A Priceless Gift: A Regency Romance (7 page)

After three months at Racking, Amanda felt quite at home there and had firmly established her authority. She had quickly established friendly relations with all her neighbours, even the arrogant Viscount Mebberling and his wife once they had called on her. Since she outranked them, they were affable enough to
her
, though Mattie avoided them whenever possible.

At first it had been strange to be listened to with deference by much older persons, seated automatically in the place of honour and curtsied to by ladies twice her age. Inside, Amanda did not feel any wiser than six months before, when she had been merely Miss Prendergast, a girl of no particular importance. But Amanda Prendergast would often blurt out what she thought, while Lady Rackington maintained her dignity by thinking before she spoke, at least much of the time. If people persisted in paying heed to her pronouncements, she owed it to herself not to sound empty-headed.

The new housekeeper had taken over with hardly a ripple in the smooth running of the estate. Mrs. Struthers, as she was styled despite her unmarried state, was grateful to Amanda and gave her excellent service, not only obeying my lady’s slightest wish but also actively suggesting whatever might increase her comfort and consequence.

Muffin was perfectly accustomed to the side saddle, but so far only Mattie profited from the mare’s training. Amanda was beginning to show, and rather more so than normal, according to the midwife. Mrs. Cummings was a stout middle-aged woman whose no-nonsense manner inspired immediate confidence. Amanda applied the lotion Mrs. Cummings had prepared after an old family recipe, to keep her skin smooth as it stretched, twice per day. The midwife called every week to check that everything was progressing normally and had convinced Amanda that so far all looked well.

Amanda had thought long and hard what to tell Mattie, Mrs. Cummings, and her local acquaintances. Their good opinion was important, but more importantly, her vile uncle must on no account guess her child’s parentage and cause trouble to Lucian and herself. She told everyone that her child was due at the New Year, a full month later than was, in fact, the case. Only Mrs. Cummings knew the true date, and she had been sworn to secrecy.

The nursery had been repainted in cheerful primrose, and a bassinet and carved cradle were standing ready for Amanda’s child. She could not wait for the last months of confinement to pass. None of the pretty clothes she had ordered in London fit anymore. The ones she was wearing, loose and comfortable, were locally produced, for who of any importance would see her in them? It was acceptable to eschew unwanted visitors at such a time, and as her stomach protruded ever more annoyingly, only a few persons outside her household, such as the vicar’s wife and daughter, were admitted into Lady Rackington’s increasingly impatient presence.

Mindful of the midwife’s advice not to coddle herself, Amanda walked daily on the estate’s extensive grounds, followed by two stout footmen at a discreet distance in case she fell and needed assistance. Mattie insisted on that precaution, and Amanda grudgingly gave in when she remembered the promise Lucian had exacted before his departure.

She often felt the child kick, especially when she was trying to sleep. Despite this nuisance her feelings about the unseen little creature were less hostile than at the time of her wedding. She fervently hoped that it would not be blond.
That
would remind her of its origins each time she looked at the babe and raise awkward questions in view of Lucian’s dark colouring. According to Mrs. Cummings, it might be several months after the child’s birth, sometimes a whole year, until one could tell the permanent hair colour. Even the eyes were subject to change for a time. No wonder one rarely saw pictures of new-born babes in portrait galleries.

Amanda had received one short letter from Lucian, sent from a Swedish port on the way to his destination. How was he faring in that far-off, cold country? The summer was ending, the days were shortening. Would he be caught there in the ice and snow, unable to return before the next spring?

The mild autumn days were at least intermittently sunny and pleasant. She was glad to have left the bustle of London behind. Her sister and father had written several times, but her mother had yet to relent.

One afternoon, Amanda was reading a novel in her sitting room, the last of a batch Tennant had brought her from town during his monthly visit. She always gave him a long list of commissions and enjoyed the small luxuries she could indulge in as a rich countess. She was even considering a lapdog to keep her company, but had decided to wait to see how she felt about it after the inconvenient child was born.

Mrs. Struthers knocked on her door and begged for a word. Amanda did not mind the interruption; the book had proved too melodramatic for her taste.

“My lady, a party of ladies and gentlemen has arrived. What are we to do about them?”

“That depends on who they are,” Amanda said. “Are they relatives or particular friends of the earl?”

“Not that I know of . . . There are two gentlemen that look like mischief to me, rather too young and boisterous to be cronies of his lordship. The ladies are older—the Dowager Baroness Micklesham, her sister-in-law Mrs. Rillsford, and a Miss Dorston.”

“I never heard of any of them in my life,” Amanda said, “not that that signifies much. What is the usual procedure?”

“Visitors of rank are offered tea and refreshment and a guided tour of the public rooms. Given your state, my lady, nobody would expect you to receive them personally, but they are unaware of it and have asked to pay their compliments to you.”

Amanda felt no desire to meet the uninvited guests, especially after two of them were described as boisterous.

“The thing is, as it is so late in the afternoon, they may be expecting to be housed overnight,” Mrs. Struthers said with an air of faint worry. “That is why I came to consult you, my lady, while Rinner is showing them the portrait gallery and cook is preparing a light repast.”

“Racking is not a hostelry,” Amanda decided. “Be polite, but do not offer them hospitality overnight. Where is my cousin?”

“Mrs. Smithson has gone to call at the vicarage, my lady.”

“Very well, carry on. I trust you and Rinner to speed these visitors on their way without giving offense or offering them fodder for gossip once they return to town.”

“Yes, I suspect curiosity is their main reason for calling here,” the housekeeper said and retreated with a curtsy.

Amanda shook her head and tried to focus on her novel again but could not. She walked over to the large window. Her view was of the gardens rather than the large terrace in front of the hall’s main entrance, but as she looked, she saw a lady and gentleman walk across the lawn and look up, curiously, at her windows. Who were those intruders who invaded her home like that, without leave? If only Racking Hall were a castle with a stout wall and moat so that she could draw up the bridge and shut them out. Of course, old castles were said to be highly uncomfortable, almost impossible to heat properly.

A footman—George, she thought, though the angle from above made it hard to be certain—herded the couple back towards the front of the house. Her servants were doing their best to protect her. How would Lucian deal with the intruders if he were at home? But perhaps they would be welcome to
him
; one of these ladies, or all of them, might be his former lovers.

Amanda was cross with Lucian and everyone for no good reason. Was her delicate condition making her so moody? She did not know what was
delicate
about it, a euphemism if ever she had heard one. The child kicked hard against her stomach. She tottered back to her chaise lounge, leaned back, and let out a long breath. At least she had wealth, security, and comfort when it might so easily have been the opposite. She had been, albeit briefly, a
ruined
—a
fallen
woman as most would see it. Without Lucian’s inexplicable and quixotic offer, her life and good name would be irretrievably spoiled. Instead, she was a wealthy countess with hundreds of people at her beck and call.

Had he done it out of guilt that he could not save his sister, and was there any way of finding out about Amaryllis’s fate? Had she left a diary, letters? If that doll had still been in the nursery until Amanda had banished it to the attics, where might her other possession be stowed? Which had been her room? That cook Mattie had mentioned ought to know all, at least some, of the answers and so might some of the other retainers. It was a more intriguing mystery than she had found in her novel, which teased the reader with supernatural wonders that were later reduced to implausible ‘scientific’ solutions.

She really must inspect the rooms in the family wing one of these days, and look for other relics of the tragic Lady Amaryllis.

Her own child, if she was a daughter, would be styled Lady something-or-other. She really ought to think of a name, something pretty enough to help her forget the child’s unfortunate origin.

Maybe something simple like Lucy? But Lady Lucy did not sound right. Too many similar letters. Mary might do, Anne or Jane. Though simple, they were all royal names. True, Queen Mary had not exactly left a splendid reputation as a monarch, and Lady Jane Grey had suffered tragic bad luck. Mattie might offer more inspired suggestions.

If it was a boy kicking her from inside . . . what would Lucian wish? He claimed he had never wanted children, so he would likely leave the decision to her even if he were present. Mark, her father’s name, was the most obvious choice; perhaps in the longer Roman form, Marcus, befitting a future Earl. The family name was Rackington, the same as the title. Was there a courtesy title to be bestowed on the heir? She had better find out. All her neighbours and the older servants would know, as it would have been Lucian’s before he became the Earl. It would be embarrassing to confess her ignorance of such a matter; she must ask Tennant or get Mattie to inquire on her behalf.

Presently, Mattie joined her for dinner.

“Did you meet this party of surprise visitors, or were they gone when you returned from the vicarage?” Amanda asked.

“I talked to them for a few minutes before their departure. They were angling for an invitation to stay, but I made it very clear that it was outside my authority to issue it.”

“Ah. What was your impression of them?”

Mattie unfolded her napkin and arranged it on her lap. “Not the kind of people you or I would easily be friends with. Lady Micklesham was determined to find fault with everything, and I can only commend your good sense not to receive them personally. But I must say that one of the men—he was introduced as Sir Rudiger Mills—was the kind that might show a woman a good time. He would have liked to flirt with me but was cut short by their departure.”

“Would you have flirted back?” Amanda was surprised at her staid cousin’s reaction to what sounded like a libertine. “You know nothing of him, after all.”

“A handsome man paying me compliments is not such a frequent occurrence that I would have quickly rebuffed him, you may be sure. Of course, it is unlikely the matter would have gone much further, even had they stayed. Mrs. Rillingham looked quite jealous. But a lady can dream, can’t she? I do so miss having a warm body against mine in the night.”

Amanda choked on the spoonful of soup she was about to swallow. “You do?” A quick glance reassured her that no servants were within hearing distance.

“Don’t you, Amanda? With a husband reputed to be a famous lover, I would imagine that you feel lonely for him. At least you know he’ll be back in a few more months, while my poor Luke is cold under the ground. He can never again make me feel the bliss in his arms that I remember every single night.”

“Bliss?” Amanda stared. “Are you not exaggerating in your memory what it was like?”

Now Mattie began to frown. “Oh, Amanda, don’t tell me you are one of those poor females who dislike intimacy even with a skilled and careful lover? You look so wholesome and robust . . . please forgive me if this subject makes you uncomfortable. I assumed that, as a wife with an absent husband, you would share my own frustration and loneliness, but I see from your face that it is different. If there is anything I can do—any advice you might need, to find greater enjoyment, don’t hesitate to apply to me! Or that midwife, I imagine she would also be a fount of knowledge. Though, with your husband’s experience, it really should not be necessary at all.”

Amanda bit her lips in vexation. She was curious how such ‘bliss’ was to be achieved, but to ask any questions would expose her ignorance and lead to unwanted inferences and suspicions. Already, she had given away too much. Besides, what light did her ignorance cast on her husband? Lucian hardly deserved to be considered inept when everyone agreed he could write books on the subject of sensuality.

“You mistake; I am in no need of advice or tutoring,” she said a little stiffly, forcing herself to frown. “It merely startled me that you would raise such an unsuitable subject at the dinner table. If my mother heard you, this would cause her palpitations.”

Mattie looked repentant and a little guilty, but that was better than additional probing into the dangerous subject. “I do beg your pardon, Amanda. I had not realised that you shared your mother’s dislike of warm talk, but it is only natural, I suppose. I shall not bring it up again.”