“If so, it is a very tenuous one. Richard is taller than I by half a head, and while we both have the dark hair and eyes that may be seen in any number of family portraits, he wears them rather better than I. In fact, he looks like an aristocrat, while I look like—” He shrugged. “—a poor relation.”
Her eyes widened. “Is that what you are?”
“Oh, I am not poor anymore, thanks to Richard. He paid for my education, you know, and gave me the position of steward when I left university. He has been very good to me, and I am grateful to him. But you—I understand you are a considerable heiress, Cousin Susannah. What made you decide to travel halfway ’round the world to marry a man you have never met?”
“It is true that I am an heiress, Cousin Peter, but I am also a minor, with no relations—at least, no American relations—to assume guardianship. I had to marry someone.”
“But—forgive me, but with your holdings, I should have thought you would not lack for suitors.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “Oh no, I did not lack for suitors! But all of them were far more interested in my holdings, as you put it, than in myself. When I got Lord Ramsay’s letter, I thought that an English lord, whatever his faults, could at least have no interest in my inheritance.”
“A title does not always mean wealth, Cousin Susannah, but in Richard’s case, your instincts were correct. He is quite solvent—wealthy, even—so you may acquit him of being a fortune-hunter.”
Susannah pressed a hand to her bosom and let out a sigh of relief. “Thank heaven for that! Oh, I
knew
I did right to come here!”
“Tell me about your home in America,” he urged. “Virginia, is it?”
She shook her head. “It is true that I have a town house in Richmond, but I have not lived there since I was two. Papa and I have always lived on the Kentucky property.”
Peter, being accustomed to English gentlemen who owned town houses in London in addition to their country estates, saw nothing to wonder at in this arrangement. “Is it a large estate?”
“Eight hundred acres, but only about half of it is under cultivation at present. Papa had hoped to clear more this year, and to build a house, a big one with Ionic columns along the front and a wide veranda, but—” She broke off, shrugging.
Recalling the death that had put paid to her father’s plans, Peter thought it best to divert her mind from the recent tragedy. “Under cultivation, you say? With what crops?”
“Corn, mostly—we distill our own bourbon, you know—and some tobacco. And we raise horses,” she added proudly.
“Do you like to ride, then?”
“Oh, yes! Papa put me in the saddle when I was only three,” she said, smiling.
“You will find plenty of opportunity at Ramsay Hall, then, for my cousin’s stables are extensive.”
Throughout dinner, they discussed such innocuous subjects as might introduce Susannah to her new situation without overwhelming her, while Peter discovered what he might about the American holdings that would pass to Lord Ramsay upon his marriage. At last she broke off in mid-sentence, yawning widely.
“But I must not keep you up talking when you have had such a full day,” Peter said, starting guiltily as he realized the lateness of the hour and the emptiness of the public room. “You will have been wanting your bed any time this last half-hour and more.”
“Oh no, truly I have not,” Susannah objected, but another yawn gave the lie to her words.
Peter had to laugh at this blatant falsehood. “Still, you should get what sleep you can, for we will set out early in the morning for Ramsay Hall. It will not do, you know, for you to be asleep on your feet when you make your curtsy to your affianced husband.”
“No, I suppose not. It is just that you are so easy to talk to,” she added naïvely. “Quite as easy as my friends on the
Concordia
. I only hope Lord Ramsay will turn out to be half so agreeable!”
“Thank you, Cousin Susannah,” Peter said modestly, fighting back a grin at the idea that Lord Ramsay should aspire to be as affable as a pair of tars. “If you will allow me, I will accompany you as far as your door.”
Susannah was nothing loth, and so after escorting her up the stairs and down the corridor as far as her door, Peter bade her a good night and retraced his steps to his own room. Once inside, he removed his coat and laid it across the back of the room’s single straight chair, thinking of his cousin’s peculiar bride. Seen at close range (and provided one ignored everything from the neck down), she was not a bad-looking girl. Her blue eyes held intelligence and an openness which was pleasing. To be sure, her nose boasted more than a scattering of freckles—a souvenir from her time on deck, he had no doubt—but his cousin Jane should know what to do about them. The hair was unfortunate, but perhaps Jane would know what to do about that, too. It appeared that Richard might not have made a bad bargain after all, provided he could dissuade his bride from fraternizing with sailors.
With this comforting thought, he finished his nocturnal preparations, snuffed the candle, and climbed into bed, and soon slept the sleep of the just.
Journeys end in lovers meeting.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE,
Twelfth Night
Peter arose early the next morning to prepare for the journey home, and was appalled to discover Susannah awake before him, sitting quite alone in the public room and addressing herself to a hearty breakfast.
“This is not bacon,” she informed him, eyeing the rasher on her plate with disfavour. “This is ham.”
“Call it whatever you like in America, but when you ask for bacon here, this is what you’re going to get.” Realizing he had sounded harsher than he’d intended, he added, “You need not eat it if you dislike it. Shall I ask the cook to bring you something else?”
She shook her head. “No, no, that’s all right. I don’t dislike it, precisely; it’s just that I was expecting something different.”
“And it takes a moment to adjust your expectations,” he said, nodding in understanding. He suspected the same experience was awaiting his cousin Richard, only it would not be breakfast meats at issue. “I’m sorry I was not in time to bespeak breakfast for you, but I’m glad you were not obliged to wait on me. May I join you?”
“Oh, please do!”
He sat, and had not long to wait before his own breakfast was brought out.
“You drink
beer
for breakfast?” exclaimed Susannah, wrinkling her nose in distaste as a tankard of the inn’s home-brewed was set at his elbow.
He laughed at her obvious disgust. “Ale, yes. Most Englishmen do, including Richard, so I’m afraid you shall have to get used to it.”
“Never!” declared Susannah, lifting her coffee cup with a flourish. “Give me coffee any day.”
“Lord, yes! No lady would drink ale for breakfast—well, except for Aunt Charlotte, and she is old enough, she says, to do as she pleases.”
She laughed delightedly. “I may not approve of ale for breakfast, but I like your Aunt Charlotte already. Does she live at Ramsay Hall, as well?”
“No, she lives in the Dower House with her sister, Aunt Amelia,” he told her in between bites of buttered eggs and the meat that was indeed bacon, in spite of her low opinion of it. “And I should explain that they are not my aunts, but rather some distant cousin. They are Richard’s aunts, but they will take it very ill if you call them anything but Aunt Charlotte and Aunt Amelia. We all do.”
“ ‘All’?” echoed Susannah in some alarm. “How many people are we talking about?”
“Not that many, really,” he hastened to assure her. “At Ramsay Hall, there is only Richard, and myself, and—and Cousin Jane.”
“Cousin Jane?”
He was not quite certain why he should be reluctant to bring Cousin Jane into the conversation; certainly there was nothing in the least inappropriate about her presence in the house. He supposed he was fearful that Susannah might take exception to another female holding the reins of the household and, perhaps, being unwilling to surrender them to the new mistress.
“She is a Ramsay on the distaff side, her mother having married a man by the name of Hawthorne,” he explained. “She served as companion to the previous Lady Ramsay—Richard’s mother—and after her ladyship’s death, she stayed on to take over the running of the house.”
Susannah nodded in understanding. “A housekeeper, of sorts.”
“No, no, for Mrs. Meeks is that. Jane’s status is somewhat ambiguous. In some ways Jane acts as mistress of the house, although she has no real claim to that title and, to do her justice, has never tried to put herself forward in that regard.” Seeing the puzzled frown that creased Susannah’s brow, he added hastily, “You need not fear that she will try to usurp your own authority, or undermine your relationship with Richard, or anything of that nature, for she is the kindest creature imaginable.”
Seeing Susannah push her plate away (empty, in spite of her objections to the bacon), Peter put down his fork, picked up his tankard, and drained the last of his ale. “You are wise to make a substantial meal of it, Cousin Susannah, for we have a lot of ground to cover before stopping for luncheon. If you will excuse me, I must go to the post office to arrange for the hiring of a chaise.”
After recommending that she enlist the innkeeper’s daughter to pack her bags, he took his leave of her. The post chaise arrived within the hour, and after seeing her bag stowed on its boot, Peter instructed the ostler to saddle Sheba for the journey, then turned to hand Miss Ramsay into the hired conveyance.
“Aren’t you coming with me?” she asked with a note of panic in her voice.
“Of course I am. But I shall be riding on horseback.”
“Not—not in the carriage with me?”
“Certainly not,” said Peter, slightly shocked at the very suggestion. “It would be most improper for us to be shut up in a closed carriage, unchaperoned, for a lengthy journey.”
“But if we are shut up inside a closed carriage, how would anyone know?” she asked with unassailable logic.
“
I
would know,” he insisted. “What’s more, Richard would know, and he would be very displeased with me if I should do anything that might leave his bride open to censure.”
“Are you so afraid of him then?” asked Susannah, wide-eyed.
“Afraid of Richard? Heavens, no! But recall that he is my employer as well as my cousin, so I must consider myself bound by his wishes. And in this case, he would be quite right.”
She sighed. “I’m afraid I’m in for a very dull ride, with no one to talk to.”
“Do you like to read?” Peter asked, recalling the book tucked away in his valise. “I can lend you the second volume of
Waverley
, if you don’t mind starting in the middle.”
“Not at all,” Susannah assured him. “Beggars can’t be choosers, you know.”
“And once we reach Ramsay Hall, you can always get the first volume from Richard’s library, if you wish.”
“He has a
library
? A whole library, all to himself?”
Peter nodded, smiling. “A very extensive one.”
“I think perhaps I like Richard better already,” she declared. “No one can be a dull stick who has his own library.”
“I can see you have never met Sir Matthew Pitney,” Peter said with a grin.
“Who is he?”
“Our nearest neighbor, and a very dull stick indeed. But he does have a library.”
“I think you must be teasing me!”
“Not at all. Only wait until you meet him. Oh, here is the ostler with Sheba. Give me a minute to fetch
Waverley
from my valise, and we will be on our way.”
He did more than that. He went back inside the inn, and eventually persuaded the innkeeper to allow his daughter to accompany Miss Ramsay in the post-chaise. He was, of course, obliged to pay for young Betsy’s return trip by stagecoach, to say nothing of compen-sating her father for the temporary loss of her labour, but he had the satisfaction of knowing that the proprieties would be observed. And so the trio set out from the Pelican’s stable yard. They broke their journey at Winchester for a light nuncheon, during which Peter fully expected to be pelted with questions as to whether Edward Waverley would end up marrying the tempestuous Flora MacIvor or the more serene Rose Bradwardine.
Here, however, he was mistaken, for once they had been shown into a private parlor and plied with cold chicken, bread, and cheese, Susannah confessed somewhat guiltily that she had not progressed beyond the first twenty pages.
“For I am reading aloud so that Betsy might enjoy the story, too, and my attempts at voicing the Scottish characters were enough to send us both into whoops. So I have decided poor Edward Waverley must wait until I can get the first volume from Lord Ramsay’s library and read it in silence. In the meantime, Betsy has been pointing out landmarks to me, and telling me all about life in England.”
“I see,” Peter said, nodding. Privately, he thought the life of a Portsmouth innkeeper’s daughter would bear little resemblance to the future that awaited Susannah as Lady Ramsay, but as the innkeeper’s daughter sat beside her at the table (where his American cousin had insisted on placing the girl), he was forced to keep this observation to himself.
“Only fancy, Cousin Peter! Betsy has an elder brother in the navy, who fought against us.”
“ ‘Us’?”
“Well, me, anyway. Americans, I mean. It seems very strange to think of us as enemies, does it not?”
“I am sure no one could think of you as an enemy, Cousin Susannah,” Peter said, and was surprised to discover that he meant it. However odd her appearance, and still more so her manners, she was a rather taking little thing. He only hoped his cousin Richard would agree. “Still, it is probably best to avoid topics on which you are bound to find yourself at odds with your new acquaintances.”
“Well, we didn’t talk about the war much, because neither of us knew much about it,” Susannah admitted, dismissing the late hostilities with a shrug of her shoulders. “Mostly we have been talking about our families. Betsy has
seven
siblings, and two of them are twins!”
She turned to the innkeeper’s daughter for confirmation, and Betsy bobbed her head in agreement. Peter suppressed a sigh, acknowledging that someone (and he very much feared that he knew upon whom the task would most likely fall) would have to speak to his cousin regarding her familiarity with persons beneath her station. It was with a certain reluctance, therefore, that he handed both young women back into the post chaise, where they would, he had no doubt, resume their quite inappropriate friendship.