Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand (11 page)

He sat on his bed, wondering for the thousandth time if things would have been different if he had been able to devote all his time to her. He concluded, as always, that it would have made no difference. "Cynthia, you were just bound to be too much trouble," he said, and got up to change waistcoats again.

Mrs. Drew, on the other hand, has more than beauty going for her, he considered as he looked in the mirror, tugged on the waistcoat, then reached for his coat. If anything, she was thinner than Cynthia, as though she didn't take any thought to her own health. While Cynthia's fashionable slimness was due to a daunting regimen of vinegar and boiled potatoes that used to take away his own appetite, Roxie Drew was thin because she worked too hard, slept too little, worried too much, and wasn't loved sufficiently.

But, oh, those eyes. He knew, as sure as he stood there in his stockinged feet, that he could look at her all day and never grow weary of the view. In fact, when they were working in the sitting room, he'd caught her questioning gaze when he stared too long. It would never occur to Roxie Drew that she was worth a second and third glance, he decided. Her marvelous skin was not a city pallor, but a rosy country hue, and her wonderful high-arched brows and brown eyes, round as a child's, made him want to take her in his arms and just hold her until moss grew over them both and they blended into the landscape.

"Rave on, Lord Winn," he said as he looked at himself one more time. He was reminded then of Cynthia's favorite pose in front of the mirror, and was immediately disgusted with himself. "At least she thinks I am kind," he said as he closed the door behind him and went downstairs. But I would rather be a dashing lover, he thought as he shot out his cuffs and hoped Mrs. Howell had remembered cinnamon buns for Felicity.

After a few minutes of standing in the hall, he opened the back door at a tentative knock coming from rather low on the door panel.

"It's me, Felicity," he heard on the other side of the door, "and we are cold!"

Helen and Mrs. Drew were laughing at Felicity when he opened the door. It was easy to bow and usher them in, mouthing something about "three of the prettiest women in England on my doorstep," and meaning each word utterly. He looked into Mrs. Drew's enchanting eyes. Cynthia would have simpered at such a compliment, but Roxie just grinned at him and said "Thank you," quite prettily.

Dinner was a remarkable success, and it gave him the greatest pleasure to lean back in his chair, admire the diners around him, and pretend they were all his own. Mrs. Drew ate a healthy serving of everything, and he felt himself relaxing as she leaned back, too, her hand on her stomach.

"Mrs. Howell is a wonder," she said finally as she wiped cinnamon glaze off Felicity's cheek and nodded to Helen.

With another glance at her mother, Helen got to her feet and stood beside his chair. "Mama says I should play a song for you on the piano, Lord Winn," she said.

He pushed his chair back. "Aha, you are to be the evening's entertainment, my dear?" he asked.

"Not precisely," Helen replied. "You are, sir. Mama is going to cut your hair while I play for you."

He laughed and looked at Mrs. Drew, who was taking a pair of scissors and a comb out of her reticule. "You're serious," he said.

Mrs. Drew stood up and took Felicity by the hand. "Of course I am, my lord," she replied. "I never say anything I do not mean. Tomorrow I will be struggling with wallpaper again and you do need a haircut. It will have to be tonight, if you are to pass yourself off with any credit in this neighborhood."

He allowed himself to be led along the hall by Felicity, with Helen beside him, her back straight, her lips firm, as though she contemplated an execution rather than a recital. After soliciting a dish towel from Mrs. Howell, Roxie Drew joined them.

Helen stood by at the piano bench while he adjusted the height. She played a tentative chord and smiled at her mother. "Mama, only think how fine it will sound when I can reach the pedals!"

"Oh, most emphatically yes, Helen. Take off your coat, now then, Lord Winn," Mrs. Drew commanded.

Anything, he thought. She pulled out a straight chair and made him sit in it while Helen began "Fur Elise" and Felicity settled herself on the sofa, her ankles crossed and her hands folded in her lap. He watched her, then glanced up at Mrs. Drew, who stood behind him. "Do you wager?" he asked, his voice low.

She chuckled. "I would not give her beyond thirty seconds of such gentility." He watched in amusement as Felicity sighed and flopped back on the couch to stare up at the plaster swirls in the ceiling.

"The civilizing process is a long one, Lord Winn," Mrs. Drew commented as she removed his neckcloth with a practiced hand and unbuttoned his top button. "I don't see Lissy rushing it, either, do you?"

My God, he thought as her warm fingers tucked the dish towel around his neck. I could die right now and be in paradise, breathing lavender and listening to "Fur Elise." To his continued delight, Mrs. Drew stood in front of him, pursed her lips with that expression that made him want to shout "Yes!," and stared at his hair. She combed his hair carefully, smoothing it with her hands, then stepped behind him and began to snip. "This is certainly the least I can do, after all your many kindnesses," she said, and he felt her breath on his neck as she clipped away. He closed his eyes with the bliss of it all as Helen launched into something that sounded like Vivaldi and Lissy watched him, her eyes slowly closing.

"We have a casualty from all those cinnamon buns," he whispered.

"I am sure I will be the second one," she said. "I ate too much, but then, Meggie Watson insists that I need to put on some weight."

As a former husband, he knew that any addendum to that statement would have got him into trouble. He remained silent, relishing Mrs. Drew's proximity, and the heavenly way her bosom brushed his head once or twice as she cut his hair and hummed along with Helen's performance. She was soft beyond belief, and he closed his eyes in gratitude to a merciful God who was sometimes surprisingly kind to miserable sinners.

When she finished, she rested her hands on his shoulders for a brief moment. He could have cried when she removed them and walked to the mirror over the fireplace. "Come here, my lord, and tell me what you think," she said.

He followed and gazed into the mirror at the two of them standing together. I think I would like to kiss you, he told himself. "It's fine," he said, running his hand along the back of his neck. "In fact, much better than my valet usually does."

She grinned into the mirror at him. "I am happy to have the chance to do something nice for you."

I have so many other suggestions then, he thought, each of which would earn me a slap in the chops. Instead, he returned some comment, and to take his mind off Roxie, glanced at Felicity, who was sleeping soundly on the sofa. Helen played the last chord of the Vivaldi.

"Shall I play some Bach now?" she asked.

Mrs. Drew shook her head, and he wanted to cry out in disappointment. "No, my dear. I think it is time we were leaving."

"It's a lovely piano," Helen said, her voice wistful.

"Then I think you should practice on it as much as you like," he said, extending his arm to Roxanna. "And do play the Bach, Helen. Mrs. Drew, may I just take you upstairs to show you what I have in mind for the second floor?"

He didn't have the slightest idea what he wanted for the second floor. Perhaps if they strolled through the rooms, her lavender scent would linger after she was gone. He looked up at the crumbling plaster scrollwork in the ceiling. "I think you can see what needs to be done down here."

"Oh, yes," she said, and after a slight hesitation, took his arm. "I would like to use that same wallpaper in here that we are putting into my sitting room. It's just the right touch. We'll be only a moment, Helen."

Upstairs, he took her through the room and babbled something about colors and heavy furniture that must have sounded more intelligent than he thought, because she nodded and seemed to regard his comments seriously.

"Exactly so, my lord," she said, standing at the window in the last bedroom. "Moreland is a wonderful old farmhouse that woke up pretentious one morning. I would like to strike a happy medium and return some of that innocent quality to it."

Anything, anything at all, Mrs. Drew, as long as it takes you months and months. Her next words were a cold water bath.

"This won't take any time at all, sir," she said, fingering the ornate damask draperies. "I will lighten the walls with more modern paper and paint, and replace these drapes with lace, or even muslin." She sat on one of the unyielding beds. "You might want to reconsider these mattresses, my lord. And I know of a warehouse in Darlington with lovely bedspreads, too."

He watched her as she perched on the bed and felt the sweat start down his back, even though the room was cool. "I bow to your judgment," he said, his voice calm, his mind in outrageous turmoil. "Just make it look like a home."

She laughed and got off the bed, to his relief. "That's easy, my lord! I'll loan you jackstraws and blocks to trip over in the middle of the night, enough clutter to drive you distracted, and suspicious marks and rings on things that no one admits to."

He tucked her arm in his again and picked up the lamp from the bureau. "Well, new bedspreads and curtains will do, I suspect, and more modern furniture."

"Oh, that's right," she returned, closing the door behind them. "Didn't you say something once about children being the curse of the earth?" She looked about the hall, doubt in her eyes. "I do not know that a house without children is really a home, but I'll do my best to make it so here at Moreland. And now I really must be going, my lord."

Felicity was still asleep on the sofa when they returned, and Helen was gathering up her music. "Just leave it there, my dear," he said as he helped her into her coat. "If we can convince your mother that Ney and your pony need some exercise, we can ride tomorrow, and then you can come back here to practice."

Helen, her eyes dancing, looked at her mother. "Oh, please!"

"I am sure that will be fine," Mrs. Drew said. "You can work on that Mozart piece you were practicing"—she paused, then continued smoothly enough—"at your Uncle Drew's house."

"I can help her if she needs it," he offered.

Mrs. Drew widened her eyes in mock surprise. "Why, Lord Winn, how
kind
of you!"

He smiled al her little joke, and picked up Felicity. "I am kindness itself," he said, grateful that at no point in the evening could she read his thoughts. Actually, I am wondering how on earth I can convince you to marry me, and coming up absolutely dry. The reflection pained him.

Some of this agitation must have crossed his face then, because Mrs. Drew touched his arm. "Lord Winn, are you all right?" she asked. "Is it a war injury? I can wake up Felicity. You needn't carry her."

"Oh, no!" he assured her. "It's nothing. Perhaps I shouldn't have pried so energetically on those baseboards. Lead on, Helen."

Snow was in the air again. Mrs. Drew turned her face up to the heavy clouds in the night sky. "I think there will be snow by morning," she said softly. "And I do not think it will leave much before spring now, my lord."

"Winter comes early to the North Riding," he said, loathing himself because his conversation could go no deeper than the weather, or the price of bedspreads.

"It's November," she said. "Not so early."

He carried Felicity upstairs to the bedroom that she shared with Helen, and stood watching as Mrs. Drew deftly removed her shoes and stockings, slid her out of her dress, and tucked the blankets around her. She kissed Helen good night and then joined him in the doorway.

"I sometimes stand here and wonder how I got so lucky," she whispered to him.

"Lucky, madam?" he said. "Some would say you were not so lucky." It sounded bald to his ears, but it was honest. He wanted so much to touch her, but he could only make bracing statements.

"Lucky," she said again, her voice firm. "I have my girls."

Her quiet words humbled him as nothing else could. I have more estates than ought to be legal, and more money than some countries, he thought. Mrs. Drew isn't even sure if she will have a quarterly allowance after December, but she is lucky and I am not.

Her head came just past his shoulder. How easy it would have been to kiss her, but he knew he did not dare. A few more perfunctory words, a nod or two, and he was outside again, looking up at the dower house. He walked back quickly as the snow began to fall, resolving to write Amabel in the morning and tell her that he had no intention of spending Christmas at Winnfield this year. The Etheringhams could go to hell, for all he cared. Perhaps he could spare a day or two with Clarice and Frederick, but that was open to debate.

To his gratification, the upstairs hall did smell faintly of lavender yet. He was a long time getting to sleep.

The sitting room was done by Friday afternoon, true to Lord Winn's prediction. Roxanna sighed with pleasure and wiggled her stockinged feet in the carpet, then leaned back on the sofa. The only bad moment had come during the unloading of the furniture. She knew enough about quality workmanship to know that Lord Winn had squandered what Meggie called a king's ransom on the sofa, chairs, and end tables now placed so companion-ably in the compact room. It was the kind of furniture that she and Anthony would have admired in a warehouse, but never selected, no matter how much they wanted to.

"I think he's up to something," Meggie said from her perch on one of the wing chairs before the fireplace.

"Lord Winn?" Roxanna asked. "Oh, Meggie, that's preposterous!" She patted the cushions into place. "I do own to some guilt that he spent so much, but, Meggie, he has the money. If he chooses to do this, I wouldn't argue." She smiled. "Even Helen will tell you what a waste of time it is to argue with him. And truth to tell, it
is
his house."

"All the same, Roxanna, be a little wary," Meggie warned. She settled herself in the chair, and in a moment was snoring.

Roxanna tucked her legs under her and gazed out the window, curtained now with lacy strips the same pale blue as the wallpaper. If I want to worry about something, Meggie, let me worry about my brother-in-law, she thought. She had not seen Marshall Drew since her removal to the dower house, but he was on her mind more than she cared to admit.

She had known him for eight years, since her marriage at age nineteen to his younger brother, and while she did not study his career about the North Riding, she knew that Lord Whitcomb never failed to get what he wanted, whether it was a parcel of land, or a colt to train for the Scarborough races. It was a quality that Anthony shook his head over more than once, then confessed to her that he did not know if what he felt was envy or approbation at this doggedness in his brother.

We are safe here at Moreland, she reminded herself, then stood to put more coal in the grating because she felt a chill. She remained at the window, hugging herself, and admiring the shocking blue and white landscape of a Yorkshire winter that never failed to move her. A child of Kent, she had been raised in a milder climate. The bite of December in the North Riding, with trees iced and streams silenced, and hills almost grotesque with drifted snow, awed her. Everything seemed to hibernate, in the hopes that deep sleeps would produce spring sooner. Even Felicity slowed down, and offered less objection to an afternoon nap.

She was discovering that she thought of Anthony more in the winter, waking up at night to wonder how cold the graveyard was, and how deep the snow there. He seemed farther away under that additional burden of snow, as though the distance now was more than miles. She had cried yesterday when she couldn't remember whether his birthday was January 16 or February 16. What else will I forget? she wondered as she stood before the window.

I wish I were not so restless, she thought. I wish I could relax like Meggie, and sit in one spot without leaping up to pace about a room, or search for more to do, when I have already done everything around here that needs to be done.

She knew what she missed, what drove her to ceaseless activity, but there wasn't anyone to discuss the matter with. Meggie had never married, and Mrs. Howell, well, Mrs. Howell would only stare at her. Proper ladies didn't talk about what she needed. For the first time also, she found herself wishing she had been less interested in Anthony's body when he was alive, and able to gratify her love. Roxie, if you had been a bit less eager then, perhaps you wouldn't feel such a sharp edge now, she scolded herself.

"Oh, bother it!" she said, then put her hand over her mouth when Meggie woke up and looked around. "I am sorry, my dear," she exclaimed, contrite.

Meggie watched her, but she could not help herself as she paced in front of the window, feeling like a pet mouse on a wheel. She stopped finally and lifted her cloak from the peg by the front door. "Meggie, I am going for a walk. Lissy is napping on my bed, and Helen is reading in her room." She was out the door before Meggie could ask any questions.

She swung the cloak around her shoulders and took a deep breath of the bracing air. All was silent now, the stream by the house quieted by ice, the birds far south. The only sound she heard was the impatient crunch of her shoes on the crusty snow.

The lane that led from the main road to the manor house was free of snow, something Lord Winn insisted upon. She started down the road, feeling better already as the cold circulated through her lungs and her cheeks began to tingle. I shall become a champion walker, she thought, and giggled at the notion. Anthony, the lack of your husband's comfort will turn me into the healthiest woman who ever strode the hills of the North Riding. The doctors will have to take my heart out and beat it to death so I can die at a decent old age.

She was still smiling when she reached the end of the lane and started back. As her mind cleared, she considered Christmas, which would be sparse, but not impossible. Someone, probably one of her husband's former parishioners, had sent her an anonymous five pounds, so there would be a goose and other good things, and perhaps enough for a small gift for each girl. She would like to have afforded something for Mrs. Owe, Tibbie, and even Lord Winn, but that was out of the question, particularly for Lord Winn. What could she possibly give to a man who had everything?

"Mrs. Drew, are you practicing for a footrace?"

Startled, she looked over her shoulder and up into Lord Winn's eyes, as he sat on Ney.

"You should not sneak up on a person like that," she scolded.

He reined in his horse and she stopped, too, as he hitched his leg over the saddle. "My dear Mrs. Drew, I was whistling something rather loud from
The Magic Flute!
This was not a sneak approach. What is occupying
your
mind?"

"None of your business!" she said crisply, then repented. "Well, actually, I was wondering what I could give you for Christmas since you already have everything."

To her amazement, Lord Winn began to blush. She laughed out loud. "Well, whatever it is, I am sure it must be illegal or immoral! Surely nothing a vicar's widow could possibly satisfy."

He had to laugh at that, but it sounded rueful to her. He peered down at her as he swung his leg back in the stirrup. "Mrs. Drew, you are a rascal. I think I understand Felicity better now."

"I am no such thing, sir!" she protested, and walked alongside his horse. "You are the rascal."

He was silent for most of the lane, then he reached inside his coat pocket. "Mrs. Drew, you'll appreciate this," he said as he pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it down to her.

She looked at it with interest. "Very good, my lord. You've ordered enough wallpaper and paint to get the whole job done. Tibbie told me this morning that he has arranged for the plasterers to return. They promise to tackle the ceiling in your sitting room the first thing on Monday morning."

"Well, then you'll have to suffer my presence in your sitting room occasionally until it is restored," he replied and pocketed the paper again.

"You may drink tea with us this afternoon, my lord," she offered. "Everything is finished, just as you promised, and Helen and I made gingersnaps this morning."

"Tea
and
gingersnaps?" he quizzed. "Strange isn't it, Mrs. Drew? Two years ago, I was dining on puppies-—don't tell Lissy—and strained pond water somewhere in the Pyrenees."

She made no comment as they continued slowly up the lane. What a different life you have lived, she thought. "I should think that after all those years of deprivation, you would seek out the company of your friends, or at least your relatives, at this time of year," she said finally as they approached the curving drive before the manor.

He dismounted and handed the reins to his groom, who must have been watching for him. "My dearest friends lie dead on battlefields all over Europe, and I only quarrel with my sisters. Oh, now, Mrs. Drew, don't take it so to heart!"

"I'm not!" she declared, even as her eyes filled with tears.

She held her breath as he took off his glove and touched her cheek, then leaned close to whisper in her ear. "Don't ever cry over me, my dear. I'm not worth that. I have everything, remember? You said so yourself."

She dabbed at her eyes, embarrassed. "I say stupid things, don't I?"

"No more than I," he replied, his voice suddenly hard. "I have the advantage over you, my dear. I
do
stupid things." He took off his hat and bowed to her. "I think I will skip tea this afternoon, Mrs. Drew. Some other time."

And then he was gone, hurrying inside the manor without a backward glance. She stood a moment longer in the driveway, her heart even heavier than before, then turned and walked back to the dower house.

I must have said the wrong thing, Roxanna Drew told herself many times in the coming weeks before Christmas. I wonder what it was? she asked herself as she threw herself into the renovations at Moreland. She removed paintings, shifted furniture, stripped wallpaper, and learned to patch with plaster as the work proceeded in the manor. At the end of each day, she was deliciously tired and no good for anything except a quiet dinner, and then blissful sleep.

Lord Winn did visit in her parlor on several occasions while his own sitting room was a tattered ruin. He drank tea, played cards with Helen, read to Felicity, and even listened to Meggie Watson's animadversions on the current government. He spoke but little, and too many times, Roxanna could almost feel the sadness in him. No one else seemed to notice, and she wondered if she was just imagining his low state, because he said and did all that was proper.

Or perhaps because I feel low, I have imagined others are so afflicted, she considered one afternoon as she straightened up from scraping paint from a window frame. She backed up against the wall to straighten her spine, wondering why the closer Christmas came, the worse she felt. As she stood there, she remembered something Marshall had said to her just after Anthony's funeral. "My dear, the holidays and birthdays will be the worst," he had told her. As much as she disliked thinking about Marshall, she had to agree with him.

Christmas without Anthony would not be Christmas, not really, she reasoned as she tackled the frame again. They always decorated the sitting room with greens, and hung a wreath, but she had not bothered yet. Meggie had reminded her only last night that it was time to start on the Christmas cooking, but the conversation had drifted off to nothing.

I simply must exert myself for the girls' sake, she thought as she left Moreland that evening. She thought of her brothers, glad that she did not have to report to them how badly she was playing her hand right now. "We will make gingerbread cookies tomorrow," she said out loud. But no mistletoe this year, she added to herself, remembering the sprig that dangled last year over Anthony's bed. The stockings would have to go up. Maybe if she spaced them wider apart on die mantelpiece, Anthony's wouldn't be missed. "Oh, God," she cried out loud, and stopped in the snow. “I can't face it."

She stood there in the snow until her feet started to grow numb, then continued into the house, ashamed at her own whining. I still have so much, she thought. Why must I dwell on what I do not have?

Helen met her at the door with the news that Lord Winn was in the parlor and would stay to dinner. Roxanna sighed. Why tonight, when all she wanted to do was go to bed and curl up in a little ball?

"I gather from that sigh that you wish I would take my mutton at Moreland, Mrs. Drew," Lord Winn said from the doorway into the sitting room.

He was still dressed in his riding clothes, and leaning comfortably against the door. She did not want to look at him because she knew her face was bleak, but courtesy demanded some response. She glanced in his direction and mumbled some pleasantry, and then he promptly straightened up and spoke over his shoulder to Helen, who had been out riding with him.

"Helen, I think you and Lissy should see what Meggie needs in the kitchen. Come, come, march like soldiers."

When they were gone, he came closer and took her arm. To her vast relief, he didn't say anything, only gave her a little shake. It was enough. She squared her shoulders and came into the parlor, grateful to sit down before the fireplace.

"If Moreland is too much, I can get some more help," he said as he sat in the other wing chair.

She shook her head, not looking at him. "It's not Moreland, my lord, and you know it. I will be glad when it is January and this holiday is behind us."

"There will always be something else, my dear Mrs. Drew," he commented, pushing the footstool her way. She propped her feet on it, sharing it with him.

"I know," she agreed. "And I will take each event as it comes and not think too far ahead." She smiled into the flames. "I refuse to be defeated by death."

"Bravo, Roxie Drew," he said softly. "I get through days like that, too."

She looked at him in surprise. "Somehow I never thought. .." she began, then stopped.

"That I loved her?" he finished. "Oh, I did, Mrs. Drew. I suppose I mourn a little too, wondering if Cynthia and I were casualties of the war, or if all this dirty business would have happened, anyway. I conclude it would have, then I kick myself for loving her."