To Kiss a Thief (21 page)

A
lthough Eliza had warned him of his stepmother's plan for an evening with the neighboring gentry, St. John had found it impossible to believe such an event would actually transpire until confronted by a roomful of guests.

When he entered the winter parlor—so called after a series of seasonal landscapes that filled the four walls, the largest of which depicted Lynscombe Manor at the bleakest time of year—his eyes quickly scanned the room, searching for familiar faces. His father and Lord Harrington made up half of one foursome. Eliza and his stepmother were cozied up together on the far side of the room, apart from the card players.

On the sofa against the wall, Sarah sat between her parents, the three of them forming a sturdier fortification against intruders than St. John had ever managed to construct. He wanted to go to her, but before he could persuade his feet to move in her direction, another face—this one framed by a tightly curled gray wig—inserted itself into his field of vision. “There you are, lad,” the elderly man said. “How wonderful to see you home again.”

“Dr. Quiller?” he said, summoning the name of the village rector from some far corner of his memory. “I did not think a soul would recognize me after so long away. How glad I am to find you still here.”

Dr. Quiller laughed. “Still here? Where else would I go?” Abashed, St. John opened his mouth to attempt an explanation, but the older man shook his head. “Think nothing of it, my boy. But I was not so old when you first knew me as I must have seemed to you then. You remember Mrs. Quiller, I hope,” he said, turning back to the table.

“Lord Fairfax,” the rector's wife said with a warm smile.

“Squire Abernathy,” Dr. Quiller said, gesturing to a portly gentleman who bowed his head. St. John recognized the name of the prosperous farmer who owned a rather desirable tract of land that divided Wyldewood from Lynscombe. “And my curate, Charles Pickard,” he added, motioning toward the fourth seat. But it was empty, its occupant having seized the interruption as an opportunity to make his escape across the room.

St. John asked, “Will you meet my wife, sir?” Perhaps the presence of the clergyman would smooth his way.

“Your esteemed father was kind enough to make the introduction, lad. But I shall—”

“What's that?” Mrs. Quiller asked, cupping her ear.

“Lady Fairfax,” explained the rector, more loudly.

“Oh, yes.” She nodded eagerly. “Charming girl. We did not even realize you had taken a bride, Lord Fairfax,” she exclaimed. “And some time ago, from the sound of it.”

“One might have thought your marriage would be an occasion for the family to pay a visit to the village, my lord,” opined Mr. Abernathy with a frown.

“I—” St. John began, searching for an excuse.

But Dr. Quiller saved him. “Allow me to walk with you and introduce my curate. If I did not know better, I would suspect Charley of trying to sweep your lovely bride off her feet,” he teased, jostling St. John with his elbow.

He looked in the direction the rector had indicated with a wink and a nod. Mr. Pevensey had risen and given his place to the curate, who was speaking animatedly to Sarah. She was smiling and nodding eagerly at what he said, while her mother sat, ramrod-straight, disapproval in every line of her features.

“But Arthur, your hand?” his wife reminded, gesturing toward the abandoned card game.

He laughed good-naturedly. “I won't be a minute.”

St. John nodded his head to the others at the table and gestured for Dr. Quiller to lead the way.

“Very glad we are to have the family here again. So much time, so much—but all that will change, now,” Dr. Quiller said as they walked, brimming with confidence. Then he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “It has pained your father, I know, to come back over the years and see how things go on.”

St. John nearly stumbled. “My father has been here? Not recently?”

“Oh, not so recently, I suppose.” The rector looked thoughtful. “Call it six months, perhaps. He doesn't come often, nor stay too long. That's how I know the sight of the place gives him pain. But now all that will change,” he repeated. “Eh, lad?”

They had reached the place where Sarah, Mrs. Pevensey, and the curate sat, sparing St. John from having to give an answer.

“Mr. Charles Pickard, my lord.”

The dark-haired young man had risen as they approached and now bowed. “Lord Fairfax. A pleasure.”

“Pickard. Mrs. Pevensey.” St. John returned the bow and then offered another to his mother-in-law, who stood and curtsied without relaxing her posture one bit. “You have met Dr. Quiller, I understand,” he said to Sarah, who had also got to her feet. “I suppose he told you he was once my tutor?” He did not know why he felt constantly compelled to revisit these childhood memories of Lynscombe in her presence.

“He did. What a pleasure it must be to see a former pupil all grown up,” she said, smiling gently at the older man. “I recall my own teachers with such fondness, but I think they must often wonder if I ever managed to master the things they were so eager to teach.”

“Such is the lot of a teacher, Lady Fairfax,” Dr. Quiller replied with a knowing laugh. “But we have at least the consolation of knowing that there will ever be a next generation of pupils to care for.”

“Speaking of . . .” Mr. Pickard began.

“Now, lad,” Dr. Quiller admonished his curate, “there will be time enough for that later.”

“Mr. Pickard was just telling me of his hope to establish a school in the village,” Sarah explained.

“Nothing elaborate, my lord,” Pickard assured him. “I do not cherish some foolish hope of making the sons and daughters of fishermen into scholars. Just reading and writing, arithmetic, some basic principles of domestic economy, perhaps.”

“I suppose that sounds quite radical?” said Sarah, cutting St. John an uncertain glance.

Radical? Certainly many would call it so. But seeing the spark of enthusiasm in Sarah's eyes, he pushed his hesitation aside. “It seems to me quite a sensible plan, the sort responsible landowners might put into action in a great many villages throughout England.”

“It would go better under the guiding hand of a lady,” Pickard hinted.

“And sadly, Mrs. Quiller does not enjoy the health to undertake it,” added the reverend.

St. John nodded his understanding. “Perhaps you can persuade Lady Fairfax to give her time to your cause.”

“I would be honored to help, Mr. Pickard,” she said with a sidelong glance of suspicion toward St. John.

Although it scarcely seemed possible, Mrs. Pevensey stiffened further at her daughter's words and declared, “Lord Estley is unlikely to approve.”

“I will speak with him,” St. John said.

Immediately, he wished he could take the words back. How much ought he to offer, when he was not yet sure what Sarah would accept?

Satisfied, the curate allowed Dr. Quiller to usher him back to the card game, although St. John could have sworn the younger man muttered something under his breath about Mrs. Quiller being a sharp. Mrs. Pevensey unbent enough to join her husband in contemplating the springtime view of Lynscombe Manor on the nearest wall.

Left alone in the company of his wife, St. John was not certain what his next move ought to be. Jarrell had informed him that the Pevenseys had spent the better part of the day closeted with their daughter. No doubt Pevensey had told her, or reminded her, about the terms of her marriage settlement. If St. John said now that he meant to stay with her, she would assume he was doing it for the money. For the sake of Lynscombe. And she would not be entirely wrong.

Nor entirely right.

So instead he said nothing at all. Offering her his arm, they walked in silence together to greet the other guests and his father.

He could hardly believe what Dr. Quiller had said about the man's regular visits to Lynscombe. Before yesterday, he would have been more tempted to imagine the clergyman had lied than to believe his father capable of showing such attachment to the place.

But perhaps he had merely been guilty of attributing his own failings to another.

When they arrived at the second card table, the gentlemen stood for another round of introductions. “Mrs. Abernathy,” said Lord Harrington, “and her eldest son, Philip.” The young man blushed and made an awkward bow.

“Fairfax has been in the West Indies for quite some time, I understand,” Mrs. Abernathy said as she gathered the cards to herself. “I did not know your family had dealings there. Did you travel with him, Lady Fairfax?”

“I did not.”

The answer seemed to satisfy Mrs. Abernathy for the moment. “Can't say as I blame you. Have you been in London while he was gone, then?”

“I—I have been in the West Country,” Sarah replied.

“With your parents.” It was not a question, and no one in the little circle seemed inclined to correct Mrs. Abernathy's mistaken assumption.

“Well, your return has generated no little interest, Lady Fairfax,” Lord Harrington assured her. “I'm sure we have you to thank for my daughter's sudden willingness to come down to the country. She is forever telling me that Wyldewood is dull as death.”

“Oh, Papa,” Eliza scolded with a laugh, rising from her seat and coming toward them. “You know Lady Estley was most insistent about me accompanying her.”

St. John could not help but remember that his stepmother had described things the other way around.

“Really, what else could I do?” piped his stepmother insistently from the far corner. “I cannot bear to pass the day alone, and I knew I would be positively abandoned by my husband the moment we arrived.”

“Perhaps Miss Harrington looks forward to the ball tomorrow night,” suggested Squire Abernathy from the other table, tossing in his hand as he spoke. “I'm sure there's at least one young bachelor here who would be willing to go down the dance with her.”

Interpreting his father's remark to apply to him, the spot-faced young Abernathy gave a squeak of alarm.

“A ball?” Eliza murmured. “How exciting!”

“Really more of a dance,” the squire's wife amended as she plucked a card from her hand and laid it down. “In the assembly rooms above the Red Lion Inn. To celebrate the harvest, you know.”

“The harvest dance,” echoed St. John's father, looking thoughtful. “It was held here at the manor when I was a boy. Perhaps next year, it will be again,” he suggested with a glance toward his son.

“
Here
, my lord?” his stepmother echoed in alarm. “Really, whom could one invite beyond the present company?”

“Surely, ma'am, our circle of acquaintance, even in the country, is somewhat larger?” his father suggested with one raised eyebrow.

“Of acquaintance, yes. But one must be careful with extending invitations to Lynscombe that imply a greater degree of intimacy with the family.”

Mrs. Abernathy, who must have recognized her place on the fringe of his stepmother's vaunted circle, did not seem to know whether to nod or shake her head. Eliza's mouth quirked in an expression of amusement that was not quite a smile.

Dr. Quiller suggested a few families, but the names were met with pursed lips.

“Yes, yes. I am sure they are very fine people in their way,” his stepmother acknowledged, “but I cannot imagine they would be comfortable in the ballroom here.”

“A harvest ball should take place where all who had a hand in the harvest will feel welcome.” Sarah spoke so quietly that at first no one seemed to realize from whence the words had come. All eyes came to rest on her. “But mightn't some members of the family attend the dance in the village?” she continued. “As a gesture of goodwill?”

Resounding silence met the suggestion. His stepmother's eyes were round with shock. Eliza swallowed a smirk before darting a glance of sympathetic incredulity toward him. The rest of the guests seemed to have developed a sudden interest in the fan of cards in front of them or the pattern of the Turkish carpet at their feet.

After a moment, his father said, “I am intrigued, Lady Fairfax. Go on.”

“She spoke too hastily, my lord,” Mr. Pevensey interjected, stepping forward. “She is remembering the frolics she used to have at the Christmas dances I hold for my clerks, that is all.”

No
, St. John wanted to say. He was certain Sarah was thinking of Haverhythe, the festival, his own words about the dance being held where all would enjoy it. He was less certain what to make of the connection, however. Was she also recalling their conversation about a landowner's obligations to his tenants? After what she had seen, she could no longer be naïve enough to imagine that an appearance at a village dance would make up for years of mistreatment.

Mrs. Pevensey hastily confirmed her husband's opinion. “Not the sort of entertainment to which your family is accustomed. Sarah must learn not to be so forward with her opinion,” she said with a scolding frown for her daughter.

His father continued to regard Sarah with something like curiosity for a long, silent moment before saying, “I find it an excellent suggestion, Lady Fairfax. We shall all go,” he proclaimed in that voice that brooked no opposition.

For a moment, everyone stood or sat in stunned silence.

Sarah pulled her hand free and smiled quietly to herself as she moved to examine the stark winter landscape that nearly filled one wall.

She knew the dance was a small thing, especially in comparison to a school. But they both represented necessary changes if things in Lynscombe were going to improve. The Sutliffe family might imagine her dowry was all that was needed to restore what had been lost through the neglect of generations. In her experience, however, it would require something more.