The Babe and the Baron (15 page)

“It seemed wise, though Maria cannot take offence at the words without admitting herself contrary.”

“She is quite capable of that. I cannot help wondering whether Miss Coltart taught Arabella the song deliberately. She has had a good deal to suffer from Maria's megrims.”

“Even if she did, you must see that to take her to task can only make matters worse, in acknowledging that the words apply to your cousin. Better to pretend nothing is amiss. It is a common nursery song, after all.”

“Yes, you are right.”

“All the same, I am glad I succeeded in persuading Arabella to sing 'Hickory, dickory dock' instead at tea time.”

“So am I.” His voice was warm. “Once again, you have saved me from a dust-up.”

“If that means what I think it means,” she said, taking refuge from confusion in primness, “then I saved myself as much as anyone. I like your brothers—Lancelot and Perry, I mean.”

“I am glad you have made friends with them so quickly, not that it is difficult with Perry. He is like an eager puppy who only wants a bit of attention to be your friend for life. Lance is more of a challenge. Your skill at deflecting Arabella's tantrums impressed him enormously.” He looked at his exquisitely dressed brother and sighed. “I could wish he had not chosen to ape the dandy set.”

“At least he is no fop. I daresay he may grow out of it.” Thinking of her own misjudgements at nineteen, Laura echoed his sigh. “You are lucky in your family. I like them all.”

“Even Maria?”

“Even Maria, when she is not in the boughs,” she said firmly.

When they were all seated at the dinner table, Gareth and Aunt Antonia at either end, she recalled her words. Cornelius had come up from the vicarage and Uncle Julius had torn himself from his workshop. Maria was in an excellent mood as Lancelot, whose taste was clearly not to be despised, had praised her gown. To Laura, the lively discussion of the events of their lives since they all had last been together exemplified the happy family.

Yet she was wrong to say that Gareth was “lucky” in his family, she realized. Luck had little to do with it.

Since Lady Wyckham's death and the late baron's withdrawal, Aunt Antonia had provided physical comfort and discipline, even a distant, unspoken fondness. It was Gareth's love for his brothers that had accomplished the rest. Somehow the suffering boy had found the strength to create a family where differences of temperament and diverging interests were overcome by the bonds of affection.

How could she help but... admire him?

* * * *

By the next day, talk of the past had given way to plans for the future. Everyone had friends they wanted to invite for a week or two, and picnics, cricket matches, and outings to be arranged for their entertainment. However, the high spot of the summer at Llys was always the thirteenth of August, feast day of St. Wigbert, the patron saint of the parish church.

“A rather dull English monk, I fear,” Cornelius apologized when Laura enquired. “He is, hm, deservedly obscure.”

On St. Wigbert's Day, since time immemorial, the Wyckhams held open house, for their neighbours, tenants, farm workers, villagers, tradesmen, and house guests. The day was taken up with archery and bowling tournaments; three-legged, sack, and egg-and-spoon races; a greased pig-catching contest; a puppet show and morris dancers; and a concert by the choir of the Welsh Methodist Chapel who, in the name of tradition, abandoned their feud with the Anglican Church for the day. In the evening, a supper for the commoners and dinner for the gentry, would be followed by dancing for anyone still capable of the exertion.

At her own insistence, Laura was set to work by Aunt Antonia. She helped sort out dates and accommodations for visitors, discussed menus with the cook, wrote lists and invitations. For the first time she was able to put to use what she had learned as a girl about running a great household. She found the reality fascinating. Spending a good deal of time in consultation with Mrs. Lloyd, she came to like the housekeeper and admire her efficiency.

Inevitably, Gareth asked, “Are you sure all this business is not too tiring?”

“Not at all. All I do is sit here in the morning room, like a queen granting audience, and everyone comes to me.”

“I had not realized the fête involved so much labour.” He sat down on the chair beside the drop-front desk where she was writing one of the endless lists, with the aid of last year's.

“Aunt Antonia has managed it for years without assistance,” Laura said, “but she is not as young as she was.”

“And Maria is not the least help.”

“Nor is she any hindrance. She is in her element, with the house full of visitors and gaiety. Not a sign of a megrim for a week.”

“No doubt that makes your task easier. Nonetheless, we are lucky to have you. I would not have you think I am idle, however! Besides the normal work of the estate, the outside events take some organizing.”

“I know. Perry and Lance were in here only this morning squabbling about what to give as prizes for the races. I hope I convinced them that the winner of the ladies' egg-and-spoon race will appreciate neither a snuff box nor a new cricket bat.”

“Gudgeons,” he said affectionately, then hesitated before continuing, “I have been thinking that I ought to warn you about Aunt Sybil.”

“The name sounds familiar.”

“Lady Frobisher. She always comes home for St. Wigbert's Day.”

“Oh yes, I addressed an invitation to Lord and Lady Frobisher, purely as a matter of form, Aunt Antonia said. But that is not it. I know, she painted those watercolours of local scenes, did she not?” Something else nagged at the back of her mind, an unpleasant memory that refused to come forward.

“Yes, the landscapes are hers, schoolroom efforts.”

“You want to warn me to make some complimentary reference to her paintings?”

“I wish that were all.” He grimaced. “Aunt Sybil, alas, prides herself on her knowledge of the
Haut Monde
, and she never forgets any item of gossip.”

“She is your father's sister? I remember now.” Laura's cheeks burned. She looked down at her hands, clenched in her lap. “Aunt Antonia told me that Lady Frobisher is an inveterate scandalmonger, and that she wrote... she wrote an unpleasant letter... about me.”

“The devil she did!” He leaned forward and put his hand on hers, his face dark with anger. “Laura, I cannot forbid my aunt her childhood home, but I can and will ensure that she spreads no tales while she is here.”

“How?” she asked doubtfully.

“Aunt Sybil indulged in one or two youthful indiscretions herself, that I discovered when my father died and I went through his papers. I shall make it plain that if she tells tales, she will receive a dose of her own medicine. Her 'bosom friend,' Mrs. Payne, will be only too happy to provide a wide circulation.”

“It is very kind in you, but I cannot like to be the cause of discord between you and your aunt. Perhaps it will be best if I just go home before she arrives.”

Gareth sprang to his feet. “Home! This is your home. Your home, no longer hers. Let me hear no more of such talk. And enough of Aunt Sybil. Come, you have been cooped up in here too long. If you would care to walk down to the English garden with me, I shall have the gig brought to drive you back up the hill.”

“That will be delightful,” she said, composure restored. With such a champion, she had nothing to fear from Lady Frobisher. Enough of Aunt Sybil, indeed.

Yet it was Gareth who raised the subject again, as they reentered the house after their stroll.

“One more thing you ought to know about Aunt Sybil, Laura. She is determined to see me wed and may well bring with her some eligible young lady. She is wasting her time. I shall never marry.”

“Then you will not mind if Aunt Antonia writes to inform her that every chamber in the Manor is already bespoken for the week of St. Wigbert's Day, as is the case.” Laura spoke lightly but she wondered at his determined tone. Though it made no difference to her, of course, whether he married or not, she thought it a pity when he would be so splendid a husband and father. On the other hand, she could not wish him wed to any female chosen by Lady Frobisher.

A little voice in her head whispered that she could not wish him wed to any female except... but that was ridiculous.

Chapter 12

Lady Frobisher paid not the least heed to Aunt Antonia's letter. She arrived at Llys with a pretty, meek girl in tow, the Honourable Miss Daphne Overstreet, the well-dowered daughter of a viscount. Daphne was by far too timid to make the slightest push to attract Gareth. Instead, she took refuge with Laura, to Lady Frobisher's fury.

Her ladyship bristled with disapproval but, after a brief interview with her nephew, it was silent disapproval. Laura scarcely noticed her black looks since the Manor was abustle with upward of two dozen other guests. Though she held herself a little apart, feeling slow and heavy at eight months pregnant, everyone except Lady Frobisher accepted her without fuss as one of the household.

Daphne was not the only unexpected guest to be squeezed in somehow by the imperturbable Mrs. Lloyd. Three days before the fête, Sir John Pointer turned up.

Lloyd ushered him out to the terrace, where Laura, most of the ladies, and a few gentlemen were taking afternoon tea. Those about her politely turned their attention elsewhere when they realized the plump dandy had come to call on her.

“Thought I ought to see how you was doing,” he explained. “Good friend of mine, Freddie. Popped into the cottage on the way to Newmarket, found you gone, remembered Wyckham asking after you, so here I am.”

“You are very welcome,” Laura assured him, touched, though the reminder of her past life disturbed her.

He looked about appreciatively. “Glad to see you're in clover. Freddie'd be pleased. Good fellow, Freddie. Things ain't the same without him. All's bowman with... er... hm...” His round face turned scarlet above his high collar. “With... er... is it?”

Laura rescued him. “Everything is going very well. Will you take a cup of tea, Sir John?”

“Or perhaps something stronger, Pointer?” Gareth had come out of the house on returning from a ride with some of his guests. To Laura he sounded inexplicably belligerent.

“No, no, tea will suit me down to the ground,” said the baronet with a hint of alarm.

“Sir John has come all this way, cousin, just to make sure that all is well with me.”

“Indeed. Could you suppose otherwise, Sir John, when Lady Laura is in my care?”

“No, no, assure you, Wyckham,... didn't know... wasn't sure...”

“It is excessively amiable in him, is it not, cousin? Since you have arrived at this opportune moment, Sir John, may we hope you will be able to stay for the fête on Saturday?” Laura had no desire whatsoever for his company, but she was obliged to him for his concern, however delayed, and she could not let Gareth treat him so rudely.

Her unspoken rebuke must have registered, for Gareth relented. “Certainly you must stay, Pointer.” In a display of effortless social mastery, with a single glance at the assembled company, a slight gesture of the head, he brought several people over to join them. Sir John was absorbed into the group.

“And after treating him so horridly, you never even gave him a chance to refuse the invitation,” Laura whispered.

“Shockingly discourteous, was I not?” Gareth said ruefully. “My first thought was that his presence must distress you, but then you appeared to want him to stay.”

“I was a little upset to see him,” she admitted, then scolded him, “but your churlishness upset me more, which is the only reason I asked him to stay.”

“Then you don't really want him here? I shall send him to the rightabout at—”

“Gareth, don't you dare! Leave the poor fellow be. He misses Freddie far more than I do, I fear.”

“Which only goes to show that you have more sense in your little finger than he in his head,” said Gareth roundly.

* * * *

He greeted with pleasure the next uninvited arrivals. Sir Henry and Lady Wyckham, Maria's parents, returned unexpectedly to England from a diplomatic post with the Portuguese court in exile in Brazil.

Sir Henry was a distinguished figure, who combined Rupert's height, Lancelot's slenderness, Gareth's quiet elegance of dress, and Cornelius's pompous manner. Lady Wyckham was exactly as Laura would have imagined Maria's mother and the wife of a diplomat. Her dress, though unostentatious, was fashionable and extremely becoming, and she was able to converse with anyone. Laura suspected she had no deep interest in people, yet she set them at their ease, even her eccentric brother-in-law, Julius, and bashful Daphne Overstreet.

After a dutiful visit to the schoolroom, Lady Wyckham showed little interest in her grandchildren. With her parents arrival, Maria abandoned any pretence of devoted motherhood. Reverting to the rôle of an unmarried young lady—with the licence of widowhood—she flirted with every unattached gentleman within reach.

Naturally, this rôle had no room for children. Even Arabella seldom saw her. At first, Laura was concerned, but Miss Coltart and Peter Renfrew kept them busy and happy. On their occasional appearances among the guests, Maria studiously ignored them but everyone else spoiled them so they hardly noticed.

* * * *

St. Wigbert's Day arrived. In front of the Manor blossomed a huge red and yellow marquee in case of rain, but the sky was a deep and cloudless blue. The parkland sprouted archery butts, bowling alleys, race-courses, refreshment tables, a puppet booth, a stand for the choir. In a large enclosure a young sow rooted contentedly, unaware that she was to be slathered with lard and chased by hordes of youths.

Chairs and small tables for the gentry had been set out in the shade of scattered trees. Laura found a vantage point beneath a chestnut on a slight rise and settled there with the inseparable Daphne to watch the festivities.

Swarms of people flocked to watch the contests and entertainments. Children ran about squealing and ladies and gentlemen strolled through the crowd, their progress marked by parasols of a dozen different hues. Laura easily picked out Rupert and his friends by the glory of the full dress scarlet and gold uniforms they wore in honour of the occasion. Now and then she caught sight of the other Wyckham brothers.