***
Tiresome as Mrs. Kenton’s chatter could be, Mercy was soon reluctantly obliged to admit gratitude for the lady’s help. She certainly threw herself, wholeheartedly, into the renovation of the dusty, old assembly room, donating several yards of material for new window drapes and a box full of beeswax candles. Unfortunately, Mrs. Kenton’s opinions on paint color clashed with Mercy’s. She was also very adamant on the best way to polish a floor, the most flattering way to place lighting, and how many instruments ought to be hired to play for a public dance. It seemed she was an expert in everything.
“I do realize,” Mercy huffed in Mrs. Hartley’s ear one afternoon, “that being a lady nearing forty, Mrs. Augusta Kenton is entitled to her opinions and should be treated with respect, but I confess myself extremely weary of her vast compendium of knowledge.”
Her companion laughed. “Mrs. Kenton means well.”
Mercy arched an eyebrow. “I always think that when a person’s actions need to be explained as meaning well, they have obviously failed in their intentions.”
“It is just her way.”
“Yes, that’s another comment along the same lines.”
How on earth could Rafe suggest she was just like that woman? There was no resemblance whatsoever, as far as she was concerned. Unfortunately, Mrs. Kenton’s company had been forced upon her more times than she cared to count since her arrival in the country and Mercy’s stay kept being extended. Now that work on the assembly room had begun, she felt it necessary to see the project through to completion. She could hardly leave things under Mrs. Kenton’s management and let her take the credit, could she?
Fortunately, Isabella Milford had amiable qualities that compensated for her sister’s tendency to offend, making her presence as welcomed as Augusta’s was dreaded. Apparently keeping no strong opinions on anything, she agreed with Mercy on every point. At least, she did so when Augusta was not close enough to hear the betrayal, and when Mercy was able to pin her down. Isabella often seemed more fearful of Mercy’s friendship than she was eager for it. The lady was as nervous as a cat in a thunderstorm.
Another welcome addition to her Planning Committee was the enthusiastic and cheerful Mrs. Hodson, who offered her assistance and brought any odds and ends that could be spared from her husband’s shop. Eager to keep Lady Mercy’s valuable custom, she could be counted upon to raise her flag squarely on Mercy’s side in any debate. Often without even knowing what it was about.
Pestered by his stepmother, Rafe brought his bag of tools to mend a few floorboards and a hole in the musician’s podium. The moment he entered the ballroom, Mercy felt the atmosphere change. He was instantly the center of all attention, and naturally he basked in it, teasing the ladies and good-naturedly taking more of Mrs. Kenton’s ever-ready advice. This annoyed Mercy more than anything—that he could submit to that woman’s advice and yet never heed hers. He was quick to take Mrs. Kenton’s side whenever she appealed to his judgment. As if he knew anything about decorating a ballroom.
“He merely appeases the lady,” Mrs. Hartley assured her in a whisper.
“I’m glad he feels it necessary to appease her.”
“I’m surprised that you would want merely to be appeased by Rafe. I always rather thought you enjoyed the argument.”
When Mercy turned to look at her, Mrs. Hartley was already walking away at a smart pace, eager to check on Isabella’s progress with the covering of some chairs.
Rafe stood beside Mrs. Kenton, listening with rapt attention to the old busybody, who attempted to secure his promise of attending the first ball. “I hear, Mr. Hartley, that women far outnumber gentlemen here in Morecroft and the surrounding villages. You simply must come! We can’t have ladies standing up together. That would be a shocking waste of all our hard work.”
“I doubt it will be wasted. I always thought ladies needed something to keep busy.” He glanced over at Mercy. “Keep them out of trouble.”
If she was a woman of less self-control, she would have stuck out her tongue, but then she remembered their truce and held her temper.
“Oh, Mr. Hartley, you cheeky young fellow,” Mrs. Kenton simpered. “Now tell me, sir, do you prefer a stately but dull minuet to open a ball, as is the old-time tradition, or would you favor something unusual and lively to begin? A Scottish reel, for example? Something to get the blood up?”
Mercy ground her teeth. This had been a subject of debate earlier that day between herself and Mrs. Kenton, but she doubted Rafe even knew the difference between the two dances.
“I prefer a plain country jig, Mrs. Kenton. I like it even better if I am not expected to take part. I can look foolish enough without exposing myself to ridicule deliberately.”
“Now, now, sir! You tease! You must not turn shy on us. I shall not allow it. So you do prefer something less traditional.”
“Madam, I am always in favor of the untraditional. I am not a great one for rules of any kind. Especially since I am never applied to in their making, they are generally never to my advantage, and I am always forced”—he winked at the lady—“to break them.”
Mrs. Kenton tittered stupidly. “Oh, Mr. Hartley, the things you do say!”
Mercy marched over to his bag of tools, took a hammer, and returned to the stray nail she’d been trying to pull out of the wall for ten minutes at least. She had intended to pull it out using the hooked end of the hammer but changed her mind. With one hearty bang, she crushed that stubborn nail firmly into the wall.
Mrs. Kenton was still talking, no loud noise enough to stop her once her tongue was set in motion by a new idea. “Mr. Rafe Hartley, you have put me in mind of a scheme to raise more donations.” She danced in a circle, fingers waving over her head.
“Have you been bitten by a spider?” Mercy asked politely, almost hopefully.
“No, no! But I have come upon a splendid idea to benefit the ballroom, which is still in need of funds to repair the old chandelier and those broken windowpanes.”
Mercy had already offered to pay for all the outstanding items, but neither Mrs. Hartley nor Mrs. Kenton would hear of it. She was told she had contributed enough already. “And as you are not local,” Mrs. Kenton had added once, “it would not be fair to take more from you, Lady Mercy. After all, you will hardly ever reap the benefit. I cannot imagine you will come often, if ever again.”
She was tempted to respond that if she was not “local,” then neither was Mrs. Kenton, strictly speaking. But she chose not to engage the dreadful busybody on that occasion. There were plenty of other points to quarrel over.
Now the woman enthused over her sudden thunderbolt of an idea, as if it was a remedy for wrinkles and age spots. “We shall have a bachelor auction to raise funds and donations!”
Mrs. Hartley was interested immediately. “A bachelor auction?”
“There are so few about—we suffer from a paucity of single males here, as my sister observed. I’m sure ladies will bid handsomely for a partner like Mr. Rafe Hartley.”
Still holding the hammer, wishing she had something else to knock into the wall paneling, Mercy muttered, “I do not like the sound of it. Would it not be rather…demeaning?”
Mrs. Kenton looked at her blankly. “It is all in a good cause. I’m sure the young fellows here about will be pleased to participate.”
“To be auctioned like cattle?”
“But it will be lighthearted fun, Lady Mercy. The ladies may bid with coin or perhaps the offer of supplies for the refreshment table. They might donate sewing services, or carriage rides to those without. After all, we have not asked for an entrance fee or subscription, and musicians must be fed and paid for.”
“It would be very community spirited,” Mrs. Hartley offered gently, smiling at Mercy. “I cannot see anything amiss with the idea.”
Mercy still did not approve, but she was outvoted when Rafe exclaimed merrily, “Count me in. I do like to be fought over by the ladies!” He looked at her with laughter in his eye
s.
“Oh, Mr. Hartley,” she muttered, “the things you do say.”
***
Printed leaflets announcing the “Bachelor Auction” were posted all over Morecroft. Young men, and quite a few elderly widowers too, signed up to take their places on the podium and be bid upon. Much to Mercy’s surprise, even the ladies were eager to participate. No one but she, it seemed, saw anything tasteless in the event. Even her appeal to Lady Ursula fell upon deaf ears. Literally and figuratively. The old lady was just as excited by the prospect as anyone a quarter of her age.
Mrs. Hartley, after some pressing, did agree that all bids would be secretly made and sealed. It was a small victory, but at least Mrs. Kenton, who had envisioned a rowdy, marketplace atmosphere, would not get everything her way. The sealed bids would be opened by Lady Mercy and her planning committee at the end of the day, and the highest bids for each partner then written on his dance card in order of value.
“Now you mustn’t spend all your coin on me,” Rafe whispered, walking up behind her one day as she studied a leaflet pinned to a tree by the park railings. “Save some of me for the other ladies. ’Tis only fair.”
She glared at him over her shoulder. It seemed he visited his family in Morecroft much more frequently than Mrs. Hartley had led her to believe, for here he was again, leaping out at her. “Have you forgotten I’m engaged?”
“So?”
“I will not be bidding on anyone. It would not be proper.”
He shook his head somberly. “Of course not. How dull you are these days.”
Startled and more than a trifle annoyed at his tone, she spun fully around to face him. “Dull?”
“There was a time when you were quite fun to tease. When you would throw eggs at me, and I’d chase you around a haystack until I caught you.” A wistful look came into his blue eyes.
“Yes, well, we all have to grow up sometime.”
“True.” He sighed. “My lady friend in London said much the same to me.”
“She sounds very wise.” Mercy patted his arm. “Shall I give you advice on your dress for the auction? So you might fetch a good price?” If he wanted teasing, she’d give it to him.
But he straightened his shoulders. “I never needed help of that nature before,” he assured her. “I always manage to catch ladies’ attention.”
“If that’s true, Hartley, why is that you seek the services of a matchmaker to find you a bride?”
His answer was swift, smug, and one she should have seen coming. “Never had a problem finding women—only a wife that stays put.”
Rather than discuss that topic further and risk their tentative peace pact, Mercy asked him if he was going to visit his father.
“I am,” he said, holding out his arm. “Perhaps you will walk with me?”
It was very odd to hear him being so polite, particularly to her, she mused. But she took his arm, and they crossed the street to Hartley House, where his stepmother exclaimed upon seeing Rafe, “Goodness, we have never been so often graced with your company as we have of late.”
He muttered an excuse about having been on the way to his bank when he ran into Mercy, and his stepmother’s eyes twinkled merrily as she reached up to pat his cheek.
“And freshly shaved,” she exclaimed. “Just to make a deposit at the bank.”
***
When the day of the auction arrived, it was not Mercy’s intention to go, but Lady Ursula insisted on observing the proceedings and would have no other companion at her side. Forced, therefore, to attend, she could do nothing but suffer as Rafe took his turn on the podium in the dining room of the Red Lion, showing off with his usual flair, making a jest of it, encouraging the audience with his most dashing smile. Mercy looked around at the furiously scribbling ladies, all eager to outbid one another. Her fingers itched to reach for her own pen. It was worse than shopping, she mused sadly. Just as she could never pass a well-designed shop window, she struggled to pass up the chance to bid on these handsome offerings. Perhaps it was, as her brother had suggested, a sickness.
Somehow she restrained herself. Now no one could suspect her of having a particular and inappropriate preference for Rafe Hartley. Once he was dancing with all those other eager ladies, it should nip any dangerous rumor in the bud forever. Mercy only hoped she could witness it all with composure, because she had just discovered a very unfortunate streak of jealousy in her heart, and try as she might, it was yet to be vanquished by any reminder of his utter unsuitability.
By the time the last man took his turn, Lady Ursula had drifted off into a nap and Mercy was about to walk her home, when a woman approached in a rather sad-looking shawl and a bonnet that seemed to be made up of several different ones all ripped apart and put back together by someone with more enthusiasm than taste.
Her ringlets were very yellow and her face very pink. As she drew near, Mercy remembered her as the woman she and Lady Ursula had watched through the parlor window several days ago. The woman with the shoes that pinched.
“Excuse me, yer ladyship.” She tilted sideways and then forward in a precarious curtsy. “Lady Mercy Danbridge, ain’t it?”
“Danforthe,” she replied sternly. The closer the woman came, the stronger the smell of cider.
“You and me share an acquaintance. I don’t think ’e would mind us making friends.” The woman gave a toothy grimace. “The name’s Pyke. Abigail Pyke.”
Mercy had never known another woman to walk brazenly up to her in that manner, completely uninvited. Her first instinct was to make a brief but polite remark and then walk quickly away. The forward stranger, however, came closer, penning her in between Lady Ursula’s chair and the wall paneling.
“I’m a particular friend of Mr. Rafael Hartley—like what he says you are—and since the feller ain’t seen fit to introduce us, I thought I’d take matters into me own ’ands.”
Mercy took her in with more care now and noted a grubby string of pearls around the woman’s throat. Pearls in the afternoon? Imitation, no doubt. There was more bosom on display than could possibly be required in broad daylight at any hour. It was a very good thing Lady Ursula slept and could not witness the vulgarity of her great-grandson’s “particular friend.” Whatever that might mean.
The crowd in the room began to disperse. More than a few faces now observed her talking with the strange woman. No sign of Rafe. Not knowing what to look at first—not wishing to study any of it for too long—Mercy finally focused on a beauty mark on the woman’s cheek and said, “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Pyke.”
“Mrs.”
Of course, she thought, the unkempt children must have been fathered by someone.
“Mr. Hartley promised to find us a better place to stay, and those rooms at the Red Lion are so noisy at night and the air is so stale. ’Tis not good for me ’ealth, yer ladyship. Nor for the little ’uns, neither. Shouting and carousing going on at all hours beneath us, and the mail coach blowing its ’orn right under the window. I can’t get a wink o’ sleep at night, and not for any good cause”—to Mercy’s horror, the woman winked at her—“if you get me drift. I thought you could ’elp us find new living quarters, since that young man’s bein’ so bleedin’ slow about it. He didn’t want me going to his father, but I might ’ave to if things don’t improve. I’ve me little ’uns to think about, ain’t I?”
Aha. Mrs. Flick had mentioned Rafe keeping company with someone at the Red Lion. Molly had hinted that there could be another woman in Rafe’s life, someone else he thought about.
Here then was the very creature.
But, no. Edward Hobbs, if he were there, would remind her not to let her imagination run away with her. For once, she would be calm and find out the facts without making any up.
“Mayhap you could visit, yer ladyship, and see the place fer yerself.”
In her chair, Lady Ursula began to stir, and there was no chance now to learn more about the woman’s predicament. “Yes…” she muttered. “G
ood day, madam.” Mercy turned Lady Ursula’s chair and headed for the door.
“I’ll see yer again, then,” the woman shouted after her. “Yer ladyship.”
As the chair wheels tumbled rapidly across the floorboards, Mercy tried to make sense of this development. How had Rafe become involved with such a tawdry creature, who wore pearls in daytime and never washed the neck upon which they were displayed? She had many questions, but none could be asked while she was in Lady Ursula’s company.
The next day, her inquisitive soul too restless, Mercy decided to pay a visit to Mrs. Pyke and find out more about her situation.
She found the woman not long up—dressed but with her hair still in curling papers—although it was noon already, and she was apparently not alone.
“Sakes!” the woman muttered, yawning and sleepy-eyed. “Two callers already so early in the day.”
Mercy looked around the small room and at the three children ranging in age she supposed from a babe in a crib to a boy of four or five.
Her traveling gaze stumbled to a halt. There was Rafe Hartley, seated in a chair at the table. “Lady Mercy!” He stood at once, looking flustered.
“Mr. Hartley,” she replied curtly.
They stared at one another for a moment, and she waited for his explanation, mustering every shred of her patience to do so. Don’t leap to conclusions. She would let him explain what he was doing there with a woman he’d kept secreted away at the Red Lion. A woman whose existence he tried to deny after Mrs. Flick mentioned the “company” he kept there.
“I met ’er ladyship at the auction yesterday,” said Mrs. Pyke.
“I see,” he replied.
Mercy added, “Mrs. Pyke thought I might be of assistance to her.”
“I see,” he said again, squinting.
Was he trying to think of excuses? As if it mattered to her, for pity’s sake. Mercy folded her hands before her. “I understand she is a particular friend of yours.”
Pause. “That’s right. A particular friend.” He’d accused her of being a meddlesome busybody before, and now it seemed to her as if he was deliberately sparing with his answers, goading her.
Sydney Dovedale [3] Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal Page 21