Chapter 9
Nine
Why, these are natural.” Barlow inspected the ruins. “So much better than the ones at Cranfield House. Lady Cranfield raves about her ruins to everyone. Though I know them to be less than ten years old.”
A group of village children played at one end of the old monastery. Victor kept his friend to the other side. “I am told they date back over six hundred years.”
“You let everyone enjoy them. I am surprised, Dalrymple, you are not shewing the children off your land.”
“There is no fence here. No reason for them to believe they are trespassing.”
“Fences can be built.”
“I’m afraid the community views these as quite their own.
” A thing he’d never thought about until Miss Godderidge had pointed it out.
A check of his land documents showed them to be on the edge of his property.
“However, for safety reasons, I am contemplating a fence. Look at those children, one could break a leg at any moment.”
“It would take a rather high fence to keep them out. They would lose the untamed feel if they were encased. It is a shame. If you had a house party, you would be prevented from hosting an excursion here, as a fence would ruin it.”
“That is the third time you have mentioned a house party. What gives you the idea that I would host one?”
“More of a hope—” Barlow turned to the noise of a horse racing up the hill. “And there is a dream.”
Victor turned. Miss Godderidge. She rode without a groom. Something that Victor noticed she did quite often, as did others of her set. Hopefully, Barlow would remember the threats from her brothers. “I believe her brothers have promised you a nightmare if you socialize with her.”
Miss Godderidge slowed as she neared the ruins. There would be no avoiding her. Victor bowed as she neared. Barlow did likewise with a flourish entirely unnecessary for a chance meeting.
She reined in her fine mount. “Mr. Dalrymple. Inspecting your fortress, I see. For I must concede it is yours. My father kept a map of the county.”
“For the time being, the ruins will remain for the enjoyment of the public. But if they were to become a hazard it would be my duty to close them.” Victor turned to his friend. “I believe you have been introduced to Lord Barlow?”
“We have met.” She nodded cordially adding a smile she had not for Victor.
“Again, a pleasure.” Barlow’s voice was far too smooth for a casual greeting conveying a warmth and interest with so few words. How dare he attempt to flirt with someone like Miss Godderidge?
“Mr. Dalrymple. My brother showed me your note. Do you think it is possible to save the harvest fair?” Her face did not show the joy he anticipated it would.
“Yes.”
“I shall send over my notes then. I hope they will help.” Still no smile graced Miss Godderidge’s lips.
Barlow placed his hand on Victor’s shoulder. Victor flinched, knowing that what came out of his friend’s mouth, he would regret.
“No need to go to all that trouble. Dalrymple has invited his mother to visit. That will ensure propriety for your planning. As all the ton knows, I cannot be a chaperone.”
“You have a mother?” Her cheeks reddened. “Of course you do. I had never heard of her before. Has she visited?”
Victor stepped away from Barlow. “She prefers the seaside.”
Miss Godderidge’s head tilted as she studied them both. Many puzzled at a rake as his friend, while Victor was known for his prudish propriety. Her horse grew restless and side-stepped. “I hope your mother will like our corner of England as well.”
“I have yet to hear whether she will come. I cannot possibly know how to begin...” Victor allowed his voice to trail off. He almost mentioned their working together. Barlow would make a joke out of it.
“I will postpone sending my note around to the vicar.” Her horse moved again. “It seems I must be off. I promised my horse a good long ride, and we have much to finish.”
Victor stared after her as she rode off toward the village.
“She is an excellent horsewoman,” Barlow’s approval matched Victor’s thoughts. “I look forward to watching you two work together.”
“What?”
“Did you see the look she gave you? She trusts you less than she trusts me. I am extending my visit. It will be better entertainment than a dozen house parties.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“But I am my friend, I am.”
Victor suppressed a grown. Barlow, his mother, and Miss Godderidge together?
Individually, all good people. However, the combination was nothing less than volatile.
Miss Godderidge’s veiled dislike and proper poise, his mother’s boundless love and lack of proper decorum, and Barlow making a joke of it all.
What had he done to deserve such punishment?
Isabel continued her ride, making a circuit that brought her through the outskirts of the village and near the church before returning to Leadon Hill. The vicar’s wife waved her down from the garden where she often sat to collect and share gossip.
Isabel brought her horse to a stop. Pretending she had not seen Mrs. Pettigrew would be far worse than anything that could come out of the conversation.
Mrs. Pettigrew waddled over to the gate. Age, nine children, and a love for sweets rendered the woman as stout as she was curious. “I am surprised to see you out.”
“I wanted to take advantage of the sun today.” Isabel patted her horse’s neck.
“I heard there was sickness at Leadon Hill.” Mrs. Pettigrew leaned closer. “The doctor has been out every day since Tuesday.”
Isabel would not give the vicar’s wife any scrap to gossip about. “I assure you I am perfectly well. You are in no danger of catching anything.”
Mrs. Pettigrew backed up at that. “Is your mother well then?”
“Mamma is well.” Isabel held up her hand to stop the next question.
“In fact, as long as we are discussing my mother, I watched her speak to you many times without passing on any tales. I learned from her example. You may continue in asking how the entire household, down to the scullery maid, fairs and I will not tell you anything other than they are well.”
“But the doctor—”
“Is a wonderful man. We are fortunate to have him, are we not?”
Mrs. Pettigrew’s face twisted. “I am equal parts impressed and dissatisfied. Your mother has taught you well. Perhaps you can tell me how the plans for the harvest fair are proceeding?”
“Slowly, we are working on accommodating changes this year. Unfortunately, even the weather promises to misbehave.”
“We have had a year of it.” Mrs. Pettigrew opened the gate to move closer. “The only thing that is growing is the mold on the study window curtains. I cannot air them out properly. Every time I wash them, it rains.”
“Hence, the reason we need to rework the plans for this year’s fair. No one wants to celebrate in the rain and cold.” Isabel patted her horse again. Both she and the animal were getting restless.
“Are we even having anything to celebrate? Even the atheists are coming to ask my husband to pray for their crops.”
“I hope we can find a reason to celebrate. Perhaps the rest of August will bring better weather.”
Mrs. Pettigrew studied the sky. “Maybe, maybe. One can only pray.”
Isabel nudged her horse to get her to sidestep, a trick she often used to get out of conversations. It had already served her well today. “It was a pleasure, but as you can see, I must be getting on.”
“Yes. I see.” Mrs. Pettigrew made the smallest of steps back. “Perhaps another day you could come for tea?”
“I’ll extend the invitation to Mamma. When she is back in society—”
The corners of the vicar’s wife’s mouth fell. “Oh yes, of course.”
“Enjoy the lovely weather while it lasts.” As she directed her course down the lane, Isabel knew she was bordering on rudeness to the vicar’s wife.
However, escaping without giving any hints as to the reasons why the doctor had been frequenting Leadon Hill was essential.
She’d been a fool to ride through the village believing it would be a better alternative than passing Mr. Dalrymple and his friend again.
Had she really said that she did not know Mr. Dalrymple had a mother?
Of all the simple-minded comments. He had to come from someplace, did he not?
Maybe it was the shock of seeing him with Lord Barlow.
A rake of no small reputation, a reputation completely the opposite of Mr. Dalrymple.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t a word that summed up Mr. Dalrymple’s reputation.
Bland? Mindful? According to David, Mr. Dalrymple was a man who thought out every move when it came to finances.
Socially, he seemed much the same. Other than his apparently odd habit of sending most of the women he danced with flowers, then showing up for a call where he did not speak with her. .. A singular trait indeed.
She turned her horse onto a path that would cut through the Kellmore lands.
Perhaps Jane would welcome a quick visit before she left.
Sir Lightwood’s carriage stood next to the stables.
Isabel looked from it to the manor house.
Poor Jane, a visit from her father was rarely a good thing.
If only he had waited two days, his daughters would not have been in residence.
Isabel knew little good could come of her visit now.
She turned her horse, hoping no one from the house witnessed her escape.
No such luck. Rose stood in the shadows of the trees not ten feet away. “You are wise not to visit now.”
“Where is Jane?”
“Father called her to the study an hour past.”
Isabel nodded in understanding. There was little doubt that Jane endured a berating she did not deserve for some imaginary ill.
Rose stared at her home. Light glistened off the tears in the girl’s eyes. “He returned early this morning. Sir Galahad barked at him.”
Isabel dismounted. “Is the dog—”
Rose sniffled. “The gamekeeper is tending to him.”