Blaze Wyndham (2 page)

A gentle rapping upon the library door shook him from his unhappy thoughts. “Come in,” he called, and the door opened to reveal one of the house servants.

“There is a rider come, m’lord. He wishes to speak with you.”

Lord Morgan nodded. “Send him in then,” he replied, and the servant turned, nodding to a shadowed figure behind him. Robert Morgan hid a small smile at the thought that his was certainly no grand house with grand manners.

“Lord Morgan?” An upper servant in orange-tawny and gold livery stood before him.

“I am Lord Morgan.”

“My master, Lord Edmund Wyndham, is an hour from Ashby, and begs leave to call upon you. I am to bring your reply.”

Robert Morgan was somewhat startled. Edmund Wyndham was the Earl of Langford, a wealthy and somewhat mysterious figure. What would such a man want with him? Still, he could not be inhospitable. “I shall be honored to receive your master, the earl,” he told the liveried servant.

The advance rider bowed most courteously to him, and turning, left the room.

Lord Morgan impatiently yanked the tapestried bellpull that hung by the fireplace. “Fetch your mistress quickly,” he told the answering servant. “We are to receive a visit,” he told his wife moments later, “from the Earl of Langford. He will arrive in less than an hour.” He awaited her reaction.

“Is he to stay to dinner?” fretted Lady Rosemary. “Blessed Holy Mother, I pray not! There is neither meat, nor game, nor fish. We were to have soup. I gave Cook permission to kill that stringy old hen who no longer lays. Soup and bread, Robert! What kind of fare is that to serve any guest, let alone an earl?”

He smiled. “There was nothing said about the earl staying for a meal. Just that he wished to stop and call upon me. There is a cask of malmsey left in the cellar from better days that you can tap. Do we have any small biscuits?”

She nodded, her expression brightening.

“Good,” he said. “That will be hospitality enough, my love, for such an unexpected visitor.”

“You must change your linen, my lord,” she chided him. “There is a stain upon your shirt front. ’Tis not proper to receive a guest thusly.”

“Immediately,” he agreed.

They each hurried off in separate directions. Lady Rosemary to her wifely duties, Lord Robert to change his clothing. When he returned downstairs once more he was wearing his best black brocaded doublet, a garment that saw little use, and was consequently still in good condition; a clean, natural-colored linen shirt with a ruffle at both the neck and the wrists; black velvet haut-de-chausses, scarlet-and-black-striped stockings, and square-toed black shoes. A heavy silver neckchain with a garnet-studded medallion lay upon the rich fabric of his doublet. It was Lord Morgan’s only valuable piece of jewelry other than the red-gold family ring with the cat’s-eye beryl that he wore on his left hand, and the simple gold betrothal band that his wife had gifted him with so long ago.

“You are still the handsomest man I know,” declared Rosemary Morgan to her husband as he descended the staircase from their bedchamber.

He smiled at her. “And you, madam, are as lovely as the day I first saw you.”

“I am older,” she protested.

“Are you? I had not noticed,” he said gallantly.

She colored prettily, and said softly, “I love you, Rob. I always have, and I always will.”

For a moment they stood staring at one another. Then, hearing through the open front door the sounds of horses coming up the gravel drive, he took her by the arm and led her outside so they might greet their noble guest.

Edmund Wyndham’s brown eyes missed nothing as he made his way up the winding drive. The land was fertile, but badly underutilized. He could easily see where the woodland had encroached and was continuing to do so upon the pastureland. The cottages, although in decent repair, had an air of sadness about them, and the children playing before them were ragged and looked ill-nourished. Still, they seemed lively enough, and the faces that peered from the cottage doors were friendly and curious. Lord Morgan might be a poor man, but he was obviously a good master.

Ahead of him he could see his host standing before the doorway of the attractive stone house that was his home. Beside him was a petite, beautiful woman in a wine-colored silk dress, its long divided overskirt showing a pretty cream-colored petticoat embroidered with tiny black and gold thread flowers. Her blond hair, parted in the center, was only partly covered by a close-fitting golden caul. The lady of the manor, undoubtedly, thought Lord Wyndham, was dressed in her very best. He smiled. The attractiveness of the couple before him boded well.

Drawing his mount to a halt before the doorway of Ashby, he dismounted with an easy grace, and turning said, “Lord Morgan? I am Edmund Wyndham. I thank you for receiving me on such short notice.”

“Although we have not met before, sir, you are most welcome to Ashby. May I present my wife, the lady Rosemary.”

Edmund Wyndham bowed over Lady Morgan’s hand, his lips touching the back of her palm just briefly. “Madam, it is my honor,” he said.

She curtsied. “I, too, welcome you to Ashby, my lord.” The voice was sweet, if slightly countrified, he thought.

“Come into the house, my lord,” said Robert Morgan. His eyes worriedly swept over the earl’s escort. There were at least a dozen men.

Edmund Wyndham saw the furtive look, and said easily, “If my men might be allowed to water their horses, sir, they can await me here.”

“They will be thirsty themselves, my lord,” said Lady Morgan. “I will have the servants bring them cider. I regret I cannot offer them wine, but our cellar is small.”

The earl smiled at her, and Rosemary Morgan felt a tingle right down to her toes. “Water would have satisfied them, I assure you, madam. Your sweet cider will be a treat. I thank you for your hospitality.” He turned then and followed his host into the house.

Giving the attending servant quick orders, she hurried after them. Having settled both men in her husband’s library with the malmsey wine and sweet wafer biscuits, she turned to go.

It was then the earl suggested, “Perhaps, my lord, you would like your good lady to remain. What I have come to discuss concerns you both.”

Lord Morgan nodded to his wife, and she seated herself upon a stool by his side. “Say on then, my lord,” he said.

“I was married,” the earl began, “for eighteen years to Lady Catherine de Haven. Thirteen months ago my wife died. We were childless. Although I have an heir in the presence of my sister’s eldest son, I am but thirty-five years of age, and there is still time for me to father a son of my own. I understand that you are the parents of eight daughters, and so, hoping that one or more of them are of marriageable age, I have come to you seeking a wife.”

Robert Morgan heard his wife’s tiny gasp, and he wondered that his own jaw did not gape in surprise at the earl’s words. Instead he heard himself saying coolly, “I should be honored to have my family joined with yours, my lord, and daughters to marry off I have aplenty, but though my name be old, and my estates respectable, I am a poor man. Only today my wife and I have spoken on the difficulties involved in dowering one child, let alone eight. I could offer but a tiny bit of land for a dower portion. Certainly a man of your standing expects a wealthy woman to wive. I cannot deceive you, Lord Wyndham. As much as it would please me to see one of my girls your countess, I do not have the means to compete in such a rich marriage mart. I thank you nonetheless for considering our family.”

“I was quite well aware before my coming to Ashby of your circumstances, sir,” said the earl. “Gold, lands, and standing I have in abundance. What I lack is children. What I need is a son, and for my son’s mother I would have a strong and healthy wife. My Cathy was a gentle soul. We were betrothed in the cradle. She was her father’s only surviving child. His lands, which were not entailed, matched my father’s lands. It was considered a good match. We knew each other all of our lives. Like Queen Catherine herself, my own Catherine suffered miscarriage and stillbirths over the otherwise happy years of our union. She died giving birth to the only one of our children to survive outside of her womb. Alas, but our son followed his mother within hours of her own death, and was buried in her arms.”

The earl’s voice wavered for a brief moment, and he ducked his head to hide his pain, then continued onward. “It is told me, sir, that Lady Rosemary has never suffered the loss of a child either before or after its birth. Surely a daughter of such a healthy woman would herself also be healthy. That is why I come to you, Lord Morgan. That is why I would have one of your daughters to wive. Do you have a marriageable daughter at this time?”

“I have three, my lord earl, and a fourth I suspect who is also not far from womanhood, but again I tell you I know not how I can dower one daughter, let alone eight.”

“Are those daughters fit, sir?”

“They have never had a sick day in their lives, any one of them. Indeed it is miraculous, for my otherwise healthy young son snivels and wheezes his way through each winter even as I do.”

“Pick whichever of your daughters you would, my lord Morgan. I care not as long as she is old enough to bear children, and does not squint. Keep your lands for your son: I will have your daughter without a dowry. As part of her marriage portion from me I will settle upon each of her sisters a dowry of her own, enabling you to make decent betrothals for them all. My bride will be treated like a queen, and shall lack for nothing that she may desire. This I swear to you upon the soul of my own dead Catherine.”

Rosemary Morgan pressed a hand to her mouth to suppress her cry. She could not believe what she had just heard, for it was a miracle, and surely the answer to their prayers. Her gray-blue eyes wide, she looked up at her husband. He was pale with the shock of the earl’s speech. She watched for what seemed like forever as he struggled to regain a mastery of himself.

Lord Morgan finally drew in a deep breath, and expelling it noisily as if to clear his head, he said, “I would, of course, choose my eldest daughter to be wed first. She will be sixteen on the last day of November. Her name is Blaze.”

“An unusual name,” remarked the earl.

“All of our daughters have unusual names,” said Lady Morgan, now recovering from her initial surprise. “I am afraid poor Father John disapproves most highly. In order to have my own way I have had to baptize each of my girls with a saint’s name first. As they have all been christened Mary, they are known as I would have them known.”

The earl chuckled. “Is your daughter Blaze as determined, madam, as you are? I would hope that her name is not indicative of her temperament.”

“Blaze is a good child, sir, but I would be honest with you,” said Lady Morgan. “She is no milk-and-water lass. None of my girls are.”

“And what are their names?” he queried her.

“After Blaze come Bliss and Blythe, our fourteen-year-old twins. Then there is Delight. She is thirteen, and still somewhat of a scamp. Our second set of twins, Larke and Linnette, are nine. Vanora is seven, and Gavin and his sister Glenna are five.”

The earl smiled once again at Lord and Lady Morgan. “I envy you that fine family. Particularly your small son,” he said.

“There were times when even I despaired of seeing him born,” Robert Morgan admitted candidly.

“But he was born!” the earl replied. “With a young and healthy wife, so shall my son be born too! It is settled then, sir? Will you have me as a son-in-law?”

“I will, and gladly, though it shames me I can send my daughter to you with naught but the clothes upon her back. Still, I will swallow my pride for her sake, and for the sake of my other girls. I love them, and I want them happy!”

The two men arose simultaneously and shook hands.

“Will you stay to dinner then, and meet Blaze?” Lord Morgan asked.

His wife cast anguished eyes to the heavens. Holy Mary! Sweet Saint Anne! Did Rob not remember that dinner was but soup and bread? Let the earl decline, and I will make a trip to Hereford Cathedral to light candles in your honor, she silently vowed.

“I regret I cannot, sir,” replied Lord Wyndham. “It is twelve miles cross-country to my home. I must be there before dark. Today is my sister’s birthday. I have planned an entertainment in her honor. The wedding contracts will be drawn up and sent to you. Whatever you desire changed, change. Then return the signed contracts to me. The banns shall be immediately posted. I will return on the thirtieth of September for the celebration of my marriage to your daughter.”

“A moment, my lord,” said Lady Morgan. Rising from her stool, she moved gracefully across the room to a long library table upon which was a rectangular box of dark wood banded in silver. Opening the box revealed a set of miniatures. Drawing the first one out, she turned and held it out to him. “Our elderly relative, Master Peter, amuses himself by painting miniatures of the children each spring. This is his latest rendering of Blaze. I thought, perhaps, that you would like to have it, my lord.”

Accepting her offering, he gazed down into the proud little face in the miniature. His mind was still so full of Cathy that he had not even considered until this moment what his new wife might look like. It had not mattered to him as long as she was healthy, and fulfilled her chief wifely duty, which was to produce his heirs.

The face before him, however, was a beautiful one. A fair and perfect heart with well-spaced oval-shaped eyes of a violet-blue edged with thick dark gold lashes. Her nose was just slightly retroussé. The mouth small, yet full and pouting. It was the sort of mouth a man would not tire of kissing, he thought, if the sensuality of her lips proved truth, not lie. Her hair, parted in the middle, was a rich golden chestnut in color. It hung soft and loose about her lovely face.

Raising his eyes from the charming miniature, he said, “Madam, I asked for a wife. You offer me a treasure. I am overwhelmed, and grateful.”