Foxing the Geese

by Janet Woods

  ‘Begging your pardon, Miss Fox, but I’d rather starve than work for Mrs Goodman and her daughter ever again.’

  Vivienne crossed to the window and gazed down the verdant sloping hillside to where the broad expanse of the Medway sparkled in the morning sunshine. It was so peaceful here after London. Yet she felt lonely. She’d failed to navigate another season successfully and her future stretched before her like an empty road leading to nowhere. She would buy her cottage, tend her garden and do charitable works, and she would grow old without noticing it, still referred to as Poor Miss Fox, only with ‘old’ added to it. Her poverty would come from being unloved, unmarried and childless, and not from lack of funds. ‘Poor old Miss Fox was disappointed in love,’ they would say about her, ‘but she’s the benefactor of some worthy charity or another, so has a good heart.’ That same heart began to ache and she felt like weeping again.

  You’re such a bore when you indulge in self-pity.

  She nearly answered her inner voice out loud but didn’t bother, since her self-confidence had been so eroded that she didn’t need any more of her faults pointing out. She would have the brooch Alex gave her to remind her of what might have been.

  Her hand suddenly went to her bodice. The brooch wasn’t there. Had she left it in London? No, she’d been wearing it when she’d left. She scrabbled through the necessary bits and pieces on her dresser. ‘Maria, have you seen my brooch, the one Lord LéSayres gave me?’

  ‘No, Miss Fox.’

  ‘I seem to have lost it.’

  ‘When you were attacked, I expect. Shall I go and look for it?’

  ‘No … if someone finds it they’ll hand it to my father. That’s the usual method for lost and found goods hereabouts.’

  Dorset came into her mind. The little she’d seen of it had resembled Kent, with green rolling hills, rivers and the sea all within reach. But Dorset was veined with small rivulets and streams that meandered through the countryside to empty into the sea. The coast was more rugged, the heaths wilder and the woodlands dense. Alex had told her his home was large, that it would swallow the cottage she lived in with her father, and every spare coin that came into the household was spent on its maintenance – this said with a nostalgic smile on his face, as if he could picture it.

  Alex had also told her about his stepmother, Eugenie, the present Countess LéSayres. Vivienne had been shocked to discover that Alex’s household was more informal than most, for the countess had been his late father’s mistress, and she’d refused to marry him until his life was nearly at an end, even though she’d loved him and had brought up his children.

  ‘How romantic,’ she’d said, but in a rather uncertain way as she wondered what her father would have to say about such an arrangement.

  ‘It wasn’t romantic when we couldn’t afford a fire in the grate or the seed for a crop or the wages to pay the field workers,’ he’d said. ‘Sometimes we didn’t have enough to eat, although we grow as many vegetables as we can. We have one servant who cooks and does what she can, and she hasn’t been paid since God-knows-when. We have a few farm rents as income. My brother Dominic works. Eugenie has a little money of her own coming in, and we’ve just learned that she used it to feed and clothe us when we were growing up. We’ve never been able to entertain, though a king regularly visited one of the countesses on occasion, when the family coffers had more substance than a bag of buttons.’

  She’d tried to keep her guilty blush under control and sidetracked. ‘No wonder you all love the countess; Eugenie sounds like a wonderful woman.’

  ‘We owe her a great deal. Now you know the reason why I must wed a woman with a fortune. If it hadn’t been for my father’s excesses …’ The rest of his sentence had been left unspoken, in case he inadvertently committed himself to something he shouldn’t have, perhaps.

  Only a fool would fail to realize that Alex enjoyed her company and found her attractive in many ways. But he obviously had doubts, and would he consider their easy friendship to be strong enough for a marriage partnership? It had sounded as though he was trying to convince himself that it would not.’

  As for herself … she loved Alex but she’d deceived him. What could she do about it? Nothing, but did it matter when she’d probably never see him again?

  There was no answer forthcoming.

  A mile away Alex was astride Boots, who was travelling at an easy canter. Ahead was the church – built of stone, ivy clad and with a square Norman tower. The burial ground surrounding it had an air of comfortable neglect, with the long grass needing the attention of a scythe. Many of the tablets shouldered against each other, resembling mossy old friends or family members reunited in death. The whole was wrapped in a well-seasoned dry-stone wall peppered with various coloured lichens and mosses.

  He stopped to gaze at it. His own family attended a church just like it, and the coffins of the LéSayres ancestors were grandly entombed in a mausoleum with their coat of arms over the door.

  How are the mighty fallen, Alex thought wryly. He still owed the undertaker for his father’s burial.

  In the darkness of the porch the church doors were open. A saddled horse and three sheep grazed amongst the graves. One way of keeping the grass under control, he supposed.

  There came the sound of someone playing the organ. He recognized it as a Bach prelude that Eugenie played on their dusty old piano. The prelude became a fugue that made the organ roar into a wheezy, clunking life of rattles and squeaks.

  There was something almost defiant and angry about the organ, like an old man struggling for breath on his deathbed. Alex felt sorry for it. The sheep took fright, huddling together in a corner for comfort when the tune changed, becoming a lively march.

  Boots’ ears pricked forward, his muscles bunched and he gave a soft little whinny and began to high-step on the spot, giving a vigorous and showy spring now and again.

  It was one of those springs that got Alex. Airborne, the horse did a tricky manoeuvre as he came down to earth, rearing on his hind legs and pawing the air. Unseated, Alex fell backwards, doing half a back flip to land on his belly. He managed to roll out of the way in case the horse decided to sit on him.

  Something sparkled in the long grass at the bottom of the wall, just a nose length away. He shortened his gaze, bringing it into focus. It was the star brooch he’d bought Vivienne. This was the place where she’d been attacked. Picking up the trinket, he stood and examined it. The pin was closed and had a small piece of cloth attached. It had been twisted out of shape. He straightened the pin and placed the brooch safely in his waistcoat pocket.

  The music stopped suddenly, leaving the air full of oddly fading notes that didn’t quite meet their promised pitch before they became a wheeze and were quickly absorbed into quietude.

  Boots gazed at him, appearing somewhat surprised to find that his rider was no longer on his back. The whinny he gave was almost like laughter.

  ‘Very funny,’ Alex said, brushing his clothes off. He gazed at the wall and detected some spots of blood, broken twigs and scuffing on the stone. There were wheel marks in the soft mud on the other side where a carriage had turned – and a spot where someone had emptied his stomach. His nose wrinkled.

  Alex rarely gave in to impulse, but he’d learned enough in London to give him the urge to fly to Vivienne’s side. The eagerness of her relatives to replace her with Sophia in his affections disgusted him.

  He’d left London with the zeal of Saint George with the scent of the dragon in his nostrils, and the rescue of his fair maiden burning a hole in the back of his brain. Now he was here, and he couldn’t barge into her father’s home and demand to see her. She was wounded and had earthed herself like a wounded animal in order to heal.

  This must be the church that her clergyman father, the Reverend Fox, presided over. It wouldn’t take long to find out. He took Boots into the church grounds, where he could dance the hornpipe without hurting anyone should he feel the urge. Boots joined the other gelding
as though they were old friends.

  The interior of the church was dark after the sunshine and his footsteps echoed. The windows behind the altar shone like jewels. The small organ with its array of pipes was to the left – opposite were the choir stalls. A Mozart sonata, the melody as light and pretty as raindrops, carried him to the pew near the front.

  The music stopped abruptly. A little while later there came a patter of footsteps. Two lads hurried past, unwilling calcants freed from the tyranny of operating the ancient organ bellows no doubt. They touched their caps, leaving behind them an image of rosy faces and mischievous smiles.

  There was a heavier tread at the back of the church. A door opened and quietly closed. A chair scraped noisily. Alex seated himself while his eyes adjusted to the change in light. It was peaceful here. The air had a musty smell and echoed with every click and crack of the timber beams in the vaulted roof.

  He thought about Vivienne Fox. Didn’t he always think about Vivienne Fox? She’d been raised here with her sisters, loved and tutored by her father. She would have been a lively child with a thirst for knowledge and had grown up to be virtuous. But being virtuous didn’t mean she was pious. How far would he have to push her before nature advised her of the course she would take? Not very far, he imagined.

  He could sense the child she’d been, safe in her father’s love. Being of help to him and to the grandmother who had helped raise her and her two stepsisters. She would have taken her duties seriously. Now the nature of her love had changed, and she needed to be a woman with a husband and children to expend her affection on.

  She had reached a point where her early training was being eroded by the visits from Mother Nature to remind her of her own needs. He would like to kill Simon Mortimer for attempting to ruin Vivienne’s reputation for his own ends. He sat there, surrounded by peace, and deep in thought, musing on what he could do to ease the situation for her. He thought of his estate and sighed. He was thinking too much and a nap wouldn’t go amiss.

  He closed his eyes, and after a short while the day faded into a quiet buzz. He dreamed … pleasantly … of a woman in a drifting white gown and with flowers in her wild hair. Her feet were bare and she was dancing in a meadow of long grass sprinkled with poppies, forget-me-nots and yellow toadflax. He couldn’t see her face but thought it might be Vivienne.

  ‘Don’t leave me,’ he said when she began to fade, and she laughed. ‘A man shouldn’t have such problems,’ he said.

  A gentle cough raised him from his reverie and his eyes flew open. A man of middle years with greying hair had slid unseen into the pew in front of him.

  Alex jumped. ‘Have I been asleep?’

  ‘It seems so. I saw you half-an-hour ago and thought you’d stopped to rest and might wake up and go on your way. Then it occurred to me that you might be a felon planning on stealing the candlesticks and cross from the altar. If so, I must warn you that they’re silver plated, and rubbed silver plate at that … not really worth the effort of melting down. Then I recognized you clearly as a man with a problem on his mind since you talked in your sleep.’

  ‘What did I say?’

  ‘That a man shouldn’t have such problems. You also asked someone not to leave you. Were you conversing with God?’

  ‘I’m not that close to the throne. I was talking to myself, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And you have problems?’

  Alex smiled at him, recognizing his daughter in his manner of speaking. ‘Compared to most people, no, but there is a problem I need to resolve. A church is a good place to clear the mind.’

  ‘As you say. Allow me to introduce myself. I’m Reverend Ambrose Fox. And you are …?’

  ‘Alexander LéSayres. I have a letter of introduction from John Howard, who is my neighbour in Dorset.’

  ‘Ah yes … my esteemed, and very successful relative. You and I have met before in Dorset, I recall. I must write and thank John for his recent hospitality, if I haven’t already.’ The reverend’s forehead wrinkled.

  ‘You also knew my father, I understand. I’m named after him.’

  The frown stayed in place. ‘There was a Lord LéSayres who attended the same university as me. He was from Dorset. There was some talk …’

  Before the reverend tripped over his tongue, Alex advised him, ‘My father passed away just a few months ago and I’d be obliged if you spoke no ill of him, for he was a good family man and a loving father to his sons.’

  The reverend shook his head as if to clear it. ‘I was about to mention that I’d heard he had two strong sons … something to envy him for. I’m sorry to hear he has passed on. And your mother?’

  ‘Gone too. She died when I was an infant. I have a younger brother. We were raised by our stepmother, Lady LéSayres, who is held in great respect by us all.’

  The reverend’s eyes glinted as he recognized the warning in Alex’s voice. ‘Quite, and what are you doing in Kent, young man?’

  ‘I’m here to enquire after the welfare of your daughter, Vivienne … Miss Fox.’

  His eyes flew open. ‘Vivienne … my Vivienne. May I ask why? Surely you are not going to dump her in the pig wallow again? Such a large indignity for such a small thruppenny piece.’

  This was a man who was as astute as they came. ‘Your daughter has already rubbed my nose in my past indiscretion. I was justly punished for that with a thrashing from my father, though it hurt him more than it hurt me. I heard that Vivienne … Miss Fox that is, had been attacked on the road.’

  ‘What do you know about the affair? If you were part of it you’d better return from where you came. My poor daughter is severely indisposed at the moment. She won’t see anyone and she won’t confide in me, but mostly she sits in her room and weeps.’

  ‘She’ll see me.’

  ‘You sound confident about that. Exactly what is your relationship with my daughter, My Lord?’

  ‘Our relationship is quite circumspect.’ Alex’s conscience gave him a tweak when he remembered the occasional kiss, but not hard enough to think of abandoning the delightful exercise altogether. ‘I like her and we’re good friends and easy together. I hold her high in my affection.’

  The reverend hadn’t removed his scrutiny of him. The man’s eyes were fierce and unfriendly, so Alex felt like a trapped fly being contemplated by a spider. Beginning to perspire, he continued with caution. After all, this man was Vivienne’s father, and he didn’t look amicable, especially with that thick bible grasped in his hands, top heavy with good works.

  He said hurriedly, ‘We advise and support each other. Your daughter does you credit at every turn. She is intelligent and we converse well, debate even, and without any displays of temper except a little foot-stamping on her part, and on the rare occasion.’

  ‘I schooled her myself,’ the reverend said with some pride, placing the book down beside him. ‘What has Vivienne told you of her circumstances?’

  ‘That she is the eldest of three sisters, and her father … that’s you, sir … is a reverend and a scholar.’ Alex ignored the faint smile. Fronting a young woman’s father was more difficult than he’d expected. ‘Also, she recently came into a small legacy that is proving to be troublesome to her, because rumour has enlarged its sum vastly. I believe that to be the cause of the attack on her.’

  ‘Did you offer her any advice on the subject of that legacy?’

  ‘I’d be the last person to advise her on that since my estate is practically bankrupt due to imprudent gambling.’

  ‘Not your own, one hopes.’

  ‘As you say. I came to London to find myself a suitable wife with a fortune so I could reverse the situation.’

  ‘What does Vivienne think of that?’

  ‘Your daughter has a good head for commerce. She advises me on any candidates for the position, and I advise her. In fact, she has taught me that the qualifications of womanly perfection I had in mind were totally unrealistic. That’s exactly what a friend would do, don’t you think?’

>   Reverend Fox gave a sigh that was considerably less than pious and growled, ‘No, I certainly don’t think … in fact, it’s an insult to even suggest to me that you might be using my daughter as a companion, supporter and advisor. You are a grown man. Vivienne is neither your sister nor your nursemaid. It seems that my daughter has grown to trust you in the short time she’s known you, but I suspect you have a way with women, young man. Men are ever the deceiver and her belief in men has been sadly eroded by what has taken place. She needs to heal both in body and mind. She is my daughter, and I love her dearly.’

  All at once it seemed as though they were combatants. Fiercely, Alex thrust at him, ‘So do I, Reverend … so do I!’

  Head cocked to one side, the reverend gazed at him for several seconds, a smile dawning on his face. ‘Of course you do, Lord LéSayres, else you wouldn’t be here to meddle in her life, would you? Allow me to just say this, My Lord. If any man deliberately breaks my daughter’s heart, I will forget I’m a servant of the Lord and will join the opposition for as long as it takes to deal with him.’

  Alex believed him.

  ‘She would make you a good wife, and your lack of fortune wouldn’t bother her a twit, you know.’

  Alex gave an uncertain huff of laughter. He’d been outwitted, it seemed.

  ‘Good,’ the reverend said. ‘Now we understand each other. Perhaps you would like to return home with me for some refreshment, or perhaps turn your horse around and return from whence you came. The choice is yours.’

  Fifteen

  The French doors leading from the drawing room opened on to a small paved area. A yellow rose – heavily blossomed and drooping under the weight of bees – clung to a lattice hung over the terrace. The rose needed pruning, but Vivienne was loath to spoil its glory.

  She was seated on a chaise longue just inside the doors. She’d slipped off her shoes and her stocking-clad feet rested in a patch of sunlight on the faded pink rug. Her aching body enjoyed the warmth the sun provided. Having got over his fright at her changed appearance, the cat was now curled up on her lap, the warm breath from his purr stirring the fabric of her faded and patched gown. She would be glad when her trunks were returned to her.