As You Are (2 page)

He nodded but didn’t look up.

“You can read after tea, dear.”

He nodded again, then reluctantly closed his book.

“Tea is in Alice’s room today,” Clara told Edmund, “so she can take her nap as soon as you have finished.”

Edmund kept a finger in his book as he followed Clara into the room next to his. He would be reading again the moment Clara left. She would have to insist he and Alice spend the evening out of doors before dinner. Spring had come to Nottinghamshire, and with their coats on, the children wouldn’t be too cold.

Suzie was just finishing setting out the children’s tea when Clara led them inside Alice’s room.

“Down,” Alice demanded sleepily. As she was not being held, Clara knew the girl meant she wished to return downstairs.

“Have your tea with Suzie.” Clara led Alice to a child-sized chair beside the equally miniature table.

“She’ll be ’sleep afore she finishes,” Suzie observed with a laugh.

“I hope so.” Clara managed a smile of her own. “She is quite determined to take tea with the adults today.”

“’Cause of your gentleman caller.” Suzie nodded her understanding.

“Suzie,” Clara lightly scolded. “He is not a gentleman caller.”

Suzie looked doubtful.

“He is a gentleman, and he is a caller,” Clara admitted. “But he is not a
gentleman caller
. Not in the way you are implying.”

“I just thought, maybe—”

“You know me better than that.” Clara, perhaps, spoke a little more forcefully than necessary. The topic of suitors and gentlemen callers and men in general was not one she wished to discuss.

Suzie had come with them from Mr. Bentford’s. A chambermaid then, Suzie had agreed to serve as the girl-of-all-work at Ivy Cottage. Not precisely a promotion but certainly a more appreciated position. She and Clara had developed some semblance of a friendship, as much as could be cultivated between a servant and her mistress. The arrangement was not unpleasant for either of them.

“I only hoped, Mrs. Bentford,” Suzie answered. “You deserve a good man in your life.”

If Edmund hadn’t been in the room and hadn’t had the uncanny ability to overhear remarks not meant for his ears, Clara might have corrected any notions Suzie had about the existence of a good man. Men had been making her miserable all her life. But she still held out hope for Edmund. He was a kind and loving boy. With any luck, reaching manhood wouldn’t ruin him.

“Enjoy your tea, dears.” Clara kissed Edmund and Alice on the tops of their heads.

Edmund blushed at the gesture but smiled. Alice’s attention was already on the plate of cake in front of her.

All was in readiness in the sitting room below. Mrs. Henderson, who came to Ivy Cottage twice a week to do the baking, would bring the tea tray in as soon as the guests arrived and then be on her way. A few cakes, a short conversation, and the visit would be over.

What on earth had possessed her to extend the invitation? she thought once more. She could just as easily have traded prayer books with the man at church the following Sunday.

She’d noticed him behind her during services each week. Alice insisted on playing peekaboo with him. Mr. Bentford would have ignored the little girl and scolded Clara for not keeping her perfectly still. The gentleman behind them had done neither. Clara hadn’t been able to decide if she found the man’s encouragement of Alice’s antics welcoming or frustrating.

Why did he sit behind them every Sunday? What was his interest in her? In her children? Thus far, she’d managed to avoid most of the neighborhood. She much preferred blending in and going unnoticed. More than preferred it, in fact. She depended on it.

She’d enjoyed her first taste of peace and safety the past six months. The only hope she had for maintaining her hard-won freedom was keeping her life free of men and the trouble they inevitably caused.

A knock echoed off the front door. Her heart all but stopped, as it always did when someone arrived at the house. She took a deep breath, willing her heart to return to its normal rhythm.

One disadvantage of having only two servants, one who was obliged to look after the children when visitors called and the other whose duties were exclusively in the kitchen, was having to answer her own door. She never knew who was on the other side or what his intentions might be.

She made her way slowly toward the front window. Keeping out of sight, she inched back the curtain, peering out. With an immediate surge of relief, she identified Mr. and Mrs. Whittle, the vicar and his wife. She knew logically that they would be the ones standing there. But a woman in her situation could never be too careful.

“Good afternoon,” she said welcomingly as the couple stepped inside.

They returned the greeting and were soon comfortably situated in the sitting room.

Mrs. Henderson brought in the tea tray and set it on the table near Clara. Just as Mrs. Henderson stepped from the room, another knock sounded.

“I will answer that before I go, ma’am,” Mrs. Henderson said, sticking her head back inside the sitting room.

“Thank you.” Clara’s heart hammered once more. She exchanged a knowing look with Mrs. Henderson.
Check first
. Mrs. Henderson nodded her understanding. The kindhearted lady didn’t know exactly why Clara was so careful of any new arrivals, but she obliged her in taking a moment to identify visitors.

In the next moment, the gentleman she’d invited stood in the doorway. He was intimidating and unfamiliar, but she wasn’t truly afraid of him. Not yet. Clara was tall for a woman, but he was taller. It never ceased to amaze her that his hair was precisely the color of a polished guinea. Clara’s hair was quite plainly brown. This man’s was pure gold.

Shaking off the thought, Clara rose, as did the Whittles.

“Would you be so good, Mr. Whittle,” Clara addressed the vicar, “as to perform an introduction? I fear this gentleman and I have not had the opportunity to be appropriately introduced.”

“Of course. Of course.” Mr. Whittle spoke with his usual broad smile. “Mrs. Bentford, may I present Mr. Jonquil of Havenworth.”

Havenworth?
The impressive estate just west of Ivy Cottage? Edmund insisted on stopping whenever they walked past to watch the many horses there. Havenworth, she had heard, was a horse-breeding farm and a highly successful one at that.

Clara curtsied as was expected, though she didn’t cross any closer to him. Men were best dealt with from a distance. Even Mr. Whittle, who had proven himself harmless time and again, would have set her on edge if he didn’t always come with his wife.

Mr. Jonquil executed a very proper bow. He looked displeased, his eyes surveying the room. Under his arm, he held a prayer book—Clara’s, no doubt. He appeared to be muttering to himself.

Might as well attend to the business at hand
, Clara told herself. “I have your prayer book just over here, Mr. Jonquil.” She crossed to an end table near the fireplace, picked up the book, and turned, bracing herself to find him uncomfortably close. Mr. Jonquil, however, had not wandered an inch from the doorway.

A strange gentleman, to be sure.
Clara returned to where he stood and held the book out to him. “Thank you again for inventing a means of escape for us.”

Mr. Jonquil nodded and traded books with her.

“Escape?” Mr. Whittle asked, standing nearby.

“The congregation descended upon us as we left the chapel on Sunday,” Clara explained, turning toward the vicar.

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Whittle replied. “They do have a tendency to do that. Overly curious if you ask me.”

“I would not mind for myself,” Clara lied—was it particularly wrong to lie in front of a vicar? “But it does unsettle Edmund.” That, at least, was the truth.

“And Mr. Jonquil provided you with an escape route?” Mr. Whittle asked.

“Yes.” Clara looked once more at Mr. Jonquil. He still appeared entirely unhappy to be at Ivy Cottage. That tendency in her to prickle up, the very character trait her father had often warned her against, came to the surface once more. With a hint of cheek, she added, “Though I am afraid he did so by means of a most desperate lie. Having uttered such a glaring falsehood on the hallowed ground of the churchyard, I am quite certain Mr. Jonquil has compromised his salvation and has condemned himself to an eternity of torment and suffering. There is, I fear, no hope for him.”

Clara glanced at Mr. Jonquil out of the corner of her eye, wondering what his reaction might be. His eyes continued wandering about the room, but he was smiling. It was a handsome smile and might have been far more pleasant if he didn’t still appear so disapproving.

“Was it worth it, sir?” Clara asked. “Trading your eternal reward for our momentary comfort?”

“My father always said—insisted—that a good deed can make up for—No. Atone for . . .” The sentence dangled unfinished as Mr. Jonquil’s mouth set in a stern line.

“‘Absolve sin,’” Mr. Whittle finished for Mr. Jonquil. “The words of Peter, I believe.”

“And Mr. Jonquil’s father, apparently,” Clara replied. “Is your father a man of the cloth as well?”

“Mr. Jonquil’s father was the Earl of Lampton,” Mr. Whittle answered for Mr. Jonquil, a look of near amazement on the vicar’s face. “Mr. Jonquil’s oldest brother now holds the title.”

He hails from the aristocracy?
It was little wonder, then, the man was so decidedly unimpressed with Clara’s very humble dwelling.

“Forgive me for speaking so lightly of your father,” Clara said, regretting her moment of cheek. “Especially in light of your loss.”

Mr. Jonquil only nodded, his mouth drawn more tightly, a sure sign of discomfort and disapproval.

A moment of awkward silence passed while Clara chided herself. “Won’t you please come in, Mr. Jonquil,” Clara invited. A man’s temper could be cooled by a satisfied stomach. “You must take your tea before it becomes cold.”

He quite obviously hesitated.

“Do come sit with us, Mr. Jonquil,” Mrs. Whittle added her weight to the invitation.

After another moment of apparent mental debate, Mr. Jonquil moved farther inside the room. He could have at least affected a look of approval. Perhaps he wished to make his displeasure clear.

Clara sat beside the tea tray and began pouring out for her guests. Mr. Jonquil chose a seat a little removed from the others, at Clara’s small writing desk.

Not very sociable
, Clara thought to herself. The observation proved prophetic. Despite the efforts of the Whittles and herself, Mr. Jonquil said very little and occupied himself, after rather quickly consuming a cup of tea, with sharpening the quills lying on the writing desk. He appeared to constantly mutter silently to himself.

Clara no longer worried about Mr. Jonquil’s intentions. He obviously felt her far enough beneath his touch as to be completely unworthy of notice. It was both a stinging setdown and a tremendous relief. She far preferred a gentleman who disregarded her to a gentleman who was in relentless pursuit.

Corbin rode back to Havenworth, his mind whirling. Mrs. Bentford had been a pleasant surprise. Her manners were impeccable; that much he had anticipated. He hadn’t expected her obvious wit and intelligence. Mr. Whittle had casually mentioned the renewed war on the Continent, and Mrs. Bentford, unlike many in England, had a grasp of the intricacies of the situation with Napoleon and the implications of continued conflict after two decades of war.

He’d discovered she had a sense of humor. And after speaking lightly of Corbin’s late father, Mrs. Bentford had immediately offered her apologies and sympathies, which seemed to indicate she was also compassionate.

It was, of course, a great deal to assume after a single call lasting less than thirty minutes, one in which he hadn’t said more than a handful of words. He’d wanted to. He’d rehearsed a few things, both before arriving and as he’d sat in her sitting room. What little he’d managed had come out too uncertainly, too quietly.

From the moment he’d stepped into Mrs. Bentford’s sitting room and seen her amazing eyes turn toward him, Corbin had been unable to do much beyond stand—or sit, as it were—and try to avoid making a further idiot of himself. He’d seldom been so uncomfortable, so lacking in self-assurance. Every intelligent observation he’d mentally scripted had fled from his mind.

There had to be a means of improving the impression he’d made, something he might say or do the next time they were in company with each other that would show he was not a bumbling idiot or a simpleton.

Ivy Cottage sat only a mile from Havenworth, tucked behind a copse of trees. Corbin hardly had time to reflect on his visit before arriving home, and the sight that met him at Havenworth’s portico immediately shifted his thoughts.

Corbin recognized the Jonquil family arms emblazoned on the door of the traveling carriage sitting in front of his house. The earl’s coronet included in the arms identified the carriage’s owner as his eldest brother, Philip, the Earl of Lampton.

Corbin dismounted, allowing Johnny from the stables to lead Elf away. He took the stairs quickly, feeling his smile grow. He nodded to Simmons, the butler, as the man opened the door to allow Corbin inside.

“They are in the sitting room, Mr. Jonquil,” Simmons informed him.

He headed directly there, looking forward to seeing his brother again.

“I believe I shall find myself a tartan waistcoat, my dear,” Philip was saying when Corbin reached the sitting room door. “No point standing out among the local population.”

“Then you had best hope the local population are horribly bruised, Philip,” his wife, Sorrel, replied. “Because if you begin sporting an even more ridiculous wardrobe than you already wear, I will beat you with my walking stick.”

Not what one would expect to hear from a newlywed couple, and yet Corbin was not the least surprised. And as he fully expected, both his brother and new sister-in-law were smiling at each other, sitting beside each other on a settee, completely oblivious to Corbin’s presence in the doorway.

“Perhaps not the tartan, then,” Philip conceded.