The Wagered Widow (15 page)

Rebecca hugged her and for perhaps the twentieth time said that she was accompanying Mrs. Boothe only until the lady was comfortably settled in and would doubtless be home long before her brother returned from the north. Seized by a belated thought, she added, “If Lord Fortescue should call, be so good as to tell him that my aunt and I are gone to visit friends. Nothing more, if you please.”

The housekeeper wrung her hands and looked frightened. Millie pursed her lips and uttered a snort. Mrs. Boothe moaned and went feebly outside, prophesying dire consequences. Anthony leapt, whooping, down the steps.

Rebecca followed with hope in her heart. They were off!

*   *   *

The day was fine, if not warm, the sun playing hide-and-seek with scurrying clouds that were fluffily white, betraying no hint of rain. By the time the first stage was reached, there was no containing Anthony. His prayerful requests granted, he scrambled up to the box and sat between Todd coachman and the guard, his green eyes all but shooting out sparks of excitement.

Rebecca devoted herself to allaying her aunt's feelings of guilt—no easy task, and one that succeeded only when she was inspired to turn the conversation towards Mr. Melton. Mrs. Boothe blushed like a girl and was soon joining with her niece in dreams of a rosy future.

The miles and the hours flew past. Once, Rebecca's heart jolted into her mouth as Anthony uttered a piercing shriek. He had not, however, tumbled from the box as she feared, but had seen a deer “with antlers and everything!” grazing in the preserves of an estate.

They came to a stretch of rather desolate open country, and Mrs. Boothe began to fret about the possibility of encountering highwaymen, but they reached Harpenden without mishap and lunched at a bustling posting house where a private parlour and a meal had been arranged for them by the ever-thoughtful Sir Peter. Mrs. Boothe urged that Anthony eat lightly, in view of the long journey still ahead of them, but Rebecca was inwardly elated by the glow in her son's pale cheeks and the enthusiasm with which he attacked his food, a marked departure from his usual finicking appetite.

The journey was resumed shortly after three o'clock. The carriage rattled merrily through Bedfordshire's flatter terrain, past neatly hedged fields with crops ripening to the golden caress of summer; past quaint old villages where the women sat in open doorways, weaving their famous lace, and children ran, shouting, after the luxurious coach. The afternoon ticked away, and the view from the carriage windows became routine: sunshine and shadows across the white ribbon of the road; meadows and woods; low gentle hills and dimpling hollows; hamlets, becoming fewer; and, occasionally, the loom of some great castle or manor house. And then, at last, another shriek from the boy, and they were rumbling between great stone gates and passing a gatehouse, neither of which Rebecca had noticed on the first journey.

They had travelled far more swiftly on this occasion, probably because the two outriders were Sir Peter's grooms, not pleasure-seeking, unhurried guests, and most stops to change teams had been brief, the fresh horses ready, the changes accomplished with swift efficiency under the watchful eye of Todd coachman. At all events, they rolled up the drivepath and halted before the great square grey house at a quarter to seven, with the sun still far from setting.

As before, the butler was on the terrace to see the carriage door opened, two lackeys flanking him, impressive in their green satin and powder. The ladies were bowed into the mansion, and the coachman drove on with Anthony, Millie, and the lackeys, to unpack the luggage in the cottage Mrs. Boothe would eventually occupy. Sir Peter, the butler explained, had not expected quite so early an arrival and was from home, having taken Miss Ashton for a drive, but he would be back directly. Meanwhile, the visitors were conducted to a bedchamber where a petite French maid waited, eager to be of assistance to
mesdames.
As soon as they were tidied and refreshed they were taken down to a small saloon wherein the butler himself served them with hot tea and shortbread. They were finishing this pleasant snack when the sounds of wheels and hooves could be heard outside.

Mrs. Boothe grasped Rebecca's hand nervously. “Whatever shall I do if she is an unkind girl and treats me with contempt? After all, she likely thinks I am but a servant!”

That possibility had not occurred to Rebecca, but it was a valid one, and for the first time she comprehended the difficulties that her aunt might have to surmount. “Oh!” she thought, “what a wicked girl I am!” But footsteps were in the hall; it was too late now! Her heart gave a bound as Sir Peter's deep voice said, “… and with me not here to receive them!” She hissed, “Then we shall leave at once, love! Never fear!”

Mrs. Boothe did fear. She whimpered, “She—she may be a regular harpy! Do not leave me alone with her! I
beg
of you!”

There was no time for more. A lackey flung open the door, and Sir Peter entered. Eyes bright with pleased welcoming, he bowed and then hastened to stretch forth eager hands to both ladies while conveying his profound apologies for such unforgivable tardiness in greeting them. “Whatever must you think? I am quite disgraced, and would never have left the house save that my cousin is not capable of rational thought and had worked herself into such a condition that I feared lest she fall down in a fit.”

This dismal statement caused Mrs. Boothe to blench and throw a horrified “I told you so” glance at her niece. Even Rebecca was stunned. A spoiled beauty, or a hoydenish tomboy, she had been prepared for. Madness was a possibility that had never crossed her mind. “Wh-where, sir,” she managed, “
is
Miss Ashton?”

“Why, she is here—” He turned about, startled. “She was beside me. I—Miss Ashton? Where are you gone to? Come here, if you please.”

A portion of Miss Patience Ashton entered the room—the frill of a dainty dress. A strangled snuffling presaged the gradual appearance of more of her. Staring at the red eyes, red nose, and twitching mouth that reluctantly inched around the door edge, Rebecca comprehended at last that there was no possible way for her aunt to groom this person into a ravishing debutante.

Miss Patience Ashton was not quite three feet tall.

“Good … God!” Rebecca gasped. “She is—only a
child!
”

“Oh, the poor mite!” Her kind heart touched, Mrs. Boothe stretched forth her arms and invited, “Come—sweet baby.”

The tearful eyes overflowed. From the rosebud lips came a wail unutterably forlorn. Little Miss Ashton turned on her heel and fled.

Sir Peter spread his hands helplessly. “That is how it has been all day! She whines, and weeps, and wails. There is no dealing with her!”

Recovering from her momentary stupefaction, Rebecca muttered, “What a shock!”

“I cannot agree more,” sighed Ward. “I'd no comprehension that one small girl could be so very vexing.”

“Well, that is only because she is frightened, poor little creature,” Rebecca pointed out with a touch of indignation. “Sir Peter, you did not tell us that Miss Ashton was a
child!
”

He blinked at her. “But of course she is. She is only four years old, you know. Had I not mentioned to you that she is my elder cousin's child?”

“Yes, but when you said ‘elder'—and you indicated she must be groomed for her come-out—I thought…”

“By Jove! You never fancied her to be a
grown
girl? But that is not the case at all.” He turned to Albinia and said earnestly, “I do pray you will not change your mind, dear ma'am. I have always held that a young woman's training begins in the cradle, and with Patience, alas, much time has already been lost.”

“The
child
will be lost, do we stand here and chat all evening,” said Mrs. Boothe with uncharacteristic acerbity. “By your leave, sir, I will try and find her.”

All contrition, he said, “No, no—do not distress yourself, ma'am. Ecod, but I'd no thought to wish such a difficult situation upon you. I'll confess Patience appears to have a penchant for hiding under things. She is likely at this moment curled up under the hall table, convinced she is completely invisible. I have found her there twice. Twice! And it is the very—er, deuce, to lure her out again!”

“How very sad,” Rebecca murmured with a sigh. “The dear little soul must feel utterly lost. Have no fear, sir. My aunt is the kindest creature and will prevail upon her, I am very sure.”

Patience was not under the table, however, or under any other item of furniture in that long and elegant hall. They proceeded to search the Great Hall and then the dining room, breakfast parlour, and book room, and the ladies were becoming alarmed when Anthony joined them at his customary headlong pace.

“Mama!” he cried eagerly. “You should only see the stables! And the hunters! Jolly fine bits o' blood! How do you do, sir? And there is a bay mare has dropped her foal this morning—it is the very
prettiest
thing! Oh.” He turned to detach a chubby hand from the tail of his coat. “This is Patience. She was running away, but did not know which way to run. I didn't know either, so perhaps she had better not.”

Rumpled curls the colour of winter sunshine appeared from behind young Mr. Parrish. Great blue eyes peeped at the relieved adults.

Anthony gave her an impatient push. “Make your curtsey, do,” he adjured sternly.

A finger was removed from the dimpling mouth. The child bobbed something vaguely resembling the first stage of leap-frog. “My name ith PaythenAth—” she lisped, her last name fading into a deep breath. She smiled shyly, thus revealing that one front tooth was noticeable by its absence.

“Awful!” Anthony held out his hand. Hers was at once tucked trustingly in it, and he led her over to Rebecca. “This is my mama, Mrs. Forbes Parrish. Say ‘How do you do?' No! Not like
that!
Hold out your skirt.
Out
—not
up,
silly shrimp!”

Rebecca battled a smile and said gravely, “I am most glad to meet you, Patience.”

“How do do?” The child nodded. “You pretty.”

“And this,” said Anthony, continuing the tour, “is my great aunt, Mrs. Boothe.”

Patience's awkward salutation was followed by the offer to “Have a hug now. If you want to,” an offer that was at once accepted, though it reduced Mrs. Boothe to tears.

Sir Peter said gratefully, “Anthony, you have saved the day! Now, I am assured you ladies would like to see the cottage. May I drive you, or would you prefer to walk? It is just a short distance.”

*   *   *

Rebecca gazed around the spacious bedchamber, noticing rugs that were not in the least bit worn, a large, comfortable-looking bed, an ample chest of drawers, and a large press. The curtains were pretty, the pictures charming, and even the fireplace gave no hint that this was the home of a servant, for it had none of the tell-tale stains above the mantelpiece that bore mute witness to a smoking chimney. The other two bedrooms in this “cottage” were as impressive; the parlour was a delight, and it was as well that the faithful Falk, who combined the duties of cook and housekeeper in London, did not see the splendidly equipped kitchen.

Anxiously watching Rebecca's expressive countenance, Ward asked, “Will it serve, ma'am? There are other cottages about the estate, of course, but this is at a—er, proper, but not taxing, distance from the main house. Or so I think. Should you wish to inspect the others? I assure you they are all very livable, and—”

“No, no,” she interposed with her lilting laugh. “If I seem speechless, it is because I am! My goodness, sir! If this is your notion of a cottage, whatever must you think of my London house? It would fit into one corner of this establishment!”

He said in a more hopeful tone, “Then you think you could endure it for a week or two, at least? If your aunt does not desire to take on the girl, it will give me a chance to search about for someone else.”

Mrs. Boothe, Patience's tiny hand fast clamped on her skirt, intervened to say that she thought the cottage a veritable delight, and as for Mistress Ashton—she rested a fond hand on the pale curls—“Who could not love such a darling child?”

Overwhelmed by such kindness, Patience nursed Albinia's hand to her cheek and smiled mistily up at her.

Rebecca said, “May she stay here tonight, Sir Peter? It would be as well for us to get started on the right footing, do you not think?”

He beamed. “Capital! But may I propose an exchange?”

For one shocked moment, Rebecca could scarce breathe, and Mrs. Boothe stared at him in outright astonishment.

“I regret the lateness of the hour,” he said, sublimely unaware of the consternation he had aroused. “But my chef promises dinner at eight o'clock. I trust you are not too wearied to honour me with your company?”

Rebecca pulled herself together, and assured him they were not too wearied. Evans, the buxom housemaid who was to serve them, had already taken Anthony off to the kitchen, and Patience was now conducted thither while the ladies went to change their gowns.

The air was cool and sweet as they walked through the park to the main house. They arrived in the glow of sunset to find lamps already lit, and candles waking a thousand sparkles from the prisms of the chandelier that hung above the table in the dining room. Sir Peter, his gaze lingering appreciatively on Rebecca's demure white gown, explained that this was the small, family dining room. “I trust you will forgive us, but the large dining room is so”—he waved one graceful hand—“so—large.”

There were no other guests, but he seemed not in the least discomposed by the lack of another gentleman and, with a lady on each side of him, was the perfect host. Rebecca tried not to make any remarks which so conservative a gentleman might judge unfeminine, and even when the recent tragic Rebellion somehow found its way into the otherwise innocuous conversation (a topic on which she held deep and rather treasonable opinions), she contrived to remain meekly tactful.