Miss Dashing, page 8
Spoken as if Nunn, whose sailing exploits were limited to yachting on the Thames or a packet to Calais, were some sort of maritime authority.
“When is the letter dated?”
Nunn peered at the epistle. “Can’t make it out. Salt-sea air is the very devil on paper and ink. Looks like last month.”
He sat at his pretty desk, earl of all he surveyed, and set the blasted letter beside his breakfast tray. Edna had found him taking his first meal of the day in his personal library, which was Nunn’s term for an estate office. Never let it be said a peer of the realm toiled in an office.
And truly, the room was too handsomely kitted out to be an office. Louis Quinze desk, chairs, and love seat; handsome landscapes of Nunnsuch and its surrounds on the green-silk-hung walls; new curtains chosen to match a vivid Aubusson carpet in hues of red, gold, and green; fireplace faced in pink Carrara marble… A peer’s private retreat, right down to roses the same shade of red as the curtains and carpets.
The windows were open, the scent of scythed grass wafting on the morning breeze, sunbeams glinting on the silver tea service.
Flavia and Portia longed to live in such elegant surrounds, and Edna wanted that for them too. They were pretty enough by Mayfair standards, and Hecate could see them well dowered, but their connection to the earl was attenuated, and they were… lively. Their brother was in line for the title, though old Nunn was in deplorably sound health.
“We will of course welcome Johnny home with open arms,” Edna said. “Is this a visit, or has he made his fortune and decided to come home to stay?” She posed the question brightly. Another wealthy Brompton could only benefit the family as a whole.
Eglantine permitted Charles far too loose a rein. He would someday be the earl, after all, and he was no longer nineteen and in love with his pizzle. Not every waking moment, anyway.
And if Johnny were wealthy… Such a lovely notion. Hecate wasn’t awful, but she was so… Hecate. Always nattering on about budgets, priorities, and self-restraint. No duller topic existed than reasonable economies, and yet, Hecate would maunder on for days on that very subject.
“The letter doesn’t say if this is a visit or a permanent return,” Nunn replied, taking a bite of buttered toast. “I expect Johnny will make that decision when he gets here, though he doesn’t seem to have pined for Merry Olde. If you are thinking of unloading Portia or Flavia on him, you might consider that Johnny’s wife could end up in Canada for all the rest of her days.”
“Better to be a wealthy wife in Canada than a poor relation anywhere else.”
Nunn munched his toast placidly. “From what Hecate tells me, Lord Phillip is not wealthy, but both Portia and Flavia were thrusting their bosoms at him by the punchbowl last evening. Those two will be the ruin of this family, Edna, and when that happens, I will hold you accountable and close the doors of Nunnsuch to your wayward offspring.”
He would do it too. Hecate held the purse strings, but Nunn had all the consequence. Two towering injustices that defied Edna’s considerable reasoning powers.
“Lord Phillip’s brother is a marquess,” Edna said. “Lord Phillip is the marquess’s heir. Either Flavia or Portia would do for him quite well.” And Johnny, if wealthy, could have the remaining sister, provided he hadn’t caught any dreadful diseases in the wilds of Canada.
“Have you set your cap for DeGrange?” Nunn inquired, spreading yet more butter on a second slice of toast.
“He’s too young for me.” Also a bit serious, behind the relentless geniality. “What of you? Will you succumb to Mrs. Roberts’ charms?” Edna had lost sleep worrying about that very possibility. The only thing worse than the family consequence resting in Nunn’s hands would be that same consequence held by a young and shrewish new wife.
Last year, she’d set Charles to charming Mrs. Roberts in hopes that an affair would render the lady unacceptable in Nunn’s eyes. Mrs. Roberts had tired of Charles’s escort without sampling his wares, and apparently felt no inclination to renew ties.
Though Eglantine would probably be relieved if Charles were to stray—again.
“Mrs. Roberts,” Nunn said, “is a neighbor who shares with me the experience of spousal bereavement. She condoles me as well on the nature of my extended family, and one appreciates a sympathetic ear. Enough prying, Edna. Your fluttering about will spoil my digestion, and I’m of a mind to look in on the haying this morning. I haven’t time to waste on your scheming. Marry DeGrange with my blessing if that’s what you’re after, and I’m sure Hecate will add a token sum to reward DeGrange for his optimism.”
Edna tried, under the guise of straightening the curtains and rearranging the roses, to get a peek at Johnny’s letter. “I will not remarry unless and until my daughters are happily settled.”
“Nobody will take you on with those two clinging to your skirts, no matter how generously Hecate dowers the lot of you. You hope to get Lord Phillip in harness before he’s wise to Society’s ways, and I wish you the joy of that undertaking.”
“Lord Phillip could do much worse. My girls would show him how to go on. They are received everywhere and quite accomplished.”
“Phillip Vincent is nobody’s fool,” Nunn said, patting his lips with a monogrammed napkin. “He’s not a fribble, though one could wish he had a finer appreciation for the subtleties of social standing. His late father was a strutting, rutting exponent of aristocratic arrogance, but old Tavistock was also shrewd and determined.”
“You like Lord Phillip?” Edna couldn’t fault the man’s appearance, though he was on the tall and slightly brutish side. Nonetheless, he’d walked his horse up the carriageway, helped himself to the buffet a quarter hour before the third bell should have been rung, and had apparently secreted himself on the side terrace with Hecate for nearly half an hour.
His social instincts, in other words, were sadly lacking.
“I respect his lordship,” Nunn said. “Not a concept I can expect a Brompton to grasp. Now cease trying to spy on my correspondence and say nothing of that letter to your offspring. Ships sink even in summer, and I only told you of Johnny’s approaching arrival because, by rights, he should have first crack at the town house you intend to occupy come autumn. Best line up someplace else to bide if you plan to be in Town.”
“Johnny’s mama would not have wanted to see the girls and me turned out!” Unless she’d been indulging in one of her periodic disagreeable spells.
“You aren’t spending the autumn here, madam. Now leave me in peace and keep this development to yourself.”
Edna could rifle the desk when Nunn went off on his morning hack. The strongbox had yet to yield to her hatpins, but with any luck, Nunn would shove the letter into a drawer and forget about it. He was absent-minded, despite his lamentable vigor.
“Did Johnny mention how Emeril is getting on?” Em had been the merrier of the two boys, though Johnny was no high stickler.
“He says Emeril enjoys good health and has bought a property in Toronto. Johnny opined that Emeril might visit next summer. Now, shoo.”
A visit next summer was a platitude all sons sent home from the distant corners of the empire. For now, Johnny’s visit was disruption enough, or opportunity enough.
Edna fired off a final salvo. “Charles says Mrs. Roberts hasn’t exactly been a saint. He knows of what he speaks, my lord.”
“Because he hasn’t been a saint either, but Mrs. Roberts can at least plead the temporary derangement of grief. Go away, Edna.”
Edna curtseyed and withdrew, while Uncle Nunn dabbed jam on his toast.
Portia and Flavia, who had doubtless been up playing whist nearly until cockcrow, would remain abed for some time. She loaded a tray from the sideboard in the breakfast parlor and took her repast to the family parlor, where she was guaranteed the privacy necessary for serious thinking.
Every marquess’s heir required the guidance and companionship of a well-born spouse, and Lord Phillip wouldn’t be too choosy about settlements, given his own modest circumstances.
Mr. Gavin DeWitt, who was a mere two generations removed from the shop and possessed of a respectable fortune, also needed a well-born helpmeet. Matchmaking was a delicate art, and for all Hecate’s unseemly skill with investing, that art was lost upon her.
Considerable planning and thought were necessary if Portia and Flavia were each to snabble the best bachelor for their temperaments and interests. Edna took out a sheet of foolscap and wrote two names across the top: Vincent and DeWitt.
Down the side, she began labeling rows: wealth, connections, appearance, property, health, accomplishments… all the characteristics that truly mattered. And if either bachelor proved unreceptive to his good fortune, then the unappreciated daughter might perhaps console herself with a suit from Cousin Johnny.
Though Johnny had always been sweet on Hecate.
Ah well, young men were prone to foolish fancies, and Hecate had chosen years ago to take up a dim and dusty corner of the spinster’s shelf.
Chapter Six
Phillip had done quick justice to the offerings in the breakfast parlor shortly after dawn and taken himself for a ramble in the sprawling wood and out across the pastures. Herne deserved a day of rest, while Phillip needed to move.
The birdsong soothed his soul, as did the scent of greenery, the blooming columbine and foxglove, and the particular shimmer of morning sunlight on a stand of white birches.
Nunnsuch was a lovely property, but neglect was evident on every hand. The bridle paths were overgrown, the hedgerows sprawling, the drainage ditches clogged with bracken, the pastures either too lush or overgrazed.
Phillip emerged from a bridle path into an overgrown hayfield and spotted a farm wagon unloading a crew with scythes and forks thirty yards off. Damned late in the season for haying, but then, rain, windstorms, ailing draft teams… Any number of factors interfered with a farmer’s best-laid plans.
“Greetings,” Phillip called, approaching the wagon. “Fine morning to see to the scything.”
A stocky older fellow doffed a battered cap. “’Tis that, sir. Lads and lasses, get cracking.”
A dozen young people—men and women, a few gangly adolescents, and one lady far gone with child—descended from the wagon and took up the long-handled, curved scythes used to cut tall grasses for haying.
“I know what you’re thinking, good sir,” the older fellow said. “We’ve left it nigh too late, and I agree, but himself wanted the teams for repairing his ha-has, and what himself wants is what happens. Henry Wortham, give me your whetstone.”
A strapping, tow-headed lad with the shoulders of a stevedore shuffled over and produced a stone from his pocket. “I sharpened the first batch,” he said.
“Then I’ll work on the second batch while ye cut yonder field. Sooner begun is sooner done.”
“Aye, Mr. Travers.” Henry rolled his eyes, nodded to Phillip, and strolled off, his scythe casually resting across his shoulders. The other workers were ranging themselves along one side of the field at intervals of about twelve feet.
“Who is the young mother?” Phillip asked.
“Mavis Riley. Lost her fella to the influenza over the winter. Himself hasn’t turned her out, but she hasn’t a farthing to her name.”
Phillip unbuttoned his jacket and then his waistcoat. “I can swing a scythe. Put her to sharpening the next batch of blades. Before too long, that sun will be fierce, and her time isn’t far off.”
“But, sir, I cannot allow a gentleman, a guest of the manor—”
Phillip took off his top hat and shoved it at the foreman, along with his jacket and waistcoat. “Try to stop me.” He added his cravat to the pile—gracious angels, did it feel good to get rid of that thing—and strode off in Mrs. Riley’s direction.
The crew proceeded by halves, with every other worker stepping forth to swing a blade in a slow, sweeping rhythm. When the first cohort had gained a few yards of progress, the second half of the crew would start on the spaces between them. The pattern minimized the likelihood that a tuft of grass would be missed, or that a trouser, skirt, or ankle would be inadvertently sliced.
Phillip approached Mrs. Riley, who waited with the second half of the crew. “Good morning, ma’am. Mr. Travers has asked that you take on the blade sharpening.”
Blue eyes looked Phillip up and down. She was pretty, blond, and clearly determined to earn her day’s pay.
“I can keep up,” she said. “Been scything since I was a girl. My granny and dam scythed, and I know what I’m about.”
Most haying crews included women wielding blades. The heavier work—forking the hay into wagons and ricks once dried—usually fell to the men.
“You are doubtless an expert, while I am a dabbler,” Phillip said. “Humor me. Please.”
She took off her straw hat, plopped it on Phillip’s head, and muttered something about daft gents out from Town. Her gait had acquired the seafaring roll of a woman burdened by approaching motherhood, and yet, she managed to stomp away.
“Let’s have a song!” Phillip called, taking up the scythe. “Henry, give us a tune!”
Young Henry was blessed with a fine baritone, and he chose well. Scything was best done at a relaxed pace, letting the natural swing of the blade do the work. Not a skill learned quickly, and one acquired at the cost of many blisters and aching muscles.
And yet, Phillip had known two brothers in their eighties who could wield a scythe all day next to their great-grandsons and great-granddaughters.
The work felt good, as did the heat, the sense of accomplishment, the pause at the end of the row for a pull from a flask. Mrs. Riley brought him a canteen, and Phillip half drained it at one go.
“Don’t fall behind,” she said, snatching her canteen back. “Ye’ll rush to catch up and make a hash of your patch.”
“Aye, ma’am.” Hecate would like Mrs. Riley. Phillip took up his scythe and joined in the next song.
By the time the field was half done, he’d removed his shirt, as had every other fellow on the crew, and a second wagon had pulled up, this one bearing the nooning and a small keg.
“Who be ye?” Mr. Travers asked when Phillip had downed his first tankard of fine summer ale. “Ye know what you’re about with that blade, and the other lads are bound a gent from Town won’t show them up.”
“Phillip Vincent. I have a small property up in Berkshire. I’m a guest at Nunnsuch. You’ll see that Mrs. Riley is given appropriate compensation?”
“If that’s your pleasure.” Travers sipped his ale. “Berkshire folk go scything for a lark, do they? Have a taste for blisters on your hands and chaff on your neck?”
“I’m a farmer. I have a taste for getting the crops in and ensuring my livestock have enough fodder for winter. How far behind is Nunnsuch with the haying generally?”
“We got about half done when himself says his ha-has must be tended to. That were over a week ago. Damned foolishness, and if we don’t get rain before the end of this day, my name is not Hiram Hercules Travers.”
“No rain today,” Phillip said. “My shoulder tells me when a storm approaches. You’ll get this field in.”
“Nah,” Travers said. “We’ll get it cut and possibly raked, and then it’ll be soaked through. Himself will tell us to gather it up anyway, and we’ll spend the next six months waiting for the wet rick to catch fire. Happens about every third year. We place bets down at the Pig and Pony with half the proceeds going to the ladies’ charitable fund. Steward tries to reason with Nunn, but there’s no reasoning with one of the anointed. Henry, lad, go easy on that ale. It’ll kick you in the head come sundown if you keep at it like that.”
“I’m thirsty,” Henry said with the mulish logic of the young and vigorous.
“Mrs. Riley!” Phillip called. “Might you offer Henry some water?”
She gave Henry a look that spoke volumes, about stubborn men, foolish displays of pride, and a fine pair of shoulders worthy of some grudging appreciation. She passed him a full dipper of water drawn from a pot on the wagon bed.
“That’s from the spring. It’ll be cold. Mind you don’t gulp.”
Henry grinned—and gulped. “Thanks, Mavie.”
“Mrs. Riley to you, Henry Wortham.” She stalked off with her dipper and waterpot, offering a drink first to the other women on the crew.
Travers watched this interaction with a faint smile. “We’ll none of us have much starch by the end of the day, save for Mavis. You never met a more stubborn lass. Shame about her husband. He were a good lad and worshipped his missus. Didn’t leave her much, though.”
Travers’s tone implied that stubbornness was a fine quality in a woman, and Phillip agreed.
“If the haying is behind,” Phillip said, “what about planting and harvest? Does Lord Nunn interfere with them as well?”
“Planting usually sees him larking about in Town, thank God, and the steward does his best with harvest. Even an earl can see when fruit’s ripe in the orchards. Himself isn’t a bad sort—pays a fair wage, does his bit with the Christmas baskets—but he’s a lord.”
Meaning the tasks Hecate could reach—the Boxing Day baskets, the wage book—were in good order. “And the woods?”
Travers cast an eye over his shoulder. “I’m not a woodsman, but my cousin is the ranger for a family in Surrey. Says Nunn’s woods are a mess. Hedgerows just as bad. Those oaks will take over a field in twenty years flat, but himself must have his shady bridle paths.”
“Do you run the hogs down those bridle paths in autumn and winter to clean up the acorns?”
“You’d have to talk to Silas Grove about that. He manages the home farm. Have you had enough of playing farmer, Mr. Vincent?”
The form of address jarred. For all of his life, Phillip had been Master Phillip, Master Heyward, Mr. Heyward, Young Heyward… then, recently, Lord Phillip. The Vincent part, the part that bound him to Tavistock and the whole peerage… He’d be a long time adjusting to that.
