Amanda Scott (40 page)

“Then I have heard a good deal about you,” Hawtrey said, grinning. “You must tell me how much of it I may believe.”

A
S THEY MADE THEIR
way to the hard-beaten ride along the river, Lyford told Gwenyth that the abbey and its gardens had been sketched in watercolors and immortalized in oil by nearly every famous landscape artist of the past and present day, and she saw at once why that was so. To the east, osier bogs and green meadows gave way to low hills that sloped upward until they joined the beautiful Chilterns. To the west, more abruptly, the steep, grassy sides of the Berkshire chalk downs emerged above the thick forest of trees that covered the vast abbey grounds, framing gardens and house from the river’s edge to the road and beyond, providing any artist with a magnificent background.

When they reached the riverbank, Lyford turned Cyrano south, toward Pangbourne. “We’ll ride to Streatley another day,” he said. “This way is quite pleasant, and you will see the ruins.”

“Ruins?” Gwenyth looked about curiously.

“The remains of the old abbey,” Jared said. “’Tis naught but a pile of rocks now, with a few old monks’ cells beneath. Rather boring, but fashionably picturesque, I believe.” He gestured toward a heavily laden barge being poled downstream, accompanied by a number of interested swans, swimming alongside like guardsmen escorting a royal coach. “More interesting, I think, to watch the Molesford lock in operation. Have you ever seen a flash lock before, ma’am?”

“Not up close,” Gwenyth admitted, turning her head and noting that the barge he indicated was not the only traffic on the river. “Why are the men on that smaller barge poling so hard?” she asked.

Both men chuckled, and Lyford said, “They don’t want to get caught behind the slower-moving vessel. They can be miles on their way before the big one clears the gates if they can pass it and slip through first.” He urged Cyrano to a trot, and Gwenyth followed on the roan gelding named Prince Joseph that he had given her to ride. Jared followed them on his black.

They passed the ruins first. Gwenyth’s first thought when Lyford had mentioned them had been of something Gothic, possibly even haunted, so she was disappointed to see that, as Jared had warned, they weren’t much more than a picturesque pile of stones in a clearing just before a wide bend in the river. The lock, located fifty yards beyond the bend, was far more interesting.

When the two barges came around the bend, she saw what her companions had meant about the difference between them. The lockkeeper, a wiry little man wearing a bright red cap, had been warned of their coming and had already opened the lock, and as the smaller barge neared the opening and was caught in the surge of water, it picked up momentum. Gwenyth saw the tillerman straining against the drag of his huge wooden rudder, while the other crewmen worked feverishly to keep a straight course with their long poles. Then with a rush and an outburst of cheering they were over the weir into white water, riding the flow.

“Now they pray,” Jared said with a laugh.

“Goodness, why?” Gwenyth demanded.

Lyford said, “It’s deep right below the gate, but there are shallows beyond, where gravel is thrown up by the back current. The flash will carry them over, though, if they keep to their proper course. Watch the big one, now. Its progress must be more carefully controlled, but a heavy barge can’t move too slowly or it might go aground above the lock when the water level drops.”

She saw that several towlines had been thrown from the stern of the larger craft to men some distance upriver on the towpath along the opposite bank. The lines were wound around a capstan, or large winch, and six men controlled it, letting the heavily laden barge slowly down through the opening, where little white water showed now that the river had begun to even out.

“They’ll tow the upstream traffic through now,” Lyford said, “and then the gates will be closed and the water level will rise again. There are mills upriver at both Streatley and Goring that depend upon the level remaining somewhat constant, so the lockkeepers tend to let traffic back up during the middle of the day. Barges can be kept waiting hours for the water level to rise before they can move to the next section of the river.”

“One doesn’t do much swimming in the river, then,” Gwenyth said on a note of disappointment.

Lyford grinned at her. “So Welshwomen swim, do they?”

She lifted her chin. “Many of them do, sir. My father insisted that my sisters and I learn along with my brothers. There are two wild rivers near our home, and he desired us to learn what to do should we ever fall into one.”

Jared was astounded. “You learned to swim in a wild river?”

She smiled at him. “We learned in a pond where a portion of the gentler of the two had been dammed. Perhaps you have something similar here.” She looked questioningly at Lyford.

He shook his head. “There are any number of backwaters and streams that feed into the river hereabouts,” he said, “but none of them is really very suitable for damming. If you are a good swimmer, however, there is no reason you cannot do so if you pick your time carefully. At this time of the year, when the river is not in spate, the waters between locks are fairly calm so long as the locks remain closed. There is still a strong current, of course, but it is not dangerous unless someone opens the gates.”

Shooting her a challenging look, Jared said, “We often swim from the riverbank below the gardens in the evening or on Sundays. Perhaps if you were to join us then, we could look after you while you dip your toes.”

“Thank you, sir, but I should like to dip more than my toes, so I believe I will require at least a modicum of privacy.” She didn’t think it necessary to mention that for her to observe gentlemen engaged in that particular sport would be most improper. Jared was clearly trying to bait her, but he would soon discover she was no fish to rise at such a paltry fly.

Lyford had been thinking. Now he said, “I don’t think it would be wise for you to swim alone, ma’am, but I can show you at least one spot that might suit you, not far from here, where a backwater joins the main flow. It won’t afford you complete privacy, of course, but you will have more there than swimming from the open riverbank. I can have someone rig a rope to one of the trees. If you promise always to take someone with you and to tie the rope securely round your waist, I would have no objection to your bathing as and when you like.”

She looked at him in surprise. “Why, thank you, sir. I would enjoy that. Perhaps Miss Beckley will agree to join me, but if she will not, my own maid will attend me.”

“A woman swimming seems dashed unnatural to me,” muttered Jared. “Unsafe too. You sure you know what you’re about, to permit it, Marcus? Wouldn’t do to let the pretty lady drown.”

Lyford smiled at Gwenyth. “She won’t drown,” he said. There was warmth in his eyes again, and Gwenyth glanced quickly at Jared, hoping he would not comment upon that look.

But his thoughts had traveled in a new direction. “Who is Miss Beckley?” he demanded.

“My ward,” Lyford said calmly.

“That’s it!” Jared said, snapping his fingers. “Knew I’d heard the name. Your mama’s niece, ain’t she?” When Lyford nodded, he went on, “Thought you said she was fixed at school.”

“She was,” Lyford said with a rueful look at Gwenyth, “but she decided to leave.”

“Dashed right, too,” Jared said. “I say, ain’t she an heiress or something?”

“Something,” Lyford agreed, “but don’t attempt to attach her affections, coz. It won’t answer.”

Grimacing, Jared afforded his cousin a measuring look. What he saw in the other man’s face did not appear to comfort him. “Like that, is it? Daresay you want her yourself. You haven’t ever been one to miss the main chance, have you?”

There was bitterness in his tone, and Gwenyth looked at him sharply, but when he caught her look, he shook his head and shrugged, and when Lyford did not comment, she decided she had been imagining things. She rather liked Mr. Hawtrey. In some ways, although he had more polish, he reminded her of her brother Davy, and she wondered why she had never met him in town. After three Seasons, she thought she had met everyone.

They rode only as far as the abbey’s southern boundary, and when they turned back, Lyford apologized for the shortness of the outing. “I’ve a number of things to see to this morning,” he said, “and I daresay your aunt will be wondering where you’ve got to. She’s an early riser herself, you know, unlike Grandmother.”

“Lord, Marcus, can’t you call her the countess?” demanded Jared. “You know she turns blue every time you remind her she’s a grandmama. I should never do so tactless a thing.”

“She is my grandmother,” Lyford said calmly. “She has never attempted to engage my affection, or stirred in me any desire to please her. I see no reason to change my ways now to suit her.”

“You’ll sing a new tune when she cuts you out of her will,” Jared said, chuckling.

“You’re welcome to what little she has, coz.”

“Ah, but she will have more before she goes aloft, you know, and then you’ll be the one to look blue. That woman means to die wealthy, and I’ll wager she does as she says she will.”

“Well, you’re the lad who’ll get whatever there is to get,” Lyford said. “She won’t leave it to your father, and she won’t leave it to me, whatever I choose to call her. She likes you.”

Jared preened himself and grinned at Gwenyth. “Likes a man who cuts a dash, does the countess.”

Gwenyth grinned back, then glanced at Lyford. He was not amused. If anything, she thought he looked a little sad.

When they reached the stableyard, an older, grizzled man whom Gwenyth had not seen before waved to Lyford and shouted for grooms to attend the horses. Jared waited until one held his mount’s bridle before dismounting, but Lyford slid from his saddle at once, dropping the stallion’s reins to the ground when he turned to assist Gwenyth.

“I thought you said Cyrano was unpredictable,” she said mockingly as she lifted her right leg from its rest and swiveled on her sidesaddle to face him, steadying herself with a hand on the gelding’s rump. “Do you truly trust him to stand there, even for a moment?”

“He knows better than to defy me,” Lyford said, returning her look. He placed his hands firmly at her waist and lifted her effortlessly from her saddle without taking his gaze from hers. But before she could decide whether there had been undue stress on the first word in his sentence, he set her on the ground and turned away to tell the stablemaster that he would want the stallion later to visit some of his tenant farms.

“I’ll go inside with you,” Jared said, offering Gwenyth his arm as she drew the reins over the gelding’s head and handed them to a waiting groom. “I’ve not yet had my breakfast.”

Glancing at Lyford, she saw that he was listening intently to something his stablemaster was saying to him, so she scooped up her train with her left hand, rested the fingers of her right lightly upon Jared’s forearm, and murmured dulcetly, “You are very kind, sir.”

He chuckled. “I have heard it said, ma’am, that you are not so easily charmed as all that.”

“Have you, indeed, sir? Do you know me, then? I daresay that we have met in town, but I fear that I do not remember you.”

“I have not had the pleasure of a proper introduction, but I daresay we have acquaintances in common.” He mentioned several people she knew, but his artless conversation did not deceive her, and she was disappointed in him, for he spoke like a coxcomb, puffing off acquaintance with persons who, had they known him as well as he wanted her to believe they did, would certainly have introduced him to her.

By the time they reached the breakfast parlor, a sunny chamber on the second floor with an excellent view of the river, she had begun to wonder why an earl’s grandson who appeared to have money to spend had
not
been introduced to her as an eligible acquaintance, if not as a suitable aspirant to her hand. While Jared moved to pull the bell to order his breakfast, Gwenyth removed her hat and gloves, set them on a nearby chair, and greeted Lady Cadogan, who was still seated at the breakfast table, enjoying a cup of tea as she read her morning post.

She looked up and smiled. “What a pretty habit, my dear. The color matches your eyes exactly.”

“Thank you. I ought to have changed, I suppose.”

“Nonsense, not on my account. Have you broken your fast?”

“I had toast with my chocolate when I awoke,” Gwenyth said, bending to kiss her cheek, “but I wouldn’t refuse something more substantial now. Is there tea in that pot?”

“There is, newly hot, and extra cups on the sideboard there,” Lady Cadogan said with a gesture.

Gwenyth moved to help herself. “Tea, Mr. Hawtrey?”

“I’ll have coffee,” he said, repeating himself a moment later for the footman who responded to his ring. “They will bring the food quickly,” he added when the man had gone. “Seems they were expecting our arrival.”

“I sent the dishes from the sideboard back to the kitchen half an hour ago,” Lady Cadogan said. “Thought no one else meant to appear. Miss Beckley must intend to sleep the day away, and I didn’t know you were here, Jared.”

“Arrived in the dead of night,” he said. “I’ve my own key to the east wing, you know, so there was no need to rouse anyone to let me in.”

Conversation drifted casually from topic to topic while they ate, and afterward Jared said he wanted to visit some friends in the neighborhood. Gwenyth half-expected him to invite her to join him, and was unaccountably relieved when he did not. When he had gone, she said, “Why have I never met him in town, ma’am?”

“He don’t frequent the sort of parties you like, I expect,” her ladyship said, glancing up at her. “Why do you ask?”

Gwenyth shrugged. “He seems very charming. I just thought I ought to have remembered him. Is he perhaps a fortune hunter?” she asked, remembering his quick interest in Pamela.

“All men are fortune hunters,” Lady Cadogan said bluntly. “Any man who says he ain’t interested in marrying a girl with a large fortune is a liar. Don’t matter a particle what his own worth might be. As for Jared, his father is well enough to pass, and the lad will inherit what there is one day. Still and all, knowing Henry, I doubt he’s overgenerous, so I daresay Jared wouldn’t whistle an heiress down the wind.” She paused, reflecting, then added, “He does live better than one might expect. Always travels post, rides fine horses, dines at the best inns, patronizes the best tailors and bootmakers, but I daresay he makes and scrapes where it don’t show to make up the difference. Either that or he simply don’t pay his creditors. Very fashionable, that is, for a man to pay his gaming debts but cheat the people who do for him. Always thought that was an odd way to go about things. Daresay that’s why the good Lord didn’t see fit to make me a gentleman.”