A Country Affair

by Patricia Wynn

  “Certainly, I shall. I could not forget the depth of your family feeling."

  A glint hardened Wilfrid's eyes. “Do not underestimate it, Richard. My little foibles are as nothing when compared to this gross encroachment. I beg again that you will let me tend to it."

  Taken aback by the strength of Wilfrid's feelings, Richard moderated his tone. “I appreciate your interest, but your methods are not likely to be the same as mine, so I prefer to see to this myself.”

  His offer having been so firmly refused, Wilfrid shrugged. “As you will. Your servant, cousin."

  As he showed himself out, Richard stared after him, and a rare feeling of dismay swept through him. Wilfrid had left, not the least bit abashed. Richard had no doubt that his cousin would take up where he had left off with no change at all in his behaviour.

  And it did not matter that he was regarded by most to be a thoroughly undeserving character. Richard was obliged to support him. A gentleman was frowned upon for mistreating his heir, and, in truth, Wilfrid did nothing worse than many of his contemporaries. If the Regent himself found Wilfrid charming—and Richard scoffed at the thought— what could he do to make him feel otherwise?

  The source of his dismay, he knew, was the niggling thought that Wilfrid just might succeed him if he failed to provide another heir. Men Richard's age died all the time, and many an elderly man had succeeded a younger one. In spite of his good health, Richard knew he could break his neck on a hunt or a carriage race, whereas Wilfrid took great care never to court any physical danger.

  What was needed was a wife. Richard admitted to himself that his search for one had grown more serious of late. The need to supplant Wilfrid was always in his mind, but an even stronger motive, he realized, was his more recent desire for companionship. A man grew weary of nothing but frivolous pursuits once the first energy of his youth had been spent. Trouble was, the longer he looked for his ideal companion, the more unlikely it appeared that he would find her.

  The fresh, young faces that were trotted out every social season were looking more and more the same. Richard thought that if he had to attend one more ball, he might take to serious drink.

  The letter in his hand caught his attention once again, bringing with it a new wave of irritation. And now, this Payley scoundrel. Richard's family obligations were enough to throw even the most cheerful fellow into the dismals.

  The thought of facing Payley down cheered Richard immensely. If nothing else a trip into Sussex would get him out of London. He had a mind to ride his horse all the way to Uckfield, in spite of the winter season, leaving his coach and servants behind.

  A rigorous journey on horseback would be the very thing he needed to cure him of his malaise.

  Chapter Two

  Brisk, cold weather and the sight of open countryside—however bleak and leafless it was—did restore Richard to his usual equanimity. He had left London behind with all its tedious formalities. Even his change in dress came as a relief, for one could not go jaunting about the countryside in January dressed like a pink of the ton. His woolen breeches, waistcoat and jacket made him look more the country gentleman, and only the magnificent cut of his caped redingote divulged the status of its wearer.

  He had left well before dawn, and a brisk day of traveling brought him to Uckfield in time for dinner. Uckfield proved to be a small hamlet of little distinction, due without doubt to its distance from the turnpike road. By the time Richard arrived, he was ready for a warm drink, even though the ocean currents that warmed Sussex had kept his fingers and toes from freezing.

  He headed for the inn—a modest place, unused to the carriage trade by the look of it—where he found he had to stable his own horse. Unable to locate a blanket, he tossed his redingote over the beast. Emerging from the stable, minutes later, he had to dodge a pair of boys and their dog who had started a footrace in the yard.

  The innkeeper soon had Richard ensconced in his taproom by the fire, since no private parlours were to be had in such a small establishment. The inn was poor, but the owner, Mr. Croft, seemed a respectable sort of fellow. And Richard could be satisfied not only with his dinner, but also with the rum punch the man concocted, at an hour when most of his customers would normally be tending their livestock.

  Richard waited until the rum had seeped into his bones and warmed him from the inside out before inquiring where he might find Mr. Augustus Payley, Esq.

  “Ye want the Squire?” the good-natured Mr. Croft asked, obviously surprised.

  “If that is how Mr. Payley is known hereabouts,” Richard replied in a voice that said he was not used to having his wishes questioned. Then, relaxing, he reasoned that in all fairness he had not given Mr. Croft his name or his rank.

  The innkeeper laughed on an apologetic note. “Sorry, sir. It's just that ye fair took me aback, askin’ about our Squire in that sort o’ way."

  Something about the manner in which Mr. Croft had said “our Squire” struck Richard as odd.

  But before he could ask why the manner of his query had astonished his host, Mr. Croft continued.

  “I can direct ye to him all right. If ye want to follow me this way.” The burly man set down the cloth he had been using to polish his tables and led Richard to a small window at the front of the inn.

  “There be the Squire,” he said, pointing out into his yard.

  Richard had to bend nearly in half to see through the low glass, and when he did, he saw nothing but the two boys and dog, who by this time had finished their race. Now they were engaged in a spirited game of tag, instead, with the spaniel an energetic third player.

  Richard looked about for a gentleman. Then, the earlier note in the innkeeper's voice recurred to him, and he thought he knew why the man had used it.

  “Would Mr. Augustus Payley be one of those two young scamps?” he asked.

  Mr. Croft laughed. “Aye, sir. Now, ye see why ye confounded me for a moment. Ye sounded so formal like. Ay"—he gestured towards the boys with a nod, which, though fond, contained a measure of pride as well—"that be our Squire. He be ten years old, or thereabouts."

  “Which of the boys is he?"

  Mr. Croft's honest face displayed shock at Richard's failure to recognize Quality when he saw it. “Oh, that be plain as day, sir! That littler boy, now, the one with the red muffler, that be my son, Johnny. T'is the other be the Squire.”

  It was clear that the very idea of confusing the two boys had greatly discomfited Mr. Croft, but indeed, there was little to choose between the two. Both were dressed in baggy, woolen breeches and knitted waistcoats, beneath which rough linen shirts could be seen. The only distinguishing marks between them were the color of the mufflers wound about their necks and, perhaps, the degree of blondness exhibited by each. Mr. Croft's Johnny was a tow-head, where Augustus already showed a tendency for his hair to turn brown.

  For a moment, Richard watched the two cavorting outside, wondering on what sort of a fool's errand he had come. If the “Squire” was ten years old, then who had written the application?

  Mr. Croft had gone back to polishing his tables in preparation for his evening customers. Richard thought of asking for more particulars about the Payleys, then decided against this course. Where family matters were concerned, the fewer outsiders involved the better, and until he knew who had been using a boy to cover his own nefarious dealings, Richard would rather keep the news to himself. Something fairly havey-cavey seemed to be going on.

  Meaning to question the boy, he bent to look outside the window again, but the “Squire” had disappeared. The innkeeper's Johnny had fetched an axe to split logs.

  “Your Squire appears to have decamped,” Richard remarked idly to his host.

  Mr. Croft checked his timepiece. “Yessir. It'll be time for milking up at The Grange, and Mr. Augustus be a good one for remembering his chores."

  “Is he now? And The Grange, I take it, is the Payley estate?"

  Mr. Croft confirmed this and, after giving Richard direc
tions to The Grange, agreed to his borrowing a gig while his own horse rested.

  With Johnny's help, the gig was readied, and Richard soon found himself urging the inn's one horse up a road deeply rutted by cartwheels. Lurching and bumping with each rut, he reached the crest of a short hill and immediately spotted Augustus trudging homeward. The boy, who appeared to be in a vast hurry, was stumbling over the ruts in his haste.

  Richard lightly flicked the horse on the back with the reins and, in spite of the dismal road, soon overtook him.

  “May I offer you a ride?” Richard said, as the boy turned to see who was passing him.

  “Yessir! Thank you, sir!” Wreathed in smiles, Augustus clambered onto the seat beside him. His head was bare, and the winter's setting sun picked out the golden highlights in his hair.

  If Richard had not been on guard, he would have been disarmed by the boy's frank gratitude. As it was, he had to fight a strong urge to smile back at him.

  “Have you far to go?” Richard said, clicking to the horse, though the innkeeper had already told him the distance to The Grange.

  “No, it's not much farther. Just another mile up this road. I walk it all the time, but I left a little later than I should have, which makes me doubly glad you came along when you did, sir."

  They bucked down the road for a moment in silence, before Richard asked, “And whom do I have the pleasure of conveying?"

  Augustus flushed and bobbed his head in the best bow he could manage under the perilous circumstances. “Your pardon, sir, I ought to have introduced myself. Augustus Payley, Esq., at your service."

  Richard offered the boy his hand and was pleased by the firmness of his handshake. “Your servant, Mr. Payley.” He hoped Augustus would not notice his failure to identify himself, but Richard knew he would be unlikely to get much information from the boy if he did.

  “Were you heading for The Grange, yourself?"

  Startled by the question, Richard hesitated before responding, “As a matter of fact, I was. How did you know?"

  Augustus chuckled. “Excuse me, sir, but you almost had to be. We have the only farm up this road. And, besides, we've been expecting you."

  “I see.” So far, the conversation had been filled with surprises, none of which had helped Richard at all.

  “Yessir. We thought you might come yesterday, but when you did not, we thought you might have been taken ill."

  And who is we? Richard had started to phrase this question more politely aloud, when Augustus said, “Pardon me, sir, but it might be better for me to lead your horse down this hill.” Without waiting for Richard's agreement, he jumped down from the gig.

  Richard, who was not used to needing his horses led, was completely taken aback until he saw the reason for the boy's action. A rut, deeper and wider than all the others, had made the next descent more than uncomfortable. It would be an easy matter to trap a wheel and overturn the gig while trying to pull it out.

  Richard had no doubt of his ability to guide the horse around it, but he let the boy do as he wished. This Augustus Payley, whoever he was, certainly had an engaging way about him.

  The hill once negotiated, Augustus scrambled back onto the seat. Richard thanked him kindly for his service and took control of the horse again.

  “We're coming to The Grange now, sir. Do you see our orchard?"

  Noting the pride in the boy's voice, Richard followed his gesture to see, indeed, that they were about to pass an immense orchard, filled with dormant cherry trees. Grass had been left to grow thick around their trunks, but it had been beaten down and grazed by a large number of sheep.

  “You ought to see the cherries we harvested last season,” Augustus said. “For size and sweetness, I'd put them up against any fruit from Kent."

  Distracted by the thought of how lovely the trees would appear in their spring blossoms, Richard delayed his questions once again. But his curiosity was growing—about this boy, who seemed somewhat mature for his age, and about the person who was raising him. Augustus had the courtesy of a gentleman, the pride of a landed farmer, and the engaging manner of the best of his age and gender. Reflecting upon his anger at the start of this adventure, Richard almost regretted the errand he had come upon.

  He opened his mouth to question the boy more firmly, but was suddenly interrupted.

  “Oh! Lord love me! He's at it again!"

  “He?"

  Richard turned to spy another, smaller orchard—this one full of young spriglings planted in close rows. A large bull was making his way slowly through them, stopping only to nibble the top off every one.

  Without waiting for the carriage to stop, Augustus jumped down from the bench and started to run.

  “Here! Augustus, where are you going?"

  “Got to get Caesar out of m'sister's orchard. Sorry, sir!” He struggled over the fence that should have shielded the young plants, shouting and waving his arms at the bull.

  Certain that the Squire would be too busy to direct him further, Richard smiled after him, before looking about for the house. It was perched upon a hill just past the smaller orchard and a tumble-down barn. The yard appeared to be a gathering place for wretched outbuildings and decayed machinery.

  As soon as he reached the door of The Grange, Richard stepped down and looked about for a servant to take his horse, but the dilapidated condition of the house suggested no servant would appear. Seeing none, in any case, he knocked upon the ancient door, which needed a new coat of paint, but got no reply.

  Curious—and growing more so at the silence of the place, he decided to stable the horse himself. He did not want the beast to take a chill while waiting.

  The ramshackle barn was only a few paces away. Richard unharnessed the mare and led her into it, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the sagging doorframe. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimmer light, the odor of sweet hay and warm farm animals assaulted his nostrils.

  “Clarissa"—a woman's voice came sternly from the other side of a stall—"if you do not stop this at once, I shall be forced to call Mr. Dowling, who will take you away! He has been dying to get his hands upon you!"

  Wondering what poor Clarissa had done to merit such a threat, Richard tied Mr. Croft's horse to a post and peered over the wooded slats.

  A particularly pretty Jersey cow greeted his eyes. She was gazing soulfully at the maid who was milking her, and, with an inward chuckle, Richard guessed that Mr. Dowling must be the local glue manufacturer.

  The maid, herself, was partially out of his line of sight, her back turned towards Richard, so that he had to advance another step nearer the stall to see her.

  When he did, what struck him first was the glossiness of her hair, which tumbled down her back in a thick fall of brown silk. Its rich, dark color was brightened by hints of auburn and ebony. The mass screened her shoulders and back, so that it was a few seconds before he remarked her height, which seemed considerable.

  Her perfect proportions—a narrow waist above a voluminous skirt, much too heavy to be fashionable— had also concealed this detail from him. But the girl sitting in front of him, he realized, would surely be tall enough to meet his eyes if she stood.

  The cow stomped, and the bucket beneath its udder threatened to topple over.

  “Clarissa!” Again, a sharp warning. “I have no time for this foolishness! If you do not behave, I swear I shall let Caesar have his way with you!"

  Restraining a smile, and convinced that this milkmaid was no servant—not with the cultured voice she had used—Richard judged it time to reveal himself, before she could swear in earnest. He felt the need, besides, to see the face that went with that hair and waist.

  “Herrrumph!” He cleared his throat discreetly, and the girl turned without jumping, as he had feared she might.

  Vibrant eyes, warm in color, high cheekbones and an open stare met his gaze. Richard felt a curious thump in the region of his chest.

  The girl had recognized him as a stranger, but instead of blus
hing for her conduct, she rose with a flashing, white smile.

  Richard had been right—the girl reached clear to his shoulder and beyond. As a man who measured over six feet, he was not used to looking many men in the eye, and never a woman. He found the experience had an unusual effect. He could only stare in rapt admiration of her magnificent proportions, from her full, rounded breasts, to her high waist, to what, beneath her skirts, must be very long legs.

  She seemed momentarily to be struck by the strangeness of the phenomenon herself, as her eyes raked him from his boots to the top of his head.

  Aware of the impropriety of his manners, and puzzling over his heart which was still beating erratically, Richard cleared his throat again. “Pardon me, miss, but I knocked at the door and no one answered."

  “No, I am sorry.” She advanced and offered him her hand with the same open manner Augustus had shown. “I did not hear you arrive, and I'm afraid you saw how I was occupied.” She made a disparaging gesture towards the miscreant she had been trying to milk. “My brother should have returned from the village in time to do the milking, but since he did not, I decided to begin. Clarissa's mooing can be quite disturbing."

  “I do understand that a lady in her condition must not be kept waiting."

  In response to these words, the girl—whoever she was—did flush becomingly, and as if she had never done so before. Richard took a moment's pleasure in the way embarrassment brought a warm glow to her cheeks, before the thumping, moving lower than his chest, warned him of the danger of flirting with pretty milking maids, whether servants or no.

  Considering the crudity of their surroundings, he only doffed his hat as he asked for her name, “Miss ... ?"

  His single word erased her embarrassment, and she bobbed him a brisk curtsey. “Selina—” She hesitated only a second, before continuing more boldly, “Miss Selina Trevelyan, sir. And you must be ... ?"

  Her use of his family name shocked him. His brows snapped together before he vouchsafed to answer. Wondering briefly whether his title would wipe the brave look from her face, he made her a stiffer bow and began, “I am Linton—” before his words were cut short by a bovine bellow.