Chapter 1 - Common Consideration?
Posted on 2009-04-11
Judith, Lady Ferrol, gave a long sigh. Even a deaf man could have heard the slam of the main door.
"That'll be the master, milady," said Hoyle. "Hedges said he was headed this way. Saw him walking about the park he did."
"Indeed." Judith, Lady Ferrol passed the cup and saucer to her housekeeper. "I'll have the veil, Hoyle, if you please. And you needn't be prompt about bringing in the tea things. Let Mr Ferrol wait for your pleasure, if only just this once."
There. She ought to have said Sir Lionel. And she ought to have corrected the slip. But Judith was fed up with should and ought, at least where this man was concerned. And now she must face what promised to be a shattering interview.
Judith fussed a bit with the veil, her ears alive to footfalls in the hall. He would swagger, of course. The new Sir Lionel, a cousin of her late husband's, was a stranger to her, but no matter. She'd had his measure at a glance. At the funeral his eyes had held a greedy, smug expression that begged to be slapped away.
Slapped? Judith closed her eyes. What was she about, to be thinking of violence? And yet it was violence that this man had come to offer. What other word would describe a man who ejected a widow from her home? Ah yes. Cruel.
Sir Henry's death was not cruel--that was a mercy, if the truth were known. But the fate to which his death consigned was.
The door to the green salon came open. "Sir Lionel Ferrol," said Hedges. His voice, Judith noted, was laced with disapproval. Dear Hedges. His devotion was touching.
"Lady Ferrol," said Sir Lionel, coming forward. "Please, do not get up on my account. After all, I am hardly a guest."
Must he rub it in? Judith did not miss the smile that accompanied this remark. Insufferable man! The sooner she was gone from Hainsworth Hall, the better! She extended her hand, and he bowed over it with practiced grace.
His eyes were watchful. Was this because he could not see her face? What a very good idea! In future, Judith decided, she would always wear the veil. "I have instructed Hoyle to give you one of the front bedchambers," she said. "With so many coming in for the funeral, and on such short notice, I'm afraid it is the best we can do. Hoyle," she added, "is having Sir Henry's chambers readied. I suggest you consult with her about the particulars."
Sir Lionel looked surprised--and pleased. He moistened his lips. "I was wondering whom I might ask," he said, "about the items that are to remain with the house."
An awkward silence descended; Judith did nothing to break it.
His gaze shifted. "This room," he said at last, "is quite charming. It is called…" He raised an eyebrow.
"The family has referred to this as the green salon. When you take up residence, you may call it whatever you wish." And not a moment before, she added silently.
She said nothing else, and eventually Sir Lionel took a turn about the room. What else could he do, for she had not invited him to sit down! Allowances must be made for a new widow, Judith realized. This, too, was a very good thing. She needn't exert herself on this man's account.
Lionel Ferrol was, like her late husband, most attractive. He was tall, and either his tailor was skillful or his shoulders were better formed than most. But his face had a pinched expression Judith could not like.
Sir Lionel halted before a portrait. "This is very fine. Surprisingly good, considering the rest."
Which told Judith exactly what he thought of the condition of the room. Well, she had done her best. When she married, she had no idea that Sir Henry Ferrol had no sense with money--or that her own fortune would be run through so quickly.
Lionel Ferrol continued to study the portrait. "Quite a lovely girl," he said. "A member of the family, I take it. Which means this will remain with the house? Who is she, by the bye?"
It was Judith's turn to smile. "My father commissioned that likeness," she said. "when I was eighteen. It was done by Sir Thomas Lawrence. And," she added, "it shall not remain with the house."
Sir Lionel's brows climbed higher. "Your father? I beg your pardon, but Lawrence is rather above the touch of a mill owner."
Judith's chin came up. "If you had bothered to study the family line, Cousin Lionel, you would know that the person to whom you refer is the father of Edwin's wife, Jillian. My father was Lord Charles, fifth earl of Delahunt. Or didn't you know?"
Sir Lionel looked stricken.
"I shall be out of this house within a fortnight," Judith continued. "You can appreciate, I trust, that Sir Henry's illness was both sudden and unexpected. As such, my plans for the future are uncertain."
Sir Lionel made a vague gesture. "There is the dower house."
"Which is occupied by Sir Henry's grandmother. I'll not displace the dowager Lady Ferrol, if you please." Judith hesitated. "Then too, there is Sir Henry's sister to consider. Bernice has always made her home with us."
"No doubt she will wish to live with her grandmother," he said quickly.
Judith gave no answer. Sir Lionel raised his brows. "Surely you do not think she wishes to live here in the Hall! That will never do!"
"You are now the head of the family. Bernice will naturally look to you for protection. Her dowry, I fear, is not what one could wish. But she is a credit to the family, as Sir Henry would say. Bernice, as you know, is quite attractive."
"Is she? I did not notice."
"Black is not a becoming shade, Cousin Lionel."
He smiled slightly. "It depends upon the woman, does it not?" His gaze shifted between the portrait and her veiled face with unbecoming intensity. Odious man!
"I think it would be best if, for the present, I took a house near the village," she said. "This would enable me to close to my friends in the parish."
"Here?" Sir Lionel's brows descended. "A house in the village is not at all suitable for the dowager Lady Ferrol. Especially," he added, "as she is the daughter of an earl."
Goaded, Judith put up her chin. "I shall certainly remain in the neighborhood," she said crisply. "I have my eye on several charming houses, as a matter of fact. As such, Cousin Lionel, it will be confusing to have two women known as the dowager Lady Ferrol. Therefore I have decided to turn back the clock, as it were. You may call me Lady Judith."
The opening of the door silenced his reply. That it would have been cutting, Judith knew by the expression on his face.
Hedges came directly to her chair. "Luncheon will be served shortly, milady," he said. "Would you prefer to take yours here?"
Lionel Ferrol was again studying her portrait. "Yes, thank you," said Judith. "I believe I shall."
Sir Lionel turned and flashed a sudden smile. "Might I join you, Lady Judith?"
"No, thank you," she said promptly. "I have had quite enough for one morning."
Hedges did not immediately withdraw. "Are you at home to Mr and Mrs. Peers, milady? And Mr Pinner is here. He claims to have an appointment."
"I shall certainly see Mr Pinner, Hedges." Noticing Sir Lionel's curled lip, Judith added, "Mr Pinner is my solicitor."
"I thought Thatcher handled the estate business."
"This has nothing to do with the estate. Which reminds me. Hedges, as Sir Lionel is in now in residence, you will consult with him regarding the running of the house. Thank you, Hedges."
Lionel Ferrol began to protest, but Judith held up a hand. "Come now, Cousin Lionel," she said, as soon as Hedges left the room, "we shan't stand upon ceremony. You must have everything to your liking, now that you are here." And, she added silently, you will begin by paying for your meals.
"I marvel that you are strong enough to see a solicitor. I've always understood that your constitution was…delicate."
With effort, Judith controlled her temper. "Thatcher will no doubt inform you that it was I who handled the financial arrangements, regardless of the state of my health. As to seeing a solicitor, I find I haven't the luxury to do otherwise. Good day, Sir Lionel." Now he had no choice but to leave.
Unfortunately, her sister-in-law chose this moment to come bursting into the salon. "Mr Pinner is here," she said, without preamble, "which must mean that he has found a place for us in Bath. Do not keep me in suspense, Judith. Has he found a house?"
Judith gave Bernice a look. Bernice pursed up her lips and turned to Sir Lionel. "Good afternoon, Cousin," she said politely. She returned to Judith. "Well?"
Judith did not answer right away.
Bernice brought her hands to her hips. "It's no use looking like that, Judith," she cried. "The house will be mine as well as yours. I demand to have my part in the decision."
Sir Lionel smiled slightly, made his bow, and left the room.
Bernice's frown followed him. "Well! One would think he was pleased to turn us from our home!"
Judith removed the veil and folded it. "He is pleased to have inherited the title, certainly. What he will say when he discovers your brother's debts is another matter."
Bernice turned round. "He won't saddle us with those! He cannot!"
"No," said Judith quietly, "he cannot. We shall have little enough to live on as it is."
"Nonsense. I have Mama's fortune."
Mama's fortune had been Bernice's comfort for years. What she would say when Thatcher disclosed the exact amount of her income remained to be seen. Judith simply said, "Thank God for that," and let it pass.
Bernice settled into the sofa opposite Judith's chair. "Never mind. Bath is just the place for us. It's not precisely the fashion, but it's better than Hainsworth. Anyplace would be. And besides, everyone knows that one may live in Bath at very little expense."
"If one chooses to live in a boarding-house, yes. Ring the bell, will you? I have no objection if you remain during Mr Pinner's call. He has been to see Mr Thatcher, at my request, and will explain to us the state of our finances."
And so it was that Bernice heard, first-hand, what Judith had known for several years. Sir Henry's modest fortune, as well as the estate, was entailed. What was left of Judith's twenty thousand pound dowry was very little.
"Would that William had lived!" cried Bernice.
Judith willed herself not to respond. William was the name of her son, stillborn while Bernice was in her teens.
Mr Pinner continued to speak. "The dower house remains a possibility," he said, looking at Judith over the top of his spectacles. "And I have made inquiries about situations in Bath."
Bernice snatched at one of the sheets he held out. "Oh no," she said, after glancing at it. "Gay Street will never do. And what is this? A set of rooms? Not a house?" Bernice cast her gaze to the ceiling. "Men have no understanding of a proper situation."
Mr Pinner held out another page, which Judith took. "One hundred pounds," she said slowly. "I am afraid this is a bit too expensive."
Bernice snatched it away and read it. "Judith, it isn't as though that is a whopping amount! I mean, it is for a set of rooms on a pokey street in Bath. But for an entire house? This one might do very well."
Judith did not reply. Indeed, there was no point. Henry had no notion of living within his means, and his sister was much the same. It was all Judith could do to keep the household running properly. Her late husband's gaming expenses were another matter.
Mr Pinner cleared his throat. "At your request, milady" he said, "I have been able to locate several houses in the country which might be suitable." He gave her another look. "You did say you wished to remain in the area?"
Bernice groaned; Judith gave her a withering look. But Bernice would not be silenced. "A house here? In the middle of nowhere? Buried in a grove--a former hunting lodge, no doubt! Miles and miles from polite society!"
Judith ignored her and addressed Mr Pinner. "Which of these do you recommend?"
Mr Pinner inched his chair forward. "This one, milady," he said, holding out a page. "It was fitted up for the young squire and his wife some years back. With his father's passing, the family now resides in the mansion. The widow," he added, "has chosen to remove to Bath."
"Would that we could do the same!" cried Bernice. "Judith, be reasonable! I mean, really. A cottage?"
"And the others?"
Mr Pinner shuffled the pages. "It so happens that there are several vacancies in the area. "Badger's Walk," he said, "is in Kellynch village, not so far from the Lodge. And Curlew House …"
"Badger's Walk?" Bernice cried. "I'd rather die than live in such a…a hovel! And Kellynch village is miles and miles from anywhere!"
"You may live with your grandmother in the Dower House if you prefer," said Judith mildly. "Or petition your cousin to remain here. It makes no difference to me." She returned the papers to Mr Pinner. "I would like to see each of these before making my decision," she said. "Miss Ferrol," she added, giving another look to Bernice, "may accompany me if she wishes."
"Of course I shall accompany you!" Bernice's lovely brows knit into a frown. "Young squire…" she murmured. "His father's passing…"
All at once her head came up. "Judith," she cried, aghast. "You don't mean to live in Uppercross Cottage! Do you?"
Chapter 2 - Hearth and Home
Posted on 2009-04-19
The eves were tangled with last year's wisteria and the front windows were dirty. Leaves covered the gravel walk. Obviously, Uppercross Cottage had fallen into neglect. Fortunately it was furnished. Other than a few pieces inherited from her mother, Judith would be bringing very little into the household--except for the portrait. There would be no place to properly display it, save in her bedchamber, but she was not about to leave it at Hainsworth Hall for Lionel Ferrol to ogle.
Of course, Bernice was unhappy over everything associated with Uppercross Cottage. One by one she pulled the Holland covers from the furniture, with varying expressions of distaste.
"Lovely," she said. "This one's faded as well. Judith, we shall have to recover every piece! Where shall we sit? How shall we entertain guests? Not that there is anyone to entertain in this desolate place."
"There is the lady of the Great House."
"Please. Henry and I called on her shortly after she took up residence in the mansion; you were indisposed. That woman had the Baronetage displayed on a bookstand, open to her family's page. She had the effrontery to invite us to look up our line."
Judith had to smile. "Did she indeed. We must warn poor Jillian not to call on Mrs Musgrove when next she comes to visit."
"Judith! Jillian cannot stay with us! Not in this house!"
"Why should this year be any different? She comes at the beginning of--"
"--April, like clockwork! In her so-fine barouche with the four matched horses. And her trunks and trunks of clothes! And then, whenever she speaks, there's that dreadful Manchester twang. Was there ever anyone more provoking?"
Judith could have answered this, but she kept silent. At last she said, "I think this house will do very nicely for us."
Bernice gave an unhappy huff. "Even if I wished to call upon the squire's wife, which I do not, the mansion is a quarter-mile distant. I cannot walk all that way. We simply must have a carriage, Judith."
"At present, I do not see the possibility. We shall outfit ourselves with boots for walking. Walking," Judith added, "is most invigorating."
Bernice gave a wail. "But I have no desire to become a great walker. Or to be browned and coarsened by the sun. You have no idea."
Judith took Bernice's hands in her own. "Dearest, we must find our feet. How would it be if we removed to Bath and then were forced to return to a house like this because we'd run through our funds?"
Bernice said nothing; her lips formed into a pout. "Temporarily, then," she said at last, her voice pleading. "Only temporarily, Judith. Please."
But quitting Hainsworth Hall was more difficult than Judith had foreseen. Twelve years of accumulation had to be gone through--for two straight weeks. And just when Judith thought she was finished, another chest of drawers would be discovered--and then another. Closets, bookshelves, trunks in the attic--it was maddening.
And of course, Judith must sort through all of it. Why, for instance, had she saved the primrose gown from her come-out? It was ugly even then! Ah yes, now she remembered. The pretty lace could be salvaged. But what had she seen in Child Harold's Pilgrimage? She hated the very sight of Byron! Then she recalled that Mr Sedgwick had given it to her. He had written a kind inscription in the flyleaf, hadn't he? Judith read the words and tenderly closed the cover. In spite of herself she pressed the book to her heart. Dear Mr. Sedgwick.
It was nothing, of course. He was nothing. He had come to one of their parties when they were in Town, and he called at their house in Mayfair several times after--when they had had a house in Mayfair. They had spoken privately then--and he understood her plight. He was not a particularly attractive man, but she had been so very lonely. Even now she could picture Mr Sedgwick's pale young face, so earnest, as he presented the volume. His hands, she recalled, were long and beautiful, a pianist's hands--
Pianist? Judith rose and put the book--and her foolish memories--aside. There was a battle brewing over her Broadwood Grand, and she was not about to back down. Sir Henry had bought it for her as a gift--a guilt offering, naturally--with money he'd won who knew where. But the pianoforte was beautiful, and it was hers. And it was coming with her to Uppercross Cottage.
Sir Lionel did not take her announcement well. "That instrument," he said, "belongs in a concert hall. Not in a renovated farmhouse."
"I beg your pardon?"
"Aha, you see, I know the history of your future abode. A cottage, made over from a farmhouse. Quite a pretty edifice, if one cares about verandas and French windows." Sir Lionel's sneer made it evident that he did not.
"Shall a farmer's dwelling be dignified by a Broadwood Grand?" he continued. "I think not. Besides," he added, with a glance to her hands, "you cannot play."
Judith could only gasp at his effrontery.
He made a vague gesture. "That is, of course you play. But not as this instrument deserves! This," he said impressively, "was made for an artist. Hainsworth Hall has a music room which, when my renovations are complete, will be worthy of it."
"Your . . . renovations?"
His smile displayed a row of perfect white teeth. "I'm afraid I misspoke," he admitted. "I ought to have said my extensive renovations."
The veil concealed Judith's trembling. What conceit! "Nevertheless," she cried, "the pianoforte is my property, Sir Lionel. And I have no intention of leaving it behind for you to . . . to maul!"
Unaccountably, he laughed. "Ah, so at last you acknowledge the title. I was wondering when you would. You could not call me Cousin Lionel forever. Nor," he added, "can you wear that veil forever."
Judith ground her teeth. "You, sir," she said, "are the most maddening man I have ever encountered!"
He laughed again, and Judith left the room. The sooner she was gone from Hainsworth, the better!
And yet, what she had thought were a scant collection of belongings turned out to be a mighty pile. Coachman John and his boy made trip after trip with the waggon. Sir Lionel was not on hand when Judith and her sister-in-law said their final good-byes.
"Four miles is not so great a distance," Judith had said to so many in the parish, and she said it again now. "With Mother Ferrol in the dower house, you will see us quite often, I daresay." She did not add that such visits would be possible only due to the kindness of Sir Lionel and his carriage. He would not be offering it any time soon.
Fortunately, Alice Garrison had agreed to keep house for them. She brought with her two of the Hainsworth staff, as Sir Lionel had imported several of his own. They went ahead and in a remarkably short time the cottage was set in order.
All that was left was to settle in. On that first night, as Garrison cleared the dinner service, Bernice brought out her diary.
"Now let me see," she said. She nibbled at the end of her pencil as she thought. "Tomorrow we might expect, if we are lucky, a call from the rector and his wife. Scintillating conversation to be had by all. And perhaps, after that, the squire's wife will grace us with her presence. If she chooses not to, who else is there?" Bernice consulted her diary. "The butcher? The baker? The candlestick maker?"
"It isn't as bad as that," said Judith. "In a village of this size, there must be several families worth knowing. Certainly in the outlying countryside there are houses of some merit."
Bernice sighed heavily. "Not that I know about."
"Please, do not slouch, dear. And do put that book away. We must simply make the best of it, that's all."
"Until Aunt Jillian arrives," said Bernice. "And then I'll die of shame, I truly shall."
"If we do not die of exhaustion first," Judith said lightly. "Shall we have some music? The pianoforte has not been tuned, I fear, however . . . "
"Are you expecting me to play? I have not touched the keyboard for ages!" Bernice gave a gusty sigh. "I suppose all that is left is to stitch handkerchief edgings. Which is the greatest bore imaginable." Her voice took on a plaintive note. "If only we were in Bath."
Judith held her tongue.
An hour before noon their first caller arrived: a round, bright-eyed woman by the name of Mrs Poole. "My dear Lady Ferrol," said she, after making a deep curtsey. "We are all a-flutter here, having your ladyship dwelling among us and all. You are, of course, most welcome."
As soon as Bernice was introduced, she hastened to say, "We shall be here for only a very short time, Mrs Poole--perhaps through the end of the summer. Lady Judith wishes to remain in the area while her affairs are being settled." She gave a sidelong look to Judith--which Judith ignored.
"My plans are, at present, unsettled. Won't you sit down, Mrs Poole? Bernice dear, will you slip out and ask Garrison to bring tea?"
Mrs Poole was eyeing every detail of Judith's attire with great interest. "You are too kind, your ladyship." She placed her hands on her knees, and then burst out talking. "I couldn't believe my ears when Mrs Sheardon came by with the news that you'd taken this place. You see," she lowered her voice, "it was Mrs Charles' intention that her sister and husband take the cottage."
"Mrs . . . Charles?"
"Dear me, how I run on! Mrs Musgrove, I should say, as young Charles is now the squire. Dear Sadie--that's the squire's mother, bless her--has gone along to Bath to live, and a mighty shame we think it. But who can blame her? What with her daughter-in-law turning the Great House upside down with her fine plans, why, she couldn't take it." She paused. "The Great House is what we call the squire's mansion, my lady."
"But I don't understand," said Judith. "The squire's wife wished another family to live here? My solicitor knew nothing of these plans."
Mrs Poole wagged her head. "Ah, but there's the cause of kafuffle, milady. The squire, Mr Charles, he doesn't like to ask his sister and husband to leave. After all, they've lived at the Great House since their marriage, Miss Louisa being injured." She tapped her forehead. "A blow she had, two years ago now, falling from the cobb in Lyme. And might I say, a sad day it was for the Musgrove family. The light of her father's life, Miss Louisa was. She is a different woman now--quiet and shy. We scarcely know her. More like her husband, she is."
Judith worked to untangle this narrative. "Miss Louisa's husband?"
"She's Mrs Captain Benwick now, milady." Mrs Poole spread her hands. "I'm afraid I'm mixing it up."
"He is an army captain?" Judith struggled to understand what sort of man would marry an injured woman. "Was he injured in the war?"
"The navy, ma'am. I must confess, Captain Benwick's not the sort of man I'd picture commanding a ship, though Mr Charles insists that he has. Mr Charles sets great store by Captain Benwick, milady. Even if he does not hunt or ride."
Bernice returned to the parlor and took a seat on the sofa beside Judith.
"Mrs Poole has very kindly been introducing me to our neighbors, Bernice," said Judith. "The squire, Mr Musgrove (who was formerly known as Mr Charles) is lately come into the estate, following the passing of his father in . . ." Judith looked expectantly at her guest.
"In January, milady. Bitter cold, it was."
"Yes, I recall it well. I was ill myself, in fact. The squire's mother now resides in Bath, Bernice. His wife, Mrs Musgrove, whom I believe you have met, lives in the Great House with the squire's sister and her husband, Captain . . . ?"
"Captain Benwick, milady." Mrs Poole had more to say. "The younger boys were packed off to school by Mrs Charles, quick as anything. Which is a good deal too bad. Mr Charles was educated at home, as a gentleman should be. I don't hold with public schools, myself."
"So we have Mrs Musgrove and her sister-in-law, Mrs Captain Benwick, as our closest neighbors, Bernice. Although, sadly, it sounds as if Mrs Benwick might not be living at the Great House much longer."
Mrs Poole's expression became solemn. "That's right, milady," she said. "You've got the matter in a nutshell, you have. What with Mrs Charles threatening to turn them out and all, and the hard winter we've had, Miss Louisa's health took a bad turn. Mr Robinson says she's not been this bad since the accident. He fears the worst."
"Why, she ought to go to Spain," cried Bernice. "My brother--that's Sir Henry Ferrol--took me to Spain when I was a girl." She wrinkled her nose. "At least, I think that's where it was--or maybe Italy. At the time I did not like to go, but it made a world of difference. I haven't been ill since."
Judith gave Bernice a quelling look and returned to Mrs Poole. "Mr . . . Robinson . . . is your apothecary here? Doubtless he knows best."
Mrs Poole slowly shook her head. "What Mr Robinson says is that Miss Louisa shouldn't be moved. Which don't sit well with Mrs Charles, let me tell you. But I daresay she'll tell you herself when she calls. It's all she speaks of these days."
Garrison came in with the tea tray just then, and conversation moved to more conventional topics.
"What a very enlightening caller," Judith remarked, as soon as Mrs Poole had departed.
"A gossipy old snoop is what she is," said Bernice.
"Ah, but I disagree. Mrs Poole seems very good-natured, for all her ill-mannered talk. A change of the guard is never easy. Mrs Poole, quite naturally, is loyal to the late squire. And to his unfortunate widow, bless her. Packed off to Bath. We know what it's like to be packed off."
"It's like I told you," said Bernice. "The squire's wife is a fiend. And the rest of the family are probably the same." She rolled her eyes. "We should have settled in Bath, Judith. You mark my words. You're going to regret this."
Chapter 3 - At Sixes and Sevens
Posted on 2009-05-03
The doorbell at Uppercross cottage was not a proper London bell, but a mounted brass affair with a hanging clapper. When it sounded, Bernice glanced up from her periodical. "Who do you suppose that is?"
"A lady," suggested Judith. "One who is reluctant to use the knocker."
Moments later the door to the salon came open. A square young man bearing a white calling card edged his way inside. He stared at Judith and then, flushing, dropped his gaze to the carpet.
"What is he doing here?" whispered Bernice, behind her hand. "I thought he was supposed to do the garden."
"Presumably he will tell us. Good morning. It's Rudy, is it not?"
Rudy shifted his feet and, from beneath lowered brows, peeked at Judith. "Yes, ma'am," he said.
"Have we a caller?"
"And why are you minding the door?" Bernice cut in. "That is Tilly's job. Or Garrison's."
Rudy looked even more uncomfortable. "Tilly and Mrs. Garrison is taking in the wash, miss," he said.
"And our caller's name, Rudy?" encouraged Judith.
Rudy took a breath. "Mrs. Mary Elliot Musgrove, ma'am."
Bernice gave a sharp sigh. "That can't be right. Mrs. Musgrove isn't a widow. Give the card to me."
"Please, miss. It's what the lady told me to say. Mrs. Mary Elliot Musgrove."
"Very well, Rudy," Judith intervened. "Please show her in. By the bye, we shall need fresh-boiled water for the teapot and a new cup and saucer for our guest. And if you would just pour out the contents of this receptacle?" She indicated a silver basin.
Rudy brightened. "The slops bucket, milady? Eh, sure." But Rudy knocked against the trolley as he hefted the teapot, sending the silver and china to rattling. At a look from Judith he put the teapot down.
"Perhaps, Rudy, it might be best to bring the kettle here to refill the teapot?"
"Judith," hissed Bernice, as Rudy left the parlor with the slops basin. "You cannot be serious!"
"We must be practical, Bernice. China is dear, and we can stand no breakage. Would you mind very much going along to the kitchen to supervise? The water he can manage, but I fear Rudy does not appreciate the delicate nature of bone china."
"Me? You wish me to go to the kitchen?"
"If it bothers you, I shall go myself," said Judith mildly. "But it might take some time for the water to boil…and in the meantime Mrs. Musgrove must be properly greeted."
Bernice rose. "I'd rather face lions," she muttered. But she took the teapot with her.
The door came open and Rudy stood aside, allowing Mrs. Musgrove to squeeze past. And so, Judith found herself face-to-face with the wife of the squire. She was a short, rather wiry young woman who was not much older than Bernice. Like the Ferrol ladies, Mrs. Musgrove was clad in entirely in black. Her cap, Judith noted, was pushed well back to display her crimped brunette locks.
"Mrs. Musgrove, how do you do?" Judith gestured toward the pair of upholstered chairs. "Please, come in and make yourself comfortable. I believe you are acquainted with my sister-in-law, Miss Ferrol?"
Bernice made her curtsey and went out, leaving Mary Musgrove to stare at the closing door.
Judith stepped into the breach. "Bernice will rejoin us shortly. I fear we're at sixes and sevens these days. As you have seen, we have only the houseboy to wait on us this afternoon." She gave Mrs. Musgrove a bright smile. "I'm afraid the poor fellow is not yet accustomed to inside work."
Mary Musgrove's eyes were wide. "Lady Judith," she said in a hushed voice. "Bless me, it is delightfull to have you dwelling in our midst. You have no idea what it means to have a woman of taste and breeding so close at hand."
Judith did not know how to answer. Apparently the presence of the husband's sister could not be said to count. Mary Musgrove was obviously on her best behavior, but her gaze darted to and fro. She was, Judith realized, working to conceal a raging curiosity. "This sweet cottage was your own home, was it not?" Judith said. "How you must miss it. As you see, we've made very few alterations."
"You have worked wonders."
"Have we?" Judith made a vague gesture. "Fresh paint, a few bits of fabric, a handful of treasured ornaments… The furniture you have provided is both tasteful and sturdy." Judith studied Mary Musgrove's face; it was not difficult to guess what she was thinking. "My late husband's estate passed to his cousin, as perhaps you know. The furnishings and artwork remained with the house. I was able to bring very little when I came away. The pianoforte, a few paintings--"
Mary Musgrove's face puckered. "My dear Lady Judith, I know all about entails! Why, my own sweet sisters and I were heartlessly cast from our ancestral home because of a wicked entail!"
"Indeed?" Judith worked to conceal her surprise. "I am so sorry," she said. "I had no idea that you were treated so shabbily. I understood that Kellynch Hall was leased to an admiral and his wife."
"Well, yes," Mary Musgrove admitted. "It was. I was married before that happened--I was almost a child bride, you understand. Two years ago my father and sisters removed to Bath. But one day, Lady Judith, our horrid cousin will inherit my father's title and estate, and then we shall be entirely forsaken!"
Judith decided to change the subject. "The draughts of Hainsworth Hall I was very glad to leave behind."
Mary Musgrove brought her hands to her breast. "Oh, don't I know it? The Great House is impossible to heat properly! That is to say, it can be done, but Cha--I mean, my husband, the squire, has no idea! We have acres and acres of the finest oaks, and yet he will allow only one tree to be cut for firewood." She gave Judith a look. "My health, you see, is delicate. I require warmth; I crave warmth. I tell you, the cold and damp settle into my bones."
"I do understand." Judith understood as well that a discussion of this woman's ailments would be unwise--and never-ending! Then too, there was an awkward point to be got over. Deciding that this was as good a time as any, Judith launched in. "You might think it strange, perhaps, that you and I have never met. After all, a distance of only seven or eight miles separates our estates..."
"Ah, but you are so very much older than I," said Mary Musgrove. "It is perfectly understandable. No offense taken."
This was not what Judith expected to hear! "Then too," she continued, "we move in very different circles. My late husband and I spent a great deal of time in London."
"He was a gamester, was he not?" said Mary Musgrove cheerfully. "As well as a noted huntsman. My father, Sir Walter Elliot, is not a sporting gentleman. And yet he admired your husband very much, Lady Judith. You might find this hard to believe, but my father said often that if he ever did decide to pursue the sporting life, he would do so with the flair and style of Sir Henry Ferrol." Mary Musgrove's expression became earnest. "My father feels deeply about the of importance of style, Lady Judith. He is known to be a stickler in matters of appearance."
Judith smiled slightly. "Sir Henry certainly pursued the sporting life. With a vengeance."
Mary Musgrove's eyes grew very wide, and she drew a sharp breath. "You do not care for sports, Lady Judith?" she burst out. "Neither do I! I declare, we must be kindred spirits! For my husband is hunting-mad. No one understands my misery!"
Mrs. Musgrove would have expounded on this theme, but the sound of horses and a wheeled vehicle silenced her. The rapping of the doorknocker came next. The main door rasped open; a man's voice spoke.
"Good gracious," said Mary. "I do believe that is my husband. Though why he should drive the short distance from the mansion is beyond me. I tell you what," she continued, leaning forward to pat Judith's knees, "it is a compliment to you! I told him that he ought to pay his respects, but the only answer he would give is that you probably needed more time to settle in. Which is a perfectly ridiculous notion. As you see, I decided to come myself."
The latch to the parlor door lifted and the door opened a bit. "You needn't announce me," said the same deep voice. "I'm Lady Judith's cousin. We don't stand upon ceremony."
Judith turned away from the door and hunted for her veil. Blast! It was nowhere to be found! She pulled her cap as far down as she could. This quite ruined the arrangement of her hair, as if that mattered.
She heard Rudy's shuffling step. "A gentleman is here, ma'am. Says he's your cousin."
She could not miss Lionel Ferrol's soft laugh. Of all the days for him to call!
"Good afternoon, cousin Judith," she heard him say. "I was in the area, so I stopped by to see how you are settling in. A charming situation."
Judith kept her face averted and fussed with the tea things. If only Bernice would bring in the teapot she could escape! "Good afternoon," she said at last. "Mrs. Musgrove, may I present my cousin, Lionel Ferrol."
"Sir Lionel Ferrol," he murmured provocatively, as he made his bow.
"Sir Lionel," Judith repeated crisply. "Sir Lionel is the new master of Hainsworth Hall. Mrs. Musgrove," she added, "is the wife of the squire."
Mary Musgrove was evidently quite impressed with Lionel Ferrol, for she fluttered and clucked and gabbled out compliments.
"Why, this is excellent!" said he. "You know all about the Hainsworth estate, Mrs. Musgrove! Lady Judith must not have been the recluse she pretends to be. I wonder if you will give me the honor of your advice, Mrs. Musgrove. I'm in a bit of a quandary."
"But of course!" she cried.
"Here is my question: Shall I repair the wrought iron gates--the ones at the south entrance to the park? Or do you think they too far gone?"
Judith whipped round to stare. Was Lionel Ferrol mad? There were no gates at the south entrance--as Sir Lionel knew quite well. What sort of game was this?
Encouraged by his smile, Mary Musgrove, who had never set foot on the grounds of Hainsworth, went on and on. The gates should certainly be replaced, she declared. But the old iron gates were beautiful and should be replicated. To do otherwise would be to introduce a new creation into the park, and that would never do!
Judith listened in growing dismay. She now discovered something worse--Lionel Ferrol was staring at her. She brushed a stray curl from her eyes. "You," she said under her breath, "are despicable."
That he heard her comment was obvious, but Sir Lionel did not appear to take offense. In his cheek a dimple quivered; he made a slight bow. "I am, now and always, yours to command, milady."
Judith's eyes narrowed. Was he being gallant? What nerve!
Meanwhile, Mary Musgrove continued to talk. She was now describing the changes she planned for the park surrounding the Great House. Apparently she was a woman of some vision, for her plans were extensive.
Judith laid a hand on Mary Musgrove's sleeve, staying the flow of words. "What grand ideas you have," she said, "and it's such a lovely day. Would you mind very much showing us your park, Mrs. Musgove? And then you can explain more fully what it is you mean to do?" She gave a sidelong look at Lionel Ferrol. "My cousin has his carriage here, and I daresay he has nothing better to do. He would be delighted to drive us through your park. Wouldn't you, cousin?"
To her irritation, Sir Lionel was smiling broadly. "But of course. My carriage is yours to command at any time."
"I'll remember that," said Judith. Her mother-in-law had expressed an interest in calling at Uppercross Cottage. She could now abuse Lionel Ferrol's generosity with an easy conscience.
The latch rattled, and all fell silent. Bernice's voice came through the door. "This isn't the stable, you oaf!" she said. "Do get out of the way!" Then the door was thrown back and Bernice came in, bearing a tray with teacups and a plate of eccles cakes. Rudy followed with the steaming kettle.
Lionel Ferrol watched the filling of the teapot with ill-concealed glee. Bernice had matters well in hand as she poured out, but poor Rudy stumbled over Mrs. Musgrove's feet. "May I compliment you on the dexterity of your servers, Lady Judith," he said. "When would it suit you to tour Mrs. Musgrove's park?"
Bernice looked up from her task. "Were you thinking of leaving?" she said. "Now?"
"No dearest, not until we've had our tea."
Lionel Ferrol crossed an elegantly booted leg over the other. "As I've nothing better to do with my time, why not?"
Judith selected a cake from the plate Rudy held out. "You should not make promises you do not intend to keep," she said. "No matter how gallant."
"Touché," he replied.
Bernice entered Sir Lionel's open carriage immediately after Mary Musgrove. "You have some nerve, speaking to Sir Lionel like that," she whispered. "You would never have done so to Sir Henry."
Judith smiled a little as she opened her parasol. "Widowhood must agree with me, Bernice," she said. "I find I care nothing for our cousin's good opinion. It is quite a freeing notion."
Mrs. Musgrove leaned forward. "I know exactly what you mean, Lady Judith. And yet, it was very good of Sir Lionel to ask about the gates. Not many recognize my unerring taste in matters of decoration."
Judith could not resist. "Would you like to see them?" she said.
"See what?" said Bernice.
It was difficult not to laugh. The look on Sir Lionel's face would be beyond price! "The iron gates at the south entrance of Hainsworth."
Bernice looked at her blankly. "But there are no--"
"--no shortcuts to Hainsworth, I fear," interrupted Judith. "It will be eight miles there and back, which will doubtless encroach on Mrs. Musgrove's afternoon--as well as her nerves. The roads on the estate are in shocking condition."
"It will not encroach!" cried Mrs. Musgrove, bouncing up in her seat. "What have I to do all afternoon? As for my nerves, why, I have the Elliot constitution! And it is not as though I have never been on bad roads before. Our roads are much worse, but does my husband care? He is too busy with his manager and tenants. And," she added, "you must call me by my Christian name, Lady Judith, as we are such close neighbors."
Judith adjusted the tilt of her parasol. "That is very good of you, Mary," she said.
At last Sir Lionel climbed up and settled himself on the driver's seat. "What? No groom?" quipped Judith. It was quite enjoyable to be provoking. What a sad thing that it had taken so many unhappy years to discover this!
Apparently Lionel Ferrol was unused to being abused. He gave her a withering look. "I am not so unskilled as that," he said.
"But the back roads," countered Judith recklessly. "Weren't you fearful of losing your way?"
"I never lose my way, dear cousin," he said.
Judith fell silent. If Lionel Ferrol thought that it was acceptable to address her as dear, that was enough of that. However, as the carriage ventured through the park, with Mary Musgrove calling attention to this and that, an idea occurred to Judith. Lionel Ferrol was as proud as men came, but she had to admit that he was a fine looking man. The set of his shoulders as he handled the horses was enough to prove that he was no fop. Judith stole a look at Bernice. The move to Uppercross Cottage was made to suit her own convenience, really. She had no intention of settling here for good. But perhaps it might be well not to hurry away? Bernice was young--and malleable. If she could manage to tame her pert tongue, she might be just the sort of woman Sir Lionel would admire. She was certainly beautiful enough.
Mary Musgrove gave an exasperated sigh. "He would mar the view," she muttered. "Pay no attention to that man on the hill. All that farmland, all those orchards and forested sections, belong to the Musgroves."
Judith's gaze was drawn to the man. He was not facing them, but Judith could sense despair in his stance. She said, "Who is he?"
Mary Musgrove seemed reluctant to answer. "Charles' sister's husband, Captain Benwick." She shook her head. "He moons about, sighing and quoting poetry. It isn't natural--or gentlemanlike. Not that Captain Benwick is a gentleman. But he ought to engage in sporting and shooting. Instead, he pores over books and music."
"Books and music?" said Bernice. "What have you against those?"
"Nothing, in a well-bred man. But Captain Benwick is a nobody, Miss Ferrol. He met and married poor Louisa after her fall. A most unsuitable match."
"He must love her very much," said Judith quietly. "Mrs. Benwick is quite ill, according to Mrs. Poole. How is she, truly?"
"Oh, if you've been listening to Mrs. Poole's account of things, Louisa is at death's door! She is very weak, certainly. I would be the last to suggest that Louisa is anything other than very ill. We were hoping, Charles and I, that she and Captain Benwick would be able to remove to a home of their own this spring. But the doctor has advised against it." Again she sighed.
Judith gazed about. "There are not many houses here. I would imagine that Mrs. Benwick would provide company for you, when she is feeling up to it."
"Oh, Louisa was a lively, merry companion before her fall. But now she is a shadow of her former self. Her husband is always by her side, you see, singing to her or quoting texts and poetry."
"Not very amusing," agreed Sir Lionel.
Judith made an immediate decision. "Does Louisa venture out with her husband? I would like to invite them to dinner," she said. She heard Mary's sharp intake of breath and suppressed a smile. "And you and your husband, of course." Judith hesitated, studying Lionel Ferrol's shoulders. He was listening to every word, she knew. "And you too, cousin, if you would care to come."
He looked back at her and winked. "I would."
Judith looked across at Bernice; she was smiling as well. "He shall be your dinner partner, if you do not object," she whispered.
"But Judith," Bernice whispered back, "that leaves you as the odd fish out. Whom shall we find to be yours? For there is no other unmarried gentleman here--not one!"
A gurgle of laughter bubbled up that would not be suppressed. "Perhaps," suggested Judith, when she was able, "perhaps Rudy has a brother?"
Chapter 4 - Provocation!
Posted on 2009-05-17
Sir Lionel's response was everything Judith hoped for. When she mentioned her desire to see the gates, he gave a perfectly genuine start. Almost immediately, his eyes narrowed to slits. One brow went up and a hit of a smile appeared. He placed a gloved hand to his heart and murmured. "A hit!"
And then it was her turn to be surprised, for Sir Lionel promptly announced that he would be delighted to do so. Soon the carriage left the squire's park and was bowling toward Hainsworth. Sir Lionel maintained a flow of conversation, which Judith knew was for Mary Musgrove's benefit. Beatrice spoke from time to time, and for her sake, Judith took part. It was good to see the rapport growing between Bernice and Sir Lionel. Naturally, nothing could happen for many months, but this delay was no bad thing. For a time Judith had had a garden. She understood the principle of sowing seeds.
It was a lovely spring day. Enormous trees hung over the lane; the sun shone luminous through the tender green canopy. Judith abandoned the conversation and gave herself over to wonder. How was it that she had she missed spring's arrival? The road descended into a dell, and the farmland dropped away. Judith quietly closed her parasol. On either side of the lane, beneath protective and ancient trees, stretched a bluebell wood--as blue as the skies above. A sweet scent filled the air. The horses dropped to a walk. Even Mary Musgrove became quiet.
Sir Lionel turned slightly. "Rather magical, isn't it?" he said quietly.
"I--" Judith worked to form a suitable reply but none came. How long had it been since she had seen such a sight? A blackbird, perched on a hazel bush, launched into song. Sir Lionel brought the horses to a halt. Together they sat silently, caught by the beauty.
Presently Sir Lionel spoke. "I imagine you are accustomed to such sights," he said.
"No. We are--" Judith hesitated. She spoke in a whisper; her voice sounded strained and hollow. "We are usually in London at this time of year."
"Oh!" Mary Musgrove bounced up in her seat. "London! How I envy you!" She tucked a strand of hair beneath her cap. "I suppose," she continued, "that you went often to dance at Almack's?"
A reply was expected. Judith spoke reluctantly. "My…husband was fond of that sort of thing."
"But you were not? Bless me, how can anyone not be fond of dancing?"
Judith returned her gaze to the woods, but it was no use. The spell was broken. She sighed. Sir Lionel turned in his seat and urged the horses into a trot.
When they emerged from the dell, they could see the Hainsworth mansion. It stood on a rise of land, a mighty edifice of gray stone with rows of windows. Judith averted her eyes.
"How magnificent!" said Mrs Musgrove. "Why, it reminds me of Kellynch Hall." And then, of course, there was a good deal said about the ancestral home of the Elliot family--and the baronetcy, awarded during the reign of Charles II.
Sir Lionel did not stop at the Lodge to examine the non-existent wrought-iron gates but drove directly to the house. Before the butler could reach the carriage, Sir Lionel jumped down and lowered the steps himself. He opened the door and held out his hand, looking pointedly to Judith. Mary Musgrove was on her feet immediately and leaned to put her hand into his.
"Well!" Beatrice hissed into Judith's ear. "I like that! Must she be first in everything? That right is yours!"
Judith hid her smile. This was some improvement, for Bernice never bothered with anyone's precedence but her own. "Please, dear," she whispered back. "You know it's not becoming to brangle. Besides, I much prefer to exit after the others. There is less swaying to the carriage. And less chance to make a spectacle of myself."
"Spectacle?" said Bernice, over her shoulder. "You have never made a spectacle of yourself in all your life!"
How could Judith answer? How could she make Bernice understand? Like her brother, Bernice Ferrol was never ill. She had no idea what it was to depend on others for the simplest tasks. As for being carried up flights of stairs by weary porters, why, it was beyond anything!
Sir Lionel offered one arm to Bernice and another to Mary Musgrove. Judith held herself rigidly upright. That he was planning to walk was evident, and she was already tired. Sure enough, he led them around the side of the house to the gardens. Judith kept her gaze fixed ahead, but she could not resist stealing a look at him from time to time. For appeared that Sir Lionel had not been foiled by her request. He had a plan.
Sure enough, at the entrance to the kitchen garden, he halted. "Here," he said, pointing. "This is the gate."
Judith willed herself not to smile. Mary Musgrove wrinkled her nose. "But," Mary sputtered, "it is so small! Not imposing or grand in any way!"
Sir Lionel merely raised his eyebrows. "I am sorry if you misunderstood."
Judith lifted her chin. "You said gates," she said to him. "Here is one. Where is the other?"
His lips twitched into a smile. "Come," he said. "I'll show you." Around the kitchen garden they marched, with Bernice close on their heels. "The gate is gone," he said, "but here are the posts." He bent and drew the trailing ivy vines aside.
Judith compressed her lips. "Very clever," she said at last. "I give you this: you have familiarized yourself with the estate in a remarkably short time."
Sir Lionel bowed.
"Where is the missing gate?" Mary Musgrove wanted to know.
"It was probably melted down," he said gravely.
"Melted down!"
"For cannon balls. Er, during the Hundred Years' War."
"What?" whispered Judith.
"We are an ancient line, Mrs. Musgrove," said Sir Lionel gravely.
"Indeed we are," agreed Bernice.
"The Hundred Years' War took place in France, cousin!" hissed Judith. "Or didn't you know?"
He shrugged. "They needed quite a few cannon balls, apparently."
Fortunately, Mary Musgrove was no longer attending. She abandoned the idea of the gates in favor of the house and was studying the windows, standing almost on tiptoe like a child. She glanced at Sir Lionel. Judith could see the question forming in her mind.
So could he, apparently. "Would you care to come in?" he said courteously.
"Oh, yes. Yes, please!"
Judith drew herself up--and realized that she had been leaning on Sir Lionel's arm more heavily than she intended. He made a slight movement. "You do not wish this?" There was a frown in his voice.
"Miss Ferrol," he said, speaking to Bernice. "Would you mind taking charge of Mrs. Musgrove? You, who know the house so much better than I, are the more knowledgeable guide." Bernice and Mary went off leaving Sir Lionel and Judith to follow. He matched his stride to hers, which was surprising. "Now then," he said to her, "tell me why you do not wish to go in"
Judith smiled slightly. "The house lost its charm long ago, I fear. And," she added, "it is not good for the servants to have me return so soon."
She could feel him stiffen. "You see," she hastened to explain, "when I came here as a bride, Bernice was thirteen. She was accustomed to giving orders, and…"
"Aha. A little princess."
"I did not say that, Sir Lionel," corrected Judith. "Then too, Sir Henry's mother was living here. It was only much later that she removed to the dower house. It was…difficult."
"Had to work to establish dominance, did you?"
Judith did not answer right away. "It is not as easy as you suppose," she said.
She would have said more, but she recalled that he ought to be spending time with Bernice. "If you do not mind, Sir Lionel, I would like to remain in the green salon while you attend to the others. You needn't hurry back on my account."
He pulled open the door and held it while she entered. "You have no interest in what I have planned?"
"Bernice will be happy to listen, surely. When you have completed your renovations," she added kindly, "I shall, of course, enjoy seeing what you have done." These words brought a frown, but Judith hadn't the strength to argue.
Nothing much had changed in the green salon. She chose a comfortable chair and sank into it.
"You are tired," he said. Judith could feel his eyes watching her. Presently she heard him moving about; he drew up a chair facing hers. "I came today to deliver this," he said, and brought out a letter. "I intended to give it to you earlier, but in all the hubbub it slipped my mind."
Judith took it and examined the handwriting. It was all too familiar. "Jillian," she said.
"Jillian? Ah, the mill owner's daughter."
Judith gave him a look. But Sir Lionel remained where he was. Judith found she no longer cared, for curiosity had replaced weariness. She broke the seals and spread the sheet.
"Well?" said Sir Lionel.
Judith gave no answer. She read the letter several times. As she was refolding it, she thought of something and checked the date.
"Not happy news, is it?" he said.
Judith drew a long breath. Was the truth so obvious? "On the contrary," she said slowly, "it is a pleasant…prospect."
"Coming to visit you, is she? You said she would." Sir Lionel shook his head. "She's a bit late to attend the funeral."
Must this man always be rude? Judith grasped the arms of the chair, summoning the strength to rise. "Jillian and her husband were out of the country when Sir Henry passed on," she said grimly, "so it is unfair to criticize."
"Convenient," he said.
"I'm afraid I must return to Uppercross as soon as possible."
The frown returned to Lionel Ferrol's eyes. "I was hoping," he said, "to offer you some refreshment. You look to be in need of it."
This was hardly a compliment! Did he think her an old woman? "Do you mean tea?" she said, before she could stop herself. Why, she sounded as waspish as he! "I thank you, no. I-I've quite had my fill. I had a cup with Mrs. Poole when she called, and then with Mrs. Musgrove--"
"--whom you are to call Mary," he interposed. "Now that you are bosom friends."
This Judith ignored. "--and another when you arrived."
One brow lifted. "Perhaps you would care for something stronger?"
Goaded, Judith put up her chin. He was being deliberately provoking! "Why, yes," she said. "I would like a little--" she paused to think of something Sir Henry would never have stocked in his liquor cabinet "--a little gin."
Both brows went up. "Dutch Courage?" he said, smiling. "One shot or two?"
Judith gave a sharp sigh. Did this man enjoy taunting her? "Don't be ridiculous, please. You know very well what I mean. I care for nothing, truly. Not tea, and certainly not liquor."
The smile folded into a frown. "I was hoping, at the very least, to offer you Petticoat Tails. I've discovered that Cook makes the most delectable shortbread."
"I am very well acquainted with Cook's shortbread, thank you. My figure is, likewise, acquainted. Too well, unfortunately."
But this was the wrong thing to say, for it invited his penetrating gaze. "Now you are the one who is being ridiculous," he grumbled.
She passed a hand over her eyes. "This entire conversation is ridiculous. I do not understand why we are sitting here arguing."
"We are here because you invited yourself to my home," Sir Lionel pointed out. "To say truth," his voice grew low, "it was only natural that you should come. You belong here, Lady Judith. You were bred for refinement and elegance--and mark my words, this house will be elegant when I am finished." His tone grew harsh. "You do not belong in that shabby cottage."
"It is not shabby."
He made a vague gesture. "I beg your pardon; of course it is no such thing. You dignify your surroundings on every hand. Nevertheless, you understand my meaning--Uppercross Cottage is no fit place for you." He made a face. "You, obliged to socialize with the likes of Mary Musgrove!"
"At least I do not tell her bold-faced lies!"
Sir Lionel was grinning now. "Do you enjoy being toad-eaten, Lady Judith? Of course you do not. But that is exactly what that Musgrove woman is all about! As I took pains to point out to you."
"By lying? I need no tutelage in rank and precedence, cousin!" Judith flashed. "I choose to view my life in Uppercross as an adventure, not a penance. I suggest you do the same."
"Ah, so we are back to that, are we? Can't bear to couple my name with the title? Very well, cousin," he said, "has it never occurred to you that I might be willing to offer assistance?"
"Financial assistance? Certainly not. I prefer to be independent."
"A woman of independent means," he murmured. "That is, until you marry again."
Judith forgot her weariness and jumped to her feet. "Can I be in your presence for more than five minutes without being insulted?" she cried. "Indeed, I think not!" She rose and began to pull on her gloves.
Sir Lionel moved to assist her. She pulled away.
"I meant no insult," he said, more quietly. "Naturally, you would like to marry again. You are young … and so very lovely."
"Naturally I would not!" Judith retorted. "Kindly bear in mind that it was a member of your family, cousin, who married me--and divested me of my fortune. And my respectability."
He shook his head. "Never that. Sir Henry might have been a skirt-chasing cheat, but you remain unscathed."
Judith did not know whether to laugh or cry. What did he know about pain? "You know nothing about it," she said.
"I heard the gossip."
Judith threw him a look and crossed the room to tug the bell pull.
"Making yourself at home, please," he said affably. "It is as I say: You belong here."
The door opened to admit Hedges. He gave a start to see her. "Milady," he said, bowing, "I--"
Judith cut him short. "Hedges, Miss Ferrol and Mrs. Musgrove are somewhere about. Would you be so good as to instruct them to meet me in the entrance hall? It is time for us to depart." And without a word to Lionel Ferrol, Judith swept out of the room. But not before she heard him murmur, "Magnificent."
During the journey back to Uppercross, Judith maintained an icy silence, though Bernice and Mary Musgrove talked so much that Sir Lionel had no chance to notice. Or so Judith supposed, for he maintained a pleasing flow of conversation. Watching his easy smile, Judith's annoyance grew into rage. At last she was so vexed with him that she wished to stamp her feet and shriek. Of course, this was impossible on a number of fronts. If she gave in to her unladylike impulses, she would certainly have to apologize later. And besides, what sort of words could wound a man like Sir Lionel? Curse words, apparently--but Judith knew very little about these. Sir Henry had bellowed incomprehensible phrases whenever he was wretchedly drunk, which mercifully had not been often. But vulgar insults were pointless, for Judith knew that Lionel Ferrol would only laugh at her. Blast!
She decided that the best course of action was to fix her attention on the passing scenery, and eventually the carriage reached the squire's mansion. Although Mary Musgrove begged them to come in and meet the family, Judith was unwilling. "Tomorrow," she promised. "I am feeling rather tired just now."
This was an enormous understatement, but at least it was not a lie. Judith did not look in Lionel Ferrol's direction. He already thought her a poor creature--frail and penniless to boot. This brought to mind another insult. Did he actually think she would become his pensioner?
Still, he was kind enough to help her descend, once they reached the cottage. "You are worn to the bone," he said. "I am sorry. It was too much for you." There was self-condemnation in his tone, but Judith waved it aside.
"Nonsense," she said. "A day in the open air is invigorating." But her rallying tone disguised nothing, for as she walked to the veranda, leaning on his arm, she stumbled against him. How wretched it was to be so weak!
Nevertheless, Judith maintained a brave front until the front door closed. Then she collapsed into the nearest chair, while Garrison fussed over her. "Dear Garrison," she said weakly, "whatever food you have in the house, I will eat. I am famished!"
"I'll say!" said Bernice. "Why, we've had only tea and cakes all this long afternoon. It was awfully stingy of Sir Lionel not to offer us something to eat. I wonder why?"
"I fear I had something to do with that," admitted Judith. She hadn't the strength to sing Sir Lionel's praises to Bernice just now, but neither could she portray him as a miser. "He offered refreshments, and I refused." She smiled a little. "I could not face another cup of tea."
Garrison approached with a package. "Came this afternoon, this did," she said.
Judith reached for it; her lips were nudged into a smile. "From the village? Ah, yes."
"What is it?" Bernice wanted to know.
"What are they," corrected Judith. "They are shoes. Lovely, sturdy walking shoes." She patted the wrapping. "The cobbler assures me that they will be extremely comfortable. Be a dear and open this for me."
Bernice set to untying the string. "Lovely, you say?" she grumbled. "If they're walking shoes, they won't be that! Why in the world did you have them made, Judith? You have plenty of shoes."
"Shoes for the drawing room; shoes for the dance floor. Nothing for country lanes and byways. Which, considering how much time I've lived in a desolate spot like Hainsworth, is a shame." Judith drew a long breath. "Present circumstances aside, I am determined to become more robust. Walking is healthful." She hesitated, and then said, "I would like to walk to church."
Bernice stared at her. "Church? Whatever for?"
Judith met her gaze evenly. "Merely because I can," she said. "I would like to walk to morning prayers."
"Every morning?"
"I think so, yes. You might wish to join me."
"I don't think so," said Bernice.
"This house is rather small, dearest," said Judith. She shifted in her seat and brought out the letter. "Our cousin came today to bring this. Perhaps you'd like to read it?"
Bernice took the folded sheet. "Has Mama written another scold?"
"This is from Jillian."
Bernice hastened to spread the letter and set to reading. "Judith, no!" she cried at last. "Jillian is coming now? We have no room!"
"Of course we do. There are several unused bedchambers upstairs."
"Horrid, dreary little rooms no bigger than a closet! With a narrow bed and a chest of drawers--and scarcely room to walk!"
"I'm afraid so." Judith's voice became unsteady. "And those beds," she said, "have horrid, lumpy mattresses that are as old as Father Time. Poor Jillian."
Chapter 5 - But For A Moment
Posted on 2009-06-07
Mary Musgrove came into the old-fashioned square parlor while untying the ribbons of her black bonnet. And then, because she noticed her husband sitting there, Mary plunked down on one of the sofas and began to talk. On and on she went, scarcely pausing for breath as she poured out the details of her day: whom she had seen and spoken with, and even what she had eaten. Charles Musgrove held back a yawn. Usually he was able to bear with Mary's never-ending conversation, but not today. At last he felt badly for his inattention and applied himself to what she was saying.
Apparently Mary had called at the cottage--and had visited the Hainsworth estate with no less a personage than Sir Lionel Ferrol. She had much to say about the mansion, most of it uncomplimentary. Again Charles stifled a sigh. There was much to ponder over in one of his letters--if only he could get some peace! Of course Mary went on talking. At last Charles looked up and discovered Mary's bright gaze fastened on him.
"Well?" she said. "Well?"
Charles blinked. In all that black--and with that tone of voice--his wife reminded him of a crow!
"Very nice," he said mildly. "It sounds as if you had a pleasant afternoon." And then, intending to bring his part of the conversation to a close, Charles pointedly unfolded his letter.
"Did you hear me, Charles? I said, Mrs. Poole stole a march on us, thanks to you. I do wish you had called on Lady Judith last week when I suggested it. It is a very good thing that I went myself, for Sarah Poole has been filling Lady Judith's head with nonsense."
Apparently Mary was not finished. Charles knew his duty. "What sort of nonsense?" he said.
"That Louisa is practically at death's door!" Mary paused to hunt for her handkerchief. "And," she added, "that I care nothing about her welfare! Sarah Poole thinks I am a heartless brute. She said as much to Henrietta when she was here the other day. It is most unfair--and untrue! Who does she think nursed Louisa back to health after her fall?"
Charles knew better than to answer that question. For it had been Mrs. Harville who had tirelessly nursed Louisa. "Louisa's condition is serious, certainly," he said. "But I don't believe she is as bad as that." He hesitated, studying Mary's expression. At last he decided to speak. "By the bye, Robinson suggested that we hire a special nurse for her."
"Charles!" she cried. "He didn't! What about the expense?"
Charles looked away. "In such a case as this, expense isn't to be considered."
"What a fine thing it is," cried Mary, "when others spend our money for us! Mr Robinson has no idea! I hope you realize that Captain Benwick ought to bear the cost. He may be good for nothing else, but he is Louisa's husband."
Charles did not answer right away. As usual, it was not worth the effort to argue with Mary. He merely said, "Yes, dear," and allowed the subject to drop.
But Mary was not ready to let it go. She pointed to his letter. "I suppose those are Mr. Robinson's instructions you have there?"
"No," he said slowly. "This is from a fellow called Darby--Marcus Darby, old Edgar Darby's grandnephew. The one who went into the navy some years back."
"Oh," said Mary. "The navy."
"Apparently he has been quite successful."
Mary's brows puckered into a frown. "That cannot be right. If he is one of our Darbys, then he is little better than a peasant. Which reminds me. Of all people, Lady Judith has employed Rudy Darby. Can you imagine? He is most unsuitable. If only you had called earlier, Charles, I would have been able to advise her on the hiring of servants!"
Charles returned to the letter. "And a great many other things, I am sure," he said.
Mary gave a cry. "I beg your pardon?"
Charles looked at her over the page. "Mary," he said, "Lady Judith is able to engage her own servants."
"Yes, but you see, I know what is best. I know who has hired whom in all the local houses--and, more importantly, why they were let go. Do not roll your eyes at me, Charles. Who better than the squire's wife to give advice? It is one of my foremost responsibilities!--in addition to giving parties. But you have not told me about your letter."
Charles grimaced. His wife would poke her nose where it didn't belong. Why hadn't he remained in his bookroom like his father would have done? Now he had to tell her about it. Then again, she would likely find out sooner or later. "Marcus Darby--Captain Marcus Darby, I should say--has written to me about Richard," he explained.
"Richard? There is no Richard living here."
"Not for a good many years," he agreed. "But don't go saying so to Mama."
"Good gracious, do you mean Richard Musgrove?" cried Mary.
"The very one."
"Imagine that. Someone recalls your brother after all these years. I wonder why." Mary held out her hand. "Let me see what he says."
Charles gave no answer, and after a moment Mary withdrew her hand. "I suppose being a man of the navy and all, that captain has peppered his letter with curse words and such. Which he certainly would do if he wrote about Richard."
Charles chose his words carefully. "Captain Darby," he said, "is returning to Somerset. And he is bringing Richard with him."
"Bringing Richard? " cried Mary. "What on earth for? It isn't as if we want him!" She wrung her hands. "Bless me. The village churchyard is hardly appropriate, is it? So I suppose we'll have to have him put somewhere in the park. But not," she added, "in the line of sight from any of the windows. I won't have a headstone spoiling the view."
"Mary," said Charles. "Captain Darby says Richard isn't--" He stopped himself just in time.
"I tell you what it is," said Mary. "This Captain Darby person is looking for a financial reward from us. Which he shan't get!"
"Financial rew--?" Charles stared at her. "Eh, why do you say that?"
"Bless me, have you rocks for brains? Why else would he bother to bring a coffin all the way from the Indies?"
"But--" With effort, Charles kept from rolling his eyes. His wife was hopeless!
Mary soon went on her way, clucking over the funeral they would be obliged to host, and what a very good thing it was that she was obliged to wear mourning already.
Charles returned to his letter. The man Captain Darby mentioned was an imposter--of this Charles was certain. Years ago Wentworth had written of Richard's demise, hadn't he? Charles chewed on his lip as he worked to recall exactly what had transpired. What had his mother had said at the time? He couldn't write to ask her about it, for she would likely welcome the news--and the imposter when he came--with open arms. Not that impersonating Richard would be so hard to do. The years at sea--and the near-pickled condition of his person (for Richard drank like a fish)--would have altered him beyond recognition. A few carefully posed questions would do the trick--if only Charles could only think of what to ask! And if the worst were true--if Richard had somehow survived shipwreck in the Indies, why, they would be forced to acknowledge him. And God only knew what would happen next!
Charles's lips compressed. God knew, and so did anyone else who knew Richard. Heaven help the young women in the village! Indeed, heaven help them all!
He glanced up to find that Mary had returned to the parlor. "Well?" she said. "What are you planning to do?"
Charles folded the letter and returned it to his pocket. "I suppose I should write to Wentworth," he said.
Mary brightened instantly. "Oh, yes! And tell him to bring Anne for a visit! I haven't seen Anne for ages. And won't our new tenant impress her? The Crofts are nothing to Lady Judith." Mary gave a little giggle. "Charles, she even called me by my Christian name--at my request, of course. Isn't that lovely? Only imagine. I checked the baronetage. Lady Judith is the daughter of an earl."
"Don't go making up the bedchambers just yet," said Charles. "I wouldn't dream of asking Wentworth to come all this way. He can tell me what I need to know by letter." A sudden thought occurred. "I wonder if Wentworth is acquainted with this Captain Darby?"
Mary wrinkled her nose. "The person you ought to ask about that is Captain Benwick. If the man is related to one of our tenants--not to mention Lady Judith's bumbling houseboy!--you may depend upon it that Captain Benwick knows him very well indeed."
Slowly Charles got to his feet. His wife's suggestion was, unfortunately, a very good idea.
Captain Benwick emerged from his wife's bedchamber at the same time Charles came along the upstairs corridor. The look on his face spoke volumes. Charles gathered his courage and said, "How is she this evening, James?"
Benwick spoke in a whisper. "She is feverish," he said. "But the nurse says that is to be expected. Apparently a fever increases as the day wears on." He hesitated. "That nurse is a godsend, Charles. Thank you. If only I could repay--"
Charles held up a hand. "No more of that, if you please. It is the least I can do for my sister. Now then, how are you fairing?"
Benwick reached into a pocket and drew out a stiff white card. "This," he said slowly, "came just now for Louisa. It is from the woman who leases the cottage. Judith Ferrol, she signs herself. A kinder creature I cannot imagine, Charles, for she knew just what to say to encourage Louisa. Apparently she has had some experience with lingering illnesses." Captain Benwick paused. "Have you met her?"
"Only by letter," replied Charles. "As I know how jumbled a home can be after a move, I haven't rushed to pay my respects. Perhaps I was wrong to wait. Mary was put out and went on her own this afternoon."
Benwick fingered the card. "I must call to thank her for this," he said. "What would we do without kindly old ladies who spread comfort and cheer?" His gaze shifted to the window at the end of the corridor; a faraway look appeared in his eyes.
Charles did not reply. By now he'd learned to recognize what Louisa called Benwick's thinking look. For there would be a quotation--Benwick had them memorized by the score.
"No Spring, nor Summer beauty hath such grace," Benwick quoted, "as I have seen in one Autumnal face." James Benwick smiled slightly. "John Donne," he said.
Charles stuffed his hands into his pockets. The questions about Captain Darby could wait for another day.
The next morning Charles came down to breakfast early. He hung about the dining room for a good while, but Benwick never came in. Eventually Charles made inquiries. No one seemed to know where he was. Finally the housekeeper put pressure on the footman, who went out to Coney--who prised out of the stable boy that Captain Benwick had gone to church for morning prayers.
Church? Before breakfast? Had Benwick lost his senses?
Or had Louisa taken a turn for the worse?
Back went the housekeeper, this time to confer with the nurse, as Charles paced to and fro in the dining room. At last, assured that Louisa was sleeping soundly, Charles tossed off the last of his coffee and set out on foot for the village. Fortunately there'd been no rain, so he needn't tramp over muddy roads.
He reached the church door just as Benwick emerged. Charles grasped him by the shoulder. "Burn it, James," he said, shaking him, "I have been looking everywhere for you! What the devil are you doing here?"
And then Charles realized that the curate was staring, open-mouthed. He ground his teeth. Would he never learn to guard his tongue?
Splotches of pink appeared on Benwick's cheeks. "Louisa is improving," he said quietly. "I came to…give thanks."
Charles closed his mouth; his own face was burning. He'd made an idiot of himself, and he'd embarrassed his brother-in-law. Sheepishly he fell into step beside Benwick. "I knew it had to be something important," he said at last, speaking lightly, "to cause you to forgo breakfast."
Fortunately, Benwick responded in kind. "The coffee pot was sorely missed, I assure you," he said. He talked on about this and that, and soon Charles had Darby's letter out.
"Perhaps the best thing to do," suggested Benwick, once Charles had explained the situation, "would be to travel to Bath yourself."
Charles shook his head. "You don't know how Mama is about Richard, James. One word about the imposter, and she'd set up a screech. And then she'd demand that I bring her here. She'd want to be on hand when Richard arrives. And you know what Mary would say to that."
Benwick gave him a look. "So don't mention the letter."
Charles did not know how to answer this. His mother was a good-natured woman, but even so, she had a way of pulling information out of him.
Apparently Benwick was in a talkative mood this morning. "She's sentimental," he suggested, "as are most mothers. It shouldn't be difficult to set her to talking. For instance, have you a picture of your brother?"
Charles shrugged. "There's one in the gallery. Not a good likeness, though. The artist was a student from Taunton. Henrietta would have done a better job." He kicked at a stone. "Mama won't like me taking it out of the gallery…"
"Then tell her you're loaning it to her for old time's sake."
This was a very good idea. Emboldened, Charles voiced his next fear. "If only I can be certain that this Darby won't show up while I'm away."
"So write and tell him that you won't be at home and that he should not come." Benwick paused. "You have written to him…"
Charles hadn't--and what was worse, the thought hadn't occurred to him. Again his face grew warm. His father would never have neglected to reply to a letter. Charles sighed. What a bore it was. There was more to being the squire than he'd supposed.
And then, because his conscience was well-awake, Charles thought of something else. "James," he said. "I ought to call on Lady Judith. Truth to tell, I've been putting it off because…eh, no matter. Anyway, the thing is, since I'm off to Bath tomorrow, I should do it today. And I'd rather go with you than with Mary." He glanced at Benwick. "The cottage is just down the lane. You don't mind?"
"Not at all."
"It won't take long, I promise. And," he added, "Mary did say that Lady Judith served excellent little cakes yesterday." Charles was feeling much better now. "Truth to tell," he confessed, "you're a dab hand at chatting up old ladies. You handle Mama better than any of us."
"There is no skill in that, Musgrove. I simply ask a question, and listen to the answer. However, it seems a bit early to be calling. Although I…" Benwick's steps slowed to a halt.
Charles followed the direction of Benwick's gaze. At the end of the lane, drawn up before Uppercross Cottage, was a traveling coach--and what a coach! This was no shabby hired affair. A magnificent team of horses, held in check by a liveried servant, captured Charles' attention. He whistled softly.
"I don't suppose…" Benwick began. "No, it couldn't be. He couldn't manage that, not on a captain's half-pay."
Charles tore his gaze from the horses. "James," he complained, "what are you blabbering about?"
Captain Benwick made a vague gesture. "It appears," he said, "that your Captain Darby has arrived."
"Good lord," muttered Charles. He hadn't though of that.
Benwick took hold of his elbow. "Let me handle this, Musgrove," he said. There was quiet authority in his voice.
"Huh?"
"It is better that you stay out of sight," Benwick continued. "If this is Darby, you should choose the time and place to meet him--that is, one suited to your advantage, not his."
This was a side of Benwick Charles seldom saw. Goaded, he squared his shoulders. "I have nothing to fear from an imposter, James. I'll not be cowed by a couple of shysters."
"Very well." Benwick tweaked the brim of Charles' hat. "Keep your head down," he said, "and allow me to do the talking. And for heaven's sake, don't come the squire until we know where we stand."
"A lot you know about this business," muttered Charles.
The brim of Charles' hat lifted. "Confound it, Musgrove," said Benwick, looking him in the eyes, "of course I do. Safeguarding the captain from time-wasters and worse--it's all in a day's work for the first officer. I've years of experience."
"Sounds like a plaguey nuisance to me."
"You have no idea," muttered Benwick. He pushed Charles' hat back down. "Come. It looks like that coachman is getting an earful. Perhaps we can listen in."
The coachman, clad in full livery and perspiring, was clearly uncomfortable. "But the instructions was plain as pikestaff," he protested, speaking through the open window. "This here is High Road, according to the sign. And, if you please, ma'am, there's the name on the house."
"Ma'am?" whispered Charles. "Has Darby brought his wife?"
The coachman pulled a kerchief from his pocket and mopped his brow. If he noticed Benwick or Charles, he gave no sign.
"But I know my sister-in-law," said a clear, musical voice. "She would never consent to live in such a place, Beckett. Surely there is a mistake."
Benwick stepped forward and offered his services. He was able to confirm that this indeed was Uppercross Cottage.
A gloved hand appeared on the sill. "I do not understand this at all, Beckett," said the woman. "We were out of the country for three months. How can so much have changed?"
"Allow me to inquire, ma'am, whether Lady Judith lives here," said Beckett.
There came a sigh. "Very well," she said.
Before Beckett could open the front gate, the sound of footfalls met Charles' ears. He glanced over his shoulder. A woman, dressed in black, was coming up the lane. At first he thought she was Mary, but that couldn't be right. This woman was veiled and carried a small book in her gloved hands. She drew near to the coach. "Good gracious," she cried. "Jillian?"
A second gloved hand appeared on the sill--and then a woman's bonneted head came through the opening. "Judith? Dear Judith, is that you?" The woman struggled with the door latch. Beckett came bounding back and got it open. He hurried to let down the steps.
A woman in stiff gray silk descended and tumbled into an embrace with the woman in black.
"Must be Lady Judith," murmured Charles to Benwick. "Spry old thing, ain't she? I thought the one in gray was going to bowl her over."
"This is a much younger sister, I presume," Benwick whispered back. "Ought we to go away and come back later?"
"Judith, Judith," cried Jillian, rocking her to and fro. "My dear, how came you to live in a place such as this? I can hardly believe my eyes. Why, it is little better than a weaver's hovel!"
Lady Judith was laughing. "How can you say so? It suits me perfectly. Jillian, dear, only consider. It is my very own! I hang the pictures on the walls as I like, and I invite whom I like. Now then, tell your coachmen to bring in your trunks."
"Gracious, we cannot stay with you! You haven't room!"
"Oh yes we have. But I fear your Murphy will have an uncomfortable time of it."
Jillian gave a gurgle. "Judith, you are wicked. Oh," she added, after looking over her shoulder at the coach, "such a time we have had. It would almost be worth it! Truly, it would." She pulled back, her hands on Lady Judith's shoulders. "And look at you. Wearing a veil like a duenna. How horrid." Against Lady Judith's laughing protests, she pulled veil away.
Charles heard Benwick's swift intake of breath and his whispered, "Good heavens." Charles couldn't resist elbowing him. "Some old lady, eh?" he whispered.
"Musgrove, we need to leave," hissed Benwick. "At once. This isn't seemly."
But he was too late, for they had been noticed. "Oh," cried Lady Judith. "Hello." She turned to Jillian. "These must be my neighbors." She gave Charles a warm smile. "How do you do?"
"How do?" said Charles, tipping his hat. "Charles Musgrove at your service, milady."
Lady Judith came forward, still smiling. "Ah yes. You are the squire. And you must be--" She looked a question.
"Commander James Benwick, milady."
Benwick spoke in a strangled voice. His face was so red that Charles struggled not to grin. Had he never seen a beauty before? "As a matter of fact," said Charles, "we were coming to call on you, ma'am."
"But you're occupied," Benwick hastened to say. "We'll call again when it is more convenient." He made a quick bow, took hold of Charles' elbow, and pulled him away.
"But--" said Lady Judith.
"But--" said Charles.
"Come on," muttered Benwick.
Charles fell into step beside him, still grinning. "So much for the beauty of one Autumnal face, eh?" he quipped.
"Have the goodness to shut up, Musgrove."
"She is certainly a beauty."
"A beauty?" Benwick repeated. "I believe the correct expression is a diamond of the first water."
Charles continued with his chuckling. "And that," he said, "explains a lot. The face of an angel and heavenly blue eyes. And a flawless complexion to boot. No wonder Sir Walter never invited the Ferrols to his parties. That woman would take the wind out of Elizabeth's sails." He glanced at Benwick. "You've never met Elizabeth Elliot, have you? Count yourself fortunate. Still, she is a looker."
"If you must know," grumbled Benwick, "Lady Judith very much resembles Fanny."
"Who?"
Benwick's voice sank to a whisper. "Fanny…Harville." He said nothing more.
It took Charles a few minutes to remember that Fanny Harville was James Benwick's deceased fiancée. "Oh," he said.
The two men made the rest of the tramp to the Great House in silence.
To Be Continued . . .