A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance

by Judith Lown

  “I fear I had to let him go. Too sure of his own judgment in matters that should have been submitted for my approval.”

  Katherine could not hide her dismay.

  “Don’t go tearing up, Katherine. I swear if you paid more attention to your own best interests and less to any number of randomly chosen souls, you could make something of yourself. You need not worry for Randal. Dracott has taken him on. Why Lord Cecil had time to fill the living of St. Chrysostom’s with a notorious libertine and could not find himself a new bailiff when Carter retired is beyond understanding.”

  “I believe we should all give Mr. Wharton the benefit of the doubt, until or unless his behavior gives the lie to his intention to mend his ways.”

  Katherine could not let the man who had listened so kindly to her be maligned without some defense.

  “When did you acquire such a forgiving spirit, Katherine? I do not seem to recall you possessed one when I would have been its beneficiary.”

  Katherine could feel the warmth of her face flushing.

  “Mr. Wharton is not my fiancé.”

  The words were out before she could stop them.

  “He is a priest.”

  “And in my experience, he acts like one,” Katherine retorted.

  Sir Clive smiled indulgently.

  “That is just the point, my sweet cuz, ‘in your experience.’ And what exactly is your experience? How old are you now? Twenty-two, twenty-three? Just what do you know of life? Surely, you learned next to nothing during your time in London. Or else you would have known not to go flying into the boughs when you discovered your intended dallying with a serving maid. A serving maid! A lady of any polish would have found it amusing, I promise you. What did you want in a husband? A spiritless Puritan?

  “And just in case peoples’ memories had faded regarding that little piece of naïve reactivity, you remind them by departing your home in the company of your mother’s—-let us be kind—eccentric aunt, with the assistance and conniving of Lord Cecil Dracott, who apparently was not—shall we say—conducting himself with his usual discretion in the last months of his life.”

  “I had thought to spare us both awkwardness by removing myself from Oak End before your arrival.”

  “But there need not have been any awkwardness,” Sir Clive explained patiently. “The presence of Miss Summersville—eccentric though she is—would have stilled any gossip. And realistically, my dear cousin, the answer to our predicament was and remains obvious: we should wed. It is certainly the expected and most logical thing to do, given the situation.”

  Katherine did not try to hide her distress. She raised her teacup with trembling hands and took a fortifying sip before managing to replace it in its saucer without a spill.

  “The ‘situation’ no longer exists, Sir Clive. I live here, not at Oak End, and I plan to remain here.”

  Katherine hoped her voice sounded as firm as her intentions.

  “And as long as you remain here unmarried, Katherine, my dear, the gossips of St. Chrysostom’s parish will have plenty of grist for their mills. I will be cast as an ogre who, by inheriting from the now-lionized and sanitized Sir Richard, drove you from the home of your birth. So if your intention was to revenge yourself for my little transgression of the past, you have done so.”

  Katherine attempted to protest this gross distortion of her motivation, but Sir Clive ignored her.

  “However, your naïveté is not well suited to such deviousness. For by placing me in so uncomplimentary a light, you have unwittingly made yourself the object of speculation that cannot end happily for you.”

  “This is all nonsense. You are creating drama whole cloth out of nothing at all. If you and your mother would demonstrate clearly that you accept Aunt Prunella’s and my living here, whatever talk there is—and I doubt there is much—would stop.”

  “You really do not understand, do you, my dear cousin. Perhaps what you say might have been the case. There would have been no cause for speculation—while Harry Dracott was still fighting the French in Spain, and while Gus Wharton was doing whatever he was doing before Lord Cecil imagined him a suitable priest for St. Chrysostom’s.”

  Sir Clive’s voice dripped pity.

  “Are you planning to ensnare one of them? Surely you know you will catch cold if you try. You were offended by my behavior. I promise you, my girl, mine is pattern-card perfect compared to theirs.”

  “I am not in the market for a husband,” Katherine said through clenched teeth. “Even if I were, Lord Dracott is as besotted with Lady Angela as he was when she was alive, and Mr. Wharton is my priest, not my suitor, for heaven’s sakes. All I wish to do is live here in peace and provide a home and some dignity for Aunt Prunella. Certainly you can appreciate that?”

  Sir Clive sank back in the throne-like chair, his bluster suddenly gone.

  “Forgive me, Cousin. I have spent too much time in the fashionable world. One forgets that such naïve simplicity still exists. It is part of your charm, I suppose. And your most serious flaw, too.

  “Have you considered what will become of you when Miss Summersville goes on to her reward? Dracott will eventually remarry. Just what do you imagine his new bride will think of an unrelated, unmarried lady living in such close proximity to the Hall? Where would you turn if your residence here became untenable? Try, if you can, to focus your thoughts on the hard realities of your life, if that is possible. I believe if you do, you will see the wisdom of returning to Oak End as my wife. I am a patient man. I believe you will come to your senses within a month or two.

  “Meanwhile, Mama has prevailed upon Leticia to join us. She should be arriving within the week. She is looking forward to the prospect of renewing her acquaintance with you.”

  As Sir Clive stood to take his leave, a disturbance from the region of the kitchen erupted into the hallway. Through the parlor door, which had been left ajar for propriety’s sake, a black-and-white dog covered in soapsuds greeted the baronet with enthusiasm, leaving wet paw prints on his pristine pantaloons.

  “Down, you spawn of Satan!” Sir Clive struck at the dog with the gloves he had been preparing to draw on. The dog, believing it had been invited to play a game, snatched a glove in its teeth and turned back to the hallway to be met by Miss Elizabeth Dracott, who was as wet and soapy as the dog.

  “Princess! There you are!”

  Lizzie scooped up the wriggling animal in her arms before discovering Sir Clive’s and Katherine’s presence. She glowered at the baronet.

  “I know you told Jimmy to drown or shoot Princess, but she’s safe with me!”

  Sally appeared belatedly, mobcap askew, dress and apron soaking wet, and took the dog in a firm grasp just before it escaped from Lizzie.

  Sir Clive cast Katherine a withering glance.

  “I believe I shall take my leave before bedlam is let loose again. I wish you joy, Katherine, my dear.”

  The baronet executed a stiff bow and closed the door firmly without waiting for Sally’s assistance.

  There was no difficulty tracing the origins of the debacle. A trail of soapy water led to a laundry tub in the kitchen, surrounded by as much water as it held.

  Giving Sally firm orders to restore the kitchen to immaculate order before Hephzibah returned and suffered a terminal spasm, Katherine wrapped the wet dog in a discarded bed sheet and carried it to the front parlor to interrogate Lizzie Dracott about the circumstances surrounding her acquisition and future plans for a spaniel that appeared unlikely to submit to the disciplines of being a worthy hunting dog.

  Lizzie required no urging to tell the story.

  “Jimmy, Sally’s brother, was on the other side of the lake, crying…well, trying hard not to cry, but I could tell. And Princess was wagging her tail, kissing his face.”

  Katherine looked down at the dog in her lap and received a lick on her chin and a gaze of brown-eyed devotion.

  Lizzie smiled approvingly.

  “Princess is a wonderfully friend
ly dog.”

  Indeed. Katherine stroked the silky new adult coat. She guessed that the spaniel was just less than a year old. Not puppy cute, but still puppy energetic.

  “She is a darling creature, Lizzie, but what do you plan to do with her?”

  The child considered Katherine’s question, chewing her lip and studying the rug.

  “I heard Cook say that Trinket is not long for this world. That means she is going to die soon, doesn’t it? And Papa is very attached to her. He is going to be really sad when she dies.”

  Lizzie’s face clouded as she considered her father’s pending bereavement.

  “So, when Jimmy told me he couldn’t bear to shoot or drown Princess, I knew right away that she was just what Papa needs. And I don’t care what Sir Clive says; she’ll make a wonderful hunting dog. She likes to swim and chase rabbits already.”

  Katherine was reluctant to discourage Lizzie’s enthusiasm, but she knew she must.

  “But is that fair to Trinket?” she asked the child. “Trinket is old and feeble. I cannot believe that she will welcome the intrusion.”

  Lizzie nodded in agreement, her face brightening.

  “That’s what I thought, Miss Brampton. And Trinket goes everywhere with Papa. She even sleeps at the foot of his bed! She can’t get up there by herself and he lifts her up—I heard Patterson tell Cook. So Papa doesn’t have any time to pay attention to Princess right now. But he’ll need her soon as Trinket dies.”

  Katherine’s suspicion about Lizzie’s plan for the spaniel was being confirmed.

  “Just where were you planning for Princess to live until then, Lizzie?” she asked, knowing the answer.

  Lizzie smiled at Katherine. Only the swinging of her legs betrayed any nervousness.

  “I thought maybe Princess could stay here with you, Miss Brampton,” she offered brightly. “I wanted her to look her best for you,” she added anxiously. “That’s why Sally and I were bathing her. She’d gotten into some horse droppings.”

  Lizzie was unfailingly honest.

  “You will keep her for me, please, Miss Brampton!”

  Lizzie, knowing Katherine’s soft heartedness, pressed her plan.

  Katherine was incapable of denying the pleading little girl. Sir Clive’s ruined glove, lying on the parlor floor, was just the beginning of the depredations the dog would wreak. But she would have to deal with them as they came. She looked down at the spaniel and received another lick on her chin.

  “Of course, Lizzie. I shall keep the dog.”

  Lizzie rushed over and gave Katherine a resounding kiss on the cheek.

  “Thank you, Miss Brampton! I knew you would love Princess! Don’t tell Papa a thing. It’s a surprise! I’ll tell Jimmy we found a good home for Princess.”

  Lizzie departed in high spirits.

  The black-and-white spaniel had curled up in Katherine’s lap. She patted it absentmindedly, and smiled wryly. Another of her randomly chosen souls, Sir Clive would say. Along with Sally, who had begged to come with her from Oak End, and motherless Lizzie…

  How would Katherine feel when Lord Dracott actually did find a new mama for Lizzie? Why had Katherine felt dismayed when her cousin reminded her of the inevitability of such an event? Surely it was because it would mean that she would see less of Lizzie, Katherine told herself.

  And why did Sir Clive and Aunt Brampton insist that Mr. Wharton was not suitable as a priest? He certainly had behaved in a perfectly priestly manner with Katherine in the graveyard. She knew Anglican priests were permitted to marry, but she could not see Mr. Wharton as a romantic figure. To be honest, though, better Mr. Wharton than Sir Clive, Katherine admitted to herself.

  She fought a wave of sickness at the idea of returning to Oak End as Clive’s wife. He had said that she was incapable of facing hard reality. But he was wrong. She had faced the death of her dear mother when she was twelve years old. She had faced the death of her father last January. She had not only faced the shock of Richard’s death just this past June, but she had worked out an escape from becoming Clive’s dependent, a condition she could not tolerate.

  Sir Clive insisted she look into the distant future. Life had taught Katherine to treasure the present. And whatever the future held for her, she was determined it would not include returning to Oak End as Lady Brampton.

  Chapter Six

  “Lord Dracott, what an honor to be presented to a genuine hero of the war against the Corsican monster.”

  Miss Leticia Brampton shuddered delicately and gazed over her shoulder as if the monster’s legions might have crossed the channel to invade the Drayford Village Harvest Home Festival. She had just executed a curtsey fit for a monarch, all the while gazing up at Harry through half-shuttered lashes. He refrained from complimenting her on an art that he was certain had required a full London season to perfect.

  “The true heroes are still on the field, fighting for their lives, Miss Brampton.”

  Leticia Brampton looked wide-eyed at the scar on Harry’s jaw line.

  “It would seem, Lord Dracott, that you fought for your life, not all that long ago.”

  Harry considered lying that his injury was the result of a childhood fall from a tree. But if she wanted war exploits, war exploits she would get.

  “Indeed, Miss Brampton. And as you see, I won that particular fight. Happily for me, the Frenchie who gave me this little memento was off his aim. Not that he lived long enough to think about it. My aim, I assure you, was right on target.”

  Harry smiled.

  Leticia Brampton blanched and excused herself.

  “I wonder what you said to arrest Miss Leticia Brampton’s blandishments.”

  Mrs. Sythe-Burton. Harry braced himself for a social challenge of a different sort. Hortense Sythe-Burton, the widow of the late Hubert Sythe-Burton, had been the arbiter of morals and manners in the parish of St. John Chrysostom's for as long as Harry could remember. Even his mother, the ranking lady of the parish, had deferred to and consulted Mrs. Sythe-Burton before pronouncing on any pressing matter of decorum.

  The delicate widow continued to wear half mourning, although her husband had died before Harry was born. No one said, but everyone supposed that this was because shades of gray and lavender were so flattering to Hortense Sythe-Burton’s white hair, pale complexion, and pansy-blue eyes.

  “Dorothea Brampton’s children demonstrate the wisdom of treating one’s children as handsome. Both Sir Clive and Miss Leticia make the most of what, without great care, would be rather ordinary appearance. I saw their sister, Rosaline fleetingly. And she appeared to have the knack also. She did marry quite advantageously.”

  Mrs. Sythe-Burton had the ability to make such pronouncements in completely neutral tones, hinting at neither praise nor censure—an ability that had helped to maintain her position in local society.

  She nodded toward Katherine Brampton, who was engrossed in conversation with the vicar. They made a striking couple. Katherine dressed in the black of mourning. Gus Wharton dressed in the black of his vocation. Harry noticed that Katherine’s titian curls topped Gus Wharton’s golden hair by a fraction of an inch. Harry remembered the perfection with which those soft curls had fit under his chin. She is too tall for Wharton, he thought.

  “…must be stopped.”

  Harry froze. Mrs. Sythe-Burton was looking at him expectantly. He had no idea of what she thought needed to be stopped.

  “I know I can depend upon your assistance in the matter,” Harry temporized.

  Harry prayed his response would make sense. He was rewarded by an approving nod from Mrs. Sythe-Burton.

  “Your dear father, God rest his soul, was in full possession of his faculties, right up to the minute his generous heart stopped beating. And to imply otherwise is calumny of the most treacherous sort.”

  Harry was grateful for Mrs. Sythe-Burton’s assurance of his father’s sanity. While he had resisted the urge to knock out Clive Brampton’s lights for hinting that his father’s men
tal faculties had slipped, Harry continued to wonder what had possessed Lord Cecil to lease the Dower House to Katherine Brampton and give Gus Wharton the living of St. Chrysostom’s.

  “Of course, if Miss Katherine had not ended her betrothal to Clive Brampton—what was it—a year ago this past spring, she would now be the mistress of Oak End. Now that was a shock. Banns had already been read. Clive Brampton and all his family already arrived at Oak End for the wedding. And Miss Katherine firmly announced that she would not wed Clive. Mr. Tramell, God rest his soul, said that he would not read the ceremony over a reluctant bride.

  Harry’s gorge rose at the thought of Katherine Brampton tied to Sir Clive for life.

  Mrs. Sythe-Burton paused in her recitation to note the look on Harry’s face.

  “Surely you knew…had heard? Of course…you have not been back all that long, and it is difficult to catch up on all of your estate matters, much less social happenings. But, I promise you; it was the talk of the parish for some time. Shy, quiet Miss Katherine Brampton standing up to her father, Sir Alfred, who was not pleased, much less the intended groom’s branch of the family! Who would have guessed she had such stiffness in her spine?”

  Harry could have told Mrs. Sythe-Burton something of Katherine Brampton’s stiff spine.

  “Why, do you suppose, my father gave Wharton the parish living?”

  Harry did not wish to think or talk about Katherine Brampton, who, at last, was walking away from Wharton after a seemingly interminable conversation.

  Mrs. Sythe-Burton smiled benevolently at the vicar, who was greeting parishioners as if he had been in the priest business for years.

  “I know all the rumors,” she said, “as I am certain Lord Cecil had. But your father was truly fond of Augustus Wharton back when he visited on school holidays and ran wild with you and Charles Hamilton. I am sure Lord Cecil felt nothing but relief when the three of you decided that the greater possibilities of London were required for your pursuits. But he was always one to see the good in people. If Augustus Wharton changed his ways, Lord Cecil would have found that sufficient. Your father was a great reader and admirer of John Donne, you know. So the idea that a rake could become a priest would not have amazed him.