Proud Mary

by Lucinda Brant

  “Lady Fitzstuart’s lady’s maid traveled with us, there being only room enough for Lord Shrewsbury’s valet, my man, and Lord Vallentine’s valet in the second carriage on account of the extra baggage when we stopped to take up Lord Vallentine’s man at The Two Greyhounds,” Philip Audley explained, as if these arrangements were of keen interest to everyone.

  Christopher nodded gravely. As it so happened this was one time he was interested in the secretary’s fondness for social minutiae. He had the information he required without asking directly for it. He now not only knew the Spymaster General Lord Shrewsbury was a visitor, but that he had been accompanied by his granddaughter, Lady Fitzstuart, wife of Lady Mary’s brother, Major Lord Fitzstuart. He looked forward to meeting both, the prospect of being shut away with Audley for hours when he could be making their acquaintance deciding him to make his poor assistant his sacrificial lamb to Audley’s administrative inanities.

  “If you have everything you need, Mr. Audley, I’ll leave you in Mr. Deed’s capable hands.”

  “No! No, I do not have everything. Far from it! His Grace has sent me with a list of questions. And I have questions of my own, and you, Mr. Bryce, are required to answer them to my satisfaction. So I insist you remain here until I have executed my duty to my employer, and you have executed yours as steward. Do I make myself understood, sir?”

  Timothy Deed looked from the thin-lipped secretary to his employer, and knew who was going to win this battle of wills before it began. Mr. Bryce always did, even if the secretary believed himself the victor. The squire had not removed his greatcoat, nor had he come further into the office, but stood just inside the room with the door left ajar, all signals of his intentions. Mr. Deed smiled to himself and lowered his eyes to the level of the top ledger, ears wide open, as ever.

  “Perfectly, Mr. Audley. But why the urgency?” Christopher asked evenly, hiding his surprise at the secretary’s note of desperation that lingered just below the surface of his haughtiness. “As we have the pleasure of your annotatable observations for the entire week, I am certain His Grace’s questions can wait for later in the day, or tomorrow?”

  It was not unusual for Christopher to bait the little man in his neat bob wig and immaculate austere clothing, and it usually took several hours, sometimes a day, before the secretary riled. And even then Audley was so single-minded and dull to his purpose that he often mistook Christopher’s goading responses as the answers of a dullard, and thus would repeat his questions in a louder voice, as if the Squire was also hard of hearing. This invariably led to Christopher reverting to monosyllabic responses just to get the interview over with as quickly as possible. But not today. Mr. Philip Audley was rattled from the outset, and this intrigued Christopher.

  “Regretfully, I am unable to stay the full week. I have business—that is to say, His Grace has business elsewhere—”

  “Elsewhere? Where else? There is nothing within twenty miles of Abbeywood that would be of interest to the Duke, surely?”

  “Sir! You are not party to His Grace’s thoughts, or his business dealings, so you cannot know that—”

  “That is correct. But I do know this area, and this is my dominion, not his. And thus if the Duke has business here, I have a right to know about it.”

  The secretary’s mouth worked for several seconds but no words issued forth. Unable to supply a response, he snatched up his appointment diary which lay open on the desk where he had been seated, and stared down at his own handwriting without being able to read it. He mumbled a response, something about a meeting in Stroud with an individual Christopher had never heard of on a topic the secretary could not elaborate on, because it was in a sealed letter for this individual’s perusal only, saying after clearing his throat, “If you would hand over the key to the tea caddy, I will see that it is passed on to Mrs. Keble.”

  Christopher frowned at this sudden change in the conversation and puzzled by the request. The secretary had uttered it as if it was the most natural thing in the world, which it was not, and all three in the steward’s office knew it.

  “Key to the tea caddy? What possible interest could you have in that key?”

  “I do not have an interest in it, Mr. Bryce!” snapped the secretary. “Mrs. Keble requires the key, and thus you will supply—”

  “No. I will not. Mrs. Keble has no right to fill your ear with her complaints or her requests.”

  “She didn’t! I mean, it’s not a-a complaint. Tea is needed by the guests—”

  “Lady Mary has a key, and only she is authorized to use it. Mrs. Keble knows this, has known it for two years, and so have you. Now, if that is all your immediate wants unsatisfied, Mr. Deed can be of assistance to—”

  “Mr. Bryce, as His Grace’s representative, you will hand over that key or—”

  Christopher took a stride toward the secretary, who instinctively retreated behind the desk, appointment book up to his chest as if it were a shield.

  “Or what, Mr. Audley? You will wrest it from me? I think not. If it makes you feel less the earthworm, were His Grace the most noble Duke of Roxton standing before me with the same request, I would give him the same response.” Christopher smiled thinly. “Though perhaps I would be a little more polite. Mr. Deed! If you need me in the next little while, you will find me in the walled garden, where I do believe the Lady Mary is presently taking the air.”

  On that pronouncement, Christopher turned, the skirts of his heavy greatcoat swishing against his booted legs, and left them, the secretary with his mouth at half-cock and Mr. Deed rising up on his arthritic knees from behind the mountain of ledgers and straining to hear voices beyond the window with its view of the walled garden. Only two gardeners were in line of sight, and he could not hear them, least of all see or hear her ladyship. The steward’s assistant resumed his chair, wondering for the umpteenth time at the Squire’s omniscience where the Lady Mary was concerned.

  MARY WAS INDEED taking the air, strolling the gravel path that was parallel to the south wall, where a long-established Jalap trailed a trellis affixed to the dry stones and which was top-heavy with red blossoms. In this part of the enclosed garden there was a hot house and an orchard of orange, peach, and apricot trees. On the opposite side of the path were beds of fragrant pale pink phlox, cornflower blue asters, and lavender blue daisies. Everywhere was autumn color and scent.

  Beyond these flower beds were Mary’s beehives, and farther afield, the large vegetable and herb gardens that supplied the house with produce, the plots running all the way to the bakery and cidermill house at the back of the kitchen. Four gardeners were working the plots, while two maids gathered produce into wicker baskets for Cook. Another maid was busy at the chicken coop fetching eggs. The dairy was just on the other side of a low dividing wall, a short walk through a gate.

  And while this area of the estate had as many servants going about their daily tasks as those inside the house, the gardens gave Mary a sense of tranquility that indoors never could. This was a space Sir Gerald never visited because he considered it the realm of his servants, and not one for a gentleman to inhabit. Not even a walk in the formal garden, with its hedgerows and topiary could entice him. If he was not in his book room, the dining room, or bed, he was out hunting, shooting, or riding his dominion as lord of the manor.

  And so Mary was left in peace to do as she pleased with the herb, vegetable, and flower beds, the formal walks, her bees, the chickens, and the dairy. And it was here within the high stone walls where she always found a spot, in the sun or shade, depending on the season, to sit and read her letters uninterrupted.

  She had brought her visitor out to this part of the garden, not only because this was her favorite private space, but because it was level ground, and closest the house, and so an easy walk. But mainly they had come outdoors because she sensed her sister-in-law had something of importance to share with her she did not wish the others to overhear. She wondered if it was news from Barbados, from her brother about th
eir father, but she did not speculate. In fact she could hardly think at all, or believe her sister-in-law had made the journey to Abbeywood.

  It had been just on dusk the previous evening when Mrs. Keble surprised her with the news two carriages had turned in through the gates. Evelyn, newly shaved and groomed and looking less the specter and more himself, jumped up from his chair by the fire, where they had been enjoying a game of chess, not at all surprised. He announced that Lord Shrewsbury had finally arrived, and about time too. And while help had been hired from the village, Cook’s requests for provisions fulfilled, and the guest bedrooms aired, dusted, and made ready, so that Mary felt Abbeywood was ready to welcome visitors, no thought had been given that a guest might not be able to take the stairs to the first landing, and an allotted bedchamber.

  Mary had been mortified to be unable to provide Lady Fitzstuart with a bed downstairs. But as the guests were only staying three nights, and she had her grandfather’s arm to lean upon, the young Lady Fitzstuart smiled sweetly that it was no inconvenience at all, and she meant it. Rory only wished her husband was with her, and not in the Caribbean. He could have carried her upstairs with ease, as he had done that first month of their marriage when they had stayed at Fitzstuart Hall, ancestral home of the earls of Strathsay. She was hopeful the commissioned flying chair would be installed in her new home by the time he returned.

  Everyone made suitable murmurings of agreement, not wishing to upset a young woman who had been a bride less than two months when her new husband was forced to leave her for an extended period. And no one wished to speculate aloud on when Major Lord Fitzstuart was likely to return. Though Lord Shrewsbury did answer the question that was on everyone’s minds, and that was there was no news as no letters had yet been received from the Major, and in deference to the ladies, Lord Shrewsbury changed the topic of conversation.

  It was only after Teddy said her good-nights to the assembled company and she went with her mother to the base of the stairs where her nurse waited that she asked in a concerned whisper about Lady Fitzstuart’s pronounced limp, and why she relied on a walking stick to get about. She wondered if her new aunt had suffered an injury, to which Mary explained that Uncle Dair’s wife had been born with a crooked foot, but that such a minor inconvenience did not diminish her kind and gentle nature or her beauty, did it? Teddy agreed that Aunt Rory, as Lady Fitzstuart had asked Teddy to call her, was as pretty and as delicate as one of Granny’s precious porcelain figurines.

  And now Teddy’s Aunt Rory was using her walking stick and leaning lightly on Mary’s arm, enjoying a stroll amongst the flower beds in the bracing morning air. Both ladies were wearing short coats with wool shawls draped across their shoulders, soft kid gloves, and had half-boots under their quilted petticoats.

  “You must be disappointed not to be accompanying us to Cheltenham this year, my lady.”

  “Mary. I will always be Mary, and you will always be Rory. You are married to my brother, which now makes us sisters.” Mary smiled and placed her hand over Rory’s. “I’ve never had a sister before, and I am so very pleased that I have one now.”

  “Nor I! And though I love my brother very much, there were times when I wished for a sister to confide in—about those little things brothers—men—can have no notion about. But with not even a mother to turn to, poor Harvel had to listen, he had no choice.” Rory glanced at Mary, adding with a light touch, “You were more fortunate, having a mother to offer a willing ear.”

  “I wish that were true,” Mary stated bluntly, but without rancor. “And you must think so, too, or you would not have said so. But I am also very sure that as you are as wise as you are beautiful, you have the full measure of my mother, even in the short time you’ve come to know her. And what you don’t know or understand about her, Dair would have confided in you.”

  “Yes. He did. I should not have pretended otherwise. Forgive me.”

  “There is nothing to forgive. You were being polite, or trying not to offend my feelings. But we Fitzstuarts have ever been blunt—at the very least, bruisingly truthful. Sometimes people mistake us for unfeeling. But that could not be further from the truth. I do believe our sad childhood made my brothers and me susceptible to bruising. And that is why you, who know my brother and love him very much, tried to spare my feelings.” Mary smiled at some memory, lavender eyes bright, and added wryly, “Dair responded to the hurt by using his fists; Charles retreated into his books; and I…? I remained silent and biddable—a coward’s way, I suppose, but at least my opinion and my feelings remained my own.” Mary stopped and faced Rory. “Now it is you who must forgive me. I am feeling a little bruised because my mother does not want me at Cheltenham. At any other time—and I know you will not think me an undutiful daughter for saying so—her command that I stay away would be cause for relief, if it were not that I must send Teddy alone. It won’t be the first time we have been parted. I have had to leave her here with her nurse on numerous occasions on my husband’s orders, and then there was the time she could not join us at Treat for your wedding… But I would not deny Teddy a visit to her Granny. And I am more reconciled to the separation because you are taking her.”

  “Oh, I knew we were destined to be good friends as well as sisters when Alisdair confided we share the same peculiarity for brutal honesty!” Rory replied with a bright smile. “I had thought him being ironic, but now I see your brother does know you. And I am very glad Lady Strathsay asked Grand to stop in to take up Teddy and bring her to Cheltenham, for it has enabled us to be better acquainted, and for me to meet Teddy at her home. Although I confess that I do know a little about your daughter from Alisdair, who is a very proud uncle. It seems he and his niece share a love of being out-of-doors. Though I do wonder how she will hold up confined to a townhouse with only her grandmother for company…”

  “That bothers me, too,” Mary ruminated, then added, suppressing unwanted fears and forcing herself to be bright, “I’m sure my mother will take her out and about. Lady Strathsay does like to be seen. And Teddy does know how to behave, particularly when dressed in a boned bodice and hoops. But is there a particular reason you are required to be in Cheltenham?” she continued, deftly changing the conversation because talk of her mother always had the power to unsettle her. They resumed their stroll. “I hope you are not visiting the town because your grandfather is feeling poorly—or indeed you are unwell?”

  “Oh no! We—Grand and I—are very well indeed. My brother and his wife are staying there for Silla’s health. There is nothing intrinsically wrong with her. Being pregnant is a perfectly natural state, and the physicians say her pregnancy is progressing well. It’s just that Silla has become even more… particular in her wants and needs. And Harvel wishes to please her, and do everything he can to ensure she has the best of everything, but in doing so he is wearing himself thin. So Grand and I want to cheer him up. And to be candid, I could do with the distraction, even if it is listening to Silla’s demands and unreasonable fears.”

  “Yes. I understand—about your brother’s anxieties, and yours… particularly yours, as I know how desperately you must want news of Dair. Have you had any word since learning of his safe arrival?” When Rory shook her head, Mary said with a forced practiced confidence she hoped hid her anxiety, “Another more detailed letter will come, and soon. Dair was never a prolific letter writer at any time, but he will write to you before any other because he loves you so very much.”

  Rory nodded vigorously, chin tucked in and gaze to the gravel path. Mary could not see her face, the peak of her sister-in-law’s bonnet obstructing her view. And when she remained mute Mary suspected she was crying.

  “Oh dear, I have upset you, and that was not my intent!”

  Rory lifted her chin to allow Mary to see her expression, and far from being upset Rory was smiling from ear to ear, and there was such a light in her clear blue eyes that Mary blinked. But there was no time for her to think at the possible reason for Rory’s radiance, thoug
h later she was to wonder at her own thickheadedness.

  “Oh, Mary, I am so happy! I did want to write, but to have the opportunity to tell you in person, and for you to be the first to know is so much the better! I’ve not told a soul, not Grand, or Harvel, or Godmother Duchess, and most definitely not Silla, because she is still annoyed with me for stealing the candlelight for myself in marrying Alisdair.”

  “Lady Grasby is a self-absorbed silly widgeon of a woman,” Mary stated, annoyed, the words out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “Oh, Rory, I—”

  “I agree with you. So does Grand, and Harvel. But we must live with her as best we can. That she is finally breeding—and one hopes it is an heir—has gone a long way in placating my grandfather’s nerves when in her company. He hopes for a boy—we all do—to secure the earldom beyond Harvel.”

  “Yes. That is most important. And I do hope for Lord Shrewsbury’s peace of mind it is a boy—But I interrupted you. You were saying I am the first to know…?”

  Rory giggled at Mary’s look of studious inquiry and obvious lack of insight to what she was alluding. But she quickly stifled her exuberance because she did not want to appear smug, and said levelly,

  “I do believe I will not tell Alisdair until he returns, because as much as my news will make him so very happy, he will worry needlessly about me. And he has enough to worry him in Barbados. Besides, as there is nothing he can do from such a great distance, what is the point of such worry? But husbands cannot help themselves, can they?” Rory leaned in to Mary, as if not wishing to be overheard, and said with a grin, “I know I am being selfishly mischievous, but I do want to wait to surprise him upon his return, so that I may see his expression for myself. Mary. Oh, Mary. Can you not guess? I am enceinte.”

  Mary’s shocked surprise told Rory what she had suspected, that her sister-in-law had not an inkling as to her news. But Mary’s shock was instantly replaced with happiness. She hugged Rory to her, so overjoyed she blinked instant tears off her lashes. Rory told her the answer to the all-important question without needing to be asked.