Chapter 18
In the end, simply because she knew he wanted to go, Rosamunde urged Digby to attend Diana’s party.
She knew she should keep him at home, but he did so love these events.
Since their marriage, he had stayed with her at Wensleydale so often, a sacrifice she hadn’t always appreciated as much as she should.
Let him have the pleasure of time with his old friends. What harm could it do? He knew nothing of a connection between her and the Marquess of Rothgar.
She couldn’t help weakly wondering whether Brand had accompanied his brother. She felt she should know if he were so close, but that was nonsense. Better not to know. She wasn’t sure she could resist the temptation to try at least to see him.
She was particularly pleased Digby was away when her nephew, Edward, turned up again. As usual, he’d arrived as evening fell, so it was impossible to send him on his way. At least this time George Cotter wasn’t with him.
“Digby isn’t here,” she said with satisfaction as she led him to his usual room.
“No? It’s rare he leaves home.”
“He’s at Arradale. The countess is holding a house party with a ball tomorrow night in honor of the Marquess of Rothgar.” She couldn’t resist adding, “I understand the marquess is in the North looking into the activities of the New Commonwealth.”
Edward, virtuously trim in dress and build, put his bag on the bed. “If he investigates, he will only find wisdom for his damned soul.”
“Damned? Just for asking questions?”
“Damned, Aunt, for his wicked life. George Cotter knows all about the marquess and his questions, and does not fear them.”
His quiet certainty of absolute virtue always made her want to say something outrageous. She turned to leave, but he spoke again.
“Do I gather my uncle is in good health, then, if he feels able to indulge in parties and balls?”
Ah, so that had caught him on a raw spot. “I doubt Digby will dance,” she said, casually, “but he is fine fettle. I think he’s heeding your advice about a simple, healthy life.”
“God has answered my prayers, then.” If she didn’t know better, she would have believed him. “And you?” he asked. “I hear you have put aside vanity and go about more.”
True, he’d been urging her to face the world. Edward had a gift for giving good advice in a way that made it intolerable.
But then he looked closely at her for the first time. “What is this, Aunt?” he asked, stepping closer. “A miracle … ?” But then he stiffened. “Face paint?”
Hiding a spurt of wicked glee, Rosamunde touched her cheek. “This? Why yes. Wonderful, don’t you think?”
He raised a thin hand as if fending off the devil. “You should accept the way God made you!”
“God did not make me scarred.”
“God’s will speaks in all things.” He actually seized his Bible and held it in front of himself as if needing protection. “So why, being so wickedly transformed, are you not at Arradale with your husband, prancing and flirting, and showing off your body in lewd silken garments?”
“Raw cowardice. I am still not comfortable with strangers, so I made an excuse of not feeling well. I would love to be braver,” she told him. “To be prancing and dancing in silken garments.”
He sighed. “Aunt, I know you do not favor my cause, but can you not see how wicked the world has become, how much change is needed? In Lancashire, people wept to hear George Cotter speak, to hear the simple guidance from the Bible that would lead them to sober, honest lives. You are not lacking sense. Look at England! We are ruled by kings and nobles who flaunt their mistresses, drink themselves unconscious every night, and gamble away their heritage without a thought of those on the land they play with. Do you really think the wild extravagance of Arradale, the likes of the Marquess of Rothgar, the excesses of masquerades, the deep dissolution of drink, the wickedness of fornication and adultery—”
“Stop!” The word escaped Rosamunde before she could help it. Her heart scurried as if he knew, as if he were speaking of her. “My goodness,” she said shakily, “you are learning your trade well. I warrant you stir them from the pulpit.”
He preened. “I hope I am receiving the Lord’s gift of words, yes.
Though not from the pulpit. Following our leader, we speak simply on level ground with those who will listen.
In a barn, a hall, or even in a field.” He stepped forward and took her hand.
“Can I hope that my words touched you, Aunt? That you might one day see the light?”
She supposed he was sincere in his own way.
“I do agree that excess drink and gambling is wrong, yes. And fornication. Someone who can bring people to live honest, sober lives is doing good in the world. But you know I cannot agree with everything about the New Commonwealth. Joy is not evil. Dancing is not a sin. You need to be more tolerant.”
“God’s servants must be rocks. There is no place for half measures. We of the New Commonwealth will turn England into Jerusalem, one acre at a time. When I am master here—”
She snatched her hand free. “When?”
“Aunt, Aunt! One day, all men must come to dust, earthly possessions forgotten. Thus, one day this will be mine, and likely soon. Your devotion is admirable, especially to an old man who must disgust you—”
“How dare you!”
“Come, come. Speak the truth. You do your duty admirably and that is to your credit, but had you not ruined your looks by your folly, you would never have married here.”
She flinched from the bitter truth. “I love Digby, and he doesn’t disgust me in the slightest. You, however, do! For all your talk of God and sin, for all your study of the Bible, you have forgotten Christ’s preaching about charity and humility!”
With that she swept out, but as she hurried down to the kitchen to check on the meal—and to tell Polly to twitch her bodice down a few inches—she knew she should have kept her temper. The only way to deal with Edward was to put up with him and get him on his way as soon as possible.
She couldn’t help shivering slightly at the thought of his reaction when she revealed that she was with child. Thank heavens Digby would be by her side.
Tasting the soup, Rosamunde couldn’t help thinking about the gathering at Arradale. Diana’s feasts were always splendid. She did hope Digby would keep to his moderate eating and drinking, though she knew it would be hard for him.
She wondered what he would make of Lord Rothgar. She’d enjoy his impressions. What would he make of Brand—
No! She would not think of him.
Brand relaxed at the long, gleaming table, sipping fine brandy.
He was slightly stuffed, for the food had been truly excellent, but not unpleasantly so.
The ladies had recently left to take tea in the drawing room, and snuff and pipes had come out.
Though clay pipes were not uncommon, he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen so many in use in such grand surroundings after a sumptuous meal. He was charmed.
The company was pleasant, too. Brand accepted an invitation from Sir Malcolm Bursett to inspect his sheep, and one from Lord Fencott to visit his stud.
But then the enthusiastic young viscount towed him around the table to a high-colored, older man.
“Since you’re interested in the plow horse, my lord, you must meet Sir Digby Overton.
He has a neat little breeding program….”
Sir Digby, puffing on a pipe, was a typical countryman—grizzled hair, bushy eyebrows, and ruddy skin.
His build was British bulldog, wide of chest, strong of jaw, but heavily overlaid by fat.
He was drinking deeply and cherry red with that and good humor.
Brand suspected that he was just the sort to keel over one day with a fatal seizure, but from his merry smile, he would have lived life to the full in the meantime.
“Lord Brand,” the man said, “I hear you’re a true land man, despite your rank.”
“Thank you, Sir Digby. As for rank,” he said, taking a place vacated for him, “I’m a younger son, and forced to be useful.”
“Wish they were all so forced,” the man said bluntly. “There’s a good many wastrels and rogues come from that stable.”
“Doubtless why my brother put us all to work. I understand you have an interesting stud.”
“Ah, that.” He topped up his glass and offered the decanter to Brand. Brand took some to be sociable.
“It’s my wife’s little hobby,” the baronet said, “but folk around here will persist in seeing it as my work. Don’t think it’s quite the thing for a woman to be involved in breeding, you see.
Well, except for babies of course.” He coughed and drank half his glass straight down, clearly embarrassed.
Brand hid a smile. Men like Sir Digby would talk about mares and ewes without a blink, but choke to speak of their wives in a familiar way.
“We live quietly, you see, my lord,” the man hurried on, “so it keeps my wife amused. A grand lass, my Rosie. She likes to keep busy.”
Brand envisioned a woman rather like the bluff Misses Gillsett and was charmed. “I understand she was unfortunately too unwell to attend this gathering.”
“Just a bit under the weather, my lord.” He dropped his voice. “Womanly thing, you know.”
Brand was slightly surprised. He’d assumed Lady Overton to be past the age of “womanly things.” Perhaps there were others besides the obvious. “I was hoping to have a chance to visit your stud, but I would not wish to put Lady Overton to any inconvenience.”
“Inconvenience? Never that, my lord. She’s not been in the way of welcoming strangers—”
“Well, then—”
“But that’s changed these days. I know she’d dearly love to talk about her horses to an interested party. I have to admit,” he said in an embarrassed voice, “that I can’t see the beauty in those huge beasts. Useful, of course, but not a pretty sight. But don’t let that on to her.”
“If you’re sure she wouldn’t mind … ?”
“Not Rosie. She’d talk about her beloved horses on her deathbed!”