A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance (19 page)

“If only she would trust me, take me into her confidence.”

“Why should she?” Gus asked. “When has she had anyone to trust but herself? Sir Alfred loved her in his own way, I suppose. But when it came to breaking her betrothal to Clive Brampton, she trusted old
Tramell
rather than her father. Richard loved her in an offhanded way. She adored him, but could she ever rely on him? Just when he could have been most helpful to her, he went off to fight.”

“I’m a very reliable fellow,
“ Harry
protested. “She should know that!”

“It would help if you told her that you love her.”

Harry Dracott cast Gus an anguished look before burying his head in his hands.

“I promised myself, by all that is
holy,
I would never again say those words to another lady.”

Harry leaned against the back of the pew and folded his arms over his chest as if he were adding a layer of protection over his heart. He looked down at the paver bearing Lady Angela’s name.

Do not go there,
Gus wanted to yell.
Do not pull Angela into this conversation.
But, of course, Angela had been a part of the conversation from its beginning. She and the infant Cecil lay under the floor in front of the aisle that separated Harry from Gus.

“Love means risking pain.”

“But betrayal guarantees it,” Harry growled, glaring down at Angela’s name.

Gus froze. Everyone assumed that it was his undying love for the beautiful Lady Angela, the unbearable pain of losing her in death that had driven Harry Dracott to run to the Peninsula to fight.

Everyone had been mistaken.

Harry looked up at the rose window, whose delicate colors were beginning to be revealed in the early morning light.

“Amazing!
I said it, and no lighting struck. The earth did not open and swallow me.”

Harry sat up, took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and looked directly at Gus.

“I have never told that to another living soul. The lovely Lady Angela was as faithless as any ladybird—more so, in fact. Ladybirds’ loyalty can usually be purchased.

“What a gullible fool I was.
So proud to have captured the prize of the season.
The envy of every gentleman in the realm.

“When she discovered she was increasing so soon after our wedding, she was furious. I put it down to crotchets of a lady in an interesting condition—fear of childbirth. But after Lizzie was born, Angela refused to have anything to do with either Lizzie or me.
Unless, of course, the occasion called for playing the devoted wife and mother.

“But most of the time she spent in London—or country homes of her fashionable friends. I will give her credit for discretion. Angela knew better than to cause so much as a raised eyebrow. And she would rather have given up her dalliances than have jeopardized her entrée into the most select circles.”

Harry’s voice took on a distant, dispassionate tone as he continued, apparently addressing Lady Angela’s grave.

“My parents adored her. What was I to tell them? When she could no longer disguise her condition with that poor child,” Harry nodded to the paver nearest Gus, “she insisted on retiring to the Hall, a quack of a physician in tow, with my mother and the entire staff fluttering over her—praying for a Dracott heir.

“As soon as it was clear that something was amiss in her labor, the quack went running off, and Mama was left to deal as best she could. She never stopped blaming herself for Angela’s and the infant’s deaths. I am certain it hastened
her own
.

“How my parents mourned the loss of the Dracott heir. The most shocking detail of the entire disgusting matter is that I felt nothing but relief at Angela’s death and nothing but gratitude for the infant’s death. Can a man stoop much lower than that?”

Gus knew a man could stoop lower than that. He had. Should he speak? What could he say? The silence was becoming unbearable. He struggled to find the words. Should he tell Harry something close to the truth?
Part of the truth?
All of the truth?

At last Harry Dracott emerged from what appeared to be contemplation of his own personal hell and looked at his old friend with a puzzled frown.

“Have you no words of wisdom, Wharton? Can I ever gain absolution?”

“No wisdom, Dracott. But I pray for absolution. Have you ever considered who might be that baby’s father?”

Gus forced himself to meet Harry
Dracott’s
searching gaze. Gus knew it might mean losing his vocation, the only really worthwhile thing he had ever attempted, but if Harry needed to start with a clean slate, it required Gus to, also.

Harry stared at Gus as if studying a target.

“
You
?
You and Angela?”

Gus nodded.

“Does honor require me to challenge you, Wharton?”

Gus could not trust himself to speak. What could he say in his own defense?

“So that is why you went off and became a priest?
Because of Angela’s and the infant’s deaths?”

“And for what I had done—betrayed a friend, casually, for nothing, really.”

Gus could scarcely remember anything unique about Angela. There had been so many like her.

“I suppose it is justice of sorts,” Harry mused. “Every time you enter this church, you pass near the grave of your son.”

“In all probability he is my son. But, as you well know: with Angela, one could never be absolutely certain.”

Gus waited for the ax to fall. For Harry Dracott to tell him he was unfit to be a priest, to gather his belongings and vacate the vicarage of St. John Chrysostom’s.  But all Harry did was grimace.

“You have the right of it. One could always count on Angela to present herself in the best possible light with others. Always act on what she saw as her best interests. But in anything that mattered, one could never be certain.”

Since he evidently was not going to be sent packing, Gus decided to point out the obvious. For an otherwise intelligent man, Harry Dracott had a knack for missing the obvious.

“As contrasted with Miss Katherine Brampton, for example.
So unpredictable.
One can never quite know what she might do next.
Except in matters of honor and loyalty.
In matters of honor and loyalty, one can be certain of her. The two essentials in a wife, I would think. Of course, one must earn her loyalty.”

Harry Dracott stood and stretched, rubbing the back of his neck.

Gus stood also, relieved that his knees did not buckle. Harry gave him a hearty slap on the back.

“Save the homily for the wedding, Wharton.”

In the early sunlight of a new spring day, Lord Henry Dracott blinked as he left St. John Chrysostom’s by the south transept door. What time was it? How many hours had he spent in the church before Gus discovered him?

When Harry staggered into the memorial chapel, the existence of which he had previously refused to acknowledge, he had no real hope of being freed from the ghosts of Angela and the son who was his heir but who was not his. He had simply needed to confront the source of his misery—the pain he held in secret.

Gus might or might not be the father of Harry’s dead
heir
. But regardless of how he tried, Harry could not feel the outrage, the thirst for revenge he had always expected to feel if ever he learned the identity of baby Cecil’s father. Angela was dead. The infant Cecil was dead. Gus was living penance for his past misdeeds. Truth be told, Harry had not been the most solicitous of husbands to Angela, even before she played him false at every opportunity.

But Harry had a chance for a fresh start. Angry with him though she might be, Katherine Brampton would not break their engagement. She cared too much for Miguel. Gus said Harry would have to work to win her loyalty. Harry let himself hope that he could also win her love.

In spite of the lack of sleep, Harry walked briskly across the village, nodding and greeting early risers who had the good sense not to ask why Lord
Dracott’s
appearance was even more disheveled than usual. As he approached the lane that led to the Dower House, Harry considered going immediately to see Katherine Brampton to apologize for his most recent display of temper. But common sense reminded him that a gentleman did not go courting unshaven and wearing clothes he hadn’t changed in more than a day.  

By the time he reached the Hall, he was more subdued, remembering to his chagrin his insulting marriage proposals to Miss Brampton.

Surely you can see the sense of our marriage, Miss Brampton. Other ladies might require courting—sweet, silken words, tender love notes. But
you
, Miss Brampton,
you
are too sensible, too aware of your precarious situation and that of your nephew’s, to require any courting at all.

He had not said those precise words, but his meaning had been clear, insultingly clear.

Harry acknowledged that winning Katherine Brampton’s trust and loyalty—much less her love—would be a formidable task.

As he shaved and donned a fresh shirt, he continued to consider the problem. Perhaps the best approach would be sending a note, perhaps with a line of verse.

Harry searched his memory. The Bard might be a good choice: “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”

Dear Miss Brampton,

You are very like a bright spring morning.

She might like reading those words. On the other hand, she might dismiss them, believing him to be in his cups, or to have taken leave of his senses. Surely there were books with model letters that might give him something to go on.

He made his way to the part of the library he rarely visited and began to examine the books his father had collected over the years. Scanning the titles, Harry was discouraged to find more volumes in Greek and Latin than in English. He might as well begin writing a note. Inspiration might come.

He sat at the desk his father had used. Harry preferred the large desk in the estate office where he had room to spread out. But the library provided needed privacy.

Harry glanced idly at the books in the case to the left of the desk. On the end of the shelf at eye level was a slender volume bound in green leather with no title. When he pulled it from the shelf, a sheet of paper fell out. It read:

On this day, 10 July 1813, I lease to Miss Katherine Brampton the Dower House, for the sum of ten pounds annually to be renewed each year on the 10
^th
day of July for as long as she has need of said dwelling.

It was signed by Harry’s father and sealed with the ring Harry now wore.

A strange place for a lease.
Harry glanced down at the page where the book had opened. There was a note written in his father’s hand.

10 July 1813

Today I have let the Dower House to Miss Katherine Brampton. Dearest Anne, your daughter is a beauty.
So like you and yet so unlike.
Your softness and Alfred’s determination.
Had you half her pluck, how different our lives might have been.

But you were unwilling to risk my parents’ displeasure, knowing how unsuitable they would have found a vicar’s daughter as their daughter-in-law.

I came to love Elizabeth, as I am certain you did Alfred. But, for one fleeting moment, when Miss Katherine walked into my study, the memories of that long-ago spring came flooding back.

Harry’s father had loved Katherine Brampton’s mother, but she had been too fearful of Harry’s formidable grandparents to accept his suit.

Harry turned to the front of the book. It was a diary of sorts, with months, sometimes years, between entries.

30 May 1778

Betrothed to Lady Elizabeth.
True Dracott bride, with family name and handsome dowry.
Happily, she is quite pretty.

5 November 1780

E
delivered of a healthy son. Thanks
be
to God.

6 January 1781

H christened.
Bellowed at poor
Tramell
.

6 June 1781

Anne betrothed to Sir Alfred Brampton. I truly wish her
every happiness
.

Harry glanced over the pages of the diary. Most of the entries recorded the events of the Dracott family: Harry’s departure for school, his grandparents’ deaths. Richard’s and Katherine’s births were not recorded but Anne Brampton’s death was.

16 February 1802

Sweet Anne was laid to rest today. Too soft and fragile for this world, it would seem.

Harry turned a page.

28 April 1806

H betrothed to Lady Angela.
A rackety family and no dowry to speak of.
 But who am I to deny him his happiness. E, of course, can deny him nothing.

Harry decided to skip over the next few pages. He knew pretty well what they would say. Besides, he had already relived those shattering events in the past twenty-four hours.

He did read the last entry.
The only entry after the lease of the Dower House.

20 July 1813

Old
Tramell
is dead. I believe I shall offer the living to Augustus Wharton. People may talk if they like. Never did believe all those tales. Fine young
man,
and H will be delighted when he returns to have his old friend in the vicarage.

Perhaps W will make a match with K. Would not A be delighted for her daughter to be settled in the vicarage?

Harry snorted. Katherine Brampton was going to be settled right here in Dracott Hall. His father should have known better than to play matchmaker. Harry picked up a quill and dipped it in the inkwell. He decided that the best thing for him to do was to write a straightforward apology.

Dear Miss Brampton,

Please accept my

“Mean man! You no love Tia
Cat’rina
. Make her cry.”

Harry snapped the quill in two, spattering ink on his clean shirt. Ten feet away Miguel stood, hands on hips, glaring at Harry.

Sir Miguel Brampton. He certainly looked the part. Did Katherine know the boy could speak? Probably not, or else she would not have been crying. She would have been dancing for joy. And if Katherine Brampton danced, Harry wanted to dance with her. But first, he had to deal with his bantam-sized challenger.

“I am truly sorry for making your Aunt Katherine cry, Master Miguel. I shall behave better in the future, I promise.”

The boy stopped glaring, but still looked skeptical.

“Fact is—I do love your Aunt Katherine…very much.”

Miguel looked puzzled.

“Grown-ups’ lives get complicated, Miguel. Would it be acceptable to you if I went to your Aunt Katherine straightaway and apologized? Said I was sorry?”

Miguel nodded.

Harry stood and offered his hand. The boy hesitated, studied Harry’s face for a moment, and placed his hand in Harry’s.

The strangeness of Miguel’s presence in Dracott Hall suddenly struck Harry.

“Does your Aunt Katherine know where you are?”

“Ride pony.”

Of course, in his personal turmoil, Harry had forgotten his promise to Lizzie yesterday that Miguel could begin riding lessons with Clem.

The boy’s absence had just been discovered as he and Miguel approached the horse barns. Doors on stalls were being opened and slammed shut as stable lads searched frantically for the lost child.
Sally, observing the search, stopped
wringing
her hands and shouting unattended advice when she spied Harry with Miguel and came running.

“I am so sorry, my lord. Miguel was here one second, gone the next. I promise I’ll keep a better eye on him.”

She clutched Miguel to her.

“The
Bramptons
are a determined lot, Sally. And Master Miguel had an important message to deliver. But I do believe he owes you an apology for frightening you half out of your wits. Tell Sally you are sorry for frightening her, Miguel.”

Miguel obeyed.

“Sorry, Sally.”

The maid was wide-eyed in wonder.

“He’s talking, my lord! He’s speaking! We must tell Miss Brampton!”

“Miguel can stay here for his lesson. Tell Clem to take plenty of time. The lad has much work to do to catch up with Lizzie.
I
shall tell Miss Brampton that Miguel has finally found his voice.”

If the bearer of ill tidings is punished, the bearer of good tidings should be rewarded. At least it is worth the chance,
Harry thought.