Patricia Rice (15 page)

“I wish to consult with several of the property
owners in the vicinity,” Mr. Warwick—nay, MacTavish—said stiffly later
that morning, as he stood in the foyer addressing Bea and her aunt,
looking somewhat like a beleaguered giant. “Would you care to accompany
me into the village while I do so, Miss Cavendish?”

Bea couldn’t imagine why she would, but if he
thought this a necessary part of the charade they must play, she ought
to go along with it. She couldn’t believe her child-loving aunt would
return the children to their drunken father, but she saw no sense in
taking chances either.

She just wished she knew what name to call her “suitor.”

“You must call me Bea,” she said politely, aware
that her aunt was listening. She wasn’t entirely certain how one went
about a courtship, but informality seemed appropriate.

Mr. MacTavish’s stern face cracked a smile. “And you must call me Mac. It’s a fine day for a brief jaunt.”

Perhaps she ought to simply enjoy the courtship
experience, knowing that nothing would come of it. She needn’t fret if
her hair strayed or her gown became dusty or if she said the wrong
thing. “Should I bring the children?”

Aunt Constance immediately intruded. “No, no, of
course not, dear. You go on with your young man and have a fine time.”
She smiled flirtatiously at Mac and patted his arm. “If you won’t, I
will.”

Gazing at the toes of her shoes, Bea bit back a
conspiratorial smile. “Of course, Aunt Constance. I’ll fetch my bonnet,
shall I?”

Stiffening even more beneath her aunt’s triumphant
smile, Mac caught Bea’s arm and all but dragged her toward the door.
“The day is too fine for bonnets,” he declared, “and your hair serves as
crowning glory enough. Time is wasting.” As he pulled her outside, he
threw over his shoulder, “You are all that is gracious, Lady Taubee.”

Bea thought she’d burst out laughing before they
reached the carriage. “You are as inept at courting as I am about being
courted,” she murmured as he helped her in.

“Just be glad I’m not forced to sit in your parlor,
sipping tea,” he said grimly, climbing up beside her. “I would go mad
and probably swing from the chandeliers.”

“An excess of energy, Mr. MacTavish?”

“That’s one way of putting it.” He shook the reins
and set the horses into a trot. “Keep in mind that I’m a bachelor, and
you’re an attractive woman, and don’t wear too many of those dresses
like the one last night if you expect me to keep my wits about me.”

Startled, she glanced over at the grim set of his jaw. “You didn’t like my gown?”

He shot her a blunt look that expressed far more
than she wished him to put into words. “Don’t turn coy on me. Three
weeks is a dashed long time, and we’ve already discussed your
appearance. If you need more flattery, find Dav.”

“I’m having difficulty separating honesty from
impertinence, sir. Perhaps it’s best if we lay down a few rules. I won’t
tell you what to wear if you don’t tell me the same.”

He huffed an exasperated sigh. “I knew there were
reasons why I never tried discussing anything with a woman. I swear you
don’t even try to understand.”

“I would
try
, if you would
just explain. You tell me not to wear one of my best evening gowns, and
I’m supposed to take that as some sort of warning?” Bea wished she had
thought to bring her parasol so she might beat him about the head until
some intelligence emerged.

He halted the carriage to allow a flock of sheep to
saunter across the drive. She thought a flush of red stained his
cheekbones as he stared straight ahead.

“I’ve told you I’m not comfortable around women. Not
ladies, anyway. The other kind...” He stopped and rearranged his words
just as they became interesting. “I’m not about to explain a man’s
nature to you,” he continued gruffly. “Just take my word for it that you
will get much more sense out of me if you dress as you are now.”

“Since I’m not getting much sense out of you now,
I’m quite certain I’d rather not see you completely senseless,” Bea
agreed pertly. “I will not wear the purple gown again, but Aunt
Constance will insist that I wear colors. She berated me quite firmly
for going back to blacks.”

“Color has nothing to do with it.” As the last sheep
ambled across, he glanced down at her again. “Wrap yourself in shawls,
and I shall strive to keep my mind on more... uplifting topics.” Tugging
on his necktie as if it were strangling him, he reddened and turned
away.

His words might be puzzling, but the way his glance
had lingered on her bodice was not. Beatrice’s breasts tightened against
the fabric of her chemise, and she did her best not to look down at
herself. She started to straighten her shoulders, thought better of it,
and pulled her shawl around her despite the day’s warmth.

She didn’t know whether to die of embarrassment or
wallow in the pleasure of knowing she could distract him with her...
uplifted topics. Her breasts had been more nuisance than pleasure
before, but they tingled with expectation now.

Fearing that path, she set her mind firmly on the straight and narrow. “Why are we going into town?”

“Carstairs mentioned you have an unused mill and a
source of power, and I want to talk to a few people about what uses they
could be put to.”

“The river does not always run strong, so the mill
cannot operate continuously. I think it was once used for grinding corn,
but there are cheaper sources of corn than trying to repair the mill.”
Bea liked it when he looked at her with approval like that.

“So you do know a thing or two about the estate.” It
wasn’t quite admiration tingeing his voice, but for a man who didn’t
speak flattery, it was close enough.

“My father talked. I listened. I knitted and embroidered and played the piano, and listened. My opinion wasn’t required.”

“I see.” They reached the summit of the hill before descending into the village, and he slowed the carriage.

Below, a woman in broad homespun skirts and a
kerchief chased a boy in breeches and cap into the house with the clip
of her hand against his ear. Beyond that, there seemed to be little
activity.

“Do you have an opinion on the use of the mill?” he inquired thoughtfully as they began the descent.

Bea drew in a deep breath and wondered if he really
expected a reply. “I understand some of Father’s sheep were bred for the
fine quality of their wool. I’ve heard of several towns using their
mills for spinning wool for carpets, but our wool is apparently too fine
for that. I thought... well, blankets might be loomed if we could use
local wool.”

“Blankets? I hadn’t thought of that.” Skillfully, he
handled the brake and the horses until they arrived at the inn. “Do you
know anything about wool spinning?”

That easily deflated her burgeoning hopes. “No.”

“No matter. There are ways to find out. Our cotton
mills are becoming industrialized in Virginia, but wool is tougher and
still produced by hand. There may be a process that suits this mill.” He
climbed from the carriage and came around to help her.

They had industrialized mills in Virginia. She had
always thought of that land as being fierce and filled with log cabins.
She really must learn more about his home. She accepted his hand without
thinking and was startled by his strength as he lifted her down.

Digby appeared in the inn doorway, wiping his hands
on an immaculate white apron. “Good morning, Miss Cavendish, Mr.
Warwick. Mr. Overton is waiting inside.”

“Good morning, Digby. I love the new sign, and the
bay window sparkles just like at home. How’s Mrs. Digby?” Hurriedly
disengaging her hand, Bea smiled at her ex-butler as he offered his arm
while Mac fastened the horses. She couldn’t blame the Digbys for leaving
her and investing their inheritance in the inn. She’d thought it rather
romantic that they’d married after all those years of working together.

“Mrs. Digby is in her idea of heaven,” Digby
responded with pleasure. “The new linens have arrived, and she’s sorting
and cleaning and stacking and preparing for guests. We’ll be fortunate
to have a fresh cup of tea out of her.”

Mr. Rector and his wife strolled across the street
to join the conversation. “There’s not a time when Mrs. Digby has failed
to have fresh tea brewing,” the curate claimed. “Good morning, Miss
Cavendish. It’s a pleasure to see you here today. We thank your aunt for
the dinner invitation. She is all that is gracious.”

Dinner invitation?

Smythe hurried over from the dry-goods shop. “Tell
your aunt I’ve ordered the gold filigree and the emerald satin, but I
haven’t found a source for doves yet. Do you think pigeons might do? I
can order some excellent carrier pigeons.”

“Pigeons?” Her mind spinning at Smythe’s odd
questions, Bea absently wondered about the growing number of people in
the street. Clara Miller emerged from the milliner’s shop with her
sister, Jane. After greeting Mrs. White, the brewer’s wife, they hurried
toward the inn. Whatever on earth was happening to stir the entire
village like this?

Not quite catching Smythe’s reply as Mr.... Mac
steered her into the dim interior of the inn, she gazed in surprise at
the assorted faces already assembled in the taproom.

Digby had mentioned Mr. Overton’s presence, but she
counted her tenants, Farmingham and Dubbins and their wives; Mr. Green,
the blacksmith; and Lord Carstairs, whom she thought had left for
London. What in the name of heaven had Mac done to gather all these
people together? And why?

“Why do they all seem to be watching us?” she whispered anxiously.

She jumped as Mac took her arm and led her through
the throng. Had Mr. Digby just winked at the curate? Surely, they didn’t
all really believe...

“Perhaps your aunt has been busy,” he murmured.

She colored as she considered what her aunt might have said to the townsfolk.

Except for Hugo Carstairs, the baron, these were all
people she knew, so she had no need to be nervous. She had just never
been in this sort of gathering, unless one counted church. And even with
church activities, she usually spoke only with the women over bake
sales or the like. Until the Digbys had taken over, the inn had been an
unsavory place, and she’d never been inside. She glanced around with
interest, trying to take her mind off the crowd and the collective
attention.

Ancient timbers framed the ceiling. A massive stone
fireplace filled the far wall. She suspected Digby had moved wing chairs
near the fireplace for the ladies, and that the benches lining the wall
were the usual seating. Sunlight sparkled through the mullioned bay
window.

“Have a seat... Bea,” Mac murmured in her ear as he
led her toward one of the chairs. “I think I might come to enjoy being
on a familiar basis with the squire’s daughter. His lordship is looking
at me with much suspicion.”

“I am not the one related to half the nobility of
Great Britain,” she said dryly, undeterred by his nonsense. “You do not
think Lord Carstairs or his brother have heard the rumors about the
children, do you?”

“They’ve been in Somerset. Let’s hope they don’t
remember me as any more than your suitor when they reach London.” Mac
stepped back and shook hands with Overton as she settled into a chair.

Bea nervously tried to remember if Dav had seen the
children. She suspected that if he had, they’d been with Mary. Men like
the Carstairses didn’t bother themselves with children and servants. Mac
was right. They might suspect him of being a fortune hunter, but they
would not associate him with the viscount’s missing offspring.

As Overton led Mac over to talk with Bea’s tenants,
Clara Miller sidled up to her. “You’ve done yourself quite proud, Miss
Cavendish. These Americans are so much more... substantial, don’t you
agree?”

Substantial
? Bea’s lips
quivered in amusement as she regarded Mac’s... substantial shoulders.
“Yes, quite,” she murmured. The petite spinster had always made her
nervous by flitting about like a wren, peering and prying into
everything. Today she didn’t appear so daunting, and Bea didn’t feel so
much like a giantess in her company.

Had Mac’s interest in her “bounty” changed her perceptions? Could a man truly be interested in someone her size?

“Why is your aunt not here?” Miss Miller inquired.
“Surely she hasn’t left the village already. You will need a chaperone
with a man like that about.”

“Aunt Constance has little interest in our doings.”
The small matter of two urchins didn’t need mentioning, although the
warning about a chaperone shot a chill down Bea’s spine. She hadn’t
thought in terms of chaperones, but now that Mac had successfully warned
her that he didn’t find her unattractive, she ought to.

As people gradually settled into chairs and the
unofficial meeting came to order, she surreptitiously watched her
autocratic boarder maneuver malingerers into seats. If he was telling
the truth, and he actually came from a wealthy family, she didn’t
understand why he would have any interest in her.

Perhaps she was as much a novelty to Mac as he was to her. That must explain their interest in each other.

Satisfied, she sat back and let the men open the
meeting. Her father never would have included women, but now she was the
biggest landowner in the area. Of necessity, they must include her. Why
hadn’t she ever considered that before? She had authority.

Pleased with that idea, wondering how far it might
take her, she listened as the curate led a short prayer for the
betterment and improvement of Broadbury. Digby stood up and announced
the inn would soon open for guests, and that the kitchen would be open
for lunch as well as dinner. Mr. Smythe announced a new shipment of
muslin, and Clara Miller wanted to know why he couldn’t order more lace.

The meeting would have immediately deteriorated from
there, Bea surmised, if Mrs. Rector hadn’t stood up and asked if there
was any support for a cooperative that would allow them to group their
purchase needs and buy in quantity from the city, since Mr. Smythe could
stock only local products.