Lord Greywell's Dilemma

by Laura Matthews

  But nothing changed. When he returned to the manor Caroline wasn't there, his child was still feebly clinging to life but showing no improvement, his servants went around with hushed voices and soft treads. He had no appetite for the meal which would soon be announced, and could scarcely remember what Mrs. Green had planned to tempt him, though she had, as always, taken the trouble to consult him that morning.

  Several times Greywell had told himself he must get hold of his life, take a firm grip on the reins once again and move forward. But there was no direction in which he chose to go. If circumstances had permitted, he would have gone to Vienna, knowing that his services might be useful. The involvement in diplomatic bargaining would have brought some release from tormenting thoughts of his wife.

  Poor Caroline, so young, so vital, now laid to rest in the churchyard with the unweathered marble tombstone. He had stopped visiting her grave regularly, since people stared at him so, and there was really no purpose served. He thought of her no less often in the house, or out riding, or even by the river where he had attempted to fish once or twice since her death. Was there no end to this regret?

  Apparently the doctor had warned Caroline that it would be a difficult delivery, but she'd not told Greywell, until the pains started. In fact, she had confessed then that the doctor had told her it wouldn't be safe to try for another child after her two disastrous miscarriages. Why hadn't Wellow told him?

  But Greywell knew. The doctor had assumed Caroline would tell him, and she hadn't. She was young and spirited and prone to think of herself as invulnerable. Greywell remembered she had said, shortly after the second miscarriage, that doctors didn't know everything. Sometimes Greywell wondered if she'd worried during the time she carried the child, but he'd never seen any evidence of it, and he could almost believe she'd forgotten the doctor's warning. She had been good at forgetting things she didn't wish to remember.

  It was not her fault, really, that she'd developed a rather self-centered view of life. Her parents’ only child, she had been petted from the moment of her birth, and when her parents had died, her aunt had cosseted her out of infinite pity for her loss. The wonder was, rather, that even given her tendency to think first of herself, she had been such a delightful young woman. Her iron will had not made her any less outgoing, or any less desirable. She had reminded Greywell of a Greek goddess—beautiful, imperious, and yet intelligent and carelessly generous. It was her vitality, her intoxication with life, that had first attracted him to her. He had seen her at Lady Rossmore's ball, surrounded by half a dozen gentlemen, her eyes sparkling with excitement and good humor, and he had immediately begged an introduction. While the other fellows hesitated, fingering their cravats and their quizzing glasses, he had walked away with her for the first quadrille of the evening, and he'd never regretted his determination.

  Caroline had been too young at the time, not quite eighteen, to have given much thought to marriage. Her life consisted of a swirling round of balls and parties, breakfasts and picnics, rides and drives in Hyde Park. Greywell had not rushed her. It had been his tactic to watch from the sidelines, occasionally escorting her and her aunt's friend (who had introduced her to London) to some entertainment, but never making a fool of himself as some of her youthful admirers did with their histrionics.

  He was her most elusive suitor, always elegant, always polite, always an amusing companion, but never quite declaring himself as the others were wont to do. Whether this appealed to her as a challenge or whether she merely became accustomed to his steady regard, Greywell never exactly knew, but she turned to him in the end, during her second season in London.

  Perhaps it was an acknowledgment of her need for a stabilizing influence in her life, a solid core around which she could revolve at will and return to with relief. Even after they were married she continued to attend half a dozen entertainments each week, but she seemed to appreciate a quiet evening at home with him as well, where they would sit in front of the fire, with him reading aloud from some novel he thought she'd enjoy, or explaining to her the intricacies of foreign policy. She would sit beside him on the sofa in the London house, her blond hair spilling over his shoulder, her head nestled against his cheek.

  Greywell was rudely wrested from this reverie by a tap at the window. Frowning, he rose to pull back the curtains, knowing even before he revealed his caller who it would be. No one in the entire length of his thirty-two years had been given to tapping at his window to gain his attention except Abigail Waltham. She peered at him now, myopically, through the glass, her wispy gray hair tossed by the slight breeze, her features indistinguishable in the gathering dusk. Greywell had never understood why she didn't come to the front door, a much more appropriate form of entry, but he smiled now, with faint welcome, and motioned her toward the library, where doors opened out onto the terrace.

  Abigail wore only a thin shawl against the cool October evening, and he brought her back to the study where the fire would warm her.

  "You really shouldn't come out so ill prepared for the weather,” he chided as she huddled into the chair he set by the hearth. There was no use mentioning the length of her walk, or the lateness of the hour. He seated himself opposite, regarding her with rueful gray eyes.

  "I don't feel the cold so much,” she insisted, toasting her hands and feet at the blaze. “The exercise is good for me."

  "Would you care for a glass of wine or brandy?"

  Mrs. Waltham kept no spirits or wine in her house. Despite the appearance of her ancient clothing, it was a very handsome house, and she had a very handsome income on which to live since her husband's death a dozen years previously. She drank beer at home, as her servants did, perhaps out of economy, perhaps out of conviction. But when she was abroad (and sometimes Greywell thought it the reason she went abroad) she was easily induced to imbibe a little something against the cold, or against the length of her return walk home.

  "I don't mind if I do,” she said now, and watched as Greywell gave a tug on the pull.

  "Perhaps you'll join me for dinner."

  "No, no, I couldn't do that. The cats expect me at dinnertime. They wouldn't approve of my being out."

  Greywell nodded, never surprised at any answer she might give. Sometimes it was the cats, sometimes the servants who expected her. Occasionally she slipped into the past and thought it was her husband. When Selsey entered to his summons, the viscount instructed him to bring the best brandy, since he knew Abigail was particularly fond of it.

  "I came because you needed to talk to me,” Abigail informed him when Selsey had bowed himself out the door.

  "I see.” Greywell allowed no hint of surprise or amusement to filter into his voice. “I appreciate your thoughtfulness, Abigail. Did you ... perhaps know what it was I wished to discuss?"

  She pursed her lips thoughtfully and regarded him with her small, sharp eyes. “You would be the one to know, wouldn't you? I'm not a reader of minds."

  This was probably true, as Greywell had not consciously determined to speak to anyone, about anything. It was as good an excuse as any for her to come by and have a glass of brandy, but it seemed rather a long walk for so simple a pleasure. Finding it incumbent on him to look for a matter to discuss, he happened to notice his uncle's letter on top of the stack on his desk. “I've had a letter from Hampden Winterbourne,” he said.

  Abigail nodded. “An upsetting letter,” she surmised.

  "Not exactly.” When she looked disappointed he corrected himself. “I suppose it would be upsetting, if one took it seriously."

  "But you didn't."

  "Actually, I dismissed it.” Greywell was finding this rather hard going. He ran a hand through his straight brown hair and decided to simply tell her his uncle's suggestion. He was on the point of doing so when Selsey returned with a bottle of brandy and two glasses on a small silver tray.

  Abigail watched with interest as Selsey poured a proper amount of brandy into each of the glasses and offered her one on the elegant
tray. Her chapped hands, with their stubby fingers, looked slightly incongruous as she gripped the fragile crystal tightly and took a sip of the fiery liquid before Greywell was even offered his glass.

  "Good stuff.” she murmured, to Selsey's disapproval and Greywell's amusement. “Your father put it down, you told me once."

  "Yes, he always kept the cellars well stocked. It's not as easy to replenish them with such a superior spirit."

  "I suppose not,” she admitted, rolling the glass between her hands and gazing into the tawny liquid. “Your father always did the proper thing."

  Unsure whether this was meant as a compliment or a criticism, Greywell decided it was best to ignore the remark. “I was telling you about the letter I had from my uncle."

  "So you were.” She sounded a little bored as she waved the glass under her nose. Her nose, he noticed, seemed to twitch from the strong fumes. “I've known Hampden Winterbourne for more than twenty years. A well-meaning man."

  Greywell flicked the letter with an inpatient finger. “He may mean well, but he doesn't always use his head. The long and short of this letter is a suggestion that I remarry immediately."

  Her drooping eyelids shot up over her small brown eyes. “That doesn't sound like Winterbourne to me. He's every bit as proper as your father was, and he's just been staying with you. Knows the lay of the land. There must be some mistake."

  "Apparently he stopped the night with an old friend of his, Sir Edward Parkstone. I've met the man a few times. Not at all proper,” he informed her, with a hint of mockery in his tone.

  Abigail had a distracting habit of dividing the world into those who were proper and those who weren't, in spite of her own bizarre behavior. Presumably she respected people who did the right thing, behaved in the accepted manner, but Greywell had his doubts.

  "Ever since Sir Edward's wife died, he's led the life of a rake, though he must be in his mid-fifties. Sometimes I think Hampden envies him."

  There was no comment from Abigail. It was impossible to tell if she was even listening, since her whole concentration appeared to be on the glass of brandy and the comfort of her large chair near the fire. Greywell continued.

  "Sir Edward has a daughter, Elspeth, a twenty-five-year-old spinster, who is, in Hampden's words, an ‘Angel of Mercy.’ She provides for her father's illegitimate offspring and generally wanders about the countryside, I gather, doing good works. Hampden assures me she isn't unmarried from want of suitors, but neither does he explain why she hasn't married one of these eligible fellows. I am told,” he said, referring to the letter now, “that she is a ‘handsome woman,’ not at all given to excesses of adornment on her person. Do you suppose that means she's a shabby dresser?"

  Abigail frowned on his levity. “An Angel of Mercy,” she muttered, nodding intently. “Indeed she is."

  "You know her?” Greywell asked, surprised.

  "Of course I know her. A heart of pure gold. The disposition of an angel. Handsome, did he call her? Yes, that suits. There's a subtle elegance to her bearing which one would not describe as beauty, since it hasn't the capriciousness gentlemen attribute to women with standard looks. Ah, the poor child. Think of the burden she suffers with such a father! To be caught in a small community where everyone knows exactly what's going on! I wonder why she hasn't married. Perhaps I could just have another small sip of this brandy."

  Greywell refilled her empty glass. He'd hardly touched his own, since he wasn't in the habit of taking brandy before dinner. To his certain knowledge Abigail hadn't been farther than Coventry in the last three years, which made him highly skeptical about her rhapsodies on Elspeth Parkstone. How could she have met the young woman? Well, perhaps young was not precisely the right word. Of course, Caroline had been twenty-two when she died, and she had seemed very young to him still. When he had replaced the brandy on the tray, he asked, “Have you known Miss Parkstone long?"

  "Long?” she repeated, her voice a trifle hazy. “I've lived a long time; I've met a great number of people, my dear Greywell. Why, I remember you when you were swaddled. A very ugly baby you were, too, with a red face and no hair. You had the most piercing cry. When your sweet mother (a very proper woman she was) first brought me to the nursery to see you I thought I should like very much to have a child of my own. Until you started crying. Lord, there was never such a racket! Your mother confessed to me that you quite gave her the headache. Small wonder. You could go on for hours at a time, and there was hardly a place in Ashfield where you couldn't be heard. Your father used to shut himself up here, but it wasn't far enough from the nursery and he got in the habit of leaving the house for a ride every time you started in. Of course, that was only when you were very small. Later you were given to temper tantrums where you stomped your feet."

  His lordship took these reminiscences in good part, only once using his booted foot to kick the logs in the grate. “I dare say you haven't known Miss Parkstone quite as long, or as intimately, as you have known me,” he pressed, his voice remarkably pleasant.

  "One wouldn't have thought such a small child could have made the house shake so when he stumped his feet. I remember having tea with your mother in the Long Gallery when the whole place began to tremble. One of her best vases rocked on the mantel so I was sure it would fall and smash to smithereens. It was as though the earth itself quivered. There was an earthquake in London once, you know. From what I was told of it, I was quite sure that was what was happening. ‘An earthquake,’ I cried, jumping to my feet. But she assured me it was only you, dear boy, having one of your tantrums. Your father soon put a stop to that!"

  There are those who remember the good things about their parents, and those who remember the bad, and Greywell was decidedly of the former group. He did, however, remember two occasions on which he had been firmly chastised by his long-suffering father for unacceptable behavior. He had never cherished the illusion that his progenitor was a wicked, unjust man in the distribution of punishment. The third viscount had been a reasonable man, neither dotingly indulgent nor overly strict in his management of his only child. Greywell was not, however, particularly pleased to be reminded of these episodes, since they cast his early character in a somewhat dubious light.

  "Miss Parkstone was not given to crying and tantrums when she was a child, I take it,” he offered, in a decidedly cooler tone, as he absently flicked a snuffbox open and closed.

  "Certainly not! Haven't I told you she has the disposition of an angel? Just so it has always been, from the very moment of her birth. A better-natured person has never walked the face of the earth. You are more than fortunate she would consider your suit, when she could have anyone she chose."

  "She isn't considering my suit! There is no suit!” No wonder the woman usually drank beer, Greywell silently fumed; she got everything confused when she had something the least bit stronger. He stifled his desire to remove the brandy glass from her roughened hands and toss it into the fireplace. In a few minutes he could send her home in his carriage, but first he made some effort to clarify her mind. It would do no good for her to be “just mentioning” to the neighborhood folks that he had offered for one Elspeth Parkstone, whom he'd never met and had no intention of meeting.

  "The letter, Abigail,” he reminded her. “It was Hampden's letter that suggested she would make me a good wife."

  "And so she would."

  "Yes,” he said patiently, “but I'm not looking for a wife. Caroline has only just died and I have no intention of remarrying."

  "Then why did your uncle suggest it? He must have gotten the idea somewhere,” Abigail replied, as though it were perfectly reasonable to assume so. Her head rested against the chairback at a birdlike angle. her eyes observing him with quick, blinking glances.

  "It seems Hampden felt Miss Parkstone would be the solution to some of my problems. He's aware, of course, of little Andrew's sickly constitution, and Miss Parkstone has dealt a great deal with children, despite her unmarried state. There was the suggestion
that if I married her, I would be free to go off to Vienna, where I am needed, and leave the child in her capable hands."

  "An excellent plan."

  "I hardly see it that way, myself,” he retorted, but her eyes had closed and her head listed to the side. He felt as though he were speaking to a bundle of rags. In a moment a gentle snore issued from them, her face now lost from sight behind the chair wing. Raising his voice to rouse her, he said, “I'll ring for my carriage."

  Abigail straightened abruptly. “Are you going somewhere?” she asked, querulous.

  "Your cats are expecting you."

  "Not yet, not yet,” she insisted. Her hands still gripped the glass with its few remaining sips of brandy. “I understand now why you wanted to see me. It's a slightly tricky problem, to be sure, but I can help you. Just what poor Caroline would have wished,” she said shrewdly, as she lifted the glass to her lips. “She was determined to have that child, and she would see how fitting it is for you to find a woman with a heart of gold to care for him. Not just any woman would do, you know. There are women who wouldn't be willing to care for it as though it were their own. But not Elizabeth."

  "Elspeth,” he corrected, a frown forming between his brows.

  She waved one hand to indicate the negligibility of this point. “Yes, yes. Elspeth. A nickname, I imagine. Certainly of the same derivation as Elizabeth. The problem, my dear boy, is not the woman, but in the parish,” she announced with some vigor.

  Drawing the shawl a little more closely about her hunched shoulders, she leaned toward him, reaching to tap one short finger on his knee. “There will be astonishment at your marrying again so soon, but I'm just the one to take care of that sort of thing. I need only make the situation perfectly clear, spread the word among the gentry and the working folk. Oh, they'll listen to me. Never doubt it."