The Earl's Revenge (15 page)

Mark turned back to his desk. It was past time that he looked into his cousin’s situation. As head of the Parrish family, he had a responsibility to help. Of course, giving money to a profligate would do no good. It would merely encourage him to new excesses. But there might be other possibilities – investing in his estate, arranging a post in the East India Company, or even finding him an heiress.

Restless and unable to concentrate, Mark locked away his papers and wandered out to the grounds. Ten minutes later he spotted Miss Thompson sitting in the rose arbor, engrossed in a book. Her words in Bodmin had raised chagrin at his own clumsiness. She had not only discerned his plans, but understood his motives. Not that he had any intention of changing course. It would be a cold day in hell before any female told him what to do – especially a Bible-quoting female who had already made him a laughing-stock.

Having her in the house would further his designs, for frequent meetings must weaken the fences she erected around her whenever he was near. But he needed a more subtle approach. He had acceded to her request to cease flirting because until the guests arrived, she could back out of their agreement.

Should he continue? Perhaps he should take the more devious route of courting her friendship first, leaving her heart for later. Matching wits was already building an odd rapport between them. The more relaxed she was, the more effort it would take to rebuild her barriers.

“Good afternoon,” he said casually, joining her on the stone bench. “I see you managed to escape for a time. May I extend my apologies for Harold’s unspeakably rude greeting?”

“Why? It was certainly not your fault.” She shrugged. “He has always been a bore.”

“Really? That does not accord with his reputation in town.”

“I know nothing of that, of course. But his reputation around Chesbrough is appalling – not that I have witnessed anything first hand. Save for a few meetings in London, I have not seen him since I left home at age twelve.”

“Ah, well. I have no real interest in discussing my cousin today. What were you reading so intently?”

“Mr. Thornton’s second book of poetry.” She held it up for his inspection.

“Do you like it?”

“Very much. He speaks to me as no other poet manages to do. Not that I understand why. Perhaps there is some affinity that lurks beneath the words.”

“That sounds odd,” he said, wondering if he could use this information in his campaign. But first he would need to discover just what it was that appealed to her.

“I suppose so, and it is difficult to explain. His writing seems multilayered, as if his descriptions of the natural world are allegories for other things – events, institutions, emotions, or sometimes all three. I am not even sure to which level I respond. Are you familiar with his work?”

“Yes.” He stifled a laugh.

“Then perhaps you have also noted that duality. It is interesting that a man who never writes directly of people can convey so much suppressed emotion in such seemingly simple verse. I suspect a great deal of pain in his background. And rage. But beyond that, I sense loneliness. Possibly it is that that speaks so loudly to me. Other poets have used loneliness as a theme or a scene-setting device –
I wandered lonely as a cloud
, for example – but at most it is but a transient feeling in their personal lives. Thornton, on the other hand, seems to live apart from the world, in it but not of it, if that makes any sense.”

“I am not sure it does, actually. But perhaps I am wrong. Are you lonely then?”

“Not in the conventional sense. I lead a busy and fulfilling life and entertain no wish to change, but in the eyes of society, I must be considered an oddity. I have never conformed to the expectations of my own class, first because of a puritanical upbringing and now because I would be considered remarkably blue. But my birth prevents me from ever being fully equal to those of other classes. I am left to inhabit the world of poor relations and gentility, though I do not exactly fit there either.”

“It must be awkward,” he replied, abandoning his feigned friendship in a burst of honest sympathy.

“Then I have given you a wrong impression,” she said stoutly, straightening her spine. “I have no regrets about my chosen course. Nor is there any reason to repine. The niche I have carved for myself is both rewarding and congenial.”

“I will pretend to believe that,” he said smoothly. “But just as you claim to find hidden truths in Thornton’s verse that he himself might not believe, I suspect emotions underlay your words that you are hiding even from yourself.”

“You are impertinent, my lord,” she replied coldly. “Perhaps you should return inside and leave me to my reading. Your cousin should have discovered the reduced level of service by now.”

Mark laughed. “Ah, hidden motives! So that is why you are enjoying the sunshine. It is to be my lot to face Harold. Very well. I will go, and I will even try to curb his sarcasm.”

“Don’t bother. Letting him goad you into chastising him will just make him worse. Let him think me a hopeless provincial. His opinions matter not. Nor do those of your other guests who will likewise scoff at me.”

“No guest in my home will abuse another,” he swore with a frown, missing her point about Harold.

“As you will.”

Bridgeport took his leave, his frown deepening as soon as he was away from the arbor. There was more to Miss Thompson than he had ever suspected. Her insights were frightening and her intelligence constantly amazed him.

His conscience warned that he should abandon his plans lest they turn against him, but another voice yearned to know this enigmatic woman better. A
rewarding and congenial
life? What could she possibly find to do in this isolated village that would fill her days and feed her spirit? Philosophical discussions with Sir Jeremiah and Miss Becklin could not be the answer.

As expected, Harold was waiting in the library, his face flushed with anger. “What is the meaning of this insult?” he demanded the moment Mark appeared in the doorway, so furious that he forgot to lisp.

“To which insult do you refer?” drawled the earl.

“That impertinent housekeeper had the nerve to inform my valet that if I wished to bathe, he would have to carry the water himself!”

“Mrs. Burgess is not impertinent,” countered Mark. “She is carrying out my orders to the best of her abilities. This house has been untenanted for fifty years and has only a maintenance staff. There is little I can do to expand it, for someone has been spreading scurrilous tales to the effect that my pockets are to let. Totally false, of course, but one cannot blame strangers for believing them. It is difficult to find servants for these isolated manors in the best of times, and the suspicion that they will not be paid makes it worse.”

“Naturally,” murmured Harold. His face had paled alarmingly, to Mark’s amusement.

“The result is that conditions are somewhat primitive. You or your man must see to all upkeep in your own rooms, down to the last detail.”

“You mean emptying chamber-pots?” demanded Harold.

Mark nodded.

“Shoop will resign!” predicted his cousin. “He is an
artiste
who will never sully his hands with menial tasks.”

“You may divide the work however you like,” commented Mark with a negligent shrug. “If you feel you cannot stay under the circumstances, I will understand.”

“Tell me, has Federsham agreed to such terms?”

“Of course.”

“That might sway Shoop,” said Harold slowly. “Though he is superior to your man, of course. Federsham has no flair for cravats.”

“I shan’t brawl with you over style, cousin,” declared Mark. “You will wish to change. We dine at six.”

“Impossible,” croaked Harold. “It is already half past four.”

“At six.” Mark’s implacable voice sent Harold scurrying out the door.

* * * *

Elaine agreed to Helen’s pleas that she observe the first riding lesson the next morning. She had planned to spend the time in her room working on an illustration, but it was such an important occasion for the girl that she could hardly let her down. Anne was also present. Only Harold had remained abed, to everyone’s relief.

Dinner had been strained. Harold had arrived at the last possible second, fussing over imagined creases and other imperfections incurred because of unseemly haste. His complaints over the lack of service did nothing to endear him to the two footmen – nor did his disdain for both Anne and Elaine, especially when he decried the necessity of sharing a table with such lowly creatures. Bridgeport tried to ignore his cousin’s provocation, but eventually delivered a quelling set-down. Anne sat in embarrassed silence. Elaine was furious – not for his slights of herself, but for his attacks on Anne. Yet none but Harold was willing to set aside manners, so it was left to the footmen to deliver the
coup de grace
.

Willy had joggled Ted’s arm, causing him to spill an entire dish of mushrooms, drenching Harold in butter sauce from his cravat to his too-tight pantaloons. Harold had not returned after fleeing the dining room in hysterics.

Bridgeport had chastised the footmen, of course, but only over their choice of dishes, because he adored Cook’s mushrooms and would have liked a third helping.

“I have no idea what is going on but do not take Mr. Parrish’s rudeness to heart,” Elaine had told Anne when the ladies thankfully retired upstairs for the night.

“The opinions of such a coxcomb would not bother me anyway, but what do you mean by so enigmatic a statement?”

“You must remember Harold.”

“Certainly.”

Elaine explained her conclusions about the recent rumors. “I believe he is using his remarks to anger Lord Bridgeport. He cannot care enough for either of us to deliberately wound us, but his behavior makes sense if he is pursuing some private feud with the earl.”

“As he did with Squire Perkins, Angela Thorpe, and me.”

“You?”

“I have often suspected that he said something to your father that brought him home early that day. You know he never paid the slightest attention to your lessons.”

“But why would he bother?”

“I had rebuffed his advances the day before.” She related the entire episode, including Harold’s threats and Grimfield’s tirade.

“Dearest Anne, I am so sorry. How can you stand to keep me around after my father treated you so shabbily?”

“Don’t be absurd. I have never condoned passing the sins of the father onto his offspring. Now enough about me. What kind of feud could Mr. Parrish be pursuing now?”

“That must become the question of the hour. His lordship denied any enmity earlier, but that is hardly surprising. He would never bare his dirty linen to a virtual stranger, especially one with whom he has a legitimate complaint. But whatever pique Harold might have felt with you or me in the past, I am sure that his real target is now Bridgeport. When the earl was goaded into responding at dinner, Harold’s eyes lit like a bonfire. And not with anger. I am convinced the look was satisfaction. But unless your cousin has mentioned something, there is no way to learn what grievance exists between them.”

Anne agreed.

At least they would not be subjected to Harold’s obnoxious presence at breakfast, Elaine thought now. He was clinging to town hours despite a fortnight already spent in the country. Or perhaps his very haughty valet was protesting his expanded duties by refusing to awaken his employer in time to eat.

Bridgeport finished his preliminary instructions and lifted Helen onto the pony, whose name was now Starlight. He had found a perfect first steed for his daughter, a beautiful dappled gray with a placid disposition. Elaine had to hide a spurt of envy. She had not been on horseback since fleeing London.

To keep such yearnings at bay, she pulled out a sketchbook and decided to record the momentous first lesson. Helen would like it. To protect herself, she used a very different style from her illustration technique. Amazingly, the man in the finished picture was the epitome of a loving, doting father.

Staring incredulously at Bridgeport, she saw that the portrait was true. Never in her wildest dreams had she expected him to tolerate children, let alone enjoy them. Such behavior ran counter to every tale she had ever heard of him. It was even more amazing because his own parents had never evinced any affection for their only son, giving him no experience of love. But it raised questions about his character. What else might he be hiding?

“Did you see?” demanded Helen, racing to Elaine’s side when the lesson was over. “Did you see me riding?”

“Of course,” she replied with a smile. “And very well you did, too. You must have inherited your father’s famed prowess with horses.”

Bridgeport seemed surprised by the words, but quickly nodded. “That may be right. She is a natural.”

Helen spied the sketchbook. “What did you do today?”

“A present for you that I hope you will enjoy.” She detached the page and handed it over.

“Oh!” Helen gazed at it almost in awe. “It is beautiful. But it is so different. This is not at all like
Beauty and the Beast
.”

Elaine had to deflect the observation before Bridgeport picked up on it. Helen was too astute for comfort. “But here we have beauty and here we have a beast,” she said lightly, pointing to the drawing. “Not that I think Starlight is a very beastly beast. Will you fall in love with him, do you think?”

“Of course. I already have. Look, Papa.”

Mark’s eyes widened as he studied the picture. “Amazing talent,” he breathed.

“Thank you.”

“I can see why Helen enjoys your drawing lessons so much. May I see some of your other work?”

“Perhaps another time. I have nothing here at the moment.” It was not really a lie. The pad she was using was new. She had brought to the Manor only the sketches she needed to complete the final illustration, hiding them carefully in her room. The servant situation was useful, for Lucy was the only maid who would ever be in there.

“I will look forward to it.”

“Can we do some drawing now?” asked Helen. “I want to make a picture of Starlight.”