The Wicked Guardian (10 page)

“I am not sure that I want to hear,” said Primula reflectively, “but I know I can’t rest until I do. What happened then?”

“I had to rescue her again—never mind from what. It would do no good to rake that over. But she is the most foolish, green, impulsive,
troublesome
child I have ever had the misfortune to know!” said Benedict, rising to savage heights.

Primula favored him with a roguish smile. “I never thought I would see the day,” she said obscurely. “You call her a child, Benedict, and yet I think she has managed something I did not expect.”

Suddenly suspicious, Benedict frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I think,” she said judiciously, “that Providence works in mysterious ways. And I am beginning to see a bit of hope.”

Repressively, Benedict said, “I do not understand you.”

Primula said airily, with a gay smile that revealed her dimples, “You will, one day. And I will say I told you so.”

Baffled, Benedict turned to Lindsay, but that gentleman shook his head. Benedict turned back to his sister. “So, then, you will do it?”

“Do what?” she asked, suspicious in her turn.

“Go down to Penryck Abbey and see about this troublesome child.”

She glanced at her husband. Lindsay said, “Sorry, Choate. Out of the question.”

Seeing Benedict’s stricken look, Primula took pity on him. “I’m increasing,” she said gently, “and I am to go directly into Wiltshire.”

“And stay there,” said Lindsay firmly. “She is allowed to travel as far as Shenton Hall, but no farther. The doctors in Italy were very firm.”

And Lindsay himself was as firm as any, Benedict realized. His plans were going astray with speed. Lindsay forestalled Benedict. “Nor is she to have any anxieties,” he said. “I will see to that.”

“Send for the girl to London,” suggested Primula.

“I fear for the capital,” said Benedict fiercely.

Surrounded by the shards of his near-perfect scheme, Benedict reflected. At length, watched by his apprehensive relatives, he said grimly, “That infant belongs in the country until she’s grown up.”

Glancing ruefully at both Lindsays, he said, “You’re right. She is my responsibility. She must stay at Penryck Abbey. I shall go down myself, and believe me, I shall set her straight!”

1
2
.

So it was that on a day near the end of July, Lord Benedict Choate was tooling down the road leading from London in the direction of Dorset. His thoughts, gloomy at first, insensibly began to rise with the fineness of the day and the growing perception that he would be free for a short space from the importunities of his London existence.

Certain of his half-sister’s representations had struck closer home than he liked. For one, the idea that his betrothed would rule him as with a rod of iron. While he knew that would not be the case—for no man or woman ruled Benedict Choate—yet those of his staff and his household could not escape as easily from the vicinity as their master. And surely it would be too much to place Clare Penryck in the ungentle hands of Marianna Morton.

Benedict had no illusions about Marianna. But he was strongly aware of the duty he owed, both to his family and to a lady who had long considered herself as the next Lady Choate. But for now, behind his four matched grays, Benedict was responsible only to himself.

The object of his journey sat in the small drawing room at Penryck Abbey. Clare was not alone, although she longed for solitude.

Lady Melvin, the squire’s wife, had come to keep her company.

Lady Melvin viewed herself as of a maternal bent. It was unfortunate that she and Sir Ewald had no children, at least any who lived beyond infancy, and she had a great store of sympathy and advice left unused, until now.

“What a pity,” she said, not for the first time, “that your grandmother did not live until you had become settled in life. I am sure that you must have had offers in London. After all, you were there for two months and I am sure the beaux are not less attentive today than they were in my time. Why, I hadn’t been there above six weeks when I had refused two offers! Two, of the most eligible kind imaginable!”

Unfortunately, Clare’s mind had wandered and she spoke absently. “And then you married Sir Ewald.”

“Well, it was not that I didn’t have other chances, my dear. But of course, I have always had a comfortable feeling about living here in the country. I daresay I should have rubbed along with the baronet. I wonder if I mentioned him?”

“Oh, yes, yes, you did,” Clare assured her earnestly. “I wonder what Lady Lindsay will be like?”

Lady Melvin, knowing Clare well, wondered too. The child was in such a state that the slightest curb on her impulses might run into such consequences as Lady Melvin shuddered to think of. Fortunately, it would be a young woman of
ton
and address who would make what arrangements Lord Choate felt necessary. Lady Melvin set great store on Lady Lindsay’s tact, even though she did not know her at all.

Clare lapsed into melancholy thoughts. She was apprehensive about Lady Lindsay’s arrival. She had no word from Benedict or his sister, but only the letter from Mr. Ruffin that informed her that Lord Choate found himself unable, due to his approaching wedding—thus ran Mr. Ruffin’s improvisations—to come to Dorset, but he was sending his sister, and so on, and so on. Clare dismissed the legal roundaboutations and fastened on one thing. Benedict hated his responsibility for her, and seized upon any excuse to get out of it.

Well, she was glad enough of that! If she had not lost her head at Carlton House, she could, perhaps, have been betrothed to Sir Alexander Ferguson, and while it was not quite what she liked, to look forward to a long life of listening to Sir Alex, yet she could not deny that such a life would be very
educational
.

And besides that, she would never have to look at Benedict Choate again. It was above all things what she wanted.

But, as often happens with strong wishes, hers were to be denied. For just as she had formulated her devout wish, her hopes were dashed. From the window of the drawing room she had an excellent view of the long drive that came sweeping up to the front door of the abbey, through the old oaks, and past the sunken garden that had once held the carp ponds for the monks.

And the smart rig that now came spanking up the drive, behind beautifully handled horses, was driven by a man, with a groom beside him, and there was no possible hope that Lady Lindsay was arriving.

Wisby announced, in an awestruck voice, “Lord Benedict Choate, Miss Clare.”

Benedict entered, to find his ward backed against the long table that stood against the far wall. She was eyeing him with a look that would not be inappropriate were she to be facing the Devil himself.

Lady Melvin advanced to greet him. “We did not expect you, Lord Choate,” she said with a smile. “But of course, I must say you are very welcome.”

He lifted one heavy eyebrow. “I must thank you,” he said, not sure to whom he was speaking.

Clare murmured something in a stifled voice, and Lady Melvin turned chidingly to her. “Come, now, Clare, you must not show your disappointment. You see, Lord Choate, we were expecting your sister, and we have the rooms upstairs in readiness for her and her maid. But of course it is totally ineligible for you to stay here. I must make you welcome at my own home. Across the woods there, you know. I am Lady Melvin, and perhaps you know my husband, Sir Ewald Melvin? But then, it isn’t likely you would.”

Lady Melvin’s speech flowed gently on, but Lord Choate found, as many a listener had found before, that it was not necessary to heed the content.

Finally he broke in, “I have made arrangements at the inn, the Swan, I think? Since I will be staying for only a couple of days, I thought I could manage there. And they do seem to know horses.” He glanced at Clare. “I shall only stay long enough to see about what business I must, and then...”

“Then,” said Clare, emerging from the state of paralysis that his appearance had cast her into, “you will return for your wedding. When is it to take place, sir?”

“My marriage?” echoed Benedict. “No doubt it will be quite soon.”

“I am sure you must be anxious for that happy day,” said Lady Melvin. “I remember how Sir Ewald simply would not brook any delays in our wedding. At once, he said; and at once, he meant. But then, you will not be taking Clare back to London, I must suppose?”

“No, I shall not,” said Benedict. “I have given the matter much thought, and it seems to me that the best thing for my ward is to live out the period of her mourning here at the abbey.”

Clare still stood where she had been when he entered. But there was a certain uprising within her that was not visible to her companions. She had hoped never to see Benedict again. Now, she realized, she was very wrong. She wanted to see him so that she could remember just how much she detested him. She could not imagine submitting to the high-handed ways that she saw were such a part of him that he was nearly unaware of them.

To talk to Lady Melvin as though she herself were not in the room, to discuss Clare’s affairs with Lady Melvin as though the squire’s wife had something to say in the matter, was outside of enough.

And while Clare had been in awe of Benedict in London, where she had felt uncertain ground beneath her feet, yet here she was in her own house on her own ground. And she was accustomed to directing her servants—in lieu of her grandmother’s invalid hand—and altogether knowing full well what she was about.

And Benedict did not seem even to see her.

The Penryck
resolution
—as Lady Thane would have said—was stirring, and Clare was willing to give it full rein.

“But you have not welcomed Lord Choate,” said Lady Melvin, belatedly remembering that she was here to do her duty to the bereft girl, and not, however delightful it was, to chat with a nonpareil from London.

Clare stepped forward, casting her eyes demurely down. She half-expected Benedict to say something about the fiasco at Carlton House, but instead, he took her hand in his and held it for a moment before releasing it. “My dear Miss Penryck,” he said, “I collect that the situation in which we find ourselves is as repugnant to you as it is to me, and therefore we will do well to deal with it quickly.”

“I am certain, Lord Choate, that you can be no more surprised than I was,” said Clare with commendable poise. “Poor Uncle Horsham!”

“I imagine he is well out of his troubles,” said Benedict, referring to the state of Horsham’s finances.

Clare misunderstood. So Benedict thought he was heir to Uncle Horsham’s troubles—with Clare Penryck as ward? An obscure feeling stirred within her, one that she did not recognize. It might have been resentment, she thought later, at his high-handed ways of talking to her—even in Lady Melvin’s hearing—as though she were a package of no account, which could be set on a shelf or taken down, at will.

Or it might have been a mixture of grief and loneliness, a deep need to matter to somebody, even to her obnoxious guardian, whom, of all people in the world, she disliked most.

No matter, she thought now. She watched Choate with finesse and ruthlessness get rid of Lady Melvin, and then they were alone.

Benedict said, “Do you have to put up with that woman a great deal?”

Clare said very softly, “She has been very kind to me. And I have learned to value kindness above all things.” Although her appearance was innocuous, although she seemed to be exceedingly biddable, yet anyone who knew her very well would have been aware of a certain feeling of uneasy apprehension. Clare on her home ground was not quite the same as Clare on her best behavior in London.

Benedict, however, did not know her that well. Not yet, although in the folds of the future, he was to learn.

He studied her now, congratulating himself on his handling of the situation. He had gained her submission, he thought, for she had not ripped him up the moment he came in, as he might have expected, since she had been furious with him at their last meeting.

He would be able to put things into train at once, and then, apart from frequent reports, no doubt, by the garrulous Mr. Austin, he could consider his duty to the Penrycks accomplished.

“Of course it is ineligible for you to continue here alone. That woman is not the kind of person to guide you, and of course you must have someone to stay.”

“I have my servants,” said Clare evenly. He was not warned by the calm authority with which she spoke of her staff.

“Ineligible,” he repeated. “I have thought much about this, and I am persuaded I have the solution.”

“Indeed?”

“My sister, Lady Lindsay, is unable to travel to Dorset, as you may have surmised. But she has given me the address of her old governess-companion, who is, I think, quite properly qualified to come to you.”

“To stay?”

Benedict’s eyebrows rose. “Of course. You must have a female to lend you countenance here. You must not live alone.”

“I do not wish to be a trouble to you,” Clare temporized.

“No doubt,” he said dryly. “But somehow you do seem to attract trouble, do you not? And I am persuaded that my sister’s companion will be able to take charge of your training so that the next time you come to London, you may be able to control your impulsiveness.”

“I shall not come to London.”

“Oh, yes, you will,” said Benedict with a half-smile. “I shall certainly see that you are given every chance to marry well.”

Clare found employment for the moment in pleating her skirt with her fingers. Benedict continued, “So, then, it is all settled.”

“Pray tell me,” she said, lifting an innocent face to him, “what is settled?”

“Why, that Mrs. Duff will come to stay with you. I shall write to her directly.”

“Do not trouble, Lord Choate, for I shall not receive her.”

Benedict stood aghast. Almost his jaw dropped, but his training stood him in good stead and he simply glowered at her. “What did you say?”

“I said that I shall not receive Mrs. Whatever-her-name-is.”

“And I say you shall!”

Clare smiled. “And I say that if she does come, she will not stay above a fortnight. For her life here will be miserable, I can promise you that!”

Benedict took a deep breath. He was about to lash out at her, but caution, tempered by a certain experience, held him back.

“You doubt me?” said Clare silkily.

A long reflective look at her made up his mind. “No, I don’t doubt you. This behavior is no more than I would expect from someone as badly schooled as I found you to be in London.”

“You will remember that your own behavior was far outside what I would have expected from you.”

He took a tight rein on his tongue. It was an unaccustomed feat for him, since he was not in the habit of modifying his remarks to anyone. “Come, now. We must muddle through this guardianship as best we can. I know what is best for you, and I have the power to make you obey me.”

“By force? Will you tie me down? You will go back to your Miss Morton, and I should imagine that your villainous ways would be better employed with her than with me.”

“This is not to the point...”

“Quite right, Lord Choate. The point is that I shall not allow any governess-companion to come and tell me what to do. I am mistress of Penryck Hall, and you will do well to remember it.”

Benedict’s thoughts jostled each other on the tip of his tongue, but he could think of no way to put them into language polite enough for a female’s ears, nor could he be sure that his growing rage was not exactly what she was trying to provoke.