Elspeth far preferred the kind of high-minded conversation that ensued when she looked serious and saintly. Not that she thought of herself as a saint, exactly; she felt sure no saintly women decked themselves out for parties with fancy gowns and crimped hair. Elspeth had spent some time considering this matter, and she was convinced that dressing well was less of a sin than embarrassing one's father and one's neighbors. The sacrifice was not too great for one of her inclinations to make.
So she accepted Sadie's ministrations without demur, allowing the girl to powder her wind-reddened nose and arrange a jet armlet below the very full, very short sleeve of the dress. That her bare arms and shoulders showed to advantage in their soft whiteness she did not deign to recognize. Lord Greywell would have seen a great deal of shoulders and arms, and her father would be pleased to see her garbed in something “decent” for a change.
Ordinarily Sir Edward was waiting for her in the saloon when she descended, since he always took a little something before his meals. When Beeton ushered her into the room, however, she found only Lord Greywell, standing by the fireplace staring moodily into the flames. He turned as he heard her light tread on the carpet, momentarily surprised at her appearance. Somehow he had expected her to wear something awful in protest at his being there.
"You look lovely, Miss Parkstone,” he said politely. “I'm afraid Sir Edward hasn't come down yet."
"I might have known,” she replied with a wry smile that barely curved her lips. There was no speculative gleam in his eyes, which immediately made her feel more comfortable. She seated herself on the white damask-covered settee and followed him with her gaze as he retreated once again to the fireplace. This time he stood facing her, waiting to see if she would speak first.
"We hadn't seen Hampden in some time before he visited last week,” she said conversationally. “His wife was my godmother, and a great friend of my mother's. They'd grown up near one another."
"You've visited Kent, then?"
"Several times, when I was much younger. Papa hasn't traveled much since Mama died. He seems content to remain at Lyndhurst."
Since it was obvious she wasn't going to snub him, Greywell moved to take a chair opposite the settee. “Have you been to London, Miss Parkstone?” he asked as he smoothed his breeches. His evening clothes were impeccable: a fresh, starched cravat, with black waistcoat and coat and knee breeches. If they made him look somewhat somber, they also set off his figure to advantage.
"Only on the visits to Kent,” she admitted. “My mother took me to some of the shops and the Tower and St. Paul's. She had intended that I come out there, but that wasn't to be. My godmother would have done it, but she too fell ill. I can't say that I mind. London, by all accounts, is a veritable den of iniquity.” But she smiled slightly when she said it, as though at a private joke she had no intention of sharing.
"Any city that size is bound to harbor every evil known to mankind,” he agreed. “And yet, London has its attractions. The theater, the opera, the shops, the entertainments. You would probably find some things there worthy of your interest."
"No doubt.” Her brow puckered slightly as she mused, “Sometimes it surprises me that Papa has no interest in going. Not that he would take me if he did, but a city of that size ... One would think the anonymity, the very range of possibilities, the sheer numbers of ... people would attract him. Here, well, everyone knows him."
"Maybe he likes it that way,” Greywell suggested, catching her drift. “Here he's on his own territory."
"Would you care for a glass of wine?"
"Thank you, no. My uncle mentioned you're active in parish work, Miss Parkstone. Does it take up a great deal of your time?"
"Not an excessive amount, except around the times when we're planning a fete.” Elspeth had returned her gaze to him, and now admitted, “It's not a very large parish, and there are half a dozen of us who vie for the honor of doing the most work. I'm sure you'd consider it perverse of us; Papa does. Why is it we'd want to prove our mettle to people who already know exactly what we're capable of?"
"Maybe it's not a matter of proving yourselves, but of doing your share."
"Perhaps.” She seemed dissatisfied with his response but allowed the subject to drop. Long ago she'd discovered other people weren't as curious as she was about what motivated people to do things, and it seemed discourteous to press any subject which held no appeal for her companion. His halfhearted attempt to make a reply was almost worse than not saying anything at all. There was little that irritated Elspeth more than not being taken seriously, but she was unaware of the small expression of annoyance that came and went on her face. No one had ever bothered (or been quite brave enough) to tell her how expressive her face was of exactly what she was thinking, so she assumed she wore as efficient a mask as any other woman bred to country society.
Lord Greywell was a reasonably acute observer, and the flicker of annoyance did not escape his notice. When Sir Edward joined them the viscount was beginning to wonder once again whether he should have come to Lyndhurst at all.
"Ah, good.” the baronet announced, rubbing his hands together happily, “the two of you have had a chance to get acquainted."
"Indeed,” Elspeth said dryly. “Lord Greywell has shared several fascinating perceptions with me."
Goaded, Greywell retorted, “And Miss Parkstone has illustrated a most interesting turn of mind."
Sir Edward beamed on them. “Excellent, excellent. I knew the two of you would have a great deal in common. It stands to reason."
"Why?” Elspeth inquired. “Because you wanted us to?"
"Of course not.” He frowned slightly at her but turned to smile at Greywell. “Because you are opposite sides of the coin. I should have thought you'd see that, Elspeth. Lord Greywell has a problem to which you are the solution. And you have a problem to which Lord Greywell is the solution. What could be more perfect?"
"What indeed?” Greywell retorted, smiling sardonically past the baronet at the outraged Elspeth.
"I was not aware I had a problem,” she stated flatly, ignoring Greywell altogether, though she knew exactly what sort of look appeared on his countenance.
"Well, you do,” her father informed her succinctly. “In fact, you are a problem, my dear. It's not that I don't appreciate your companionship or your usefulness around Lyndhurst, but you need an establishment of your own. What is the value in your being here doing what my housekeeper could accomplish, when you could be employing your talents much more profitably elsewhere?"
"This is my home. And Mrs. Hinton could not accomplish the same things I do here."
"She could accomplish as many of them as need doing.” Sir Edward ran one hand through his graying hair. “Lord, Elspeth, how did you become so stubborn?"
"Mama said I took after you."
There was a snort of amusement from Greywell, and Sir Edward leveled a haughty gaze in his direction just as Beeton entered to announce dinner.
"Not a moment too soon,” Elspeth murmured, rising.
Greywell offered her his arm, the amusement gone from his mouth, though a trace of it lingered in his eyes. Elspeth could feel her chin come up as she laid her hand so lightly on the black cloth she could scarcely feel his arm beneath her fingers. What did he find so amusing in the situation, anyhow? His future was as much under discussion as her own. And it was a wonder Sir Edward had not come right out and said the two of them should be married. Elspeth very much doubted her father would show that amount of restraint for long.
The dining room at Lyndhurst was large, and there was a mahogany table that spread down three-quarters of the length of the room, but Elspeth routinely chose convenience over formality. The three place settings were grouped together at one end, and Greywell held a chair for her on the right-hand side before rounding the table to seat himself opposite her. Sir Edward began a systematic questioning of their visitor as to the extent of his estate, what crops and livestock it supported, the neighboring towns and
villages, and any acquaintance he might have with the local gentry.
"Coventry, eh?” he said, narrowing his eyes in thought. “I was there once, as I recall. Has a considerable woolen manufacture and a dozen handsome gates left from the old wall enclosure. Ah, and I remember something else,” he said, his eyes switching to his daughter with suppressed jocularity. “Elspeth, you will dote on Coventry, I promise you. They have a procession on the first day of the Trinity Week fair in honor of Lady Godiva, when the figure of a naked woman is carried on horseback through the town."
Elspeth gave him a scathing look and said nothing.
"It's true,” Greywell interjected, drawing her attention. “The first lord of Coventry, who died during the reign of Edward the Confessor, was married to Godiva. When Leofric was offended with the people of the city, he burdened them with extra taxes, and his lady, a woman of exemplary virtue and piety, solicited him to ease their burden. Thinking her modesty too great to allow her compliance, he offered to remove the new duties if she would ride through the most frequented parts of the town naked, in daylight. But she was moved by the distress of the city and gave orders to the citizens that all doors and windows should be shut and no one attempt to look on her under pain of death. Then she rode naked through the streets on horseback, with her long hair hanging loose and covering her down to her legs. There's a legend that a tailor couldn't resist looking out, and that he was struck blind for his folly. The window from which he looked is still shown with an effigy of the ‘Peeping Tom’ newly dressed on the anniversary of the procession."
"So during Lady Godiva's ride the townspeople didn't look upon her nakedness,” Elspeth summarized, “and now, in the procession, everyone for miles around looks on the figure of a naked woman instead. That speaks very well for the town's morals, Lord Greywell."
His lordship cast a helpless glance at Sir Edward, who shrugged and said, “That's the way Elspeth sees things, my dear fellow. I shouldn't let it bother me, if I were you. After all, it's the sort of thing any religious man might declaim against from the pulpit, save its being a tradition. Tradition, especially such a delightful tradition, is the one thing the church doesn't seem ready to take a stand against. It's a great pity, in some ways. Sermons would be a great deal livelier if some vicar would take on the habits of the past. They're willing enough to rant against harmless folklore, of course, but not against anything of substance. I'd love to see Blockley get up there and wave his skeletal arms while he declaimed the injustice of rotten boroughs or spendthrift ways in high places. By God, I might even attend his services if he'd talk about something of interest."
Elspeth listened with grudging admiration as her father adroitly changed the subject, but she would not hear Mr. Blockley denigrated without a word in his defense. “Mr. Blockley's sermons are well above the average, Papa, as you would know if you ever bothered to listen to one of them. He expects Christian behavior from the rich and the poor alike. In fact, if anything, he expects the highborn to set an example for their less fortunate neighbors."
"He expects a great deal too much,” Sir Edward retorted, helping himself to another serving of the saddle of mutton. Turning to Greywell, he asked, “What sort of fellow do you have in your parish? Do you have the living in your gift?"
"Yes. We have an older man, a gentle soul, not given to ranting about anything at all.” He surveyed the crimped cod with oyster sauce before tentatively taking a bite of it. “Very nice. My cook isn't much of a hand at crimped cod."
"Elspeth can bring the receipt,” Sir Edward generously offered.
Greywell met her eyes over the low arrangement of flowers between them and smiled his sympathy. He was finding it difficult to know which of them to feel in charity with, since the conversation took so many unexpected turns. When she failed to acknowledge his commiseration, he returned his gaze to his plate and took another bite of the cod. The best thing he could do, he decided, was leave Lyndhurst first thing in the morning. That would alleviate Miss Parkstone's discomfort, and put him out of range of Sir Edward's dubious plotting.
"Well, I'm off.” Sir Edward announced suddenly, standing abruptly and waving Greywell to remain seated. “Elspeth will entertain you, my lord. She's quite proficient at the pianoforte."
And without another word, though carefully avoiding his daughter's eyes, he left the room.
Greywell stared after him, uncomprehending. Slowly his eyes moved back to Miss Parkstone, who sat rigid in her chair, a deep flush having invaded her cheeks. Her chin was high, all the same, and she addressed him with a calm born of something like desperation. “My father doesn't find it necessary to abide by normal rules for polite society, Lord Greywell. I hope you will forgive his ... unusual departure. No doubt he has some urgent business which takes him off at such a time."
"Hogwash! His intention is perfectly clear. He's leaving us alone to get better ‘acquainted.’ The man is a menace to society."
"He means well."
"Is this the sort of thing he does often?"
Elspeth met his angry gaze. “No. Generally his behavior is unexceptionable ... at home. Or at least, with company. Oh, you know what I mean. He doesn't give much weight to other people's opinions of him, but as a matter of course he behaves as one would expect. Please don't feel constrained to remain here with me. It's but a short ride into Aylesbury, where there is diversion to be found. You might wish to finish your meal first."
"I have every intention of finishing my meal.” Greywell could not recall a previous occasion on which he'd felt so entirely disgruntled. His companion. however, seemed to be taking the matter in stride now, forking a bite of mutton as the high color faded from her cheeks.
What would it be like to be in her position, living with a ramshackle fellow like Sir Edward? It was a wonder to him that she appeared to wish to stay here. He would have expected her to welcome himself (or any one of the alleged suitors) with open arms, for the sake of being rescued from a life of confusion, embarrassment, and downright neglect. Maybe she was as perverse as she had previously hinted.
The third course came with an apple custard and a cabinet pudding after the jugged hare. Greywell noticed that his companion had nothing but a tablespoonful of the custard with a minuscule glob of whipped cream, which she barely tasted before sitting back in her chair and nodding to the waiting footman to remove her plate. There was nothing wrong with the custard, he found; in fact, it was superb. Apparently Miss Parkstone had made a decision, because she regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, dismissed the servants, and said, “It's obviously of no use pretending you are an ordinary visitor, Lord Greywell. I cannot imagine how my father has induced you to come here, but, as you see, it's for the purpose of marrying me off to you. Were you aware of that before you came?"
Her frankness intrigued him. If they were going to endure an evening together it was best that all the cards be placed on the table so they both knew what was going forward. Sir Edward had already effectively overset propriety, leaving them nothing but honesty to deal with, if they were going to communicate at all.
"My uncle wrote me about you. His suggestion that you would make me a good wife seemed preposterous.” Greywell flicked a finger negligently, to indicate he was not criticizing her in any way, but merely the situation. “My wife died only a few months ago; I wasn't looking for another. It's true that I am in despair over my son's health, and that if circumstances were otherwise I would be headed for the Congress of Vienna at this very moment. But those circumstances are real, and I couldn't see that adding a wife to the concoction would be of the least assistance."
Greywell was remembering the letter and how he had produced it for his neighbor. A wry smile twisted his lips as he shook his head in exasperation. “Abigail Waltham happened to visit me just after I'd read Hampden's letter, and, to my surprise, she concurred with his advice. She appeared to know you, or of you, and also thought you would be a splendid solution to my problems. She agreed you were an Angel of Mercy."
"It doesn't matter,” he said, amused as he watched the struggle to overcome pleasure with humility pass across her face. “What mattered was that both of them thought so highly of you. And, of course, that they both assumed you would be willing to marry me for the sake of my child."
His voice held a note of query now, but Elspeth ignored it.
"So you wrote to Papa?” she prompted.
"I merely wrote Sir Edward that I would be in the area and hoped to call on him. He wrote back and graciously invited me to stay at Lyndhurst. I accepted. Neither of us made mention of you in our letters."
"I see.” Elspeth studied the floral arrangement between them for a moment. This would be the last of the autumn flowers, she supposed, and for the duration of the winter she would have to provide dried plants to decorate the table. They had come to the sticky part of the discussion, and her mind would not concentrate on how to broach the next question. Would it be better to ascertain how he felt about the arrangement now that he was here, or to state her own aversion to marriage straightaway?"
"Which brings us to the present situation,” he concluded, unnecessarily, but trying to give each of them a little time to think. “We are, as your father so succinctly put it, in similar predicaments. No, perhaps that's not altogether true. Neither of us has to do anything. I can remain at Ashfield with Andrew, but I will still be unable to change matters there. You can remain at Lyndhurst, and perhaps you have no wish to change matters here. Your position doesn't look very glamorous from where I sit,” he admitted, shrugging, “but it may be entirely to your liking."
"Setting aside my position here,” she said a bit stiffly, “you must realize, Lord Greywell, that there would be no reason my coming to Ashfield, as your wife or in any other way, would make a difference to the child. It's possible a different wet nurse might help him, but by no means certain. Having a substitute parent for him might ease your fears on his behalf, but it's really not at all likely there is anything I could do that hasn't already been done."
Lord Greywell's Dilemma Page 6