Sheri Cobb South (3 page)

For her part, Lady Fieldhurst divided her attention between Sir Gerald on her left and Mr. Danvers on her right. As Sir Gerald had no liking for Town life and the vicar rarely visited London, the conversation was somewhat belabored. At length the viscountess abandoned all efforts at finding common ground for discussion and cast about in her mind for some acceptable excuse she might offer for seeking her bed. For the present, however, there was nothing for it but to encourage Sir Gerald to describe for her the glories of the Dales, and allow the vicar to express his regret that, due to the excessive rains of the past weeks, she was not seeing the Yorkshire countryside at its best.

Apparently Miss Susannah Hollingshead’s thoughts were running along similar lines. “Will this rain never end?” she blurted out over the second course. “If the bridge washes out, everyone will have to stay the night—everyone but Mr. Danvers, anyway.”

Miss Grantham, who clearly subscribed to the philosophy that children should not speak unless spoken to, shot her a warning frown. The vicar, however, answered her with paternal kindness. “Never fear, Miss Susannah. The river has not flooded in almost half a century.”

“Tell me, Sir Gerald,” said Lady Fieldhurst, in an effort to deflect the scold that clearly trembled on the governess’s lips, “how is it that Hollingshead Place and the church are situated on one side of the river, while the village itself is positioned on the opposite bank?”

“You’d best ask Mr. Danvers about that,” boomed her host genially, deferring to the vicar. “What he don’t know about the district hasn’t been thought of yet.”

Mr. Danvers fairly beamed with pleasure. “You are too kind, Sir Gerald. But to answer your question, your ladyship, first of all, the river is not really a river at all, but merely a tributary that feeds into the River Nidd. As for the present location of the village, we have Sir Gerald’s seventeenth-century ancestor, Sir Reginald Hollingshead, to thank for that. Sir Reginald was a sportsman—”

“Jolly good fellow, in fact,” interpolated Sir Gerald.

“—And when he realized that the humblest villager had better access to trout fishing than he did, he moved the whole thing lock, stock and barrel, and extended his parkland to the water’s edge. He was a superstitious man, however—I hesitate to call him a religious one—and he dared not tamper with the church for fear of divine retribution. It proved to be a wise decision on his part, for later in the century the river provided him with a natural defense against the Roundheads. Unlike so many parts of the country, neither the house nor the church was attacked, at least not with any degree of success.”

“Sir Gerald was right,” observed Lady Fieldhurst. “You seem to be exceptionally knowledgeable about the area.”

“In truth, I fancy myself something of an historian,” confessed the vicar, modesty obviously warring with pride. “I am in the process of writing a book about the history of the village and its church.”

Across the table, Master Philip Hollingshead rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, and Lady Fieldhurst realized too late her error. The pained expressions on the faces around the table informed her that her fellow diners had already learned more than they wanted to know about the book from its proud author.

“I consider it my life’s work,” Mr. Danvers continued. “It has already grown to more than five hundred pages, and still it is not completely finished. It has been a fascinating exercise, studying the ancient church registries, reading about births, deaths, marriages—oh, I am reminded, Miss Grantham, I have something particular to ask you, if you would be so kind as to grant me an audience.”

Color flooded the governess’s cheeks, giving her something of the appearance of the young woman she had once been. “Why—why, certainly, Mr. Danvers. I should be honored.”

Mr. Danvers turned back to Lady Fieldhurst. “I flatter myself that I am somehow bringing history to life—if I may borrow from the words of Ezekiel, I feel as if I am putting flesh back on the dry bones of those long dead.”

“Yes, yes, but if we are to speak of flesh and bones,” said Miss Grantham, addressing herself to the Justice of the Peace, “when do you intend to put a stop to all this cock-fighting, Lord Kendall? It seems to me that such activities are a corrupting influence on young people.”

“Balderdash!” protested Sir Gerald before the Justice of the Peace could answer. “Harmless bit of sport, if you ask me. I’ve been known to frequent the odd cock fight myself now and then, back in my salad days.”

“I fear I must agree with Miss Grantham,” concurred Mr. Danvers, momentarily distracted from the subject of his literary efforts. “I think I may understand their attraction, as the countryside offers few diversions for youthful high spirits. Unfortunately, aside from the cruelty of the sport itself, such gatherings invariably attract the basest sort of company and encourage all kinds of vice—gambling, drunkenness, and lewd behavior, to name only a few. I should not want to think of a son of mine participating in such goings-on.”

This last was said with a pointed glance at Philip Hollingshead, who put up his chin and glared back at the vicar.

“He’d best get used to them, as most of ‘em will be his tenants someday,” said Sir Gerald.

“That may well be,” acknowledged Lady Anne with a regal nod. “Still, you cannot wish your son and heir to develop a taste for low society.”

“What, would you have the lad wrapped in cotton wool all his life?” continued Sir Gerald, his good humor unimpaired. “If we’re to talk of low company, Kendall, what do you make of these gypsies camped hereabouts? Poaching in my Home Wood, stealing the vicar’s chickens—

“Indeed, yes,” agreed Mr. Danvers, shaking his head. “I realize that we are called upon to aid the less fortunate, but while I would obey the biblical exhortation to give up my coat, and my cloak, too, I do draw the line at my best laying hen.”

“Gypsies!” cried Miss Susannah, clapping her hands in glee. “Oh, how romantic! How I should love to have my fortune told!”

“Susannah!” cried her mother, aghast. “What can Miss Grantham have been teaching you?”

Lord Kendall, Justice of the Peace, chuckled indulgently. “I’m afraid you would find very little romantic about them, Miss Susannah. They’re a dirty, thieving lot, for the most part.”

“Much as it grieves me to say such an uncharitable thing, I fear I must concur,” said the vicar. “They have made such inroads into my poultry that only last week I was obliged to purchase a fowling piece and gunpowder.”

“Surely you would not
shoot
them, Mr. Danvers?” protested Lady Kendall. “Better by far to let my husband deal with such matters.”

“Shoot the gypsies?” echoed the vicar in some consternation. “No, no! I provided myself with a firearm merely for the purpose of frightening them off with a warning shot.”

Lady Anne rose from her chair. “I think,” she said with the faintest hint of disapproval in her voice, “that it is high time we ladies left you gentlemen alone with your port, where you may shoot all the gypsies you wish. Miss Grantham, I understand my daughter has been preparing a new piece upon the pianoforte. Is she ready to entertain us?”

“Indeed she is, my lady,” said the governess hastily, painfully aware of having given offense by raising a sore subject at the dinner table. “Miss Susannah plays with great feeling, whatever she may lack in accuracy.”

This assessment proved to be more than generous. Lady Fieldhurst, applauding politely after Miss Susannah’s third piece, came to the conclusion that the girl either possessed a tin ear, or else her mind was still preoccupied with visions of gypsy fortune-tellers. Nevertheless, the viscountess seated herself beside the governess on the sofa and complimented her on her charge’s enthusiastic (she could find no more complimentary term without resorting to outright falsehood) performance.

All in all, it was a relief when the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room and the concert drew to a close. Nor, it seemed, was she the only one who found it so: Emma Hollingshead observed Colin Meriwether’s entrance with a smile of eager anticipation. The curate lost no time in claiming the chair beside hers, thus beating out a sullen Mr. Kendall for the honor. Likewise Mr. Danvers sought out Miss Grantham, who blushed like a schoolgirl at the vicar’s approach. Lady Fieldhurst, seeing that her presence was no longer required or even wanted, murmured a vague excuse and started to rise.

“No, no, my lady, you need not get up,” protested Mr. Danvers. “I only wanted to beg a favor of Miss Grantham.”

“Yes?” asked the governess breathlessly. “What is it?”

“Would you do me the honor—” He reached into his coat and drew out a thick parcel wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. “—Of checking my manuscript for errors? I should very much value your opinion.”

“Your—your manuscript?” Miss Grantham made no move to accept the package he offered, but stared blindly at it through pale eyes struggling to blink back tears. Lady Fieldhurst, seeing that quite a different sort of question had been expected, plunged hastily into the breach.

“Why, Miss Grantham, you must be a highly skilled grammarian! After hearing Mr. Danvers discuss his book at dinner, I suspect he would not entrust his life’s work to just anyone.”

“No, indeed,” agreed Mr. Danvers, blissfully unaware of having dashed a lady’s last hope of matrimony. “In fact, I was reluctant to request such a favor, knowing that your young charge can be quite a handful—though I am certain Miss Susannah is a good girl, merely high-spirited as young people so often are. Still, since you are the most qualified of all my acquaintance for such a task, I fear my own selfishness won out over any fear of adding to your responsibilities.”

Miss Grantham, twisting her handkerchief in trembling hands, appeared somewhat mollified. “Well, if I do say so myself, my own dear governess used to say that I had an exceptional grasp of the intricacies of language.”

By the time she bade Miss Susannah and Master Philip say their goodbyes and led them back to the schoolroom, she had consented to read the vicar’s manuscript and had borne it away with the air of one presented with a precious gift.

With the departure of the children Sir Gerald summoned a footman to set up card tables, and Lady Fieldhurst was solicited to help make up a set for whist.

“I fear I am not much of a card player,” she cautioned Mr. Meriwether, her partner, as she seated herself opposite him at one of the tables. “My late husband always said I hadn’t the head for games of skill.”

“Nor have I, my lady, so I daresay we shall deal extremely together,” he said with a smile.

Their opponents were Mr. Carrington and Lady Anne, and once again the viscountess noted that lady’s skill in pairing her daughter with Lord Kendall at the next table. She wondered fleetingly which her hostess found the most objectionable—the young man’s dubious birth, or his lack of fortune. For her part, Lady Fieldhurst might have found much to be said in favor of the curate’s suit, had not her own marriage permanently soured her on that institution. Modesty, certainly, must be attributed to him, for in spite of his disavowals, he played his cards with quiet intelligence. Likewise courtesy, for nothing in his bearing toward the other players gave the least indication that he would much prefer playing at the other table. As for his manner toward Miss Hollingshead, so restrained was he that Lady Fieldhurst might have supposed that young lady’s feelings to be unrequited, had she not witnessed for the briefest moment the expression of wordless longing in his eyes when they rested upon her.

They had played two rubbers for penny points when Mr. Danvers, partnering Lady Kendall at the next table, glanced at the clock over the mantel.

“Dear me, half past eleven already!” he exclaimed. “How quickly time passes when one spends it so pleasantly among friends.”

Mr. Carrington, taking his cue, laid his cards face-up on the table and made as if to rise. “I shall have the carriage brought round at once.”

“No, no, you need not trouble yourself,” protested the vicar. “Since Mr. Meriwether assures us that the rain has let up, there is no reason why I should not walk.”

“None at all, save for a muddy road and a lack of pattens,” put in Sir Gerald. “But there’s no need for Mr. Carrington to leave us just yet. I can send you home in my own carriage.”

“Or you can ride with us,” added Lord Kendall, hoisting himself to his feet. “It may be a bit crowded, given the number of trunks Robert judges necessary to transport his toilette, but I daresay we can shove up enough to make room for one more. Or we can leave some of his bits and pieces here for the night, and he may fetch them in the morning.”

Robert Kendall’s mouth worked in protest over this cavalier dismissal of his wardrobe, but words failed him.

Mr. Danvers, however, would not be dissuaded. “I should not wish to put any one of my flock to any inconvenience, lest you take a chill and miss Sunday services. I wonder, though, if you will bear me company as far as the door, Sir Gerald? An issue of some importance has arisen which I need to discuss with you.”

“Certainly, certainly!” boomed the baronet, pushing back his chair and heaving himself to his feet. “Repairs to the church roof again, I daresay. Well, the whole thing may jolly well need replacing after this monsoon—probably leaking like a sieve.”

Sir Gerald returned a few minutes later,
sans
the vicar. Lady Anne, studying the cards in her hand, looked up as he entered the room. “You look worried. Are you quite certain it was wise to let him go alone?”

The baronet shook his grizzled head. “No stopping the fellow, my dear. I tried to get him to wait while I had the carriage brought ‘round, but there’s no persuading these scholarly types—once they take an idea into their heads, you can’t beat it out with a stick.”

The card game ran its course in silence. The party broke up soon afterwards, any pleasure in the evening diminished, perhaps, by the thought of the vicar slogging home through the mud. One by one, the guests said their goodbyes and departed, until at last only Lady Fieldhurst and the Hollingsheads remained. Her long day of travel had by this time caught up with her, and she wondered how long it might be until she could politely take leave of her host and hostess and seek her bed.