Chapter 10 #2
“Her ladyship posited a desire to wish the patient a speedy recovery in person, but I allowed as how Mrs. Shorer was resting a great deal and refusing all callers. I implied that dignity was more the issue than any serious incapacitation, which is the truth, my lord. Her ladyship contented herself with assurances that I would pass along her felicitations to our housekeeper.”
“Will her ladyship exact revenge for your rebellion?”
Beaglemore gave the stopper a last swipe. “I don’t know, my lord. If I might speak freely?”
“Always.”
“You underestimate Lady Josephine at your peril. According to her own late husband, she is a walking incarnation of the woman scorned and deserves a wide berth. She can be quite pleasant and then, without warning, quite unpleasant.”
For Beaglemore to offer that warning both touched and alarmed Cam. “I will tread carefully, now that battle has been joined, but you and the rest of the staff should know that nothing in Lady Josephine’s power can affect the pensions or the loyalty that I owe you. Nothing.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Offered in a perfectly uninflected tone.
Cam was deep in thought as he left the library. He’d meant to begin his negotiations with Josephine as he meant to go on—as the sole authority over the Hall, its local relationships, and staff. Josephine’s return salvo had been cleverly couched.
She’d used the tried and true tactic of presenting Cam with options—surrender control of the estate books, his correspondence, his social calendar, or the lowly household books. A little buffet of tempting opportunities to delegate tedious chores.
Such an approach often meant that the option not listed—in this case, surrendering nothing—might well slip from Cam’s awareness.
A man less steeped in commerce might have fallen for her ploy, and two trustworthy sources—Alice and Beaglemore—had warned Cam not to underestimate her ladyship.
Did they both speak from experience, and if so, what would Lady Josephine try to use against Cam to similarly maneuver him under her thumb?
Lady Josephine’s coach took the long sweeping drive back to the village, though a shorter route ran through the home wood.
That she had leave to call at the Hall whenever she pleased needed to be taken as holy writ.
Despite Camden’s atrocious rudeness, Lady Josephine had no intention of being relegated to milling about the Hall’s formal parlor on Thursday afternoons.
She made a graceful descent from the coach, assisted by the sole footman employed at the vicarage, and mentally organized her resources for the next item on her agenda.
Bernard was, as usual at midafternoon, toiling away over some bit of theological arcana in his study.
Lady Josephine detested the look of him at his desk, cuffs turned back, glasses perched on a patrician nose, the picture of the local parson embarking on the transition from handsome to distinguished.
A complete waste of an earl’s grandson. “If you need material for this week’s sermon, might I suggest ‘blessed are the meek’?”
Bernard looked up. “Mama, greetings. I covered ‘blessed are the meek’ less than a fortnight ago. That was a very short round of calls.”
Bernard’s disappointment would have stung Josephine to the quick had she not long ago reconciled herself to disappointment in her only offspring.
“I dreaded to think of our poor coachman up on the box in the abysmal weather, and the rain makes the going harder for the horses. I had quite a nice chat with dear Camden, who sends you his regards.”
Bernard set his quill pen in the pewter tray and rolled down his right cuff. “Should you be bothering Cam when he’s here for only a short inspection tour?”
Lady Josephine took the wing chair closest to the hearth, though the fire wasn’t giving out nearly enough heat.
“Camden is here in search of a wife, my dear. His chosen occupation makes him unfit for Mayfair’s best drawing rooms, despite the title, and his surly disposition means the die-away misses on offer in Town will have nothing to do with him.
He doesn’t need an heiress, ergo he’s looking for a baroness who hails from the old, respected families of his home shire. ”
That reasoning should be simple enough to appeal to Bernard, who apparently enjoyed life in rural obscurity.
“You proposed to assist him in selecting a bride?” Bernard, who had no valet, tucked his sleeve button into place. “Please assure me you did not presume to such an extent.”
Since turning thirty, Bernard had become a bit harder to manage. More outspoken, less inclined to accept advice given with only his best interests in mind. The right wife would settle him down, but that project would have to wait until Josephine had matters at the Hall under control.
“I did not mention marriage, Bernard. Really, credit me with some tact. I have been told that Eunice Shorer came to grief on her way home from services yesterday. Took a tumble, turned an ankle, had to make her way across field and fen on an injured foot. I was most concerned, given the woman’s advanced years, and thought it would be rude to look in on the housekeeper while ignoring my nephew.
Camden was happy to receive me, and I can report that Mrs. Shorer is mending apace. ”
Eunice Shorer had been a thorn in Lady Josephine’s side since the unfortunate day Josephine had joined the vicarage household.
The impertinent woman had a cure for every ailment, knew Scripture from Genesis to Revelation, and gave lowly parlor maids far too good an opinion of themselves.
Fortunately, Lorne Hall’s housekeeper was of such venerable years that time was on Lady Josephine’s side, thank the immortal powers.
Bringing Camden up to scratch was imperative, but installing the right successor to Mrs. Shorer was nearly as pressing. A problem for another day, but what the staff needed was a firm and pious hand to enforce the discipline that Beaglemore had allowed to grow so lax.
“I will make a point to visit Mrs. Shorer tomorrow morning,” Bernard said. “She would not take to her bed for anything less than a serious injury.”
“And yet, she prides herself on her ability to heal others. Such a paradox, isn’t it?”
Bernard took off his spectacles and pinched the bridge of his nose. “One does not want to be rude, Mama, but this translation is giving me fits, and whatever small talk you made with Cam is between you and him.”
Bernard was a good man and very bright in a bookish way, but he lacked both ambition and vision.
“If you ever want the bishopric that fate so cruelly denied your father, Bernard, you had best take an interest in his lordship’s affairs.
His sponsorship will mean the difference between moldering away here in the shires for the rest of your days and making a real difference among churchmen of note. ”
Bernard put his spectacles back on. “Mama, do you miss the late baron even a little? For I confess I do. Alexander was the closest thing I had to a friend in these surrounds. He’d known me since birth and ensured I was well situated here at St. Wilfrid’s.
He was a good, dear person, and I still feel his absence far too keenly to be bothering about bishops or churchmen of note. ”
What an inconvenient moment for Bernard to indulge in an outburst. “Of course I mourn the late baron deeply. He was my nephew and the best of fellows. But now we have Camden to deal with, a lesser article by any measure, and how he goes on will matter to the whole shire, just as Alex’s generosity and graciousness mattered.
I have a duty to introduce Camden to his responsibilities in a manner that befits the tradition he must now uphold. ”
Bernard rose, dumped half a scoop of coal onto the hearth, and poked up the fire.
“I will pay my respects to Cam when I look in on Mrs. Shorer tomorrow, but, Mama, you meddle with the Hall at your peril. I ask you to note my strongest disapproval of such actions. Leave Cam in peace. Do not harass him into courting Davina Halbertson or Dorothea Considine. He would make either woman miserable, assuming you could hoodwink him into marrying one of them.”
“I was actually leaning toward the Dingle girl. She’s not as catty as Miss Considine and not as uncertain as the Halbertson girl.” Until that moment, Lady Josephine hadn’t given Miss Dingle one serious matchmaking thought.
“Annabelle Dingle is also quite enamored of Horace Doonenburg. Perhaps you haven’t noticed that they are walking home from market together?”
“The little baggage is toying with him, else she’d walk home from services with him.” Though Annabelle was also astute enough to avoid letting Lady Josephine note her interest in Doonenburg, a widower with some acreage and a small daughter.
The match would be solid, as the locals said, but Lady Josephine was disinclined to reward deviousness with connubial joy. The late Mrs. Doonenburg had run up debts in the York shops, and a husband could be imprisoned for what his wife owed.
The law was so unforgiving in many regards.
“Please take my warmest regards to Camden when you call upon him tomorrow,” Lady Josephine said, “and my best wishes for a full and speedy recovery to Mrs. Shorer. The dear creature should long since have been pensioned off, but one did not want to press Alexander to tend to such matters when he was so clearly declining.”
And when Alexander had nearly snarled at his aunt for even raising the topic. Such ingratitude, but then, the baron had been staring eternity in the face, and that might blight the mood of many a lesser man.
“Mama, did you have a specific reason for intruding on my sermon preparations?”
To be referred to as an intruder twice in one day… The younger generation needed a serious lesson in manners.
“I wanted to ask you a question. Have we any parishioners who are considering emigration?”
Bernard removed his right sleeve button and began folding his cuff back. “Why raise this topic, Mama? Your usual circle in our surrounds will remain by the Dales until their stately homes are ruins overrun by sheep. They would consider emigration as a fate worse than purgatory.”
“As would I, and yet, for the tenant families, the shopkeepers, the lesser folk, leaving Albion’s shores often appeals.” And good riddance to them if they were so unhappy in such a green and pleasant land.
“Mama, I must ask again, why do you raise this question?”
“Because such families are often in difficulties, Bernard, and it is our duty to aid those in difficulties. Use the wits I know you to possess. Such unfortunates leave home because their land can’t produce, their shop goods aren’t selling, their children can find no work.
They will maintain appearances as well as they can for as long as they can, but when a family begins to approvingly refer to cousins in Nova Scotia, a conscientious vicar takes note. ”
Bernard put his sleeve button in a pocket. “The Colcannons have mentioned her brother and sister in… Pennsylvania, I believe. They do not appear to be struggling.”
I have raised a dunderhead. “Well, do let me know if you hear of an impending emigration, or somebody saving up for passage money.”
“Of course, Mama.” Bernard set the pen in its tray and resumed his seat behind the desk. “I’ll see you at supper.”
Truly, men were to be pitied. Completely at the mercy of their moods and animal spirits.
Perhaps Miss Halbertson ought to marry Bernard, but no.
Better to have the meeker resource installed at the Hall.
Bernard would just have to endure another year or so of bachelorhood, and by then Miss Considine might have learned sufficient humility to become a vicar’s wife.
Handsome, solvent bachelors were hardly thick on the ground, a lesson she had yet to take to heart.
Lady Josephine ordered a tray in her sitting room and turned her mind to her long list of acquaintances and correspondents.
The right party would be discreet, resourceful, and pragmatic, as all the best clergymen’s wives needed to be.
Connections in the wilds of Ireland would be helpful, or even—duty demanded stern measures—the former colonies.
A name popped into her head like a heavenly inspiration. “Ah, the very one.”
Lady Josephine subjected herself to the laborious process of composing an epistle.
Gracious, tactful, and polite, but also a concise statement of need and ability to pay.
Kendra MacDougal was all that her ladyship could desire, also a bit of a schemer.
Her designs were all in aid of her husband’s advancement, and nobody should fault a clergyman’s wife for harboring ambitions that would allow him to better serve the church.
Dear Camden could spout off all he pleased about mill wheels, harvest, and Thaddeus Singleton’s stubbornness, but the lord of the manor did not brave the pouring rain to talk about mill wheels, much less sacrifice his Sunday feast for more discussion of same.
“He’s smitten,” Lady Josephine murmured, sealing her letter. “Camden has ever been one to take the wrong road, to disdain the blessings he’s done nothing to earn.”
To be fair, Alice was likely blameless. She could not help that she was a walking invitation to sin, what with that awful hair and such an unfashionable figure.
She doubtless had no idea the baron was harboring ungentlemanly thoughts about her.
The girl was curiously dull-witted in some ways.
Even Blessington Peabody was hesitant to take her on, and he was no great intellect himself.
Alice must nonetheless be inspired to dissuade the baron from foolishness.
And really, if he wasn’t offering the poor girl marriage—even Camden would not be that daft—then entangling herself with him would be the most foolish path Alice could pursue.
Josephine’s duty—to Alice and Camden both, much less to the spiritual welfare of St. Wilfrid’s parish generally—could not be clearer.
She scrawled the direction on the outside of her epistle and slipped it into her reticule. She’d mail that letter from Farnes Crossing and send it by express.