Honor's Players (11 page)

A brisk fifteen minute walk brought her to the rectory and moments later she found herself in a cheery little parlor facing a kind-looking white-haired gentleman.

“I am delighted, simply delighted by your visit. My oh my, are we now to discover our sleepy little village in the guidebooks as one of the country seats of a Viscount, heir to an Earldom?” he teased. A tittering laugh followed his words, and Elizabeth could not help but laugh with him.

“I wouldn’t know, sir, what these publishers deem interesting.”

“Oh, anything for a shilling, my dear, anything at all,” he assured her, his watery blue eyes fairly bulging.

“And what’s anything for a shilling, Father?”

Elizabeth whirled around to see a well-set-up gentleman in modest attire standing by the door.

“Ah, David, there you are. Let me make you known to our new lovely patroness, the Viscountess St. Ryne.” He turned back to Elizabeth. “This scapegrace young gentleman is my son, David Thornbridge.”

Elizabeth heard the warm pride in the vicar’s voice and her eyes pricked with tears. Oh, to have a father with such sensibilities! She willed the telltale moisture away and gracefully extended her hand.

“My Lady,” young Mr. Thornbridge murmured with just the correct degree of deference in his tone as he made his leg.

Elizabeth was impressed. She inclined her head slightly. “You are not, Mr. Thornbridge, a man of the cloth like your father?”

“No indeed, my lady. I am a manager with Waddley Spice and Tea Company in London.”

“Ah, I have heard of them.”

“They are very successful, my lady.”

Elizabeth’s eyes danced merrily. “To be sure.”

Not for the world would she divulge to this serious gentleman quite how she knew of Waddley’s. The Honorable Mrs. Cecilia Waddley, sole owner after the death of her husband, had been born the Honorable Miss Cecilia Haukstorm, granddaughter of a Duke, niece of an Earl. She had virtually been sold into marriage to the highest bidder to pay her father and brother’s prodigious gambling debts. Though she had been cut off from society at her marriage, her widowhood saw the doors reopen to her, for not even the highest sticklers continued her omission from their invitation lists. She was a delightful ninny hammer, though given to blue megrims, vapors, and sundry other ailments she swore were constantly threatening to take her life from her. Her dramatic highs and lows were considered by society to be as entertaining as Elizabeth’s own tantrums had been. No doubt they were filling her place to a nicety.

“You are lucky to get time away from your ledgers and quills.”

“My, ah, my employer is considerate of familial obligations to the point of insistence.”

“Yes,” Reverend Thornbridge said, the twinkle in his eye belying his frown, “and here I thought I’d managed to get rid of this young whelp.”

Elizabeth laughed delightedly. “You don’t fool me in the slightest, sir. You’re as proud as a peacock of him.”

“Please don’t tell him that!” David exclaimed. “You’ll start him spouting off about the sins of pride and you’ll never get out of here.”

The Reverend Thornbridge harrumphed. “Now don’t you go listening to my boy here. Too much city in him to my mind. Seems to me he’s the one who needs the lecture.”

David Thornbridge groaned, but his father chose only to spare him a quick sliding glance before continuing. “But tell me, my child, is there any way I can be of assistance to you in adjusting to your new home?”

“Actually, Reverend, there is. I am in need of servants. Many of the villagers have come to help clean the manor, and they’ve been good, decent people. Unfortunately, the people who have come to interview for permanent positions do not seem cut of the same cloth.”

“Let me guess, the people who have come to apply have all been brought to you by Mr. Tunning,” David suggested drily.

“David!” scolded the reverend.

“No sense wrapping it up in clean linen, Father.”

“No, please, Reverend Thornbridge,” interposed Elizabeth. “David is not implying anything I haven’t already guessed.” She sighed. “There is definitely something strange going on, though I don’t know precisely what as yet. Nonetheless, I still need servants, and as you surmise, I do not want any of Tunning’s ilk. The problem is it appears none of the village people will come forward to me directly.”

The reverend frowned. "I know. I can’t tell you all as I don’t have facts, only suspicions. But I can make a suggestion.” He spoke slowly, capturing her full attention with his eyes. “If you are planning to visit any of your tenant farms, you may wish to talk to Mary Geddy.”

Out of the corner of her eye Elizabeth saw David Thornbridge suddenly smile and nod, and this piqued her curiosity. “I’m afraid I don’t recall meeting anyone by the name of Geddy. Could you give me her direction?”

“She lives with her daughter and son-in-law, Ellie and Nat Humphries, and their son Gerald.”

“They’re at the Home farm!”

“Yes, but remember to visit them when you’re making your rounds.”

Then Elizabeth understood. She wasn’t to appear to seek out Mrs. Geddy, only to discover her. It was obviously for someone’s protection, but from whom and why? “Isn’t it fortuitous,” she said brightly, “that I’m planning just such a round of calls for tomorrow?”

David’s smile widened into a grin. “Yes, isn’t it? It is a great deal too bad I have to quit the neighborhood tomorrow. I should have liked to be around for this.”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow in inquiry and even though neither Thornbridge was inclined to say more, she felt she had discovered allies.

The next morning, a self-satisfied Elizabeth trekked down the well-worn lane to the Home farm. She had taken the reverend’s suggestions and visited the other farms. She was saddened to discover the tenants there a cringing lot. She promised herself she’d see that attitude changed. She hoped she would not find the same feeling at the Home farm. She glanced up from the ground before her to see its neat buildings in the distance. No, they would certainly be as different as their farm was from the others. She had high expectations for this visit, and her steps hastened.

A grizzled man and his younger image came out of the bam. Elizabeth smiled warmly. “Mr. Humphries? I am the Viscountess St. Ryne.”

“My Lady,” he said formally, touching his forelock. His son followed his example.

“Oh please, do not stand on such ceremony.” She was perturbed by his aloofness. “I just wished to make myself known to you. Is Mrs. Humphries about?”

The man turned to his son. “Fetch Mother, Gerry.” He instructed him like he was a child of ten rather than a strapping young man of some twenty plus years.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow at his lack of a direct answer but murmured a polite thank you before attempting to engage him in conversation. “You are to be congratulated; this property is very well maintained.”

“Only as it should be,” was the taciturn response.

“Yes, so one would suppose.”

A cough was her only answer. She would have commented further in hopes of drawing him out if two women hadn’t followed Humphries’s son out of the house. The eldest and the smallest, a spry, silver-haired woman with snapping brown eyes and the bloom of youth still on her cheeks, quickly brushed past him, muttering admonitions to pick his feet up and stop slouching.

“This be gentry proper, get along with you now and mind your manners,” Elizabeth heard her say in the peevish tone that only the old used in the presence of those they loved. Elizabeth was brought to mind of her own nurse, Hattie, and she knew instantly she would like this woman.

“Milady, we are that much honored.” The woman bobbed a curtsy then grabbed her hand and patted it with her other. “Reet welcome you are to be sure. Now come along, come along inside and rest yourself and have a sip of cider maybe? Oh, this be my daughter, Ellie, and that lump who should’a brought you in first off is my son-in-law, Nat. That’s my grandson, Gerry. Oh my, I almost forgot myself. I’m Mary, Mary Geddy, and I must say you sure are a pretty sight for these tired old eyes. But come along.” She turned suddenly to Nat and her grandson. "You two wash up and come visit awhile, too, and no argle bargle.”

“Oh, please,” Elizabeth finally managed to interject, “I don’t want to interrupt your routine.”

“Now don’t you go frett’n yourself, milady. A half hour or hour ain’t going to make a ha’porth of difference to the work around here, and we’ve got to see you property welcomed.” She ushered Elizabeth inside the farmhouse, made her sit in the rocker by the fire, and fussed over the placement of a cushion at her back before bustling over to the pantry for mugs and sending Gerry for the jugs of cider kept cool in the stream running behind the house.

Mrs. Humphries, a placid, plain-faced woman, came to stand before Elizabeth. “Don’t mind Mama, she was once a housekeeper in a great house and much given to ruling the roost.”

Elizabeth shot Mrs. Geddy an excited smile. “You were a housekeeper?”

“Aye, and afore that a cook.” She poured some of the cool cider into a mug and handed it to Elizabeth.

Elizabeth sent a silent thank you to the Reverend Thornbridge. “Then perhaps you are just the person to advise me."

"Me, milady? Gracious, what would a poor body like me be doing giving a great lady like yourself advice?”

Elizabeth smiled. “You do yourself a disservice. Larchside needs servants. So far, the only candidates I’ve seen have been woefully inexperienced or-or—”

“Not the type you’d like to see cross the threshold, I’d wager.”

“Mother,” growled Nat Humphries.

Mary Geddy waved her hand dismissingly at her son-in-law and pooh-poohed his unspoken admonition to hold her tongue.

“I was wondering if you would know of persons in the area who would like to enter into service. My case is desperate. Besides chambermaids and footmen, I require a cook and an abigail for myself, or at least some young woman with clever hands whom I could train for such a position.”

Mr. Humphries grunted. “And what would Mr. Tunning say to this?”

Elizabeth’s hackles rose. Everywhere she turned that man seemed to have a stranglehold, and it appeared everyone considered his control should extend to her person as well. She raised an eyebrow in faint hauteur. “My good man, Mr. Tunning is merely an employee. What right has he to say anything?”

“Pay no mind to Nat, here,” Mary assured her. “He and Mr. Tunning never have seen eye to eye and rightly never will. We’re not favorites with your estate agent, milady.”

“I know, and that puzzles me, for yours is the best run and most profitable farm.”

“That’s cuz our Nat here ain’t one to be gulled.”

“Mother, that is enough.”

"“No it ain’t and don’t you try to say how it is.” She turned to the Viscountess. “I say look to your estate books if you want answers. I’d lay odds not all them numbers match the quality of the work being done.”

“Hush your tongue, woman!” roared Mr. Humphries.

Mrs. Humphries looked pained and stood kneading her apron in her hands.

“Mr. Humphries, please. I know something is dreadfully wrong, but if everyone continues to sidestep the issue, I’ll never be able to cure whatever disease it is that plagues Larchside. I desire help not avoidance, and I’ll pay well for it. Mrs. Geddy, could you see your way clear to coming to Larchside as my cook, if not permanently, at least until I can make other arrangements? If I have to stomach many more of Mrs. Atheridge’s meals, I daresay I shall expire.”

“That I would believe.” She reached over to pat Elizabeth’s hand. “I should be that delighted to help out and I’m not afeered like some folks I know,” she said glaring at her son-in-law.

“Mother,” he said, “you know it is not a matter of fear, it is a question of what good could possibly come of it.”

“Would it help you to know, Mr. Humphries, that Larchside was deeded to me as part of my marriage settlement? While it is true Mr. Tunning handles the accounts, my husband directed Mr. Tunning to come to me in the event of there being any problem in the management of the estate during his absence. So you see,” she said with a smile, “even Mr. Tunning is subject to my authority.”

Elizabeth was pleased with the way she could use her husband's parting words to Tunning to her advantage. She only hoped these good folk did not hear the hollowness in her voice.

“That’s settled then,” Mrs. Geddy said. “And when would you like me to begin, milady?”

“Tomorrow morning?”

“Tomorrow morning it is. I’ll also see if we can’t find your ladyship some better servants.”

“That would be greatly appreciated.”

The two women exchanged looks of mutual satisfaction while Mr. Humphries, though not pleased, merely shook his head in resignation.

He that knows better how to tame a shrew, Now let him speak: 'tis charity to shew.

—Act III, Scene 3

A smile flickered on the Viscount St. Ryne’s lips as he approached the club. The bow window set had sighted him, and not all the gentlemen there managed to maintain the sanguine attitude deemed de rigueur for that location. He distinctly noted two viewing him with wide-open mouths rather resembling landed fish, he decided satisfactorily. He had judged his appearance would be tantamount to placing the cat among the pigeons; however, there was the little matter of a bet to collect. If truth be told, he was enjoying putting society on its ear by his inexplicable behavior. As blame had been assigned to the sun in Jamaica for his exploits, he doubted the island would be visited by many for a long while.

His smile broadened as he fairly skipped up the steps and clapped his hand on the shoulder of the Friday-faced porter who opened the door.

“What’s the long face for, my good man? A face like that could set a man off his drink,” he said over his shoulder, shrugging off his driving coat and handing it with his modish beaver to a hovering footman.

“Beg pardon, my lord,” the porter responded faintly. Was it just three weeks since his lordship had entered looking as black as a thundercloud? This new manner of his lordship was as alien to the porter’s mind as the black humor had been.

It was said his lordship recently tied the knot, so that might account. The porter shook his head mournfully. In his considerable experience, such action was not in keeping with a jovial countenance, as leg-shackled gentlemen were likely to be of morose or snappish demeanor.

“Well then, let’s see a smile.” St, Ryne turned to face him, his hands on his hips.

The porter was confused. Gentlemen were always taking queer starts. He viewed the Viscount’s request with a jaundiced eye; nevertheless he weakly opened his mouth in a carved wooden smile.

His endeavor was met with a shout of laughter. “A travesty! I can see I was mistaken. Resume your habitual frown; that smile would curdle milk.”

“Thank you, my lord,” murmured that worthy.

“Ah, St. Ryne, I thought that was you,” a measured, quiet voice floated down the stairs.

St. Ryne turned to the sound, his eyebrows raised in faint inquiry. A small laugh, like a rush of air escaped his lips on recognizing the gentleman at the top of the staircase. He mounted the stairs to his side.

“Well met, Branstoke.”

“Are we? I wonder,” he returned languidly, a speculative gleam in his eyes. “Questions are being raised as to the honesty of our bet.” They fell into step heading toward the card room. “I cannot tell you how boring it is to be the recipient of clumsy hints that we are in league. They sorely lack the proper subtlety and fineness to rise above the plebeian to be truly effective.”

St. Ryne’s lips twitched in appreciation. “How singular,” he murmured. “I imagined they would rather view me as being in league with the devil. Do they view you as one of her minions?”

“I am afraid the masses lack the poetic soul.”

St. Ryne laughed. Damn if he didn’t like this gentleman. There was an unaccounted depth to him and a wry sense of the absurd few would see.

“I must tell you I have a grievance with you, my friend.” Branstoke’s manner was conversational.

“Oh?”

“I’ll have you know you have spiked my game. I must say I knew it was your intention three weeks ago; however, you moved faster than I had accounted.”

“Really? Was it your intention to make a play for Lady Elizabeth?”

“Hardly.” Branstoke waved his quizzing glass casually before him. “I make it a habit to join only the entourages of unattainables. Since La Belle Helene is now removed from that category, I find I must retire from the ranks of her suitors. I considered remaining one of their number a while longer; however, I have noticed her eyes resting on me, weighing my suitability.” He shuddered slightly allowing the quizzing glass to fall back to rest against his chest. “I can think of few worse fates.”

A look of mock surprise crossed St. Ryne’s face. “Is not La Belle Helene a paragon?”

Sir James Branstoke shrugged. “So few are,” he murmured. He slid a glance at St. Ryne. “Totally unlike your own bride,” he continued blandly.

St. Ryne’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline in inquiry, but Branstoke only bowed slightly in his direction and wandered away. The Viscount stood in the doorway watching the enigmatic gentleman enter into conversation with others in the room until Freddy Shiperton, spying him standing there, hurried to his side.

“Justin, what are you doing here?” Freddy inquired sotto voce, glancing around furtively to see if any were near enough to hear.

“Really, Freddy, why do any of us come here? For cards, wine, and good company, of course.” He tucked his arm in Freddy’s and led him into the room. “Shall we start a game?”

“Dash it, Justin, you’re supposed to be on your honeymoon!”

“Yes, I know. What makes you believe I am not?” he returned affably, as he looked about the room, inclining his head in recognition of various acquaintances. “Do not look askance, old fellow,” he said, turning back to Freddy. “A honeymoon is merely a state of mind.”

A slightly slurred, unrecognizable voice came from a crowded table: “He must have killed her.” It was rapidly shushed by others.

Freddy scowled briefly before pulling his friend toward a slightly less populated corner of the room. “Dashed if I understand you, Justin. You were never taken to such queer turns.”

St. Ryne laughed. “Do not vex yourself. Come, let’s order a glass and we’ll toast my sweet, gentle bride.”

A look of startled horror captured poor Freddy’s face, causing St. Ryne to laugh louder as he signaled for a passing waiter.

The Viscount St. Ryne accepted with fortitude the plethora of jibes thrown his way when he came to collect his portion of the winnings he gained at his club as a result of his marriage to Lady Elizabeth Monweithe. Unfortunately, that fortitude began wearing thin and in the days that followed St. Ryne was alternately amused and irritated by the sly glances, innuendos, and jokes cast in his direction. Often he found himself wishing he could share with Elizabeth a passing joke or comment he overheard, his mind conjuring up the panoply of emotions that could cross her face along with her answering snubs and witticisms.

Such thoughts of her invariably brought to mind the kiss he’d stolen that rocked his senses while leaving her completely unmoved. Each time he remembered that scene, a niggling question pushed at a corner of his mind for more and more space. Had she truly been unmoved? Would it not, perhaps, been more in keeping for her to struggle against the kiss and rant and rave, calling down abuse upon his head? Instead, she’d played the role of ice maiden, out of keeping with her personality as it was known in the polite world. Yet how much of the picture presented to society was real and how much dissimulation? He had often noted a vulnerability unseen by others yet he persisted in acting like it did not exist.

He began to wonder if he had played the game differently, would he be in London now, a virtual exile from his own home and hearth? It slowly occurred to him that perhaps Elizabeth’s lack of response to his kiss stemmed from lack of experience. What occasion had any man to kiss her? He swore to himself as the idea loomed larger and larger in his mind, causing his good humor on arriving in London to dissolve slowly into studied politeness.

St. Ryne was not a man to easily admit to a mistake. These thoughts skittered in and out of his mind for days, played upon by the amused knowing glances cast his way by Sir James Branstoke. He would return his look with one of quelling hauteur that would only cause that gentleman to purse his lips slightly and nod. Afterward St. Ryne was left feeling the fool, a circumstance to which he was unaccustomed.

One evening at a select card party, after exchanging their dance of innuendos, St. Ryne approached Branstoke demanding to know what was plaguing his mind.

“My mind? My dear St. Ryne, what is in my mind would hardly plague a gnat,” he returned pleasantly, drawing his snuffbox out of his pocket. He studied its intricate design as he went on: “It is your mind which bears contagion.” He looked up at St. Ryne, flicking open the snuffbox with his thumb as he did so. “Would you care for a pinch?” he asked, extending the box in St. Ryne’s direction.

St. Ryne waved it away. “I find your meaning obscure.”

“And here I thought you such a downey fellow.” He shook his head doubtfully before taking a pinch of snuff himself. “Look to yourself.” He brushed a speck of snuff from his sleeve. “You are a man away from his new wife, yet I’d venture to wager she is not away from your thoughts. You have shown no notice of the lovelies who have thrown their kerchiefs your way and are becoming increasingly surly the longer you’re from her side. I understand it to be a serious disease, one perhaps best treated gently,” he suggested, replacing his snuffbox in his pocket.

St. Ryne laughed curtly. “There is much to what you say and don’t say. Unfortunately, the die has been cast.”

“Don’t be a fool, St. Ryne,” grated Branstoke, for the first time revealing any emotion besides boredom.

St. Ryne studied the man before him carefully. “You may be correct.”

Branstoke shrugged elegantly, his famous equanimity restored. “But permit me to divert your mind to another aspect of your play unfolding. First, I have a thirst which needs quenching. Will you join me?”

“Gladly.”

Branstoke led St. Ryne to a side table. “Have you noted where Tretherford’s interests lie now?”

St. Ryne shrugged. “He is not one I honor with my attention.”

“Ah, but you should take note, for it is delightfully in keeping with your play. I believe he and Lady Romella Wisgart, the widow of our piece, appear destined to wed. Now who do you suppose will get the fair Helene’s hand? Freddy, mayhap? They have been seen, you know, reciting poetry to one another.”

“Really? I once accused Freddy of turning poetic; however, that is doing it rather too brown.”

“Be thankful you have not been within earshot of their renditions,” Branstoke said drily. “It is like listening to a young debutante with a tin ear pushed to singing before company.”

“You know, Branstoke, you have a way with words that makes me laugh.”

“I’m glad, for such was my endeavor, my friend, such was my endeavor.”

St. Ryne looked at him quizzically then laughed again, causing several heads to turn inquiringly in their direction. Branstoke, as always, met the world with a bland smile.

Though irritated by Branstoke’s blithe words concerning his feelings for Elizabeth, being a basically honest man, St. Ryne was eventually forced to admit his reaction was part and parcel of his own growing attraction for his wife, an attraction which, quite curiously, appeared to be growing the longer he stayed away from her. After considerable thinking, he decided to return to Larchside on the morrow, determined to change the course of his wooing.
The Taming of the Shrew
was after all only a play, its characters little more than paper dolls and, as such, woefully deprived of the complexities of flesh-and-blood individuals.

He excused himself early from the select gathering so as to make arrangements for his departure. This time he would bring his valet, horses, and head groom. He wondered how well Elizabeth rode, already anticipating a few enjoyable canters across the fields.

To his surprise, his town house was ablaze with light. That was not like his butler. St. Ryne quickened his pace, taking the steps in front two at a time.

Predmore had been on the lookout for him, agitation plainly written across his features.

“Good God, man, what is it?” he asked, tearing off his greatcoat and flinging it on a hallway chair.

“It is the Countess, my lord.”

“My mother is here?”

“Yes, my lord, installed in the parlor. She arrived with the Earl shortly after you left and says she’s determined not to leave until she speaks to you. She is much distressed, my lord. She has already knocked over the Sevres tea service in her pacing, quite shattering it, and I am afraid the ebony and ormolu table by the fireplace will never be the same. I did contrive to remove other items I deemed fragile when we cleaned up the broken china.”

“Is that you, Justin? I thought I heard your voice.” Lady Alicia Harth, Countess of Seaverness, swept out of the parlor brandishing a newspaper in her hand. “What is the meaning of this?”

“It is nice to see you also, Mother.” He stepped close to her to kiss a heavily scented cheek.

His action set her back apace, yet she rallied quickly. “I’ll have none of your cozening ways! I came here for answers, not mealy-mouthed platitudes!”

“I understand from Predmore that Father is with you. Shall we join him?” he returned urbanely. He leaned close to her ear. “This is unlike you, Mother, to forget servants are present.”

Two high spots of color flared on Lady Alicia’s cheeks and with ill grace she allowed herself to be led back into the parlor.

St. Ryne had difficulty hiding a smile at the picture of his mother much on her dignity. He didn’t give a button for the servants; they’d seen and heard worse in rumor over the past few weeks. His words were meant to serve as a slight respite from the harangue his mother appeared intent on delivering and lending him a moment to gather his wits.

Leading his mother to the sofa, he then turned to the facing chair where his father was seated and extended his hand to his sire. “This is an unexpected pleasure, sir. I had thought you both firmly fixed in Paris for a few weeks more.”

The Earl of Seaverness looked up at his son, a light of amusement in his eyes. “Your mother would have us return. She suddenly discovered a desire for your company.”

With the snap of the latch as the footman slowly closed the door behind them, Lady Alicia once again launched into her diatribe.

“Are you not aware of the insult, the shame we have suffered as a result of your actions?”

“She has suffered,” amended the Earl.