Chapter 6
With the Bicton Grange housekeeper, Mrs. Knollwood, beside her, Fleur set out early the next day in the gig, leaving Cora and Dulcinea behind to keep company with Helena and see to household matters.
They would first do some shopping, and then address the more important business. Mrs. Knollwood had known all the Bicton-Morledge girls since they were wee things and having grown up in Reabridge she’d known many of the girls who’d left the village. She’d asked Helena for leave to see the baby everyone was talking about and view the locket. They would pay a call at the vicarage.
“It’s glad I am, miss, that you and your lady have come to stay with us,” Mrs. Knollwood said. “It does a heart good to see my mistress is not alone. Mayhap it’s not my place, but her own family could have done more. Will have to if this child is not a boy.”
“I recall her mother visiting her,” Fleur said. Helena’s mother had showered Phyllis and her baby brother and sister with affection and completely ignored the French girl.
“Passed away some years ago, her mother did. My mistress’s brother was killed in France, and her only sister is in India.”
Fleur had forgotten about the brother killed in the early days of the war. No wonder Helena’s mother had shunned her.
“’Struth and I hope that this child is not Phyllis’s,” Mrs. Knollwood said, “for ’twould mean Phyllis is lost to us entirely.”
“A sad thought that. Cora feels certain the babe is not Phyllis’s. When was the last time anyone heard from her?”
“’Twas a few months after she left. She’d married in Scotland, and then she and her man had sailed for Spain to rejoin his regiment.”
“That they married was some comfort, I suppose.”
“Oh, aye. Her mother’s heart wasn’t broken entirely. Her da ought to have let them marry, I say. It’s all well and good to be practical, but young William was a good lad.” She drew in a breath. “What of you, Miss Hardouin? Are you hoping to marry?”
She turned over several answers in her mind. She could set the housekeeper in her place, but that seemed inordinately missish.
Mrs. Knollwood wasn’t a malicious gossip, nor had she ever been unkind.
“Yes,” Fleur said. “I fear I must.”
“If I do say so, miss, Captain Ardleigh seems very attentive.”
Gareth. Despite the chill autumn air, warmth surged in her. “Captain Ardleigh?” she said, managing a bland tone.
Mrs. Knollwood shifted on the seat. “Such a jolly young man.”
Fleur pretended that a difficult patch of road required all her attention.
“So handsome too,” the housekeeper said. “I recall him as a goodhearted lad.”
They had reached the bridge to the island. “Yes,” Fleur said, “he was kind to me as a child. Now, let us see if the vicar is home.”
* * *
Gareth pacedthe four walls of the Bicton Grange parlor, listening to the distant wails and screeches from the nursery floor.
The distracted maid answering the door had ushered him here and hurried out, promising to fetch someone without ever asking Gareth who he was calling on.
When the door creaked, Lady Ixworth entered, back straight, head regal, and a smile on her face that he’d call cheeky—perhaps even devious.
She was a lively one for an older lady. He understood why Sherington admired her so.
He crossed the room and greeted her.
“She’s gone into the village.” Lady Ixworth curved her hand around his arm and brushed her shoulder against his. “She took the housekeeper along in the gig. Helena is resting, the little girls are in the schoolroom arguing, Cora is in the kitchen, and so, you have me to keep you company.”
They’d reached a sofa, and she seated herself, patting the cushion next to her. “Do sit. Or do you want to run after Fleur?”
Her face had grown solemn, reminding him of his warmhearted granny when she had to administer discipline. He couldn’t help grinning. “Why do I sense a scold coming?”
“I never scold, Captain Ardleigh. I state what I think dispassionately.”
“Ah.” She was much like Fleur. “Well, then, perhaps I’m in for an interrogation?”
She raised her eyebrows and looked down her nose at him, rather like Wellington the one time he’d been in his lordship’s lofty presence.
“You have my full attention, my lady.”
“Fleur means to marry.”
“So she has told me.”
“And you, Captain? Do you mean to marry?”
“Do I mean to marry?” Irritation had crept into his voice. He cleared his throat. He was usually better at concealing his feelings. “I fear my income?—”
“Is small.” She waved a hand. “But you have a profession. And if there are no wars for you to fight, you are healthy and have a good head on your shoulders. You can find a position. Sherington speaks highly of you.” She pursed her lips. “My gel isn’t entirely penniless, you know. She has a pittance of an income her guardian preserved for her.”
Fleur had more than that. She had a family in France well on their way to wealth, a family that wanted to reclaim her. He stood and paced to the fireplace.
He’d planned to write to Marceau the previous evening, but when he returned to Sherington Manor, a letter from Marceau had awaited him. Fleur’s cousin would arrive in Reabridge in time for the harvest festival.
He needed to speak with Fleur before then, and before he shared her secrets with anyone else, even this lady who cared so much for her.
A rap on his arm brought his gaze back to Lady Ixworth. “Since you’re being intentionally obtuse today, let me be direct: you’re showing my gel a great deal of attention. Do you intend to offer for her?”
A bead of perspiration crept under his neckcloth. He returned to his seat on the sofa.
“Fleur has prospects beyond an impoverished soldier. I’ve just come from France and… I must speak to her first about the matter.”
“Prospects? In France?” She shook her head. “I doubt her practical notions about marriage will cross the English Channel. Especially not when her heart is engaged here.”
“With whom?”
The lady raised an eyebrow.
With himself? Could that possibly be true?
“If you mean me, you’re mistaken. She’s never expressed any, er, interest. In fact, she’s often sniping at me.”
“Would Fleur wear her heart on her sleeve?”
“Where you are concerned, ma’am, she certainly does.”
“Hah.” She shook her head. “It’s because I love her as she is. I know not to expect sweetness and light in my gel’s words. But her actions? Ah. Look to her actions, sir.”
“She’s proclaimed an intention to marry an older, well-established man. And I am neither of those. She doesn’t want me. In fact, she’s avoiding me.”
Lady Ixworth shook her head. “You are acting the dolt. Of course, she’s avoiding you. She finds you too tempting, and she’s taking the easy way out.” She stood and made a shooing motion. “Now get you gone. Find her and tell her about these prospects in France. And then be prepared to duck when she boxes your ears.”
“She hates France that much?”
“So she says. Claims she doesn’t remember the language, though her mother certainly must have spoken it to her, and she’s refused to be fashionable and learn it.”
The Veuve Hardouin was another strong-willed lady. He’d recalled her pleasure at his own fluent French. For her granddaughter not to speak it? She’d tolerate the insult to her country, but she’d hate the snub to the mother tongue.
As it happened,he didn’t have far to go to find Fleur, but encountered her and the housekeeper in their gig returning to the Grange.
Mr. Farnham rode alongside, escorting them.
“Captain Ardleigh, well met,” he called.
Gareth reined up and lifted his hat.
Fleur murmured a greeting, her expression blank. The older lady seated next to her, Bicton Grange’s housekeeper, dipped her head and looked equally stoic.
“I’m off to pay a call at Sherington,” Farnham said. “Are you headed that way?”
Fleur watchedthe emotions play across Gareth’s handsome face. He looked positively ashen this morning, as if he’d received bad news, and his normal sure-footed jolliness had been replaced with uncertainty and hesitation.
He wanted time with her and that was the one thing she couldn’t stomach right now.
Mr. Farnham was interested in her. She could feel it down to her baby toes. And he was—or might be—perfect for her. He was ruggedly handsome in an older sort of way, well-spoken and seemingly intelligent, and had legs that would meet with Dulcinea’s approval.
She must avoid time alone with Gareth. Must, must, must. If he touched her as he’d done yesterday… if he kissed her, if he asked for her hand…
Of course, he wouldn’t. He couldn’t. Her plan was a good one. She must follow through with it.
“Do run along, Captain Ardleigh,” she said. “I have promised to spend the afternoon with the girls in the schoolroom.”
“Working on their French?” he asked.
Her knuckles whitened around the lines she was gripping. “Needlework,” she said.
His face relaxed into the start of a grin and his eyes brightened. “Ah. Embroidery. I recall that was a specialty of yours.”
That dreadful handkerchief. How had he remembered?
Oh, but it touched her heart that he did, and embarrassed her too. Though she’d been awfully proud of it, it had been a clumsy piece of work. “More likely we will be darning ripped frocks and torn stockings.” She clucked and the horses moved on.
So what that he remembered her farewell gift? He’d no doubt chucked it into the nearest privy as soon as he’d waved goodbye.
She glanced behind her and saw his proud back moving down the lane.
The wind blew a chill under her shawl, and she bit her lip, straightened her shoulders and drove on.
At Bicton Grange,Fleur hurried to grab her workbasket, and found Dulcinea exiting Helena’s bedchamber.
“She’s resting,” Dulcinea said. “I declare, seeing Helena’s discomfort, I’m glad Ixworth never got me with child. Bring your work and come along to the parlor. Cook has all the girls in the kitchen baking cakes for the festival.”
Dulcinea made her way to a fireside chair in the parlor and settled in. “Now, have a look at this note.”
Fleur unfolded the paper, scanned the first line, and looked up. “It’s an invitation to dinner tonight at Sherington Hall. From Sherington, not Mrs. Smythe, and addressed My Dear Dulcy. Is there something you haven’t told me?” She held the paper to her nose and sniffed it.
Dulcinea turned her gaze to the fire, a wicked smile forming.
Fleur glanced at the rest of the note. Laurence had returned to London, but Captain Ardleigh and Mr. Farnham would join them.
“I see. Did you reply?”
“We are going. Did you meet Mr. Farnham today?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
Fleur shrugged. “On the face of things, he is highly unobjectionable.”
Dulcinea laughed merrily. “My gel,” she said, wiping tears. “Oh my gel. In any case, you must wear the primrose gown.”
“But that is your?—”
“It’s yours now. It will show the man you have a bosom worth looking at.”
Fleur sighed and poked through her basket. “Then I must fix the hole in my best stockings.”
* * *
Farnham leftGareth at the Sherington Manor stables, saying he would be up at the house a bit later to call on Sherington. After seeing to his mount, Gareth stopped in the kitchens, wheedled a sandwich and small beer from Cook, and was dusting off crumbs when the butler found him and summoned him to the study where Mr. Sherington was waiting.
It was just as well. He needed to tell him about the upcoming appearance of a Frenchman in Reabridge. Not that he’d expect Sherington to host Marceau. He’d never ask that of them.
When he pushed open the door, he saw that George Sherington had visitors. His elderly steward, Mr. Chigwell, sat across from him, while a weather-worn man in boots and well-worn coats stood. Haskell was here.
“You needed me, sir?” Gareth asked.
“Ardleigh. There you are,” Sherington said.
Chigwell rose and exchanged greetings. Haskell’s gaze was assessing.
“Meet Haskell,” Sherington said cheerfully.
Well, of course, he didn’t know of that fistfight so many years earlier.
“He’s in charge of the hired workers,” Sherington added.
Gareth’s shoulders tensed, but he extended a hand. “We’ve met before.” Haskell’s grip was firm but not threatening.
“Aye,” Haskell said. “Ye gave me this some years back.” He rubbed the crook in the bridge of his nose.
“And well you deserved it,” Gareth said in a pleasant tone.
The fellow’s lips quirked; in the start of a smile or a grimace, Gareth couldn’t discern.
Let the ass try himself on Fleur again; he’d crack more than his beak.
“Your men have done well,” Sherington said. “Haskell, let Chigwell know when they’ve finished that last field.”
“Aye, sir, and then I’ll get you a final accounting,” Chigwell said. “Now, begging your pardon, I promised I’d show Mr. Farnham that drainage work needing done. He has some thoughts on it.”
Chigwell and Haskell departed and Sherington directed Gareth to a chair.
“Laurence has gone up to town,” Sherington said without preamble.
“Town?” Memories of the fight with the Haskells had driven out all other thoughts. The satisfying crunch of the bully’s nose; Thad jumping in to fight Haskell’s brother; Laurence shrinking back like the bullies’ sister.
Damn, but he missed Thaddeus Sherington.
He cleared his throat. “Do you mean London, sir?”
“He’s keeping close watch on the ’Change. War’s over—for good this time, we hope, and things will be volatile. He’s not much for the land, and there it is. If Thaddeus had lived…”
Mr. Sherington tapped the desktop. “What are your plans, lad?”
“Sir?”
“Back to your family in Derbyshire? Or back to the army? Or somewhere else?”
Somewhere else, if you please. He thought of the rolling hectares of brimming vines; the chalk caverns filled with racks of riddling bottles; late evening meals under warm skies.
That would be Fleur’s life—if she’d take it. Impossible for himself.
“I’ll pay my brother a short visit, of course.” The shorter the better. “The army will take me back on full pay, I’m sure.” If he wished to risk yellow fever or typhus in some far-flung station.
A long moment passed, and he realized Sherington was watching him.
The older man smiled. “In short, you’ve not decided.”
Gareth laughed. “That’s the long and the short of it.”
“Chigwell wants to retire. While you’re considering the army or the somewhere else, think about staying at Sherington Manor and working for me, as my steward. I’m offering it to you first.”
He sat straighter. Sherington was a much larger property with a much larger income than the Ardleigh family estate. The land was good, the tenants stable, the park filled with small game, and the stream that cut through brimming with fish.
“When I say staying at Sherington Manor, I mean living in the manor house until Chigwell vacates his cottage, which he plans to do soon and move closer to one of his children. It’s a good-sized dwelling. You can find a wife and fill your nursery.”
A blush needled its way up from under his neckcloth. He cleared his throat again. “Very generous, sir.” And very managing. Sherington had a matchmaker’s glint in his eyes. It was the sort of thing Gareth had encountered from regimental wives with marriageable daughters, but from his old friend’s father?
Gareth swallowed a chuckle. “And who did you have in mind, sir?” Not cousin, Esther, please.
Sherington raised an eyebrow. “Are you being coy with me, lad?”
“Never, sir.”
Sherington laughed. “You were always a rascal. Well, then. Fetch a bottle of that Hardouin champagne and your saber. I’ll see this sabrage Laurence was crowing about, and we’ll have a chat.”