Chapter 3
“What is his lordship like, Mabel?” Wealtha worried a nail, which she always managed to do without imperiling her manicure. “Is he severe or genial? Will he embarrass us at St. Bevan’s or cut a dash? Please tell me he is not bald.”
Richard, Viscount Swidhelm, was alluring.
Mabel made that admission with some resentment.
Had his lordship been merely handsome, she could have forgiven him.
People born with good looks were not to blame for their appealing appearance.
The viscount lacked the blond, blue-eyed features of the old Saxon nobility, but his gaze was intelligent, his features masculine, and his mannerisms…
He had a way of keeping still, of maintaining a presence, that Mabel hadn’t encountered previously.
“He’s self-possessed, Wealtha. His lordship doesn’t fidget or make idle movements.
He strikes me as being gifted at observing and waiting, at listening and recalling.
He is polite, also astute.” Direct and yet hard to read, which made him a conundrum.
Eager to know his family better, unforthcoming about his own situation.
Mabel had given him several openings to embark on whatever diatribe he pleased, and he’d failed to take advantage of the courtesy.
Wealtha swept down the terrace steps into the garden. When she was agitated, she forgot the languid pace that befitted a lady of leisure.
“You make the viscount sound like a street thief lurking behind crested coaches while he spies on a fine neighborhood.”
The garden, fortunately, was in good looks, in part because Mabel kept it so. One could take out a lot of frustrations on unwelcome weeds.
“Have you been reading Gothic novels, Wealtha? His lordship is new to a difficult and unusual situation. We must afford him time to adjust.” Mabel certainly needed time to adjust to the reality of him.
He’d been a theoretical sort of viscount for some time, a means of reining in the solicitors and sorting out estate matters.
The reality of the peer, demolishing gingerbread and not sparing the butter, diverged significantly from the theory.
“Are we to be tossed into the street?” Wealtha asked.
“He said he intends to be a proper brother to you, and he will be discreet about ancient history.” A relief, that—on Wealtha’s behalf at least—and Swidhelm hadn’t hesitated to address the matter directly. “If you tell his lordship of any worries, he will discuss them with you honestly.”
Wealtha paused at the foot of the steps. “Why can’t you tell him of my worries? My dowry is pitifully modest given the extent of Papa Blackstock’s estate.”
“Your dowry is adequate, Wealtha, and none of my business. I suspect polite society would describe the new viscount as a practical gentleman. You and he should get on nicely.”
Mabel hoped they did. Squabbling siblings could blight an entire household.
“I hope he’s not well-read.” Wealtha marched off down the crushed-shell walk. “I abhor literary men. They always drop quotes into the conversation and then peer at one to see if the source of the trite phrase or fusty old Latin is familiar, like a Bible quiz. Literary men are tiresome.”
Unless, of course, they were handsome and wealthy literary men, in which case Wealtha displayed convincing adoration for them.
“His lordship did not refer in any manner to great works of literature or philosophy. Mr. St. Didier’s letter said Swidhelm was properly educated thanks to his ducal relations, and then he struck out for Portugal, where he has done quite well trading in port and Madeira.
He is received in London, though he socializes much less than he used to. ”
Probably a diplomatic way of referring to a man who’d become responsible for his own expenses. Mabel wished St. Didier were on hand to be interrogated directly. At least he’d warned them—by express—that Swidhelm might be inclined to head north.
“If Swidhelm is not literary,” Wealtha said, her pace slowing, “then he must be a dandy. London gentlemen are prone to dandy-ism, according to the teachers at Miss Gundridge’s Select Academy.
A dandy is excessively well dressed and quite manly.
He enjoys the sporting life and is an excellent dancer, but he’s perhaps not the best prospect for a husband. ”
How many dandies had Miss Gundridge’s teachers stood up with? “You must ask his lordship if he enjoys athletic endeavors. He looked quite fit to me.” Tired around the eyes. A bit underfed and tending to understated fashion rather than lace and silk.
Not a dandy. A Town dandy would have looked straight past Mabel, denigrated the execrable lemonade—Cook forgot to add even a dash of honey—and examined the family parlor sketch by sketch, curio by curio, and pressed flower by pressed flower, finding the whole room abysmally quaint.
Unless dandies had changed in the past few years.
Wealtha stopped abruptly on the path. “I must change my dress. I must attire myself with great care for supper this evening. I am to meet my lordly brother for the first time! Does having a titled brother make me an Honorable?”
Mabel mentally dusted off her familiarity with Debrett’s Peerage. “Were you a viscount’s daughter, yes, but the courtesy probably does not apply in your present circumstances.”
“Just as well, I suppose. I might be resented for being an Honorable, what with my good looks too.”
Insightful of her, but then, Wealtha had come out of doors without a bonnet or a parasol on a bright spring day, which figured slightly below flying pigs for general improbability—unless, of course, she sought to show off her guinea-gold hair and elegant deportment to her newly arrived, titled brother.
Mabel took her cousin gently by the arm and resumed walking.
“You have no need of fussy honorifics, Wealtha. You are absolutely correct about that. You must strive to put the viscount at his ease. You are the legitimate, acknowledged daughter of Abernathy Blackstock, according to the entire shire. You do have the blood of some previous holder of the Swidhelm title flowing in your veins. Your putative brother is known to be a by-blow, no sort of Blackstock except by virtue of legal technicalities, and he might be feeling like an impostor.”
He certainly wasn’t acting like an impostor. He was acting like a decent man, but for arriving without warning.
“He is not an impostor,” Wealtha said as they rounded the fountain at the foot of the garden. “He’s my brother, and he’s the viscount, and he must bear up manfully, Mabel. You will see that he does, won’t you?”
Ye bouncing bovines. “He’s here, Wealtha, and when he’s addressed by the title, he makes no demurral. He’s filling the role very convincingly. You mustn’t worry that he’ll embarrass you.”
“I never said I was worried.” Wealtha shot a coy smile in Mabel’s direction. “I am not the family worrier, dearest. You have that honor, while I have learned to trust in divine providence and my own great common sense.”
“An excellent strategy. If it matters, I think the blue sprigged muslin is especially fetching on you and would be just right for an informal family meal.”
“Blue does bring out my eyes, doesn’t it? You must not wear blue if I do, Mabel. That would be unfair, and besides, blue doesn’t become you as it does me.”
“I’ll wear a darker shade, and the contrast will set us apart.”
“See that you do. Will the viscount think us backward for observing country hours?”
Mabel thought, not for the first time, that being a governess must be much like being Wealtha’s step-cousin. One needed patience, humor, and the occasional serving of cordial to keep at the job without lapsing into profanity.
“We dwell in the country, spring is well advanced, and that means dawn arrives early. Country hours are sensible, and I take Lord Swidhelm for a sensible man.”
Thus far. In Mabel’s experience, even the most practical fellow could exhibit unbecoming foibles at the most inconvenient times.
“I am off to make sure my blue sprigged muslin is freshly pressed.” Wealtha bounded up the steps like a seven-year-old who’d just heard her godmother’s carriage wheels on the drive.
“I’ll want a bath, too, of course, and Clementina must dress my hair.
Nothing too fancy. We are in the country, after all. ”
Wealtha flounced into the house, and Mabel remained on the terrace in blessed solitude.
The day truly was lovely. Not yet hot, the leaves still a soft, gauzy green that let more sunlight reach the winter-chilled earth. Tulips had replaced the earliest daffodils, and soon the garden would be full of color and scent.
Mr. Kepler tottered out onto the terrace, a wooden tray in his hands. “Afternoon mail, miss. A bit more than usual. Shall I bring your traveling desk out here?”
“The light is wonderful in spring, isn’t it, Kepler?”
“As is the warmth, miss. I’ll fetch your lap desk and have Cook send out some sandwiches, shall I?”
“Bless you, Kepler. Nothing fancy, but I could do with the sustenance.”
He passed over the tray and shuffled off at a bit more sprightly pace. Mabel took a seat on a bench along the balustrade and slit open the first missive.
Mr. St. Didier would be passing through the area and begged the favor of some modest hospitality. Mabel had wanted to question him personally, and now she’d have the chance.
“Watch out for what I wish for…”
Wealtha would be in alt to have a genuine London gentleman at the Glen in addition to a titled brother who brought a hint of scandal to the family name. Wealtha in alt was preferable to Wealtha in high dudgeon.
Far, far preferable.
“Ma’am, may I make known to you, Richard, Viscount Swidhelm, late of…”—Miss Fielding’s brows knit—“southern parts. My lord, Mrs. Orla Fielding, your aunt, of Shepherd’s Glen, Wellsborough.”
The Duchess of Chanderton herself would have approved of that introduction. Richard bowed a tad lower than Mayfair standards required.
“Mrs. Fielding. Swidhelm, at your service.”