Miss Delacourt Speaks Her Mind

Heidi Ashworth

This title was previously published by Avalon Books; this version has been reproduced from Avalon Books archive files.

To Mom, Louise, and especially Shirley. Without the encouragement of each, this book would never have been written.

To my husband who proves each day that real life is better than fiction!

Impatient, Sir Anthony Crenshaw, baronet, took a turn about the elegant gold study of his grandmother’s London townhouse. How long had it been? Two, maybe three years since he was last summoned? He remembered it had something to do with her grandniece, the pious one who had some namby-pamby ideas about true love and the like. What was her name? Janey? Jenny. Ginny!

Whatever Grandmama wanted this time, he wished she would bestir herself to attend to it. He hoped she wasn’t going to read him another lecture on the ills of his frivolous existence or indulge in her when-was-hegoing-to-settle-down-and-set-up-his-nursery monologue. It was far too early in the morning for such things, and, after all, it wasn’t as if he were a duke. His uncle, the seventh Duke of Marcross, held that position, and Sir Anthony wished him joy in it.

He took up a chair before the fire, stretched his legs into a tolerable position and consulted his watch. Ten A.M. Stifling a yawn, he cursed the early morning habits of the elderly.

At length, the study door opened and a small woman bustled into the room. Her tiny stature belied the great strength evident in her fierce eyes. Crossing the room with astonishing speed, she plucked the timepiece from Sir Anthony’s hand.

“Anthony, you have no need of this when in my home. I shall inform you when pressing matters necessitate your departure”

Sir Anthony rose to his feet. “You are in good looks this morning.” He gave the Dowager Duchess of Marcross a deep bow and kissed her hand. The one holding the watch.

He curled his fingers around it and tugged.

“Not a chance,” the dowager snapped and turned away.

Sir Anthony inclined his head. “Very well. I have little enough to occupy myself of late. May I sit?”

At his grandmother’s nod, Sir Anthony settled himself in the chair, lifted his legs to the ottoman, and stretched his hands behind his head. “I am completely at your disposal, madam.”

“Good. Then we can get to matters of importance.” her grace proceeded to lose herself behind a large satinwood desk, shuffling papers to and fro with apparent disregard for her grandson.

Sir Anthony longed for his timepiece. Why was he here, anyway? He could be enjoying a gallop through the park, a round at Jackson’s, or better yet, his bed. He brought his eyes to rest on his grandmother, whom in private he called “the virago.”

What changes had three years wrought in her? He allowed his eyes to rove over her person. None. No changes at all. One would suppose a woman of eight and sixty might have shown some signs of age, but there it was. The same flame-red hair. The same proud tilt of the chin. And could it possibly be the same puce satin she donned the last time she required his presence?

The dowager rose majestically from her desk and moved to Sir Anthony’s chair with her characteristic swift stride. “These are they” She thrust a thick packet of papers beneath her grandson’s nose.

Sir Anthony gazed at the documents, then raised his quizzing glass to her face. “Pray, have the goodness to tell me, are these … rose pedigrees?”

“Excellent! I have long suspected there was something going on in that head of yours. Your father wouldn’t hear of it, but I told him otherwise.”

“Yes. Well, in spite of my late father’s lack of faith in my abilities, I did manage to catch a word or two. `Rose’ and `pedigree’ were the most enlightening ones that came to eye,” he said dryly. “What I am not astute enough to discover is what they have to do with me. I crave your indulgence.” Sir Anthony inclined his head and looked up at his grandmama.

“Don’t be obtuse! You know exactly what they have to do with you. Think a moment. My pedigree roses are my pride and joy. Many of them are as old as the manor. Why, Henry the Eighth admired some of them!”

“Was that before or after he admired your greatgrandmother?”

“That will be enough of your nonsense, Anthony. I need you to go to Dunsmere to check on them”

“Check on whom?” He tapped his riding crop against his boot.

“My roses, of course”

Sir Anthony stopped his whip in midair. “Roses? You are asking me to undertake a journey of considerable length to admire roses? Grandmama” He arched an eyebrow. “Tell me you are funning.”

“No, I am not,” she said with a snap, then returned the papers to her desk. Folding her hands against her stomach, she frowned at him in that way which usually spelled displeasure.

“I see,” Sir Anthony said through thin lips. The truth was, he saw nothing at all. The frown, however, was something with which he was most familiar. In spite of it, he was quite fond of his grandmama and hated to displease her. He sighed. “May I ask when I will be required to depart for the nether reaches of the kingdom?”

The dowager walked around the desk and seated herself in her chair. “It is only as far as Bedford. You can be there tonight. That is, if Ginerva is ready.”

“Ginerva?” Sir Anthony felt a spark of alarm. “By that you can’t mean Ginny, that grandniece of yours? I daresay her governess would not allow it.”

The duchess glared at him, an imperious gleam in her eye. “Ginerva is now one and twenty. You only think of her as seventeen. That is how old she was when first she came to live with me”

Could that slip of a girl truly be a woman grown? He remembered her to possess large, dark eyes, a tangle of brown hair, and some annoying opinions. Wellvoiced ones. Sir Anthony felt his composure slipping. “What has Ginny to do with your roses, anyway?” he demanded. “If she comes along, I shall have to return home for my cattle and rig.”

“You shall take my barouche. I won’t have Ginerva bounced about in that curricle of yours for the better part of the day. Not that she would mind,” the dowager said with a fond smile. “She is quite the nature lover. It is she who cares for my roses. She prefers the company of the garden over that of the multitude of rakes and rattles one finds in the city. Being a forthright young woman, she doesn’t quite know how to deal with society’s way of never saying what they mean” Grandmama pressed her lips together. “For this reason, she always spends the season at Dunsmere, but this year I insisted she come with me” Her voice became low and worried. “She is looking rather pale of late”

Sir Anthony rose from his seat and made ready to depart. “She was always pale, Grandmama. She never did anything but sit inside all day and dream of true love. As if such a thing exists.” If it did, it had certainly eluded him. No matter; marriage was not for him. “If you wish me to go on a madcap journey to take a look in on your roses, I will do so, but must you saddle me with the chit?”

The duchess did not respond, for just then the study door opened. A young lady, tall and willowy, walked into the room, her eyes wide with reproach.

Good Gad, it was Ginny. When had she turned into this lovely girl in the fashionable green gown? He stared at her, at her perfect oval of a face. The graceful curves of her figure. The enormous gray-green eyes and the full lips set above a dimpled chin. They were all he recognized of the girl he had met years before, the childishly round face now turned to elegant planes and angles. Even her once-indifferent brown hair hung in rich chestnut coils against her neck and shoulders. Astonishing! And most delightful.

“Come, Ginerva.” The dowager duchess waved an authoritative hand, then motioned at Sir Anthony. “This addlepated exquisite is my grandson, Sir Anthony Crenshaw, as you may recall. He will see you to Dunsmere if you still wish to go”

“I should not wish to trouble the gentleman,” Ginny replied in a clear, well-modulated voice. Her words were polite, but the look she gave him was one of cool condescension.

He was surprised to find he felt a bit sorry for her. In spite of her insouciance, there was a spark of real distress in her eyes. Sir Anthony bowed. “Rest assured, Miss Delacourt, it would be no trouble” When she made no reply, he lifted his gaze to meet her cool stare.

“Come now, Ginerva. You needn’t be so nice in your ways. You wish to go home-I have provided you with a perfectly acceptable escort. We all get what we desire most.”

Sir Anthony bent a look through his quizzing glass at his grandmama. “And which desire of mine will be realized through this experience, my dear? Aside from a day spent in the company of the charming Miss Delacourt, that is,” he added with an apologetic smile for Ginny. He was startled by the positive glare his grandmama gave him.

“You don’t know a good thing when it’s nibbling on your nose, young man. Now, be off with the both of you and don’t let me see your face again until you are prepared to give me a full report on my roses!” With that, the dowager bent her head to her papers.

Sir Anthony bit his tongue and regarded his fingernails. No doubt this was another one of Grandmama’s misbegotten schemes to see him in leg shackles. Ginny had turned into quite a taking little thing, but it would take more than a pretty face and figure to bring an end to his bachelor days. He had eluded the parson’s mousetrap so far, a plan of action he had absolutely no intention of abandoning anytime in the near future.

Deeming it best to quit the room before his annoyance became evident, Sir Anthony favored each lady with a bow. “Your servant, Miss Delacourt,” he said and, retrieving his watch from the desk, headed for the door. “Oh, and Miss Delacourt, I shall return within the half hour. I hope the arrangement allows you sufficient time to prepare for our departure.” He paused, then added, “I look forward to it.”

Ginny lifted her chin. “Very prettily said, sir, but nowhere near the truth. Never fear, I shall be ready and waiting long before you arrive. I travel light, you see”

Sir Anthony was struck speechless. True, the young lady had filled out her gown to admiration since last they met, but she was sadly lacking in address. He sketched her a slight bow and, flourishing his whip, strode out.

Precisely one half hour later, Ginny watched the English landscape fly past through the carriage window, the nodding head of Nan, her young abigail, on her shoulder. She glanced at Sir Anthony, looking very much asleep on the bench opposite. London’s elite were all the same. They were arrogant. They were amoral. They feigned sleep on long journeys. She wrinkled her nose in disgust.