The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (18 page)

The two little girls tried valiantly, but without success, to smother their giggles.

“It is such a pity the Red Lion no longer hosts monthly assemblies,” their mother remarked. “That would have enlivened your stay considerably, Lady Mercy. When I was a flighty young girl, I looked forward to those balls until I could scarce think of anything else. In those days, they were held in a large room on the second floor of the inn, directly above the coach entrance on the side of the market square.”

The eldest daughter gave a forceful sigh, looking up from her sewing. “Oh, I do wish we still had monthly balls in Morecroft.”

“You would be too young to attend, Jenny,” her mother replied.

“In a few more years I won’t be.”

“A few more years can last a very long time when one wishes too hard for something,” said Mercy. “I would advise you not to anticipate your coming-out so eagerly, or the time will feel endless.”

The younger sister puffed out her cheeks, collapsing backward in her chair and swinging her feet. “It’s bloody inconvenient to be too young.”

Her mama exploded. “Elizabeth Anne Hartley! How many times have I told you not to use that word?”

“Our brother says it all the time.”

“Rafe ought to mind his tongue around you, but even so, that is no excuse for your behavior, young lady. No need to repeat everything you hear. I know you think you are nineteen, but you are in fact only nine, and if you continue to push your father’s temper as you do, it will be a miracle if you reach your first decade. Which reminds me—no more experiments with theatrical blood, young lady. Your father’s valet almost had an apoplexy when he discovered you yesterday, lying on the hall tiles beside that ghastly puddle, and thought you’d fallen over the banister. Poor Grieves, I have never seen him so pale.”

Lilibet erupted in giggles. “My death scene was most realistic.”

“You are fortunate Doctor Sharpe was not called out and his valuable time put to waste. Poor Grieves could not hold a glass, he was shaking so terribly after the shock.”

“He still downed the brandy though, Mama. Two snifters full. And I apologized to Grieves later. He agreed the scene was most impressive.”

Mercy got up and went to the window, her pulse suddenly very uneven. She too had seen Lilibet’s theatrical performance yesterday, and it had brought back memories of another accident, many years ago when Mercy was a child. Memories of her mother’s blood in very similar puddles on hall tiles at the foot of some stairs. Real blood. And of a small wooden ball Mercy had left out on the landing after playing skittles where she was not supposed to, and then forgetting to put it away.

As if it was only yesterday, she heard the housemaids whispering of the child her mother had miscarried after the fall down stairs. Guilt slowly tore another hole in her heart.

She stopped, looked at the music sheets on the pianoforte, and tidied them with trembling hands.

“If there were assembly balls,” Jenny intervened, apparently eager to resume a more interesting and useful topic than that of her little sister’s misbehavior, “Lady Mercy could go and tell us all about it. That would be almost as good as being there ourselves.”

Both girls looked at their guest with wide, hopeful eyes. Mercy managed a smile. “It is indeed a pity there are no monthly balls here,” she agreed, having listened only partially. In her mind, she picked that stray wooden ball up from where it had rolled halfway down the stairs after her mother tripped on it, and with her pudgy, five-year-old hands, she put it away in the toy box with the skittles, where it should have been, and snapped the lid shut on her memory again.

“Do you suppose the landlord at the Red Lion could be persuaded to reopen the room for dancing?” exclaimed Mrs. Hartley. “To be sure, Lady Mercy, you could talk him into it, if anyone could.”

“Well, I—”

“You always have the most reasoned arguments for any case.”

Vanity flattered, she broadened her smile. “I could try, certainly.” The idea of a new project improved her mood. It would do her spirits good to spend more time in the countryside, before her obligations forced her home again, and if she could find worthwhile causes while she stayed, even better. Causes to keep her busy. Her mind already moved quickly onward, leaving that reopened box of bad memories behind. For now. “If I embark on an endeavor to resurrect the dances, madam, you must help me. You will know how everything used to be. I could not have a better partner in the scheme.”

“The Morecroft assembly rooms were no more than a hothouse for criminal behavior,” Lady Ursula intoned somberly, shaking her head.

Mrs. Hartley transparently struggled to keep the corners of her mouth from turning up, and the strain probably almost did her in. “Of course I will make myself at your disposal, Lady Mercy.”

“Splendid. We shall form a planning committee.”

“It might be a very good idea. The more I think of it, the more I like your suggestion of reviving the monthly dances.”

“You would,” Lady Ursula huffed from her chair. “Any chance for debauchery and wild exhibition.”

Although it had been Mrs. Hartley who put the idea in her head, Mercy was now forced to take all the credit. “How clever of you to think of it, your ladyship. There is so little opportunity here for young people to meet those beyond their small society. A ball is exactly what we need in Morecroft, and folk can attend from all the surrounding villages, just as it used to be when I was a girl spending my summers in Sydney Dovedale.”

“Laying a trap for my grandson,” Lady Ursula grumbled. No one paid her any heed.

The two little girls immediately resumed begging for a chance to attend, only to be reassured, yet again, that they were much too young.

Mrs. Hartley raised her voice above her daughters’ whines. “Do tell us about your viscount, Lady Mercy. Usually young women chatter incessantly about their beaus, but you have been quiet on the subject.” She gave Mercy a teasing smile. “Perhaps you do not like to share him, or you fear blushing before us.”

“There is not much to tell.”

But Mrs. Hartley insisted on hearing all about Viscount Grey. “I met the gentleman on only a few occasions last summer and had little opportunity to observe him closely. Had I known of his connection to you, Lady Mercy, I daresay I would have paid greater attention and questioned the fellow unrelentingly, as all sweethearts should be interrogated.”

The room fell quiet, every ear listening. Even Lady Ursula reached for her ear trumpet. Mercy struggled to find something interesting to say about her fiancé. “He has just turned forty years of age.”

A gasp of horror escaped Jenny Hartley’s lips before she looked at her mother and clamped them shut. Lilibet exclaimed, “Why, he’s nearly as old as Papa!”

“An older man has much of an advantage,” Mercy explained, quite wounded by their reaction. “He is experienced in matters of the world without being arrogant. His temper is under good modulation, and he is not prone to sudden irrational decisions.”

Mrs. Hartley made much of searching in her sewing box for a new thread, Jenny’s fingers inched across the table to reopen her book, and Lilibet yawned loudly. Lady Ursula wanted to know if he was tall.

“He is medium height,” Mercy replied. “Medium everything, really.” That was what made him just right, of course. He was neither too much nor too little. “He has brown hair and eyes. He is a man of good practical sense. Very…steady, frugal, and reliable.”

Lilibet rested her elbow on the table and leaned her chin in her palm. “What’s frugal? Is it like fat-headed?”

“It means miserly, silly,” said her sister.

“No, it does not,” Mercy cried. “It means he never spends lavishly or unwisely. He keeps his accounts most prudently.” She paused, her temperature rising. “Why, pray tell, would I describe my fiancé as fat-headed?”

Lilibet shrugged. “Mama said he is.”

She looked at Mrs. Hartley, who hurriedly corrected her youngest child. “I said
fastidious
!” Chagrined, she glanced at Mercy. “The things children say! The word I used to describe him was fastidious, I assure you.”

Mercy got the distinct impression that the lady was choking back her laughter. Wounded again, she straightened her spine and put her chin up. “He has a manor house in Surrey, as you know, Mrs. Hartley.” She reached desperately for more items of interest. “Twenty acres of arable and woodland. He keeps three coaches.” Her voice drifted off, and she let it go, suddenly feeling as if it was too loud in the room.

The eldest Miss Hartley demanded to know whether he liked dancing, and Mercy replied, “He does not care to dance much.” In truth, she’d danced with him only twice during the span of their acquaintance and, when she remembered those occasions, the clearest thought was of the gown she was wearing at the time and the degree of envy on Cecelia Montague’s face.

The girls looked at each other, the eldest plainly disapproving of a man who was not in love with dancing. The younger sister, often the mouthpiece for the elder and not yet having the presence of mind to hide the first thought that came to her, blurted, “Lord above, is that all? He sounds a bit of a dry biscuit.”

Mrs. Hartley quickly admonished her with another forbidding frown, and Lilibet sulked, slouching in her chair, kicking her heels against the slender mahogany legs which already showed signs of similar abuse.

“He rides and enjoys hunting, outdoor sports, etcetera.” She stopped again, and her gaze circled the room. She expected comments or more questions. None came. The Miss Hartleys were now pinching each other in boredom, and Lady Ursula seemed about to put her ear trumpet down.

Bravely, Mercy soldiered on. “His name is Adolphus.” Oh dear, now she reached for facts. There were few names less inspiring. Her main fear, when she first learned his name, was that he might expect their firstborn son to be christened likewise. To ensure this didn’t happen, she’d decided upon a careful exercise in Thought Adjustment to commence as soon as they were married. It would involve constant repetition of other male names until they became lodged in his mind, replacing any unpalatable ideas he might have. It was a method she’d found quite useful when it came to steering him in the right direction. In this subtle way, she’d encouraged him toward a proposal of marriage, and angled him artfully into the purchase of a splendid pair of pearl earrings—which she picked out and wrapped for herself. Thought Adjustment had also recommended to Adolphus the services of a new tailor, in an attempt to bring his attire up to the modern style.

“You said you met him last summer, Mrs. Hartley,” she prompted, keen to know what else her hostess had thought of him. Hopefully, there was more than “fastidious” to come.

“Yes. He attended a garden party at Lark Hollow. That was once my family’s manor house, you know, in Buckinghamshire. My stepfather was in danger of losing the place when I married, so my husband purchased the house for me as a wedding gift. We spend the summer months at Lark Hollow and return there again for Christmas. The girls love the old place.” She paused, leaning back to study the embroidery stretched over her tambour frame. “Viscount Grey was rather quiet, as I recall. Solemn and studious. A very proper gentleman.”

“Oh yes,” Mercy hastily agreed. “He is very serious. Very proper.” And he never argued with her, never raised his voice. If she told him to wear a warmer coat, he did, without hesitation. She no longer had to remind him to use the boot scraper before he came in after riding, and he always folded his paper away or closed his book to give her his full attention when she had some news or instruction to impart. His training was coming along admirably. Mercy knew she could be of help to Adolphus, advise and guide him well. He needed her; she was quite sure of it. In fact, what would he do without her?

Suddenly, she began to feel hot, choked, cornered. “What a lovely day it is. Perhaps Lady Ursula would enjoy a walk in the park?”

From the expression on all their faces, she’d just said something quite earth-shattering.

“Great-grandmama does not like the park,” Lilibet explained with the ponderous gravity that only a nine-year-old, with a certain flare for the dramatic, could manage.

“Really? Yet there is so much to see in a park, and it is much better to be walking through it than to be watching from outside the painted railings.”

Lady Ursula tossed her ear trumpet aside with a grand gesture. “If Lady Mercy cares to wheel me in the chair, I should enjoy a little fresh air for a change. As long as it is not too much.”

“But what about the spores in the air, Great-grandmama?”

“Huh! At my time of life, spores are the least of my troubles. Let them hasten my end if they can, since I am no use to anyone these days. Come, Lady Mercy, fetch the chair. We shall take a turn about the dreadful park.”

The old lady’s fussy company was just what Mercy needed to take her mind off other things. Absorbing herself in the management of another person would soon help her forget her own troubles.

After that day, she took Lady Ursula out for a stroll in the park every afternoon, once any callers had left and as long as the weather permitted. Aware he was busy with spring planting, she did not expect to see Rafe for the remainder of her stay. According to Mrs. Hartley, he did not come to Morecroft above twice a month and, despite repeated invitations, never stayed to dine at Hartley House. With all this in mind, she felt safe and easy in her decision to extend the visit.

***

Rafe strode briskly along, raising his hat to the occasional cluster of ladies who, although they pretended not to see him, smiled anyway. They swayed and shimmered in the sun like buds opening, and he admired them easily, frankly, never paying much heed to the rules of propriety. Certainly not giving those conventions more than a passing thought today. It was beautiful weather, the air thick with the fragrance of blossoms. Adding to his merry mood, Rafe’s pockets were full of notes from the trade of several sacks of fleece at the market. Two-thirds of his earnings would go to Sir William Milford, of course. Some money he’d left with Mrs. Pyke to purchase summer worsted for clothes. With the rest, he would make a deposit at the bank before he returned to the village.