The Lady Mercy Danforthe Flirts With Scandal (34 page)

She was right. It didn’t. If only Mercy could see that.

“Now, what you need, sir, is this.” She showed him a parasol from the crate—a dainty thing with a pink fringe and a bamboo handle.

“I think I might be laughed out of the corn exchange, madam.”

“Not for you! For Lady Mercy. Every lady likes gifts, and this is a practical one that will suit her completely.”

“For Lady Mercy?” Uh-oh. Had it been so obvious?

Mrs. Hodson poked him with the tip of the parasol. “Courtship proceeds with gifts, young sir. Don’t you think it’s time you gave it a proper try?”

Rafe considered it. He wasn’t much for presents. Had never given any to a woman who wasn’t a relative. Not even to Molly. If she accepted a gift from him, what would it mean? There were, no doubt, rules about this sort of thing, as there were about everything in her world. But he’d known her since she was ten and witnessed her attachment to pretty, frilly things. Those
fancifications
he’d always disdained. When Mercy first came to Sydney Dovedale all those years ago, chasing after James Hartley, upon whom she had an amusing infatuation, Rafe’s attention had been caught by the little girl’s colorful and exuberant wardrobe. Her determination to remain clean and tidy had, naturally, caused him to try and get her dirty.

A dozen years on, and he was still trying to get her dirty.

He considered the parasol, picturing her with it. It was a foolish piece of frippery, but he supposed it did have a practical use. Like her, it wasn’t merely decorative.

“You may count on my discretion,” Mrs. Hodson whispered. “No one but she and I will ever know who gave it to her. Won’t she look a treat carrying it as she walks along the street? She will think of you every time she uses it. Of you and your blue eyes.”

He looked around to be sure he was unobserved. “I’ll take it.”

Mrs. Hodson was artful in her methods. Once he had the picture in his mind of Mercy carrying a parasol he’d given her, there was no changing his mind, even when he heard the price.

***

Isabella Milford and her sister paid a visit to the Kanes’ farmhouse soon after Mercy settled in. She knew they had never been before and probably would never have bothered if not for her presence, but Mrs. Kenton was her usual chatty self, lavishing half praise on the Kanes in her own indomitable style.

“Such a splendid orchard you have. I hear you make a very good jam, Mrs. Kane. I’m sure it is almost the same standard as that produced by our cook in London. But then Mrs. Gilkes is an expert jam maker and should not be compared to a novice. I do not know how she does it. I shall send you some when I return to London. This house is very tidy, considering you have so many children. It is no wonder you have no time for your own appearance.” She laughed gaily, and poor Sophia Kane fumbled to adjust her lace cap, which had come askew. “Never mind, my good lady, we can work only with what we have. I think no less of you for a stained frock. I am amazed you are not worn away to a little gray thing from all the trouble I hear these children put you through! And two more away at school, I understand?”

“Yes,” Sophia replied, covering the stain on her knee with one hand. “My eldest two boys are at boarding school.”

“Gracious! And you with another on the way.” She cast her disapproving gaze upon Rafe’s uncle. “Dreadful.”

“Mrs. Pyke and her children are enjoying their stay,” said Mercy brightly. “They seem comfortable with you.” She and Mrs. Kenton had formed a wary but civil pact while working together on the improvement of Mrs. Abby Pyke, and Mercy was making every effort to be useful without controlling. It was not easy, but she was determined.

“She likes the dinner we provide,” agreed Mrs. Kenton, “although the place is a little too damp for her, she says.”

For a woman born in Pillory Lane, Mrs. Pyke was peculiarly fussy about her surroundings. But she certainly knew how to get her own way. Mrs. Kenton had provided her with a full new wardrobe from her own castoffs, although Mrs. Pyke had been heard to suggest they were less than fashionable and the material not likely to wear well.

“Her children are not far removed from savages,” Isabella offered quietly. Silent and apparently uncomfortable for most of their brief visit, she finally found the will to speak on that subject. “I hope Mr. Pyke shall soon return.”

“I believe a great many folk feel the same,” said Mercy with a smile.

Isabella had nothing else to say. She did not have her sister’s talent of always finding a subject, no matter where she was or with whom, and even if no one cared to hear it. Whenever Mercy caught her eye, Isabella looked away, as if she was caught doing something she ought not. The entire tenor of their friendship felt changed. When Mercy walked them to the gate, Isabella expressed a mild sort of admiration for her act of “charity” in helping the Kanes. But the admiration was mixed with blatant disgust for the farm surroundings.

“These folk live in squalor,” Isabella murmured, looking around the yard with fearful eyes as if she expected wild beasts to pounce upon her at any moment. “I had not realized Mr. Rafe Hartley’s family were so…so…vulgar.”

Mercy did not know whether to be appalled or amused. “This is hardly squalor, Miss Milford.” Evidently, just like Julia Gibson, this lady knew nothing—or very little—about life beyond her comfortable world. She would never have survived life as Rafe Hartley’s wife. “This is how many people live. It is not a luxurious standard of living, to be sure, and they work hard to maintain what they have, but that is the way of it for many.”

Isabella skirted a puddle, almost leaving her skin behind when the goat across the yard abruptly let out a loud “maah.” Eventually she spoke again, but changed the subject, asking Mercy whether she’d heard lately from her fiancé, whether he was back yet from Italy. Mercy replied that she’d had no letter informing her of his return.

“The drier, warmer weather there must greatly improve his health,” Isabella remarked, waiting for Mercy to open the gate.

Her sister came up behind them and must have heard Isabella’s last comment, for she added, “Adolphus is a martyr to his health. But then men are babies in general.” She glanced over her shoulder with a last disapproving frown at the Kanes’ crowded farmhouse. “When they are not being babies, they are making them.”

It was much the same thought Mercy had about the male species, but she was not about to admit that to Mrs. Kenton.

“We are planning our departure in a few days and returning to London,” the lady added. “Isabella has found the country very trying on her nerves. Only yesterday, she had an attack of panic when a flock of cows chased her as she passed a field.”

“A herd of cows, Mrs. Kenton. Sheep and birds come in flocks.”

“In any case, the beasts terrified her almost out of her wits. She is certain they were after her new straw bonnet. Therefore, we are returning soon to Town. If you would care to travel with us, Lady Mercy, you are most welcome. My brother’s barouche box can fit four quite comfortably.”

Mercy thought of going home. It must be faced, of course. “What of Mrs. Pyke?”

“She means to stay at the fortress. She is welcome to have the run of the place.” Mrs. Kenton shuddered. “Once summer is over, it will be quite untenable, but it is up to her where she goes next. We will keep some staff here until September. If she chooses to stay on and keep house for us, I daresay William would agree. Although a feather duster is as much as I’ve ever seen her use. She thinks herself above it.”

So much for making Mrs. Pyke into a new woman, thought Mercy. How quickly interest was lost in that lady’s plight. Rafe was right, she realized: charity with no true understanding behind it was worth little. Perhaps she could take Mrs. Pyke back to London with her, train her as a lady’s maid now that Molly had other plans.

“Isabella will enjoy your company, if you travel with us,” Mrs. Kenton added.

“I will give it some thought, madam. I have not yet made any plans for travel.”

“Do, by all means.” The lady paused, and after a brief check to see that Isabella had gone through the gate already and started up the lane, she continued in a lower voice, “I must apologize for Isabella’s sullen mood. My dear sister has had a very difficult time of it. A broken heart is slow to heal. I had hoped she might find something new here in the country…a change of scenery, meeting new people, etcetera. But alas not.”

“I am sorry, madam. I did not know of her broken heart.”

“She was insistent that I should not tell you.”

Mercy wondered why, if that was the case, the lady now chose to go against her sister’s wishes. But Mrs. Kenton had more to say and was hedging her way toward it. She nervously checked again that Isabella was out of hearing, then she took a breath. “Young Mr. Hartley seemed a fine prospect for Isabella, but now that has fallen by the wayside. Any attentions he paid to my sister have markedly declined. But then, his fortune is not what we were led to believe, and Mrs. Pyke has told me of the shocking manner in which he earned his coin in London.” She lowered her voice, looking scandalized. “With his fists! Not only that, but I had not realized his former fiancée was nothing more than a lady’s maid!”

“Yes, Molly Robbins was my maid. And an excellent one. I was very sorry to lose her.”

“I declare myself duly shocked.” She pressed a hand to her ample bosom. “There I was thinking him a young gentleman of prospects and ambition. We were greatly misled by Mrs. Hartley. Imagine how very near my poor sister came to aligning herself with a man whose previous fiancée was a servant.”

It was no surprise that Isabella hoped for a wealthy husband. Most marriages were conducted for financial or property gain, but Mercy did not think the lady could afford to be so circumspect as to turn her nose up at Rafe. Thank goodness, however, that she had.

Rafe deserved so much better.

The gate swung open with a rusty moan, and Mrs. Kenton passed through into the lane.

“My dear Lady Mercy”—she lowered her voice to a patronizingly hushed tone, her face grave—“I did not wish to raise the subject before his aunt and uncle, but I feel it incumbent upon me—as a member of your social mores and a woman of several years’ more experience—to advise you, most strongly, against further dalliance with Mr. Rafe Hartley. People have begun to talk in a most unpleasant manner and to speculate upon your relationship with that young man. I heard from a good lady in the village that you were seen exiting his bachelor cottage unchaperoned and at very odd hours. While I know there must be a perfectly reasonable explanation, it is still unwise to flaunt convention and let anyone suspect the worst of you.”

Mercy was shocked—not by the rumors, but that this woman thought it her place to lecture. “There is nothing untoward occurring between Mr. Rafe Hartley and myself. Not that it is any business of yours, Mrs. Kenton.”

The other woman raised her head from its condescending tilt. “I am certain the rumors are false, of course. You are an engaged woman. However, talk can be dangerous if it reaches the wrong ears. I cannot allow my sister to be seen socially with a woman who has indulged in scandalous deeds, so I do hope this can be nipped in the bud. Even the hint of such reprehensible behavior can be detrimental to any young lady’s reputation.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

“I understand you were raised without a mother, and your brother has not perhaps been as diligent as he should.” She smiled without showing her teeth. “It is not too late, however, to correct the error.”

She caught her breath at the woman’s audacity, and for that moment, words failed her.

“I mean only to advise,” Mrs. Kenton added, the smile packed away.

“Naturally. Good day.” She said it more firmly this time and then closed the gate.

Her opinion of both ladies was not improved by this visit. In the case of Miss Isabella Milford, she was distinctly disappointed. She’d hoped to find not just another project, but a new friend. That was a less attractive prospect now. As Rafe had said when she told him of Sir William’s plans to sell:
Good
riddance
.

It was not until much later, as she read to the children by the fire and readied them for bed, that she remembered Mrs. Kenton calling Grey by his given name, Adolphus. That was very odd indeed. She did not think the lady was acquainted with him at all; she’d acted as if the name meant nothing to her before. Mercy knew she’d never mentioned his Christian name in Mrs. Kenton’s hearing. Perhaps Mrs. Hartley or Lady Ursula had told them, she reasoned. That would be a plausible excuse.

But she went to bed that evening with a nagging doubt in her head, for both Mrs. Kenton and her sister had mentioned his health, as if they had some familiarity with it after all.

***

The next day bloomed bright and breezy—perfect for drying the laundry, not quite so perfect for struggling with the damp linens she suspended over the line that stretched the width of the yard. By the time all the wet clothes and sheets were pegged in place, Mercy felt as battered and windblown as a ship in a storm. Fortunately, there was no time to daydream about Rafe. She’d done too much of that lately.

Empty basket under her arm, she walked back into the farmhouse, made certain the youngest children were gainfully occupied with painting labels for their mother’s pickles and preserves, and then checked on the lady herself.

A makeshift bed had been made out of an old settle, and this was where Aunt Sophie rested, on one side of the great inglenook hearth, a patched woolen blanket tucked around her, and a pile of books at her side.

“The baby kicks today!” Sophie exclaimed, one hand to her belly. “He gets less rest than I do now.” She seemed thrilled by the imminent arrival of yet another handful. Mercy smiled politely and laid her hand on the woolen blanket as Sophie directed. The sudden jab of a forceful little punch took her by surprise, and she raised her hand again quickly. “One day you will know the sheer joy of holding your own babe in your arms, Lady Mercy.”