Chapter 9 #2
They finished the meal in silence while Richard kept an ear cocked for the sound of feminine voices.
“I sent an express to the Duchess of Chanderton this morning,” Richard said when the dishes had been cleared and he and St. Didier were once again strolling among the rosebushes.
“You and she are cordial?”
“A bit more than that. She’s a friend, though a friend at a greater distance than, say, Sorcha, Lady… Sorcha is no longer Lady Barclay. She’s simply Mrs. Bernard Huxley.”
“And your sister-by-marriage. Why do Mayfair bloodlines lend themselves to so much complication?”
“In my case and Bernard’s, the complications arose because Lord Jerome could not keep his breeches buttoned.” Richard directed his guest along the path that led to the back garden, where Amabel’s flowers were making an excellent display.
“Besides,” Richard went on, “you enjoy untangling those bloodlines and the secrets that keep them knotted up.”
“I used to—or thought I did. What do you expect Her Grace to add to your perspective on matters here at Shepherd’s Glen?”
For an intelligent man, St. Didier was either too road weary to organize the available evidence, or he was being deliberately obtuse.
“Puzzles make me uncomfortable, and yet, a puzzle stands between me and my fondest hopes: Why does a woman who can run an estate like Shepherd’s Glen despite the parsimony of greedy solicitors, who can deal effectively with a pair of testy female relations—to whom she is not related, in truth—and who holds the esteem of the whole parish choose spinsterhood over the option to be courted by a peer, at the same time she expresses an intention to allow that peer certain vaguely defined liberties? ”
St. Didier knelt to snap a few sprigs from a billowing lavender border. “You’re sure you understood her plain meanings?” He threaded the stems through the buttonhole of his lapel.
Richard recalled the grip of Amabel’s fingers in his hair, her unabashed enthusiasm for a close embrace, her kisses…
“She fancies me in some regard. Beyond that, she has left me with a conundrum, a mystery, and a vexation.” Also poor sleep and troubled dreams.
“The frustration is doubtless good for you. Periodic doses of humility should be required for all you titled louts. Perhaps the matter wants further discussion.”
The bracing fragrance of lavender wafted about the midday air as Richard and his guest crunched along the white shell walkway.
“Discussion is unwelcome, generally,” Richard said.
“Orla doesn’t want me bringing up the past. Wealtha is mostly interested in hearing herself talk, and Amabel has expressed no interest in negotiation.
She has stated her terms to the extent she is comfortable doing so.
” Though did a post-ambush declaration reflect a lady’s considered opinion?
They circled the fountain and moved once again in the direction of the terrace.
“Stated her terms, Swidhelm? Miss Fielding is not the owner of a cooperage, negotiating a price for oak barrels with you. A few heavily chaperoned weeks in Mayfair cannot imbue a lady with vast experience in congress with bachelors.”
True, but Amabel had some experience, and since when had bachelors been restricted to Mayfair ballrooms? Yorkshire doubtless had a full complement of swains and potential suitors.
“Amabel knows her own mind, a trait I admire. Let me give you the tour of the house. Your apartment is in the family wing, so highly are you esteemed. We’ll order you a bath, and you can grab a nap before making your bows to the ladies.”
“A nap,” St. Didier said with real longing. “You must ensure I’m awake by the first supper bell.” He gazed up the steps to the terrace as if they rose to the height of the Matterhorn.
He did not need a nap, then. More like a midday collapse. “St. Didier, did you journey north with undue haste?”
“Lately, undue haste has characterized far too much of my existence. A tour of the public rooms, a bath, and a nap, followed by supper in congenial company, will put me to rights.”
Richard suspected his guest dissembled. Something was amiss in St. Didier’s larger world, or some other heir hunt was frustrating him.
Periodic doses of frustration were doubtless good for anybody who habitually intruded on other people’s business.
“I want to discuss with you what I’ve learned about my mother’s situation here,” Richard said as they gained the cool shadows of the house, “which is precious little, though it will keep until you are rested.”
“Marie Tuffington Blackstock caused a scandal. If people are reluctant to talk, that’s probably out of respect for her memory.”
“I wish, then, that people had a little less respect for her memory and a little more respect for her son. Mama left an ideal situation here for near-certain ruin in service, and I am the result. I intend to find some answers, if I have to take tea with every granny and share a pint with every inebriated uncle in the shire to do it.”
They turned from the atrium down a carpeted corridor. “The library,” Richard said, “which is one of my favorite rooms, is this way. You are to make free with the contents for the duration of your stay.”
By the time he escorted St. Didier to the designated apartment, a cheerful, airy pair of rooms done up all in green and cream, St. Didier appeared to be nearly asleep on his feet.
“Sweet dreams,” Richard said. “See that you don’t fall asleep in the bath and take a chill.”
“Ridiculous notion. Until supper, my lord.”
Richard left him in peace and returned to the library, there to conduct one final review of the evidence for the solicitors’ prosecution.
“How can I enjoy a trip into York when that St. Didier creature will accompany us, Auntie?” Wealtha paced the length of Orla’s sitting room, skirts swishing ominously. “He knows.”
When had Wealtha grown so petulant? “He is a gentleman,” Orla replied, knitting needles clicking away, “and he’s not bad-looking.
Before you fly into the boughs, consider the facts, Wealtha: You were born to your papa’s second wife, whom he married after his first wife had been declared dead.
For all anybody knows, that makes you legitimate, my dear. ”
Orla wasn’t about to put the question to the Fielding family solicitors, whom she’d sacked years ago.
“But Auntie, Marie Blackstock was still alive. You knew it, Joseph Fielding knew it. Papa might well have known or suspected as much and merrily committed bigamy anyway. I have irregular antecedents, while my brother, who is a bastard in truth, inherits everything.”
“Language, Wealtha dear.” Though Wealtha had a point. Even if the courts overlooked the fact that Marie had been alive when Wealtha had come into the world, Society would relish the scandal.
For that matter, the dear friends Orla had made at Miss Gundridge’s, much less the friends Wealtha had made at the same august establishment, would look askance at bigamy.
“Bother my language, Auntie. Bastard, bastard, bastard. I will stay home tomorrow, and that means Mabel will stay home too. She is entirely too cheerful of late, given that Richard has upended our lives.”
When the Deity had made Wealtha tenacious, why hadn’t He also made her shrewd? Abernathy Blackstock’s daughter was as tireless as a tipsy preacher on the subject of his favorite sin. Wealtha would argue, threaten, exhort, and fume away all obstacles until she reached her objective.
She would also resent the analogy bitterly.
“Mabel maintains her equanimity in the face of recent upheavals because she knows Richard will be returning south before long. His curiosity regarding the past has unearthed nothing of any moment. The estate is humming along nicely without him, and once planting and haying are done, we have nothing but weeks of summer’s heat to endure.
The prospect of a village fete will not be enough to hold his interest, believe me. ”
Particularly not if Mabel discouraged his lordship’s advances and Wealtha continued to sulk like a spoiled brat. Orla’s contribution was to play the invalid when she might have been hosting receptions, dinner guests, or even a ball.
“But if Richard does stay long enough to attend the fete, he’ll linger into August for the shooting.”
Not the shooting. Please, dear heaven, do not allow Wealtha to start on the shooting. “You should go to York tomorrow.”
“I’ll have to sit in the coach facing that awful St. Didier, and his sniffy silences, and his knowing air.”
Wealtha aspired to sniffy silences and knowing airs. St. Didier was merely quiet and lamentably thorough.
“You will sit opposite his lordship, a visual reminder that his meeting with the solicitors had best include a thorough discussion of your settlements. You might even request that Richard not forget to bring them up, because the solicitors have been so frustratingly unforthcoming in response to our direct queries. Your ceaseless worry explains why you’d raise such a topic before others. ”