Mistress of the Hunt (12 page)

“Don’t be absurd, sir, there is nothing to forgive save ignorance of my capabilities.” Since she had attempted to cover her surprise at such an accurate reading of her state of mind by speaking dampingly, she found it annoying to hear her words tumble over one another as if they were in a great rush to be said. Still, she could not seem to stop the spate, and went on, saying even more quickly, “I do not bear a grudge, however, and to prove it to you, I hope very much that you do not mean to go away immediately, but will stay—you and your sister both, of course—to take supper with us. We dine early, so you may be assured of getting back to Wyvern Towers soon after dark.”

He looked at her for rather a long moment, long enough in fact to bring a flush to her cheeks again, but then he grinned, succumbing to the invitation without a struggle. “To tell the truth,” he said ruefully, “my sister has put a rub in the way of my social activities. I can scarcely go hunting or even drive into Melton Mowbray for an evening’s revelry if it means leaving her to her own devices without so much as a sensible female to look out for her. Alvanley took supper with me last evening, so I have not been cut off entirely, but I must find someone soon—not a governess now, of course, for I do accept your generous offer and think it will answer very well—but someone whom I can trust to keep the chit out of mischief when I cannot be home of an evening.”

“Or when you are entertaining, sir,” Philippa said, dimpling. “It would not suit your notions of propriety, I venture to say, to look up from your carousing to find your sister, bright-eyed and fascinated, perched upon the stairway peeping between the balusters.”

“Indeed, it would not,” he admitted, adding gently, “but I do not carouse, my lady.”

“Then you have nothing to fear,” she retorted.

“Really, Philippa, you must not allow your sense of fun to lead you into making such improper statements,” said Miss Pellerin, shaking her head in amused exasperation. “Lord Rochford will think you raised in a cow byre. I am persuaded, my lord, that if you were to inquire at the village shop of Mrs. Thing—what was her name, Philippa, the old lady with the ringlets?”

Rochford chuckled. “Mrs. Haversett, of course, and a very good notion that is, ma’am, for I am sure she will know of someone who would come to the Towers to look after Lucy when I am not by, or when I am, for all that,” he added, grinning at Philippa.

“I must tell Bickerstaff that there will be extra covers to set,” she said, rising.

Miss Pellerin sighed “Indeed, and I hope there will be no need for him to discuss the matter at length with Cook, my dear.”

Rochford looked at her, then back at Philippa. “Lucy and I would be pleased to stay to supper, but I hope that does not mean we will be putting anyone out.”

“No, no,” Philippa reassured him, laughing again. “ ’Tis only that we have a new cook, and she is very jealous of her dignity. Would you believe it, sir, she insisted upon having a room of her own instead of sharing with the kitchen maid, who is a very good sort of girl, and Cook wanted her meals served to her in the housekeeper’s room, which of course did not suit Mrs. Bickerstaff’s notions of what was due to her exalted station.”

“Good Lord,” said Rochford, fascinated. “What did you do?”

“I simply informed Cook that she would take her meals in the kitchen in order that I might be assured that the rest of the staff was well looked after by someone they could respect, and I pointed out that Mr. and Mrs. Bickerstaff have been so accustomed to dining in privacy that I was persuaded she would feel out of place no matter what pains they took to make her welcome.”

Rochford nodded, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “I make you my compliments, ma’am. A neat solution.”

“Well, I do not scruple to tell you that it taxed my patience, sir. I do not like Cheltenham drama amongst my servants, and I was sorely tempted to send Cook packing, but one does not do in Leicestershire that which one would have no qualm about doing in London. I do not like to cook.”

“Gracious, do you know how?”

She nodded. “My mama had some odd notions about how daughters ought to be raised, you see. I daresay it comes of being kin to Cousin Adeliza, for they are first cousins, you know. But Mama insisted I should know as much as any of my house servants about managing a house. So I can cook and do plain sewing as well as fancy stichery, and I even know a weed from a flower in my garden, though I confess I do not know much more.”

“That sounds like quite a lot to me,” said Rochford. “My papa and your mama might have a few things in common, for he insisted that I should know all about our estates, and said that I could scarcely order a groom to do a chore that I knew not how to accomplish myself.”

“Well,” Philippa said with a laugh, “when Wakefield taught me to manage his affairs, he did not go so far as that, I am thankful to say, but I do know that gentlemen are often taught such things.”

“Yes,” agreed her cousin, “and you, my dear, were fortunate to have such a wise mama, for I have always thought it the oddest of circumstances that women who wish to marry their daughters off to dukes or earls have never given them the least notion of how to manage a great estate. Imagine if Rutland had married a silly wench with no more notion of how to go on than most, instead of Elizabeth Howard, who although she must have deplored her papa’s tyrannical ways, must always be grateful that she received the benefit of his deep interest in fanning and land management. Why, Rutland would scarcely have time for his hunting if all the burden of renovating Belvoir and running three large estates had fallen to his shoulders alone. Not but what, with his mama for an example, he would be most unlikely to have been attracted to a girl with no gumption.”

“No, indeed, ma’am,” said Rochford, his eyes twinkling. “Believe me when I say that I should take it most kindly if you were able to instill some notions of household management and habits of economy into my sister whilst you have the opportunity. One thing I did not mention about that gown from the magazine is that it would cost three hundred guineas, if it cost a shilling, to have it made up. She has informed me, moreover, that the allowance Papa makes her is too small to allow her to contrive at school. What on earth can she find to spend money on in Bath?”

Both Philippa and Miss Pellerin laughed heartily at his confounded look and proceeded to list for him those things which a young lady in Bath might certainly wish to buy. As she aided her cousin in this endeavor, Philippa remembered at last to pull the bell and inform Bickerstaff that there would be guests for dinner. When the butler had gone away again, the conversation continued in an amiable vein until they were joined by the two younger ladies, who exclaimed their excitement at learning that they were not, after all, to be returned to their seminary but might, if they were good, remain in Leicestershire until after Christmas. After that, it was not long before Bickerstaff stepped into the library to announce that dinner had been served in the dining room.

Altogether, Philippa decided as Alice, her abigail, helped her to prepare for bed that night, the afternoon and evening had gone very well. The viscount and his sister had proved to be excellent company. Indeed, she could not remember having enjoyed a more relaxed, more amusing occasion. As she pulled the eider quilt up to her chin, she recalled the way the viscount’s gaze had so often and so tenderly come to rest upon her, and she lay back against her pillow, believing that time would be her friend. Not for long would such a warmhearted man be able to deny her her greatest wish.

D
ESPITE HEAVY RAINS AND STRONG
winds during the night, Wednesday morning dawned bright and sunny, and warm enough so that when Philippa stepped out onto the park-front terrace before breakfast there was steam rising from the lawn and a strong scent in the air of decaying leaves from the borders and the nearby park. Gathering the train of her russet-colored riding habit, she hurried down the gray stone steps to the gravel path that led across the northwest corner of the garden to the stable pavilion. She had sent word ahead that she wished to ride, so her groom, Jake Pottersby, had her covert hack saddled and ready for her.

“Good morning, Jake,” she said, smiling, “and good morning to you, too, Mr. Weems,” she added, speaking to the older, rather stout man who had been speaking to Pottersby. Both men removed their caps and returned her greeting, Pottersby cheerfully, Weems with his customary doleful reserve.

“Expect the wheat’s done been drowned in its fields, m’lady,” the older man said, “what with that downpour ’n all. First, there be so little rain a man might fear t’ see ’is wells go dry, and puts off plantin’ ’is winter crops. Then, ’e no sooner gets the seed in the ground than it be washed away.”

Philippa shook her head at him, twinkling. “Truly, Mr. Weems, I don’t think the wetting it got last night was enough to do any damage. We must be grateful rain came with that wind so that all the loosened topsoil wasn’t blown away. And I daresay,” she added thoughtfully, “that there is a deal more damage to the wheat from the hunters always riding through the fields than from the elements, when all is said and done.”

Weems regarded her as though he knew not what to make of a woman who could speak so glibly of topsoil, let alone anything more complicated, and Philippa struggled to suppress her amusement. She had realized a week before, within moments of letting her bailiff know she would be taking a strong interest in his activities, that he didn’t know quite how to deal with her. She smiled at him when he remained silent. “Come now, Mr. Weems, you know very well that you tend to look on the gloomy side of things. Confess that you are not truly fretting over the wheat at all but have come to discuss with Jake here whether today will be a good one for the hunters. ’Tis all you Leicestershire men think about, I’ll warrant.”

“Not all, m’lady,” Weems said, but his attitude was a little less stiff. “Like as not, yer in the right of it about them fields. Right in the path t’ the Whissendine crossing that north wheatfield be. Be right more than Tom Giles can do t’ keep that field in seed. Not with upward of three hundred hunters a-crossin’ of it two and three times in a week.”

“Gracious, then I cannot think why he sows that field at all!” Philippa exclaimed. “I collect that Mr. Giles is the tenant for that particular farm, but I must say that to sow and resow seems a dreadful waste of his manpower and my money.”

“Damages,” said the bailiff succinctly, exchanging a look with the groom.

Jake Pottersby nodded wisely. “Aye, sithee, mistress, ’e bahn make a sight more off t’ damages nor ye gain from t’ wheat. Happen ye got other fields fer wheat. That north field be t’ only one by way o’ being in direct line o’ the crossing, howsomever.”

“You mean to say we plant a field just so that we can claim damages from the hunts each year?”

“Aye, m’lady, that’s near enough the mark,” said Weems.

“Well, I cannot approve of that,” Philippa said, shaking her head. “Surely Tom Giles need not plant that field at all but can put it to grass to pasture some of our dairy cattle.”

“Can’t do that,” said Weems, looking scandalized. “Fouls the scent. We keeps the cattle in barns through the winter, m’lady. Agreement with the hunts, ye ken.”

Philippa bit her lip. “Of course. I had forgotten we had such an agreement, but I still think we ought to let that north field go to grass until spring, Mr. Weems.”

“Ye’ll ’ave t’ speak with Giles, then, m’lady, ’n ’e ain’t goin’ t’ like the notion, I’m thinking. He goes shares on the damages, half and half with the old lord … that is, wi’ yerself, I expect.”

“With the estate, you mean,” Philippa said. “I see, so Mr. Giles augments his income by claiming damages from the hunt, is that right?”

“Aye,” said Weems, showing relief that she understood the matter at last.

“Then you are to give Mr. Giles no more seed,” Philippa said firmly. “He may claim whatever damages he thinks fair, but to plant and replant under the circumstances is not sensible. I daresay he will not be able to collect for more than one crop in the field, in any event.”

Weems shrugged. “Kin claim nigh well what ’e wants t’ claim, m’lady. Hunt alius pays. Can’t afford to set up any backs by refusin’.”

Philippa remembered the Duke of Rutland saying much the same thing when he explained why he had paid his cousin rather than battle him in court. She shook her head again and asked Pottersby if her mount was indeed ready.

“Aye, mistress, and full o’ gig.” He stepped nearer the tall roan gelding and patted its cheek. The roan tossed its head and pawed nervously at the ground, whickering. Pottersby smiled. “Always like this after a storm. Nobbut all-alive ’n framing t’ fratch. Ye’ll want to keep a sharp eye and a firm rein, look how.”

Nodding, Philippa turned back to Weems. “On my way here this morning I noticed that the pond by the entrance to the park is spilling over its banks. Today is as good a day as any if you have some young men to put to cleaning it. I daresay there’s a good bit of silt built up by now if it hasn’t been attended to these two years or more.”

The bailiff nodded. “Set ’em to it immediate, ma’am. Can’t rightly say when the last time was it was done. I’ve put a couple of lads onto thinning out that ash coppice north o’ the park, too. Ye’ll ’ave a good bit o’ firewood out o’ that fer the big house, as well as fer the kitchens.”

He turned away a moment later, clapping his cap back onto his head and striding purposefully from the stableyard. Philippa allowed Pottersby to give her a leg up into her saddle, then waited for him to mount his own horse.

“Where to, this mornin’, mistress?”

“Toward Melton, I think. I want a gallop. What sort of hunters have we got in the stables, Jake?”

“Got two cobby young’uns the young lord sent up from Oxford,” Pottersby replied, raising his voice as she turned toward the drive and urged her mount to a trot. “Noan so much trained, I’m thinkin’, though me ’n young Ned Owen been workin’ ’em. Got a couple of older fellows, too, but happen ye’ll do better t’ sell ’em or use ’em fer cover hacks than to hunt ’em.”