Seventeen
The church in Chiswick was all that Lady Ashleigh promised, minus the ghost. It was old, built in the sixteenth century, and boasted a crumbling tomb, and some impressive mosaics upon the stone floors. It was no longer habited, partly because of the ghost theory and partly because the current archbishop of the area preferred the more modern structure just east of the Great North Road.
The church, then, was a mere curiosity, its winding stone steps abandoned chiefly to dust, spiders, and the more intrepid sightseers of Chiswick.
Tessie, though cold, insisted on exploring the entire edifice, laughing as she mounted the steps ahead of Lady Ashleigh.
“But where is the ghost?”
“Perhaps it is too cold for him.”
“Or her. I feel certain the ghost is a her.”
“Then you should sew her a mantle to keep out the cold.”
“I have enough to sew, thank you very much, for the countess’s daughter-in-law.”
“Ah, yes, the consumptive one!”
“I do not see why your eyes sparkle so mischievously, Lady Ashleigh! It cannot be pleasant to be so afflicted!”
“No, indeed. And do call me Delia. If you are going to scold, you cannot be forever ladyshipping me!”
“I am not scolding! I am merely . . .”
“Curious?”
“Yes, indeed, though I know it is none of my business. . . . Why does the lady need so many gowns? You can have no notion of how much has been ordered. . . .”
Lady Ashleigh swallowed a cough. “I am sure, if the countess has ordered them, they are very necessary. Shall we go?”
Tessie nodded. She felt reproved somehow. She was not to know that Lady Ashleigh’s cough was actually a repressed giggle, or that if they remained a second longer, her ladyship might have done something dire.
Like spoiling everything and telling the little seamstress the truth. No, indeed. The truth, as everyone but Tessie knew, was for Lord Nicholas Cathgar to tell. Too bad he was still languishing in town. Now that her curiosity was satisfied, Delia had a good mind to write him a letter of her own.
They passed, along the way, an enormous common bustling with peddlers and gypsy caravans and cartloads of produce. Ordinarily, Tessie would have begged to stop, for she adored fairs, and this, clearly, was the beginning of one. But her high spirits had deserted her, and her pockets were to let besides. So she ignored the familiar bustle, and the stalls of fruit and gingerbread and cheeses, kicking in her heels instead, so that Delia had to race to catch her.
While Lady Ashleigh finally took her leave—with an indecorous wink that relieved Tessie’s mind—Lord Nicholas Cathgar was not, as his sister had accused him, “languishing in town.”
He was, in fact, purchasing, as a result of a tip from Lord Alberkirky—to whom he was now being more civil—a certain stable full of horses. The friskiest of these—a lively little chestnut called Pebbles—he transported to his own residence in London. For the balance of his time he was inspecting roofs, talking to bailiffs, and generally exciting a very large degree of interest in Hampstead Oaks.
Indeed, Tessie, returning, would have been quite astonished, for the village people, wise in their own way, had made some pretty obvious inferences. Fortunately for Tessie’s peace of mind, she was nowhere near her home, nor did she expect to be for a six month at least.
Lord Cathgar was not entirely lighthearted about his high-handedness, for it weighed heavily upon him that his chosen one was as hardheaded as himself. She would need careful handling to be convinced of his good intentions. She was more likely, he knew, to fly into a pelter over his actions than to thank him.
For the first time in his life, he was uncertain, both of himself and of his ability to attach to the most desirable creature he had ever encountered. So hotheaded she was! More likely, he knew, to shoot him in the foot than to acquiesce meekly to his honorable intentions. But honorable they were despite the many overtures of several young debutantes, all dying to attach themselves to his fortune and rank.
He felt like he was running the gauntlet, for hardly a day went by when some young wisp of a thing didn’t try coyly to trap him into indiscretion. Truly, he needed Tessie to save him!
Well, one of his actions, at least, was bound to please her bloodthirsty nature. Upon tooling his cattle down a country Hampstead lane, he was very nearly overturned by the merest whipster, occupying more than his fair share of the road, and driving his team into a lather. He might have let the matter pass had the whipster not then compounded his sin by shouting out obscenities and claiming to own half of Greenford.
Nicholas dismounted and waited for the gentleman to do the same. His lanky stature was quite striking, and all of a sudden, Nick was struck with a quite diverting notion.
“You are not Oliver Dobbins, of Greenford, are you?”
The gentleman looked quite smug. “I am. Heard of me, have you?”
“Indeed. And what they say is quite true. You require a hatter, your boots are indecent, and your waistcoat is an insult to any arbiter of good taste.”
“Why, you . . .” Oliver lunged forward, but Nicholas was more than a match for such a paltry fellow. He delivered a marvelously flush hit, guaranteeing Mr. Dobbins a black eye for a sennight or more. Then, only half satisfied, he waited for Mr. Dobbins to return the favor. He did, but with weak, flailing arms and a neck far too stiff to see, due to the height of his ridiculous collar. Nick regarded this as fortuitous and blackened the remaining eye. Then with a merry whistle he doffed his hat and proceeded upon his way. Tessie could not quibble with that!
The return from Hampstead Oaks was dull and boring by comparison. Nothing at all like the first time he’d stopped at the posting station, buoyed up by the anticipation of snaring the notorious Luddites, led astray by the French spy, the Monsieur le Duc.
At worst, he had expected to die—that was the nature of his clandestine activities—but he had never, never expected to have his heart so mercilessly stolen by an impudent little chit of a thing with more sovereigns than sense.
Yet, she had single-handedly saved his life, a fact for which he was thankful, but not so thankful as she seemed to think. He was not offering marriage as a salve to his conscience.
He was offering for perfectly selfish reasons and, being a spoiled and cosseted peer of the realm, he did not intend to be thwarted! No, not even by sultry black lashes and lashings of tears sniffed back fiercely.
Nicholas, just passing the Postlethwaite toll, decided that patience was for fledglings. Despite all his good intentions and the countess’s frequent little notes reminding him to bide his time, he would not. To hell and damnation with Delia’s laughing epistles too! He was not surprised that Tessie had wriggled her way into their hearts—in—deed, how could she not? But it was singularly unfair that he, who had discovered her, should kick his heels meekly in London.
The more he thought of it, the more he balked at the idea of Tessie being treated like a mere seamstress, working her fingers to the bone, and if he knew all his siblings, she would not be short of work! Yes, Lady Victoria Halgrove, the eldest of his many sisters, had already written of a feathered muff she was to have, embroidered all in the newest shade of blond floss, or some such nonsense. Apparently, Delia, too, was toying with a new spencer, and he would not put it past any of his beloved siblings to take advantage of the consummate opportunities Tessie offered.
And they were laughing at him! He knew it, for Delia had the most wicked sense of humor, and the tone of her last missive was suspiciously meek, almost as though she were choking on mirth as she penned it. But maybe he was being oversensitive. Where Tessie was concerned, he could not help it. Even if he could, that Friday-faced Joseph would not let him. There he was, walking now with his best Arab, his face sweeping the floor, muttering all sorts of dire epithets about allowing chickens to fly the coop, and about females “wot could teach un a thing or two,” which he rightly inferred to be himself.
Even threats of instant dismissal did not stop the man, who looked at Nicholas with doleful, reproachful eyes until he thought he would scream. It was not as if he had not offered, dammit! More—insisted, even! What in the world could that contrary female wish for?
There was an attraction between them that he was perfectly certain she felt—indeed, it was her very responses to him that drove him crazier. Well, by George, he was going to find out! He was not going to meekly await another of his mother’s merry missives and hope that Madame Stubborn had grown tired of her work. No! He was going now, to the Dower House at Chiswick, and to tarnation with the rest!
“Joseph!”
It took a moment for Joseph to halt the Arab and walk back to the chaise, bound for London.
“Aye, me lord?”
“You can stop looking so glum. I have had a change of plan.”
“A change of plan wot includes snabbling the little mistress, me lor’, or jest a change of plan wot some might say is chicken-hearted, like . . .”
“I am excessively interested to hear your theories on my chicken-heartedness, Joseph, but I have no time. You shall enlighten me when I return, however, having ‘snabbled’ the mistress. That is, if I haven’t already dismissed you for impertinence.”
Joseph righteously ignored the last part of Nicholas’s sentence and allowed his countenance to brighten considerably.
“Good on yer, guv! We can take the Marlborough route—it is a shortcut wot I know across the downs, then into Fennimore—but wot are we goin’ to do about the cattle?”
“We are going to do nothing. You, however, are going to stable the Arab and the mare with the ostlers at the next posting house. You are then to return to London at all speed on Juniper, returning with Jenkins and two of the grooms. Pay the shot and transfer the balance of the cattle to Cathgar House. That, I trust, shall keep you busy.”
“Guv!” Joseph looked shocked. “I be missin’ out on all the ’citement! Wot if she shoots yer?”
“Then doubtless I shall die.”
“But . . .”
“No buts, Joseph. I realize my life is your chief source of entertainment, but on this issue I remain firm.”
“Lawks alive! You might be wishin’ for my ’elp, beggin’ your lor’ship’s pardon!”
“You apparently regard my . . . eh . . . private life to be as hazardous a mission as my . . . government activities. You may be right. However, I shall risk it, if you please, in peace. Besides, Pebbles is her favorite horse.”
Joseph brightened. “Well, a rare goer she is, and that be fact! Orl right, guv, I shall do as yer say, but mind yer p’s and q’s and don’t make a botch of it this time! I ’ave a fancy to see the little mistress again, and that be fact! ”
“I shall endeavor to please you, Joseph.”
Nicholas barely kept the irony from his tone. Joseph, however, saw nothing amiss in his master’s words, and actually doffed his cap. Then he spoiled the effect by winking, shaking Nick’s immaculate gloves mercilessly, and whistling as he returned to his duties.
Nick, free of those eagle eyes, sighed. He only wished he could be so sanguine. If Tessie was outrageous enough to dismiss his suit again, he would have to either murder her, kiss her, or abduct her. The trouble was, he really did not know which.
Miss Hampstead, the object of such musings, needed to clear her head. She had come to love the bustle about the great ivy-clad mansion, and even the comfort of her work, for while she stitched, there was precious little time to pine or muse. She had, of course, several times fallen into some happy daydreams but been rewarded for her pains by a needle pricking into her thumb or pins poking at her fingers. When the countess finally lifted an inquiring brow at such hamhandedness, she had colored and muttered nonsense about needing air and such.
The countess often obliged by ringing for a footman and having several of the windows open despite some inclement breezes from the east.
Then Tessie had shivered a little over her work but felt foolish asking for the great glass panes to be shut again. Once, when she was biting back an involuntary tear, the countess took her work from her and threw it—in a shockingly haphazard manner—on the bureau behind them.
“Come, come, is it so very bad, then, this life? It is very different from being a lady of fashion, perhaps—”
“No! Oh, no! You have been so kind. I never dreamed being in service could be so pleasant!”
“Then why are you crying? Yes, scrub at your face as you may, I can see there are tears! I may be as blind as a bat and need my monocle from time to time, but I am not in my dotage! Can you not confide in me?”
“You are kind to take the trouble . . .”
“Not as kind as you might think. I have my reasons, Miss Hampstead.”
Tessie wondered what the reasons could possibly be, but she was too well bred—when not in a fiery rage—to ask.
“Is it a man? When I was your age, it was always a man!”
“Oh, he is not just any man!”
The countess smiled in satisfaction. “But it is a man that troubles you?”
Tessie blushed, knowing she should rather have held her tongue. The countess was too sharp to continue this particular discussion. But she showed no inclination to drop the topic, scraping great bolts of cloth onto the floor to make space for her ample being.
“Ma’am, they will be crushed!”
“Oh, bother the gowns! It is far more fascinating to meddle in other people’s business!”
Tessie could not help but laugh. It was impossible to be angry with the countess, who she knew was nothing but kindness itself.
“I don’t suppose you can really meddle, Countess. And my story is not unique enough to be fascinating.”
“I shall be the judge of that, if you please! Now, tell me at once! Are you in love?”
Tessie was suddenly shy. “A little.”
“A little? A little? ” The countess’s voice rose an octave. “Don’t be a nincompoop, girl! One does not fall in love a little!”
“Well, a lot, then. Terribly. Hopelessly.”
“Ah, now, that is better! I adore passion, and a smidgen of pathos. Adds spice.”
Tessie nearly rather tartly mentioned that her life was not designed wholly to add spice to the countess’s day, but she rather nobly refrained. She was fond of the countess.
“Don’t glare at me as if you’ve swallowed a sour grape! Yes, I know you very likely want to throttle me, but you shan’t. Though you undoubtedly have spirit, you are also very prettily behaved. So just resign yourself and tell me the whole.”
“The whole?”
The countess’s voice was firm. “The whole.” She looked up from her great jeweled turban of russet silk.
“Go away, Delia. Tessie is busy.”
Miss Hampstead, who had not noticed the door opening, looked up.
“Lady Ashleigh . . .”
“Lady Ashleigh is just leaving.” The countess glared at the indignant sister of Lord Nicholas Cathgar. They had the identical blue eyes and arrogant brows. Lady Ashleigh, however, had no scar to mar her handsome features. Tessie felt that wave of familiarity again, but she could not put her finger on it, certainly not now, when she was being trapped into confidences by her fierce—and kindly—employer.
“Am I?” Lady Ashleigh raised those lovely brows. “Why do I think I would rather not?” Her voice tinkled with laughter. Tessie wondered why, for indeed, the countess was being astonishingly rude to her morning caller.
“Because you are a meddlesome baggage. Come back later, if you must. Miss Hampstead and I are in urgent discussions.”
“Regarding gowns? I rather have a fancy to—”
“Get out!” The countess threw an ink pot at Lady Ashleigh’s head. She ducked rather expertly, but deep indigo stained both the bonnet and the floor. Tessie gasped, but Lady Ashleigh did not seem to take offense, merely discarding her hat as if it were of small moment.
“Thank God your aim is deteriorating with age. You missed this lovely sprigged muslin. Do you like it, Miss Hampstead? I purchased it in Chiswick. . . .”
“Go!” her ladyship positively roared.
“Pardon?” Delia asked innocently. Tessie started to giggle. It was a mad and delightful household she had stumbled upon!
“Oh, I can take a subtle hint. Yes, yes, I shall take my leave now.” Delia smiled sweetly. At the door she turned and faced the countess once more.
“By the bye, you owe me a bonnet. A high poked one, I think, with spangles of ribbon . . .”
But the door was shut in her face.
Tallows grimaced in annoyance. Three weeks of skulking about the estate, poaching nothing but a jugged hare and a couple of trout, had done nothing for his temper. He now knew where the girl was residing, but not in the least how to kidnap her. The house was swarming with liveried staff, and if that wasn’t enough, there were grooms and milkmaids, and heaven knew what all over the grounds. On the odd occasion—like when she visited that ruin of a church—she left the estate, but it was always with some grim groom in tow, or that modish woman who rode so disgustingly well.
If he was going to succeed, it would have to be with the girl alone. Two was too many for one person to overpower—and he had already seen what havoc the girl could wreak. More than enough of a handful, that one. Tallows lurked behind the hedges, pulling the odd weed when somebody passed. The only good thing about an estate like this was that there were always gardeners. One more pulling weeds would excite little notice, or so he hoped. He doffed a cap at one of the morning callers. So many there were, and all in fashionable rigs and phaetons. There had to be a way, there had to! His eyes sharpened a little as his gaze rested on something odd. He nodded in satisfaction. He had just the ticket.