Emily Greenwood (4 page)

“Yes, it is,” she replied carefully. “But it’s not where we belong.”

“Nonsense, dear, it is a family house.”

“But it’s not Tethering.”

“No, it’s not,” he agreed, fixing her with a steady gaze, which was a rare look from her head-in-the-clouds father. “Tethering was your mother’s home, and it is a fine house.”

“It’s our family house, Father!” she said. “If Mother were here,” she began, but stopped. A lump rose in her throat as she thought of her lively, giving mother, whose companionship and wisdom she still missed.

As she lay dying of the fever that had claimed her, Caroline Wilcox had smiled weakly and said to her daughter, “Don’t fret, dear. I’ll always be with you in spirit. Especially here at Tethering, where our family has always been. Just remember not to let anything happen to the estate. Take care of Tethering, and it will take care of all of you.” She had passed from consciousness before her daughter could reply, but Felicity could never forget these words, or the unspoken promise they called from her.

“My dear,” her father said gently, “of course I have many fond memories of Tethering Hall, and most precious are the years spent there with your mother.” He sighed. “But that’s what they are—memories of a time gone by. Life is change, Felicity. Tethering is no longer ours, but we have the cottage. And,” he said in a firm tone, “we shall make a very nice life here.”

When she didn’t reply he fixed her with a shrewd look. “We must make Mr. Collington welcome, my dear.”

“I will try,” she said, with a pang at this necessary duplicity.

He smiled. “Thank you. I know this is a hard burden to bear, especially for you, who were mistress of Tethering from a young age. And a fine mistress you were. And still are! Why, think of how much more fully your talents might blossom here in our little household, now that Jonathan, God rest his soul, is not among us to drain away money.”

“Yes, Father.”

He put down his napkin. “I’ll be off to my study now.”

She rose and gave him a fond kiss, feeling a tug of conscience about duping this honest, trusting man who thought he had now convinced her to accept their lot in life. Fortunately, it was a small tug since she knew she was going to do what was best for the Wilcox family.

Felicity fixed her hair into a simple knot and changed into a fresh gown, if fresh was the right word for a gown that had started life decades earlier as a dainty yellow frock and was now a vague grayish-black. It had fitted half-sleeves and a scarf collar that had taken the black mourning dye differently, which she hoped might pass as an intentional accent. She wrapped up a loaf of bread in a tea towel and stood by the door to wait for her unwanted escort.

Mr. Collington arrived outside Blossom Cottage in his handsome open carriage with a driver. He got down to hand her in, then sat across from her on the fine leather seat. The carriage started up with a gentle jerk, the luxurious cushions and well-sprung seats of their conveyance creaking softly with a sound that indicated a lot of money had been spent to ensure a smooth ride. They pulled onto the road to Longwillow, which was about a mile away.

As they drove through the open gates, Felicity said, “I had planned to make a stop on the way.”

“Before your father extricated himself and sent me in his place, you mean?” he asked with laughing eyes. She refused to share his mirth and tipped her chin at an angle away from him.

“Certainly we can stop,” he said good-naturedly. “Where do you want to go?”

“A cottage up ahead,” she said, “around the bend.”

He got the driver’s attention and conveyed her directions, then turned to face her. “And who will we be visiting?”

“Nanny.”

“Yours?”

“And my mother’s.”

“Ah,” he said, “the recipient of your package?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to speak to me only in monosyllables?”

“Ideally.”

He grunted. He didn’t try to make any more conversation, and they drove on in silence for several minutes. Finally, she said, “I’ve changed my mind about the orchard. I’ll do it.”

“You will?”

“Yes. But I’ll want half of the stipend before I start.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Oh you will, will you? But if I pay you beforehand, Miss Wilcox, how can I be certain you will do the job?”

She made a shocked sound, allowing her eyes to rest on him long enough to glare. “Obviously, you will have to trust me. I am hardly a trickster.
I
am not the gambler.”

“Or you might do worse,” he mused, ignoring her, “now that I have time to reflect on it. How do I know you won’t undermine my efforts?”

That brought her up short. Did he suspect something? “What do you mean?”

“You might practice some creative gardening technique that leaves me with damaged trees, a poor harvest.” He pushed his lips outward in a shrug. “Something diabolical.”

“Oh, really,” she said tartly, waving a dismissive hand, “that would be ridiculously childish. I love the orchard. Why should I do such a thing?”

“Why indeed?” he said. “Perhaps because you cannot stand that I am here?”

“That is hardly a secret.”

“True,” he said lightly. “But it puts things in a certain light.”

She allowed herself a small, sincere smile. “You have my word, Mr. Collington, that I will not undermine your efforts in the orchard.” Elsewhere, definitely, but she’d never harm the orchard.

“Good. Then we have a bargain, and you shall have your ten pounds tomorrow.”

James was pleased. This should work out well. He wanted the orchard to be in the best possible condition when Dover came to see the property. Not that he would let Miss Wilcox know he planned to sell the estate. She’d doubtless find a way to have his meals poisoned before she let him dispose of it as he saw fit.

A few minutes later the coach paused at the turnoff for the cottage, which was perhaps a hundred yards off the road. The coachman turned around and said that the wheels would get stuck in the mud if he drove up the rough path to the house, so James got out first to hand his passenger down, stepping wide of the soft mud that surrounded the carriage. He reached up a hand to her where she stood on the top step, but she ignored it, making as if to sail by him unassisted. But as she came onto the second step and saw the quantities of mud below, she checked herself mid-stride and lost her balance. She fell forward against him. He clasped her to him, and her flailing arms encircled his neck.

Their faces were suddenly mere inches apart. Their eyes locked.

“Put… put me down,” she breathed, her hazel eyes dark and unfocused as they looked into his.

“Is that really what you want?” She was light in his arms. Distractingly curvy.

“I—I,” she began, her brow furrowing.

Behind her the carriage jostled briefly as Tom talked to the horses.

Her brows snapped together. “Put me down this instant, sir!” she said firmly.

He did.

“Oh!” She fairly growled at him as her feet hit the muddy ground.

“But you said…” he remarked innocently.

Her lips pressed together, Miss Wilcox stepped over the mud into a patch of grass, where she wiped her shoes before making her way toward the cottage, chin high in the air. He drew into step beside her, though she did not acknowledge him.

The cottage was cheerful-looking, with a thatched roof and flowers blooming in neat rows bordering the path that led to the front door. To one side were a small stream and a scattering of trees. As they drew closer, the door opened and out came an older woman dressed in a neatly tailored gray frock. Quite obviously, Nanny. When she appeared, James could have sworn he heard a shriek from somewhere behind the house, but glancing around he saw nothing.

“Miss Felicity!” Nanny boomed. His eyes widened at Nanny’s remarkable presence. She was short and stout with a thick-featured, ruddy face and unusually large teeth. Her hair was pulled into a bun so tight that she looked bald. She was as like to a man as a woman could be, especially one who was so immaculately gowned.

“Nanny dear,” Miss Wilcox said, her face lighting up in a charmingly sweet smile the likes of which James had not seen since their moments on the stream bank. She was wearing a dress of washed-out black, another relic of bygone days. Her funny, drab clothes had the remarkable effect of drawing attention to her prettiness, as if to underline that her beauty depended not at all on what she was wearing. Feeling uncomfortably warm, he turned his gaze to the quelling vision of Nanny.

Miss Wilcox approached Nanny and placed a kiss on the plump, ruddy cheek. He squinted. Was that a hairy wart on the old woman’s chin? Nanny stood back from Miss Wilcox and scrutinized her.

“Heavens, child, whatever are you wearing? That might have been your great-aunt’s tea gown.”

Nanny turned her gaze on James. “And who is this swarthy young man?”

Miss Wilcox’s face assumed the irritable look he recognized as being reserved for him. “Nanny Rollins, this is Mr. Collington. The one who has taken Tethering.”

He ducked his head politely. Nanny looked scandalized. “The gambler! Lady Pincheon-Smythe was right!”

James remembered his pledge to himself to be indulgent with the Wilcoxes. He could see that not just Miss Wilcox but her friends too were going to test the limits of his patience. “The very same,” he replied pleasantly, “recently returned from sunny Spain. Although I must point out that I do not gamble frequently.”

Nanny waved an arm dismissively. “That’s just the kind of thing Beresford would have said. Gamblers never want to admit how deep in they are.”

Miss Wilcox interrupted this line of conversation. “Nanny, I brought you some bread baked this morning.” She handed over the wrapped bundle. “Were you saying I had arrived just in time for something?”

The ferocious look disappeared from Nanny’s strong features. “Yes, dear, it’s Twinkle. He’s been stuck in a tree since last night, and I’ve no way to help him down.”

“Twinkle?” said James.

“My cat,” said Nanny.

Ah, the origin of the strange cry he heard earlier.

“Oh,” said Miss Wilcox sympathetically, “not again.”

“Yes,” said the nanny-troll, shaking her head, though obviously charmed by her cat’s behavior. “The naughty fellow loves adventure. But he’s getting old and he will sometimes overestimate his abilities.” She gestured toward the stream several yards away. “He’s in one of the lower branches over there.”

They went as a group toward the tree in question, and Twinkle had obviously noticed their approach because he began wailing more furiously. They stood at the base of the tree and looked upward to where the cat was, on a branch about a dozen feet above. There was one thick branch below it, about six feet from the ground.

“All right,” Miss Wilcox said. “I’ll go and get a stool.”

“What are you doing?” he said as she turned to go. “You’re not going to climb up there.”

She gave him a scornful look. “I certainly am. I got him down last time.”

“Well, I’ll get him today,” he said, pulling off his jacket.

“You are not needed,” she said firmly. “I will take care of it.”

But he was already pulling himself up to the lower branch. In a few moves he was standing on it and staring into the wild eyes of an enormous yellow tabby. Twinkle did not look as though he trusted him. Muttering a hope that Twinkle did not spook easily, he pulled him off the branch, tucking him under one arm. Then he leaned down and, grabbing the lower branch, swung out of the tree. As soon as James’s feet hit the ground, Twinkle flexed his needlelike claws into James’s side and jumped away, running into the house.

“Poor thing,” Nanny said, shaking her head in sympathy for the cat, “he’ll want a lie-down now.” She looked at James. “Thank you, young man. I’m glad to see you’re good for something. I don’t hold much with gamblers.”

He thought of correcting her again, but decided it was not worth his breath, and wondered instead if there was any blood seeping through to his shirt from Twinkle’s claws. At least his coat was red.

Nanny looked at Miss Wilcox. “And your brother, Miss Felicity! What a scrape he’s gotten into now!”

Miss Wilcox reddened and brushed impatiently at a strand of hair that had come loose from the bun at her pretty nape. James watched her, thinking that since he’d met her she’d continually been the classic damsel in distress—the fall in the stream, the plummeting family fortunes. While she was obviously very capable, what she really needed was a good man. As pretty as she was, why wasn’t she married?

“I’m sure we needn’t—” Miss Wilcox began. But her old nanny was not deterred.

“That prank with the horse. What a fool idea.”

“I don’t see how you could have heard—”

“Timothy Brooke’s mother told me.” Nanny shook her head. “Whoever thought some old farm horse would be worth thirty pounds?”

Ah. The reason why Miss Wilcox had changed her mind about helping him with the orchard.

Nanny continued. “I won’t say I’m not worried about you in all this, Miss Felicity. Your mother always carried more than her share of the Wilcox family’s responsibilities, with your father off forever in his study, and I can see that’s what will happen to you.”

Miss Wilcox glanced sideways at James, clearly not happy to have the family business aired. “Nanny,” she said warningly.

Nanny ignored her. “Your father’s too dreamy to say anything, but I’m not. You need a husband. Preferably a rich one. That would resolve so much.”

Miss Wilcox gasped. “Nanny!”

The old troll was completely unbothered by Miss Wilcox’s dismay, and James quite liked her for it. “It’s always ‘Oh, Nanny, don’t bring that up.’ As if the idea of your marrying were preposterous.”

“Nanny,” Miss Wilcox’s voice was steely, “we are fine. Father’s poetry sells well, and…” her eyes drifted toward him, and she dropped whatever she was going to say. “You needn’t worry about any of us.” For being a young, slim, and pretty
señorita,
there was something surprisingly commanding about her.

Nanny pressed her lips with displeasure. “Things have come to a sad state since I was nanny for the Beresfords, that’s all I’ll say.”

Miss Wilcox closed her eyes and took in a deep breath. “We have to be going now. I promised Crispin I would attend the church garden party.”

“Dear Crispin,” Nanny said, glee lighting her face. “Now there’s a fine young man. And he’s more than fond of you.”

But here Miss Wilcox cut her off by leaning in for a parting kiss. “Good-bye, dear. I will stop in again soon.”

Nanny enveloped Miss Wilcox in what looked like a crushing hug.

“Good-bye, Nanny Rollins,” James said with a grin. Her eyes widened as if she sensed he was being saucy. He was, but fortunately he was no longer in short pants.

They returned to the carriage, James wondering just how many family responsibilities Miss Wilcox carried.

“So, the infamous Reverend Markham,” he said, once they were seated. “A suitor?” he asked, not wanting to notice that he felt a particular interest in her answer.

“No,” she said in the general direction of the puffy clouds beyond his shoulder.

“Nanny seems to think so.”

“Nanny, God bless her, has opinions on everything.”

He chuckled in agreement.

***

Felicity couldn’t wait to get to the garden party, simply because she was itching to get away from Mr. Collington. She should have known Nanny would say whatever she was thinking. She always had. But did she really have to say all that in front of Mr. Collington?

He had behaved admirably with Nanny, despite her rudeness, and between that and his general surfeit of manliness, she could feel herself being pulled toward him. She had already had to spend an effort resisting the dreamy thought of what it might have felt like if he’d kissed her when he helped her down from the carriage.

The party was being held, as it was annually, in the Bishop’s Garden, a plot of land to the side of the church that was very prettily laid out with curving, shrub-lined paths, generous plantings of flowers, and weathered old statues. Almost as soon as Felicity and James arrived, Crispin spotted her and came over.

It had been almost three years since she’d last seen him, and she saw now that he had matured from the young man of nineteen he’d been when he left for university. He was handsome in his new black vicar’s clothes, with his fair hair and the muscular physique of the university rower he had been. She was still getting used to the idea of him being their vicar.