Текст книги "Once Upon a Tartan"
Автор книги: Grace Burrowes
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 20 страниц)
The boy had an aggravating knack for making every pronouncement sound like a sermon. He was going to give tremendous speeches in the Lords one day, though Quinworth wouldn’t be around to hear them.
“You do not recall anything amiss. So you did not see her ladyship?”
“Aberdeenshire being a good distance from Edinburgh, I did not.”
He placed a saddle on the horse’s back, then slid it back into place. The animal stood quietly, though it was likely plotting more mischief once the girth was fastened. Quinworth considered asking if her ladyship was still using her son’s estate outside Edinburgh, but somebodyhad returned a letter he’d sent there not two weeks past, so he held his tongue.
And slapped his crop against his boot.
“For Christ’s sake.” Spathfoy hissed the imprecation as his gelding danced sideways. “If you’re going to torment an animal, at least find one of your own to pick on.”
“My apologies.” He moved away, lest the gelding start kicking and stomping in the cross ties. Spathfoy spoke to the horse soothingly in Gaelic, of all the heathen languages. Quinworth had tried to learn it decades ago, when pleasing his new wife had been the sole compass of his existence.
He’d been a fool. Likely he was still a fool. He walked off, bellowing for his hunter and slapping his crop against his boot.
* * *
“You must be my granddaughter.”
Hester looked up from her eggs and toast to see a tall, older gentleman with graying hair and stern blue eyes standing in the door of the breakfast parlor. The resemblance to Tye was faint, mostly in his bearing and perhaps a little around the eyes.
“Make your curtsy, Fee.” Hester spoke quietly, and leavened the command with a smile. Any other relative of Fee’s—any other Scottishrelative, and even Spathfoy—would have known to brace themselves for a hug from the child.
Fiona got out of her chair and curtsied prettily before her grandfather.
“Well done, child. And who would you be?” He barked the question at Hester, making her feel about eight years old and caught snitching tea cakes from the larder.
“That’s my aunt Hester. She came with us.”
Hester expected his lordship to reprimand Fee for speaking out of turn, but the man instead narrowed his eyes on Hester herself.
“If you’re the nurse, then you’ve presumed to dine at the family table for the last time, my girl. You wait outside the door for Miss Fiona to complete her meal, then escort her back upstairs for her lessons.”
He jerked his chin at the two footmen standing by the sideboard, as if to indicate Hester was to be removed bodily, but at least one of them had been on hand the previous evening.
“I am Fiona’s step-aunt, Lord Quinworth. My father was Baron Altsax, and I’ve accompanied Fiona here to ease her transition to your household. It is not my privilege to serve as her nurse.”
She could not give the man the cut direct under his own roof, so she went back to munching well-buttered toast. If this was the fare served to Tiberius with his morning meal, no wonder he’d chosen to absent himself.
“Can I sit down now?” Fiona aimed the question at her grandfather.
“May I.” He sounded exactly like Tye when he offered that admonition.
“May I sit down? My porridge will get cold.”
Something passed over the older man’s features, surprise, possibly, or fleeting humor. “Sit.”
Hester did not engage the man in conversation, though she studied him. He quizzed Fiona in French and then German, and Hester herself was surprised when the girl answered creditably well in both languages.
“When I go to Balmoral, we sometimes speak German when we play.”
“ Yougo to Balmoral?”
“We’re neighbors.” Fee studied her porridge for a moment, as if pondering whether his lordship might need an explanation of the term. “Her Majesty comes to Aberdeenshire for only a few months every year, though. Do you like raisins?” She eyed the scone sporting an abundance of raisins on his lordship’s plate.
“It so happens I do. Hand on your lap, girl. I do not encourage pilfering at table, particularly not before the servants.”
“He talks like Uncle Tye.” This last was directed to Hester.
“I know. This is your uncle’s father, which I suppose explains many of Spathfoy’s unfortunate tendencies.” Hester realized what she’d said as she was putting the last bite of eggs into her mouth. The marquess was staring at her, glaring at her more like, and he’d put down his scone.
“Explain yourself, woman. And be quick about it.”
Fiona was looking raptly at Hester—and a little scared. Hester chose her words, though there was no disguising certain ugly truths, no matter how large and varied one’s vocabulary was.
“I have low expectations of a man who will ignore his granddaughter for years, then have her snatched away without the least courtesy to her family, your lordship. Such a man has little sensibility for the feelings of others, as demonstrated by his willingness to enlist his own son in this misguided adventure, and to enforce his high-handed whims without even writing to the belted earl who has provided for the girl’s every need for the entirety of her life.”
She expected to be tossed from the room, never to see Fiona again.
She expected a dressing down at the least.
She expected Quinworth to raise his voice to her—her own father had done so before the servants on many an occasion.
The marquess let out a bark of laughter. “You remind me of my marchioness. This is intended as a compliment. Pass the teapot and finish your toast.”
His lordship went back to interrogating Fiona, while he obliterated his breakfast. The questions ran the gamut from English history, to geography, to animal husbandry.
“I’m told you’re in want of a pony.”
Fiona stopped fidgeting. “I am not to have a pony just yet. I’m to be a great strappin’ beauty, and I will outgrow my ponies too quickly if I start riding them now.”
Her grandfather peered over at her. “This is sound reasoning, which unfortunately did not occur to me when I was nigh beggared keeping your aunties mounted practically from the cradle. Would you like to see the stables?”
“Yes, please, Grandpapa.”
His lordship scowled at his empty plate. “I suppose I am your grandpapa at that. Miss Daniels, good day. Where shall I send Miss Fiona when we’re done with our inspection?”
“I believe I’m in Lady Dora’s room, your lordship. Though I might explore the library for a book.” She should have asked for permission to use the library, but had the sense her manners would be lost on his lordship.
“Hmph.” He rose and did not bow to her. “Come along, Granddaughter.”
Fee bolted out of her chair, seized her grandfather’s hand, and dragged him from the room.
Hester had just finished her toast and poured herself a final cup of tea when Spathfoy came in, looking windblown and bemused.
“Did I, or did I not, just see my father being led by the hand around his own stables?”
“By a small child chattering a mile a minute? You did. Tea, Tiberius?”
He paused at the sideboard, but it was too late to correct the familiar address.
“Please. Would you like anything more to eat, and was Quinworth at least civil?”
“Nothing more, thank you. To Fiona, he was quite civil, if a little imposing. I don’t like him, though. He’s not only arrogant, he’s…”
“My mother said he was impossible on more than one occasion. Even his cronies call him a throwback.” Spathfoy took the seat beside Hester that Fiona had vacated. “Did you sleep well?”
“I slept very well. Yourself?” He was a good host, she concluded with some surprise. That had to be his mother’s influence.
“Well enough. I thought to ride out with his lordship this morning—Rowan needed to settle his nerves over a few fences—though Quinworth and I were arguing before we’d reached the end of the lane.”
“About?” She did not want to encourage his confidences, but the footmen had left when his lordship had departed, so she did not change the topic.
“I should have looked in on my mother when I was in Scotland. What sort of son am I, to pass right through Edinburgh and not take the time to see to her and to the estate I’ve turned over for her use?”
“Your father can’t hop a train to check in on his wife?”
“Hopping is not within his lordship’s gift. He seldom goes anywhere anymore, just rides the length and breadth of the shire in all manner of weather.” He fell silent and tucked into his breakfast while Hester tried to fathom a marriage where a man did not care enough to visit his wife, but could castigate his son for the same shortcoming.
The longer she contemplated this conundrum, the more clearly she understood why Tiberius Flynn might not have been eager to plight his troth to anybody, ever.
And yet he had offered marriage to her.
* * *
A week went by during which the hope Tye stubbornly nurtured for a future with Hester Daniels was severely buffeted. After the first day’s outing to the stables, the marquess virtually ignored his granddaughter. The pony procured for Fiona—a rotund little slug cheekily named Albert—could not fly over fences as Rowan could, and thus his hairy company was not sufficient to distract Fiona from increasingly severe bouts of homesickness.
Connor MacGregor called with his wife Julia, and gave Tye such broodingly thoughtful looks as to make Tye wonder if Fiona ought to be put under guard, but before he took his leave, the man brought a smile to Fiona’s face and promised to visit her again soon.
Which meant Fiona loudly and frequently missed dear Uncle Con and Aunt Julia in addition to Uncle Ian, her parents, Aunt Augusta, the dratted baby, and Aunt Ree.
In utter desperation, Tye bribed his sister Joan to show Fiona some painting basics while he cornered Hester in the library, which had become her haunt of choice.
“It’s a pretty day, Hester Daniels. Will you ride out with me?”
She set her book aside and regarded him with an expression he was seeing on her face more and more frequently. Not a scowl, but a knitted-brow, considering, unsmiling look. “Yes, I will ride out with you. Give me time to change, and I’ll meet you in the stables. Fiona will be busy with Joan for quite some time, if even half of her questions are to be addressed.”
He wanted to offer her his hand, to assist her to her feet, to wing his arm at her as if she needed escort to her own quarters, but he didn’t. He kept his hands to himself and settled for a whiff of lemons as she sailed past him.
At the stables, he fared little better. Hester used the lady’s mounting block to climb aboard a mare Tye’s sisters kept as a guest horse. As the horses ambled out of the stable yard, Hester maintained an aggravatingly serene silence.
“I’ve been arguing with his lordship.” As conversational gambits went, Tye considered that among his worst—though commendably honest.
“I heard you. When I retire after dinner, or Joan and I are strolling the gardens while Fiona goes on a mad tear, Quinworth raises his voice at you.”
“He maintains the lungs need exercise the same as the rest of the body.”
This, of all things, provoked a smile. “Like you and your swearing.”
“Not at all like—” He fell silent for a moment. “Viewed from a certain perspective, there is a rough parallel. His lordship is adamant that Fiona remain here at Quinworth.”
“Did you really think you’d change his mind, Tiberius?”
He was in pathetic damned straits, because just hearing his name on her lips warmed his heart, even in the context of that gentle, hopeless question.
“I have changed his mind on other matters, though it’s usually a Herculean labor. I am convinced you have the right of it, though. He has brought Fiona here for a purpose, to make some point, though I’ve yet to divine what it might be.”
“Fiona does not keep to her own bedroom at night, you know.”
Yes, he did know. Fiona had told him her bedroom up on the third floor was cold, lonely, and plain. She dutifully went to bed up there each night, waited until the household was quiet, then stole into Hester’s rooms and spent the rest of the night on a sofa.
“I am aware of this, and dreading the day you depart for parts north.”
She fiddled with her reins, then fiddled with the drape of her habit. “I should leave soon. I fear the longer I stay now, the worse it will be when I do go.”
“Worse—for Fiona?”
She nodded and said nothing further. An image came to Tye’s mind, of him and Fiona waving good-bye to Hester at the train station in Newcastle, of Fiona bursting into tears, and Tye not knowing how he’d comfort the child while dealing with his own upset.
Hester turned a faint smile on him. “Shall we let them stretch their legs?”
“Of course. If we trot to the edge of the trees, we’ll come to the sheep meadows. The mare is a solid performer over fences if you get her to a decent spot.”
“Lead on, Tiberius.”
He set a reasonable pace over stone walls, stiles, hedges, and two streams, with Hester and the mare following three lengths behind. She was a natural equestrienne, one who didn’t overmanage her horse, but rather let the beast have a say in how the ride went on. When they came down to the walk two miles later, Hester’s cheeks were flushed, and her smile was closer to the bright benediction he’d had from her in Scotland.
“That was marvelous, Tiberius. I can see why your father enjoys riding his acres so much. Was he the one who taught you to ride?”
“He tried, but my mother had to intervene. She has more patience, which is a valuable commodity where little boys and ponies are concerned.” He turned Rowan up an old cart track, unable to make small talk when he might never enjoy another ride in Hester’s company. “I don’t want you to leave,” he informed her. “Not until you know if there are consequences from my visit north.”
Her gaze went to the green hills around them, to the sheep in the next meadow, to the gray stone wall undulating up the acclivity to their right. “That will be at least another week yet, Tiberius, and I don’t know if I can bear to remain here that much longer. Fiona cries, and I can offer her no comfort. Your father barely says two words to her when he comes up from the stables for breakfast, and your day is much taken up with estate matters. My heart—”
She lapsed into damnable silence.
“My heart too, Hester.” He nudged Rowan back to the walk, the pleasure of the shared ride swallowed up in the pain of the parting she was determined to bring about.
* * *
“Where is that ray of perpetual sunshine known as my niece?” Lady Joan paused in the door of the breakfast parlor to fire her question at Hester. In their brief acquaintance, Hester had realized a tendency to use military analogies where Lady Joan was concerned. She was strikingly tall for a woman, brisk, and bold. Her walk took her places swiftly and directly, her laugh charmed, and her penetrating green eyes were the antithesis of the term “dreamy artist.”
“Fee has gone to collect some flowers for her uncle’s office. I expect she’s waiting for her grandpapa to come in from his ride as well.”
Joan took a seat across from Hester, setting down a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and toast. “She’ll have a long wait. I swear his lordship has cast my mother aside for the company of his horse.”
Hester tried not to let her surprise at such a comment show. “He cast her aside?”
“Or maybe they cast each other aside.” Joan closed paint-stained fingers around the teapot handle. “I will ask Mama about this before I decamp for Paris this fall.”
“Tiber—Spathfoy said you were longing to live there.”
“Hah.” Lady Joan sprinkled salt on her eggs. “Longing is such a polite word. I am desperate to go there, mad to live there, ready to commit rash acts and so forth. Fortunately, Tye has convinced his lordship to allow it.”
“The marquess was quite set against the notion?” This was shameless prying, but Joan didn’t seem to regard it as such, and Hester was willing to exploit any avenue to gain insight into the man who’d turned her– Fiona’s—life upside down.
Joan picked up a point of buttered toast and considered it. “I suspect Papa is contrary as a means of gaining Mama’s notice, and she’s indifferent as a means of maintaining his. The four of us children have learned to navigate between the two, though I must admit this is part of what makes Paris attractive.”
“You want to get away from your family?” And thiswas the milieu in which Fiona was to be raised?
“I adore my siblings.” Joan tore off a bite of toast with straight, white teeth. “And when I was younger, Mama and Papa were alternately squalling like cats and cooing like doves. I shudder to think what manner of husband Papa would have found for us if Tye hadn’t intervened.”
Hester’s breakfast started a quiet, uncomfortable rebellion in her vitals. “I beg your pardon?”
“Papa was grumbling about it even yesterday: he promised if Tye brought Fiona to Quinworth, then Mary Ellen, Dora, and I might have our choice of husbands—within reason. Fiona’s here, and my sisters and I are breathing a collective sigh of relief. My year in Paris was part of the bargain as well, though I suspect Tye is footing the bill rather than Papa. More tea?”
“Please.” Hester pushed her cup and saucer across the table only to realize the cup was more than half-full. “Just a touch.”
Joan topped up the teacup and went back to studying her toast. “When I was a girl, we were happy. I cannot pinpoint exactly what changed, but there doesn’t seem to be any changing it back. Is Tye going to marry you?”
Hester took as long as she could with a sip of tea. “He has offered. I have declined.”
Joan beamed a toothy smile at her. “Oh, that’s lovely. Tye adores a challenge, positively thrives on it, which is fortunate, since running the marquessate is nothing but a challenge. May I ask why you turned him down? He dotes on you and our mutual niece ceaselessly, and though he’s my brother, I’m enough of an artist to pronounce him quite luscious.”
“Dotes on me?” He was luscious.
“I cannot recall the last time he invited a guest to this house, and I cannot recall when he last went riding with a lady, even in the stultified confines of Town. He was supposed to spend two days in Aberdeenshire, you know, not two weeks, and at meals, he is forever glancing at you sidelong and pushing his food around on his plate. You’ve put him off his feed, I fear. I never thought I’d live to see it.”
“I never intended to put anybody off their feed.”
“Which is why,” Joan drawled, “your eggs have gotten cold on your plate, hmm?”
Hester glanced down at the omelet congealing before her. “I served myself too large a portion. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off in search of a book. His lordship’s library is truly impressive.”
“Books, bah. You’re hiding from Tye, and I am anxious to see how this little drama plays out. If you see Fiona, tell her to bring me some flowers, and we’ll paint a portrait of them. I refuse to sketch that carrot-pig masquerading as a rabbit one more time.”
“I will pass your message along.”
Hester rose without finishing her tea and made her way to the library, blind to the Quinworth wealth arrayed around her.
Tye had fetched Fiona here to rescue his sisters from the kind of match his parents had made into a living purgatory. This was the leverage his father had over him: three women could look forward to happy adulthoods, provided Fiona was sacrificed to a childhood away from those who loved her.
Hester pushed the library door open, lost in thought.
And Tye had said he honestly believed he’d be improving Fiona’s circumstances, plucking her from penury into a life of guaranteed privilege.
Merciful Saints. That a father would put his son up to such an undertaking was an abomination against the natural order, but again, Hester had to wonder what motivated the marquess.
She did not wander the bookshelves as she had on many occasions. She instead sat at the huge old estate desk by the windows and tried to wrap her mind around the choices Tiberius had faced. Outside the windows, a lovely day was unfolding, full of sunshine and fresh breezes. Inside the library, Hester rummaged for writing implements, intent on sharing the morning’s revelations with Aunt Ariadne, and Ian and Augusta MacGregor as well.
Pen and ink were not difficult to find, but the nib needed trimming, so Hester opened more drawers in search of a penknife, sand, and wax.
She found… documents. A large cache of letters addressed to Deirdre, Lady Quinworth, in a slashing hand that looked very like what she’d seen of Tiberius’s writing.
Why would the lady have left her letters here if she dwelled in Scotland?
Tamping down the clamorings of conscience, Hester opened one letter:
My dearest wife,
The Holland bulbs you planted on the tenth anniversary of Dora’s birth are springing up in profusions and glories, carpeting the hedges in bright colors and sweet aromas. Were you here, I would walk the paths with you. You would tell me which beds need to be divided and which might be left undisturbed for another year. Were you here, we might ride to the river and picnic there among the willows, while I read to you from the wicked French novels you used to hide under our pillows…
God in heaven. Hester folded the letter up with shaking hands. The loveletter. She dared not read further, but glanced at the date and found to her shock it was but a few weeks ago.
And this was not a draft. The missive had been through the mails, apparently twice.
“The poor man.” And the drawer was nearly full of such letters. What wrong had he done his lady to merit this treatment? No chance to explain, no chance to make reparation, no hope of forgiveness? She closed that drawer so quickly she nearly pinched her fingers, then opened another.
Still no penknife, but a single, very official-looking document. Her planned correspondence forgotten, Hester started reading.
Thirty minutes later, she was still staring at the Last Will and Testament of Gordon Bierly Adolphus Flynn when the marquess came striding into the room, tapping his riding crop against his boot.
“Miss Daniels. Good day. Spathfoy tells me you might soon be returning to northern climes.” He advanced on the desk, his expression curious. “I’d rather hoped you’d bring the boy up to scratch and do something about that moping child while you were about it. I know not who is the more cast down of late, the man or the girl.”
“I wonder you’d notice such a thing, my lord, while pining for your own lady.”
“I begyour pardon?” He gave his boots a sharp thwack with his infernal crop. That was nothing compared to what Hester would do to him.
She pushed out of the chair and came around the desk to stand directly before Quinworth. “I’ve read Gordie’s will, your lordship. I am certain Tiberius has not been given that privilege.”
“You pried into the private papers of a family who opened their home to you as a guest?” He did not yell; he kept his voice menacingly soft.
“I went looking for a penknife and found some answers, you dratted bully. How could you do this to Tiberius, to Fiona, and to her family? You lied, you manipulated, you misrepresented, you abused the trust of those around you, and the trust placed in you by a son dead and gone and unable to speak for his own wishes.”
“I’m seeing those wishes carried out, Miss Daniels, and I will not be made to answer to the likes of some poor Scottish relation who thinks the hand of the Quinworth heir beneath her. Leave any time you like. I’ll manage my granddaughter and my sonwithout your further interference. Good day.”
He strode out of the room, boots thumping, crop thwacking, making Hester want to call him back so she could tear another strip off of him.
Many, many strips. What he’d done was an unimaginable transgression of the good faith family members owed one another, and Hester dreaded to think of the hurt Tiberius would suffer when he learned of it.
Ifhe learned of it. Hester forced herself to spend long, long minutes pacing the library and thinking through the ramifications of what she’d read. She should not be the one to tell Tiberius what his father had done. She’d take Fiona home, and that would be the end of it. Based on what she’d learned of the marquess—and of the pertinent legalities—this sojourn in the south was over: for her, and for Fiona.
There was no need to write to Aunt Ree or Ian. Hester would have Fiona home before the letters arrived, leaving Tiberius Flynn the rest of his days to be a good son to a miserable father, a protective brother to three adult sisters, and a dutiful son to a mother who would be otherwise homeless.
The library door banged open, and Joan appeared, hectic color in her pale cheeks. “Hester, you must come! Fiona’s down at the stables, and Papa is yelling at her, and there’s a fox—”
“I’m coming.” Fiona would not deal well with an upset, ill-humored marquess, and the marquess would not deal with an exhibition of Fiona’s stubbornness and homesickness now.
But when she got to the stables, what Hester found was worse—far worse—than simple upset or stubbornness.
