More than a Mistress/No Man's Mistress

by Mary Balogh

  It had been her dearest dream when she had come to Pinewood that soon her mother would recover from her anger and forget the dreadful quarrel they had had over Viola’s accepting the earl’s gift, that she would come to live with her daughter and bring Claire and the twins, Maria and Benjamin—Viola’s half siblings—with her. But her mother was not ready to forgive her, at least not to the extent of coming here.

  Mama and the children—though Claire was fifteen already and the twins twelve—did not have a home of their own. Viola’s stepfather had died when she was eighteen and left nothing to his family except debts, which Uncle Wesley, Mama’s brother, had paid off. He had taken them all to live at the coaching inn he owned, and they had remained there ever since.

  “I am working now,” Claire had continued. “Uncle Wesley has been showing me how to keep the account books, as you once did. He has said that he may let me serve in the coffee room too now that I am fifteen. I am happy to work for him, but what I really want to do is be a governess as you were, Viola, and help support the family with my earnings.”

  They had been proud of her, both Mama and her uncle, Viola recalled. Uncle Wesley had been disappointed when she had first announced that she would be leaving the inn, but he had understood her desire to help support her family. Two years ago her mother had not been able to understand why she was so eager to leave respectable, interesting, well-paid employment in order to accept charity. Charity, she had called the gift of Pinewood.…

  “It feels good to help out,” Claire had written. “Uncle Wesley really is most generous. Ben’s school fees are considerable. In addition, he has bought new books for Maria, who is learning from Mama and is becoming more of a scholar than I ever was, and new clothes for her too. He bought me new shoes even though the old ones would have done for a while longer.”

  Only Uncle Wesley knew that the money for Ben’s education and for many of the extra family expenses came from Pinewood rents. He had not wanted to be part of the deception. He did not want to take credit where it was not due. But Viola had pleaded with him in a letter she had written soon after coming to Somersetshire. Mama would never accept anything that came from Pinewood. But Viola needed to keep on helping her family. Claire and Ben and Maria must have a chance at a decent life.

  “Bless you, dearest Viola,” the letter had concluded. “Since we cannot go to Pinewood, can you not come to London for a visit? Please?”

  But she had never been able to bring herself to go back there. The very thought made her shudder.

  Upset over her encounter with Lord Ferdinand, and upset too over this letter, Viola gave in to a rare moment of self-pity and heard a gurgling in her throat. She swallowed determinedly. She did miss her family dreadfully. She had not seen them for two years, not since that dreadful quarrel she had had with her mother. Her one consolation had been that she was doing them some good while she lived here. But how would she continue to help out if Pinewood was no longer hers?

  How would she be able even to support herself?

  Panic tied her stomach in queasy knots as she turned her steps back toward the house. How she hated Lord Ferdinand. It was not just Pinewood he was trying to take away from her. It was everything. And how she hated herself for not merely turning a cold face away from him on the riverbank just a short while ago.

  She might have gone into the house through the back door, since it was the closest entrance from the avenue. But she walked around to the front. She wanted to see if the plans for the rest of the day were being put into effect. Somehow she expected to find the hall deserted. But it was not. It was filled with people. Far more than she had expected or even hoped for. Was there a tenant farmer or a laborer who was not here?

  Viola smiled broadly as all the men touched their forelocks or bowed awkwardly to her, and the few women bobbed curtsies. But they all grinned back at her in mass acknowledgment of the conspiracy afoot.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly.

  Was it still morning? It certainly would not be by the time he had dealt with every petitioner and complainer who had demanded audience with the new owner of Pinewood. And before he could begin to admit them, he would have to listen to the speech of welcome and orientation that Mr. Paxton had doubtless stayed up half the night preparing. Mr. Paxton could be alarmingly ponderous when he set his mind to it. Lord Ferdinand would be fortunate indeed if he had time to snatch some luncheon before all the afternoon callers began to arrive to pay their respects to their new neighbor.

  The Reverend Prewitt would talk about the church choir and next Sunday’s sermon, Mrs. Prewitt about the ladies’ sewing circle and the new kneelers they were busy making. The schoolmaster would drone on about the leaking schoolroom roof and the necessity of teaching something meaningful to the older pupils at the same time as he instructed the younger ones in the recitation of the alphabet. The Misses Merrywether would talk about the flower show coming up in the summer and the attempts of certain villagers to grow new or better strains of various blooms. Mrs. Claypole, Mr. Claypole, and Bertha—well, the Claypoles would simply be themselves. Mr. Willard had a bull who he claimed was in a state of deep depression over the demise—by butchering—of his favorite cow. Mr. Willard could—and would—wax marvelously eloquent on the subject of his cattle.

  Mr. Codaire could put anyone to sleep on the subject of roads and toll gates and new methods of paving. Fortunately for Viola, he knew it and had offered it up as a suitable topic with which to regale the ears of Lord Ferdinand Dudley when the Codaires called upon him. Mrs. Codaire had just read a book of sermons she was sure his lordship would enjoy hearing paraphrased. And the Misses Codaire, aged sixteen and seventeen, had suggested accompanying their mama and papa and giggling at every available opportunity. Since the sight of a handsome young man was always opportunity enough for those girls even without an extra incentive, Viola was confident that they would grate upon every adult nerve in Pinewood’s drawing room, most particularly upon those of Lord Ferdinand Dudley.

  By this time tomorrow, Viola thought hopefully as she retired to her room, where she planned to spend a cozy afternoon reading, he might well be on his way back to London, having realized that country living would drive him mad within a week. He would still be the owner in the eyes of the law, she supposed, but chances were that he would never come back. If he tried to take the rents for himself, she would simply ignore him until he stopped asking. By this time tomorrow she might have her home to herself again.

  And by this time tomorrow pigs might also have learned to fly, she thought with a sigh.

  VIOLA DID NOT LEAVE her room until dinnertime. She had steeled herself to dine with him, consoling herself with the conviction that at least she would have his grumblings to listen to and enjoy. But the dining table was set for only one person, and the butler was standing behind Viola’s usual chair at the head of the table, waiting to seat her.

  “Where is Lord Ferdinand?” she asked him.

  “He said he would dine at the Boar’s Head, ma’am.”

  “I daresay,” she said, smiling with relief and preparing unexpectedly to enjoy the meal, “he has had enough of making polite conversation for one day.”

  “I suppose so, ma’am,” Mr. Jarvey agreed with a smirk, ladling soup into her bowl.

  “Has he enjoyed his day, do you think?” She was feeling almost lighthearted.

  “He seemed in a good enough humor whenever I stepped into the drawing room to announce another visitor,” Mr. Jarvey told her. “He was smiling and talking and greeting the new arrivals as if he couldn’t think of any better way to be spending his time. But I daresay that was just his cunning, so that I would not see that we had him bothered.”

  “Yes,” Viola agreed. “I am sure you are right.” But she would have far preferred to hear that he had been looking bored or irritable or weary or thunderous. “Have you spoken with Mr. Paxton?”

  “His lordship demanded to see the estate books and then wanted to know who kept them so
neat and precise, ma’am,” Mr. Jarvey said. “Mr. Paxton told me he asked a number of questions that were more intelligent than what Mr. Paxton had expected. His lordship took the books upstairs with him when he left. He said he wanted to study them more closely. And then instead of having all those people sent into the library one by one, he took a chair out into the middle of the hall, his lordship did, and sat down and talked to everyone at once. I was there, ma’am, and you will be pleased to hear that he doesn’t seem to know the first thing about farming. He is a downright ignoramus, in fact.”

  “Indeed?” Viola said, vexed that Lord Ferdinand had thought of a way of saving himself from being overwhelmed by numbers, but also pleased that his presence in the hall had allowed the butler to be witness to all his inadequacies and embarrassment.

  “Yes, indeed, ma’am,” the butler said. “But he does know how to listen, he does, and he knew just exactly what questions to ask. He can tell a joke too. He had everyone laughing more than once. Even I almost smiled at the one about the town rake and the country parson. It seems that—”

  “Thank you, Mr. Jarvey,” Viola said firmly. “I am not really in the mood for jokes.”

  “No, ma’am.” Mr. Jarvey retreated into his more normal poker-faced manner as he cleared away her empty soup bowl.

  Viola felt guilty then for being so surly. But really! Was he winning everyone over? Could not everyone see that he was a practiced charmer, who would do anything to cut the support from under her feet so that she would have no choice but to leave?

  The thought destroyed the little appetite she had.

  Perhaps he would stay late at the inn tonight and get obnoxiously drunk. Perhaps he would make a spectacle of himself and show himself in his true colors. Perhaps she would even hear a commotion from the direction of the Boar’s Head when she came out of the church after choir practice this evening. How very satisfying that would be. All the other choir members would hear it too.

  But that faint, uncharitable hope was dashed an hour later when Viola left the horse and gig at the vicarage stables and walked into the church. She was almost late. Every other member of the choir was already present.

  So was Lord Ferdinand Dudley.

  7

  T HAD NOT TAKEN FERDINAND LONG TO UNDERSTAND what was going on. His day had been planned for him with meticulous care, beginning with the cockerel crowing at the very crack of dawn. It was probably intended to end with the world’s worst dinner at Pinewood. If his breakfast was any indication of the cook’s ingenuity in serving up culinary stomach-churners, he would be better off eating at the Boar’s Head, even if he was not exactly welcome there either.

  The strange thing was, he thought as he ate his steak and kidney pie in a private parlor at the inn, that he had almost enjoyed the day. Almost, but not quite. There was Viola Thornhill, the thorn in his conscience, to spoil his fun. But the morning horseplay had been entertaining once he had adjusted his mind and body to being up even before the proverbial lark. And he had found his talk with Paxton and his cursory perusal of the estate books interesting. He looked forward to learning more. It was already evident to him that in two years the estate had developed from a run-down, slovenly kept, unprosperous business to just the opposite. Paxton was obviously an able steward.

  He had enjoyed talking with the estate laborers and tenants, distinguishing real problems from petty complaints, observing the various personalities, picking out those who were leaders, those who were followers. He had enjoyed joking with them and watching their initial hostility begin to thaw. Paxton, of course, had not been so easily swayed. He was loyal to Miss Thornhill.

  Afternoon visits had always been something to avoid. But today’s had been vastly amusing, especially since each caller had come with the express purpose of boring his head off.

  The thing was, though, that he had long been fascinated with new developments in road construction. And talk of cattle could easily be turned into talk about horses, one of Ferdinand’s favorite topics. Ladies who formed sewing circles were naturally interested to learn that the infant Lord Ferdinand had once talked his nurse into teaching him to knit and that within a week he had produced a scarf that had grown progressively narrower as he gradually dropped stitches but that had stretched the whole length of the nursery when laid flat on the floor after he had finished it. As for the pupil at the village school who had asked the schoolmaster for Latin lessons—well, Ferdinand had graduated from Oxford with a degree in Latin and Greek. Perhaps he could offer his services as a teacher.

  All the people he had met today, of course, had been determined not to like him. Many probably still did not and perhaps never would. Their hostility was a tribute to Viola Thornhill, who appeared to have won everyone’s respect and even affection in the two years she had been at Pinewood. But Ferdinand did not despair. He had never had difficulty relating to all kinds of people, and he had always been gregarious.

  He rather thought he was going to enjoy life in the country.

  The vicar had said there was to be a practice for the church choir tonight. His wife had even invited Ferdinand to join them, though she had said it in such a way that he knew she did not expect him to accept. But why not? he thought, pushing away half the suet pudding he had been brought for dessert. He did not want to return to Pinewood yet. That would mean either making conversation with Miss Thornhill in the drawing room or slinking off to hide in a room where she was not—and he had never been a slinker. Neither did he want to spend another whole evening drinking in the taproom.

  The choir practice it would be, then.

  The practice was not in the church itself, he discovered as soon as he opened the door and stepped inside. But he could hear the sound of a pianoforte being thumped upon and followed it down a steep flight of stone steps to the church hall below, a gloomy apartment with a few windows high on three of the four walls. There were fifteen or twenty people gathered in groups, talking. None of them was taking any notice of the pianist, a thin woman of indeterminate age and faded, frizzed fair hair, who was peering at the music propped before her through small wire-framed spectacles. She was one of the spinster sisters who had called during the afternoon with the vicar and his wife, Ferdinand recalled—Merryfield? Merryheart? Merrywether—that was it. While her sister had talked at great, droning length about the growing of prize blooms, this one had apologized whenever she had been able to work a word into the conversation, assuring Lord Ferdinand Dudley that he could not possibly be interested in such rural concerns but must be simply longing to return to town.

  “It is in four parts,” she was saying to no one in particular but with every appearance of extreme anxiety as Ferdinand’s eyes alighted on her. “Oh, dear, can we manage four parts?”

  Perhaps someone would have answered her had not everyone at the same moment noticed the new arrival and fallen silent.

  “I have accepted my invitation, you see, sir,” Ferdinand said, singling out the vicar and striding toward him, his right hand outstretched.

  The Reverend Prewitt appeared slightly flustered, but gratified. “That is very obliging of you, I am sure, my lord,” he said. “Do you sing?”

  But Ferdinand had no chance to answer. There was a slight stir among the choir members, whose eyes had all moved from Ferdinand himself to some point beyond his left shoulder. He turned to see Viola Thornhill coming down the stairs, a look of pure astonishment on her face. She was part of the choir too?

  He bowed as he looked up at her—and something snatched at the edges of his memory again. Damn, but he had seen her somewhere. She was looking rather regal, her chin raised, her face a mask of controlled dignity—a far cry from the laughing lass of the maypole.

  “Lord Ferdinand,” she said, stepping down onto the stone floor of the hall, “I did not expect to find you here.”

  “I trust you had a pleasant day, ma’am,” he said. “The vicar’s wife was kind enough to invite me to choir practice.”

  She looked at the clergym
an with what might have been silent reproach, and Ferdinand turned away to address the pianist.

  “You were saying as I came in, Miss Merrywether,” he said, “that the piece of music before you is in four parts. It that a problem?”

  “Oh, not a problem, exactly, my lord,” she assured him, her voice breathless with apology for bothering him with such a slight concern. “But Mr. Worthington is our only tenor, you see. Not that I am saying he does not have a fine voice, for he does. Very fine indeed. It is just that—well, he does not like to sing alone, and I do not blame him, I am sure. I would certainly not wish to do it. Not that I have a tenor voice, of course, being a woman, but—”

  “He is easily distracted by the basses and sings along with them,” a round woman Ferdinand had not encountered before said more bluntly.

  There was general laughter.

  “We have never claimed to be professional singers,” the vicar added. “But what we lack in musicality we make up for in enthusiasm.”

  “And volume,” someone else added, to the accompaniment of more laughter.

  “All we can ask of ourselves,” the vicar said genially, “is that we make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”

  “You would not enjoy listening to us,” Viola Thornhill told Ferdinand.

  Smiling into her eyes, he offered his services. “I sing tenor,” he said quite truthfully. He had sung with a university choir and enjoyed the experience enormously. “No one has ever accused me of having extraordinary talent, but I have never noticed particularly pained expressions on the faces of those within earshot of my singing voice either. Shall Worthington and I put our heads and our voices together and see if we can hold our own against the basses?” Worthington, a balding, freckled redhead, was one of the tenant farmers who had camped out in his hall during the morning, he recalled.

  “We would not put you to so much trouble, my lord,” Miss Thornhill said firmly. “You surely wish to—”