Lois Menzel (9 page)

As they rounded a sharp turn in the road, the small red brick manor came into view. It was a well-kept building in a charming autumnal setting, but the peace was disturbed by a bout of fisticuffs taking place on the tidy lawn before the house.

Celia barely had time to recognize what she was witnessing before both Ursula and the groom, Shale, had ridden forward, hurriedly dismounted, and thrown themselves into the altercation. Shale grasped one young ruffian by the shoulders while Ursula took the other around the waist and dragged him backward. Into the space they created stepped a woman of small stature, dressed entirely in sober black.

Celia, at first concerned for Ursula’s safety, was surprised when both boys gave over fighting as soon as hands were laid upon them. Now they cast their eyes to the ground as the lady in black stared frigidly first at one, then the other.

Finally she spoke. “I am shocked—shocked. That two of my oldest children, those trusted to set an example, should behave in such a disgraceful fashion. And before a guest, as well.”

At this mention of a visitor, both boys looked up guiltily, noticing Celia for the first time. Both immediately cast their eyes down again, shame turning their faces a bright red.

The lady in black spoke again. “Come with me, Thomas, and you, too, Harry. We will go inside and sit, and you two will settle this matter with words, not fists.” Casting a fleeting smile at Celia and clearly expecting to be obeyed, she turned and walked into the house. The boys followed silently.

“That is Mrs. Beebe,” Ursula said. “I will introduce you when she is free. She is the matron here. She rules with a firm hand, but she is God-fearing and just, and more loving with children than anyone I have ever known. We are truly blessed to have her.”

That day Celia enjoyed a guided tour of the home and grounds given by Harry and Thomas, a task assigned them by Mrs. Beebe to make them forget their earlier disagreement and work together in harmony. Later Celia spent a pleasurable half hour reading to two six-year-old girls. She also carefully brushed and braided Kitty’s hair, for although Kitty was twelve, she had a crippled hand and could not do the task herself. Celia’s final chore for the afternoon was rocking a colicky infant boy until he went off to sleep.

On the ride home Celia was silent, and Ursula did not press her. When they arrived at the Priory, Mr. Hardy was just returning as well. Celia greeted Anthony’s cousin, said good-bye to Ursula, and hurried inside to change for dinner. Ursula paused a few minutes in the drive to greet an old acquaintance.

“I assume you have come for the shooting, Mr. Hardy,” she said. “You should have good sport this year. The birds are as thick as nobs in Mayfair.”

He smiled. “Your scorn for London society is one of the few constants in my life, Miss Browne. It is good to see you, too. You have spent the afternoon with Miss Demming?”

“She went with me to the children’s home.”

“Ah, did she indeed? And do you find
her
to be a silly, privileged, society belle?”

“Not at all. I find her to be deeply compassionate, genuinely kind and good.”

“But not, of course, quite good enough for Tony.” At this rejoinder, Ursula flushed deeply and drew breath to respond, but all she replied was, “I must go. Good day, Mr. Hardy.”

Without another word she wheeled her horse about and cantered off down the lane. John Hardy watched her retreating figure until she disappeared from sight. Only then did he turn and go into the house.

The next morning Celia read for Lord Wexford again, continuing on the casualty lists she had started the day before. When they finished, she wondered whether Anthony had told him of the local men who had taken part in the battle. He was so determined to know who had perished, surely he should be told about his own people.

“I was with Miss Browne yesterday, and she told me of the losses the village suffered at Waterloo. Has Anthony spoken to you?”

“No. Who? Not Ned Forbes.”

“Yes. I am afraid so. He lost a leg, poor man. But Miss Browne says he is recovering well and the family is getting by.”

“Anyone else?”

“A man called Drew was killed.”

“Damn!” This exclamation was half mumbled and quiet. “I should have known he would go. I should have made him promise—swear to me that he would stay with his family.”

His reaction to the news of Mr. Drew’s death was so intense that she found herself asking, “You knew him well?”

“We served together in the army when we were younger. He wanted to go when I volunteered this time, but I insisted that he stay with his wife and son. What will they do without him?”

His question was not directed at her; he seemed rather to be asking it of himself. Since Celia had an answer to hand, however, she offered it. “Miss Browne hoped to speak with you about them. She thought that Mrs. Drew could move into the village and her son could find work in the quarry.”

“Unacceptable,” Wexford replied baldly. “I don’t wish that boy apprenticed as a stonecutter. He is a farmer—he loves farming. What can Ursula be thinking?”

Not knowing how to answer this question, Celia remained silent. When Wexford spoke again, he changed the subject. “Have any more guests arrived?”

“The Crowthers and the Matlocks arrived last evening. The ladies seem most pleasant, and the gentlemen, eager to shoot.”

“Jack Matlock is an old friend. It will be good to see him again.”

“Why don’t you come down for dinner?” Celia urged; then, seeing the immediate frown on Wexford’s face, amended her suggestion. “After dinner, then.”

“Perhaps, some evening. Not tonight. I am, in fact, a bit fatigued, Miss Demming.”

Celia rose immediately. “Of course, my lord. I have stayed too long. Shall I come again tomorrow?”

“You have not stayed too long, and yes, please come again. You are the bright spot in my day.”

As Celia walked down the hall to her own room, she reasoned that if she was the bright spot, the remainder of his day must be dreary indeed.

In her room she sat at the elegant French writing desk and scribbled two letters. The first was to her mother, relating the events of the past few days. She knew her mother would not be pleased to hear of Lord Wexford’s return. Celia, however, was content with the situation exactly as it was. She had Anthony; Anthony had his brother safely restored; Wexford had resumed his rightful place. All seemed right and proper to her.

Celia’s second letter was directed to her father in Yorkshire. She apprised him also of Lord Wexford’s return and her activities in Buckinghamshire. Then she made two requests of him with no question in her mind that he would comply with them at his earliest convenience. She placed the letters with her reticule. She would post them when she drove with Anthony later in the day.

When Celia walked with Anthony to the stables that afternoon, she saw a sturdy phaeton (not the high-perch vehicle she would have liked) drawn up in the brick-paved yard. She could find no fault, however, with the magnificent bays harnessed between the shafts.

“Shall I take them while they are fresh?” Anthony asked, as he handed her onto the seat.

“Absolutely not,” she replied. “How can I prove my ability once they have settled to their work?”

“Very well,” he answered. “You may take them from the start. I am placing life and limb in your hands, miss. I hope you have a care with me.”

She smiled at him as she took the reins and whip. “It is my plan always to take the greatest care of you—as you must know.” She nodded to the groom who was holding the pair, and they moved out of the stable yard at a brisk trot.

Within a few minutes, any fears Anthony may have had concerning Celia’s skill as a whip were dispersed. She handled the team expertly: feathered a turn to perfection, slowed to a safe speed when passing close to pedestrians, and easily controlled the younger horse’s inclination to shy at a sudden flurry of windblown leaves.

They drove to High Wycombe, a town of sufficient size to enable Celia to buy both the sweets Lady Walsh desired and the supply of yarn that Celia herself sought. On impulse she purchased a scrap of pink ribbon that she would tie into Kitty’s hair when next she brushed it.

The passage through town of the smart carriage drew no little attention from passersby. Anthony was well-known here, in the closest town of any size to his home. Some people stopped to stare, others turned to speak to their companions. They had heard of Mr. Graydon’s engagement; this, no doubt, was his intended bride. Beautiful, indeed, and driving herself behind a well-bred pair.

On the return trip, Celia graciously ceded the reins to her companion, giving herself leisure to survey the colorful countryside.

“May I be trusted to drive your mother, sir?” she asked quite formally.

He laughed, “Yes, you may.” Then, more seriously he added, “But always take a groom, promise me.”

“I promise. If you are not with me, I shall always have a strong-armed substitute in your place.”

The following day was Sunday. When the morning dawned bright and clear, Celia asked Lady Walsh if she would care to drive with her to morning services in Little Graydon.

On their way back to the Priory, Celia took a roundabout route to prolong their drive. Their road followed the crest of a ridge, offering an excellent view of the broad deep valley below.

“This is lovely, my dear,” Lady Walsh exclaimed, “so lovely. Soon the frost and cold will come and such excursions will be impossible. Thank you so much for suggesting it.”

Celia made an appropriate response, and then slowed her horses to a walk as her attention was captured by a movement in the valley below. Barely visible through the thinning leaves was a picturesque farmstead: solid stone cottage surrounded by neatly tilled fields. Near the cottage stood a carriage with a driver on the seat. Beside the cottage door stood a man and a woman engaged in conversation.

“Is that not Lord Wexford, my lady, before that cottage?”

Looking in the direction Celia indicated, Lady Walsh said merely, “My dear, my eyes are not what they once were. I cannot say.”

“I did not know he was getting out of the house. Do you think him strong enough?”

“If he is out, then he must feel he is able, child. That is the Drew cottage. No doubt he heard about her husband and felt he must call. It is his duty, after all, in his father’s place, of course.”

Lady Walsh said nothing more, and Celia let the subject drop. She sincerely hoped Wexford had not done himself any injury by venturing out too soon. Perhaps she should not have told him about Mr. Drew. Perhaps she knew now why Anthony had said nothing.

That same evening the last guest, Trevor Farr, arrived. He had driven down from London and spent some time after dinner sharing the latest news from Town. Wexford still had put in no appearance downstairs, but each of the houseguests had visited with him briefly.

During the days that followed, the household fell into a general pattern of activity. The men, and any of the ladies who wished to join them, rose early to go riding. During that time, Celia would meet with Lord Wexford. Later in the day, when the men went off to shoot, the ladies would gather in the salon or the morning room to chat or do needlework. If the weather was clement, some preferred a walk through the grounds. Celia occasionally took up passengers or ran errands to Little Graydon or High Wycombe.

The entire company would then gather for dinner. Afterward there would be cards or conversation, musical entertainments, and often the charades Lady Walsh had spoken of. These were entered into enthusiastically by all present. Celia soon discovered she was no more than a passable player, but no one seemed to mind. They agreed, one and all, that she would improve with practice.

Each night she retired to her rooms with a smile on her face. She could never remember spending time in such congenial company.

Lady Walsh joined the ladies each afternoon and was present for dinner each night. She invariably retired soon afterward to sit with her husband. There had been no change in his condition.

Celia continued to meet with Wexford each morning except Sundays. They had been sorting through heaps of correspondence that had piled up during his absence, deciding which could be thrown away, which must be attended to. When she came to a dressmaker’s bill, unpaid since June, he rose impatiently.

“Good God. My mother has a handsome independence of her own. Is she so occupied she must leave a bill unpaid for five months? Give it to Carter to pay with the others. How much more of this must we do?”

She glanced up at his exasperated face. “Not much, only a few more. Once we have caught up, it will be a simple matter day to day.”

“You should not be doing it at all. It is not your responsibility. You are young, and there is a house full of company. You should be with them.”

“I do not mind helping; I enjoy being useful. It is the least I can do for—
”

When she broke off, he finished the sentence for her. “The least you can do for a helpless blind man.”

She stood and fired back at him, “No. That is not what I was about to say. I intended to say it is the least I can do for you.”

“Then why did you not say it?”

“Because it sounded too much like pity.”

“And you do not pity me?”

“No.”

“Please, be honest, Miss Demming. You have been to this point.”

“All right. Yes. I do pity you, but not in the way you think, and not for the reasons you think. You all gave so much for us, risked so much for us when you went away to fight. This is something I can do for you. Too little, not nearly enough, never enough. But I am grateful for the opportunity to show you, if not Mr. Drew and Ned Forbes, what your sacrifice meant to me, meant to all of us.”

When she stopped, he did not respond, and after a few moments she said, “I try to imagine what it must have been like—”

“Don’t, for you will never succeed. The imagination cannot conjure up such horror.”

“And you think about it all the time.”