A Notorious Countess Confesses: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Julie Anne Long

  Henny was watching her closely. “Mmm.”

  “And the vicar brought a crew of men, and they took down the fence and built a new one!”

  Made thoughtful and subdued by her new knowledge of him, Eve had watched surreptitiously through the O’Flahertys’ freshly cleaned windows as Reverend Sylvaine shed his coat and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt and rolled his sleeves and gone at the fence with the three other men, all sinewy strength and shouting orders and sweat soaking through his shirt. She’d never known physical labor could be so thoroughly engrossing. She’d never known a man so unpretentious. So wholly who he was.

  Maddeningly uncompromising, of course. But unpretentious.

  “Do tell,” Henny said knowingly.

  Evie stopped her recitation.

  “What?” she said irritably to Henny.

  “You’ve a glow about you,” Henny declared suspiciously. “That’s what.”

  “It’s likely sweat.”

  “Looks a wee bit like love.”

  Evie rolled her eyes. “You really ought not to touch the liquor during the day. And besides, what do you know about love?”

  “More than you, as you willna let them get near yer heart. Ye nivver fall in love, ye fall in commerce.”

  Eve froze and glared terrifyingly at Henny. Sorely wounded.

  Though it was entirely true.

  Henny was unperturbed.

  Eve stepped out of her dress and scooped it up and thrust it at her.

  “And lucky for you that is; otherwise, I couldn’t pay your wages, as if you’ve ever been of any real use.”

  “Ye might allow yerself to give it a try. Just fer the variety, m’lady. Everyone should feel it at least once. You’ll know then what makes life worth living.”

  Evie was so surprised, she found she had no reply. Henny knew her better than anyone, but she so seldom played that hand. And she was in one of her maddening, inscrutable self-righteous moods.

  And she went still, breath hitched again when she recalled the expression on the reverend’s face when she’d glanced up from the baby. Yearning shot through a ferocity bordering on possessiveness. There and gone, as if it had been a product of shifting light.

  This was a man who did nothing by halves. He felt things, or he did not.

  And she closed her eyes and allowed the memory of that moment to possess her: It was all light and exhilarating fear and newness. She felt, for God’s sake, like a baby bird perched on the edge of a nest. She’d never even known she had wings.

  “And there is more mail for you,” Henny added pointedly. For she believe Evie’s siblings were barnacles. Charming barnacles, particularly in the case of Seamus, but barnacles nevertheless. “I fetched it from the shop. I think Mr. Postlethwaite might be sweet on me.” She said this with considerable smug satisfaction.

  It wasn’t impossible. Henny exerted a certain fascination for many men—her presence was undeniably unforgettable. She’d boasted more than one unlikely conquest over the years, including a coalmonger, a butler, and the earl’s man of affairs.

  Eve examined the post.

  An icy little fingertip of fear touched the back of her neck.

  Two more letters, from Seamus and Cora. This was worrisome. Clearly, they’d been sent very soon after the others since Evie had only just replied to their first letters. Seamus had promised he’d cause no more incidents requiring political intervention. And so far he’d kept it.

  It was Cora and the children she worried about most.

  My Dearest Sister,

  Having a job is a wondrous thing. I’ve met a woman. She is an angel fallen to earth, and she thinks I have more money than I do. This could be because I told her that I did. I’d hoped you would make her fondest wish come true.

  I jest! But she is wonderful, and I feel quite strange around her. I wonder if this might be love. Is it uncomfortable, love? Do you know? Does it itch?

  Once again, I jest. I do humbly look forward to anything you wish to donate, however. Long to see you, too. Love to you and to Henny

  P.S. they’re still talking about you in London. Not at all flatteringly.

  Seamus was forever meeting angels fallen to earth. The fact, however, that he’d written about it straightaway was a trifle suspicious. She wondered if she ought to worry whether the next letter would announce a wife. And then a child. And then another mouth to feed.

  From Cora:

  Timothy hasn’t home for two nights. Elspeth is teething. The baby looks like you. Miss you. Much love.

  Oh, Christ.

  It was just the two nights, she told herself. Her sister’s husband could still come home.

  And yet fear spread its ice into her belly.

  She made “he could still come home” a prayer as she stared unseeingly out the window.

  EVE’S FIRST OFFICIAL caller in Sussex arrived two days after her conditional triumph at the HMS O’Flaherty. Her footman brought the news to her.

  “A Miss Josephine Charing is here to see you, Lady Wareham.”

  She instantly and gratefully abandoned the embroidery she was attempting to come to terms with, sucked on a bead of blood she’d managed to pinprick into her forefinger, and leaped to her feet.

  “How do I look, Henny? Presentable?”

  Henny dropped the mending she’d been attending, did a swift study of Eve, then whipped a fichu from her apron pocket and thrust it at her. Eve hurriedly tucked it into the bodice of her day dress.

  “I’ll go be a maid now, shall I?” Henny said, pleased for her. She hurried off.

  Eve gave her shoulders a shake, straightened her spine, and turned to the footman.

  “Send her in, please.”

  It was some time before Miss Charing appeared, for she was placing one foot carefully in front of the other, as if the floor itself was lava, or as if she didn’t want to slip and possibly get iniquity on the hem of her dress. Her head was swiveled slowly to and fro, taking in tile and fixtures and staircase with nervous, wide-eyed wonder.

  “Good morning, Miss Charing. I keep all of my paramours on the third floor, so you needn’t fear you’ll see any here.”

  Miss Charing gave a start. “Oh, do you? Do they mind?”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. No. I do not. The house is resoundingly empty, and I’m happy for the company.” She smiled invitingly. “Who has time for paramours when the poor of Sussex need our help?”

  “Of … of course,” Miss Charing agreed weakly, after an uncertain moment. “I imagine paramours can be … demanding.” She said this almost hopefully.

  “Sometimes. The wise woman knows how to manage them, however.”

  She smiled warmly to make sure Miss Pitney knew she was jesting.

  Miss Pitney had eyes the color of cornflowers and knew it, as the ribbon on her bonnet matched them exactly. She had soft, blunt features in a pleasingly round face, a face as comfortable as a pillow. Loose blond curls fringed her forehead.

  “Would you like tea? Perhaps a scone? I believe they’re fresh.”

  “Thank you, Lady Wareham, you are too kind.”

  Evie nodded the request to the waiting footman.

  “My mother doesn’t know I’m here. She’s not certain she entirely approves of you.” This was said as though Miss Charing herself wasn’t entirely certain whether she approved of Eve.

  “Now, that is a pity. I wonder what will tip the scales in the favor of approval?”

  Miss Charing missed the irony entirely.

  “Perhaps when she meets you. I’m certain she will like you. There will be an Assembly in a fortnight, you see, with music and dancing, and there’s talk of inviting you.”

  “Is there talk? How delightful.” More irony. Despite herself, she was charmed by Miss Charing’s faith in her appeal.

  That was when they both became aware of a faint thudding sound, accompanied by a clattering and jingling sound, which grew louder and came inexorably closer.

  Miss Charing went still. And
then surreptitiously craned her head to look about.

  “Lady Balmain … do you hear …”

  Moments later, Henny thudded into the room, bearing a pot of tea and cups and a plate stacked with divine-smelling scones, and Miss Charing shrank wide-eyed into her chair and froze, the way a hedgehog might when confronted with unfamiliar predator.

  Henny settled the tray down with a rattle, beamed approvingly at the two of them, then marched out again.

  Miss Charing stared after her long after she was completely out of sight. Perhaps making sure she was truly gone and didn’t intend to return.

  “That’s Henny,” Eve said sweetly by way of explanation. “Will you pour?”

  “I’d be pleased to,” Miss Charing said weakly, politely.

  They sipped in silence for a moment.

  “I must confess, Lady Balmain, that there is a reason for my call today. You told Mrs. Sneath that you knew a thing or two about getting what you want. And that if we needed advice about men, you might be willing to share what you know.”

  “I did indeed say that.”

  “The thing is … I should … like to captivate a man.”

  “An admirable goal,” Eve approved crisply. Probably somewhat heretically, she thought belatedly. Miss Charing’s mother likely had good reason not to entirely approve of her.

  “I have never before captivated one, to my knowledge. How does one know?”

  Eve was tempted to say, Gifts of jewelry are an excellent sign. “Well,” she began carefully, “it often depends on the man in question.”

  Miss Charing inhaled at length, seeming to suck courage from the room. And then she exhaled, wringing her hands.

  “It’s the … Reverend Sylvaine, you see.”

  She said his name with a sort of restrained, exquisite torment. Eve suspected his name was frequently said in just the same tone all over Pennyroyal Green.

  Miss Charing rushed on. “And I do think his sermon the other morning … Love thy neighbor? … Well, I suspect I may have been the inspiration. Because he always smiles when he greets me. Have you seen his smile? It’s lovely, don’t you think?”

  Eve hesitated. His smiles, the varieties she’d seen so far, were very good, indeed.

  “I can see how one might think so,” she allowed carefully.

  “And there’s his face, of course,” Miss Charing said matter-of-factly. “One never tires of looking at it. I imagine you’ve seen your share of handsome faces in London, so perhaps you haven’t noticed.”

  This was true. She’d scarcely noticed much about the vicar’s looks.

  Apart, perhaps, from the dimple. And the blue eyes.

  The shape of his mouth, the myriad subtle colors in his hair, the shoulders.

  The forearms.

  “I expect he might be considered handsome,” she agreed noncommittally.

  And the thighs, she remembered vividly, suddenly. And with that she stopped breathing a moment.

  “And he never fails to thank me for the work I do with Mrs. Sneath. So polite!” She said this the way another woman might say, ‘And he’s so rich!’ “But I’m not entirely certain, you see. I thought you might be able to help me know for sure.”

  A number of conflicting impulses competed for her attention, none of them charitable, all of them mischievous and unworthy and really quite surprising, given that she had allegedly entirely given up on the notion of men. A habit of supremacy, she supposed: She was used to winning them.

  She forced her sense, not her senses, to make the ruling on how to proceed. It was so counter to what she wanted to do that she felt nearly virtuous.

  “Well … let’s have at think about this. Does the Reverend Sylvaine behave differently from other young men when he’s near you?”

  “It’s very difficult to notice other young men when he’s about, so I fear I’m not certain,” Miss Charing said apologetically.

  “Allow me to try to be explain. Do any young men seem to … lose their ability to speak around you?”

  She considered this. “Mr. Simon Covington, perhaps. Goes silent as the tomb when I’m near. But Miss Amy Pitney says it’s because I don’t allow anyone else to get a word in. She thinks she’s so clever. A pity for her that ‘clever’ is her best quality. She thinks she can fascinate the vicar with talk of botany.” She wrinkled her nose.

  “I ask, because if a man doesn’t immediately commence with flattery, another way to know if you’ve captivated him if he seems to be a bit overwhelmed by your presence. At a loss for words. Intoxicated by your beauty. That sort of thing.”

  Miss Charing slowly mouthed the words Intoxicated by your beauty to herself, as if they were a delicious new delicacy.

  She mulled this. “The vicar once seemed to all but run from me at an Assembly earlier this year. I was talking and talking—I told him about the preserves my mother and I were putting up, you see— and suddenly he moved away very quickly, for he said he had pressing business. Could that perhaps be construed as overwhelmed?”

  “After a fashion,” Eve allowed cautiously.

  “Most of the time, I rather lose my ability to speak around him,” she said glumly.

  Something for which he might just be grateful, Eve suspected.

  “And then when I do recover it, I cannot seem to stop speaking.”

  She thought of the flare in his eyes as she stood in the O’Flaherty’s house. Yes, in her way, Miss Charing had described the vicar in a nutshell: He had the potent ability to make even her speechless. And she could imagine his frozen panic in the face of a babbler. He hadn’t the patience for babbling; he was a man of economy.

  “Do you think my beauty is intoxicating?” Miss Charing asked artlessly.

  “The right man is bound to think so,” Evie said diplomatically.

  “Well, that sounds true,” Josephine sounded heartened. “I’m certainly pretty enough. Compared to some girls. Who have rich fathers. Who needn’t be at all charming in order to attract a suitor.” She said this darkly. Then she confessed despairingly. “It’s just … I’ve no hope of leaving Pennyroyal Green, you see, Lady Balmain; I will never have a London season. I’ve no fortune. I cannot travel far, and my mother fears for my prospects. I cannot get a rich man to look at me with any seriousness, but the vicar isn’t rich, now, is he? And I should like to marry for love.”

  Marry for love. A luxury for a girl like Miss Charing, whose very life depended on marrying, period. Evie half wanted to shake some sense into her. Her sister Cora had married for love, and she had six babies and a husband who seemed to be teetering on the brink of leaving her if he hadn’t left already. Her mother had married for love, and Evie had lived the consequences of her mother’s decision her entire whole life. Love, in fact, was for Evie a bit like London was for Miss Charing: a land she couldn’t afford to visit.

  And yet.

  “Ye ought to try it. Just for the variety,” Henny had said.

  As if it wasn’t as perilous as walking a St. Giles alley at night.

  “I should like to captivate the vicar,” Josephine concluded. “ Do you suppose you can help?”

  Evie smiled brightly, all the while thinking, Imagine the folly of trying to make that man do something he doesn’t want to do.

  “I will tell you a secret, Miss Charing.”

  Miss Charing leaned forward breathlessly.

  “Be yourself. And if you focus on finding something to appreciate in every man, and make certain they know it, they will all find you fascinating. They’ll compete for your attention. You might find yourself spoiled for choice. You might find yourself seeing them in a different light, and might fall in love with a quality you didn’t notice before.”

  Miss Charing sat back hard in her chair, quite struck dumb by the profundity of this. Her eyes were wide as she silently took this in.

  “Do you think so? Really? Even the vicar?”

  Evie stifled a sigh.

  “I just gave you one of my closely guarded secrets,” Evie said,
which didn’t answer Miss Charing’s question.

  “Thank you, Lady Wareham,” she all but gushed. “Do you know, Mama said the women of the town were worried about their husbands and the single men of Pennyroyal Green when such a notorious countess took Damask Manor. But I told them you’d married an earl, for heaven’s sake, and you were a widow now—what use would you have for their husbands? Or a vicar, for that matter?”

  “Oh, I’ve quite given up on men entirely in favor of giving advice about them,” Evie assured her. “I’ve no use at all for them. And thank you for coming to my defense.”

  “Mrs. Sneath will be happy to hear it!” Miss Charing said delightedly. “And you’re welcome. I hope to see you at the Assembly after all. Perhaps you can tell me whether I’m following your advice correctly.”

  Chapter 13

  EVE HAD ONLY just seen Josephine out and was ready to take up her embroidery again when the footman reappeared.

  “You’ve another visitor, my lady. A Miss Amy Pitney.”

  “Well.” Eve wasn’t entirely surprised. “Do send her in.”

  Beaming, Henny leaped up, whisked away Miss Charing’s teacup and replaced it with a clean one, then made herself scarce.

  Miss Amy Pitney appeared rather more briskly than Miss Charing had, her slippers clacking confidently along the marble. She likely lived in a house as fine if not finer.

  “Good day, Lady Balmain. I hope you don’t mind my calling upon you.”

  She said it as though there was never any doubt she’d be gratefully received.

  “I’m delighted to see you, Miss Pitney. Would you like some tea? It’s fresh.”

  “I would, thank you.”

  Eve poured for the two of them.

  She did rather have her nose in the air, Eve thought, amused. But she suspected the demeanor was compensation for the fact that she knew she wasn’t pretty, and she’d decided hauteur would give her presence. But she wasn’t unattractive. Her face was long, her chin square, her eyes dark and clever and darting beneath those severe, abundant brows. Her green walking dress exquisitely suited her coloring and was painstakingly fashionable, from the number of flounces at the hem to the color of the trim.