Julia London (54 page)

Until this very moment, and she was mentally kicking herself for having turned over what might have been the only means to provide for Rosewood. “Good God, I am four and twenty,” she blurted suddenly as the gravity of what she had done sank in.
“Four and twenty,”
she repeated, stabbing the air with her hands for emphasis. “How could I be so impetuous?”

“It is not your fault, love,” Paul reassured her.

A surge of admiration washed over Lauren. God, how she loved her brother. To this day, she could not help feeling guilty about Paul’s limp. It was the considerable opinion of Rosewood’s stalwart housekeeper, Mrs. Peterman, that Lauren could not forgive herself for having emerged unscathed from the accident, for having been all of nine years old and arguing with a five-year-old Paul about who would be allowed to ride on the high seat with the driver, or for Paul’s having been thrown clear of the wreckage that damaged his leg and killed their parents. Mrs. Peterman further reckoned that Lauren’s guilt was what spurred her to work so hard for Rosewood. Lauren was less romantic about it—she worked hard because she loved her home.

In the first years after her parents’ death, the estate had fared well enough, and Ethan had subscribed to the “out-of-sight, out-of-mind” theory of child rearing. Paul had continued his education at the parish school, and she had been placed under the stern tutelage of Ethan’s wife, Lady Wilma Hill. Aunt Wilma proved determined to pound as much feminine grace and propriety into her charge as she possibly could. The old battle-ax had succeeded well enough before her death ten years ago, for all the good it did Lauren at Rosewood. After her aunt’s death, she had refused to learn another blasted thing in the art of being a lady, and had thrown herself into the study of useful things, such as farming techniques, quotations and proverbs, and languages.

But the farm had slid farther toward the precipice of poverty over the years. While Ethan spent their dwindling inheritance as his legal status of reluctant guardian entitled him to do, Paul and Lauren had lived practically hand to mouth. What little land they owned that was not eaten up by the parish, was soon overused and unproductive.

It was Mrs. Peterman’s idea to accept the first of their boarders ten years ago. His name was Rupert, a fifteen-year
old dullard and an apparent embarrassment to his affluent family. The parish vicar had arranged everything: in exchange for a place to put his son out of sight, Rupert’s father provided a stipend that at least enabled them to keep food on the table. It turned out to be such a convenient arrangement, the vicar suggested to Mrs. Peterman that the parish would pay a small stipend to board orphans, and more had come over the years.

Their uncle had been happy to take the paltry stipends that came with the unfortunate children. Lauren had been quite content with the arrangement—until Ethan had convinced the feeble Helmut Bergen to accept an unheard of betrothal agreement, using little more than a small portrait of Lauren. She had balked, but in the end, under unbearable pressure from Ethan, she had done it for Rosewood and the children.

The children! How she longed to see them! There was Lydia, with fiery-red hair and big green eyes, and Horace, constantly dreaming of the day that he could be a
real
pirate. There was Theodore, who loved books as much as Lauren, and little Sally, the blond darling who worshipped Paul. And of course, Leonard, dear Leonard, the brightest and most tragic of them all. Born to a tavern whore, the poor child had been marred at birth with a purple birthmark that covered half his face.

Through the years, she had come to accept that in her parent’s death was a blessing. Had it not been for that horrid spring day, she and Paul never would have known the boarders—they meant the world to her. And she had ruined the one opportunity they had to provide properly for them. What in heaven’s name would they do now?

Lauren glanced at Paul, who had traveled thousands of miles to retrieve her, and impulsively grasped his hand. “Oh Paul! I gave it
all
away!”

Paul slipped a brotherly arm around her shoulders. “You
did the right thing, love, and we shall persevere,” he assured her. “We always have, we always will, and we shall do so without resorting to stealing from an infirm old man. You did the right thing.”

Rosewood, southern England

Rupert, the first of the Rosewood boarders, was waiting at the post station in Pemberheath, perched in an old wagon pulled by two fat grays that looked as if they had not seen this side of a pasture fence in a decade. Thankfully, Rosewood was only three miles from Pemberheath, and Lauren’s anticipation grew greater with each one. But when they turned onto the lane leading to Rosewood, her eagerness turned to shock. The once stately home was in such sad disrepair she hardly recognized it. The great green shutters, so grand in her youth, were faded with age, and one hung crooked from a single hinge. The paned glass windows her mother had been so proud of now boasted several cracks. The front lawn was overgrown with weeds, the fence was crumbling, and a thin, weak tail of smoke rose limply from one of four chimneys. Two kid goats chewed a section of weeds near the corner of the house.

“What
happened
?” she exclaimed with unconcealed mortification.

“We are somewhat short of funds,” Paul mumbled wearily.

Short of funds? Judging by the look of the place, they had to be
destitute.
“But … we have
some
income, surely!” she cried.

“It’s rather complicated,” Paul responded gloomily. “I’ll explain later,” he muttered as the wagon rolled to a stop on the front drive. Rupert immediately jumped down from his perch, striding away for what he apparently considered the important task of corralling the kid goats.

The front door was suddenly flung open and a lad of almost twelve years scrambled outside shouting, “She’s home! She’s home!” A large, purple stain spread from the top of his forehead, across his left eye and cheekbone, and into his hairline. Lauren quickly alighted as the child rushed forward and threw his skinny arms around her legs. “Oh, Leonard! I am so very happy to see you!” She laughed gaily and hugged him tightly.

“Did you sail on a very large boat?” he asked anxiously.

“Yes, darling, we sailed on a
very
big boat,” she responded, chuckling. “But we saw only one pirate.”

“A
pirate!
But how did you
know
he was pirate?” he asked in awe.

Lauren laughed. “Why he wore a tricorn, a patch over one eye, and a sword at his hip, that is how I know!”

“Was he taller than Uncle Ethan?” another boy of around ten shouted from the door, hurrying toward Lauren. She quickly stepped into his path and caught him before he plowed her over. Hugging him tightly to her, she kissed his golden head.

“He was taller than Uncle Ethan and spoke a strange language,” she confided, dropping to her knees.

“I
told
you Lydia! I told you there would be pirates!”

“I
know
, Theodore,” a girl sniffed indignantly from the door. Lauren smiled and extended a hand toward the pretty twelve-year-old. Lydia started forward and was jostled as
little Sally rushed outside, headed straight for Paul. Another boy, seven-year-old Horace, crowded in front of Lydia, his wooden sword stuffed in his belt. The children gathered around her like chicks to feed, and Lauren hugged them each, patiently answering the questions they shouted at her, and laughing gaily as she listened to their news.

“You better have a damn good explanation!” a surly voice boomed from the door. Lauren glanced up and swallowed a squeal of shock. At two o’clock in the afternoon, Uncle Ethan wore a threadbare dressing gown, a snifter of brandy dangling from two fingers at his side. But even more astounding was the fact that Ethan was …
enormous.
Good God, he had gained five stone, maybe six. His face was pallid, his jowls as fleshy as the obstinate old hog that lived on the premises. He had always been a large man, but this—
this
defied large. And for some inexplicable reason, it made her angry. Since Ethan had squandered their inheritance, he had come to live at the estate. Rosewood was destitute, but her uncle, well, he looked
remarkably
well fed. She stood slowly, dropped Theodore’s hand, and folded her arms across her middle. “Good day, Uncle.”

“What in the hell were you thinking?” he roared.

That did it. Lauren’s eyes narrowed as she marched forward through the throng of children, her fists finding her hips. “What was I thinking? What were
you
thinking? You
promised
me, Uncle Ethan! You promised the children would be well tended!”

Startled, Ethan glanced sheepishly at the gaggle of children gathered around her. “I
did
care for them!” he blustered, his face turning red. “Do not attempt to turn the subject and don’t talk to me of promises, girl! You broke yours!”

Marching to where her corpulent uncle stood, Lauren shouted, “I did nothing of the sort! We had a signed
agreement
, and it was not fulfilled! That money did not belong to
me!” Staring him straight in the eye, she silently dared him to disagree.

Ethan obviously was taken aback. He made a great show of straightening the lapels of his dressing gown as he muttered weakly, “Impertinent little wench.”

But Lauren did not hear him. Mrs. Peterman had stepped out onto the drive, a slash of flour across her forehead and wisps of hair sticking out of her bun. With a squeal of delight, Lauren threw herself into the woman’s arms. Hugging each other tightly, the two gleefully jumped up and down.

Ethan turned his hostility on Paul as he limped toward the riotous scene. “She signs it all away, and now she thinks she can do whatever she pleases! By God, she’ll see differently, mark my words!” he growled.

Paul lifted a dubious brow as he watched Mrs. Peterman and Lauren, arm in arm, turn and stroll inside. “Yes, she seems to be quaking in her boots.” A smug smile lifted the corner of his mouth as he moved past his uncle, crowding with the children into the door behind his sister.

   It had been just a little more than one month since her return to Rosewood, Lauren thought as she sat outside Dr. Stephens’s drawing room. One month. Staring blankly at the wall, she marveled at what had happened in that time. First of all, Ethan had
mortified
her by announcing, almost the moment she had arrived at Rosewood, that he intended to marry her off again. That announcement had been followed by Mr. Thadeus Goldthwaite’s attempted offer of marriage a scant four days later. It was enough to make her want to run screaming from the house.

Good
God!

She was not even
remotely
interested in marrying again—not to some infirm old man as Ethan undoubtedly had in mind, and most certainly
not
to the round little apothecary, Fastidious Thadeus Goldthwaite.

A sound caught her attention, and looking up, Lauren
gasped in horror at the work Leonard and Horace had done to a bouquet of fresh cut flowers. Petals were strewn across the Oriental carpet and the small entry table, and only the stripped stems of the hothouse flowers remained in the hand-painted vase. Lauren scrambled to her feet and rushed forward to clean the mess before Dr. Stephens found it. Leonard moved to help her while Horace stood sullenly by.

“It’s all right,” Lauren hastily assured them, and searched for a place to discard the petals. There was no receptacle in sight except a canister reserved for canes and umbrellas. With a mischievous wink to the boys, she dumped the petals into the canister, then turned and held a finger to her lips before marching the children to the lone seat in the corridor.

She made them sit at her feet, her thoughts quickly returning to her dilemma. Though so very thankful to be home, she was absolutely sickened by the deplorable state of Rosewood. Paul had explained to her that because of escalating parish taxes, falling grain prices, and enclosures all around them that left the best lands to the wealthy, Rosewood was left with only a fraction of arable land, and that overused. “Representation is what we need!” he had blustered angrily. “There is no one in Parliament to look after
our
interests!”

She did not understand all that. But she understood that their land was so depressed it could not support a decent crop of grain, and even if it could, they could not afford the labor to harvest it, let alone the parish taxes. So she had racked her brain for a way to fix things.

She had been so intent on fixing things that she had not really paid Mrs. Peterman heed when she had tried to explain her solution for Rosewood. Lauren did not fully understand until the day Mr. Goldthwaite had come to Rosewood with herbs for the cough circulating among the children.

He then showed Lauren some of the herbs he had planted in the overgrown garden. The herb garden made Lauren
think of the possibilities of trading the vine vegetables and fruits that seemed to grow rapidly and anywhere for supplies. Caught up in her ideas, Mr. Goldthwaite’s botched attempt to kiss her surprised her so much that her heart had stopped for a moment. “
Mr. Goldthwaite!
” she had shrieked when the round man had unexpectedly clasped her in an ironclad embrace and pursed his lips. “Dear God, let
go
of me!”

The man turned as red as a fat ripe apple and quickly dropped his arms. Lauren had searched frantically for a club with which to brain him, but finding none, had brought her hands to her hips and glared at him. “Just what do you think you are doing?” she had demanded with all the authority of a countess.

The rotund shopkeeper had pulled himself up to his full height—roughly two inches shorter than her—and replied haughtily, “What do you
think
I am doing?”

Unfortunately, Lauren had startled them both by laughing, at which point Mr. Goldthwaite’s color went from red to purple. “I am sorry, Mr. Goldthwaite, I do not mean to laugh. But you see—”

“I see very clearly, Countess Bergen,” he said stiffly.