Barbara Metzger (2 page)

Some newspaper clippings were folded together: advertisements for farm equipment, a review of a book on sheep diseases, a yellowed gossip column mentioning a Mrs. Clarence Croft’s yellow gown, race results from the Downs.

This was not right. Ty was feeling like a voyeur, a trespasser. He almost gave up the job, thinking he’d send the whole batch to the sister in Kent for her to dispose of. The next page, however, caught his eye. A letter of resignation, it was written in the same hand as the gaming chit, and was addressed to Croft’s commanding officer. Unsent and unsigned, the thing was still disturbing. Croft hadn’t found military life to his liking? For certain the lad was no coward. But had he begun to realize the drudgery and futility of the army, or had he merely been homesick?

Ty recalled his own early months in the cavalry. Older than Croft, he’d already attained his majority—and the all-important inheritance from his mother that permitted him to purchase his commission. One week after his birthday, he placed a wreath on her grave site, visited his two younger brothers, sent his married sister a letter, and was gone.

Far from missing England, he reveled in the freedom, in being out from under his father’s thumb. No general was as autocratic, no orders as arbitrary, no disapproval as harsh as the earl’s. The army, with its camaraderie, its sense of order, its moral purpose of defeating the Corsican and defending the Empire, suited Viscount Tyverne to a cow’s thumb.

Perhaps Croft had more to miss in his home in Kent.

The letter from Croft’s sister seemed to prove that.

My dear brother,

I hope this finds you well. Actually, I hope it finds you at all, since my previous mailings must have gone astray, else you would have replied by now. Nay, you would have appeared by now.

Ty leaned back against his pillows to read the rest of the letter. The script was a neat copperplate, but written small, to save the expense of posting another sheet. Miss Croft, it seemed, was of a thrifty nature, but had a great deal to say.

Surely you received some of my earlier postings. I regret to tell you that the Situation is more Dire than I first reported.

Ty decided that Miss Croft was also of a dramatic bent, judging from her writing style.

Now I am being Shunned in the village, and even Cousin Clarence and his dear—that emphasis gave the lie to Miss Croft’s written words—wife Gwen refuse to cross our doorstep, not even for Cook’s raspberry tarts, and you know how Clarence always ate more than his fair share of them, then filled his pockets when he thought no one was looking. I digress.

She certainly did. Ty wanted to know what her difficulty was, that she encouraged a soldier to sell out in the middle of a campaign, not how gluttonous their cousin was.

Clarence, through written communication, has refused to release further funds. How could you have left that pastry-stealing nodcock in charge of our finances?

A man who stole tarts? Ty found himself chuckling. How indeed?

So we do not have the wherewithal to leave the neighborhood where matters are so Uncomfortable.

What, Croft’s sister was being snubbed by the local matrons for some social gaffe, so she wished to move away from home? For that the woman thought the lieutenant should leave his post, abandon his men? Ty shook his head, his smile fading.

Lord Dallsworth has let it be known, through the vicar, who directed last Sunday’s sermon directly to our pew, I’ll have you know, to my utmost mortification, that he is withdrawing his offer of marriage.

Ty stopped smiling altogether. A gentleman did not break off an engagement without good reason. Damn, what bumblebroth had the female embroiled herself in, that she needed money and her brother to fix—or a change of venue?

I thought of asking Aunt Rosalie in London if we could visit with her, but she refused, saying I would be welcome after this Minor Embarrassment faded away. As if an infant is a Minor Anything. Or if it will wash away, like a spot.

Hell and damnation, Ty feared he understood all too well the nature of Miss Croft’s mingle-mangle, although what the deuce she expected poor George to do about it was a mystery to him. Carry her off to some cottage in Wales where she could remain anonymous, he supposed. But no, the woman’s next lines refuted that possibility.

I fear travel is no longer an option. The calculations appear to have been in error, and Time is even shorter than Belinda and I originally believed.

Belinda must be her maid or some such.

I do not wish to worry you, dearest, but I am dreadfully concerned over the eventual outcome.

As well she should be. Not only couldn’t the woman keep her skirts down but, it seemed, she could not even count.

What am I to do, George?

What was George to do, from the Peninsula? Lud, Ty thought the wench must expect George to marry her off to one of his chums, or perhaps bring the father to book. That was just what the poor lieutenant needed, to go home to fight a duel for his sister’s honor. Better he died here, for a worthier cause.

Ty could barely finish the letter, for his disgust, especially when the female tried to lay part of the blame on Croft, for joining the army when he was so badly needed at home. Well, the Crown needed good men here, too, to keep Bonaparte from taking over the world, and so Ty would tell the woman. In fact, he had a good mind to tell the whining, carping Miss Croft that her letter had sent George off in a desperate frenzy, dying for an unknown officer. Women, faugh. Ty’d always believed they were the death of a man. Now he was proved right.

Your loving, anxious sister,
indeed! Light-skirted executioner, more like.

George, it seemed, did not share Tyverne’s outrage.

My dearest sister,
Croft’s unfinished letter, the last in the pile, began. No recriminations, no remonstrations. Ty supposed he was as fond of his own sister as the next man, but if she’d blotted her copybook so blatantly, he thought he might have a censorious word or two. Or three, like “How could you?” The viscount shook his head. Better make that four words; “How could you, dammit?”

Instead George asked his sister’s forgiveness for not being there at her time of need. Either the man was a saint or—Ty sat up so quickly the other papers around him scattered and his injured arm protested so vehemently he fell back against the pillows until the pain subsided. He clutched the letter and stared at the whitewashed ceiling above him. Lord, what if the poor girl had been violated? He knew small towns and small minds would not make the distinction between wanton and raped. Ruined was ruined, and no so-called decent folk would come to her aid. Of course she’d want to move, to pass herself off as a widow somewhere, after her own family, the cousins, the aunt in London, had turned their backs on her. Without money or friends, heaven alone knew what would happen to Miss Croft. Without George ... It did not bear thinking of. His letter continued:

I swear I would never have left you to bear this on your own, if only I had known in time.

Ty’s brows were drawn into a scowl as he read further.

And I will write to Clarence this very day to release to you whatever funds you need, even if he has to mortgage Faircroft. Hire the best physicians, or send to London for one of those fancy accoucheurs if you think that would be better. Do what you must, Dilly girl—

Dilly? What kind of name was Dilly? Ty looked back, but Miss Croft had not given her name, only Sister.

—until I can get home.

Major Tyverne clenched his jaw muscles. Croft had been intending to go to his sister’s aid, for whatever good he could do.

I did ask the captain for leave as soon as I got your last letter, and Belinda’s, of course, but he refused, with a major battle looming. I swear I shall make sure I am wounded in the skirmish—nothing serious, mind you, so do not fret over me when you have so much else in your dish—but enough that they will have to send me home.

Ty’s teeth would be ground to nubs at this rate.

If not, I shall resign my commission, enduring the label of coward, as you at home have endured worse.

Ty could well imagine the taunts an unwed, enceinte miss would hear, the whispered slurs she would not. The turned backs, the disrespect—How could a gently reared female bear that on her own? Now to add the grief of George’s passing was beyond cruel.

Lud knew what would happen to her or the child without Croft’s support. That cousin, Clarence, sounded just the kind of toad to toss them out on the street. If George’s sister gave up the babe, as many a woman in her circumstances would be forced to, she would still never be welcomed in the community, never given references for employment, never have the chance to marry.

Not even jingle-brained George, who thought he could orchestrate the depth and degree of a battle wound, believed his sister could find a husband.

As for Lord Dallsworth, I cannot regret the termination of his suit. You never wished to accept that old stick anyway, you know. You told me often enough. Furthermore, I refuse to have a sister known as Dilly Dally.

George closed his letter by beseeching his sibling to be strong, for all of them. He promised to finish the letter after the coming battle, when he could better estimate his arrival date.

The lieutenant never finished the letter, of course, and he was never going to arrive in Kent. Not in time for the baby, not in time to rescue his sister. Never.

“Live,” he’d told Ty. “Live to pass on the favor. Save someone else’s life.”

Major Lord Tyverne always paid his debts. With one notable exception, he always fulfilled his obligations. He knew what he had to do now.

He had to ride the blasted horse.

Chapter 3

A nearly useless arm was bad enough. Fevers that kept
racking his weakened body were worse. Landing on his rump in front of half the regiment was worst of all.

The surgeons had declared Major Lord Tyverne recovered enough so that the ride home in the troop transport ship would not kill him. They would certainly make no such assurances about riding, much less mounting a half-wild, man-hating gelding. So Ty did not tell them.

The horse did not seem to recall that George had labeled Tyverne a friend, despite Ty’s repeated avowals as he dodged flying hooves and slashing teeth. Diablo did not like boots with tassels, boots with fold-over white tops. He did not like loose ends on neck cloths, fluttering handkerchiefs, or gloves. He detested spurs, crops, ropes, or chains. He liked hats. A good hat could keep the wretch entertained for hours, running from the irate owner, stomping on it, shredding it. The more expensive the headpiece, the more enjoyment Diablo seemed to derive.

What he really loved, however, was boiled rum balls. He’d take a peppermint drop if nothing better was offered, sugared almonds or a biscuit on occasion, washed down with a pailful of ale, but the big gelding really savored rum balls. He’d roll the hard candy around in his mouth, his eyes closed, white velvet nostrils whuffling in contentment. He’d let Ty mount then, without attacking the buttons or braid on his uniform. When the candy was gone, though, and the gelding noticed the heavier than usual weight on his back
...

Everyone said it was a miracle the major didn’t break his fool head, and a greater miracle he didn’t shoot the fool horse. Soon enough the gelding realized Ty wasn’t giving up, and wasn’t running out of rum balls. The horse and his new owner came to terms, luckily before Ty came to grief or reopened his wounded arm. Every cook and camp follower with a cauldron made a fortune, making candy, and Ty made arrangements to sail home, praying he’d be in time.

* * * *

Delia Croft had almost no time to herself anymore, but she stole a few precious minutes that afternoon to walk from Faircroft House to the high road. She needed to escape the grief and desperation inside, where Aunt Eliza was constantly weeping and Nanny was praying, and Belinda was lost in her own pain. Delia feared she’d go mad inside, with nothing but sorrow for company. She was searching the garden path for daffodil tips, snowdrops, birds singing courting songs, buds on the trees, anything to show that spring was truly coming, that this endless winter might be over at last, that life went on. In truth, she was seeking solutions to questions with no answers.

What was she to do? Delia was running out of choices, money, and hope. No one was going to come to her aid now, for even distant relations and casual friends had heard of the family’s disgrace and turned deaf ears to her pleas. Even condolences for poor George were perfunctory at best, grudgingly given. No one wished to share her burdens.

Delia fingered the ugly, uneven black of her gown, thinking of what mourning rituals she’d had to forego. She’d had to dye her old dresses rather than spend the money for new gowns. What blunt she did have—her own funds, which Cousin Clarence could not deny her—were going for doctors and medicines and additional servants to help in the house, which clutch-fisted Clarence could, and did, refuse to finance.

She could support herself, Delia had calculated, in a modest manner, but never the others. She could seek employment, for she was strong and healthy, one-and-twenty, and reasonably educated. Delia thought she’d make a decent companion for an older woman, if she could find anyone willing to give her references. Without them, she could throw herself on her aunt Rosalie’s mercy in London, being an unpaid companion, she supposed, instead of a paid employee. She most likely could even stay on here, when Clarence and Gwen moved into Faircroft House, as an unpaid housekeeper. But not the others. Clarence’s wife would never permit the others to live at Faircroft.