by Cindy Anstey
“Mama.”
“Oh, yes, for heaven’s sake. Where was I?”
“I believe you were lamenting the lack of male company.” Robert smiled in what he hoped was a benign manner.
“Oh, yes. That’s right. Well, it would be traditional that you would take me into dinner, as the only gentleman present and I, the mistress of the house.”
Robert did his best not to look toward Lydia at that pronouncement.
“But that would not be fair to the other ladies—and rather selfish of me. And I will not have it said that I am a selfish person, for I am quite interested in charity. The president of the Children’s Educational Society has often complimented me on my good heart. Just last week, we—”
“Mama.”
“So over time, we have developed a system—a way to share, as it were.”
“We have?” Lydia’s surprise hinted at a little prevarication.
“Yes, we have. And it’s Elaine’s turn tonight.”
Miss Elaine was no longer tittering but grinning. She tipped her head to the side and batted her eyes in a manner, one can only assume, she considered coquettish.
Neither was appealing, but Robert knew his duty; he bowed to the young lady in question, observed that the yellow of her gown suited her complexion admirably, and offered her his arm.
On their way down the stairs, Robert inquired after her enjoyment of the day and the progress of her needlework, and he offered the possibility of rain on the morrow. Miss Elaine laughed at most, if not all, of his comments—even those about the weather. She wove her fingers together atop his arm, thereby turning her body and drawing Robert closer. It would seem that Lydia’s cousin was a determined flirt.
After leading Miss Elaine to her chair, Robert placed himself farther down the table, next to Miss Shipley. However, Mrs. Whitfield was not satisfied with the arrangement; she required the whole of the company to move. Only when Robert was once again at Miss Elaine’s side did the seating plan obtain Mrs. Whitfield’s approval. Fortunately, this secured him the position across from Lydia.
Though, try as he might, he could not ease the furrows from her brow. He spent the first two courses wordless, trying to understand the cause of her discontent. It wasn’t until they were enjoying the third course that the conversation gained his full attention.
“So you will have property one day?” Mrs. Kemble continued her questioning, which was beginning to feel more like an interrogation than a conversation. “You won’t have to work all those terrible hours to the end of your days.”
Running the discussion back through his mind, Robert could not find any reference to terrible hours. It was true enough, though, and he could only assume that Mrs. Kemble knew someone in the legal profession.
“Slotten House is a pretty but small manor in Worrington, Salisbury way.”
“Excellent. Yes, excellent, very good. That is only fifteen or so miles from here.” She glanced significantly at her daughter and nodded.
“Actually, I believe it is closer to twenty-three miles, give or take.” He waved a pointed finger toward the window as if it were visible in the distance.
“And why is it that your brother is living at Slotten House, not you?”
“Well, until last year, Slotten House was his to inherit, and I have the town house in Bath for the same reason—with a career eventually in law. It is what is expected of a third son, as well you know.”
“I’m not sure I understand.” This was the first time that Miss Elaine had looked at him with genuine interest and, therefore, forgot to giggle. “What changed?”
This was a subject Robert did not like to discuss. The pain was still too raw. Even after seven months, the shock was not yet behind him. His life had changed in a flash—a flash of gunpowder. An imagined insult and hotheaded idiocy had taken Lloyd’s life.
“My eldest brother was killed last August.” He spoke the words with tight lips, hoping that that would end it. He would not discuss the whys and wherefores—not only was dueling illegal, it was as great a folly as any that had been invented.
“What do you think of the venison, Cora? Has Cook not outdone herself?” Lydia smiled and nodded, as if encouraging her friend to speak.
“Indeed. Very good.” Miss Shipley lifted her cheeks briefly and then returned her gaze to the table.
Lydia stared at the top of Miss Shipley’s head, her brow folded. She sighed softly and then turned back to the company. “Do you enjoy living in Bath, Mr. Newton?”
Appreciating her efforts to lead the conversation to safer ground, Robert smiled. “Yes, I do. Although my work often keeps me too busy to enjoy its diversions.”
“That is a shame. No frivolity for you, then?”
“On occasion.” He nodded incrementally as an acknowledgment of her kindness and, on close observation, watched her return the motion.
“So Slotten will be yours on your father’s death.” Mrs. Kemble, however, was not sensitive to the emotions of others and brought the topic right back where Robert didn’t want it to be. “Your other brother will take the title and seat of Wissett. What is the name of your ancestral manor … Tonington Hall?”
“Please, Aunt Freya, you are talking about the death of Mr. Newton’s father. It is a subject best avoided.” Lydia gave her head a vigorous shake and glared at the foot of the table. Then, after visibly taking a deep breath, she turned back toward Robert. “Would you be able to take time to attend a ball? We are going to celebrate my birthday with a moderate gathering of two hundred or so in the Lower Rooms in May.”
She grinned with such enthusiasm that a polite acceptance was out of Robert’s mouth before he even considered it. Fortunately, when he did, he came to the same conclusion. Yes, it would be something he would be pleased to attend. Very pleased, indeed.
Lydia talked for several minutes about the plans for the big day until, at last, the other ladies were infected. The discussion then bounced from person to person, with opinions getting louder and laughter that was truly contagious. Robert could add little to the discussion. He knew nothing of the latest fashions, what punches were best served at a ball, or how many nights’ accommodation would be required before the big day. And yet he enjoyed their excitement—the way Lydia’s eyes lit up when she talked about seeing friends and her smile of patience as she listened to her cousin describe her dancing slippers in excruciating detail.
Just when it seemed that the meal would conclude in this general sense of goodwill, a voice penetrated the doors and, suddenly, the dining room was silent. When the voice shouted again, Mrs. Kemble flushed and glanced at her sister-in-law.
“You’ll have to excuse me. I believe I am needed.”
Robert stood as the lady gathered her skirts and slipped into the hallway. For the brief period that the door was open, Mr. Kemble’s irritation echoed through the cavernous entrance and bounded into the dining room. The reverberation and the slur of his tongue distorted the meaning of his words, but there was no doubt of his inebriated state.
“Dear me, I believe Arthur and the Major might have indulged a little too much.” Mrs. Whitfield looked uncomfortable and offered Robert a waxen smile. “It happens so rarely that we must overlook it.”
Lydia snorted—in a most unconventional manner—while Miss Elaine began a loud summary of a letter that had been received from an acquaintance. Her oration drowned out the voices from the other room, as it was meant to, but it also left the rest of the table uninvolved, staring at the plates in front of them. By the time dessert was finished, so was the letter’s summary and the hallway conversation, but rather than adjourn to the other room, Mrs. Whitfield suggested calling it a night.
After having made his bows, Robert climbed the stairs mulling over the day and all that had transpired. He didn’t mean to overhear the conversation between Lydia and Mrs. Whitfield, but the entrance, with its grand stairway, had the acoustics of a theater.
“Mama. You have to do something about Uncle’s overindulgence.
”
“No, Lydia, I don’t. It will all come right in the end.”
“Ignoring a problem does not make it go away. It can, and likely will, make the situation worse.”
“That sounds like something your father would say.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t meant as a compliment.”
“I know. But I will take it as such.”
Robert, who had unintentionally paused at the head of the stairs, smiled and went about the business of finding his room.
* * *
As agreed, Robert waited in the study for Eric Drury at precisely—Lydia’s qualifier, not his—nine in the morning. He was not surprised when the clock on the mantel chimed the hour and the man did not appear. Rising to his feet, Robert opened the door and found the hallway was not empty as he expected, though the person without was not Drury.
Suddenly his mouth was dry, and his heart thrummed in a quick-time march.
“Drury isn’t here, is he?” Lydia looked fresh as a daisy for such an early hour; ladies didn’t usually make an appearance until midmorning.
“No, Miss Whitfield, I’m afraid not.” Robert took a calming breath, disguising it as a sigh.
“I will find him and bring him here, even if he is at the far reaches of the estate. I will not have you forced to stay another night when you have more important things to do.”
Robert could think of nothing significant when placed beside the needs of the lovely Miss Lydia Whitfield, and he was about to offer to stay another night … or two … when she continued.
“I am so convinced that this has to be settled today that I will forgo my usual period of correspondence between half past nine and ten minutes after the hour of ten—”
“Precisely?”
“Yes. What? Pardon?”
“Excuse me. I did not mean to interrupt.”
“Oh, well, where was I?”
“Forgoing your letters.”
“Yes, that’s right. And Mama might need to review the menu at eleven, if Uncle wants to play the same game. Not her favorite task, but if I am otherwise occupied, she will have no choice. It is a topsy-turvy day, Mr. Newton. Everything is in a muddle, at sixes and sevens.… Well, we shall overcome. One day of confusion will not set the world aflame.”
“Count yourself privileged, Miss Whitfield, that it might only be one day.”
“Why do you say that?”
“My days are anything but routine.… But then, I would be bored if every day was like the last.”
“There is security in routine—calm, peace.”
“But no adventure, no surprises.”
“Surprises can be overrated.”
“Or they can be fun. That’s part of the adventure.”
“A strange philosophy for an apprentice solicitor.”
“We are not all cut from the same cloth, Miss Whitfield.”
“So I see.” The words might have been biting had the comment been made with the right inflection, but they weren’t. They were uttered with a smile and a gleam of mischief. Robert had a feeling that, one day, Lydia Whitfield would find routine, not surprises, overrated.
A half hour later, Drury walked into the study with Lydia hard on his heels. “My apologies, young man. Lost track of time. Miss Whitfield happened to be looking for the coachman just as I was readying my horse to ride out. Would have been gone in a trice, you know.”
“Yes, indeed, chance was on our side, sir. Please, sit down.” Robert nodded toward Lydia in recognition of her success and saw that she had something to say. “Yes, Miss Whitfield.”
“I thought you would be pleased to know that your carriage has been repaired and will be made ready for your return whenever you ask for it. I told Mr. Hodge that it would likely be late afternoon. Was I correct?”
“Yes, that should give me enough time to get back to Bath before dark. Excellent, thank you.” Robert did his best to sound enthused—it wouldn’t do for Lydia to think that he wished to stay longer, that he wanted to hang around her skirts like Mr. Chilton. Taken aback by the direction of his thoughts, Robert looked down at the desk and shuffled his papers around until he had control of his expression … and emotions. When he looked back up, Lydia was gone, the study door was closed, and Drury was staring at the ceiling.
“So shall we start at the beginning? Why pineapples?”
“Tea. Really, Mr. Newton, I have never advocated anything but tea. That I know and understand.”
“Good to hear. I shall make a note of it. So where did you get your expertise, sir? Have you been to India … China?”
“No, no.” The land agent laughed weakly. “I drink it, you know. Buckets of the stuff.”
“I see.” Yes, Robert could see that it was going to be a long morning.
* * *
By the time Robert sat down with Miss Whitfield and Lord Aldershot at two in the afternoon, precisely, he had a very good idea of what his recommendations to Mr. Lynch would be in regard to the tea-pineapple debacle. He had found Drury every bit as ignorant of estate management as Lydia had stated. The man needed to be replaced and quickly. The problem, of course, was the timing. Most land agents, the good ones, would already be in place; it was spring after all. Growing season was right around the corner.
Problem One: Replace Drury.
Solution to Problem One: Have his brother, Charles, and/or the Slotten House agent, Mr. Brandon, make inquires; Slotten was far enough away from Roseberry that Arthur Kemble would not have any influence over those applying.
Which led him directly into the next quandary.
Problem Two: Uncle Arthur.
During the second, more explosive interview of the morning, Robert was praised and harangued in equal measure. Shouted at and then slapped on the back in jocularity. The man was unpredictable at best, a drunken lunatic at worst. But through it all, Kemble made it more than abundantly clear that his only interest in Roseberry was to feather his own nest. Whether it was with tea or pineapples, he didn’t care. Kemble just wanted to make some money—fast.
It was hard to imagine how wrongheaded Oliver Whitfield had been—that he had trusted this beetle-brained elbow-crooker enough to watch over his precious, captivating daughter … er, precious estate … after his demise. Something must have changed, and not for the better. As a result, Kemble resented Lydia in more ways than could be counted. Her rosy future, her wealth, her opinions, etc. Everything from the colors she wore to the way she walked were part of Uncle Arthur’s tirade against the monster called Lydia.
Perhaps it came down to simple greed: Kemble had become used to the niceties of Roseberry and hated the idea of being forced to return to his small house, with limited funds, and two unmarried daughters. That he had squandered his own inheritance on horses and gambling was not considered significant. And now, to be backing a questionable decision based on the promises of an ignorant man put paid to the whole deal.
If only Robert could replace Kemble as well, but male relatives were few and far between in the Whitfield line.
Solution to Problem Two: Suggest that a commission or bonus system be set up based on the success of the estate. Kemble could “earn” the money—a concept that might be abhorrent to the upper crust but well understood by those in need.
So the quest was complete—Robert knew the source of the complaining letters, and he could provide the particulars and possible solutions. Robert could return to Bath with a clear conscious. Well, almost clear. He had yet to resolve the task for which they were now ensconced in the study. A landed lady with money marrying an impoverished title—though the players changed, it was an old game. Even the bride-to-be’s young age was not an issue with parental consent.
No, the only difficulty with which Robert was dealing was a personal one.
As he looked across the room at the charming, laughing eyes of Miss Whitfield, for the first time in his life, Robert wished that he were a firstborn son expecting to inherit a title.
Chapte
r 5
In which Miss Whitfield prevents abject despair by extending an invitation
“I’m quite happy to allow you the choice of land agent, but that is where it shall end, Lydia. You will not direct the agent or me. I will not look a lemming in my own house, nor will I let it be said that my wife deals in business. Really, a lady should know nothing of plants save where the roses look best in a vase of flowers.”
“Yes, I understand—”
“No, you don’t. The expectations of society will change the instant we are wed, and you will have to change with them. I’m sorry to say this, but your father, as much as I admired his acumen, did you no favors in your education. A lady should—”
“Barley, you do realize that I’m not ever going to be a mouse sitting in the background, nodding in agreement whenever you bother to glance in my direction?” Lydia stared intently and directly at Lord Aldershot. If Barley did not understand who she was, then she foresaw a heavy slog while they found their footing in the quagmire of married life. She would do it, and eventually she would bring Barley around to her point of view, but the prospect of starting their life together with such misguided expectations … well, it made her tired. She suddenly felt old, as if she were nearing five and twenty instead of eighteen.
Lord Aldershot sighed deeply as if he, too, felt older than his years, and then he grinned. “Of course, you silly goose. I know you.” His eyes left Lydia’s and settled on Mr. Newton, who had leaned forward. “When she was ten, I found her trying to climb a tree—in skirts, no less. Did she ask for help down? No, she insisted that I help her get higher to replace the nest that had fallen to the ground.”
“Four little chicks were desperate for their mother,” Lydia explained. “There was no need for them to die simply because the Whitfields couldn’t produce a son to climb the tree in propriety.”
Barley laughed, as she knew he would, but Mr. Newton’s brow furrowed for a fleeting second.
“Do you regret being born a girl, Miss Whitfield?”
Lydia almost snorted in agreement, but she saw that it was a serious question. No one had ever asked her that before, not even her father when he made her the son he never had.