The Waltzing Widow/Smith (5 page)

The ladies were awakened early the next morning by the sound of gunshots and shouts beneath their windows. Lucy concluded that either Bigelow was a wretched shot, or the garden possessed dozens of rabbits. There was no sleeping for the racket, so she dressed and went downstairs, where Mrs. Percy already sat, trying to rouse herself with coffee. It was seven-thirty.

“Bigelow is very prompt,” Lucy said apologetically.

“I’ve heard of country hours, but this is ridiculous!” her aunt replied. The shots and the shouting slowed down as the thinning progressed, till only an occasional crack rent the air. “We ought not to complain. It must be done if I am to have a garden. I’ll thank Bigelow and ask him if he would like some coffee.”

He was delighted to accept and came tracking mud into the breakfast room. “I fancy that’s taken care of the problem.” He beamed. “And by now the bushes ought to be in shape as well.”

Mrs. Percy frowned. “I did not see anyone out thinning the thorn bushes,” she said, surprised.

“They’re chopping down those bushes out front where you want your vegetable garden,” he said. “I told you the land behind belongs to Avedon. I dare not touch it.”

A strangled sound caught in Mrs. Percy’s throat. “You’re not chopping down the roses!”

“Er—just the thorns.”

She darted to the front door and stared in dismay. The bushes had been decimated, some of them uprooted entirely. Bigelow joined her to receive praise for his alacrity in executing this scheme of his own devising. He was so crestfallen when Mrs. Percy scolded him that his lower lip actually trembled. Lucy shook her head and had difficulty controlling her laughter.

“They are Bigelow’s roses after all, Auntie, and if he wishes to destroy them, it is his own affair.”

“It was the thorn bushes behind the house I complained of,” Mrs. Percy explained.

The chopping was brought to a stop, and Lucy said, “Would you like to finish your coffee before you leave, Lord Bigelow?”

Indeed he would. He would have been happy to join them for lunch and dinner as well if he could manage it. “Pray do not be so formal with me, Mrs. Percy. It is time you called me Tony.”

It was always an effort to remember that this overgrown puppy was a peer of the realm. “Tony” came so easily to the lips that before he left the table, he was Tony to both ladies. He was eager to get on a first-name basis with Lucy, but she did not make him free of her name, and he had enough breeding not to usurp it.

The ladies had some hope he would leave after coffee was taken, but he lunged into the parlor and took up a seat. “I believe there might be a set of skittles in the shed,” he said.

“I must go to the village this morning,” Lucy said at once, to be rid of him. “Cook and the servants have given me a long list of items they require.”

“I’ll take you,” he offered promptly. “The greatest luck. I was going to hack over, but I drove my curricle instead, hoping I might induce you to drive out this afternoon.”

As this scheme at least got him out of her aunt’s hair, Lucy agreed. They jaunted off to Ashford in the curricle. She was happy for Bigelow’s arms to tote her purchases. Bowls and brushes, a broom, and ten yards of cheapest muslin for dust rags, turpentine and beeswax, candles and lamp oil were piled one on top of the other. When Bigelow was laden to the eyes, they returned to the curricle to stow the wares.

It was at that moment that Lucy spotted a most interesting gentleman coming toward them. A blue jacket of Bath cloth clung to his broad shoulders. From the immaculate cravat at his throat to his well-polished topboots he exuded elegance. This was no simple country squire! She had been in town long enough to recognize the tailoring of Weston. He was tall and dark, almost swarthy, with a frowning countenance that would be handsome if it were more pleasantly arranged. Perhaps it was the sun in his face that caused that frown. She hoped Tony would know him and make her acquainted.

Bigelow did not see his uncle, as a shiny new tin pail obstructed his vision. Avedon recognized his nephew’s bucksins and topboots and was not slow to realize that the dasher with him must be the new widow. Making a pack animal of him already in front of half the town! This was worse than Lacey and her brats.

His eyes skimmed over a fetching bonnet trimmed with yellow primroses, the same one of which Sal had complained. Beneath the brim he beheld a pair of laughing brown eyes and a pretty face that his anger soon imagined to be bold. The gown today was not pink but a blue mulled muslin that not even a vicar could find fast. That annoyed Avedon, too, that she should try to disguise herself as a decent woman to con his nephew.

He reined in his short temper to prevent giving Tony a blast in public. He stopped abreast of them and said curtly, “You should have brought Jinny along, if you mean to set up as a traveling peddler, Tony.”

“Oh, good morning, Uncle,” Tony said, peering around the side of the pail. “Jinny’s the ass,” he explained to Lucy.

A brush clattered to the ground, striking Avedon’s boot as it fell. “And you are the jackass,” he exclaimed before he quite knew what he said. His anger was exacerbated as town folks passed, smirking at his nephew, who performed an ungainly ballet in an effort to balance his load.

Bigelow ignored the remark. “I’d like you to meet my new tenant, Uncle. This is Mrs. Percy.”

“So I gathered,” Avedon said, through stiff lips.

“How do you do.” Lucy curtsied. He nodded briefly but said nothing, nor did he try to lighten his frown.

Lucy felt all the discomfort of his ill humor, if the nephew did not, and found herself babbling on to fill the silence. “I found I needed a great many things now that I am settling in.” She retrieved the brush and put it in the pail. “Mops and pails, you see, and Tony was kind enough to offer to bring me to the village.”

“I’ve been meaning to speak to you, Uncle,” Tony said. “Rose Cottage is a shambles. Mrs. Percy tells me we are gouging her on the rent, and I believe she has a point.”

“I was only funning, Tony!” Lucy said, with an admonishing glance.

The bleeding had begun already! And she called him Tony! The casual use of the first name within twenty-four hours added fuel to Avedon’s wrath. “The rate has already been established.”

“But Lucy hadn’t seen the place then.”

Avedon’s eyes skewered her with a look of pure malice. “If Mrs. Percy doesn’t like it, she may leave. Meanwhile, madam, do you have no servants who might better be employed as a beast of burden than Lord Bigelow?” he asked stiffly.

How very angry he was! Such a marked difference from his nephew. Lucy found it hard to believe they shared a single drop of blood. “I have several, but as Tony was at the cottage, he insisted,” she replied with a helpless shrug.

Every word she uttered sent Avedon higher into the boughs. He ran an eye over her purchases. “You are an early riser,” he said stiffly. “You did not accumulate that load in two minutes.” He drew out his watch and examined it. “It is now nine-thirty. May I know at what hour you called on Mrs. Percy, Bigelow? You will be giving her an odd notion of your manners.”

The scathing eye that raked Lucy told her it was not his nephew’s manners that were in question, but her own. Her temper rose at his imperious tone, and she replied hotly, “It is true, I did not realize provincial manners had become so farouche.”

Avedon realized that shot was aimed at himself. “We always try to suit ourselves to strangers, to make them feel at home,” he riposted.

“One can only wonder what manner of stranger usually finds her way to Ashford!”

He passed a disparaging eye over her toilette and said, “We appear to be on the route to Tunbridge Wells, madam. No doubt you are familiar with the place.”

She would
not
come to cuffs with Tony’s uncle. He was a bad-natured skint, and she would
not
let him goad her to indiscretion. “Only with its reputation, sir,” she said demurely. “I hear the chalybeate springs are very beneficial to the elderly. Do you find it so?”

Avedon was momentarily thrown for a loss by her new act of modesty. Was there a glint of laughter in those bold eyes? As her meaning sank in, he could hardly believe the chit’s gall. Calling him an old man! And to make it worse, he could think of no clever reply to set her down. “I would like to see you at Chenely, Bigelow, as soon as you unload that stuff. Good day, ma’am.” He lifted his hat and stalked off, the blood pounding in his ears.

Tony shifted his burden, and the pail fell clattering to the cobblestones. “Now what the deuce has got him in a pucker?” he asked.

Lucy recovered the pail and carried it herself. “Is he always so foul-tempered?” she asked.

“Only when he’s mad at me—that’s most of the time.”

“Why is he angry with you now? Has it got something to do with me?” Lucy asked, bewildered.

“Nothing to do with you, my dear. It has to do with money, you see. He’s the greatest skint the world has seen since Adam was driven out of Eden. He thinks we should all stick our blunt in the funds like him.”

Lucy pondered this and felt that she had fallen into opprobrium because of her escort. “I hope he doesn’t think I let you buy all these things!”

“That’s probably it,” Tony said, “but I shall let him know you wouldn’t let me pay a sou.”

She was sorry to have met Avedon under such adverse circumstances, but then, a man of such unsteady temperament would never be an agreeable friend, so she tried to forget him. They stowed the articles in the curricle and returned to Rose Cottage, where they arrived not ten minutes after Lady Sara’s departure.

It had not been Lady Sara’s intention to honor the ladies with a second visit, but she was put in a good mood by the large order for comestibles received from Rose Cottage. Her curiosity was also rampant. Having called so soon after their arrival yesterday, she could not accurately discover in what manner they held house. She was curious to assess their china, their tea, the apparel of their servants, and most of all to get another look at the widow to see whether she was quite the thing after all.

Her chief aim was not achieved, but she greedily stored up the news that Bigelow was off to Ashford with Mrs. Percy. Avedon would be furious. The highest stickler in the world could not have found a fault in the chaperon. Much as Lady Sara disliked to own it, she was impressed with the lady’s speech, her Wedgwood china, her bohea tea, and the immaculate attire of her servants.

Even the literature displayed on the sofa table was unexceptionable. No naughty Lord Byron assaulted her eyes. It was a collection of Gray’s poetry that lay opened, face down, indicating that someone was actually reading it. John was especially fond
of “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard.”
The chaperon expressed every regret at the decimation of the roses, and indeed it sounded exactly like the sort of muddle Tony
would
make of things.

“It was kind of Lord Bigelow to have us to lunch yesterday,” Mrs. Percy mentioned. “I would have sent the servants on ahead to take care of the kitchen, but I was shutting up my London residence, and they were fully occupied.”

A London residence was carefully noted and its location obtained.

“In Belgrave Square. A sprawling place much too big for me, but it has been in the family for years, and I do not like to part with it.” Naturally it was not said that this domicile had been in her husband’s family, not her own.

Lady Sara was eager to discuss the widow and went at it by indirection. “Your late brother was somewhat younger than yourself, I take it?” The interesting possibility had occurred to Lady Sara that the young widow might have nabbed an old gentleman from a higher class than herself.

“Twenty years younger.”

No luck there. “What a pity! A young man cut down in the prime of life. Where was he killed?”

Mrs. Percy and her niece had not anticipated such close questioning, and had not hammered out all the details. “Ciudad Rodrigo,” she said, and made a mental note to tell Lucy so they would not contradict each other.

“I have a neighbor in Hampshire whose son lost an arm there,” Lady Sara said, and went on to make a few pious remarks on the evil of war, as befitted a deacon’s wife.

Mrs. Percy used it as an excuse to discover exactly what diocese Dr. Rutledge was connected with. “St. Giles,” Lady Sara said. “Our bishop is old Norris, a regular antique, but my husband will smarten him up when he—that is to say—the archdeacon’s seat is open. I expect Dr. Rutledge will receive the promotion.”

Mrs. Percy thought it best to close this subject before Lady Sara said things she might later regret. The visit progressed agreeably. Lady Sara thought, as she drove home in Avedon’s crested carriage, that they had been hasty in castigating the newcomers. She had little feminine company at Chenely, virtually none at close range with Tony’s mama away. So long as the widow made no effort to nab Tony, the two houses would remain on terms.

The instant she set foot in the door, she was met with a scowling Avedon, who hailed her into his study to hear his news. “I met that jackass of a Tony in the village, serving as packhorse to the widow,” he began, and added details of Tony’s burden. “What is to be done about her, Sal?” he finished.

“Oh, dear! And I have just been at Rose Cottage for a coze with the husband’s sister.”

“We agreed to keep our distance from the pair of them!”

“That was a bit previous of us. There were a few things I wished to discover, and really the chaperon seems well-bred. She was reading Gray’s
‘Elegy,’
and that, you know, indicates breeding.”

“Well, the widow is a saucy baggage, and they must both be got rid of at once.”

Lady Sara was not to be bulloxed into any decision till she was ready. “I don’t see how it can be done. They have rented the cottage for a year.”

“She’ll have a proposal out of Tony within a week. He’s hanging on her apron strings like a demmed puppy. He was there last night, after I ordered him—”

“We could send Tony off
to Cousin Morton.”

“He’d head straight to Tunbridge Wells if I let him out of my sight. At least I can keep an eye on him here.”