A Most Unusual Lady

by Janet Grace

  Only Georgiana’s regular visits to stay with her father’s sister, Aunt Alvira—who, with her husband Sir Philip Mondfort, had been appointed Georgiana’s guardian, and who was an excellent friend to her by all accounts—and her innate strength of character could explain Georgiana’s personality. The young beauty was surprisingly shrewd, intelligent, blessed with excellent taste and possessed of a happy sense of humour. Miss Stapely worried the less about her the more she knew her, but she did worry about Mr. Blane. He seemed, from what she had heard, to be the first pike to cruise gently into the minnow shoal to Georgiana’s admirers.

  The girl was considering her answer to her companion’s question, head a little on one side, as she picked her way daintily along the meadow path which led down to the lane and the stream. Rags and the children raced ahead, exuberant in the golden sunlight.

  ‘Well, he is different, you must understand, which is why I have been ... er ... seeing something of him!’ She slid that sideways, smiling glance at Louisa again, then turned to face her frankly.

  ‘The others are just boys. Why, I have known them forever. They are good, kind, honest, respectable, well-brought-up boys of whom anyone’s parents would approve. I’ve paddled in streams with them, climbed trees with them, walked, ridden, danced. Now they pay self-conscious visits, blush, stammer or vie with each other to show me how well they hunt or drive. Of course, I am fond of them all, but...’ She shrugged and made a moue of dissatisfaction. ‘They are just boys. I have been blessed with all these charms...’ she gestured with such impatience at her enchanting face that Louisa had to laugh ‘... I want to attract a man. A real man!’ She stopped and had the grace to look instantly shamefaced as, ‘Georgiana!’ Louisa exclaimed.

  But she said no more, for she knew exactly what Georgiana meant. She fought to banish from her mind the memory of black brows over quizzical blue eyes with a crinkle of laughter at the corner, and a quirk of humour lifting the firm lips. She dragged her mind back to find Georgiana confessing, ‘Actually, I don’t think Mr. Blane is a nice man at all, and I fear his designs are both mercenary and dishonourable, which is a lowering thought. But, my dear protector, you may take comfort in the fact that I acknowledge this!’ She grinned ruefully, then gripped Louisa’s arm.

  ‘Look! Beyond the hedge, in the lane.’ A figure swanned into view by the meadow gate. ‘Isn’t that a vision of magnificence? Do be impressed, dear Louisa! All my other admirers are smitten with rage and jealousy.’ She chuckled again as she shook back the wheat-gold curls and twirled the delicate parasol. ‘But I did omit to mention the frog-spawn. Do you think Mr. Blane is about to develop a scientific interest in natural history?’

  This seemed to Louisa to be exceedingly unlikely.

  The four children and Rags had pushed through the meadow gate and clattered over the wooden bridge that spanned the sluggish brook. This and the lane meandered together between high hedges to various isolated farms beyond the village. The banks were frothy-white with Queen Anne’s lace, and the hedgerows bursting with May blossom. The mud of the previous weeks had dried.

  Despite this, the man was watching the children’s explorations along the stream bank with pained distaste, occasionally flicking irritably at a fly that had the audacity to settle on his immaculate outfit. His pantaloons were of a yellow to shame the last of the celandines, his Hessians, gleaming, sported matching yellow tassels. His dark green coat was nipped in tightly at the waist over a green and yellow striped waistcoat, restrictingly high shirt-points, and a vast fall of snowy cravat. Several large gold fobs hung from his waist, and a heavy gold signet ring graced one hand. He fingered a cane with an elaborately worked silver head.

  Although Louisa had witnessed dandies whose clothes reached far greater excesses when she had been in London, still this vision in Copper’s Lane was sufficiently startling. But not, she thought, as the man strode over to open the gate for them and swept off his high-brimmed hat, amusing. The face was too cold, the eyes too calculating, the assessing too cynical. But for that the man’s dark-eyed, swarthy face might have been deemed handsome, and when he smiled, with a hint of something dangerous lurking behind his eyes, she could understand how he attracted women.

  ‘Miss Lyntrell.’ He bowed low over Georgiana’s hand and murmured something as he raised it to his lips. She retrieved it hastily, blushing, and turned to Louisa.

  ‘I would like you to meet my friend and companion, Miss Stapely. Miss Stapely, Mr. Blane.’

  As he took her hand Louisa returned his look with a cool, critical appraisal, and was pleased to see him appear a little startled, then wary. He need not think she would be readily conned by his flattery. After a few moments’ talk she walked over to supervise the fishing operations.

  The children had found, on a bed of the lane, a place where the stream widened almost to a pool, and here frog-spawn was abundant. Armed with twigs from the hedge, they were raking globular, jelly-like masses towards the bank, negotiating them through the sprouting reeds to within ‘colander’ reach. An appreciable amount had already slithered into the jars. They proudly displayed it to their governess.

  ‘Come and see us fishing it up, miss.’

  Geoffrey turned with his engaging grin, brandishing twig and colander.

  Georgiana, who had walked firmly after the family down the lane, was called over to admire the catch. She stood uncaring, waist-deep in white flowers, peering into jars and earnestly studying where Clifton pointed out more spawn in the water.

  ‘Come and see,’ she called to her immaculate admirer. Her look was ingenuous, but Louisa detected a hint of mischief in the tone. With a look of distaste Mr. Blane hesitated, then shrugged slightly and came forward, poking the vegetation aside with his cane.

  ‘Look, Miss Stapely, what’s that? It’s different.’

  Clifton was pointing over the reeds to where long strands of spawn were twined about some weed.

  ‘Yes, indeed. So it is.’

  Miss Stapely turned on impulse to Mr. Blane with a small, wicked smile.

  ‘Might I trouble you for the loan of your cane, please, Mr. Blane?’ She met his eyes innocently, her hand outstretched.

  Only with the grossest rudeness could he have refused, and, believing the governess merely to need steadying on the bank, he reluctantly handed the cane down.

  She beamed at him. ‘So very kind ... Now, look, children. This is toadspawn. It is laid in long strings. Hold my hand please, Clifton.’

  Steadied by the sturdy boy, Louisa held the tip of the polished cane and carefully dipped the silvered knob into the murky pond-water. Ignoring the stifled exclamation from behind, she looped it through the skeins of slimy toadspawn and carefully drew them to the bank, where the boys fell upon them with their colanders.

  ‘Oh, well done!’ laughed Georgiana, her face alight with merriment.

  ‘We must all thank Mr. Blane for the loan of his cane, mustn’t we, children?’ said Louisa gravely.

  A chorus of well-brought-up ‘thank yous’ echoed along the bank as Geoffrey scrambled up and returned the dripping cane to its owner. The man’s face was mottled with suppressed rage, and he held the cane pointedly away from him, half-way down its length.

  ‘So kind of you to help us,’ Louisa gushed again, and he nodded at her shortly.

  It really was just an unfortunate coincidence that Rags should choose this moment to terminate his illicit explorations of the moorhens’ nests in the reed beds further downstream, and return to them, eyes bright, tongue lolling, covered in mud and water. It was, of course, only natural that he should wish to shake off the water, as Georgiana pointed out in his defence, but it had to be admitted that the gleaming Hessians did not look quite the same afterwards. Mr. Blane’s muttered comments could not endear him to a sharp-eared and conscientious governess, who began to direct the party homewards, nor did his use of the cane upon poor Rags endear him to Georgiana or the children. He made his stiff farewells as Georgiana, regardless of the powder-blue dre
ss, comforted the whimpering terrier, but unfortunately was not quite out of earshot when the beauty looked up at Louisa with a burst of laughter.

  ‘His face when you put his cane in the pond—I wish you had seen it!’

  ‘Huh!’ Clifton grunted. ‘I wish Rags had longer legs. Then he would have shaken all over that silly man’s yellow breeches.’

  ‘Home!’ said Miss Stapely firmly. ‘Carry the jars carefully, girls. We want that to arrive safely in the schoolroom.’

  Upon reflection, having glimpsed the man’s fury as he had left them, Louisa wondered if she had been quite wise to give way to that shockingly uncivil impulse and aggravate him so. She walked thoughtfully back to the house.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Mr. James Blane was exceedingly angry as he strode back up Cooper’s Lane, and the offending cane was swiped viciously at flower-heads along the way, as he mulled over his misfortunes.

  He had never intended to leave town before the end of the season, and certainly not to bury himself in such a rustic backwater, for most of his income was derived from card-play. However, a distressing incident at the tables, when his honesty had been called into question, had made accepting a friend’s invitation to rusticate a wise move. Also, his creditors had become embarrassingly pressing.

  His first meeting with Georgiana Lyntrell had seemed a godsend. He had seen her in the village, with only an ignorant maid in tow: beautiful, naive, inexperienced, and ready to be dazzled by his sophistication. Also, he discovered to his incredulous delight, she was a very considerable heiress. Marriage had not previously crossed his mind as a solution to his problems, but he now realised that he had been seriously underestimating its potential.

  He had therefore been pursuing Georgiana with the calculated cunning he had only previously dedicated to his card-play. She had responded with tentative coquetry. She had been flattered to agree to his suggested meetings, some of them certainly indiscreet, and, more surprisingly, seemed to have been encouraged to do so by her mama.

  Mr. Blane approved of Mrs. Addiscombe, for he judged her to be thoroughly silly, and most susceptible to flattery. He visited her regularly, and discussed all her favourite novels, drawing her daughter as a heroine, and himself as a hero.

  He had judged his plans for a speedy marriage to be advancing well, when his friend had unfortunately returned to town. Undeterred, he had journeyed to London with him, where his chilly reception had proved that the gossip was not yet forgotten. Nevertheless, he had replenished his supplies of ready cash by fleecing several gullible youngsters, persuaded his tailor to supply him with some natty new items in which to dazzle Miss Lyntrell, and ventured briefly into the Pantheon bazaar for a few trifling knick-knacks which he thought would impress her as proof of his undying affection.

  He had returned to engage rooms at the Green Dragon with a rosy view of his marital, and thus financial, prospects. Today’s walk, like a dousing of icy water, had brought home to him the fragility of his future. Mentally cursing this opinionated new governess, whose views must, he felt, have swayed Georgiana against him, he determined to work with all speed to bring his plans for this necessity of a marriage to a conclusion.

  Sweeping into the Green Dragon, Blane shouted for food and wine to be brought to his private parlour, and ordered his man to work a miracle on his Hessians without delay.

  At Alnstrop House, another man had been contemplating his meeting with Miss Stapely with little joy. For the last fortnight, Robert, fourth Lord Alnstrop, had been mentally cursing himself for his own unbelievable folly. To think that he, after years of nimbly avoiding unwanted female pursuit with charm and dexterity, for he was viewed as a major ‘catch’ at every London season, should, on meeting a girl who attracted him so strongly, immediately make such a crashing blunder! He could not see how he could ever expect her to forgive such evidence of crass insensitivity. In his own mind, as he brooded late at night, his words to her came to seem more and more monstrous. He fretted, uncertain what to do for the best.

  Also, and less fairly, he came partially to blame his brother for ever bringing this situation to pass. He therefore decided it was high time John learned to occupy his time usefully, with a view to his future—to be too busy to get into further trouble.

  Every day he and John had ridden out over the estates, often accompanied by Mr. Horley, the estates manager. Every breath of his lordship’s energy had been poured into showing his brother what every landed gentleman ought to know, ought to care about, and ought to attend to without delay. They viewed the livestock, the grazing and the outbuildings. They argued over the best position for a new, large bam that was required. They reviewed fodder crops and cash crops and discussed future plans for various acreages, They examined the maintenance of ditches, fences, hedges, ponds and copses, and planned a new programme of tree planting to provide an eventual wind-break behind the farm buildings and the kitchen garden. They visited tenant farmers to listen to their plans and grievances, and give occasional help or advice, and called on every family of lesser degree, that John might understand what each contributed to the estate. They met the gamekeeper at his cottage and checked the birds, the coverts and the ridges through the acres of woodland. They discussed the trees to be used for timber, and the replanting that should be done to replace them.

  In his desire to forget that he had ever met one Miss Louisa Stapely, Lord Alnstrop set himself and his brother a programme of work that was a punishment to them both. Henrietta noticed that, whereas John seemed ready to fall into a dreamless sleep at the end of each gruelling day, Robert sat up late by the fire, with brandy bottle and glass on the tray beside him.

  One evening John had left them early and slid quietly down to the Alnstrop Arms for a cock-fight, before he could be drawn into an earnest lecture on crop yields and new strains of vegetables. His brother was becoming a crashing bore over the size of mangel-wurzels, and the local blacksmith had produced a magnificent bird whose weight, speed and ferocity promised well in the forthcoming bout. He was to be pitted against the ‘Red Terror’, a previously invincible bird belonging to the butcher in the next village. Local feeling was at fever pitch and John declared he would not miss the fight for the world, not even for the most monstrous mangel-wurzel!

  Henrietta and Robert were left alone in the drawingroom after a dinner where Robert lingered morosely over the port before coming to join her ladyship. Henrietta was working with neat, precise stitches on a piece of delicate embroidery, and smiled up without speaking when her brother entered.

  She was not especially fond of embroidery, but this beautiful piece had been her mother’s, who was now unable to complete it. Hetta had set herself the task of finishing the work when it had seemed an appropriate chore to fill the empty hours of her widowhood. Now she was just grimly determined to finish it, and have it mounted as a firescreen in her mother’s room as soon as possible. The cluster of candles standing at her elbow to light her work cast highlights of moving colour over her dark curls as she held the cloth into the brightness and, frowning, matched a skein of silk.

  Her brother watched her briefly, then, pulling a chair up to the fire, gazed moodily down into the flames. He did not notice her glance at him consideringly.

  ‘John seems to have benefited immensely from the time you have spent with him in the last couple of weeks,’ she ventured, in carefully neutral tones.

  Her brother grunted non-committally.

  ‘He seems to me to have some balanced and well-reasoned ideas about what should be done with the land he owns, and to know when to take advice from people who know more than he does.’ She paused to thread another strand of silk. ‘From what I hear, the tenants like him. They feel he listens to their problems and considers them fairly.’

  Robert stirred himself to respond.

  ‘Yes,’ he said dully, ‘he shows greater aptitude than I had thought possible.’

  His sister regarded his lethargy with a quick frown of irritation. He was unaware, once a
gain gloomily contemplating the coals.

  Lady Cairshaw stifled a desire to hurl her basket of silks at his head and persevered.

  ‘He has arranged for the Gannet to be permanently moored, and even considered selling her.’ She set her work in her lap and regarded her brother earnestly. ‘I do think, Robert, that it is time you pushed John to take over the management of his own estates now. The responsibility will be just what he needs, while his enthusiasm is fired by what you have shown him here. After all, you shouldered a burden of much greater responsibility than his will be when you were much younger.’

  Robert nodded. He knew this. He had been thinking it himself. He had for some years consciously shielded John from too much responsibility, knowing the restrictions and burdens it had thrown upon him as he had struggled to do his best for all his family. Now he acknowledged that John should be made more responsible and independent, but he had found himself reluctant to reach this conclusion.

  ‘I have been thinking the same thing, Hetta. You are quite right, it is time for him to manage a place of his own, but I have been unsure what to do for the best. You see...’ He paused, then seemed to come to some inner decision, and spoke more certainly. ‘The obvious place to start would be the manor, where Horley thinks the bailiff has been cheating on the accounts for some time. I have to go over personally, but it has been forgotten over this business with John. It is one of the best of John’s houses, one he might like to make ready for his own permanent use. He is not too young or too impoverished to consider marriage himself, you know. But he would need help and advice in the initial process of sorting out this bailiff’s accounts.’