Kidnap Confusion

by Judith Nelson

  "Well?" His one word was sharp as he rose at his grandmother's entrance, and she smiled benignly at him.

  "Yes," she answered gently, "I am well. And you?"

  The response took the earl by surprise, and he stared at her for a moment before, recalled to his manners, he asked her to take a chair by the fire. The countess did so at her leisure, pleased to see the impatience in his manner as he awaited her pleasure, flinging himself into his chair and downing his brandy before setting the glass down with a snap.

  "Did you talk to her?" his lordship demanded, leaning forward. His grandmother beamed at him again.

  "Why yes," she said, "I believe I will have a sip of your brandy. Since you ask."

  His lordship almost ground his teeth as he reached for the decanter and a clean glass. After pouring a splash of the amber liquid into it, he handed it to the countess who shook her head reproachfully at him.

  "Really, Giles," she chided, "as your grandfather used to say, a gentleman should never be stingy with the price of his boots or fee dispensing of his brandy."

  The earl's brow almost lightened as he reached for the decanter again and added a generous amount to his grand­mother's glass. This time she accepted it with becoming thanks, and sipped the liquor slowly, her eyes watching him over the snifter's rim. She seemed in no hurry to begin their conversation, and so the earl, after several moments, said, "Yes, Grandmama, you're quite right—there is a chill in the air today, and no, I don't think the country can continue to let Prinny set this ruinous course; although I quite agree with you that it is not wise to say so outside these walls; and yes, I have heard the latest crim. con. story, and agree it is quite scandalous, so—now that we have covered all the social niceties, perhaps we can get to the heart of this conversation. And that is—did you speak with Miss Tolliver? What did she say? What was she doing?"

  The countess, upon whom her grandson's best brandy was having a mellowing effect, nodded. "Yes," she said. "I did speak with dear Margaret. She said a great deal. And she was packing."

  "What?" His grandmother's last sentence ended all amuse­ment fee earl had heretofore felt at her tactics. He sprang from his chair and wife a "She must not!" had half -covered fee distance to fee door when his grandmother stopped him.

  "My dear Giles," she complained, "how is it I used to think you the most restful of my relatives? Really, dear boy—I cannot have this. Come back and sit down. I said Miss Tolliver was packing. She is doing so no longer."

  "What?" The word, not as sharp as his first explosion moments earlier, was still strong enough to make his grand­mother frown at him as he stood, looking back at her over one well-tailored shoulder, his eyes narrowed and his jaw tightened.

  "Oh, do stop glaring at me and come and sit down!" his grandmother said irritably, placing her glass on the small table beside her. "If an old woman can't even enjoy a glass of brandy in peace, without being badgered to fix all and tell all—well!" Giles had not moved, and the countess straightened, regarding him with the same regal gaze she had used when he was a boy of twelve who had broken a shoulder after taking out his grandfather's high-spirited hunter. To her delight it still worked, for after one more impatient step toward the door the earl stopped, looked back at her again, and, muttering, returned to his chair across from her.

  "Now," his grandmother said, favoring him with her most severe frown, "do strive for a little of the sense God gave you, Giles! I don't know how any grandson of mine could be such a—but there!" She reached forward and patted his knee. "I suppose some allowances must be made for a man in love!"

  "What?" It was that same sharp tone again, and the dowager stared at the earl's frowning face in blandest surprise.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  The earl straightened, jerking on his cravat in a manner that well illustrated that this man of fashion was seriously upset. "Really, Grandmama! A man in love! You mistake my—that is—I mean—"

  His grandmother did not help him, merely opening her eyes wider as he glared at her.

  "It is merely," he said at last, his back as stiff as hers had been moments before, "that I do not wish Miss Tolliver to be unhappy—or inconvenienced—or worried. It is also that I do not want her to so happily refuse what any number of other women would be so delighted to—"

  The way his grandmother was smiling at him—almost as if she were laughing—made him stop that thought and hurry on.

  "While I will agree that she is a pleasant woman," he continued, frowning at the countess, "—the pleasantest of my acquaintance, actually; and that it has been agreeable to have her here—more agreeable than I would have imagined, really; and that she has that trick of knowing just what is funny, and of making little arrangements with the cook, and the housekeeper, and of keeping Gillian in line and Peter and John happy. . ."

  He seemed lost in that sentence as his gaze shifted from his grandmother to the fire, and he continued almost to himself. "But on the other hand, she is impertinent and strong-willed and sharp-tongued, and she isn't above giving me a piece of her mind on almost any subject! And it isn't that she's a beauty—far from it!"

  "I like her eyes," his grandmother interposed.

  The earl nodded abstractly, his gaze still fixed on the fire. "She has fine eyes," he agreed. "So kind, and laughing. And she has one of those smiles that makes a person feel important. I've seen her talking with Peter, and the servants, and my aunts—just the way she smiles at them makes them feel better. You can tell."

  "She has a good mind," his grandmother offered.

  "Almost too good!" his lordship agreed with feeling, looking back at the countess. "In fact, only yesterday she was saying—" There was something about the way his grandmother was smiling at him that made Giles stop, and his jaw dropped in amazement as if for the first time he, too, heard his words.

  "Good grief, madam, you're right! I am in love with her! Of all the preposterous—foolish—Oh, Grandmama! What am I going to do?"

  The dowager countess told him. She told him—among other things—that his handling of the situation so far had convinced his betrothed that he had offered for her only out of chivalry, and that that lady, having her own chivalrous ideas, was determined not to hold him to an agreement she felt he had been driven into and did not want.

  His lordship's protest that he had been driven into it—at first—was met with a vehement "Hogwash!" and the se­vere request that he pay attention and not talk like a ninny. After that Giles subsided meekly, listening as his grand­mother said she had done what she could for him, detailing several aspects of her conversation with Margaret and con­tinuing uninterrupted until she announced that she had persuaded Miss Tolliver to stay a while longer to protect the earl from embarrassment and scandal.

  The countess was rather pleased with her stratagems and success at that point, bat the earl did not take her last disclosure in good part; in fact, he was moved to protest quite strongly that he did not want either the lady's pity or her charity. The very thought was repugnant to him, but his grandmother brought him up short by asking if he would rather Miss Tolliver departed that day, never to be seen again?

  Of course he would not, he told her; it was just that—just that—

  "Just that you've got the Manfieid pride." His grand­mother nodded. "I know. Pride is a fine thing, in modera­tion, but it can't share a joke or hold your hand, so you'd better decide if you'd rather have all of the former or some of the latter, because—"

  Seeing all the signs that the countess was ready to launch into one of her famous pungent lectures, the carl agreed hastily that he could do wife a little less pride, and his grandmother continued. She gave him several pieces of good advice on the wooing and winning of a spirited lady—not, she added crossly, feat she expected him to take them, for even men of usual good sense acted like such idiots when it came to love—but declined to venture an opinion when fee earl, an anxious crease across his fore­head, asked if she thought Miss Tolliver might care for him—a little—or might
learn to?

  "I wouldn't know," fee countess said mendaciously, keeping to herself the brittle tone and fee overly bright eyes feat had punctuated fee end of her interview wife Margaret, and comforting herself with the thought feat it did not hurt a gentleman as used to being in control as Giles was to be a bit unsure now and then. "I think she could do better myself, but there! You never know when an otherwise sensible woman will be smitten in the most foolish ways!"

  The earl smiled at her. "Thank you, Grandmama! Your opinion is always elevating for me!" And so saying he rose and kissed her cheek before reaching for the brandy decant­er and adding to her diminished glass. "You will excuse me," he said with a bow. "I believe I have a great deal of work to do!"

  His grandmother nodded tranquilly and reached for her glass, smiling into it as she heard the soft closing of the library door behind him. She sat for several moments, watching the fire dance up the chimney, then raised her glass in quiet salute to the picture of her son that hung above the mantle. "You've got a good son there, Richard," she said. "I know how important that is. I was lucky. I had a good son, too."

  The painting above the mantel smiled back at her as she issued a relaxed sigh then touched her lips to the snifter, and drank.

  Chapter 19

  The earl, hunting in earnest now, found his quarry remark­ably elusive in the next few days, and his frustration had peaked when he came upon Miss Tolliver by accident one afternoon in the Willowdale gardens. She was dressed with the elegant simplicity that had become familiar to him. She wore a high poke bonnet that framed her face, its light blue ribbons matching the flounce on her high-waisted gown and setting off to advantage the soft blue of her eyes. She also wore a light silk shawl against the day's breeze, and was untangling its fringe from an inquisitive rose bush whose branches brushed the bench upon which she sat.

  "My dear, let me help you with that!" the earl said, hurrying forward.

  "There is no need—" Miss Tolliver began, but he did not listen, and in a moment had the fringe free. Looking op with thanks, Margaret found him smiling down at her in such a way that she quite forgot for a moment what she was going to say, and had to give herself a severe inward shake before the words returned to her.

  "My dear, you look charming," the earl said in a warm voice. "May I join you?"

  Miss Tolliver had the time neither to issue an invitation nor to decline his request, for Giles seated himself on the bench beside her, picking up the fan that had lain there and opening it to view the scene painted upon it.

  "Verv pretty." he approved.

  "Yes," Miss Tolliver agreed. "But not half so beautiful as your gardens, my lord. I wish we had but half these blossoms at my home in Yorkshire!"

  The earl regarded her curiously, asking if she liked to garden, and when she acknowledged that it was a favorite pastime, he told her that the gardens were largely the work of his mother, who had enjoyed gardening, too.

  "It was she who drew up the plans for the grounds," he said. "I can remember how my father used to tease her about them—saying she cared more for her flowers than she cared for her family, and that her desire to import this or that exotic bloom would be the ruin of him. But after she died, he was often to be found here. He said the gardens were a continuation of her beauty, and he felt closer to her here than anywhere else. I think sometimes—"

  He stopped suddenly, and Miss Tolliver put an uncon­scious hand out to cover one of his own. "You think, my lord?" she asked softly.

  He looked down at her hand and then up into her face before shaking his head. "I do not wish to bore you."

  "I am not bored," she answered in that quiet voice that made him want to stroke the hand that covered his, but he refrained. "Tell me what you think."

  "I think," he said at last, looking out at the well-kept shrubs and flowerbeds, "that it is the best part of herself she could leave us, this growing, flowering place she created with love."

  Miss Tolliver agreed that it was a fine gift, but added that his mother had left them all something else. At his question­ing look she smiled. "She left you each other. And there is a lot of love apparent there, too."

  This time he could not help himself—his second hand covered hers, and hastily Miss Tolliver withdrew, her color high as she directed his attention down one of the garden paths. "Oh, look," she cried. "Lazaurus is taking Aunt Henrietta for a walk!"

  Obediently his eyes followed her pointing finger. "Don't you mean your aunt is taking her rooster for a walk?" he asked, smiling, but she shook her head, and in a moment, he saw that what she said was true. The rooster strutted ahead of the absentminded Henrietta, its head cocking from side to side as it kept a watchful eye out for bugs unwise enough to be in the garden at the moment. Laz also kept an eye on Henrietta, and whenever she stopped to admire a particularly lovely bloom or to gaze at the sky or the small pond that the earl's mother had made part of her garden, he went hopping back to her, scolding in such a way that she invariably started forward again with a "Yes, yes, Laz, I'm coming!"

  They proceeded in this manner until they reached the earl and Miss Tolliver, and Aunt Henrietta stopped for a moment to pat her niece's cheek and to gaze consideringly at the earl, who had risen at her approach. "Twenty thousand pounds!" she breathed, looking nearsightedly up into his face. "My, my!" Then, to the rooster clucking at her feet, she said, "Yes, Laz, yes!" and drifted past.

  The earl, left smiling behind her, remarked to the air that he was glad Miss Tolliver's family found him so agreeable.

  "Oh, yes," Miss Tolliver agreed, her eyes alight. "My aunt and brother both find you—enchanting!"

  "Both find my twenty-thousand pounds enchanting, you mean," he corrected her.

  She assured him that, to her brother, he and his twenty- thousand pounds were one and the same.

  "And to your aunt?" he was smiling back at her in that odd way that made Miss Tolliver feel the air growing closer about her.

  "Well, the twenty-thousand pounds is a powerful induce­ment, of course," she said, "but there is also the fact that Lazaurus likes you. That goes a long way with Aunt Henrietta."

  "Lazaurus—likes me?" the earl repeated. His popularity had never rested with a rooster before.

  "Oh, yes," Miss Tolliver assured him, her lips prim, her eyes still alight. "You sit quite well with Lazaurus. He never pecks at you, as he does at Charles, nor does he fly in your face, as he did the day poor Gillian was napping on the morning room sofa."

  "He flew in Gillian's face—?" the earl, who had not heard this story, questioned. Miss Tolliver nodded.

  "Lazaurus," she informed him in a perfect imitation of her aunt's tone when an indignant Gillian applied to that lady to constrain her wild bird, "does not approve of sloth. An early riser himself, he cannot condone people whiling away the day's most productive hours in slumber. A bit of a high stickler, is Lazaurus."

  The earl laughed. "I am sure Gillian was moved."

  "Well," Miss Tolliver confessed, "I think he was nearly moved to wring poor Laz's neck. And if it had not been for his inherent good manners-—and your brother John's timely intervention—he would surely have done so. But now he has learned to leave no door ajar when he enters or leaves a room, and if he only remembers to also close all windows, I have great hopes that we won't have a repeat of that unfortunate scene."

  The earl, saying that he would certainly remember such precautions if he, himself, ever felt an attack of sleepiness— or sloth—coming on, added that Lazaurus might be the best guardian he could find to keep Gillian at his studies. Miss Tolliver smiled, and they sat for several moments in silence, the lady surveying the gardens before them, and his lordship surveying the lady.

  "It really is too bad," he said suddenly, and Miss Tolliver turned to him in surprise.

  "Too bad, my lord?" she repeated.

  He nodded, and his expression grew mournful as she watched him. "Yes. Too bad."

  "But—" Quickly she reviewed their conversation, seek­ing the sadne
ss in it. "Are you thinking of your mother—"

  "No." His lordship shook his head. "I am thinking not of my family, but of yours."

  "Mine?" Miss Tolliver was startled, and then she stiffened. "If it is about Lazaurus, my lord, I am sorry, but I warned you before Aunt Henrietta ever came—"

  His lordship said it was not the rooster.

  "Oh." Miss Tolliver thought again, and sighed. "Well," she said, "then it must be Charles, and I am sorry for that, too, but he is what he is, and—"

  Solemnly the earl told her that his thoughts did not lie with her brother.

  "Oh." Miss Tolliver cocked her head to the left, considering, while one hand absently played with the fringe of her shawl. "Well, then. . . I do not understand. What is it, my lord, that is too bad?"

  "You." He watched in enjoyment as her eyes widened, and she sat back a little on the bench, regarding him. Instantly the alert rosebush tangled in her shawl again, and his lordship reached over to free it. Miss Tolliver continued to regard him.

  "Me?" she said at last, and the earl nodded.

  "You, Miss Tolliver."

  "But Giles—" the lady started, then stopped, blushing. "I mean, my lord—"

  "No, no, no," he complained. "You were quite right the first time. My name is Giles, and there is nothing wrong with your using it. You say it quite charmingly, you know. I would like to hear you say it again."

  Miss Tolliver shook her head, watching her hands clasp and unclasp in her lap. "We are not on terms—" she began primly.

  "My dear Maggie, we are engaged!"

  "Not really—and you shouldn't be calling me Maggie!"

  "Margaret, then," he said placatingly.

  "No. You shouldn't call me Margaret, either!"

  "But it is your name!"