Chapter 8
Eight
Mr. Dalrymple
My brother assures me it is not improper for me to correspond with you on matters of business. He has in fact offered to review this message before it is sent, so that all propriety may be maintained.
I am afraid that despite my pleas and wishes, it is now inevitable that the harvest fair be canceled this year for the following reasons:
1. We at Leadon Hill are not in a position to host the fair.
As you will no doubt hear, Lady Godderidge has taken ill and is confined to bed.
It is the physician’s opinion that this illness will be of some duration, and that the family should cancel all obligations until after Michaelmas, which is the day after the fair is to be held.
Out of caution, my brother has closed the house to visitors until mid-October.
2. Miss Jane Ligthwood is to spend the next three weeks at her grandfathe's residence. Not only will she be unavailable to plan, but without the Earl of Whitstone’s permission, aide, and help of the new Lord Ryland, his heir, Kellmore Manor may not be used either to host as it had been in the past.
3. The third impediment, though perhaps already apparent to you, bears stating plainly: the two of us cannot work alone together to execute the fair.
Without Miss Jane Lightwood to act as chaperone, such an arrangement would be entirely improper and invite the sort of speculation neither of us would wish to encourage.
Thus, it will be impossible to have a harvest fair this year.
I will ask Mr. Pettigrew to announce the sad news this Sunday at services. I trust, as you suggested earlier, that everyone will understand. I still wish to find a way to help those who will suffer from the effects of the poor harvest and would welcome any thoughts you might have on that score.
I remain, sincerely,
Miss Isabel Godderidge
Her brother had also signed the letter.
“You look entirely perplexed. Has one of the neighbors written asking you to quit the neighborhood?” Barlow leaned over Victor’s shoulder to look at the missive.
Victor’s attempt to hide the message came too late.
Barlow snatched the paper out of Victor’s hand. “A feminine hand. Better and better.”
Victor folded his arms and waited for Barlow to finish his nonsense. He did not need to wait long for Barlow to drop the letter back on the massive desk.
“Only you could receive a letter from an unmarried lady that was so utterly devoid of sentiment that even the most skilled gossips of the ton could find nothing improper in its writing.” Barlow scoffed.
“Even I cannot find anything to fault Miss Godderidge for. If I did not know she was a true beauty and in possession of some wit, I would think her a spinster of some age. That letter is no better than one from a solicitor.”
“What do you know of Miss Godderidge?” The thought that Barlow might have led her on in any manner was disconcerting.
“I danced with her once during her first season. Her elder brothers both approached me with veiled threats. The eldest, now Lord Godderidge, I might have ignored. However, her second brother is an officer in the Royal Navy, and despite recovering from an injury, his sword arm is better than mine. If all women had such protectors, I would not be a rake.”
A sense of relief washed over Victor. As much as Barlow was his friend, he did not wish to see any lady’s reputation tarnished by association with him. “You could choose the straight and narrow.”
“Doubtful. I haven’t truly done anything rakish in the last three years. My reputation—” Barlow pulled out his snuffbox.
“Your flirting with anything in a skirt under the age of seventy, you mean.”
“That is part of my reputation. One I cannot help. I love to see a woman blush.”
Victor had no desire to continue this line of thought. “I am surprised Miss Godderidge abandoned the idea of a fair so easily. On Monday, she was passionately persuading me of its importance.”
Barlow picked up the letter again. “She may not be abandoning the idea.”
“Whatever do you mean? That is exactly what she wrote.”
“One must look at what she didn’t write.” Barlow spoke as if he possessed a great secret.
Victor snatched the letter back and read it again. “She addressed all the pertinent facts. Having the fair is impossible.”
“She didn’t address your hosting the fair here at Pittsfield.”
“Of course not—” the thought had never been discussed nor addressed.
Historically, it had been held at Leadon Hill with a few years at Kellmore, with every farmer, laborer, butcher, bookseller, clergy, and servant, young and old, being invited.
When he purchased this estate, he was informed about the necessity of giving all in his employ the day off for the event. “—it has never been held here.”
“But it could be.”
“But I am not—” Victor wasn’t sure how to explain. He didn’t belong.
“You are a gentleman and a wealthy landowner. You don’t need a title for either.” Barlow smirked.
“I could not host. I do not even like hosting a dinner party.” Largely because the expectation was that any social interaction a single man of means had, would be toward securing himself a wife.
“You could host the fair. From your description of the event, you own all the necessary amenities, including a ballroom, which serves no purpose but to gather dust. Even I find much to admire in your grounds. The only thing that is stopping you is the same thing that held you back at school—your belief that it is not your place.”
“It is not my place.”
“But it could be. Few men are born in the place where they belong or even stay. The history lessons we learned all those years ago should have taught you that. Princes disappear from the tower, kings die, why even now, your own neighbor the Earl of Whitstone—”
“He is not technically my neighbor even if he owns Kellmore, but I see your point. It doesn’t change the fact that I purchased this place and I have no claim to the history of it.”
“Then make yourself a part of the history. Let this become your home. Not just another investment.” Barlow was the only one he had confided in for his reluctance to sell Pittsfield, as Victor enjoyed the home and surrounding area.
Victor sighed. Barlow would argue until Victor gave in, as he always did.
This time, however, it was not practical.
“Let us say I offer to host. I know nothing about how to put on a fair for the entire township and surrounding area. While Miss Godderidge has the knowledge to coordinate an event such as this, as she pointed out, it wouldn’t be proper for her to plan it with me, and her hope of a chaperone is gone.
This is not a walk in the park. She cannot come here with her lady’s maid in tow.
There will be too much room for speculation. ”
“Ask your mother to visit.”
“Take her away from Brighton?”
“She would come if she thought a woman was involved in your life.”
“But one is not involved in my life.”
“You have need of a chaperone. Therefore, Miss Godderidge is involved in your life.” Barlow opened the snuffbox and took the smallest of pinches.
“Not in the way you are implying.”
“Your mother doesn’t need to know that. She will come, you will have a chaperone, host the fair, and everyone in this little forgotten hamlet will sing your praises.” Barlow clapped his hands in applause.
“If my mother comes, it will not be that easy. She will insist on having dinners and getting to know the neighbors. Have the vicar to tea.” His mother would inquire about all the eligible women in the area and seek them out… His parlor would become a flurry of fans and a frenzy of flirtations.
“Perfectly acceptable social interactions, which I am sure you have not taken care to do yourself.”
“I’ve had the vicar to dine.” Victor’s defense sounded lame to his own ears.
“Do you have a better solution? My mother perhaps?” Barlow’s mother was not the most discreet of women and likely the reason Barlow was much as he was.
“Surely you jest.”
Barlow laughed. “See, there are worse options. Write your mother.”
Victor went to his desk.
“And while you are at it, send Miss Godderidge a note so she doesn’t have the event canceled before your mother arrives.”
Victor looked at the ceiling, knowing his prayers would go no further when asking for help with his friend, his mother, or the vexing Miss Godderidge.
David’s cravat hung limply, and his disheveled hair stood on end.
The shadows under her brother’s eyes testified to the strain of the last two days.
He slumped down at the breakfast table. Isabel didn’t ask how his night went.
His valet had not properly attended to him yet, which was odd.
Yet David had rarely left the suite of rooms he shared with Susanna since finding Oliver.
“Coffee or tea?” asked Isabel.
“Either.”
She poured coffee, believing it would do more to revive her brother than tea.
“Thank you.” David patted his jacket and took out a folded paper. “This arrived last evening. I meant to find you—”
Isabel took the rumpled paper from him.
Godderidge—
Tell your sister not to cancel plans yet. It may be within my power to host the fair.
Dalrymple
She turned the paper over. There must be more than those few lines. Only the words “Lord Godderidge” and remnants of a broken wax seal. “Cryptic.”
“That is what you wanted, is it not?”
Was it? She hadn’t asked him to host, though she hoped he would. Such a thing was beyond asking. “I didn’t ask him to host.”
“Other than canceling, it was one of the few options left. Of course he offered.” David toyed with his bun.