Knight For A Lady (Brides By Chance Regency Adventures Book 3) Page 3

  “Well thought of, Mrs Tuffin. But you are always ahead of me. What I would do without you, I cannot imagine.”

  She bobbed a curtsy, simpering, “As if I didn’t know what you like, Reverend, after all this time.”

  The ritual, repeated ad nauseam on a daily basis, revived Edith’s sense of entrapment and she had all to do to prevent herself from screaming.

  Mrs Tuffin was bobbing at the guest. “And would his lordship prefer ale, sir?”

  “No, no, Mrs Tuffin, he is going to take lemonade with us.” Surprise entered her uncle’s voice. “But you know Lord Hetherington?”

  “No indeed, Reverend, but a body can’t be about in the village and not discover who’s who.”

  “Of course, of course. It’s my housekeeper, Mrs Tuffin, my lord.”

  “So I gathered.”

  Edith was glad of the respite afforded by this little piece of byplay and the housekeeper’s subsequent distribution of the lemonade. She took her glass in a hand that was not altogether steady and was glad of the excuse of her recent faint. Her uncle would take it for the result of that instead of her inner turmoil.

  His care and kindness, for which she must be eternally grateful, had nevertheless become suffocating as her strength began to return. The dread spectre of the past was hardly worse than that of her potential future. The dawdling life of the village would not suit her in the least, but she knew not how to counter her uncle’s insistence that this time she must see common sense and make her home with him as he had entreated her to do years ago.

  For this present, while she was too weak to think of how to acquire another position after the debacle in Bath, she was obliged to accept his enthusiastic hospitality. But kind though he was, love him as she did as the surrogate father he’d been from her childhood, Edith could not think without abhorrence of remaining under his roof for years, and turning into one of these twittering village spinsters with nothing to do but make herself useful about her uncle’s parishioners. Teaching, if she could hope for another school to take her on, or a private family in need of a governess, was preferable to such a life. Unfortunately, her uncle saw it as drudgery and could not be brought to understand that it gave her a degree of pleasure to use her intelligence in the cultivation of young minds.

  She came out of her reverie to find her uncle and Lord Hetherington engaged in a discussion about the resumption of hostilities in India in April, against Holgar, who had not been a party to the treaty the previous December with his fellow Maratha rulers.

  “We had hoped Adgaon, which was my last engagement, would have ended the war, so I had deemed it a better time to have sold out than it might have been.”

  “Well, well, we must hope Wellesley and Lake may do the trick this time without your assistance, my lord.”

  “Indeed.” Lord Hetherington set down his empty glass and rose. “I must go, sir. My horse is shod by this time, I imagine, and my agent will be champing at the bit.”

  “Eddows? An excellent man you have there, my lord. He has kept the place going all these months.”

  “So I apprehend.” He stepped across to Edith, looking down at her, his expression quizzical. “I trust you will suffer no ill effects, Miss Westacott. Take care of yourself.”

  She took the hand he was holding out. “I must thank you, sir.”

  “You must not. A trifling service.”

  Aware as she had not been before of the warmth of his touch, Edith withdrew her hand, glad her uncle took this up.

  “Trifling? No indeed, my lord. We are indebted to you. But let me see you to the door.”

  He bustled out and Lord Hetherington, with a valedictory smile towards Edith, followed him. She watched him go, noting the straight back and the riot of auburn hair that must have been a devil to tame in his soldiering days.

  A desire to run her fingers through those curls attacked her and she banished it on the instant. What, had she run from one hideous deceit only to fall into error all over again? No, she was done with it. No man should be permitted to capture her imagination, especially one as far above her station as he could be.

  Chapter Three

  Insipid as the evening was, Niall felt the more irritated for the comparison he could not help making between the ladies at the Manor and the one at the vicarage. For this he must blame Lady Tazewell who, inevitably he supposed, brought up the afternoon’s misadventure.

  “I do hope Miss Westacott did not suffer for her swoon. Was it the heat?”

  Niall nodded at the liveried servant who was waiting to spoon soup into his dish.

  “It seems she has recently been ill and is not yet fully recovered.”

  Miss Burloyne exclaimed at once. “Poor thing! I thought she looked to be out of frame. But she was able to walk? You did not have to carry her?”

  Surprised at her interest, Niall looked across the table. “She was a little unsteady, but she remained on her own two feet, yes.”

  “I suppose you were obliged to take her arm, though?”

  “Don’t be silly, Delia, of course he must have done so,” chimed in Lady Tazewell. “Was she very ill? She looked distressingly skinny.”

  “Oh, very skinny indeed. Quite gaunt, in fact.”

  Surprising in himself an impulse to refute this as a slur, Niall curbed his tongue, instead turning the subject. “A fortunate encounter, as it turned out, for I was able to make the acquaintance of your vicar, Tom.”

  His host looked up from his bowl. “My vicar?”

  “Reverend Westacott.”

  “Yes, my dear fellow, but the vicarage is in your gift, not mine.”

  Startled, Niall stared at him. “Are you telling me the village is not part of your estate?”

  Lady Tazewell chimed in at this point. “Is it not, Tom? Good gracious! And I have been visiting Mrs Ash’s old mother in her cottage in the belief it was my duty.”

  Her husband gave her the doting smile that made Niall feel positively ill.

  “An excellent thing too, my love, for until Hetherington here has a chance to — er — to…”

  Reddening at the ears, he faded out and Niall intervened, having no desire to encourage the ladies in the subject of his potential marriage.

  “But how is this, Tom? I thought I had understood the boundary between our lands, but it seems I was mistaken.”

  Tom laughed. “The truth is the villagers consider themselves part of the manor of Tazewell and have always done so. It is not part of the entail, however, and my great-grandfather sold the village and its environs to Roland’s great-grandfather. A bribe or a debt, my father thinks. Or it may have been the Lowries wanting to extend their lands. This is not our principal seat, as you may know, so…”

  “It was not thought shocking to sell the land, I apprehend?”

  “Quite so.”

  Niall was still grappling with the implications when Lady Tazewell, a twinkle in her eye, laughed across at him.

  “Then it appears it was very proper, Lord Hetherington, for you to rescue Miss Westacott.”

  “Yes, indeed,” agreed her shadow. “A matter of duty even.”

  The hopeful note in Miss Burloyne’s voice was not lost on Niall. He acknowledged the sally with a faint smile, addressing himself to his meal. But the image of Miss Westacott’s wan features came into his head, and he recalled the incident with a lift of pleasure.

  In a matter of minutes, she had proven herself more than capable of intelligent conversation, adding a dry wit and a deal of courage. Whereas Tom’s magpie of a bride, vivacious though she was, had nothing beyond the commonplace in her head. As for Miss Burloyne, whom he could not acquit of setting her cap at him, a more tediously empty-headed wench he’d yet to meet.

  He could see why the somewhat staid Tom had been captivated, for the lady Jocasta Crail, as she’d been before her marriage according to her fond husband, was a pert little piece with a sunny temperament and a bubbly personality. She had evidently learned the knack of twisting her spouse around h
er little finger early on.

  For himself, the prospect of a life in company with a woman who could talk of nothing but furbelows, fashions and gossip — unless it was a catalogue of her friend’s attributes designed presumably to make him think her a suitable wife — was anathema. When he came to marry, as he now must since the succession had to be secured, he wanted more of a helpmeet than a decorative addition to his estate.

  At that moment Tom, breaking off what he was saying, cast a glance at his wife as she giggled over some joke with Miss Burloyne. Lady Tazewell caught her husband’s look and the smile she gave him was both intimate and full of affection.

  Niall felt obliged to revise his cynical view. Perhaps there was more to the girl than he had thought. But if she imagined he would succumb to the lures she was throwing out on behalf of her friend, she was mistaken.

  The evening was not completely wasted. It was more pleasant to dine in company than at his own board in solitary state, and the meal of substantial courses was excellent. Niall enjoyed two sorts of roast, but refused the pigeon pie in favour of a particularly good hare in cream sauce. He managed to avoid a syllabub but partook of the dish of snow cream pressed upon him, which he found fresh and light.

  Since Tom, who had come into this minor property of his inheritance when he came of age, knew far more about managing estates than he did, Niall was able, when the ladies retired, to get some of his more urgent questions answered.

  Lord Tazewell did not encourage his guest to linger over the wine, however, and all too soon Niall found himself besieged once more when his hostess insisted upon Miss Burloyne entertaining the small company with a song. Since she accompanied herself, playing an ancient harpsichord, Niall realised he was being shown yet more of her accomplishments.

  Miss Burloyne’s voice, like her person, was pleasant enough, her playing adequate. Yet the performance lacked spark, even to one unused to hearing much more than a fiddle and raucous male voices around a campfire. In a word, Miss Burloyne was a dull creature and Niall could almost feel pity for her attempts to catch a husband.

  He was no Adonis. The reverse, if anything, for his years in the field had roughened him in both face and manner, as he was obliged to admit. Yet this earldom, irksome though it was to him, had made him prey to spinsters of the ilk of Miss Burloyne.

  Unlike Miss Westacott, who clearly had no designs upon him. He recalled how she had pokered up at even a mild compliment and at once felt intrigued. It occurred to him that he now had the perfect excuse to revisit the vicarage. An apology was due to the Reverend Westacott.

  Estate business kept Niall from carrying out his resolve for two days. He lost no time, however, in demanding of his agent why he had not told him of his interest in the village of Itchington Bishops.

  Eddows, an energetic fellow who showed little evidence of his advancing years beyond a grizzled head of hair and an occasional moment of deafness which Niall suspected was largely selective, peered up at him in the direct way he had from his inferior height and pursed his lips.

  “If you recall, my lord, you requested me to spare you the details until you’d had a chance to acquaint yourself with the general pattern.”

  Niall did recall it, reflecting for the first time that his attitude must have caused the man a deal of difficulty. His conscience smote him. “I did, didn’t I? I beg your pardon, Eddows. I’ve hampered you somewhat with my megrims.”

  The man’s mouth relaxed. “Not at all, my lord. I have merely to continue to do what I have been doing for years until you direct me otherwise.”

  Niall could not repress a grin. “That has put me firmly in my place.”

  A bark of laughter escaped the agent. “I did not intend it so, my lord. I can well appreciate how the burden has come upon you without preparation or warning. You may rely upon my hand on the reins until you feel competent to take them yourself.”

  Horrified, Niall threw up a hand. “My dear Eddows, you may wait a lifetime! No, no. You would do better to train a man to replace you than rely upon me.”

  An austere look was cast upon him. “I believe I am good for a few years yet, my lord.”

  “I certainly hope so. I would be lost without you, my friend.”

  Eddows looked gratified. “However, I had intended to ask your lordship if you would object to my son becoming my apprentice. He is down from the university and I am hopeful of his proving useful.”

  “Ah, yes. I understand from Lord Tazewell that your family has served the Lowries for generations. Well, I am not minded to break with tradition. By all means, employ him as you see fit.”

  Eddows nodded, apparently considering the subject closed. “As to your interest in the village, my lord, the boundary takes in the entire environ except the woods, which mark the start of Lord Tazewell’s lands.”

  “Yet I gather the villagers consider themselves part of Tazewell’s estate?”

  A thin smile creased the agent’s lips. “An ancient feud, my lord, which exists between Itchington Bishops and the neighbouring village of Long Itchington. It need not trouble you. Beyond the odd battle on either of the village greens on certain holidays when the villagers are stirred by over-indulgence, there is scant attention paid to it these days.”

  Niall let it go, impatience returning. “But the Reverend Westacott? He’s been the incumbent of the vicarage for many years?”

  “Throughout my tenure, yes. He came here as a young man.”

  “And never married?”

  “As I understand it, my lord, he abandoned all thought of it when he took in his brother’s wife and child. A naval gentleman, sir, who had the misfortune to lose his life at Toulon in ’93.”

  “How old was Miss Westacott then?”

  “She must have been ten or eleven. I doubt Mr Westacott could afford a wife as well.”

  Niall was tempted to enquire more particularly into Miss Westacott’s more recent life. But instinct, as much as good manners, warned him she would take such impertinence in bad part. But his curiosity was aroused and he took the earliest opportunity of carrying out his intention to rectify the unintentional omission.

  The unaccustomed heat had abated after a bout of rain on the previous day and Niall drove into the village in his cousin’s phaeton and left his groom, who had accompanied him into his new life, in charge of the horses.

  Approaching the vicarage from the front this time, he was charmed by the slate roof and old brickwork, both a patchwork of colour mellowed by time, the diamond-patterned casements and the gothic ivy-covered porch.

  Mrs Tuffin opened the door to him.

  “Oh, my lord, have you come to see Reverend? I’m afraid he’s off about his rounds.”

  “Then I’ve timed it ill.”

  “Miss Ede is in the parlour, my lord, if you’d care to step in.”

  Niall was conscious of a strong desire to see Miss Westacott, but he hesitated. “Is she resting?”

  “She’s laid down upon the day-bed, just as Reverend insisted.”

  “Then I should not disturb her.”

  “Well, there’s two visitors already, my lord, so I doubt you’ll do that. I’ll announce you.”

  With which, she gave him no opportunity to retract but took the hat out of his hands and set it down on the cluttered hall table, bustling to a door at the front rather than the back room he’d entered the last time.

  Perforce Niall followed her. He heard his name and stepped into a bright room, surprisingly neat, where three ladies were engaged in animated conversation.

  His spirits sank as his gaze took in Miss Burloyne and Lady Tazewell, seated on chairs to one side of a chaise longue, upholstered in green velvet, upon which Miss Westacott half-lay, her back against the scrolled end.

  Inwardly cursing, Niall bowed and murmured a greeting to the other ladies, his gaze straying to Edith Westacott. She looked, at first glance, little improved in pallor. But as he neared, he could see a healthier glow about her eyes and cheeks.

  “You l
ook a deal better, Miss Westacott. I take it you’ve been sensibly resting?”

  The smile he remembered came. “I’ve been given no choice, sir.”

  “And an excellent thing, too,” chimed in Lady Tazewell. “Have you also come to see how she does, Lord Hetherington? I declare, we were quite put out yesterday by the rain, for Delia and I were most anxious after that dreadful faint.”

  “You would not have found me at all, Lady Tazewell, had you come yesterday. My uncle insisted upon my keeping my bed, though I felt perfectly recovered.”

  “But you’ve been allowed up today.”

  “Yes, my lord, but upon conditions, which is why you find me languishing like an invalid. It is too ridiculous and I feel a perfect fraud.”

  “Oh, but you should take care, Miss Westacott,” came from Miss Burloyne in a voice of concern. “Your housekeeper told us how ill you’ve been.”

  “I do wish Mrs Tuffin would not keep harping upon it. Anyone would suppose I’d been at death’s door.”

  The irritated note revived memories of the other day and Niall made no attempt to break in upon the twittering protests of the ladies. He was irritated himself, realising how he’d hoped, at the back of his mind, to resume the easy conversation he’d enjoyed with Miss Westacott. And, let him be honest, to satisfy his curiosity. But that was now impossible in the presence of the two ladies from the Manor.

  Lady Tazewell caught his attention.

  “When you are recovered, Miss Westacott, you must come and dine with us.”

  Watching Miss Westacott, Niall thought he saw a shade of annoyance cross the pale countenance, and she answered with a touch of reserve.

  “You are kind, Lady Tazewell, but I don’t think —”

  “Now do not say you will not come, for I insist upon it. Your uncle too.” A trill of laughter grated on Niall’s ears. “We are so dull, Delia and I, with little to amuse us, you must know, for we have read the latest Ladies Magazine from cover to cover and I promise you if I am obliged to set another stitch in Tom’s new nightshirt I shall fall asleep over it. Do say you will come and save us from dying of boredom.”