by Carola Dunn
“I’ll see what I can do,” he found himself saying. “The carpenter ought to be able to knock up something suitable if you direct him.”
The grateful joy that shone in those eyes was like no expression he had ever seen in Virginia’s. “Oh, thank you, sir,” Judith cried. “That is excessively kind of you.” She hesitated. “You will not tell Ginnie?”
He raised his brows. “You want to keep it secret from your sister?”
“At least until the cages are built. If you please?”
“As you wish.”
“Thank you. And thank you for bringing Prickles back, my lord,” she said shyly, then confessed, “It was my bird’s nest up your chimney—but it was an old one. No one had lived in it this age.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he assured her with due gravity, and took his leave.
Not tell Ginnie—Virginia—Miss Webster of his offer? Now why the devil not? The only reason Justin could think of was that Miss Virginia Webster would take exception to his rapprochement with one member of her family. Which bore out his suspicion that she was the ringleader, the instigator of all his troubles.
* * * *
Ginnie found her mother strolling with the earl among the formal box hedges and marble statuary of the Italian garden. They were holding hands when first she saw them, but guiltily let go as she approached along the gravel path.
Whatever the toplofty Lord Amis said, she was glad she had contrived to bring them together. Her steppapa had lost his sallowness and his melancholy, withdrawn expression. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were bright. As for Mama, she had never looked prettier, in her Pomona green gown with white lace ruffles, a broad-brimmed leghorn hat shading her happy face from the fitful noontide sunshine.
Ginnie sighed for the white lace ruffles. They’d have looked well on her own lilac muslin, but while the new countess must cut a figure for her husband’s sake, his stepdaughters could claim no such necessity.
Smiling, she kissed her mother and bade her good morning, then turned to the earl. “Sir, I have one or two errands in Beaconsfield this afternoon. I know you need the carriage. May I take the gig?”
“Of course, my dear. In fact, you may do a little errand for me, if you will be so good. Yesterday’s post brought a notice that the bookshop has received the books I ordered last week. I could send a groom, but if there is a volume missing, as happens not infrequently, you will be able to deal with the problem at once.”
‘ ‘I shall check them carefully when I pick them up. Mama, is there anything you need from the draper’s, or the haberdasher’s? That is where I shall chiefly be, procuring all sorts of odds and ends for Lydia. The village shop has such a limited stock.”
“Yes, dear, I need a ribbon matched, and some buttons, and thread. I shall make a list before you go. You do not mean to drive the gig yourself, do you, Ginnie? I cannot like it.”
“Now, Mama, surely you don’t think me such a ninnyhammer! You know I have never learned to drive. I shall take a groom.”
“Take Duffy,” the earl advised. “He’s a steady fellow, won’t overset you.”
“I beg your pardon.” Lord Amis had approached them unnoticed. “I could not help overhearing your plans, Miss Webster. I regret to say I have urgent need of the gig this afternoon.”
His smug expression informed Ginnie that his urgent need had been concocted on the spur of the moment, simply to thwart her. Catching his eye, she realized he knew she was aware of the fact. Inside, she fumed. However, she had no intention of brangling before her mama who, regarding her stepson with unwonted wariness, laid her hand on her husband’s arm. The viscount would have to be allowed to win a round.
“Far be it from me to stand in your way. Lord Amis,” Ginnie said untruthfully, with forced cordiality. “Doubtless your errand is more urgent than mine.”
“You had best get yourself a phaeton, my boy,” said the earl, “or one of these newfangled tilburies.”
“I mean to replace my curricle, sir, which I sold when I went abroad.”
“That’s right. If you’re short of the ready, just set it down to my account.”
“I am not short of the ready, sir,” said Lord Amis, tight-lipped.
Ginnie hid a smile as his father beamed and said proudly to his wife, “Did I not tell you, Emma, my son is a careful, sober lad? You will want horses, too, Justin. Yes, another carriage will be just the thing. I ought to have realized that we need more vehicles for a large family.”
“Yes, sir,” he agreed in a disgruntled tone that almost made Ginnie laugh. His purpose in purchasing a curricle was not to free a vehicle for the Websters’ use. “Sir,” he continued, “I have a mind to invite a few friends to stay for a week or so, if a small house party will not discommode you?”
“Not at all, not at all. A capital notion, is it not, my love?”
Lady Wooburn beamed, her mistrust vanishing. “Indeed, it will be delightful to meet your friends, Lord Amis.”
Warned by his sardonic expression, Ginnie was quite certain that meeting his friends was not going to be a delightful experience. “May I enquire how many people you will invite?” she asked.
“Yes, Justin, you must consult with Virginia,” the earl advised him. “The household runs so smoothly these days I sometimes forget that all is due to your efforts, my dear. You will know how many guests we can accommodate in comfort.”
It was Ginnie’s turn for smugness. “How many, my lord?” she persisted.
“Nine or ten.”
“I dare say Mrs. Peaskot and I can manage.”
“I shall give you a list when I have written the invitations. Pray excuse me now. I must go and give orders about the gig.”
As he turned away. Lord Wooburn patted Ginnie’s arm. “Never mind, my dear, I have no immediate need of the books you offered to fetch for me.”
Lord Amis started, his stride interrupted. His ears turned red. Then he went on, leaving Ginnie feeling she had won the skirmish after all. He had the use of the gig, but only at the cost of preventing her carrying out his father’s errand.
What was more, with no destination planned, he’d probably end up tooling the gig aimlessly around the country lanes for several hours. With old Patch between the shafts of the small, staid vehicle, that was a less-than-exciting occupation for an arrogant gentleman.
Silently, Ginnie wished him joy of it.
* * *
Chapter 8
Of all the wasted afternoons! It was nearly time to change for dinner when Justin drove into the stable yard. He had deliberately stayed out late to prevent Ginnie’s buying her fripperies, though he had thereby deprived his father of his books.
And all because he had stupidly challenged her for the use of the gig. Somehow the very sight of her impudent face made him lose his wits.
He had thought that at least he had won the round, until the earl mentioned the books. How she must have laughed up her sleeve! She had guessed he had no real need for the carriage, and she’d find it all too easy to hint as much to his father, making him appear childishly spiteful. Then, when the earl was disillusioned, she could go on to tell him about that damned kiss, destroying his trust in his son forever.
Gloomily, Justin entered the house.
In the front hall he met Reynolds. “Oh, there you are, my lord,” said the butler. “I’ll tell Cook dinner will have to be served in the dining-room. At least, I don’t suppose your lordship would care to join the children for supper in the day nursery?”
“You are absolutely correct, I would not.” He concealed a shudder. “Why, where is everyone?”
“An invitation from the Frobishers, my lord. An impromptu dinner party in honour of some unexpected visitors, I understand. His lordship and my lady and the two eldest Miss Websters are gone. Of course, you were also invited, my lord,” he consoled, “but no one knew where you were or when you would return.”
So Ginnie was gadding about, not sitting at home hoping for him to return with the gig
in time for her to go to the shops. “And Mr. Gilbert?” he asked.
“Mr. Gilbert said he’d sup with the children, but I’ll let him know you are back. I’m sure he’ll prefer to dine with your lordship.” The butler sounded distinctly dubious.
“Yes, tell him I expect to see him in the drawing room at the usual time,” Justin said sourly, recognizing a petty desire to disrupt someone’s evening as his afternoon had been disrupted. He had not even written his invitations.
Tebbutt was waiting for him and swore that no unpleasant surprises lurked in his rooms. For once he changed without incident. He went down to the drawing room.
No sign of Gilbert. Had the boy disregarded his summons? Reynolds uneasily announced that dinner was served.
Two places were set at one end of the long table. Justin had just sat down when Gilbert rushed in. His scarlet face testified to his haste, the Gordian knot of his cravat to the reason for it.
“I beg your pardon, my lord,” he stammered, trying to smooth his hair with one hand while the other tugged at the strangling neckcloth. He managed to loosen it enough to breathe.
“Sit down,” Justin grunted, and nodded to the butler.
He and Gilbert consumed the clear broth without exchanging another word. The soup was removed with rabbit stew, boiled potatoes, and a dish of green beans. Reynolds set a bowl of raspberries and a jug of cream on the table and dismissed the footman.
Justin stared at the meal. He had eaten better at a wayside inn. “What is this?” he demanded dangerously.
Gilbert smirked. “Dinner, my lord.”
“I suppose this is your sister’s revenge for my condemnation of her extravagance.”
“You may suppose what you please.”
“Oh no, my lord,” said Reynolds, shocked into reckless intervention. “It’s standing orders. When his lordship dines from home, Cook’s to serve the simplest fare. Miss Webster reckons there’s enough extra work in the kitchens with all the extra family.”
“Indeed,” said Justin, unable to think of any more-intelligent comment. He helped himself to rabbit stew, which smelled delicious.
“If your lordship is dissatisfied...” the butler ventured.
“This will do very well for now,” Justin snapped. “In future, I trust my presence at the dinner table will justify as much effort as my father’s.”
“To be sure, my lord.”
As he ate, he brooded. Ginnie’s consideration for the servants surprised him. If Gilbert had told him such a tale, he’d not have credited it for a moment, but he could not disbelieve Reynolds.
The obvious answer was that Reynolds had been misled. Without his knowledge, Ginnie was probably charging the household accounts for expensive delicacies that had never been purchased, and pocketing the difference. Only that would require Mrs. Peaskot’s collusion, and Justin found it almost as difficult to suspect her of dishonesty as the butler.
Ginnie’s mind was too devious for an honest man to fathom, he decided, signalling to Reynolds to refill his wineglass.
Tonight he’d write to Lady Amabel, a far more comprehensible female. Between her remaining unwed while he was in Russia, and her encouragement when he had mentioned speaking to her father, he was certain she would welcome his proposal.
In fact, she must be awaiting an offer, and his letter inviting her to Wooburn would confirm her expectations, and her parents’. He was not ready to take on new responsibilities, not until he had dealt with the Bedlam his home had become, yet on the other hand, she’d be an ally. If the house party had the effect he hoped for, he could settle down. With his wife taking over the reins of the household from Ginnie, the Websters would be firmly relegated to the status of poor relations, as they deserved.
His letter of invitation would have to be delicately worded. Best tackle it in the morning, when he had his wits about him.
In the meantime, his dinner might be plain but it was excellent. He took second helpings, noting that Gilbert was eating very little. With his nose constantly in a book, the lad probably exercised seldom. He ought to be persuaded to ride regularly—but Gilbert’s health was none of Justin’s affair.
“Do you play chess?” he asked abruptly. The evening had to be filled somehow.
“Yes, my lord. Do you?” Gilbert’s tone verged on insolence.
“My father may have told you I am not bookish, but you’d do well to remember that does not mean I am a dunce or a simpleton,” Justin retorted, piqued.
“No, my lord. I take it you wish to challenge me to a game of chess this evening?”
“I do.”
“I’ll be glad to accept any challenge you care to offer, my lord,” said the youngster belligerently.
Game as a bantam cock, thought Justin, amused. Who would have thought the pale, scholarly exterior hid a spirit as pugnacious as his sister’s?
He was less amused when Gilbert fought him to a draw. Unable to claim a lack of practice, for he had played a good deal in Russia, Justin had to acknowledge that young Webster possessed an impressive intellect. He almost regretted his determination to obstruct any attempt to persuade his father to pay for tutors, schools, or university.
However, his resolve was forcefully renewed when be laid his head on his pillow that night. It compressed beneath his head with a most alarming crackling noise.
Jumping out of bed, he seized the pillowcase and shook it over the floor. From it cascaded a quantity of eggshells in various stages of fragmentation.
“It could’ve been whole eggs,” Tebbutt said, trying to look on the bright side. “It could have been bad eggs. These don’t smell, so they must be quite fresh.”
“If they smelled, you’d have removed them before I retired to bed.”
Intentional or not, there was a certain clever irony in substituting eggshells for feathers, Justin realized. But the thought did not make him any happier.
* * * *
“You mean Lord Amis played chess with you?” Ginnie exclaimed, stunned.
“Yes, and he played well,” said Gilbert. “Pass the butter, Colin.”
Colin obliged, and paused in his wolfing of a huge ham sandwich for long enough to say, “You mean you had a hard time beating him?”
“I mean the game was a draw. I’d like to play him again sometime.”
“Oh Gil, never say you are going over to the enemy!”
“I want to beat him, I should have said. I shall not go so far as to ask him for another game, but I admit I enjoyed playing with a worthy opponent.”
“Never mind, Ginnie,” said Colin, grinning. “I shan’t desert you. It’s getting more difficult, with that man of his always on the watch, but the twins and I gave him a little surprise to go to bed with last night.”
“Don’t tell me!” Thoughtfully, she sipped her tea. “I must admit he has been amazingly restrained about all the horrid surprises he has suffered. If he complained to Steppapa, we should all be well and truly in the suds.”
“If you complained to the earl about all the dreadful things Lord Amis has said to you and Mama, he’d be in the suds,” Colin pointed out.
“I’ve no desire to be a talebearer.” She could have vanquished the viscount long since by reporting to his papa the improper advances that still haunted her dreams and sent shivers down her spine. Fortunately, when in his presence she was far too busy matching wits to contemplate throwing herself into his arms. “I mean to rout him without resorting to such despicable tactics,” she added.
“Apparently he has the same scruples, which is a point in his favour.” Gilbert folded his napkin and stood up. “I’m off to relieve Lydia of the twins.”
“Oh, Gil, can you watch Nathaniel this morning? I’ve arranged with Duffy to go into Beaconsfield first thing after breakfast so as to give Lord Amis no chance to requisition the gig. I shall take Priscilla, but there’s not enough room for both.”
“Teaching the twins is about as much as I can manage,” Gilbert protested.
“Don’t look
at me,” said Colin. “We’re starting the wheat harvest on the home farm today and I wouldn’t miss it for anything. Mr. Mills makes a contest of it the first day, and I must learn how he does it.”
“I cannot ask Lydia to take care of Nathaniel. Both Jack and Jimmy tore their trousers shockingly yesterday—what they were up to I hate to think!—and mending them will be enough to keep her busy.”
“Oh, very well,” Gilbert grumbled. “I’ll send Pris down to you.”
* * * *
Ginnie enjoyed the drive into Beaconsfield, the nearest market town, with Priscilla squeezed between her and the wiry Duffy on the gig’s seat. It was still early and the air was fresh and cool. In the hedged lanes, she pointed out to her sister red and white campion, ragwort, cow parsley, and fragrant garlands of honeysuckle abuzz with bees. As they drove through the dappled shade of woodland, canopied in green and gold, the stillness and the tall, smooth, grey trunks of the beeches reminded her of Gloucester Cathedral. She wished she had more time for walking, for exploring the countryside.
At once she chided herself for complaining, even silently. Compared to the constant struggle to survive before Mama’s marriage to the earl, life was bliss. She wasn’t going to allow Lord Amis to spoil it.
When they reached Beaconsfield, Duffy drove the gig to the huge, half-timbered Royal Saracen’s Head, at the comer of the main crossroads. He had business with a saddler in town, but he promised to be back at the inn by noon. Ginnie and Priscilla set off to do their errands.
The great open expanse in front of the inn swarmed with carriages, coaches, carts, riders, and people on foot. Shouts, neighs, barking dogs, and the crack of whips, added to rumbling wheels and the clop of hooves, made a horrid din. Here the London to Oxford highway crossed the Windsor to Aylesbury road. The Saracen’s Head was not the only inn serving the traffic. The White Hart, the George, the Star, the Swan, and half a dozen smaller establishments were all busy.
Priscilla clung to Ginnie’s hand and they walked close to the terraces of red-brick shops and houses that lined the street. The draper and haberdasher were on the same side. Ginnie hoped the tumult would have died down before they had to cross the street to the bookseller.