Elizabeth Mansfield (8 page)

The lawyer lowered his eyes. "A thousand, then?" he asked.

"Yes. In ten-pound notes if you please."

While Mr. Fairleigh left them to count out the cash, Luke and his mother waited in silence. Luke could barely restrain his grin, but Lady Martha had to struggle to keep from expressing her extreme displeasure.
What a piece of effrontery,
she thought.
One thousand pounds!
This unwonted extravagance seemed proof that, Miss Douglas's advice notwithstanding, her son would always be a spendthrift.

Mr. Fairleigh, making a brave attempt to restore his cheerfulness, returned with a pile of a hundred ten-pound notes in his hand. "Will this be satisfactory?" he asked his lordship, casting a wary eye on the mother.

Luke took the bills in his hand. "Very satisfactory," he said.

"I hope you don't
really
plan to use it all in one evening," the lawyer said in a tone implying that his lordship had surely been joking.

"Yes, I do," Luke said, looking down at the bills with a gleam.

His mother could restrain herself no longer. "What on earth can it possibly be that would tempt you to fritter away such an amount in one evening?" she demanded, feeling helpless. "It's a woman, isn't it? Some bit of muslin on whom you'll squander all that?"

"See here, Mama," he said, frowning down at her in annoyance, "have you turned over my inheritance to me only to keep demanding an accounting of how I spend it?"

She made a gesture of surrender with one white-gloved hand. "No, of course not," she admitted, realizing that she had no course but to abide by her agreement. She lowered her hat so that the many feathers hid her eyes. "I'm... sorry."

Her retraction softened him. "That's better," he said, letting a little smile show. "And since you've apologized so nicely, I'll admit to you mat this money will
not
be squandered on a woman. Does that please you?"

"No, it doesn't," his mother snapped. "However you intend to squander it appears dreadful to me. Do you truly believe such wastefulness will give you enjoyment?"

"Take my word, Mama," he said, lifting the lowered brim of her hat and placing a fond kiss on her cheek, "that I shall enjoy it very much indeed."

NINE

As soon as she returned to Charles Street, Lady Martha tossed aside her bonnet (which, because of its association with the unpleasant afternoon she'd just endured, she intended never to wear again) and stormed up to her bedroom, pausing only to order Parks to send Jane to her. Parks found the girl in the library, sorting through a pile of unpaid bills that he'd handed to her earlier, in response to her request to examine the household accounts. Since it was he who handled the household accounts for his lordship, he was somewhat put out at the request, the possibility occurring to him that he might be superceded. However, this was not the time to inquire into that matter. "Her ladyship wants you, ma'am," he said. "Right away. She's up in her bedroom."

"Thank you, Mr. Parks." With a sigh Jane rose from the desk. "I told you, didn't I, that you and the rest of the staff needn't call me ma'am?"

The butler shook his head. "It doesn't seem fitting to call you by your first name. How about... what if we call you Miss Douglas?"

"If you wish," Jane said, going to the door, "but at Kettering Hall everyone calls me Miss Jane."

The butler considered the suggestion for a moment. "Very well," he said at last. "Miss Jane it is, then. I'll tell the staff."

As she hurried down the corridor toward the stairs, Jane reflected on this exchange with the butler. From his manner it seemed as if Lord Kettering had been right in his assessment of her demeanor. He'd implied that her manner was arrogant. And Parks's reaction to using her name seemed to support that view. Yet, if there was really something arrogant in her carriage, why wasn't the staff at Kettering put off by it?

The butler, following her down the hall, suddenly cut into her thoughts. "I'd take care, Miss Jane, if I was you," he warned.

She turned to him. 'Take care?"

"It seemed to me her ladyship was in a real taking."

"Was she?" She threw the butler a grateful smile. "Thank you, Mr. Parks. I'll take care."

The smile remained on her face as she ran up the stairs. Parks's warning was the first sign of friendship from the fellow. Perhaps she
didn't
carry herself like the Queen of all the Russias after all. Perhaps his toplofty lordship was wrong about her.

But as she approached Lady Martha's bedroom her smile died.
What's happened to put her ladyship in a "taking" this time?
she wondered as she tapped at the door.

Responding to a curt summons to come in, Jane stepped inside and discovered that the room was in confusion. The bed was covered with scattered items of clothing, the abigail was busily rolling up pairs of gloves and putting them into a straw bandbox, and her ladyship was sitting at her dressing table, holding a silver-framed miniature in one hand and dabbing at her eyes with the other. "Are you packing?" Jane asked, surprised.

"Yes," her ladyship said, lowering the little painting to her lap and looking up at Jane, "I've decided to return to Cheshire this very day."

Jane was appalled. "But, ma'am, you
can't!
You promised to stay with me for a fortnight at least!"

"I'm sorry, Jane. It's just... impossible. I cannot abide watching my son dissipate his fortune, as he seems intent on doing. And I dislike living in London. I always have. Too much noise and bustle. I long for home."

"So do I, your ladyship, so do I." Jane gave her mistress a pained look. "Does that mean nothing to you?"

Lady Martha, sighing guiltily, dabbed at her eyes again. "I know the sacrifice I'm asking you to make," she admitted.

Jane was not moved by her mistress's tears. She knew they came easily to Lady Martha. Instead, she felt a wave of anger well up in her. "How is it, ma'am, that you can expect me to keep my word but have no compunction in breaking
yours?"

Her ladyship hung her head. " 'Tis a privilege of age," she muttered.

"Huh! A privilege of
wealth,
if we're to be honest."

Lady Martha's head came up at once. "Save your sharp retorts for my son," she said in reproach. "He needs them more than I do."

Jane turned away, unwilling to show how upset she was at the prospect of being left in this house without the support of the one person who wanted her there. "It seems you both deserve a sharp tongue," she muttered.

Lady Martha made a gesture of helplessness. "I'm sorry, my dear. I admit I'm deserting you. But you are so capable and clever. I know you'll manage well. All you need do is show me at the end of the month that he's curbed his gambling and kept his expenses within some sort of reasonable limit. But even if you don't succeed at prodding my son into some sense of responsibility, I'll not blame you. I'm sure you'll have tried your best."

"I don't need butter-sauce poured over me, ma'am. I need your help."

"I can give you no help. My son has just proved to me that he doesn't care a fig for my opinions."

"What makes you think he'll care a fig for mine?"

"I don't know if he will or not," her ladyship conceded, "but I'm convinced you are Luke's only hope." Emotion overcame her again, and, her eyes filling with tears, she lifted the silver-framed miniature from her lap. "Look at this," she said, gazing at the painting fondly. "This is Luke at nineteen. Rowlandson limned it." She handed the miniature to Jane. "Wasn't he a handsome boy? He is still devilishly good-looking. Whenever I go to a ball where he's present, I notice how all the women flock round him."

"Yes, he is," Jane said, studying the tiny face. "Very handsome."

"I used to wish he would marry, that the influence of a good woman would improve him," his mother said sadly, "but now I'm convinced that he'd only choose the wrong sort."

Jane continued to stare at the painting. The face was strikingly attractive, and the eyes looking back at her were clear and honest. It was not the face of a man without character. "I think, ma'am, that you belittle him," she said softly. "I'm still convinced that he will grow into maturity, now that you've given him a chance to earn his independence." She handed the miniature back. "But saddling him with my presence will only make him feel you still don't trust him enough."

"He knows I don't trust him. But I trust you, Jane. Something tells me that you're what he needs to make a good start with his new responsibilities."

Jane, realizing that further argument would be useless, gave up. "Very well, ma'am, since you give me no choice, I shall keep my word and stay. May I ask you a favor in return?"

"Yes, of course, if I can. What is it?"

"Will you ask one of the maids at Kettering to look in on my mother and sister and let me know how they do? I worry a great deal about them."

"But why should you? Didn't you tell me you used some of your rise in salary to hire a town girl to work for your mother?"

"Yes, to assist Mrs. Applegate with the housework in the afternoons,"

"Mrs. Applegate? Who is she?"

"Our housekeeper."

"You have a housekeeper in your tiny cottage?" her ladyship asked, surprised. Servants were not supposed to keep servants.

"Yes. She works a few hours in the mornings, when I'm at the Hall with you. My mother is not well, you see, and needs assistance."

"But what about your sister? I seem to remember... ah, yes. Adela, isn't it? Why doesn't she—?"

"My sister is young. Only seventeen." Jane dropped her eyes from her ladyship's keen questioning. "Not yet up to her adult responsibilities."

"I see. So you've hired a village girl to take your place in the afternoons, is that it?"

"Yes. I tried to make adequate preparations for my absence, but I'd be much easier in my mind if I knew things were going well with my family."

"Yes, of course. I'll visit them myself," her ladyship promised, "and I'll write to you."

"Thank you, ma'am." Jane went to the door and curtsied. "I hope you have a pleasant journey back."

"Wait," Lady Martha said, rising and going to the door. "Jane, my dear," she said, placing her arm pleadingly on the girl's shoulder, "do your best with my Luke. That's all I can ask for. I shan't blame you if you fail. Whatever happens, you will still have your place in my employ."

"Will I?"

"My word on it. And I promise one thing more. My undying gratitude."

TEN

Luke, having not the slightest inkling that his mother was at that moment leaving the house, picked up Taffy in his curricle and drove off toward Brooke's club. Taffy noted with some surprise that Luke was humming merrily as he guided his pair of grays through the crooked streets. This cheerful demeanor was a decided alteration in his friend's previous frame of mind; only a fortnight before Luke had been sunk in the dismals. "Something's changed," he remarked, searching his friend's face for a clue. "What's passed since I saw you last?"

"Everything's changed," Luke said, trying to keep from grinning.

"Oh? Don't tell me your Mama came through for you again."

"In the very best of ways." Luke, keeping his hands on the reins, lifted his elbow to make his coat pocket accessible to Taffy. "Put your hand in my pocket!"

Taffy did so, and removed from the coat pocket a thick roll of bills. He gasped. "Is this the seven hundred you owe?"

"A thousand," Luke said, tossing off the number with a feigned nonchalance.

"A
thousand?
I say! Your mama has become unusually generous, hasn't she?"

"You won't believe this, Taffy," Luke said, letting his grin break out at last, "but she has taken steps to sign my inheritance to me in one month's time."

Taffy's mouth dropped open. "Bless my soul!
All
of it?"

"Every penny."

The enormity of the news left Taffy momentarily speechless. Then, chortling with delight, he pounded Luke on his back and shouted in enthusiastic glee, "Good for you, old fellow, good for you!"

"Well, don't fly into alt," Luke said, flicking the reins. "I'm on a month's probation, so we shouldn't toss hats in the air just yet."

"Merely the thought of seeing Monk's face when you pay him off is enough to send me into alt," Taffy insisted excitedly. "I overheard him bragging to Stanford that he'd probably forced you to go to a cent-per-cent."

"I was afraid I'd have to," Luke said, his smile fading. "Getting myself into the clutches of a moneylender has always been a nightmare to m—"

Something he saw on the street just ahead of them startled him. "Ho, there!" he cried out in fury to a barely discernable figure, "just what are you about, you damnable cur?" With a sudden pull-back of the reins, he drew the curricle to an abrupt stop.

As Taffy gaped in confusion, Luke leaped out of the curricle. "If there's anything I can't abide it's a cawker who abuses his horse!" he muttered to Taffy over his shoulder. "Hold the reins for me, will you, Taffy?" And he ran across the street to where a man stood beating a bony nag that apparently was refusing to pull the cart to which it was hitched. "Stop it!" Luke ordered, grasping the man's arm. "Can't you see the poor beast is on his last legs?"

The horse-beater turned round. Luke, his free arm raised and his fingers tightened into fists to administer a blow, was startled into immobility by the look of the man. He was a poor, unshaven, shaggy fellow and had tears running down his sunken cheeks. " 'E winna move!" he moaned in despair.

"Of course he won't move," Luke said, his anger somewhat assuaged by the misery in the man's face. "He's all skin and bones. He has no strength left."

"Do ye think I dinna know it?" The man lifted the back of a dirty hand to rub away the tears from his cheeks. "I ha' no likin' t' whip 'er, poor Tessie."

"Then why are you doing it? You've probably been pushing the poor animal beyond her limits all day."

"Wha' cin a poor drayman do, sir, I asks ye?" the fellow pleaded. "I mus' deliver the cattle t' the market, mustn't I? But I swear I never whipped 'er before."