Mrs. Drew Plays Her Hand (21 page)

The next day was warmer, so while Lissy napped under Meggie's watchful eye, she and Helen rode their horses into the village to post the letter. The Empress Josephine was a well-mannered mare, Roxanna decided as they trotted along amiably. Lord Winn obviously knew his horses.

"Mama, have you ever seen a finer day?" Helen exclaimed, her face turned upward like a sunflower to the sky.

"Never, my dear," she agreed, struck all over again how different this year was from last year, when they were all claustrophobic in black and numb with Anthony's death. As they rode along, glorying in the North Riding spring, last year's tears and agony seemed to fold into the earth. She felt at peace finally, as if the disappearing snow was taking with it the unquiet in her heart. It had been a long year. She was glad it was over.

They returned to Moreland by way of the graveyard in Whitcomb parish. The snow was gone from Anthony's grave, and there were crocuses in bloom. They dismounted and came closer, admiring the beauty of the flowers against the scrollwork of the tombstone. Roxanna took Helen's hand and swallowed an enormous lump in her throat. "Helen, let us return tomorrow and plant daffodils," she said, speaking through her tears.

"Oh, yes, Mama, and then something else for summer." Helen's eyes were bright with tears, too, but she was smiling. "Papa would like that. Columbine, Mama."

Roxanna nodded and took her daughter by the shoulder as they turned away from the graveyard. And maybe woodbine, too, she thought, and holly later. There should be some part of Yorkshire for all of Anthony's seasons here. She looked back one last time at the crocuses, their petals giving way now in the sharp wind. "To everything there is a season," she thought, remembering a sermon given in the strength of his better days. This was yours, my love.

Lissy watched all week for the postman; Lord Winn did not disappoint her. While the others stood by, she opened a letter and pulled out a sketch of Roxanna, her eyes wide with disbelief, sitting up in bed and clutching her blankets as three lambs jumped over the footboard. Roxanna chuckled over the note at the bottom: " 'Little lamb, who untangled thee? Dost though know who untangled thee?' " she read. "Lord Winn, you should be shot for such a mangling of Blake!"

As the girls decided where to pin the picture in their room, Roxanna read the accompanying letter. He had given his wholehearted approval of Meggie's removal to the solitary splendor of the dower house. "Heaven knows she deserves an occasional break from Lissy's enthusiasms," he wrote in his rapid scrawl. "It was good of you to think of it, Roxie." Her heart warmed as he informed her that he had settled three hundred pounds a year on Meggie Watson with his solicitor. "I'd say her service was above and beyond the call of duty, wouldn't you, wife?" he continued. Wife, she thought. It sounds good.

The rest of the letter brought a frown to her face. Oh, dear, Helen was right, she thought as she continued on the next page. "I fear I cannot return in March as I had promised," he wrote. "I must go to Northumberland by way of Carlisle, as we have another canal backer to cajole there. I wish it were not so. Please tell the girls how sorry I am. Perhaps I can visit later in the summer, when negotiations are settled. Winn."

That is somewhat indefinite, my lord, she thought as she scanned the last page again. What would you rather I read into that? She looked from the letter to the picture, wondering at the contradictions. Are you as confused as I am? Likely, she told herself. But now comes the hard part.

It could have been worse, but I am not sure how, she decided an hour later after she closed the door to the girls' room. Lissy was asleep now, tears drying on her face, crushed by her news of Lord Winn's nonarrival. She had stormed and wailed, then refused to sit in the window seat for her nighttime perusal of the Plain of York. Roxanna went to her own room and lay down on the bed. To her mind, Helen's reaction was worse. She had flinched at the news, then her shoulders drooped as she looked at Roxanna. "Mama, at least with Lord Winn we don't have so much to tuck away in our minds," she said quietly, then turned away to sit in her chair by the fire.

I suppose every family needs a realistic member, she thought as she stared at the ceiling. Lissy and I hope and dream, and Helen keeps us tethered to the ground. I doubt she will ever put off things like I do, but oh, she can break my heart. There was no point in blaming Lord Winn. He was a busy man, and once cut adrift from the loose ties of Moreland, quite in demand in his busy world. It was no wonder he had forgotten them. She would be a fool to think otherwise.

She went to the window for her ritual look across the wide plain. And he never promised you anything more, Roxanna, she told herself. Look what he has done already. She smiled to herself. It would be sufficient. Lonely, perhaps, but sufficient. "I shall close that book, too," she said and then chuckled. "Not that it was ever open very far, anyway."

In the morning, she wrote a proper letter expressing their regrets, but saying nothing that would cast blame, or express the deep disappointment of her daughters. As she left the bookroom to look for Tibbie, Helen ran up with a letter, too. "For Lord Winn," she said.

Roxanna took it. "I trust you said nothing to cause Lord Winn any discomfort," she said as Tibbie came into the hall, motioning for her to bring the letters.

Helen shook her head. “I don't think so, Mama. Mostly I had a question about Five Pence. Do you think he will have time to answer it?"

Roxanna shrugged, and handed both letters to Tibbie. "He's obviously a busy man, my dear. Thanks, Tibbie."

The last week in March saw the roads freed finally of mud from the thawing snow. It had taken no cajoling on her part to talk the girls into accompanying her to Darlington to select bedcovers and material for curtains in the almost-completed bedrooms. There had been the dresses to pick up from the modiste, too, and a careful look at bonnets, which rendered Lissy bored beyond belief. Only the bribe of luncheon in a real tearoom bought Roxanna enough time to purchase silk stockings and several lengths of ribbon to refurbish old dresses.

It was a good luncheon. Lissy ate everything brought to her, and even Helen finished most of her meal. As they waited for dessert, Roxanna played her final card in cheering up her daughters. "My dears, I was thinking that a month at Scarborough this summer would be something fine. What do you think?"

"Mama, the seashore!" Helen gasped. "Really?"

"I remember making such a promise last year," Roxanna replied. "What about you, Lissy?"

She hesitated. "But what if Lord Winn decides to visit while we are gone?"

Roxanna sighed inwardly. Oh, Lissy, let it go! I have. "Well, we can let him know our plans so he will not come then."

"But suppose that is the only time he can visit us?" Lissy argued, with all the maddening persistence of a four-year-old.

"Don't be a nod," Helen said, her voice firm. "Think of sand castles and pony rides along the beach. And raspberry ices, Mama?"

"Of course."

Lissy thought, and then nodded, "f like it."

"Very well," Roxanna said as the dessert arrived. "August, then, in Scarborough."

They rode home singing loud songs, to the amusement of the coachman, and glorying in the unexpected warmth of early spring. Even the news that they must return to the classroom with Meggie tomorrow did nothing to dilute her daughters' noisy triumph over winter. "For we have gotten lax in our studies, now that Meggie has moved to the dower house," she reminded them. "Tomorrow, it is spelling and penmanship again."

And thank goodness for that, Roxanna said in the morning as she waved her daughters off to the classroom Meggie had established in her upstairs bedroom at the dower house. She debated over her new dresses, then hurried instead into a faded muslin which had once been blue. Climbing tall ladders does not require much fashion, she thought as she draped the tape measure around her neck and pulled the ladder closer to the window in one of the empty bedrooms. Now that she had finally chosen the material, she needed to measure windows. I have put this off too long, she thought. Why do I do that?

"I wish you would not dangle yourself atop tall ladders."

She blinked—it couldn't be—then reached out for the top of the window to steady herself. "Lord Winn?" she asked, and then turned around slowly on her perch.

"I thought I was Fletch to you," the marquess said, leaning against the frame of the open doorway, still wearing his many caped riding coat and hat. He tossed his hat onto the bed. "Obviously my credit is a little lower with the females of the Drew/Rand family right now. Do get down, Roxie! You make me nervous."

She hiked up her skirts and climbed down the ladder. She stopped halfway down and smiled at him. "You came after all," she said softly.

She didn't know what it was about her smile that made him stand up straight and stare back at her. I don't know about your expression, she thought as she descended and shook her skirts out. I wonder if I am in trouble?

She decided she wasn't when the marquess shrugged out of his overcoat, tossed it after the hat, and took her in his arms. Well, that's a relief, was her last coherent sentence before he kissed her, held her off for a moment, then kissed her again. In another moment she was flooded with desire, drenched in it, craving his body even as he pulled away and went back to the door.

Drat, she thought, her hands stopped on her buttons. To her relief, he was only closing the door and locking it. She went back to the buttons again, wondering why, out of all her clothes, she had put on the dress with so many. He turned back to help her, but his fingers were shaking, too.

"Roxie, is this dress valuable to you?" he asked finally.

She shook her head. "It's years old."

"Good." He grasped the front of it and ripped it open, sending the buttons clattering to the floor. "Now then, Roxie."

It was an easy matter to wriggle out of her chemise and petticoat as he tugged off his boots. He looked up at her, his eyes admiring what he saw. "You've been eating better, my dear," he managed. "Lord, Roxie, you could almost be an eye-popper!"

She laughed, sat on his lap, and started on his shirt. "You say the most romantic things, Fletch."

After that, words drifted from her brain in odd little bursts. I'm glad that door is locked, she thought as she shoved aside a coat and hat, and rolls of wallpaper, and took the tape measure from her neck. No sheets on this bed, she thought as he laid her down onto it. "Frills," she muttered, then devoted her whole attention to more pressing matters.

"Frills, eh! I am a frill?" he asked later as she rested herself on him. "Don't move. You're fine. But frills?"

She closed her eyes in vast contentment. "I was merely pointing out that there are no sheets on this bed, and your head is resting on a pillow of wallpaper."

"And your bum is covered with goosebumps," he added in most unloverlike fashion, running his hand over her backside. "Can you reach my overcoat without moving?"

She did, and he pulled it over both of them, then dug in one of the pockets, taking out a folded sheet. "I honestly do not have time to be here," he explained.

"I'll move," she offered, remaining where she was.

"Don't you dare! Take a look at this letter."

She spread out the letter on his chest. "It is from Helen," she said, and looked into his eyes.

"Read it. You'll see my primary reason for this visit, all frills aside, Roxie dear."

She did as he said, then rested her head on his chest. "Thank you for coming, my lord," she murmured.

He picked up the letter. "What could I do? That pan about 'getting used to disappointment' sliced me to the bone." He put his arms around her again, running his hand over her back. "And the thing is, she was so matter-of-fact. There's not an ounce of pity in that letter. I wish she could still be a child, despite all that's happened to her. That's why I had to come."

"Helen never deals in self-pity." Roxie kissed his chest absentmindedly. "I wish .. . well, I don't know what I wish. She will be so glad to see you."

He sighed and gently relocated her to the bed, sitting up to rummage for his watch, which he snapped open, shaking his head.

"It's nine-thirty in the morning, Roxie," he said, his voice filled with wonder. "I don't recall that I ever did this before so soon after breakfast." He grinned at her. "What about you?"

She grinned back, even as she reached for her chemise. "Well, vicars do not keep regular hours, my lord," she hedged, her face red. She giggled. "Anthony used to swear it helped the digestion."

They dressed quickly. "Drat, there's no mirror." The marquess complained as he held out his neckcloth.

"Let me help," she replied, tying it expertly. She paused halfway through. "How could you manage this?"

"Well, I took off my clothes .. ." he began, his eyes roguish.

"Lord Winn, you're risking your credit! You said you were busy."

"I am," he agreed as he tucked his shirt into his pants and looked for his waistcoat. "After Helen's letter came, I told my solicitor that we were by damn going to go to Carlisle another route, even if we had to ride all night in a post chaise—he hates inconvenience, Roxie."

She put her hand to her mouth, her eyes wide. "And now you will tell me you have left that poor man sitting downstairs in the parlor!"