Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (5 page)

“About time you showed,” Sarah heard the minute she opened the kitchen door. “Dinner’s been ready this while.”

Reaching behind her to untie her work apron, Sarah smiled at Peg Hardy, who was setting a steaming cobbler on the work table. Behind her, little Mary Sunday was stirring soup in the cauldron, and covered dishes sat out on the serving table. The air was redolent with a bouquet of scents from dinner: yeasty bread, roasting mutton, the last of the blackberries tucked into a cinnamon-scented crust.

Every time Sarah walked in the kitchen door, she marveled that Peg could produce such delectable smells and such bad food. It was even worse that Sarah seemed to be the only one who noticed.

“I apologize for being late, Peg,” she said as she pulled her apron off over her head. “I was forced to waste time dealing with Cousin Martin.”

And hiding a possible traitor in the potting shed.
Just the thought sent Sarah’s pulse skyrocketing. She couldn’t imagine that Peg didn’t notice how upended she was.

Peg was too busy making the evil eye sign with flour-dusted fingers at the sound of Martin’s name. “Well, you’d better get in there all the same. Them termagants is about to start poundin’ their silver on the table.”

Sarah stopped short. “They came down for dinner?”

Oh, hell. She’d been counting on sitting at Peg’s table for dinner so she could run back out. Now she would have to do the pretty for at least two hours.

Peg rolled her expressive brown eyes. “Aren’t you the lucky one? Poor ole Parker’s been pourin’ sherry like lemonade, and Miss Fitchwater’s wavin’ smelling salts like incense in a Papist church.”

Poor old Parker being their butler, the last of the old servants, who had claimed deafness when retirement was suggested.

Sarah felt a headache coming on. “What happened this time to set them off?”

Hand on hip, Peg snorted, sounding a bit like Willoughby. “Her grand ladyship slipped out on the cliffs and lost some of her paint pots to the ocean. Miss Artemesia got a letter from one of her school chums.”

Sarah sighed. “Poor Artie. She was so happy there.”

“Well, she ain’t now. So you’d better be wearin’ armor when you walk in there. Parker’ll only be able to hold ’em off so long.” Reaching over, Peg gave her a little shove. “Go on up the back stairs, now. Mary brought up a can of hot water and laid out your lavender dress.”

Sarah planted a kiss on Peg’s cheek. “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Peg.”

Peg’s lean, hard face went all red, and she waved Sarah off. “Don’t be daft. Haven’t left you yet, have I?”

Sarah’s mother had never forgiven her when Peg followed Sarah to Fairbourne upon her marriage. Sarah didn’t want to think what might happen to her loyal friend if Martin succeeded in taking over. There would be no other place for any of them to go.

It took Sarah no more than twenty minutes to freshen up and change. Even so, by the time the cadaverous, smiling Parker ushered her into the rose parlor with creaking dignity and a full glass of sherry, the three women waiting for her looked as if they had been holding off starvation with roots and rainwater.

“Can you never arrive on time for a meal?” Lady Clarke asked as she fidgeted with her Norwich shawl where she sat on one end of the faded straw silk settee. “Hunger is not good for my heart.”

Calm,
Sarah thought, standing so still that Parker turned to stare at her.
It isn’t Lady Clarke’s fault that I feel as if I can’t breathe. She isn’t breaking the law for a handsome man.

Her hand shaking only a little, she accepted the glass from Parker, took a too-big gulp, and strode into the fray. “I apologize, Mother Clarke,” she said, deftly avoiding the feathers the woman always wore in her hair at dinner so she could give her a quick buss on the cheek on the way by. “I was delayed by Cousin Martin and the squire.”

As for Lady Clarke, Sarah suspected her heart was the soundest mechanism on the estate. Not that Lady Clarke had ever allowed that to affect her pretense of fragility. A deceptively frail-looking woman of middle height with faded blond hair and papery skin, she had perfected the art of ruling via vapors. But then, Sarah thought, if she had been forced to spend thirty years with Lord Clarke, she would have been a bit vaporish herself.

“Good evening, Miss Fitchwater,” Sarah said with a real smile for the tall, storklike lady perched beside the dowager, a full glass of ratafia in her hand. “Did you have a good day out on the Undercliff?”

“A disaster,” Lady Clarke moaned, hand to forehead. “I am all over bruised.”

“I heard,” Sarah said, taking a seat beside young Artemesia on the matching settee that bracketed the sputtering fire. “I am so sorry. It is a testament to your fortitude that you are here, Mother Clarke. Do you not think, Miss Fitchwater?”

“Oh, indeed,” the woman agreed, patting at the dowager’s hand. “Indeed.”

One of the few blessings of living at Fairbourne was that it was situated right along one of the most beautiful coastlines in England, famous for not only its very paintable flora, but its retrievable fossils, which kept both women busy. A mixed blessing, in Sarah’s opinion.

Sipping at her sherry, Sarah looked over to ask Artemesia about her day, but the petite blonde was glaring at the far wall, her eyes suspiciously damp, her hands picking at the coliquet ribbon that fell from the waist of her much-turned cherry kerseymere. It seemed that once again Peg’s assessment was accurate. The girl and her mother were in a sour enough mood to strip the remaining paper from the walls. Thank heaven for Miss Fitchwater, who had a happy knack of pouring oil on turbulent seas. Sarah simply didn’t have the patience to negotiate peace tonight.

“It was a lovely day, though,” Miss Fitchwater said. “Was it not, dear? Brisk.”

The dowager resumed fluttering, which, with the layers of pastel fabrics she wore—mint, peach, lavender, and cream—caused her to look like a trapped butterfly. “I fail to see how. I found nothing new to paint. I vow, I thought I would have years’ worth of material for my comprehensive catalog of Devon and Dorset flora and fauna.”

“There was that wonderful late Dorset Heath,” Miss Fitchwater offered, patting again. “I thought it an exceptional specimen.”

“So it was,” Lady Clarke mused. “Do you think I should sketch it?”

“It might take your mind off the half-mourning butterfly you never found, dear. Why not go early tomorrow? I thought I saw a lovely gryphaea I’d like to chip out.”

“And you, Miss Fitchwater?” Sarah asked, wondering why Parker hadn’t announced dinner yet. She was beginning to wonder if she would have the patience to last out the evening. “Did you have any luck today?”

The horse-faced woman smiled back with a nod. “Oh, yes. It was a most productive day for me, thank you. An ammonite and lovely devil’s toenail.”

Sarah chuckled at the acquisitive light in the fossil-hunter’s eyes. “Definitely more productive than my day. I spent much of it rescuing Willoughby from his latest obsession. He has developed quite a passion for the squire’s mare.”

A vaguely distempered light appeared in Lady Clarke’s soft brown eyes. “Sarah, please,” she begged in die-away tones. “That is not at all an appropriate topic of conversation for the parlor.”

To Sarah’s left, Artemesia giggled behind her hand. “No wonder no one invites you to local functions, Sarah. You sound like a farmhand.”

No one invited Sarah to local functions because she was a by-blow, especially since Boswell had gone. Even the squire, who was more than happy to help her in the fields, succumbed to his wife’s delicate sensibilities when invitations went out. Sarah might have minded more if it didn’t afford her the chance for blessed solitude. And truthfully, social exclusion had long since lost its sting.

“A farmhand, Artie?” she echoed with a smile for the fidgety fifteen-year-old. “And so I am. Isn’t it wonderful that I enjoy it so much?”

“Sarah, must you use that awful nickname?” Lady Clarke asked, her hands fluttering in protest. “You make Artemesia sound such a guy.”

“But Artie specifically asked me to,” Sarah said. “I think a girl should be able to choose how she calls herself. I always wanted to call myself Cecily but Mrs. Tregallan thought it suspiciously sibilant.”

Artie giggled again.

“And that is another thing,” Lady Clarke protested. “I insist you cease calling your dear mother Mrs. Tregallan in that odious way. Especially after all she did for you.”

“It is what she wished,” Sarah reminded the older women. “As you know, she advocated honesty in all things. And she was not my mother. My mother was dead.”

“Well, I see no reason I should not be called Artie,” Artemesia spoke up with some hauteur. “It is what the girls called me at school. I think it…speaking.”

“It is
vulgar,
” her mother protested weakly, reaching a trembling hand to Miss Fitchwater, who passed her vinaigrette. “If that is all you learned in that school, then it is just as well you left.”

“I did not
leave,
” Artemesia retorted. “Sarah ran out of money. If not for her, I would still be singing duets with the Duke of Thurston’s daughter.”

Ah,
Sarah thought,
here it comes.
Artie was definitely in the mood for a quarrel. Maybe she will be so irritable we can shorten dinner and I can get back outside.

“The Tate girl?” Miss Fitchwater asked Artie, her long face creased in delicate distress. “A brass-faced hoyden if ever there was one.”

Artemesia let loose a practiced titter. “Oh, Rosie, you don’t know anything. Gillian Tate is top of the trees. Everyone wants to be her.”

Lady Clarke stood up, startling them all. “Do not
dare
show such disrespect to Miss Fitchwater,” she snapped, aristocratic brow as clenched as her hands. “She is my dear friend and has sacrificed much to bear me company in my trials. And if I hear you use those childish nicknames once more, you will spend the week in your room. Her name is Rosamunde, not
Rosie,
and you will address her as Miss Fitchwater. Did you learn nothing from your time at school?”

In a flurry of skirts, Artemesia followed to her feet. “Of course I did, Mama. I learned how backwards we all are here. Oh, how can I bear it? No one cares for my feelings. I think Sarah made me return home out of spite. She knows how popular I am and she can’t stand it because nobody wants her. Even her family would never have kept her if they weren’t paid. And he was a vicar. Why, even Boswell ran away from her!”

She is fifteen,
Sarah reminded herself when she wanted to slap the girl.
She is lost, and frustrated and seeing her friends live the life she should have.
A dilemma Sarah was far too familiar with. And yet tonight, she couldn’t pretend sympathy.

Fortunately, Lady Clarke reacted before Sarah could betray her frustration. With a wail worthy of Siddons, the elder woman fell back onto the settee in a classic pose of distress. “Oh, horrid girl!” she cried. “How could you mention our missing boy, our dearest Boswell, and distress your mama so…”

Taking her cue, Miss Fitchwater retrieved the vinaigrette and the dowager’s hand. She waved one and patted the other. “You distress us all, Artemesia,” she gently chastised, which sent Artie crashing back onto her own seat in a flurry of skirts.

“I didn’t mean…You know….” Huge tears spilled down her cheeks.

Opening her mouth to defuse the situation, Sarah reconsidered. After all, Artie didn’t lie. Boswell had run away from her. Once he’d realized that it would be Sarah and not he who was saving the estate, he had escaped to find his glory in the most time-honored fashion. He had taken the rest of Sarah’s dowry money and gone off to be a soldier.

And Sarah, left behind, felt guilty for it, for feeling nothing but relief on seeing him walk away, because she would be left behind, she the one with the least right to call Fairbourne home.

Oddly, it made her think of her surprised guest. Ian, the soldier who had been a hero, the man blessed with devout siblings. Even when he didn’t deserve their devotion. Sarah wondered if he would ever understand how much she resented him for it.

And not, she admitted to herself, merely because he had hurt his sisters. Because his sisters, no matter how he ignored them, how often he disappointed him, loved him without question. Without reservation.

As she sat in this threadbare parlor with its meager fire and the displeasure of her companions, Sarah stared into the nut-brown sheen of her drink and admitted the truth. She wasn’t just angry at Ian Ferguson. She was jealous. She had spent her entire life seeking inclusion, envying her four friends the fact that they were wanted for no other reason than their existence. A feeling Sarah couldn’t comprehend.

Ian Ferguson would never understand. No matter what he did or didn’t do, Fiona and Mairead would stand by him, believe him, and love him. They would never think to hurt him in return.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. For the first time in years, it hurt.

“Sarah? Are you all right?”

Sarah blinked and looked up to Miss Fitchwater. “Oh. Yes. Yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

Fortunately, her lapse had been masked by the inevitable end to the scene between Artie and her mother, with Artie on her knees by her mother apologizing for being such a beast and her mother whimpering, as if Artie had been the one to send Boswell to war. Boswell, who was never mentioned unless his mother was feeling unattended.