by Joan Smith
“Yes, I suppose. But first I must meet Mary--Lady Dewitt—under more regular circumstances and see how we go along together. I own it would be a great relief to have somewhere decent to go. Have you ever been to Ireland, Whewett?”
“I’ve visited Mary a few times. It’s lovely. You will be happy there, and I shall know where to find you, should I require a spare daughter for some rig or other,” he added, smiling. It was not precisely a happy smile. There was some wistful quality to it.
“I couldn’t go through with it again.”
“We'll keep in touch, Grace. Now I must go upstairs and face the wrath of Lady Jehovah. A regular dirge it will be, if I know anything,”
“A very lively, angry dirge. If you are wise, you will take a poker to defend yourself. She has been threatening to lay that cane across your shoulders.”
“The wages of sin,” he said with a shrug, and went up to confront Lady Healy.
The sound of the old lady’s voice raised very high was soon echoing down the staircase, with some intervening silences to indicate that Whewett occasionally got a word in edgewise. He heard he was an unconscionable dastard, a perpetrator of lewd behavior, not worthy to wipe Irene’s boots, and if the silly chit had used her wits, she would not have made such an appalling match in the first place.
Enjoying her rant to the hilt, Lady Healy went on to describe his bastard as a whey-faced moonling, and a demmed ugly one to boot. His sister was no better than she should be to let the bastard under her roof to corrupt her own children, and Irene was a knock-in-the-cradle ever to have given him the time of day.
He took it like a rock, and after her wrath was spent, Whewett also heard that Lady Healy was too fair-minded to deprive Augusta of her fortune only because her father’s carrying on was enough to shame the nation. At the end he also heard he had given his hostess such a setback, she was unable to leave her chamber, and he must dine alone. She was in such a state, she forgot to give any orders regarding Augusta, so that, in fact, Whewett dined with his alleged daughter and enjoyed a happier meal than he had partaken of under that roof since his arrival.
“Still in one piece?” Grace asked when he descended.
“Bloody but unbowed. She combed my hair with the footstool. Had herself a marvelous time but never once threatened to change the will. I’m amazed. Something else amazes me, too,” he added with a quizzing smile.
“What is that?”
“It is half an hour past dinner time, and you haven’t mentioned food.”
“I haven’t even thought of it,” she said, and was surprised herself.
After dinner Grace played the pianoforte for Whewett. She thought he would take advantage of the privacy to speak again of marriage, but he seemed happy to just watch her and listen. After playing for some time, Grace joined him.
“I hope you will play for me when we go home,” he said. “My piano at Downsfield is not so badly out of tune, for Invers gives Gussie lessons.”
He rose at once and said, “How quickly the evening has flown. You will want to get some rest after this taxing day. I have a little accounting to do before I retire, so I shall say good-night now, Grace.”
“Good night, Whewett,” she said rather coolly, and went upstairs, realizing that she would not see him again that night.
Chapter Seventeen
Lady Healy came to the table on Sunday morning, but to show her disapproval of Whewett, she said not a word to him. She gave many instructions to his daughter, finishing with the warning that as Lord Whewett had no interest in his daughter’s welfare, she must pay close heed to her grandmother. “Always remember you have good Brougham blood in your veins as well as that other bad stuff.”
When the meal was over, Lady Healy had to bend her vow not to speak to Whewett. “You will no doubt go into the village to visit your sister and your bastard. Augusta will not accompany you. As I notice you are not in the habit of taking her to church on Sunday, she shall read her Bible.” On this speech she clomped out of the room, leaning heavily on her cane.
The minute she was gone, Whewett said to Grace, “My Gussie will wonder why you are not with me. She is eager to meet you.” Yet, for the first time in years, there was someone he would rather he with than his daughter. “Lady Healy has hinted I may remain away for lunch. I shall return for dinner, giving her one last chance to have at me. Take care, Grace.”
The day dragged by slowly, with nothing of much interest occurring at Willowcrest. Grace rode and read without taking much pleasure from either. By evening Lady Healy’s curiosity about the illegitimate child, and more precisely the child’s mother, had reached such heights that she gave over being silent with Whewett and returned to the attack.
“Who was the hussy, eh? Some tavern wench, I warrant, from the looks of the parcel she foisted on you.”
“You would not be interested. You don’t know the lady.”
“I am interested, I tell you. I would not ask if I weren’t. When did it happen? Was it while you were married to Irene?”
“Certainly not.”
“The child is younger than Augusta. I ain’t blind. She was born a good year or more after your legal daughter. It was while Irene was enceinte. You men always think that a good enough excuse to set up a convenient. If I had had the least notion you was a rake, Whewett, you would not have married my granddaughter, and so I tell you.”
“Many times now, Lady Healy.”
“You’re shameless. A disgrace and a scandal. Who was she?”
“A lady, a widow,” he said, hoping to satisfy her.
“Lady, hah! Lady’s maid at best. I expect you are still running after the low-born wenches if the truth were known. For the sake of your immortal soul, you had best take a wife if you cannot control your base impulses. I hope He may forgive you for all the other women you have ruined in the meanwhile.”
Whewett stolidly cut his meat and ate it. “Now, who shall you marry?” was her next question, which she went on to consider quite independently of the groom’s wishes. “Not that Elton creature, with her straw hair and painted face. It would not be necessary to marry the likes of her to have your way with her. Fondling her in conservatories! We shall be fortunate if you haven’t ruined your child’s morals as well as your own.”
“Discussing it in front of her won’t help,” he said.
“Let her find out what men are like. Here is what passes for a good man in the world, Augusta. You may imagine what the bad ones are up to. You shall marry Lady Eleanor, Whewett.”
“I am afraid not, ma’am.”
“Not wanton enough for you? The governess, then. You say she can handle him, Augusta?”
Grace had all the lively embarrassment of commenting on herself. “Pretty well, Grandma,” she said.
“Is she a decent sort of woman?”
“Oh, yes—that is, fairly decent,” she added in confusion.
“That is, as decent as your father could endure. What of her looks? We don’t want any more of those demmed whey-faced brats running around the world calling Whewett Papa.” She turned to Whewett before Grace was required to describe her appearance. “Make her an offer when you get home. I want to receive a wedding notice in the near future.”
Whewett leveled a cool stare across the table at Grace. She lowered her eyes to avoid looking at him. “I have already offered for her. She refused.”
“That shows she has some taste,” Lady Healy said. “Get rid of those tavern wenches who are giving her a disgust of you, and ask her again. A penniless governess won’t have as good an offer, from a material point of view. There, it is settled. I am going to bed. We arise at seven. Come and kiss me good-night, Augusta.” Grace did as she was told. Whewett received an angry scowl and a sound that might have meant good night, and Lady Healy was gone.
“Thank God that is over,” he said, looking after her departing form. “I keep thinking how disastrous it would have been had Gussie gone to Scotland and been subjected to one of her rages. Gussie is
so petrified of her that she does not want to go on writing to her.”
“You must write the letters in her name.”
“I’ll work something out. It is a detail.”
“It will be important to Grandma. Will you tell Augusta the truth about all this one day?”
“Perhaps, when she is old enough to understand. Well, our adventure is about over, Grace. You have been a formidable ally. How do I thank you?”
“With a check—and of course by helping me conceal my blemishes from your sister till I am safely hired.”
“I think this calls for a toast.”
“We aren’t home free yet,” she warned.
“There won’t be time in the morning.” He filled their glasses, lifted his, and said, “To Miss Farnsworth.”
She raised hers. “To Lord Whewett and all his daughters. Or should we say women?” she added with an arch smile.
“I’ll drink to that. I haven’t been having as merry a time as she thinks, you know.”
After they had drunk, Grace asked if he knew where Grandma had hidden the pink bonnet and her old slippers.
“I slipped them out to my carriage. You will have to leave here dressed as a child. The best thing will be to change in Mary’s room before we leave the inn.”
“That will be confusing for Augusta. What will she think?”
“I don’t know, but she is not a humorless, spineless child, if that is what you are thinking. She was tired, and frightened of Lady Healy. She likes a good romp as well as anyone. You two will get along famously when you come to know one another,” he said, in a considering way, as though thinking aloud.
“I hope so,” Grace murmured in much the same spirit.
* * * *
The last adieus were being said. Lady Healy’s antique traveling carriage was pulled up to the door with her trunks tied on top, while Whewett and Grace walked to the road to bid her farewell.
“Don’t forget, Augusta, you are to come to me soon. Come in the spring. The Highlands are lovely in spring, with bluebells and heather and all that. You will like it. Till then, be sure to read your Bible and clean your teeth, and take plenty of exercise.” She turned to Whewett. “Take good care of her.”
“I will,” he promised.
The old lady held out her arms for a last embrace from Grace. “You’re a fine gel. A fine gel,” she said, her voice lowered so Whewett would not hear this weakness.
Grace kissed the lined cheek, feeling the coolness of a tear against her lips. As the final moments drew to a close, Grace felt a wash of regret. She didn’t know whether she was glad or sorry she had ever met Lady Healy, but she knew that in some inexplicable way, she would miss the old tyrant. Her own tears, already difficult to control, started to ooze. Soon they were both crying. “I’ll miss you, Grandma. I love you. Be sure to write.”
“There’s a good lass. I’ll write often. Take care of your papa. Don’t let him run amok with the females. Find him a good wife, you hear?”
“I’ll try.”
“Good-bye, Whewett.” Lady Healy offered her hand. He ignored it and placed a kiss on her cheek. “Flirt! I am too old for you.” She laughed, pleased with his gallantry. It was her manner of expressing forgiveness.
“Devil a bit of it.” He smiled.
“I am expecting to receive that announcement. A mother for Augusta. Don’t disappoint me.”
“Before the year is out,” he promised rashly.
“About your other daughter,” she went on, wanting to apologize without condoning the offense, “she was not so bad. Take care of her, too. It is not the child’s fault, after all. Irene would not have begrudged her a decent upbringing. Did Irene know about the girl?”
“No.”
“Tell the new wife. Well, I am off. Farewell!”
The door was closed, the horses given the office to begin, and with a great gust of dust from the dry road, the black coach began its long trip to Scotland.
Lady Healy settled comfortably against the squabs and turned to Mulkins with a wise look. “Ha, they think they fooled me with that cock-and-bull story. It was all a sham.”
“What do you mean, ma’am” the confused Mulkins asked.
“She is not who they said she is.”
“Who, Lady Augusta?”
“Ninnyhammer! Anyone can see Augusta is very like her mama, except that she got something of my spirit. I refer to the female calling herself Lady Dewitt. She was no kin to Whewett. She was his lightskirt. He tried to wrap it up in clean linen, calling her his sister and planning to tell me the gel was Lady Dewitt’s daughter, no doubt. But she hadn’t the wits to keep her mouth shut. I have been thinking about it and have figured out now why they were all so startled when she came traipsing in with the brat. You saw how Augusta blinked with shock. She didn’t recognize the female at all. It was certainly not Lady Dewitt, but Gussie said nothing to give her father away, sly rascal. She thinks the world of him.”
“I was not there, milady. I saw nothing,” Mulkins said sulkily. Mulkins would have to be buttered up, to restore her to humor after her rough usage at Willowcrest.
“You missed a good show. It was comical to see them all trying to figure out what to say. I enjoyed it immensely. That woman was certainly not Mary. Irene said she was pretty. This one was platter-faced and bold as brass. He will never marry her. She is too forward and common. There was no gallantry in him when he dealt with her. He wanted to wring her neck. I wish he had. Who could she be? She has set her bastard to try to win Whewett for her. Did you see the child hanging on to him?”
“I didn’t see anything. I was in the kitchen, ma’am.”
“It was famous. I did not think to ask him what he called the brat. I must find out. I shall send her a doll, to show there are no hard feelings. The child was frightened of me. No spirit. Augusta was never frightened of me. I shan’t get the bastard a doll with a porcelain head. Not that I begrudge the expense, but it would be sure to get shattered on its way to her.”
She settled in and closed her eyes to reminisce about the visit and make plans to keep in touch more closely, but by letter. A visit would be too much exertion, but she was glad she had come. In ten minutes she was snoring.
* * * *
At Willowcrest Whewett and Grace piled into his carriage and headed to Wickfield, weak with relief that the ordeal was over. Grace was apprehensive regarding her acceptance by Lady Dewitt and how the situation could be explained to Augusta. What never entered her mind, or Whewett’s, either, was that Mrs. Sempleton invariably toured the shops on Monday morning to select her greens before the produce was picked over. Busily engaged in talk, they did not observe her as their carriage bolted past, but she saw and recognized them.
Mrs. Sempleton had been able to discover nothing of Miss Thomas’s whereabouts, but she had learned that her cottage had been let. The child had been seen in the village, so where was she staying? Had Whewett taken her to Willowcrest?
This puzzle so intrigued her that she kept an eye on the carriage, and followed it to the inn. A trip to the inn was made plausible by the ruse of buying a journal, which the inn sold at the desk. Thruppence was a stiff price to pay for the information she sought, but she could always just glance at the paper and say it was not the issue she wanted.
This farce proved unnecessary. Mr. Whewett and Miss Jones were still at the desk, inquiring for Lady Dewitt. Mrs. Sempleton had long since discovered this was the elegant female seen on the streets for two days now, accompanied by a young girl who looked too old to be her daughter, yet a trifle young for a sister. The latter relationship had been set upon, however, as the more likely.
“Why, Mr. Whewett!” Mrs. Sempleton said, as though surprised to meet him. “I didn’t know you planned to stay so long. I hear the old lady found a taker for Willowcrest. An Irishman, they are saying.”
“A Mr. Daugherty, from Kent,” he replied with a quizzical glance to Grace, who was trying vainly to disappear into a nearby palm tree.
Whewett said, “I am giving Miss Jones a drive home to see her baby brother.”
“Where have been staying, dear?” the dame asked. “I know Miss Thomas has left town and have been worried about you.”
“I stayed with other friends, ma’am.”
She was not let off this easily. “Who would that be, then?”
“With my relatives,” Whewett said, taking Grace’s arm to lead her off.
Mrs. Sempleton’s fingers clutched on to Grace’s sleeve, while an eye nearly starting from its socket was turned on Whewett. “What relatives?” she demanded.
“If I thought it would be of the least interest to you, ma’am, I would certainly tell you,” he answered pleasantly, then removed her fingers from Grace’s arm and walked away, carrying Grace with him.
Within two seconds Mrs. Sempleton had recovered from the shock and said to the clerk, “Call the constable.”
The man shook his head. “You’ll catch cold at that. That gent is Lord Whewett.”
“Yes, and I’m Lady Top o’ the Trees. He’s plain Mr. Whewett is who he is. He’s abducting that little girl. He’s one of them depraved gentlemen. I know when he did it, too. I am the one let him know she was unprotected. I’ve as good as thrown the child to the lions. He’s been following her about before this. I saw him days ago, dogging her steps down the street. Can you beat that?”
“Mind your own business, Mrs. Sempleton,” was the clerk’s advice. “Do you want the journal or not?”
She was too excited to answer but not so excited as to lay out thruppence for nothing. She had no real intention of calling a constable. Constables were strangely reluctant to act on her many suggestions. Yet she could not let the matter drop entirely. She loitered in front of the inn, reading coaching timetables with which she was more than familiar, and chatting to passersby. She had a longish wait.