Seven
Caitlyn knew she was merely postponing the inevitable by avoiding Trevor. Twice now he had called to find her not at home. The first time had been purely chance, but the second incident was by her design. Time was no longer on her side, and she had to come to a decision. His presence in town and absence from his wife’s home was rapidly becoming the latest on dit in ton gatherings.
Viscount Latham invited her for a drive in the afternoon of the day she had deliberately avoided Trevor. As soon as he had served a proper period of mourning for his father, the new viscount sought to renew his acquaintance with his adolescent love.
Flattered by his continued regard, Caitlyn could not bring herself to reject one of the few people in her own class to offer genuine friendship. Early on, she made it clear to him that she was not free to accept anything beyond mere friendship.
“I shall honor your wishes, Mrs. Jeffries,” he had said stiffly, “though I would hope one day to change your mind.”
“Bertie!” She did not bother to hide her impatience with him. “You need not poker up so. We were friends once. I hope we will remain so.”
“As you wish, my dear Caitlyn, for I have ever thought of you so.”
Now as he handed her into the carriage, he squeezed her hand and held it a shade longer than she found comfortable.
He took up the reins and seemed to devote himself to the business of driving, though she was aware of an occasional lingering look. She concentrated on enjoying the sunny afternoon and seeing the ton on parade in all their finery.
On entering the park, Latham slowed his horses and turned his attention directly to her. “Caitlyn, I . . . uh . . . I understand your husband is back in town.”
“Yes, he is.” She did not elaborate.
“Does that mean . . . that is . . . will he free you now that he has returned?”
“Free me?” She knew she sounded a bit haughty, but the question rankled.
He ran an index finger around his intricately tied neckcloth. “You must know there is talk of a divorce . . . I mean . . . well, ’tis well known his family does not receive you.”
“Well known, is it?” She hoped her tone would deflect this topic, but Bertie seemed determined to state his view.
“Yes, it is.” His voice was adamant, but he looked uncomfortable.
“You would do well, Bertie, not to allow yourself to be a party to common gossip.”
His face reddened at this reprimand and he caught at her hand.
“Oh, Caitlyn, my own. I would never, ever myself be a party to hurting you.” His tone fervent, he brought her gloved hand to his lips.
She extricated herself from his grip as adroitly as she could without drawing undue attention from passersby. “Please. Lord Latham, you forget yourself.”
“You cannot say you care nothing for me. Have you forgot what we once meant to each other?”
“Bertie, we were children.” Her tone deliberately suggested she was even now talking to a child.
“While my father lived and controlled my income, I could not approach you. And since we have become reacquainted, I thought to allow you far more time, my darling, but now his reappearance causes me to act in a more precipitous manner than I intended.”
“Bertie—Lord Latham—I hardly know what to say.”
He had stopped the team entirely, motioned his tiger to hold their heads, and turned now on the seat toward her. He grasped her hands again. “When you are free, we can be together. I care not what society will say—nor my mother! I love you, Caitlyn, and I will wait for you forever.”
His melodramatic tone struck her as funny, but she could not bring herself to crush him by openly laughing at him. “Please, Bertie. This is neither the time nor the place.” Again she loosened herself from his grip. She could see that they were attracting attention. She pasted a carefree smile on her face and nodded to an acquaintance in a passing carriage.
She was relieved when Bertie seemed to do the same, but he continued in a low tone, “I have waited for you, wanted you all these years—”
“Please. You must stop this line of discussion immediately. It is most improper.”
“My feelings are far too strong to regard empty rules of propriety,” he said in the same melodramatic tone. Caitlyn wondered if part of him sat aside applauding his performance.
“Bertie!” Her tone was stern now. “I have, in the last few weeks, enjoyed a renewal of your friendship. But never—not once—have I intended to give you reason to think I would welcome such a declaration as this.”
“But we loved each other—” he wailed.
“Whatever we may have felt for each other was over long, long ago. Over. Do you understand?”
“It was never over for me.” He seemed to be pouting now.
“Well,” she declared firmly, “I have a child whose welfare comes first for me.” In truth, she was finding him tiresome and wondered how she had ever fancied herself in love with such a shallow coxcomb.
“Which makes me admire you all the more for being willing to sacrifice your own happiness for hers.”
“Oh, good grief,” she muttered under her breath. Aloud, she said, “This has gone quite far enough. I am no martyr. And I will thank you to take me home. Now.”
Finally, her tone seemed to break through the scene he imagined himself playing. He gave her a reproachful look, but he signaled his tiger and they returned in relative silence.
“I hope I may be allowed to call again?” he asked as he accompanied her to the door.
“Of course.” Her tone was distantly polite. “You are welcome—as a friend.”
He bowed and departed.
Viscount Latham’s performance in the park served as a reminder to Caitlyn that her situation was delicate, to say the least. Five years since her marriage!—since her husband had deserted her—and her feelings were as ambivalent as ever.
She had been angry when Trevor left. Furious, in fact. It was his action that had trapped her in this marriage. And then the blackguard had not even stood by her as his family and the ton gossips tore her to shreds. She was his wife. Husbands were supposed to protect their wives, were they not?
He had left her to fend for herself. Honesty compelled her to remember that he had been responsible for his Aunt Gertrude’s coming to her. She knew it had been Lady Gertrude’s own idea to come, but Trevor had not wanted her to be entirely alone, had he? Also, Caitlyn remembered the warmth they had begun to feel for each other—at least, she had thought they both felt it.
The man in the park and at the opera was not the callow youth who had left her. This man’s physical presence—even from a distance—was more solid. His shoulders were broader, and he carried himself with self-assurance, none of the swagger of the young. That first recognition as he stood at the side of the bridle path had been a shock to her. She had accepted, however reluctantly, the idea of making a life with that youth of yesterday. Could she do the same with this man?
The idea of a divorce had been repugnant from the very beginning. To the daughter of a churchman, it was especially abhorrent. Then she had discovered herself with child. She remembered being sick at the very idea of bringing a babe into such a world. She hated the idea of bearing the child of a man who despised its mother. She even thought for a while she would never be able to love the child.
How preposterous that idea seemed now! And she knew exactly when her view had changed.
She had been about six months into her pregnancy when the Jeffries family had taken the first step to be rid of her. As heir to the Wyndham title, Trevor’s brother Gerald had thought to lend his importance to the solicitor’s presence when that gentleman called at Atherton.
Caitlyn and Lady Gertrude had received the two visitors together. After greetings, Gerald said, “Um . . . Mrs. Jeffries, I wonder if we may speak with you privately of a family matter?” Caitlyn could tell he hated according her the Jeffries name.
Apprehensive, she looked at Lady Gertrude, who shrugged and excused herself, giving Caitlyn an encouraging pat on the shoulder as she left, saying, “I shall be in the next room, my dear.” Gerald nodded to the solicitor, a man of some fifty or sixty years, who was dressed soberly and seemed ingratiatingly eager to please his client.
The lawyer cleared his throat. “Hmm. Yes. Now—it is our belief that your . . . uh . . . husband informed you of his and his family’s wishes?”
“Their wishes?” Caitlyn refused to make this easy for them.
“Regarding a divorce.” The lawyer’s tone was patient and condescending.
“Oh. A divorce is out of the question.” Unconsciously, she placed her hand on her stomach. “I do not know the Jeffries family history well, but divorce is simply unknown in my family.”
She saw a deep flush suffuse Gerald’s features. “Now see here, madam. This so-called marriage is a ridiculous embarrassment to my family.”
“The marriage was not of my making,” she said, keeping her voice calm, “but I am assured it is perfectly legal.”
“Well, yes,” the lawyer said, “and as such may be legally—and I may say quietly—dissolved.”
“It will be quietly dissolved only if I quietly agree. I do not agree.” She enunciated each word very precisely.
The color deepened in Gerald’s face as he asked, “How much?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I said, ‘How much?’ My father and I are prepared to pay to have this problem go away. How much?”
“The ‘problem,’ as you put it, is not going to go away.” Caitlyn felt the babe move as though to confirm its interest in the discussion. “I do not mean to be rude, sir, but I fail to see how you are concerned at all.”
Gerald looked nearly apoplectic as he said stiffly, “I speak for the Earl of Wyndham in saying it is simply unacceptable that our name be involved in such a distasteful affair.”
Not knowing quite how to respond to this, Caitlyn remained silent, so Gerald went on, “You may congratulate yourself that the scheme you and Fiske manufactured has proved so lucrative. I ask you again—how much?”
“You, sir, are insulting. I believe this interview is over.” She tried to rise gracefully, but in her condition that proved impossible.
“Please. Just a moment, Mrs. Jeffries,” the lawyer said in a conciliatory tone. “I would ask you to reconsider. The earl is prepared to give you enough to allow you to go to the American colonies, where you may begin your life all over. And to provide adequately for your child.”
“Oh, I see.” She could not quell the sarcasm. “All I have to do is hang a label of illegitimacy on my babe.”
“No one need ever know.” The lawyer looked at Gerald, who nodded, and the two of them rose. “We shall leave you now, madam. I would urge you to consider carefully the earl’s generous offer. Next time he may not be so magnanimous.”
When they had gone, Caitlyn railed against these two—as well as the earl and her uncle and, finally and most vehemently, against her absent husband.
“My dear, such strong emotion is not good for your babe,” Aunt Gertrude cautioned.
“He—or she—may as well know right off its mama has a temper. The idea! ‘Magnanimous,’ indeed!” She spit out the word. “Declare your child a bastard and we will treat you well.”
“Now, now, dear.”
A year later the lawyer returned—without the odious Gerald this time. His message was essentially the same. And so was hers. She remained adamant about protecting the interests of her daughter. Gossip might question the child’s parentage, but Caitlyn would never willingly acquiesce to a court’s denying Ashley’s legal rights.
By that time, however, Caitlyn’s hard work on Atherton had already begun to pay off. That is, she could see that rewards would eventually materialize. She remembered well her sense of triumph when she had directed her own solicitor to inform Wyndham’s agent that henceforth the family of Mr. Trevor Jeffries would not rely on Wyndham’s largess.
Lady Gertrude had been invaluable, providing help wherever it was needed. Without asserting herself as an authority, that intrepid lady set about training her nephew’s bride to command a large staff.
Having demanded that Mrs. Bassett turn over the ledgers of household accounts, Caitlyn read them with interest as a source of knowledge about her new home. Then she read them with a sense of puzzlement. Something was wrong, but Caitlyn could not put her finger on the problem. She asked Aunt Gertrude to examine the accounts. Immediately, the older woman pointed out precisely how the housekeeper had managed to juggle the books so as to double her salary.
“I knew there was something wrong,” Caitlyn said.
“Had you more experience with the running of a household and keeping accounts yourself, I have no doubt you would have seen it, too,” Aunt Gertrude assured her.
Caitlyn felt overwhelmed. “I have so much to learn—and not just about household matters.”
“Motherhood is a lifelong school of learning.”
“Oh, I am quite sure it is—and I shall certainly need a great deal of guidance there. But what I meant was I need to learn about managing the entire estate.”
“The estate? A slip of a girl running a concern of hundreds of acres and dozens of tenant farms? You cannot be serious.”
“I am serious, though.”
“But there is a steward . . .”
“Mr. Felkins is a very amiable gentleman. Honest, too, I think. He performs adequately, but he has so little insight. He is a follower, not a leader.”
“And you are thinking you will provide necessary leadership?” Aunt Gertrude’s tone held more curiosity than challenge.
“Well—with your errant nephew off to the Peninsula, there seems no one else to do it.”
“That would be a huge undertaking, my dear.”
“I know. But I rather think I would enjoy the challenge.”
“I fear it would be much more. You have two major obstacles to overcome—perhaps insurmountable obstacles.”
“What?”
“Your sex and your youth. Not to mention inexperience there, too. The men you would have to work with—both here and elsewhere—would never welcome a woman in their midst—and certainly not one who looks like a mere girl.”
“That is why I must continue to rely on Mr. Felkins. He shall convey my orders and conduct any negotiations. We will thus endeavor to protect delicate male sensibilities.”
Lady Gertrude laughed. “Ah, Caitlyn, my love. You remind me of myself thirty years ago.”
“I consider that a compliment of the highest order indeed, my lady.”
“Back to the issue at hand. What is to be done about your Mrs. Bassett?”
“She will have to go,” Caitlyn said without hesitation. “I could deal with incompetence, but not dishonesty.”
“That would be my view, too. Would you like me to inform her?”
“No. I thank you for offering. I know all the staff respect you greatly, but I think this is something I must do.”
“I agree.” The older woman’s tone was admiring.
The subsequent interview with Mrs. Bassett was as unpleasant as Caitlyn had feared. Confronted with evidence of her pilfering and altering the accounts, the surly housekeeper had little to offer in her own defense. She left Atherton muttering, “You’ll be sorry about this.”
Caitlyn knew she was in for another round of backbiting gossip, for Mrs. Bassett remained in the area, having gone to stay with her daughter in the village. It was common knowledge that the daughter—and, more particularly, the daughter’s husband—did not welcome the woman with open arms.
The housekeeper’s dismissal worked wonders with the remaining staff. Even the irascible cook became more tractable. So long as there were only Caitlyn and Lady Gertrude to provide for, the household would run smoothly without additional servants.
Her interview with Mr. Felkins in which she laid out some of her ideas for the estate went much more smoothly than the one with the housekeeper. Mr. Felkins proved to be every bit as amiable and helpful as Caitlyn had hoped. In his forties, Felkins was short and rotund. He reminded Caitlyn of pictures of a penguin. He had thinning dark hair and a double chin, but his brown eyes showed warmth and humor. Once he understood a given idea, he was able to come up with practical suggestions to implement it.
“Our biggest problem is lack of funds to make major changes,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Felkins replied. “We are shorthanded because of the war. So many men gone for soldiers. Also, Boney’s embargo of English goods has been disastrous for the wool trade.”
“Do all our tenant farmers devote themselves exclusively to raising sheep?”
“Mostly. Some gardens, but generally for their own use. Some of the women sell some extra vegetables and eggs in the village.”
“Would these families be amenable to making some changes?”
“Guess that would depend on what was in it for them.” Felkins sounded hesitant.
“I want a meeting with all the tenant farmers—and their wives. Can you arrange it for, say, three days from now? We shall use the ballroom on the first floor. It is shabby, but freshly cleaned.”
“Yes, ma‘am. What shall I tell ’em it’s about?”
“The future of Atherton.”
Three days later, she welcomed an assortment of farmers and their wives, who had apparently decked themselves out in such finery as was available to them. The ballroom was set up with a buffet table of refreshments. Caitlyn had learned from her father’s dealings with parishioners that people were more receptive to new ideas if they were plied with food and drink. Still, these were conservative farm people, suspicious of change. Moreover, most of them were ten, twenty, or even thirty years older than she. Caitlyn knew them all by name, for she had made a point of learning as much as she could about them in the last few weeks. She recognized curiosity in many, and apprehension on the faces of some.
“This isn’t about an increase in the rents, is it, missus?” one grizzled old fellow asked, his voice showing a conflict between assertiveness and deference. He was obviously one whom others looked to as a leader.
“No, Mr. Hawkins, it is not.” She heard a collective sigh, especially from the women. She took a seat at a table that had been set in the front of the room. Mr. Felkins also sat at the table, and Aunt Gertrude occupied a chair unobtrusively in the back row. Caitlyn was grateful for her moral support. “It is about making Atherton more profitable. And since you folks are Atherton, Mr. Felkins and I thought to get your views.”
There were some general murmurs of approval at this.
“Let’s hear what the gel has in mind,” an older woman called out.
“Thank you, Mrs. Porter.” Caitlyn waited for attention and went on, “Mr. Felkins and I are agreed that we seem far too dependent on one thing—sheep. Perhaps if we were to diversify—that is, include other activities as well—we could weather setbacks more easily.”
She paused to let this sink in.
“Makes sense to me,” someone said.
“Other activities? Such as what?” someone else asked.
“That is the matter we are here to explore,” she said. That was another thing she had learned as a child at parish meetings: let people come up with ideas of their own—or at least think they were their own. “We are sitting on some of the richest land in all of England. Surely we can come up with some ideas in addition to our sheep—and perhaps not be so dependent on foreign markets.”
And indeed they did come up with ideas. A variety of crops were suggested, and aspects of dairy farming came under discussion. Enthusiasm spread as they began to entertain the idea that, by working together and sharing, they could not only make Atherton entirely self-sufficient, but turn a profit as well. Finally, Caitlyn offered her own idea, carefully couching it as a question to these older—and, of course, wiser—men.
“Horses?” It was more of a snort than a question from Hawkins. “You want to raise horses?”
“It . . . it was just a thought.” She pretended hesitance. “I mean . . . we are so close to Newmarket . . . and there are other stud farms here in East Anglia . . .” She allowed her voice to trail off.
“Might could be a good idea,” someone said.
“Why not?” another asked.
“Because gettin’ started takes a bloody damned lot of the ready,” another man replied, then turned bright red and added, “Beggin’ your pardon, ladies.”
Caitlyn ignored his unseemly language. “I suppose you are right, Mr. Watson. Still—it gives us something to think about. However,” she said to the room at large, “Mr. Watson does bring up a serious issue, and that is capital—the ‘ready,’ if you will—to get started. Mr. Felkins will tell you about that.”
Actually, it had been Caitlyn’s plan, but she wanted the men in the room to think that most of the idea came from another man, one of their own. Time enough to tell them differently when it succeeded—or failed. But she could not think of failure. The very idea was terrifying, and if she thought about it, she might do nothing. “Nothing” was equally terrifying.
From that day forward, Atherton—and, later, baby Ashley—became the center of her life. Now, with Trevor’s return, everything had gone topsy-turvy. Had she made a serious error in focusing her whole being in such a manner?