A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance

by Judith Lown

  “I promise you, if half the stories…”

  The voice of an excited child interrupted Aunt Brampton’s revelations and a girl of about six years burst into the parlor. Hephzibah, Aunt Prunella’s maid, followed in the little girl’s wake with lemonade and a plate piled high with honey biscuits. Miss Dracott—now the Honourable Elizabeth Dracott—known to all as Lizzie, was blessed by Hephzibah’s devotion. The old servant apparently thought to compensate for the child’s motherless state by keeping her well fed.

  “Miss Summersville! Miss Brampton!”

  Lizzie was halfway into the room before she stopped suddenly, remembering to bob two quick curtsies. Aunt Prunella presented her to Mrs. Clarence Brampton and Lizzie bobbed another quick curtsey, but she was too full of her news to care about the censure on that lady’s face.

  “Papa has returned from the wars! And he has the most wonderful horse I have ever seen in my whole life. His name is Shadow and Papa took me up with him for a ride. He is the tallest, biggest horse I have ever seen and I asked Papa if I could ride him. He said I have to practice on my pony first.”

  Lizzie perched on a chair and smoothed her skirts down, which, as usual, revealed evidence of a detour from the well-trod path to explore some particularly untidy aspect of nature. An unidentifiable piece of vegetation hung from the ripped hem.

  Lizzie selected a biscuit and munched contentedly.

  “How thankful you must be to have your papa safely home,” Aunt Prunella offered.

  “Oh, I am, Miss Summersville.” Lizzie swallowed quickly so she could continue. “He gave me something to put on my head when I get older that Spanish ladies wear all the time. I cannot remember what to call it.”

  “I believe it is called a mantilla,” Katherine suggested, relieved for something to say that did not include gratitude for the baron’s safe return. “Sir Richard sent one each to Aunt Prunella and me. They are beautiful.”

  Lizzie nodded knowingly.

  “And he has a big gun, a rifle. When I grow older, he might teach me to shoot it.”

  Aunt Brampton stared openmouthed, speechless.

  “Surely not!” Katherine was horrified that a six-year-old girl should be thinking of learning to shoot a rifle.

  “It is not at all the thing for a young lady to take up,” Aunt Prunella added softly.

  “I should say not!” Aunt Brampton exclaimed.

  “He does have two pistols,” Lizzie suggested hopefully. “P’rhaps I shall learn to shoot them instead. They are much smaller,” she added by way of explanation.

  Aunt Brampton searched in her reticule for her smelling salts.

  “Firearms can be quite dangerous.” Katherine demurred.

  She intended to discourage Lizzie’s ambitions without delay. The child could be amazingly persistent and was sadly lacking in adult guidance.

  Lizzie concentrated on keeping her mouth closed as she chewed and considered what Katherine had said.

  Lizzie swallowed her biscuit.

  “He has a sword, too. It is very sharp. Papa used it to kill a great many Frenchies,” Lizzie announced with satisfaction, leaving Katherine and Aunt Prunella in silent astonishment at the bloodthirstiness of their young guest.

  Aunt Brampton deeply inhaled her smelling salts.

  Lizzie took a sip of lemonade, and forgetting the napkin on her lap, wiped her lips with the back of her hand.

  “Papa said he will not give me lessons in using the sword until I can lift it with one hand.”

  “Thank the Lord for small mercies,” Aunt Prunella murmured.

  “I am sorry I cannot stay to practice pouring tea, Miss Summersville. Nanny says your lessons are important,” Lizzie apologized before gulping down the remaining lemonade. “But I need to help Clem with the horses so maybe he’ll let me ride Clover without a tether.”

  Lizzie rushed off, her bonnet bouncing on her back.

  “That dreadful child needs a governess!” Aunt Brampton gasped.

  “That poor child needs a mother,” Aunt Prunella murmured.

  That child’s father needs to be horsewhipped, Katherine thought.

  Chapter Two

  Lord Henry Dracott believed in getting right to the business at hand. He had not survived more than three years in the Peninsula by sitting around strategizing. If he meant to take up the reins of Dracott Hall and Drayford Village, he needed to familiarize himself with the ledgers. He particularly needed to recall the names of farms and tenants so he would not sound like an ignorant fool when he visited them. And perhaps the name of a farm tenant would offer a hint to the identity of the flame-haired goddess by the lake. Although he could not quiet a nagging suspicion that she was gentry, as she claimed.

  The estate office was flooded with afternoon sunlight coming from the open windows and door, and Harry had settled in comfortably. The large desk where he sat already showed his imprint. Random stacks of ledgers, some opened, some closed, covered the desk. The pile to his left was topped by an empty plate, on which a fly stepped daintily, hunting in vain for a crumb remaining from Harry’s afternoon snack of roast beef. The only hint that the meal had included mustard was to be found on his lordship’s shirt.

  A tankard of ale balanced precariously on the stack of ledgers to his right while he chewed and puffed on a cigar. Without raising his eyes from the ledger he was studying, he placed the still-smoldering cigar on top of the stack and took up the tankard, from which he sipped absentmindedly. On the floor beside his chair he had deposited his coat, scabbard, sword, and pistols.

  Harry’s aging red setter bitch, Trinket, was stretched out in front of the desk, her graying muzzle twitching from time to time at a dream-induced scent of hare or pheasant.

  Harry had noted approaching steps long before Trinket stirred and blinked lazily at the figure in the doorway. Irritated at having his solitude disturbed, Harry read to the bottom of the page before glancing up.

  His irritation only increased when he recognized his visitor. Clive Brampton–-Sir Clive Brampton, he corrected himself silently—had not changed since the days when they were both young men on the town in London. Impeccably attired in a coat fitted so closely Harry wondered how the man could manage a horse’s reins; spotless, creaseless pantaloons; and thin, ash-brown hair carefully arranged in a Brutus. Sir Clive was better attired for visiting a London salon than paying a call at a country estate office.

  He was so unlike his hard-riding, red-haired cousin Richard.

  Red-haired Richard Brampton!

  Harry assumed the impassive face he cultivated for card games, as a distinctly unpleasant possibility about the identity of the goddess occurred to him. Not Richard’s sister. Please God, no.

  “Brampton.” Harry stood and offered a sword-calloused hand to Sir Clive, who managed not to grimace or check his soft doeskin glove for dirt or damage.

  “Dracott?”

  Harry ignored Sir Clive’s wonder at the alteration in his appearance. He knew that his tanned, creased face bore only faint resemblance to the open, laughing countenance of the young gentleman Clive Brampton had known in their salad days in London. He motioned his guest to the only available chair in the room and tossed his cigar stub into the tankard. A sizzle confirmed its being extinguished in the remaining ale. The aroma of ale-soaked tobacco, reminiscent of stale taprooms, filled the office.

  Sir Clive lowered himself cautiously into the proffered chair. Harry knew it needed dusting, but all he had for that purpose was his handkerchief and the sight of it would probably disgust the fastidious Clive more than the dust on the chair. Harry decided not to offer his coat for a cushion, what with the grime and traces of blood on it.

  “Jenkins told me where you could be found,” Sir Clive explained.

  Harry reckoned that Jenkins, the Dracott Hall butler, had been feeling too much the effects of the spontaneous servants’ celebration of the master’s return to either remember the duty of a butler to protect his employer from irritating guests or perform the
office of escort.

  “I wanted to be first in the neighborhood to welcome you home and to offer my sincerest condolences on the loss of you father.”

  “Thank you, Brampton. And I was sorry to hear of the passing of your cousin, Sir Richard. An able soldier. The army will miss him sorely.”

  Harry puzzled over Sir Clive’s visit. Surely he had not rushed to Dracott Hall to give formal welcome and condolences. And the rapidity with which the news had spread of Harry’s return was amazing.

  “The efficiency of communications in this parish is commendable. Could have used a little of that in the army.”

  “For that, I have my mother to thank,” Sir Clive admitted. “Mothers can have their advantages from time to time. Mama was paying a call at the Dower House this morning when Miss Elizabeth brought the happy news of your return.”

  Lizzie visiting the Dower House? The Dower House had been shut tight since the death of Harry’s grandmother, the last dowager baroness, back when Harry was a lad. Apparently Harry had renters in the Dower House, and he would wager that one was named Brampton and was flame-haired. Curious. But he would be thrashed before letting Clive Brampton know that all this was news.

  “Lizzie is a lively lass,” Harry temporized. “More interested in my horse and weapons than in my safe return, I fear,” he added ruefully, hoping that his guest’s long-standing pride in being an important source of information had not diminished.

  “It must have come as a shock to learn that my cousin Richard’s sister and aunt are renting the Dower House.”

  Harry concentrated on keeping any evidence of surprise or dismay from his face.

  “I take it that my father let it without consulting you first,” Harry replied.

  Harry knew that if he could keep Clive talking, he would learn what he had not been able to find in these confounded ledgers.

  Harry must have struck a nerve. The fastidious baronet took out an exquisitely enameled snuffbox, opened it with practiced dexterity, and offered it to Harry, who declined. He preferred his cigars, thank you very much. He waited patiently as Clive applied snuff to nostrils, sneezed into a blindingly white handkerchief, and finally collected himself to continue.

  “Not that I mean any criticism of Lord Cecil Dracott, mind you,” Clive assured him. “For all I know, he tried to communicate with me and was unable to discover my direction. But you can imagine my consternation when, arriving at Oak End, I discovered that Cousin Katherine and her great-aunt Prunella Summersville were not in residence. You must appreciate the awkwardness of my position!”

  Harry was, indeed, appreciating the awkwardness of old Clive’s position. It made him feel a lot less unhappy about the awkwardness of his own position vis-à-vis the beautiful occupant of the Dower House. He suppressed a smile.

  “I take it you would like for me to impress upon Miss Summersville and Miss Brampton the advantages of returning to Oak End?”

  “Surely you can understand the delicacy of my position in the matter,” Sir Clive pressed in wounded tones. “It is a constant embarrassment for me to know that all of Drayford Vale is speculating about why my nearest kin are not living under my protection, in the home that is rightly theirs.”

  But is now yours, Harry thought.

  “Perhaps they wished to avoid any confusion over precedence when your mother arrived,” Harry offered.

  Sir Clive repressed a sigh. He closed his eyes and pressed his brow.

  It looked to Harry as if Clive was getting a headache. Perhaps it would hasten his departure.

  “I suppose it was too much to expect you to grasp the subtleties of comme il faut—how things should be done.”

  The last man to speak that much French to Harry had paid for it with his life. But he restrained himself and let Clive Brampton continue.

  “As you well know, Dracott, families have been coping with the intricacies of precedence forever. Mama is worried sick over their well-being. One loathes acknowledging it about one’s nearest and dearest, but Miss Summersville is not known for an ability to focus on cold reality and Cousin Katherine can stubbornly refuse to act according to common sense.”

  An angry flush suffused his guest’s face, causing Harry to wonder if his obstinate goddess had defied old Clive in a matter other than her choice of residence. He made a mental note to find out.

  “You cannot very well expect me to evict the two ladies, when they have a perfectly legal right to be where they are.”

  Harry knew he had his own problem with his Dower House tenants, but for now, he was enjoying Clive’s difficulties.

  “I cannot imagine what the terms of their lease are, but surely you can find some grounds upon which to nullify it.”

  “Are you suggesting that I might fail to honor my father’s agreements, Brampton?”

  Harry was genuinely scandalized.

  “Certainly not!”

  Clive emphatically denied what Harry was certain his guest had purposely come to request.

  “But surely you would want me to be apprised of the terms of the lease.”

  How could Harry tell Clive the terms of the lease when Harry had yet to see the lease?

  “If my tenants have no objection to your seeing their lease, I have no objection.”

  Harry was confident that the lady he had encountered by the lake would object strenuously to any suggestion that Sir Clive be apprised of the terms of her lease.

  Evidently, Sir Clive decided his errand was futile. He stood to take leave. Trinket chose that moment to rouse herself and examine her master’s visitor. As once more Harry subjected Sir Clive to the depredations of a firm handshake, Trinket coated the polish on Sir Clive’s boots with dog drool.

  “Ah, Trinket, old girl,” Harry said fondly, “glad to see you finally remembered your manners in time to say hello to Sir Clive.”

  It was all too much for the fastidious baronet, who lost the tenuous control with which he had been keeping his temper.

  “You will want to know that leasing the Dower House to Miss Summersville and Miss Brampton was not the only—shall we say, intriguing—decision your father made shortly before his death. He amazed us all by giving the living of St. John Chrysostom’s to none other than Gus Wharton!”

  Harry was dumbstruck and could not disguise it. He saw the look of satisfaction on Clive Brampton’s face.

  “You needn’t ask,” Sir Clive added with relish. “The very same Gus Wharton whose gambling, drinking, and womanizing was the standard to which we all aspired in our carefree days.”

  Sir Clive put on his hat with a flourish and departed.

  Harry rubbed the stubble on his jaw and gazed out the empty doorway, suddenly aware of the faint chill of the early autumn afternoon. Gus Wharton, vicar of St. John Chrysostom’s? Gus must have taken holy orders. Unimaginable! Was Harry delirious, lying in some vermin-filled stable in Spain dying of putrefying wounds? Trinket nuzzled his hand, drawn by a tantalizing hint of roast beef. No, the worst aroma Harry could smell was that of aging dog.

  He looked longingly at the tankard and considered fishing out the soggy cigar, but both cigar and ale were ruined.

  Harry would have a visit with Gus and try to assess whether the souls of the parish, particularly the female souls of the parish, were in immediate jeopardy.

  And he would have to pay a call on the Dower House, whether or not he located the dratted lease first. What state of mind had he been in this morning? He had never been one to force himself on females. Serving wenches in public houses were usually available and agreeable. But one’s staff and tenants were to be left alone. Always.

  If only he had restrained himself sufficiently to give a thought to who the red-haired beauty might be. But even then, would he have recognized her as Richard Brampton’s sister? All he could remember of Katherine Brampton was a shy, skinny lass with an abundance of red hair half-hiding her face. What with his bachelor days in London, marriage, and fighting in Spain, it had been eight long years since Harry had sp
ent much time in Drayford Vale. The transformation eight years could create in a lady was astounding.

  He looked down at the mustard stain on his shirt and rubbed at it without effect. He felt a lift to his spirits when he realized that any call at the Dower House would have to be postponed until Patterson, his batman, arrived with fresh clothing and a razor.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning turned nippy, with a brisk wind off the channel and puffy clouds hiding the sun from time to time. Katherine pulled on an old black woolen dress and tied a faded green shawl around her shoulders for warmth. She decided to work in the cutting garden and see what could be salvaged for the altar bouquet. She and Aunt Prunella rotated with Mrs. Sythe-Burton providing flowers for St. John Chrysostom’s, and this was their week. But since Katherine and her great-aunt had moved to the Dower House, they could not afford to keep a horse and gig, and carrying buckets of flowers and water cans into Drayford Village was too arduous for Aunt Prunella, so the task was now Katherine’s.

  She loved early autumn in the garden, clipping reblooming damask roses, pulling weeds and spent summer flowers, and collecting asters and Michaelmas daisies. Katherine had gathered enough flowers for a respectable arrangement when Sally ran from the house with news.

  “He has arrived for a visit, Miss Brampton,” Sally announced breathlessly.

  “He?” Katherine could think of two possible “he’s,” neither of whom she cared to entertain.

  “Lord Dracott,” Sally explained, wide-eyed. “The new Lord Dracott.”

  Sally placed her hand over her heart, to regulate her breathing or to swear to an important truth; Katherine could not tell for certain.

  “And I promise you, Miss Brampton, the new Lord Dracott is nothing at all like the old Lord Dracott.”

  But Katherine already knew that. Lord Cecil Dracott had been just over average height, reed thin, gray-haired, courtly, and kind.

  “Not every gentleman is a model of what a peer should be,” Katherine reminded Sally.