A Lady of True Distinction

by Grace Burrowes

  No sound came from the garden now, just blessed, sunny peace.

  “He calmed her, Fenny. He took Greta in his lap, let her struggle to the limit of her strength, and never raised his voice.”

  “She’s sometimes stumped by novelty. He might not have such good luck next time.”

  “He will teach her to fix what she breaks.” A very important lesson. One Margaret had not mastered. “He wasn’t disgusted, wasn’t angry, wasn’t anything but patient and kind.”

  Fenny patted her knee. “Was Greta’s temper part of the reason you hesitated to marry him?”

  “Part of the reason.” Not all. By no means all, but a bigger part than Margaret could easily admit. Greta was different, often in a loud, unattractive, bewildering way.

  When you marry me, your battles become mine, and your children become mine too. Hawthorne had meant those words, truly, honestly meant them.

  “When Mr. Dorning and I conversed, he reminded me of something important,” Margaret said. “His brother is an earl.”

  “Also a genuinely decent man, according to everybody who’s had the pleasure. The Dornings seem like a fine family.”

  “I know them as neighbors, and you’re right. They are so hardworking and unpretentious that I forget they are also titled. Lady Jacaranda married a minor title with significant wealth. Her husband is also an earl’s heir. Willow Dorning married another earl’s daughter. They are people of consequence, Fenny. Real consequence, not merely the local assembly variety.”

  “And Bancroft hasn’t the standing to tangle with real consequence.”

  “Not at the moment, but if he marries wealth, he’ll have the means to come after Summerton and the girls, and he’ll be better situated to provide for them than he is now. Am I demented for fearing that he’ll try?”

  “Their settlements are substantial, and Summerton is lovely. Some people never have enough and will work harder to steal from others than they would to earn honest coin. Go tell Mr. Dorning you’ll marry him.”

  “I wasn’t intending to,” Margaret said. “I thought to pretend to think about it for a while longer, so that I could find a way to… compromise.”

  “You’re a widow.” Fenny rose, her smile tired. “You can’t be compromised. Marry him. He’s steady, good-natured, reliable, and patient with shrieking children. Right now, I cannot conceive of a higher recommendation for an unmarried man.”

  He’s a good kisser, and he likes copulation a lot, but I have fallen in love with him because he’s kind and honorable.

  “Is she getting worse, Fenny?”

  “Greta is getting bigger,” Fenny said. “If Mr. Dorning distracted her from her tantrum, perhaps she’s growing up too. We can hope.”

  Fenny returned the way she’d come, and Margaret got to her feet. Greta’s tantrums were draining for the whole household, also frightening. Bancroft had seen one, about a year ago at the village lending library and bakery, and been horrified. That display had been minor compared to Greta in a true taking.

  Margaret smoothed her hair, put away her handkerchief, and prepared to tell Hawthorne that she’d become his lawfully wedded wife, provided he could procure a special license before Bancroft returned from Town.

  Chapter Twelve

  “My dearest Miss Pepper, you look ravishing.” Bancroft assayed a bow at his own reflection.

  Too effusive. Too solemn. Emily Pepper wasn’t a featherbrain, but neither was she a Puritan.

  “My dear Miss Pepper, a pleasure to see you, as always.” Another bow, not quite as low.

  Better, still not quite… Those blasted Dornings would know exactly how to greet a silk nabob’s heiress daughter.

  “Miss Pepper, you look splendid as always.” A little more smile, a little less bow, so a fellow could gaze approvingly into the young lady’s eyes.

  “I do believe that will serve.” Bancroft tapped his top hat onto his head. “Walking stick, Rutherford.”

  Bancroft’s valet, who’d come with the highest recommendation from the most exclusive agency, passed over the required item.

  “This is a veritable cudgel,” Bancroft said, examining the plain brass handle. “Is this the best we’ve got?”

  “I can look into procuring a more ornate version, Mr. Summerfield. For a morning call, the understated approach is often the most impressive.” Rutherford exuded the cheerful calm of the gentleman’s gentleman and was himself exquisitely turned out. He’d already proved useful spying below stairs, and Bancroft’s wardrobe had never been so lovingly tended.

  Bancroft looked himself over for the dozenth time. His attire was tastefully correct, according to Rutherford. The blue morning coat and cream waistcoat looked a little drab to Bancroft, like the country squire newly arrived in Town and not wanting to call attention to himself.

  “I will look exactly like all the other admirers, which will not do.”

  “We have yet to choose your boutonniere, sir, and that coat does marvelous things for your eyes.”

  Blue eyes ran in the Summerfield family, true English blue, not that periwinkle-violet color that afflicted many of the Dornings.

  “Have we a blue flower among the offerings?” Bancroft asked, accepting a pair of spotless kid gloves from Rutherford.

  “I had thought pink, sir. The ladies favor the blushing quality of a sweet pea or carnation, and a touch of contrast enlivens daytime attire.”

  Pink? Bancroft had never worn pink in his life. Then too, a lisping fop in a pink waistcoat had relieved him of substantial blunt over cards the previous evening.

  “You’re sure, Rutherford?”

  Rutherford was young for his post, probably not yet thirty, but his deportment was impeccable. Rather than take offense, which he really might have done considering his expertise, he instead appeared to consider Bancroft’s question.

  “Every gentleman’s wardrobe will differ in its details, Mr. Bancroft, the better to represent the wearer in the manner he wishes to be represented. The proof lies in the impression made first upon you, yourself. You know how you’d like the world—and Miss Pepper and her father—to view you. I took the liberty of choosing three possibilities from among the options on offer at the market this morning. I will happily fetch three more, if that’s what you desire.”

  “Let’s have a look,” Bancroft said, pulling on his gloves. They fit perfectly, not like the gloves sewn in Dorset by aging cottagers. Bancroft’s boots shone exquisitely. His cravat was a work of art. Truly, London was the center of the civilized world for good reasons.

  At the front door, Bancroft stopped to admire himself in the pier glass, for he made a splendid impression. No wonder the Dornings always looked so well turned out. Every one of them had the advantage of Town bronze and Town tailoring, in addition to undeserved standing because of their papa’s title.

  “I had thought this one,” Rutherford said, holding up a tiny bouquet, a pink carnation bound up with a few violets and a sprig of something green.

  “I don’t care for the violets.”

  “They do tend to wilt as the day goes on,” Rutherford said, selecting a plain white rosebud bundled with a tiny dash of lavender.

  “Get rid of that wretched weed,” Bancroft said. “Damned stuff stinks up an entire room. I like the rosebud, though.”

  Rutherford extracted the lavender without disturbing the rosebud and affixed the boutonniere to Bancroft’s lapel. “Like so, sir?”

  The third choice was pale blue, some little blossom Bancroft didn’t recognize, but he’d seen it growing along country lanes and borders—a cheap hedge flower.

  “Exactly,” Bancroft said. “Roses have élan. I will once again make the perfect impression on Miss Pepper.”

  “I’m sure you will, sir.” Said with enough good cheer to qualify as encouraging without shading into irony.

  Bancroft jaunted the three streets to Miss Pepper’s house, in charity with the world, despite last night’s losses at the gaming tables. All gentlemen indulged in a few h
ands of cards, and nobody won all the time. Life in London was life as it was meant to be lived. Well dressed, well tended, well received, well entertained. Hartley had sent two dreary reports from Dorset, all about woolly sheep and sprouting corn, but Bancroft had given them only cursory attention.

  Of more interest were the paragraphs relating to Summerton, which apparently ran fairly well, considering the limitations of a widow’s expertise when it came to managing property. That was all to the good, for Bancroft didn’t want to take over yet another ailing estate when the time came to add Summerton to Hartley’s responsibilities.

  Which it would do, sooner rather than later, with the help of Miss Pepper’s settlements.

  That good lady received him cordially at the door, while another fellow, some baronet, took his leave of her.

  Sporting of the baronet to cede the field, but then, Bancroft was not a panting puppy. He was a man of means and standing paying a call on a lady who enjoyed his company. Rutherford had summarized the situation thus, and Rutherford knew what he was about.

  “Mr. Summerfield, how good of you to call.” Miss Pepper beamed at him when he offered his you-look-splendid bow, clearly pleased to welcome him. “You take coffee, don’t you? Please say you do, for I adore it.”

  Bancroft did not care for coffee. “As you wish, miss. Always exactly as you wish.”

  “If we did as I wished, sir, we’d be free of the crush and coal smoke of Town. Your acres are in Dorset, aren’t they?”

  She’d apparently done some research, a very encouraging sign. “Who told you that?”

  “Perhaps you did?” She led him to a sunny parlor done up in green, pink, and cream. The wallpaper alone—a pattern of lush jungle vegetation, peacocks, and blushing orchids—would have paid for the enclosure of another five acres.

  “Perhaps I did mention Summerfield House to you in a previous conversation,” Bancroft said. “I confess an abiding affection for my family seat, and you would, too, were you ever blessed to see it. Thousands of acres of the most beautiful countryside in the realm.” Beautiful for those who enjoyed smelly sheep, smellier bullocks, muddy ground, and hairy draft horses. The house itself was grand, if a bit drafty in winter.

  And yet, Summerfield was home, and Bancroft appreciated that land alone gave a man true standing.

  “And where are your family’s holdings?” Bancroft asked as his hostess gestured him to a settee and—more encouragement?—took the place beside him.

  “Papa has a number of properties, though I don’t think he owns any in Dorset, not yet. He tends to find projects closer to Town. How do you like your coffee?”

  “With a healthy tot of milk and a dash of sugar.”

  A companion sat over by the window, plying her needle like a spider waiting for a fly to happen by. She was young, as companions went, also pretty in an unsmiling way.

  Miss Pepper passed over the coffee, which Bancroft only pretended to drink.

  “So as a man of vast real estate holdings, what occupies you at this time of year?” Miss Pepper asked. “I’d think spring an inconvenient time to be parted from one’s property.”

  “Not a’tall, my dear. I am fortunate to have good staff and good land. It practically runs itself. Our planting is done for the year, and the rest is in nature’s hands.” Hartley’s reports had maundered on about shearing and haying, but Bancroft had heard the same handwringing and fretting since he’d hired Hartley upon Charles’s death.

  Agriculture had to be the most boring topic ever to pass for polite conversation.

  “Good help is so important,” Miss Pepper said, slanting a smile at her companion. “I would be lost without my dear Miss Briggs.”

  Briggs smiled at her embroidery hoop. “Thank you, miss.”

  “So Dorset is sheep country, isn’t it?” Miss Pepper asked, taking a swallow of black coffee.

  Bancroft nearly winced at the sight. “Our flocks thrive, so much so that we’re looking into the acquisition of a water meadow, the better to increase our hay stores.”

  “Oh, really?” Limpid brown eyes made Bancroft wish he’d paid closer attention to Hartley’s rhapsodies about that blasted water meadow. “I’ve never quite understood what a water meadow is, Mr. Bancroft. Perhaps you could explain it to me?”

  “The concept is simple, my dear. Have you ever noticed how on the banks of streams, the grass remains green even into winter and is the first grass to show green again in springtime?”

  “I can’t say as I have. Miss Briggs, have you noticed this phenomenon?”

  “As a girl in Sussex, ma’am. My grandfather maintained a water meadow.”

  “I own I am fascinated.” The young lady topped up her cup of coffee. “The world is full of wonders, and I am barely cognizant of them. How does the rushing water keep the grass green?”

  “A swift flow doesn’t freeze as easily,”—or so Hartley had reasoned—“and thus the grass and the soil beneath are warmer than winter ground generally. The grass continues to grow longer into autumn and resumes spring growth sooner.”

  “Like having a brazier of coals beneath one’s pasture. How ingenious. Do have some lemon cake, sir. And you say Summerfield has such a marvel?”

  “We are in the process of acquiring one from another estate where the land marches with a Summerfield holding. One doesn’t like to speak ill of one’s neighbors, but the current owner of that water meadow is one of those infamously impecunious titles. A spot of cash will serve his lordship’s purposes, while I, having the greater resources, can look toward wealth in the longer term.”

  The lemon cake was excellent, both moist and sweet. Miss Pepper prattled on about her papa’s dabbling in the landowner’s art, but having little true expertise when it came to crops, beasts, and so forth.

  All the while, the companion sewed quietly in the corner, and Bancroft pretended to sip his coffee. The whole of London knew that Osgood Pepper sought to join the ranks of the landed gentry—who didn’t among the mercantile class?—and yet, like most climbing cits, he’d have no idea how to go on.

  Such a pity when a man took on challenges for which he was not suited by birth or education.

  “Shall I ring for more coffee?” Miss Pepper asked, a good thirty minutes later.

  “Please not on my account. Will you attend the Framleys’ ball next week, Miss Pepper?”

  Mrs. Framley was an ambitious hostess whose guest lists included anybody who was anybody, whether titled or not. Bancroft had an invitation because his mama and Mrs. Framley had been friends. Emily Pepper’s settlements meant she’d be welcome at such a gathering, despite her lack of title or breeding.

  “I do believe I have accepted that invitation, haven’t I, Miss Briggs?”

  “You did, miss.”

  “Then might I ask you to spare me a dance? Not the opening set, of course, but a turn down the room with you later in the evening would be most enjoyable.”

  Miss Pepper rose, signaling the end to the visit well after another hostess might have shown Bancroft to the door.

  “I am still so new to Town,” she said. “Do I offend protocol if I offer you my supper waltz, Mr. Bancroft?”

  “Offend protocol? My dear young lady, you give me cause for rejoicing.” He led her from the parlor, and the companion—clearly not a stupid woman—remained behind at her stitching. “The supper waltz ensures we’ll have more time to converse, and nothing would make me happier, unless of course you’d like to ride out with me in Hyde Park tomorrow at the fashionable hour?”

  Faint hearts never did win fat settlements, and besides, Bancroft liked Miss Pepper. She exuded a friendly, practical air without one slippered toe ever crossing the line of proper decorum. She’d do well in Dorset, where winters were long and dreary and assemblies were the only social gatherings of note.

  “I so enjoy the carriage parade with a knowledgeable escort,” she said. “If we happen upon some of your neighbors up from the country, will you introduce us?”

  Oh, be
tter and better. “Manners would require at least that much of me.”

  “Then I will look forward to our next encounter, Mr. Bancroft. Look forward to it very much.”

  Brown eyes were so expressive. “As shall I, Miss Pepper.” He bowed over her hand, accepted his walking stick, hat, and gloves from a silent butler and was in the process of donning the hat when the knocker sounded.

  Three fresh-faced gentlemen at once crowded into the foyer, making a lingering farewell impossible to execute. Bancroft merely touched his hat brim to the young sprigs and withdrew.

  All three of the puppies had worn pink roses on their lapels, though each boutonniere had been subtly garnished with a different flower. Bancroft made a mental note to mention that fact to Rutherford, though clearly, Miss Pepper had selected her favorite, and what a fine choice she’d made too.

  Thorne spread his handkerchief on the paving stones around the fountain, and he and Greta placed every part of the music box they could find on the little linen square.

  “That looks to be the lot,” he said. The music box had held up to years in the nursery, and more damage had been done to the wooden housing than to the metal innards.

  “Are you sure?” Greta asked, gaze on the bits and bobs on the handkerchief.

  A glib assurance would not do for this child. For Adriana, perhaps. Not for Greta.

  “Let’s have a look, then,” Thorne said, lowering himself to the walkway and sitting with his back against the dry fountain. “This is the heart of the business.” He held up the metal drum with its array of tiny teeth. “If we opened this cylinder here, we’d find a spring, and winding that spring turns the barrel, here.”

  Greta slanted him another scowl. “How do you know there’s a spring inside?”

  “Because,” Thorne said, picking up the key, “when you insert the key into this opening and twist, you can feel the resistance of the spring and hear it tightening.” He gave it a twist.

  “Oh. Can I try?”

  “Not too tightly.”