Barbara Metzger Read online

  Meantime, here Sir George was, nearing the mid-century mark, with no sons to leave his lands—and no brawny lads to work them for free until then. He did not even have a daughter to give him a son-in-law to help farm, or grandsons to inherit Fairmont. Rockford’s visit had reminded him all over again. He’d also reminded the baronet of the drab young widow residing in that old run-down cottage no one wanted. If a nob like Rockford were interested, perhaps Sir George ought to take another look.

  She was pretty, Ganyon supposed, in a delicate way, with her neat brown hair and her clear skin. He preferred his women lush and lusty, redheaded and warm-bodied, like Lucy down at the tavern. Mrs. Henning was slight, with barely enough meat on her bones to cushion a man. He couldn’t like that bony chin, either, if it meant she’d be obstinate and argumentative, but she did fill out the top of her gray gown nicely enough. She wore plain, serviceable, obviously home-sewn clothes, which frugality he admired, but she wore the airs of a lady, too. Sitting straight like she had a poker up her behind. Bah! Everyone knew she was nobbut the daughter of Alexander Bourke, a land manager with no lands of his own. Despite that useless education Bourke had paid for, she was no better than she ought to be either, according to local history. Hadn’t she run off to Gretna with that duke’s son just in time to keep the first boy’s birth legitimate? Henning’s people never gave them tuppence, he’d heard, because it was such a misalliance.

  Still, that was, what, ten years ago? He’d never heard of her playing fast and loose on young Henning, nor after the chawbacon stuck his spoon in the wall. Lucy at the Black Dog was available to any man with the coin. Mrs. Henning acted as if she was unavailable to any man, at any price. Until Rockford came. Well, the earl was never going to marry the jade. Sir George had a better offer to make her.

  “My housekeeper just left,” he put into the silence of Alissa’s mental calculations of rents and interest rates.

  He was offering her the post? Alissa could do it, she supposed, although she had no experience running a large household. Working for the old skint was not something she could look forward to with enthusiasm, either. Nor did she like the notion of her boys having Sir George Ganyon as a model of manhood. She had been to his house a few times, and it appeared to be as ramshackle as the baronet, with his food-stained shirtfront and gray-tinged neckcloth. His hunting dogs appeared to have the run of the house. The horses might have too, from its condition. Talk in the village was that the baronet refused to spend his money on repairs or sufficient servants, but Alissa was used to hard work.

  She did more computations. Whatever Sir George paid—and it had to be more than she was earning now—she would be better off. With no rent to pay or food or coal or candles to buy, she might even be able to put some money away for a dowry for Aminta. Of course, she would no longer be able to take her sister to neighborhood gatherings. Alissa doubted she would be invited once she went into service. Perhaps the vicar’s wife would agree to chaperon Amy to the local assemblies along with her niece. Amy would not become a servant, not while Alissa could draw breath.

  Then she had an awful thought. What if the balding baronet did not mean for them to live at Fairmont with him? After all, if he were such a nipcheese, he might balk at feeding three extra mouths besides his new housekeeper. He might intend for her to come daily, leaving her boys with Amy, working in exchange for the rent on the cottage. Gracious, she would be in worse straits, with no time to give lessons, and no time for her sons.

  She would not do it. They could all move into rooms in the village if they had to, above the butcher’s shop or the lending library. The boys would miss the freedom of the cottage, but they would be closer to their lessons. Perhaps they could run errands to earn a few coins. Without the garden, they would need the extra income.

  As if reading her thoughts, Sir George mentioned her sons. “I suppose I will have to pay for their schooling, when I don’t need them for harvest or haying or sowing season, of course. And they’d have chores, naturally. Horses don’t clean their own stalls, eh?”

  He would pay for his housekeeper’s children’s education and let them ride his horses? Goodness, all the stories about his cheeseparing ways were wrong, and Alissa would make sure everyone knew it. She offered him the plate of pastries again. “Then you would have all of us live with you?” she asked, to be certain.

  He took another macaroon. “Where else? I ain’t paying for any pricey boarding school.”

  “And my sister?”

  “How old’s the chit now, seventeen?” When Alissa nodded, he stopped chewing, but did not stop speaking, so crumbs dribbled over his thick bottom lip onto his paunchy lap. “Old enough to marry her off, I suppose.”

  “That was my thought, too. I have great hopes for the winter assemblies.”

  “Right. Get her fired off before she gets notions in her head. Can’t have m’wife’s sister going for a servant. Wouldn’t look good.”

  His…wife?

  Chapter Eight

  “Your…wife? I thought you said your housekeeper had left.”

  “Right, and I see no reason to hire another one. Never do a lick of work anyway, always complaining. Might as well have a wife, if I have to hear the whining. And I need a son. Two would be better, just in case. You’re a proven breeder. Good hips.” He waved the half-eaten macaroon at her lower body. Then he waved it in the air. “And a good cook. What more can a man ask, I say?”

  He could ask if she wished to marry him. Alissa did not. Trying to be polite instead of paralyzed, she said, “But…but I had not thought to marry again.”

  “Naturally you hadn’t. Who’d take a female with no particular consequence, no dowry, and a parcel of dependents? I thought long and hard about it myself, but don’t want to spend the blunt to go up to London to find a chit to marry. All of ’em are empty-headed anyway, so you’ll do.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Now don’t go getting missish on me. A woman in your position can’t be expecting bouquets of flowers and pretty words. Never wrote a poem in my life and don’t intend to become one of those artistic idlers now. You’ve had all that romantical claptrap once already, anyway, and look where it got you. No, you’re a widow with boys to raise; I need a wife. Simple enough. You can’t afford to be picky.”

  She could not afford a raise in her rent either, but marriage? To Sir George? As awful as working for the baronet might be, the idea of wedding the boor was a great deal worse. He was using his fingernail to dislodge a bit of macaroon from his teeth. “I appreciate the honor, Sir George, truly I do—”

  “Yes, yes. I suppose that’s what they taught you to say in that fancy academy your father sent you to. A waste of blunt, if you ask me. But get on with it. I have things to do, you know.”

  “I appreciate the honor, but I cannot—”

  “Demme, you expect me to get on my knees? Bosh! I’d never get up again. I am too old for that fustian nonsense, and so are you. You’re not too old to give me sons—I checked with the apothecary.” He waggled his bushy eyebrows suggestively. “And I ain’t too old to get them on you, never fear.”

  She’d fear choking on his unwashed odor first. How could he think that she might…? That they could…? The baronet was more imaginative than any of those poets he so disdained. Before Alissa could reply, however, before she realized his intent—Heavens! She could never have anticipated his intent in a million years—he leaned over the low table and pressed his wet, fleshy, macaroon-strewn lips against her cheek.

  She pushed him away and moved to the far end of the sofa, wiping her cheek with a napkin. “Sir, you forget yourself!”

  “I haven’t forgotten how to please a filly, if that’s what has you in a pother. You can ask Lucy at the Black Dog. No, don’t suppose you’d have any conversation with the likes of Lucy.” He shrugged. “She does not have a lot of conversation, anyway. Besides, it’s not such a bad thing, you acting the lady, for it’s a ladyship you’ll be. You must have thought you’d move up i
n the world, marrying young Henning. Too bad he was so far away from the succession, and got himself disowned to boot. Well, now you can have that title you always wanted.”

  “I never wanted a title. My father was a perfect gentleman, and he never had one. My mother was content being Mrs. Alexander Bourke, and I was content being Mrs. William Henning.”

  “Heh. You can’t fool me. Every woman wants that ‘Lady’ in front of her name, wants to go into dinner ahead of the vicar’s wife, and wants to sit in her own pew at church, too. That’s all well and good, having a spouse who the neighbors curtsy to, but don’t you go thinking of putting on those airs in my bedroom. It’s sons I want, not vapors and smelling salts like my first wife, or headaches like my second, or nagging like my third.”

  “Third? I thought you had two wives?”

  “The third one doesn’t count. Never made it legal like. The housekeeper, don’t you know. I said I’d marry her if she started breeding. Three years of listening to her complain and I still have no son. She’s gone now, like I said, so you don’t have to worry.”

  Worry about what? That he would toss her out if she did not produce the requisite heir, or that he’d be unfaithful once they were—No, Alissa could not bring herself to say the words.

  She could clean his house and cook his meals, but share his bed? He most likely had fleas, like his dogs. And that was one of the baronet’s more appealing traits.

  “I am sorry, Sir George, but I cannot accept your, ah…” She dredged her mind for the proper word. Kind? Generous? He was none of those things. “Startling offer,” she concluded.

  He started to get red in the face, the thick eyebrows lowering to nearly cover his bloodshot eyes, just as the boys came running into the room, with Amy behind them.

  “Here, now, what kind of rag manners are these?” the baronet said, glaring fiercely at Alissa.

  She could not tell whether he meant her refusal of his offer or the children’s hurried, noisy entrance to the parlor, until he went on: “This is an adult conversation, not a nursery party.”

  “But it is time for tea, Mama,” Willy said in a low voice, coming to stand beside her. “And you promised.”

  Her older son, Kendall, stepped close to his brother and added, “We washed up special, after putting the donkey away.”

  Aminta stayed in the doorway, uncertain whether she was considered an adult by the angry old man.

  Not the least bit shy of the blustering baronet, Billy noticed the nearly empty plate of pastries. “There are no macaroons left!” he complained loudly. “And they are my favorites! He ate them all?”

  “Impertinent brats!” Sir George spit out, along with the last few crumbs. “Go on, get out. Your mother and I are not finished talking.”

  “Yes, we are, sir,” Alissa said, getting to her feet and standing with an arm around each of her sons, after she affectionately patted Billy’s head. “This is my house still, and these are my boys. I did promise them a special treat in honor of Billy—that is, the Honorable William Rothmore’s return to us for an extended visit.”

  The baronet did not rise. “Demme, we haven’t settled this yet.”

  Everything was settled, as far as Alissa was concerned, but she was not willing to make a scene in front of the children. “We can converse as I walk you out while the boys have their tea. Aminta, dear, please pour. And, Billy, there are more macaroons in the pantry. Why don’t you go fetch them?” She headed toward the door, picking up her shawl as she went.

  Sir George had no choice but to leave, unless he wanted to stay to fight the boys over the poppy-seed cake slices. He lumbered to his feet and followed Alissa, ogling the younger sister as he passed.

  Once outside, Alissa nervously eyed the restive horse tied at the gate, but she went closer, to lead Sir George farther out of hearing distance from the house. She could see four heads peering out the window.

  “Now cease this foolishness, Mrs. Henning. I have made you a proper proposal. Could have made you an improper one, by Jupiter. Widow and all, you know.”

  She did not know. What, were widows fair game for every tomcat on the prowl? She was no man’s prey. Alissa raised her chin, noting that she stood almost taller than her unwanted guest. “Yes, sir, you made me an offer, and I have refused. I fear we would not suit.”

  “Not suit? What kind of cr—What kind of poppycock is that? I am a man, you are a woman. That is all that matters.”

  “Not to me, it is not.”

  “Demme, give me one good reason why we wouldn’t suit, then. You owe me that.”

  One good reason? She could give him a score without stopping to think. The first one was that she considered him a repulsive toad, but good manners kept her from saying so. “Very well. I do not believe we could have a good relationship because of your despicable arrangement with your housekeeper.”

  “I told you, she’s gone.”

  “And your dishonorable attitude toward our agreement concerning the lease on the cottage.”

  “We never had it in writing.”

  “Then there is the way you spoke to my boys.”

  “Spoiled brats.”

  “And I am not attracted to you.”

  “So what? None of my other wives were, either. You shut your eyes and think of the next day’s menu. I wasn’t that keen on bedding the sour-faced biddies, but I managed. You can too, to keep you and the brats out of the poorhouse. You can find yourself some young stallion—after I’ve got my son, of course.”

  “I would never break my vows!” she said. “But that is another thing, your, ah, other women. Like Lucy at the tavern.”

  “Faugh, every man has his separate interests. Your Henning might have been a saint, but you’ll not find another. Rockford has a new mistress every month, they say. Sometimes two.”

  Two months or two mistresses at a time? Alissa wondered, but then she returned her attention to the baronet, who was trying to scratch his back with his riding crop. His horse took the opportunity to nip at his shoulder.

  “Bloody hell!” Sir George cursed, then slapped at the horse with the whip. “Goddamn hayburner.”

  Alissa gasped. If she had been considering marrying the maggot even for an instant—which she had not—his violent temper would have convinced her otherwise, to say nothing of his foul language. She looked back toward the window, hoping the children had not heard. “Mind your tongue, sir.”

  He scowled at her. “You’ll get used to it, woman.” He went back to scratching his lower back with the crop. And lower still.

  Alissa turned away. “I do not care for your manners.”

  “You’ll care less for starving, when I throw you out of this cottage.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I am saying that you have no choice, missy. Didn’t Rockford say Fred Nivens was coming ugly with you? I fined him for disturbing the peace. Put him to work on the roads, in lieu of the cash. Clever, eh? The earl was complaining about their condition, too. Well, there’s more than one groom gone bad. You need a protector. You need a house, for this one will fall down on your head before I put tuppence into it. You need someone to take those brats in hand and fire off that sister of yours. And you need money, because no one will let you teach their daughters how to scribble, after I tell them how you played the jilt, kissing me and then turning up your nose.”

  “I never—”

  He ignored her protests. “In other words, you need a husband, and I am the only one offering. Your reasons why we shouldn’t get hitched aren’t worth a groat.”

  “But I do not like you!”

  He snorted. Or perhaps that was the horse.

  “I do not like your horse!” Alissa knew she was sounding desperate, but could not help herself. “And I hate dogs!”

  He dropped the whip. He dropped his lower jaw. “Demme. You hate dogs? No one hates dogs.”

  Alissa crossed her arms over her chest, pulling the shawl tighter. She had not intended to be out in the chill this long
or she’d have worn her cape. “I do. They are filthy, vicious animals.”

  He closed his mouth and twisted it in a black-toothed smile. “That’s all right, then. You can’t have met my dogs. For a moment you had me scared, there. What good is a woman who doesn’t like dogs? But mine are all fine animals. Nary a biter in the pack, unless they have cause, of course.”

  “I have met your ill-behaved hounds. They tear through my gardens, rip down my laundry line, and cause havoc with my chickens. And I have indeed seen them at Fairmont, a snarling pack of mange-ridden mongrels.”

  “Mange? Mongrels? I tell you, they are the best hunting pack in the shire, and I can trace their breeding back for more generations than my own.”

  “And I tell you they do not belong in a house, and they do not belong around children. As for training them to kill foxes…” She shook her head to get rid of the image she saw there.

  The horse tossed its head too, slashing long yellow teeth. Sir George stepped back. “I know what it is. You had a fright once, eh? Or stumbled on a hunt, what? That’s why it’s ridiculous for females to go out with the pack. No stomach for it. Well, that’s one thing I would never ask you to do. Don’t believe in women riding hell for leather, I don’t. So. We’re agreed then?”

  “We are agreed on nothing! I do not wish to marry you, sir!”

  “What, do you think to force me to raise the ante? I already said I’d pay for your brats’ schooling. I suppose I could fork over a few pounds to dower the little chit. Be worth it not to have to feed her for long. Now stop playing coy with me, missy, for I am getting sick of this, and my horse is tired of standing. He gets mean without a good run, he does. Here, we’ll seal the bargain with a kiss. I know the brats are watching, so that will put the lock on it, eh? Wouldn’t want them to think their mama was a loose woman, what, kissing a man who wasn’t her intended?”