by Carola Dunn
“Paltry good-for-nothings!” Albert Pell snorted in disgust. “The boys'll make themselves useful as whippers-in and beaters, and the girls as kennel maids.”
Sir Wilfred glared at him.
“I'm sure my father will consider all suggestions,” said Mimi hastily.
Mr. Hurst's quiet voice seconded her attempt at keeping the peace. “It scarcely matters what trade the children are apprenticed to,” he said, “provided that they have a roof over their heads and three square meals a day.”
This point of view was obviously novel to the other four gentlemen. Mimi stifled a giggle at their blank faces.
“How very true, sir,” Harriet agreed, gently approving. Mr. Hurst smiled at her.
Mimi glanced from one to the other. An alternate plan began to take shape in her head. Mr. Hurst was turning out to be a gentleman, and quite nice besides, certainly more amiable than Albert Pell or Sir Wilfred. Harriet would probably prefer being married to him rather than to one of her fickle former beaux. A match must be promoted.
All the same, it was too early to abandon her first plan. Mr. Hurst might turn out to be unsuitable or unwilling, in which case the rest of the prospective suitors must be there in reserve.
Mimi turned to the baronet. “Do you care to see my tadpoles, Sir Wilfred?” she inquired.
The effect was all she could have hoped. His mouth fell open. “Gad, ma'am,” he stammered. “Tadpoles? Believe I must have misheard you.”
“I expect your shirt points might interfere with your hearing,” Mimi conceded. “However, you are right this time. I said tadpoles.”
“But tadpoles...” His voice faded. He took a breath and started again, plaintively. “Little slimy, wriggling, fishy things? Your tadpoles, Miss Lassiter?”
Albert Pell guffawed. “They ain't fishy, Marbury. Froggy, more like. And it's frog spawn that's slimy. I used to put frog spawn in m'sisters' beds every spring until they married and left home.”
“This conversation is most distasteful,” declared Sophia, and with a contemptuous sniff she departed, unlamented.
“The metamorphosis of the frog is an interesting example of the mysteries of creation,” said Mr. Lloyd.
Mr. Blake produced a cough but no words followed. Even the Game Laws had nothing to say about frogs.
Mr. Hurst was regarding Mimi with a quizzical expression she recognized from when she had abandoned him dripping by the mere. Impulsively she said to him, “Would you like to see my tadpoles, sir?”
“With pleasure, ma'am.”
“I keep them in the scullery.”
As Mimi rose to lead the way, the lawyer coughed again. “In the scullery, Miss Lassiter? I own myself astonished that your respected chaperon permits you to frequent the servants' quarters.”
“Believe Miss Lassiter is quizzing us,” Sir Wilfred said hopefully.
“Indeed I am not. Come and see.”
“Gad, no! Mean to say, won't do for all of us to abandon Miss Harriet.”
Harriet cast Mimi a look of glowing gratitude.
At the door, Simon Hurst beside her, Mimi glanced back. Albert Pell and the parson were close behind. Beyond them, Mr. Blake, taking advantage of Sir Wilfred's unwillingness to risk sitting down, was sharing the sofa with Harriet.
Two out of four, she thought triumphantly. Not bad for her first effort.
“I've been racking my brains trying to guess why you were fishing for tadpoles,” said Mr. Hurst. “Was it simply for the pleasure of watching them grow and change?”
“No, for the horses.”
He looked startled. “You don't mean that in India horses are fed on tadpoles?”
“Only the fiercest chargers,” she teased, laughing. “No, of course not. I put most of them in the new pond in the paddock so that the frogs will eat the flies that bite the horses.”
“I'm glad to hear that the frogs are the heroes of your story.”
His voice held an undertone of bitterness. Mimi was inclined to investigate, but they had reached the kitchen. As she opened the door, the servants, seated around the table demolishing the remains of the roasts, stared in dismay at this invasion by the quality. One or two went on chewing stolidly, some froze with their mouths open and their forks in midair, and several began to scramble to their feet.
“Oh, I'm sorry!” said Mimi, equally dismayed. She stopped in the doorway, blocking it. “I had not considered that this is an inconvenient time.”
Cook, a tall, solid Yorkshirewoman, rose majestically from the end of the table. “Tha's always welcome, lass, but there's no denying 'tis not t'best moment.”
“No, I daresay the tadpoles are hidden by stacks of dirty dishes. Please don't disturb yourselves, everyone.” She turned to the gentlemen. “I cannot show you tonight after all. I hope you are not excessively disappointed.”
Mr. Lloyd looked relieved.
“Demme if I'll be tossed at the fence by a bunch of demmed servants!” Albert Pell roared, as if he really wanted to see the tadpoles. He must, as usual, have imbibed a trifle too much port. Mimi hurriedly pulled the kitchen door shut behind her.
Mr. Hurst grinned at her. “Oh, but I am excessively disappointed. Still, I expect it will be easier to inspect them by daylight. May I call tomorrow, Miss Lassiter?”
“By all means, sir,” she said, deciding that Harriet must spend the day at Salters Hall tomorrow, if her mother could possibly spare her from her chores.
Mrs. Prestwick popped out of the housekeeper's room to see what the commotion in the passage was about. While Mimi explained, Mr. Hurst urged a sulky Albert Pell on toward the drawing room, with the parson following them. The apprentice bailiff had a commanding way about him, Mimi noted gratefully.
“Pray ask Waring to bring the tea tray,” she went on, suddenly weary. “It's not too early, is it?”
“No, Miss Mimi, not a minute too early, with you looking fagged half to death.”
“I expect most of that is due to this wretched gown, but I am a little tired, I own. I had not realized acting as hostess was such hard work, and I fear I've made a sad mull of it.”
“Now never you mind, lovey. There's none of them going to turn down the colonel's hospitality just because everything didn't go smooth as silk, believe you me. Off you go and keep them happy another half an hour, and that Asota'll have your bed warmed and ready for you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Prestwick,” Mimi said, and hurried after her guests.
As if to assure her that their defection was momentary, Sir Wilfred and Mr. Blake hovered over her while she poured the tea. The baronet stood at her side, complimenting her lavishly if uninventively on the grace with which she performed this exercise. At least the lawyer made himself useful distributing cups of tea to the company. Annoyed with them for deserting Harriet, Mimi found it difficult to be polite. Unfortunately they took her shortness as the result of pique at their lack of interest in her tadpoles.
“Fascinating things, frogs,” Sir Wilfred vowed. “Take my oath, always found 'em... er... fascinating.”
Mr. Blake coughed. “Beyond any reasonable doubt, the scullery must be considered the most logical location for the maintenance of livestock... er... domestic... er... creatures of that sort. As a lawyer, I have a particular appreciation of the logical solution.”
Botheration, Mimi thought, the tadpoles were obviously not going to be much help as a means of detaching her unwanted beaux.
Albert was sulking in a corner, having refused tea; Mr. Lloyd was talking to his fellow clergyman, Mr. Cooper; but Simon Hurst had taken the place on the sofa beside Harriet and was saying something that made her laugh.
That was definitely a hopeful sign—so why was Mimi not quite sure that their evident harmony pleased her?
Chapter 6
“So you achieved your promised invitation to dinner,” said Lady Thompson as the carriage set off down the drive. “I fear, however, you must find our country entertainments dull work after the splendors of London?”
> Settling back against the old-fashioned landau's comfortable cushions, Simon smiled at her inquiring tone. “On the contrary, Aunt.” His back to the horses, he watched Salters Hall recede, the black-on-white diamond and rosette pattern of its half-timbering sharply defined in the moonlight.
“So you enjoyed the party?”
“I found it most amusing. Your princess is a little baggage. She did her best to persuade her father not to receive me, I believe, but I daresay I shall count that promise as fulfilled.”
“Pray do, Simon. I can scarcely take you to the Lassiters' again uninvited, now that you are known in the neighborhood.”
“No fear of that—Miss Mimi and I have cried friends. What on earth possessed her to invite her multitudinous admirers to view her tadpoles?”
“I cannot imagine, I vow. Is that where you all went off to?”
As once before, when he asked her what Mimi wanted with the tadpoles, Simon had the impression that Aunt Georgina was not being totally frank. No matter; doubtless the girl had an equally original yet oddly reasonable purpose in mind tonight.
“We were headed for the scullery,” he told his aunt, “but the servants were dining so we turned back. I requested permission to call tomorrow to see the wretched creatures, deuced if I know why. The cook called her `lass,'“ he added irrelevantly, “and the housekeeper called her `lovey.'“
Lady Thompson chuckled. “She's an engaging child. She has quite won over Baird, you know. It is a great pity that all the local chuckleheads are interested only in her fortune.”
An engaging child? mused Simon later, shrugging off his coat and slinging it over the back of the chair by his bed in a way that would have appalled Henry. His crumpled cravat he tossed on the dressing table as he kicked off his shoes.
Miss Lakshmi Lassiter was indubitably engaging, but her childlike, innocent naughtiness was contradicted by her delightfully womanly figure. Not for a moment did he credit that her beaux had eyes only for her money. It might be entertaining to give them a little competition—if Lady Elizabeth had not irreparably broken his heart.
Climbing into the high four-poster, he waited for the familiar wave of humiliated misery to sweep over him. And waited. He summoned up a tormenting vision of golden ringlets, alabaster brow, rose-petal cheeks, and white shoulders. Somehow he couldn't get her nose quite right, nor recall the precise shade of her eyes. Blue eyes were really rather commonplace, he decided as he drifted into sleep.
A light drizzle was falling early the next morning when Simon rode off to take breakfast with Wickham and his hospitable wife. Lady Thompson had instructed her overseer, a short, taciturn man, to teach her young relative estate management, and he had willingly taken on the task. For the better part of three days, Simon had ridden about with him, discussing drainage and breeds of cattle, crop rotation and ways to persuade tenant farmers to use modern agricultural methods.
Simon had learned enough to realize that he was not learning what he needed to know.
The Marquis of Stokesbury owned five estates in various parts of the country besides his principal seat in Hampshire. Of the six, the four largest were entailed and would come to Simon with the title whether his father thought him an adequate heir or no. One man could not possibly supervise the day to day detail of a score or more farms in such different areas as the orchards and hopfields of Kent and the high, sheep-rearing fells of Westmorland.
As Gerald had suggested, Simon needed to be able to oversee the overseers. Taking his seat at the table in the Wickhams' cozy kitchen, he spread a slice of bread still warm from the oven with rich yellow butter from the Home Farm, and tried to explain.
“You see, what I must be able to judge is not merely whether to send more milk to market or make it into cheese, but whether the estate is being run honestly and competently.”
“Does her ladyship not trust me after all these years?” Mr. Wickham interrupted, puzzled and suspicious.
“Of course she does, sir. I don't mean the Mere House estate.”
“Then just what do ye mean?”
“Let the lad eat, Bill,” said his wife, heaping Simon's plate with eggs, crisp rashers of bacon, a couple of plump brown sausages, and bread fried in the drippings.
Banishing memories of sea biscuit washed down with long-stored, greenish water, he set to and for some time was unable to continue his explanation. Mrs. Wickham beamed with satisfaction and pushed a pot of homemade strawberry jam toward him.
“Thank you, ma'am, I couldn't eat another bite,” he said, taking a draft of ale and pushing back his chair. “I shan't need any dinner tonight.”
“Just what do ye mean, lad?” persisted the bailiff, still troubled. “I don't like the notion o' teaching ye to be poking and prying into some poor soul's business.”
“It'll be my own business,” Simon assured him incautiously.
Wickham frowned. “Ye've an estate o' your own, then? And a man to manage it for ye?”
“Oh hell! I can see I'll have to confess. Pardon my language, Mrs. Wickham, but I didn't want anyone to know who I am.”
She refilled his glass. “And who might that be, lad?”
“As a matter of fact I'm Lord Derwent. Sir Josiah was my mother's elder brother—and my father is the Marquis of Stokesbury.”
“If I didn't think you've an air of authority about you for a lad with his way to make in the world,” marvelled Mrs. Wickham.
“I was an officer in the navy,” said Simon, abashed. He told them how he had become Earl of Derwent on his brother's death, and they murmured condolences.
“Seems to me it's the marquis's job to show ye how to go on, my lord,” said Wickham doubtfully.
“Please, don't call me that. Mr. Hurst, if you like, but `lad' will do very well.” He smiled at Mrs. Wickham. How was he to avoid revealing that his father was a negligent landlord who despised his new heir? “The marquis is a busy man. My cousin, Lord Litton, suggested that I couldn't do better than to learn from you, sir.”
“I've a high opinion o' Lord Litton,” grunted Wickham. “If his lordship wants me to give ye a hand, I'll do it, and keep my mouth shut too. And so will ye, mind, Bess,” he admonished his wife.
“Thank you, both of you.”
Going off with the bailiff to set about the morning's studies, he wondered whether it was nonsensical to insist on keeping his incognito. No, if his true identity was revealed, his aunt's neighbors would be offended at being deceived—and no doubt they would expect him to start dressing and behaving like an earl. He had had enough of attempting that in London.
Besides, he wanted his dance and kiss from the princess before she found out who he really was.
Some six hours later, he saddled his horse and set off to call at Salters Hall. It was still raining, but after Wickham's stuffy office the air was clear and fresh and Simon was glad to be outside. Besides, rain made it more likely that Miss Lassiter would be at home, he thought, cantering past the mere and across the flat green pastures. He did not flatter himself that the prospect of his visit at an unspecified hour would have detained her.
Rather than going around by the lanes, as the carriage had, he had asked Wickham for directions across the fields. His bay gelding, Intrepid, was no hunter so every gate had to be opened, then shut behind them.
He was performing this task when he realized that the paddock before him must be the one his hostess had referred to last night. The pond in the hollow had a raw, new look, without reeds or other water plants, only a solitary golden-green willow sapling growing to one side. A gray heron hunched near the edge. Three horses stood beneath a chestnut at the far end of the field, staring at the strangers but showing no disposition to leave their shelter to investigate.
Miss Lassiter might be pleased with a report on the progress of her liberated tadpoles. He rode down to the pond, reined in Intrepid on the muddy, hoof-trampled bank, and dismounted.
The heron fixed him with a beady eye, flexed its wide, arched wings, and flew off w
ith an indignant honk. As the ripples of its departure faded, Simon saw that the raindrops plinking into the pond made it impossible to see beneath the surface. Remounting, he rode on.
The Lassiters' butler admitted grudgingly that his mistress was at home, but he made no move to invite Simon in. His gaze appeared to be fixed on the floor. Puzzled, Simon glanced down. His boots had picked up a generous quantity of mud by the pond, and even as he looked, a small clod broke off.
His laugh was rueful. Surely no one would believe he was a nobleman if he tried to claim it! “Since I am come to see Miss Lassiter's tadpoles, perhaps I had best go straight round to the kitchen door, if you will kindly direct me thither and inform her of my arrival.”
“That won't be necessary, sir.” The butler's manner thawed somewhat. “May I suggest that I call a footman to remove the boots and give them a quick cleaning before I show you to the drawing room.”
This expedient being adopted, Simon was ushered into Miss Lassiter's presence a quarter hour later with nothing worse than a sort of tidemark around his ankles.
The young lady's dark head was bowed over a piece of needlework. On hearing his name announced, she looked up and smiled.
“How do you do, Mr. Hurst,” she said demurely. “How kind of you to visit us in this sadly damp weather. You met Mrs. Forbes last night, of course.”
He bowed to the faded chaperon with a vague recollection of having been introduced. “Of course. How do you do, ma'am. I trust I find you well?”
“Well enough, thank you, Mr. Hurst.” She set down her knitting, some garment of indeterminate color and inordinate length, and withdrew a skein of yarn from her workbox.
“Pray be seated, sir,” said Miss Lassiter. “Ma'am, do you wish me to hold the wool while you roll a ball?”
“I hesitate to ask it when we have a caller, Mimi, but if you wouldn't mind...”