The Lie and the Lady (4 page)

“Now, what do you think of that sausage, m'dear?”

“It's very . . . sausage-like,” Leticia offered.

“Indeed it is! Lincolnshire is known for its sausages. And its pork pies. And its haslet—that's a kind of pork loaf, don't you know! We must get you to try some!”

Sir Barty ordered two slices of haslet brought straight away, and as Leticia bit into it, she declared between hard swallows and in absolute truth, “Best haslet I've ever had!”

Some hours later, they crossed the Wolds, running hills noted for their beauty, and Leticia had to admit they were rather picturesque.

Loveliest Wolds she had ever seen.

While Sir Barty snored again and Leticia had pulled back the carriage curtains to allow in some air, she saw a proud, tall windmill standing at the entrance to a market town. And that made her truly smile.

Five sails, the brightest, purest white, sat regally in a circle atop a tower of red brick. The tower was attached to a long, low building—the mill itself, she supposed. Another building, smaller, was being built on one side.

It seemed so silly to find such a thing delightful—but it seemed silly to find it at all. She was so used to cities—and when she was in the country it was at her sister's for as short a time as she could manage—that to find something as whimsical and as practical as a windmill made her feel alight.

It was the first thing that made her feel at home.

Yes, perhaps she truly could warm to Lincolnshire.

Even though something about the windmill struck her as odd.

The windmill and attached buildings proudly declared themselves (via a neatly lettered sign as they passed) as sitting at the edge of the town of Helmsley—which made Leticia gasp aloud.

“Sir Barty—we're in Helmsley!” she cried, forcing her betrothed awake once more.

But he was glad of it, she decided, because when he blinked and saw out the carriage window, his thick mustache ruffled into a smile.

“Then we are nearly home, m'dear!” he replied. Helmsley was the town nearest to Sir Barty's estate. “Next stop, Bluestone Manor.”

“Home to generation upon generation of Babcocks?” Leticia asked.

“Not to mention the current generation. And then next.” Sir Barty winked and then squeezed her hand. “That is . . . if you would like children. I have my Margaret of course, and the estate is not entailed, so I have no need for an heir, but . . . if children are a hope for your future . . .” His sentence ended on a mumble, at a loss for words.

Leticia knew better than to give a straight answer to such a question. “All this talk of children makes me think that you are eager for the wedding,” she replied saucily. “Perhaps you should write the bishop for a special license and dispense with this wait.”

Sir Barty laughed and shook his head. “Everyone in Helmsley would have my head if I denied them a wedding. No—we shall wait the proper time for the banns to be read and have a wedding the likes of which this town has never seen. Now, would you like to see the church where you'll become Lady Barty Babcock?”

She nodded and let him point out the stone spires at the center of town that marked the parish seat.

It would take nearly a month for the banns to be read. Three successive Sundays of asking those gathered if they had any objection to the union, followed by a week of waiting for the wedding itself. Then, and only then, would she consider herself secure. Until that time, however, she had to make certain there would be no objection.

She glanced at Sir Barty as he shoved his arm out the carriage window, waving to people on the street, jolly and relieved to be home again. While that month ticked down, she would concentrate on making Sir Barty happy. Making his life easier, and making a life for herself here.

A strange echo filled her chest, as if there were something askew underneath her skin. As if something were amiss.

Then she realized what it had been.

The windmill. It hadn't been spinning. Even on a day like today, with a strong, steady breeze pushing the new wheat in waves across the hillside, the sails stayed dormant.

There was something utterly sad about a windmill that didn't spin, she thought. It would live its life ultimately unfulfilled.

WHILE LETICIA WAS
quite decided that she would warm to Lincolnshire, she was beginning to worry that Lincolnshire—more specifically, Helmsley—might not warm to her.

Her troubles began—and some might say ended—with Margaret Babcock.

Less than an hour after rolling past the red brick windmill with the white sails, Sir Barty's carriage pulled up in front of Bluestone Manor.

It was of a respectable size—larger than her sister's home, Puffington Arms. And more graceful too—taking its name from the blue-tinted granite that made up the facade of the house. There were lovely grounds with some of the most abundant flowers and trees she'd ever seen—a worrying sight.

But what Leticia couldn't see from the drive were any servants.

No retinue of housemaids. No liveried men or stable hands coming up to take the reins of the carriage. No one at all.

“Where is everyone?” Leticia asked as Sir Barty handed her down to the drive. “Your housekeeper, butler, and whatnot?” Oh Lord, he did have a housekeeper, didn't he? “And your daughter, Margaret?”

Sir Barty snorted. “I never have them stand on ceremony when I come home. Everyone gathered around in a half circle, waiting to be inspected? Makes no sense to me—better to let them go about their business.”

To Leticia's mind, waiting on Sir Barty was their business, but instead of arguing the point, she simply shrugged and said lightly, “You are likely correct, darling, but I would have thought they would have wished to greet me—this first time, at least.”

“Ah, well as to that—” Sir Barty's bushy brow came down so far it almost touched his mustache. “They do not know of your arrival.”

“They . . . do not know?”

“It seemed silly to write. After all, we came straight from Paris—we would have likely beaten home any letter I might have sent.”

“Yes, but”—she blinked in astonishment—“does that mean that they do not know about me at all? They do not know that you are bringing home a fiancée?”

Sir Barty bit his lower lip. “I suppose they do not. Ah well—we shall take care of introductions in no time. Hello?” he called out, opening the front door of the manor himself. “We are home!”

The bustle that she had been expecting when they drew up finally occurred, with a gray-haired man emerging from the butler's pantry next to the front door, obviously having been startled awake. He was quickly followed by two stout-looking maids peering over the banister from above and squeaking, “Lord! Sir Barty's back! Oh sir, forgive us! Quick, run and tell Mrs. Dillon!”

Soon after that, a bevy of footmen, maids, and kitchen staff amassed in the front hall, making such a ruckus that Leticia knew it was exactly how Sir Barty expected (and wished) to be greeted.

“Sir, we did not expect you for several weeks hence,” the old butler admonished, and Leticia had to bite her tongue.

“Now, now, Jameson, has anything burned down? Fallen apart? Gone one minute off schedule?”

“Well, a few of the drapes are in desperate need of mending.”

“Jameson . . .”

The dignified older man sighed. “No, sir.”

“Then hush, Jameson. Think of what sort of impression you are making on my bride-to-be.” The blood drained from Jameson's face as his eyes shot to Leticia. Leticia did her best to smile graciously, but the awkwardness of the announcement put her immediately at a disadvantage. Really, did not Sir Barty know that these first few moments in the household were crucial for establishing one's first impression? Everyone here likely thought her some interloping strumpet—not the regal soon-to-be mistress of the house they would know her to be had he written a simple letter!

The shock of the announcement had given way to titters and whispers. Leticia leaned in to Barty. “Perhaps introductions are in order, darling?” she breathed in his ear.

“Oh? Oh! Of course!” he said, taking the nudge for what it was worth. “Jameson, Mrs. Dillon”—he nodded toward the straight-faced woman whose competence bespoke her as the housekeeper—“I should like to introduce you to my dear Leticia, Countess of Churzy, and soon to be Lady Babcock.”

At least Sir Barty had given her a proper introduction. She felt herself growing taller with each word of her title—and then future title—being spoken.

“It is the greatest pleasure to meet you all,” Leticia said, modulating her tones, at once demure and commanding.

A particular gift of hers, putting people at ease with only her voice. It paid to have practiced restraint. When spoken, restraint sounded like grace.

“Oh, thank heavens, you're English!” the competent Mrs. Dillon cried, and came forward with a bobbing curtsey. “For a moment there I was afraid Sir Barty had brought home a foreign bride, and we would have to deal with French maids and cooks and the like.”

Leticia smiled, amused. “I have lived in France, but I have little use for French hairdressers or their cuisine,” she lied. “Give me good, honest English fare any day.”

“She tried her first haslet on the way up here!” Sir Barty said as he squeezed her shoulder. “Loved it, didn't you, m'dear?”

To that, Leticia could only smile through her teeth.

“Then I shall have cook put it on the menu for this week,” Mrs. Dillon replied. “Oh, but—I expect you'll be wanting to go over the menus, my lady? I'm sorry, it's been a bit since we've had—”

“I would love to go over the menus with you, Mrs. Dillon, but I do not wish to step on any toes. After all, we are not yet wed,” she demurred.

“That'll change in a month's time,” Sir Barty said proudly.

“I think for now I would like nothing more than to change my clothes and then meet Margaret. Is she in the schoolroom?”

Everyone blinked for a moment and a few glances slid toward Sir Barty. Odd. And yet no one said a word.

“Er, no. Not the schoolroom, my lady,” Mrs. Dillon replied, with a perplexed glance to Sir Barty. “She's outside, I believe.”

“Ah yes,” Leticia smiled, trying to put everyone at ease. “Sir Barty told me she would likely be digging in the dirt, didn't you, dearest?”

“She'll make her way in before supper,” Sir Barty said, throwing an arm over Leticia's shoulder and giving her a rough squeeze. “Well, Jameson—shall we go to the library? I need to put my foot up and write a letter to my steward, informing him of my arrival. And in time for the harvest too!”

As Sir Barty ambled down the hall, Jameson trailing after him in attendance, Leticia turned to Mrs. Dillon.

“My lady, I would offer to show you to your rooms, however—”

“But no rooms were made up for me, as you were not told of my existence,” she finished for the nervous housekeeper. “It's quite all right. I am happy to look around the house for now.”

“I'll have tea and a cold repast brought to the sitting room as quickly as possible,” Mrs. Dillon replied.

“Do, but do not press yourself overly. I am happy to wait.”

Mrs. Dillon eyed the maids that were standing in a line behind her, itching to give orders.

“Might I suggest a stroll in the gardens? It would do you good after all that time in the carriage.”

“Oh, but I—”

“We will present ourselves to much better advantage in a few minutes,” Mrs. Dillon said quietly, and the maids that could hear her nodded in time.

Leticia knew that it would be good form to do as Mrs. Dillon requested. And early favors would do wonders for their relationship later on.

But she dreaded the gardens.

“Just a few minutes, Mrs. Dillon,” she said firmly. “Then you and I can have a nice long chat about the dinner menus and drapes that need mending and everything else.”

“Yes, my lady,” Mrs. Dillon finally said, and with a curtsy, moved at a trot to the kitchens.

Leaving Leticia free to wander outside.

Bluestone Manor was a lovely property. It was well situated, the oaks that edged the lane grown tall and thick with time, speaking to the fact that the Babcocks had been in this county for quite a long time. The house itself was a square box, three stories tall, with the entrance recessed slightly, drawing one in. As she wandered around the building, she discovered that only the front of the house was faced in that blue granite that gave it its name. The rest of the building was brick, stuccoed over in a warm yellow. As she went around the side, a terrace and glass paneled doors connected to a drawing room—one that Mrs. Dillon was madly putting to rights, setting a tea service in the exact right place. Good. She'd made the correct impression on the woman—showing her that she had some give, but was firm and worthy of being impressed.