A Baron for Becky (34 page)

Daisy was a
delightful little elf of a child, thought her fond mama. Not yet
six years of age, she was clever and charming. She reminded Anne of
Meg at the same age some sixteen years ago, before a fever killed
their mother and robbed Meg of her wits. Daisy had the same intense
curiosity, the same eager approach to life. And—apart from her
colouring—she looked the same, too, with Meg’s slender body, oval
face, arched brows, and sweet snub of a nose.

Daisy couldn’t
wait to tell Anne about her morning. “I made bread with Hannah, and
I helped cut the apples for the pies, and Meg made the marks on the
pie lids, didn’t you Meg?”

“Meg made
bread, too!” Meg added, dropping the cloak in her eagerness to have
her say. Daisy, who had clambered onto the other end of the bench
to reach the coat hooks, turned from hanging the bonnet. “Pick it
up and pass it to me, Aunt Meg. I’ll hang it for you.”

“Meg hang it,”
Meg insisted.

Just then the
door opened again, letting Kitty and Ruth into the warm.

“Water’s warm,”
Hannah told them, “and t’meal be served as soon as may be. Miss
Meg, Miss Daisy, up to table, my lovelies.”

From the
scullery as she washed her hands and face, Anne listened to her
daughter reporting on her morning, with Meg chiming in to echo and
agree. They had, it seemed, spent a morning in the kitchen,
‘helping’ Hannah prepare the dinner.

As always, the
family said grace before they ate. Anne smiled around at her
family. Growing up in luxury as she had, she couldn’t have imagined
eating such a simple meal in the kitchen—or eating with servant,
children and adults all together. Even her nursery fare had been
more elaborate than stew and bread, with apple pie to follow. When
she left the schoolroom, dinners had been in the evening, not in
the middle of the day, and had commonly boasted several removes
with a dozen dishes at each.

She’d been
lonely when she left her sisters on the nursery floor. She’d dined
with her brother when he was home, but she and Sam had little to
talk about. She didn’t miss the solitary splendour of her girlhood.
She preferred it here in this warm kitchen, surrounded by the women
she loved.

“How was your
lesson today?” she asked Kitty.

Kitty’s smile
lit the whole of her lovely face. “Rose and I practised our duet.
Ruth said we are coming along very well, did you not, Ruth? She
says we may sing it at the Redwoods’ on Tuesday.”

“If you are
asked to sing,” Ruth warned.

Kitty waved off
this reminder with another smile. “Lady Redwood likes to hear
us—she says we brighten her day.”

“Pride goeth
before a fall. Perhaps you should embroider that on a sampler?”
Ruth raised one eyebrow, and tried to look stern, but her eyes
betrayed a twinkle. Anne chuckled. Kitty could sing like an angel,
especially with Rose Ashbrook, the Rector’s daughter. But her fancy
sewing was truly abysmal, and even in plain sewing her stitches
often had to be unpicked and done again.

“I am not being
proud, Ruth, truly I am not. But I like singing for Lady Redwood.
Poor lady. Fancy never being able to walk, and never going anywhere
unless someone carries you. And I would not be honest if I
pretended that Rose and I did not make quite a pretty noise
together, especially when Emma plays for us.” Emma Redwood was the
daughter of Sir Thomas Redwood, the squire, and his invalid
wife.

Ruth relented.
“Indeed you do, my dear. Even if it is unbecoming to say so.

At this point,
Daisy—who had made great inroads into her stew—started into another
story about her morning, again ably supported by Meg.

On Kitty, the
same features that blessed Daisy had matured into true beauty, the
nose straight and the large eyes fringed with the same absurdly
long lashes as her small niece. The tiny mirror they all used told
Anne that she was, if not a beauty, at least not an antidote. Meg
still looked a child, though she was fully grown. She was three
years Kitty’s senior, but something in her expression spoke of her
innocence and lack of understanding.

Kitty, Meg and
Anne shared the same light brown hair and hazel eyes. Ruth and
Daisy were complete contrasts to one another. Ruth was dark and
light: hair almost black and eyes of a deep brown against a
porcelain complexion. Her head was currently bent close to Daisy’s
golden curls while the child’s intensely blue eyes watched the
piece of apple pie Ruth was sliding onto Daisy’s plate. The
startling colour was set off with dark lashes, a surprising
combination with the golden hair. Redepenning eyes, the Longford
residents called them, though not to Anne’s face.

Hannah rounded
the table to clear the stew bowls, before taking her own place
again on the other side of Daisy. Dear Hannah. She’d come to them
as Daisy’s wet nurse, and stayed these five and a half years as
maid-of-all-work. She was as much part of the family as any of the
sisters.

“Mmmm,” Kitty
said, having swallowed her first bite of pie. “This is good.”

“Meg pricked
the crust. Meg pricked the crust.” Meg was jiggling in her seat
with excitement.

“Eat your
mouthful, Meg darling. Ladies do not speak when they have food in
their mouths.”

Meg gave
another couple of chews and a mighty swallow. “Meg pricked the
crust.”

Anne leaned
over to give her a kiss on the cheek. “Well done, Meg.”

“Anne,” Kitty
asked, “Did you hear the new Earl is coming?”

“They did
mention it at the school.”

“The whole
village is talking about it. The last Earl never visited, not since
he was a boy. But the new Earl is going to be here this weekend,
and Mr Will Baxter has told Mrs Tyler to prepare for him to stay
until the end of June. Do you think we’ll meet him?”

Anne exchanged
glances with Ruth. “If he is a good landlord, he will want to meet
all his tenants, darling.” If their luck held, he would not be a
good landlord.

If only he had
waited another two years, until Kitty was of age. If only he
planned to stay a few short days. If only he would leave without
ever setting eyes on Daisy or questioning the rent rolls.

Meg, who had
been listening with a frown on her usually happy face, suddenly
scrambled up from the table and rounded it, heading for the
door.

“Meg!” Anne
shot out a hand to catch her pinafore. “Where do you think you are
going?”

Meg tugged at
her pinafore, trying to get free. Her face was distorted with fear.
“Meg going to hide. Earl is coming.”

In an instant,
Anne was out of her seat and folding her sister in her arms. “Not
the bad Earl, darling. This is a different Earl.”

“The Earl is a
bad man,” Meg insisted.

“The bad Earl
is dead,” Anne soothed. “He will never come. The bad Earl is
dead.”

Ruth joined
them, to run a soothing hand over Meg’s hair. “The bad Earl will
never come,” she agreed.

“A good Earl
comes?”

Anne met Ruth’s
eyes, and her own thoughts were reflected. In their experience, a
good Earl was an unlikely beast indeed.

“A different
Earl,” Anne said.

“You’ll have to
watch your nephew with the maids,” David observed to Rede, as they
sat in the late afternoon sun on Monday, sampling a mug of the
local brew.

They’d made an
easy ride of it, leaving London at first light that Monday morning,
and making their last post of the day from Newbury in the
mid-afternoon.

John Price,
Rede’s man, had written ahead so horses had been waiting for them
at each stop, and he’d booked rooms for them at the Red Lion in
Hungerford.

It was a good
choice. Newbury was crowded with families departing for Bristol,
Bath, or points further west. The King’s decision to call an
election had chopped at least six weeks off the Season.

“So I’ve been
told,” Rede replied to David’s warning. “Nasty Nat, my cousins call
him. But my sister assures me that the girls at Oxford were quite
willing, whatever the Chancellor says.” He raised his mug in an
ironic salute to the illusions of a doting mother.

“Sent down, was
he?”

Rede took a
contemplative sip of his beer. Not at all bad. “Yes. And his father
won’t take him to Brighton to stay with Prinny, and his mother is
off to Bath and is reluctant to leave him without a keeper. He has
fallen in with a bad crowd, apparently.”

“So Uncle Rede
to the rescue.”

“How bad can a
seventeen-year-old be, after all?”

“How bad was
George at seventeen?” David asked, wryly. “You do know that young
Bexley was George’s acolyte?”

“Yes, my
cousins made sure to acquaint me with that small fact.”

“On the bright
side, three of my cousins have invited themselves down to help me
keep him out of trouble,” he said.

They sat in
silence for a while, sipping their beer and watching the sunset. “I
see you were much in demand at the Haverford ball,” David said
after a while.

Rede gave a
short bark of laughter with little amusement in it. “The mothers
with daughters to market were bad enough. But the married women… Is
no-one in London faithful? If I had one invitation to cuckold some
poor unsuspecting husband, I had a dozen.”

“Very likely
neither poor nor unsuspecting. Just busy doing the same to some
other woman’s husband.”

“Possibly.
Likely, in fact. Bunch of rakes and harpies. They undoubtedly
deserve one another.”

He shuddered.
He’d thought he would be safe enough dancing with Baroness
Carrington, whose husband held a barony near Longford Court. He
vaguely remembered her marriage while he was still at Eton, and
figured she must be old enough to leave him be. But either the
willowy blonde had worn exceptionally well, or she was a mere child
when she married. Each time the figures of the dance brought her
close, she whispered innuendos in his ear, her ‘accidental’ touches
reinforcing the hidden meaning.

Even if he’d
had time for dalliance, even if he didn’t draw the line at
adultery, he’d avoid a predator like the Baroness, with her
hard-edged glitter.

She hadn’t
taken the hint from his non-committal answers, however.

“There’s no
need to be shy, my Lord Chirbury. We’re both adults. If you take my
meaning.”

The situation
had called for a blunt instrument. “I don’t dally with married
women, Lady Carrington. If you take my meaning.”

He shook off
the memory. It was too pleasant an evening to think about the
Baroness and her ilk.

“Who was your
lady friend?” he asked David.

“Just someone I
know,” David replied.

Not something
David wanted to talk about, then. Interesting in itself. Rede
changed the subject again.

“John should be
here with the luggage soon.”

David, though,
was following his own train of thought. “You’ll have to pick one of
them, you know—one of the maidens with the marriage-minded mothers.
The title must go on.”

Rede shook his
head. “I don’t need to marry for that, David. I have two uncles to
inherit, and after them four cousins, one of whom has already set
up his nursery. The title is safe for another generation.

“And I’d rather
be single. For one thing, marriage wouldn’t be fair to the woman.
My vengeance has to come first. Anything left of me goes to my
business interests and the earldom.

“For another…
I’m a trader, David. I invest where I can expect a good return at a
reasonable risk. I’ve been married once, and had children. Hostages
to fortune. The risk is too high. I’ll not ever marry again.”

Read the rest of Rede’s
and Anne’s story in
Farewell to Kindness
, available now in
print and for e-reader at all major online retailers.