A Poor Relation

by Carola Dunn

  After about half a mile, Millicent interrupted her discourse on the joys of a London Season and the boredom of country life to point out a short cut to the village. They climbed a stile beside a five-barred gate, and started across an apple orchard.

  “Whose land is this, cousin?” asked Rowena. “They are going to have a poor harvest, I fear. It looks as if the trees have not been pruned this age, and they are all old-fashioned varieties.”

  Millicent raised her charming eyebrows at this display of unladylike knowledge, but the question was of interest to her and she answered readily.

  “It is part of Farleigh Grange. The earl died over a year ago, and there has been some difficulty finding his heir. He had no sons, and no close male relatives. We visit Lady Farleigh, of course, though she is shockingly rude sometimes. She is a disagreeable old cat, and invalidish, too, but after all she is a countess.”

  She went on to provide details of the various occasions upon which Lady Farleigh had insulted Lady Grove. Rowena gave her half her attention, the other half being on the neglected state of the orchards through which they strolled. She mentally catalogued all the improvements she would make if they belonged to her.

  Soon they reached the village of Down Stanton, a tiny hamlet boasting a single shop. Rolls of ribbon and cards of pins hung between barrels of flour and a rickety stack of cheap tin buckets. Millicent gathered her skirts close about her and sniffed in disdain as she examined the ribbons in a desultory manner. Rowena wondered why she had come here. Surely there was nothing to attract a young lady who wore London fashions.

  Millicent brightened at the sound of hooves and wheels in the village street. She hurried outside without a word to the shop’s proprietor, a tiny, plump woman who had hovered hopefully since their arrival.

  “I believe my cousin was unable to find the precise shade she needs,” said Rowena apologetically.

  “Never you mind, dearie. Miss Grove is never satisfied,” the woman assured her. “Her cousin, are you then? Come to visit for a while?”

  “I am going to live at Grove Park,” said Rowena, well aware that the news would be all over the neighbourhood before dark. With a nod of farewell, she followed Millicent out into the street.

  She was standing beside a smart phaeton, orange with black trim, beaming up at the driver. That gentleman was also orange with black trim, Rowena saw with a shock of amusement. At least, his coat, with its pinched-in waist and padded shoulders, and his boots were black, his waistcoat and pantaloons a startling shade of orange. A huge topaz stickpin adorned a neckcloth, of ordinary white muslin, so high and starched that the effort of looking down at Millicent appeared to be strangling him. His face clashed horribly with his apparel.

  “Mr. Ruddle has invited me to go for a drive,” Millicent called gaily, not troubling to perform any introductions. “You will not mind walking home, will you, Rowena? It is not far and you know the way now. There is scarce room in the carriage for more than two.”

  Before Rowena could voice the least objection, the black-clad groom had helped her cousin into the phaeton and Mr. Ruddle, saluting her with a wave of his whip, had set his coal-black team in motion. She watched till they were out of sight, hoping that her aunt would not hold her responsible for Millicent’s escapade.

  She enjoyed the walk back up the hill without Millicent’s endless chatter. A blackbird sang to her and she was at leisure to admire the tall spikes of foxgloves by the wayside. She might almost have been at home, only there she would probably have been riding. Where was Vixen now?

  On reaching the house, she sought out Lady Grove at once and told her of her daughter’s defection.

  “I do not mean to carry tales,” she said, “but I cannot think it right to let her go off alone with a gentleman of whom I know nothing.”

  “It is perfectly unexceptionable as long as there was a groom present.” Her ladyship was complacent. “Mr. Adolphus Ruddle never goes anywhere without a servant. He is rich as Golden Ball and he admires dear Millicent excessively, but it is a pity that he has no title. Indeed, Millicent is quite fond of him, but naturally she cannot like to marry a man without a title even if he is wealthy and quite the gentleman. I have told her a thousand times that she deserves a duke.”

  “But perhaps she would be happier with Mr. Ruddle, if she is fond of him.”

  Aunt Hermione shook her head indulgently at this irrelevant comment. “Why, even I managed to catch a baronet, and I did not have one-tenth Millicent’s looks. And then Ruddle is such an unfortunate name! Ruddle Towers simply does not have that ring to it, though it is a splendid house, to be sure. I daresay they will be home before luncheon. I must see Cook.”

  Rowena soon learned that Millicent could do no wrong in her mother’s eyes. The combination of startling beauty and the fortune inherited from the great-aunt after whom she was named set her above reproach. Sir Henry had long since abdicated responsibility for his daughters, and only Anne ever crossed her sister, retiring to her books to escape the scolds this brought her for being disagreeable. As long as Rowena deferred to Millicent’s wishes, Aunt Hermione treated her as another daughter. If Millicent frowned, her mother frowned.

  Lady Grove was extremely conscientious about her duties as a landowner’s wife, visiting the tenants regularly to keep an eye on their welfare. Neither of her daughters ever offered to accompany her on her rounds.

  Rowena would have been delighted to do so, but she was not invited and she felt it was not her place to suggest it. Having little else to occupy her time, she had no objection to accompanying her cousin on walks and carriage rides, and calling on the neighbours with her when Lady Grove was otherwise occupied.

  Rowena met the Berry-Brownings, the Thorncrests and the Desboroughs, country gentry of the kind she had been on familiar terms with in Kent. Here, however, she found herself very much relegated to the background. This was only in part because of Millicent’s beauty and her long acquaintance with the families they called on.

  Millicent’s manners in company were charming, and the higher the rank of her hostess the more charming they became. They reached their acme wherever an eligible gentleman was to be found in the household. With such an air of commiserating sympathy did she mention Rowena’s unhappy status as a poor relation that it was difficult for her victim to take open exception to it.

  “It is so sad that dear Cousin Rowena has been left without a penny,” she observed on more than one occasion, “and prodigious gratifying, I vow, that we are able to offer her a home.”

  Though Millicent spoke nothing but the truth, Rowena had to battle a strong urge to express her resentment over this sugar-coated disparagement. She was proud of herself for her victory over her tongue.

  Unfortunately, to Millicent this silence appeared to be weakness rather than strength of character. She took increasing advantage of her cousin’s compliance. Scarce a fortnight had passed when, after her usual late breakfast, she sought out Rowena in the parlour.

  It was a gloomy day, threatening rain. Rowena was comfortably ensconced in a large armchair with a book she had found in her uncle’s library, a translation of Cato’s De Agricultura. She was no great reader, as she had confessed to Anne, but she was fascinated by the early Romans’ curious ideas on farming.

  “I need some buttons for my new sprig muslin,” Millicent announced without ceremony. “The ones the stupid seamstress put on are hideous.”

  “I doubt the shop in Down Stanton will have any you like better,” Rowena suggested, reluctant to leave her book to accompany her cousin.

  “I heard they received a new selection yesterday. I cannot go as Mr. Ruddle is calling this morning. Mama expects Lady William, too, and I daresay Mr. Desborough will come with her. I am sure you will be able to choose something suitable. Ask Minton to show you the dress before you go.”

  “Oh, no, cousin, I fear I am quite unable to make such a decision for you.” She hoped her voice was calm. “I have been in mourning this age and have quite fo
rgotten how to shop for pretty trifles. I shall be happy to go with you when you have the time.”

  Whether because her determination showed, or because Mr. Ruddle was announced at that moment, Millicent accepted the refusal without a fuss. She cast a disparaging glance at Rowena’s well-worn morning gown and murmured, “Perhaps you are right.”

  Since she did not again attempt to send Rowena to run her errands, it seemed she recognized the limits of her cousin’s patience.

  One hot August day, Millicent decided to go shopping in Broadway. While the barouche was brought round, Rowena asked Lady Grove whether she had any commissions for her.

  “So thoughtful, my dear. Let me see. Yes, Cook was asking just yesterday for some preserved ginger, and the grocer in Broadway usually has a jar or two, if you would not mind popping in there.”

  “Certainly, Aunt. Anne, do you need anything?”

  “The books I ordered ought to be at the bookseller’s by now, the ones I read about in the Quarterly Review. I cannot remember the precise titles but he will know, if it is convenient for you to call there.”

  “I shall do my best,” Rowena promised.

  After she’d spent an hour of wandering from draper to haberdasher to milliner, Rowena’s basket was full of Millicent’s purchases. She left her cousin studying a pattern book at the dressmaker’s and returned to the White Hart to empty her load into the carriage. When she made her way back to the dressmaker’s shop, Millicent was standing outside talking to Mr. Ruddle.

  “Good day, Miss Caxton,” said that gentleman, bending slightly at the waist.

  Rowena knew that his minimal bow was due not to any condescension towards her but to the tightness of his clothes, all green and white today. She had met him several times by now and found him amiable enough, if excessively silly. She returned his greeting with a smile.

  “It is the luckiest thing, Rowena,” gushed Millicent. “Only think, Mr. Ruddle’s phaeton has broke its axle and he was about to hire a vehicle to carry him home, but we shall take him up instead.”

  “I have not yet been to the grocer’s for your mother, nor to fetch Anne’s books,” Rowena reminded her.

  She pouted, but doubtless owing to her beau’s presence she decided not to object. “I daresay Mr. Ruddle will not mind waiting with me at the White Hart for a few minutes while you go. But hurry, cousin, I’ve no wish to sit about all day.”

  Rowena hurried. Nonetheless, when she returned to the inn the carriage was gone. A moment’s consideration persuaded her that it would be pointless to rely on Millicent’s returning to pick her up. Her basket laden down with a stoneware jar of ginger and two weighty volumes of Mr. John Brand’s Observations on Popular Antiquities, she set out to walk the four hilly miles to Grove Park.

  An hour later she paused to rest on a stile, wishing heartily that she had thought to return the books to the shop for Anne to fetch another day. She was hot and tired, and her grey gown was white with dust from the road. There was still a mile or more to go, though at least it would be pleasanter walking from here as she knew a short cut across the fields.

  A rumble of wheels drew her eyes back the way she had come in the hope of a ride in a farmer’s cart. However, the vehicle that appeared, though dusty as herself, was a smart curricle bearing two gentlemen with a groom up behind. To her surprise it drew up beside her and the driver hailed her.

  “Do you know the way to Farleigh Grange, girl?” he demanded in a well-remembered voice.

  She looked up into the grey eyes of the soldier from the Four Feathers.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The accommodations at the Four Feathers had not been such as to encourage the major and his friend to linger. As soon as the doctor from Canterbury had pronounced Bernard fit to travel, Chris went into the town and hired the most comfortable chaise he could find, regardless of expense.

  “I saved money on the horses.” He grinned at his friend’s expression as he helped him into the carriage. “I know you prefer to travel behind a dashing team, but this sorry pair of nags will ensure that our coachman does not try to give the go-by to anything else on the road this time.”

  Bernard snorted. “We’ll be lucky to reach London this day week.”

  “Two days. Dr. Benson made me promise to go slow, and I think him a good man. At least he knows his limitations and did not try to take the shrapnel out of you.”

  Chris recalled the girl with green eyes who had recommended the doctor. Her face had faded from his memory, leaving a niggling annoyance with himself for not expressing his gratitude while he had the chance. He shrugged. It was too late now.

  Bernard settled back against the cushions, his face strained. “I’m weak as a kitten again, dammit. Cousin Martha will adore having someone to nurse.”

  “Miss Cartwright will certainly not want another guest in her house at such a time. I shall easily find lodgings once I have seen my banker.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. Do you want to insult my only living relative?”

  They wrangled amicably as the chaise crawled towards London.

  It was late afternoon on the next day when they rumbled over the cobbles of Marylebone. Grey slate roofs gleamed in the sun after a passing shower. The chaise pulled up before a tall, narrow terrace house.

  A maid opened the door to Chris’s urgent knock.

  “Is your mistress at home?” he demanded. “I’ve brought her cousin, Captain Cartwright, and he’s in queer stirrups.”

  Martha Cartwright, as short and plump and rosy as her house was tall and narrow and grey, clucked distractedly over the limp form of her young cousin as Chris and her manservant bore him in. However, she proved to be an excellent practical nurse and in no time he was made as comfortable as possible, in the chamber next to her own.

  “So I shall hear if he wakes in the night,” she told Chris, pouring him a generous glass of brandy. “He’s exhausted, poor lamb, but tomorrow will be soon enough for doctors. Bless you, Major, for bringing him to me. I’ve had the back room made up and you’ll be staying as long as you’re in town, I hope.”

  Chris accepted gratefully, and for the first time in months he slept the clock round without one ear cocked for a change in Bernard’s breathing.

  In the morning, he walked across Mayfair and St. James’s to Whitehall. London at the beginning of July was hot and dusty, and traffic was scarce in the fashionable squares since the departure of the Allied Monarchs. Memories of the green countryside beckoned, but it would be weeks, at least, before Bernard was well enough to travel down to Dorset.

  As soon as he had presented their papers at the Horse Guards, Chris went in search of an army surgeon recommended by Doctor Benson. Time enough later to decide whether to sell out. Though a military life was bound to be dull now that Boney was confined to Elba, it was all he knew. The mediocre income left him by his father made it necessary to choose between a profession and living shabbily on the fringes of Society.

  Still, there were two quarters’ allowance, four hundred pounds, waiting for him at his bank. He found a hackney and set off for the City.

  Along with a supply of the ready, his banker gave him a message requesting that he contact Mr. Verity of Gardner, Verity and Plumb, Solicitors. A satisfying number of golden sovereigns jingled in his pocket as he walked the short distance to the lawyers’ offices.

  He spent the next hour racking his brains for the details of a family tree in which he had never taken more than a cursory interest. Only Mr. Verity’s scarce-suppressed excitement kept him from walking out on the tedious business.

  “Frederick!” he said at last. “I believe I remember my father speaking of a Great-Uncle Frederick, but whether he was a Scott or a Pendleton I could not tell you if my life depended upon it. You have drained me dry, sir. Do you mean to tell me what this is all about?”

  “Lord Frederick Scott! My dear Major, that is the final link.” The lawyer beamed at him. “I am delighted to inform you, my lord, that you are the new Earl of Fa
rleigh.”

  “Earl of Farleigh? You cannot be serious.”

  “My lord! You cannot suppose that I should jest upon a matter of such import.” Mr. Verity was shocked to the core. In excruciating detail he explained precisely how Chris was related to the late earl.

  Still incredulous, Chris asked cautiously, “Is there... Do I inherit anything besides the title?”

  “There is an estate in Gloucestershire, my lord. Farleigh Grange. On the borders of Worcestershire, not far from Evesham, I understand. However, I fear it brings in scarce four thousand a year.”

  Lord Farleigh laughed at the lawyer’s lugubrious expression. “Four thousand a year! That is five times my present income, not counting my pay. I shall strive to make do. You are quite certain you are not mistaken?”

  “There are no other heirs, my lord. Now, if you will just sign here... and here...”

  * * * *

  Six weeks passed before Chris and Bernard set out for Farleigh Grange. The ex-major, sold out on the strength of his new expectations, drove a spanking new curricle designed to his specifications with an eye to comfort as much as to speed. Though Bernard’s shoulder had healed rapidly as soon as the metal was out, he was still weak. Chris did not mean to risk a relapse for the sake of cutting a dash.

  Always awkward with a pen, he had written a letter of condolence to the Dowager Countess of Farleigh. Her reply was noncommittal, but at least it assured him that she would retire to the dower house whenever he chose to take up residence. His first thought had been to sell the place, for though he loved the country he knew nothing of managing an estate. Mr. Verity, horrified, pointed out that it was entailed.

  Chris began to get an inkling of the responsibilities he had inherited along with the title.

  They took the journey in easy stages. Chris’s batman, Potter, was heard to mutter that it was a sin and a shame to drive as fine a pair of fifteen-mile-an-hour tits as he’d ever seen at a snail’s pace, but his lordship resisted the temptation to spring ‘em. The weather was fine, and Bernard was well enough to enjoy riding in the well-sprung open carriage.