by Jo Beverley
Brand wondered whether she habitually disguised it this way, or whether it was a performance put on especially for Bey. ‘Struth, it was to be hoped the lady hadn’t abandoned her determination to remain unmarried and decided to set her pretty cap at a marquess!
“We are honored and delighted to have you visit us here at Arradale, Lord Rothgar,” she said, extending a hand for a greeting salutation. That was when Brand noticed her rings, flashing brashly in a sunbeam. Far too many rings, all large. A conundrum, the Countess of Arradale. She might amuse Bey and distract him from Brand’s affairs.
Brand kissed her hand in turn, then she gave one hand to each and led them toward a grand staircase leading up to a balcony edged with columns of rose marble, glowing warmly in shafts of afternoon sun.
“I have invited some of my neighbors to stay for a few days, my lords,” she said. “People who will be pleased to make your acquaintance, and whom you will like to meet. Tomorrow, there will be a ball.” Arriving at the balcony, where yet more servants waited, she added, “I will have you shown to your rooms to refresh yourselves, but then perhaps you would honor us with your company in the drawing room.”
“If you can excuse our riding clothes, Lady Arradale,” said Bey. “We have outpaced our baggage.”
“Of course, my lord.”
She was the epitome of the gracious hostess, and Bey was at his smoothest. Brand felt as if warning bells were sounding, but couldn’t imagine why.
Perhaps she was in marital pursuit and Bey was aware of it. For his part, Brand had no interest in such silliness.
Once in his room and alone, he sighed, thinking that coming here had been a mistake. A house party and a ball. Though he enjoyed good company, he had little patience with the more superficial society gatherings. As he washed and tidied himself, he took comfort in the fact that he would soon be able to escape for daily rides around the area. Bey could play social games with the countess without anyone holding his hand.
Drying his face, he smiled at the thought of his teasing on the road. The countess was hardly Bey’s usual type, but she might be a worthy challenge. Unfortunate, perhaps, that she and Bey were unlikely to lock horns. It could be amusing.
He reknotted his cravat, wondering why she wore so many rings. He was no expert on such things, but he didn’t even think them of significant value. Just large and faceted for greatest sparkle… He paused. That sparked a memory.
Rings?
After a moment, he shook his head, accepting that whatever memory had flickered had died.
He joined his brother and they returned to the lower floor, where a footman guided them to a handsome drawing room, decorated in the latest Chinese style. The countess again came forward to greet them and introduce them to her guests. Brand began to relax. Though mostly of the upper class, the guests were country people rather than courtiers, and likely to be interested in matters that interested him.
He saw his brother watching the countess now and then, as if searching for something about her. He put it aside. Whatever Bey was up to had nothing to do with him.
He settled with a group of ruddy-faced men and began to learn about animal breeding in Wensleydale.
Chapter 18
In the end, simply because she knew he wanted to go, Rosamunde had urged Digby to attend Diana’s party. She knew she should keep him at home, but he did so love these events. Since their marriage, he had stayed with her at Wenscote so often, a sacrifice she hadn’t always appreciated as much as she should.
Let him have the pleasure of time with his old friends. What harm could it do? He knew nothing of a connection between her and the Marquess of Rothgar.
She couldn’t help weakly wondering whether Brand had accompanied his brother. She felt she should know if he were so close, but that was nonsense. Better not to know. She wasn’t sure she could resist the temptation to try at least to see him.
She was particularly pleased Digby was away when her nephew, Edward, turned up again. As usual, he’d arrived as evening fell, so it was impossible to send him on his way. At least this time George Cotter wasn’t with him.
“Digby isn’t here,” she said with satisfaction as she led him to his usual room.
“No? It’s rare he leaves home.”
“He’s at Arradale. The countess is holding a house party with a ball tomorrow night in honor of the Marquess of Rothgar.” She couldn’t resist adding, “I understand the marquess is in the North looking into the activities of the New Commonwealth.”
Edward, virtuously trim in dress and build, put his bag on the bed. “If he investigates, he will only find wisdom for his damned soul.”
“Damned? Just for asking questions?”
“Damned, Aunt, for his wicked life. George Cotter knows all about the marquess and his questions, and does not fear them.”
His quiet certainty of absolute virtue always made her want to say something outrageous. She turned to leave, but he spoke again.
“Do I gather my uncle is in good health, then, if he feels able to indulge in parties and balls?”
Ah, so that had caught him on a raw spot. “I doubt Digby will dance,” she said, casually, “but he is fine fettle. I think he’s heeding your advice about a simple, healthy life.”
“God has answered my prayers, then.” If she didn’t know better, she would have believed him. “And you?” he asked. “I hear you have put aside vanity and go about more.”
True, he’d been urging her to face the world. Edward had a gift for giving good advice in a way that made it intolerable.
But then he looked closely at her for the first time. “What is this, Aunt?” he asked, stepping closer. “A miracle…?” But then he stiffened. “Face paint?”
Hiding a spurt of wicked glee, Rosamunde touched her cheek. “This? Why yes. Wonderful, don’t you think?”
He raised a thin hand as if fending off the devil. “You should accept the way God made you!”
“God did not make me scarred.”
“God’s will speaks in all things.” He actually seized his Bible and held it in front of himself as if needing protection. “So why, being so wickedly transformed, are you not at Arradale with your husband, prancing and flirting, and showing off your body in lewd silken garments?”
“Raw cowardice. I am still not comfortable with strangers, so I made an excuse of not feeling well. I would love to be braver,” she told him. “To be prancing and dancing in silken garments.”
He sighed. “Aunt, I know you do not favor my cause, but can you not see how wicked the world has become, how much change is needed? In Lancashire, people wept to hear George Cotter speak, to hear the simple guidance from the Bible that would lead them to sober, honest lives. You are not lacking sense. Look at England! We are ruled by kings and nobles who flaunt their mistresses, drink themselves unconscious every night, and gamble away their heritage without a thought of those on the land they play with. Do you really think the wild extravagance of Arradale, the likes of the Marquess of Rothgar, the excesses of masquerades, the deep dissolution of drink, the wickedness of fornication and adultery—”
“Stop!” The word escaped Rosamunde before she could help it. Her heart scurried as if he knew, as if he were speaking of her. “My goodness,” she said shakily, “you are learning your trade well. I warrant you stir them from the pulpit.”
He preened. “I hope I am receiving the Lord’s gift of words, yes. Though not from the pulpit. Following our leader, we speak simply on level ground with those who will listen. In a barn, a hall, or even in a field.” He stepped forward and took her hand. “Can I hope that my words touched you, Aunt? That you might one day see the light?”
She supposed he was sincere in his own way. “I do agree that excess drink and gambling is wrong, yes. And fornication. Someone who can bring people to live honest, sober lives is doing good in the world. But you know I cannot agree with everything about the New Commonwealth. Joy is not evil. Dancing is not a sin. You need to be more tolerant
.”
“God’s servants must be rocks. There is no place for half measures. We of the New Commonwealth will turn England into Jerusalem, one acre at a time. When I am master here—”
She snatched her hand free. “When?”
“Aunt, Aunt! One day, all men must come to dust, earthly possessions forgotten. Thus, one day this will be mine, and likely soon. Your devotion is admirable, especially to an old man who must disgust you—”
“How dare you!”
“Come, come. Speak the truth. You do your duty admirably and that is to your credit, but had you not ruined your looks by your folly, you would never have married here.”
She flinched from the bitter truth. “I love Digby, and he doesn’t disgust me in the slightest. You, however, do! For all your talk of God and sin, for all your study of the Bible, you have forgotten Christ’s preaching about charity and humility!”
With that she swept out, but as she hurried down to the kitchen to check on the meal—and to tell Polly to twitch her bodice down a few inches—she knew she should have kept her temper. The only way to deal with Edward was to put up with him and get him on his way as soon as possible.
She couldn’t help shivering slightly at the thought of his reaction when she revealed that she was with child. Thank heavens Digby would be by her side.
Tasting the soup, Rosamunde couldn’t help thinking about the gathering at Arradale. Diana’s feasts were always splendid. She did hope Digby would keep to his moderate eating and drinking, though she knew it would be hard for him.
She wondered what he would make of Lord Rothgar. She’d enjoy his impressions. What would he make of Brand—
No! She would not think of him.
Brand relaxed at the long, gleaming table, sipping fine brandy. He was slightly stuffed, for the food had been truly excellent, but not unpleasantly so. The ladies had recently left to take tea in the drawing room, and snuff and pipes had come out. Though clay pipes were not uncommon, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so many in use in such grand surroundings after a sumptuous meal. He was charmed.
The company was pleasant, too. Brand accepted an invitation from Sir Malcolm Bursett to inspect his sheep, and one from Lord Fencott to visit his stud. But then the enthusiastic young viscount towed him around the table to a high-colored, older man. “Since you’re interested in the plow horse, my lord, you must meet Sir Digby Overton. He has a neat little breeding program…”
Sir Digby, puffing on a pipe, was a typical countryman—grizzled hair, bushy eyebrows, and ruddy skin. His build was British bulldog, wide of chest, strong of jaw, but heavily overlaid by fat. He was drinking deeply and cherry red with that and good humor. Brand suspected that he was just the sort to keel over one day with a fatal seizure, but from his merry smile, he would have lived life to the full in the meantime.
“Lord Brand,” the man said, “I hear you’re a true land man, despite your rank.”
“Thank you, Sir Digby. As for rank,” he said, taking a place vacated for him, “I’m a younger son, and forced to be useful.”
“Wish they were all so forced,” the man said bluntly. “There’s a good many wastrels and rogues come from that stable.”
“Doubtless why my brother put us all to work. I understand you have an interesting stud.”
“Ah, that.” He topped up his glass and offered the decanter to Brand. Brand took some to be sociable.
“It’s my wife’s little hobby,” the baronet said, “but folk around here will persist in seeing it as my work. Don’t think it’s quite the thing for a woman to be involved in breeding, you see. Well, except for babies of course.” He coughed and drank half his glass straight down, clearly embarrassed. Brand hid a smile. Men like Sir Digby would talk about mares and ewes without a blink, but choke to speak of their wives in a familiar way.
“We live quietly, you see, my lord,” the man hurried on, “so it keeps my wife amused. A grand lass, my Rosie. She likes to keep busy.”
Brand envisioned a woman rather like the bluff Misses Gillsett and was charmed. “I understand she was unfortunately too unwell to attend this gathering.”
“Just a bit under the weather, my lord.” He dropped his voice. “Womanly thing, you know.”
Brand was slightly surprised. He’d assumed Lady Overton to be past the age of “womanly things.” Perhaps there were others besides the obvious. “I was hoping to have a chance to visit your stud, but I would not wish to put Lady Overton to any inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience? Never that, my lord. She’s not been in the way of welcoming strangers—”
“Well, then—”
“But that’s changed these days. I know she’d dearly love to talk about her horses to an interested party. I have to admit,” he said in an embarrassed voice, “that I can’t see the beauty in those huge beasts. Useful, of course, but not a pretty sight. But don’t let that on to her.”
“If you’re sure she wouldn’t mind…?”
“Not Rosie. She’d talk about her beloved horses on her deathbed!”
He must have reacted to that, for Sir Digby laughed and topped up Brand’s glass again. “A figure of speech, I assure you, my lord. She’s fit as a fiddle, the Lord be thanked!” Then he sighed and pushed away his own refilled glass. “I can only pray He’ll be as kind to me. Rosie would scold me fiercely to see me drinking so much.”
“Takes care of you well, does she?”
“Aye, bless her heart.” He seemed to stare into the distance, then pulled out a snowy handkerchief, and dabbed at his eyes. “Such a good wife. I pray God send you one as fine, sir.”
“I pray so, too,” said Brand, touched by this devoted couple.
Sir Digby fiercely blew his nose. “Stop by anytime, my lord. Anytime. We live quietly, but you’ll always find a welcome at Wenscote, and my Rosie will be happy as a robin to meet a fellow enthusiast.”
Brand rather wished he could take up the invitation first thing tomorrow. At least it would get him away from all these people. Like a damn melancholy poet, he felt a strong inclination to isolation, perhaps even to attempting a maudlin verse or two.
The gathering was serving Bey’s purpose, however. In his usual way, he was sifting through gossip and chatter for grains of the New Commonwealth, for any hint that the gentry could be secretly involved. He had a remarkable memory, and hardly ever forgot a detail, which had led to his reputation as devilishly omniscient. It was almost true, as his family had frequently found out.
As the men finally rose to walk—or stagger—to the drawing room to join the fairer sex, Bey found chance for a quiet word with his brother. “Discovering anything useful about our saintly friends?”
“Merely stories that reinforce what we know. As preachers, they’re rivaling Wesley in popularity. He’s in the area, too, you know.”
“Is he connected?”
“Not at all, though I suspect he’ll rock English society in his own way. It could do with a good rocking. Wesley’s movement is a different matter entirely from the New Commonwealth. There’s no such fanatical control of the membership, nor a greed for land. The Cotterites stand to inherit an estate in this area.”
“Inherit? In a will?”
“Not with the owner’s consent. The heir is a member of the Cotterites, so when the present owner dies, they have it.”
“The will can’t be changed?”
“There’s a long-standing settlement on the estate. A place called Wenscote.”
“Wenscote?” Brand glanced to where Sir Digby was making his ponderous way up the stairs, clearly affected by drink and perhaps wheezing a bit. “Then the Commonwealth may not have long to wait. That’s the present owner. A genial gentleman, but asking for a seizure. I wouldn’t have thought him the type to raise a Cotterite son.”
“Nephew.” Rothgar studied the older man. “No wonder they all seemed worried.”
“Shame his wife’s past childbearing.”
“Is she? One man suggested there might still be h
ope.”
“ ‘Hope springs eternal…’? I gathered that she was close to his age, but perhaps the womanly complaint that keeps her home is of the more obvious variety.”
“Then she is, alas, not with child. And even if it is still barely possible, after many childless years, it is not to be looked for. Feeling around here runs solidly against the New Commonwealth.” As they began to climb the stairs, he added, “Except, perhaps, for our hostess.”
“The countess! A less likely candidate…”
“In a brief exchange, she rather pointedly supported an improvement in morals, sobriety, and industry.”
“Don’t we all?”
“Not, I think, if applied to ourselves. And it was clearly a rapier point directed at me.”
Brand laughed, but he wondered if he should warn the countess about crossing swords with his brother. Blades or wits, he was rarely matched. He shrugged. Bey wouldn’t do the woman serious damage, and if she was up to mischief, she doubtless deserved a lesson.
The next day, Brand found that the countess had arranged a wide choice of pleasurable activities. That was to be expected, but he was disconcerted to be steered firmly by her toward the River Arra where guests were trying for trout.
“You believe angling is my favorite occupation, Lady Arradale?”
She looked up from under a charming flat hat crowned with artificial marigolds. “Is it not? All gentlemen…”
“I could say that all ladies enjoy stitchery.”
Her look was sharp, and indeed, he wasn’t sure why he was debating with her. “I can sew,” she said. “I have been trained in all the feminine arts.”
“And I can fish. However, at the moment, I do not care to. If it would not discompose you too much, I would prefer to stroll about your delightful park.”