Barbara Metzger Page 6

  “And your father was even more clever to bring you back here, wasn’t he? How do you think he knew I always keep those peppermint drops for when you are feeling ill?”

  “He must be very smart, don’t you think?”

  “Very.” She lovingly brushed damp tendrils of hair off his forehead and set him on his feet. “Now go on inside. Amy will fetch you those drops, and Kendall will help you with your clothes. I’ll be in after I thank your father for letting us keep you with us a bit longer, all right?”

  Was she some kind of saint, Rockford wondered, not belittling him to the boy when he so richly deserved her scorn? No woman could be so magnanimous. None ever had, in his experience, anyway. “That was generous of you, Mrs. Henning,” he acknowledged. “And do not think I am ungrateful. For your kindness, and the unspoken offer to look after William until I return with his brother. You did mean that, did you not?”

  She nodded, carefully folding the blanket that had been wrapped around the boy. Not meeting his eyes, she said, “I would keep him as long as you permit, my lord. He is a fine boy, just not a good traveler.”

  Rockford wanted to look at her eyes, to see if they were as glade green as he recalled; he did not wish to speak of unfortunate illnesses. He needed, though, to speak of recompensing Mrs. Henning for the expense of having another mouth to feed. They would send food over from Rock Hill, of course, but his indebtedness went much further. And a gentleman always paid his debts.

  After she had flown into the boughs over his offer to send her sons to school, however, he was leery of discussing money. He had not understood why she’d turned so prickly over the schooling, since he did not think her hen-wit enough to refuse out of pride. A woman in her circumstances could not afford pride, which she had to know. He was not bestowing charity, anyway, merely repaying a debt. Likely she did not understand about the rules of a gentleman. Either that, or she thought he had strings attached to the offer, as if he had to bribe women to become his mistresses. Diamonds or rubies were what they usually wanted, besides, not tuition fees, not that he was used to paying for a female’s favors, of course. Nor would he ever consider the respectable Mrs. Henning for the position, except in idle speculation. She had to know that, too, the way she’d recombed her hair, with not a single soft brown curl trailing out of the neat, priggish arrangement.

  No, she must have refused to let him pay for the boys’ schooling simply because she was a doting mother who could not bear to part with her sons. Well, he could use her devotion to his advantage.

  He removed a purse from his coat pocket and held it out to her. “This is for new clothes for William. I fear his are beyond claiming. What that child has against clean linens is a mystery for another day. For now, he would be embarrassed, I am certain, to have new apparel while his playmates did not, so please use the rest for Willy—that is, your son William—and Kendall. Winter is coming and they must need warmer garments.” He would like to tell her to purchase herself a dress length in something other than the dowdy gray she wore, but he knew better than that. “And boots, if they are to ride with my William.” He’d have two more ponies delivered tomorrow, and all the feed and fodder they required.

  Of course, Alissa thought, Rockford did not want his son to be seen with ragamuffins. Bad enough the Honorable William Rothmore kept such low company, without them all looking like ragpicker’s children. She was torn. She hated to take anything from the insufferable earl, as if hospitality had to be paid for, as if she did not love Billy like a son. But he did need a new, warmer outfit, as did her boys, and she could not pay for any of it. She reluctantly took the purse, with an even more reluctant curtsy, but said, “I will keep a proper accounting of how much is spent on my sons. You will be repaid.” How, she did not know, but she knew she disliked being in this man’s debt.

  “Deuce take it, woman, this is not a loan. You are doing me a service that is going to cost you money, if my experience with the boy is anything to go by. In the week I will be gone, he could destroy your entire wardrobe, yes, and your sister’s besides. I do not wish an accounting.”

  “Which is how Mr. Arkenstall cheated you so badly, I suppose.”

  “The devil you say! Arkenstall has nothing to do with this. Unless you are planning to run off to Scotland with my purse and my son.”

  “In a carriage? Billy?” Her lips quirked upward.

  “William.” He matched her smile. “So my son and my money are safe with you. If you need anything more, Claymore will have carte blanche. Just send to Rock Hill. And thank you for the gift.”

  “The gift? I did not give you anything but the loan of two shirts, a neckcloth, and a handkerchief that were sitting in a trunk, unused.”

  “No, not the clothes. The boy. You gave me my son. You see, bad traveler that he is, now I can imagine that William truly is my flesh and blood. Thank you.”

  Chapter Six

  Rockford drove the old carriage back to Rock Hill. He made Fred sit inside, in return for that snicker. Once back at the stables, the earl spoke to Jake, his old head groom, then Claymore while the butler brought hot water, then the housekeeper over tea. He had known each of them nearly his entire life and depended on them to keep his household running. Jake might be missing a few more teeth, Claymore needed spectacles, and Mrs. Cabot forgot to put sugar on the tray, but Rockford trusted them. They were not to be faulted for the bailiff’s crimes, nor for Rockford’s sap-skulled sister’s infatuation with the silver-tongued rogue. They’d tried to tell him, in letters his secretary must have considered too insignificant in comparison with the world events. On his orders. He sighed and asked for the brandy decanter, along with his tea.

  His groom, butler, and housekeeper, every one of them, sang Mrs. Henning’s praises. They were all relieved and delighted that she, not they, had the care of young Lord William. Not that the boy was any more of a hellion than his father had been, or his aunt, for that matter, but the servants were a great deal older. Five years old seemed a great deal younger, thirty years later. But at a mere twenty-seven, Mrs. Henning was well up to the challenge.

  According to Rockford’s loyal servitors, the widow was a fine young woman, an asset to the neighborhood, a regular attendee at church, and an excellent mother. She was a true lady, no matter her birth or what any nasty, spiteful, coarse-tongued churl might say.

  So Rockford fired Fred. It was the most rewarding act of a thoroughly aggravating day.

  “Dismissed? Me? But I does my job, m’lord, and none of those old dodderers can say different.”

  “None has. Your own words and deeds have proved unsatisfactory. If not for your lies and gossip about Mrs. Henning, I would not have raced to William’s rescue, pistol primed and ready, like a Barbary pirate claiming his prize. You made me appear the fool, and created a dangerous situation, besides.”

  “The lad belongs here.”

  “When I have proper arrangements in hand for him. Until then he is safe and content at Mrs. Henning’s, while you are out of a position for lying to me and besmirching the good name of a decent woman. The first rule for my employees is loyalty, and you broke it by caring more to defame Mrs. Henning’s character than for my son’s welfare. Why, if I were not in such a pleasant mood, I would take my whip to you for insulting a virtuous female.”

  Rockford knew he’d made the right decision when, after pocketing the coins he’d been given for severance, Fred sidled off, saying, “Don’t know what has you in a good mood. You be no closer’n the rest of us to lifting the jade’s skirts.”

  “Quiet!” Rockford yelled. “An insult to Mrs. Henning is an insult to my house. I consider her under my protection.”

  With nothing left to lose, Fred muttered, “Under your protection? Hah. In your dreams.”

  Fred did have more to lose: his front teeth.

  “And good riddance, I say,” the housekeeper said later, while she tried to find the earl a fresh shirt without bloodstains on it. The one she unearthed from the attics must have bee
n his father’s. It smelled of mothballs. Rockford still smiled.

  *

  He did not smile during the next few days, while he waited for his valet to arrive. He went over the ledgers to see how badly Arkenstall had damaged the estate, and he transferred funds from his personal accounts into the Rock Hill coffers. He could easily absorb the loss, but it rankled that he had been so duped and his tenants so misused.

  He rode out to visit each of the men who worked the fields, kept the herds, moved the flocks. He assured each of them that needed repairs would be made in the spring, if not before, that the rents would be adjusted, that an honest, fair man would be hired in Arkenstall’s place. And he bought two ponies for the Henning boys so William did not have to ride alone. And two gentle mares for the widow and her sister, so the boys would be supervised on their outings. And a donkey with its cart so the Henning household did not have to walk to church when the weather was inclement.

  Rockford told himself he was helping the tenants by paying them overvalued prices for the animals rather than offering them charity. He also bought their preserves and pickles, hand-woven yard goods and knitted caps. Mrs. Henning could find use for all of it, and she could not complain, for the farmers’ wives needed the money. In fact, he wrote in the note he sent over with a wagonload of supplies, she was doing him a favor, allowing him to assist his dependents while not robbing them of pride. He could not recall the last time he considered anyone’s pride but his own, but he felt good about it.

  Riding his own lands felt good too. He rode daily in London, and at the frequent country house parties he attended, at hunt meets and races, of course, but this was different. He was alone, for one, without competition or conversation. No baying of hounds disturbed his peace, no braying of boastful riders, no babbling of the ladies he often escorted. He could go where he wished, for another, at whatever time he wanted, at any speed. He could follow the sun or follow a deer path, race a flock of ducks or a scudding cloud. He could stop riding altogether, to dismount to watch the leaves turn color and fall to the ground as the days grew cooler.

  Most of all, he owned these acres.

  A man could be content with such a life, the earl considered. Of course, he might also be bored within a fortnight with no convivial companions, no amusing entertainments, no delicate diplomacy to negotiate. The Earls of Rockford had always had their place at court, with influence extending across continents and kingships. That was his place, while Rock Hill belonged to posterity.

  Before he left, however, Rockford vowed to make a difference here. And with his son.

  He rode over to Mrs. Henning’s, bypassing Sir George Ganyon’s ugly house, to make sure that William suffered no ill effects from the carriage drive. The boy was fine and had a good seat on his pony, while the Henning children were slightly behind in their riding skills. Jake would make good horsemen out of all of them.

  He was introduced to Rosie the pig, keeping his distance, as well as his hand on the collar of William’s jacket when the boy leaned over the fence to make the introductions.

  He employed all of his diplomatic skills, if not his ear for languages, to adjudicate the naming of the new donkey. If the regent could see him now, he thought with a smile, which faded as he recalled the latest London missive, demanding his escort at some fete in honor of the Ziftsweig delegation. Botheration.

  And beyond botheration that the widow was not at home. She was in the village giving drawing lessons to the vicar’s niece, Miss Aminta Bourke informed him, blushing and twisting the ribbon on her gown.

  So Rockford decided to call on the vicar. He supposed Arkenstall had been as lax about supporting the local church as he had been about fixing the roads. That is, the monies Rockford had approved had gone into Arkenstall’s pockets instead of where they might help the parish.

  The vicar was delighted to see the earl, and to accept a donation to fix the church’s ill-fitting windows. He also accepted lesson fees for William and the Henning boys until the Christmas holidays. After that, who knew where Rockford would find to send the boy, but it seemed foolish to start him at a new school with the term already begun and the vacation coming so soon anyway.

  Rockford stayed as long as he could bear the vicar’s enthusiasm for the new stained-glass windows, the roof repairs, and the new pews, all to be completed at Rockford’s expense. Damn, if the widow did not come out soon, Rockford would be as poor as she was!

  Perhaps she had already left and was doing errands or making visits in the village? Rockford could not ask the vicar, not without expressing an interest he had no intention of admitting, even to himself. He left and went to the local tavern for an ale. He sat in the public room, where he could look at the high street through the windows. None of the locals dared approach the dark-visaged, dark-tempered lord, not after Fred’s garbled words about how handy he was with his fists, and how ready to go off half-cocked.

  Rockford had another ale. Damn, if the female did not appear soon, he’d be as drunk as the smelly old sot slumped over at the bar.

  This was totally inappropriate behavior for the Earl of Rockford, according to the precepts of the earl himself. Why, someone might think he was mooning over a common country widow, which he was not doing, of course. What he was doing, he told himself, was waiting to make sure Mrs. Henning had enough wherewithal for the proper care of his son before he left the vicinity. Now he would have to rely on the woman to handle her monies wisely until he returned. A female and funds? Hah! He might as well rely on the rain to hold off until he completed his journey.

  He rode back to Rock Hill to make sure the packing was done for his next morning’s departure for his inlaws’ in Sheffield. This time he was taking his London traveling coach and driver, and his valet to care for the boy, although he had not informed his superior gentleman’s gentleman of that fact. The fellow had reveled enough in his lofty position as valet to one of London’s luminaries. Now he could earn the matching lofty salary. Rockford would ride alongside, of course.

  As he left the village, the earl could not help looking around for a glimpse of Mrs. Henning. He spotted a female in gray skirts and almost fell off his horse twisting in the saddle to see her face. Confound it, that woman was seventy if she was a day, and snaggle-toothed. She gave him a grin, though, which Mrs. Henning never would have, so he tipped his hat and rode on.

  He decided to leave more money with Claymore in case the widow spent his purse on fripperies instead of necessities for William. Then he could put all thoughts of the woman and her money out of his head.

  And concentrate instead on what kind of fripperies she might buy.

  *

  Alissa was indeed spending her money, her own, though, from her drawing lessons—not the earl’s. Neither the vicar nor his wife saw anything wrong with her accepting recompense for caring for Billy, so Alissa stopped worrying about that and started doing mental calculations. She knew to a shilling how much remained of her late husband’s inheritance from his grandmother, how much she needed for the rent on her cottage, and how much she could earn. The earl had been more than generous with food and funds for the boys’ clothing so she could afford to spend a bit of her own hoarded coins on something she had wanted for ages, a new gown for her sister. Aminta was the one who watched the boys while Alissa was away giving lessons, and the one who helped cook and clean and tend the little garden patch. She deserved a reward—and a future.

  A dress length of green silk would not stretch Alissa’s budget too far, but would go a long way at the local fall assemblies. They could alter its appearance every week from the pile of trimmings they already had: scraps of lace, silk roses, gold braid, embroidered ribbons. They could even sew on sprigs of holly when Christmas drew nearer and the neighbors held dinners and caroling parties. Amy could look as fine as any of the other young ladies—no, better, for she was the prettiest girl around; everyone said so, not just her loving sister. With a fashionable new gown, though, she would shine. Surely she would catch
the eye of some personable young man.

  Alissa did not think Amy would do well as a farmer’s wife. She managed with the vegetables and Rosie, but she was too delicate, too gentle for any rough-hewn rustic. Perhaps a clerk, a solicitor, or a banker, even, would notice her in the new gown and be smitten. He would not mind that she had no dowry, not when he discovered her sweet nature, her fine education, her polite manners. He’d be getting a charming, lovable helpmate, the perfect mother to his children—and he’d better appreciate Amy or he’d have Alissa to answer to.

  Amy was young, but Alissa had fallen in love and wedded at that age, and was a mother not long after. Amy was inexperienced with large gatherings, but she danced like an angel, and if she was a tad shy and withdrawn in company, well, that would pass with more exposure to strangers, Alissa hoped. Besides, many a gentleman preferred a demure bride to a brash, selfish, and spoiled beauty who would make a demanding wife. A man who wanted a sophisticated social butterfly, a fashionable flirt, was not the man for Alissa’s sister. Why, a man like Rockford… Heavens, a man like Rockford would eat gentle Amy alive, and spit out the green silk!

  Alissa never aimed so high for her little sister, nor so low. She did not aspire to a title or a fortune or a grand marriage for Amy. Neither did she want an overbearing, overbred, upper-class rudesby who could ignore his family, not for Amy, not for any woman. Why, she pitied any female who thought for an instant that Rockford could make a decent husband.

  He might make a good lover, though.

  Alissa almost dropped the bolt of fabric she was inspecting. Heavens, the man was insidious, invading her very mind with evil intentions! He no more belonged in her thoughts than…than Rosie belonged in her parlor. She made her purchase and went home, her mind firmly focused on the future—Amy’s future.

  Yet a third person was thinking about Mrs. Henning and her money. That smelly old sot passed out at the bar was not just any smelly old sot; he was Fred Nivens, not so old, definitely smelly, and wide-awake now. He’d drunk the last of his severance pay and awakened outside the pub’s back door with a headache and a thirst. Blue Ruin or revenge, he cared not which slaked his appetite.