Chapter 9 #2
Graeme’s and Archie’s grandfather had lived just long enough to see Archie’s birth and Archie’s father’s death.
Archie, an earl by the age of ten, had been snatched up by his maternal grandparents and given such a strict Christian upbringing that, when he was free, he undertook to make up for lost time.
“The curate seems a decent sort,” Graeme said, interrupting her thoughts.
“He’s new. I don’t know him.”
The discussion ought to calm her nerves, but the memory of being shunned, and of Archie’s refusal to correct the vicar on her behalf, stirred an unsettling anger.
There was also the nearness of Graeme and his hand placed warmly at her waist. It was all she could do to not tremble or trip over her feet.
Graeme saw the way Blythe flinched the moment he set his hand to her waist and he wondered if his touch was welcome. And if it was, how far she would let him go?
Unworthy thoughts. He tried to push them aside and asked her if she was well.
She glanced up quickly, and he saw the same heat in her eyes that was tormenting him. Without thinking, he swept her into a turn and drew her a bit closer. Only an inch or two closer, but he heard her slight gasp and watched as she struggled to school her face into a bored look.
He knew that was what she was doing because he was trying to do the same thing himself. Their pairing here was the object of many gazes.
He turned them again and saw Lady Hermione conversing with Jarrow, a serious look on both their faces.
He had a brief glimpse of Mrs. Jarrow, who’d stepped a few paces away from Lady Hermione.
Lips moving, she leaned conspiratorially close to the white-haired matrons gathered near her. The curate had disappeared.
His hand on Blythe’s waist tightened.
“Too close, sir,” she hissed, a note of panic in her voice.
“Are we?” He looked down into her upturned face. Her hair had been coiled onto the back of her head, a dark fringe of it framing her face and calling attention to winged eyebrows and eyes the color of a stormy sea. “I should like to hold you even closer, Blythe.”
Twin flames of color rose in her cheeks. At the next step, her foot came down on his toes.
“Ouch,” he said. “Apologies. I think I deserved that.”
“Step back,” she said with a frigid smile.
He obliged her and they danced on a while in silence, but though she looked away, he couldn’t.
He wanted her, and the White Horse Assembly room was a damned inconvenient place for him to express the desire that had been plaguing him since his return, a desire he ought to try to ignore.
For what did he know of her? It should be a countess holding sway over the social order of her neighbors, not some magistrate’s cow of a wife. Something had happened to ruin Blythe.
Something that might be repaired? Would a good marriage do the trick?
Not to him. Not if he wanted a plum post as Diddenton had called it.
The thought of her married to anyone else had jealousy rearing inside him.
What other sort of power could an earl wield to help her? Taking her as his mistress wouldn’t help his ambitions and would destroy any she might have. And it would be wrong.
He put another few inches between them and glanced toward Lady Hermione and Jarrow.
The elder Mr. Stockwell had joined Jarrow and Lady Hermione and appeared to be having words with a third man.
Blythe noticed the gathering and stiffened in his arms but her face gave nothing away.
“Do you know the fellow?” he asked.
“Not by name.” She turned her gaze up to him, a tense smile fixed on her face. “Years ago, he accompanied Lord Vernon on a visit to Archie.”
“One of Diddenton’s men then.”
“His steward, Mr. Stockwell said. He happened to ride over at the same time as Lord Vernon and paid a call on Stockwell.”
As the dance came to an end, he gave her waist and hand a squeeze and bowed. “I shall go meet this fellow and have a manly discussion about farming. But first, let us go and meet the dragons.”
Blythe took Graeme’s arm and straightened her spine. Mrs. Jarrow’s circle of ladies included Mrs. Addison, Mrs. Swarby, and Miss Smith, a spinster sister of Mrs. Swarby. They were the formidable local ladies.
It was amazing that she could find such as these more intimidating than the highest sticklers of the ton. But then, the rules of the upper class were less restrictive, at least where a noble husband’s behavior was concerned.
She would brave this. She could put her nose in the air even higher than this lot.
“Mrs. Jarrow,” Graeme said with a bow. “How lovely to see you. Stockwell, I’m happy you are able to attend. Mrs. Jarrow, you remember Lady Chilcombe?”
“Good evening, Mrs. Jarrow,” Blythe said.
The besom pressed her lips together.
Graeme frowned and raised one eyebrow. “Will you not introduce your friends?” he asked. “That is, introduce them to me. I’m sure Lady Chilcombe is already acquainted.”
A long pause ensued. He squeezed her hand which still lay atop his arm.
She withdrew it and tipped her head to the older ladies.
“Indeed, I know all the ladies, Lord Chilcombe. How could I forget such pillars? Mrs. Addison, Mrs. Swarby and her sister, Miss Smith. Ladies, this is Lord Chilcombe, newly arrived from his services to the Crown in foreign parts. He is eager to acquaint himself with his new neighbors.” She dipped her head again, this time to Graeme.
“Do excuse me, my lord, while I see how Lady Hermione is faring.”
“Pleased to meet you, my lord.” Blythe heard Miss Smith’s voice break the tense silence.
Lady Hermione caught her eye and sent her a smile that oozed sympathy. Mr. Jarrow, too, studied her face as he greeted her. Mr. Stockwell turned a frown at her, but she could tell he was distracted by the man at his elbow who he introduced as Mr. Crichton, Lord Diddenton’s steward.
Attendees were mingling, many going off to a side room for the dinner donated by the good people of the area. Mr. Crichton glanced that way.
“Mr. Crichton, Lord Chilcombe will be anxious to meet you, I’m sure,” she said.
She glanced back and saw Graeme, a bored look on his face, listening politely as Mrs. Jarrow’s mouth and chin and finger wagged.
Mrs. Addison and Mrs. Swarby nodded along with the wagging, while Miss Smith frowned and met Blythe’s gaze in a furtive glance, quickly averted.
“Or perhaps, Mr. Stockwell, Mr. Crichton, you ought to go ahead before all the food disappears. Lord Chilcombe will find you later.”
Crichton promised to speak to Graeme before departing, and both men walked off.
“I’ll go and rescue Chilcombe,” Mr. Jarrow said, his face grim, and he stepped away.
Hermione linked arms with Blythe. “Come, we’ll go and see who might think to cut us in the supper room. I had a most interesting discussion with Mr. Jarrow’s mother.” She chuckled. “It seems that all my efforts at maintaining a sterling character have been for naught.”
“Oh, I am sorry, Hermione. You are guilty by association.”
“Lady Loughton explained your circumstances to me.”
Blythe inwardly cringed. Not even Lady Loughton knew all, and if she did, would she still be a friend?
“I am here to be your stalwart companion in battling these old besoms.” Hermione laughed again. “Oh dear, I suppose I risk becoming an old besom myself. Tell me, are any of them redeemable? If we begin winning one over, perhaps the rest will follow. Mr. Jarrow—”
“He cannot risk his reputation with two ladies such as us,” Blythe said, infusing her voice with a cheer she didn’t feel. “Oh, that is not fair. With a lady such as myself. You may wish to travel back to London and join Will at Chilcombe House.”
“And abandon my chaperonage?” She tipped her head closer. “Though I confess, I have not always been the most attentive of chaperones. You know the story of my dear Mary Elizabeth and Lord Loughton when I accompanied her to a Michaelmas house party.”
Blythe had not heard the story, but she could count. Lord Loughton’s heir had arrived a scant six months after their nuptials.
And bless dear Hermione, she was trying to distract her and lift her mood. All around them as they passed through the crowd, ladies and gentlemen were turning their backs.
“That was your lapse then, was it, my lady?” Blythe teased.
“All’s well that ends well.” Hermione scanned the laden tables. “You must be as parched as I am,” she said. “I shall fetch us both lemonades.”
Blythe watched the older lady walk away.
“Lady Chilcombe, is it?”
A man had come to stand near her, a young man in a dark frock coat, a garish waistcoat, and gray pantaloons. His hair was brushed forward as if driven by a gale force wind. His gaze fixed on her, brown eyes gleaming with hunger as he licked full lips.
“Do you not remember me?” he asked. “Frederick Falfield.”
Ah. Though this fellow was slimmer and his eyes more brown than amber, she saw the resemblance to Lord Vernon. He was related to Diddenton. That’s why her skin was crawling.
From the corner of her eye, she saw three young bucks nearby, leering and giggling.
She was tempted to cut him, as the others were cutting her, and she suddenly wished that Graeme had accompanied her. He would set the lad straight.
She gritted her teeth and stood taller. She wouldn’t pretend that Frederick Falfield did not exist.
“I do not remember you,” she said. “You are related to Diddenton?”
“A nephew, and your neighbor. Staying at Wickworth Hall.”
If Graeme wished to question someone about the damage to the drain, this was one man he needed to speak to.
“Lord Vernon admires you greatly.” Falfield’s gaze swept her from head to foot and up again. “I can certainly see why.”
She blinked, speechless, and noticed people nearby watching.
“No lemonade left,” Hermione said, handing her a glass, “but I have brought ratafia.” She eyed the young man and said, “Good evening. Will you introduce us, Lady Chilcombe?”
“Lady Hermione Gravelston, this impertinent young lad is Frederick Falfield, Diddenton’s nephew, currently staying at Wickfield Hall.”
“I see.”
Hermione did see. Blythe had apprised her of the damage done and suspected culpability.
“Lord Chilcombe will certainly want to meet you Mr. Falfield,” Blythe said. “Ah, and you’re in luck. He approaches now.”
Anger simmered within Graeme, his throat raw from holding it back. The disrespect shown Blythe was worse than he had expected. The disrespect shown to him… that had certainly surprised him.
In particular, the conversation with Mrs. Jarrow.
“I had hoped you might have heeded my advice this morning,” Mrs. Jarrow said. “I must go further and suggest to you to be mindful of the standards of our community. This is not London, where men and women may dance—”
He cleared his throat.
She straightened. “It is just that the lady does not have a good reputation. She is known to—”
“Mother.” Jarrow’s appearance halted that particular slander.
But did not stop her. “You are new to the title, Lord Chilcombe. I would not like to see your reputation tarred with the same brush—”
“Tarred by whom, madam?” Graeme interrupted. “Yes, I certainly would not like to see my reputation, er, defamed because of my civility toward my cousin’s widow. Or is slandered a better word than defamed? More actionable, as it were. What do you think, Jarrow? You’re the local magistrate now.”
Jarrow pressed his lips together.
“Surely civility doesn’t include such dancing as we witnessed tonight?” Mrs. Jarrow went on doggedly.
This local biddy had the gall to think she should advise him on his behavior.
He supposed the waltz with Blythe hadn’t helped matters, but he’d never admit it to her.
“The waltz? I’ve danced it in Paris and Vienna, though having only just arrived tonight, this was my first opportunity in England to waltz with a lady. ”
“If she is a lady.”
“She very much is, Mother,” Jarrow said. “If you noticed, I danced with her myself and will do so again tonight if she will grant me another opportunity.”
Graeme had taken his leave then, walking away from the circle of women and Jarrow, and found Blythe and Hermione standing with a man.
From a distance, he thought it was Lord Vernon Falfield, but as he approached he realized it was a younger version of the villain.
Blythe made introductions. Frederick Falfield was residing at Wickworth Hall.
“Wickworth Hall?” Graeme asked. “So you are a near neighbor of the property at Bluebelle Lodge.”
The fellow’s mouth firmed. “I’m a guest. My great uncle allows me to stay there at times.”
“Does he indeed?” Graeme gazed into young Falfield’s eyes until the lad started to squirm. “I shall certainly call on you, Falfield,” he said. “We have matters to discuss.”
Falfield blinked. “I can’t imagine—”
“Can you not?”
Falfield demurred and slithered away to join the other young bucks who were ogling Blythe in a most unpleasant way.
Blythe was quiet. Too quiet.
“How are you faring?” he’d asked.
She managed a smile. “I am cast down entirely. The biscuits and lemonade had disappeared by the time Hermione and I reached the tables.”
Graeme smiled, touched that she had found a way to defuse some of the evening’s tension, and he listened as she told him the names of the villagers and nearby landowners in attendance.
By the time he went to look for Crichton, Stockwell informed him that the fellow, unable to wait, had left.
Unable or unwilling?
Stockwell said Crichton had heard of the problem at Bluebelle Lodge—one of the tenants had told one of Lord Diddenton’s tenants. He claimed to know nothing about it and promised to have a look the next day.
When the dancing resumed, Blythe declined to dance with Mr. Jarrow and it appeared no one else asked her.
Graeme himself was busy mingling, meeting the town’s doctor, the local solicitor, and some of his own tenants.
He met a few more of the good ladies of the town.
Each time they hinted he should dance with their daughters, he told them he needed to seek out Lady Chilcombe and Lady Gravelston and see how they were faring.
Those ladies had cut Blythe and Lady Hermione, and as far as he was concerned, the sins of the mothers might as well as be visited upon their daughters.
The exception being Miss Jarrow, but he would not dance with her twice because in a village this small and gossipy, he might find the first banns posted next Sunday.
They’d arrived late, and stayed until the music ended, and he could feel nothing but admiration for Blythe for soldiering on, and gratitude to Lady Hermione for helping her to find the courage.