Chapter 11
A Game of Consequence
Clara put down her pen and regarded the letter she had written dubiously.
“It’s too conversational,” she told Benny, who raised his head from his position curled before the fire to look at her. “But then again, writing to an unmarried duke is beyond the pale, anyway. I suppose I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.”
Yet still she gazed down at her words, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.
Benny huffed and put his head back down again.
“I know, I know. I should either put it in the fire or post it.” Clara sighed, wishing she could be decisive for once in her life instead of dithering over every little decision.
Eustacia would not hesitate to put the letter in the post, she suspected.
“I shall read it to you, Benny dear. And if you do not think it too excruciating, it shall go directly to the post.”
Benny, apparently conscious of the weight of his responsibility, got up and wagged his tail before sitting expectantly at her feet.
Clara cleared her throat. “Dear Duke—you know I’m still uncertain that’s correct, but anyway—” She started over.
“Dear Duke, thank you for the letter you sent me. Please rest assured that I am scrupulous in my care of the pianoforte, and no candles are ever placed upon it. No tea-tray, dish or glass has been or will be set upon its gleaming surface. I am careful to always replace the cover and return the key to Howard. I hope that this will put your grandmother’s mind at ease. ”
Pausing, Clara glanced down at Benny. “So far, so good?”
He gave a soft woof.
Nodding, Clara continued. “I am very much enjoying the use of the piano, and whilst I am uncertain my skills are improving, Howard has expressed his approval of my playing—though I think he is a very kind man and says so to boost my confidence.”
Benny seemed to have nothing to add to this, so Clara carried on reading.
“There are many newcomers lately arrived because of the construction of the new hotel.
There is much consternation among some ladies, who fear the presence of many ‘rough builders’ will have a detrimental effect upon the town.
I have found them respectful, however, which I believe is due to the influence of the architect in charge of the project.
He gave a meeting in the village hall a few days ago to allay the fears of the most fretful inhabitants, and I assure you that many a feminine heart fluttered madly during his speech.
For Mr Gideon Bramwell, is a handsome fellow, well-spoken and with a rather intense air about him.
Indeed, he is not a comfortable person to speak to, for he brings with him an aura of restless energy which is far from soothing—though I admit I am hardly the person to judge this, for most people make me uncomfortable.
“There are many rumours flying about the man—none of which I will repeat—but many of them seem to revolve around his elder brother, the Viscount Rivington. Perhaps you know him? I hope the rumours are not true, though it would account for the rather aloof manner of Mr Bramwell, who must find the association a barrier to his advancement.”
Clara sighed and set the letter down. “It’s all tittle-tattle. Surely, he won’t be interested?”
Benny sneezed, which Clara usually took to be a sign of approval. She gave him a sceptical look but carried on.
“In more exciting news, Reverend Honeywell’s youngest daughter recently married a Mr Benedict Midwinter. Do you know he is the owner of Wisham Castle, which has been deserted for so many years?”
Breaking off, Clara sent Benny a cautious glance.
“I decided it best not to mention that Mr Midwinter is the notorious smuggler Boreas. It would raise far too many troublesome questions. So, to continue, Miss Isabelle and her husband intend to restore the castle to its former glory, which, along with your cousin Mr Ashford and Mr Seymour’s houses and the hotel, mean that our little town rings out with the sound of men at work.
I rather like all the activity, which is a sign of progress and is bringing much needed work to the poorest residents of our town.
However, I am not so delighted by the amount of people who insist on grumbling about it.
We must all make sacrifices for the good of the town and the future of its inhabitants, and a little noise and disruption is not the end of the world.
Oh, but now it sounds as if I am preaching at you, so I shall end this letter, which is far longer than I intended.
“Please do not trouble yourself buying new music. There is already a wonderful selection, much of it far beyond my meagre talents, but I shall persevere. I have the honour to remain, sir, Your Grace’s obedient servant, Miss Clara Halfpenny.”
Clara chewed her lip as Benny regarded her placidly.
“Well?” she demanded.
Benny sneezed.
Well, that settled it. She would send the letter.
The Plough, Eynsford, Kent, 9thApril 1816
Though the temptation to remain in Eynsford and avail themselves of the hospitality they’d enjoyed to the full was strong, Hart felt it was too dangerous to linger.
Not that Miss Baxter needed any encouraging to return to the gig and get back on the road.
Hart could hardly blame her. He’d acted stupidly.
Yes, the ale had made him rather merrier than he’d been prepared for, but he hadn’t been drunk, and she was not some cheerful barmaid, ripe for a tumble.
Not like Ruth, who had made him a very interesting offer.
He ought to have taken her up on it and rid himself of all these inconvenient feelings.
He was lucky Miss Baxter hadn’t slapped his face and told him to get lost. She ought to have done, and that she hadn’t only confused him even more.
Hart wished he could figure her out, but his head was aching as the ale wore off and thinking had never been his strong suit.
Action was more in his line, but as action was getting him into deep water, he’d better try to prod his sluggish brain into doing its job for once in its sorry life.
Miss Baxter was unlike any young lady he’d ever come across.
Most of those he’d met in society were shy and rarely deigned to venture an opinion.
Oh, he knew they possessed plenty of opinions, but society had trained them not to voice them.
They learned obedience and deference to the men in their lives.
Which was fine and dandy for the men, if a fellow wished to be bored out of his wits by the lady he married.
Hart did not.
He glanced over at the gig. Despite days on the road, Miss Baxter made a stylish and lovely picture sitting behind the pony, her hands light on the ribbons.
She handled the gig splendidly, her posture erect, chin up.
Black curls clustered about her delicate heart-shaped face, her dark eyes fringed by thick sable lashes.
Her riding habit fitted snugly over her generous bosom, the deep blue fabric of excellent quality, and the gown the height of fashion and obviously created by a skilled hand.
An odd sensation swept over him as he watched her, so lovely and competent. It was a not quite happy feeling, an anxious jitter about his heart, as if he might lose something important if he wasn’t careful.
Hart dismissed it and told himself not to be such a nitwit. They were having a splendid adventure, there were villains liable to leap out and invite him to pummel them, and Miss Baxter was a mysterious and beautiful woman who was not entirely immune to his charms.
He was having a marvellous time, and he ought not to look a gift horse in the mouth.
The George, Wrotham, Kent, 9th April 1816
They arrived in Wrotham long after darkness had fallen.
The George was a respectable inn, not fancy, but well frequented by travellers to and from Maidstone.
The warm glow visible through the leaded light windows was a welcome sight indeed, as Angel guided the weary pony into the yard and handed the reins to the ostler.
“You need food and rest as much as I do,” she told Toby, who had leapt down and run to take the reins from her.
They were all chilled to the bone and too tired to converse. It had started to rain in the early evening, just a light drizzle, but it had not stopped since, and the wind had blown up, diverting it straight in their faces. Despite the gig’s hood, they were wet through.
Tired and wretched, Angel followed Mr Cleaver inside and didn’t protest once as he took control, ordering rooms for his ‘sister’ and her maid, and his groom.
Toby brightened perceptibly at being elevated to the status of groom and went happily off to the kitchens where he would get warm and be well fed with the other working men.
“We’ll all be wanting a bath before dinner. If you’d see to it as soon as possible,” Mr Cleaver said, avoiding her eye as he signed the register.
Angel knew she ought to object. It was indecent, allowing him to make such arrangements for her, but he was being kind and taking care of her, and she was too exhausted to care about propriety, not that she’d ever cared much to begin with.
They were shown to their rooms, and Angel and Milly stood shivering as the maid stoked up the fire.
The moment she left, they stripped out of their damp clothes, hanging them to dry, and wrapped themselves in the blankets from the bed.
The bath arrived, along with a bottle of brandy and two glasses, no doubt care of Mr Cleaver.
“He thinks of everything, I’ll give him that,” Milly said with a laugh once the bath had been filled and the servants had gone.
“You go first, Milly,” Angel offered, huddled in a chair by the fire.
Milly pulled a face and shook her head. “Certainly not. As if I would. You get in, miss, afore the water cools. I’ll enjoy my brandy while you have a soak.”