Having risen from his seat when Harriet left the room, Quint stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head in some confusion at the closed door. Damn! he thought, that woman could drive a man crazy if he allowed her to. It annoyed him that he found himself distracted by her person—by that trim figure, those intriguing eyes, and a smile that flashed unexpectedly and dazzled. He marveled at the easy rapport she had with the children. It also annoyed him that her questioning the matter of schooling for Phillip, especially, was causing him to entertain second thoughts on the issue, even for a moment. Of course the boy would go to Eton and of course he would do so in the next school term. Adults had to act in the best interests of children for whom they were responsible, even when others, including the children, raised objections. A child whose future held a seat in the House of Lords needed an education equal to that of his peers. And Quint intended to see that one Phillip Burnes, Seventh Earl of Sedwick, was at least equal to his peers.
As for Maria’s schooling, he was feeling magnanimous enough to leave himself open to the choice of school for his niece. After all, what did he know of schools for females? Perhaps there was mention of specific schools for the girls in his brother’s papers. With that thought, he strolled across the room to the huge oak desk, the contents of which he had not yet forced himself to examine. He glanced at the mantel clock. No time like the present.
He spent the rest of the afternoon poring over a mass of documents that had been shoved haphazardly into the various drawers of the desk and a glass-doored cabinet behind it. He was amused, but also shocked at the incredible disorder he found there. He chuckled to himself. Win was never very organized, but good grief, some of these things were signed by our father! Besides dozens of loose papers, there were several ledgers with entries dating back forty years. When he had been at it for about two hours and arranged the loose papers in several neat stacks, he stood and sent for his man Gibbons.
“Chet, I think I have found something truly worthy of our talents. You have always had a better head for numbers than I have, so perhaps you can help me make some sense of this mess.”
“Yes, sir. ’Twill be a welcome change from shining those boots you near ruined the other day.”
“I did not drag you into the wilds of Derbyshire to serve as my valet!”
“I know. I know. But I doubt any of these pretty boy footmen can produce a proper shine on these things.”
“What would your Scottish laird da say of your doing such work?”
Chet snorted. “Who cares? Did he no like it, he shouldna ha’ sent his baby boy off to fight alongside ye Sassenach devils.”
Quint laughed. “Good job for me he did! Anyway, you are my guest while you are here, so stop lurking around the servants’ hall.”
“Yes, sir, Colonel, sir,” Chet mocked. “I thought to give you some time to get acquainted with your charges.”
“Thank you.”
“An’ I must say getting acquainted with their aunt shouldna be too painful.”
Quint merely rolled his eyes and gestured at the paperwork.
Chet pulled up a chair next to Quint’s and the two of them worked at sorting tradesmen’s bills and invoices for farm equipment and animals, and for machinery and supplies for woolen mills and cottage weavers. Tucked away in a hidden drawer he had found a dismaying number of what could only be vouchers from gaming tables with some intriguing handwriting and dates. Win had often worried in his letters about the state of finances in the earldom, but the situation was far worse than Quint had expected from the cursory inspections he and Chet had made in their first few days. Those little jaunts about the countryside had revealed some obvious repairs needed—a fence here, a roof there, a shed or a barn falling down. Yet, overall, the morale of tenants and cottage workers seemed higher than Quint might have expected. They had not yet visited the mills, however.
Finally, Chet leaned back in his chair. “Kind of like looking at muddled battle plans, ain’t it? But this is sort of sad. I feel sorry for that young lad.”
“It’s a bloody disaster!” Quint said. “The land is entailed, so it is protected, but there is no money for improvements to it or the farms. The mills were not entailed, so they are mortgaged to the hilt—which is the worst of it, for in the last forty years or so, the mills have been the principal source of Sedwick wealth.”
“So what happened, do you think? Not that it’s any of my business,” Chet said apologetically.
Quint snorted. “I don’t think. I know. My father and my grandfather could not resist a throw of the dice or the turn of a hand of cards. My brother inherited a mess. He did his best, but it was not good enough. Now Phillip is faced with it.”
“Can you save it?”
“I have to try.”
* * * *
I have to try. I have to try. The words pounded in his brain like a mantra as he put the papers and ledgers back into the desk and cabinet—in far better order than he had found them—and later as he dressed for supper with the family. It was as he dressed that he pulled from a pocket a paper he had stuffed there earlier. On it was written the name of a school, Miss Penelope Pringle’s School for Young Ladies of Quality, and an address in the city of Bath, as well as a date. Quint looked again at the date. Good God! Win and Anne were on their way to or from checking out this school when they died! Now he supposed he would have to do so too, but he put that matter out of his mind for the moment.
Instead he allowed his mind to drift to the more diverting image of Miss Mayfield, telling himself that her presence had come as a pleasant surprise. However, he cautioned himself not to let a pretty face distract him, for he suspected this was a woman of very decided opinions, and she could either be a formidable adversary or a welcomed partner. He hoped for the latter.
He chuckled to himself. Had he not already seen her worth as an ally? It had been only a couple of years ago, but he remembered writing Win about the hardships his men were enduring in their fight against the elements during a cold, wet autumn. Officers could usually be billeted in homes or cottages, however rude, in the villages, but the men were left to fend for themselves: dig holes in the ground and pull branches or debris over themselves to provide some protection. It seemed no matter how many times Wellington appealed to Parliament for a simple thing like tents, the men of that august body turned a deaf ear. Then the Lady Senator had blistered those ears in one of her essays and apparently her readers, especially the mothers among them, had taken note. Quint had recognized with both pride and amusement some of his own phrases in her essay. Within weeks, tents were on their way to the Peninsula.
After that incident, Colonel Lord Quinton Burnes had become an avid reader of the Lady Senator’s work, which he always found entertaining, though he did not always agree with the positions she took—too reformist by half! Just consider her recent treatise on labor unrest. Did that silly female mind not comprehend the impact that thousands of demobilized soldiers was having on the labor situation? And now she was apparently putting her reformist nose into the matter of educating the aristocracy—beginning with the new Earl of Sedwick. It simply would not do.
Bolstered by this sense of determination, he entered the drawing room to find the others before him, except for Chet, who was still leaving the family to itself. His mother and her companion had returned from their shopping trip; Miss Mayfield had come down with Phillip and Maria. The youngsters were sitting on either end of a horsehair sofa drinking lemonade. Both Maria and Phillip had changed for the evening meal, but both still wore subdued clothing, Maria’s dress a dull mauve. With glasses of ratafia on a small table nearby, the older ladies occupied red barrel chairs, the dowager in her black bombazine, and her companion in gray. Miss Mayfield, on a dark gray couch, held a glass of sherry in her hand.
“Sorry if I kept you all waiting,” he said, going to the sideboard to pour himself a whiskey, then taking a seat in a chair near the couch. In a quick glance he noted with appreciation that Miss Mayfield’s gown this evening was definitely more blue than gray, and that it definitely showed more of that delectable cleavage than her garment of the day had shown. She had again attached the flower brooch to her dress and added some aquamarine earrings that swayed and sparkled as she moved her head.
“Oh, not at all, my son,” his mother said. “Sylvia and I scarcely had time to change when we returned from Hendley. Such a pleasant outing we had. I think every time I go into town, there are at least two new shops to explore.”
“We had quite a nice outing here too,” he said, his smile including his wards and their aunt.
“Ohhh?” His mother drew out the single syllable in almost disbelief.
“Yes, Grandmother,” Maria eagerly picked up the conversation. “We reacquainted Uncle Quint with the gardens.”
“I hope you noticed that they need some tending to,” the dowager said.
Quint nodded. “The gazebo needs some repair, and the boathouse definitely needs to have one wall replaced. I did not check the boats.”
“They were mostly all right in May. Before we left for London, the twins and I took one out,” Phillip said.
“I do hope you had proper supervision,” his grandmother said hastily, with an accusing glance at Harriet.
Phillip heaved what could only be deemed an adolescent sigh. “Yes, Grandmother. Tom, the footman, sat on the bank. Though we can all swim, you know. Father saw to that last summer. Even Maria and Sarah can swim.”
The older woman pursed her lips. “Shocking. That is what I say. Shocking that a mother would allow her daughters to engage in such unladylike behavior.”
Harriet lifted a hand in weak protest. “I believe their father was quite insistent that all the children should learn to swim what with there being such a large pond on the property.”
“And you do know how persistent Win could be when he got a bee in his bonnet,” Quint said, and finished his drink.
“Hmmphf.” The dowager rose. “Shall we all go down then?”
Quint jumped to his feet and gestured at Phillip to offer his grandmother his arm, which the boy dutifully did. He then offered his own to Miss Mayfield, and waited for Maria and the companion, Mrs. Hartley, to precede them down the stairs.
“Thank you,” Harriet whispered.
He looked at her questioningly.
“For coming to Phillip’s rescue—and possibly mine.”
* * * *
The supper finished, Phillip and Maria asked to be excused as the adults again repaired to the drawing room. Quint declared that he had no intention of remaining in the dining room imbibing port or anything else in solitary splendor, and joined the ladies for tea. As Lady Margaret presided over the brewing tea a footman had delivered, Harriet mused silently at how pleased she had been that Phillip and Maria had comported themselves so well this evening. She doubted even the dowager could find anything about which to quibble.
“So,” Quint said conversationally as he accepted the cup of tea his mother had prepared for him and took his seat, “we know that Mother and Mrs. Hartley had a successful shopping expedition. How did you spend the rest of the afternoon, Miss Mayfield?”
“Writing, mostly.” She lifted her hands for all to see. “’Tis a wonder I was able to remove all the ink stains. I did not want to appear at the dining table with blackened fingertips.”
“It would not have been for the first time, though, would it, my dear?” Lady Margaret asked sweetly.
Harriet laughed. “Probably not.”
“May we know what it is you are working on?” asked the usually quiet Sylvia Hartley.
“An essay on the lives of working people,” Harriet replied. “Actually, it is to be a series of at least three articles—if I can just manage to whip those words into shape.”
Lady Margaret gave a tiny, very ladylike shudder, careful not to slosh the tea in her cup. “I simply do not understand why a lady of your position in society should trouble herself about those kinds of people.”
“Perhaps because we are the very sorts of persons who should be so troubled?” Harriet asked innocently.
“We do what we can,” the dowager said. “Why Mrs. Hartley and I dropped off a bundle of clothing and linens at the vicarage just today as we were on our way.” She turned to the business of handing around a plate of biscuits to go with the tea.
“And are the words shaping up well?” Quint asked.
Harriet suspected he was deliberately deflecting what might be his mother’s next line of discussion. “I misspoke. It is not so much that the words are not cooperating as that I simply do not have enough solid information at hand.”
“Hmm. I can see where it would be difficult to write about a topic in which one’s knowledge is limited,” he said with a grin.
Is he belittling me or my work? Harriet wondered, but she replied, “I certainly feel I have knowledge of a general nature—facts and figures from government documents and newspapers and so on—but I need the sorts of details that bring a story to life, that catch the reader’s imagination.”
“I am not certain I understand what it is you think you need, Miss Mayfield,” Mrs. Hartley said. Sylvia Hartley, Harriet often thought, was one of those basically shy women to whom fate had not been at all kind. Rather plain and self-deprecating, she had not only been left a childless widow at a young age, but she had been left without enough fortune to sustain her. She was the perfect foil for the more robust, decisive dowager, but Harriet felt more sympathy than affection for the little companion.
Harriet turned to her. “I need to know how these people actually live. Who they are. Where they come from. What they eat. What religion they practice. What they read, if they can do so. The sorts of information that is usually missing in official papers.”
“I should think you’d best leave well enough alone,” the dowager said. “We do not need any more needless gossip touching on our family going the rounds. Speaking of which—” She paused dramatically before continuing, “I had a letter recently from my friend Lady Martha Frobisher, and she imparted some rather startling information regarding your sojourn in London.”
Harriet closed her eyes momentarily and steeled herself for what might be coming. Lady Martha was one of the ton’s most infamous tattlemongers—the more salacious the gossip, the better.
“Did she now?” Harriet asked, trying to sound indifferent.
“Yes, she certainly did. You may be interested to know, Quinton, dear, that your wards have been paraded about in a bizarre replay of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs.”
Harriet felt the man’s gaze turn to her, but she could not bring herself to look at him directly. Well, it was only a matter of time until that ridiculous story reached Derbyshire. England’s mail is nothing if not efficient.
“I knew it would come to something like this,” the dowager went on. “Now it is just as I predicted: my grandchildren are the laughingstock of the ton.”
“Truly, Lady Margaret, your friend rather exaggerates that on dit,” Harriet protested. “It was but a casual comment of a young woman seeking attention. A few foolish but forgettable words spoken in haste.” She leaned forward to set her cup on a low table before the couch on which she sat. “And, in any event, that snide remark was aimed at me, not my nieces and nephews.”
The dowager looked at her with a lifted eyebrow. “Nevertheless, I cannot condone the idea of our name being bandied about in idle gossip. We must protect the children from such. Would you not agree, Quinton dear?”
At last Harriet allowed herself to look at him directly and tried not to be distracted by what an attractive man he was. Even in civilian attire and slouched comfortably in an easy chair, he seemed to exude the same aura of control and confidence that one saw in that portrait of him on the stairway. He smiled at her and shook his head. “Sounds like something less than a tempest in a teapot to me,” he said. “In fact, it sounds rather amusing, but one of those things that is probably much funnier in the event than in the retelling.”
“Exactly,” Harriet said.
The dowager merely sighed and turned her attention to replenishing her tea.
Sylvia Hartley apparently felt compelled to fill the conversational gap. “We have had such a lovely summer. I do hope we may continue to enjoy fine weather into the autumn.”
The dowager set aside her teacup and sat even straighter than usual. “That reminds me, Quinton dear. I have not had occasion to bring this matter up with you before, but I am planning to host a house party in late September and October. It will be like old times when your father and I hosted a house party every autumn. Sylvia and I have been busily planning it for the last month or so and making a guest list.”
Harriet was sure this came as an unwelcome surprise to the woman’s son, for he put aside his own cup and sat up straight to stare at his mother. “You have done what?”
“I am planning a house party. We shall no longer be officially in mourning, and besides renewing a Sedwick tradition that was unfortunately ignored in recent years, the party will present a splendid opportunity to announce our return to society—and reintroduce my beloved son to the society he has missed all these years in serving his country.”
“Have you already sent out invitations?” he asked.
“Not formally. But I have mentioned it in correspondence with a few of my friends to be sure they will not accept invitations from others, you see.”
Quint sat in rigid silence for several moments, then rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. “I do wish you had mentioned this earlier. Had written me before I came home. I would have tried to discourage you.”
“Why ever would you do that?” she demanded in a hurt tone. “I have not had a chance to host such a party in years and years and I used to do so frequently. The late countess was not so inclined, but I was known as a splendid hostess, if I do say it myself.”
“To put it bluntly, Mother, it is an expense Sedwick can ill afford right now. I remember very well some of those parties you and Father hosted. Twenty or thirty or more people. They went on for weeks. Food and drink alone must have cost a small fortune—not to mention entertainment.”
“But a house party is such fun,” his mother protested. “Winston did not bring up finances when I mentioned it to him last year.”
“Win approved this affair?” he asked.
“Um—not precisely, but he did not object to it.”
“He probably did not really consider it at the time and then forgot about it,” Quint said. “Lord knows he had plenty on his mind in the last year or so.”
“Well, they certainly were not things he shared with his mother,” the dowager said.
“They would not be, would they? But under the circumstances, I seriously doubt my brother would have given approval for this sort of thing.”
“Are you forbidding me to do this? When I have already told a few of my friends…” She sounded as though she might dissolve into tears—a phenomenon Harriet had not witnessed in Lady Margaret before.
Quint sighed. “No, Mother. I am not forbidding you your house party. I know as well as anyone that ‘a few of your friends’ constitutes half the ton. In effect, you have handed me a fait accompli. You will kindly not do that again, for there will have to be some serious economizing measures taken if Sedwick is to survive as even a shadow of itself.”
“Surely you exaggerate, my son.”
Harriet wondered how the woman could sound both triumphant and condescending, but her son was clearly having no more of it. He stood and stared at the older woman directly. “No, Mother, I do not. I do not know the full extent of what we shall have to do—I must meet with the bankers and other creditors first—but at the very least, I fear we will have to lease out the London townhouse for a few years. Now, if you will excuse me—” He reached for the door.
“No-o-o,” she whimpered as he closed the door behind him. “He cannot mean it. Give up the house in Mayfair? Not go to London for the season?”
“Perhaps it will not require such drastic measures, my lady,” the companion said soothingly.
“There is nothing else for it,” the dowager said, almost as though she were talking to herself. “I shall have to see Quinton suitably married and, when the time comes, that Phillip, too, chooses the right sort of bride. No more of these imprudent love matches.” Brightening, she turned to her companion and said in a more cheerful tone, “Tomorrow morning, Sylvia, we shall go over our guest list again.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I shall, of course, invite the Hawthorne and Montieth family connections,” Lady Margaret said to Harriet. “Do you think they might come?”
“Grandfather dislikes traveling, but he dearly loves company and he adores his great-grandchildren,” Harriet said. “I think it highly likely that Charles and Elizabeth would agree to accompany him and Nana.”
“Good.” The older woman sat in silence for some moments, but Harriet could tell that she had something else on her mind. Finally, she said, “I wonder, my dear Harriet, if you have given any thought to the fact that if I were to return to the dower house, that Sedwick Hall would, in effect, be a bachelor residence?”
“What? What are you suggesting?”
“I am suggesting nothing. Merely pointing out that my son is an unmarried man and you are an unmarried woman. Were I not available as chaperone, your presence here would be most improper.”
“Never mind the fact that there are seven children and perhaps as many as fifty servants on the premises,” Harriet said. What on earth is behind this? Does she think to get rid of me? She sat still, her hands in her lap, her fingers entwined, trying to look relaxed.
“Children and servants are not considered proper chaperones,” the dowager said.
“And are you planning to move back to the dower house?” Harriet asked. “I thought you had settled in here quite firmly.”
“Well, I always have that option, do I not?”
“Perhaps we can deal with this problem when it becomes one,” Harriet said. “I have always felt welcome here.”
“Oh, I did mean to suggest that you are not welcome.”
Did you not? Harriet thought bitterly.
“But you must consider also that Quinton may marry and I am sure a new wife would not want either of us underfoot, now would she?”
“Is he planning to marry?” Harriet asked, wondering why that idea should be repugnant to her.
“Well, not immediately,” Lady Margaret said with a laugh, “but surely one day—”
“Another issue that can be dealt with later, I think.” Harriet stood. “For now, I am rather tired, so I bid you a good night.”
She was more annoyed than furious at Lady Margaret’s not-so-subtle hint that she should remove herself from Sedwick Hall. Were it not for the children, of course, she would do so in a heartbeat. But she could not bring herself to desert them. Not yet. Not while there was so much need still unfulfilled.
Her mind turned to the topic that had obviously been uppermost in the colonel’s mind this evening. Harriet was sure she had always had a better understanding of the earldom’s financial affairs than the dowager had, for Win had always been quite frank in discussing things with his wife and her sister. The Sixth Earl of Sedwick had not been one of those men who undervalued the brains of women. In fact, Harriet had often thought her sister had been attracted to Lord Winston Burnes in part because he resembled Lord Hawthorne in some respects. However, finance was not a topic the dowager had ever been comfortable discussing. So long as her pin money was available, it had never seemed to occur to her to ask where it came from.
And just who are you even to think of criticizing? Harriet chastised herself as she sat her desk dawdling over the diary she kept faithfully every night. Had she not only half listened to Win’s laments? After all, the running of the Sedwick earldom had never been any of her business, had it? Actually, had she not more or less blindly gone about her own affairs all her adult life, paying but little heed to matters like the wherewithal to make those affairs transpire satisfactorily? That visit with the Hawthorne solicitor had torn the blinders away and brought her face to face with the realities of responsibility as well as privilege of great wealth. She was aware that she could probably ease many of the problems at Sedwick, if not erase them. But how far dare she go? She was reluctant to interfere beyond what she had already done. To do so would be presumptuous and the colonel would likely see her concern as just meddling. And besides, I still do not know this man. How could I even think of betraying Phillip by giving so much power to someone who had yet to prove his worth?
She rang the bell pull for her maid. She and Phillip were to go riding early the following morning.