The Fall of Lord Drayson (Tanglewood Book 1) (22 page)

“Thank you, Stephen,” said Mrs. Beresford quietly, obviously touched by his kindness as well.

The door opened, and the jolly and slightly plump housekeeper entered, carrying a large tray filled with all sorts of pastries and tea. Mr. Shepherd brightened. “Excellent timing, Mrs. Holmes. You have saved us from becoming far too sentimental. Tea will be just the thing to restore liveliness, will it not, Mrs. Beresford?”

“Indeed it will, sir—”

“Stephen,” he interrupted.

“Stephen,” she said. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Holmes. This looks wonderful.”

The housekeeper clasped her hands together. “Will there be anything else?”

“No, thank you,” said Mrs. Beresford before realizing her mistake. “I mean . . .” Her face reddened in embarrassment.

Mr. Shepherd had never looked so pleased in all his life. The grin he wore was almost too large for his face. “Mrs. Beresford is quite right, Mrs. Holmes. We will never expire from hunger with you around.”

The housekeeper bobbed a curtsy and quit the room.

Only after the door shut behind Mrs. Holmes did Mr. Shepherd give voice to the thoughts that made his eyes dance in merriment. “Trying on the role of matron, are you, Juliet? How does it feel?”

“Quite uncomfortable if you must know,” she quipped.

Lucy laughed, wondering why she had never thought of Mr. Shepherd and her mother in this way. It seemed so obvious now, like a blurry scene made suddenly clear. She only hoped that her mother would soon see clarity as well.

March blended into April and April into May. The weather changed almost daily, teasing Lucy with sunshine one day and rain the next and changing her mood as well. She felt like she was walking over uneven stepping stones—up, down, and up again.

Tiny leaves began to emerge from the dirt, much to Lucy’s delight, but only until she remembered that the garden may not be hers for much longer, and down she went again. The days stretched on almost painfully as the Beresfords attempted to live life normally, accepting dinner invitations, attending musicales, and entertaining visitors, all the while not knowing what their future held. It was most vexing and tiresome, and Lucy was ready to write the earl herself and ask the question that continued to plague her mind.
Are we to be out of the house or have you had a change of heart?

No news meant what, exactly?

Meanwhile, Mr. Shepherd had taken up his suit of Mrs. Beresford in earnest. He visited the dower house almost daily, sent flowers or a plate of Mrs. Beresford’s favorite pastries, and even began making regular appearances at social gatherings. He went from being a reclusive scholar to a dashing suitor, and the entire town was buzzing and speculating about his increased attentions toward Mrs. Beresford.

One particular evening in early May, Lucy and her mother traveled home from a small dinner party hosted by none other than Mr. Shepherd. He’d been all that was engaging and charming, even arranging transportation for the Beresfords to and from the event in his comfortable coach.

As the coach trembled along, carrying the two women back home, Lucy noticed the joy and contentment written across her mother’s face. “You’re becoming more and more partial to Mr. Shepherd, are you not, Mama? I can see it in your eyes.”

Mrs. Beresford shook her head slowly as though still uncertain of her feelings. She peered out the darkened window, her voice pensive. “What sort of man makes an offer of marriage first and courts second?”

“The sort who wants to make his desires known from the very beginning, then reinforce them while patiently waiting for the lady to come around. How long do you plan to keep him in suspense, Mama?”

Her mother dropped her gaze to her hands and fiddled with the straps of her reticule. “I must admit, I have grown quite fond of the man. It is wonderful to be publicly sought after by someone who seems so certain of what he wants.”

“He is certain, mama. What he wants is you.”

“He has made that quite clear, hasn’t he?” She chuckled lightly. But her smile soon wilted as she met her daughter’s eyes. “Your father once sought me out as well, only in secret, and what he wanted most was to go off to battle. In many ways, I feel as though I’m experiencing the opposite of what I have lived through in the past.”

“And the problem is?”

Mrs. Beresford lifted her head, and the piercing look in her eyes went straight to Lucy’s heart. “We were lucky, you know. Your father and I grew to love each other deeply. What if the opposite holds true for Mr. Shepherd and me?” Her voice was so quiet, Lucy could barely hear the words above the noise of the carriage wheels and horse hooves.

“What if it doesn’t?” countered Lucy. “What if this is simply a better start to another chapter of a wonderful life?”

“If I knew that for certain, I would accept his proposal tomorrow.”

Lucy sat back and glanced out the window, watching the shadows of the trees dance in the moonlight. “Can you ever be certain of anything?”

Silence met her question, along with a gentle sigh. “I suppose not,” Mrs. Beresford finally said. “Goodness, I’m beginning to wonder who is the mother and who is the daughter.”

“Oh, Mama.” Lucy leaned forward and clasped her mother’s hands. “You will always be my mother, I will always be your daughter, and we will always help each other. That is the way of things, is it not?”

Mrs. Beresford gave Lucy’s fingers a hearty squeeze. “These past few months as I have watched you, I feel as though I’ve witnessed a rose grow from a delicate bud into something so much more. What an exquisite flower you are turning out to be, my dear.”

Unexpected tears came to Lucy’s eyes. She had to blink quickly to keep them at bay. “A mother should not make her daughter cry,” she teased.

Mrs. Beresford smiled and sat back. Despite the darkness that surrounded them, her eyes shone with light that Lucy hadn’t seen since her father first became ill. “Do you recall the lie I once told you about Mr. Shepherd offering to throw you a ball?”

“Yes,” said Lucy hesitantly.

“Well, tonight he has made me an honest woman. He informed me that he would like to host a ball in your honor.”

“What?” Lucy gasped, feeling a knot tighten her stomach. A ball? Perhaps if there was a man she would like to stand up with, Lucy might be excited about the prospect, but there were not a plethora of dashing young men in Askern. Lucy would prefer a picnic or a dinner party any day.

“He says it is past time for you to have a ball of your own and wanted to know if it would be improper for him to host one on your behalf.”

“What did you say?” Lucy asked, all the while thinking,
Please say you told him no.

“I said that it was good of him to think of you, but an arrangement like that would be most improper as I am not his wife and he is not your relative.”

Lucy sighed in relief. At least until her mother added, “But I believe I spoke too hastily.”

“What?”

“I have made my decision,” pronounced Mrs. Beresford. “Tomorrow, I shall accept Mr. Shepherd’s suit and marry him as soon as he would like.”

Ball forgotten, Lucy flew from her seat and threw her arms around her mother. “Oh, how wonderful! You know he will likely go straightaway to procure a special license, if he does not already have one.”

“Then so be it,” said her mother, patting Lucy’s knee once she’d settled on the seat beside her. “We have been living for too many weeks with a cloud hovering over our heads. It is time for that to end. As soon as we have settled on a date for the wedding, I would like you to write Lord Drayson and inform him that we will be removed from the dower house by that day. Stephen has offered us his heart, his protection, and his home, and I find that I am quite thrilled to accept it now.”

“I’m thrilled as well,” said Lucy, her heart soaring high. “This has turned out to be a happy night, indeed.”

“Yes. And once Stephen and I are married,” inserted her mother, “we can throw you a ball together, as husband and wife. What do you think of that? ”

And down went Lucy yet again.

Dear Lord Drayson,

I hope this missive finds you well. I would like to inform you that my mother is to be married in two weeks’ time, on the ninth day of June. I understand that you wished for us to be out of the dower house by the first part of May, but I am hopeful that you will be so kind as to allow us to stay until my mother becomes Mrs. Shepherd, at which point we will remove ourselves from your house and take up residence at the neighboring estate of Knotting Tree.

Yours sincerely, Miss Lucy Beresford

Lucy signed her name with a flourish, reread the note, and immediately crushed it into a ball and tossed it in the fireplace, adding it to the dozen smoldering balls already there. They were all the same. Brief, curt, and without feeling, as though she and the earl were mere business acquaintances. Lucy didn’t want to be brief or curt, yet so much uncertainty dangled between them that she didn’t know how else she could be. If he had bothered to communicate with her, would his letter have been brief and curt or would he have been more personal, which is how she would very much want it to be?

Lucy sighed, knowing one fact for certain. She was the poor daughter of a vicar who had no right sending a letter of a personal nature to an earl. So she pulled out a clean piece of paper and began anew. Once again, she signed her name, this time without a flourish, and sealed it without rereading anything.

Georgina rushed into the room, pulling Lucy from her uneasy thoughts. “Oh, Miss, ya must come and see. There’s a great to-do at the manor ‘ouse.”

Lucy left the note on the table and followed Georgina out the door and around to the side of the house, where her mother already stood, shading her eyes. Across the meadow and through a thicket of trees, Lucy could make out several coaches coming up the path toward Tanglewood Manor.

“What is going on?” Lucy asked.

“That is what we would like to know,” said her mother. “Georgina said she has noticed more bustle about the place during the past couple of weeks—workers arriving and such—but she assumed they came to ready the place to sell. Now, however, from the amount of luggage strapped onto those coaches, it appears as though someone is coming to stay for a while.”

“Ya mean lots of someones,” added Georgina with a reverent quality to her voice. “Do ya fin’ they’ve sold it already?”

“Surely not,” said Lucy. “Not with us living here.”

“Unless Lord Drayson made arrangements for the new owners to allow us to stay,” said Mrs. Beresford. “Has he responded to your note, Lucy?”

Lucy frowned. The date had been set a few weeks ago, which meant Lucy should have sent a missive a few weeks ago as well. “I, er . . . have not sent the letter yet.”

“What? Why not?” asked her mother.

“Because I only wrote it this morning,” Lucy admitted. “And by that I mean I wrote my final draft of the letter this morning.”

“I see,” said Mrs. Beresford in that rather stern,
I am disappointed in you
way she sometimes used. Then she sighed. “I suppose we can only hope that the occupants of those coaches are not expecting this house to be empty, and if they are, pray that they will be kind enough to allow us to remain for another fortnight. I will ask Mr. Shepherd to call on them soon so that we may discover who they are and what they expect from us.”

“Do ya fin’ it could be ‘im?” Georgina asked.

“You mean Lord Drayson?” Lucy studied the coaches, wondering the same thing, before she immediately dismissed the notion. “I don’t believe it could be, Georgy. Lord Drayson said his family was happily settled in Danbury and had no plans to make Tanglewood even a temporary home. That is why they wished to sell.”

“But that was before ’e got ter kna ya, Miss. Maybe—”

“Georgy,” Lucy was quick to interrupt. The last thing she needed was to hope for something which would not be. After being deceived and foisted into the role of a servant by an inexperienced and silly girl, Lord Drayson would never return to a place he did not wish to live. Unless . . .

“If that
is
him,” Lucy finally said. “The only possible reason he would be here now is to settle the score in some way. So let us all pray that one of the occupants of those carriages is not the Earl of Drayson.”