Amanda Scott (43 page)

“Fine words.”

Lyford looked at him. “I’ll do it. The market is there, as we’ve discovered with the Indian wheat. The mills are working again, and we can export the surplus. Prices will go up too, as the demand for fairness in home trade increases.”

“You ought to take your seat in the Lords,” Jared said. “You’d make a fine speechmaker.”

Lyford laughed. “I may do it, coz, and then you’ll look no-account.”

Pamela had been looking around her. “I don’t understand why you don’t whitewash these buildings and refurbish the fences, at least. You could get a great deal done more quickly if you just hired it done, I should think. That is what Papa always did.”

“Yes,” Gwenyth agreed. “Why, I should order the grass scythed and new fields put to hay for the farm animals, and then I should encourage people to grow their own vegetables and fruit and”—she lifted her chin in response to his mocking smile—“and then I’d see to their cottages … and …”

When her voice trailed into silence, he said, “You are very extravagant, ma’am. I have allowed Beckley’s steward to carry on as he has in the past, trusting him to know his men, but I have no steward of my own at the moment, if you recall, so my tenants will have improvements only if the improvements pay for themselves and the tenants do the work.”

Jared said, “I’ll wager they aren’t all so happy as Lacy.”

“There’s been some grumbling,” Lyford admitted, “but they’ll learn. There’s naught to be gained by giving a new cottage to a wastrel, and until I know my people better, they’ll have to prove themselves by hard work.”

They visited other farms, and Gwenyth saw that while some showed signs of refurbishing, others showed no improvement at all. Though she understood the earl’s reasoning, she thought it a pity he was unwilling or unable to spend more. Remembering the methods her sister Meriel had used to get the most out of Tallyn tenants after their parents had died and before Joss had come home to tend to his duties, she was certain the earl’s penny-pinching ways would hinder the progress he so clearly desired.

When they returned to the abbey, Pamela, who had remained quiet and withdrawn, hurriedly excused herself and rushed upstairs to her bedchamber, so wrapped in her own thoughts that Gwenyth, having promptly followed her without so much as a word to their companions, nearly had the door slammed in her face.

She caught it, stepped inside, and shut it quietly behind her, though not so quietly as to avoid startling the other girl.

Pamela whirled, gasping. “What? Oh, it’s you. I didn’t hear you behind me. Did I hurt you?”

“Never mind that. Whatever is the matter?”

“Matter?” Pamela pulled the elegant hat from her dark curls. “I cannot think what you mean.”

“Gently, my dear,” Gwenyth said. “You look as guilty and distressed as a cat at an empty cream pot. Just the way you looked when Lyford and I caught up with you and Mr. Hawtrey. What possessed you to go flying off with him like that? It is not the thing, for all he is as much your cousin as Lyford is.”

“Well, of course he is my cousin, and there can be nothing at all amiss in my riding out with him, even if I should choose to do so without any other company,” Pamela said defiantly. “You make a piece of work about nothing, Gwen. You are not related to me, after all.” Her chin was high, and her nose was up.

Gwenyth stifled a laugh. “Would you prefer that I go back to London and leave you to your relations, then, my dear?”

To her dismay, Pamela burst into tears.

“Good gracious, my dear, what is it?”

“Don’t leave me!”

“Well, of course I shan’t leave you. I was only trying to make you see how idiotish you were being. You will quickly bring Lyford’s wrath down about your ears if you do anything so foolish as to encourage Mr. Hawtrey’s interest.”

“Oh, I don’t care about Marcus,” Pamela wailed, dashing tears from her eyes with a childish fist. “He only wants to keep me for himself. Jared thinks I’m beautiful, but, oh, Gwen, I am not by any means certain I want him to flirt with me, even if he does think that, and I don’t want him to touch me!”

Gwenyth said quietly, “What happened on the road, Pamela, before we rode up to you?”

“He kissed me!”

“I thought so. Did you try to stop him?”

Pamela’s eyes rounded. “No, of course not. I wanted to see how he kissed. He is very handsome, after all, is he not?”

“After a fashion,” she agreed. “He is well-enough-made, and his taste in dress is unexceptionable. But for all that, he is rather childish, and there is something—”

“I stomped his foot for him,” Pamela said with satisfaction.

“What? After you had encouraged him? That was not well done of you at all.”

“Well, I found I didn’t like kissing him, and he would not stop.” She grimaced expressively. “He began moving his hands over my body, and I can tell you, I did not like that at all.”

“Oh.” Gwenyth looked at her for a long moment, then asked in an offhand manner, “Why did you wish to know how he kissed?”

“Have you never kissed a man, for goodness’ sake?”

Remembering Lyford’s kiss with a surge of warmth through her entire body, Gwenyth said brusquely, “Of course I have been kissed. I just wondered why you would invite his. I have never stomped any man’s foot, Pamela.”

“He made me angry because he would not let me go,” Pamela said. “His hands were all over me, as though I were a mare he was testing for good lines, and if you must know, I wanted to be far away the minute he touched me. That is always how I feel. Fanny Melcher—you wouldn’t know her, for she came to Miss Fletcher’s after you left—she said kissing made her knees go weak, but that is never so with me. Rather, it makes me feel a little sick. I keep hoping it will be different—with a new gentleman, you know.”

“Good gracious, Pamela, do you go about experimenting with each new gentleman you meet?”

Pamela thought before she said, “Well, not every one, of course, but they all wish to kiss me, you know, except perhaps for Marcus, so it does seem a pity—”

“Don’t say any more! If Lyford were to hear you talk like this, he would lock you up until he finds you a proper husband, and you would have no say in the matter at all.”

“He does not intend for me to have any say. But you will not tell him Jared kissed me, will you? In all likelihood, Marcus will blame me for it, rather than him.”

Gwenyth no longer thought Lyford had the slightest intention of marrying Pamela, but she was certain that her conviction would carry no weight with her friend. It was more likely, she knew from past experience, that Pamela was enjoying her little drama. On the other hand, Gwenyth could not with honesty give her the reassurance she sought regarding the incident with Jared.

“I believe that Lyford guessed what had happened as easily as I did,” she said. “If he does blame you, you will hear about it soon enough.”

Pamela bit her lower lip but recovered quickly, tossing her head. “I shan’t let him scold me. It was not my fault.”

“You had better change your dress for supper,” Gwenyth said dryly, “and I had better do the same.”

At the table an hour later, Lady Lyford bent a critical eye upon Pamela and said, “My dear, is that not the same dress you wore last evening?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Pamela said, glancing from Lyford to Jared and back before she looked again at the countess. “I left school in rather a hurry, you see, and had only an afternoon’s shopping in London, so I brought very little with me. I was fortunate enough to purchase a riding habit, but we could get only two dresses suitable to wear in the evening. I thought I had better save the second one for your dinner party.”

The countess nodded. “I see. Well, that will not do at all. We must go shopping.”

Pamela’s eyes brightened and she carefully avoided looking at her guardian. “Oh, may we, ma’am? My papa said the only shops worth patronizing were in London, so I daresay—”

“There are some excellent shops in Oxford,” said her ladyship crushingly, “but it will not be necessary even to go so far as that, for we shall find all we need in Streatley. We will make an expedition tomorrow. I’ve a taste for some more colorful garb, myself.” She looked directly at Lyford. “There can be no objection to that plan, I trust?”

The earl gazed back at her. “There are persons, madam, who would make every objection. You have more than a month yet—”

“Of mourning? Don’t be daft, Marcus. I have done more than your grandfather deserved I should do, and I have been hiding my light under gray and purple long enough. My woman has let out my pomona-green evening dress for Saturday night, and I mean to have several new gowns made up at once. I can see to Miss Beckley’s needs at the same time.”

“Her needs can scarcely be very great,” he said dampingly. “She is not out to cut a dash, as you are, Grandmother.”

Lady Lyford winced at the appellation. “We may no longer take the
Times
, Marcus, but we are not altogether out of the world, and we know perfectly well that the
beau monde
is already beginning to return to town for the king’s Jubilee celebration. I don’t mean to be left out of everything, I assure you, nor does Wynnefreda. Imagine a fifty-year reign. ’Tis an historical event, young man, and you’ll not deny us our share of it with your fusty notions of propriety. Pamela is not in mourning, and it is your duty to see her properly fired off.”

Lyford frowned. “It will do her credit little good to be fired off, as you call it, ma’am, by two ladies who ought to be observing those fusty proprieties to the letter. Persons of the
beau monde
set great store by such stuff, and Pamela is not old enough or of high enough rank to flout rules of proper conduct.”

“Well, I am,” said the countess fiercely.

Pamela had been watching her in awe and unblinking hope, and Gwenyth, who had been watching them both, found it difficult to control her increasing amusement. Glancing at her aunt, she immediately wished she had not done so, for Lady Cadogan was looking straight at her, her own awareness of absurdity vying with her sense of what was right. Gwenyth knew the viscountess was tired of the restrictions of mourning, that, given the least excuse to do so, she would go back to London in a twinkling. What, she wondered, would Lyford do in the face of all-out rebellion from the females under his roof?

He continued to gaze steadily at his grandmother. “You must do as you please, madam,” he said with a chill in his voice, “but I will remind you that I am responsible for Miss Beckley. She will obey me or she will return to school.”

“Pooh,” said the old lady, undaunted. “Miss Fletcher won’t take her back. Why should she? Pamela is no longer a child, in case you haven’t noted the fact. She is a young lady who ought to be looking about her for a husband.” She smiled pointedly at Jared, who winked at her.

Lyford growled, and with a tingle racing up her spine as she waited to hear what he would say, Gwenyth thanked whatever fates had kept Lady Lyford from inviting another of her potential swains to sup with them that evening. At last, controlling his temper with visible effort, the earl said, “Do not push me too far, madam. You may enjoy your shopping expedition, though I trust that for once you will keep a rein on your extravagance. But do not think to flout my authority over Pamela. And you,” he added, turning the full force of his inflexible gaze upon his ward, “will be well-advised to behave yourself.”

There was a wealth of meaning in his voice, and Gwenyth glanced immediately from the red-faced Pamela to Jared, who was also looking self-conscious. In a twinkling she knew that the earl had already spoken to Jared, at least, about what had taken place during their ride that afternoon.

Jared looked up just then and caught her gaze upon him. His mouth twisted into a wry grimace, and he rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. Not wishing to encourage him in such behavior, she looked away, only to find her gaze clashing with Lyford’s.

His expression was unmistakable. He was angry, and his anger had spilled over to include her.

She looked back steadily, even defiantly. The fault was not hers, and she had no intention of allowing him to cow her with his stern looks. Her eyes flashed fire as her temper flared.

His expression softened then, but he said nothing, merely holding her gaze for a long, disconcerting moment before returning his attention to his plate. Still, it was enough. She felt as though she had won a small victory over him at last.

G
WENYTH’S FIRST VIEW OF
the fashionable little village of Streatley, with its new white bridge, shady backwaters, lively weir, and busy mills, all set before an artistic backdrop of woods and hills, filled her with pleasure. She realized at once that Streatley did not owe its reputation to one distinguishing attraction, but to many, not the least of which was its neighbor across the Thames, the Oxfordshire village of Goring.

“Does one never go to Goring?” Pamela asked Lady Lyford when that village was identified to her. “You didn’t even mention its existence before.”

“One doesn’t mention it,” the countess replied, gazing out across the river, seen clearly from their vantage point upon the cobbled roadway running alongside it. “One merely says Streatley, the name doing duty for both villages. Perhaps we will drive across the bridge once we have seen my seamstress. ’Tis an irritation, of course, that one must pay a toll for the privilege of doing so, but even Marcus can scarcely cavil at the expense when you have never been here before.”

Gwenyth saw that the two communities possessed certain characteristics in common. To each was allotted a mill, but she saw at once that the mill across the river was a busier, more modern affair than the one on the near bank. The latter was by far the more picturesque, however, a fact that had inspired a number of artists to set up their easels nearby.

Lady Lyford’s carriage passed the inn, the boat-builders and timberyard, and a number of pretty waterside cottages set in gardens with gay flowerbeds and ornamental walks, before turning up the main street of the village, which extended in a straggling fashion uphill from the bridge toward the base of the downs. Many people were afoot, ranging from fashionably attired ladies to sundry shoppers and the rather more startlingly attired artists, some sitting with their easels, others carrying palettes and easels as though they had been no more than reticules or parasols beneath their arms.