Chapter 19
Mabel dropped Richard’s hand as they approached the place where the path from the fishing cottage opened onto the Glen’s park.
“I am reluctant to return to the house,” she said, gaze upon a facade she’d come to love. “I don’t want this outing with you to end.”
Richard set down the empty hamper. “I am supposed to say that all will be well, and we’ll have many such outings. That today is the first of many lovely days for us. I dearly hope that’s all true.”
How she adored his honesty. “You would rather not go in there.”
“But for meeting you, darling Amabel, I wish I’d never set eyes on the place. I have all my heart ever thought it desired—a title, property, legitimacy, means derived from the land rather than trade—but with those great boons has come disappointment.”
“I call it betrayal.” Mabel had been pushing that word to the margins of her imagination since leaving Ingersoll’s office and maybe for much longer.
“Not only are we betrayed—you by Orla’s secrecy regarding the past and me by her thievery and lies—we are supposed to somehow sort out a future course for her while we reel with this disappointment you speak of. ”
“And do that,” Richard said, “while Wealtha sighs and pouts and expects some prince of the Dales to propose to her and her soon-to-be-gargantuan settlements.”
Mabel permitted herself a brief lean against Richard’s chest, holding him loosely and fortifying herself with his embrace.
“If Wealtha had any sense,” she said, stepping back, “she would realize that huge settlements almost guarantee a mercenary union.”
“Wealtha has sense.” Richard picked up the picnic basket and offered Mabel his arm. “She also has ambition, guile, and determination. I will ask the duchess what’s to be done with such a young lady, whose marital portion is merely generous rather than enormous.”
“Will I ever meet this duchess?” Mabel was asking about more than an introduction to a family connection. Richard had to know that.
“Of course. And when Lily has put her seal of approval on you, aided by Sorcha, formerly Lady Barclay, you will be inundated with invitations, and nobody will dare mention any previous forays you might have made into polite society.”
“Must I make another foray into polite society?” The prospect daunted, even as Mabel also sought to redress a grievance she’d been done under the very nose of that Society.
“That is for you to decide. If you tell me the name of the scoundrel who took such unforgivable advantage of you, I will see to it that he’s urgently enjoying the sights on the Continent.”
The grass underfoot was acquiring the springy resilience of summer growth. The lengthening shadows were softer than in cooler seasons. Spring was yielding to warmth, light, and long, busy days.
Things change. “May I decide whether to take on Mayfair at some future date?” Mabel asked.
“Of course, or you may decide Mayfair does not deserve your attention. I can invite Chanderton and his duchess out to Hampshire, or up here to Yorkshire. Before you make their acquaintance, I would also like for you to meet my brother and his new bride.”
Richard would never, ever take family for granted. Mabel liked having that in common with him.
“I feel the need to do some weeding,” she said as they gained the path to the terrace steps. “Several weeks of it.”
“Amabel, you are not taking on Orla by yourself. We will approach her together, when we’ve had a chance to sort out options and verify a few details.
An appointment with her banker is in order, and as to that, I want to find the deed to the house Joseph Fielding left you.
Whatever real estate he bequeathed to you had to be recorded in the land records, and we will want that document if Orla proves contrary. ”
Richard was a businessman. A viscount, too, and an exceedingly impressive companion at a picnic, but also a man of business. What a handy sort of fellow to have about.
“I wonder if trade is so denigrated by the landed classes because people who succeed in commerce acquire skills and means that imbue them with power irrespective of standing.”
“You must raise that theory with His Grace of Chanderton when you make the duke’s acquaintance. Are you truly intent on weeding, Amabel?”
He had always used her name, her true name, the one Papa had chosen for her. “No. The weeds will behave until our next spate of rainy days.” Amabel mounted the steps with Richard at her side. “This day has been upsetting and wonderful, and I am very glad I shared it with you.”
She wanted to kiss him, but all three maids, Kepler, Cook, and—more to the point—Orla and Wealtha might be peering down on the back terrace.
“If you continue to bestow such melting glances upon me, Amabel, my dignity will desert me entirely. Supper is less than an hour away, and I must compose myself for that ordeal.”
Mabel patted his arm. “Take courage, my lord. I put strawberry trifle on the menu, and that is Wealtha’s favorite dessert.”
She untangled their arms and started for the terrace door.
“Amabel.”
Richard remained at the top of the steps. His cravat had a few wrinkles, the toes of his boots were dusty, and his hair could use some combing, but to Mabel, he was dreams come true and wishes granted.
“Richard?”
“Until I take my dying breath, and beyond if the Deity allows, I will recall this day with more fondness than words can convey. The Glen is a house. Grand, impressive, and lovely in its way. You are the home my heart has longed for.”
Warmth, sweet and piercing, suffused her.
“That is unfair, Swidhelm. You say such things when I cannot kiss you witless in retaliation. I will have my revenge.” She extracted the handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbed at her eyes.
“I never cry, blast you, but I will immortalize your declaration on a sampler and shed a tear for every stitch.”
“Good.” He strode forward, looking quite pleased with himself. “I am new to this declaration business, and one wants to do his bit properly. What was that?”
The sound of breaking glass came from inside the house.
“Somebody dropped a vase,” Mabel said, though she knew as surely as Thunder took naps that nobody had dropped anything.
Another resounding crash shattered the late afternoon peace.
“I don’t care how fine the fabric is,” Wealtha bellowed. “I will not wear dowdy fashions just so Mabel can frolic about with my so-called brother!” Three more crashes in succession punctuated her sentiment.
Richard set down the hamper. “Wait here.”
“You wait here. I am accustomed to her tantrums, and the sight of you will only—”
A teapot flew out an open window and crashed to pieces on the terrace flagstones.
Mabel picked up her skirts and ran, Richard half a step behind.
The scene that greeted Richard in the informal parlor resembled the aftermath of a riot. The three women perched on the sofa wore various expressions of shock, though Mrs. Tait’s gaze might also have been a bit gleeful. She held a tea cup, which she’d in all likelihood forgotten.
A curtain was torn and hanging askew from the rod. The glass framing two sketches had been cracked beyond all repair and the sketches left upon the carpet. The tea service was no more.
St. Didier stood before the ladies, putting himself between Wealtha and her guests.
“What in blazes is going on here?” Richard asked.
“My dress is already a horror in progress,” Wealtha said.
“I will not have it. Mabel is to sew my clothes, not spend her days larking about in a closed coach with the likes of you. You are illegitimate, in trade, and a mushroom! You can only mean to ruin her, and she is foolish enough to allow that.”
The carpet was littered with porcelain. A fleck of scratch adorned St. Didier’s right cheek, which was red compared to the left.
Wealtha Blackstock had a great deal to learn about who allowed what at Shepherd’s Glen.
“I have plenty of time to sew you a new dress, Wealtha.” Amabel spoke calmly as she gestured for the ladies to take advantage of the open door. “The past few weeks have been trying for you, but you have no need to indulge in histrionics.”
Histrionics was a vast and charitable understatement. The ladies sat as if rooted to the sofa. St. Didier remained poised to intercept enemy fire.
“I have every need!” Wealtha shrieked. “You are stupid, Mabel Fielding. A stupid, pathetic spinster without a groat to your name. You are a charity case, and you haven’t even sense enough to admit it.
So what if you went to Mayfair for a few weeks years ago?
Nobody cares, and you were a complete failure.
I have settlements, and I am prettier—everybody says so. ”
She grabbed the porcelain shepherdess from the mantel, and Amabel’s hands balled into fists.
“Put that down, Wealtha.” Amabel’s words vibrated with warning. “That shepherdess was Papa Joseph’s last gift to me, and destroying her will only bring you regrets.”
“I will make sure of it, Miss Blackstock,” St. Didier said. “Toss that memento, and you will not be received in any proper household with a hint of London connections.”
“Best do as Mabel says, Wealtha,” Mrs. Tait added. “You’ve made your point very”—she glanced around at the destruction—“emphatically.” She took a sip of her tea but did not put the cup down.
“Wealtha,” Amabel said, “this solves nothing, and if you think—”
Wealtha drew her arm back.
Richard seized her about the waist, pried the shepherdess from her fingers, and handed it to St. Didier.
Wealtha thrashed until Richard got a grip on her wrists.
“That is enough, Wealtha. Ladies, you will excuse us. Miss Blackstock has suffered a series of shocks that have overcome her nerves. She needs peace and quiet in which to compose herself.”
Wealtha struggled against his hold, but he did not intend to let her loose.