CHAPTER THREE
“Gone?” Laura stared aghast at her mother. “How can that be, Mama? He was in no condition to travel!”
“Indeed, I quite agree with you, dearest, but once his servant arrived with the traveling carriage, Lord Hastings was adamant about leaving. He —”
“I beg your pardon, Mama, but who is this Lord Hastings, and what had he to say about whether Mr. Johnson was fit to travel?”
“Well, you see, dearest, Lord Hastings is Mr. Johnson — or perhaps I should say Mr. Johnson is Lord Hastings. Evidently there was some sort of misunderstanding last night about his identity,” Mrs. Marsh added as her daughter’s indignation changed to blank surprise and back again.
“But he told me his name was Johnson! Do you not remember that you asked me his name at breakfast this morning, Mama, and I told you he was Mr. Johnson?”
“Yes, but when I addressed him as such this afternoon, he denied that his name was Johnson. He did say you had called him that last night, although to be strictly accurate, I should say he thought I had called him Mr. Johnson last night. He mistook me for you when he woke up to find me in his room,” Mrs. Marsh explained.
Studying her parent’s slightly pinkened cheeks with a sapient eye, Laura declared, “You have only to tell me that he asked you to marry him, Mama, to confirm my belief that our late guest is a dangerous lunatic and we are well rid of him!”
“Now you are being completely nonsensical, Laura,” Mrs. Marsh said, with an assumption of dignity that was belied by a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I found Lord Hastings to be a perfectly rational young man with charming manners.”
“You only think him charming because he flattered you, and what proof do we have that he is Lord Hastings or Lord Anybody? For all we know of the man, he may assume a new identity every day of the week. And why was he in such a hurry to leave when he knew the doctor had ordered him to remain flat for several days for the sake of his brain? He could be running from the law; the Bow Street Runners may be on his trail. We may have been harbouring a dangerous criminal in our home!”
Twin devils danced in Laura’s eyes as she warmed to her subject, but Mrs. Marsh brought her daughter’s flight of imagination to a close, saying calmly, “Now, that is quite enough, my dear. The injured man had told me he was Lord Hastings and that his widowed mother, who worries about her only child, was staying with Lady Crofton at Belfort. I was about to send word to Belfort when his groom arrived looking for Lord Hastings. He came to the house after learning about the accident in the village. If you still find anything sinister about the situation you may consult with Lady Crofton, although I would strongly advise you against confiding your lunatic theory to Lady Hastings.”
Laura grinned at her mother’s dry tone while imparting this advice.
The two women were in the parlour awaiting the call to dinner.
They had not met since breakfast, Laura having spent the entire day with Mr. Judson planning the spring planting schedule and discussing various aspects of the business of running the farm.
Much of their discussion had taken place in the big warm kitchen presided over by Mrs. Judson, who had been trying to fatten Laura up for several years.
A pressing invitation from her buxom hostess to sup with the family had led to the consumption of a gargantuan meal in the company of the farmer’s five lively children, ranging from fifteen-year-old Jem down to baby Polly, a doll-like creature of two-and-a-half, who ended up in Laura’s lap where she dozed off amidst the noisy hum of family interactions.
The children’s initial shyness at finding “Miss Laura from the big house” seated at their table had quickly worn off, leading to some hilarious, unguarded speech, and Laura had lost sight of the time in her enjoyment of the novel situation.
For the second evening in a row Laura had rushed through her dressing, postponing her original intention of looking in on the accident victim before dinner.
Her casual inquiry into his condition upon entering the parlour had elicited the news of his unexpected departure from her mother.
Her first intemperate reaction behind her, she sat across the hearth from her parent, digesting the information, a thoughtful crease in her brow.
Mrs. Marsh’s expression was also pensive and her gaze was fixed unwaveringly on her daughter’s face. After a moment she gave a little laugh and said brightly, “What on earth were you thinking, dearest, when you implied that Lord Hastings might have asked me to marry him? Such a ludicrous notion.”
“What? … oh, yes, of course … unthinkable,” Laura agreed, her eyes on her fingers busily combing through the long fringe of her paisley shawl.
“Except that something must have put the thought into your mind.” When her daughter failed to respond to this invitation, Mrs. Marsh abandoned subtlety, asking bluntly, “Did Lord Hastings by any chance ask you to marry him, dearest?”
“I give up,” Laura said on an expelled breath.
“Your intuition where I am concerned is unerring as usual, Mama. Yes, the demented creature, doubtless in a moment of delirium, did have the temerity to propose marriage to a stranger. At the very least, he is a frivolous person with a perverse sense of humour. Most likely he is a confirmed flirt, having been thoroughly spoiled by a doting mother. I would wager that a legion of foolish females has continued the work she started.” Suddenly convinced that she was babbling, Laura stopped abruptly.
“And what did you reply?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How did you answer Lord Hastings’ proposal?”
“You would not have had me dignify such idiocy with a reply, surely?”
“How uncivil of you, Laura. No wonder the poor man was eager to leave. You must have grievously wounded his masculine sensibilities.”
“Nonsense, you are teasing me, Mama, but I am persuaded you will agree that we are well rid of the tiresome creature and will likely never hear from him again.”
“Hmmm,” her mother replied noncommitally when Laura’s raised eyebrows seemed to demand an acknowledgment. Mrs. Marsh continued to study her daughter in silence until Burns appeared in the doorway to announce dinner.
“At last,” Laura declared, jumping to her feet. “Although I shan’t be able to eat a thing, Mama. Mrs. Judson successfully plied me with food for the better part of the afternoon.”
During dinner Laura entertained her mother with droll stories of the Judson children’s antics. Neither woman referred to the brief tenure of Lord Hastings at Wellstead Farm again that evening. Nor did his name come up in the three days that followed his abrupt departure.
Life resumed its even tenor in the Marsh household. The late winter routine engaged Laura’s hands and mind, and the few hours when they had sheltered a concussed accident victim, who had been less than truthful about his identity, drifted to the back of her mind and were nearly forgotten.
It was on the fourth day after the accident that two letters arrived at the Marsh home and ruffled the tranquility of its occupants, though not to the same degree.
When she entered the dining room for the midday meal, Laura found her mother in an oddly abstracted frame of mind.
Mrs. Marsh murmured conventionally in response to her daughter’s greeting but followed this with a decidedly random reply to a gay query about her morning’s activities that brought Laura’s head up from the serviette she was draping across her lap.
“Is there something on your mind, Mama?” she asked, her eyes following her mother’s to the fingers fluttering aimlessly about the tableware.
Mrs. Marsh’s gaze lifted to her daughter’s face momentarily, then flickered over the impassive countenance of the butler placing a dish of vegetables on the table. “No, no, dearest … nothing to speak of.”
“Thank you, Burns, we’ll serve ourselves now,” Laura said, with a fleeting smile at the butler as he withdrew in silence. She thought she detected a hint of disappointment beneath his dignified bearing, but her main concern was with her parent, who was helping herself to a modest amount of food.
“Will you have some bread, Mama?”
Laura offered a plate, keeping her eyes on her mother, who shook her head. “No, thank you, dearest.” Mrs. Marsh smiled across the table, then lowered her gaze to her own plate again.
“Mmm, this fricassee of chicken is delicious,” Laura said, savouring the juicy morsel she’d speared.
“Yes.”
Noting that her mother’s ready agreement had not been based on actual tasting, Laura sighed inwardly and prepared to probe for clues to the excitement or agitation she sensed behind the abstracted manner. “Did you have any callers this morning, Mama?” she asked, assuming a casual tone.
“What did you say, dearest? Oh, no, no one called.”
No human contact to account for the preoccupation, then. A letter perhaps? Laura chewed and swallowed another bite before asking, “Has anyone gone into the village for the post today?”
“Yes, Sukie stopped at the receiving office after visiting her mother this morning.”
“I don’t suppose there was anything of interest in the post?” Laura continued, trying a different approach when nothing else was forthcoming. “We had a letter from my godmother just last week.”
The silence lasted long enough that Laura was mentally framing more direct questions when her mother began slowly, “Well, actually there were two letters today. One was from Lady Hastings and —”
“Who?” Laura was at a loss for a second before her brain made the connection. “Oh, do you mean our late patient’s mother?”
“Yes, she wrote to thank us for our care of her son.”
“Does she propose to deliver her thanks in person?”