Lord Greywell's Dilemma

by Laura Matthews

  Sir Edward stared after her retreating form, too astonished to protest until she had silently closed the door behind her. “I say,” he sputtered, awkwardly trying to dispose of the fragile cup so he could rise to follow her. Tea sloshed onto the saucer and dripped over the edge onto his previously immaculate pantaloons. As he dabbed at the moisture with a napkin from the tea tray, he growled, “Where the devil has she gone? She's too fanciful by half, that girl!"

  "Perhaps a call of nature,” Greywell suggested. Though he looked unperturbed, he was no less startled than Sir Edward by her sudden disappearance. It was not the sort of thing a well-bred young woman did, suddenly leaving a room where she was entertaining a distinguished visitor. And he was a distinguished visitor, if for no other reason than his title. She hadn't indicated an intention to return.

  "I don't know what's come over her,” Sir Edward insisted. He pushed his teacup well out of reach and wished he'd had the Madeira brought as usual. It would look foolish for him to ring again, either for the Madeira or for his daughter, and he momentarily forgot his intention of palming Elspeth off on Greywell in his recollection of an earlier event she'd confessed.

  "This is the second time in a week she's behaved so strangely. It was amusing, her knocking Blockley's hat off with a queen cake, but you must admit it was odd. She's such a damned paragon of every virtue, it really makes me wonder if she's not suffering from a brain fever."

  "She looks perfectly healthy."

  "Oh, she's always been healthy as a horse. It's in here I wonder about,” Sir Edward said, tapping his head with a finger. “They get strange when they've never been married, you know. Take all sorts of notions about religion and doing good works and frowning on wickedness. Of course,” he added hastily, recollecting to whom he was speaking, “Elspeth's a good woman. What she needs is a husband and an establishment of her own to distract her from all this morbid virtuousness. After all, what is there to occupy her in my house but a few small tasks each day? She turns her mind to the parish work, but it's hardly enough for a woman of her generosity and stamina, don't you know. And she's very good with children, very good indeed. Just the sort of woman one would want overseeing one's nursery.

  Greywell regarded him with a noncommittal expression. When he had written to Sir Edward he had merely stated that he would be in Aylesbury for a day or two and asked if he might call on him. Sir Edward had written back that he would be honored to have Greywell stay at Lyndhurst for the duration of his business in the area. There had been no hint in either man's letter as to the nature of the “business."

  And it was apparent to Greywell now that Miss Parkstone had not been advised of his coming at all. She would not have entered the parlor as she had, nor been introduced in the manner Sir Edward had chosen, if he were a guest she had expected.

  On the other hand, she had known who he was. Through Hampden, of course. But her odd behavior indicated she guessed more than that. Her sympathy for his plight was evident enough in her questions, but her eyes had remained wary. She seemed a little too brusque and opinionated to fill the role of Angel of Mercy in which everyone was inclined to place her. All in all, she didn't strike him in the least as a young woman who was willing to sacrifice her future to marrying him and devoting her life to his son.

  When Elspeth did not rejoin them for tea, Sir Edward fidgeted in his chair while Greywell made polite conversation. It was not at all the sort of visit Greywell had expected, and he was irritated he'd left little Andrew at Ashfield to come all this way only to find himself discussing estate management with Sir Edward Parkstone, who wasn't even interested in it.

  What he should do was leave now, before any additional significance attached to his visit. But he found himself curious about Elspeth. Her looks were passable, he supposed, but mostly he was intrigued by her behavior. What was it Sir Edward had said about her knocking some fellow's hat off with a queen cake? That kind of hoydenish behavior did not mesh well with her seriousness when she discussed Andrew's illness, or her evident diligence in doing parish work and dealing with Sir Edward's ill-begotten offspring.

  The more Greywell spoke with his host, the more he realized Sir Edward was a hedonist of the most inveterate kind. His pleasures were his first priority, and one which came well before his responsibilities as a landholder or father. He denied himself nothing, and expected the community to accept his peccadilloes with equanimity. Yet, in spite of that, he was an amusing rogue, drawing one into his conspiracy of debauchery with a wide grin and an almost boyish delight in his mischief.

  "You wouldn't believe the stratagems I go through to avoid the local rector,” he said now with a laugh. “He's a skeletal fellow and sits at his upstairs window at the rectory on the edge of town just trying to catch a glimpse of me. Sometimes he doesn't even have a candle lit, but you can catch the gleam of his clerical collar if you look straight up to the spot where he always sits. It's unfortunate, of course, that he can overlook the whole village. Knows who's gone to the Bar and Bell every night, or who's slipped into whose house. One might expect that kind of spying from some old lady who hasn't anything better to do with her time, but the rector! I ask you. So I've devised a route that takes me behind the village and through the orchard. Never meet a soul, which is a bit odd, if you think about it. After all, I'm not the only one out and about at night. Do you suppose they have even less of a care for his good opinion than I do?"

  "I can't imagine.” Greywell helped himself to a pinch of snuff.

  "Blockley has a habit of preaching sermons about the evils of temptation, and he always manages to stare at any offenders during the course of it. I swear it's like being in grammar school, where you have black marks put against your name for any misdeeds during the week, and are called upon to confess to them before your classmates."

  "This Mr. Blockley is the same one whose hat your daughter knocked off with a queen cake?” Greywell asked, fascinated.

  "The very same. He was sweet on her for a while, but she'd have none of him. Not that I blame her. It wouldn't suit me to have a man of the cloth for a son-in-law. I can't think how he came to annoy her, and she wouldn't explain to me. She's not a gossip, mind you! Very close-mouthed she is, probably because she thinks it's a sin to speak ill of other people. Almost everything is a sin in Elspeth's book,” he informed the viscount, a melancholy light in his eyes. “I can't imagine how she came to be that way. She was quite spirited as a child."

  "You don't think perhaps she developed her ... piety to offset your profligacy?” Greywell wondered with a wry smile.

  Sir Edward pursed his lips. “I shouldn't think so. What good would that do?"

  "It wouldn't necessarily do any good, but it might seem appropriate to Miss Parkstone."

  His companion considered this in silence. “Would she do it as an example for me, or in order to save my soul?"

  "I haven't the slightest idea. It was just a thought,” Greywell said dismissively. He had no idea why he'd put it forward in the first place. If he had done it to shame the baronet, he was far out in his calculations. Though Sir Edward was intrigued by the idea, the insinuation of his wrongdoing left him totally unaffected. If anything, he appeared rather proud of his exploits.

  "You may be right. Yes, I'm bound to think you are. And you know what that means, don't you?” Sir Edward asked with obvious enthusiasm.

  "I'm afraid I don't,” Greywell apologized.

  "Why, when she marries and moves away from here, there will be no reason why she shouldn't become an ordinary mortal again. None of this holier-than-thou stuff; there would be no reason for it."

  A nostalgic gleam appeared in his eyes. “I should like to see her as she was a few years ago, you know. My wife used to worry about her, but, Lord, she was a charmer, full of mischief and cute as a button. There wasn't a girl in the neighborhood to touch her—to my mind. Mary thought her a bit of a hoyden, but there, anyone with a little spirit is bound to be looked on askance. I've seen it happen all my life. When y
ou get to be my age, you stop worrying about what other people think, though. It's a great relief."

  "I dare say."

  "All her mother's money was settled on her; she came into it when she reached one and twenty. And of course she'll have Lyndhurst when I die, though I shouldn't think I'll do that very soon. Still, you never know, do you? So she's a bit of an heiress. Nothing excessive, but a good ten thousand in the funds. I'm not sure it wasn't her money Somerville was most interested in. His family is always in the suds. But Knedlington doesn't need to marry for a few guineas, and Tom Prestbury had known her since she was a child. She wouldn't have any of them.” Sir Edward eyed him thoughtfully. “You're a fine figure of a man, Greywell, but no better than Somerville, and your title won't appeal to her if Knedlington's didn't."

  "I've hardly met Miss Parkstone,” Greywell demurred. “And I've just lost my wife."

  A shadow of pained recollection passed over Sir Edward's face. “I know how it is, believe me. A part of me died with Mary. The best part, perhaps. That must be how Elspeth sees it.” He sighed and shrugged off his gloom. “But you go on living, even if it isn't your choice. You're fortunate to have several good reasons to continue, sir. There's your heir to be raised, and your obligation to the government at the peace negotiations. I had little incentive. Elspeth was nearly grown, and there was nothing to involve my attention. Estate management has always bored me, more's the pity. You don't suffer from that problem, I gather."

  "No."

  "Well, you will find that Elspeth knows a great deal about it. She would be able to manage while you were away."

  "Sir Edward, by all means let us be frank. I did come to meet your daughter, though I'm not quite sure what possessed me to consider the scheme. It's patently absurd in spite of its practicality. I can see it would be of as much benefit to you as it would be to me, and yet those are not necessarily its main facets. There is your daughter to be considered. Apparently she has no intention of marrying, if she's turned down the gentlemen you've mentioned. I can't offer her any advantage almost any of them couldn't."

  "Ah, but you can. That's what makes the scheme, as you call it, so eminently suitable. You can offer her a purpose, an outlet for her abundance of charity. I don't think she wishes to marry, it's true, but she really should. It will do her nothing but harm to dwindle into a bitter old woman. She's uncomfortable living here with me, and she certainly cramps my freedom. How much better off she'd be at your home, taking care of your child. Elspeth would have the advantage of a home of her own without even the bother of a husband."

  Greywell raised one elegant brow. “I did intend to return to Ashfield one day, Sir Edward."

  "Yes, well, these things drag on, you know. And by the time you returned, she'd be perfectly well established and probably not mind at all your being around."

  "The ideal marriage, in fact."

  "My dear sir, you have already had the ideal marriage, by all accounts. You cannot expect to duplicate that sort of arrangement, and in the meantime you would have a responsible woman looking after your interests."

  Edward leaned forward, his forehead furrowed. “You believe it is only my own comfort of which I think, and perhaps, for the most part, it is. But Elspeth is a good woman and she deserves to have a life of her own. She wouldn't resent raising another woman's child. She wouldn't pine for being left alone the majority of the time. You would be free to pursue your own interests in London or elsewhere, discreetly. I'm not discreet, and I tend to leave a trail of brats behind me. They're an embarrassment to her. She'd be better off out of the neighborhood entirely."

  "Even if that's true, your daughter may not see it in the same light as you do. You couldn't very well force her to marry."

  "No, nor would I be inclined to do so. But you're a presentable young man, with exactly the right qualifications to appeal to her.” Edward stroked his chin with one short, square hand, studying Greywell absently. “You would have to convince her of the benefits of such a marriage. She suspects what's afoot and she doesn't like it."

  "Who can blame her? I wouldn't at all appreciate it if someone were trying to arrange my life for me."

  "We're not arranging her life, we're offering her an opportunity,” Sir Edward said airily, and then added, “You may be sure, if it doesn't meet with her approval, she'll have nothing to do with it. She has a most decided mind of her own. Now, if you will excuse me, I want to have a look at the new mare before I dress for dinner. Please make yourself comfortable."

  "Will Miss Parkstone be joining us for dinner?"

  Sir Edward looked startled. “Well, of course she will. Elspeth isn't one to let a little difference of opinion deter her from her duty as hostess."

  "She didn't stay to tea."

  "No, but she poured for us. I'm sure she'll come to dinner."

  "Please don't insist upon it."

  Sir Edward snorted. “It wouldn't do the least good if I did,” he muttered as he left the room.

  Chapter Four

  When Sir Edward and Elspeth were dining alone, they dressed a little less formally than when they had company, but they did dress for dinner. It was a habit of long standing with them, and one Elspeth's mother would never have thought to question. Elspeth found it rather irksome, and was wont to wear one of two different gowns alternately. She did, of course, possess an adequate assortment of evening dresses, because she was frequently invited to one of the neighboring homes to dine.

  As she surveyed the contents of her closet with her maid at her elbow, she was tempted to wear either the beige round dress or the rose sarsnet as usual, but Sadie immediately fingered the blue crepe over white sarsnet, saying. “You'll want this for his lordship, Miss Elspeth. It's only been worn twice, and it's very becoming to you. You can wear the necklace in the Grecian style, as you did to the Linchmeres."

  Elspeth considered the dress for a moment before reluctantly agreeing. From the moment she'd gotten it home, she'd realized there was something frivolous about the three-quarter-length crepe apron which fell from the bust and had tassels at each end of the bottom. Why she'd let Mrs. Padworth talk her into having it made up for her she would never know. It was too low around the bust, and even wearing a jet necklace wide over the shoulders hardly made up for the amount of bosom it exposed. And Sadie always insisted on dressing her hair differently when she wore it, as though the dress demanded something more exotic than the rather severe coiffure she ordinarily wore. But she submitted patiently to Sadie's ministrations, wondering the while whether her father had actually persuaded Lord Greywell to come and offer for her, or whether he had merely somehow managed to induce the viscount to visit them in the hope he could achieve his purpose once Greywell was in residence.

  Poor Papa! Elspeth was aware her father insisted on believing that half the young men in the neighborhood had, at one time or another, courted her, though how he had come by that impression was beyond her powers of imagination. It was true that occasionally a gentleman had called a few times and perhaps with a little encouragement would have called more frequently, but the encouragement was not forthcoming: Lord Knedlington had been such a boring fellow, and Mr. Somerville had heard she was an heiress. Tom Prestbury had shared her interest in music, and Chastleton was a lecherous old man, only intrigued by her nubile (in those days) charms. Which was reason enough to show him the door, as far as Elspeth was concerned.

  Since the day she had found her father and Fanny Heyshott on the sofa in his study, she had determined to have nothing to do with men. As though it weren't enough to ask a woman to abandon her home, give over her fortune, and risk her life producing progeny, a man apparently also found it necessary to inflict pain on a woman whenever the whim took him. For Fanny had most certainly been in pain. Her eyes were glazed with it, and her hands clutched frantically in paroxysms of agony. Had she not cried out in the most pitiful voice, “Oh, God, oh, God"? Had her body not contorted with waves of shuddering affliction? It was a bitter scene to behold, Sir Edwar
d in no small pain himself, to judge by his groans.

  Why did they do it? Elspeth could only see the sense in such mortification if one was intent on producing a child, and since there wasn't the slightest reason why either Sir Edward or Fanny Heyshott should desire a child, she thought them quite crazed to indulge in such ludicrous behavior. There was no dignity in it, surely. Animals suffered it with patience, as she well knew from being raised in the country. Elspeth assumed they were driven by instinct to procreate, but adult men and women who hadn't that excuse should be ashamed of themselves.

  Not only, as in Sir Edward and Fanny's cases, was it against the religious teachings of the church (they being unmarried), but it was against all logic for two people to willfully engage in an activity so obviously painful. It seemed perfectly reasonable to Elspeth that two people who wished to create a third might make the sacrifice, a sort of trial by fire, but for them to do it otherwise...

  Sadie had arranged curls on either side of her face, and Elspeth studied herself dispassionately in the glass. Her honey-brown tresses were usually pulled straight back, giving her a fine, austere look, she thought, making her eyes look not a murky greenish-brown, but a clear and devoted hazel. When the curls softened her countenance, she realized her eyes looked rather sultry. It was not the sort of effect she was interested in achieving. People paid her respect when she looked pious; they paid her attention when she looked fetching. A worldly sort of attention that made her feel corrupted. Men's eyes became speculative, and women spoke to her of trivial matters like fashion.