A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance

by Judith Lown

  “And, perhaps Lord Cecil’s last whimsical decisions will prove to be to the further good of the beneficiaries. Did you notice the raptness with which Miss Brampton and Mr. Wharton were speaking?” she asked archly before curtseying, bidding Harry adieu, and floating away.

  Had he noticed the raptness with which Katherine Brampton and Gus Wharton were speaking? Harry had been so acutely aware of their conversation, it had taken the greatest discipline he could muster to focus his attention on Mrs. Sythe-Burton while she spoke—even though what she had said had been of considerable interest to him. Katherine and Clive Brampton. Harry felt a glow of satisfaction that his sainted father had so neatly frustrated the arrogant baronet. By Jove, if it irritated Clive, Harry would insist Katherine Brampton and Prunella Summersville live at the Dower House till their last breaths.

  But, evidently, Mrs. Sythe-Burton did not think that would be necessary. She thought Katherine Brampton and Wharton would make a match of it. And from what Harry had seen, there was reason to believe Mrs. Sythe-Burton might be right. Harry waited for a feeling of satisfaction that his own awkward situation involving Katherine Brampton might soon be over. It did not come. Instead he remembered just how subtle a seducer Wharton had always been. John Donne might have mended his ways, but that was a long time ago. Harry would not bet a ha’penny on Gus Wharton following suit.Even if Wharton married Katherine, he would stray. And Harry knew for a fact that Katherine Brampton would not accept such behavior in a husband. There would be a scandal. The parish would be in an uproar. Harry decided to speak with the new vicar immediately and give him fair warning to watch his step with the fair sex.

  Five minutes later, seated across a rough plank table from Gus Wharton, Harry glared as his old friend choked on his ale, laughing.

  “It is not a matter of amusement,” Harry said, stone-faced. “You are a priest, by Jove, and while you are in this parish, you must remember that you are a priest and behave accordingly. And singling out the most vulnerable and naïve of spinsters under your charge is, at the very least, acting without proper discretion.”

  Wharton gasped for air and finally found his voice.

  “I assume that you are referring to my conversation just now with Miss Katherine Brampton.”

  Wharton gazed at Harry, one eyebrow lifted.

  “I could not have missed the dagger-looks you were sending me,” Wharton chuckled.

  Harry could not believe he had been that obvious.

  Wharton rubbed his forehead.

  “I understand that you hold the living of St. John Chrysostom’s in your power. And you could relieve me of my post today, if you chose. Which puts me in a delicate position vis-à-vis the confidences of parishioners. But, I do not believe it is a violation of any closely held secret to tell you that Katherine Brampton has sustained the loss of both her father and brother during this past year. And, difficult as it might be for you to comprehend, she is in need of some spiritual comfort and guidance.”

  It was Harry’s turn to choke on his ale, laughing.

  “Laugh all you wish.” Gus Wharton’s face twisted in a rueful smile.

  “I assure you, Miss Brampton treats me very much the way I suspect she treated old Tramell. Not a flicker of recognition that I am a single, and therefore eligible, gentleman.” Wharton glanced balefully at the clear autumn sky. “The Divine Mind is apparently finely honed to extract penance in particularly frustrating ways. I will readily admit that I have rarely met a lady whose charms recommend themselves more. But when conversation is restricted to the Last Judgment and prayers for the deceased, Don Juan himself would be challenged to introduce the slightest hint of romance. I hope you will not think that I am in danger of defecting to Rome if I tell you that I have come to believe in purgatory—-here in this life.”

  Harry drank deeply from his tankard, enjoying a lightening of his spirits. He told himself he was relieved that his worries about a potential scandal had been for naught.

  “So you can cease worrying that the delectable Miss Katherine will succumb to my wiles, Dracott.” Gus Wharton regarded Harry with the hint of a smile. “But, I suspect there is another matter that will concern you.”

  Harry grunted a request for Wharton to continue.

  “I believe that the brethren are busy again—if they ever ceased their activities.”

  “I had wondered, when you served me such excellent brandy.” Harry’s spirits sank once more. “But I take it that you are not in league with them, or you would not be giving me warning.”

  The vicar frowned.

  “What sort of fool do you take me for? Whether you believe it or not, I accepted St. John Chrysostom’s with the intention of staying. Being arrested and carried off to jail by riding officers is not a part of the plan.”

  “So tell me who is involved. I take a dim view of Englishmen making Frenchmen rich while our lads are being killed by the French.”

  Harry could feel his anger rise. In their youth, he, Gus, and Charlie Hamilton, on occasion, had helped transport a few cases of untaxed imports. But after years fighting the French, Harry would not wink while others followed their example.

  “I have my suspicions, but I am not certain. Something woke me up the other night. Decided it was the cellar door. But by the time I got on a coat and lit a lantern, whoever was there had gone—leaving a case of fine, untaxed French brandy. I am beginning to wonder if perhaps Tramell never paid all that much attention to the contents of his cellar. It might have been a drop-off. It would be amusing if all along the brethren were using it, leaving samples in payment, and old Tramell never the wiser. Heaven knows that Mrs. Bloggins, the housekeeper, is deaf as a post. She could be counted upon to hear nothing. And her rheumatism keeps her out of the cellar.”

  “You mentioned you had suspicions.” Harry was impatient to head off unpleasantness in his domain if possible. His father had always been able to avoid problems with revenuers.

  “There was a shoe print by the cellar door. A curious shoe print, “ Gus added.

  Harry sipped his ale, striving for patience.

  “Either the smuggler who left the gift at my cellar door has remarkably small feet, or he is quite young.”

  Harry looked around the festivities on the village green. He noticed Katherine Brampton engaged in what appeared to be a circle of ring-around-the-rosy with some very young children. A pretty blonde maid was chatting with a red-faced, red-coated riding officer. Harry remembered her as the obliging miss who had left Katherine alone with him. A three-legged race was in progress involving a number of young lads, all of whom, Harry supposed, wore shoes that would be noticeably smaller than those of their fathers.

  “More ale, your lordship?”

  Harry nodded and watched a skinny blond youngster pour carefully from a jug that looked too heavy for his thin arms to carry.

  Gus pushed his tankard over for the boy to refill.

  “Why are you not over racing with your chums?”

  “Gotta work, your worship. Roof needs patching, but Sir Clive let Randal go, and he—Sir Clive—-says he won’t pay till the new bailiff says it really needs patching. Only there in’t a new bailiff. But my Pa says no Stokes ever let his family down. So I’m helping Ben Yancey.”

  The lad’s scrawny chest swelled with pride.

  “You’re working at the Fox and Grapes? Didn’t I see you at the King’s Arms? Is your name Jimmy?” Wharton asked.

  “That’s my name, all right. I help out wherever there’s a penny to earn.”

  “I must say, I am very impressed with your knowledge of your flock,” Harry admitted when Jimmy Stokes had departed to fill tankards at an adjoining table. He then watched in amazement as Gus Wharton actually blushed. A first, as far as Harry could remember.

  “Believe it or not, I take my duties seriously. How can I look after souls whose names I do not know?”

  Wharton studied Jimmy as the boy continued to fill empty tankards.

  “Just where my duties towa
rd souls and my duties toward the law intersect, I am not certain, but I am concerned about that lad.”

  “You think his eagerness to help his family might have lured him into criminal activity?” Harry hoped his friend would reject the idea out of hand.

  Gus Wharton shrugged.

  “I see him all over the parish while I’m on my rounds. Perhaps he’s too tired to be up nights running errands for smugglers. But I cannot think of another lad his age whose family seems less concerned about his whereabouts than the Stokes are about Jimmy’s. He merits watching,” Wharton concluded.

  As Harry greeted tenants, awarded prizes to winners of competitions, ate his fill of roast pork and apple tarts, avoided both Miss Katherine and Miss Leticia Brampton, and admired Miss Summersville’s needlework, he endeavored to keep an eye on Jimmy Stokes. He liked the lad. Harry admired initiative. Perhaps he should take Jimmy aside and have a word with him. Warn him away from having anything to do with the brethren. But what if Jimmy had heard gossip from the old timers at the Fox and Grapes? What if Jimmy had been told about Harry’s and Gus’s and Charlie’s youthful exploits? Would Jimmy take Harry’s warning seriously?

  Harry knew his father, Lord Cecil, would have had no problem dealing with Jimmy or any other youth who needed guidance. Lord Cecil’s life had been an example of responsibility and rectitude. Harry could not hope to match it. But he would die trying, he promised himself.

  “Your lordship?”

  Harry looked down into the weary face of a woman in travel-stained widow’s weeds. A small, dark-haired boy stood silently by her next to a tattered valise.

  “How can I help you, ma’am?” Harry asked by way of acknowledgement.

  “My name is Bertha Haskins, your lordship. Until recently, the wife of Trooper Haskins of the 76th Foot.”

  Harry expressed his condolences.

  “Thank you very much, indeed, your lordship, but it’s not like my first loss. Toby Haskins was the second husband I buried in Spain. Decided to give up the military life, I did. Going to help out in my sister’s shop in Petworth. But just before I boarded the ship for home, a grand-looking Spaniard appeared. Old gentleman, he was, and looked sick—like to die. Came asking for anyone headed for Sussex, England. I couldn’t lie now, could I? He begged me to bring this little lad to his family. Said he’s the son of Richard Brampton. Thought I remembered there were Bramptons living in this parish.”

  Harry crouched on his haunches before the small boy next to the widow Haskins. Hair black as coal. Pale beige skin Harry knew would turn golden brown with exposure to the sun. The child turned and looked Harry in the eye. Under his straight dark brows were green eyes, just like the eyes that had captivated Harry the morning of his return to Sussex.

  A small group had gathered around Harry, the widow, and the child. Lizzie was among them.

  “Go fetch Miss Katherine Brampton, Lizzie,” he told her.

  Chapter Seven

  Katherine knelt before the small figure, heart pounding, scarcely daring to believe it was possibly true—that this little boy was Richard’s—her nephew—her flesh and blood. He was looking up at Lord Dracott. All she could see was black hair and pale beige complexion—neither a Brampton trait. He did have high cheekbones. She unconsciously touched her own. Lizzie had said his name was Miguel.

  “Miguel,” she whispered.

  He turned and regarded her solemnly. Under straight black eyebrows, his eyes were startlingly green. Like her own eyes. Like Richard’s.

  “My darling. My love,” she said softly, smiling through tears.

  “I do not believe he understands English,” Lord Dracott’s voice was unaccustomedly gentle. “I could try my poor Spanish, if you wish.”

  “Please.”

  Katherine could not take her eyes off the boy.

  Lord Dracott crouched beside Katherine and addressed Miguel.

  “Esta mujer es tu Tia Catarina. Es la hermana de tu padre.”

  “I love you more than anything in the world,” Katherine whispered to the little boy.

  “Te quiero mas que nada.” Lord Dracott’s voice was almost a growl.

  “I will take care of you always. You will have a home with me always.”

  “Siempre te cuidare. Siempre podras vivir conmigo.” Lord Dracott translated.

  “Siempre,” Katherine repeated and opened her arms.

  The child stepped toward her tentatively. She smiled brightly through her tears and nodded. Another step, and she folded him in her embrace. She felt a shudder go through his frame. Then he laid his head on her shoulder.

  She was vaguely aware that Lord Dracott had stood and was telling the curious group around them that the festival was over, it was getting late, and it was time to go home.

  “Is it true? Can it be true?” Aunt Prunella asked in trembling tones.

  Katherine looked up at the frail old lady.

  “It is true, Aunt. This little boy is Richard’s son. I am certain of it.”

  *****

  Katherine sat by the fireplace in her bedroom, looking at the small figure sleeping in the infant cot that Lord Dracott had sent from the Hall. He also had his housekeeper, Mrs. Lamb, bring down a supply of children’s clothing. Generations of Dracott mothers believed in waste not, want not. The chests and cupboards in the Hall nursery were filled with well-mended garments waiting for the next generation’s use.

  The clothing arrived just after Katherine discovered that the shabby valise containing all of her nephew’s possessions had apparently been thoroughly immersed in seawater. There was not an item fit to put on the boy until it had been washed and dried in fresh air.

  She had hoped for some objective validation of her conviction that Miguel was, indeed, Richard’s son. But if any existed, the same seawater that had turned Miguel’s clothing sour smelling had all but destroyed the one document she found in the valise. It was a single page of heavy writing paper covered in smeared ink. The only legible line was at the bottom, part of a grandly executed signature:

  es de Vil

  As she removed his musty-smelling clothes to wash him and put on his nightshirt, Katherine discovered a gold chain around Miguel’s neck. On it was a small crucifix—not surprising for a Spanish child—and a gold ring. It fit Katherine’s little finger, and engraved on the inside were initials “E G d V.” Miguel’s mother? Katherine noticed that “B” for Brampton was not included among the initials.

  “His mother’s wedding ring,” Aunt Prunella said, dabbing at tears with her handkerchief. “She must have been a dainty lady.”

  “I doubt there was a wedding,” Katherine contradicted her aunt gently.

  Katherine knew the ugly name that would be attached to Miguel and resolved to protect him from it as best she could. But creating fantasies about his origins would only make matters worse. Furthermore, if Miguel could indeed claim the Brampton name legally, he, not Clive was the new baronet. Katherine could not begin to imagine the battle that would arise if a rumor of Miguel’s legitimacy were given credence. An expensive legal battle, far beyond Katherine’s meager financial resources, resources that would be stretched to the limit simply to provide the necessities for a growing boy and placing him in a respectable trade when he became old enough.

  “I know our Richard—Sir Richard.” Aunt Prunella’s loyalty could be counted on to cloud her objectivity. “That document in the valise is wedding lines, I am sure of it.”

  “Unless they are wedding lines signed by a priest of the Church of England, they mean nothing as far as the child’s legal status here. And I would be amazed if a Roman priest used such a grand name.”

  Katherine endeavored to impress reason on her idealistic aunt.

  Prunella Summersville pursed her lips and looked at the ceiling.

  “Church of England, Church of Rome, I am certain that our Blessed Lord looks on the heart and the intentions.”

  Katherine was so astonished at this bit of Anglican heresy, she was tempted to remind her aunt
to remember her responsibilities as the daughter of an archdeacon. But it took all of Katherine’s energy to refrain from laughing helplessly.

  “We both are grateful for Miguel’s existence, Aunt Prunella. And I know we both would rather die than to expose him to speculation about his legitimacy. Do you not understand how any discussion of it would create problems for him?”

  Katherine could see from the expression on her great-aunt’s face that she had finally struck a chord with the fiercely loyal old lady.

  “I believe we must set an example by refusing to speculate about his origins other than by accepting him as Richard’s son. Surely others will do the same.”

  Aunt Prunella seemed to see the wisdom of what Katherine had said. However, Katherine was certain that there were others who would insist upon discussing Miguel’s legal status. Sir Clive and Aunt Brampton would do all they could to disparage the idea that there was any connection at all between Richard Brampton and the little boy called Miguel.

  Katherine thanked Providence that the Oak End party had left the Harvest Home Festival early—country games and competitions being beneath them, country ale being too rough on the palate, and Lord Henry Dracott being less than attentive to Leticia. If Sir Clive had been present when the widow Haskins had asked if any Bramptons were available, Katherine shuddered to think of what might have happened. Certainly her newfound nephew would not now be sleeping peacefully in the Dower House.

  * * * * *

  The next morning, Lizzie Dracott arrived early. But when Katherine and Aunt Prunella tried to interest her in lessons, all Lizzie wanted to talk about was Miguel.

  “I had a little brother once.”

  Lizzie could be counted on to broach subjects matter-of-factly that the adults around her spoke of only in whispers.

  “He’s in heaven now with my mama. Is Miguel’s mama in heaven, too?”