A Banbury Tale (4 page)

Micah’s withdrawn expression relaxed into a warm smile. “You are truly redoubtable,” he remarked. “But I must tell you that I, too, have no wish to wed.”

“Perchance,” Agatha responded, “you, too, will change your mind. You must, in fact. It’s unthinkable that you should leave no direct heir. I do not consider your demise imminent, but one must be prepared, and these things are known to take time.” This matter disposed of to her satisfaction, she returned to an earlier subject, a distinct twinkle in her eyes. “I’ll stake my reputation Mathilda will marry again before the year is out.”

“Done!” Micah said promptly. “Although I leave it to you to choose more conventional stakes.” Agatha smiled. “And I accept the wager in spite of whatever schemes you have in your head. You will urge Tilda to marry, and I shall trust in her own good sense to dissuade her.”

“We will see which proves more influential. I foresee that Mathilda is going to have a most interesting year.” The Duchess studied her escort. “You’re mighty unconcerned with the fate of a girl you’ve known ever since you were a scruffy brat, and for whom you’ve always had a decided partiality.”

“Unjust!” Micah raised his brows. “I’ve a wager of undetermined stakes to win. Timothy is not to be considered, I assume?”

“Decidedly, no.” The Duchess wondered if her godson bore his one-time fiancée a grudge, but her preoccupation with Tilda’s future was interrupted by a distressed tableau. She paid scant heed to the plainly garbed female who stood by the disabled vehicle; it was the second luckless traveler, a young beauty obviously of the Quality, who attracted Agatha’s interest.

“Unfortunate,” she murmured, and signaled her driver to stop. Micah regarded his godmother suspiciously, for her lively interest in people, coupled with a sincere pity for the unfortunate, had landed her in many a scrape. With a seraphic smile, the Duchess leaned across him to open the carriage door.

* * * *

Unrepentant, her tail wagging, Trixie dropped a squirming puppy into Tilda’s lap. “Graceless wretch!” scolded her mistress, but there was laughter in the husky voice. She smiled at her companion. “You see how well obeyed I am?”

Sir Timothy Rockingham rested one booted foot upon the marble bench where Tilda sat. It was a beautiful summer’s morning, and Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson had chosen to sip her chocolate out of doors, where she might simultaneously avoid Eunice’s aimless chatter and sniff the crisp, exhilarating air. “I see,” he murmured, “further evidence of your kind heart.” Timothy blessed his good fortune, for he was not often granted an opportunity to speak with Tilda privately, although Trixie’s golden stare caused him an unpleasant suspicion that the setter had appointed herself chaperon in this uncommon absence of Tilda’s usual retinue.

“Pooh!” said Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson, unmoved by his compliment. “Why do you insist on endowing me with virtues I don’t possess? It is wishful thinking, you know. I am utterly selfish, care only for my own pleasures, and am shockingly indolent.”

She made a charming picture, seated in the shadow of a gnarled and venerable oak tree. Sunlight sparked her breeze-tossed curls into a radiant aureole. “You are magnificent.”

“I know what it is!” Tilda exclaimed, gazing, with disgust upon her gown of white lawn, a pristine confection that had led one ladies’ magazine to wax eloquent upon a bedgowny appearance in morning dress. “I shall never wear white again. It is obvious, Timothy, that this wretched dress has inspired you with thoughts of godliness and purity. And I tell you, my friend, that such is
not
my style!”

Timothy smiled. He found nothing amusing in this frank speech, but knew it useless to beg Tilda to guard her wayward tongue. “I am told Micah has been in the neighborhood,” he remarked. “Can it be he has at last taken an interest in his estate?”

“Unfair,” Tilda replied, with relief at the change of subject. She had not cared to have her brief peace disturbed, and was in no mood for declarations of devotion and pretty speeches. “You know that the Hall is the best tended, and most productive, estate around.” Her smile took the edge off the rebuke. It was foolish to be annoyed that word of Micah’s visit had already reached Timothy. “Confess: you do not approve of Micah’s ways, and consider it unjust that his lands should prosper while he is elsewhere, indulging in his various profligacies.”

Timothy winced. He was a man of medium height, with pleasant features and sun-streaked brown hair, whose passion for Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson was exceeded only by his love for his lands. Tilda sometimes wondered why he was so determined to cast her as a gentleman-farmer’s wife—but perhaps Timothy believed he could cure her of light-mindedness. “Agatha comes to visit,” she offered in atonement. “Micah very kindly called to tell me so.”

Timothy’s frown betokened no great joy at this anticipated event. Tilda picked up the squirming puppy and placed it with its litter mates, who frolicked clumsily about her feet. Trixie’s reproachful stare indicated her opinion of this treatment of her most favored offspring.

“Do you recall how it used to be?” Tilda inquired. “When Agatha was often in residence at the Hall? How gay we all were!” Agatha’s extraordinary and somewhat outspoken opinions gained her a wide, and extremely varied, circle of friends that included such noteworthy personages as the actor John Philip Kemble and his sister, Sarah Siddons, and such diverse characters as Brummel, supreme arbiter of all matters concerning taste, and the notorious Mother Murphy, a witty and good-natured individual who kept a Covent Garden brothel known as The Cat and the Fiddle. Because of Mother Murphy, the Duchess has once managed to simultaneously enliven a dull dinner party and shock the entire Polite World by recounting the tale of a young lady of good birth but easy virtue who had reigned for a time as the leading light of Mother Murphy’s establishment before eloping with a poxy German princeling.

With the exception of the prudent abbess, Agatha’s wide acquaintance flocked to whatever establishment she chose to grace. Never had the neighborhood witnessed such conviviality, or such illustrious visitors. “Were we?” inquired Timothy. Tilda, lost in memories of her bygone youth, glanced at him with puzzlement. “Were we gay? Perhaps you have forgotten why the Duchess made so long a stay at the Hall, but I have not. Cassandra had threatened to commit suicide.”

Tilda resented this voice of gloom, for she had recalled an earlier time, when she traipsed after Micah with all the determination of a stubborn and bewitched schoolgirl, set on winning his approval of her daring if not his heart. The Duchess had merely called her a hoyden, and allowed the infatuation to run its course. “Yet Cassandra improved while Agatha was here,” Tilda protested. “It is no wonder we assumed that her tantrums and sulks were meant to get attention, nothing more.”

Timothy was more charitable. “She loved excitement, and was meant for town life. It was criminal of Micah to keep her incarcerated here.”

Tilda’s eyes flashed, but she bit back a sharp reply. “I am sure Micah’s reasons were sound.” Perhaps Timothy did not know of the countless indiscretions that had led Micah to remove his wife from London. Cassandra had earned a notoriety that was challenged only by the most infamous courtesans; wagers were laid in the clubs concerning whom her next conquest would be. “But this is too fine a morning to spoil with sad thoughts! Let us speak of something else.”

“Have you had word from your brother?” Timothy was obedient, but Tilda did not appreciate his tact. Mention of Bevis invariably inspired her with a strong desire to throttle that admirable gentleman.

“Why do you ask? You know we are not on terms.”

“I wish that Bevis might relent and sell me his lands.” Timothy wore a brooding expression. “It distresses me to see such excellent acreage falling into ruin.” He glanced apologetically at Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson. “I beg your pardon; the matter must be a sad one for you.”

“I have told you I am a shocking creature.” Tilda idly lifted a foot, causing a puppy to tumble head over heels, to the delight of its siblings, who tried unsuccessfully to pounce. “I have no filial feelings at all, it seems, and certainly no regret for the condition of the ancestral home. Nor can I imagine that Bevis will return to dispossess the bats and mice.”

“I believe I have come to understand your sense of humor,” Timothy remarked, though without overt appreciation. “You mock most at that which you feel deeply. It is an endearing trait.”

Tilda gazed thoughtfully at her hands. The role of goddess was a tiring one, but so it had always been with Timothy. He was determined to think the best of everyone, and this blindness had led him to disillusionments that might have embittered a less tenacious man. “You are mistaken,” she murmured. “The disposition of my father’s properties is of no concern to me.”

“Nor should it be,” Timothy was quick to agree. “For the Abbey is much more extensive than your brother’s lands, and considerably more than a woman should be expected to manage alone. Not that you have not done extremely well, but it is not a burden I care to see you bear.”

“Burden?” repeated Tilda. Her ill temper was restrained only by the knowledge that Timothy found it a matter of great annoyance that Dominic Tyrewhitte-Wilson had left his wife so amply provided for. “I am a very managing female, you know.” Timothy would have preferred to see her helpless, that she might grow to depend on him.

“You are pleased to jest.”

Tilda’s patience evaporated. “No,” she snapped, “I am not! Nor have I any intention of placing the Abbey in other hands. In truth, only the management of the estate has kept me from expiring of tedium at any time during this past year.”

“I see.” Timothy was stern. “One might have assumed that the grief caused by your husband’s death would occupy your mind.”

In silence, Tilda watched him depart. Outrage was evident in his very posture, and Tilda knew well she’d caused grave offense. Not only had she revealed an appallingly unfeminine appreciation of business matters, but she had implied that Timothy’s companionship, which had been plentiful this past year, was not comforting but humdrum.

Tilda sighed with regret, not for her outburst, but for the loss of her pensive mood. Were it not for Timothy’s intrusion, she might have spent a pleasant hour in contemplation of that earlier time when they had all been on excellent terms, with no more serious matter to consider than the next rout. Timothy had not seemed so dull then, and Tilda had never dreamed that she might one day marry the aloof and scornful Dominic. And Cassandra—it was ironic that so spoiled and precocious a miss should have such a long-reaching effect on all their lives.

The reflective mood had passed. Tilda rose and shook out her skirts, then walked slowly toward the Abbey, where she would be called upon to soothe the wounded feelings that resulted from the latest skirmish between Puggins and Eunice Scattergood. She was sorry for Timothy’s displeasure, but knew it would not last. Timothy would return, with apologies for his precipitate departure, and the matter would be nevermore discussed. Lady Tyrewhitte-Wilson narrowly avoided stumbling over a venturesome puppy that was fascinated by her skirt’s lacy hem, and thought Timothy’s suit would prosper faster if, just once, he waited for her to apologize to him.

Chapter Three

And a pretty to-do there was over that!” snorted the Duchess. “Micah thought very poorly of my helpfulness, and did not hesitate to tell me so. I vow my godson grows more arrogant by the hour! I have told him it’s high time he settled down and got himself an heir.”

Tilda nudged the recumbent Trixie idly with her toe. Trixie opened one golden eye, thumped her tail, and resumed her slumbers. “Do you think,” Tilda inquired, “that marriage would prove a mellowing influence?”

“It has its advantages,” Agatha retorted. “Unfortunately, those are not of the sort that can be discussed, even among ourselves.”

“Spare my blushes.” Tilda had set aside an extremely enlightening novel entitled
Tom Jones
to entertain her guest. Puggins, a stout and amiable figure in a light-colored linen gown sprigged with blue and a crisp mutch-cap, set down the tea tray and observed the Duchess with curiosity.

“Was the girl mad?” inquired the housekeeper. “ ‘Tis an excellent omen to meet a madman on the road. It augurs good luck and soon. But if the girl was singing, beware!”

Tilda merely smiled, having over many years become accustomed to this worthy’s firm belief in omens and their attendant luck, or lack thereof, but Agatha cackled appreciatively. “Arrant nonsense!” said she. “The chit’s a trifle headstrong, I’ll warrant, but she doesn’t lack for sense.”

Puggins touched her locket, which held a four-leaved clover that she had been so bold as to pluck in a graveyard at midnight on a Friday during the first days of the moon. Few people took her seriously, but this gave Puggins little cause for concern. Her conscience prompted her to give voice to warnings, but was not so stem a taskmaster that it decreed she see that proper precautions were carried out.

The room’s remaining occupant was not so philosophical. Eunice Scattergood’s embroidery, a ceaseless occupation the results of which would have adorned every available surface had not Tilda voiced a strong aversion to useless dust-catchers, lay forgotten in her lap. “Duchess!” she protested. “I am shocked! You have only this girl’s word concerning her antecedents, her background. She could be a common” —her voice dropped to a doom-laden hush—“adventuress!”

 Whereas Tilda greeted her housekeeper’s prophecies with affectionate amusement, she had only to hear Eunice’s plaintive voice to experience a strong desire to rid herself of the creature, permanently. It had been Dominic’s wish, however, that his cousin be provided for. It seemed that Eunice Scattergood was Tilda’s cross to bear.

“Poppycock!” The Duchess scowled. Eunice put her forcefully in mind of a skinny hen whose beheading she’d once witnessed, and Agatha would happily have seen Eunice share that fate. “The girl’s family is a good one. Her name bears sufficient weight that she will be accepted without question.” She neglected to voice her suspicion that there was something deuced havey-cavey about young Madeleine’s come-out.