A Sisterly Regard (22 page)

Lately Phaedra had wished she had spent less of her time on her
education and more on visiting and mingling with the local gentry.
Learning how to piffle might have prepared her far better for coping with
the
haut ton
than a knowledge of Latin, Greek and botanical
nomenclature.

"Mama was so determined that we marry well," she mused
aloud as she stared out into the darkening street. "Perhaps she should have
encouraged me more to practice inane social chatter and less to improve
my mind."

Cousin Louisa was silent for so long that Phaedra wondered if
she would answer. At last she said, "There is much to be said for the
ability to prattle, but it is a talent that loses its charm under the burdens of
everyday life."

"Chloe prattles quite well, yet I am certain she will be able to
cope with whatever she must face. She really isn't the flibbertigibbet she
seems." Even as she defended her sister, Phaedra wondered if Chloe really
would be able to cope. She had changed so much in the past few years.
Sometimes I feel as if she's a different person, not my sister at all.

"She is much like your father. I remember when he was courting
your mother..." Cousin Louisa let her mending fall into her lap as she
stared into the fire. When she spoke again, her tone was pensive, as if she
were dredging up long disused memories. "I was fifteen, too young to put
my hair up, yet too old to stay in the schoolroom with the children. Your
mother was not quite eighteen, and just as lovely then as she is now. The
whole family expected her to make a fine match, for all our fathers had
been gentry, rather than noble."

"I had forgotten your mothers lived together after they were
widowed. Were you close, like sisters?"

"Not really, for Mother and I moved in with my aunt Mirabelle
only a few months before Isabella made her come out." With a quick
glance over her shoulder at the closed door behind her, she said, quietly,
"Your parents' marriage was not considered a good match by either
family."

Phaedra turned to stare at the older woman. "Not a good match.
But they are so...so much in love. I would wager there is not a better
marriage in the whole of England."

"Probably not." Cousin Louisa picked up the mending, and set it
upon the drum table at her side. "Your mother's come out was a great
success. She could have had her choice of husbands. Everyone was
surprised when she chose your father." She smiled. "A wise choice, as it
turned out, which surprised everyone on the family even more."

"You speak as if Papa was not particularly eligible."

"He was not. His name was on everyone's lips that Season,
spoken with great disapproval. That was the year he gambled his entire
remaining inheritance on a tin mine that everyone knew was played
out."

"Papa?"

"Oh, yes. And this only a few months after he had sunk a small
fortune into a canal scheme that seemed on the brink of ruin." She shook
her head. "Everyone knew he was a poor risk, both financially and as a
husband. Any woman foolish enough to marry George Hazelbourne, for
all he was the grandson of a duke, would surely live a life of abject
poverty, and probably even be forced to outrun the bailiffs."

"Oh, I cannot believe you. Papa is not wealthy, but we have
never lacked for necessities, and even the occasional luxury."

"I know. The tin mine later reopened and he sold it at a modest
profit. He recouped his investment several times over from the canal..
And hasn't that been a thorn in the side of many of the Verbains?" Cousin
Louisa smiled widely. "Isabella has been proved wiser than her family, for
your father has provided well for his family. Your portions are ample,
your brothers will each inherit properties that will, with careful
management, give them a decent living. And your father still gambles on
endeavors most of the world considers foolish and improvident."

Phaedra thought back over her growing-up years. While she had
never been told that the family coffers were full or empty, she
remembered times when frugality and thrift were the order of the day.
Although those times had been perhaps more frequent than when Mama
ordered half a dozen new gowns, or Papa added yet another expensive
hunter to his string, she had never felt, well,
poor
.

"So Mama followed her heart. She doesn't seem to have
regretted doing so."

"No, she has not ," Cousin Louisa agreed.

"Then why is it so important to her that Chloe and I marry
well?"

Phaedra waited so long for an answer that she began to wonder
if Cousin Louisa would not reply. At last she said, "I believe it is because
she sometimes found life...uncertain. No mother wants that for her
daughters, no matter how happy she herself has been. Isabella must want
you to have financial stability as well as love." Her sigh was heartfelt.
"Unfortunately, Phaedra, mo one can guarantee love, prosperity,
happiness, or any other blessing for another, no matter how good the
intentions."

"But--"

Her question was lost as the door opened and her mother
entered.

"No," she said, when both Phaedra and Cousin Louisa turned
enquiring eyes upon her. "There is no word." Her voice broke on the last
word.

"Mama--"

"I am sorry, Phaedra," Mama said, after a moment when she
visibly controlled her worry. "I should have know better than to put so
much emphasis on your marrying well. I should have encouraged you to
look for love, not material wealth."

Phaedra knelt before her and clasped both her hands. "You did,
Mama. I always knew that I wanted what you and Papa have, even if it
meant living in a hovel."

"Perhaps." The word emerged on a long sigh. "I only wish..."
She was silent for many heartbeats, until Phaedra wondered if she had
forgotten what she had meant to say.

"You heard what I said about the importance of love in a good
marriage, but I fear all Chloe heard was how important wealth and rank
were to her happiness."

Tears clogged Phaedra's throat as she nodded. "Yes, Mama, I
believe that was all she heard." She could not restrain a heartfelt sigh.
"Poor Chloe."

* * * *

The spring night overtook Mr. Farwell and Lord Gifford before
they were many miles from London, and with it came more rain. They
took refuge in an inn, requesting the landlord to wake them before dawn
so they might be back on the road at first light. Neither spoke of the fact
that Chloe would be spending another night with a man not her
husband.

Lord Gifford had hitherto shared Phaedra's impression of
Farwell's foppishness. A day in his company had showed that the younger
man was not at all what he appeared. He was both sensible and competent,
for all his foppish appearance.

The sun had barely begun to penetrate the tattered clouds on the
eastern horizon when the two men set out in pursuit once again. Their
speed was less than Farwell's racing curricle was capable of, for the night's
rain had turned the road surface into sticky mud through which the horses
had to struggle. At their first change, inquiries of the hostler yielded the
information that a young gentleman, answering to Everingham's
description, had obtained a change of teams the previous day.

"Damn this mud," Lord Gifford exclaimed, as they once again
slowed to inch their way through a rutted swale. "At this rate they'll be in
Gretna before we can catch them."

"We're making good time," Farwell said. "It only seems slow
because of your concern."

Lord Gifford shot him a scowl, but refrained from a reply.
Farwell had been pushing the horses all the way, and he had no complaint.
Only overwhelming worry about his daughter. Sweet, foolish Chloe. If
only he'd been more stern with her.
If only...

After another change at midmorning, they made better time.
The roads were drying under the influence of bright sunlight and a balmy
breeze. Farwell gave the job horses their heads on a long, straight stretch.
Lord Gifford hung on for dear life, but Farwell seemed glued to his seat.
They were bowling along at a good clip when he said, "My lord, I would
like your permission to pay court to your daughter."

Lord Gifford gaped at the younger man. "Chloe?" he finally
managed to gasp.

"No, sir. Your younger daughter, Phaedra. I have learned to
respect her very much, and believe that she and I would suit very
well."

Remembering Phaedra's characterization of him as a precious
fop with not an ounce of sense or a brain in his head, all Lord Gifford
could do was stammer, "You want to marry her?"

"I do, sir. I am aware, however, that she views me with less than
complete approbation. Convincing her I am worthy of her will be a
difficult task."

"Well nigh impossible," Lord Gifford blurted, before he could
stop himself. "Phaedra sees life in a more serious light than the usual chit.
Convincing her that you're a likely husband will be an uphill battle."

"One I am willing to fight. Have I your permission?"

Damme, I wish Isabella were here. She'd know what to do.
But the fellow deserved an answer now. "For what it's worth, you do.
That's not a promise she'll have you, mind."

"It is all I asked." Farwell dropped his hands, and the horses
thundered down the road.

* * * *

Wilderlake allowed Miss Hazelbourne to sleep until late,
wanting to see his friends well away before she emerged from her
bedchamber. He had also seen a sullen Everingham on his way. When he
finally escorted her to his private parlor, she said nothing beyond a polite
good morning. He seated himself across from her after the waiter had laid
out their breakfast and departed.

"Are you regretting your decision to wed me?"

"No, my lord, I do not regret it. Indeed, I am very grateful that
you have offered for me. It is more than I deserve, I think." She gave him
the ghost of a smile. "It is only that my throat feels raw and my eyes are
burning."

He examined her. Aside from a certain puffiness under her eyes,
she looked far better than she had last night. "Are you ill?"

"Not at all. I have often felt this way before, when I indulged in
an excess of weeping."

He watched her help herself to porridge and toast. When she
reached for a slice of ham, he said, with some concern, "Do I understand
that you suffer from motion sickness, Miss Hazelbourne?"

She pulled her hand back. Looking up at him from under long,
curled lashes, she nodded.

"Then I should warn you to take only a little unsweetened tea
and dry toast this morning. My mother, who also suffers from that
affliction, finds that having little on her stomach relieves the symptoms
somewhat. Since I have only a curricle at my disposal, the trip back to
London will not be comfortable for you. But you will have only to tell me
if you feel sick, and we will stop."

"Thank you, my lord," Chloe responded gratefully. No one had
been so sympathetic before. She sipped her tea and nibbled at her toast.
"Will we be able to reach London today?"

"I believe so, despite last night's rain. You may not be home in
time for dinner, but you will sleep in your own bed tonight." Chloe knew
she had blushed at his last words. Casting a quick glance his way, she saw
bright spots of color in his cheeks as well.

They departed the inn about ten, having waited for the warm
sun to work its drying magic on the mud. Chloe found that her stomach
did not protest at the motion of the curricle nearly as much as it had in the
coach the day before, despite the lesser springing. Wilderlake offered the
possibility that the fresh air was contributing to her well-being. "Sitting in
a closed carriage on bad roads would be enough to upset anyone's
digestion, I believe. My mother always keeps a window open when she
travels."

They made fairly good time in spite of frequent patches of sticky
mud, with no stops due to Chloe's stomach. His occasional observations
about the other travelers they passed were amusing. Chloe had thought
him a serious young man, but now she was seeing his puckish sense of
humor. She decided that he was simply a quiet man, not given to idle
chatter.
Perhaps
that is a good thing. If both partners in a
marriage were inclined to chatter, they might drive one another to
distraction.

One change of horses had been accomplished and they were
going slowly through thick mud at the bottom of a swale when another
curricle, bearing two men, approached them. It pulled to the side of the
road to await their traverse of the muddy patch. As they drew nearer,
something about the passenger caught Chloe's eye.

"Papa!" she cried. "It is my papa. Stop my lord. Oh, do
stop!"

"Chloe!" her papa roared. "Wilderlake! You router! I'll kill
you!"

Chloe threw herself from the curricle before it had stopped
moving and ran forward. "No, Papa! Listen to me!"

Her father swung her aside. "Take care of her Farwell," he said
over his shoulder. He advanced on Wilderlake, who was climbing from his
curricle.

"Mr. Farwell, stop him!" Chloe cried. "He must not harm Lord
Wilderlake. He saved my life." She ran forward and caught at her father's
arm just as he drew it back to strike Wilderlake. "Papa! Papa, please,
listen to me," she pleaded, hanging on his arm so he could not hit the
younger man. "He did nothing wrong. You must not strike him!"

Her papa shook her clutching hands off. He swung at
Wilderlake, who did nothing to defend himself as her papa's one fist
smashed against his jaw just before the other one plowed into his midriff.
He fell to the ground and lay still.

"Get up from there, you libertine, and fight like a man!" Papa
demanded.

Wilderlake wiped blood from his lower lip. "No, sir, I will not.
Your daughter came to no harm at my hands, and neither will you. I could
not strike my future father-in-law."