Lord Iverbrook's Heir (16 page)

Selena barely heard the question, and certainly had no intention of unveiling her cousin’s gypsy mother. Lady Gant was not in the least discomposed by the lack of response but rattled on.

Why am I always wearing my oldest clothes when she arrives? wondered Selena.

Mrs. Parcott took the viscount’s hand and half led, half pulled him to the French doors, where she stood close beside him, pointing out something in the garden or on the river. Lady Whitton came in and freed Selena from the chatterer. Tentatively she moved towards the pair at the window, dreading to overhear, longing to interrupt. Sir Aubrey arrived and waylaid her with an endless description of something he had seen in the village, she could not tell what. Iverbrook laughed; he found Amabel amusing; he must be in love with her.

“No, Bel,” he was saying, but Selena could not hear him, “it’s no use playing off those tricks on me. I shall not escort you to the assembly in Oxford. I have no intention of going at all. What an impudent minx you are! I beg you will cease to visit here while I am here.”

Selena watched her looking up at him saucily.

The fifteen minutes proper to a courtesy call stretched into half an hour. At last the visitors rose to take their leave.

“I shall come on Monday to enquire after your grandson, ma’am,” said Mrs. Parcott, glancing sideways at the viscount.

“What a pity that Lord Iverbrook will not be here,” put in Sir Aubrey. “He is to go to Abingdon market.”

The widow flashed him a look of gratitude.

“Or perhaps Tuesday, if that is more convenient,” she went on smoothly.

“On Tuesday we begin the apple harvest,” said Selena.

“I adore picking apples, I vow! ‘Tis the only country festival I can abide. I shall come and help you without fail. Good-bye, Selena, and thank you for the invitation!”

Defeated, Selena retired to her chamber to change.

Iverbrook went up to the nursery, annoyed with Selena, annoyed with Sir Aubrey, and above all annoyed with the Merry Widow.

Peter took one look at his face.

“Are you in a miff, Uncle Hugh?” he asked.

“Not with you, at any rate. How are you feeling?”

“I want to get up. Timmy Russell says only girls stay in bed when they’re ill.”

“What does Grandmama say?”

“Tomorrow. That’s the day after today. Tell me about Robin Hood? Please, Uncle Hugh?”

Uncle Hugh complied, dredging details from the depths of his memory and making up the bits he could not remember. After the new story, Peter wanted to hear again the one he had told before. Not unnaturally, it emerged somewhat differently this time. Peter did not hesitate to voice his disapproval.

“Stories is s’posed to stay the same,” he insisted. “You said Maid Marion has long black hair.”

“I made a mistake,” said his uncle firmly. “Her hair was most definitely short and fair and curly.”

“Like Aunt Sena’s?”

“Like Aunt Sena’s.”

Before Iverbrook could err again, Delia bounced into the room, followed by Mr. Hastings at a more sedate pace.

“Guess what!” she crowed. “There’s going to be a subscription ball in Oxford next Saturday.”

“It was advertised in the bookseller’s in Abingdon,” confirmed Mr. Hastings.

“And Mr. Hastings has bought tickets for us all! Even for Jane and Clive! And Cousin Aubrey! And Mama!”

“Lend me fifty guineas till quarter day, my dear fellow?” murmured Hasty.

Chapter 13

Mr. Hastings was persuaded, much against his will, to accompany the lambs to Abingdon.

“Or rather, to follow them,” said Iverbrook, “for I understand they leave at dawn. The shepherd and his dogs can get them there without our assistance.”

“Thank heaven!” Hasty shuddered. “Why the deuce can’t the shepherd sell the beastly creatures?”

“He has a vocabulary of approximately twenty words, ten of which are comprehended only by sheep and dogs. Besides, I told you of our wager.”

With that reminder, Hasty ceased to object. A wager was sufficient justification for virtually any activity.

Lord Iverbrook soon discovered why Selena disliked going to market. Around the edge of the marketplace a few women had stalls selling butter, eggs, and great yellow cheeses; others patronised a couple of peddlers hawking ribbons and buckles; but the main business of the day was exclusively male.

Stock pens built of withy hurdles held bleating sheep, rambunctious bullocks, and one evil-looking Hereford bull. Underfoot, the glutinous mud gave off a penetrating stench. Buyers and sellers, pushing through the narrow walks between the enclosures, had to shout to make themselves heard over the animals.

Hasty at once escaped to the Crown and Thistle, with a promise of ordering a neat luncheon.

It was quieter and slightly less smelly under the arches of the town hall, where stout farmers in homespun retired to dicker with butchers in blue and white striped aprons and straw hats or sharp-faced drovers down from London and Birmingham. Here the viscount began to enjoy himself. He discovered a hitherto unused talent for bargaining, and by the time he joined his friend at the inn he had a very inflated idea of himself and a bank draft in his pocket for considerably more than Selena had expected.

The panelled coffee room of the Crown and Thistle was dark and quiet after the noise and bustle of the street. Mr. Hastings was sitting on a settle in the chimney nook. Opposite him, a lady warmed her hands at the fire. From the doorway, everything but those hands and a corner of a sapphire blue cloak was hidden by the high side of the seat; nonetheless, Iverbrook had a very good idea who it was.

He made his way between gateleg tables and Windsor chairs, for the most part unoccupied as it was still early, and found his guess correct. Amabel jumped up, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him full on the lips.

Taken by surprise, Iverbrook put his arm about her waist and returned the kiss — she was after all a cosy armful — then disentangled himself and firmly sat her down.

“Hugh, darling, what a delightful surprise!” Amabel cooed. “I happened to meet Mr. Hastings in the street and he invited me to join you both for luncheon. Such charming friends you have, I vow!”

Resignedly, cursing the Bart under his breath for giving away his whereabouts, Iverbrook seconded the invitation. He put his foot down when a private parlour was suggested. Over luncheon he described his triumph in the marketplace, which Hasty ascribed to shopkeeper ancestors. Amabel was certain it was due to his personal charm and address, and the innate genius of the nobly born.

“I am surprised to hear that Selena usually does it herself,” she added. “Such a very masculine business. La, I’m sure I should have no more notion how to set about it than a babe in arms!”

“Doubtless,” said the viscount drily.

After the meal they escorted the lady to her carriage, handed her in, and watched as it drove off.

“What the devil do you mean by asking her to eat with us?” demanded Iverbrook.

Mr. Hastings was taken aback.

“I can see no harm in it,” he protested. “You are not known here and she resides in London.”

“I am certainly known to be staying with the Whittons, especially after this morning’s work. And she will regard it as encouragement to come to Milford Manor.”

“Good Lord no, my dear fellow! Your
chère-amie
to call on your . . . ahem, on your brother’s family? Even the Merry Widow would not do such a thing.”

“Would she not! She has done so already, and more than once, since I came into the country. I’d forgot you were out on Saturday when she was there.”

“Oh no, I say, my dear Hugh! Can’t have that. Very bad
ton,
very bad indeed. It simply won’t do.”

“How am I to stop her? She has known the Whittons forever, it seems. I can scarcely be expected to ask Lady Whitton to refuse her on the grounds that she used to be my mistress.
Used to be,
mind you, Hasty. I told her in London that all was over between us."

“Don’t think she believed you, dear boy. It’s my belief she still has her eye on the banns, for it’s a title she’s after, mark my words.”

“She won’t get mine! Hasty, you won’t mention this meeting to Miss . . . to the Whittons. Though I daresay she will herself when she turns up for the apple harvest tomorrow,” the viscount concluded gloomily.

“The Merry Widow picking apples?” said Hasty, incredulous. “Never!”

* * * *

Mr. Hastings’s skepticism proved well-founded. Mrs. Parcott arrived at noon wearing a pink and white striped carriage dress of Circassian cloth, a pink cachemire spencer, a Leghorn straw bonnet with roses (pink), and a striped parasol. Nothing could have been more charming, nor more unsuitable for any exertion beyond a stroll in formal gardens.

Sir Aubrey, fortunately dressed in a crimson which complimented her pink, spread a rug on a wooden bench by the orchard gate, where stood a cart half loaded with baskets of apples. He seated her there, and begged permission to join her.

“I was never more shocked in my life,” he remarked, “than when I discovered that the family intended actually to help in the picking.”

“Indeed,” she murmured, “I had thought it rather an occasion for a picnic or something of the sort. Is not that Mr. Hastings in that tree? La, it is no place for a Tulip of the Ton to be seen!”

“My cousin Delia persuaded him to it. No true Dandy would so compromise his principles.”

“They say Brummell turns back from the hunt after the first field lest the white tops to his boots be splashed. Of course, Iverbrook is careless in his dress, and subject to odd enthusiasms, so I am not surprised that he has not yet noticed my arrival.”

At that moment his lordship passed down a basket of pippins to Selena and Delia, saying something that made them laugh and nearly drop it. With merry faces they turned to carry it to the gate, and caught sight of Amabel, a vision of rustic beauty.

“Why has Mrs. Parcott come here again?” demanded Delia. “You were not used to be so intimate with her. In fact, I thought you disliked her excessively.”

“I do!” said Selena through gritted teeth, immediately conscious that she was hot and tired and grubby, that her cotton dress was not only faded but stained, and that her hair was tousled and probably full of leaves. Iverbrook was climbing down the ladder behind her and could not fail to be struck by the contrast.

“Put that down, Selena,” said the viscount. “I shall carry it, or one of the men. I have been enjoying myself so, I had not realised how hard we have made you work.”

Amabel came to meet them, her pink kid half-boots and dainty ankles revealed as she raised her skirts to clear the grass.

“Poor Selena, you do look tired,” she said brightly. “And the sun is so hard on a delicate complexion, is it not? I can see that that is no occupation for a lady.”

“Which is why you have arrived just in time for luncheon, no doubt,” said Iverbrook. “Selena, take my arm as far as the house.”

“Yes do,” agreed Mrs. Parcott, “and I shall walk on your other side, Hugh, for I declare your sleeve is so soiled I hardly like to touch it.”

“I must tell the men it is time to eat their dinners,” said Selena, turning away. “Delia, pray call Mr. Hastings down from his tree, since you talked him into it. Jem! Where is the keg of ale I bade you bring? It is time to broach it. Has Carter kept a count of the baskets, as I asked?”

Willy-nilly, his lordship escorted Amabel back to the house.

Luncheon was not a cheerful meal, especially after Amabel mentioned how kind Hugh had been to treat her to a fine spread in Abingdon on the previous day. Even the urbane Mr. Hastings lost his tongue, and only Lady Gant and Sir Aubrey seemed unconscious of restraint.

Selena returned to the orchard, rejecting any further assistance. Iverbrook escaped to the nursery and Lady Whitton, called away by Mrs. Tooting, remembered Lady Anne’s obscure warning and bore off Delia with her. Mr. Hastings, far too gentlemanly to run away, was left to entertain Lady Gant, no arduous task as he merely had to school his features into an expression of interest and murmur, “Indeed!” now and then.

“How very vexatious!” said Mrs. Parcott in a low voice to Sir Aubrey. “Selena is as close to pulling caps with Iverbrook as I could have wished, but Iverbrook is at outs with me. You must make a push to win her. Have you proposed marriage to her yet?”

“Yes,” admitted the baronet sheepishly. “She said she did not feel for me as a wife ought towards her husband.”

“Missishness! And most unbecoming at her age. However, you must not expect her to proclaim undying love at first asking. It will take some effort on your part to engage her affections, you know! She will not drop into your hand like a ripe apple.”

“Why should she not? At her age! It is an excessively suitable match and I think she cannot have taken a dislike to my person.” He smoothed his thick, wavy golden hair and presented his profile for the widow’s inspection.

"You ought to wear blue,” she said, “or green."

“Henry Cole of Brighton is said to wear nothing but green. His fame has reached even to Jamaica. I do not wish to be a mere imitator.”

“Blue then. Red is such a trying colour.”

He frowned. “I was under the impression,” he said haughtily, “that red became me to perfection.”

“Certainly. A complexion such as yours, my dear Sir Aubrey, looks superb in any hue. But think of Selena. Her face is pale, and freckled too; red makes her positively haggard.”

The baronet looked sulky. “I don’t know that I want to marry her after all. Neither her appearance nor her manners are more than tolerable.”

“You must not let her intimidate you!” said Mrs. Parcott in alarm, involuntarily raising her voice. Mr. Hastings regarded her with surprise, and she went on in a near whisper, “Only think of the fine property you will own! I can see I shall have to help you. You say you are all going to the ball in Oxford on Saturday?”

Mrs. Parcott’s plans for assisting Sir Aubrey to a bride appeared to please the gentleman, for he sniggered once or twice and Mr. Hastings heard him say, “‘Pon my soul, you’re a clever woman.” When after half an hour, neither Iverbrook nor Lady Whitton had reappeared, Sir Aubrey escorted the ladies to their carriage in a high good humour.