How To Rescue A Rake (Book Club Belles Society 3) (15 page)

Diana was accompanied on her journey to Bath by Justina’s husband, who offered the use of his own carriage, since he was visiting his stepmother to make certain her recent ideas for renovations to a house there would not result in the roof caving in or his bank account being severely strained. The lady seemed to have questionable taste and absolutely no financial sense. The renovations had been under discussion for some time, but Darius Wainwright had avoided the visit as long as he could. Diana suspected it would not have been made even now, if not for her need of a gentleman escort and Justina’s insistence.

Since the companion travelers were both of a reserved nature, their journey by carriage was mostly quiet and completely uneventful. Diana was glad of it. As they traveled, her senses were filled with all the new sights, sounds, and smells of life beyond her experience, and she wanted to let them all soak in without the interruption of polite conversation. Darius Wainwright obliged by having his head in a newspaper quite often.

On their route they made several stops at various coaching inns, and on more than one occasion Diana saw dray carts with the name “Sherringham and Mawbry” painted on the side. What a strange coincidence, she mused. Nathaniel would laugh at the irony of a distant relative, or someone simply with the same name, owning a brewery. He had always been fond of good ale. Too fond.

As the carriage rattled along, Diana caught her reflection in the window, smiling sadly. Oh no! Was that a tear gleaming in her eye? She hastily wiped it away.

Each mile they traveled took her farther from Nathaniel, but only physically, she realized. If anything, her mind was fixed upon him more than ever. Ironically it was worse even than the sadness of leaving her mother and the Book Club Belles behind. At least she knew she would see
them
again.

Oddly enough, Nathaniel had accused Diana of having no feelings, when in fact the opposite was true. She knew now that she had too many. The only way she could manage their number was to keep them quiet and subdued, as was proper. As her mother had taught her.

For comfort on her journey Diana had brought along the copy of
Persuasion
. It was sneaky, she supposed, to finish reading it behind her friends’ backs, but none of them had been enjoying Anne Elliot’s story as much as she had. Diana was sure of that. Now she would have the opportunity to read it alone, without hearing anyone else criticize Anne at every pause. She wanted the freedom to sigh over Captain Wentworth and pity sweet Anne without needing to justify her feelings or stop reading when the others were distracted by their far more exciting lives.

Soon she would be in Bath and surrounded by new faces. It would be pleasant to have
Persuasion
at her side, the familiar characters keeping her company at night.

But thoughts of Nathaniel continued worming their way into Diana’s thoughts through Anne Elliot’s eyes as she studied the character and motivations of her Captain Frederick Wentworth.

She understood him. He could not forgive her; but he could not be unfeeling. Though condemning her for the past, and considering it with high and unjust resentment, though perfectly careless of her, and though becoming attached to another, still he could not see her suffer, without the desire of giving her relief. It was a remainder of former sentiment; it was an impulse of pure, though unacknowledged friendship; it was a proof of his own warm and amiable heart, which she could not contemplate without emotions so compounded of pleasure and pain that she knew not which prevailed.

Diana closed her book and stared out the carriage window again.

It would do her no good to dwell on that man. She was meant to find renewal and refreshment on this visit. Her strange, confused fancy for Nathaniel—that charismatic troublemaker—had to be squashed. He would marry Lucy and be far away again by the time she returned to Hawcombe Prior. Then perhaps she could find peace, no longer torn between duty and desire.

Even if he had once climbed the oak tree to throw a message through her window, that was just a moment in his reckless past.

If only she knew what that note had contained. He would not tell her now, of course. His pride was wounded. The contents of that mysterious letter would remain his secret and she could only cause herself pain by imagining the things it might have said. If it ever truly existed.

What did it matter now?

Life had moved on for him.

She looked down at her ringless left hand where it was spread on the cover of her book. Miss Jane Austen had never married, as her mother pointed out, yet look what she had managed to achieve!

Diana cheered her spirits by reminding herself that she had survived perfectly well without a husband. She would continue to do so.

As the carriage trundled along toward Bath, Diana became resolved to experience as much of life as she could while she was there. To not let herself mope or tire even for a moment. She would prove that she was her own person. She had all her limbs and considerable intelligence, and thanks to Dr. Penny’s tonic, she was recovering her health.

After all, Diana, along with Minerva and Vesta, was one of three virgin goddesses in Roman mythology. They didn’t need men either.

* * *

“How good of you, Captain Sherringham, to bring my dear niece to Bath,” exclaimed the small lady who greeted Nathaniel and Caroline in a dreary parlor several days later.

With her slow gestures and drooping demeanor, Mrs. Ashby reminded Nathaniel of a weary old cat—the sort that seldom moved from its warm spot by the fire except to follow a treat. There was a distinct odor of mustiness about the woman’s person as she moved forward with slumberous grace. A dingy lace cap trimmed with a wilted black ribbon hung listlessly around a delicate, powder-pale face from which two downward-slanting gray eyes peered out at him.

“I did not think she would ever come again. But here she is. I shall have to put out the best china, shan’t I?” She glanced fearfully at Caroline. “So seldom these days do I have visitors to my humble little abode.”

Her niece said nothing, but yawned widely. Nathaniel expressed his condolences for the passing of the lady’s daughter.

Mrs. Ashby nodded with her eyes closed, as if her head was too heavy for the motion. “It is a great hardship to lose one’s only daughter, one’s only child.” She dabbed her moist eyes with a handkerchief. “But I must press on. I daresay it won’t be too long before I am reunited with my Eleanor.”

Not knowing what to say to that, Nathaniel made a few harmless comments about the building and its convenient spot in the center of town.

“There is much to be said for convenience,” Mrs. Ashby agreed, drooping further, “but it is not a fashionable part of town, you know. My daughter was rather aggrieved that we were reduced to living here. Not that she ever complained. Even when she fell ill, not a bad or impatient word crossed my Eleanor’s lips. She suffered greatly, Captain, but with bravery.”

Caroline interrupted to apprise her aunt of the many ailments
she
suffered. The journey had apparently exacerbated many of her imaginary conditions, from the way she now described them. Her cousin’s demise had taken attention from her, of course, and that would not be borne.

Her aunt listened with great forbearance and then rang for tea—the ubiquitous restorative. Nathaniel would have made his escape as soon as it was polite, but Mrs. Ashby sat beside him, trapping him on the small, worn sofa, and talked further about her deceased daughter, clearly preferring his company to that of her niece.

Years of flirting and charming the ladies had left Nathaniel with an inability to overlook tears or to turn away when he sensed he might be of some use. One of the few things he’d been good at as a young man was cheering a lady out of a sad mood. He’d always thought it was bad form to walk away from someone in distress. Therefore he remained in Mrs. Ashby’s damp, grim parlor long after he had meant to take his leave. Whenever he began to rise from the sofa, her face fell half an inch, and thus he stayed and drank yet another tepid cup of overly sweetened tea.

At one point the lady took an oval portrait from the drawer of a small Pembroke table beside the sofa and showed it to him. As she unwrapped the black velvet cloth and placed the small portrait in his palm, she explained in a soft, wavering voice that her daughter had sat for the miniature painting as a wedding gift for her fiancé.

“It was just sent to me from the framer. See how pretty she was, Captain. I have the duty of passing this into her fiancé’s hands this very evening. I wish I did not need to part with it, but my Eleanor would want Mr. Plumtre to have it. The portrait was meant for him. If only the task of delivery had not been set upon my shoulders. I shall not know what to say to the sad fellow.”

Nathaniel studied the portrait and dutifully proclaimed the pale, very gaunt Miss Eleanor Ashby to be a “rose indeed.” But his mind was filled with another face, eyes shining up at him, lashes wet with rain. He could not escape Diana’s power. She might be out of sight, but never out of mind.

“She was the sweetest of daughters, Captain.” Mrs. Ashby wiped her eyes again and while he still held the portrait, waiting to pass it back to her, she suddenly had an idea that raised her spirits. “Why, Captain, you must dine with us at the Plumtres’ this evening at Wollaford Park. Perhaps you can give Eleanor’s portrait to her fiancé and save me the discomfort. Oh yes, surely you could! It would be the very thing!”

He was astonished. “But, madam, I do not—”

“You have a kind face, Captain, and a smile with much warmth.” She was set upon the idea even after so short an acquaintance. “It will be easier for a man, I think, to fulfill the duty. Especially a gentleman such as yourself with no attachment to the matter.”

“Surely, you—”

“At Wollaford you will meet my oldest friend, Fanny. She is Mr. Plumtre’s mother and a sprightly widow. She and I have known one another many years. Goodness, the merry times we once had together.” She paused, sighing, screwing her handkerchief tight in her hands, and tugging on his sympathy. “Her family is such a support to me, for without them now I would be”—she glanced over at Caroline—“quite alone.”

Preoccupied with assessing the view from the window, Caroline remarked that her tea was cold, as well as slightly bitter.

There was a pause and then Mrs. Ashby attempted a more cheerful tone. At least for half a sentence. “It is lucky indeed that you come at this time, for the Plumtres have just taken up residence at Wollaford for the summer. I doubt I could have amused you by myself, had you come earlier in the spring while they were all still in London. Dear me, no. I am not very interesting company at the best of times, but of late…with Eleanor gone…” She ruffled the surface of her tea with a lilting sigh, her voice fading.

Nathaniel assured her that he was in Bath on business and only for a short stay, so she need not worry about his entertainment. “I merely delivered your niece safely to you for company in this time of grief. And I’m sure she has come only to comfort you, not to seek society.”

“Company? Yes…of course.” Again she cast her niece a dubious glance.

“I haven’t been here for ages.” Caroline surveyed the small parlor with utter disinterest. “How odd it is not to see Eleanor sitting there on the sofa sewing away with her little fingers, so meek and mouse-like. Is it not strange how the presence of one nondescript creature can be missed when it is not there?”

Nathaniel winced at this thoughtless comment and Mrs. Ashby was silent, gazing at her lap.

“Dear, dear Eleanor,” Caroline added with a yawn, toes nonchalantly tapping on the carpet. She must have caught Nathaniel’s stern glare, for then she sat up and went on. “I was so grieved when I heard that I struggled to finish my lemon ice and had to go directly to my chamber. I didn’t get up again for a week and had to be served all my meals in bed. Even now I am not my full self. I shouldn’t be surprised if there is some horrid tumor lurking in me. Or a fever waiting to strike me down.”

Nathaniel cleared his throat. “Fortunately you remain capable of speech.” If only her tenderness for her cousin and aunt was as deeply felt as her own imagined pains.

“The Plumtres will be pleased to see you, Caroline,” said Mrs. Ashby, soldiering bravely on. “Jonty was married last year to a very fine and fashionable young lady from Oxford. A little too fine for me, I fear. But his sisters are still unattached and lively young things. And then there is his brother, George”—she turned to Nathaniel—“my Eleanor’s fiancé. We do not know what to do for George. He buries his sorrow, as he buries his nose, in volumes of intense poetry.”

Caroline sighed heavily and said under her breath but still audibly, “Sakes! It’s been six months at least.”

Mrs. Ashby pretended not to hear. “But the girls will brighten up the evening for you no doubt, Captain, if you are so good as to join us at Wollaford. Susanna is just turned eighteen and her sister, Daisy, a year younger, I think. Delightful girls, always pleasant company.”

“Those Plumtre girls are terribly wild,” Caroline murmured, pausing to yawn again. “They have no regard for any other person’s nerves. To them, everything is a great lark. It’s no wonder their brother wanted to marry Eleanor, if only for some peace from his noisy sisters. They always give me a horrendous sore head.”

Again Mrs. Ashby’s eyes watered at the careless, passing mention of her daughter’s name.

“In any case”—Caroline rolled onward—“Sherry isn’t here to amuse silly girls. He’s apparently off the company of women.” She sneered. “Doesn’t want them hanging all over him.”

Nathaniel cast her a stern look, but she was yawning again, her eyes closed.

What he had said was that he wasn’t in the market for a mistress, but he could not say that in front of Mrs. Ashby. So he turned to the lady beside him and smiled. “Your friends sound delightful. I very much look forward to meeting them.”

He could see he would have to stay tonight and appease Mrs. Ashby by fulfilling the task she dreaded. Additionally, the thought of leaving this poor woman to her niece’s selfish company seemed callous. It might be said that he had added to the woman’s burden by delivering her niece to Bath, where she was clearly not wanted and would only cause distress and inconvenience. The least he could do was complete this uncomfortable errand for the mourning aunt.