Baroness in Buckskin (16 page)

“An accident?” Mrs. Cummings echoed in real alarm. “Why, what happened?”

Susannah fumbled in her reticule for the receipt, and thus avoided Mrs. Cummings’s eye. “She, er, fell on the stairs.”

“Oh, dear! I trust she is not seriously injured. How did it happen?”

“Er—”

Seeing Susannah floundering for an answer, Peter came to her rescue. “Neither Miss Ramsay nor I were present when it took place, so we cannot say for certain. Thankfully, there appear to be no bones broken, but she must stay off her ankle for a few days.”

They left a short time later, amidst emphatic promises from the vicar’s wife to call upon the invalid. Although Mrs. Cummings’s concern was no doubt real, Susannah found herself hoping that she would make the promised call alone. In all honesty, she could not say she found the vicarage girls agreeable, in spite of their nearness to her own age. She thought Miss Amanda Cummings insipid, and Miss Lydia silly. Even little Miss Mary, who seemed to feel just as she ought on the subject of marriage, was nevertheless brazenly outspoken at an age when, as everyone knew, children were to be seen and not heard; Susannah only hoped that by the time that damsel made her own come-out four or five years hence, Peter would be married or otherwise safely removed from her grasp. As for the vicar’s niece, Miss Hunsford, she was the worst of all—a simpering ninny who apparently thought her dowry would have every man in London falling at her feet. That it was in fact Miss Lydia and not Miss Hunsford who had voiced such a prediction in no way altered Susannah’s opinion of the heiress.

A vain man may become proud

and imagine himself pleasing to all

when he is in reality a universal nuisance.

BENEDICT [BARUCH] SPINOZA,
Ethics

Over the next several days, the residents of Ramsay Hall struggled to find a new equilibrium. The groom fashioned a crutch for Jane, and by leaning her weight upon it, she was able to hobble from room to room. Climbing the stairs was quite another matter, so one of the salons on the ground floor had been fitted out as a temporary bedchamber. Susannah assumed charge of the staff, at first merely relaying Jane’s orders, but later, as her confidence grew, venturing to issue instructions of her own. With the running of the household in her American cousin’s increasingly capable hands, Jane spent most of her time in the drawing room, either resting on the sofa with her ankle elevated or sitting at the small rosewood desk writing out cards of invitation to the ball which would be held in two weeks’ time. In spite of the myriad tasks to be completed before this event, Jane was determined to follow the physician’s instructions to the letter so that she might be back on her feet in time for the ball—not that she had any expectation of enjoying this celebration of the death of her hopes; in fact, she was quite determined that her interesting (and inexplicable) injury should not usurp the attention that rightfully belonged to Susannah.

Indeed, she was already getting far more attention than she wished. The Aunts walked up from the Dower House every morning, usually bearing a black bottle of some noxious potion from Aunt Charlotte’s stillroom which, they assured her, would have her back on her feet before the cat could lick her ear. Jane accepted these medicaments with expressions of gratitude, then tipped them into a potted plant as soon as the Aunts’ backs were turned. (The fact that one of these plants died within forty-eight hours after receiving such a treatment was a source of much hilarity amongst the residents of Ramsay Hall.)

Jane only wished she could deal in so cavalier a manner with Sir Matthew Pitney. Alas, once word of her indisposition reached Pitney Grange, Jane’s ardent suitor had lost no time in paying his respects, bearing with him an armload of flowers which, she thought, must have utterly denuded his gardens. In this supposition she proved to be mistaken, for he appeared in the drawing room every day with a similar offering, expressing his fervent wishes for her good health, and his conviction that such an accident never would have occurred had she been safely housed beneath his own roof.

“Of that, Sir Matthew, I am certain,” she murmured, determinedly avoiding the gaze of Richard, who glowered at his neighbor from a wingchair on the opposite side of Jane’s sofa.

Sir Matthew, surprised and gratified by her unexpected agreement, might have pressed his suit in spite of Lord Ramsay’s rather daunting presence, had the butler not appeared at that moment to announce a bevy of new callers.

“Mrs. Cummings, Miss Cummings, Miss Lydia Cummings, and Miss Hunsford,” Wilson proclaimed, then stepped back to allow the vicar’s wife and her charges to enter.

“How kind of you to call,” Jane began, struggling to sit upright and thus make room for at least two of the newcomers at the other end of the sofa.

“No, Jane, stay where you are.” Richard rose and offered his chair to Mrs. Cummings, and Sir Matthew was quick to follow his example. “Wilson, bring chairs from the dining room—and the tea tray, if you please.”

Any hopes Jane might have entertained that Sir Matthew would take his leave with the influx of new callers died when the additional chairs were brought and he planted himself in the one nearest her head.

“Your cousin Miss Ramsay told me you had fallen on the stairs,” Mrs. Cummings said, accepting Jane’s invitation to pour out the tea. “I was never more shocked!”

“Where is Miss Ramsay, anyway?” piped up Lydia, taking a cup of tea from her mother’s hand and bearing it precariously across the room to Sir Matthew.

“She and Mr. Ramsay have gone out riding,” Jane said. “He had to see to the thatching of one of the cottages, and has taken her along to introduce her to some of the tenants. I daresay they will return shortly.”

The vicar’s wife nodded in approval. “A capable young man, and a very pretty-behaved one, too.”

“Most of the time,” Richard muttered under his breath.

The young man in question looked into the drawing room a short time later accompanied by Susannah, the latter looking charmingly windblown in a stylish riding habit of bottle green velvet which had been delivered by his lordship’s tailor only that morning, said tailor having been paid a premium to complete this order ahead of several other projects.

“I beg your pardon, Cousin Jane,” Peter said, drawing up short at the sight of no fewer than three young ladies giggling up at him. “I didn’t know you were entertaining callers. If you will excuse me, ladies, Sir Matthew, I will change out of my riding clothes. Cousin Susannah, you had best do the same.”

He took a step backward, but was forestalled by a chorus of female protests. “Pray don’t go on our account, Mr. Ramsay,” objected Miss Cummings, speaking for the group. “Surely you need not stand upon ceremony with such old friends as we are.”

“I daresay I can claim a longstanding friendship with you and your sisters, Miss Cummings, but I have only just met your cousin,” Peter pointed out. “I should hate to prejudice Miss Hunsford against me by sitting down in all my dirt.”

“And how are we to further our acquaintance, Mr. Ramsay, if you insist upon spending all your time changing clothes?” Miss Hunsford asked, smiling coyly up at him in a way that, to one pair of eyes at least, somehow appeared both demure and predatory at the same time.

For Susannah was experiencing a most unwelcome epiphany. That unlikeliest of possibilities, that an unattached heiress should appear in rural Hampshire, had apparently come to pass—and the heiress in question appeared to take more than a passing interest in Peter’s
beaux yeux
. Since Miss Hunsford would not be travelling to London until the spring, he would have plenty of time to fix his interest with her before the more comfortably circumstanced gentlemen of the
ton
would give him any competition. It seemed to Susannah that he might be able to achieve his dream of becoming master of Fairacres after all. Surely anyone who claimed friendship with Peter must be happy for him; why, then, did she suddenly feel like scratching the heiress’s eyes out?

She shook off the question for which she could find no satisfactory answer, and focused her attention on the conversation just in time to hear Mrs. Cummings address Jane.

“I’m sure this forced inactivity must be difficult for you, Miss Hawthorne,” the vicar’s wife was saying. “You are not the sort to be content with idleness.”

“No, indeed I am not! Fortunately, Miss Ramsay has been invaluable as far as the daily running of the household is concerned, so I need have no concerns on that head.” She glanced at the little pile of vellum cards on the writing desk. “But I have not been idle, for there is to be a ball in two weeks’ time to introduce Miss Ramsay to the neighborhood gentry, and I have been making out the invitations. You may expect to receive one within the next few days; do say you and Mr. Cummings will accept, and bring Miss Cummings and Miss Hunsford.”

Mrs. Cummings glanced uncertainly at her elder daughter and niece. “Certainly we would love to attend. I don’t doubt it will do the girls a great deal of good to break in their dancing slippers, so to speak, at a country ball before they are presented in London next spring. I only hope their lack of experience in such matters will not make you regret extending your kind invitation.”

“Not at all,” Jane assured her. “In fact, Miss Ramsay shares their dilemma, so I have conceived the notion of having a small party one afternoon next week to allow the young people to practice their dancing before the event. I had hoped to make up one of the set myself, but since Dr. Calloway forbids it, I wonder if you would allow Miss Lydia to take my place. It is not like a formal ball,” she added quickly, anticipating the objections inherent in issuing such an invitation to a young lady not yet out in Society, “and I should not press you to allow it if you cannot like the idea. But it would, as you say, allow Miss Lydia to gain a little experience in such situations before she makes her own come-out in a few years, and, well, I should be very much obliged to you.”

“Oh, do say I may, Mama!” begged Lydia, bouncing up and down on her chair in excitement.

“Hush, child, and be still, lest you demonstrate to Miss Hawthorne just how unprepared you are to make such appearances.” Having reduced her middle daugh-ter to anguished silence, she turned back to Jane. “I cannot agree to such a thing without discussing it first with my husband. Still, he is usually guided by me in matters concerning the girls, and I suppose I can have no objection, since your injury will leave you one female short of a set otherwise.”

Lydia collapsed against the back of her chair, heaving a sigh of patent relief. Sir Matthew, seeing this, chuckled.

“I hope I am to be invited to this party as well, Miss Hawthorne. If not, I shall be quite as devastated as Miss Lydia, should our good vicar deny her such a treat.”

“Why, you are welcome to come, Sir Matthew, if that is what you wish,” Jane said, surprised and not at all pleased. “But it is to be little more than a school-room party, you know. I fear you will be shockingly bored.”

“I am sure no man could be bored in the midst of so much feminine beauty,” declared Sir Matthew to the room at large, then bent an avuncular smile upon Lydia. “Although I’m sure I must seem quite ancient to Miss Lydia here, I hope she will honour me with a dance.”

Lydia giggled at the novelty of being solicited for a dance just as if she were a grown up lady, but (it must be noted) made no attempt to deny the charge even as she agreed to Sir Matthew’s request.

The matter of the dancing party being settled, Peter and Susannah excused themselves to their respective rooms to change clothes and the vicarage party soon took their leave, punctuated by urgings by Mrs. Cummings that Miss Hawthorne was to send to the vicarage should she find herself in need of anything its inhabitants could provide. The door had hardly closed behind them when Richard rose from his chair.

“I hope you will not think me shockingly rude, Sir Matthew,” he began, although a more astute listener than Sir Matthew might have been aware that nothing in Lord Ramsay’s voice or bearing indicated great concern on his part, “but it is obvious all this enter-taining has exhausted Miss Hawthorne. I think we must bid you good day now.”

“What? Oh, yes, of course. I should not like to think of poor Miss Hawthorne suffering on my account. I shall take my leave at once, and hope to find you in better spirits tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Sir Matthew,” Jane said, offering her hand.

He bowed himself from the room with disjointed apologies for disturbing Miss Hawthorne’s peace and promises to call again upon the morrow, if he had not utterly worn out his welcome that afternoon.

“Impossible,” Richard told Jane once they were alone. “His welcome was worn out years ago.”

She smiled at this assertion, but made no attempt to dispute it. “Poor Sir Matthew! I could almost feel sorry for him, being dismissed so summarily. So I am ‘exhausted’ by the simple act of taking tea with fewer than half a dozen neighbors? I hope I am not so frail a creature!”

“Perhaps not, but you cannot tell me you are not tired, for I have only to look at your eyes to know better,” he said with mock severity.

“And now you are telling me I look hag-ridden!” Jane chided him. “It is no such thing, but I confess I did not sleep well last night. The sofa is comfortable enough, but it cannot take the place of my own bed.”

“In that case, you shall lie on your own bed.”

He took her hands and pulled her to her feet. Recognizing that it would be pointless to argue, she positioned the crutch under her arm.

“You realize, of course, that by the time I make it all the way up the stairs with my crutch, it will be time to come down again.”

“
Damn
your crutch.”

He pulled it from beneath her arm and tossed it to the floor, then swept her up in his arms.

“Ah, there you are, Wilson,” he said, seeing the butler standing in the hall goggling at them. “I am taking Miss Hawthorne up to her room to rest. Pray have her woman attend her there.”

“Er, yes, my lord,” said Wilson, and promptly made himself scarce.