“Couldn’t agree more, my lord! There’s a frightful racket already coming up through the floorboards that I do not wonder the noise below will be monstrously bad for female nerves.”
“But—Grand!” Rory whispered, astonished. “How can you think me so weak as to faint at the sound of a waterwheel?” She squeezed his forearm. “You must know how much I have longed to see one in operation, particularly the work of Mr. Smeaton.” She appealed to Christopher. “Mr. Bryce, Mr. Smeaton is this country’s foremost civil engineer, is he not? And best known for his tower at Plymouth.”
“That is so, my lady,” Christopher agreed, impressed by Rory’s knowledge. “The lighthouse at Plymouth was indeed designed by him, and has since saved many ships and lives.” He smiled at her, then said to her grandfather, “My lord, I specifically chose Mr. Smeaton to design and have built this waterwheel under our feet because I believe his to be the best and most efficient power device known today. In fact, for his research into the mechanics of waterwheels and windmills he was awarded the Copley Medal. Anyone with a keen interest in the scientific would not want to miss the opportunity to see for themselves Smeaton’s wheel in operation.”
“There, Grand! Mr. Bryce has one of the best—if not the best—waterwheels in the country! And we saw on the floors above how it powers all those waterframes to spin yarn so much the quicker than can be done by one woman at her spinning wheel. How many yarns more per frame, Mr. Bryce?”
“Ninety-six or a little more, my lady.”
“Is that not an astonishing number, Grand? Such a waterwheel must be a marvel indeed! So you see why I cannot miss this opportunity to view it at firsthand.”
Lord Shrewsbury patted her hand with a smile, and looked to be wavering in his decision, when Mr. Philip Audley added his voice to the argument, as if he were part of the discussion and had been personally appealed to.
“My dear Lady Fitzstuart,” said the Duke of Roxton’s secretary, with a patronizing smile and a sigh of resignation, even going so far as to shake his head at her slightly. “What is the viewing of a waterwheel when compared to your health and safety? I humbly add my entreaties to Lord Shrewsbury’s, that he is in the right in this. I fear any machinery that has the power to drive such noisome contraptions and at such speed must be as loud as the loudest thunderclap. And does not a thunderclap cause one to jump in fright?” He sniffed in the direction of Christopher without looking at him, and his nostrils pinched with disdain, before he looked about and addressed the others. “It behooves us, does it not, to show some Christian charity and forgive Mr. Bryce his insensitivity in suggesting that the ladies descend into what would for them equate to the pits of hell, to view such an alarming device. For surely such a suggestion demonstrates a marked lack of sensibility and an ignorance of the delicate sensibilities possessed by a female belonging to a station far above his own. He forgets, being as he is surrounded by females of farming stock, bred up from the cradle, much like mules, to labor long and hard. Such women share the dull sensibilities of their masters; no noise is too great to cause them a fright. And no doubt that is the reason they are well-suited to this mercantile enterprise. But we who have spent our entire lives esteeming the fragile beauty and delicacy of those of the highest rank, of which you, my dear Lady Fitzstuart and my dear Lady Mary are at its apex, know very well how you should be treated, and would never suffer you to be exposed to such unpleasantness. And I can say with confidence that my esteemed employer, His Grace of Roxton, would most certainly agree with me in this.”
He ended with a confident smile and a bow to each.
The immediate response to this convoluted and derisory speech was one of awed silence. Everyone was still digesting the secretary’s words and wondering what to offer by way of reply to the man’s overt condescension, not to mention gall, at the complete lack of manners and blatant insolence directed at their host, when, to the collective amazement, a spirited rebuttal came, not from Rory, or her grandfather, or the Squire, but from the Lady Mary. And such was her outrage that she was oblivious to her passionate defense of the Squire, but he was not, nor was anyone else.
This Mary, the Lady Mary Cavendish who always chose her words carefully, who stood ramrod straight, who was aloof and haughty with those unknown to her, and when in the presence of her mother never escaped her shadow. This same Mary now stepped out of that shadow, words tumbling forth, hands gesticulating, and violet eyes bright, damp, and fierce. This Mary was a revelation to all, but not to Evelyn, nor to Christopher. It would have surprised both men to know they shared a private satisfaction—Evelyn because he had seen glimpses of this Mary while they were growing up together and so knew she still existed somewhere within her; and Christopher because he always believed that just below her haughty exterior was this Mary just waiting to burst forth and be recognized—his true Mary.
“Who are you, sir, to dare to presume to know me or my sister, Lady Fitzstuart?” Mary enunciated, voice trembling with controlled anger. And with every word uttered, her voice grew in strength and confidence, and no one spoke and everyone kept their gaze upon her. “Who are you to belittle Mr. Bryce? You come here as my cousin Roxton’s representative, and we have tolerated you at Abbeywood for years only because you are the Duke’s instrument. But you have forgotten that simple premise in your conceit. My cousin would never, not in a hundred lifetimes, scorn the labors of his tenants who work from daylight to dusk on his behalf, and who strive to make a life for themselves. He is modest and intelligent enough to know what he owes them, and they him. And they esteem him all the more because of it. Just as Mr. Bryce appreciates his mill workers and is a fair and just master.
“But you, Mr. Audley are so arrogant as to dismiss him and the good, hard-working people of this vale, when it is such people to whom you should be grateful. Have you never given a thought to who makes your clothes, prepares your food, supplies the paper and quills and ink you use as His Grace’s secretary? Are those good people so beneath your notice merely because they are of common birth? I tend to my beehives, feed my hens, and collect their eggs. I churn butter and turn cheese wheels. These are necessary tasks for a working farm. They also require the use of my hands, these fine hands which you think are fit only to embroider and play a pianoforte because I am a lady. And yet you deem such farming skills as I engage in as only worthy of the wives and daughters of farming stock you insultingly called mules?! Am I too then a mule, Mr. Audley? No! Do not speak. I have no time for your fawning platitudes.
“I am very proud to have contributed to Abbeywood’s production. And if I were to own to a truth, I have gained far greater satisfaction living and working—yes, working, Mr. Audley—here in the vale amongst its people than all the parading about in fine silks in Society drawing rooms! Nor would my cousin ever treat Mr. Bryce with such condescension as you presume to do, sir! You think because I have kept quiet all these years, that I approve of your despicable behavior? You think I do not see, hear, feel how you’ve done your best to make his tenure as steward unwelcoming and demeaning at every turn? He has only ever wanted Abbeywood to thrive so that my nephew will have an inheritance worth having; something my husband never spent an ounce of thought on. Indeed, I am very sure Sir Gerald was intent on running the estate dry so Jack would have nothing. And yet in a mere two years Mr. Bryce has managed to give my nephew, a boy who is not even his relative, a future worth having.
“And you know this, Mr. Audley. It stares you in the face every time you draw up a chair to inspect the ledgers Mr. Bryce and his assistant Mr. Deed so carefully prepare. You have pored over every plus and minus, every calculation hoping upon hope to find a fault in their accounting. And that is not because you care one jot for the estate. You may even crave His Grace’s praise for your exertions on his behalf, but I am convinced now more than ever that your petty-minded behavior is governed by a bitter and discontented disposition. You could have been so much better than you are if you had only been humble and taken pride in your ach
ievements, and we would have thought the more of you for that.”
She took a deep breath and put up her chin, gaze still very much on the red-faced secretary, and held her hands lightly in front of her and squared her shoulders.
“I will be writing to His Grace to have you relieved from your obligations at Abbeywood. My cousin can appoint another in your place, though I think that, too, unnecessary, and will tell him so. Now signal to me that you have understood all I have said, then apologize to Mr. Bryce. Then you may leave us for some quiet reflection by the mill pond until nuncheon is ready.”
The secretary quickly made her an obedient bow, eyes downcast, but when he hesitated to turn to Christopher to do the same, Shrewsbury growled at him to get on with it. He muttered a clipped apology to the Squire, bowed, and strode from the millhouse without making eye contact with anyone. Evelyn followed him to the door and momentarily blocked his exit.
“Quite right of you to slink off with your tail between your legs. But don’t go far. Shrewsbury and I have a few questions that require answers.”
Philip Audley looked up into Evelyn’s blue eyes, and there was no contrition in his look or in his voice. In fact there was a hint of menace in his tone, and gone was all semblance of patronizing humility.
“Rest assured, my lord, I will not go far. I have my own questions to bring to that discussion. Now if you will get out of my way. I find I cannot breathe in air thick with patrician self-righteousness.”
Evelyn slapped his back. “Good. Soon you won’t have to!” and threw back his head with a harsh laugh and stepped away from the door with an exaggerated bow of leave, unnerving the secretary, which was Evelyn’s intent.
Mary watched them, and not hearing their harsh whispered exchange, she smiled at her cousin’s theatrics, then sighed as if with relief. She was surprised by the wave of calm that settled on her after such an uncharacteristic outburst. At the very least she expected to be ill at ease. But she was not. And as the slighted secretary disappeared outside, into the room stepped her lady’s maid who, with a nod in her direction, let Mary know that nuncheon was ready to be served. So she turned to her daughter, who was regarding her quizzically, unsure if her mother was still angry. It did not escape her notice that twice Teddy had glanced at Christopher, as if requiring his reassurance all was still right with her world. This only deepened Mary’s feelings. For surely, to her daughter here was the only man who had ever truly been a father to her.
When Mary put out her hand with a smile, Teddy eagerly took hold of her fingers. She then pulled her into her arms, turned to Rory and said,
“Would you be exceedingly disappointed if I asked you to contain your curiosity until after we eat? I am very sure a respite and refreshment will revive you—everyone,” she added glancing about the small space, careful not to indicate to anyone else she was making a veiled reference to Rory’s pregnancy. “Once we’re fortified, we’ll be able to give our full attention to Smeaton’s waterwheel. What say you, Teddy? Shall we share some of Cook’s special strawberry jam with our guests?”
“Strawberry? Truly?”
“Yes, and the walnut pickle, because I know it is Lord Vallentine’s particular favorite.”
She glanced over Teddy’s head at Evelyn, who now stood beside the Squire, and resisted the urge to look at Christopher, smiling at her cousin when he put up his brows in acknowledgment of her veiled reminder he had stolen that particular pickle from the pantry as a ghost.
“And the pickled cucumbers?” asked Teddy. “Did you remember the pickled cucumbers, because they’re Uncle Bryce’s favorite.”
Mary looked down into Teddy’s upturned smiling face and kissed her forehead.
“Yes! I remembered. He told us at dinner. And yes, I had Cook pack a bottle of those too.”
Teddy grinned and hunched her shoulders, much more herself since her mother’s uncharacteristic angry outburst. She looked over at Christopher to see his reaction, but he was not given the opportunity to respond because Evelyn elbowed him in the ribs to get his attention.
“Pickled cucumbers, Silvanus?” he purred and pulled a face. “Glad the walnut pickle is all mine. She will be too, in a month’s time. And yet I do like to offer my opposition a sporting chance. Makes the getting and keeping that much more worthwhile. After nuncheon, before you start boring on about waterwheels, let’s you and I take a stroll. You’ll want to hear what I propose, believe me.”
NINETEEN
‘HERE WE ARE, taking that stroll. So what is it you want?”
Christopher stopped by the first sluice gate, turned and looked back the way they had come, along the path that followed the canal carrying rushing water away from the millhouse. He and Evelyn were distant enough from the picnic party not to be overheard, but still within line of sight to keep an eye on the guests, and the servants attending to them. And while the picnic party sat in state around a table heavy with silver, porcelain, and a banquet fit for any lord’s great hall, the mill workers, cottage spinners, and their families were enjoying a modest feast of their own down by the stream.
His workers appreciated the few hours’ rest and recreation out-of-doors, and the lamb stew, bread, parsnip cakes, and cider he’d provided, but what they most valued was this opportunity to observe the nobility at such close quarters. The village on market days was as far as most had ventured in their lives. So the vicar and his good wife, and the local squires and their families were as high up the social ladder as any of them had seen, and then only from afar. Not even the Lady Mary Cavendish, who everyone knew was the most titled lady in the vale, had ever crossed to this side of the Puzzlewood. So to discover she was as pretty as commonly reported, with bright, glossy red hair the same color as flame, was not very tall, and had a fine delicate nose and large eyes, was very satisfactory indeed.
In fact watching her and her noble companions at the picnic table was a high treat that Christopher knew would be talked about for weeks, if not months to come, and be stamped in the collective memory forever. Grandparents would tell their grandchildren about the time gentlemen and ladies with skin as white and as clean as fresh snow, and everyone dressed in richly embroidered velvets and silks, came to picnic at the mill. The ladies with dyed ostrich plumes in their broad-brimmed silk straw hats, smiling behind fluttering fans, and the gentlemen with lace at their wrists using silver knife and fork, and drinking from goblets that were instantly refilled by servants who ran around catering to their every whim.
It was a lovely idyll and worthy of oils. The warmth of the sun bathed the autumnal colors of the woods on the hills behind them in a golden glow, the noble grouping picnicking by the stream so out of context to their surroundings that they could be mistaken for elfin lords and faerie queens come out of hiding to dine. But with gray clouds rolling in from the northeast, Christopher predicted rain before the light began to fade to dusk. And he had yet to take the guests on a tour of the waterwheel before their return to Abbeywood, a journey which would be at least an hour longer because it was uphill. And if the rain came, the tracks would turn to slush, and if night fell, the journey would be impossible.
So Evelyn needing a private word with him only added to Christopher’s anxiousness. He really had no wish to hear what Mary’s cousin had to say, nor could he guess what it could be about, though he wondered if it had to do with Philip Audley’s impending incarceration for treason, and wanting his cooperation for some scheme to take the secretary into custody. That said, looking over at the man seated across from Lord Shrewsbury enjoying a glass of wine and a second pear tart, Audley either had no idea he’d been found out, or was exceedingly arrogant in his belief he had outsmarted even England’s Spymaster General, and become complacent. Christopher believed Audley guilty of the latter.
So what did Evelyn want with him? he wondered, managing to temper his apprehension and face his lordship without giving away his thoughts. And then Evelyn confounded him.
“Look at ’em,” Evelyn said, leaning his sh
oulder blades up against the timber bulkhead of the sluice gate and lifting his long chin in direction of the picnic party. “Two of the prettiest flowers in the kingdom and thank God neither is a gormless ornament. But then m’cousin Dair wouldn’t have married anything less than a rare jewel. And Lady Fitzstuart is about as rare as they come. As for our ruby, well, we’re partial, ain’t we? Ha! I always knew there was fire under that ice! Can’t possess hair like that and not have a passionate nature. She—”
“Listen, Vallentine or Stretham-Ely, or whatever it is you call yourself—Apollo will do! If you’ve brought me out here to wax lyrical about your cousin and what she means to you, then I’ll stop you there. Those are rain clouds, and the ladies would like to see Smeaton’s waterwheel before—”
“She gave quite a speech, didn’t she?” Evelyn continued as if Christopher hadn’t spoken.
“Yes… Yes, she did.”
“The sort of speech a Parliamentarian gives in the House when they believe wholeheartedly in what they’re saying, one full of conviction tinged with aggrieved indignation. I’m so pleased I was there to hear it. I always knew she had it in her but it still surprised me. She has more in common with her cousin—my Tante Antonia—than she realizes. If only she would embrace Tante Antonia’s exuberance… I thought that too much to ask after ten years living with Gerry. Of course my first thought was that she would never have made such an impassioned speech if Gerry were still alive. He was overbearing, figuratively and literally, and her mother…” Evelyn shuddered. “Colder than a reptile. But my second thought was that my first thought was wrong. My guess is that eventually, even if Gerry had lived, Mary would’ve found a way to chip her way out of the ice block those two had encased her in. But that would not have helped her, or you, would it? Because you’re one of those damnably principled fellows like our cousin Roxton. The two of you would get along splendidly. Possibly be wary on first meeting and think the other an arrogant prude, and you’d both be right!”
Proud Mary Page 25