Once a Rake (Drake's Rakes) (6 page)

Miss Fitchwater, an old player on this stage, kept her attention on Sarah. “I believe Artemesia owes you an apology,” she said.

Sarah looked up, startled. “Pardon?”

“An apology?” Artemesia cried, back on her feet. “Why? If it weren’t for Sarah, I would be back with my friends right now planning the autumn cotillion.”

Sarah looked up to see tears blossom in the girl’s eyes, and her own frustration eased. At least she had had her chance. “Is that what your letter was about?” she asked.

Artemesia seemed to collapse into herself. “I should have the chorale solo. Everyone says. And yet, I’m
here.
”

“That does not excuse bad manners,” her mother chastised, her voice calm for the amount of frenetic movement that was going on. “Dear Rosamunde is right. You owe Sarah an apology.”

Sarah almost gaped. Lady Clarke never defended her. Maybe the older woman had hit her head when she’d fallen that afternoon.

“I apologize,” Artie muttered, her face down to hide the stain on her cheeks.

Lady Clarke sighed and fidgeted with her shawl. “Much better. My heart could not have tolerated being ashamed of my daughter, after all the care and affection I have devoted to her. After all, a lady is judged not by how she treats the daughters of dukes, but how she treats the daughters of…the lesser among us.”

Sarah almost laughed out loud. Ah, so that was what she was now. The daughter of the lesser among us. Sarah assumed the dowager was referring to her mother’s unmarried status, since that lady’s birth had been in every way equal to the dowager’s. She’d just had the great misfortune to believe the wrong promises.

“Thank you, Artie,” Sarah said, briefly laying a hand on the girl’s.

Fairbourne was all she needed, Sarah reminded herself when Artie pulled her hand away. That was what her marriage had bought her. Not the love of her husband; she hadn’t expected it. She didn’t love him either. Mostly she pitied him, a weak man given too big a task. Not the respect or love of his family. They resented the need for her.

Her marriage had bought her this wonderful old pile of Elizabethan bricks. She loved to wander the wainscoted rooms, listening to the echoes of its three hundred years. She loved to walk land she had saved. She loved to care for the animals who needed her and the fields that were once again greening with wheat and barley under her care. Most days, she could even love the people who needed her more.

It had been enough for a long while now. She refused to let Ian Ferguson take that away from her.

“My lady,” Parker finally announced in stentorian tones from the doorway. “Dinner.”

Finally, Sarah thought, setting her sherry on the side table and getting to her feet. One more minute and she would be weeping and tearing her clothes. And there was quite enough drama in this house without her.

Dinner seemed interminable. After the fireworks in the drawing room, conversation lagged, punctuated by little flare-ups between mother and daughter over one imagined slight or another. For once, Sarah failed to get involved. She was too preoccupied with her own problems.

By the time the runny blancmange had been set out with the nuts, signifying the end to another nightmarish meal, Sarah had her plans for her surprise guest well in hand. She just had to get away so she could implement them. Before anyone could start another argument, she excused herself and got to her feet, her attention already on the supplies she would have to purloin.

Usually she was able to escape without interference. Not so tonight. Sarah had just reached the bottom step of the old oak staircase when Artemesia stepped in front of her.

Oh, no,
Sarah thought.
Not tonight.
She hadn’t been paying enough attention at dinner. Artie was twisting that poor coliquet ribbon into shreds. There were once again tears in her eyes and a definite wobble about her mouth.

“Why do you put up with me?” the girl demanded, her voice rising dangerously. “I’m a beast. I’m so sorry, Sarah.”

Oh, lord,
Sarah thought uncharitably.
This could be a long session if I don’t head her off.
Even as she thought that, she realized that she couldn’t simply abandon the girl. All Artie wanted was to be like her friends. Sarah understood that all too well.

“I know, sweetheart,” she said, and gathered the teen into her arms.

Shaking with gusty sobs, Artie collapsed against Sarah’s shoulder. Sarah murmured and stroked her hair and waited for the storm to pass. It was the least she could do. Lady Clarke certainly wasn’t any help. Miss Fitchwater tended to look on Artie like a wild creature who might bite. And Sarah was usually too busy about the estate to listen to her.

“You really need to guard your tongue a bit better, my dear,” Sarah said, brushing the straggling strands of honey-blond hair off the girl’s forehead. “The hallmark of a good society lady is the ability to lie with a smile, no matter how you feel.”

Artie looked up, her pretty brown eyes swimming in tears. “I was doing beautifully tonight before you got there. I didn’t even tell Mama she looks quite dreadful in that new dress. I knew it would hurt her.” The tears swelled. “And then I hurt you instead. I
am
sorry, Sarah. Truly.”

“I know, my dear. We have all been under a strain since Boswell went off to be a soldier. And I’m afraid the strain won’t ease until he comes home.”

“I just…wanted…to stay,” Artie sobbed. “They’ll all go on without me. They will have their season and marry and live real lives, and I’ll be stuck…
here
…waiting for Boswell to come home.”

Sarah stroked her hair. “Oh, love. I wish there had been another way.”

“I…I know . . .”

Her own chest growing tight with the girl’s misery, Sarah briefly closed her eyes. “If you promise not to share with your mother, shall I tell you a secret? It seems we have two extra appointments for Willoughby’s, er, services. If he is successful, I might be able to put money away for next term’s tuition. Can you wait that long, do you think?”

Artie pulled back to meet Sarah’s gaze, her features frozen. “You…you mean it?”

In her head Sarah ruthlessly shuffled aside the new milch cow she had hoped to buy. They would survive with two for a while longer. “I do. Now, go wash your face. You look a fright.”

Artie gave her a smacking kiss on the cheek. “You’re the best thing that has ever happened to us, Sarah . . .” Suddenly, her eyes lit and she giggled. “I mean, Cecily.”

And without another word, she scampered up the steps. Sarah knew she shouldn’t have crumbled beneath the girl’s tears, but she couldn’t really feel bad about it. She would manage. She always had.

“She’s right, you know.”

Startled by the new voice, Sarah whipped around to see Miss Fitchwater standing in the shadows by the parlor. “Oh. You startled me.”

The lady smiled, her long face softening. “You
are
the best thing that has happened to us. I hope you know that.”

For once in her life, Sarah blushed. “Don’t be silly. Is there something you need?”

Miss Fitchwater paused a moment, as if deciding. Finally, though, she stepped forward. “I hate to add to your burdens, but are you going into Lyme soon?”

“I do have a few commissions to execute,” she said, anxious to be away from Miss Fitchwater’s sharp gray eyes.

The woman gave a hesitant nod. “Lady Clarke has need of just a few new paints.”

It was all Sarah could do to keep from sighing. She shouldn’t have been surprised, really. If Lady Clarke were sleeping on the floor of a workhouse, she would consider herself entitled to “just a few new paints.” Ever since Sarah had found herself in charge of the devout artist, she had been struggling to find a way to restrict her spending.

“Here,” Miss Fitchwater said abruptly.

Sarah opened her eyes to see the woman holding out her hand. Cupped in her palm was the diamond and ruby brooch she always wore with her best gray dress.

“This should do for a bit,” Miss Fitchwater said.

Sarah made no move to take it. “No.”

Miss Fitchwater harrumphed. “Take the thing. I don’t want it if it means my dear Winnifred is unhappy. And think about how fretful she would be if forbidden her art.”

Sarah felt so torn. She honored Miss Fitchwater’s sacrifice. It was a lovely thing to do for her friend, to sacrifice her most cherished possession. But all it did was keep Lady Clarke nestled in cotton padding, her world composed of watercolors and hiking gear.

“I shall record every flower, butterfly, insect, and bird of the south coast,” the older woman had once boasted. And she had been doing it too. The egg money went into her hobby. Artemesia’s school fees. Funds for the roof. Lady Clarke only noticed the world around her if her paints ran out or the weather kept her from the Undercliff.

“You don’t understand,” Miss Fitchwater said, as if hearing Sarah’s thoughts.

“I imagine I don’t,” Sarah answered. “But then, I cannot imagine spending my day grinding something called Egyptian Mummy into a paint color.”

Or refusing to sell the resultant artwork for coal. Or her daughter’s school fees, so Artie might have a chance at a decent marriage.

Miss Fitchwater almost smiled. “Oh, Egyptian Mummy is a lovely brown.”

Sarah laughed. “But it is from a
mummy.
Surely all finer feelings are revolted.”

For the first time in weeks, Sarah won an almost impish grin from the older woman. “Not when it can put just the perfect shading on a Lulworth Skipper butterfly.”

Sarah wanted to say no. No more wasteful spending. She knew she wouldn’t, though. There was little enough here at Fairbourne to soothe a soul. She herself loved the wind, the untidy folds of land, the little mutterings of excitement with which her animals greeted her. Lady Clarke loved to paint. And Miss Fitchwater loved Lady Clarke. How could Sarah disdain such devotion?

Surrendering, she plucked the brooch from Miss Fitchwater’s palm. “If you refuse to be dissuaded,” she said, “I can do nothing but what you ask. I will take it into Lyme when I go, and we will pawn it. That way it will be waiting for you to recover.”

Sarah was disconcerted to see tears sparkle in the older woman’s eyes. “Thank you,” Miss Fitchwater said, clasping Sarah’s hand in her own. “I meant what I said before.” Her face grew grim, her posture unconsciously rigid. “Winnie might not be able to say it, but you truly are the best thing that has happened to this family.”

Sarah felt the unfamiliar burn of tears block her throat. She knew what it took for Miss Fitchwater to say that. She couldn’t remember ever receiving such a sweet gift.

Even knowing how uncomfortable she would make the ungainly woman, she gathered her into a quick, fierce hug. “And you are the best that has happened to me.”

Which was why, in the end, she had to see Ian Ferguson on his way.

Sarah wasted not another moment. While Lady Clarke and Miss Fitchwater perused the latest watercolors in the art studio–cum–second parlor and Artie plunked her way through a Scarlatti piece in the music room, Sarah raided the linen closet for extra blankets and the still room for bandages and a few herbs for poultices. Peg saw her, but Peg was another who never thought to challenge Sarah’s actions. So Sarah felt free to snatch a bowl of stew, a hunk of bread, and a mug of ale to go with her supplies.

“You have to stop feeding that pig like he was human,” Peg said, appearing beside her to pull open the back door.

Sarah resettled her loot and smiled. “Oh, no, Peg. This is for me. I’ve decided that I wish to actually enjoy dinner tonight. So I shall have it in the stables.”

Peg’s response was a soft
hmmph,
but she didn’t object.

Sarah stepped out into the dying evening. The fading light cast a golden glow over fast-moving clouds, and the wind fretted about Sarah’s ankles. She smelled rain and knew they were in for more. She should be thinking about how she could get the man in the shed off her land. Instead, she found herself once again fighting that perfectly ridiculous surge of exhilaration.

She knew better than to feel anything of the sort. She didn’t have the time or the right. She refused to admit that she’d run up to tidy her hair before running out the door.

It wouldn’t matter. It
didn’t
matter. Even so, she clutched her supplies to her chest like new schoolbooks as she strode past the shorn garden and through the various stableyards. As she passed Willoughby’s enclosure, he grunted in greeting.

“Good thing you’re here,” she told him. “Tonight I am not so sure I’d chase you.”

She wouldn’t have believed a pig could look resentful. This one did. It made her chuckle as she grabbed the shed door and gave it a pull. She felt giddy and silly and anxious; she felt as if something alien had taken up residence in her chest. She tried very hard not to smile as the hinges screeched in protest.

“Mr. Ferguson—”

Her smile died unborn. She looked around the shed, sure her eyes were deceiving her.

They weren’t. The shed was empty.

Chapter 4

Yorkshire

The last time Alex Knight saw Fiona Ferguson, he delivered the best news of her life. This time he brought the worst.