Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
“Come in, come in, Georgiana.” Mrs. Jarrow beckoned to a young woman with a striking resemblance to Mr. Jarrow.
He introduced his sister.
While Graeme expressed the usual platitudes at making the young lady’s acquaintance, her mother glowed and insisted he stay and hear Georgiana play the pianoforte.
Lady Hermione’s playful matchmaking was much less offensive. Perhaps that was because Blythe was meant to be his match.
Meant to be his match. It could be the perfect solution to their problems, if he could convince her.
For now, he allowed himself to be escorted to the parlor and preempted his hostess’s questioning by asking her about the surrounding neighbors and parish.
While she reported, he nodded and made polite responses, and her daughter sat quietly watching the exchange with the same keen look of intelligence displayed by her brother.
The musical performance had been forgotten.
Mrs. Jarrow finally paused and took a breath. “Have you only just arrived at Risley Manor?”
“Indeed,” he said. “Late yesterday afternoon.”
“And you have called on us immediately. We are honored, are we not, Georgiana?”
“Yes, Mama,” she said, dutifully, sharing a hint of a smile with her brother.
Perhaps it was obvious to Miss Jarrow that he’d been paying a call on her brother and not her mother.
Ah well, if he meant to settle in even for a short while at Risley Manor, he’d best find his way through the maze of matchmaking mamas.
Though when he thought of his need for a wife, it was Blythe, only Blythe, who came to mind.
“You must come for dinner,” Mrs. Jarrow said. “We have an excellent cook. Tonight… oh, not tonight. Tonight is the village assembly. Heavens, you must attend, Lord Chilcombe. It will be quite a jolly occasion—dignified though, of course—and a chance for you to meet all your neighbors.”
An assembly that very night. Would Blythe want to attend? She’d refused to dance at the ball they’d attended. He’d have another chance with her here, to hold her in his arms in a waltz, perhaps.
As he pondered how to respond to the invitation, his hostess went on.
“Forgive me for chattering away, my lord,” Mrs. Jarrow said, “I haven’t given you a moment to speak. You’ve arrived so suddenly we know very little about you. Is there a Lady Chilcombe who will be, er, joining you soon, or perhaps, who is already in residence at Risley Manor?”
Jarrow sighed. “Chilcombe, my mother is asking whether you are married.”
“I have no wife,” Graeme said. “However, there is a Lady Chilcombe in residence at Risley Manor. My late cousin’s widow has kindly accompanied me to acquaint me with the staff and the estate. Her widowed friend, Lady Hermione Gravelston, has come also.”
Mrs. Jarrow’s brows knitted together. “Georgiana,” she said. “Fetch my shawl from my room, please.”
Miss Jarrow showed no inclination to leave until her mother rather sharply prompted her again. She slid an apologetic look toward Graeme and departed.
Mrs. Jarrow had more to say, and it would be something unpleasant if she didn’t want her daughter to hear.
He didn’t want to hear it either. “I beg your pardon,” he said smoothly. “But I must away. Regarding that other matter, Jarrow—”
“My lord,” Mrs. Jarrow put up a hand to stop him.
“Before you leave, it behooves me to say, well, you and Lady Chilcombe residing together at Risley Manor. Well, Lady Chilcombe is not… is not received by any of the better families in the area, and I… I wonder if any lady friend of hers serving as chaperone is quite the thing.”
“Mother…” Jarrow said in a warning tone.
“You have been out of the country for many years, I’m told, so perhaps you are not aware of the… the… gossip about…”
Under her son’s fierce glare, she pressed her lips together.
“What a shame,” Graeme said. “I had thought to host a party, perhaps a picnic or reception or other sort of fête to meet neighbors. You are telling me no one will accept Chilcombe hospitality because her ladyship is in residence? Well, I will certainly have the invitations sent anyway and we will see what we see.”
He stood and dipped his head. “Mrs. Jarrow. Jarrow. Good day to you.”
“I’ll walk with you to the stables,” Jarrow said.
Boots crunching on the gravel, Jarrow kept pace with Graeme.
“My apologies for my mother’s frankness,” Jarrow said, as they neared the stables. “In truth, she is only saying openly what people will whisper behind backs.” He stopped and grimaced. “The better families, that is.”
“The other-than-better families are not cutting Lady Chilcombe?” Graeme asked, struggling to master his sarcasm.
Jarrow glanced at him. “There are cats in that crowd as well. However, in certain lesser families, Lady Chilcombe is pitied, and in one or two others, she’s seen as heroic.”
“How so?”
“It is not my story to tell. But if you invite the Jarrows to a party, my sister and I shall attend, and beware; I know my mother, and wild horses wouldn’t keep her away.”
“She and the other ladies from better families.”
“They’ll want to have a look at the scandalous Lady Chilcombe and her lady friend who might be not quite the thing.
Forgive me, Lord Chilcombe. I’m appalled at my mother’s gossiping.
Unless it would be very hard on the ladies, it might be a good thing for your party to attend the assembly tonight and confront the dragons head on.
I will promise a dance to each lady, if you will lead Georgiana out once. ”
Graeme paused outside the stable and studied the other man.
Jarrow held up both hands and laughed. “Not matchmaking. Georgiana’s interests lie elsewhere. It will not hurt her to be seen dancing with an earl there.”
“If I were a wagering man, I’d bet that neither lady in my party will dance at all. But in any case, I will ask your sister to dance. If I attend.”
“The assembly rooms are at the White Horse Inn. Your grooms will know how to find it.” Jarrow extended his hand and Graeme shook it. “I’ll send over my father’s report and notes for you to review. Let me know when I may call on Lady Chilcombe.”
A horse clattered into the stable yard.
“Rupert,” Jarrow said. “What’s afoot?”
“I’m looking for Lord Chilcombe.”
“I’m Chilcombe,” Graeme said, unease rising. The lad couldn’t be more than ten, and his trousers and boots were coated in mud.
Rupert tugged his forelock and reported. Mr. Stockwell would not be able to see him today. A drain at Bluebelle Lodge had caved in and flooded the new corn. He was helping young Mr. Stockwell see to it.
“You’ve just come from there?” Graeme asked.
“Yes, milord. Going right back.”
“Was it the newly dug drain near Wickworth Hall?” Jarrow asked, looking grim.
“Yessir.” Rupert nodded. “Just like the last one.”
There’d been other incidents?
“Wait a moment, lad,” Graeme said. “I’m coming with you.”
“I’m coming as well,” Jarrow said. “Have you eaten, lad?”
“No, sir.”
“Go along to the kitchen.” Jarrow spotted a maid across the yard leaving the kitchen garden. “Jilly, tell Cook to feed this lad and make up sandwiches. Go along, Rupert. Eat and bring food for the others. I’ll show his lordship the way.”
Grooms ran to saddle their mounts.
“Did the downpour last night cause this?” Graeme asked.
“I saw that drain. It shouldn’t have.”
“Right, then.” Graeme mounted and followed Jarrow out of the stable yard.
Blythe and Louisa Stockwell each hefted a heavy basket, while behind them, Joseph, their man of all work, trudged along carrying three shovels and grumbling.
Rupert, one of the young grooms, had brought word that the lower fields had been flooded. It had taken longer than Blythe wished to settle the children with Hermione and the nursemaid, find shovels, and organize food.
They came through a thicket and saw the field.
Tears sprang to her eyes. A sloping field of young budding plants rolled down and disappeared into a shallow lake.
Joseph swore quietly and Louisa gasped. Blythe choked down the moisture flooding her throat.
In the distance, they saw the men wielding shovels. The weather had turned and the day was unseasonably warm, the sun high in the sky. Some of them had shed not only their coats but their shirts as well.
“They’re sure to be hungry,” Louisa said, her quiet voice restoring equanimity to the moment, as usual.
“Yes,” Blythe said, and led the way through the higher ground, dodging the young plants so as not to squash hope for at least a small harvest.
With their attention focused on the task at hand, the men did not see them coming. But the tableau spread before them became clearer as they approached.
Four horses grazed languidly. There were seven—no eight men—with shovels, digging. Five of them had stripped down to their trousers.
Blythe halted. Louisa paused beside her and put a hand up to shield her eyes.
“I see I won’t have to wash mud out of my man’s shirt,” she said. “And is that Mr. Jarrow? What would his mother say if she saw him like this?”
Blythe heard the humor in her voice, but her heart pounded wildly and she couldn’t look away.
“That’s Mr. Sanders from Holly Farm and his son,” Louisa said. “But who is that tall fellow? He has almost as fine a back as my Samuel.”
Yes. It was a fine back; much finer than Archie’s had been. She’d never imagined anything so muscular under the linen and wool of his shirt and coats.
And he was digging, wielding a shovel with men who worked the land—his land.
Stockwell would certainly, after so many years working for Archie, find this a novelty. For her part, she could stand here a while and watch the play of the muscles across his back.
He turned and a ripple of lust went through her. His chest was just as enticing, with its sprinkling of brown hair narrowing down to his waistband.
Graeme thrust the shovel into the wet ground, wiped his hands on his trousers, and went for his shirt.
Blythe hastily turned to Louisa.
“That’s Graeme Blatchfield,” she said.
Louisa’s eyes widened. “Lord Chilcombe? What is he like now?”