Miss Dashing, page 20
“Not while the ground is this wet. I apologize for last night. I awoke as you were leaving.”
“We are both tired. Just a few more days, but, Phillip…”
Ah, she would think of that. “No more nocturnal visits to the summer cottage?”
She turned from the window. “Not under the present circumstances.”
Because such visits were scandalous and also because the result might be Phillip’s cuckoo raised in Johnny’s nest. Hecate would never put a child at risk for the fate she’d suffered herself.
“I understand.” Phillip kissed her cheek, and they shared a smile. “I love you too, Hecate. Very much, and these barbarians will not part me from you, try though they might.”
In point of fact, her menfolk were not barbarians. They were polite society’s idea of gentlemen, while Phillip was at heart a farmer dressed up in lord’s clothing.
The distinction brought him no comfort whatsoever.
Chapter Fourteen
“Johnny hasn’t a chance,” Edna said, sounding pleased as she leaned out over the balcony along the gallery, field glasses trained on four galloping horses. “That chestnut of his is all flash and no dash.”
Hecate agreed. The weather had obliged with a lovely afternoon, the ground only slightly softened by the overnight rain. The riders had exploded down the Nunnsuch drive, twelve in number. Two were immediately straggling behind, six others had bunched in the posture of jockeys hoping the leaders would falter, and four others had knotted up in the lead.
Phillip, DeGrange, Johnny, and DeWitt still led the field as they thundered back up the drive. DeWitt’s bay was an unruly fellow, punctuating his strides with audible flatulence and tossing in the occasional buck, which might be why DeWitt hung at the rear of the leaders. The colt also had an odd way of going, nose low, rather than stretched forward to the utmost. DeGrange was on a black mare who looked to be all business. Excellent form, no frolicking.
Phillip’s gray gelding lacked elegance, but he had also settled into a punishing pace with the look of a horse determined to rise to a challenge.
Johnny’s chestnut, coat matted with sweat, was laboring badly, and a mile yet remained of the course.
“Johnny will win,” Hecate said. “Sheer ambition will carry him across the line.”
“Ambition doesn’t condition a horse,” Edna said, setting down her field glasses. “He had to have bought that nag in Portsmouth or London. Perhaps he leased the animal in Reading. In any case, a town hack isn’t up to country miles.”
The horse was trying, staying ahead of Phillip’s gray by half a head.
Or was Phillip allowing Johnny to hold the lead because the last mile always told the tale?
“There goes DeWitt.”
The big bay named Roland lengthened his stride without any apparent signal from his rider. The pack veered into the park and cut a wide swath along the creek as Roland passed DeGrange’s black. The black might have been at a sedate canter for the swift work Roland made of overtaking her.
“There’s our winner,” Edna said. “That bay has been merely gamboling, for all his strange way of going. I’m glad I didn’t oblige Johnny by betting on his chestnut. I fear Portia will be a few pence poorer for her choice of champion.”
The riders clambered up one of Nunn’s prized ha-has, pressing on to the open terrain flanking the formal garden.
“The chestnut is done,” Hecate said as Johnny applied his crop to quarters lathered in sweat. “The jumps have finished him.”
“The distance has been too much for him too. I tell you that’s a town horse. Matching white socks are fine for Hyde Park, but—there goes DeWitt again.”
The battle was now between Phillip and DeWitt, between experience and youth. DeGrange hung on in third place, while Johnny whaled away on his chestnut to no avail.
They cleared a final stone wall, Johnny’s chestnut stumbling on the landing, while the onlookers gave a cry of dismay. The chestnut righted himself, no thanks to the nincompoop sawing on the reins, and gamely trailed after the other three.
Fifty yards from the finish line, DeWitt all but threw away the reins, and the bay surged forward to take the race by two horse lengths. The spectators by the finish line whooped and cheered, some throwing caps into the air or holding their flasks aloft as Phillip took second and DeGrange third.
Johnny crossed the finish line, still whacking his horse.
“Bad form,” Edna said. “If you plan to marry that one, stay away from him when he’s been drinking.”
Sage advice. “I don’t plan to marry him.”
“Isaac says otherwise.”
“Johnny says otherwise, too, but he hasn’t courted me, and he has given me cause to take him into serious dislike.”
Not an admission Hecate had planned to make. She headed for the steps that connected the gallery balcony with the garden terrace. Edna followed, field glasses in hand.
“Oh dear.” She put the glasses to her nose.
Even from this distance, Hecate could see what gave Edna cause for concern. The first four riders had dismounted, and Johnny was bent on scolding his mount, smacking it about the quarters with the crop. DeWitt snatched the crop from him, Phillip took the horse, and a fine display of masculine pride—and stupidity—looked to be in the offing.
“Brompton men,” Edna muttered, “can seem to embody the best of the cavalier while occasionally exhibiting the worst of the cad. The combination grows tiring.”
Hecate glanced over at her in some surprise.
“I loved my husband,” Edna said, “but widowhood among the Bromptons has been challenging, and I fear Portia in particular takes too much after her papa’s side of the family. She’s set her cap for Lord Phillip, you know.”
“One suspected as much.”
“He, who probably can’t recite the royal succession or manage the steps of a pavane, thinks her silly and vapid, and he’s not entirely wrong.” Edna wasn’t admitting failure, but she was admitting something unflattering to her maternal efforts.
“She’s young,” Hecate said, wondering why Edna had never discussed the girls with her before. Both of them sought husbands, and Hecate had a wide circle of acquaintances as a result of her charitable work.
“She’s all Brompton,” Edna said. “She and Johnny would suit, though one shudders to consider the offspring. They’d come into the world trying to pick the midwife’s pocket. DeGrange has joined the affray.”
As Hecate and Edna made their way across the garden, DeGrange had offered Johnny his flask, slung an arm around his shoulders, and half hauled him away from where DeWitt stood, looking ready to apply the crop to Johnny’s flanks.
Grooms took the winded steeds away, and the rest of the field straggled over the finish line. Henry Wortham, in great good spirits, brought up the rear on an enormous, shaggy plow horse. The spectators obligingly cheered each competitor, Henry receiving a loud ovation, and then the crowd drifted toward the tents Hecate had set up in the middle of the park.
“I like these events the best,” Edna said, “where the village and the manor meet on equal footing. I suspect they appeal to Nunn as well.”
“Because he knows the role he is to fulfill,” Hecate said slowly. “You are right. He can be the gracious host, welcoming all to his lovely property, and nobody will expect him to be more than polite.”
“I like Nunn,” Edna said. “He hasn’t succumbed to the family penchant for pouting, for all that he’s short on charm. His very lack of guile makes him a novelty among Brompton men. Will you marry Johnny?”
“I don’t want to. He has threatened scandal and worse if I balk. Claims I signed settlement agreements ten years ago, and Isaac supports that contention. They will doubtless produce documents with a credible facsimile of my signature on them, but, Edna…”
“It’s exhausting,” she said, “having to scheme and plot and plan simply to exercise the judgment an adult ought to enjoy regarding her own affairs. If I haven’t thanked you for your generosity before, I am thanking you now.”
Better late than never? “Isaac claims Johnny will be far more forthcoming with my fortune than I have been.”
“Then Isaac is blinded by ambition. Johnny has the look of a fellow returning from exile. He has scores to settle. I don’t recall him sporting such a prominent streak of ambition as a youth. He was always out of doors, watching birds and listening for their songs. He’s apparently outgrown his boyish pursuits.”
“Don’t they all?” Though Phillip hadn’t. He was still drawn to the out of doors, still fascinated by nature, horticulture, and wildlife. She suspected he would be even in great old age, when he’d become one of the fierce venerables who could fashion a stone wall that would stand for decades.
“Are you tempted by what Johnny offers?” Edna asked, an odd wistful note in her voice as the Earl of Nunn himself rang the bell drawing guests to the buffets under the tents.
“Of course not. Johnny offers nothing but misery. He’s arrogant, has a mean streak, and wants what he has not earned.” And yet, he was beautiful, charming, virile, confident, likely knew all the dance steps, and would be welcome in half a dozen clubs.
“Some people are like that,” Edna said. “The more they have, the more they want. Others earn an honest fortune and appreciate how much luck and timing determine any man’s fate. I must see that Portia and Flavia make a proper fuss over the Corviser boys.”
“They strike me as decent fellows.”
“Decent, though their prospects are humble. Portia could manage either of them blindfolded.”
Meaning Edna could manage either one with less effort than it took to tie on her slippers. “And Flavia?”
A wistful look came into Edna’s eye. “She is too sweet for her own good, when she isn’t purloining my fripperies in an effort to stand out from her sister. A wise man would be drawn to that sweetness, but when have we ever enjoyed an ample supply of wise men?”
On that philosophical note, Edna passed Hecate her field glasses and strode forward with a jaunty wave in Mrs. Roberts’s direction.
Phillip approached, looking windblown and delectable. “Miss Brompton, I hope you watched the battle for honor and glory?”
“I cheered only for you and Herne.”
“DeWitt has been conditioning his colt. Roland will earn him some coin this autumn and more in years to come. How are you?”
They could have this conversation out of doors, with a veritable crowd in attendance, but Hecate was desperately aware of how careful they had to be.
“Johnny behaved badly. Even Edna remarked it, and she is not one for speaking ill of handsome, wealthy, single men.”
Phillip aimed a look at the men’s punchbowl, where the jockeys had congregated, tankards and glasses in hand.
“Johnny has recovered his dignity, or what passes for it. I dread to think of him navigating the Canadian woods, if he’s that intemperate toward his horseflesh. Any halfway sensible mare would put him permanently into a ditch for behaving so badly.”
“And yet, he’s supposedly a successful fur trader. Perhaps he comports himself more prudently in the wilderness.”
“He must, or he’d be dead.”
The prospect did not engender much sorrow. “I wish he’d stayed in Canada.”
“As do I. Will you share a plate with me?”
She wanted to share the rest of her life with him. She set aside Edna’s field glasses. “Best not.”
Phillip nodded. “DeWitt suggested the riders repair to the swimming hole after they’ve eaten and enjoyed neighborly congratulations. DeWitt and I have been using it to spare the staff the bother of heating bathwater for the summer cottage.”
Precisely the sort of innate consideration and common sense Hecate could not expect from Johnny.
“Don’t drown him,” she said, “and don’t let him accidently drown you.”
“Sound advice.” Phillip should have offered her a slight bow and strolled off, a man who’d given a good account of himself in the saddle and offered suitable courtesies to the family antidote. Instead, he studied the sky.
“I miss you, Hecate. That the Canadian Conniver has laid his dastardly mischief at your feet makes me want to haul him bodily onto the nearest merchantman and see him kept below deck until the ship docks in Halifax.”
“Or in hell. If nothing else, Johnny’s scheme has made me realize that I am angry, Phillip.”
“With me?”
How could he think that, and where did he get the courage to ask such a question? “Never with you. With what I have allowed myself to become. I threatened to cut off Isaac’s allowance if he continues to collude with Johnny. He sneered at that sally and informed me he’s been saving in anticipation of Johnny’s arrival, or of my eventual comeuppance. He can save, and yet, I’ve been yielding to his importuning for years, thinking economies are beyond him. How typical of the Bromptons to manipulate me so easily into doing for them what they could do for themselves. How typical of me to capitulate.”
Phillip’s gaze shifted from the clouds to Hecate. “Isaac bamboozled you. I suspect Charlie might also be capable of pulling a greater share of an adult load, but between his mama’s boldness, his wife’s adoration, and Nunn’s inherent reticence, Charlie remains successfully immured in his randy youth.”
“You don’t think my anger is misplaced?”
Phillip touched her arm. “I think your anger might well be your salvation. Any other woman would have tossed the lot of them into the Channel long since.”
The old refrain—but they are all I have—came to mind. Hecate had been wrong about that. True, she had her Brompton connections, but she also had a fortune. She could well lose the fortune precisely because she’d been so tenacious about holding on to her Brompton connections.
“I have never regarded wealth as anything other than an obligation,” Hecate said. “I like my comforts within reason, but all that money… Have you ever longed for more acres to farm?”
Phillip offered his arm, an acceptable display of manners, and Hecate took it. “Not more acres, though I am considering adding a conservatory. Lark’s Nest is good land and more than enough for my needs. My challenge becomes to do the best possible job I can by the acres I have. That’s sufficient to occupy any man’s ambitions, or it should be.”
“Not for Johnny.” Hecate allowed Phillip to escort her to the buffet. “If he’s so successful, why is he going to such lengths to get his hands on my money?”
“Some people are never satisfied. They lack for nothing except contentment, and I do not envy them. Shall I fill you a plate?”
“Please.” Not because she was hungry, though she was, but because every moment spent with Phillip was a moment stolen against a fate she seemed doomed to meet at Johnny’s handsome hands.
Phillip watched Hecate quietly directing yet another social event while the Earl of Nunn allowed himself to be harangued by the vicar’s wife, the occasional neighboring squire, and Mr. Jonas, a solicitor who’d retired to the neighborhood to be near his daughter. Nunn wasn’t a jovial lord of the manor, but he was gracious within the limits of his character.
“Come along,” DeWitt said, tugging Phillip’s arm. “We’ve recovered from our exertions, digested our sustenance, and drained half a barrel of ale. Time for the dashing competitors to swim off the stink of our labors.”
Hecate listened to some old grandpa maundering on about the misadventures of his youth. She’d doubtless heard the tale before, and yet, her smile was genuine, her expression serene.
“I’m losing her,” Phillip muttered. With each passing hour, she was shoving her own wants and needs into some mental warehouse where she stored a lifetime of longings and dreams, even as she kept an eye on the punchbowl, the tipsy bachelors, the buffet, and the weather.
For the sake of the greater good—or the Brompton version of the greater good—she’d surrender to Johnny’s scheme.
“Beg pardon?” DeWitt said as a shout of laughter went up from Henry Wortham’s vicinity. “You came in second.”
The greatest loss would not be her money. She’d been parting with that for the sake of various Bromptons since girlhood. Married to Johnny, she’d lose her freedom.
“Is scandal really such a force in polite society that it must be avoided at all costs?” Phillip asked as he accompanied DeWitt in the direction of the summer cottage. “I understand the devastation of foot rot. A whole herd can be destroyed in a season. Potato blights are just as destructive, and they tend to hit the poorest of small holders the hardest. A failed harvest puts hardship on a whole nation. But a tide of whispers and slander? How does one measure that damage?”
DeWitt was quiet until they reached the steps of the summer cottage terrace. “The damage looks like this: No offers for the family’s unattached young ladies. No posts for the young men. No mortgages on the family’s properties as the investment opportunities magically disappear. No credit, when many a respectable family lives on credit. No invitations, when who is invited where by whom is the currency of social standing. The servants begin to drift away, and the agencies no longer send the best candidates, if they send any.”
“Like a neglected estate,” Phillip said, “a slow spiral into an ever-deepening pit.”
“That pit is financial, social, emotional, logistical… Say you want to rent out your town house to raise some capital, but the only tenants willing to look at it won’t pay what you’re asking and won’t respect the premises. You want some new clothes made up by the fellow you’ve long patronized on Bond Street. He informs you that, sadly, he’s unable to take any new commissions for at least three months. Try the lesser shop around the corner, though he’s also unable to take your business.”
If Hecate brought such a fate on her family—the blame would fall exclusively on her, never on dear Cousin Johnny or scheming Cousin Isaac—she’d have no allies or supporters with whom to fight back.
Except for Phillip, who was still trying to master the quadrille in the odd, private hour. He’d taken to stealing away to the portrait gallery after supper. He practiced the steps in solitude, the disapproving eyes of the Brompton rogues staring at his stumbling progress.
