Chapter 5 #2
“You and your scandal-broths and gossip. As if that’ll take care of you in your old age.
” Mrs. Box clucked noisily, then picked up the painting and went to the door.
“Very well. Don’t heed the one who’s looked after you since you were born.
But don’t come cryin’ to me when the money’s gone.
” With a sniff, she swung the door open.
“I’ll have Joseph fetch the trunk. The coach—the hired coach—is waitin’ for you in front. ”
The housekeeper waltzed out with her nose in the air, mumbling, “Lord preserve me, I never thought to see the day when the Taylors couldn’t even keep a carriage.”
Felicity made a face at the doorway. Mrs. Box certainly knew how to rub it in.
Well, at least the dear woman had stayed on, despite her dwindling salary.
Only four servants remained—Mrs. Box, Joseph, one housemaid, and Cook.
All of Papa’s beloved paintings had been sold, as well as his architecture books and drafting instruments.
Even Mama’s jewels were gone, except for the paste ones Felicity used for social occasions.
And still they lacked money. The boys ate as heartily as laborers, and she had to keep up appearances. She’d made every sacrifice she could think of. They dipped their own tallow candles and made their own soap, ate chicken instead of beef, burned fires only when necessary, and rationed the tea.
They had no relatives to help them, and she couldn’t take a position as a governess with the boys to raise.
She’d considered teaching, but it paid more abysmally than writing.
Besides, most schools that would hire her would require her to live on the grounds and then what would she do with the boys?
So she spent her days writing columns, prowling the rooms for more items to sell, and praying she could keep the creditors from devouring them until the boys were old enough to help support the family.
Mr. Pilkington sometimes hinted he’d publish a book of hers if she could find a subject controversial enough for her to sharpen her tongue against, but so far he’d rejected all her suggestions for such a work.
Joseph came for the trunk, and she trailed down the stairs after him.
The last time she’d left for a visit of this sort, she’d gone with Papa.
He’d been invited to the Duke of Dorchester’s to give an opinion on restoring the west wing of the ducal mansion.
She’d gone along to take notes, as she’d done since she was eleven.
During the visit to the duke’s estate, however, she’d discovered a certain aptitude for speaking her mind in such a way that people listened.
Sometimes they berated her for her colorful opinions, but they did listen and even found her witty.
It had been an amusement then, no more. Now it was the only thing garnering her an income.
Pray God she never lost her knack for it.
She repeated that prayer an hour later after a thousand admonishments to Mrs. Box about the boys and after running the gauntlet of their tearful good-byes and sloppy kisses.
She repeated it again three hours later, as the carriage crunched up the snowy drive of the Worthing estate.
She wished she knew what to expect of this visit.
Lady Worthing seemed nice, but who could tell with these countesses?
They often made her feel like a pigeon among peacocks, even when she reminded herself she was smarter and wittier than any of them.
It wasn’t her hostess who concerned her most, however.
It was the host—the rumored pirate. She almost hoped the rumor weren’t true, for a former pirate was sure to be another of those men with groping hands, like Papa’s patrons.
But before Papa’s death, he’d said that the Worthings spent most of their time on an island or at sea, which one would expect of a pirate.
Papa had considered their long absences a blessing, since it meant they didn’t trouble him during his work.
Indeed, they’d been away when he’d taken his fatal dunking in the Thames.
Suddenly, the coach topped a rise and the house leapt into view, banishing all thoughts of her host and hostess.
“Oh, Papa,” she whispered, a lump catching in her throat.
No wonder the Worthings had been so pleased with it.
It was Papa’s best, for certain. He’d always excelled with the Gothic style—the curving lines of the ogee arch, the battlemented parapets, the pointed sashes made to fit the pointed windows.
The style’s imposing, irregular elements reflected her imposing and entirely irregular father.
Tears stung her eyes. Drat him for letting his excesses haul him to ruin!
If not for his weakness for the enjoyments only his titled and wealthy friends could afford, he might have left a legacy as great as that of the brilliant Sir Christopher Wren.
Instead, he’d left only a nearly destitute family and a few beautiful buildings.
Fifty was too young to die. Too, too young.
The coach arrived at the imposing entrance, and she collected herself, wiping away the tears now dampening her cheeks. It was time to be the daughter of the brilliant Algernon once more—the clever Miss Taylor, the amusing Miss Taylor.
The penniless Miss Taylor. With a sigh, she braced herself for the servants’ condescension when they saw she’d traveled by hired coach.
To her surprise, however, the butler supervising the unloading of her trunk was genuinely friendly.
“The gentlemen are out shooting pheasant, miss, and the ladies just now went to join them for luncheon.”
“In this cold?”
“They’ve laid a shooting luncheon at a cottage on the estate. My lady said if you arrived in time and weren’t too tired, you’re welcome to join them.”
She wasn’t tired, but she’d half-hoped to wander the main house a while.
Unfortunately, she suspected that Lady Worthing would prefer to show the house to her herself.
Besides, this wasn’t a holiday—it was work.
And the best time to hear gossip was when one’s subjects were relaxed.
“I believe I will join them,” she told the butler.
“Very good, miss. The footman will show you the way.”
Despite the chilly air, the walk was pleasant, affording her a look at the grounds.
Though winter had stripped leaves from the foliage and killed the grass, the number of trees and the shapes of the hills led her to think the grounds might be quite fine during summer.
A copse startled her gaze in one place, a small, frozen pond glittered like a sapphire in another, and there was a long stand of overreaching oaks that Mama would have liked.
Papa had always enjoyed the contrivances of mankind; Mama had preferred the contrivances of nature.
A short time later, Felicity spotted the hunting cottage the servant had described. Had Papa built this, too? Not Papa, surely. He hated anything rustic. And a wooden cottage with a thatched roof and barkless tree trunks for a door frame would certainly have offended his sensibilities.
The footman ushered her into a scene of warmth and energy.
Three men crowded about the substantial fireplace, discussing the advantages of their weapons while Lady Worthing and another woman chatted in a corner, and the servants bustled about laying a feast of scotch broth, game pies, venison stew, and crusty bread.
As soon as Lady Worthing spotted her, she came forward with hand extended. “You’re here, after all! When you didn’t come last night, I feared the heavy snow might keep you away.”
Overwhelmed by the gracious greeting, Felicity hesitantly took her hostess’s hand. “Some business kept me in town quite late. Then I was afraid to venture out at night with the snow. Most of it had melted this morning, however, so I pressed on.”
At the sound of her voice, one of the gentlemen pivoted to stare at her. The Viscount St. Clair. She froze and her pulse quickened treacherously as his gaze locked with hers. Oh, why must he be here? And why must the sight of him strike her with both fear and anticipation?
Within the cramped confines of the cottage, he appeared even larger and more menacing than she remembered.
Although his unruly hair and the color in his cheeks enhanced his masculine appeal, the flintlock rifle he held with casual ease did nothing to assuage her fears.
In doeskin breeches and a forest green frock coat, he was the very picture of a hunter ready to fire on any troublesome creature thwarting him.
Judging from the bulging game bag at his feet, he could use his weapon with great accuracy.
Her muscles tightened in alarm, but she forced them to relax. She was being silly. Even the arrogant Lord St. Clair dare not shoot her, for pity’s sake. Still, she’d feel far more comfortable if he clutched a cane instead of a gun.
Of course, his knowledge of her identity was nearly as dangerous. Would he expose her? Or had he taken her threats to heart?
“I’m delighted you went to so much trouble to get here,” Lady Worthing said warmly, her gaze flitting from Felicity to Lord St. Clair. “Now our party is complete.”
Felicity wrenched her gaze from the formidable Lord St. Clair. Only six of them? And so conveniently—or inconveniently—paired off? Oh, this would be disaster. “But Lady Worthing—”
“You mustn’t stand on ceremony with me. You and I are nearly the same age, and if you’re as nice as your father said, I’m sure we’ll be friends. So please call me Sara.”
Stunned by this further evidence of her hostess’s graciousness, she stammered, “I-I’d be honored. And you must call me Felicity.” She paused. “Have all your guests arrived then?”