Charlotte Louise Dolan

August 1794

There was nothing about the elegant traveling coach to cause comment. Axelford Cross was not so far off the beaten path that the villagers were inclined to give the gold and red equipage pulled by four beautifully matched blacks more than a passing glance.

Eyebrows were raised, however, when the coachman, rather than continuing at a brisk pace on down the road toward Leeds, pulled his team to a halt in front of the small house rented for the last several years by Mrs. Carlisle. She was, as the blacksmith’s wife was quick to point out to the landlady at the Brimming Goblet, only an insignificant widow from somewhere in the south of England—respectable, but not one to push herself forward unbecomingly.

On the other hand, as the postmaster pointed out to the new schoolmaster, the widow did receive an inordinate number of letters, many of them franked by assorted peers of the realm.

Perhaps, remarked the vicar’s wife to the squire’s wife, with the widow’s obvious connections, might not dear Mrs. Carlisle be a welcome addition to the Altar Guild? With a murmur of assent, the squire’s wife decided on the basis of one imposing coachman, two liveried grooms, and four armed outriders, that the time had come to give the widow a copy of her closely guarded and much sought-after receipt for pickled beets. There was no need, of course, to mention such beneficence to her companion. Good friend though she was, the vicar’s wife never received visits from ladies whose raiment had the unmistakable touch of an expensive London modiste.

As for the elegant lady who descended from the carriage, Lady Letitia was well aware of the watchful eyes and wagging tongues, and in a back part of her mind she automatically considered whether there might not be some way to use them to advantage. Following the housekeeper into a sitting room decorated more for comfort than for elegance, she contemplated the possibility of prying her friend out of the country and back to London where she belonged.

“Letty! My dear, whatever brings you to such an out-of-the-way spot as this?” With great alacrity and a look of guilt, the widow rose from the settee and, hands held out in welcome, hurried to embrace her visitor.

Lady Letitia Amerdythe returned the embrace, then stepped back to survey her friend through a critical eye. A novel fallen to the floor and a half-empty box of bonbons told their own story. “Well, Amelia, I did not undertake this journey for my health, of that you may be certain. The roads were abominable, and I feel as though several of my back teeth have been jolted quite out of their sockets. It is your health, or rather the reports I have received from all three of your daughters of your lack of health, that has persuaded me to undertake such an arduous journey. Why you have chosen to immure yourself in the wilds of Yorkshire instead of establishing yourself in Bath or maintaining possession of your London residence, I am sure I cannot fathom. You had as well taken yourself off to a nunnery.”

Without waiting for her friend to remember her manners, Lady Letitia seated herself on a chair conveniently placed next to the settee, but the widow remained standing, looking like nothing so much as a schoolchild called upon to recite an ill-prepared lesson.

“Oh, my dear, I am so sorry you have made this journey for naught. I never thought—that is, it never occurred to me ...”

“Indeed, and well you should blush. Here you are in the pink of health, looking positively half your age, when I expected to find you prostrate on your deathbed, for so your daughters have led me to believe.”

“Well, there you have it.” Amelia seated herself again on the settee, then as unobtrusively as possible she slipped the box of sweets out of sight behind a pillow. “Why you should have believed a word I wrote them, I am sure I cannot comprehend. And you know perfectly well that I have
immured
myself here precisely because of those same daughters. It was the only way I could discourage them from constantly descending upon me, or what is worse, foisting their repellent offspring onto dear Grandmama. Well this grandmama has no interest in the wretched brats. That is what nannies and governesses are for.”

“You did, however, cancel your annual round of visits to them this year claiming ill health, did you not?”

“Well, yes, but that was merely a ruse. Really, you cannot have any idea how much I dread visiting them each autumn. Lizzie is increasing again, which will make nine—nine—and every one of the poor things the spitting image of Sandervale—not a chin among the lot of them. And Harriet has seven, and Ermelda six, with no end in sight. Well, I will tell you right out, they did not get such bourgeois ideas from me.”

The widow stopped abruptly, then all the stiffness went out of her, and she relaxed back on her pillows. “Oh, Letty, you are too wicked. You were never for a moment worried about my health, were you? You might as well confess. I have never been able to fool you with my little fabrications before, and I cannot believe you would be taken in by any gossip passed on by my daughters, who you know perfectly well take after their father and have more hair than wit.”

“No, my dear Amelia, I did not honestly believe you were about to expire. I am on my way to join a very special friend in Edinburgh and decided a short detour was in order to visit you and discover the real reason you have decided to stay in the north this year.”

The widow gave a positively girlish giggle. “Oh, my dear, I simply could not tear myself away from the farce that has been unfolding in the village. I declare, it would be a
succ
è
s fou
on the stage in London. Were I a playwright, I would title it, ‘The Encroaching Mushroom.’ But come, I shall have the housekeeper show you to my guest room and give you an opportunity to rid yourself of your travel stains, and then we shall meet for tea and I shall tell you all about the folly and pretensions that make life in a little country village so fascinating.”

* * * *

Mrs. Pierce-Smythe was not her usual calm self when she entered the drawing room to join her husband for tea. She was, in fact, so excited by the news she had just received, she had an impulse to do something wildly indecorous, such as bestow a kiss on Mr. Pierce-Smythe.

“You are late, my dear. The tea will be cold by this time.”

A slight frown crossed Mrs. Pierce-Smythe’s face, not at her husband’s admonition, but at the sight of the two girls seated side by side on the settee. She had forgotten it was Wednesday, the governess’s half day off, and the schoolroom party was therefore taking tea with the adults.

Scarcely able to control her impatience to tell her husband the wonderful news, she nevertheless seated herself beside him and calmly laid a hand on the teapot. It had indeed grown tepid. “Lady Gloriana, take this back to the kitchen and fetch a fresh pot.”

She waited only until the door had closed behind her young relative, then turned back to her husband. “My dear, I have received the most shocking information. Lady Letitia Amerdythe is here—
here
in this very village—and she is visiting Mrs. Carlisle.”

“I am sure that is all very interesting, my dear, but I deplore unpunctuality, as I believe I have mentioned to you before.”

“Mr. Pierce-Smythe—” his wife drew herself up and affixed him with her most imperious look, “there is nothing and nobody more important in the
ton
than Lady Letitia. No door is shut to her, and she has arranged more marriages—
advantageous
marriages—than, than, oh, than anyone. And she is having tea with that little nobody. I would give my eyeteeth if only we could invite her here for dinner.”

“And whyever can we not? I fancy I am somebody in this district, and I am more accustomed to people angling for invitations than declining them out of hand.”

“Because I have never acknowledged that wretched widow, that is why. Indeed, you told me yourself she was not worth cultivating. But on the other hand ...” She thought for a moment, then began to smile. “If Lady Letitia is taking tea at that house … Yes, she may well be so desperate for some decent cooking that she will overlook the lack of acquaintanceship. It is worth risking a refusal. And indeed, now that I think on it, all we need do is address the invitation to Mrs. Carlisle and her guest, and I am sure they will neither of them hesitate to accept.”

“But, Mama,” her daughter Rosabelle said with a pretty pout on her face, “are you forgetting about Lady Gloriana? Surely all our prospects will be lost if Lady Letitia once catches sight of that great gawk.”

Just at that moment the door opened to admit Lady Gloriana with the fresh pot of tea. The eyes of the three other people in the room followed the young girl, and none of them were pleased with what they saw. Not even her rounded shoulders could disguise the fact that she was a veritable giantess. Why she towered a good nine or ten inches over Mr. Pierce-Smythe, and although she had stopped growing a year ago, shortly after she had passed her fourteenth birthday, it was too late; the damage was done.

Mrs. Pierce-Smythe quickly reviewed the dilemma that had stumped her for the past year—what to do about an impoverished young relative who has become inconvenient, yet who, as the daughter of an earl, cannot simply be turned out into the world. And since everyone of consequence in the district knew of her presence in the Pierce-Smythe household, tongues would wag if she were simply shut up out of sight and out of mind in her room.

On the other hand, Mrs. Pierce-Smythe realized full well, nothing could be more fatal to her own dainty daughter’s chances of contracting a brilliant marriage than to continue letting Lady Gloriana appear in public. Because what man of sense would wish to ally himself with a family known to have produced such a freak?

Deciding finally that the potential benefits of cultivating an acquaintance with Lady Letitia, whose friendship would guarantee herself and her daughter entrée into the highest levels of London society, more than outweighed the penalties liable to be inflicted in Yorkshire for offending the sensibilities of local society, Mrs. Pierce-Smythe resolutely made her decision. “Lady Gloriana, we are expecting company this evening. You will dine on a tray in your room.”

* * * *

“Amelia, I do not consider myself to be difficult to please, but I must point out to you that these scones are hard as rocks, the macaroons are burned on the bottom, and the junket is sagging ominously at the knees. I fear, in fact, that the only firm thing about it is its intention to slither off the plate and make the acquaintance of the tablecloth. Might I suggest that with the ample funds your husband left at your disposal you consider hiring a reasonably competent cook?”

“Oh, but Mrs. Skinner is a pearl beyond price; I could never let her go. Although I will admit she has never quite learned the knack of dressing a joint properly, she has a veritable genius for ferreting out gossip. Nothing that goes on in the village escapes her.”

“Then speaking of gossip, since I am not to be allowed to assuage my physical hunger properly, perhaps you might fill me in on the rest of the story of the local mushroom.”

“Try the bread and butter. It is quite safe; I buy it in the village. As to the mushroom, he goes by the name of Mr. Pierce-Smythe, although I have it from a reliable source—”

“Your cook?”

“Exactly. That his grandfather was a plain Mr. Smith, who started life as a higgler, peddling his wares from door to door. Now I have not heard it said that he was actually dishonest, but it would seem that his trading practices were sharp enough that by the time he died he was a successful shop owner in Manchester. His son, who changed his name to Smythe, claimed to be a respectable banker, but he was really nothing more than a demmed cent-per-cent. Which brings us to the present generation.

“He styles himself a gentleman, but there has always been something a little off about him. He is more or less our generation, and he married Miss Rosemary Pierce. Perhaps you remember her mother Rosamund? A Calkins, she was, the granddaughter of some wretched little Irish viscount, always hanging around the fringes of society. No taint of the shop, mind you, and she was acknowledged by the family, albeit grudgingly. Married the fourth son of a seventh son or something like that— the Lincolnshire Pierces, but sadly fallen away.” Amelia paused to butter another slice of bread for herself.

“I recall the family. Rather a nondescript lot, even the best of them.”

“Exactly. Miss Rosemary had pretensions of beauty but lacked a dowry, and with nothing else to recommend her, she was assumed to be on the shelf until her father struck a bargain with our Mr. Smythe. I would hate to have to judge which of the two got the best of that bargain. The higgler’s grandson has plenty of money, I will grant you that, but he is at least twenty years her senior and she was no spring chicken. They have only the one child—a daughter named Rosabelle. So many roses, it is enough to make a body feel nauseated.”