Chapter 21 #2
He turned to her. “And who are you, Miss Beasley? My father’s mistress?”
She looked at him, saw how well he was hiding his pain. “Yes, I suppose I am.”
“You’re not ashamed.”
“No. I cannot believe my loving your father is wrong. We’re not hurting anyone, and we’re bringing each other a great deal of good.” She paused. “But I want you to stay at Bledsoe Park, so if you object to me, I’ll leave.”
“You just said loving my father wasn’t wrong.”
“The best way I can love your father is to make sure he has a chance to know his son.”
“I don’t object to you.” The young man’s hands went to his watch fob, his cuffs, finally found a home behind his back. “I think you’ve made many things possible.”
She smiled. “Just as Mina made many things possible for me.”
“How so?”
“She taught your father how to love. And she’s the reason I met your father, came to stay at Bledsoe Park.”
He tilted his head towards her, so much like his father, asking a question without asking a question.
She raised her shoulders in a shrug, bending her elbows and putting her hands out. “I am Augustus Puddlewick.”
Charles only looked confused, so she added, “The author of The Tales of Tommy Treadwell? And The Further Adventures of Tommy . . . ?”
He shook his head.
“The storybooks you read as a boy? They’re in the nursery—”
“I didn’t read as a boy.”
“You didn’t?”
“Hal was the reader. Did Father tell you it was me? No, I was the one who loved horses, constantly in the stables or out of doors all the time.”
“We will have to correct him.”
He smiled a wry smile. “Shall we take great delight in doing so?”
They were together in this, in teasing Henry. “Yes.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t make him feel too badly. I already did that.”
“Your father is the happiest man alive right now.”
He was quiet.
She added, “And I think Mina will like finding out she has her father’s books.”
“Yes.” Then, “It’s too bad she doesn’t like horses.”
Susannah dared to take Charles’ elbow and walk with him out of the gallery. Maybe she and he could hide from the marchioness together.
“Well, actually, Mina did speak of a pony sometime back . . .”
They did successfully hide from the marchioness. Charles took Susannah out to the stables, a place she had not yet visited at Bledsoe Park.
Looking at the horses and talking to the grooms put a great deal of ease back into Charles. Susannah told him about her brother and his way with horses, how he was a farrier, and she was glad she knew enough to speak of his work with pride.
Dinner was far less frightening than Susannah had anticipated despite the magnificence of both the dining room and the marchioness.
The six of them could not possibly fill the table, so the marchioness sat at the head with Charles on one side of her and Henry on the other.
Susannah was next to Charles, and the marchioness’ secretary was next to Henry.
The solicitor was on the other side of the secretary, in the farthest chair from the marchioness, probably hoping she would forget both his presence and his badly written will.
The secretary, at first, had declined to join them in the dining room, but the marchioness had put her stick down.
“What straw! Of course, you will eat with me, Hastings, just as you do on Bruton Street. Only you know what I like.”
The secretary did indeed know what the marchioness liked and what she could take and advised her as to what dishes she should eat throughout the meal. Otherwise, he was engaged in conversation with the solicitor about a niggling detail in one of the marchioness’ husband’s wills.
Susannah and Henry were exchanging meaningful glances over the table—I can’t wait to be alone with you—as Charles was monopolized by the marchioness.
Susannah heard her name mentioned.
“Ha!” said the marchioness. “Miss Beasley is Puddlewick!”
She roared with laughter.
Charles turned to Susannah, shamefaced. “I didn’t know it was a secret,” he whispered. “Is it a secret?”
“Not anymore,” she said. “And that’s for the best. Have no worries.”
Henry wiped his mouth with his napkin. “You know of Puddlewick, Aunt?”
“Your mind grows feeble, Henry. You wrote to me of Puddlewick when you started your wife hunt, and I sent you out to Much Wemby to find him.”
“You could have told me your purpose,” Henry said, a trifle stonily.
“Where’s the fun for me in that? No, I intended to stimulate your curiosity, and I did.
I wasn’t about to saddle some worthy woman with a man who lacked curiosity, nephew or not.
” The marchioness turned her gaze on Susannah.
“Miss Beasley, do you know how many stepchildren and step grandchildren and nephews and nieces, et cetera, I have terrified in my lifetime?”
Hastings said, “One hundred and three.”
The marchioness snorted. “Of course, I’ve read The Tales and Further Adventures to assorted tots over the years. I have a way with children.”
No one dared contradict her.
“How did you know Puddlewick was in Much Wemby?” Henry asked.
“Ah, very good, Henry. Your curiosity is still working away. If you must know, I once spent a lovely naked fortnight with Sir John at Sutton Hall. I was between husbands, he was not yet married, and Bonaparte and Wellington were both still in swaddling clothes.”
More than ever, Susannah was glad Mina was tucked away in her bed and not at the table.
“And when I read the books, I recognized the Wrecknot right away.”
“So you had no important message for Sir John?” Her dear Henry could not hide his indignation at his aunt.
“Of course, I did. Two birds, one stone.”
“I see,” Henry said. “I did think two birds, one stone, but I was mistaken about the nature of one of the birds.”
The marchioness cackled. “I have outdone the maxim. One earl-shaped stone and three birds—a message delivered, an author found, and a woman wooed!”
“How very efficient of you,” Henry said dryly. “And how very comforting it is to find this out.”
The marchioness took up her knife and fork to slice into her guinea fowl. “How so?”
“I was beginning to worry fate had played a hand in all of this. I’m greatly relieved to find it was just a marchioness.”
“Faugh. Only the weak rely on fate.” The marchioness narrowed her eyes. “And what do you mean by just a marchioness?”
“Only that—”
The marchioness banged the end of her knife on the top of the table, causing the glasses and dishware to rattle.
“I am not just a marchioness. I am Lady Chalfont, and, in the words of the greatest mind of this century and the last,” she took a breath, “Destiny, thy name is rubbish.”
Charles whispered to Susannah, “Whom is she quoting?”
“I think.” Susannah paused. “Herself.”
Not even the glare of the marchioness could keep Susannah and Charles from giggling throughout the rest of dinner.