The Bluestocking and the Rake (The Regency Gentlemen Series) (19 page)

“I think so…dear Aunt, I cannot face them. Not now. Pray don’t ask me.”

“You may have to, they have just seen us. Wave, my dear, wave. Right, let us go in and leave the talking to me. Now, dry your eyes, put your glasses on and wipe your face; you have mud on your nose. There. A few deep breaths. A smile. And you will be fit to be seen.”

They walked briskly up the path as the coach swung around in a languorous curve before the front door. As two ladies were handed down from the carriage, Miss Blakelow and her aunt hastily entered the house through a side door, removed the apron she had been gardening in, cleaned away as much mud as was possible and entered the drawing room precisely ten seconds before Lady St. Michael and Lady Harriet Hockingham were announced.

“My dear Miss Blakelow,” said Lady St. Michael, stepping forward with a smile to greet the aunt. “How do you do? I was so sorry to learn of your brother’s death. Please allow us to offer you our condolences.”

Aunt Blakelow curtseyed. “Thank you, my lady. Won’t you sit down?”

Tea was ordered and introductions made and the ladies all sat down. Miss Blakelow chose a chair as far away from Lady St. Michael as it was possible to be; away from the direct light from the tall window. She sat upright, dreading what was to come, feeling out of place in her own drawing room. She had studiously avoided this woman for ten years and now here she was, sitting down to drink tea with her.

“Well,” said Lady St. Michael smiling brightly. “Isn’t it pleasant to see old friends again? Our brother is out this afternoon so we thought we would come and pay you a visit, but really it was no trial because it is always pleasant to be at Thorncote.” She looked about her, keeping the rather fixed smile pinned to her face. “Is Marianne not with you today?”

“She is otherwise engaged, my lady,” said Aunt Blakelow. “Girls in this day and age are always visiting with friends and they walk into Loughton to visit the shops as regular as may be―”

“Such a sweet girl. I haven’t seen her for an age. Did she have her London come out? I don’t remember hearing that she did.”

“She was unfortunately in mourning, my lady.”

“I see. Well. I’m sure she will find herself much sought after in Worcestershire. One does, you know, when one is young and pretty. And how much places change over the years when one would always hope that they stayed the same!” continued her ladyship. “Holme Park is the same. Robbie is forever bringing in some new fangled invention to improve this and that when I had much rather keep it the way it was. But then I don’t live there. And I suppose if I did I might feel differently.” She spied a clock on the mantelpiece and went towards it. “My brothers and I were always straying onto your land when we were young. Is it very shameful of me to admit it? But you had much the best hill for sledging for miles around. What a pretty clock this is! I should think it quite an antique now.”

“It is Georgiana’s, my lady. She inherited it from her mother,” said Aunt Blakelow.

Miss Blakelow was highly conscious of her own appearance and her rough worked hands and wished that the old threadbare carpet would swallow her whole. She saw the beauty of her ladyship’s fine complexion; the curling blue plume that seemed to kiss her forehead, the navy Spencer buttoned neatly at her wrists and felt every inch the country bumpkin. She turned to look at the young Lady Harriet and was almost struck dumb by her likeness to her brother. Soft black curls framed an extremely pretty face, a small straight nose and the familiar grey eyes framed by sweeping dark brows. The girl smiled at Georgiana, looking at her with frank curiosity, unconscious that her thoughts played out across her face.

The tea was brought in and Miss Blakelow poured for their guests, peering over her spectacles so that she shouldn’t embarrass herself by spilling it.

“Have you lived at Thorncote long, Miss Georgiana?” asked Lady Harriet as she accepted her cup of tea.

“All my life,” she replied. “Well, very nearly all of it.”

“That explains it then. I knew that I recognised your face from the moment I saw you. Isn’t it funny how one never forgets a face even after years and years apart? But I spent much of my childhood at Holme,” said Lady St. Michael as she nibbled on a biscuit, “and we must be of a similar age you and I, so we must have met before. We probably sledged down Thorn Hill together.”

Miss Blakelow smiled uncomfortably. “Yes. Probably.”

“Robbie was always the maddest of us all,” her ladyship continued. “Always set off down the hill head first with little regard for his safety. Mama was driven to distraction by him. All those bumps and bruises. And Hal would always try and copy his big brother with disastrous results. Do you remember the time that Robbie broke his leg and we had to drag him all the way back to Holme on the sledge?”

“Yes,” said Miss Blakelow, who had no such recollection.

“And up he would be the next minute, determined to join the fray again. Those boys were inseparable,” she said, becoming wistful, “they did everything together in those days. I, being only a mere girl, was more often than not, considered the hanger on. Oh, the innocent days of youth. Life was so much simpler then, was it not? What a pretty view you have from this window! And the formal gardens once the jewel of the county. The lake at Thorncote was always my favourite, you know. If you were to move that chair to the right you may find your view improves…but how rude of me, you will of course have your furniture just as you wish it….How is your brother William? He must be quite grown up now. I’m told that he is a very handsome fellow, but then he always was. I remember Marianne and William and little Kitty but Lizzy was hardly even thought of
then
; a mere twinkle in her mother’s eye.” She paused, laughing. “William was too young to play with Hal and Robbie, of course. Fifteen years age difference seems like a lifetime at that age, does it not? It is the strangest thing, Miss Blakelow, your face is so familiar to me and yet I cannot place you. I’m very sorry for it because it is excessively rude of me, but I cannot ever remember having seen you at Thorncote before.”

There was a brief silence.

“I have lived here ten years, ma’am,” replied Georgiana stiffly. “Before that I spent much time abroad.”

As soon as the words had left her lips, Miss Blakelow knew that she had made a huge mistake. She was distracted, the arguments of the day weighed heavily upon her mind and she had spoken without thinking.

Lady St. Michael raised a brow. “Abroad? How fascinating. Well that would explain it then. But how came you to be separated from the rest of your family? Was not your father always living at Thorncote? Forgive me, I am a little confused.”

“Do have a sip of tea Miss Blakelow,” said Lady Harriet. “You do not look at all the thing.”

“Thank you, I will be better directly,” she replied, casting a pleading glance at Aunt Blakelow.

“Did you say that you were staying in the district for long, Lady St. Michael?” asked the elderly Miss Blakelow, coming to her niece’s rescue. “I must confess myself glad to see the family back at Holme. It was empty for so many years whilst Lord Marcham was in
London. And such a shame to see a house like that deserted. But now he is back, perhaps we will have a family settled there.”

“Perhaps,” smiled Lady St Michael politely.

“And if Robbie marries we will have
lots
of nephews and nieces,” said Lady Harriet.

“Drink your tea, Harriet,” commanded her elder sister.

“Well, I for one would
like
to be an aunt,” said Harriet. “It will be years before I have children of my own. And Robbie won’t be one of those stuffy fathers who are afraid of their children acquiring a little dirt. He is most likely to get down and play on the floor
with
them, earl or no earl.”

“Harriet,” said Lady St Michael sharply. “Please pass the biscuits.”

“So,” said Harriet excitedly, almost shoving the plate of biscuits in her sister’s face. “Are you all going to come to my ball? You shall all be invited.”

“My nieces have talked of nothing else, my lady,” said Aunt Blakelow.

“Is it not exciting?” cried Lady Harriet, clapping her hands.

Lady St. Michael gave a chilly smile. “Forgive my youngest sister, she is very excitable. My brother was not keen on the idea at first but he has finally been persuaded. I am determined that you all should come, you too Miss Georgiana, should you wish it, although I believe that you don’t often go out as a general rule.”

Miss Blakelow smiled wanly but made no answer.

“Well, if you should wish to come, I am sure we can find room for you. One more is no trouble.”

“Thank you,” murmured Miss Blakelow.

“Oh, you
must
come,” said Lady Harriet imploringly. “You will be missed if you do not.”

Miss Blakelow opened her mouth to make a reply but her aunt rescued her once again.

“His lordship was keen to hear my recipe for chicken broth which I told him about when he was good enough to call upon us the other day. It is of all things the best cure for an upset stomach. Or for a cold. I swear by it and so I can assure you does my maid. All my dear late brother’s children were brought up on chicken soup. There is a secret, you know, in the recipe. A certain extra something.”

Lady St. Michael’s smile became fixed. “Indeed?”

“I always say that one cannot do better than an old family recipe, my lady. All these new ideas come and go but what is best in my book is good old fashioned chicken soup. Good fresh ingredients straight from the farm and made fresh in the pot. My grandmamma wouldn’t have it any other way. If you ever have a need of it, do not hesitate to ask. I am always happy to give up a family secret for the Marchams.”

Miss Blakelow choked on her tea.

“Well,” said Lady St Michael hastily. “We must be going. Thank you for a most entertaining afternoon. I hope that you will visit us at Holme very soon.”

“We will, my lady, thank you,” said Aunt Blakelow.

“No, don’t get up, Miss Blakelow; you look quite fagged to death. Good day to you.”

Lady Harriet followed her sister out of the room but then ran back and produced a letter from her reticule and pressed it into Miss Blakelow’s hand. “This is from my brother, ma’am. He said I was to give it to you personally. Goodbye. I hope we may meet again.”

The carriage rattled away and Miss Blakelow collapsed with relief into her chair, shoving his lordship’s letter between the cushions out of sight.

“Oh, Georgie!” said Aunt Blakelow, when she had seen the ladies to their carriage. “How came you to say you had lived abroad?”

Miss Blakelow groaned and put her head in her hands. “I know, I know. I just didn’t think.”

“She smells a rat. Always was a busy-body that one and always will be. She knows we are hiding something…and it took a double dose of chicken soup to get rid of her.”

Her niece smiled wanly. “She never did like me.”

“Oh, pooh. She doesn’t like anyone but herself. Do you know, you can tell a lot about a person by how they react to chicken soup? I find it most instructive.”

“And how many chicken soups did it take to get rid of Lord Marcham the other day?”

“He wouldn’t go. Three chicken soups and I threw in the mustard plaster as well just to be sure, but drat the man, he seemed determined on seeing you.”

Miss Blakelow opened Lord Marcham’s letter in the privacy of her bedchamber. As she broke the seal and unfolded the wafer, several pieces of torn paper fluttered to the floor. Frowning, she picked them up and turned them over; they seemed to be bills for tailors and chandlers and wine merchants. Then she saw a thicker docket with her brother’s strong handwriting, declaring his intention to hand over Thorncote to Lord Marcham in lieu of gambling debts. The docket had been ripped in half.

Dear Miss Blakelow

These are the bills for all your family’s debts which I acquired as a means to have Thorncote. They belong to you. Your debt to me is from this moment dissolved. I hope this will relieve you of the necessity of having to leave your home and of ever having to see me again, which was the fervent wish you expressed this morning.

Your ever obedient servant,

Robert Hockingham

Miss Blakelow slowly lowered her hand to her lap, his lordship’s letter still between her fingers. She could hardly believe her eyes. Why would he do this? The money he was owed ran into thousands. Why would he give up his advantage and Thorncote? She went to her writing desk and seized her pen.

Dear Lord Marcham

I return these bills to you along with my sincere apology for the hateful words I said to you this morning. I hope you know that you will always be welcome at Thorncote.

I am grateful for the sentiment but I cannot accept your gift. It is too much. You must allow me to repay my debt to you in full. I will arrange payment for sixty two pounds which I believe takes care of my father’s hatmakers’ bill. The rest I will pay you as soon as I am able,

Yours affectionately,

Georgiana Blakelow

The letter was given to her maid and it was dark when that lady returned to Thorncote in his lordship’s gig, driven by his lordship’s head groom. Lucy’s excitement at having a ride in such a ‘bang up’ equipage was such that it was many moments before Miss Blakelow ascertained that she had another letter for her from Lord Marcham. She almost snatched the note from the maid’s hand.

My dear Miss Blakelow,

While I cherish your note, you must allow that sending torn pieces of paper to each other is rather futile. So instead, I have placed all the I.O.Us onto the fire.

As to payment
― you know what I want,

R

* * *

“Well
I
liked her,” announced Lady Harriet, reaching for a pastry at breakfast table the following morning.

“She was a plain little nobody who thought she was the Queen of Sheba,” said Lady St. Michael tartly.

“She was
shy
,” insisted Lady Harriet. “You can be so judgemental sometimes, Sarah.”

“I don’t recall anyone by the name of
Georgiana
Blakelow living at Thorncote,” put in the countess. “Marianne, Catherine and Elizabeth, I all remember. And an elderly aunt whose name I cannot recall―funny creature, always talking about her ailments. Then there was Sir William’s first wife, Sophia and his second who was Jane or Judith or some such thing―or was it the other way around? Not that I ever paid
particular
attention. One doesn’t, you know, when one lives a life of continual pain. Your father was always more familiar with Sir William than I was. Frightful man―Sir William that is. Very unruly eyebrows.”

“Well I am relieved to hear you say that you do not recall her, Mama,” said Lady St. Michael
as she picked up her knife, “because I don’t recall her either. Robbie and Hal and I were always at Thorncote growing up and I don’t remember ever seeing her there as a child. I had never heard of the name until yesterday.”

“Whose name?” asked Lord Marcham, coming into the room at that moment. He was dressed for driving in buckskins and a close fitting navy coat. He sat down at the head of the table and at a nod of the head to Davenham to bring him some coffee, absently picked up the newspaper.

“Georgiana Blakelow,” said Lady St. Michael.

“What about her?” asked her brother, his eyes on the front page of his newspaper.

“She claimed to have lived at Thorncote all her life and yet I do not recall ever hearing her name before. Then she changes her tune and admits that she had in actual fact only been there for ten years and had lived abroad before that.”

“Yes. So?” said the earl, as the butler placed his breakfast before him.

Lady St. Michael rolled her eyes. “Why would a daughter be sent abroad on her own when the rest of the family stayed at Thorncote?”

“Any number of reasons,” his lordship replied, picking up his knife and fork.

“See, I told you!” cried Lady Harriet. “She might have had schooling abroad or gone to visit relatives or anything.”

This thought had occurred to Lady St. Michael but she was on the brink of discovering a secret and not to be put off her course. “She’s hiding something,” she announced.

“Oh, what tosh, Sarah,” said Lady Harriet. “You are just miffed because she didn’t bow and scrape enough for your liking.”

Lady St. Michael bristled. “I tell you she’s hiding something. Did you see her face when I asked her why she lived abroad?”

“Leave the woman be,” said Lord Marcham.

“You may choose to ignore it if you wish but something about her story stinks to high heaven. And I know her from somewhere, I know I do. I recognised her face the moment I saw her.”

“Yes,” cried Lady Harriet, “probably because you have seen her at Thorncote.”

Her sister shook her head and spread her pastry with marmalade and sliced it in two. “Not here…I have seen her somewhere else. Perhaps when I stayed with Grandmama in
Cheltenham. I cannot quite place her.”

“Sarah,” said her exasperated brother. “I asked you to leave the woman alone. She has enough on her plate without being subjected to one of your witch hunts.”

Lady St. Michael stared at him. “And who is she to you that you defend her so?”

“A friend.”

“A friend? How close a friend?”

“That is none of your damn business.”

Lady St. Michael and her mother exchanged glances.

“If I didn’t know you better, I would almost think you in love with her,” said his sister, toying with a fold in the tablecloth.

He gave her an acid smile. “Sarah, you are nothing if not typical of your sex. I only have to call a woman my friend and you have me in love with her.”

“Well I know you to be on the hunt for a wife. But I must say Robbie, I thought your taste ran to curvy blondes, not slender brunettes. The woman looked as if she could do with a decent meal inside her.”

“Can I please eat my breakfast in peace?” he demanded, carving himself off a wedge of beef.

“So it really is not the blonde piece. Well, well, perhaps you have grown up at last.”

“Davenham?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Please have my curricle brought round at once.”

“Yes, my lord.”

* * *

His lordship visited a small shop in the town of
Loughton. He ducked under the door and made his way to the counter, the hem of his greatcoat fanning out behind him as he slowly drew off his gloves. He looked critically at the bolts of fabric behind the counter as a small woman appeared. He told the lady that he wanted to buy five ball gowns; three for young ladies just about to enter society, one for a matron and one for a woman who was perhaps aged nine and twenty.

The woman beamed at the thought of so much new business and brought down several bolts of white, pink and cream material for his inspection. Lord Marcham approved these but also requested a pale blue, which he rather thought would suit Miss Marianne Blakelow. For Aunt Blakelow he chose a bronze satin with matching headdress and for Georgiana, a deep red silk. He instructed the woman to visit Thorncote with the material and her pattern book and to send the bill to him. He then reached into his pocket book and left a deposit before tipping his hat and leaving the shop.

When the modiste arrived at Thorncote a couple of days later, Miss Blakelow was out on the estate speaking to Mr. Healey regarding repairs to an outbuilding, thus she had no knowledge of Lord Marcham’s gift. On entering the house, she heard much giggling and excitement coming from the parlour and was perplexed as to the cause. She walked into the room and halted dead on the threshold. Amongst swathes of material and patterns, measuring tape and pins were her sisters, clustered around a tiny woman who was holding a swatch of cream coloured lace up to Lizzy’s face.

“Oh, there you are, Georgie!” cried Kitty. “Only try and guess what has happened! Lord Marcham has arranged for us to have new dresses for the ball!”

Miss Blakelow blinked at her. “New dresses?”

“Yes, come and look,” said Marianne eagerly. “I am to have this blue, which I have to say is
just
what I would have chosen myself, Kitty is to have the pink and Lizzy the cream.”

“And Aunt Blakelow is to have this bronze satin with the most delightful feather headdress to match. Isn’t it gorgeous?” demanded Lizzy.

Miss Blakelow looked at her aunt who would not entirely meet her gaze. “I see,” she said.

“And you are to have this one,” said Kitty.

“
Me
?” said Miss Blakelow incredulously.

“Yes, miss,” said the modiste, bobbing a curtsey. “His lordship chose it for you himself.”

“Did he indeed?”

“I think it will be beautiful. It’s the colour of crushed raspberries,” said Marianne
wistfully.

Miss Blakelow wondered dismally how many of his lordship’s mistresses had been clothed in the same colour. “We cannot accept this.”

“Oh, I
knew
she’d say something like that!” wailed Lizzy.

“We cannot. It is kind in him but it is too much. Girls, help the lady pack her things up and we’ll have John bring the c
arriage around to take her home.”

“Oh, George, no…please,” said Kitty. “You don’t have to accept his lordship’s gift if you don’t wish to―but Marianne, Lizzy and I do. And Aunt Blakelow too. It has been years since we had new dresses. Please George. Please
don’t take this away from us.”

Miss Blakelow could say no more.

* * *

She had a great deal of difficulty tracking his lordship down. A ride to
Holme Park proved fruitless and Davenham informed her that he had gone to visit a friend and wasn’t expected home until late.

As she had spent the best part of the ride over there rehearsing a speech, she was disappointed not to have the opportunity to say it aloud. She rode home as a sunset was staining the clouds with pink and the black leafless branches of the elms scratched at the October sky.

She hadn’t long left Holme and was intending to ride back via the fields but it proved too dark to see her way so she decided to join the main road as soon as she could. A clump of trees screened her from the view of any oncoming traffic and as she nudged her horse to jump the shallow ditch, a rider appeared, flying around the bend in the road with coattails streaming out behind him. The mash of hooves whipped up mud as he went and it was all that Miss Blakelow could do to keep her seat. Her horse whinnied and reared just as the gentleman managed to bring his sweating steed to a plunging halt. His dog, a hunting hound of some description, set to barking, and before Miss Blakelow had a chance to grasp the reins she was thrown clear of her horse.

“Hell and damnation,” cursed the man, controlling his own horse with difficulty. “Damn fool woman. Don’t you know that is a blind corner? What possessed you to stand there?”

Miss Blakelow moved gingerly, touching her hand to her forehead. “My apologies, sir. I was taking a shortcut.”

“Are you alright?” he asked sharply, coming towards her.

She nodded lamely and tried to get up but the world was spinning around her head. Two iron hands gripped her under the arms and lifted her bodily onto her feet.

“There,” he said, picking up her fallen whip and handing it to her. “Are you able to ride home?”

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”

“Never mind. Come over here and I will lift you onto your horse. Are these your spectacles? I fear my horse has trodden on them.”

“No…no matter. I have a spare…I mean…oh…”

And for the first time in her life, Miss Georgiana Blakelow fainted dead away.

* * *

It was no mean feat to convey an unconscious woman and two horses back to
Holme Park, but he managed it, and so he told Davenham when he reached the house. A footman rushed forward to take Miss Blakelow from his arms and the gentleman, relieved at last of his burden was able to relinquish his hat, gloves and greatcoat. He was trying to restore a semblance of order to his hair in the hall mirror, when a voice shrieked, “
Hal
!” at a million decibels and a moment later, Lady Harriet had cast herself into his arms.