Miss Grantham's One True Sin (The Regency Matchmaker Series Book 2) (8 page)

And that was that.

She sighed and opened her eyes just as Ophelia appeared next to her, a welcome diversion from such unpleasant thoughts. The older woman motioned to the three daisy wreaths Marianna had fashioned. "You'll have to make one larger than that to fit over my turban.” She chuckled.

Marianna's morose thoughts scattered, but her mood was not so easily broken. She tried to smile, but she was not terribly successful, and Ophelia said, "Come now, dispel those blue devils. Tell me what troubles you."

Marianna didn't even try to offer a denial of her mood. Ophelia was astute enough to know when Marianna skirted a direct question. Besides, she was Marianna's friend, and as such she was owed a confidence.

The old woman settled herself upon one of the chairs. "Well?" she prompted.

Marianna shook her head and stared at her hands. "It just seems incomprehensible that somewhere there is a man to whom I shall soon be wed. A man I do not know. A man I have never even glimpsed."

Ophelia shook her head. "That is not what troubles you."

Marianna threw her a questioning look. "Oh?"

"No. You, Marianna, in spite of your otherwise sensible mind, believe in foolish fairy-stories. You were brought up knowing what is most important in a husband: wealth and title. But you have always harbored a secret belief in all that one-true-love rubbish, and now you fear not finding your own true love. Even worse, you are beginning to doubt any such man exists."

Marianna lowered her gaze to her lap.

Ophelia reached out to tip Marianna's chin back up, and she pinned her with a piercing gaze. "You are wrong, Marianna." Her blue eyes softened, and she said kindly, "He
does
exist, and you will discover him right here at Trowbridge. Very soon."

Marianna knew she referred to the army of bachelors who would soon be descending upon Trowbridge Manor along with the rest of the house party guests. They were hand-chosen by Ophelia, an exemplary group of men to be sure. Yet Marianna held no confidence that she would fall in love with one of them—and even less confidence that one of
them
would fall in love with her! She wanted to ask what made Ophelia so certain it would happen with one of the gentlemen coming to Trowbridge, but she did not wish to spoil her old friend's pleasant fantasy. A wistful smile had claimed the lady's lined face. If Ophelia could find a few days' pleasure believing that she could bring Marianna together with her own true love, why spoil it for her?

Marianna said nothing and began weaving a much larger, turban-sized wreath.

TRUE SET THE girls upon a hunt for a four-leafed clover, and then he wandered back over toward the picnic quilts. As he approached, Mrs. Robertson rose from her chair and went in search of her husband, who was with the coachman and footmen—talking horses, no doubt. The man loved horses, and he was uncannily good with them. After only three days with Mr. Robertson present, True's stables were already in much better shape. He had expected to wait an hour or more for the barouche to be brought 'round this morning, but it had taken less than a quarter hour. He was certain Mr. Robertson—John, as the man insisted True call him—was responsible for that.

Mrs. Robertson threw Truesdale an amused look as she quit the shade of the elm tree, and True sat down on the blanket next to Mary.

He nodded toward the ABC’s. "They are quite taken with you," he said. "When I suggested they look for a lucky shamrock, the three of them cast about with a decided lack of enthusiasm—until Alyse said that when she found a four-leaf she would present it to you. Then the other two threw themselves into the hunt with alacrity, and now all three of them are racing to see who will be the first to find one. They all want to please you."

Mary smiled. "The feeling is mutual. They are darlings, if one takes the time to get to know them. Do you think they are hungry?" She changed the subject, and True silently added “Modesty” to his list—another surprise. Most people liked to trumpet their own accomplishments.

True tapped the picnic hamper. "I am not at all certain anything in here is edible."

He had ordered a hamper to be laden with whatever
largesse
the cook could produce, though True hadn’t expected much. Thus far, he'd seen Cook spend as little effort as possible in pleasing anyone—though he was uncertain the result would be noticeable even if she did put in special effort. Cook was as incompetent as the rest of the Trowbridge servants. Incompetent and ill-mannered. The woman’s expression was invariably as sour as her quince pies.

True had learned Mary Grantham's favorite foods early on—bacon, shortbread, roasted chicken, and anything made of apples—but requests to Cook to prepare those foods went largely unheeded. He intended to dismiss the woman as soon as he had time to procure a suitable replacement—not that it really mattered that much. After all, he would be leaving Trowbridge Manor before too long, and he did not need the food to entice Mary to stay. Not when he had his smile, his attention, and perfect pink roses to bestow upon her. And especially not when he had his mother's engagement ring to spring upon her when the time was right.

No, he did not need special food.

He opened the hamper to begin taking out its contents and blinked in surprise. The hamper had obviously been packed with some care. On top rested a box of tall, light, fluffy-looking rolls. Farther down, he discovered a pot of plump apple dumplings, a tin of delicate shortbread still warm from the oven, and two roasted chickens. On the very bottom, a bottle of cold milk lay in ice, along with a jar of summer pickles and a small crock of fresh butter.

True motioned to the footmen, who were standing nearby. "Is Cook ill this morning?" he asked them, certain he already knew the answer. She had to be ill, and whoever had packed this basket in her stead might make a suitable replacement.

The footmen traded looks, and one man shrugged. "No, my lord. Cook was right as rain and singing loud enough to wake up the King before dawn this morning."

True frowned. "Well, then, who prepared the food?"

The footman shrugged. "I reckon it was Cook, my lord."

"Impossible."

"Oh, no, Mr. Fitts is correct," Marianna said. "Cook asked me this morning at breakfast if I preferred apple dumplings or apple pie for our picnic."

"At breakfast? You slept through breakfast."

She laughed. "No, I was up quite early working on ... on my embroidery. I was peckish, so I wandered down to the kitchen to beg a crust or two and ended up having the loveliest breakfast with Cook. She's such a dear woman."

"Cook?
My
cook?" True asked, genuinely all at sea, but Mary's attention was focused on Ophelia and John who were approaching just as the ABC’s the ABC's gamboled up to the blanket and produced ratty bouquets from behind their backs.”

“For you,” Beatrice said.

“They’re wildflowers,” Alice supplied.

“Couldn’t find any clovers wif four leafs.”

“Leaves, darling,” Marianna corrected her and tousled her hair.

"Humph!" Ophelia grumped with mock sincerity. "I suppose I shall have to pick my own flowers." She marched dramatically out into the meadow. The ABC's traded guilty looks with Mary, and soon all five of the females were far afield, scouring the meadow for more wild-flowers.

John shrugged. "No tellin' when they'll be back, an' my belly's too empty for waitin'." He reached for a leg of chicken and a pickle. Tucking in, he smacked his lips. "Delicious!"

"It is?"

John nodded, taking another bite. "Mmm . . ."

Experimentally, True tasted the chicken. It
was
good. He tried a roll next, then the shortbread, and finally the apple dumplings. All were exquisite. "I do not understand," he said absently.

"Mmm?"

"I thought my cook incompetent. I had intended to dismiss her. I had intended to dismiss quite a few of the incompetent servants my brother hired. But now I find she can cook like this!"

John chewed thoughtfully for a moment before he spoke. "I been in your stables a lot these past days, my lord—"

"For which I've been meaning to thank you."

"'Tis nothin'. I'm right glad to help. Anyways ... I come to know the lads in the stables fair enough already, and I'm guessin' your brother didn't hire no bad servants. It's just that they ain't willin' to work their hardest for a man who ain't likely to appreciate it, if you take my meanin'."

"Meaning my late brother was an ungrateful knave who thought himself above everyone and made sure they all knew it?"

"That's it.”

“And I am guilty by association.”
And by reputation
, True added to himself, for there was a time when his own behavior had been no better than his brother's.

“You have the right of it. Not a blessed one o’ the servants I’ve spoke to has been shy about their feelings concerning the former Viscount Trowbridge, beggin’ your pardon, Sir. But now," John continued, "your servants all think Miss Marianna's goin' to be their new mistress, see?" He plucked a roll from the box and motioned toward the footmen, who were following behind Mary, baskets in hand, to help carry the wildflowers she gathered. "She's already got them charmed, my lord, just like she’s got those little girls charmed.” He held up the roll. “Cook’s doin’ her best to please her. They all are.” He took a bite and looked down as though the matter were settled.

True knew he was right. The ABC’s had actually refused to take their shoes off and tramp into the water after the elusive tadpoles. They hadn't wanted to take a chance on getting their new frocks spotted. With any other little girls, the refusal wouldn’t have been noteworthy. But with the ABC’s ... True shook his head. Everything at Trowbridge Manor had been neglected, including the girls.

Usually, True's brother Franklin and sister-in-law Sylvia had stayed at their Town house and traveled to friends' estates during the months when it was fashionable to flee London to pretend to rusticate at elaborate country house parties. They left their daughters at Trowbridge Manor, rarely seeing them above two or three times a year, and then never for more than a week at a time. The girls had never really known their parents. They'd seen True more than they had their own father, and True had always regretted not being able to spend more time with them. He was always there at Christmas and as often as he could get away from his struggling infant shipping business, but he was painfully aware that it had not been enough.

The ABC's had needed a firm attachment to an adult. They had grown wild, and keeping a governess had become more and more difficult. Intervals between governesses had lengthened, until Franklin and Sylvia had just given up. True remembered having spoken to Sylvia about it during one of his rare visits to his brother's Town house.

Lounging on a gold brocade sofa in her lavishly decorated parlor, she'd declared interviewing "stodgy old spinsters" a tedious bore. She was much too busy, she said, to be bothered every week with it. If her brats back at Trowbridge Manor insisted on chasing off their governesses, then they would just have to do without one. She and Franklin had washed their hands of the entire matter. True had looked to Franklin, but the elder Sin had simply shrugged his abstention and unconcern.

True had given a tight nod and left, seething. It was the last time he saw either of them alive.

For the past two years, overseeing the girls' day-to-day existence had fallen to the Trowbridge staff—but they already had more than enough to do. Franklin refused to spend a farthing on the estate. The idiot bled off the profits and never put anything back into the land. As servants and tenants moved on or died, Franklin made no effort to replace them. Consequently, the workload increased, and the only contact the people of Trowbridge Manor had with Franklin was the occasional angry letter demanding to know why the revenues were down. The steward had quit in disgust a year ago. But even before that, with no improvements to the estate and a shrinking staff, Trowbridge had been slowly dying.