Barbara Metzger (8 page)

Graceanne clutched the purse and raised her chin. “No. If I am to stand on my own, I shall do it. And I intend to ask him for the return of the money he spent.”

“Brava!
Stand firm, my Grace. Kick him where it hurts most”—she inhaled sharply—“in his pocketbook. Ah, and here are the boys, just in time.”

Milsom carried the exhausted twins, one under each arm.

“Did you have a good time, darlings? Thank Cousin Leland for the visit.”

One look at his butler’s face and the duke said, “I think we should thank Mr. Milsom, too.” And double his Christmas gift.

The boys made their proper bows and thank-yous, then: “I peed in a water closet, Mama! You pull a chain and the water goes whoosh and ends up where the moat used to be.”

Graceanne clapped her hand over Leslie’s mouth. She didn’t get to Willy in time.

“And I peed behind some bushes.”

Trying not to laugh, Leland asked, “What, did you go outside, then?”

Milsom stared over their heads. “I believe that was the conservatory, Your Grace. The orange trees.”

Chapter Eight

God gave Adam sovereignty over all the creatures of the earth,” Reverend Beckwith preached. “Including Eve. It isn’t right for a woman to have that kind of authority.”

Unfortunately for Graceanne, she was the sole recipient of this day’s sermon. She’d come back from Ware Hold and handed the twins over to Meg for a nap—they did not resist, for once—then confronted her father in his study.

“I have spoken to His Grace, Papa,” she began to say.

“And I suppose he filled your head with all manner of nonsense.”

“If you call a handsome competence nonsense, yes.” Then she went on to explain that while Reverend Beckwith might have used the money for reasons he deemed worthy, Tony would not have agreed. She did not agree, and the Duke of Ware did not agree. It was only the invocation of Leland’s name, and his threats to hold the vicar to account, that had Beckwith cease his diatribe about preserving the past, the revered texts. “I doubt the sacred writings would crumble to dust without my children’s patrimony. Some other cork-brained collector would be happy to keep them for posterity’s sake. I am not.”

The vicar grumbled, “And I suppose you’d rather let Ware gamble the whole thing away, or spend it on his ladybirds.”

“I’m not saying the duke is a saint, but I cannot imagine him misusing the funds left in his trust. Nor could he possibly need more wealth. Besides, he truly wants what’s best for the boys. He likes them.”

Beckwith snorted, ruffling the hairs in his nose. “Hah! You always were as green as a goose. It’s called petting the calf, you moonling. So you’ll move in with him and he’ll have his heirs, his fortune, and a ready-made mistress. Well, don’t come crawling to me when my lord rakehell gets tired of you and those hell-born babes, missy.”

Graceanne tried to keep her tongue in check. This is your father, she kept repeating to herself. Aloud she said, “It’s not like that at all. I am not going to move into Ware House.”

“What, he didn’t offer you carte blanche? It must be because he doesn’t want the brats underfoot.”

If Beckwith weren’t so busy caressing the pages of his latest, and most likely last, acquisition, he’d have seen his daughter’s flaming cheeks. “He did—that is, he likes the children. He did invite us to live at the castle, but I know how small minds work.” She ought to, from living at the vicarage. “So I refused his offer. I thought I might stay on here for a while, for Mother’s sake.” When she saw how his eyes lit up, she added, “I’ll pay my fair share of expenses, but no more. And I’ll go over the household accounts with you so we are both satisfied.”

The vicar was thinking of how he could put some of that corrupt, worldly money to holy use. “And the bills will go to Ware’s man of business?”

“No, His Grace agreed that I can be trusted to look after my sons’ welfare. I shall see every bill that comes across this desk, and I shall pay only those I authorize.”

That’s when the good vicar began quoting Genesis.

“Furthermore,” he added in a burst of last-ditch effort, “God made woman’s brain smaller. He wouldn’t have done that if He’d wanted them to understand finances.”

Graceanne knew better than to argue Scriptures. “That’s absurd. Mother handled the account books for years.”

“And squandered half our income on the poor,” Beckwith griped, but still making his point. “And look what happened because she overtaxed her mind. Now she’s in a wheeled chair most of the time.”

“Papa, she’s in a wheeled chair all winter because this house is too cold for her arthritis. You won’t permit enough fires to be burned to keep the place warm. That’s going to change, too.”

“Now, wait a minute, girl. You can fritter away your inheritance on furbelows and folderols for those limbs of Satan, but no woman is going to dictate how I spend my money.”

“I wouldn’t think of it, Papa, my brain is too small. When I put such bills in your pile, I’ll just consider that you’re repaying what you borrowed from Tony’s estate.”

Prudence was not happy with Graceanne’s new circumstances either at first. “It’s just not fair! You got to marry a handsome soldier and go to a foreign country and be a duke’s relation and now this! You always get everything! Why, Papa won’t even let me go to Squire Maxton’s Christmas ball! And Liam asked me for the first dance!”

“Liam Hallorahan had no business asking you anything, when he knows Papa does not approve. And you’ll have plenty of chances to find a handsome beau next year, when you are eighteen. I’ll make sure of that.”

Prudence began to see the advantages of having an older sister with deep pockets, especially when she accompanied Graceanne on her first-ever shopping spree. Of course Pru pouted and stamped her foot when Graceanne insisted an orange silk gown was too old for her, but she allowed as how the peach sarcenet was as pretty as anything Lucy had, after Graceanne threw in a Kashmir shawl, new slippers, and a painted fan. Honestly, Graceanne thought, dealing with the twins’ tantrums was easier. They were less costly to bribe back to smiles, too.

Other than that temporary setback, the shopping trip was a great success. Henry Moon and his son were willing to make the sleds. They couldn’t be varnished in time for Christmas, but they’d be sturdy enough, the blacksmith promised, even for her little demons, ah, darlings.

Mr. Anstruther at the local emporium had toys for the twins and trinkets Prudence couldn’t live without, although she’d managed to for seventeen years. He didn’t have any “quality” dishes, however. There was no need, he explained, since Ware got its china ordered special from London or direct from the manufacturers, and even Squire’s wife went to town once a year for her fancy household furnishings. No one else thereabouts had any call for porcelain dishes. Mrs. Anstruther, however, did uncover some color plates of china patterns they could order up Birmingham way. She’d send a boy straight off if Mrs. Warrington was certain that’s what she wanted, expensive plates that wouldn’t last a day with those hellions—no, honeys—in the house. They’d be there by Christmas morning if it didn’t snow.

Graceanne next visited some of the less fortunate of her father’s parishioners and hired the women to finish her mittens and scarves, and their husbands and sons to whittle tops and wooden animals for all the Sunday-school children.

The milliner’s was the last stop. Prudence snatched up a chip straw bonnet with jonquil ribbons, just the thing for her new gown. Graceanne knew she’d get no peace unless that, too, joined the pile of parcels filling the pony cart. Pru was a selfish, spoiled chit, but she was Graceanne’s sister. And really, she deserved some joyful spots in her life, too. Graceanne was happy being able to provide them. She was even happier finding a black satin bonnet with lavender lining and ribbon rosettes that was far and away the prettiest hat she had owned since her wedding. No matter that it was black, it would match her new lace-trimmed black gown of finest merino and the velvet one with satin ribbons. Her cheeks seemed rosier next to it, her blue eyes brighter. Or perhaps that came from thinking if His Grace would like it.

Foolish beyond permission, she told herself. She had no business thinking such things, not with her husband dead less than six months. And certainly not about a confirmed rake like Ware. He was far beyond her touch, Graceanne reminded herself, and further, beyond her experience. Whatever else, she must not let the recent amity between them blind her to his autocratic nature. Just as she’d considered a velvet toque, then chose the black satin, His Grace could change his mind about Willy. The same way she decided what she wanted, then purchased it, Ware could have anything he wanted, including her son. The power that came from funds in hand was new to Graceanne, a blessing; she must never forget that Ware considered such power his birthright. Still, it did feel good to look presentable. And maybe next month she’d buy the toque.

* * *

The last days before Christmas were too few by half, with all the new things Graceanne wanted to do: shopping, fittings, hiring extra staff for the vicarage, and some new furnishings, too, so the place would look respectable if not festive. Her father grumbled, but he did find the funds for his share someplace, likely the same place he kept deference to his noble patron.

Ware did ride over the next day on a huge roan stallion, and he did give each of the boys a turn up in front of him while Graceanne stood wringing her hands in front of the door of the vicarage. The children were ecstatic, of course, and begged, “Faster, Collie, faster.” Any faster and Graceanne would have palpitations. Ware’s grin was as wide as the boys’.

He was still grinning later, after a session with the vicar in Beckwith’s study. Graceanne couldn’t hear what was being said, not over Willy and Les’s whoops as they rode the broomstick ponies Ware had brought, but her dealings with the vicar were easier after that. Not more pleasant, just easier.

Another lightening of Graceanne’s burdens came when Prudence surprisingly offered to take over choir practice. Since this was the first and only unselfish act Graceanne could recall her sister performing, she distrusted it immediately. Liam Hallorahan’s fine tenor voice just might have something to do with Pru’s commitment to the choir, Graceanne suspected. His handsome looks and green-eyed admiration for the chit might have even more to do with it.

With no Catholic church in miles, Liam had taken to attending Warefield’s chapel. “For certain and it’s the same God, no matter the name on the door,” Liam declared, and “B’gorra, aren’t we all God’s children anyway?” Not even Vicar Beckwith could bar the church to someone who wanted to worship, especially when he attended in company with the second most influential family in the neighborhood. Squire Maxton was a reliable parish donor, his wife one of the leading do-gooders for the community. Unfortunately, Mrs. Maxton loved music. Her warbly soprano insisted the choir needed Hallorahan.

What the choir didn’t need was Pru making eyes at the good-looking young Irishman behind the vicar’s back, but that’s what it got every Sunday until Graceanne took over as director and insisted on a little more decorum. She supposed she ought to be keeping an eye on her hoydenish sister now, to save her from heartbreak later, but Liam would be leaving in a month or so anyway. Pru would get over her infatuation soon enough. Besides, Liam and Pru weren’t her problem just then; replacing the old but newly shredded wallpaper in the hall was, where the broomstick ponies had lunged out of control.

“Not a shilling of mine will go to that, daughter!”

“If the paper weren’t so old and shabby, it wouldn’t have ripped.”

“If those urchins had an ounce of discipline, it wouldn’t have ripped. Why, I’ve a mind to use those broomsticks where they’ll do the most good.”

So Graceanne bundled the twins into the pony cart and went about her errands. Despite all of her new tasks, she couldn’t let the usual parish duties fall behind. The sick still needed visiting, for instance. It was amazing what an improvement a visit by Graceanne and her boys made. Why, May Turner got right out of her bed and shooed them out the door.

“I’m feeling so much better, Mrs. Warrington, after these few minutes, I think I’ll go visit my brother. I’ll have to hurry now, looks like it’s coming on to snow.”

Little Letty Brown with her broken leg took one look at the twins and started hopping around the room, gathering her toys. “There, I told you she’d be walking soon,” Graceanne told Mrs. Brown.

And the baker’s wife, who was almost near to term, was so encouraged by seeing two such happy, healthy, energetic little boys, she decided to stop fretting and go help her man downstairs immediately. “And you know how important it is to humor women who are breeding, I’m sure. Otherwise they might have twi—twitches.”

Only Old Man Hatchett seemed to have a relapse. “Oh, no,” he called through the closed door. “Don’t come in, ma’am. I’m suddenly feeling that poorly, I’m afeared it might be something contagious. I’d never forgive myself an’ your precious bairns come down sick.”

Somehow her duty calls always seemed shorter when she took the boys along. Graceanne’s other visits to the village, without the twins, seemed to take longer than ever these busy days. Everyone wanted to stop her and congratulate her on the good news they’d heard as soon as the vicarage placed its first robust order for groceries.

There wasn’t a man, woman, or child in Warefield who wasn’t happy for that nice Mrs. Warrington. No one deserved it more, losing her husband so young and having to live with that nip-farthing Beckwith. Troubles seemed to come in pairs for the sweet young thing. Now maybe she’d be able to hire a proper nanny for those terrors, or send them off to school. Or the navy.

If the villagers wanted to take time to rejoice with Graceanne over her good fortune, callers at the vicarage wanted to know its precise amount. The squire’s wife came for tea as soon as she heard they’d hired a decent cook. Her questions bordered on the discourteous, but she had a nephew bordering on River Tick. In an attempt to deflect the inquisition, Graceanne had the inspired notion of having the twins down to take tea with the adults. No, Mrs. Maxton wasn’t ready to share Leslie’s macaroon or Willy’s watercress sandwich, without the watercress, naturally. And no, she didn’t think she’d invite that nephew down for Christmas after all.

Graceanne was irritated at all the time the entertaining took, especially when the ladies insisted a good coze was impossible with little ears present. Her mother, though, was delighted with the influx of new company, especially since Mrs. Beckwith didn’t have to be so ashamed of her parlor. For her mother’s sake, Graceanne poured out the tea and passed the plates, and smiled at the nosy old biddies when she would rather have been wrapping gifts or finishing the pageant costumes or any of the thousand other things on her list.

Graceanne was so busy, she didn’t miss His Grace’s presence for the two days he was gone to visit friends in Oxford. The duke had stopped to see if Graceanne had any commissions for him before he left, but she didn’t, not with the sleds and the dishes already ordered. She wished him Godspeed and watched him drive off in his elegant curricle, caped greatcoat over his wide shoulders. Then she went back to consulting with the sexton over decorations for the church.