Bething's Folly (4 page)

Even that amount of dignity was to be denied him, he realised as his mother appeared at his elbow, making him known to Miss Althea Chasmont, at which his breeding forced him to ask that young lady to dance.

Miss Chasmont, Carleton learned from his questions, was the niece of a neighbouring baronet. Yes, she liked to dance; no, it was not too warm. Carleton ransacked his mind to find a topic for conversation since Miss Chasmont was obviously not willing—or able—to make the effort. Gods, he thought, what
are
young women interested in? The ones he knew concerned themselves with love, money and gossip, none suitable here. Before the silence could grow more embarrassing for them both, he complimented Miss Chasmont for not being one of those females who ruined the pleasure of the dance with incessant chatter. Her “Thank you, my Lord” took care of the rest of the dance. Carleton had, of course, to find Miss Chasmont’s aunt and return the young lady to her side, where, just as surely, his own mother was waiting.

The young lady offered to him this time had a sweet smile, but she could not dance. Their attempts to find mutual acquaintances in London were constantly interrupted with her apologies, his claims of fault, her demurrals.

“Well, shall we stand aside for a moment or two?” he finally asked in desperation and was rewarded with another of the sweet smiles. Conversation went somewhat better—her elder brother having been some four years behind Carleton at Eton—until the music stopped. The Marquis looked hopefully for one of his friends, but none was close by so he had to go through the routine again and again, greeting his mother after each dance with noticeably less enthusiasm. There was the young woman whose nose was her best feature, thankfully separating her eyes; the one who stammered and blushed the whole dance; the one so bedecked with flowers that he could hardly get through some of the dance steps without mangling a posy.

His last partner before dinner was the prettiest of the lot and the most talkative, if an inquisition was a form of communication. Hoping to please him by showing interest in his home, he charitably assumed, and not for baser reasons, she quizzed him on the age of the Hall, who designed which wing, when the title had been conferred.

Carleton had some vague knowledge of all this but not enough to satisfy Miss Smythe-Warner’s curiosity. Luckily it was a country dance, so changing partners granted him a reprieve.

When the figures of the dance brought his cousin Margaret to his side—not entirely by chance, as he had purposely joined her set—he was desperate.

“Maggie, sweet cousin, if you won’t marry me, at least go down to supper with me.”

“But I can’t, Cousin Alexander, I am promised to Mark for supper. Besides, Father is going to announce the engagement at supper! Isn’t there anyone else you could ask?”

His humourless smile was her only answer as he returned to his original partner for the closing bars of the dance, his mind working feverishly. He could see his mother with a cluster of women at the ballroom’s exit nearest the library—and then, inspiration! Miss Smythe-Warner was promptly returned to her mama, with his promise to research the history of the castle for her. Before his mother could get a word in, he muttered something about family records ... library, at once ... mustn’t wait for him, he’d be down directly, and disappeared down the hall and through the library door.

SIX

“Whew!” Carleton took a deep breath in relief. He leaned against the library’s door and wiped his face.

“Congratulations on your escape,” said a soft voice from shadows across the room, followed by an amused little laugh.

Carleton’s dismay was genuine. “I am sorry to intrude, madam, I shall leave at once. I did not expect this room to be occupied.”

“No, don’t go. Of course you would not think the library occupied, not with so many empty heads hanging about. Oh, perhaps I should not have spoken. You are not a friend of Lord Carleton’s, are you? No, I see you are no London Dandy, all done up in frills and glitter.”

“Thank you, ma’am, and no, I am, um, not exactly a friend of Carleton’s. But you have an advantage on me, madam; won’t you come into the light?” he asked as he moved farther into the room.

She put a book down on a side table and took a step or two forward, moving her hand from the candle it was shielding. Carleton was dumbfounded. Where had this—this stranger come from? She was small and brown-haired, with a turned-up nose and no great beauty—in fact, her looks were out of favour with the current concept of prettiness—but there was so much that was unique about her that Carleton could only stare for a minute. For one thing, her colouring was downright healthy, no, not sun-coarsened, only fresh, alive. Her hair had glimmers of gold in it which could only have come from sunshine. Her gown reinforced the whole image; a lively, happy yellow, it was completely unornamented except for a single silk daisy at the center of the décolletage. The gown was gathered under the small bust, then fell straight to the floor Another daisy tied in a long yellow ribbon of the same material caught the curls at the back of her head. What was most surprising, however, was that she was looking him straight in the eyes and laughing happily from a full, generous mouth, not blushing at his admittedly rude stare, or tongue-tied with shyness.

“You see?” She laughed. “Not your delicate English rose, only a common countryside daisy, so you need not flee from me, too.”

“Most assuredly anything but common,” he said, the first thing which came to his extremely bewildered mind. Surely he must have noticed anyone as lovely as this on the receiving line! Who in the world was she, and where was her chaperone, and, most of all, whatever was she doing in the library alone with him? “Please forgive my impertinence, but most of the company has repaired to dinner, and I am sure your mother must be worried over you. May I escort you to her?”

“Oh, no, it is Aunt Claudia who is my chaperone—my mother is long dead—and I assure you that my aunt has completely forgotten my existence. She deposited me at the side of a veritable dragon and immediately found the whist tables. No, she will only recall that I made her arrive so late she missed some time playing. There will be no dragging her from the tables for hours, so here I am, unconventional as it may seem. I did say I was repairing a flounce.” And dimples appeared at the sides of her mouth as she unconcernedly sat down in one of the leather chairs.

Unconventional was not the word Carleton would have used, for the exquisitely simple gown hugging her perfect figure had not a single flounce, frill or furbelow to its design. Besides, chaperones existed solely to protect such innocence from ones like himself! Carleton knew that his very presence would compromise her reputation, even if she was not aware of it. He looked into wide brown eyes filled with dancing gold specks and forced himself to try again. “I am certain even Aunt Claudia could not approve of your being closeted in the library with me,” he said bluntly, thinking to himself, what an understatement.

“Well, then I won’t tell her! Will you? No, I see you are much too kind for that. Even if she does hear of it, I am sure it can’t signify. She believes in the prevailing philosophy: If you don’t think about something, it does not exist. That way she banishes all unpleasantness. Like some demented Descartes,
non cogito, ergo nihil
.”

“Never tell me you read philosophy,” Carleton exclaimed, smiling in spite of himself. “That’s doing it too strong.”

“Why, sir, didn’t you study philosophy? My father used to instruct me and talk about what interested him. I must confess not much comes my way since his death, and I never did appreciate Aristotle, in spite of my father’s wishes.”

“In the Greek, I suppose?” Carleton asked, finally taking a seat near hers, resolved that in for a penny, in for a pound. Supper would take nearly an hour, at least, and he would enjoy this unique company while he could and worry about extricating himself later. He deserved that much of a reprieve, he felt.

“Aunt Claudia would certainly be furious with me now, you know,” said the young lady, not appearing to worry over that at all. “She practically ordered me not to appear bookish to anyone, but, yes, Papa had me taught Greek, and Latin, and all the things he was taught.” The dimples reappeared. “Lest you think me unnatural, he also found someone to teach me embroidery!”

Carleton laughed out loud, for the first time this evening, he realised. “Your father must have been an interesting man, Miss ... Miss...?”

“Bethingame, Miss Elizabeth Bethingame. And you, sir?”

“I ... I am still wondering why you were not in the ballroom.” Carleton redirected the conversation quickly, trying to cover his evasion. “You are obviously dressed for a ball, to be seen and admired, so why are you in the library? No one has offended you, I trust?”

“Yes, you could easily be a knight come to rescue a lady in distress,” she said seriously, studying his face. Then she remembered his question. “This whole ball offends me! I know I must take Ellie’s gown out to be admired, but—No, I see you do not understand, and I am sure you do not wish to hear my problems. Yours must be equally as pressing, to remove you from the company in such a manner.”

“No, I assure you, Miss Bethingame, my difficulties were only temporary. Please go on, perhaps I might find a way to be of assistance, shining armour or not.” He assumed she was going to confess something about straitened circumstances, borrowed clothes, an orphan’s plight. He smiled encouragingly.

“How kind you are!” She gave him a grateful look, which aroused his sympathies even more, until she started to speak. “It’s those wretched Carletons and their highhanded summons, as though we were all cattle at auction, to be inspected by their lordling before purchase! Aunt Claudia pestered me to death—even threatening to call Uncle Aubry down on me—until I agreed to come. Then Ellie felt it would do
her
good, so I had to stand for endless fittings, wasting even more time. You see, Ellie is now Mademoiselle Elena, but she used to be my governess’s niece until my father sent her to study under Monsieur Blanc. She had so much talent it would have been wasted as a country seamstress. Now she is trying to establish a clientele in London, and if I was seen in one of her creations and—and
took
—it must reflect on her. Only I do not wish to be noticed, and I refuse to have anything to do with this—this shopping expedition to find Lord Alexander a proper wife.”

Carleton’s anger was in danger of reaching epic proportions—at his family, all gossips in general, and this righteous little hell-cat in particular. Thinking to take her down a peg, he asked, “What makes you think that Lord Carleton would be so interested in you that you have to hide in the library?”

“I am not hiding, merely waiting for the proper moment.” Her chin went up and her eyes flashed. “Carleton would be interested in the Folly, all right, unless he is a ninny like the rest of them out there. That is Bething’s Folly,” she went on, fiercely, proudly, “the finest stud farm in the county and soon in the country.”

Carleton’s anger was replaced by amazement. The girl was so unselfconscious she didn’t even realise what a stir she herself would make, reserving her pride for a piece of property. Now he placed the name, and the Folly, and was interested indeed! Old Lord Bethingame had been a completely indifferent farmer but an avid horseman, not for hunting but for racing. He had visions of the scientific selection of studs and mares, improved conditions for foaling and training colts, champion lines of winning horses and dynasties of expensive offspring. He sold off huge plots of Bething Manor’s unproductive acreage, keeping only what he needed to raise fodder and for pasturage. He went completely into debt to renovate his barns and stables, to purchase blood stock. No one thought he could make a go of it and some considered him crazy, calling his scheme Bething’s Folly. The name must have stuck, although Carleton believed he had heard of some fine horses coming from the stud recently. He did not recall anything about Lady Bethingame, but he was aware that Lord Bethingame had died some years before. Carleton had never concerned himself with the Folly beyond that, even though it was within an hour’s ride of Carlyle Hall. His father would know the complete history, he was sure, and Margaret must be of an age with Miss Bethingame, and he planned to make enquiries. In the meantime he could not help asking the lady herself if she was perhaps betrothed to someone else that made the high-handed Lord Carleton so ineligible a suitor for her—and Bething’s Folly. She was not betrothed, she declared indignantly, and astonished him even further by stating her intention to remain unwed.

“But Miss Bethingame, surely you cannot run the place alone, and must eventually wed anyway...”

“You are sounding suspiciously like Uncle Aubry,” obviously no compliment. “I am nineteen, sir, and have been managing Bething’s Folly for two years now. We are beginning to show a profit. We have excellent prospects for this year and great plans for the future. Do you think I would let my father’s dream become a rich man’s plaything, or be sold to pay a poor one’s gambling debts?”

Carleton considered. Under English law, a woman’s property did become her husband’s at marriage, to do with what he would, so he had to acknowledge Miss Bethingame’s statements. He just could not believe some handsome young fellow had not come along to change her mind. “And Uncle Aubry?” he asked.

“He is furious the Folly didn’t come to him along with the title, though he never approved of it in the first place. He is positive I cannot manage it, even when he sees that I can. Furthermore, he sees no reason to bother with my welfare and is determined to marry me off—most likely for a handsome settlement—to a widower friend in Lancashire who needs a mother for his three children. The widower is not even interested in racing.” That was truly a scathing denunciation, from Miss Bethingame’s tone of voice.

“But I take it Uncle Aubry is your guardian,” Carleton insisted. “Surely he can force you to wed, or take over the Folly if he really feels it would be in your best interest?” Carleton was truly curious, and the girl responded, treating him like a co-conspirator.

“He has threatened to try, but my father’s will was very explicit: The Folly is mine, to own and to manage. He trusted me. I have hired lawyers to look into that very thing, and they tell me that if I keep proper records and do not go any further into debt, then Uncle Aubry has no claims. As for marriage, I do not believe even Uncle Aubry would carry me to the altar, kicking and screaming. Could you see the stir it would make?”

The Marquis could, and he could even sympathise as she went on to explain the difficulties she would be in if Carleton
did
offer for her, for her uncle would have apoplexy if she refused. He might even attempt to have her declared mentally incompetent! This only recalled to mind Carleton’s own difficulties, and especially the situation he had got himself into now, accepting the child’s confidences. He smiled at the thought. This “child” was running a successful horse farm and had more control over her life than he had of his!

She smiled back at him, and again he marvelled that her warmth was so genuine, that there was no artistry or flirting. He was about to ease into a confession when Ferddie Milbrooke burst into the room.

“Oh, there you are, Carleton! The Duchess is in a rare pet, you know, supper and all. Sent me to find you, in no uncertain terms.” He came farther into the room and saw Miss Bethingame, who was suddenly on her feet, her fists clenched and her eyes flashing sparks. Ferddie slowly raised his quizzing glass, not looking at Carleton at all or noting his frantic signals. “Trust you to find the needle in the haystack, Carleton,” he finally drawled. Then, as the circumstances dawned on him—the closed door, Carleton not down to supper—a frown of doubt appeared on his forehead and he forgot the affected manner of speech. “You know, it’s not at all the thing for you to be here like this, if you don’t mind me saying so. I can’t think it’s—”

“No, it is
not
at all the thing for me to be here with such a deceitful, despicable, d-d-dastardly cur like you!” the girl finally sputtered at Carleton. Then, to Ferddie, “Good evening, sir.”

Ferddie’s mouth hung open and his glass dropped to the end of its ribbon, but he had sense enough to open the door for the lady before she kicked it down, as she looked very tempted to do. He put his hand on Carleton’s shoulder as the Marquis would have gone after her.

“No, Carleton, I don’t know what went on in here—and I don’t want to, either—but unless you mean to offer for the chit, you’d best not be seen leaving here with her.”

“Right, Ferddie, and I congratulate you on your wisdom! What did you think of her?”

“She seemed to have a deal of, um, spirit,” Ferddie answered uncertainly.

“Yes, like a regular she-cat, or kitten.”

Ferddie looked closely at his friend’s smile to find the usual sarcasm, but there was none. He decided it would be best to keep his thoughts to himself until he saw which way the wind blew; but for a change it was Milbrooke who wore the know-it-all expression and Carleton who had a friendly smile when they left the library together some few minutes later.