and a gardener could begin to take hold of the kitchen herb garden, and on the other, Ned would join Lady Cassandra’s riding lesson. Unfortunately, Ned’s mother would find it hard to be in two places at once.
His eyes glowing with excitement, Ned eagerly welcomed the prospect of being on a horse again. He chattered happily through his breakfast. Lord Kenrick and his daughter met the housekeeper and her son in the kitchen.