Chapter 10
Richard’s enormous traveling coach swayed along gently, while Mabel tried to look anywhere but at his mouth. At the curve of his lips and the line of his jaw, at his hands, at the luxurious abundance of silky dark hair so neatly combed for this excursion into York.
She stared out the window, at Leopold St. Didier’s shiny boots, at the slot behind St. Didier’s shoulder used to communicate with the coachy.
Richard had been all that was correct since Mabel had… Since she had what? Made a complete fool of herself? Finally allowed a little private pleasure into her life? Both?
“Richard dearest,” Wealtha said, “I must raise a delicate topic with you before we reach York.”
St. Didier studied the lush green hills beyond the coach window. Sitting across from him, Mabel did likewise. When Wealtha used that tone of voice, she was preparing to wheedle, which she did with far greater tenacity than subtlety.
“Put your mind at ease,” Richard said. “I will have a thorough report from the solicitors regarding your settlements, and if the arrangements are inadequate, I will take appropriate measures.”
“You will? Do you promise, Richard? My settlements are all I have in the whole world, and I have been ever so worried for my future. Papa Blackstock must not have been in his right mind when he made out his will. Aunt Orla agrees.”
Orla had at no time doubted Abernathy Blackstock’s sanity.
Mabel would ensure Richard was in possession of that fact.
When Wealtha had demanded that her father’s will be contested, Orla had for once taken a firm stand.
According to Step-mama, contesting wills was for families who had the means to pursue litigation and no care for scandal.
“I give you my word as a gentleman,” Richard said, “that your situation will be secure, regardless of whether you marry. You shall have what your heart desires.”
Mabel suppressed a shudder at the very thought of Wealtha’s whims indulged without limit.
“I shall put my trust entirely in your assurances,” Wealtha said. “Thank you. You are my favorite brother, you know.”
“An honor, I’m sure. Have you ladies agreed upon a battle plan for besieging the shops?”
Wealtha chattered away—she did have a plan that began with frocks, moved on to slippers, gloves, and reticules and finished with hats. A new riding habit had somehow also made her list, which would necessitate a stop at the tailor’s.
Mabel let the words wash over her, aware of Richard’s polite rejoinders and St. Didier’s silence.
What did it say about her that she even enjoyed the sound of Richard’s voice making small talk?
She liked the faint aroma of cedar that wafted about his person and the patience he unfailingly showed Wealtha.
If Mabel told him that she’d had a change of heart and that no liberties were to be shared between them, he’d exhibit the same polite patience with her. They would never speak of a kiss that Mabel wouldn’t forget should she live to great old age.
So why not step back from a precipice that could lead again to scandal as well as—Mabel demanded honesty of herself—heartache?
The why of it, why risk scandal and eventual loss, had preoccupied Mabel inordinately. Richard’s kiss had taken her partly by surprise at the same time it had satisfied longings too dear for words. To be noticed, cherished, held, heard…
She was contemplating an affair with Richard because she wanted to, because she chose to, not because she should, or ought, or because somebody must tend to the task lest the estate fall to ruin.
He’d made advances, and Mabel had enjoyed them.
Not as she enjoyed a ledger that balanced or a flower bed relieved of weeds, but as an adult female in robust good health enjoyed being an adult female.
“We should tour the Minster while we’re here,” Wealtha said. “It’s not so grand as it once was, but it is still imposing. They are always making plans to restore it, but the plans move forward only slowly.”
“I have seen the Minster,” St. Didier said. “I agree with you that restoration will be a lengthy process, also costly, though the results could be breathtaking.”
“Perhaps we’ll make the Minster part of another outing,” Richard said as the coach slowed. “We have considerable business to conduct today, and I’m sure you ladies will want to take your time shopping.”
In truth, Mabel tended to shop the same way she pulled weeds or darned socks. With dispatch, glad when the job was done. The task today was not so much acquiring new frocks as it was nannying Wealtha and admiring her choices, or most of them.
York was a compact town, and streets particularly within the old Roman enclosure were too narrow to admit Richard’s traveling coach. Wealtha seized Richard’s arm upon alighting, leaving Mabel to St. Didier’s escort.
“As a friend,” St. Didier said quietly, “I must inform you that you gaze upon Swidhelm the way I might regard a barberry ice on a hot summer day. The kind of ices served at Gunter’s, in pretty little dishes, with long silver spoons, garnished with flowers and artfully arranged mint leaves and such. ”
Two yards ahead, Wealtha was still holding forth nineteen to the dozen about silk ribbons versus silk flowers and the tedium of embroidering hat bands that nobody ever admired.
“You are a bold sort of friend, sir.”
“Motivated only by kindness, I assure you. If I notice your regard for the viscount, others will as well.”
Mabel saw no reason to deny the charge. “His lordship will soon be returning to Town. My regard won’t signify when that happens.
I have no intention of trying to hold him here when his obligations and interests lie elsewhere.
” What other concern could motivate such blunt speech from a man of St. Didier’s usual tact?
“Swidhelm wasn’t particularly happy in Town, from what I’ve gathered.
By dint of inordinate hard work, prodigious intellect, and occasional good luck, he has built a thriving business that could now be turned over to managers, but he has been reluctant to take that step.
He keeps himself punishingly busy, though he has graduated from the phase of life where twitting his ducal relations provides him any joy. ”
“Did he twit them?”
“The Chanderton duchy suffers a want of cash. Swidhelm’s commerce is lucrative, and he made sure his ducal relations knew it. I don’t suppose his wealth matters to you?”
Good for Richard. “Not especially. Given his lordship’s upbringing, financial security would be important to him.” Abundant means would make a very great deal of difference to Wealtha and thus to Orla.
“But you refuse to set your cap for him?”
Plagues and tempests. The man was relentless. “You likely excel at this sort of conversation—presuming and prying, but with a veneer of benevolence that disarms your prey. Because I do believe you are motivated by protectiveness toward his lordship, I will spare you the effort of delicate tactics.”
Up ahead, Wealtha laughed prettily and patted Richard’s arm.
“I know something of why Marie Blackstock left the Glen,” Mabel said softly, “and took her chances in London. She saw her life, her whole life, spent listening to her husband wax eloquent about sheep breeds, or listening to him grumble about how poorly his new pair of boots fit, or some inanity upon which his attention had become fixed. Her lot would have been to endlessly sympathize, comfort, and listen attentively. She tried her best for two years, realized that children were unlikely to make the union bearable, and went a little mad.”
“Is this a theory or a surmise based on facts?”
“A little of both. Rural estates are mostly concerned with doing battle with the elements and fate. Foot rot, flooding, fleas… Can a squire endure the annual vicissitudes and still show a profit most years? My guess is, Marie saw that struggle for her entire girlhood, and she hoped marriage would offer a more inviting view.”
“But the view never changed.”
“It changed considerably when she went to Town. She was ruined, yes, but she also gained an independence she’d never had previously.” Odd how ruination could work. More women would choose disgrace if independence and a steady income reliably accompanied a lady’s fall from propriety.
“She had her own wages,” Mabel went on. “She had a son to love. She had a household to run. She had a semblance of respectability despite having left her husband. She was not mad to want those things for herself, and at the Glen, she would never have known them.”
All of which was to say that Mabel wanted to have time with Richard for herself, wanted pleasure and passion and to have some small interlude where she wasn’t solely the unpaid companion to Orla and Wealtha, always expected to make polite noises as they fretted over the strength of the tea.
“Are you going a little mad, Miss Fielding?”
“Perhaps I’m recovering my sanity.” Kisses were notorious for waking sleeping princesses, weren’t they?
“What of Miss Blackstock? Do we attribute a sound mind to her?” St. Didier’s question struck Mabel as casual, a way to steer the conversation in a lighter direction.
If only he knew, though he must never know.
“Honestly, I think Wealtha grows desperate. She had hoped to inherit the Glen, despite Orla’s warnings to the contrary, and she has reached her majority without an offer of marriage.
She will tell you she has been courted, but she twists facts into French knots to support that perspective. ”
“Are you afraid of her?”
Would any topic cause St. Didier to hesitate? “No, not afraid. I avoid provoking her, and you should too.”
They arrived at the first shop, a fashionable modiste who overcharged but did actually employ some French seamstresses.
“If Miss Blackstock’s temper is that formidable, you should warn her brother,” St. Didier said.
“Sooner or later, he will see Wealtha in a taking, and that will be all the warning he needs.”