Charity Begins at Home

by Alicia Rasley

  That understatement struck even six-year-old Jeremy as ludicrous. "Mama never receives. She doesn't even get out of bed."

  "I'll see him." Tristan set Jeremy gently on his feet. "Go on down to the kitchen and get us some bread and jam. Then go on out to the stables and check on my horse, will you? See how he's settled in."

  "The vicar probably wants to know why we don't go to church on Sunday." Lawrence sat down on the step, looking defiantly up at his uncle. "And I wager you won't know what to tell him."

  "I'll tell him I'm your guardian, and I've decided to raise you as pagans. You've got such a good start already."

  Lawrence was so delighted by the prospect that he took off running after his brother. "Pagans! We get to be pagans, Jerry!"

  The Reverend Mr. Langworth, waiting in the dusty small salon, was a prosperous-looking man, for a vicar. Tristan would have preferred him cadaverous, so that the contrast between pallid skin and black garb would be more pronounced. But Mr. Langworth was all pink cheeks, cornflower blue eyes, pearly teeth, silver hair, and rosy nose. His black robe hadn't the slightest impact in the midst of all the pastels.

  "I am so glad you have arrived," Mr. Langworth said after they had settled themselves into armchairs and the maid had gone to procure refreshments. His sincerity was almost palpable. "Things have not been happy here at Haver."

  "So I've noticed." Tristan kicked at the couch. A cloud of dust arose, eliciting a sneeze from the vicar. "I would have been here sooner, but I was traveling in Italy and my sister's summons reached me very late." He felt a sudden need to confess his guilt; vicars cultivated that effect, he supposed. "Since the war ended, I've primarily lived abroad. I haven't kept up with my sister as I ought. But I never thought Haver would let things get in such a state. This looks like more than three months' neglect."

  "Just so. He seldom came down from London." The vicar twisted uncomfortably in his chair. But his voice was harsh, and Tristan thought, Aha, he has some Old Testament black-and-white under the pastels after all. "Like so many landowners, he turned his family heritage over to hired hands."

  Tristan hadn't visited his own estate since last year, when he'd inherited it and the title from a cousin. He'd never felt any real connection to the Sussex farm, but now he wondered if his seemingly trustworthy bailiff was taking good care of the place. Uncomfortably aware that he was probably as negligent as Kenny, he told himself that he would make the twenty-mile trip to Braden as soon as he got his sister's problems under control. "I don't know how much I can do here. I've never lived out in the country, except in Italy. But I'll do what I can."

  Reverting now to his customary gentleness, Mr. Langworth asked, "How is Lady Haver?"

  "Not well." Now he was the one making understatements. "I didn't realize how hard she had taken this. Oh, I don't make light of her being widowed and in such a way, but she's always gone to extremes. She used to swear she couldn't live without Haver. Now she's doing her best to keep that vow."

  A decade ago, in fact, Anna had threatened to kill herself if she weren't allowed to marry Kenny. Tristan, then a cynical boy of sixteen, thought her threat mere dramatics. But their father had surrendered immediately, for their mother had been just as histrionic, and when her bluff was called, she had very deliberately faded away. Tristan's youthful assessment was to be proven wrong again, he supposed. Anna was set on the same decline their mother had taken.

  "Well, I'm not one to speak ill of the dead, but that was one man who was not worth such grief."

  "Just so." Tristan had to revise his earlier estimation of the vicar's character. It was an artist's failing to judge too much on appearances, to assume that vision could reveal all. But the vicar was by no means merely a study in pastels; there was some righteous darkness in there somewhere.

  As his own harsh words echoed, the vicar glanced guiltily around, then hastened on, "Be that as it may, I have been quite concerned about Lady Haver. We are not well acquainted, for she and her sons weren't here very often. But she has always been quite kind. She is so young to sequester herself this way. And I can't think it's healthy for the little lads."

  The drawing room smelled as if it hadn't been aired for weeks. Tristan crossed to the window and opened the casement, letting in the fragrant May air. It was a lovely morning. The sky was a gentle blue, the elm trees lining the avenue were decked in a pale green, pastel wildflowers sprang up around the darker hedges that crisscrossed the hills. The vista was subdued compared to what he was used to in Italy, but it had its own quiet beauty.

  Then contemplation of the landscape gave way to another assessment of decrepitude: The long avenue was rutted and muddy, with weeds growing up around the unpruned elms. The hedges were unkempt, here overgrown and there sparse. The hills were covered with ragged growth instead of careful rows of wheat.

  The vicar added anxiously behind him, "I don't mean to be so blunt, my lord. But your arrival is a blessing. This is the first time I have been admitted since the funeral. I would have been more insistent, perhaps, had I known what a state things were in."

  "Well, I've already surveyed the damage, and I'm ready to get to work. I just don't know precisely where to begin. There's seed in the barn that must be sown, though who's to do it I haven't an idea. The hands all left months ago. And I mean to hire a nurse for the boys and get some girls in here to clean."

  "I'll send Miss Calder over," the vicar said with an air of settling matters entirely. "Oh, yes, the village is named for her family. They've been the gentry here for centuries, far pre-dating the Havers. Sir Francis is her brother. I'll drop a word in his ear, too. He's been busy with his own lands, but I'm sure he can spare you a bit of advice. And Charity can take the boys in hand for you. She and Lady Haver were always cordial. She'd have been here months ago, but she was in London for the social season." He brightened as if she were his own daughter. "She was a great success, our Charity. A better example of Kentish womanhood can't be found. Very capable, you'll find her to be. I'm certain she can coax Lady Haver back into good spirits."

  "A miracle worker, is she?"

  "No," the vicar said slowly, turning this over in his mind. "Just a good-hearted girl. And she knows how to deal with people. Never takes a step wrong." As if that settled that, the vicar picked up his hat and moved to the door. "Yes, I'll ask her to stop by soon."

  That this charitable Miss Charity was a capable girl, Tristan had no doubt. But a great success in London? The vicar's fondness and provincialism must have hid the truth from him. London liked simpering, selfish little beauties, not goodhearted girls. And if Miss Charity had been a great success, she would never still be a "miss."

  The vicar hesitated in the doorway, his hat gripped in one hand. "As I said, Miss Calder would be quite a help to you here. But perhaps she won't be able to spare the time, after all. She's got herself tied up with preparations for some absurd village festival. Midsummer Eve, you know."

  Tristan found himself annoyed that the vicar had dangled this offer of aid then snatched it back. Anna might indeed do better with another woman to confide in; she hadn't been able to do more than weep on her brother's shoulder. "It's so important, this festival?"

  "Not as far as I am concerned." The vicar cleared his throat, and his expression took on an unvicarly cunning that diverted Tristan. "But Miss Calder insists on earning funds to restore the church tower. I would rather save her the bother of the festival by holding a special collection of the landowners in the area. Two hundred pounds, that's what's needed." He added significantly, "Then we can cancel this Midsummer nonsense, and Miss Calder would have plenty of time to support your poor sister."

  With a start, Tristan realized he was being touched for a contribution. He'd never before had the wherewithal to be a likely target for this, and he still wasn't at all sure he or Haver could afford it, just to procure the services of some girl he'd never met. "The affairs here are in such a state I can't tell when we could make a contribution. The autumn, perhaps." That would
take them safely past Midsummer, he thought. And if Miss Calder was as capable as the vicar said, the church tower should be restored to its previous glory by then.

  The vicar seemed inclined to stand there and argue the point. But then the front door slammed, the boys' voices echoed shrill in the great hall, and their footsteps came stamping up the stairs. The vicar bowed and took his exit with unseemly alacrity.

  Only an hour later Tristan heard of the miraculous Miss Calder again, this time from her brother. Sir Francis Calder tracked Tristan down in the plow yard, where he was staring at a plow and wondering how to hook a horse to it. Calder was a compact young man with a shock of dark hair, friendly hazel eyes, and an outstretched hand. "We live down the lane at the Grange. Thought I'd come and offer my aid, belated as it is. I came earlier, but the countess wasn't receiving. And, well, we had some flooding damage, you see, or I'd've been more helpful."

  Tristan rose from beside the plow and shook the proffered hand. "No one would have known what to do with you, as I understand it. The foreman and hands quit, and the tenants weren't interested in paying for Haver's seed, so they just planted their own acreage. Not that there are many tenants. My brother-in-law—"

  "Let the place rot. Yes, we've noticed. My father was much the same, only he had me to keep the land fertile and the shot for the brandy paid. Kenny couldn't even keep a bailiff, for he never got around to paying them."

  Such candor was oddly refreshing, and Tristan relaxed a bit. No need to keep up a loyal front with this one, who apparently knew Kenny all too well. "It's good land, though, do you think?"

  Calder's harsh expression faded as he gazed lovingly out at the rolling hills, etched with hedgerows, washed in golden light. "Best damn farmland in the kingdom. It only needs good stewardship, you know, to offer up all the bounty God intended."

  Tristan politely inclined his head at this piety. Then gesturing out at the barren fields, he asked, "Do you think it's too late to plant?"

  Calder shrugged. "We were all late getting the seed into the ground this spring, for the lower fields near the rivers were inaccessible. Usually the summer lasts long after such a spring— just have to hope. You've got a fortnight before sun gets too hot for germination."

  Once again, Tristan decided confession was the best policy. "I'm no wheat farmer. I haven't the slightest idea what to do. If you could steer me to a good foreman, I'd be grateful."

  "You won't find a good foreman quick enough, for you'd probably have to go out of the county. Tell you what." Calder clapped him on the shoulder. "I'll send over a few of my hands to help you. They've been idle a day now anyway. A dozen or so men should do the trick." He cast an expert eye on the plow, then hefted it up with calloused hands and let it drop. "I'd best send over some plows and horses, too. Blast it, I'll come myself and supervise it all, if you don't mind."

  "If I don't mind?" Tristan stared at the other man, suspecting he was being touched for another contribution of some kind. But there was no vicarlike cunning in those frank eyes, and Tristan relaxed his guard. "No, I don't mind. In fact, I don't know how to thank you."

  "No reason to stretch, old man." Calder kicked at the plow, apparently uncomfortable with gratitude. "Nothing I like better than spring planting—or summer planting, as the case may be."

  As they started back to the house, Calder asked diffidently, "How's Lady Haver? I stopped by to pay my respects after the accident, but she wasn't receiving."

  "She's still not receiving. The grief— and the scandal— have got her prostrate."

  "No need for that," Calder said gruffly. "This ain't London. We don't care a fig for scandal. And besides, Kenny was ours, you know. We all knew what he was and weren't the least surprised at his end. Never expected anything else of him."

  "Well, Anna did." He suspected, in fact, that self-disgust was as much a factor in her decline as grief over the husband she had so over-esteemed.

  "I'll send my sister over this afternoon," Calder said helpfully. "She can visit with your sister and start getting the household in order. I hear you've lost some staff."

  "No more than the cook, the housekeeper, the butler, and all but one maid. Not to mention the boys' nurse. They drift away when they don't get paid."

  "Well, Charity'll have things in hand in a day or so."

  As they walked back to the front of the house, Tristan caught sight of Lawrence on the portico, all defiance now gone, leaning against a pillar with his head bowed. He must have said something unforgivable to Jeremy, and now repented it. But when he saw his uncle, he scowled and ran back into the house.

  Tristan felt the despair threaten again. He didn't think he could raise these boys, at least not Lawrence, who was so headstrong and angry and determined to push love to the breaking point. "The vicar did mention your sister, but he said she'd be too busy with Midsummer preparations to come."

  "Too busy? Not Charity. She's got the energy of ten men. She'll find the time if you need her. And—" Calder grinned, "it looks like you need her." Calder's confidence in his sister was all the more striking for being so offhand. "She'd've been here earlier on but she was—"

  "In London. Yes, the vicar told me she was a great success.

  "Success?" Calder echoed with a brother's irreverence. "Charity? Oh, I suppose she did well enough. She received an offer or two. Fawcett— is that his name?"

  "The nabob?" Even in Italy Tristan had heard about Fawcett, who liked to spend his Indian gold on very large paintings of very naked nymphs.

  "That's the one. Such a settlement he offered! Not that I'd take anything, you know. I don't hold with auctioning off my sister like that. These nabobs come back from India where they all have slaves and think they can do the same with good English girls. And Chilworth, of course. Now him I was glad she sent packing. He sent a Bow Street Runner to find out if we were the right sort to ally with his exalted family."

  "Chilworth. The marquess."

  "Too high in the instep for my tastes. Though I was ready for her to accept the devil himself after she turned down Ralph Bessemer. And some other fellow I can't remember. These hopeful suitors all tend to blend together after a time, you know."

  Tristan stopped there in the middle of the overgrown path. "So many offers?" He didn't know much about English maidens, having in the main avoided the sort of girls who required chaperones. But he knew enough to know that this was inconceivable. "And she didn't accept any?"

  "Well, I had high hopes for Bessemer, for he's just the sort of loose screw the girls seem to appreciate. Do you know him?"

  A decade ago Tristan's father, a don at Oxford, was wont to use Ralph Bessemer as his prime illustration of the worthlessness of modern undergraduates. "I know of him."

  "Always reminded me of Kenny, only Kenny hadn't any brains to speak of. So I guess it's best she saw through him, or I'd be in your shoes in a decade or so. The others, though, were right enough. Poor fools. They all trooped down here to apply to me. I felt like a physician telling 'em their days were numbered. And they were all so blasted disappointed." He shook his head ruefully. "I reckon, having decided to step right into the shackles, they expected she'd want to step in there with 'em. But she'd send me frantic notes: 'Forget Chilworth and his six hundred-year-old name!' 'Don't accept Bessemer and his ten thousand acres!' Now that one I disregarded, for I thought he was a dab hand with the ladies and could persuade her."

  "An inflated reputation, I take it," Tristan said dryly, intrigued in spite of himself.

  "Well, that's what she told me. Said he treated her only with the utmost respect." Calder's open face looked honestly confused. "It just goes to show. Don't the ladies always say they want to be treated like ladies? And then when we comply, they complain. It's a damned shame, for she'd be a fine wife. She's been too long raising my parent's children— we'd three younger brothers, you know. One's just twelve now, and he's been all Charity's doing."

  Calder's sturdy bay was tied to a post near the portico, and they began walking
that way. Calder cast him a speculative glance. "You're an artist, I hear. She likes art. She's got a stack of art books. My aunt said Charity would miss a picnic to spend an afternoon in the Royal Academy and look at the paintings."

  Tristan couldn't help but wonder if she'd seen his own pictures, if she liked them. Then he realized he was being approached for another contribution, one considerably greater than the vicar's two hundred pounds. As politely as he could, Tristan said, "I'm not in the market for a wife."

  "Wait till you meet our Charity. She's got a way of changing a fellow's mind. You know how you see some women and want to bed them?"

  Tristan thought it prudent not to answer and was glad he hadn't when Calder continued, "Not my sister. You see her and want to wed her. You start thinking how well she'd entertain your guests and consult with your chef and raise your children. You think she'd keep your household in order and make your life peaceful— and she would. She's had a decade's worth of experience at it. I almost hate to lose her, for I can't imagine how my brothers and I'll do without her. But she deserves a home of her own, don't you think?"

  Again Tristan thought it politic not to answer, and Calder nodded as he mounted his horse. "Just as well. I'd as soon not have her refuse another neighbor. She's turned down the squire's son and his nephew, too. So the squire's beginning to think we're too haughty a family— the Calders! Haughty!" He urged his horse down the avenue, calling over his shoulder, "I'll be back later with the crew."

  Chapter Three

  The brisk Calder soon had five plows working the nearby fields and four men preparing the seed for sowing. Tristan found himself very much in the way and took up Calder's polite suggestion to assemble the records of the last three seasons to determine if more seed had to be ordered. He disliked feeling so useless, but he had never turned over a spade in his life and wouldn't be much help now. He resolved to find some way to repay Sir Francis. Calder would be offended by a direct offer of cash, but perhaps a fine hunter wouldn't be taken amiss. Kenny had probably left a stableful at his lodge in Leicestershire.